One Second After

by William R. Forstchen

  “Do as he says, Carol,” John interjected.

  Shaking, she stood up.

  John looked at her, and it was as if she was a different person. That the final shreds of pride, of decency, within her had disintegrated. A woman who but six weeks back most likely had a corner office, a parking slot with her name on it, a liberal expense account, and a damn good stock option had just tried to sell her body for a place to rest for a night and a bowl of soup.

  “Carol, are you all right?”

  She said nothing, features almost blank, turned, and fell back into the line of refugees.

  Something told him with grim certainty she would not live much longer, shattered to the point that a razor blade across the wrists would be a welcomed relief. He was tempted to call her back and he stepped over the median barrier and actually took a step towards her. “Colonel, sir.”

  He looked back. It was Washington, shaking his head no. Washington turned back on the student who had fired the shot. “Was that a warning shot or were you aiming at her?” Washington said. “I’m not sure,” and her voice was near breaking.

  “You were wrong on two counts,” Washington snapped, and the girl was now at attention, trembling. “That woman had not yet tried to go over the barrier. Your orders are only to shoot if they go over the barrier or try to turn on you.”

  “She was getting close to Professor Mather—I mean the colonel, sir.”

  “I am not sir; I am Sergeant Parker. Remember your orders and abide by them. Now the second count. Was that a warning shot or not? Remember I told all of you I am the only one to give a warning shot. If you shoot, then do it to kill. A warning shot is a wasted bullet, and we’ve got precious few of them.”

  “I think I aimed at her.”

  Washington snatched the gun from the girl.

  “Go back up to the barrier; you can help interview the refugees. I’m sending someone who has the guts to aim right to your place.”

  The girl, crestfallen, turned and walked away, her shoulders beginning to shake.

  Parker shouted for one of the boys by the barrier to walk escort with refugees and John came up to his side.

  “A bit hard perhaps?” Washington asked. John shook his head.

  “I’ve told my girls repeatedly, if you are going to shoot, shoot to kill. But that pathetic woman did not deserve to be shot at.”

  “I know,” Washington sighed. “What did she do? Offer to sleep with your

  “Yes.”

  “I get it twenty times a day, and it’s not because I’m good-looking,” Washington said, his attempt at a joke falling flat.

  “Sick. I’m hearing more and more stories up here about rape, murder, stealing even of baby formula. It’s getting desperate on the road. You were going to offer to let her stay, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah. You could see it. She’s far over the edge. I think she’ll be dead in a few more days.”

  The two looked towards Carol, who was at the back of the column, staggering along.

  Washington sighed.

  “Yeah, God save her. You’re right. You can look at these people and tell who still just might pull through. Poor woman, she’s not one of them. No place in this world for her now, and what she has left to sell is fading.”

  John lowered his head.

  “Damn all this,” he sighed.

  “I’m now seeing hundreds like her every day,” Washington said wearily. “Sir, we let one in beyond those that can help us all survive, we break down.”

  He couldn’t reply. He thought of the piece of a candy bar in his car, a survival ration if he got stuck. He was half-tempted to go get it, but if he did, it might not be there for Jennifer when she needed it.

  “Maybe she’ll get lucky,” Washington said. “Maybe some guy farther down the road will take her in.”

  “God save us if we are really at this point already.”

  “Sir. I saw it in Nam. Hell, nineteen-year-old GIs thought it was heaven. A piece for a couple of bucks? But you looked at those girls, and I tell you southern Asian girls are some of the most beautiful in the world, and it made you sick. Fifteen-year-old kids that should have been in school, out selling their tail to feed their parents and kid sisters and brothers.

  “And now it’s come to America….”

  Washington shook his head.

  “Damn all war…,” he sighed.

  “You wanted me down here for something?”

  “Some bad rumors starting to come in this morning; I think Charlie needs to know. I’m going to head back into town shortly to tell him.”

