One Year After

CHAPTER TWO

“You sure you don’t mind driving?” John asked.

Makala Turner Matherson smiled and shook her head, a smile that always captivated him. She was petite, of slender build even before the starving times, and still had striking blond hair—and unlike most women now, she had kept it long. They had met literally on the Day. She lived in Charlotte and had been heading to Mission Hospital in Asheville to attend a conference for nurses specializing in cardiovascular surgery when her car stalled out, like nearly every other car on the roads that day… fortunately for her, and for him, she became stuck at the Black Mountain exit. He had spoken briefly to her that first evening, as she stood by the side of the road. Even then, it was her eyes that had first captivated him. That first instant of eye contact—her unique eye color, sometimes near golden, other times more brownish green—had caught the evening light and actually seemed to sparkle. He had not let it register then; on that evening he was an anxious father looking for one of his daughters along with trying to figure out what had happened.

A day later they crossed paths again and in the weeks that followed she gradually became part of his life, literally saving his life when he was hit with a staph infection, and then stepped far deeper into his family, and his heart, as she helped to nurse his youngest daughter, Jennifer, as her life slipped away due to diabetes. Prior to the the Day, he never believed anyone could replace his first wife, Mary, who had been taken by cancer years earlier, but during the initial months of crisis, and then the long winter afterward, he came to realize that not only did he depend upon her as a friend and ally, but that they had fallen in love as well. He could no longer imagine life without her… her emotional strength, her empathy, and a strong moral compass that he completely trusted and relied upon.

Since they were heading to Asheville, she decided to dress a bit more formally, wearing a light-blue knee-length skirt and gray blouse. Hardly anyone wore white anymore. What little bleach remained was for water purification and manufacturing a couple of different medications. Hearing of the mission he was setting out on, she had even disappeared into the woods a bit downstream from their house for a very chilly dip to clean up, and thus she exuded a fresh, scrubbed, nearly cheery glow that he always found so appealing.

When heading out of town, he preferred that she did the driving; it freed both of his hands if a weapon was needed.

“Just wish I was driving my old Bimmer rather than this beast,” she announced. “My God, to have that BMW and something like the parkway with a good radar detector… now that was driving! It was one of the reasons I loved it up here and wanted to move here out of Charlotte after the divorce. So now I am here, and no Bimmer—just your beat-up Edsel, John Matherson.”

She reached out to take his left hand. His other hand rested on the Glock holstered on his right hip.

If not for the nature of the trip and always the slight sense of danger when heading outside the confines of Black Mountain, he actually was enjoying this ride on the open road.

It was a delight to be on an absolutely empty Interstate 40. The tires of the old Edsel were starting to bald—new tires for such a car were of course impossible to find—so for safety, they kept it at a stately thirty-five miles per hour.

The road had always been a favorite of his. A long, sloping climb a couple of miles west of the entry ramp at Exit 64 revealed a magnificent view of the Mount Mitchell range to his right, the highest mountains east of the Rockies at over 6,600 feet. At this time of year, the lower slopes were a lush green, but the peaks even in mid-May could still be dusted with snow, which was indeed the case this morning. The lower range of mountains to the left of the highway, rising up only four thousand feet, was awash with the spring coloration of pale brilliant green.

The interstate was beginning to show the effects of two years without maintenance other than work crews pushing the hundreds of abandoned cars aside. The first year, the grass had not been cut, and now in the second year, spring saplings were beginning to sprout along the shoulders.

Houses out along the fringe of town had long been abandoned, with folks moving into vacated homes in town for security. Many of the abandoned homes had broken windows, vines creeping up along the outside walls, overgrown walkways, and abandoned cars with flattened tires beginning to rust in driveways. In one sense, it could be a depressing sight, but in another way, John saw it as nature reclaiming the lushness of this land, working to erase some of the monuments of man.

The flat, rich farmland flanked the road; nearly all of it was under cultivation. Precious gas was rationed out for the tractors, and that had been a deeply troubling concern for John and the town council. Gasoline might hold out for another two years or so, if rationed wisely and treated to maintain its volatility, but then what? He still harbored fantasies of trying to build steam-powered tractors, machines he had always been fascinated with as a historian.

