One Year After

CHAPTER FOUR

John was still in his office, having dozed off at his desk, when the piercing jangle of the old rotary phone snapped him awake.

The windows facing Jennifer’s grave were open, and between the insistent ringing of the phone, he thought he heard something else… gunfire.

He looked at the luminescent face of his old-style windup wristwatch; it was just after three o’clock, local time. He felt absolutely drained with exhaustion as he picked up the phone.

“John, it’s Richard Black down at the town hall. We just got a report phoned in from our watch station up by the North Fork Reservoir. A firefight.”

John stifled a yawn, trying to focus. “Okay. I’m coming down to the office. Call Maury Hurt; ask him to roll out his Jeep and wake up the reaction team.”

The team, a squad of eight from the town’s military company, pulled weeklong rotation shifts and were bunked in the firehouse next to the town hall. Exchanges of gunfire and skirmishes along the northern border of the community were nothing new. It was most likely the border reivers raiding for food or a continuation of their ongoing feud with the Stepp families, who lived at the base of the Mount Mitchell range. The raids were more annoyance rather than a real threat, though several had died on both sides over the last year. And there was always the threat, as well, that some far deadlier gang had moved into the region. Rumors that survivors of the Posse lingered, that they were coalescing again and bent on vengeance against Black Mountain.

Regardless of who had started the flare-up tonight, like a marshal of the Old West, he felt obligated to see about it.

He pulled on trousers and a flannel shirt, an early morning chill still in the air. Makala helped him don a Kevlar vest, a present from the army before they had left Asheville. He holstered his .45 and headed for the door.

“Most likely another damned feud.” John sighed. “But it could be some other group setting us up. Until I find out who exactly is shooting at whom and why, we got to assume the worst—that some splinter group of reivers are hitting us. So if they do get into this cove, you know what to do.”

She was already holding the twelve gauge as if to reassure him that his home would be safe, and she kissed him lightly. “Be careful.”

He smiled. “Soul of caution.” It had become his standard reply. Then he was out the door. The Edsel reluctantly turned over after thirty seconds of grinding and John’s muttered curses.

He roared out of the driveway, through the gateway into Montreat, where the one guard was obviously awake and offered a half wave, half salute, and two minutes later, he was at the town hall. The reaction squad was already loaded up into a heavy, four-wheel-drive pickup truck. His old friend Maury Hurt rolled up in his WWII Jeep just as John pulled in.

Reverend Black was at the door of the town hall.

“Anything new?” John shouted.

“Just that one call from the watch post reporting an intrusion. Firing has stopped, though some sort of building is burning above the north bank of the reservoir.”

He hoped that whatever the ruckus was, it was over. It could be nothing other than some drunks shooting at each other, or it could be an infiltration, the team at the outpost dead and raiders pouring into the valley of the North Fork. He had received more than one chewing out from old vets, the town council, and others that, at such moments, his job was to stay in the town hall and let others do the job. He had been forced to do that in Iraq and swore he would never do it again. If his people were going to put their asses on the line, he would be there with them.

He settled into the Jeep beside Maury and pointed to the road. The two-vehicle task force set out, rolling west along State Street. The once-thriving shops, the town hardware store, and the wine and chocolate shop all had long ago shuttered up, windows boarded up or broken. No traffic lights blinking, just an empty road, the stalled vehicles from the Day long ago hauled off for salvage. Dropping down the slope on the west side of town, everything was dark. It was still a few hours till dawn, the air chilled but rich with the scent of spring, the wind flowing around the Jeep slapping him awake.

Maury turned off onto old Highway 70 past John’s favorite hot dog stand, looted and burned out long ago, then past the state veterans’ cemetery, where it had been decided that those who had died in defense of the town were to be buried rather than the golf course. Instinctively, he raised his hand to his hat brim in salute, Maury, a veteran of the air force, doing the same.

It was a chilly journey in the open Jeep, a vehicle Maury had purchased years before and had lovingly restored. Even now, riding in it made John think of the movie Patton, except unlike that eccentric leader, John did not stand up and take on the affectations of a siren throughout the ride.

They reached what had been a minimum-security detention center with its ugly and now useless barrier fence and turned onto the winding road up to the North Fork Reservoir, the main water supply for the entire city of Asheville.

“Something’s burning,” Maury announced. John didn’t need to be told, the red glare of it reflecting off the surface of the lake.

