The Directives by Joe Nobody

interview those people out there. They are the farmers and ranchers who escaped the raids. Altogether, there are about 200 of us. We’ve fought Winfrey and his henchmen to a draw, but it won’t last. We’re outnumbered and outgunned. I’m hoping those soldiers and you can make all this right. Wander around, talk to those people out there, and satisfy yourself that I’m telling you the truth. When you’re done, find a big guy named Frank. He’ll escort you back to town.”
    Bishop nodded, and the two men shook hands. “One last question before I go. What are the town’s people eating - now that you have stopped the Repos?”
    Evan snorted and stared down at the floor. “Lew has work gangs… some are composed of actual criminals… prisoners from the jail. But quite a few of their ‘slaves’ are men captured during the raids. The mayor and his lapdog, the sheriff, run a sort of debtor’s prison. They use those poor souls to farm the properties that were taken over by the bank – the ones closet to town. They are basically using forced labor under the guise of a homegrown justice system.”
    The group I saw in the thermal optic when we first arrived , Bishop thought. Another piece of the puzzle.
    Bishop didn’t need a lot more convincing. Evan’s story made sense and was supported by observations he’d already noted. It also resolved several unanswered questions that had been so troubling.
    After talking to a few of the refugees, the Texan found Frank, and the two men set off for town.
    “We need to hurry. It will be dark soon, and they start working the fields just before dusk,” the escort explained.

     
    Bishop returned to the courthouse with just enough light left to identify Major Baxter standing on the front steps, talking with the sheriff. “Where the hell have you been?” the officer snapped.
    “I helped an old man back to his house,” Bishop answered honestly. “He invited me in for some tea, and time just got away from me.”
    “Old man?” the sheriff inquired, his tone thick with doubt. “I’m not aware of very many old timers around town. Where does he live?”
    “I’m not sure,” Bishop answered. “I got a little lost on the way back. His house was out in the countryside, just beyond the edge of town.”
    “We’ve had people out looking for you,” Baxter stated. “Don’t wander off again.”
    “Yes, sir,” Bishop responded, acting as if he were worthy of the scolding. “I’m exhausted, gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hit the rack before it’s my turn at sentry duty.”
    Bishop started to pass between the two men when the sheriff reached out and grabbed him by the arm. “I wasn’t finished with my questions,” the lawman hissed.
    After learning the truth about Brighton, Bishop was already disgusted just by being in proximity to the man. Something about the hand squeezing his arm ignited a firestorm of wrath inside the Texan. In a blur of motion, he found the lawman’s thumb, bending it backwards until the grip on his bicep was released. A simple twist, side step and push sent the sheriff to his knees, his arm helplessly pinned high against his back.
    Bishop’s pistol was pressing hard against the man’s ear. “Don’t you ever lay a fucking hand on me again, you piece of shit. I know your kind. Say your prayers, little law-bitch.”
    A slight whimper sounded from the sheriff’s throat when Bishop cocked the hammer of his pistol.
    Baxter was momentarily stunned by the speed and violence of the action. “Bishop. Bishop, stop! What are you doing?”
    But the Texan’s only response was to pull his victim’s arm higher, a loud pop signaling he’d dislocated the sheriff’s shoulder. The man howled in pain, the outburst followed by a low whine of misery.
    “Are you finished praying yet? I don’t hear you asking for forgiveness, Sheriff. ”
    “Bishop!” Baxter shouted again. “Stop this! Are you fucking crazy?”
    Baxter bent lower, getting his