One Year After: A Novel Page 8

  “The three in my unit who died? Their Humvee took a rocket-propelled grenade, and there was no heroism about it. One second, they were alive—the next second, dead. And they left behind families that will never really heal no matter what the platitudes and honors.”

  He looked up, gazing at the moon. “And so now I will be the parent that stands by and waits, with my gut instincts telling me she’ll not come back. Part of me wants to race back to Fredericks tomorrow and take the deal I know he’d give me to exempt Elizabeth. Then what? Frankly, it’s not how the town will react that bothers me, though I know I’d be a pariah. You and Jen would understand, but I think the respect of both of you would be gone if I did.”

  He fell silent, and she did not reply.

  He continued, “It’s that I know Elizabeth will tell me to go to hell and enlist anyhow, because she believes it is her duty, even though it means being torn away from her child.” His gaze returned to Jennifer’s grave. “Damn this world. Damn what we allowed it to become.”

  “We had nothing to do with what happened,” Makala began, but he cut her off with a glare.

  “We did have a lot to do with it. We had all grown so fat, so complacent, and we always let someone else worry about such things, even though we knew that those we allowed to be in charge were far too often incompetent—or worse, self-serving and blind in their arrogance.”

  There was no reprimand in his words, only a deep sadness. “I feel like a balled-up knot, becoming the archetype of the way it is in all wars, of old men pointing to the front lines and telling the young to go out and die. But this time, it is now my daughter, her friends, the ones who fought and saved this town a year ago.”

  He sighed again, absently petting the well-worn fabric of Jennifer’s stuffed animal.

  “When Dale made that first offer, of course I refused; it was so damn insulting. But now, after hours of thinking about it, it does tear at me even as I know I have to resist it.”

  “I don’t trust that son of a bitch as far as I can spit,” Makala snapped back in reply. “He tried to bribe you right up front with offering a deferment to Elizabeth and not the others. He knew what he was doing.”

  A bit taken aback, John said nothing, just looking at her for a moment.

  “What do you think of him?” she finally asked. “You’re the ex-military type, not me.”

  “My first reaction today was not good. I mean, the guards out front … you could see it in his eyes; he’s a thug. That type has always been a plague since pharaoh first organized an army. They get in a uniform, and God save anyone who crosses them. A good unit commander weeds that type out quick or at least keeps them on a really short leash. So that was a bad first impression. But I’m not going to judge Fredericks solely on that. He explained why he made what you call a bribe. He just thought I was there only for Elizabeth. The guy most likely is swamped with hundreds of families, each asking for special treatment. At least my war in the Gulf and the ones after it were fought by an all-volunteer force. No one likes a draft, but there is some logic to it here and now if we are to resecure our borders and start rebuilding the entire United States as it once was.”

  He wearily shook his head. “So now I am hoisted up on the spike of my own ethics and convictions.”

  “Look at it cynically and him far more cynically, John. You want to believe that the motivation of this leader is good, along with those behind him all the way up to those in Bluemont.”

  John was silent for a long time.

  He gazed at Jennifer’s grave, moonlight casting a shadow from the ceramic golden retriever placed at the head of the grave in memory of Ginger, whom Jennifer had loved with all her heart and whom John had actually killed the day after Jennifer died in order to feed Elizabeth, struggling with her pregnancy. That memory nearly choked him up again.

  It was all too much. He stood up, stepping back into the sunroom to place Rabs on his perch where he kept watch over Jennifer. Makala followed him.

  “I just don’t know,” John whispered. He looked appealingly at Makala. “Give me a couple of days to sort this one out. See what Fredericks comes back with. Okay?”

  His tone indicated he was worn down with the conversation and needed some what he called “introvert time,” to just think things through. She kissed him on the cheek, whispered a good night, and left his side.

  He returned to the sitting room and sat down at the old rolltop desk that had once belonged to his father-in-law. Mounted to one side was a true luxury.