Several such tractors had actually been located in the barns of remote farms, rusted solid and forgotten. It was hoped that parts from the machines might be cobbled together by the time of autumn harvest into one tractor that could actually run on wood rather than gasoline. Again, his wish was that the community had more old-fashioned machinists and tool and die makers who could build such things from scratch.

They drove past several well-guarded pastures along the highway, where the few precious horses that had not been killed for food in the first year were kept. He caught sight of a newborn colt frolicking about, and he smiled at the sight. It was not just the beauty of new life; it might be their main source of energy for farming in a few more years if the technological infrastructure of their world—at least to an early- to mid-twentieth-century level—was not restored.

The scent of an apple orchard wafted through the car, and he breathed deeply. The last of the petals of spring were still falling and swirling about on the late-morning breeze.

It had been a beautiful land when he had arrived there over a decade earlier, and it still was. In spite of human folly, the land was breathtakingly beautiful, whether cloaked in the glory of spring or covered with the mantle of winter snows. He had to keep reminding himself to look past the crisis, the terror and fear, that today was a good day to be alive up in the mountains of western North Carolina.

Ahead was the barrier his community had set up just beyond the Exit 59 turnoff. The sight of it refocused him on the reason for a noonday drive along an empty interstate highway.

He had called the new federal administrator in Asheville, Dale Fredericks, as he had promised Ernie and the gathering in front of the post office, and when told that the administrator was busy but could see him later in the week, John had offered a few choice words to the unidentified assistant and said he would arrive at noon and hung up. The game of bureaucrats, a game he knew well from his time serving in the Pentagon, had attuned him to how power was played—and to wait hat in hand for a callback was an admission of subservience. Beyond that, he had promised the community he would have some answers by evening, and to tell everyone to wait would definitely not play well at all.

John looked to the backseat of the Edsel. Ed, Black Mountain’s chief of police, was riding on the left side with a sawed-off twelve gauge, and one of his students from the college, Grace Freeman, was on the right side with a well-tended, carefully maintained M4. Her intelligent, attractive look belied the fact that she came from a family that had worked in the security business and that she had grown up around firearms, knew how to use them, and had a good grasp of tactics and the ability to think under stress. She had thus risen to senior student in command of the company of troops fielded by the college.

Once clear of the security barrier, the fifteen-mile drive to Asheville would be a journey into no-man’s-land, and the old Edsel could be a tempting snatch and grab for some, even now. A month earlier, the Quentin family had embarked on their twice-monthly bartering run to Asheville; it was rumored that they had some hidden fields of corn up on the far side of Route 9 and were running moonshine. They had never come back. Speculation was that a band of the border reivers—though others said it was a gang out of Asheville—had snatched the lot of them. Jim Quentin’s bullet-ridden body was found in a ditch by the highway three days later, the searchers drawn to where he lay by the buzzards wheeling overhead.

Makala slowed and waved to their security team guarding the highway barrier, nearly coming to a complete stop so John could shout that they were heading into Asheville and would be back by late afternoon. That was standard procedure: let the border guards know your expected return time, and if you did not show up, a search operation would be mounted. They were waved through, and the gate closed.

Ed perked up once beyond the Swannanoa gate, his gaze scanning the side of the road, and John eased his Glock 21 out of its holster and cradled it in his lap. He kept the lightweight Ruger for when he walked about town, but beyond town, he wanted a .45 loaded and ready. The road ahead was cleared, though scores of abandoned cars still littered the shoulder of the highway, nearly all of them looted of their tires, gas tanks pumped out, oil drained from engine blocks, and some of his own crews now scavenging the wiring from alternators. Medieval Romans tore up finished stones from the roadways, aqueducts, coliseums, and monuments of their ancient ancestors; modern Americans looted abandoned cars.

Makala sighed and nodded toward a dust-coated BMW, identical to the one she had abandoned by Exit 65 and was now a burned-out wreck from the battle with the Posse. Every time they drove past it, her commentary was nearly the same. “Maybe someday we can get that one towed back home.” She sighed wistfully. “Rewire it, find some treads, some premium gas, and go for a drive again.”

