One Second After (34 page)

He was in tears now thinking of Zach and Ginger. How would Jennifer react? Ginger was her buddy, the two inseparable. It was terrifying
enough trying to avoid the fate looming for Jennifer, but to do that to her, to kill Ginger? No, John would refuse as well. And he knew, as well, that in his heart, even without Jennifer, he would reach the same conclusion.

“I'm siding with Tom,” John said.

“John, we have to leave sentiment behind,” Kellor said.

“It's more than that,” John snapped back. “It's yet another step backwards in who we are.”

“John, ten minutes ago you agreed to letting some people starve faster than others. What in hell do you mean about stepping backwards?”

“I know this is illogical. It's just that we're Americans. We and the Brits especially are alike in this. We see something more in our pets than just brute beasts. For old people alone, they're a final source of comfort and love. For children, the beloved buddy that understands even when adults don't . . .”

He was ashamed, he was starting to cry.

“I'd kill every dog in the town if I could save one life by it,” Kellor snapped back.

“That will take something out of us forever, maybe a line I don't want to cross, would rather not live in . . . No.”

“The line is there,” Kellor replied. “It is there no matter what.”

Charlie stirred.

“How about this then? Loose animals will be shot and given to the communal food supply. Owners must keep pets inside or leashed. If an owner decides to dispatch a pet on their own, they can keep it for their own food supply. Is that agreeable?”

Tom jumped on it and nodded.

“Fine then.”

“And every day they'll lose weight, that could be turned into food,” Kellor snapped, “and eat food that people will give to them, even as they're starving.”

“That's their choice,” Tom replied.

He seemed ashamed of his emotional display, wiped his face, and stood up.

“Anything else, Charlie?”

Charlie shook his head sadly.

“John, that broadcast we should monitor from now on. We'll pull an old car radio, get some batteries, and rig out an antenna.”

“Good idea.”

“Maybe they'll be coming soon,” Charlie said hopefully.

“Sure, Charlie. Maybe they will.”

John left the meeting and started for home. The radio was now set on the dial to the Voice of America channel, but it was only static, maybe a whisper of a voice for a second or two, then static again.

He thought of stopping in to see Hamid, perhaps try to trade something for a few cigarettes to round out his day, even though it was still only midmorning. The meeting had worn him to the edge.

He opened the glove compartment; extra ammo for the Glock strapped to his side was in there, along with what he called his reserve, a cigarette. He lit it up, inhaling deeply as he pulled onto State Street and drove past the elementary school. The once beautiful front lawn was now ragged, beat down, torn out in places. Some kids were down in the playground, playing baseball. They already looked skinnier to him, reminding him of photos of German kids playing in the rubble after World War II.

The cook fire was going. Today it was horse; one of the older beasts, close to death, had been shot. A crowd was gathered round it, butchering it, legs sticking up, yet another memory of a World War II film, of German civilians in rubble-strewn Berlin, hacking at a dead animal. One of Tom's men standing by, shotgun cradled casually under his arm, was watching the proceedings. Everything, every ounce of fat, bone, innards, everything would go into the kettle. Some greens would be mixed in, and there were at least fifty or more people standing around listlessly, watching every move hungrily.

John passed the school, continued on, the interstate to his left. Makala's Beemer still resting where it had rolled to a stop thirty-five days ago. He was tempted to drive the extra mile up to the isolation hospital, stand outside, and call for her. If he stepped in, he was stuck there for at least three days. He missed her. He slowed, drove past the turnoff to his house, and continued on, but then on reaching the turn to the conference center he figured he'd better not. So he continued on, driving several hundred more yards to a bridge that spanned over the interstate just behind the gap. He got out of the car, nursing his cigarette for one more puff before he got down to the filter.

The sound of the car running caused some of his old students, standing guard on the bridge, to turn. At the sight of him they waved.

