The Final Day Read online

  It was not until after Fredericks’s defeat that John had learned that within Asheville, Fredericks had actually attempted to impose a mandatory confiscation of all silver and gold coins that had once been government minted. Unknown to those areas outside of Fredericks’s brief period of control, he claimed a decree from Bluemont had ordered such, with a so-called fair trade of a hundred dollars in printed money for each silver dollar and a thousand dollars of paper money for each one-ounce gold coin. Only those caught with silver or gold on them complied under duress, meaning, “We caught you; give us the coins—here’s your paper, now go and keep your mouth shut, or you are under arrest for illegal trading.”

  Those thus caught referred to the paper as being “not worth a damn Frederick” or to a more direct scatological reference as its only real use. Yet another troubling bit of information that had come to light after that vainglorious man’s bloody defeat.

  The paper currency was even how those serving with the ANR had been paid. Those who had survived and surrendered after the battle to take out Fredericks were expecting execution and thus were stunned by the offer to stay and join the community.

  All of them were young, generally in good health thanks to the rations they had lived on for months, and were then divided up and assigned to different units within “the State of Carolina’s Militia.”

  There was some resentment for the first few days on the part of his own people—for, after all, over thirty from the town had been killed fighting against these young men and women. There had been one tragedy when a young man from the college murdered one of the ANR troops, blaming his victim personally for the death of his fiancée in the fight to take the courthouse in Asheville. It proved to be an extremely tense day, the nearly hundred ANR prisoners fearing that they had been lulled by John’s promises and that Fredericks’s warnings that to be taken alive by “those mountain rednecks” would mean torture, rape, and death. Some had gathered together, ready to fight or flee, when more than a few locals supported the young man’s vengeance killing as justice, plain and simple.

  It proved to be just about the most difficult day John had ever faced. The community had yet to stand down from a state of military emergency; therefore, John was deemed to be in command under military law. Reverend Black had insisted upon sitting on the tribunal since the accused came from the college where he now served as chaplain, rather than a civil trial since the crime had occurred while the community’s troops were still “in military service.” Reverend Black, when he pronounced his vote with tears streaming down his face, startled everyone, declaring it had to be done, quoting Old Testament verses, that killing in combat was a tragedy that had haunted mankind from the beginning, but this death was cold-blooded murder, using the translation of “murder” rather than “Thou shall not kill.”

  John realized he had to carry out the sentence himself as he had done with others; it could not be delegated, though he spent hours praying over it, hoping to find a personal way out. At the end, the young man took it stoically, forgiving John for what had to be done and appealing to the dead man’s friends for forgiveness as well. Memory of it, along with so many other memories, still woke him up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.

  As to the regular army prisoners, especially the helicopter crews that had slaughtered many in Forrest Burnett’s community, there had been outright calls to execute them. But John had had enough of executions, even though many—especially Forrest’s community, which had endured the atrocity of being strafed by the pilot—cried for blood. In the end, John ordered them banished, pushed to the far side of the barrier on Interstate 40 at the top of the mountain and told to start walking. Chances they would survive a week were nil, and it was decided by all that the punishment was just.

  The aftereffect? The ANR survivors witnessed something they had never expected, even expressing regret for the entire tragedy and its end result, and thereafter, no mention was made—at least publicly—of having been on one side or the other in the battle for Asheville. The ANR commanding officer, who had grown up near where John originally came from, now served as a platoon lieutenant in the militia, and what she and others had said about life outside of their valley added more fuel to his worries.

  All the ANR personnel had told him, along with reports by the BBC, served to fuel his suspicions and concerns about what exactly was taking place at Bluemont, and he was eager to get on the road to Forrest’s community on the far side of Mount Mitchell.

  The fire within the stove was now crackling hot, radiating warmth. He remembered an old favorite author who wrote on Americana, Eric Sloane, his works filled with wonderful detailed sketches of life long ago, stating that a wood fire heated you twice—from the labor it took to cut, split, stack, and haul the wood and again when it finally burned as it now did before him.

  All well and good, John thought with a smile, if one was young and twenty and had grown up with life being such. There had been offers, which he always saw as little more than attempts at bribes, to provide him with wood and so many other things, but it was a point of honor that he worked and traded for it like everyone else. Before she passed, Jen, almost as if it were an afterthought, had revealed that there was a stash of several hundred dollars of face-value silver filling half a dozen mason jars tucked away in a corner of the basement. When the government had gone over to clad coins back in the ’60s, her husband, George, had denounced it as a damned conspiracy and had taken to emptying out the silver dimes, quarters, and occasional half dollars into a jar on his nightstand at the end of every day and then stashing them in the basement when filled.

  The find had truly made them rich, and the historian inside of John had of course been fascinated by this first step back to a “real” money-based economy when he started offering a quarter here, a few dollars there for the essentials of survival. Silver and gold had disappeared from the economic flow long ago, and now finds like his were reintroducing them. Throughout the various communities that now made up the State of Carolina, there was hardly a basement or attic that had not been ransacked by surviving family members—and more than a few looters going at abandoned properties in search of such stashes. One such prowler, a drifter who had slipped in past the security posts guarding the approaches to Black Mountain, had been caught just a few months ago. Murder and rape were of course capital offenses, as was the case with one of his militia killing a former member of the ANR. Stealing food had been added to the list as one for which one could possibly face capital punishment. Some said it was little better than the obsessed policeman in Les Misérables hunting down a man who stole a loaf of bread. But after the starving times of that first winter, people did die for lack of a loaf of bread or the pig they had been raising on scraps to provide meat for the winter suddenly disappearing.

