Free The Directives by Joe Nobody

way,” Evan said, “I believe the plant can be restarted, regardless of what Lew and the others told you. It’s been a few months since I was there, but with electricity, some repairs, and a decent workforce, we could probably begin manufacturing most of our inventory.”
    “Now that’s the best news I’ve had all day,” Bishop replied.
    They soon came to a lane, twin tracks of worn dirt leading into a thickly wooded area. After they had traveled a few hundred yards off the pavement, Evan looked to his left and waved. Bishop was startled to see an arm appear from behind a strand of short bushes. A sentry, and a well-hidden one at that.
    The path meandered with a myriad of twists and turns, finally delivering the men to a massive, but somewhat dilapidated barn. Part of the roof had caved in, the rest of the shelter looking like it would soon follow. Faded white and red paint covered much of the now-scrap lumber, rotted ends of broken timbers protruding here and there.
    “Welcome to my headquarters,” Evan announced.
    Bishop peered around, wondering what he had missed. There were the remains of a few other outbuildings, not enough of the smaller structures left to identify their original intent.
    In the distance he spotted the exposed foundation of what he guessed had been the farmhouse. Other than that, he couldn’t see anything that even remotely resembled an HQ.
    “No offense, but I’m not impressed,” Bishop said.
    “Good,” Evan replied, and then motioned for Bishop to follow. “Come on, I will show you where we live.”
    The two men strolled to the rear of the barn, circumventing a pile of old boards that had once been a wall. Evan stopped and pointed at the ground.
    The entrance looked like it belonged to a common root cellar. Two doors, mounted on a concrete frame, were positioned just above ground level. Bishop was still skeptical. He’d visited his fair share of such underground storage units, and they were typically inhospitable - quite small and cramped.
    Evan rapped three times on the steel door and then pulled it open. A bright light flooded up from below. “After you,” he offered.
    Bishop moved to the top step and instantly sensed that this wasn’t the average cellar. He stepped down, entering a huge underground room, almost as large as the barn above. There were overhead lights, ventilation fans, and a stereo playing soft country and western music.
    There were also a couple of dozen people scattered around the facility. Cots, chairs, boxes of clothing and an eclectic collection of mismatched furniture dotted the room.
    “This was built during Prohibition,” Evan explained. “The man who owned this farm was a terrible businessman, always on the verge of losing his land to the bank. It was rumored he had a drinking problem as well. The Great Depression and a lack of booze evidently doubled the gentlemen’s problems, so he turned to a life of crime. According to some local rumors, this was the largest moonshine operation south of the Mason/Dixon. The revenue agents never found it.”
    “Wow,” Bishop said, still amazed by the size of the complex.
    “Later, in the 1950s, a new owner converted it into a bomb shelter. My grandpa was one of the contractors that worked on revamping the place. It supposedly once held enough food and water for the man’s extended family to survive a nuclear attack.”
    “That was all the rage back then,” Bishop commented, “I remember seeing those old films, featuring duck and cover. The government even passed out pamphlets describing how to build a proper shelter.”
    Evan indicated Bishop should follow, the two men passing through one of the many doors leading from the great room. “There are over a dozen storage areas and sleeping quarters. We’ve even got four functioning bathrooms. It took us a bit of work, but we managed to get the well working again. The lighting system is all DC powered. We scavenged some solar panels and hooked them up some