  “What is it?”

  “Refugees are talking about something called the Posse taking over the interstate. They’re down in the Charlotte area. Some said they’re moving up Interstate 77 towards Statesville. Have a lot of vehicles that run.”

  “The Posse? Hell, it sounds like the Wild West.”

  “No. It’s worse. The Posse was a name for a pre-war gang with branches all around the country. Punks, gangbangers who would pop a bullet into someone’s head as a joke before this even started, drug dealers, the scum of the earth long before we ever got hit and the ones most ruthless to survive now than our worst nightmares have become real.”

  John realized just how really isolated their small town was. Several years back the Asheville paper had run a couple of articles about gang activity starting to flare up, but the local police had put it down fast.

  “The Posse. One poor woman we let through with the last bunch said she was held prisoner by them for several days and escaped. Don’t even want to talk about what they did to her, but it was beyond sick. Everyone’s talking about it on the other side of the barrier. Sort of like an urban legend running with the refugee bands on the road. Some say a thousand or more and well armed. They’re moving like ancient barbarians out there.”

  “Damn,” John sighed, and yet again movie images, the Road Warrior films and all the cheap imitations of the genre back in the 1980s and early 1990s.

  “I think we better start getting more vigilant. Just a gut feeling if this is real, they’ll finally head our way. They’ll figure Asheville, up in the mountains, must be loaded with food, and may be a good place for them to take over and hole up. They’ll follow the trail of refugees and wind up here,” Washington said.

  “I heard a radio broadcast,” John said.

  “You mean Voice of America?” Washington replied.

  “How did you know?”

  “I was sitting up here last night, keeping an eye on things. The radio in that beautiful Mustang still works. Damn, I just turned it on. Sitting in an old Mustang, it was almost flashback time. Half-expected to hear Wolf-man Jack or Cousin Brucie.”

  John chuckled.

  “Yeah.”

  “And loud and clear had the signal for about an hour or so. Just wish they’d knock off the patriotic stuff, play some old R & B or rock. Yeah, I heard it.”

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s propaganda for morale, nothing more. Maybe the news about the coastal towns is on the mark, but for the rest of us, today, next week, it’s bullshit. We got to look out for ourselves. I’m passing word at the barrier for people to turn around, to start heading for the coast. I know that’s insane, none have the strength to make it now, but maybe it will be a coun-terrumor that will work back down the line.” John nodded.

  “Downside, though,” John said. “If the rumor hits that Posse crowd, that will move them up our way even faster. Under martial law every one of those bastards will be shot; the last thing they want now is any authority anywhere. We better work out a good tactical plan to defend this place against a serious attack right now and stop thinking about mob control or a few desperados trying to sneak in. If they have any ex-military types at all with them, they’ll do a probe first, then hit us hard. We got to keep an eye on our back doors, the railroad tunnel and the old back roads down to Old Fort. We’re no longer dealing with refugees; we’ll be facing an army as ruthless as anything
in history.”

  Washington nodded in agreement.

  “I think I’ll go home,” John said.

  The two shook hands and John went back up the slope by the bridge. He nodded to Brett concealed in the grass.

  “Fran got a bit jumpy there. Glad she didn’t shoot that woman.”

  “Same here,” though John wondered if a bullet in her head might have been an act of mercy.

  He got in the Edsel and headed for home.

  As he pulled into the drive, the two fools Ginger and Zach came off the deck to greet him. He knelt down to pet both and found himself hugging them.

  “Daddy!”

  It was Jennifer, Pat with her. “Everything ok?”

  “Sure, Daddy.”

  He looked at Jennifer closely. She had lost a few pounds. At every meal Jen had been pushing as much food into her as possible, meat and vegetables, which right now were still boiled dandelions. He looked up at the orchard. If only the trees were peach trees; in another several weeks they could start to gather the peaches. The apples were growing, but far too slow, it seemed.