  One of the ham operators had shown up at his doorstep several weeks earlier with a small multiband shortwave from the 1960s dug out of an abandoned antique store. He also gave John a solar-powered battery charger, and though the batteries were wearing down after hundreds of recharges, they did allow him to tune in for a half hour or so before having to charge them back up again. He settled down by the radio and clicked it on, the old-fashioned analog dial glowing and fine-tuned into a familiar voice … the BBC. The timing was good—late in the evening here, three in the morning over there. There was the familiar, comforting chime of Big Ben marking three and the always-so-well-modulated voice of the news broadcaster.

  It is 3:00 a.m., Greenwich War Time, and this is the news of the hour.

  Heavy fighting was reported today in Chicago, Illinois; Indianapolis, Indiana; and Fort Wayne, Indiana. The American government in Bluemont announced an offensive against a gang controlling that region, deploying troops from the newly formed Army of National Recovery, or ANR. The government spokesperson stated that the offensive is a clear first step to eliminate lawlessness and restore national unity. There is an unconfirmed report, transmitted by a former BBC correspondent in Ottawa, that American federal forces have taken heavy casualties not only in this action but in others in Cleveland and other cities bordering Canada along the Great Lakes.

  The federal government also announced that it will bring whatever forces, and I quote, “up to strategic level if need be into this fight to bring about unification,” end quote. There was no specific answer as to what is implied by this statement when asked about the definition of “strategic level.”

  A message now for our friends in Quebec: “The chair is against the door.” I repeat, “The chair is against the door.”

  Here in England, the government announced that, contrary to earlier promises, the rationing of petrol must continue for the foreseeable future. The prime minister stated …

  Strategic forces? He shook his head. Surely that did not mean what he feared. “Damn it.” He sighed, putting his head down on the desk and closing his eyes.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DAY 731

  John was still in his office, having dozed off at his desk, when the piercing jangle of the old rotary phone snapped him awake.

  The windows facing Jennifer’s grave were open, and between the insistent ringing of the phone, he thought he heard something else … gunfire.

  He looked at the luminescent face of his old-style windup wristwatch; it was just after three o’clock, local time. He felt absolutely drained with exhaustion as he picked up the phone.

  “John, it’s Richard Black down at the town hall. We just got a report phoned in from our watch station up by the North Fork Reservoir. A firefight.”

  John stifled a yawn, trying to focus. “Okay. I’m coming down to the office. Call Maury Hurt; ask him to roll out his Jeep and wake up the reaction team.”

  The team, a squad of eight from the town’s military company, pulled weeklong rotation shifts and were bunked in the firehouse next to the town hall. Exchanges of gunfire and skirmishes along the northern border of the community were nothing new. It was most likely the border reivers raiding for food or a continuation of their ongoing feud with the Stepp families, who lived at the base of the Mount Mitchell range. The raids were more annoyance rather than a real threat, though several had died on both sides over the last year. And there was always the threat, as well, that some far deadlier gang had moved into the r
egion. Rumors that survivors of the Posse lingered, that they were coalescing again and bent on vengeance against Black Mountain.

  Regardless of who had started the flare-up tonight, like a marshal of the Old West, he felt obligated to see about it.

  He pulled on trousers and a flannel shirt, an early morning chill still in the air. Makala helped him don a Kevlar vest, a present from the army before they had left Asheville. He holstered his .45 and headed for the door.

  “Most likely another damned feud.” John sighed. “But it could be some other group setting us up. Until I find out who exactly is shooting at whom and why, we got to assume the worst—that some splinter group of reivers are hitting us. So if they do get into this cove, you know what to do.”

  She was already holding the twelve gauge as if to reassure him that his home would be safe, and she kissed him lightly. “Be careful.”

  He smiled. “Soul of caution.” It had become his standard reply. Then he was out the door. The Edsel reluctantly turned over after thirty seconds of grinding and John’s muttered curses.