He chuckled, glad for the diversion.

“How about cranking up some Emerson, Lake & Palmer on the sound system while we drive?”

She laughed. “I keep forgetting, dear husband, you’re from another generation. That is old folks’ music. Give me some Meat Loaf.”

Ed sighed, muttering a rude comment under his breath at that; he was strictly country music. Grace, eyes still glued watchfully to the side of the road, asked what in the world they were talking about, having heard of none of the performers.

“Never did get to take you out to a nice dinner at the Grove Park,” John replied wistfully. “Their Friday-night buffet of seafood—all the snow crab legs you could eat.”

“Champagne, real champagne. I’ll dress up in a skirt and four-inch heels so I can see you eye to eye.”

More groans erupted from the sixty-five-year-old police chief and the twenty-one-year-old student who was deadly at six hundred yards with a scoped, bolt-action rifle.

He let his hand slip out of Makala’s grasp as they drove on. If anything happened, she’d have to maneuver quickly with both hands on the wheel. Makala slowed for a moment, pointing out someone on the overpass for the old parkway, and then speeding up, John watching carefully for any threatening move. The location was a good one for an ambush since the road narrowed as it went through a defile, with a blind corner just beyond where a barrier line could be hastily erected. The person on the bridge wisely held up both hands as a peaceful gesture that at least he had no weapon, and then he actually waved. It seemed friendly, but it could also be a signal to an ambush waiting around the bend.

Ed and Grace were tense in the backseat. John chambered a round into his Glock and now had a reserve clip out and on the car seat beside him. Makala was ready with both hands on the wheel. They cleared the bridge and continued on to the turnoff into Asheville where the road widened. All four gave inward sighs of relief as they slowed for the entry barrier to Asheville set up at the intersection of Interstates 40 and 240. They showed identification at the city barrier line and then were waved through. John recognized one of the men guarding the approach: it was the friendly cop he had met long ago on his first visit to Asheville after the Day. There was even an exchange of pleasantries, and then Makala drove on, exiting at Charlotte Street and finally arriving in front of the old courthouse complex.

The complex was made up of three buildings—the county office, a rather ugly and imposing fifteen-story structure; a smaller city office to the south side of the complex, which was an elegant building of art deco design; and a fortresslike, foreboding county prison downslope and behind the two buildings.

John felt an instinctive chill even as they parked and got out. When the army occupied this place, the sight of young men and women in traditional U.S. Army uniforms had been a comforting sight for him. That had once been his world. The uniforms were different now.

On the steps of the county office were two guards wearing flak jackets, and one of them stepped forward, an M4 carbine half raised. “Identification. And no weapons allowed in the building.”

John had cleared the chambered round out of his Glock and holstered his weapon before getting out of the car. The sharp command uttered by the guard made him hesitate. Carrying in the open had become very much the norm in the two years after the Day, and the tone of the guard set him off. Ed and Grace were falling in behind him, their weapons slung casually over their shoulders.

Makala stepped forward in front of John.

“Here’s my ID.” She held up her old North Carolina driver’s license. “John, why don’t you put your pistol back in the car? Ed and Grace, how about waiting for us there?”

She handled it smoothly, as she always did, and rather than react as tempted, John carefully pulled his pistol out, handed it over to Ed, and reached for his own wallet.

“Ma’am, this ID has lapsed and is therefore not valid.”

John actually started to chuckle at the absurdity of the guard’s comment. “Should we go down to the North Carolina DMV and get a new one right now? We definitely don’t want her to get a ticket for driving.”

He meant it as a joke, but the officious guard did not take it that way. It was the type of response that had always set John off.

“I’d prefer to see some current federal identification, such as your ration card.”

“Didn’t think to bring it,” she replied smoothly, stepping a bit closer to cut John off from a far angrier response. She then gave an innocent smile. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that was now required.”

“I’m John Matherson of Black Mountain, here to see Dale Fredericks,” John announced coldly, coming up to his wife’s side. “And this is my old military ID as a colonel in the United States Army. I assume that will vouch for me.” He shifted into his well-trained command voice.

