The Directives

Holding Their Own VIII: The Directives

By

Joe Nobody

Copyright © 2014

Kemah Bay Marketing, LLC

All rights reserved.

Edited by:

E. T.
Ivester

D. Allen

www.joenobodybooks.com

             
This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are set in a fictional environment.

Other Books by Joe Nobody:

Holding Your Ground: Preparing for Defense if it All Falls Apart

The TEOTWAWKI Tuxedo: Formal Survival Attire

Without Rule of Law: Advanced Skills to Help You Survive

Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival

Holding Their Own II: The Independents

Holding Their Own III: Pedestals of Ash

Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

Holding Their Own V: The Alpha Chronicles

Holding Their Own VI: Bishop’s Song

Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star

The Home Schooled
Shootist: Training to Fight with a Carbine

Apocalypse Drift

The Little River Otter

The Olympus Device: Book One

The Olympus Device: Book Two

“I’m not a soldier or a warrior anymore,” the grizzled sergeant whispered. “I’m a zombie herder.”

With a practiced eye, he scanned the lines of humanity shuffling forward, waiting their turns for what the locals called, “manna,” or food from heaven.

In reality, heaven was a pair of semi-trailers parked on a highway overpass. The manna was pre-packaged rations, occasionally MREs, most times bulk bags of rice, corn, or beans. God was the US Army, dropping the meager quantities from the bridge to those waiting in line below.

A ring of security surrounded the trucks, courtesy of the sergeant’s rifle company. The foot patrols were augmented by two escorting Humvees, each mounted with a heavy machine gun. Their primary mission was to deny any civilians the opportunity of approaching the ultra-valuable commodities inside those trailers.

The people of Houston rarely chanced the
urge to rush the trucks these days. The combination of “Shoot to kill” orders, and the isolated high ground provided by the overpass, had all but eliminated the riots. 

Two hundred meters ahead, perched over the lanes below, he could observe bustling activity as the trucks were unloaded, slight packages of food being
released into desperate, outstretched hands below. The unloaders were distributing their cargo in a rush, experience having taught them to “Get in and get out,” as quickly as possible. Besides, there were only two semis today, and that could mean trouble.

Returning his gaze to the cued citizens of the Bayou City, he scanned for signs of discord, agitation, or outright disobedience. He’d seen it before - more than once. It took only one troublemaker… one person raising a voice of protest or complaint to spark the fire of insurrection. That meant shooting, cleaning up the bodies, and tons of paperwork. He hated paperwork.

His eyes worked the crowd, noting a young man fidgeting on the balls of his feet, a nervous up and down bounce that bore closer scrutiny. There was a stooped, middle-aged woman mumbling to herself as she crept forward in the line. She too earned a spot on the sergeant’s short list of potential troublemakers.

But, for the most part, his gaze revealed not
hing more than the typical assembly; a wretched, filthy, thin, coughing, mass… unfortunately representative of the zone’s surviving civilian population. Zombies lurching forward on unstable legs, eager to be fed.

He turned to the eastbound lane, the exit route where his men herded the benefactors after
they had received their manna from government-heaven.

Here was where the majority of his men were posted, a virtual skirmish line of soldiers scrutinizing with keen diligence as the newly food-endowed citizens scurried away with their bounty. Trouble could start here too, but it would be of a different nature.

Young girls lounged around, rows of their scantily clad, brightly clothed bodies propped against the wide assortment of abandoned cars and trucks. The rusting hulks were leftovers, relics from a time when a desperate population collectively attempted to flee the city and wound up idling on gridlocked freeways until they ran out of gas.

On manna-day, the prostitutes came out in droves, hoping to invoke the world’s oldest profession in exchange for food, ration tickets, or other valuables. It was payday, and the girls were working the passersby, hoping to score a generous John or Joan.

Technically, prostitution was against the law, but so were many things that the NCO let pass. Hell, the majority of his men and he had sampled the local wares. Over two years away from home could make a man overlook certain regulations. Over two years of enforcing martial law, of being the grocer, doctor, policeman, social services provider, and fireman to the civilian population could encourage a man to ignore those rules and regulations.

It had all taken a toll. The sergeant’s unit was beyond being merely demoralized,
racked by desertions, and the constant victim of mounting insubordination. If his troopers wanted to blow off a little steam by spending 10 minutes with a pretty girl, that was just fine with him. “An MRE will set you free,” was the motto amongst the troops.

Mingled
with the hookers were the scavengers and peddlers, hawking their merchandise for barter to those passing through. The eastbound lane had become a spontaneous marketplace, free enterprise springing up within minutes of the manna’s arrival.

He noticed a group of men gathered nearby, the unauthorized meeting drawing the attention of his corporal and two privates. Sighing at the potential sign of trouble, he moved to check it out. “Damn, I
really
hate paperwork,” he mumbled, increasing his pace.

Unauthorized assemblies of five or more people were against regulations, and for good reason. Insurrection had broken out in more than one of Houston’s 56 districts, and the sergeant wasn’t about to let anything get started in his. Rebellion led to more cas
ualties, cremations, and double shifts, not to mention the myriad of forms and depositions the zone’s commanders would heap upon his person.