  There was no jail in the town, except for an overnight lockup for the occasional drunk and disorderly. In such a time, to punish someone by locking them up in a warm jail, feeding them, and then having to feed and compensate someone to watch over the offender was absurd. An infraction of stealing other than while mobilized for military service resulted in a civil court. If the theft was not crucial to the survival of a family or the entire community, the standard punishment had finally become a sentence to labor in the communal farmlands. Thus it was for that looter in search of a stash of gold or silver, who labored for a month and then disappeared the night his sentence was completed.

  A supreme irony was for all those who had secured their precious metals in bank vault safe-deposit boxes. With the failure of electricity, the vaults were automatically locked, sealed as tightly as some long-lost ancient tomb, owners of what some claimed were hundreds of ounces of gold only able to stand outside the empty buildings and stare forlornly. John and the town council had even agreed to divert power into the old Fifth Third Bank on Montreat Road, a surviving employee then attempting to unscramble the locking systems, to no avail.

  Those standing outside watching the attempt,
growing frustrated, started to suggest just blowing the entire thing up, which was of course vetoed. So the bank still stood, as did the other banks in town, the treasures within as remote as if lost in the hull of the Titanic.

  Inwardly, John breathed a sigh of relief, for if successful there would have been a rush to crack into or blow up every bank in western North Carolina, and the flood of coinage pouring out triggering that age-old nightmare of inflation.

  As for those who had purchased gold and went along with it being stored at “a safe and secure location in Switzerland,” they were truly out of luck.

  John sat by the open door of the woodstove for a few minutes, dwelling on all the events and changes taking place, willing to bet that Ernie had awoken the Hawkins family at dawn, tool bag in hand, ready to continue probing the computers found in the library basement. He watched the flames dancing, enjoying the radiant heat blossoming out, the fire, as it always does, weaving a hypnotic spell, the iron sides of the old stove cracking and pinging as they expanded from the heat.

  “How about some eggs and grits for breakfast?”

  He felt Makala’s warm touch on his shoulder and looked up at her with a smile.

  “Sure. But sit down with me for a few minutes first.”

  She laughed, pulling her flannel robe in tight, revealing just how pregnant she truly was.

  “If I sit on the floor, it will take a forklift to get me back on my feet.”

  “Come on, I’ll help you.”

  With a groan, she sat down by his side and snuggled in close, extending her hands toward the glowing fire.

  “Sleep okay?” he asked while brushing a wisp of her golden hair back from her forehead and then kissing her.

  “Little badger must have woke me up half a dozen times. That baby wants out.”

  He laughed and put a hand on her bulging tummy. He waited and a moment later was rewarded with a kick. Laughing, he kept his hand there and kissed her again.

  “Wish you’d wait a few more days before trying to get over the mountain,” she announced. “It’s still most likely snowing on the north slope, and the wind up there can kill. You ever read Jack London’s To Build a Fire?”

  John smiled and nodded at the memory of a scoutmaster when he was a boy, getting the troop out of Newark and up to what at the time John felt was the true wilderness at High Point, New Jersey, for a three-day winter survival trek. Shivering around the campfire at night, the scoutmaster had read that tale to his group of frozen city kids, most of them convinced their leader had gone crazy to drag them out on this trek. John remembered reveling in the adventure of it, all the time imagining that it was like being with George Washington’s troops at Valley Forge or the midnight march through a blizzard to take Trenton.

  Romantic then, but Makala did have a point. Temps could be twenty degrees colder up at the crest line at Craggy Gap, and though calm down here, it could be a thirty- to fifty-mile-per-hour blow up there.

  He had approached Billy Tyndall yesterday with the thought of using their Aeronca L-3 to fly him over the mountain range, a short twenty-minute hop by air, so he could meet this Quentin Reynolds, and Billy had replied with two words: “You’re crazy.” He then went on to a lecture about the killer weather conditions to be found around Mount Mitchell, pointing to an old FAA map of the region pinned to the wall of the makeshift hangar, where a specific warning was printed about the dangers of severe turbulence in the area.

  “You ask any pilot who’s not crazy and thus still alive about flying around up there, especially in an old underpowered tail dragger, and they’ll tell you that you are indeed crazy. We damn near got killed last time you and I flew there; it wasn’t the bullets and Apache helicopters that scared me half as much as getting slammed by a downdraft and sending us right into the side of a mountain. So no way.”

  So waiting for a crystal-clear and very calm day was out.

  “It can’t wait,” John finally replied to Makala. “Forrest said the guy was in bad shape. If he slips into pneumonia, he could be on the edge of dying unless we can get some of our antibiotics into him, and that alone is reason enough to at least try to get to him. There’s something about the name of this guy that rings a bell somewhere in my head beyond the fact that he claimed to have served with my friend Bob Scales. I gotta go.”