They reached the dam face of the reservoir where he had a watch station in place. The two students assigned there came out of the concealed bunker, reporting that they had heard voices echoing across the lake, followed by a couple of minutes of sustained gunfire and then something going up in flames.

If voices alone could echo across the lake, then most certainly their arrival in a Jeep and four-wheel-drive truck could certainly be heard, as well.

He stood silent for several minutes, gazing across the quarter-mile-wide lake. It looked like a shack of some kind was indeed burning on the far shore. Back before the Day, this had been the reservoir for the city of Asheville, and any kind of building within the watershed was strictly forbidden. Chances were it was some kind of still or squatter’s shack burning over there.

Was it worth the risk to check it out, or should they wait until dawn?

The Stepps, who had settled this valley over two hundred years earlier, had hung on rather well compared to many after the Day. Over the last year, they had produced enough of a surplus to start breeding hogs, chickens, and drop off the town rationing, and they traded well and fairly with the community. The raid might be aimed at their food. One branch of the family, however, lived more on the fringe, and it was they who usually were either trading with or wrangling with the reivers. He guessed this was some kind of payback attack. Illegal still or not, something was going on, and he had to find out what it was.

Darkness played to his advantage if it was raiders; he knew this territory, and they most likely did not. If it was just the Stepps doing something stupid, he had to deal with that, as well… and hoped that was all it was.

He motioned for his reaction team to gather round. He looked at their young faces in the waning moonlight. They were tense but ready to go in.

“I’ll take point. I want you deployed back fifty yards behind me in a skirmish line.”

“Sir, that’s our job to be point, not yours.” It was Grace, typical of her to speak up.

“Not this time,” John offered. “If it’s just the Stepps, they know me; they might not know you and fire first and ask questions later.”

He stood up, indicating there would be no more debate, stepped out from behind the bunker, and started along the access road that followed the west shore of the lake. He heard someone behind him, turned back, and saw that it was Maury, his World War II–era M1 carbine raised.

“What the hell are you doing?” John asked.

“Just taking a walk with you, that’s all,” Maury replied.

“Okay, but let’s not go off half-cocked. If it’s the reivers, they usually hightail out rather than face a fight with a full squad of our troops. If it’s someone else…” His voice trailed off.

They moved silently along the bank of the river. All was silent except for the crackling of the fire, the lake reflecting the light and that of the moon.

He began to think of the notoriously bad line from old movies—“It’s quiet; too quiet”—just before all hell broke loose.

A gut instinct suddenly kicked in; something didn’t feel right. Long ago, instructors in advanced infantry training had drilled into him that in combat, listen to gut instincts; chances were that something your conscious thinking had not even registered—the faint crack of a broken branch, a barely detected scent on the air, just a feeling that something wasn’t right—was screaming at you to react.

“Hey! Whoever’s coming, we need help up here!” The cry for help close by. It sounded like old Wilson Stepp.

“Wilson Stepp, is that you?” John shouted.

There was no reply.

“Wilson, it’s John Matherson. What the hell is going on?”

A momentary pause, and then Wilson’s voice, sounding strained. “Hurt, John. I need help.”

“We’ll go up and check it out, sir.”

Turning, he saw Grace creeping up behind him, crouched low. He motioned for her to freeze in place, deciding that she was going to get one hell of a chewing out once this was over for breaking orders.

Only a couple of years older than Elizabeth, Grace had made the campus her home after the Day. Her family lived in Jacksonville. It was ironic that he had actually discussed with her parents what would happen if ever there was a serious crisis, her folks telling John to make sure she stayed put at the school, where they knew she would be safe. It was almost as if they had some insider word that something bad was coming. As he looked at her, he thought of the risks she had already taken and wanted to now take again—and how he would ever be able to face her parents if one day they did show up on the campus. How he would feel if Elizabeth went off and one day he confronted her commanding officer.

That made his decision as to what to do next all so clear.

If someday they finally show up for their daughter, do I tell them she died because I sent her into a trap?

“Stay put,” he whispered.

He suddenly felt an overwhelming urge for a cigarette. He could make out Maury’s features, his friend tight lipped, eyes wide.

“It smells bad, John,” Maury whispered.

“No shit,” was all he could say. He was suddenly afraid, but he could not let that take control of his judgment now.

