One Second After

  "Hell, there were even people going through the fast-food places by the interstate waving hundreds of dollars wanting to buy up the burgers uncooked.

  "The smart ones, though, they pilled into the three big markets in town, and it went from lines twenty deep to suddenly just people pushing out the door."

  "Did anyone try to stop them?" And he looked at Tom. Tom sighed.

  "John, we're talking about our neighbors here. Damn it all, I saw folks from my church in there, parents of my kids' friends. Yeah, I tried to stop them, but I'll be damned if we were going to shoot them."

  "Somewhere around twenty people died anyhow," Kate said. "Mostly collapses, heart attacks. A display case in Ingram's was shattered; someone fell into it, and bled to death."

  "John, people just pushed past that woman even as she died," Tom said quietly.

  John looked out the window to Bartlett's VW as it puttered off, leaving behind a stack of boxes, and headed back up Montreat Road.

  "John, it was surreal," Charlie said. "Everybody on foot, the streets filled with people, I think the most coveted item yesterday was a super­market shopping cart. Every last one has been looted and people were just walking up and down the street pushing their loads home."

  "That's why the heart attacks," Doc Kellor finally interjected.

  John looked at his old friend. Kellor, who as a very young general prac­titioner had brought Mary into the world, was with her when she left. He now tended to Jennifer and usually would drop over to the house once a month or so, to "check on my favorite girl," and then stay for a scotch and a round of chess. It rankled him that nine times out of ten John won.

  "Fear, combined with people actually having to walk more than fifty yards," Doc Kellor continued. "There's been something like three hundred deaths since this started."

  "Three hundred?"

  "Why not?" Kellor said dryly. "You forget how fragile we really are, the most pampered generations in the history of humanity. Heart attacks, quite a few just damn stupid accidents, at least eight murders, and several sui­cides. To put it coldly, my friends, all the ones who should have died years ago, would have died years ago without beta-blockers, stents, angioplasties, pacemakers, exotic medications, well, now they're dying all at once."

  John glared at Kellor for a moment, wondering what else he was thinking.

  "It even hit pacemakers?" Charlie asked. "Good God, my mother has one."

  Everyone looked at him.

  "She's in Florida; I don't know how she is... ." And his voice trailed off.

  "I'm sorry, Charlie," Kellor said, "but I've got to be blunt. Some yes, strangely, are still working, but how long the batteries will hold, well, I guess that's a countdown for them. But some died within minutes or hours."

  John looked back at Charlie.

  "You're going to have to take control, Charlie," and John said it sharply, a touch of the "command voice," in his tone, to shock Charlie back to the reality of the meeting. "Clamp down hard or it's going to get worse. So far we're just in the first stage of panic here."

  "What do you mean?”

  "People grabbing what they think they need, but not many thinking yet about a week from now, a month from now." He paused. "A year from now. Have you held a public meeting to discuss with people what hap­pened and what to do?"

  "What a disaster," Kate sighed. "Yeah, last night. Five or six hundred showed up; it was hard to get the word out. It almost made it worse. The moment Charlie started talking about EMPs and nuclear bursts, some folks just heard 'nuclear' and went crazy, saying they were going home to dig shelters."

  "Same as in Charlotte, according to Don Barber," John said. "When the realization finally hits that this is the long haul, people will start looking at each other, wondering if a neighbor has an extra can of food in their base­ment."

  "Or an extra vial of medicine hidden in a cooler," Kellor said quietly, and John knew he was talking about him but didn't react.

  "That's when either we try to pull together and keep order or it will go over to complete anarchy."

  "That old Twilight Zone episode," Kate said. "The one where a bunch of polite middle-class types are having a friendly social, the radio an­nounces nuclear war, and by the end of the half hour they were killing each other trying to get into the shelter one had in his basement."

  Funny how we think in terms of film and television now, John thought. The Twilight Zone. Last evening he'd been dwelling on the episode where the aliens started flicking lights on and off in different people's houses and soon everyone was in a panic, ready to kill one another, the aliens sitting back and laughing.

