She nearly shouted the last words.
“Okay, Mabel, I’m backing up.”
“And remember this for good measure: I am required by the law that used to exist to ensure the proper posting of mail without censorship, and please don’t try to stop me.”
John gazed at her, ready for a frustrated retort when she pushed that final point in, but she defused the moment by exhaling nosily and then offering the flicker of a friendly smile.
“Sorry, John. Now that I know what is in those envelopes I’m as upset as anyone. One of them is addressed to my son-in-law. Just like you, there are times I hate the job I have to do, but I do it anyhow, the same as you.”
John made the gesture of stepping forward again, leaning over to offer a friendly kiss to her forehead and she gave him a hug, the situation defused.
Even as he stood there, he saw one of the glass doors opening. It was Ernie Franklin, elbowing his way past Lee Robinson, and sure enough, seconds later, there was an explosion of expletives from the foyer.
“Now I got to deal with it,” John finally replied, wearily shaking his head, looking back down at Mabel.
She sighed, reached out, and took his hand. “Hey, I’m just the messenger, as they used to say, so don’t shoot me.” She hesitated, now a bit embarrassed, because in his former career, which was essentially that of dictator, he had indeed shot more than one person. “Sorry,” she fumbled, red faced.
He smiled. “I know what you mean, and no insult taken, Mabel. It used to be a popular metaphor for the bringer of bad news—and this morning, it is bad news.”
“My God, John. I owe you everything for what you helped to do with George, pushing the town to release some antibiotics for that last bout of pneumonia. But I’m sorry—if things are to one day work out, I have to do my job, the same as you do.” She hesitated, gulped, and stepped back slightly. “I can’t stop you from pulling those envelopes out of the mailboxes, but if you do, you will have lost my respect, John.”
How could he respond to that challenge? And now more and more of the mailboxes were being pulled open. Ernie was continuing his expletive-laden tirade and whipping up a potential explosion, right in the lobby of the post office.
“Well, it’s already out there, Mabel,” he replied, pointing to the boxes.
She stepped back closer and again squeezed his hand. “You’re the leader in this town, John. You’ll manage somehow; you always do.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, shaking his head. He looked at the mailboxes and at the friends and neighbors gathering on the other side. “Damn it, Mabel,” he said, forcing a friendly smile. “At least next time, give me a call first so I can either figure out what to do first, or…” His voice trailed off, and he didn’t add, Or find a place to hide.
How often, from the very first days, had he wished he could do just that as he opened the door and stepped back out into the foyer.
Ernie Franklin was, of course, immediately in his face. Though in his midseventies, he radiated a definite “don’t ever mess with me” aura. Head of what all called “the Franklin clan,” who lived on the far side of Ridgecrest. Some had defined them as survivalists even before the Day. Ernie and his wife had, prior to the war, been tech heads—programmers starting way back in the 1960s. He had proudly let everyone know that he and his wife Linda had written some of the software for Apollo and the shuttle programs. Foreseeing the future, which finally did happen, he had bought up a hundred acres of mountain and built his fortresslike retirement home at the edge of town. It was well stocked with food that obviously was still supplying his “clan,” which now included a couple of sons, their families, a daughter, and a reclusive author who had come into their lives before the Day. They had survived on their own since the first day, never requesting rations or help from the town. On the day of the cataclysmic battle with the marauding Posse, the enemy’s flanking attack had swept along the edge of Ernie’s property but then shied back when confronted by an explosion of automatic weapons fire. Indirectly, his clan’s efforts had contributed to the town’s victory by forcing the enemy to funnel in along a narrow hiking path rather than using an old logging road, that would have flanked his own position along the Ridgecrest Heights and the Baptist conference center. As a result the main battle had been fought along Interstate 40, but whenever possible, Ernie let everyone know on a regular basis that whether part of the organized fighting force or not, his clan had played a crucial role in the battle and deserved recognition.
And now he was ready to unleash on John, and he did so in no uncertain and most definitely scatological language. John long ago learned to let him vent until he finally took a deep breath.
Finally, Ernie relented, breathing hard, and John held his hand up.
The foyer of the post office was packed, and given the level of sanitation all now lived with, it was a bit rank. He had always been sensitive to smells, something his boot camp drill sergeant picked up on and had made sure John’s job was to scrub out the barrack’s bathroom after the first round of use in the morning, with John usually vomiting up his breakfast while he worked. After two years, the natural scents of his irregularly washed neighbors had become something of a background norm, but it still troubled him at times.
“How about we all step outside?” John offered. “Let’s sit down, take a deep breath, and talk about this. Could you help me with that, Ernie?”
Caught a bit off guard by John’s standard maneuver to ask someone to help him, especially in a moment of crisis, the response was almost always the same. Ernie muttered an agreement and motioned to the door as if he were in charge—and the crowd followed him out.