“Whom do you wish to see?”

John bristled up. “I just told you—Dale Fredericks. I wasn’t aware that I had to be announced.”

“You mean the director of Carolina District Eleven,” the guard replied.

“I wasn’t aware I had to address him by his formal title.”

“Sir, I’m following my orders, and henceforth, proper titles are to be used.”

John glanced down at the guard’s sleeve. “All right, Sergeant, then I am Colonel John Matherson of the United States Army Reserve. You will address me as sir and inform whomever it is that put you out here that I am here to see Dale Fredericks.”

“Wait here.” There was a hesitation on the guard’s part. “Sir,” he finally added in.

He jogged back into the building, the other guard just standing silent, blocking their way and not making eye contact with either of them.

A moment later, his interrogator was at the doorway and gestured for them to climb the steps and come in. John slowed as he approached and flashed an angry glance at the guard. “Sergeant, I’ll let it pass this time, but in the future, you not only address me as sir, you salute my rank when I inform you who I am and show proper identification, and you do not wave me about as a traffic cop. You could have walked back down the few steps to tell me to come in, which I would have done anyhow. Do I make myself clear?”

The guard was silent.

“Do I make myself clear, Sergeant?” John snapped.

There was a muttered “Yes, sir,” and John opened the door on his own and held it for Makala to go in first.

“That last bit wasn’t necessary, John,” she whispered.

“Hell yes it was,” he replied, following her into the courthouse, and as he stepped within, he came to a sudden stop.

The interior was lit… with electric lights. The county courthouse had an open foyer that rose several stories, the upper floors facing the foyer cordoned off with ornate iron balcony railings that had a heavy, oppressive look, almost like the bars of a cell. Though no critic of architecture, John always felt that the 1920s-era building had a bit of a Stalinist-era feel to it when compared to the far more attractive county offices next to it. The half dozen fluorescent lights illuminating the foyer fluttered slightly as if the electrical current was not constant.

Of course, it was not the first time he had seen electric lighting since the Day. Mission Hospital had brought a generator online, which, when powered up, provided electricity for two operating rooms and an adjoining ICU established on the first floor next to the emergency room. A number of private and even some older industrial generators had survived the attack, but it was now, after two years, a question of fuel to run them. The vast majority of families that had tried to think ahead long before the Day and had put in backup power had been thinking in terms of days or weeks at most. The ones with ten to twenty gallons of gas on hand had run out within the first week. A couple of families in Black Mountain, such as the Franklins, had kept mum about their thousand-gallon propane tanks, but even those went dry after the bitterness of the previous winter.

The army had left a couple of generators behind, and it was now obvious where one of them was in use, and the sight of it set John on edge given how much fuel was being used just to provide lighting. For a moment, he stood there wondering if he was feeling the cooling touch of air-conditioning, as well.

“John Matherson of Black Mountain?”

John felt a bit embarrassed; he had actually been standing there as if he were a gape-mouthed tourist, gazing up at the electric lights. He caught sight of the man he assumed was Dale Fredericks coming out of his office, located on the ground floor of the courthouse. There was a friendly enough smile as the man approached, hand extended, which John took, and there was a firm enough handshake. Dale stood half a foot shorter than John, light, sandy hair worn a bit long and combed across his forehead to cover the fact that his hairline was receding. He was wearing a blue jacket, standard light-blue shirt, and red tie, the way most professionals dressed before everything had gone down. John didn’t know if the man’s clothes were setting him off or if they were actually a touch of reassurance that somehow, in some ways, things were coming back to normal. It made John awkwardly aware of his own well-worn dress shirt, collar frayed and permanently darkened from sweat, his jeans and hiking boots both a bit the worse for wear, as well.

Dale’s face was round, again a strange sight in a way for the survivors of what they now called the starving times, which had left a permanent mark on all who had survived it. Perhaps the only positive thing that could be said of those days was that the American slide into near universal obesity had finally come to a stop. Something else caught John’s attention. The man was freshly showered and shaved, a fact that made John feel suddenly out of place.

