One Second After

CHAPTER FIVE

“This is impossible,” Charlie announced, and John grunted in agreement.

Just past Exit 55, heading west, the interstate was completely blocked with scores of abandoned cars. During rush hour, it was this stretch of road where backups usually gridlocked, and when the EMP did hit, all the traffic had simply stopped, blocking the road across both lanes and the shoulder, where so many had drifted over as their engines stalled.

He went into reverse, weaving around the roadblock of cars back to the exit, swung around, and got off the road, then went down to Route 70, which paralleled the interstate on the north side.

“I wanted to go this way anyhow,” Washington said, sitting in the backseat of the Edsel. “Maybe the veterans hospital has some sort of connection.

Flanking Washington were two of the boys from the college ball team, Phil Vail and Jeremiah Sims. At Washington’s recommendation, which Charlie had agreed to, the two had come along “for the ride,” and concealed down by their feet were two shotguns and in Washington’s hand a Colt .45.

John nodded, took the turnoff onto 70, then headed west again, weaving around stalled cars, under the bridge for the Blue Ridge Parkway, and just past that, on their right, were the grounds of the veterans hospital.

They pulled through the gate, and John’s heart sank. Somehow, he had hoped that here, a veterans hospital, a federal facility, maybe there was a miracle, a hardened generator, or at least some semblance of normal life, of orderliness. He half-expected to see troops lined up guarding the place.

Instead it was elderly patients scattered on the lawn, some lying on blankets, others just wandering about. A lane had been cleared of stalled cars approaching the highway, a “rent-a-cop” holding a shotgun standing in the middle of the road, motioning them to stop.

John leaned out as the cop came cautiously around to the side of the car, shotgun half-leveled.

“I’m Colonel John Matherson,” he announced, feeling a bit self-conscious using that title again. He was so used to being called Professor or Doc these last few years, but Washington had advised him to revert to his old title for this trip.

“I live in Black Mountain. And this is Charlie Fuller, our director of public safety. In the backseat there is Sergeant Washington, a retired marine, and a couple of students from the college.”

The cop nodded, saying nothing, but he turned the gun away from John.

“We’re heading into Asheville to try and find out some information. Is anything running here? Electricity?”

“Nope. No power. You folks got any?”

“No, sir.”

“Is there anyone in charge here who knows what’s going on? Contact with Raleigh or Washington?”

Again the cop shook his head.

“Damn.”

“Yeah, damn,” the cop replied. “It’s hell inside there. These old guys dying off left and right. Wouldn’t think they could die so fast when without medicine for a few days.”

John thought of the nursing home, of Tyler. He had been nervous about leaving Jen and the girls alone with Tyler. But Ben had become something of a permanent fixture at the house, and John’s across-the-street neighbors Lee Robinson and his wife, Mona, parents of Seth and Pat, had volunteered to come up and give Jen some time off to sleep.

Tyler, of course, was failing. There was no IV, no oxygen, just pouring Ensure and water into him through his stomach tube. The agony was no painkillers. It was a blessing perhaps that the few days of neglect had pushed him to the edge of a coma. But when he was conscious John could see the agony in Tyler’s eyes. Jen had stayed up through the night, and just before John left, Mona had walked up to lend a hand.

John looked around again at the grounds, the patients, a few nurses lugging buckets of water up from a creek at the edge of the hospital grounds. He could only imagine what it was like inside; it was already turning into one hell of a hot day.

“I think we best head into town,” Charlie said.

The cop nodded.

“Good luck. And tell people up there we really need help here,” the cop said. “Some of the staff, the doctors and nurses, have stayed on, but a lot left, and hardly anyone has come back.”

“Why are you here?” John asked out of curiosity.

“Somebody came in yesterday and said a couple of the nursing homes in the area were hit by druggies. Well, there’s a lot of that stuff inside that building. Figure they need some protection. Besides, I was a marine, took one at Hue, 1968. Those are my comrades in there. I don’t have no family to worry about, so I guess these guys are my family.”

He then thumped his left leg and there was a hollow echo.

“Semper fi,” Washington said, and he leaned out the open window and shook the guard’s hand.

“Some advice,” Washington then said. “Don’t stand out in the middle of the road. Set up some sort of road barrier and keep to one side; use a stalled car as protection. I could have blown you away before you even blinked.”

The cop nodded.

“Yeah, guess you’re right. Forgot. Tired, I guess.”

“Good luck, Marine.”

“You, too.”

They backed out of the driveway, pulled out onto 70, and continued towards Asheville. A mile farther on, as they came up out of a hollow and started down the long hill that would pass the Department of Motor Vehicles; straight ahead they could see the Asheville Mall… a thick pall of smoke hanging over it.

“Get on the bypass,” Charlie said. “Don’t go anywhere near it.”

Driving fast, John went up the ramp onto the I-240 bypass that led straight into the heart of Asheville. Once onto the bypass he began to wonder, yet again, about the wisdom of coming into the city.

It was like driving an obstacle course with all the stalled cars. Ahead, through the highway cut in Beaucatcher Mountain, he could see numerous fires burning in the city, plumes of smoke rising up, spreading out in the morning heat, forming a shadowy cloud.

A trickle of people were walking along the side of the road, and for all the world they reminded him of an old film clip of French refugees fleeing the German advance in 1940. Some were pushing baby carriages, supermarket shopping carts, a wheelbarrow, one family pulling a small two-wheeled cart like the type hooked up to the back of a yard tractor. All piled high with belongings, children, strange things like an old painting, a treasured piece of furniture, a stack of heavy books.

As he drove by going in the opposite direction all looked towards him, as if he were an alien. More than one tried to step out, to wave him down.

“Gun!” Washington shouted.

John hunkered down and hit the gas. A man was running towards them from the side of the road, waving a pistol, and lowered it.

“Damn it, Jeremiah, drop him!” Washington shouted.

Jeremiah picked the shotgun up from off the floor, but they were already past the man. He had not fired a shot, just waved the pistol angrily.

“You keep that gun ready, boy,” Washington snapped, “and if I say shoot, you shoot.”

“Yes, sir.”

John looked in the rearview mirror. Jeremiah’s features had gone pale. He was a good kid, a ballplayer. Like so many on the team he tried to act tough and macho, but down deep most of them were small-town church-going kids, who never dreamed that in less than a week they’d go from worrying about the next game, final exams, which should have started today, or convincing small-town girls to head off into the woods with them to aiming a gun at someone and squeezing the trigger.

The overpass to Charlotte Street had two cops on it, and as he weaved towards it, one of them motioned for him to take the exit ramp off and threateningly pointed what looked to be an AR-15 at him. The interstate bypass ahead was completely blocked.

He was planning to exit here anyhow, but still, he had never quite expected such a threatening welcome.

The ramp was cleared of vehicles and he turned left off the ramp and onto the overpass where the cop with the AR-15 stood, weapon leveled.

John rolled to a stop.

“Who the hell are you?” the cop asked.

Charlie held his hands up slowly, motioned to the door, opened it, and started to get out.

“Did I tell you you could get out?”

“Listen,” Charlie replied sharply. “I’m director of public safety for Black Mountain. I’ll show you my ID.”

The cop nodded. Charlie slowly reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and opened it up. The cop stepped forward and leaned over to look at it.

