One Second After Page 13

  As he drove by going in the opposite direction all looked towards him, as if he were an alien. More than one tried to step out, to wave him down.

  “Gun!” Washington shouted.

  John hunkered down and hit the gas. A man was running towards them from the side of the road, waving a pistol, and lowered it.

  “Damn it, Jeremiah, drop him!” Washington shouted.

  Jeremiah picked the shotgun up from off the floor, but they were already past the man. He had not fired a shot, just waved the pistol angrily.

  “You keep that gun ready, boy,” Washington snapped, “and if I say shoot, you shoot.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  John looked in the rearview mirror. Jeremiah’s features had gone pale. He was a good kid, a ballplayer. Like so many on the team he tried to act tough and macho, but down deep most of them were small-town church-going kids, who never dreamed that in less than a week they’d go from worrying about the next game, final exams, which should have started today, or convincing small-town girls to head off into the woods with them to aiming a gun at someone and squeezing the trigger.

  The overpass to Charlotte Street had two cops on it, and as he weaved towards it, one of them motioned for him to take the exit ramp off and threateningly pointed what looked to be an AR-15 at him. The interstate bypass ahead was completely blocked.

  He was planning to exit here anyhow, but still, he had never quite expected such a threatening welcome.

  The ramp was cleared of vehicles and he turned left off the ramp and onto the overpass where the cop with the AR-15 stood, weapon leveled.

  John rolled to a stop.

  “Who the hell are you?” the cop asked.

  Charlie held his hands up slowly, motioned to the door, opened it, and started to get out.

  “Did I tell you you could get out?”

  “Listen,” Charlie replied sharply. “I’m director of public safety for Black Mountain. I’ll show you my ID.”

  The cop nodded. Charlie slowly reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and opened it up. The cop stepped forward and leaned over to look at it.

  “Asshole,” Washington whispered from the backseat of the car, his .45 tucked up against his left side.

  “I’m here to see Ed Torrell, county director of emergency preparedness, to find out what’s going on.”

  The cop nodded, then looked back at the car.

  “I have orders to confiscate all vehicles that are moving.”

  “Listen, Officer. We drove up from Black Mountain. I need to see Ed right now. If you confiscate our vehicle, how the hell do we get back?”

  “You walk. I’ve got my orders.”

  “Like hell. This is my car and we’re keeping it,” John snapped, and the cop turned towards him.

  “Get out of the car, all of you. You can walk over to the county office; you’ll find Ed there. If he says you can have it back and you got that in writing, fine with me. But for now I’m taking it. You’ll find this car behind the courthouse if Torrell gives it back to you.”

  “How about the other way around?” Charlie replied, staying calm. “Get in, ride with us over to see Ed, and he’ll take care of it.”

  The cop shook his head.

  “I’ve got my orders. Guard this bridge and impound any cars. So the rest of you get out.”

  Charlie, exasperated, looked towards John, who shook his head wearily. Nothing worse than a corporal type, with limited intelligence, a gun, and his “orders.” No amount of logic in the world could ever penetrate through to him.

  “You know what you sound like with your ‘only following orders’?” John asked.

  The cop looked at him.

  “A damn Nazi. We keep the car and Charlie here goes in to see Torrell.”

  “You son of a bitch, get the hell out of that car, all of you, and hands over your heads.”

  “Let me handle this,” Washington whispered.

  “Get out, you first, you loudmouthed bastard,” and the cop pointed the AR straight at John.

  “Move carefully,” Washington whispered.

  “I’m not budging,” John said sharply, loud enough for the cop to hear. “Out, asshole.”

  “It’s not ‘asshole.’ It’s ‘Colonel,’” John replied sharply. “Get out now,” and the cop shouldered the weapon, pointing it straight at John’s head.

  “Better do what he says,” Charlie said bitterly. “Get out, John.”

