One Year After: A Novel Read online

  “Time’s up, Ernie,” Reverend Black announced calmly, holding up his watch. “Next question or comment.”

  “I yield my time to Mr. Franklin,” the man behind Ernie announced.

  John sighed inwardly but forced a nod of agreement.

  “So what is it, John?” Ernie pressed.

  “I’ll decide after tomorrow.”

  “Why not now? That means fifty-six families can breathe easier tonight.”

  “Hey, Ernie, why don’t you back the hell off?” It was Lee Robinson, John’s old neighbor before both their homes were gutted out in the battle with the Posse. “My boy’s been called up, but I’ll be damned if I’ll pressure John to volunteer on the fifty-fifty chance just to save his hide from this. John’s done more than enough already.”

  There were mutterings of agreement from the crowd, even though Lee had spoken out of turn.

  “Why don’t we see a show of hands here from those who got draft notices if they’re willing to volunteer to go,” Lee pressed in.

  Reverend Black picked up on it. “Good suggestion, Lee. How many who received draft notices are willing to volunteer to go?”

  John could not help but look over at Elizabeth, who was standing next to Makala, Ben in her arms, nuzzled in against his mother and nearly asleep. She raised her right hand.

  He felt a deep swelling of pride but also anguish. It was the torment all loving parents feel when they see their child making a difficult and perhaps dangerous decision as an adult when, in memory, they still see the small innocent child of years long gone.

  It seemed as if every person in the crowd looked to her, the daughter of John Matherson. Hand after hand now went up, some swiftly, others reluctantly. One of Ernie’s grandsons raised his hand, even though he had not received a draft notice.

  More than half were willing to volunteer, and John felt a lump in his throat. The idealism of youth. Nearly every last one of them had fought in the battle against the Posse. Every one of them had seen death in all the vicious multitude of forms that only a battlefield can deliver, all of them had lost friends and loved ones that day. One of the hands raised was a hollow-eyed young man in his early twenties, and John remembered how he had to be restrained from committing suicide on that day when he found his girlfriend dead, lying in the gutter by the side of the highway where the final minutes of the battle had been fought out. The boy had never recovered, just going through the motions of living, and he most likely welcomed this chance to perhaps honorably end it all at last.

  “This is hardly fair,” John said softly, megaphone off so that only those sitting closest to him could hear. He raised his head and motioned for the volunteers to put their hands down, shaking his head. “Ernie, could I have a few minutes?” he asked, and to his surprise, Ernie relented. John was not sure if his opponent of the moment had been taken off guard by the response, including that of one of his grandsons.

  “Don’t do this now,” John said, keeping the megaphone off but coming to his feet so that all could see and hear him. “I don’t want to sound like the professor type, but remember, I used to study and teach about stuff like this. We, we here, have made some hard decisions together, and at times, you had to trust me to make them on my own or that the council back in city hall had to make, clear back to that day when those two damned souls, the drug thieves, had to be shot.

  “Lee made a fair call with asking who would actually volunteer, but that becomes a group pressure thing, and history has shown us that nine times out of ten, it can be manipulated or go astray. A few score hands go up, and the rest feel guilty, some afraid they’ll be called cowards, others because it is what their friends are doing. And at times, it is dead wrong when a group, whipped up by emotion, is called to make a decision that should be made in private and after deep reflection.”

  “How do you feel about this draft?” Ernie replied.

  “Personally or in my position in this town?”

  “Cut the horseshit. Just how do you really feel about it?”

  “I’m a soldier. You never really take the uniform off for as long as you live. We still call ourselves Americans. Some people might think it hokey, but we still sing the national anthem and salute the flag here. So in light of that, if this is a legitimate order from a legitimate government, then I will say that for the sake of national unity, we obey it.”

  The crowd now erupted into various factions, some shouting approval, others crying out that they had received damn near nothing from the federal government for two years other than a few rations, and now half of their surviving defenders were being ordered to God knows where. And some shouted that there was no longer a government at all and those in Bluemont could go to hell for getting them into this mess to start with.

  The meeting was rapidly breaking down, angry shouting when one of the young women who had raised her hand to volunteer turned on a friend who had refused, called her a traitor and a coward; a fistfight erupted, half a dozen then wading in to break it up.

  John felt it a good excuse to try to close things off. He bent over to pick up the bullhorn, feeling light-headed when he stood back up, and clicked it several times to get attention. “A suggestion for all of us,” he announced, and the crowd, which had been focused on the brawl, turned back toward him.

  “Ed, could you do me a favor and haul those two hotheads off to the drunk tank until morning and they’ve calmed down?”

  There was a time during the first year that none would have dared a brawl at the town meetings, a major reason being that the starving time was so intense that few had the energy. It was also because the draconian response then needed, especially when it came to days when public rations were issued and guards at the favorite pizza restaurant—which had been converted into the bakery for two slices of bread per citizen, heavily laced with sawdust—were ordered by him to shoot to kill if a riot over food broke out.