“Asshole,” Washington whispered from the backseat of the car, his .45 tucked up against his left side.

“I’m here to see Ed Torrell, county director of emergency preparedness, to find out what’s going on.”

The cop nodded, then looked back at the car.

“I have orders to confiscate all vehicles that are moving.”

“Listen, Officer. We drove up from Black Mountain. I need to see Ed right now. If you confiscate our vehicle, how the hell do we get back?”

“You walk. I’ve got my orders.”

“Like hell. This is my car and we’re keeping it,” John snapped, and the cop turned towards him.

“Get out of the car, all of you. You can walk over to the county office; you’ll find Ed there. If he says you can have it back and you got that in writing, fine with me. But for now I’m taking it. You’ll find this car behind the courthouse if Torrell gives it back to you.”

“How about the other way around?” Charlie replied, staying calm. “Get in, ride with us over to see Ed, and he’ll take care of it.”

The cop shook his head.

“I’ve got my orders. Guard this bridge and impound any cars. So the rest of you get out.”

Charlie, exasperated, looked towards John, who shook his head wearily. Nothing worse than a corporal type, with limited intelligence, a gun, and his “orders.” No amount of logic in the world could ever penetrate through to him.

“You know what you sound like with your ‘only following orders’?” John asked.

The cop looked at him.

“A damn Nazi. We keep the car and Charlie here goes in to see Torrell.”

“You son of a bitch, get the hell out of that car, all of you, and hands over your heads.”

“Let me handle this,” Washington whispered.

“Get out, you first, you loudmouthed bastard,” and the cop pointed the AR straight at John.

“Move carefully,” Washington whispered.

“I’m not budging,” John said sharply, loud enough for the cop to hear. “Out, asshole.”

“It’s not ‘asshole.’ It’s ‘Colonel,’” John replied sharply. “Get out now,” and the cop shouldered the weapon, pointing it straight at John’s head.

“Better do what he says,” Charlie said bitterly. “Get out, John.”

“Hey, everybody chill. It’s ok,” Washington said, and his speech pattern had instantly changed from Marine DI to comfortable, laid-back African-American southern.

“Come on, bro,” Washington said, patting John on the shoulder with his left hand even as he slipped the .45 behind his back. “It’s cool; just do what the man says.”

Washington carefully eased out of the car, putting his hands up in the air. He walked up to the cop grinning, his gait loose and relaxed… and a second later the officer was flat out on the ground. The second cop started to swing his AR-15 around, but the .45, that Washington had kept tucked into his belt behind his back was now leveled straight at the second cop’s head.

“Move an inch, Officer, and you are history.”

The cop hesitated.

“No one gets hurt,” Washington said coolly. “Mr. Fuller is going in to see Mr. Torrell. Everything will turn out fine and then we drive away. We’ll all just sit here, wait, and talk like friends. Now son, either drop the gun or I promise you, you will be dead in five seconds.”

The officer laid the AR down.

“Boys, take their rifles. Their pistols, too.”

Washington kept the pistol leveled as Jeremiah and Phil disarmed the two cops, the one who had been knocked flat with one blow sitting up, red faced, blood trickling down from a broken nose.

“Sorry I had to do that to you, son,” Washington said, then turned to Charlie.

“Mr. Fuller, I think you should walk in. If the order is out to confiscate, we’ll definitely lose this car trying to drive to the county office. We’ll wait here.”

“I’ll go along,” John said.

“Ah, Colonel, sir,” Washington interjected. “I think you need to stay here.”

“Why?”

“More cops might come along and I just have these two boys.”

John nodded, took one of the AR-15s, and looked over at Charlie.

“I’ll get back here as fast as I can,” Charlie said. “Now listen, if for some chance I’m not back in,” he looked down at his old-style wristwatch, “make it two hours, go for home. If it looks like you might lose the car, or have to fight, get the hell out and I’ll walk home later. Ok?”

“Sure, Charlie.”

Charlie turned and set off at a slow trot to the twin buildings of the courthouse and county office. Watching him go, John had the same thought he always did when seeing the twin towers of Asheville, the famous local legend how back in 1943 the pilot of the B-17 bomber Memphis Belle, Colonel Bob Morgan, had flown his plane between the two buildings, a buzz job with him banking at a forty-five-degree angle to squeeze through.

Morgan was gone now several years, buried in the veterans cemetery in Black Mountain, and John turned to look back at the cop with the broken nose, the old Edsel, the two wide-eyed students of his…. My God, yet again, it was frightful to contemplate how much had changed.

“You all right?” John asked, trying to sound friendly, squatting down by the cop’s side.

“Screw you, you asshole,” he snapped. “That black son of a bitch broke my nose.”

Washington looked down at him and shook his head.

“You’re lucky that’s all I broke,” he said softly, all sympathy now gone. “And next time you address the gentleman, the first two words out of your mouth are ‘Colonel, sir,’ and as for me ‘Sergeant’ will be just fine.

“Boys, help him to the side of the road; put him behind that Honda SUV.” He turned and looked at the other cop. “Would you mind going over and sitting down there as well.”

The second cop nodded, saying nothing.

“Phil, get back into the Edsel. Turn it off, but be ready to fire it up if I give the word. Colonel, how about you and I stand sentry.”

Washington leaned against the bridge railing, John beside him, and from a distance it would look like nothing had changed.

John pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and saw the second cop looking up at him.

“Want one?”

“Yes, sir.”

John pulled one out, handed it down, the cop motioning to his pocket. Washington nodded and the cop drew out a lighter.

“Damn, thank you, sir. Ran out of smokes two days ago.”

John, still holding the pack, looked down and counted. There were eight cigarettes left. He pulled two more out and handed them over.

“Hey, thanks, sir.”

The universal gesture of a trade to cement the peace kicked in at that moment and John could see the second cop relax, exhaling with pleasure after he took a deep puff.

John looked over at the cop who was gingerly touching his now-swollen nose that was still leaking blood.

“You smoke?”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Hey now,” Washington said.

“Gus, you just don’t know when to shut the hell up,” the second cop said. “Stupid shit, you got what you deserved for once.”

Gus shot him a bitter look, saying nothing but the gaze communicating that there would be payback time later for the comment.

“What’s your name?” John asked the reasonable cop.

“Bill.”

“What’s been happening here, Bill?”

“I guess you can see it, sir,” and though still sitting on the pavement, he gestured back towards the town.

“Looting, panic. Martial law declared yesterday. They actually executed a guy last night right in the middle of Pack Place. He had killed a cop.

“Got what he deserved then,” Washington replied.

“How the hell would you know?” Gus replied, his voice thick.

“Because, you stupid shithead, I’m a cop, but unlike you I got some sense to me. Twenty-four years a marine before that. You might not believe this, buddy, but I’m on your side. But frankly, in your case, shore-patrol types like you I eat up for breakfast.”

“Some people coming,” Jeremiah announced, and nodded up Charlotte Street.

“I hope you guys cooperate,” Washington said.

“Yeah, sure,” Bill replied. “I got no beef with you. Besides, you guys were right.”

“Wait until I tell the chief about this,” Gus said coldly. “Be my guest. I’m not the one who got thrashed.”

