It had been near run then, the attackers swarming forward, sensing victory, pushing hard, squeezing in where Route 70 ran within feet of the interstate, the very place where John had first met Makala, her Beemer now upended and piled into the defensive barrier line across the main line of defense, where the interstate curved up on a bridge that crossed the railroad tracks. It was a bridge poorly designed for traffic, every ice storm someone always spun out on that bridge, but if whoever had designed it was thinking of a battle, it was superb. It was like a hill with no flanks to worry about, atop the bridge a clear field of fire for a mile back up the road, behind the bridge a sharp slope up to where the old town water tank was, another superb position, and the flank there protected by a wide cut through the forest for the passage of high-tension lines, thus creating an open killing field against any of the Posse trying to get to the tower.
And then the trap itself. Concealed up on each flanking ridge, back near the gap, Company B, armed with the best long-range weapons the town could provide, high-powered deer rifles with scope mounts. Every house to either side of the interstate, several hundred homes, including his own, and a trailer park were rigged to burn, buckets of gas placed within each. Students who were not trained as soldiers were now pressed into service, so that when the signal was given, the siren on the fire truck sounding off, combined with signal rockets, they were to go into action, moving fast on mountain bikes or mopeds, setting each house ablaze. He had bet on the usual breeze picking up through the gap, as the air farther down below in the Piedmont heated and began to rise, drawing down air from the pass in a cool continual breeze. Luck was on their side as well in that it had been a tinder-dry summer.
The hundreds of fires merged together into an inferno, acting as the blocking force on each flank, flames driving eastward, cutting off retreat except back onto the interstate or the railroad, which were now kill zones.
At the other end of the box, to the west, at the interstate bridge waited what was left of Company A along with them every citizen of the town who could carry a gun, concealed behind the reverse slope.
It had been a bloodbath.
Once his outer defenses fell, the second wave of the Posse swarmed in, hundreds of vehicles pressing over the crest and, as John hoped, undisciplined enough that, sensing victory, they were now just rushing forward to start the looting and slaughter.
The fight at the bridge had almost been like something from the Civil War, hundreds of men and women rising up from concealment, leveling rifles and blazing away, shredding everything in front of them. Posse vehicles crashed into the barrier line and the fighting had turned hand-to-hand. And then along the opposite slopes fires ignited and began to spread, and as the last of the vehicles crossed in, Malady's team shut the back door, using the two automatic weapons provided by Tom, complete with six thousand rounds of ammunition, backed up by citizens who had produced "illegal weapons" and students armed with a couple hundred of the dangerous homemade grenades.
The force on the bridge had nearly given way, though. For several crucial minutes John had been down, knocked out by an explosion. But someone had rallied the ill-trained backup force, and they were charging forward regardless of loss.
All that was left then was the killing, the closing in of the box, and when cornered their opponents knew their fate and fought with a mad frenzy. This was not the type of fight where surrender was a way out, and they knew it. There would be no escape for them, no pulling back to wait and to then lunge back days or weeks later. They were all going to die this day, and tragically, for Black Mountain and Swannanoa, it was going to cost dearly to do that killing.
Washington had warned of that before the battle, suggesting a false escape path for the routed who could then be hunted down later in a second killing zone farther down the mountain, but there was no other way, John realized. If they left an escape valve, a sound idea with a well-trained force but risky with the assets he now had, the surviving Posse just might break through and indeed escape, and then it could be months of a bitter guerilla war against the vengeful survivors.
It had turned into seven horrid hours of taking ground back, a step at a time, a bloody step at a time.
The medics were coming forward at the double. Wounded from earlier in the attack who had managed to hide and not get murdered, those wounded in the relentless push back, lay by the hundreds along the road. From up on the south side the fire was rolling eastward and screams could be heard, those trapped up there and now burning to death. It made John think of the Battle of the Wilderness in 1864. One could read of that fight in the history books and feel remote somehow. Not now. Even if they were all Posse burning up there, it was horrific.
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 ha
ve 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 Is 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 unconscious.
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."
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