  “Let’s call it a night,” John offered. “We can stay here for hours and argue ourselves blue in the face, and it won’t change anything for the moment.”

  “I second John Matherson’s motion,” Reverend Black announced quickly, “and suggest we call it a night. Dawn comes early now, and there’s a lot of work for all of us to see to tomorrow.”

  John smiled inwardly at that. For nearly everyone, it was no longer an annoying alarm clock set to a particular hour. In winter, one slept in late and went to bed early; in summer, especially now at spring planting time, it really was up before dawn with twelve or more hours of heavy, backbreaking labor ahead for the majority.

  John exchanged glances with Ernie. “Okay with you, Ernie?” John asked.

  Ernie could see the hands going up in agreement to end the meeting for now and reluctantly nodded, outmaneuvered in the public forum. “After the meeting with this Fredericks, we’d like a report, John, and to hear your decision about yourself.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And we’d like as well to learn a helluva lot more about just who these people in Bluemont are with their orders.”

  “It’s the government, our government!” someone shouted back.

  “Maybe yours,” Ernie retorted, “but they got to prove a lot more to me than some bullshit orders stuffed into a mailbox before I’ll stand back and watch kids here being sent off to God knows where, whether they want to or not.”

  Things were about to go out of control again, but Reverend Black masterfully stepped forward, taking the bullhorn from John. He raised his hand, delivered a quick benediction and the Lord’s Prayer—their traditional closing—and the group began to break up.

  John slowly walked to the Edsel, grateful that the meeting had ended early. His head was throbbing.

  “John.”

  “Ernie, can’t it wait?” He sighed. He looked over his shoulder as Ernie came up to his side.

  “Just one thought to put in that swollen head of yours.”

  John was about to react at what he felt was one insult too many for the night, but Ernie s
miled.

  “I’m talking about the damn concussion, John.”

  “Oh, yeah. So what is it? I’m really beat.”

  “Ask yourself this. Just who in the hell are these people? We didn’t elect them. Even when we did elect them, a lot of ’em were the dumbest, most grasping bastards on God’s good earth, and if they had done their jobs right in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “No one ever said representative government was going to be a cakewalk.”

  “Exactly. More than a few were not all that upset when the whole thing went down.”

  “Such as you?”

  “I didn’t say that, damn it. But at least my family and I saw the future and were ready for it. The rest of you trusted them, and now four out of five are dead as a result. Worse than the plague or any war in history.”

  “Your point, Ernie? And yeah, my head really is swollen.”

  “Find out what you can about who is actually running things in Bluemont, Virginia, and what exactly this million-man mobilization is really about.”

  John nodded.

  “I’ll drop by for a visit after you get some more answers.”

  John put up his hand. “Ernie, don’t pressure me. I’ll go to the town council first; then, if necessary, we hold another meeting like this one.”

  Ernie stared at him for a moment and then nodded.

  “And Ernie, I’m changing the rules.”

  “What rules?”

  “Two minutes per person, and that’s it. You got more to say than that, write it down and hand it to someone else. It’s a meeting, not a monopoly.”

  “You’re the one doing most of the talking. What about you?”

  “I got stuck as leader when everything went to shit. I didn’t see you come rushing out to do it.”

  There was an angry glare for a moment and then the crease of a smile. “You do have guts, Matherson.” He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar and offered it.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t offer me one of those now. I’ll be your damn slave if I ever go back to smoking.”

  “Precisely the reason I’m offering them,” he replied with a smile.

  John reluctantly shook his head.

  “Well, you know where you can get one if you need it, General.”

  “It’s John, just John, so lay off it. Okay?”

  “Good luck tomorrow, John.”

  Ernie actually offered his hand and walked off. John was ever so grateful when Makala slipped into the driver’s seat, Elizabeth getting into the back, cradling Ben, who was fast asleep in her arms.

  “Elizabeth, once home, when you get the little guy settled in, can we talk.”

  “You’re ticked off that I volunteered.”

  “Let’s sit out on the porch and talk there.”

  She was silent the rest of the way back, not waiting for him as they parked in the driveway and she went into the house.

  “You know why she did it, don’t you?” Makala asked.

  “Yeah, being my daughter and all that. But damn it, she has a baby to think of.”

  The two walked out to the porch and settled down. It was quiet, and peaceful night sounds drifted in … spring peepers and the hooting of an owl. Habit was to pick up Rabs, but he did not—not for this conversation.

  Elizabeth came out and sat down casually in the overstuffed chair across from the sofa. Illuminated by the moonlight, she triggered an inhalation of breath from John, who at that instant suffered from the duality that all loving fathers must deal with. She had grown into a beautiful young woman. Everyone in their community, if seen by someone from before the Day, would think them borderline malnourished. All now had a lean, sinewy look common in the somber faces of ancestors eternally looking out from old daguerreotypes of the Civil War. Nearly every woman now kept her hair short, with any length drawn back in a short ponytail. Some still dressed in something formal—that, with skillful sewing, had been tucked in several sizes—for church or synagogue. As the food supply was finally beginning to stabilize out, they were drawing back from the edge of starvation, but it was still a far cry from the world they had lost.