John saw where Jeremiah was pointing and the sight was absolutely startling. It was like a procession, a hundred or more. Mostly the downtown weirdos as Jennifer called them.

Asheville across the years had developed something of a reputation as a throwback, a “Haight-Ashbury East,” with a bizarre street life of aging hippies and New Agers, Wiccans, and just a lot of drugged-out kids. They were, to John’s view, harmless, though the more conservative element of the city and county had real difficulties dealing with them. Frankly, he sort of got a kick out of their presence; there was still, within himself, a touch of them from his own youth.

It was indeed a procession, some guys up front beating on drums, a couple of girls, one of them definitely cute, with long blond hair and a sixties-looking nearly transparent dress on, with nothing on underneath, an old guy, gray beard and hair, wearing a robe carrying a sign that actually declared; “The End HAS Finally Come.” Another sign read: “Stop Globalization,” other signs “We Got What We Deserved” and several “Peace Now.”

Jeremiah stood there grinning as the girl came up to him and did a bit of a provocative dance to the beat of the drum. As the group passed by the side of the Honda SUV, someone slowed.

“Hey, they’ve got some cops! Looks like they kicked the shit out of Gestapo Gus.”

The procession began to grind to a halt.

“Wow, man. Revolution now!” someone shouted, beginning to approach Washington.

“Revolution my ass,” Washington said coldly, and the protestor stopped in his tracks.

Bill stood up.

“George, you know me,” he said, speaking to the bearded character carrying the end-has-come, sign. “Yeah, Bill.”

“Everything’s cool here. Gus fell and broke his nose. These guys are helping out, so why don’t you just move along.”

The leader nodded, the beat was picked back up, and the parade moved on.

“Absolutely unreal,” Washington sighed.

“Asheville,” Bill replied. “You gotta love it, even now at times. I know a lot of those kids; most of them are ok, even if a bit misguided.”

The dancing blonde came up to him and kissed him on the cheek. Bill actually patted her on the butt before she danced off.

He caught John’s eye and grinned slightly.

“Monica and I had a little thing going a couple of months back.”

“Wow, you and her?” Jeremiah asked. Bill grinned but said nothing.

John pulled out two more cigarettes and gave another one over, both he and Bill lighting up.

“Poor kids,” Bill sighed. “Strange when you actually think of it. What’s happened, it’s what many of them have wished for, for years. That one guy, though, with the ‘Stop Globalization’ sign, him I never liked. Talks the peace bullshit line to score with the girls, but down deep a potential killer. Real anarchist, hell, if he could have pulled the plug he’d of done it and laughed.

“Regardless of that, most of them are ok, and besides, it’s a free country, isn’t it?”

He chuckled sadly and shook his head.

“They don’t get it now. If this is as bad as I think it is… they’ll be the first to die. They don’t know how to survive without a society that supports them even as they curse it or rebel against it.”

He sighed.

“Once they run out of food, then the reality will set in, but by that point, anyone with a gun will tell them to kiss off if they come begging. And if those poor kids, if they have food, the ones with guns will take it. They’re used to free clinics, homeless shelters when they need ’em, former hippie types smiling and giving them a few bucks. That’s all finished. They’ll die like flies, poor kids. No idea whatsoever how vicious the world can really be when it’s scared and hungry.

“Damn, I hate to see it. Wish their idealisms were true.

“Gandhi and Stalin.”

“What?” John asked.

“I used to tell Monica that when we’d get into politics. She’d always talk about how great Gandhi was. I’d tell her the only reason Gandhi survived after his first protest was that he was dealing with the Brits. If Stalin had been running India, he’d of been dead in a second, his name forgotten.”

John filed that one away; it was a good point.

The procession disappeared around the corner, heading back towards their traditional hangout, Pack Place, in the center of town.

“A Black Hawk flew over yesterday.” John asked, “Did it land here?”

“Yes, right down in Pack Place. From Fort Bragg.”

“What did you hear?”

“That’s when Ed finally declared martial law. We’re at war. That’s all I know. The guy on board, bird colonel, said he’ll be back in a week or so, then took off.”

“War with who?”

“No one really knows. Terrorists, North Korea, Iran, China. Just that we got hit with an EMP nuke, so he said that means we’re at war. How are things over in Black Mountain?”

“About the same. Some looting, but Charlie got that under control.”

“Memorial Mission Hospital, is it running?” John asked.

“No, sir. Generators never kicked on. I had to help take an old lady with a heart attack up there last night. We have some old trucks that run, a few cars we use as ambulances. My God, it was a damn nightmare up there. A hundred bodies or more lying in the parking lot…” And he stopped speaking, looking back towards the town where the old Battery Park Hotel, a hollowed-out shell, brick walls standing, was continuing to burn. Fires dotted the ridgelines beyond.

“The Doors,” Bill said.

“What?”

“You know, The Doors. The song ‘This Is the End,’ been thinking it a lot.”

“Here comes Charlie,” Washington announced.

He was coming back up the slope, jogging, obviously a bit winded, and motioned for them to get in the car.

John looked at Bill and Gus, who was still on the pavement, eyes red rimmed, glaring.

John went over to the Edsel, pulled a notebook out from under the passenger side, opened it and scribbled a note, then signed it.

He handed it to Washington, who read it, smiled, then signed as well.

Washington grinned and then added underneath a postscript:

John tore the note out of the pad, folded it, and handed it to Bill. “Hope that covers you.”

“What does it say?” Gus asked.

“None of your damn business,” John snapped.

“Get in the car now!” Charlie shouted, coming up the last few dozen yards.

“Colonel,” Washington said, “clear Bill’s weapon please, keep the ammo, and return it.”

John pulled the clip, chambered out the round in the barrel, and handed it back to Bill. Gus was on his feet, looking at Washington.

“I like your gun,” Washington said calmly. “And frankly, you are a danger to everyone but the bad guys when you are armed.”

“Give it back,” Gus snapped.

“I’m keeping it. Go explain to your boss how you lost it.”

“You damn nig—” He didn’t get the rest of the word out, Washington delivering a butt stroke to his stomach, knocking him back over. Bill said nothing.

“Good luck, Bill,” John said, extending his hand, shaking Bill’s. John reached into his pocket, pulled out the rest of his pack. Two cigarettes left, he handed the one to Bill.

Again, a flash thought of the Second World War. A GI with a pack of cigarettes was a wealthy man, to share one with another man, or even a captured or wounded enemy, a significant gesture.

“We’re out of here,” Charlie said, coming up to the car, gasping for air.

Phil turned the engine over, got out from behind the wheel, and John piled in.

“I’ll take shotgun,” Washington said, getting into the passenger seat. Charlie nodded and climbed into the back with the two boys.

John went into reverse, swung around, then drove back down the on-ramp, feeling strange driving on the wrong side of the highway, moving fast.

Washington took the two pistols he now had, the .45 and the Glock, and placed the Glock by John’s side. He kept the AR-15 at the ready. “What happened back there?” Charlie asked. “Oh, we made peace,” John said, “and you?”

“Jesus Christ, it’s a madhouse in the county office. Ed Torrell is dead.”

“What?”

“Collapsed about four hours ago, dead in a couple of minutes. That really got people panicked. Ed was a good man, tough, but fair.”

“Fair like with our car?”

“I’m doing the same thing.”

John looked up in the rearview mirror.