His old students, my kids, he always called them. Hell, Mary and I were the same age when we met and no one could have defined us as kids to ourselves and she most definitely was not a kid at twenty . . . He remembered so many insane nights with her when neither got a wink of sleep till dawn and then they went to classes. And yet now, the years stretching away, those standing guard were indeed kids in his eyes.

They were uniformed. Blue jogging trousers of the college, blue long-sleeve shirts, college baseball caps . . . and guns. Several were in the baggy white hazmat suits. One of the girls, hunting rifle poised, was talking across the double barrier of stalled cars to a band of refugees on the other side. She had sat in his 101 class only the semester before. Cute, yes, a bit sexy looking with her long blond hair, blue eyes, and tight blouses, but still just a kid to him now, his own daughter not much more than two years younger.

And now his former student stood with rifle poised, drilled to fire if anyone did indeed try to scramble over the cars and break through.

One of the doctors, helped by a nurse, both in biohazard suits, was walking along a line of refugees who had been admitted through the barrier, looking at old driver's licenses, interviewing, maybe finding the one or two who might be allowed to stay, their skills on the checklist John and Charlie had created. . . . Anyone who worked with steam, electricians, doctors, farmers, precision tool and die makers, oil and gas chemists, the list went on.

Someone was culled out of the line and stepped forward. He anxiously looked back and was then relieved when a woman and three children were allowed to follow him. Five more mouths, John thought. He hoped the trade in skills was a damn good one as they were led off via a path to where Makala worked.

Someone with a hand-pumped weed sprayer now walked down the line, spraying down each person in turn with a mixture cooked up by Kellor. At least it would take care of lice, fleas, but also was a psychological tool, to remind them that they were somehow different once past the line and would be kept apart.

The group set off, led and followed by two students in biohazard suits who were toting shotguns. Behind the cavalcade a Volkswagen Bug followed, “Black Mountain Militia” stenciled on the side. Inside were a student and one of Tom's policemen, any weapons confiscated from the line
of refugees piled in the back to be returned once they reached the far side of the barrier at Exit 59.

“Hey, Colonel, sir!”

It was Washington Parker up by the barrier.

John waved.

Parker waved for him to come down and there seemed to be an urgency to his gesturing.

The refugees were now filing under the bridge and the sight was heartbreaking. They wore ragged, torn, filthy clothing, several pushing supermarket shopping carts with children piled inside.

John went to the edge of the bridge to slide down the embankment to the road.

“Good morning, Colonel, sir.”

Startled, he saw one of his students lying in the high grass, dressed in hunting camo, face darkened green. It was Brett Huffman, one of his ballplayers, a darn nice kid, backwoods type from up in Madison County, baseball scholarship with a real interest in history and wanted to teach high school. A kid who was a natural leader and looked up to by his classmates. John noticed the black sergeant's stripes stenciled on his hunting jacket. He had a wad of tobacco tucked into his jaw.

“Brett, just what the hell—,” John started to ask.

“Vinnie Bartelli is on the other side of the bridge, staked out like me. If there's any trouble at the barrier, or any of them folks down there try and bolt . . .”

He said nothing for a moment, just patted the 30/30 Savage with mounted scope.

“I had to shoot one yesterday, sir. Good shot, though, got him in the leg, thank God, didn't have to kill him.”

John couldn't reply. There was a bit of tightness in Brett's voice but already the sort of casualness John had heard so often in debriefings after Desert Storm. Good young kids trained to be killers and trying to be hardened to it, though it was still a shock.

“I guess, though, with a 30/30 through the leg he's a goner anyhow.”

“You did what you had to do,” John offered reassuringly.

“Still, sir. Reminded me of my first deer. Same kind of feeling, maybe a bit worse.”

“Take care of yourself, Brett.”

“Yes, sir.”

John slid down the embankment and out onto the road. He looked back. Brett was impossible to see. It registered, so many of the college kids from small towns, more than a few hunters, or Boy Scouts or just outdoor types, of course they'd learn, and darn quick. The refugees were moving along on the other side, a long strung-out column.