Dale’s pale gray eyes darted to Makala. His smile broadened slightly, and he offered his hand, which Makala took firmly, introducing herself.

“I assume this is Mrs. Matherson. My assistant told me you were coming.”

“It’s Makala Turner Matherson,” she replied, her smile as broad as his. “Director of public health and safety for our community. And I assume you are Dale Fredericks.”

There was a slight flicker of a frown from Dale, and then he regained instant composure over his faux pas. “Oh, sorry; I did not properly introduce myself. Yes, I am Dale Fredericks.”

She gave a sidelong glance to John as if nudging him. Though he felt comfortable with all of the aspects of his jobs as a colonel, a college professor, and the one who took on the role of near dictator operating under martial law during the darkest days of the crisis, there were nuances of the games of diplomacy at which he knew Makala was superior, and he caught it now as if she were saying, Don’t let the fact that the guy is clean and well dressed put us off.

“If my administrative assistant had clearly understood who was calling, she most certainly would have scheduled you in. Please accept my apologies for the confusion. Let’s go into my office and see what I can do for you.”

He led the way, graciously helping Makala to take a seat and offering water, which both Makala and John accepted. To John’s utter disbelief, the water was freezing cold.

“Oh, that?” Dale replied with a chuckle. “Indeed a luxury, I realize. We have an old-fashioned water cooler. I know it’s a bit of an excess, but on some of these hot days, it means a lot for staff morale.”

“Did I feel air-conditioning when we came in?” Makala asked innocently. “It really did feel wonderful.”

“We turn it on for a few minutes each day,” Dale said.

“Oh, how wonderful,” Makala whispered, and then she set her glass down after only one sip.

There was a moment of nervous silence, and Dale cleared his throat, pale eyes fixed on John. “I think I can guess why you came here today, but why don’t you open the discussion? But I have to warn you, I’m really tied up today, so we’ll have to keep it fairly short for now.”

John pulled Elizabeth’s draft notice out of his pocket and put it on the table. Before he could speak, Dale leaned over, took it, and held it up.

“Your daughter?” he asked.

“For starters, yes.”

Dale smiled disarmingly. “Well, in that case, I know I can work an arrangement for you. We’ll figure out some sort of deferment.”

John now actually did sit up straighter, and Makala gently reached over and put a light restraining hand on his arm.

“I didn’t come here to just plead for my daughter, sir.”

Dale’s features clouded for a second, and his gaze dropped. “Oh, I’m sorry. Forgive me, sir,” Dale replied hastily. “You see, these notices started going out a couple of weeks back. Mail to your town was a bit delayed, so it only went out there with this morning’s delivery from our post office. It’s why I’m in semi-hiding at the moment,” he said with a rueful chuckle. “I’ve got parents, wives, husbands, kids all pleading for deferments. I actually had a mother try to bribe me yesterday with a pie that had a silver dollar stuck in it. So please excuse me if I misspoke. I know an honorable man such as you would not come here just to ask for special treatment for a member of his family.”

John nodded, even feeling a touch of understanding. Across the last two years, he had presided over many a hard decision, the most dreadful of them executions, first starting with the two young men who had stolen medications from the nursing home. He never regretted or second-thought the decisions once made, affirming to himself that in taking one life, he had spared others anguish and deterred a descent into anarchy. Nevertheless, the appeals of loved ones and having to firmly say no could be grueling. And attempts at bribes ranged from what could just be called a friendly neighborly gesture of some rations or a bottle of bootleg moonshine appearing on his doorstep with a friendly note attached to outright criminal threats.

“Thus the reaction of the guards outside the building when we first came in,” Makala ventured.

“Ah yes, regrettable but necessary,” Dale replied. “Otherwise, that foyer out there would be swamped. Apologies if it seemed rude.”

“I understand, but I would suggest that your man out there gets a little training in proper procedure and some basic manners.”

“I’ll have a talk with him, John,” Dale said with an apologetic smile, brushing an errant lock of hair back from his forehead. “So how can I help you?”

“I’m here on behalf of many of the citizens of Black Mountain, Montreat, and Swannanoa,” John said. “It is not just about my daughter.”