  “Hey, everybody chill. It’s ok,” Washington said, and his speech pattern had instantly changed from Marine DI to comfortable, laid-back African-American southern.

  “Come on, bro,” Washington said, patting John on the shoulder with his left hand even as he slipped the .45 behind his back. “It’s cool; just do what the man says.”

  Washington carefully eased out of the car, putting his hands up in the air. He walked up to the cop grinning, his gait loose and relaxed… and a second later the officer was flat out on the ground. The second cop started to swing his AR-15 around, but the .45, that Washington had kept tucked into his belt behind his back was now leveled straight at the second cop’s head.

  “Move an inch, Officer, and you are history.”

  The cop hesitated.

  “No one gets hurt,” Washington said coolly. “Mr. Fuller is going in to see Mr. Torrell. Everything will turn out fine and then we drive away. We’ll all just sit here, wait, and talk like friends. Now son, either drop the gun or I promise you, you will be dead in five seconds.”

  The officer laid the AR down.

  “Boys, take their rifles. Their pistols, too.”

  Washington kept the pistol leveled as Jeremiah and Phil disarmed the two cops, the one who had been knocked flat with one blow sitting up, red faced, blood trickling down from a broken nose.

  “Sorry I had to do that to you, son,” Washington said, then turned to Charlie.

  “Mr. Fuller, I think you should walk in. If the order is out to confiscate, we’ll definitely lose this car trying to drive to the county office. We’ll wait here.”

  “I’ll go along,” John said.

  “Ah, Colonel, sir,” Washington interjected. “I think you need to stay here.”

  “Why?”

  “More cops might come along and I just have these two boys.”

  John nodded, took one of the AR-15s, and looked over at Charlie.

  “I’ll get back here as fast as I can,” Charlie said. “Now listen, if for some chance I’m not back in,” he looked down at his old-style wristwatch, “make it two hours, go for home. If it looks like you might lose the car, or have to fight, get the hell out and I’ll walk home later. Ok?”

  “Sure, Charlie.”

  Charlie turned and set off at a slow trot to the twin buildings of the courthouse and county office. Watching him go, John had the same thought he always did when seeing the twin towers of Asheville, the famous local legend how back in 1943 the pilot of the B-17 bomber Memphis Belle, Colonel Bob Morgan, had flown his plane between the two buildings, a buzz job with him banking at a forty-five-degree angle to squeeze through.

  Morgan was gone now several years, buried in the veterans cemetery in Black Mountain, and John turned to look back at the cop with the broken nose, the old Edsel, the two wide-eyed students of his…. My God, yet again, it was frightful to contemplate how much had changed.

  “You all right?” John asked, trying to sound friendly, squatting down by the cop’s side.

  “Screw you, you asshole,” he snapped. “That black son of a bitch broke my nose.”

  Washington looked down at him and shook his head.

  “You’re lucky that’s all I broke,” he said softly, all sympathy now gone. “And next time you address the gentleman, the first two words out of your mouth are ‘Colonel, sir,’ and as for me ‘Sergeant’ will be just fine.

  “Boys, help him to the side of the road; put him behind that Honda SUV.” He turned and looked at the other cop. “Would you mind going over and sitting down there
as well.”

  The second cop nodded, saying nothing.

  “Phil, get back into the Edsel. Turn it off, but be ready to fire it up if I give the word. Colonel, how about you and I stand sentry.”

  Washington leaned against the bridge railing, John beside him, and from a distance it would look like nothing had changed.

  John pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and saw the second cop looking up at him.

  “Want one?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  John pulled one out, handed it down, the cop motioning to his pocket. Washington nodded and the cop drew out a lighter.

  “Damn, thank you, sir. Ran out of smokes two days ago.”

  John, still holding the pack, looked down and counted. There were eight cigarettes left. He pulled two more out and handed them over.

  “Hey, thanks, sir.”

  The universal gesture of a trade to cement the peace kicked in at that moment and John could see the second cop relax, exhaling with pleasure after he took a deep puff.

