One Second After

by William R. Fortschen

  "Move an inch, Officer, and you are history."

  The cop hesitated.

  "No one gets hurt," Washington said coolly. "Mr. Fuller is going in to see Mr. Torrell. Everything will turn out fine and then we drive away. We'll all just sit here, wait, and talk like friends. Now son, either drop the gun or I promise you, you will be dead in five seconds."

  The officer laid the AR down.

  "Boys, take their rifles. Their pistols, too."

  Washington kept the pistol leveled as Jeremiah and Phil disarmed the two cops, the one who had been knocked flat with one blow sitting up, red faced, blood trickling down from a broken nose.

  "Sorry I had to do that to you, son," Washington said, then turned to Charlie.

  "Mr. Fuller, I think you should walk in. If the order is out to confiscate, we'll definitely lose this car trying to drive to the county office. We'll wait here."

  "I'll go along," John said.

  "Ah, Colonel, sir," Washington interjected. "I think you need to stay here."

  "Why?"

  "More cops might come along and I just have these two boys."

  John nodded, took one of the AR-15s, and looked over at Charlie.

  "I'll get back here as fast as I can," Charlie said. "Now listen, if for some chance I'm not back in," he looked down at his old-style wristwatch, "make it two hours, go for home. If it looks like you might lose the car, or have to fight, get the hell out and I'll walk home later. Ok?"

  "Sure, Charlie."

  Charlie turned and set off at a slow trot to the twin buildings of the courthouse and county office. Watching him go, John had the same thought he always did when seeing the twin towers of Asheville, the famous local legend how back in 1943 the pilot of the B-17 bomber Memphis Belle, Colonel Bob Morgan, had flown his plane between the two buildings, a buzz job with him banking at a forty-five-degree angle to squeeze through.

  Morgan was gone now several years, buried in the veterans cemetery in Black Mountain, and John turned to look back at the cop with the broken nose, the old Edsel, the two wide-eyed students of his.... My God, yet again, it was frightful to contemplate how much had changed.

  "You all right?" John asked, trying to sound friendly, squatting down by the cop's side.

  "Screw you, you asshole," he snapped. "That black son of a bitch broke my nose."

  Washington looked down at him and shook his head.

  "You're lucky that's all I broke," he said softly, all sympathy now gone. "And next time you address the gentleman, the first two words out of your mouth are 'Colonel, sir,' and as for me 'Sergeant' will be just fine.

  "Boys, help him to the side of the road; put him behind that Honda SUV." He turned and looked at the other cop. "Would you mind going over and sitting down there as well."

  The second cop nodded, saying nothing.

  "Phil, get back into the Edsel. Turn it off, but be ready to fire it up if I give the word. Colonel, how about you and I stand sentry."

  Washington leaned against the bridge railing, John beside him, and from a distance it would look like nothing had changed.

  John pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and saw the second cop looking up at him.

  "Want one?"

  "Yes, sir."

  John pulled one out, handed it down, the cop motioning to his pocket. Washington nodded and the cop drew out a lighter.

  "Damn, thank you, sir. Ran out of smokes two days ago."

  John, still holding the pack, looked down and counted. There were eight cigarettes left. He pulled two more out and handed them over.

  "Hey, thanks, sir."

  The universal gesture of a trade to cement the peace kicked in at that moment and John could see the second cop relax, exhaling with pleasure after he took a deep puff.

  John looked over at the cop who was gingerly touching his now-swollen nose that was still leaking blood.

  "You smoke?"

  "Kiss my ass."

  "Hey now," Washington said.

  "Gus, you just don't know when to shut the hell up," the second cop said. "Stupid shit, you got what you deserved for once."

  Gus shot him a bitter look, saying nothing but the gaze communicating that there would be payback time later for the comment.

  "What's your name?" John asked the reasonable cop.

  "Bill."

  "What's been happening here, Bill?"

  "I guess you can see it, sir," and though still sitting on the pavement, he gestured back towards the town.