“Like with me?”

Charlie hesitated, then shook his head.

“Course not, John. As long as you help out like this. I know I can count on you when we need it.”

John relaxed.

“OK, what’s happening?”

“That Black Hawk was from Fort Bragg.”

“Yeah, we heard about that from one of the cops.”

“Well, it’s bad, real bad. There is no communication anywhere yet. They say they had some radios stored away that were in hardened sites and will start getting them out, but nothing prepositioned. Plans as well to see if any ham radio operators have old tube sets, maybe Morse code.”

“Sounds like that movie Independence Day,” Jeremiah interjected.

“You’re right, and almost as desperate.”

“But news, I mean news from the outside?” John asked.

“State government’s moving to Bragg. Some assets there did survive. Plus it’s damn secure.”

“Are we at war?”

“Nobody knows for sure with who. At least at this level. Rumors that we nuked Tehran yesterday and half a dozen cities in Iran and just blew the shit out of North Korea.”

“So they did it?” Jeremiah asked.

“Like I said, rumors.”

“How can we do that?” Phil asked.

“What?”

“I mean hit them when we can’t get anything moving here.”

“It must have been an event limited to the continental United States. Our assets overseas are still intact, at least for the moment. “Oh yeah, there’s a rumor the president is dead.”

“What?” John exclaimed.

“Someone said the White House got word about fifteen minutes before the blast. Got the president airborne on Air Force One… and the goddamn plane wasn’t hardened sufficiently, and went down.”

“I can’t believe they didn’t harden Air Force One,” Washington interjected.

“Yeah, we can’t be that dumb,” Charlie interjected, his voice bitter with irony.

“Here. Right now. What is going on?” John asked.

Even as he asked, it felt strange. At any other time in the nation’s history, the word that the president might be dead froze the nation in place. John could still remember the day Reagan was shot, the incredible gaffe by Alexander Haig at the press conference when he said, “I’m in charge here.” That mere misstatement had nearly set off panic with some about an attempted coup.

Air Force One went down? Horrible as the realization was, John felt at that moment it didn’t matter to him. It was survival, survival here, at this moment, his family that counted, and he drove on, weaving around a stalled 18-wheeler, a truck that had been hauling junk food, potato chips, corn chips, and it was picked over like a carcass lying in the desert, hundreds of smashed-open cardboard shipping boxes littering the side of the road, bags of chips smashed and torn open lying along the side of the road. An old woman was carefully picking over the torn bags, emptying their meager contents into a plastic trash bag.

“They did get lucky with some vehicles in Asheville,” Charlie said. “A scattering of cars parked in underground garages. Their big problem is water. At least we’re gravity fed, but part of their downtown has to have the water pumped over Beaucatcher, though down by Biltmore, and on the east side of the mountain they’re still getting supplied from the reservoir. They’re badly screwed in that department; that’s why there’s so many fires.”

He hesitated.

“Therefore Asheville is trying to organize an evacuation.”

“To where?” Washington asked.

“Well, to Black Mountain for one. The new guy in charge, I don’t even know him, he told me we’re supposed to take five thousand refugees from the city. Didn’t ask, no discussion. An order like he was now the dictator of the mountains.

“Almost the first words out of his mouth when I reported in to him. They want to spread their people out all over the region, as far west as Waynesville, north to Mars Hill, south to Flat Rock.”

“Why?”

“Because they think we have food, that’s why. The water thing is just an excuse. Hell, they’re right on the French Broad River. I heard they even have a tank truck that can haul five thousand gallons at a clip. It’s just an excuse. It’s about the food.”

“Do we have as much on hand as they do?” John replied.

Charlie shook his head, features angry.

“They got lucky with the stalled trucks on the interstates. A fair number with bulk food on board them, also the rail yard. Two trucks loaded with a hundred hogs even. They were roasting one right behind the courthouse. Dozens of railcars packed with bulk stuff as well down in the Norfolk and Southern rail yard. Got that from the assistant police chief, a good friend.

“I tried to raise with this new tin-plated idiot that the county should pool all resources and he wouldn’t even talk about it, just kept ordering me to prepare to take five thousand refugees starting in a couple of days.”

“Hell, it should be us moving in with them,” Washington said.

“Why then?” John asked, a bit incredulous that control had so completely broken down that even on the county level there was no cooperation.

“He’s planning ahead,” Washington said bitterly. “Far ahead. Get rid of half the people and you have food enough for twice as long and let someone else worry about the rest. And I’ll bet more than one of the inside crowd, some of the political heels up in that office and their cronies, will still be eating good six months from now.

“Besides, it’s like all city folk, they somehow think there’s more food out in the country.”

John sighed. Scale of social order, he thought. The larger the group, the more likely it was that it would fragment under stress, with a few in power looking out for themselves first. Five thousand might be convinced to share and cooperate. A hundred thousand, self-interests, them and us, would begin to take over, especially with the breakdown in communications.

That had always been the power of media in the hands of a good leader. To get individuals to feel as if the leader was speaking directly to them, Churchill in 1940, Jack Kennedy in 1962, and Reagan in the 1980s. A single voice like that now could break the paradigm, but there would be no such voice and a few cronies of an old political machine in a county government hall might start thinking of themselves and their friends first, and the hell with the rest. John could barely imagine what it might be like, at this very minute, in a city of a million, of five or ten million.

“If we let them all in, it will cut in half the time we have before we run out,” Charlie sighed, “and I doubt if they’ll help us then.

“So I figured it was best not to stick around and argue. I just told him I’ll take it back to the town council. He then said it was an order. I didn’t argue. I just got out. As I left, a couple of cops asked me how I got into town and I lied, said I had walked it. Well, that’s why I was running. I got a block or two and they started to follow me.”

“I know this might sound stupid.” It was Jeremiah. “But I thought we were all in this together. We’re neighbors….”

He hesitated.

“We’re Americans….”

John glanced back to the rearview mirror, unable to speak, then focused his attention ahead.

They were up to the turnoff onto Route 70. He went down the ramp, swung onto what he still felt was the correct side of the road, and floored it.

The line of refugees they had passed earlier was actually larger now, more people on foot, some on bicycles, others having already learned the old refugee trick that a bicycle can be a packhorse; loaded it down, properly balanced, it could be pushed along with a couple of hundred pounds.

“Gun,” Washington announced. “Swerve left.”

John swung the old Edsel across the highway. Strange, it was right in front of the DMV office. A week ago, a dozen cops would have been piling out to give him a ticket, the gunman cause for a SWAT team to jump in.

The gunman was the same as before, standing in front of a car dealership, now stepping out, waving his pistol.

Washington raised his AR-15, leveled it out the window. Some refugees were scattering, others just staring at the sight of the Edsel, some just oblivious.

“Don’t do it,” Washington hissed.

As if the man had heard Washington or, far more likely, seen the leveled rifle, he stepped back.

Washington tracked on him as they sped past, then exhaled noisily.

“Professor, I think your student just asked a question,” Washington said calmly.

John, trembling from the tension, spared a quick glance back at Jeremiah, Charlie by his side.

“We’re still Americans,” John said softly.

