One Second After (43 page)

And behind him Tom's men now came, deployed out in open order, and every few feet one would stop, lower his pistol, and fire.

The Posse wounded were to be summarily executed, and that was a task John wanted the police and older men of the town to do, not his own kids. They were hardened now, but he never wanted them that hard.

John slowly walked up the sloping road towards the crest and at last found him, a knot of students gathered round his body, heads lowered, some weeping.

Washington Parker was dead, killed in the opening minutes of the fight. The way he lay here seemed almost Christ-like, arms spread wide, heartbreakingly a young female student, dead as well, nestled under his arm as if in his final seconds he was trying to protect or comfort her, or maybe it had been the other way around.

Washington had insisted upon being in the front line, arguing with John that the kids needed him there especially to be led in the difficult task of feigning withdrawal, and along with the rest of the first platoon Washington had not come back.

John had held a hope that perhaps, just perhaps, Washington had managed to hole up someplace but knew it was unlikely.

John drew closer.

The man died as he would have wanted, John realized, leading “his men,” from the front, and John felt guilt, having fought the battle from the rear line, as a commander.

Washington's “soldiers” were slowly filing by, battle-shocked kids actually, faces strained, sweat soaked, more than a few bandaged, coming down now out of the flanking hills and up the interstate, gathering in, and all now filing past their sergeant.

As each passed they slowed, and John watched them, hearing their whispered farewells.

“Thank you, sir.” “Be with God now, sir.” “I'm sorry, sir.”

With frightful intensity it reminded John of the famous column written by Ernie Pyle back in World War II, about the death of a beloved officer and how his men reacted.

One of the girls knelt down, touched Washington's face, and then walked on. Some were silent, some offered a prayer or thank-you; others swore out of pain and bitterness.

John fell in with them and walked up. All he could do was come to attention, salute, and then move on. The sentimental side of him was dead at this moment, still in shock. He'd cry for Washington later on, alone.

More shots from behind, the sound of the horn of a Volkswagen Bus honking as it sped off, weaving around the wreckage, hauling wounded back to the main hospital in town.

More vehicles backing up, the old farm trucks, the diesel truck now rigged to a flatbed so that several dozen could be loaded aboard at once.

“John?”

He saw Makala coming forward and without thought he grabbed hold of her tightly. She began to shudder with tears.

“Thank God. There was a rumor you were dead.”

He shook his head.

Yes, his face was burned. The Posse actually had made up some primitive bazookas, fired from pipes welded to several trucks, and a round had detonated on the bridge, knocking him unconscious for a couple of minutes.

She broke from his embrace and stepped back, holding up her hand.

“Track my finger with your eyes,” she said, moving it back and forth, staring at him closely.

“John, you might have a concussion. And you got some second-degree burns.”

“The hell with that now. Take care of the others.”

She nodded, stepped back, and went over to one of the wounded, a girl, a volleyball player from the school. She was crying, curled up, clutching her stomach. John watched as Makala knelt down, brushed the girl's forehead, spoke a few soothing words, and then with an indelible ink pen wrote “3” on the girl's forehead. Makala leaned over, kissed the girl gently, and then got up and went to a boy lying by the girl's side. The boy's leg was crushed below the knee, and he or someone else had slapped a tourniquet on him. He was unconscious. Makala put a finger to his throat to check his pulse, wrote “1” on his forehead, and stood up.

“A one! Here now!” she shouted.

A stretcher team sprinted up, one of the boys looking down at the girl shot in the stomach and slowing. And John could see the agony in his face. The two had dated a year ago, in fact had been something of “the couple,” until she broke it off. At a small college, everyone knew about the lives of the others, sometimes not so good, sometimes rather nice.

“Over here! This one here! Move it!” Makala shouted.

The boy, tears streaming down his face, was pushed forward by the girl at the back of the stretcher. They loaded on the boy with the mangled leg, turned, and started to sprint back down the road. Makala was already up to the next wounded, pen in hand. She was now, as the ancients might have said, the chooser of the slain: 1 for priority treatment, 2 for delay till all 1s were taken care of, 3 . . . 3 simply meant they were going to die and effort was not to be expended on them for now.

None of the student soldiers going into the fight knew about this triage, though the students assigned as medics did, as did all who were now helping to clear the battlefield, but it did not take long for the receivers of this to figure it out.

A girl was lying in the ditch against the median barrier, multiple gunshot wounds having stitched her body. Makala barely paused to look at her, wrote a “3” on her forehead, and moved on. The girl looked at John, crying.

“What did she write? What did she write?”

John knelt down by her side. It was a wonder she was still alive, the gunshot wound to her upper thigh having shattered her femur. How the femoral artery was not torn was beyond him. She was also shot through the chest and stomach, blood frothing her lips. He didn't recognize her. Most likely a freshman who had yet to take his class.

“She wrote ‘2,' sweetheart,” he lied. “Others worse hurt than you. Help will be along shortly.”

She tried to smile, to nod, but was already beginning the gentle slide into the night. John leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“Go to sleep now, honey. You'll be OK.”

She reached out and snatched his hand, her grip remarkably strong.

“Daddy?” she whispered. “Daddy, help me.”

“Daddy's here.”

She began to shake uncontrollably.

“Now I lay me down to sleep,” he whispered.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep . . . ,
she mouthed the words. The shuddering stopped. . . . She was dead.

John brushed the hair from her sweat-soaked forehead, kissed her again, then gently released her grip and turned away.

Distant shots echoed from the hills and more closely, from behind, as Tom's men continued to kill the Posse wounded.

Ahead, smashed into the side of the gap, was the smoldering wreckage of Don Barber's recon plane. During the worst moments of the fight John had seen Barber fly over, coming in low, tossing satchel charges, taking out one of their tractor-trailer trucks, and then suddenly wing over and go in.