  He had never had any real interest in the eight trees, other than their beauty in the spring. The apples were rather sour in the fall, and they usually just left the fruit there to drop, delighted when the apples lured in bears to feed on them.

  “She had to eat a little chocolate earlier,” Pat said. “Blood sugar went down.”

  “Snitch,” Jennifer snapped.

  “I promised your dad I’d keep an eye on you.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  He hugged both of them, the two arguing as he went into the house. Jen was half-asleep, book laid across her chest, an old book on the Civil War.

  “Where’s Elizabeth?”

  “Oh, she and Ben went out for a walk,” Jen said, and sat up, rubbing her eyes.

  “They’re out there walking a lot these days,” John said.

  “Well, Son-in-law, you better sit down.”

  “Why?”

  “I think you need to talk to the two of them.”

  “About what?”

  “Sex, getting pregnant.”

  “Oh, damn, Jen, not now, not today, I don’t even want to think about it in relationship to her.”

  “Few fathers do. But frankly, my son-in-law, I think your sixteen-year-old daughter is now, how shall we say, a woman.”

  “Jesus, don’t even talk to me about this now.”

  “Tyler and I had you and Mary figured out rather quickly.”

  He blushed. Jen had never said that before. And he looked over at her.

  “Almost to the day, I bet. At least I did. Tyler, like any dad, went totally blind to reality, and John, I see it in your daughter now.”

  “Jen, not now,” he sighed. “There’s so damn much else going on.”

  Jen nodded slowly.

  “And you don’t want to face this issue. OK, but you better face up to it, John. Those two are scared, don’t see much of a future ahead, the old restraints fall away. I’m old enough to remember the Second World War; it was the same then. Eighteen-year-old kids who knew each other just a couple days or weeks would figure ‘what the hell’ and either marry on the spot or have to get married within a few months. Our ‘Greatest Generation’ stuff tends to make us forget just how young and scared they were back then. So face up to the reality, dear son-in-law. You’re the history professor; you know what happens inside kids when there’s a war on.”

  Too much was happening today. He stood up, peeked into Jennifer’s room. She and Pat were playing a game with Jennifer’s Pokemon cards.

  Her skin color looked off, a bit yellowish, pale.

  Dear God, but one planeload of supplies into Asheville, but one, and my worst worry is gone.

  “Would you talk to her?” he asked, looking back at Jen.

  “Coward, and yes, I already have. But I think you as a dad better talk to both of them as well.”

  “OK, later,” he said a bit too quickly.

  Looking at Zach and Ginger, John went to the gun cabinet. He pulled out the 20-gauge and headed out the door, the two dogs slowly trotting along behind him, knowing that today there just might be some food if their master and provider got lucky.

  CHAPTER NINE

  DAY 63

  He awoke to the dogs barking and instantly knew… someone was in the house.

  They had drilled the plan after the murder of the Connors last week, their home at the top of the road, all four of them, parents, two kids, the house then ransacked from one end to the other for whatever scraps of food they might have.

  He didn’t hesitate, shotgun up as he stepped out of the office crouching low.

  The two dogs were barking madly, snarling, and then he heard the crack of a gun and a high-pitched, yelping scream.

  He stepped into the living room. The back door into the kitchen was wide open. Two men, at least it looked like two men.

  So this was the moment and he did it without hesitation.

  The first blast nearly decapitated the man by the door. The second turned; one shot fired wild and the second blast caught that one in the guts, flinging him back against the kitchen counter.

  The girls had been drilled; if there was an intruder they were supposed to get on the floor behind the bed. The water bed where they now slept together was an excellent barrier….

  After several seconds Elizabeth started screaming “Daddy!”

  “Stay put!”

  Crouched down low, he came around the turn into the kitchen. The one man was definitely dead; even in the dark moonlight John could see that, the other whimpering, kicking spasmodically. By his side was Zach, crying pitifully, Ginger, with hackles raised, snarling at the wounded man.