“Hey, for God’s sake, someone help me!” The cry sounded weak, strained. From behind him, he could hear voices. It was some of the Stepp family coming up the road, armed.

Either the raiders are gone, or this could turn into a bloodbath, John realized. They were not the type of people to stop if they thought one of their kin was hurt.

“Grace, go back. Tell those folks to stay back, and the same for the rest of you.”

“Sir?”

“Just do it,” John hissed. “Maury, keep them back. I’m going up.”

“Are you flipping crazy, John?” Maury snapped. “You go back, and I’ll go forward and check it out. Your job is back there, not getting your ass blown off by some damn drunk reiver. And if that is old man Stepp hurt up there, it’s most likely because he fell down drunk.”

“So I send your ass to get blown off, is that it?” John replied, and he forced a smile. “Chances are there aren’t even any reivers—just these damn fools got drunk and started shooting at their own shadows.”

He stood up.

Maury was right, and he knew it. But given all that had happened against the Posse and just hours earlier with Fredericks, he realized he was sick to death of sending others forward. At the moment, it was so much easier to just do it himself.

“I’ll let you know when it’s cleared,” he announced, and then he went forward, crouching low in the ditch, his .45 out.

He pressed up alongside the road another fifty yards. He saw someone lying in the road, half sitting up, clutching his side. It was old man Wilson Stepp.

He drew closer, Wilson half turning to look in his direction. He suddenly realized his own field training was definitely rusty. The lake, illuminated by the burning shed and moonlight, was behind him, thus clearly showing his silhouette if anyone was on the other side of the road.

“Hey, John—get down,” Wilson gasped.

At that same instant, he saw it—a bright-red spot of light sparkling on his chest.

“Oh shit.” The words barely slipped out of him.

“Okay, Matherson, just hold your hands up, and walk up this road real easy like.”

“Sorry, John,” Wilson gasped. “You stupid ass, shouting out your name like that. They’re just behind me.”

His response was instinct, lowering his pistol to shoot at the laser sight that he could see glinting from a concealed position upslope from the road.

Less than a second later, the impact of the shot hitting his chest knocked the wind out of him, and he went down on his knees. He heard running, more shots. He started to turn—it looked like Maury was going down just behind him—then a stunning blow to the back of his head and a falling away into darkness.

Dawn.

The sound of an engine, a jolt of pain, a feeling that he was falling, even as he looked up at the canopy of trees overhead. A bounce that made him gasp from the pain, the back of his head, his chest.

He tried to move, but his hands and feet were bound. What in the hell?

He tried to sit up. A harsh voice close to his ear, breath stinking. “I’d stay right where you are if I was you. Otherwise, you get another tap to the head.”

He was silent for a moment, each jostling bounce triggering a wave of pain. He felt light-headed, disoriented—a concussion, most likely. He half opened one eye, caught a glimpse of a rough-hewn-looking character, bearded, in camo fatigues, cradling a short-barrel M4 with laser sights, sitting in the bed of the truck.

The sun was up, golden light filtering through the forest canopy softened with morning mist. They were on a downhill grade that kept going and going. Something told him that they must be on the far side of the Mount Mitchell range, heading down the long slope of over six thousand feet of altitude to the inhabited valleys on the far side of the mountain. The driver shifted out of gear for a moment; John heard at least one other vehicle, some laughter—and a strange sound then… squealing. It sounded like pigs.

Damn it, he thought. I get tangled up in this for some damn pigs and moonshine. What a reason to get taken by whoever this is.

He looked up at his captor. “Where am I?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Silence for a moment, his head throbbing. “Thirsty. Could I have something to drink?”

His captor chuckled, waited a few minutes, looking off as if to convey who exactly was in charge, and then he reached into a pocket, pulled out a bottle, and uncorked it, offering it over.

“Hands tied,” John said, and his captor grinned.

“Yup, well, have a touch of this.” He held the bottle to John’s lips. It was shine, pure shine, but John took a gulp anyhow, coughing and gasping, and a moment later, he vomited it back up, his captor cursing him and then laughing even as he passed out again.

“All right, drag the son of a bitch out.”

John came back to consciousness as someone pulled him by his feet toward the tailgate of the truck. He opened his eyes, and there was a moment of barely suppressed panic at the sight of a hunting knife, wondering if he was about to have his throat cut. Someone cut the bonds around his ankles and roughly pulled him upright, ordering him to turn around. His hands were freed, a slice of skin from his wrist going with the rope.