An hour later they were back into Black Mountain. There was a roadblock up on the west side of Swannanoa; the chief there had chosen a good spot, a bottleneck where ridges came down on both sides, Route 70, Swannanoa Creek railroad track, and I-40 side by side. The roadblock had not been up when they had driven through several hours earlier.

John had slowed as they approached the barrier. Charlie leaned out of the car and a couple of the cops recognized him, asked for news, and he had confirmed the rumor that had already reached them that more refugees were coming out of Asheville.

John pulled back onto the interstate there, and once past the sign marking the town limits of Black Mountain he breathed a sigh of relief and he felt the others in the car relax as well, Washington finally lowering the AR-15. It was if they had gone to an alien land and were now safely back home.

But as they rolled into the parking area in front of the firehouse and police station, John tensed up again. A crowd had gathered, half a thousand or more, and for a few seconds he thought they were trying to storm the building for the emergency supplies.

The five of them got out, and at the sight of Charlie several came running up.

“They got two thieves in there, Charlie,” someone said excitedly.

John shook his head. Hell, half of the people in this town in the last five days had stolen something. Even himself, he had never bothered to go back to the drugstore to pay for the medication or chocolate or the twenty bucks he still owed Hamid. Besides, there was no money anyhow.

“The bastards that raided the nursing home!” someone else shouted, and an angry mutter went through the crowd.

Charlie pushed his way through, and John followed along with Washington.

They got to the door.

“John, maybe you should wait.”

“I got a stake in this. I was there; Tyler was affected.”

“Ok.”

He followed Charlie in. There was a crowd gathered round the door to the conference room, and John stepped through the group with Charlie. Kate looked up, visible relief in her eyes. “You’re back safe, thank God.”

“What’s going on here?”

“Got these two,” Tom said.

At the far end of the room two men, midtwenties from the look of them, one as described by Ira, shaved head, distinguishing tattoo, earring; the other, almost an opposite, looking not much different from John’s students now waiting outside: fairly well built, hair cut short, but his eyes… John could tell this kid was something of a stoner.

“Charlie, Tom wants to shoot them,” Kate said quietly.

Charlie sat down against the edge of the table and looked at them.

“What do you got, Tom?”

“When I got the description from the nursing home, I knew where to look for him,” Tom said, pointing at the serpent arm.

“Busted him three years back on a meth charge. Regular lab, a home just up over the crest of Route 9. Owned by his cousin here.”

“I didn’t have nothing to do with it!” the clean-cut one cried. “Larry here, he’s the one.”

“Shut the fuck up, Bruce,” Larry snapped, trying to lunge towards him but unable to move. Both were handcuffed and bound to chairs.

“So I went up there this morning and sure enough found these two. Wasted as shit. You’ll see the track marks from the morphine.”

John looked closely at the clean-cut kid; there was some recognition.

“Professor Matherson. You know me, I took History one-oh-one with you four years ago. You know me.”

John looked at him carefully. He was never that good with names, but faces he did remember. Yes, Bruce had been a student, showed some promise, then just disappeared from the campus after a semester or two.

Tom looked over at John.

“He was a student once. Several years back.”

“That doesn’t matter now,” Tom said.

“I want a lawyer. A fucking lawyer!” Larry shouted. “I know my rights. You dumb-ass cop, you didn’t even read me my Miranda, so you really fucked up this bust. I’m outta here once I get a lawyer. Brutality as well,” and he turned his head to show a swollen cheek, right eye half-shut.

“We are under martial law now,” Charlie said quietly, breaking into the argument.

Bruce looked over at Charlie, eyes wide.

“What does that mean?”

Charlie stood up and looked around.

“Witnesses?”

“We fetched the supervisor down from the nursing home. She’s outside.”

“Bring her in,” Charlie said.

John stood up as Ira came in. She looked worse than yesterday, hair uncombed, dirty. It was obvious from the stains on her silk blouse, and the smell, that she had, at some point, snapped out of her shock and was trying to help with the patients.

She looked at the two young men.

“The one with the tattoo, that’s definitely him.”

“Lying bitch, it was dark; how could you see me?”

“How do you know it was dark when they were robbed?” Charlie asked.

“Heard it from somebody,” came the muttered reply.

“The other one, I’m not sure. But that tattoo, I remember that.”

“Thanks for the identification.”

She nodded.

Charlie hesitated, looking around. “Will you swear to this?”

“Sure, Charlie.”

“Someone find a Bible.”

Kate went into her office and returned a moment later with a King James. Charlie wasn’t sure of the exact line, so Kate swore her in, and Ira repeated her testimony.

“You got the drugs, Tom?” Charlie asked.

“In my office.”

“Go get them.”

He returned with several dozen vials of liquid morphine, containers of other drugs in pill form.

“Tom, just look on the containers,” Ira said. “‘Miller’s Nursing Home,’ followed by a code number, should be on them. All controlled substances, when shipped, have tracking numbers and delivery ID numbers,” and she repeated the coding.

“The same,” Tom replied.

“John, would you witness to that?”

John looked over with surprise at Charlie, as if being dragged in. But the memory of the suffering in the nursing home filled him. Kate swore John in, he went over, picked up a container.

“It says: ‘Miller’s Nursing Home.’”

“Tom, you next,” Charlie said.

Sworn in, Tom repeated his testimony as well.

Finished, he stepped back around behind the two.

“You men have anything to say?” Charlie asked.

“I want a fucking lawyer!” Larry shouted.

“Do you have anything to say?” Charlie repeated.

“Yeah, I sure as hell do; give me the damn Bible,” Bruce said.

Charlie reddened, looking over at Kate.

“The Holy Bible please,” she said slowly, forcefully.

Larry said nothing.

“I want the Holy Bible please,” Bruce said.

Charlie picked it up, walked it down the length of the table, and put it down in front of Bruce, who was then sworn in. “Tell us your story, Bruce.”

For the next five minutes he rambled on. He had nothing to do with it, Larry just coming in with the drugs. Who the second guy was, Bruce didn’t know. He and Larry had divided the loot.

John watched Bruce carefully. The man, still not much more than a boy actually, maybe twenty-one or -two, was obviously terrified. And, as well, John could sense Bruce was lying. All the years as a prof had sharpened his bullshit detector, as he called it.

Bruce finally fell silent.

“Ira?” Charlie asked. “How much morphine in liquid form was taken?”

“We keep individual vials for each patient using it, since dosage and strength vary. I think about forty or so.”

“We confiscated thirty-two,” Tom interjected.

“Not much of a cut between your friend here and his buddy,” Charlie said. “You mean the other guy walked off with eight vials and Larry kept over thirty?”

“Yeah, that must have been it. No one argues with Larry.”

“Or eight vials would be one hell of a party,” Tom interjected. “It’s a wonder they didn’t kill themselves.”

“You bastards.” It was Ira, her voice breaking. “I got seven patients dying of cancer. Two are dead now, thank God, but the others are in agony and all I have for them is what was in their daily trays and then aspirin. I hope they shoot both of you.”

She fell silent, eyes burning with rage.

“Larry?” Charlie said, motioning to the Bible.

“Why bother?”

Charlie nodded and then looked back at John.

“John, I want to keep this formal. I’m appointing you to speak on behalf of these two men.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“My father-in-law is tied into this.”

“John, just do me the favor.”

“Go get Norm Schaich; he’s a lawyer. He can do this better than me.”