  There could be someone outside, John realized, but first he crawled over to the wounded man, grabbed his pistol, which was on the floor, a .22 revolver from the feel of it, and stuck it into his belt. The other man didn’t have a gun, just a machete, and John took that with his free hand.

  He headed back to the wide-open door, was about to step out, then thought twice, doubling back through the house, coming in low to first Jennifer’s room and then Elizabeth’s to make sure there wasn’t a third intruder.

  Past his old bedroom he looked in for a second.

  “I’m all right. Now don’t move!” he hissed. “Elizabeth, you have your gun.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” and her voice was trembling.

  “If I come back to this room, I’ll call out first. If anyone else comes through, you shoot and don’t hesitate.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  Back out through his office and then the front door, which he slipped open, circling back around the house.

  No one else. He slipped through the rear door into the kitchen and touched the basement door; it was still locked. Then once more, down low, sweeping Jennifer’s and Elizabeth’s rooms yet again, nervously popping the closet doors open, both rooms still empty.

  He went back into the kitchen.

  “Jen, light a candle and get out here.”

  A minute later the flickering light illuminated the kitchen. Jen recoiled at the sight of the first man, face gone. The second was crying louder now, curled up. And then there was Zach.

  John went over to his old buddy, his friend of so many years, who had saved their lives with his warning. He was shot in the top of the back, just behind the shoulder blades.

  “Oh, God, Zach,” John sighed. And like so many dogs, so desperately hurt, Zach licked John’s hand as if by doing so he’d feel better.

  John looked over at Jen, wide-eyed.

  “You got to help me.” It was the wounded man. “Please help me.” John actually felt stunned with how quickly he reacted. The Glock he kept strapped to his side even when he slept was out, round already chambered.

  “John?” It was Jen.

  He squeezed the trigger, the discharge of the 9mm round an explosion that set Elizabeth and Jennifer to screaming again.


  “It’s all right!” John shouted. “It’s all right, girls, but stay put.” John looked at Jen, who stood stock-still, horrified. “I’d of shot him in town if he lived that long.”

  John had executed five in the last week. Two of them locals, who had stolen a pig, killed it, and were gorging themselves up in a mountain hollow when finally tracked down, the two pathetic fools never fully realizing that hungry men could now smell meat cooking from half a mile away. The other three caught raiding a house, just like the two on the floor now.

  “Jen, you’ll have to help me drag them outside. I don’t want the girls to see this mess.”

  Zach’s whimpers made John turn around. Ginger was lying by Zach’s side, licking her old friend.

  John filled up. The execution-style killing had bothered him not in the least. Washington Parker was right. After the first one, it starts to get easier, and in this case, the men invading his home, threatening his girls, it didn’t bother John in the slightest.

  It was Zach, though. Zach and Ginger were down to skin and bones, ribs showing through their once sleek coats. Regardless of the ban on letting dogs run wild, John had let them out to forage since their old stomping grounds had been up in the woods that became Pisgah National Forest not a hundred yards away. Though he worried that others out hunting would bag them, so far they had been lucky.

  He knelt down by Zach’s side. Zach lifted his head and again licked John.

  “Thank you, old friend,” John sighed. “Thank you for everything.”

  “Do you want me to do it?” Jen whispered.

  Startled, he looked up at her.

  “No, he was our dog, Mary’s and mine.”

  He pulled out the .22 taken from the dead man, cocked it, and put it behind Zach’s ear. Ginger stood up, sensing something, whimpering loudly now… and John couldn’t do it, dissolving into tears.

  “I’ll take care of him,” Jen whispered. “You go outside, take Ginger with you. You don’t want her to see it either. Now go on.”

  Jen left the room and was back seconds later with the last pack of cigarettes and the bottle of scotch that held a final precious ounce.

  “Girls, we’re safe, but you are to stay in your room, on the floor!” Jen shouted.