  "Looting, panic. Martial law declared yesterday. They actually exe­cuted a guy last night right in the middle of Pack Place. He had killed a cop.

  "Got what he deserved then," Washington replied.

  "How the hell would you know?" Gus replied, his voice thick.

  "Because, you stupid shithead, I'm a cop, but unlike you I got some sense to me. Twenty-four years a marine before that. You might not believe this, buddy, but I'm on your side. But frankly, in your case, shore-patrol types like you I eat up for breakfast."

  "Some people coming," Jeremiah announced, and nodded up Charlotte Street.

  "I hope you guys cooperate," Washington said.

  "Yeah, sure," Bill replied. "I got no beef with you. Besides, you guys were right."

  "Wait until I tell the chief about this," Gus said coldly. "Be my guest. I'm not the one who got thrashed."

  John saw where Jeremiah was pointing and the sight was absolutely startling. It was like a procession, a hundred or more. Mostly the down­town weirdos as Jennifer called them.

  Asheville across the years had developed something of a reputation as a throwback, a "Haight-Ashbury East," with a bizarre street life of aging hippies and New Agers, Wiccans, and just a lot of drugged-out kids. They were, to John's view, harmless, though the more conservative element of the city and county had real difficulties dealing with them. Frankly, he sort of got a kick out of their presence; there was still, within himself, a touch of them from his own youth.

  It was indeed a procession, some guys up front beating on drums, a couple of girls, one of them definitely cute, with long blond hair and a sixties-looking nearly transparent dress on, with nothing on underneath, an old guy, gray beard and hair, wearing a robe carrying a sign that actu­ally declared; "The End HAS Finally Come." Another sign read: "Stop Globalization," other signs "We Got What We Deserved" and several "Peace Now."

  Jeremiah stood there grinning as the girl came up to him and did a bit of a provocative dance to the beat of the drum. As the group passed by the side of the Honda SUV, someone slowed.

  "Hey, they've got some cops! Looks like they kicked the shit out of Gestapo Gus."

  The procession began to grind to a halt.

  "Wow, man. Revolution now!" someone shouted, beginning to ap­proach Washington.

  "Revolution my ass," Washington said coldly, and the protestor stopped in his tracks.

  Bill stood up.

  "George, you know me," he said, speaking to the bearded character car­rying the end-has-come, sign. "Yeah, Bill."

  "Everything's cool here. Gus fell and broke his nose. These guys are helping out, so why don't you just move along."

  The leader nodded, the beat was picked back up, and the parade moved on.

  "Absolutely unreal," Washington sighed.

  "Asheville," Bill replied. "You gotta love it, even now at times. I know a lot of those kids; most of them are ok, even if a bit misguided."

  The dancing blonde came up to him and kissed him on the cheek. Bill actually patted her on the butt before she danced off.

  He caught John's eye and grinned slightly.

  "Monica and I had a little thing going a couple of months back."

  "Wow, you and her?" Jeremiah asked. Bill grinned but said nothing.

  John pulled out two more cigarettes and gave another one over, both he and Bill lighting up.

  "Poor kids," Bill sighed. "Strange when you actually think of it. What's happened, it's what many of them have wished for, for years. That one guy,
though, with the 'Stop Globalization' sign, him I never liked. Talks the peace bullshit line to score with the girls, but down deep a potential killer. Real anarchist, hell, if he could have pulled the plug he'd of done it and laughed.

  "Regardless of that, most of them are ok, and besides, it's a free coun­try, isn't it?"

  He chuckled sadly and shook his head.

  "They don't get it now. If this is as bad as I think it is ... they'll be the first to die. They don't know how to survive without a society that supports them even as they curse it or rebel against it."

  He sighed.

  "Once they run out of food, then the reality will set in, but by that point, anyone with a gun will tell them to kiss off if they come begging. And if those poor kids, if they have food, the ones with guns will take it. They're used to free clinics, homeless shelters when they need 'em, former hippie types smiling and giving them a few bucks. That's all finished. They'll die like flies, poor kids. No idea whatsoever how vicious the world can really be when it's scared and hungry.