“I see,” Dale replied, leaning back in his swivel chair, bringing his fingertips together and resting his chin on them. “Many of the citizens, you say?”

“I didn’t speak to everyone who got the notices this morning, but I daresay yes, it will be the majority. Our first question: just what is this all about? We hear nothing from the federal government for a year. After the worst of the crisis is over, an army battalion shows up, but then they are pulled out—and now these notices of draft into this new organization, this ANR. I have an understanding of the need to create a centralized force to restore this nation, but on the other side of the coin, these notices were a shock that hit without warning. I’ll also add that nearly all of those being drafted are citizens crucial to my community, not just for protection but also for food production and our first steps at rebuilding. It comes as a tough blow.”

Dale stood up and sighed. He walked about behind his desk for a moment and then pointed to an old map of the United States on the wall behind his desk. “The federal government is reconstituting at last,” Dale announced, and he nodded toward the map. The gesture seemed a bit ham-handed to John, a professor for many years, but he could sense that Dale was nervous and building a case, so he did not show anything other than a forced expression of interest.

“The situation overseas, though unstable, is at least for the moment relatively calm. Our overseas nuclear assets survived intact, and, as you undoubtedly know, a swift and terrible retribution was rained down on North Korea and Iran. After that, secondary wars did break out, such as the conflict raging now between India and Pakistan, which we are standing clear of. There are numerous low-intensity wars raging around the globe. The only thing ensuring our security is the certain knowledge that our nuclear boomers are still out there under the seas ready with swift retaliation if there is another launch against the United States.”

“Wish we had made that message clearer before the Day,” Makala said softly, her voice filled with bitterness.

“We all do,” Dale replied.

John said nothing. Was it really Iran and Korea, or were others involved? Those were questions for which no one had a clear answer. If it had been Russia that provided technical support for the attack, they were suffering now as well because an EMP burst, which—believed by some to have been off course—had detonated over Eastern Europe rather than what many assumed was the target of Western Europe. Moscow and Saint Petersburg had ceased to exist in the months afterward, the same as every major city in America.

“But here,” Dale continued, “we are struggling to regain our national borders. The rhetoric with the so-called Chinese aid and fraternity mission is clearly transitioning into a permanent occupation force. The president has decided that we must mobilize for this national emergency, and thus the letters arrived here in Asheville shortly after my own arrival. John, I wish I had been able to establish better community relations with everyone after arriving here before these draft notices hit. All our regular military assets and the army that existed prior to the attack that have returned to the continental United States are being shifted to our southern and western borders. The new Army of National Recovery is therefore needed to help reestablish order and government control in the rest of the country. I heard how you organized the fight against a group called the Posse and soundly defeated them. John, there are still scores of Posse-like groups wandering the countryside, some of them in our own backyard, such as these so-called reiver groups harassing law-abiding communities like yours.

“I tell you…” He sighed, sitting back down in his chair, taking a long drink of cold water, and then setting the glass down. “This was not what I thought my job would be when I first got here. I thought it would be to help network communities together, stitch back the fabric of our society, getting us working again as a single team as we did in the old days, and our flag would again represent a real working nation and not just a memory. It was a shock to me when orders came down to mobilize several thousand out of my district for national service and that my first job was to be the bearer of these tidings.”

He nodded toward the draft notice resting on the desk between them, his features remorseful.

“Whoever thought this up—the selection of personnel—I assume it is not you?” John asked.

“Oh, definitely not. Most definitely not.”

“Well, whoever did is clueless about the situation here. We barely hung on by the skin of our teeth when the Posse hit us a year and a half ago. I assume you are aware of that situation?”

“I know about the fight you put up and your leadership. A masterful victory.”

“It was a bloody slaughter for both sides. If that is the definition of victory, I pray I do not have another like it. The young men and women receiving draft notices are the backbone of our own internal defense force. We’ve had a dozen incidents since with raiders, gangs of thieves, and now these reivers just on the other side of Mount Mitchell. Strip out the backbone of my command and we are defenseless.”

“Your command?” Dale asked softly.

John hesitated and then nodded. “Yes, I am commander of the local self-defense force.”

