Free The Directives by Joe Nobody Page A

months ago. Burning candles didn’t work out so well.”
    The passage led to a small, cinderblock-lined room. With just enough space for a single cot and a chair, Evan began removing his disguise. While he changed, he began spinning the sordid story of Brighton, Texas.
    “For the first week after the terrorist attacks, the electricity came and went several times a day. It was really nothing more than an annoyance at first, pissing folks off because they couldn’t watch the news. Brighton was practically a ghost town in those early days, every mother’s son glued to the television, digesting a steady diet of video feed covering the fires raging in Houston, Atlanta, and eventually Washington, DC.”
    Bishop’s host shook his head at the memory, recalling the fear and uncertainty that gripped the nation.
    “And then the power went out and didn’t come back on. The first day, it wasn’t any big deal. By the end of the third day, people were really starting to get concerned. The town’s two grocery stores were stripped to their bare shelves. Every gas station ran out of supplies. Some people tried to leave town, most heading off to relatives or friends. The vast majority returned a short time later, full of stories about the grid-locked interstates and bandits preying on stranded motorists.”
    Bishop sighed, remembering those first days of confusion and fear. “My wife and I were living in Houston at the time,” he said. “We had no idea what was going on. Without television or radio, no one knew anything.”
    Evan’s gaze focused on an empty piece of air, his voice monotone as he recalled the painful memories. “Our locals, as well as the refugees started camping out at the supermarkets, sleeping in their vehicles, waiting on any delivery truck that might be bringing food. None ever came.”
    Condor stopped his narration for a moment, pulling on a pair of work boots that seemed a better fit than the loafers he’d worn to town. “After a week, people were getting desperate. The camps moved from the grocery stores to the courthouse. People started demanding the county officials do something… anything to get food into town. It was the local county agent who came up with a solution. He went to the farms and ranches surrounding Brighton and spread the word that the folks in town were starving. Most of the ranchers responded, many loading up grain, pigs, cattle and chickens and hauling them to town. A farmer’s market was set up at the high school, and it worked pretty well for a month or two.”
    “What happened?” Bishop asked, considering the similarities with Meraton and its fledgling marketplace.
    “The growers wanted fuel, medicine and other valuable items in exchange for their food. After a while, all the tanks had been siphoned, the local pharmacies cleaned out. Guns, ammunition, clothing and other perishable items were also traded, but gasoline and diesel were the primary currency.”
    Bishop could see what was coming. “And the town wasn’t producing any more of those items. The people were spending, but never replenishing their coffers.”
    “That was exactly what was happening. A sizeable constituency of people complained to the county and city officials. On one hand, the farmers said they couldn’t continue to grow and transport food without fuel. On the other side, the people were starving and didn’t believe their rural neighbors should be so greedy. In a matter of weeks, there was a serious divide, Mayor Lewis and his crew leading the townsfolk, the elected county officials siding with the farmers.”
    Bishop thought back to Red’s early statement about a war. It all made sense now. “So when did the shooting start?” he asked, the question surprising his host.
    “I don’t know really. Dad and I were trying to keep people from looting the plant. Some asshole must have spread a rumor that we had huge tanks of gasoline at the facility. We had people poking and prying around, many of them