He flashed back to his nightmare experience of POW training as a green second lieutenant during a time when outright physical abuse was an accepted part of the program. Even though all knew they were in Fort Bragg, North Carolina, more than a few cracked under the torment. He limped out of that training with a sprained ankle, one eye swollen shut, and a cracked rib when he had attempted an escape, which all were expected to try. He had run afoul of a Green Beret “guard,” whom he had at least had the pleasure of kicking in the groin, which triggered the “guards” into giving him some payback.

Try never to show pain, don’t show fear—it had been drilled into him then. He hated to admit it now, but he definitely felt pain, and it was hard not to show fear.

They were in a forest clearing, definitely miles north of Mount Mitchell, its peak and ridgeline clearly visible in the early morning light. Somewhere up in the Burnsville area, he guessed.

Reiver country.

“Bring him over here.”

He was shoved hard, nearly falling over, struggling to maintain his footing and some semblance of dignity. They were at a mountain crossroad, of all things a local fire station, engine still within, a burned-out gas station next door and a few run-down houses and single-wide trailers, run-down long before the Day. Whoever called for him was sitting in an overstuffed lounge chair inside the open fire station. Several men, all dressed in camo gear, were gathered around the chair, whispering, glancing back at John.

In spite of his dazed condition, his thoughts flashed to a movie about some dumb-ass canoeists going out for a weekend in the mountains of Georgia, a movie that scared the crap out of every Northern boy. When he moved from New Jersey to attend college at Duke, his Southern friends often teased him with suggestions they go canoeing and see if they could find some locals for him to meet.

A couple of the men inside the fire station definitely looked like extras from the film, especially the one that he assumed had shot him, his few remaining teeth blackened as he gazed sardonically at John. The only thing missing to make the moment terrifyingly complete was a mentally disabled kid playing a banjo. It fit every worst stereotype ever held about folks living in the mountains of southern Appalachia.

“So this is the great John Matherson?”

Things were out of focus, his head aching from the blow that had knocked him out. His damned tooth was throbbing, and another wave of nausea was hitting. This was certainly turning into one hell of a rotten day.

Shoved again from behind, John staggered into the gloom of the fire station, the shadowy figure in the lounge chair chuckling at his obvious discomfort and then ordering someone to fetch a chair for their guest.

Knees trembling, John half collapsed into the chair and leaned forward, gasping for air, each breath a torment thanks to what he assumed must be a cracked rib or two from the bullet impact.

“Get a medic. George might’ve cracked this poor man’s skull.”

“Lucky if that was all I cracked,” a voice replied. “I popped him square in the chest before tapping him on the back of his head. If it weren’t for that fancy Kevlar vest of his, you’d be talking to a corpse now.”

“Nice vest, Matherson. You’d be dead now if you didn’t have it on,” the voice interjected. “Someone help him out of it. We can use it ourselves.”

John did not object as the flak vest was pulled off, suppressing a gasp as the one taking it off none too gently pointed out the impact point, bruised black and blue.

“Vest is mine now; I claim it,” his captor announced. “I’m the one that shot him, then took him prisoner.”

“We settle that later. All captured supplies go into the common store.”

“The hell you say!” the man with the blackened teeth exclaimed.

There was a moment of silent confrontation between George and the apparent group leader sitting in the lounge chair. With a curse, George finally tossed the vest aside and walked out.

Relieved of the Kevlar, John sat back in the padded chair, stretching his shoulders, breathing deeply, trying to judge for himself how badly he was hurt. Every breath hurt, but better that than an exit wound the size of his fist with his heart going with it.

“So where is this bastard?”

It was a woman’s voice, older. He looked back out the doorway at a gray-haired, slightly bent woman in faded jeans and a flannel shirt carrying an old-style medical bag.

She approached John, took out a flashlight, and shined it into his eyes so that he winced, telling him to follow the light, rough, callused hands fingering his head. It hurt like hell as she did so, the light causing him to lose focus for a moment.

She taped his chest, feeling along his sternum so that he winced when she pressed in hard. Sticking a dirty finger into his mouth and then pulling it out and examining it for a moment, she finally wiped the finger on her flannel shirt.