  “All right, help me get up, eggs and grits, something to stick to your ribs.”

  John never could figure out the Southern obsession with grits, but when one has gone through a starving time, the memory lingers.

  “Did I hear grits?”

  The two looked back to see Forrest coming out of the guest room, pulling up his suspenders over his shoulder, deftly doing so with his one hand.

  John stood up, helped Makala get to her feet, pushed a few more split pieces of hickory into the stove to ensure a good, long, hot fire, and closed the door. A moment later, Makala had the iron skillet resting atop the woodstove. She’d also set an old-fashioned percolating coffeepot filled with water—which was again coming out of a faucet tap thanks to the electrical pump that soaked up a significant part of the town’s electricity but again provided safe, clean running water to most homes and another item of the past—ready to put in some chicory roots and an herbal concoction.

  “Oh, damn it, wait a minute.” Forrest sighed at the sight of the coffee percolator and disappeared back into the guest room.

  They both knew he had some, the scent of it as seductive as any perfume, and both of them had silently hoped he still had some left. Etiquette was never to ask people if they had a secret stash of some precious item like chocolate, honey, coffee, or cigarettes. One waited to be offered, and while visiting with John and Makala, coffee—wherever it had come from—was part of breakfast again. After the meal, Forrest would step outside, at Makala’s orders, to enjoy his one cigarette, Makala keeping a watchful eye on John so that he didn’t break his vow to Jennifer.

  Forrest returned, and in his open hand he held out four small plastic K-Cups—hazelnut, no less—fully caffeinated.

  Makala all but snatched them from his hand. Along with rare .22 bullets and silver coins, the once ubiquitous K-Cups had become a cherished trade item, the coffee within still fresh even three years later.

  Makala carefully cut each one open, not letting a single grain fall to the floor, and emptied them into the percolator before putting it on the stove.

  “Now tell me you got some of those creamer cups and packets of sugar, and life will be complete,” John interjected, breaking a golden rule of good manners. Forrest smiled, reached into his pant pocket, and produced three of the creamer cups as well.

  “Sorry, but sugar is out.”

  “Apologies for asking,” John replied, but Forrest smiled. “Who’d have thought those darn things would one day be worth so much?”

  Within minutes, the grits were simmering atop the stove, and heaven of heavens, the scent of coffee brewing filled the room. The sound of the coffee percolating was a flashback to childhood, cold winter mornings, still dark outside, coming down to the kitchen, his father nearly finished with breakfast, letting John have a few sips of the warm brew before bundling up to take the train over to the gas plant in Harrison. It was a breakfast sound that disappeared with the advent of the Mr. Coffee machines, a sound he still missed, and all the other nuances of that time and place: his father’s insistence on heavy cream and to hell with the cholesterol count, fresh bacon at least three times a week, or even the dreaded winter breakfast for kids—hot oatmeal—with a slab of butter and perhaps a sprinkling of cinnamon.

  There was something about the quiet of breakfast time that triggered such nostalgia for John, particularly on a cold day—the sky a sparkling blue, the freshly fallen snow reflecting the morning light, the trees, especially the pines, still blanketed from the storm just passed.

  John helped to set the table, appealing to Makala to get off her feet while he placed a single egg on each plate, doled out the grits, and then carefully poured cups
of coffee for each, as a proper host shorting himself slightly while making sure the provider of such largesse had an extra gulp in his cup.

  Sitting, they joined hands, John reaching over to touch Forrest’s empty left sleeve, said grace, and then wordlessly dug in, savoring each bite.

  Meal done, there was several minutes of silence, each one enjoying their cup of coffee while gazing out the window, until Forrest finally stirred.

  “Time to get going.”

  John nodded, helping Makala to clear the table and clean the dishes in a pot of hot water that had been set atop the woodstove. Even now, after three years, people were still falling ill because of the lack of hot running water. The Saturday-night bath was again a nineteenth-century ritual of heating water on the stove and standing in an old washtub, soap again a mixture of lard and wood ash and crushed mint leaves to at least create some kind of pleasant scent.

  John pulled on a tattered snowmobile suit that hung loosely on his lanky frame, followed by ski mask and gloves, and hoisted his emergency travel pack stuffed with winter survival gear, including a small tent, dry clothes rolled up inside a plastic bag, some dried beef jerky, and matches with a twisted-up piece of birch bark packed in a waterproof container. He picked up his M1 Carbine, which had become his preferred weapon, checking to make sure it was cleared, holstered a Glock, and waited for Forrest to suit up in the guest room.

  Makala looked at him anxiously. It was still all so ironic. They were only traveling twenty miles up over the Mount Mitchell range and down to where Forrest’s community had decided to remain even though there was plenty of vacant housing in Asheville and right here in Black Mountain and Montreat. John had argued repeatedly with Forrest before winter closed in to move, but Forrest always rebuffed him, that he and his friends preferred to stay on the land that had once been their home; none of them were cut out for what he still sarcastically called “city folk,” and he did have the logical point that by staying north of the mountains, his community kept an eye on the northern flank of their world.