They moved slowly, a few listlessly looking up at John. They were like something out of another age, some so obvious caught ill prepared, a man in a three-piece business suit, scuffed worn dress shoes, bandage around his head. Looked like a lawyer or upper-level corporate type . . . with no skills to sell here for a bowl of watery soup. Parents side by side, exhausted, pushing a shopping cart, the wheels worn, squeaking, two children inside, both asleep, pale faced.

Some refugees were actually barefoot. Few had realized on that first day what a premium would soon be placed on shoes, good shoes for walking, a lot of walking. He cursed himself for not thinking of it as well and grabbing some extra pairs from the camping supply store the first day. Civil War campaigns had often hinged on which side had better shoes, which usually wore out in little more than a month of tough campaigning. Those hiking a hundred and fifty miles in wing tips or even just plain old canvas tennis shoes were soon down to nothing, and more than one walking by actually had a different shoe on each foot.

A woman who reminded him a bit of Makala on the first night, very sexy gray business jacket and skirt, stockings still on but absolutely shredded, heels knocked off her shoes to try to make them more walkable, was limping along.

She caught his eye, forced a smile, and brushed back her greasy, limp hair.

“Hi, my name's Carol,” she said, and moved towards the median barrier, her hand extended. He could see the lost world in her. Sharp professional-looking woman, intelligent face, sexy and using it to advantage, the hand extended for a warm handshake to start the meeting . . . which she was used to having go her way.

“Ma'am, step back and away.” It was one of his students, face concealed in the hazmat suit, with rifle leveled. “Keep on the white line of the road as you were told.”

Carol stopped, looking back.

“I just wanted to say hi.”

The student shouldered her rifle.

“Ma'am, please move back. I will shoot if you try to go over that barrier.”

The other refugees in the line looked back. A few froze; others immediately scrambled to the far side of the road.

“The rest of you,” the student shouted, “do not attempt to leave the road!”

Carol looked at John appealingly.

“What kind of place is this?” she said, and her voice started to choke.

“We're a town trying to stay alive,” John said.

“Ma'am!”

John held up his hand towards the student.

“At ease there, lower your weapon. I'll handle this.”

“Colonel, sir, don't let her get any closer to you. I don't want to see you under quarantine.”

“Colonel?” Carol asked, still forcing the professional business smile as if just introduced. “You are the officer in charge then. I'm pleased to meet you.”

He tried to smile.

“Former colonel, college professor now. And no, I am not in charge here.”

“I saw some of your people separating that family off and leading them away. Word on the other side of your fence is that if people have specialized skills you're letting them stay.”

John took that in. If this was indeed known on the other side, security would have to be tightened. People would think up any kind of skill or profession and lie their way through the interview.

“Are they being allowed to stay?”

“I don't know,” John lied.

“They asked us what we did. Is that it?”

“Really, miss, I don't know.”

“Look, I'm a public relations consultant with Reynolds Tobacco.”

She looked at the student with the gun still aimed at her.

“Colonel, to be frank, your operation needs some upgrading, a better interface with the public. I can help you set up a plan for that in no time that can help you avoid a lot of problems in the future.”

It was a delivery, a sales pitch, cool, professional, and listening to her
broke his heart. She actually was used to winning that way and believed it would work now.

“I'm sorry, miss. I don't make that decision here. The doctor and the police do. I'm sorry.”

And in that instant her professional business poise, a vestige of the old world, collapsed.

She took a step closer and now it was both hands out in a gesture of appeal.

“Please let me stay!”

He couldn't respond.

She took a step closer.

“Do you want to sleep with me?” Carol asked. “I'm serious. Let me stay. You'll like me.”

She looked down at herself and her ragged suit.

“Once I get cleaned up, believe me, you'll like me,” and she looked at him with head slightly turned now, eyes widening. “You have a tub at home? I'd love a bath and when you see me then . . . you'll really like me. You can even help me bathe; I know you'd like that.”