  What would Rod Serling say about this now? "Presented for your con­sideration, America disintegrating when the plug is pulled ..."

  "To hell with The Twilight Zone for the moment," Tom said, "Refugees. We're starting to get swarmed with outsiders. That has me worried the most now. At least we know our neighbors who we can count on, but all these outsiders, who knows what they might do? And if too many come in, we'll all be starving in a matter of days."

  "There's a million or more in Charlotte," Charlie said. "Even more in the Triad. If one in a hundred decides to make the trek, that means twenty, thirty thousand mouths to feed."

  He fell silent and no one spoke for a very long minute.

  "We'll have to have a plan," Kate said.

  "Sure, a plan, what plan?" Charlie sighed. "We had a plan for every­thing else, but never for this one. Never once for this one.

  "And that's why I got caught so off balance," Charlie said sadly, shak­ing his head. "I was waiting for someone to call, to do something. I'm sorry."

  "Charlie, anyone would have been overwhelmed," John said, not alto­gether truthfully, but still he could see Charlie's thinking. Like the military preparing for combat: disasters were something they drilled for. No one had ever drilled for something at this level, had a master plan up and ready to go, and therefore the precious first few days, when so much could have been done, were lost.

  "Maybe someone in Asheville is getting a handle on it," Tom said. "We all saw that Black Hawk go over. He was beelining straight for Asheville. Maybe they got some kind of link up there."

  John was silent. Asheville. Exit 64 to Exit 53, eleven miles. A day hardly went by without Elizabeth trying to figure out some excuse to go to the mall. A week didn't go by when he didn't drop into the Barnes & Noble to browse the military history shelves and then have a coffee, or take the kids downtown to their favorite pizza joint, the Magic Mushroom, where all the weirdos and hippies, as Jennifer called them went, much to the kids' delight as they enjoyed a meal and "people-watched" the street scene.

  Eleven miles, across unknown territory, it seemed like a journey filled with peril. My God, in just four days have we already become so agora­phobic, so drawn in on ourselves?

  "I think we should go into Asheville tomorrow and see what the hell is going on there," John finally ventured.

  "Agreed," Charlie replied.

  John looked around and realized he had put his foot into it. "Ok, I'll drive."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DAY 5

  "This is impossible," Charlie announced, and John grunted in agreement.

  Just past Exit 55, heading west, the interstate was completely blocked with scores of abandoned cars. During rush hour, it was this stretch of road where backups usually gridlocked, and when the EMP did hit, all the traffic had simply stopped, blocking the road across both lanes and the shoulder, where so many had drifted over as their engines stalled.

  He went into reverse, weaving around the roadblock of cars back to the exit, swung around, and got off the road, then went down to Route 70, which paralleled the interstate on the north side.

  "I wanted to go this way anyhow," Washington said, sitting in the back­seat of the Edsel. "Maybe the veterans hospital has some sort of connection.

  Flanking Washington were two of the boys from the college ball team, Phil Vail and Jeremiah Sims. At Washing
ton's recommendation, which Charlie had agreed to, the two had come along "for the ride," and concealed down by their feet were two shotguns and in Washington's hand a Colt .45.

  John nodded, took the turnoff onto 70, then headed west again, weav­ing around stalled cars, under the bridge for the Blue Ridge Parkway, and just past that, on their right, were the grounds of the veterans hospital.

  They pulled through the gate, and John's heart sank. Somehow, he had hoped that here, a veterans hospital, a federal facility, maybe there was a miracle, a hardened generator, or at least some semblance of normal life, of orderliness. He half-expected to see troops lined up guarding the place.

  Instead it was elderly patients scattered on the lawn, some lying on blankets, others just wandering about. A lane had been cleared of stalled cars approaching the highway, a "rent-a-cop" holding a shotgun standing in the middle of the road, motioning them to stop.

  John leaned out as the cop came cautiously around to the side of the car, shotgun half-leveled.