“Don’t see any blood in your spit. You cough any blood up?” she asked.

He said nothing, slowly shaking his head.

“Good. Just a cracked rib, no lung punctured by it. You puke at all?”

“Yes, a bit earlier.”

“Concussion, not too bad—that and a cracked rib or two. That’s all.”

Without further comment, she picked up her medical bag, opened it, pulled out an oversized bottle of aspirin, shook out two, and handed them to John.

“Take these and call me in the morning,” was all she said, and she walked out.

“That’s one helluva medic.” John sighed, and his host laughed.

“Maggie is the best. She pulled two bullets out of me last fall with nothing more than a quick shot of white lightning before digging in.”

Focus was coming back, and John looked over at his host. The man, like so many now, had that ageless look—on the surface maybe in his midthirties but infinitely older inside. His skin was weather beaten, leathery. He was dressed a bit more neatly than the group of several dozen hanging about the fire station—jeans, a combat blouse with the eagle of the famed 101st Airborne draped around his narrow shoulders, left sleeve empty and pinned up at the shoulder, left eye covered with a patch, and jawline twisted and gnarled like the bark of an old oak.

“Name’s Forrest Burnett, once a first sergeant with the 101st.” He pointed at the empty sleeve with his right hand. “Lost that in some shit hole of a valley in Afghanistan about ten years back.” He smiled, pointing up to the eye patch and twisted scars of his face.

“Actually lost the arm first to an IED. Rest of my squad dead. When the bastards came up to check us, oh good Lord, how I wasted them all, but lost the eye and my good looks before I killed the last of them.” He laughed softly. “Not like your war… it’s Colonel, isn’t it?”

“Something like that,” John said cautiously.

Burnett looked to those gathered around. “We got us a special guest here,” Burnett announced loudly so all around him could hear. “A real live colonel. Oh, I know his record. Book-learning-type colonel. Even in the Pentagon, not like one of us grunts they sent out in that last war. Now a hero in these mountains for how he turned back that pagan Posse group.”

“Shit, fifty of us,” one of the group interjected, “would have kicked their stinking asses clear back to Greensboro.”

There was a laughing chorus of agreements.

The leader shot an angry glance back at the man who spoke up. “Keep your damn mouth shut!” he snarled, and the one he spoke to dropped his head and backed up.

John said nothing, for after all, what could he say? In a way, Burnett was right. He had received many an advantage ever since college and his decision to go into the military with the immediate rank of second lieutenant. From the accent, John knew Burnett to be a local, most likely a volunteer out of patriotic fervor or poverty after 9/11, sent back from Afghanistan twisted up in body and mind.

“Got the Silver Star for that, wasting those bastards, and then years of bullshit afterwards. How was your retirement, Colonel?”

John said nothing. Burnett was taking him into the game of who had it worse, and in that case, John would most certainly lose. John would always be the first to admit that, especially in the years just prior to the Day. Retired colonels did get far more perks. A one-armed sergeant with a twisted face and missing an eye might get a lot of sympathy at least and compassion—especially after the crap that had been heaped on the veterans of Vietnam—but in the long run?

“Look, Sergeant. You want to shoot me or hang me, then just do it and get it over with. So let’s cut the crap. It’s your call,” John snapped back, knowing that Burnett had every right to be bitter, and making an appeal for mercy would fall on deaf ears.

Most fell silent, though a few, led by George standing outside the firehouse, offered to help him with his suggestion of a firing squad.

Burnett gazed at him intently, and finally a smile creased his face. “Damn you, Matherson. At least you got some sand in your craw. George, find him a cot; let him sleep off his headache.”

The man who had been his captor sighed, stepped out from the group watching the encounter, and roughly pulled John to his feet.

“Lucky son of a bitch,” George announced to all.

“Just see to him,” Burnett said, “and cuff his ankle to the bed. Bet he got one of those bullshit escape-and-evasion courses, and now thinks he can pull a Rambo and split on us.”

John looked at Burnett.

“I escaped from mine,” Burnett asked. “How’d you do?”

“Got the crap kicked out of me,” John answered honestly.

“Figured.”

“Just one question.”

“Sure, Colonel Matherson.”

“The rest of my unit with me… what happened?”

“Think we killed one, the guy following you.”

John took that in, not trying to show any emotion. Was Maury wearing a Kevlar vest?

