One Second After

by William R. Forstchen

  “You want me in the guest room?” Jen asked, carrying the Coleman lantern.

  “In with us, Grandma,” Jennifer announced.

  “That puts me in the middle,” Elizabeth complained, “and Brat here kicks when she’s asleep.”

  “All right, ladies, I’ll be out in my office. Now get to sleep.” Jen smiled and went into the bathroom, carrying the lantern.

  “Night, girls.”

  “Love you, Daddy.”

  “Love you, too.”

  He closed the door and went into his office. He sat down for a moment at his desk, setting the flashlight on end so that the beam pointed to the ceiling, filling the room with a reflected glow.

  The office had always driven Mary crazy. She expected “better” of a military man to which his retort always was that she had also married a professor. Stacks of paper were piled up on either side of his desk, filed, he used to say, by “geological strata.” A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf to his left held books two rows deep, the references for whatever he was working on at the moment, or what interested him, on the nearest shelf. The other walls were lined with photos, his framed degrees, Mary’s degree, pictures of the kids.

  He stood gazing at the bookshelf for a moment, pulled several books from the outer layer aside, found what he wanted, and fished the volume out. He had not opened it in years, not since leaving the war college.

  Sitting down and propping the book on his knees, he held the flashlight with one hand, checked the chapter headings of the work, a mid-1990s dot-matrix computer printout, then sat back and read for half an hour. He finally put the report down on his desk.

  Behind him was a locked cabinet, and opening his desk, he pulled out a single key, unlocked the cabinet, and swung the door open. He reached in, hesitated for a second, deciding which one, then pulled out his pump 20-gauge bird gun. From the ammunition rack he opened up a box of bird shot, and slipped three rounds in. The bird shot was not a killing load, except at very close range, but definitely a deterrent.

  Next was the pistol. It was, he knew, an eccentric touch. A cap-and-ball Colt Dragoon. A big, heavy mother of a gun, the sight of it enough to scare the crap out of most drunks.

  John had actually been forced to use it once for real, back in his undergraduate days, before he met Mary. He was living off campus, in a farmhouse shared with half a dozen other guys, all of them rather hippieish that year, long haired, the year he definitely smoked a little too much dope… something that Mary had made clear would stop on day one if they were to date.

  Some local good old boys had taken a distinct dislike to “long-haired faggots” living nearby and one night did a “drive-by,” blowing out the kitchen door with a load of buckshot, yelling for the faggots to come out and get what they deserved.

  His roommates were freaked, one of them cried that they were in the middle of Deliverance. But their attackers had not counted on one of the “faggots” being from New Jersey, already into Civil War reenacting, and someone who knew guns. He had come out, Dragoon revolver in hand, leveled it, and fired off two rounds of his cannon. Not aiming to kill, just to make them duck a bit. After pumping out the two rounds, he lowered his aim straight at the chest of the redneck with the shotgun.

  “Next shot’s for real,” John said calmly.

  The rednecks piled into their truck and disappeared in one helluva hurry, his buddies standing on the porch, in awe as he walked back, feeling more than a little like Gary Cooper in High Noon.

  “Peace through superior firepower,” he said calmly, then went inside and poured himself one helluva vodka to calm down while his roommates chattered away, reenacting the drama for half the night.

  What had truly scared him? The realization that he was ready to kill one of the bastards if they had tried to venture another shot. Reflecting on it later, he didn’t like that feeling at all, and hoped he’d never have it again… though he would, years later in Iraq, but at least then he was not pulling the trigger just ordering others to do so.

  The following morning, a Saturday, the landlord had come over with a case of beer, asked to see this now-legendary gun, and said that “you boys got some respect now.”

  A month later, stopping in a roadside bar with a couple of friends to get a beer, John had run into one of the four who had been his harassers. John recognized him, there was a tense moment, and the redneck broke out laughing, brought John a beer, and told everyone the story, concluding with “this Yankee boy’s ok,” and they shook hands.

  Damn, even then he did love the South.

  The revolver was already loaded, and he put it on his desk.

  He suddenly realized someone was in the room and looked up. It was Jen in the doorway.

  “This is serious, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Go to sleep.” He hesitated. “Mom.”

  She stood silent for a moment, nodded, then disappeared.

  Without taking his shoes off, John stretched out on the sofa in his office, laying the shotgun down on the floor by his side.

  It was a long couple of hours before he finally drifted to sleep. As he began to fall asleep, Zach disengaged himself from Jennifer’s embrace, came out to the office, and with a sigh settled down by John’s side.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DAY 2

  The scream woke him up. He fumbled for the shotgun, got half to his feet, and heard Elizabeth cursing. “There’s no hot water, damn it!”

  Putting the gun down, he walked into the bedroom as Elizabeth stormed out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her. “Dad, there’s no hot water!”

  “What in hell did you expect?” he grumbled, heart still racing a bit.

  Jennifer was sitting up, Rabs tucked under her arm, smiling.

  “No school, Dad?”

  “Nope.”

  “Great!”

  “Dad, how am I going to take a shower?”

  “Take it cold; it won’t kill you,” he muttered, and then wandered into the kitchen.