“Norm’s house is miles from here.”

“I can drive it.”

“John, I want this done now.”

“I want a fucking lawyer,” Larry stated yet again. “Yeah, go get Norm.”

John looked at him, then to Bruce and over to Ira, and then out through the half-closed blinds to the crowd gathered outside. John finally nodded and stood up.

“I’ll say this for them. The world we knew, maybe it’s finished, finished forever. Maybe not, but I doubt that. All that holds us together now are the things we believed in, the traditions of who we were, who we still want to be.

“Charlie, I guess you’ll make the decision. Guide yourself with that thought, of what this country is supposed to be, even in these dark times. I know what you are thinking. I know what our neighbors outside are thinking. But whatever your decision, know it is a foundation point for what follows, but if we make a mistake here, Charlie, then we’ve lost that foundation….” He paused. “We are no longer Americans.”

He stepped back to the corner of the room.

Charlie stood silent, head lowered. Bruce started to cry.

Charlie finally raised his head.

“I dread this,” he said quietly. “I never thought I would ever do something like this. But I must think of the community.”

He stepped to the center of the room, behind the chair Kate was sitting in.

“Larry, Bruce—” he hesitated, “Randall and Wilson,” Tom interjected.

“Larry Randall and Bruce Wilson,” Charlie continued, “I sentence you to death by firing squad, for the crime of looting precious medical supplies, not only from this community, but from a facility where people were in desperate need of those supplies to ease their final pain. Execution to be carried out immediately.”

“You bastard,” Larry hissed.

“Son, you are about to go before God; I’m giving you ten minutes to make your peace. Someone go find a minister for them,” Charlie said, and walked out.

John followed him as he went into his office and Charlie did not object as John closed the door. He pulled out the last cigarette in his pocket and lit it. Charlie looked at it longingly for a few seconds and John was ready to offer it over, but Charlie then shook his head.

“Did I do the right thing, John? Frankly, I’m so damn mad at those two animals, especially that Larry, that I’d do it myself without hesitation. But still, did I do the right thing?”

John sat down and didn’t speak for a moment. He was torn as well. Again memory of his own temptation with Liz at the pharmacy, to snatch the medicine he needed for Jennifer.

“John, it’s like we’re back a hundred and fifty years. The Wild West. I kept thinking of that movie, Oxbow Incident. Remember they hang three guys in that movie but then find out they’re innocent.”

“Yeah, same thought here. It was just on TV last week. One of Henry Fonda’s best.”

“A week ago,” Charlie sighed. “Just that short a time?”

“They are not innocent, though,” John said.

“But still. A week ago we didn’t kill screwed-up punks for stealing drugs. That Bruce kid, right guidance, he might have straightened out.” John shook his head.

“Look, Charlie, might have beens are finished. Charlie, we got six thousand, maybe seven thousand people in this town now. How much food? How much medicine? Water still works for downtown, as long as the pipe to the reservoir holds, but up on the sides of the hills we’re out. Charlie, we don’t keep order, in a month people will be killing each other for a bag of chips.”

John felt the heat of the cigarette burning his fingers and he looked around, then dropped it into an empty coffee cup. “Or a pack of smokes. I’m sorry for that one, boy, but you did the right thing.

“Just keep in mind what I said on their behalf back in there.”

Charlie nodded.

There was a knock on the door; it was Tom and Kate. Charlie motioned them in.

“Reverend Black is in there with them. Time is just about up,” Tom said. “Tom, you will not do the execution,” John said. Tom looked over at him.

“You are the police authority in this town. If someone must do the execution, it cannot be you or any other officer or official of this town. That terrible task has always been kept separate from the hands of those out in the field who directly enforce the law. If not, well…” He thought of Stalin, of the Gestapo. “It has to be someone else.”

Tom nodded, and John was glad to see that in spite of his angry talk earlier, Tom was relieved.

John looked over at Charlie.

“Not me, John.”

“No, it can’t be you, either, Charlie. You’re the emergency government; and Kate, the traditional government. No, not you.”

“Then who?” Charlie asked. No one spoke.

“You, John,” Kate said quietly.

Startled, he looked at her. He had simply been advising as a historian; he never imagined it would come back on him like this.

“Damn all, I was not volunteering myself.” John said, “I was just trying to keep us in touch with who we once were as a country.”

“I’m not going out there to ask for volunteers,” Charlie said. “I will not let this turn into a circus with some sick bastards mobbing in to take a shot. I want you to do it. You’re the historian, John; you understand it, the meaning of it. You’re a respected professor in the town. Everyone knows you, or knows your kin here.”

“Oh Jesus,” John whispered, knowing he was trapped.

Reluctantly he nodded his head.

“Where?” Tom asked.

John couldn’t think.

“The town park,” Charlie said. “It’s the public gathering place. I don’t want it here.”

“Fine then,” Tom replied. “We take them down to the park now and do it. We load them into Jim’s van. The tennis courts have a concrete practice wall. I’ll go outside and announce it for one half hour from now.”

The mention of the tennis courts chilled John. It made him think of the Taliban and the infamous soccer stadium in Kabul. Is that what we have now, tennis courts?

“Maybe in private,” Kate ventured. “Maybe in private. I don’t like the thought of public execution.”

“I don’t either,” John said slowly, “but we have to do it. There’s fear in this town. I’m hearing people say that the refugees from the highway are ‘outsiders.’ We’re already beginning to divide ourselves off from each other. We do private executions and I guarantee you, within a day there’ll be rumors flying from those who don’t live here that we are doing Stalinist courts and executing people in the basement of the police station. If we are forced to do this, we do it in public.”

“Besides,” Tom interjected, “it’s a statement to anyone else who might be thinking about stealing.”

“Wait a minute, Tom,” John said. “I pray we aren’t down to killing people for stealing a piece of bread.”

Tom shook his head angrily.

“John, don’t misread me. You might not believe this, but I don’t like it any more than you.”

John stared into his eyes and then finally nodded.

“Ok, Tom, sorry.”

“I’ll go make the announcement.”

“Tom,” Kate said. “Adults only. I don’t want kids down there.”

Tom left the room and seconds later there was the crackling hiss of an old handheld megaphone and Tom began to speak.

There was a scattering of applause, even a few cheers, someone shouting a rope would be better.

Damn, it did feel like an old western, John thought, the crowd all but crying, “Lynch ’em!”

The crowd immediately broke up, many setting off for the park, some, especially those with children, staying behind. Long minutes passed, John silent, looking out the window.

He heard cursing from out in the corridor and crying. The two were being led out.

“We better go,” Charlie said, and opened the door.

John felt as if he were being led to his own execution. Could he do it? All those years in the army, the training, but never a shot in anger or even in detached professionalism, as they were told they should act. During Desert Storm he was XO of a battalion, but even there, he was in a command vehicle a couple miles behind the main line of advance, never on the actual firing line pulling the trigger.

He thought of the taunting rednecks back when he was in college, the frightful moment when rage drove him to the point that he might very well have shot one, and the shock of it afterwards… and then the shaking of hands with one of them only days later and a shared drink.

He was outside. The two were in the back of Jim Bartlett’s Volkswagen van, handcuffed, feet chained. The back of the van door was slammed shut, Tom up in the front seat with a drawn pistol, Reverend Richard Black crouched down between Jim and Tom.