  He roared out of the driveway, through the gateway into Montreat, where the one guard was obviously awake and offered a half wave, half salute, and two minutes later, he was at the town hall. The reaction squad was already loaded up into a heavy, four-wheel-drive pickup truck. His old friend Maury Hurt rolled up in his WWII Jeep just as John pulled in.

  Reverend Black was at the door of the town hall.

  “Anything new?” John shouted.

  “Just that one call from the watch post reporting an intrusion. Firing has stopped, though some sort of building is burning above the north bank of the reservoir.”

  He hoped that whatever the ruckus was, it was over. It could be nothing other than some drunks shooting at each other, or it could be an infiltration, the team at the outpost dead and raiders pouring into the valley of the North Fork. He had received more than one chewing out from old vets, the town council, and others that, at such moments, his job was to stay in the town hall and let others do the job. He had been forced to do that in Iraq and swore he would never do it again. If his people were going to put their asses on the line, he would be there with them.

  He settled into the Jeep beside Maury and pointed to the road. The two-vehicle task force set out, rolling west along State Street. The once-thriving shops, the town hardware store, and the wine and chocolate shop all had long ago shuttered up, windows boarded up or broken. No traffic lights blinking, just an empty road, the stalled vehicles from the Day long ago hauled off for salvage. Dropping down the slope on the west side of town, everything was dark. It was still a few hours till dawn, the air chilled but rich with the scent of spring, the wind flowing around the Jeep slapping him awake.

  Maury turned off onto old Highway 70 past John’s favorite hot dog stand, looted and burned out long ago, then past the state veterans’ cemetery, where it had been decided that those who had died in defense of the town were to be buried rather than the golf course. Instinctively, he raised his hand to his hat brim in salute, Maury, a veteran of the air force, doing the same.

  It was a chilly journey in the open Jeep, a vehicle Maury had purchased years before and had lovingly restored. Even now, riding in it made John think of the movie Patton, except unlike that eccentric leader, John did not stand up and take on the affectations of a siren throughout the ride.

  They reached what had been a minimum-security detention center with its ugly and now useless barrier fence and turned onto the winding road up to the North Fork Reservoir, the main water supply for the entire city of Asheville.

  “Something’s burning,” Maury announced. John didn’t need to be told, the red glare of it reflecting off the surface of the lake.

  They reached the dam face of the reservoir where he had a watch station in place. The two students assigned there came out of the concealed bunker, reporting that they had heard voices echoing across the lake, followed by a couple of minutes of sustained gunfire and then something going up in flames.

  If voices alone could echo across the lake, then most certainly their arrival in a Jeep and four-wheel-drive truck could certainly be heard, as well.

  He stood silent for several minutes, gazing across the quarter-mile-wide lake. It looked like a shack of some kind was indeed burning on the far shore. Back before the Day, this had been the reservoir for the city of Asheville, and any kind of building within the watershed was strictly forbidden. Chances were it was some kind of still or squatter’s shack burning over there.

  Was it worth the risk to check it out, or should they wait until dawn?

  The Stepps, who had settled this valley over two hundred years earlier, had hung on rather well compared to many after the Day. Over the last year, they had produced enough of a surplus to start breeding hogs, chickens, and drop off the town rationing, and they traded well and fairly with the community. The raid might be aimed at their food. One branch of the family, however, lived more on the fringe, and it was they who usually were either trading with or wrangling with the reivers. He guessed this was some kind of payback attack. Illegal still or not, something was going on, and he had to find out what it was.

  Darkness played to his advantage if it was raiders; he knew this territory, and they most likely did not. If it was just the Stepps doing something stupid, he had to deal with that, as well … and hoped that was all it was.

  He motioned for his reaction team to gather round. He looked at their young faces in the waning moonlight. They were tense but ready to go in.

  “I’ll take point. I want you deployed back fifty yards behind me in a skirmish line.”