  Coffee, damn it, coffee.

  He pulled the foil bag down, the paper filter, made the coffee extra strong, filled the pot up, poured it in, and flicked the switch.

  He stood there like an idiot for a good minute before the realization hit. “Ah, shit.”

  He pulled a small pot out from under the cabinet, filled it with water and walked out onto the porch, flicked on the grill, and set the pot on it. Fumbling in his pocket, he got out a cigarette and lit it.

  Though he was watching the pot, it finally did come to a boil, and a minute later he had a cup, doing it the old way he had learned in the Boy Scouts: throw a couple of spoonfuls of coffee into the cup, pour the hot water in, and to hell with the grinds.

  “Got one for me?”

  It was Jen. Sure.

  He mixed a second cup and she looked at it with disdain.

  She went back into the kitchen and opened the fridge, sniffing the plastic jug of milk after opening it, then came back out on the porch, taking a sip.

  “Keep your teeth closed and that will filter out the grinds,” John said, finally forcing his first smile of the day.

  “Got to find an old-style percolator,” she said. “Always thought that made the best coffee anyhow. Never liked those Mr. Coffee machines.”

  It was a bit chilly out and he found it invigorating. The coffee and cigarette were working their magic, bringing him awake.

  Unlike the vast majority of men who had made careers in the army, he had never adjusted to early morning rising and hated all those who could do it, especially the cheerful ones. His instinct always was to be a night owl, to go to sleep around two or three, then wake up at nine or ten for his first lecture at eleven.

  The college had learned that quickly and never scheduled a class for him prior to that time.

  But he did have to admit, mornings were beautiful and he regretted missing them at times. Mary had been a morning person. He thought about her… remembering how sometimes at dawn she’d wake him up, at least for a few min
utes to… The memory was too painful and he let it drop.

  “That fire is still burning,” Jen said, pointing to Craggy Dome.

  He nodded. The flame had spread out, a plume of smoke flattening out, then drifting down towards the Asheville reservoir in the valley below. Looked like a hundred acres or more.

  Far in the distance, out on the distant horizon, he saw two more plumes of smoke from fires.

  The world was silent, no traffic; down in Black Mountain nothing was moving.

  Nothing had changed. “Can I have some?”

  It was Elizabeth, hair wet, rubbing it with a towel, a heavy winter bathrobe wrapped around her, shivering.

  “Sure, sweetheart,” and he mixed up a third cup, which she drank without complaint.

  Jennifer came out on the porch as well, Rabs tucked under her arm. She looked so adorable. When asleep, or half-awake as she was now, there was still that certain look, the eyes of a baby still there.

  “You sure there’s no school?”

  “Doubt it.”

  She yawned, turned about without comment, and went back inside. “You do your blood test?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Dad, it’s ok,” and she wandered back to the bedroom to go back to sleep.

  “I think I’ll head down to town now, see what’s going on.”

  “Can I come?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No, I’d like you to stay here.”

  “Ahh, come on, Dad. Everyone will be down there; I want to see what’s happening.”

  He took her gently by the arm and led her away from the screen door. “I want you here to guard the house.” She gave him a sarcastic smirk. “From what? Terrorists?”

  “Don’t joke about it,” he said forcefully, and she fell silent, looking up at him.

  “You know how to handle the shotgun. It’s the 20 gauge, so don’t be afraid of it. The safety is off, but I don’t have a round chambered in it. So if need be, pump and then shoot.”

  “Dad, you’re freaking me out here.”

  “Listen, Liz, I’m not joking around. I think something serious has gone down.”

  “What?”

  “Look around. There’s no power, nothing.”

  “It’ll come back on.”

  He didn’t say anything, just staring at her.

  “Anyone you know coming up the driveway, ok. But if it’s a stranger, I want you to stand in the doorway, but use the frame to cover yourself. Let them see you have a gun pointed in their direction. Don’t take any bullshit or con lines. I don’t care how pathetic they might look. If they’re looking for a phone, water, help, just tell them to walk on into town and there’ll be people there to help them. Got it?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Got it?” And this time his voice was sharp. “Yes, Dad.”

  “If they try anything, anything at all, you don’t hesitate, Liz. None of this warning-shot crap. You aim straight at their midsection and squeeze. If it’s more than one man, drop the one closest to you, or anyone armed.”

  “Dad, you’re scaring me.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed them tight.

  “I taught you and your mom to shoot. And remember what I said about what was most dangerous.”

  “A woman with a gun who doesn’t have the guts to use it,” she recited. Mary had always said it was such a sexist line.

  “A guy like that drunk last night, he can sense it if you are not really going to shoot. You make it clear you’re not taking,” John hesitated, “not taking any shit and chances are you’ll go through life and never have to pull a trigger.”

  “Ok, Dad.”

  He forced a smile. “I’m just being paranoid, sweetie. Keep Jennifer close by; if Pat comes up to play, so much the better.”

  “What about Ben?”

  He hesitated. Jen was inside. “No problem.”

  “He really is a sweet guy, Dad, if you’d give him a chance.”

  He nodded. “I know that.”

  “Why do you dislike him so much, Dad?”