John had specifically ordered Don not to tangle in the fight, to stay high, to keep doing recon, and in the opening hours he had done just that, flying up, observing, swooping back down over the town hall and dropping a note attached to a streamer with the latest update regarding the
enemy moves, then going back out. The info had been crucial, keeping John posted on which direction the Posse was pouring in from and, most important, knowing when their full force had been committed before the closing of the trap.

But as he had feared all along, Don could not stay out of the fight and had decided, at last, to play the role of ground support fighter.

Don Barber was tangled into the wreckage . . . dead. He was wearing his old uniform from the Korean War. John slowed, saluted him, then pushed on.

A line of prisoners was being led along the westbound side of the road, hands tied behind backs, all roped together, roughly thirty of them, including the last survivors flushed out of the burning house.

A guard leading them looked over at John and he motioned for them to move towards the truck stop at the top of the pass, the place he was heading.

The truck stop was actually a turnoff lane at the very top of the crest, a mandatory pull over for all commercial vehicles, especially 18-wheelers. Trucks that pulled in were not allowed to proceed until the drivers had examined the map of the long descent that marked out “runaway truck lanes” for vehicles that might lose their brakes on the way down. A traffic light was hung across the lane, timed to let trucks through at safe intervals or to stop them completely if there should be an accident farther down the mountain. Of course all that was now in the distant past. To the good fortune of the town, at the start of the crisis one of the trucks stalled there had been loaded with snack crackers, but those were long gone as well.

It had been the command post for the barrier line established what seemed to be an eternity ago and was now where so many were heading, as if by instinct.

John continued on the road, several students falling in around him, all with weapons poised, acting as a guard. There had been a student assigned to him early, but that young man had been killed back by the Exit 65 ramp, taken down by the blast that had knocked John unconcious.

The prisoners were herded over into the truck lane, where a couple dozen more prisoners waited.

As the second group approached, those already there looked over anxiously. Some stood up staring at the short slender man in the lead, white, gray hair cut close, tattooed arms, ugly face twisted up from what looked
to be an old knife wound, one of the final group flushed out of the burning house.

Malady, still alive, arm in a blood-soaked sling, came up to John.

John smiled and extended his hand, which Kevin clutched with his left.

“Good job, Kevin, damn good.”

“I lost a lot of kids, though,” he replied sadly. “It got real ugly once these bastards knew they were cornered. Kids were reluctant at first to shoot somebody who was down and looked dead, or badly wounded, but they learned real quick. . . .”

His voice trailed off.

He looked at the young soldiers standing around, gazing cold-eyed at the prisoners.

“You interrogate any of them?”

“Oh yeah, they're spilling their guts, pointing at each other. Everyone claiming they were forced into it. That piece of shit over there is their leader.”

Kevin looked over at the ugly man.

“Amazingly, that bastard is the leader. Apparently a big drug player in Greensboro, contact guy for major shipments of coke and heroin coming up from Florida. He might look soft, but they're all scared of him, even the worst of the lot. They say he claimed to have the inside line with Satan himself, that God had abandoned America and Satan now ruled and he was the appointed one sent from hell to pave the way for Satan's reign over America.”

“The stories about cannibalism?” John asked.

Kevin nodded and spat.

“They're all true.”

John walked over to the leader, who gazed at him and then actually smiled.

“So let me guess, you're the general here?”

John did not reply.

“Masterful plan. I bet you're the professor, aren't you. I heard about you yesterday from a prisoner we took. A sweet girl she was, captured her yesterday.”

John froze. The girl they had most likely lost in the skirmishing on the dirt road.

“I see a touch of military history in this fight. The la Drang Valley
perhaps, lure in, get close up, and envelop? Saw it in that movie and on the History Channel.”

“And you walked right into it,” John said sarcastically.

“Yes, I did; indeed I did. I guess he decided it thus.”

“He?”

“Satan of course.”

The man turned and looked at the other prisoners.

“Did I not tell you that if you failed to offer your souls to him fully and in all things he would abandon you? Now you are indeed doomed to the fiery pit of hell. For God has cursed this world and because you failed me, Satan shall turn away from thee as well. Your reign by his side will be replaced by eternal punishment for your lack of faith.

“These dogs will show you no mercy. Rather than feasting tonight on their flesh, as Satan wished for you, instead you will be carrion for the dogs and crows . . . or perhaps . . .”

He looked over shiftily at John. “. . . they will feast on your flesh.”

John, his Glock half-raised, was tempted to blow the man's brains out right there.

The other prisoners looked at him wide-eyed. Some started to cry; others knelt down, heads lowered, resigned to their fate.

It was so damn strange, John thought, how sometimes the most unlikely, an ugly little man like this one, could hold such power. He had a tremendous command presence, his voice sweet, rich, carrying power. So strange how some had that, could spout utter insanity and others would follow blindly.

“Cannibals,” John said coldly.

The man looked up at him, face twisted into a smile that almost seemed warm and friendly.

“My friend. You know enough about what has happened to know that this nation is doomed except for those chosen few with the strength to live. The flesh of the weak is the holy sacrament to us, the living, to survive and to have strength, to allow us our triumph of the will.”

He looked away from John and back to his surviving followers.

“For I have walked up and down and to and fro across the land and have considered this country that once was. Remove thy hand from it, protect it not, and the land that once worshipped thee will curse thee. And
thus it was true and the land is now indeed cursed and we are the ones sent forth to cleanse it.”

He then looked back at John.

“That girl we captured yesterday. She was indeed sweet, the best I think I've had. Well fed before she became our sacrament.

“You know the natives of New Guinea used to call their foes ‘long pork.' Well-fed flesh actually tastes like that . . . pork.”