The Directives (31 page)

Bishop ignored the words, instead focusing on the glistening coat of sweat that now covered his foe’s upper body. Hoss’s breathing was becoming labored, his footwork less certain.

After another minute, the crowd began to jeer, obviously bored with Bishop’s constant avoidance of the hometown favorite and reigning champion. Mumblings of, “He’s not going to fight,” and “What a coward,” rolled through the gathered mob.

On the next pass, Bishop again stepped to the side, but this time he didn’t scamper off. In a blur, two sharp blows landed on Hoss’s neck and head, immediately followed by a powerful kick to the bac
k of the giant’s knee. The mob cheered the contact.

Hoss wasn’t unskilled. Sensing Bishop’s proximity, he snapped an elbow into Bishop’s hip, the numbing impact of the blow rolling the Texan across the ground.

Jesus, that hurt
, Bishop thought, barely hobbling to escape the follow-on assault. His leg and side throbbed from the impact.
I’ve been kicked by weaker horses.

Rage and adrenaline surged through Hoss’s body as he spun, reaching out to grasp Bishop’s arm. But the Texan wasn’t there any longer, moving off with his never-ending, annoying little two-step.

Confident his opponent had finally decided to fight, the giant charged in again, only to land a swinging maul on empty air. Bishop just slid aside, intent on making the big fella chase him around the ring.

After two more passes, Hoss was becoming confused, his adrenaline dump now burning off, his lungs struggling to provide the oxygen needed by his tremendous mass of muscle. Deciding to change tactics, he moved to the center of the clearing and simply stood in a ready stance, as if he expected Bishop to come to him.

“Have you had enough?” Bishop asked his clearly frustrated foe.

“Fuck you,” came the reply. “Come in a little closer, and I’ll rip your
little piss ant head off.”

“Do I look stupid?” Bishop grinned.

Again, the onlookers grew impatient, their bloodlust completely unsatisfied. Unlike before, both Bishop and Hoss began receiving their share of catcalls and heckling.

“What?” Hoss said, half-turning to look at his one-time supporters with outstretched arms. “He won’t fight.”

It was the opening Bishop had been waiting for. With his opponent slightly distracted, the Texan took a single step and leapt, both boots landing in the center of the Goliath’s chest with an audible thud.

Both men went down, but
Bishop was prepared, deftly turning away and regaining his feet first.

Stunned by the attack, Hoss only managed a knee before Bishop was on him with a vengeance.

Three rabbit punches struck the back of the big man’s head, quickly followed by another roundhouse kick that landed square on Hoss’s nose. The sickening crush of cartilage could be heard all around.

A shower of blood exploded from the giant’s face as he surged upward with a roar of pain, but Bishop had no intention of
letting the attacker regain the initiative.

A savage downward kick landed on Hoss’s right knee, the edge of Bishop’s boot delivering the blow just above and outside the kneecap. Again, the Texan’s leg coiled and flashed, repeating the strike to the same tortured flesh and tendons. The hulk toppled in a howl of agony.

Bishop, recovering his balance, started to move in on the semi-prone man at his feet. The Texan’s expression was neutral, like a predator making to finish wounded prey. The effort was cut short by a shouted command, “Enough!”

Major Misery appeared between Bisho
p and his foe. “It’s over,” declared the local leader. “Stop.”

A passing flash of fear crossed behind Misery’s eyes. Face to face with the man who had impossibly bested his son, the older man saw something deep
and primordial in Bishop’s glower. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if the Texan
would
stop… doubting his ability to halt the advancing stranger.

And then Grim was there, gently guiding Bishop away
from the downed man and disgruntled multitude. Hustling his friend to the side, Grim’s only comment was, “What took you so long?”

Still panting hard, Bishop cleared the battle-lust from his vision while his lungs worked for air. “I need some water. Damn, that guy was strong,” he eventually responded.

As they made to leave, Major Misery stepped up. “You’ve got the job. Report here at 0600 hours tomorrow. The pay is two pounds of food, six ounces of that being beef, and two cartridges per day. Don’t be late, and I wouldn’t turn my back on Hoss for a while.”

Word of the Texas Star and the fantastic strides accomplished by the people of East Texas had reached the council a week before Grim and Bishop’s arrival.

Terri and her entourage had been visiting Houston, meeting with the military commanders and civilian authority that now controlled what remained of the nation’s fourth largest city.

The chairwoman had entered a nightmarish zone of human suffering, destruction, and general dismay. With 40% of the city having burned to the ground, or been bulldozed to create a firebreak, Houston no longer resembled the hometown that Terri remembered.

During the two-day marathon of meetings, presentations and tours, she had been deeply saddened. It was more than just the physical deva
station that broke her heart. Seeing the hollow mass of humanity, the once proud citizens of the Bayou City, ripped her soul like nothing she’d ever witnessed.