“Isn’t it perhaps time that we began to shift that a bit, to work together more as a team, bring back state and federal authority? That is the intent of the Army of National Recovery—a federally organized force to bring stability back to America nationwide. When fully in place, local communities will no longer have to fend for themselves. I would think that would actually be welcome news for you, John.”

John was silent with that. Of course that was an ideal. But how could they make it a working, functional ideal?

“When I can see and feel clearly that such is the case and that our local security is firmly in place, maybe then I’d feel more comfortable with so many of my community’s personnel being pulled out for duty elsewhere.”

“The times are no longer Fort Apache on the frontier or medieval barons holed up in their castles,” Dale replied. “It is time to bring back a broader authority and stability.”

“But stripping out the core of the strength of my community now? I’d like to see something else in place first.”

“In fact, you’re about to see that, John. I have assets reporting in this weekend that I think you’ll find to be rather impressive and definitely reassuring. I wish they had come in first before the draft notices went out. Their presence would have alleviated your concerns about defense of your community in the future.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve been promised some air support, for starters.”

“Air?”

“Not for public consumption, so keep that under your hat for now. For some folks here, I’d prefer it to be a surprise, if you know what I mean.”

“Air support from where? Nearly everything stateside was fried by the EMP.”

“Again, not allowed to discuss that. Let’s just say some overseas equipment is finally making its way back here. The government decided some of it can be spared as needed by local administrative areas. I put in a strong request. So even as your personnel head off for training, I’ll have some darn good backup in place for your community and this entire region. Is that fair enough?”

“We’ll see, but there is a second question just as burning. Just where in the hell are these kids going to serve with this ANR?”

“Ours not to reason why,” Dale said softly.

“‘Theirs but to do and die’?” Makala interjected.

Dale looked at her a bit taken aback, and John realized that Dale did not know the line from the ironic poem.

“Tennyson describing the disaster of the Charge of the Light Brigade in a long-ago war,” Makala said. “That is not a fate for any of the young men and women of our town.”

“I spoke too flippantly; forgive me,” Dale replied. “John—” He hesitated and then nodded to Makala. “And you too, ma’am—I have no idea as to where your daughter will be assigned. This is a national mobilization, a million strong. We need to constitute an army within our own continent. Most of our military based here in the States when all this started was as decimated as the civilian population. We have, at best, a few hundred thousand under arms within our borders. We have to secure our borders, hopefully just by a show of will.”

“Why not just federalize the National Guard?” John asked.

“Good question, John. That was seriously discussed, but it was quickly realized it would be all but impossible. The high casualty rate within the United States decimated Guard members the same as everyone else. Databases have been lost, and there isn’t a single state government that is running efficiently enough to coordinate bringing Guard units into national service. It was realized we needed to start from scratch again—and thus the Army of National Recovery. This force, once created, will not even have to fight other than containing lawlessness in some regions. Once our borders are resecured, the military can return to its mission of stabilizing places still in chaos. When that happens, the ANR stands down, and all your sons and daughters will be back home by Christmas.”

“I seem to recall that kind of promise at the start of nearly every war,” Makala replied coolly. “‘They’ll be home by Christmas.’ That is most reassuring.”

There appeared to be a glint of anger in Dale’s eyes, even though he held his smile without flinching. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, standing up, clearly indicating the meeting was drawing to a close. “I can at least do this, but for heaven’s sake, don’t let anyone outside your community know this. The notices said to report here in three days. Let’s just say that was a misprint, and it is thirty days hence. That will give me time to file your concerns back to Bluemont and give you a chance to see that I am a man of my word when it comes to the fact that I promise we’ll have a region-wide defense force in place to cover for communities such as yours so that you no longer need your small, independent commands—and I’ll see if I can better clarify terms of service. Is that fair for right now?”

John hesitated but then finally nodded in agreement. He looked over to Makala, who smiled, nodded as well, and actually said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Good, then that’s settled. Now you must excuse me; I am swamped, which I think you can understand. Get back to your people, calm things down, and we’ll be in touch and see what can be done, let’s say in a week or so. Does that work for you?”