  "Damn, I hate to see it. Wish their idealisms were true.

  "Gandhi and Stalin."

  "What?" John asked.

  "I used to tell Monica that when we'd get into politics. She'd always talk about how great Gandhi was. I'd tell her the only reason Gandhi sur­vived after his first protest was that he was dealing with the Brits. If Stalin had been running India, he'd of been dead in a second, his name forgotten."

  John filed that one away; it was a good point.

  The procession disappeared around the corner, heading back towards their traditional hangout, Pack Place, in the center of town.

  "A Black Hawk flew over yesterday." John asked, "Did it land here?"

  "Yes, right down in Pack Place. From Fort Bragg."

  "What did you hear?"

  "That's when Ed finally declared martial law. We're at war. That's all I know. The guy on board, bird colonel, said he'll be back in a week or so, then took off."

  "War with who?"

  "No one really knows. Terrorists, North Korea, Iran, China. Just that we got hit with an EMP nuke, so he said that means we're at war. How are things over in Black Mountain?"

  "About the same. Some looting, but Charlie got that under control."

  "Memorial Mission Hospital, is it running?" John asked.

  "No, sir. Generators never kicked on. I had to help take an old lady with a heart attack up there last night. We have some old trucks that run, a few cars we use as ambulances. My God, it was a damn nightmare up there. A hundred bodies or more lying in the parking lot..." And he stopped speaking, looking back towards the town where the old Battery Park Hotel, a hollowed-out shell, brick walls standing, was continuing to burn. Fires dotted the ridgelines beyond.

  "The Doors," Bill said.

  "What?"

  "You know, the Doors. The song 'This Is the End,' been thinking it a lot."

  "Here comes Charlie," Washington announced.

  He was coming back up the slope, jogging, obviously a bit winded, and motioned for them to get in the car.

  John looked at Bill and Gus, who was still on the pavement, eyes red rimmed, glaring.

  John went over to the Edsel, pulled a notebook out from under the pas­senger side, opened it and scribbled a note, then signed it.

  He handed it to Washington, who read it, smiled, then signed as well.

  To Chief of Police, Asheville, NC:

  The officer bearing this note, Bill Andrews, is a professional and has our highest recommendation. The incident between us was unfortunate but solely the blame of Gus Carter, a stupid ass who should be fired before he gets himself filled.

  Signed,

  John Matherson,

  Col. (Ret.)

  Professor of History

  Montreat College

  Sergeant Major Washington Parker U.S. Marines (Ret.)

  Washington grinned and then added underneath a postscript:

  Carter's lucky J didn't kill him; a baby could disarm him.

  John tore the note out of the pad, folded it, and handed it to Bill. "Hope that covers you."

  "What does it say?" Gus asked.

  "None of your damn business," John snapped.

  "Get in the car now!" Charlie shouted, coming up the last few dozen yards.

  "Colonel," Washington said, "clear Bill's weapon please, keep the ammo, and return it."

  John pulled the clip, chambered out the round in the barrel, and handed it back to Bill. Gus was on his feet, looking at Washington.

  "I like your gun," Washington said calmly. "And frankly, you are a danger to everyone but the bad guys when you are armed."

  "Give it back," Gus snapped.

  "I'm keeping it. Go explain to your boss how you lost it."

  "You damn nig—" He didn't get the rest of the word out, Washington delivering a butt stroke to his stomach, knocking him back over. Bill said nothing.

  "Good luck, Bill," John said, extending his hand, shaking Bill's. John reached into his pocket, pulled out the rest of his pack. Two cigarettes left, he handed the one to Bill.

  Again, a flash thought of the Second World War. A GI with a pack of cigarettes was a wealthy man, to share one with another man, or even a captured or wounded enemy, a significant gesture.

  "We're out of here," Charlie said, coming up to the car, gasping for air.

  Phil turned the engine over, got out from behind the wheel, and John piled in.

  "I'll take shotgun," Washington said, getting into the passenger seat. Charlie nodded and climbed into the back with the two boys.