  "I'm Colonel John Matherson," he announced, feeling a bit self-conscious using that title again. He was so used to being called Professor or Doc these last few years, but Washington had advised him to revert to his old title for this trip.

  "I live in Black Mountain. And this is Charlie Fuller, our director of public safety. In the backseat there is Sergeant Washington, a retired ma­rine, and a couple of students from the college."

  The cop nodded, saying nothing, but he turned the gun away from John.

  "We're heading into Asheville to try and find out some information. Is anything running here? Electricity?"

  "Nope. No power. You folks got any?"

  "No, sir."

  "Is there anyone in charge here who knows what's going on? Contact with Raleigh or Washington?"

  Again the cop shook his head.

  "Damn."

  "Yeah, damn," the cop replied. "It's hell inside there. These old guys dying off left and right. Wouldn't think they could die so fast when without medicine for a few days."

  John thought of the nursing home, of Tyler. He had been nervous about leaving Jen and the girls alone with Tyler. But Ben had become something of a permanent fixture at the house, and John's across-the-street neighbors Lee Robinson and his wife, Mona, parents of Seth and Pat, had volunteered to come up and give Jen some time off to sleep.

  Tyler, of course, was failing. There was no IV, no oxygen, just pouring Ensure and water into him through his stomach tube. The agony was no painkillers. It was a blessing perhaps that the few days of neglect had pushed him to the edge of a coma. But when he was conscious John could see the agony in Tyler's eyes. Jen had stayed up through the night, and just before John left, Mona had walked up to lend a hand.

  John looked around again at the grounds, the patients, a few nurses lug­ging buckets of water up from a creek at the edge of the hospital grounds. He could only imagine what it was like inside; it was already turning into one hell of a hot day.

  "I think we best head into town," Charlie said.

  The cop nodded.

  "Good luck. And tell people up there we really need help here," the cop said. "Some of the staff, the doctors and nurses, have stayed on, but a lot left, and hardly anyone has come back."

  "Why are you here?" John asked out of curiosity.

  "Somebody came in yesterday and said a couple of the nursing homes in the area were hit by druggies. Well, there's a lot of that stuff inside that building. Figure they need some protection. Besides, I was a marine, took one at Hue, 1968. Those are my comrades in there. I don't have no family to worry about, so I guess these guys are my family."

  He then thumped his left leg and there was a hollow echo.

  "Semper fi," Washington said, and he leaned out the open window and shook the guard's hand.

  "Some advice," Washington then said. "Don't stand out in the middle of the road. Set up some sort of road barrier and keep to one side; use a stalled car as protection. I could have blown you away before you even blinked."

  The cop nodded.

  "Yeah, guess you're right. Forgot. Tired, I guess."

  "Good luck, Marine."

  "You, too."

  They backed out of the driveway, pulled out onto 70, and continued to­wards Asheville. A mile farther on, as they came up out of a hollow and started down the long hill that would pass the Department of Motor Vehicles; straight ahead they could see the Asheville Mall... a thick pall of smoke hanging over it.

  "Get on the bypass," Charlie said. "Don't go anywhere near it."

  Driving fast, John went up the ramp onto the I-240 bypass that led straight into the heart of Asheville. Once onto the bypass he began to wonder, yet again, about the wisdom of coming into the city.

  It was like driving an obstacle course with all the stalled cars. Ahead, through the highway cut in Beaucatcher Mountain, he could see numerous fires burning in the city, plumes of smoke rising up, spreading out in the morning heat, forming a shadowy cloud.

  A trickle of people were walking along the side of the road, and for all the world they reminded him of an old film clip of French refugees flee­ing the German advance in 1940. Some were pushing baby carriages, su­permarket shopping carts, a wheelbarrow, one family pulling a small two-wheeled cart like the type hooked up to the back of a yard tractor. All piled high with belongings, children, strange things like an old painting, a treasured piece of furniture, a stack of heavy books.

  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 ba
ck?"

  "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.