  Elizabeth, after the long months of worry during her pregnancy and the first months after Ben was born, had actually filled out a bit, and so he did see the beautiful young woman and mother. But like all fathers, he also saw the four-year-old who still would call him Daddy, want “smoochies,” ask to play tea party with her stuffed animals, and squeal with delight when he pushed her too hard on the playground swing and she’d cry that she was going to fly away.

  “I know what you’re going to say, Dad,” she announced.

  “Oh, really?”

  Makala, who was holding his hand, squeezed it, a clear message to shut up and let the girl speak first.

  “Okay, then enlighten me.”

  Again a squeeze, this time of reproach for his tone. He was getting angrier by the second just looking at her. She had a one-year-old baby. What about him? Her dead sister was buried out in the yard just feet away. If she went off with this damned army—and he had a gut sense that would be it—she would never come back, the way so many never came back from too many wars, leaving with the naïve promise that all would be okay and not to worry.

  “When the question was asked who would volunteer, I had to put my hand up, Dad.”

  “Why?”

  “To support you, that’s why. How do you think it would look if your daughter didn’t put her hand up? Everyone would say you were pulling in favoritism, and you wouldn’t have stood a chance at the meeting tonight.”

  That caught him a bit off guard, and he lowered his head, filled with a sudden pride.

  “Thank you, angel. But you know it puts you on the spot now.”

  “I know that.”

  “And that was it?”

  She hesitated. “No, there were other things.”

  He looked back up at her. “Such as?”

  “I want to go.”

  Now he did lean forward with that one. “In God’s name, why?”

  “You did.”

  “What do you mean I did?”

  “Back when you graduated from college. You volunteered, and if not for Mom getting sick, you would have made general. If you went, why shouldn’t I? You always said the military, medicine, teaching, and the church were the noblest of professions. And you chose the military first.”

  “But it was different then, sweetie. We weren’t at war.”

  “And you and your buddies most likely talked damn near every day about proving yourselves if and when there was one.”

  “You know my service record, Elizabeth. I was under fire for less than a hundred hours, miles back from the front line, never fired a shot in anger.”

  “And inside, you chastised yourself for that. You can’t deny it, Dad.”

  “It’s all different now, Elizabeth. You’ll be fighting for a government we don’t know, that we did not vote into power, fighting in a war we’re not even sure about. It’ll take years, maybe a generation, before we can really say things are back to normal—if ever they will be again.”

  “And what the hell have I done for it?” she asked.

  “You have a baby to think of.”

  “Don’t you think I considered that? So, yeah, my complete contribution to all this is I got pregnant, and then my baby’s father goes out and gets himself killed. Just great—my total contribution to civilization.”

  “Ben is the future,” John offered.

  “I know that.” She started to choke up. “But nevertheless, you know I love him with all my heart, but I feel I have to go. Go and do something the way his father did.”

  John wanted to snap, Sure, Ben’s dad was a hero—killed in a bloody butchery of a fight, and in retrospect, if given any choice, the kid would have wanted to live. And now, Elizabeth—like eighteen-year-olds throughout history—was imbued with an idealism to do her part and not questioning the deeper reasons of why.

&n
bsp; “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.” John sighed.

  “What does that mean?” Elizabeth asked.

  John just shook his head and saw the curse that all fathers who have seen war know far too well. It was one thing for them to go, but it was something else entirely when they came for your children. He realized he was playing the guilt line on her while sitting only feet away from Jennifer’s grave. It wasn’t fair to her; what he was saying was now about him, and he felt a wave of shame for playing that card, but at the moment, he could not help it.

  Sighing, he said, “I can’t stop you. I just ask that you give me a few days to figure things out.”

  “Just please don’t try to pressure me, Dad,” she replied forcefully. “If that’s it, I’m going to sleep. Little Ben wore me ragged today, and I’m part of the work team for picking ramps tomorrow.”

  She got up, kissing Makala and then John on the cheek. She hesitated for a second and then leaned in and hugged him so fiercely that he winced.

  “Hey, the rib still hurts too.”

  She hit him with the smile that could always disarm him and left the room.

  “I never had children, John.” Makala sighed. “I wish I had one like her.”

  “You do. She sees you as her mother now.”

  “You know what I mean,” Makala whispered and then cleared her throat. “She got you with that opening argument. She’s right, and you know it.”

  He could only nod his head in agreement.

  “Let’s go to bed, John. You need to be fresh, for tomorrow morning’s excitement and then the meeting with Fredericks tomorrow night.”

  She got up and left the room, leaving him to his nightly ritual of picking up Rabs and going out by Jennifer’s grave to say good night.

  “You have one helluva sister, Jennifer, but then you always knew that,” he whispered. “But dear God, I can’t bear losing her too.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DAY 739

  John got out of his Edsel, the sun just breaking the horizon beyond the Swannanoa Gap, the air perfectly calm and clear, and he could not help but grin and whistle an old-fashioned wolf whistle at the beauty that was in front of him.