  John went into reverse, swung around, then drove back down the on-ramp, feeling strange driving on the wrong side of the highway, moving fast.

  Washington took the two pistols he now had, the .45 and the Glock, and placed the Glock by John's side. He kept the AR-15 at the ready. "What happened back there?" Charlie asked. "Oh, we made peace," John said, "and you?"

  "Jesus Christ, it's a madhouse in the county office. Ed Torrell is dead."

  "What?"

  "Collapsed about four hours ago, dead in a couple of minutes. That re­ally got people panicked. Ed was a good man, tough, but fair."

  "Fair like with our car?"

  "I'm doing the same thing."

  John looked up in the rearview mirror.

  "Like with me?"

  Charlie hesitated, then shook his head.

  "Course not, John. As long as you help out like this. I know I can count on you when we need it."

  John relaxed.

  "OK, what's happening?"

  "That Black Hawk was from Fort Bragg."

  "Yeah, we heard about that from one of the cops."

  "Well, it's bad, real bad. There is no communication anywhere yet. They say they had some radios stored away that were in hardened sites and will start getting them out, but nothing prepositioned. Plans as well to see if any ham radio operators have old tube sets, maybe Morse code."

  "Sounds like that movie Independence Day," Jeremiah interjected.

  "You're right, and almost as desperate."

  "But news, I mean news from the outside?" John asked.

  "State government's moving to Bragg. Some assets there did survive. Plus it's damn secure."

  "Are we at war?"

  "Nobody knows for sure with who. At least at this level. Rumors that we nuked Tehran yesterday and half a dozen cities in Iran and just blew the shit out of North Korea."

  "So they did it?" Jeremiah asked.

  "Like I said, rumors."

  "How can we do that?" Phil asked.

  "What?"

  "I mean hit them when we can't get anything moving here."

  "It must have been an event limited to the continental United States. Our assets overseas are still intact, at least for the moment. "Oh yeah, there's a rumor the president is dead."

  "What?" John exclaimed.

  "Someone said the White House got word about fifteen minutes before the blast. Got the president airborne on Air For
ce One ... and the god­damn plane wasn't hardened sufficiently, and went down."

  "I can't believe they didn't harden Air Force One," Washington inter­jected.

  "Yeah, we can't be that dumb," Charlie interjected, his voice bitter with irony.

  "Here. Right now. What is going on?" John asked.

  Even as he asked, it felt strange. At any other time in the nation's history, the word that the president might be dead froze the nation in place. John could still remember the day Reagan was shot, the incredible gaffe by Alexander Haig at the press conference when he said, "I'm in charge here." That mere misstatement had nearly set off panic with some about an attempted coup.

  Air Force One went down? Horrible as the realization was, John felt at that moment it didn't matter to him. It was survival, survival here, at this moment, his family that counted, and he drove on, weaving around a stalled 18-wheeler, a truck that had been hauling junk food, potato chips, corn chips, and it was picked over like a carcass lying in the desert, hun­dreds of smashed-open cardboard shipping boxes littering the side of the road, bags of chips smashed and torn open lying along the side of the road. An old woman was carefully picking over the torn bags, emptying their meager contents into a plastic trash bag.

  "They did get lucky with some vehicles in Asheville," Charlie said. "A scattering of cars parked in underground garages. Their big problem is water. At least we're gravity fed, but part of their downtown has to have the water pumped over Beaucatcher, though down by Biltmore, and on the east side of the mountain they're still getting supplied from the reservoir. They're badly screwed in that department; that's why there's so many fires."

  He hesitated.

  "Therefore Asheville is trying to organize an evacuation."

  "To where?" Washington asked.

  "Well, to Black Mountain for one. The new guy in charge, I don't even know him, he told me we're supposed to take five thousand refugees from the city. Didn't ask, no discussion. An order like he was now the dictator of the mountains.

  "Almost the first words out of his mouth when I reported in to him. They want to spread their people out all over the region, as far west as Waynesville, north to Mars Hill, south to Flat Rock."