  “Sir, that’s our job to be point, not yours.” It was Grace, typical of her to speak up.

  “Not this time,” John offered. “If it’s just the Stepps, they know me; they might not know you and fire first and ask questions later.”

  He stood up, indicating there would be no more debate, stepped out from behind the bunker, and started along the access road that followed the west shore of the lake. He heard someone behind him, turned back, and saw that it was Maury, his World War II–era M1 carbine raised.

  “What the hell are you doing?” John asked.

  “Just taking a walk with you, that’s all,” Maury replied.

  “Okay, but let’s not go off half-cocked. If it’s the reivers, they usually hightail out rather than face a fight with a full squad of our troops. If it’s someone else…” His voice trailed off.

  They moved silently along the bank of the river. All was silent except for the crackling of the fire, the lake reflecting the light and that of the moon.

  He began to think of the notoriously bad line from old movies—“It’s quiet; too quiet”—just before all hell broke loose.

  A gut instinct suddenly kicked in; something didn’t feel right. Long ago, instructors in advanced infantry training had drilled into him that in combat, listen to gut instincts; chances were that something your conscious thinking had not even registered—the faint crack of a broken branch, a barely detected scent on the air, just a feeling that something wasn’t right—was screaming at you to react.

  “Hey! Whoever’s coming, we need help up here!” The cry for help close by. It sounded like old Wilson Stepp.

  “Wilson Stepp, is that you?” John shouted.

  There was no reply.

  “Wilson, it’s John Matherson. What the hell is going on?”

  A momentary pause, and then Wilson’s voice, sounding strained. “Hurt, John. I need help.”

  “We’ll go up and check it out, sir.”

  Turning, he saw Grace creeping up behind him, crouched low. He motioned for her to freeze in place, deciding that she was going to get one hell of a chewing out once this was over for breaking orders.

  Only a couple of years older than Elizabeth, Grace had made the campus her home after the Day. Her family lived in Jacksonville. It was ironic that he had actually discussed with her parents what would happen if ever there was a ser
ious crisis, her folks telling John to make sure she stayed put at the school, where they knew she would be safe. It was almost as if they had some insider word that something bad was coming. As he looked at her, he thought of the risks she had already taken and wanted to now take again—and how he would ever be able to face her parents if one day they did show up on the campus. How he would feel if Elizabeth went off and one day he confronted her commanding officer.

  That made his decision as to what to do next all so clear.

  If someday they finally show up for their daughter, do I tell them she died because I sent her into a trap?

  “Stay put,” he whispered.

  He suddenly felt an overwhelming urge for a cigarette. He could make out Maury’s features, his friend tight lipped, eyes wide.

  “It smells bad, John,” Maury whispered.

  “No shit,” was all he could say. He was suddenly afraid, but he could not let that take control of his judgment now.

  “Hey, for God’s sake, someone help me!” The cry sounded weak, strained. From behind him, he could hear voices. It was some of the Stepp family coming up the road, armed.

  Either the raiders are gone, or this could turn into a bloodbath, John realized. They were not the type of people to stop if they thought one of their kin was hurt.

  “Grace, go back. Tell those folks to stay back, and the same for the rest of you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Just do it,” John hissed. “Maury, keep them back. I’m going up.”

  “Are you flipping crazy, John?” Maury snapped. “You go back, and I’ll go forward and check it out. Your job is back there, not getting your ass blown off by some damn drunk reiver. And if that is old man Stepp hurt up there, it’s most likely because he fell down drunk.”

  “So I send your ass to get blown off, is that it?” John replied, and he forced a smile. “Chances are there aren’t even any reivers—just these damn fools got drunk and started shooting at their own shadows.”

  He stood up.

  Maury was right, and he knew it. But given all that had happened against the Posse and just hours earlier with Fredericks, he realized he was sick to death of sending others forward. At the moment, it was so much easier to just do it himself.