“Friend of yours?” Burnett asked.

“Yeah.”

“And if we killed him?”

“You know what I’ll do if I get out of this.”

Burnett nodded.

“Your Stepp friends started it. Traded us some bad moonshine a month back. Had lead in it. Damn near killed George over there. So we were paying a return visit to burn out their still and pick up a bit of food, and it went bad. Didn’t expect you as a prize, though, Matherson.”

“The Stepp family?”

“We don’t kill civilians unless we got to,” Burnett snapped.

John turned to look at George. “If you killed my friend and I get out of this, it’s personal for me, and you’re a dead man,” he said slowly, forcefully.

The punch to the jaw put John out cold for several more hours.

“You are one stupid bastard, you know that, Colonel?”

John forced his eyes open. He had actually been awake for at least a half hour or more but had mimicked sleep, trying to gather his thoughts and figure out what to do next. His defiance might have earned him a touch of respect, but the aching jaw from the uppercut was numbing, and he wondered if a couple of teeth had been knocked loose. Unfortunately, the blow hit on the other side of his mouth, so the toothache was still with him.

Opening his eyes wide, he found he could at least focus somewhat. It was Burnett, chair pulled up by the side of John’s cot, and he was holding a steaming mug. The scent all but overwhelmed John; it was real coffee.

He sat up, stifling a groan, and took the cup. He wondered if this was now “good cop” time with Burnett offering a treat that no one in Black Mountain had seen in nearly two years. But he accepted it anyhow, half gulping it down, though it was scalding hot, regretting it a few minutes later when the coffee hit his empty stomach.

“Here, eat this; it will settle your guts.” Burnett held out a slice of fresh-baked bread slathered with—of all things—real butter. It was slightly sour but still heavenly, which John took and wolfed down, trying not to sigh with delight. God in heaven, he thought. Real coffee, bread, and butter, and we all took it for granted our entire lives.

“What in the hell am I going to do with you?” Burnett opened without any preamble. “The way I see it, I got three choices. One, we shoot you or hang you as a warning to any who try to mess with us. You really have quite a name around here, and killing you would be, as the natives of the region once said, a real coup. Two, we make you a slave. You know what most of the tribes and white folks did two hundred and fifty years ago when they had a captive they wanted to keep?”

“Cut their Achilles tendons so they couldn’t run—and if still a problem, castrate them.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“And the third?” John ventured. “Let me go or trade me back.”

“Good thinking, but still not certain on any of the three,” Burnett replied. “No sense asking you what you think. Pride will prevent you from appealing to the third choice; fear definitely the second one; defiance might make you ask for the first—and at the moment, I think a majority of folks with me would lean towards that. George was the one who put that round into your chest, and believe me, he was shooting to kill you. He’d have finished you if not for that nurse who took care of you. I heard Maggie kicked his gun up and told him to bring you in.”

“So why don’t you just finish the job publicly? Will win a lot of prestige points with some.”

Burnett took back the empty coffee mug and plate, setting them on the floor. “Response that I kind of assumed from you, Colonel. You ain’t the whining type. Whether that is really you or just a game you’re playing, it does work to a certain extent. Though the big drawback to shooting or hanging you is it will set off the biggest feud these mountains have seen since the Civil War. Your people won’t rest until a lot of dead have been piled up. So, Colonel, that’s an argument in your favor.”

“Can we cut the colonel-and-sergeant routine?” John said, and at that moment, he thought of his lost friend Washington, the security guard at the college who had taken a frightened group of kids and whipped them into a potent military force able to defeat the Posse, dying in that fight. Washington had never dropped the colonel-and-sergeant routine, and it had always rankled John and would for the rest of his life. It haunted him, because between himself and his lost friend, he felt Washington was indeed the better man.

“All right, Mr. Matherson—or is it Doc or Professor?”

“Cut the shit. Just John. Hell, I walked into your ambush. So what do I call you?”

Burnett leaned back and laughed. “There’s a crazy coot up over the mountains in Tennessee who insists he be called Your Holiness. Down in Haywood County, an ex-preacher is saying he is Christ reborn in this time of troubles. I bet there are a thousand nutcases with a thousand names.”

He smiled, and John could not help but smile as well in reply. The coffee and food had settled down in his stomach, and he was beginning to feel somewhat better. He also sensed that if Burnett was talking like this, the prospect of an unpleasant ending had diminished.