Twenty feet away, he exhaled with relief. His lieutenant was among the group, standing next to a man everyone called Uncle Nate, the civilian representative of District 17. The presence of his commanding officer meant this
gathering was authorized. If trouble broke out, the paperwork would be stacked on the LT’s desk, not his.

The sergeant could see them all huddled together, each man reading a sheet of paper. It was an unusual sight. Lieutenant James peered up at the sergeant’s approach, a curt nod the only acknowledgement of his arrival. Without a word, Jame
s passed his subordinate a document, the single page of typeset print clearly of the Army’s making.

“The Alliance of West Texas to Assume Command of the Houston Control Zone,” was the title. It took only a few minutes for the sergeant to finish reading the
article.

“What’s this mean, sir?” he questioned the officer.

“It means there’s a new sheriff coming to town. It means the US government is pulling out, and this homegrown organization is taking over.”

Rumors of the Alliance and the progress in West Texas had made the rounds, but no one really knew what to make of the stories. Now, out of the blue, was this. 

“We are going to hold division-wide assemblies in the next few days,” the lieutenant stated. “Each man is to be given the choice of staying with the 7
th
, or transferring to a unit still under the control of Washington and the Pentagon. Staying means swearing an oath to this new government.”

Uncle Nate stepped closer, the civilian’s expression unreadable. “I like their list of directives,” he began, pointing at his copy. “I sure hope they can do better implementing them than what we’ve seen so far out of
DC.”

The sergeant gazed down, focusing in on the five items listed. They read:

Energy

Agriculture

Security

Transportation

Communications

Uncle Nate continued, “Says here that, and I quote, ‘All of the Alliance’s resources are to be aligned in order to achieve these directives.’ Do you think they’ve got more food out in the western part of the state than we have here?”

Both of the military men shrugged. “Only time will tell,” the officer offered, “At this point, you know as much as I do.”

Uncle Nate decided he wasn’t going to receive any additional input, and wandered off, seeking more talkative company. Once they were out of earshot, the sergeant engaged his leader for a more detailed response. “Seriously, sir, what does this mean?”

“As usual, we’re the last to know here in lovely suburban Houston. General Zackery is supposed to be holding briefings tomorrow, so I should be filled in shortly afterwards. What I do know is that everyone back at Hood was given this choice a few days ago. Most of the division is staying put… probably no better place to go. But others are leaving. I guess they’ve had enough fun in Texas.”

“How many are transferring, sir? Has anyone said?”

“No specific numbers have been cited, but the scuttlebutt is that not many are heading out. Captain Henning just arrived from Hood, and he told me that there were only a few farewell celebrations in progress. He said he drove through the on-base housing and only noticed a handful of moving vans.”

“What about you, sir?”

“I’m staying, S
ergeant. I’ve been hearing about this group out of West Texas for months now. According to a friend of mine from Fort Bliss, there are electric lights in many of the towns out there. He claims that food, minerals, and manufactured goods are moving by the truckload. He believes this new civilian leadership has its shit together.”

The sergeant was skeptical. For two years, command had been promising to turn the electricity back on within 90 days. It had n
ever occurred. Examining the thin, sunken-faced wretches passing by, he reasoned that hollow promises made for hollow people. What made the Alliance leadership so sure they could pull off what had perplexed and baffled the best minds in the country since the collapse?

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” the NCO commented. “I hope those poor bastards
from out west realize what they’re getting themselves into.”

Like ghostly apparitions from a teen horror flick, the blurry
, white images appeared oddly distorted against the background of stark blacks and grays. “Contact,” Bishop whispered into his microphone as he adjusted the infrared optic’s focus. A slight twist of the control fine-tuned the clarity.

“I’ve got eight… no, make that nine individuals at 250 meters,” he transmitted.

Without removing his eye from the device, his finger found a button and pushed. The image changed drastically, the ghoulish, spirit-like outlines now becoming red and angry. A blinking line of text appeared at the bottom of the display informing him that red now equaled “hot.”

A party of demons strolling through purgatory,
he mused.

“I’m looking at a work group of some sort,” Bishop broadcast. “There are eight people carrying shovels, hoes and rakes, and one guy with a rifle. I can’t tell if he’s protection
for the detail… or its jailer.”

“Does it matter?” Major Baxter’s cynical, but hushed voice sounded in his ear.

Prick,
Bishop thought.
That guy’s sphincter is so tight, you couldn’t drive in a straight pin with a sledgehammer.

Bishop continued to ponder the officer’s harsh comment for a moment. Regardless of the role of the passing guard/jailer, his presence signaled organization at some level. Little more could be learned from his inclusion in the group.

“I suppose not,” he replied. “They’re heading away from me, so I’m continuing to the objective. See you at the roadblock.”

A few minutes later, Bishop scrambled down a small, roadside knoll, keeping low and quiet as he stalked through waist-high weeds and brush. Again, pausing to orient himself to the surroundings, he mentally reviewed the next phase of their plan – the barricade.

Bishop’s head and body were shrouded in a net, the nylon mesh laced with grass, weeds, small branches, and other local foliage. It was heavy, hot and scratchy, but a necessary precaution. Even in the low light of pre-dawn, despite their overwhelming numbers, surprise was always the strongest ally.