John looked at the two as the door closed and realized when he made eye contact with Bruce, barely remembered but still a former student, there was one thing he could not do.

He saw Washington with Jeremiah and Phil and walked up to them.

“Washington, I need your help. God, do I need it,” and John told him.

Washington nodded, saying nothing, and got into the car with John, Kate, Phil, and Jeremiah squeezing into the backseat, Charlie up front with Washington and John.

The two vehicles set off and as they turned onto Montreat Road and then the side street over to the park, he saw people walking fast, heading for the park, others just standing there, staring.

“Killing is a sin!” someone shouted as he drove slowly, following the van that was dragging along at not more than five miles an hour.

It was like a damn procession out of the French Revolution, he thought.

They rolled down the steep hill to the corner of the park, a large crowd already gathered by the tennis courts and the concrete practice wall painted white, bits of paint flecking off.

The two were led out of the back of the van and all fell silent.

Swallowing hard, John stopped the car. He looked over at Washington.

“Just aim straight at the chest, sir,” Washington said. “You try for the head and you’re shaking at all you’ll miss. First shot to the chest, he’ll collapse. They don’t go flying around like in the movies; usually they just fall over or sag down to the ground. Once he’s on the ground, then empty the clip; just empty it. If you have your wits about you put the last shot into the head. Do you understand me, sir?”

Washington handed the Glock to him.

“A round is chambered.”

John nodded.

He got out of the car and the crowd separated back, opening a lane, the two prisoners ahead of them. Bruce was crying, begging, Larry silent, Reverend Black holding Bruce’s arm while Tom had Larry in a tight grip.

“This is wrong, Charlie!” someone shouted.

And there was an angry mutter, shouts back, arguments breaking out.

The condemned were led to the wall and placed against it.

More shouts from the crowd, some against, most for, a few yelling to string the guilty up rather than shoot them.

Sickened, John looked around, and before he even realized what he was doing he raised the gun straight up in the air and fired.

Bruce let out a scream of terror and collapsed to his knees. There were cries from the crowd and then silence, all eyes on John.

“I have been appointed to do something I never dreamed of in my worst nightmares!” John shouted.

No one spoke now.

“I will confess to you, one of these men I cannot bring myself to shoot; he was once a student of mine. I have asked Mr. Parker, a former marine sergeant major, to do that task for me and he will do it.”

“Our world has changed…” and John’s voice trailed off, but then he raised his head. “But this is still America. I want to believe this is still America.

“We are at war. Mr. Fuller will hold a town meeting this evening in the elementary school gym and share with you the latest news and information. This is a meeting for all of you, those born here, those who moved here like me, those whom circumstances now place here.”

He paused again.

“All of you are citizens of our country. Mr. Fuller, who was director of public safety prior to this war and is thus now,” he looked for the right word, “our temporary leader in Black Mountain, under martial law, will share with you the news we have from Asheville about what has happened, is happening, will happen.

“We are at war, and martial law has been proclaimed in this town. These two men have been condemned to death under the rules of martial law. They have been convicted and condemned for stealing vital medication, painkillers from Miller’s Nursing Home, leaving the residents there to suffer in agony. Of that crime and the general crime of looting they have been found guilty beyond all reasonable doubt at a fair and open hearing.”

“Fuck your trial!” Larry screamed. “This is a lynch mob!”

John was silent and no one from the crowd replied. There were no shouts or taunts.

“I am a citizen of this town,” he said, his voice now softer. “By tradition, even in times of martial law, our police who directly enforce the law will not participate in what will now happen, nor our governing body. I want all of you to understand that. This is not a police state and it never will be. The condemned were found guilty at a fair hearing, and the sentence will now be carried out, not by those who are temporarily in charge of law and order, but by two duly appointed citizens who have volunteered for this task.”

He lowered his head and swallowed, knowing he could not let a tremor get into his voice.

“I do not want this task. I did not seek it. I loathe doing it.” He paused. “But it must be done.”

He paused again for a moment, realizing something more still had to be said.

“We are all Americans here. There are hundreds of you, perhaps thousands, who did not live here but five days ago,” again a brief pause, “but you do now. All of us are equal under the eyes of the law here. All of us. We must work together as neighbors if we wish to survive. The tragic justice to be dealt out here is the same for all of us, whether born here, moved here as I did some years ago, or arrived just yesterday. It must be the same for all of us….”

His voice trailed off. Nervously he looked back at the two guilty men, Reverend Black holding Bruce up with one hand, open Bible in the other; Larry still held by Tom, his eyes glazed from the drugs, and with a boiling hatred.

John wondered now just how legal, how close to law in the tradition of Western civilization, his act and his words truly were, but he felt they were right, right for here, this moment, if the people of Black Mountain were to survive as a community.

He fell silent and looked over at Charlie. There was a pause until Charlie realized that ritual demanded that he say something.

He stepped in front of the group.

“By the power vested in me by emergency decree by the civilian government of this community, the town of Black Mountain, now under local martial law, I have found Larry Randall and Bruce Wilson guilty of looting of medical supplies and, in so doing, causing pain, suffering, and death. Their sentence is death by firing squad, to now be carried out by Dr. John Matherson and Mr. Washington Parker, appointed by me to perform this task.”

Charlie looked over at John, nodding. John turned to face the condemned, his hand shaking.

“Remember what I said: first shot to the chest, let him drop, then empty the rest of the clip, last one in the head,” Washington whispered.

The two walked the few dozen feet to the prisoners. Tom stepped back and away from Larry, who glared at him with cold hatred. But Reverend Black did not move, holding Bruce up.

“I think we should pray,” Reverend Black said, and John nodded in agreement, embarrassed that he had not thought to do so.

Still holding Bruce, Reverend Black looked to the crowd.

“I ask God, in his divine mercy, to grant forgiveness to these two. But we must now render unto Caesar the law of Caesar. Forgiveness and redemption now rest between Bruce, Larry, and their Creator.

“Bruce, do you ask God for forgiveness?”

“Yes, please, God, please forgive me.”

“Larry?”

He was silent.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

John repeated the prayer, hoping that the trembling of his hands would stop. He looked at Larry, making eye contact.

There was nothing but rage there, blind animal rage, and John almost felt pity.

“For thine is the kingdom, the power, the glory, forever and ever. Amen.” The last word, “Amen,” echoed from the crowd.

John shifted the Glock to his left hand and, for the first time in years, made the sign of the cross; then he shifted the pistol back.

Reverend Black stepped away from Bruce, who now struggled to make a show of standing up straight. John suddenly realized there should have been something, blindfolds, sacks over their heads.

No, get it done; get it done quick.

“Move closer,” Washington whispered. “Fire and I’ll fire with you.” John looked straight at Larry, who was now only ten feet away. “Go ahead; do it,” Larry said coldly.

It all seemed to move so slowly. Without ceremony, flourish, John raised the pistol, centered it on the man’s chest. At the very last instant Larry started to move, to try to fall to one side.

John squeezed the trigger.

He saw the impact; Larry staggered backwards against the concrete wall. The roar of Washington’s .45 exploded next to him, startling him. He saw his second shot miss, striking above Larry’s head as he slid down against the wall, leaving a bloody streak.