“I actually rather liked the stories I read about that Mongol guy, Genghis, after seeing a movie about him and a weird high school teacher who went over to where the guy lived and kept talking about riding with the Mongols and drinking fermented horse milk. But if I named myself after him, people would think I was into Star Trek movies. Thought as well about using Napoleon, but everyone who ever called themselves Napoleon is definitely a nut job.”

“So Forrest then?” John asked.

“Yeah, for the moment, that’s okay with me, but out there, it’s sir, if you get my drift.”

“Okay.”

“I assume you want the third alternative—that I let you go or trade you for something.”

“Who wouldn’t? I want to live the same as you.”

“So then, damn you, why do you and others like you keep hunting us?” There was a flash of anger from Burnett as he spoke.

John looked at him quizzically, shook his head, and then regretted the action since the dizziness set back in. “What the hell do you mean?”

“You sent a punitive expedition over Mount Mitchell last fall before the snow set in—killed three of my people in an ambush.”

“Now wait a minute,” John replied, his temper rising up. “You and yours have been harassing us all along the north slope of the mountains ever since the shit hit the fan two years ago. Folks killed, food stolen. What am I supposed to do? Just sit back and let you rob us?”

“Half the time, it was most likely someone else doing that. We picked off a couple of dozen of that Posse gang that fled up this way after you kicked their asses. Whoever is killing each other, do you know how barren it is up here? Over on your side of the mountains, you got good crop and grazing lands. After everything went to hell, you had barriers up on the road, and unless someone was a damn doctor or you took a liking to them—like that hot nurse I heard you married—it was move along and get the hell out of town.”

He had nothing to say for a moment to that. It was mostly true. Makala, though, an “outsider,” had at least been in the town when the EMP hit. But the way Burnett spoke of her as “that hot nurse” ticked him off.

“Insult me, but don’t insult my wife,” John snapped. “She was in the town that day it happened—a nurse from a cardiology unit—and she saved a helluva lot of lives afterwards, me being one of them. So back off on that, Forrest.”

Burnett nodded. “Okay. My apologies.”

That was something about the culture of this region that John always admired coming from New Jersey. Contrary to stereotypes, there were aspects of Southern culture that nearly all observed. One was respect for women, something that too many called sexist but John saw as just basic, decent politeness. Burnett had crossed a line regarding another man’s wife and had immediately pulled back. It raised his opinion of him a few notches.

“It was survival, Forrest. If we took in everyone who came up through the pass after everything went to hell—and yes, over the mountains too—we’d have been feeding ten times as many, and everyone would have died within two months. I got forced into the position. I didn’t like it, but I had to make decisions that were tough, and if I didn’t, no one would have lived. And I’ll bet you would have done the same and most likely did and are still making those decisions.”

“Yeah, well, the same with us here.”

“Didn’t give you the right to raid us as you do.”

“That granny woman who looked at your head used to be a nurse at Memorial Mission in Asheville,” Burnett replied as if shifting the subject to safer ground. “I got people up here with me, the same as you, before everything went sour. Mostly working folks born in these mountains, unlike the rich bastards that started to flood into Asheville, too many of them trust-fund brats playing at being hippies and jacking the price of a few acres of land through the roof because they liked the view. Then they turn around and wanted taxes raised for their pet projects and pushed us out. Oh, we were good enough to do the hard labor when things were good, but the day after the power died, it was get the hell out and stay out.

“George, who damn near killed you… his family has lived up here for near on to two hundred years. A damn good carpenter. Most of his family starved to death by the first winter, then one of your trigger-happy shooters killed his older brother in that ambush last fall. You’re lucky he didn’t blow your head off.”

“Maybe he wants to castrate me in front of everybody,” John retorted angrily.

“Don’t joke. You ain’t far from the truth. He sees it as payback.”

John fell silent.

“Point is, we are trying to survive, same as you. We might look like a ragged lot, no fancy civility like you got down in Black Mountain and that college where I heard you were a professor before all of this. Difference was that a lot of those up here were of tougher stuff and refused to conveniently die off. Up here, folks still had a handle on a lot of the old ways. Oh, we were quaint for the tourists from Atlanta driving through along the parkway or coming up here once a year to buy Christmas trees. That was actually our biggest cash crop back then, other than weed. Ever think how many folks are buying Christmas trees now or making a living on farmland that was played out generations ago?”