Terri was reminded of old pictures and black and white news reels of German cities after World War II. And it wasn’t just the piles of blackened rubble and stretches of flattened lots –
the people had that same blank expression of helpless defeat on their faces.

When the topic of feeding the multitudes
arose, Terri had inquired about the status of Galveston and the potential for seafood to fill the ever-increasing void of food.

It was then that she had learned of the Texas Star, an inspiring tale of survivors adapting to overcome, and according to some sources, thrive.

The story had actually been interesting for more than just the potential of stocking the population’s pantries.

Transportation was essential to the recovery, not only to haul goods where they were needed, but also to move people, equipment and spare parts.

Like the American West of old, the Alliance had initially considered the railways and waterways as major arteries of transportation. But the limited supply of diesel was the hamstring, especially with the massive effort underway to plant the seed corn recovered from Riley, Texas.

One solution no one had exhaustively researched was steam.

It had been decades since the iron horses of the first railroads had thundered across the land, their stacks boiling with black smoke from scorching wood or coal. Now, with modern fuels being refined at a fraction of previous production, the concept of utilizing the few remaining relics from that bygone era had commanded the Alliance’s attention.

According to the stories Terri heard in Houston, the operation in East Texas was quite sophisticated and organized. A steam engine was said to pull cars full of people, homegrown produce, beef, chicken, and lumber from
the Great Piney Woods of East Texas to Galveston Island.

There, the bounty of the sea, harvested from the shorelines and a few operating fishing boats, was trade
d in an open-air market called The Strand.

The
scent of fresh fish, oysters, shrimp, and kelp followed the old locomotive on its return trip north, her cars full of the island community’s bartered goods.

“Another market
place like Meraton would boost the recovery,” she’d informed Diana via the military’s long-range communications net. “I’ve heard enough down here to warrant further investigation. I think we should send in a team to find out exactly what’s going on.”

When Terri had reported the supposed use of wood gas to power the locomotive, the coun
cil’s interest had been piqued. The purported activity originating in the Great Piney Woods might further three directives: agriculture, energy, and transportation.

But, according to the reports, there were issues.

Like the days of old, bandits, desperados, and nefarious gangs had taken to raiding the trains, often holding passengers and crew at gunpoint and helping themselves to whatever cargo they could carry off. 

The reaction was predictable, honest citizens on both ends of the run arming themselves and riding “shotgun” in an attempt to protect their livelihood
s.

Over time, a third factor was rumored t
o have entered the drama - the barons. As the months passed, strong, aggressive men with resources and gumption began to establish themselves as local leaders. They organized, controlled, and manipulated the iron horse and its surrounding economy. Some were opportunists, simply in the right place at the right time. Others had already established themselves as local businessmen long before the collapse.

Regardless of the circumstances, the rail line was now said to be tightly controlled, having morphed from a solution benefiting many, to a thriving enterprise profiting a select few.   

Given the disastrous experience at Brighton, it was decided to conduct a fact-finding mission before the council made any determination how to approach or integrate resources with whoever controlled the operation. Bishop’s team had been dispatched.   

“Hunter and I will meet you in Galveston
,” Terri had told her husband on the radio. “Bring me some good news.”

“Hey, I love trains. This might be a little fun,” Bishop had responded. “And you. Give Hunter a hug from his dad.”

After being hired, Bishop and Grim left the security compound, trekking the two miles back to their hidden pickup. Upon arriving in the area the day before, they had driven around for three hours before identifying a suitable spot to conceal the truck. Kevin and Cory were waiting on their return.

After debriefing the other two members of the team, they sat down to
consume the campfire feast Cory had prepared.

“That setup is pretty brutal,” Grim began. “The pay is truly
a starvation wage. I was trying to figure up what a few ounces of food and meat would come out to, and it wasn’t pretty, especially for a man doing a full day’s manual labor.”

Bishop nodded, “I agree, but that’s none of our concern. I might be tempted to get the Alliance involved if they were using slave labor of some sort, but they are paying for work performed. Maybe the business can only support that wage. And remember, no one is holding a gun to
the workers’ heads and forcing them work to there.”

“But if the folks don’t have any option,” Kevin asked, “is it right to take advantage of them?”

Bishop didn’t answer immediately, staring into the blaze while gathering his thoughts. “That’s a good question, Kevin, one that has been debated in our country for years. I don’t know if you were old enough to pay attention, but before the collapse, there were always deliberations about the minimum wage. Some people believed that corporate executives and business owners were making too much money while their personnel starved. Others believed in the free enterprise system, where if employees were treated badly, they would go elsewhere.”

The youngest of the team nodded, “I remember some stuff about it, but not much. I was into Batman more than the nightly news.”