Two more quick shots from Washington’s .45.

John fought to center his Glock, aimed at Larry’s midsection; he was kicking feebly. John could hear screams behind him. He fired again, again, and then again.

A hand was on his shoulder. It was Washington.

“The head,” Washington said softly.

John walked up to Larry. Was he dead? Blood was pooling out under his body, the front of his pants wet, another stench added in, bladder and bowels having let go.

There seemed to be a flicker of eye movement. John aimed at the center of Larry’s head, standing over him, and fired.

A second later another explosion, the coup de grace being delivered to Bruce.

Woodenly, John turned. All were now staring at him, all silent. Hands to mouths, a few were crying. The way they looked at him, it was different, different from anything he had ever seen before in the eyes of people gazing at him. Fear… awe… revulsion… from a few strange glazed eyes almost a look of envy and lust.

He felt the vomit coming up. He had to control it. He held the Glock up, not sure if he had actually emptied it or not. His student Jeremiah was standing in the crowd, and John made eye contact. Jeremiah stepped forward and John handed him the gun.

“Secure the gun and meet me at the car,” John whispered.

He turned and walked away from the crowd, got behind the concrete wall, bent double, and vomited.

Gasping, he remained doubled over.

“It’s ok, sir.” It was Washington.

John looked up at him, suddenly ashamed.

“Puked my guts out the first time I killed a man. Sir, if you hadn’t I’d of been worried about you.”

“Stop calling me ‘sir,’ god damn it,” John hissed between the continuing heaves.

“You did the right thing, sir. You did it well.”

“Well? How can you say killing a man like that was done well?”

“No, sir. Not that. It’s always a stinking mess. I mean what you said. That’s why I call you ‘sir’ now. We used to joke about it before. Frankly, sir, you were a professor type, but I knew you were a colonel, so I played along. But today, sir, you led out there, you faced something horrible, and you led.”

“Ok,” John sighed.

“Come on; let’s get out of here.”

John nodded. Wiping his mouth with the hack of his hand. He winced with pain. His finger was infected and the act of shooting the Glock had ripped the cut wound open.

He came back around the wall and the crowd, mysteriously, was all but gone. Few had hung around. The bodies were gone, Bartlett’s van already driving off.

John realized he must have been behind the wall for long minutes.

He was glad no one was around to see him now.

A bit wobbly, he headed for his car.

“John?”

It was Makala.

He didn’t recognize her at first. Gone was the sexy business suit. She had on a pair of baggy jeans, a few sizes too big, and an old faded T-shirt from Purdue University.

“Thank you, John.”

“For what, damn it?”

“What you said back there before you had to shoot those two.” He nodded.

“It’s been getting a little tense between those who lived here before and people like me who have wandered in. What you said needed to be said. It reminded us we’re one in this.”

“Ok.”

He really did not want to talk and he slowly continued to the car. “Let me look at that hand.”

She stepped around in front of him and he winced as she pulled the bandage off.

“John, it’s getting infected, badly infected. I told you to go home, wash it, and keep it protected.”

He thought of the nursing home, carrying his father-in-law, the filth there.

“I need to clean that out for you, John; it really should be stitched up.”

“It can wait,” he said woodenly. “I just want to go home now.”

“Ok then, I’ll go with you.”

He glared at her coldly, a sick thought crossing his mind that perhaps she was turned on to him because of what he had just done, that or as an “outsider” she was ingratiating herself with a man who now obviously had power in the town.

She stepped back slightly.

“John. First, you’re getting an infection; in this situation you could lose your hand, or maybe even your life. Second, I heard about your father-in-law and the nursing home. I volunteered to go up there to help clean and take care of the folks. After I’m done with you, it’s a far shorter walk. Third, John, your little girl—Jennifer, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Monitoring her diet now is going to be tough. She should be checked every couple of days by a nurse or doctor. So just take me home with you; I’ll get done what needs to be done and then go up to the nursing home for the night.”

“Ok.” It was all he could say.

He got to the car, Washington and the two boys standing by it. Jeremiah handed the Glock back to John.

“It’s cleared and empty, sir. Tom gave me a fresh clip; you’ll find it in your glove compartment.”

Washington took the AR-15 and the two shotguns out of the vehicle.

“We’ll walk back to campus, sir. Why don’t you just go home?”

Phil stepped around and opened the door for Makala, who got in.

John looked back to the blood-splattered wall and then, almost ironically, fifty yards beyond it, the flagpole and the flag floating atop it. The sky beyond it was darkening. A late afternoon thunderstorm building.

He thought of Jeremiah’s question and wondered. Can we still keep this as America? Are we still America?

As he drove home he did not say a word.

“Vomited, didn’t you?” she finally said, breaking the silence.

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were a soldier.”

“I am.… I mean I was. Not many soldiers, though, are trigger pullers. I was in Desert Storm, exec for a battalion with the First Cav. Saw fighting from a distance, but never actually pulled a trigger. Most of the time I was just hunched over a computer screen trying to direct the action.”

“Sorry, that came out wrong,” Makala replied. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. It’s just the way you handled that guy in the drugstore the other day. You struck me as someone who had seen combat before.”

“No.”

“It’s all right. I still get queasy at times during an operation. I damn near died when I walked into that nursing home last evening.”

“Thanks for doing that.”

“My job now, I guess.” The conversation died away.

They pulled into the driveway. The two fools Ginger and Zach came running up, and at the sight of a stranger they showed typical golden retriever loyalty and went running straight to her, ignoring John.

She laughed, scratching their ears as they jumped up to lick her, both starting to bark as they danced around her. John headed for the door where Jen stood.

“Thank God you’re home,” Jen said. “What happened? I’ve been worried sick all day about you.”

“Went to Asheville like I told you.”

She looked past John to Makala, who was coming up, the dogs trailing beside her. Jen’s eyes widened slightly and John could sense she was not pleased, that this woman was an invader in her territory.

“Mom, I’d like you to meet Makala Turner. Makala, this is my mother-in-law, Jennifer Dobson.”

The two nodded and shook hands.

“Mom, you might recall Makala; she was the woman on the road the first evening.”

“Oh, oh yes. My dear, I didn’t recognize you, given how you are dressed now.”

“She’s a nurse, Mom. Head RN with a surgical unit, actually. She came here to check on Tyler, Jennifer, and this.” He held up his hand. Jen’s talons retracted and there was a smile. “Oh, come on in, dear.”

“How is Tyler?” John asked.

“Resting comfortably,” she said quietly.

“The girls?”

“Jennifer’s taking a nap. Her sugar level was up and she just took a shot. Elizabeth is out for a walk with Ben.”

“Fine.”

John walked into his office and left the two women, who went straight to what was now Tyler’s sickroom.

John took the Glock out from his belt, looked at it, then laid it on his desk. He noticed now that the smell of cordite hung heavy on it, and on him.

Reaching around to the back corner of the desk, he pulled out a dust-covered bottle. There had been several times in his life when drinking had damn near won out, the last time for several weeks after Mary died. The dust on the bottle was a reassurance. He poured a double scotch out into an empty coffee cup and drained it down in two gulps.

The thunderstorm that had been on the western horizon rolled in, rain slashing against the window… a soothing sound.

When Makala came into the room a half hour later to check his hand, he was fast asleep.