John did not reply, sensing the wisdom to not interrupt.

“So how do we survive, when every town like yours sealed itself off? Too many folks for too little good land, and within several months, the forests hunted out so completely I ain’t had a taste of venison in over a year, and someone bringing in a greasy possum was a reason to celebrate.”

John did not say anything or reveal that after the cup of coffee and the long hours of being either tied or handcuffed to the bed, he was about to explode.

Burnett, sensing his distress, pulled out a key, unclipped the cuff around John’s ankle, and motioned to the door, which John gratefully headed for.

“John.”

He looked back.

Burnett was casually holding his .45. “Nice gun, John. Hate to shoot you with it if you try to run. It would spoil George’s day, me killing you rather than him getting to.”

Even if the temptation to run had been there, as John staggered off to the edge of the tree line, he knew it would be hopeless. Whoever these reivers were, there were certainly a hell of a lot of them around, and they knew the ground far better than he could ever hope to figure out. The clearing around the mountain crossroads was an encampment, a hodgepodge of old RVs and pickup trucks with canopies rigged over the rear bed. Some fires were burning—over one of them, a pig was speared and being turned over the fire, most likely one of Stepps’ spring sucklings. There were nearly as many children as adults, a ragged lot most of them, just like the children in Black Mountain the winter after the Day, hanging about whenever someone had managed to snag some game. The scent of it wafted out into the street.

Finished with his task, John slowly walked back to the hut they had put him in. Burnett nodded, uncocking the semiautomatic and holstering it, the holster John had been wearing just hours before.

“You ever shoot a man before everything went bad?” Burnett asked as John sat back down.

“I never fired a shot at someone with intent to kill until I had to execute that kid who stole drugs from the nursing home. I think it best not to ask what you went through in Afghanistan.”

“Something like that,” Burnett replied calmly.

“Look, let’s cut the crap with this working-class sergeant from the mountains versus a colonel who you think had a silver spoon up his butt. I didn’t grow up in the mountains, but I sure as hell grew up in a tough place in New Jersey, so I know the game. If you hate my guts for that, so be it. All of us are in a world of shit now, so what is it you want from me if you decide not to kill me? Or is this just some head game for your entertainment before you string me up or blow my brains out?”

Burnett nodded and stood up after several minutes of silence.

“My wife, well, she left me the year after I came back from the war minus an arm, an eye, and half my mind. Had a son—heard they’re dead, along with the bastard she hooked up with… killed or executed.” He hesitated. “They were living down in Charlotte. I heard long afterwards they fell in with that Posse.”

John lowered his head. “Merciful God,” he whispered.

“Maybe you or one of yours was the ones that shot her. I don’t give a good damn about the bum she hooked up with—I hope someone did kill him, slowly. But still, she was once my wife, and my boy was with her. You shoot any kids with that group, John Matherson? He’d have been twelve.”

John looked up at Burnett. “No, we didn’t shoot any kids that day. If any were still traveling with them, they were left behind before the fight and scattered afterwards. If she was with them, Forrest, you know what I had to do. They were literally cannibals, and that was beyond the pale of any civilized society, or at least the civilization we’re trying to rebuild.”

Burnett was silent just looking down at him as if weighing the life-or-death decision.

“What would you have done?” John finally snapped back. “If you had taken any prisoners from that group of cannibal barbarians, what would you have done?”

“Are you pleading with me, Matherson?”

“Hell no,” he snapped back. “Whatever you’re going to do will most likely happen no matter what I say.”

“You shoot my people for snatching a few pigs.”

“And again, in this mad world, you’re doing the same—killing mine. Maybe one of my closest friends is dead because of what happened a few hours ago. And if he is, you know all bets with me are off if you let me go.”

Burnett started for the door and then looked back. “A helluva shitty world we’ve been handed, Matherson. Makes Afghanistan look like paradise. It’s what America is sinking into now, Colonel. Think about it. America, the new Afghanistan.”

“Was that what we fought for over there?” John asked. “Is that what we’re fighting to prevent now?”

Burnett smiled, and for a moment, there was that frightful two-thousand-yard stare. “You’ll have my decision regarding what to do with you at sundown,” he snapped as he slammed the door shut and locked it.