John stood and nodded.

“And please don’t construe this the wrong way. Your daughter’s age?”

“Eighteen, and she is the mother of a fourteen-month-old boy whose father was killed in the fighting with the Posse.” He hesitated, ashamed to mention it as if seeking sympathy, but it spilled from him. “Her younger sister died of diabetes last year, as well. She is all we have left.”

Dale looked at Makala with soulful eyes. “I am sorry about the loss of your daughter, ma’am. I know deferments for draftees with dependent children have been dropped, but—and again, please don’t take this the wrong way—I think you have good grounds for an appeal that I can move forward. Especially if she is serving as your assistant or in some capacity vital to the area’s security beyond that of just simply carrying arms.”

“Elizabeth is my adopted daughter,” Makala replied. “And at the moment, she serves in the local militia, helps with the community farm acreage, and takes care of her son and her grandmother, like so many of the other kids in our community.” She stared straight at him, and his eyes dropped.

“We’ve all lost someone,” he said.

“And you?”

He hesitated. “Strange, but maybe lucky. I had no one special when the Day hit. I was part of the personnel evacuated out of Washington. I had two sisters; we were never close, really. I married some years ago and then divorced and lost track of where my ex was even before the war hit us. And so I just buried myself in work.”

“Such as?” Makala pressed.

There was a look in his eyes, but it passed like a shadow. “Working for the federal government, of course, to try to bring order out of chaos. I was ordered to report up to Bluemont to help with the work of reorganization and then was assigned to the field—meaning here—two months ago. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really am late for my next meeting. I’ll take care of the thirty-day extension on the draft in your community and will be in touch. I know you’ll clearly see that our district has become safe for law-abiding citizens within a matter of days.”

John looked at him quizzically, but long experience told him that this man was not going to say anything more. He had at least gotten a temporary reprieve for his entire community. Whatever Fredericks’s actions were going to be, he’d have to let him play them out.

Dale stepped out from behind his desk, opened the door to his office, and motioned for Makala, who nodded her thanks as she exited with John following her. Dale shook John’s hand in the hallway and then returned to his office while they headed for the exit and out into the early afternoon heat. John spared a sharp glance for the sergeant who had troubled him earlier, but the man’s gaze was fixed straight ahead as if John didn’t exist. John and Makala walked slowly to where Ed and Grace were leaning against the hood of the Edsel.

“What do you think?” Makala whispered.

“Well, I didn’t expect the extension. I’m highly skeptical that a central government can secure our communities. We understand the nuances and threats better than they ever can. If they had shown up with a million extra rations as a reserve for the winter ahead, some farming equipment, electrical generators, additional communications gear, some tech people to help us get things up and running, or a darn-good, fully stocked field medical unit that can move from community to community, now those would be blessings I’d be overjoyed to see. That’s the kind of help I was hoping for, not this pulling out of those we need the most not just for defense but also for rebuilding.”

“All of those would be great,” Makala replied. “I don’t like the idea of them being plucked from our midst, and six weeks from now, they’re thrown into some godforsaken no-man’s-land fighting Posse groups in New York or the nightmare in Chicago.”

He sighed as they headed to the car where Ed and Grace stood, weapons slung, both of them relieved to see John and Makala out of the building and heading their way.

“If everything he said is true, it is essentially a lawful order of the emergency government. But to go against it?” Makala said.

He shook his head ruefully. “I was a military man once, Makala. I swore an oath to defend the Constitution, and as long as that point held, I followed orders, even when I didn’t like them. I feel caught in the middle with this thing. This is about Elizabeth but also about damn near every other family I feel responsible for.”

“Let’s go home and try to calm things down first. He certainly didn’t volunteer to come with us. And once we get back, you have that postponed appointment with your friendly dentist, Doc Weiderman.”

The mere mention of it reminded him of the damned toothache. The crisis of the moment had diverted him from the pain, but mention of it was a forceful reminder.

She gave him that reassuring nurse smile that usually meant what was coming would not be pleasant. He sighed and nodded.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“About your tooth or Dale?” she asked.

“Dale.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. “I think he’s full of shit.”