  “You know.”

  She smiled.

  “Like he’s going to get beyond a little making out with me? I think you used to call it past first base.”

  He stiffened a bit; it was the first time she was even being slightly direct.

  All the “female”-related issues he had left to the care of Grandma Jen, including “the talks,” other than the traditional old-style father routine of glaring at any boy who started to hang around.

  John knew he wasn’t much of a father for this new century, maybe a bit old-fashioned, but that was the way he was raised .. . and he had assumed for so many years that such things were Mary’s territory.

  “It’s because of Mom in a way, isn’t it?”

  “How’s that?”

  “You know. We lost Mom, but you lost your wife, your friend and companion. Jennifer and I, we’re filling in for some of the loss, and down deep you hate the thought that we’re growing up and, in doing that, eventually we’re moving away from you as well.”

  He didn’t say anything, a bit startled by her insight.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Oh, the therapist we went to after Mom died. But it’s the truth, Dad. It’s ok.

  “I love you, Daddy; I always will,” she said, going up on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “You’ll always be my number one guy.”

  He hugged her, eyes filled with tears. “Thanks, honey.”

  They stepped back from each other, both feeling a bit awkward. “I’ll see what I can work up for breakfast,” she said, and went back into the kitchen.

  “Your girl is definitely growing up.” It was Jen coming up to him, offering a second cup of coffee.

  He sniffled a bit, nodded, then smiled.

  “Mary was like that at sixteen. Wise beyond her years. Used to throw Tyler for a loop sometimes.”

  John drank the second cup. It was cooling, but that didn’t matter, though two cups and two cigarettes without a breakfast did make his stomach feel a bit jumpy.

  “You mind if I borrow the monster, go downtown, and see what is going on?”

  “No,” and she smiled. “The Mustang, though, that’s still a different story.”

  * * *

  As he drove past the interstate all the cars were exactly where they had been the night before. The road was empty, except for a lone trucker, sitting in his cab, door open, puffing on a cigar, the driver waving to John. It was the guy from the night before, and the sight of him was a reassurance.

  John felt a bit of relief, fearful that something ugly might have indeed happened down here during the night, but all was quiet, no sign of any problems.

  Coming up State Street, he passed the elementary school. The front door was propped open, and for a second he wondered if indeed school was open today but then realized that all the school buses were still parked in the lot. There was a hand-lettered sign out front: “Emergency Shelter.”

  Pete’s Barbecue House, the restaurant across the street, had volunteered their big outdoor grill, the kind used at festivals and fairs, and there was Pete, set up in front of the school, wearing his absurd pink apron and pink chef’s hat with a smiling pig painted on it, a couple of kettles on the grill, a line formed for coffee and barbecue for breakfast. Typical of Pete, always there for the town.

  John honked and Pete looked up in surprise, as did those on the line, and Pete waved.

  The light up ahead was off and John had to slow down, half a dozen cars blocking the road. It forced him to swing over to the eastbound side and he came to a stop first, looking both ways. It felt absurd doing it. Of course there was no traffic in sight other than all the stalled cars at the intersection. He weaved around, turned right, and pulled into Smiley’s convenience store, got out of the car, and walked in.

  “Hey, Hamid, how are you?”

  Hamid had proven to be a fascinating addition to the town. He was Pakistani, married to a local girl, and purchased the store a
few months before 9/11. Two days after “that day” the FBI had shown up and arrested him, claiming that there was a report that he had made a statement in support of the attack and would love to help out if anything was tried locally.

  The arrest, to John’s delight, had triggered a firestorm. The town turned out, rallied support, harassed the daylights out of the district’s congressman to investigate, and finally Hamid had returned, a block party being held for him.

  On the morning after his return, a huge hand-lettered sign was plastered across the window of his store. “I am proud to be an American.… God bless all of you, my friends.”

  Hamid was behind the counter; in fact, John suspected he damn near lived in his store.

  “Crazy out there,” Hamid said. “I had to stay here all night. People coming in from the highway. It’s been nuts.”

  “How about a couple of cartons of Camel Lights?” John said. Hamid shook his head.

  John rattled off several more brands until finally he got a hit with Kool Lights.

  “Still got three cartons.”

  “I’ll take ’em.”

  John pulled out his wallet and started to draw out his bank card. “John, that’s down, you know.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  He pulled out some cash, fifty dollars, still twenty dollars short. “Just pay me later today; I know you’re good for it.” He hesitated before taking the cartons.

  “Hey, look, Hamid, I think I gotta tell you this first. You’ve always been a good guy to me. I’m not even sure about giving you money at the moment. Things might be a whole lot worse than it looks right now.”

  Hamid looked at him quizzically.

  “What do you mean, John?”

  He pointed to the money on the counter.

  “I mean that.”

  “The money?” And he laughed. “Maybe in my old country, but here, American money? You’re kidding?”

  “Just that I felt I had to tell you, the price of cigarettes might be a whole helluva lot more than twenty three bucks a carton in a few days.”

  Hamid took it in and, smiling, he pushed the cartons across to John.

  “Thanks, John, I see your point, but take them, my friend.”