  John looked over at the cop who was gingerly touching his now-swollen nose that was still leaking blood.

  “You smoke?”

  “Kiss my ass.”

  “Hey now,” Washington said.

  “Gus, you just don’t know when to shut the hell up,” the second cop said. “Stupid shit, you got what you deserved for once.”

  Gus shot him a bitter look, saying nothing but the gaze communicating that there would be payback time later for the comment.

  “What’s your name?” John asked the reasonable cop.

  “Bill.”

  “What’s been happening here, Bill?”

  “I guess you can see it, sir,” and though still sitting on the pavement, he gestured back towards the town.

  “Looting, panic. Martial law declared yesterday. They actually executed a guy last night right in the middle of Pack Place. He had killed a cop.

  “Got what he deserved then,” Washington replied.

  “How the hell would you know?” Gus replied, his voice thick.

  “Because, you stupid shithead, I’m a cop, but unlike you I got some sense to me. Twenty-four years a marine before that. You might not believe this, buddy, but I’m on your side. But frankly, in your case, shore-patrol types like you I eat up for breakfast.”

  “Some people coming,” Jeremiah announced, and nodded up Charlotte Street.

  “I hope you guys cooperate,” Washington said.

  “Yeah, sure,” Bill replied. “I got no beef with you. Besides, you guys were right.”

  “Wait until I tell the chief about this,” Gus said coldly. “Be my guest. I’m not the one who got thrashed.”

  John saw where Jeremiah was pointing and the sight was absolutely startling. It was like a procession, a hundred or more. Mostly the downtown weirdos as Jennifer called them.

  Asheville across the years had developed something of a reputation as a throwback, a “Haight-Ashbury East,” with a bizarre street life of aging hippies and New Agers, Wiccans, and just a lot of drugged-out kids. They were, to John’s view, harmless, though the more conservative element of the city and county had real difficulties dealing with them. Frankly, he sort of got a kick out of their presence; there was still, within himself, a touch of them from his own youth.

  It was indeed a procession, some guys up front beating on drums, a couple of girls, one of them definitely cute, with long blond hair and a sixties-looking nearly transparent dress on, with nothing on underneath, an old guy, gray beard and hair, wearing a robe carrying a sign that actually declared; “The End HAS Finally Come.” Another sign read: “Stop Globalization,” other signs “We Got What We Deserved” and several “Peace Now.”

  Jeremiah stood there grinning as the girl came up to him and did a bit of a provocative dance to the beat of the drum. As the group passed by the side of the Honda SUV, someone slowed.

  “Hey, they’ve got some cops! Looks like they kicked the shit out of Gestapo Gus.”

  The procession began to grind to a halt.

  “Wow, man. Revolution now!” someone shouted, beginning to approach Washington.

  “Revolution my ass,” Washington said coldly, and the protestor stopped in his tracks.

  Bill stood up.

  “George, you know me,” he said, speaking to the bearded character carrying the end-has-come, sign. “Yeah, Bill.”

  “Everything’s cool here. Gus fell and broke his nose. These guys are helping out, so why don’t you just move along.”

  The leader nodded, the beat was picked back up, and the parade moved on.

  “Absolutely unreal,” Washington sighed.

  “Asheville,” Bill replied. “You gotta love it, even now at times. I know a lot of those kids; most of them are ok, even if a bit misguided.”

  The dancing blonde came up to him and kissed him on the cheek. Bill actually patted her on the butt before she danced off.

  He caught John’s eye and grinned slightly.

  “Monica and I had a little thing going a couple of months back.”

  “Wow, you and her?” Jeremiah asked. Bill grinned but said nothing.

  John pulled out two more cigarettes and gave another one over, both he and Bill lighting up.

  “Poor kids,” Bill sighed. “Strange when you actually think of it. What’s happened, it’s what many of them have wished for, for years. That one guy, though, with the ‘Stop Globalization’ sign, him I never liked. Talks the peace bullshit line to score with the girls, but down deep a potential killer. Real anarchist, hell, if he could have pulled the plug he’d of done it and laughed.

  “Regardless of that, most of them are ok, and besides, it’s a free country, isn’t it?”

  He chuckled sadly and shook his head.

  “They don’t get it now. If this is as bad as I think it is… they’ll be the first to die. They don’t know how to survive without a society that supports them even as they curse it or rebel against it.”

  He sighed.

  “Once they run out of food, then the reality will set in, but by that point, anyone with a gun will tell them to kiss off if they come begging. And if those poor kids, if they have food, the ones with guns will take it. They’re used to free clinics, homeless shelters when they need ’em, former hippie types smiling and giving them a few bucks. That’s all finished. They’ll die like flies, poor kids. No idea whatsoever how vicious the world can really be when it’s scared and hungry.

  “Damn, I hate to see it. Wish their idealisms were true.

  “Gandhi and Stalin.”

  “What?” John asked.

  “I used to tell Monica that when we’d get into politics. She’d always talk about how great Gandhi was. I’d tell her the only reason Gandhi survived after his first protest was that he was dealing with the Brits. If Stalin had been running India, he’d of been dead in a second, his name forgotten.”

  John filed that one away; it was a good point.

  The procession disappeared around the corner, heading back towards their traditional hangout, Pack Place, in the center of town.

  “A Black Hawk flew over yesterday.” John asked, “Did it land here?”

  “Yes, right down in Pack Place. From Fort Bragg.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “That’s when Ed finally declared martial law. We’re at war. That’s all I know. The guy on board, bird colonel, said he’ll be back in a week or so, then took off.”

  “War with who?”

  “No one really knows. Terrorists, North Korea, Iran, China. Just that we got hit with an EMP nuke, so he said that means we’re at war. How are things over in Black Mountain?”

  “About the same. Some looting, but Charlie got that under control.”

  “Memorial Mission Hospital, is it running?” John asked.

  “No, sir. Generators never kicked on. I had to help take an old lady with a heart attack up there last night. We have some old trucks that run, a few cars we use as ambulances. My God, it was a damn n
ightmare up there. A hundred bodies or more lying in the parking lot…” And he stopped speaking, looking back towards the town where the old Battery Park Hotel, a hollowed-out shell, brick walls standing, was continuing to burn. Fires dotted the ridgelines beyond.

  “The Doors,” Bill said.

  “What?”

  “You know, The Doors. The song ‘This Is the End,’ been thinking it a lot.”

  “Here comes Charlie,” Washington announced.

  He was coming back up the slope, jogging, obviously a bit winded, and motioned for them to get in the car.

  John looked at Bill and Gus, who was still on the pavement, eyes red rimmed, glaring.

  John went over to the Edsel, pulled a notebook out from under the passenger side, opened it and scribbled a note, then signed it.

  He handed it to Washington, who read it, smiled, then signed as well.

  To Chief of Police, Asheville, NC:

  The officer bearing this note, Bill Andrews, is a professional and has our highest recommendation. The incident between us was unfortunate but solely the blame of Gus Carter, a stupid ass who should be fired before he gets himself filled.

  Signed,

  John Matherson,

  Col. (Ret.)

  Professor of History

  Montreat College

  Sergeant Major Washington Parker U.S. Marines (Ret.)

  Washington grinned and then added underneath a postscript:

  Carter’s lucky I didn’t kill him; a baby could disarm him.

  John tore the note out of the pad, folded it, and handed it to Bill. “Hope that covers you.”

  “What does it say?” Gus asked.

  “None of your damn business,” John snapped.

  “Get in the car now!” Charlie shouted, coming up the last few dozen yards.

  “Colonel,” Washington said, “clear Bill’s weapon please, keep the ammo, and return it.”