As they stepped outside, John saw Ed, the police chief, who had most likely been summoned by Jim at the switchboard and had come down from the town office to keep an eye on things. John made eye contact and gave him a subtle hand gesture to just relax and walk away as if nothing was amiss. In this new world of theirs, everyone walked about armed. John always kept a light Ruger concealed in his pocket; most of the neighbors present had a rifle or shotgun casually slung over the shoulder or cradled under an arm. But Ed was the town’s armed authority, and he did not want to convey the slightest concern that he might need armed support to this ever-growing and angry crowd.
More than a hundred were now gathered, many clutching the draft notices for themselves or their children and kin, and John made it a point to let people see that he had one in his hand. Folks began to sit down along the curb, leaning against the odd assortment of old vehicles folks had retrofitted to function again after the EMP burst had blown out the electronics. Several of the cars had huge canvas bags strapped to the roof to store the gas from the charcoal burners that Mabel’s husband had figured out could actually power a car … just barely but enough at least to drive around town and out to the fields that were now their farmlands.
He cleared his throat and motioned for a moment of silence. That had become traditional with town meetings, formal and informal. If Reverend Black were there, there would have been a prayer, nonsectarian, an appeal for guidance and calm, but without his presence, there would just be silence for a moment.
John finally cleared his throat again and spoke. “I have no answers for you.”
“Well, that is one helluva start!” Ernie interjected sarcastically.
John looked over at him and held his hand out in a calming gesture. “Just let me say my piece, and then we’ll all have a chance,” John offered, and he saw that he had the support of the rest of the group.
Ernie reluctantly nodded and went to sit in the driver’s seat of his Polaris.
“My daughter Elizabeth got the same letter the rest of you got to report in three days for mobilization into this Army of National Recovery that we’ve been hearing about. We kind of knew that this draft would sooner or later be at our doorsteps—and today, it is. I’m asking that we hold our tempers for now. I’ll go into Asheville, talk to this new federal administrator that came in last month, D
ale Fredericks, and see what he has to say, since chances are it came out of his office. I’ll call him right now and let him know I’m coming.”
He looked up at the sky and then back at the crowd. “Weather looks good for today.” His next move was definitely a calculated one on his part—some would say even cynical manipulation, others one of the basic principles of leadership. “Some of the boys at the college actually managed to get a wild boar night before last after trying to lure it in for weeks. They’re butchering it even now, and our friend Pete of barbecue fame is helping them. Rather than salt it down or smoke it, let’s just indulge ourselves this evening. I’ll ask Pete if he can get a roasting pit going right now in the town square. Ernie, maybe you and some others could help. How about we have a community meeting—say, at six—and I’ll have more information then and a bit of a meal, as well? It won’t be Pete’s finest pulled pork, but it should still be pretty good. And no ration cards for this. It’s time to celebrate after spring planting and all the good weather we’ve been blessed with.”
“Cook something like that takes days,” Ernie interjected. A glance from John, though, to at least give him a break on this point had its effect. “Yeah, okay, John. We’ll help Pete try to make the pig somewhat edible and ready for the meeting tonight when I’m sure you’ll return with some damn good answers,” Ernie replied.
There were outright cries of delight from those who were still trying to just barely get by on the public rations. A meal of real meat, no matter how tough, was always a lure and a promise.
“But before you go, John, I have something to say first,” Ernie announced, but John held up his hand.
“As I said before, Ernie, I know nothing more than the rest of you. I want to get that call in now and get on the road. Is that all right with all of you?”
John dreaded such informal sidewalk meetings. Everyone felt they had to have their say, and it would drag on for hours. His nature was such that he wanted to get the real information and get it now, sort it out, and then deliver the hard message as quickly as possible. He wondered if this mobilization of his community’s fittest and healthiest young men and women had more behind it than just simply a call-up for national service, such as what happened in the Second World War. He could see already from those who were waving the blue envelopes that the community’s most able-bodied, who were the backbone of their town’s defenses and hardest workers in the fields, were the first to be called.
CHAPTER TWO
DAY 730 • NOON
“You sure you don’t mind driving?” John asked.
Makala Turner Matherson smiled and shook her head, a smile that always captivated him. She was petite, of slender build even before the starving times, and still had striking blond hair—and unlike most women now, she had kept it long. They had met literally on the Day. She lived in Charlotte and had been heading to Mission Hospital in Asheville to attend a conference for nurses specializing in cardiovascular surgery when her car stalled out, like nearly every other car on the roads that day … fortunately for her, and for him, she became stuck at the Black Mountain exit. He had spoken briefly to her that first evening, as she stood by the side of the road. Even then, it was her eyes that had first captivated him. That first instant of eye contact—her unique eye color, sometimes near golden, other times more brownish green—had caught the evening light and actually seemed to sparkle. He had not let it register then; on that evening he was an anxious father looking for one of his daughters along with trying to figure out what had happened.
A day later they crossed paths again and in the weeks that followed she gradually became part of his life, literally saving his life when he was hit with a staph infection, and then stepped far deeper into his family, and his heart, as she helped to nurse his youngest daughter, Jennifer, as her life slipped away due to diabetes. Prior to the the Day, he never believed anyone could replace his first wife, Mary, who had been taken by cancer years earlier, but during the initial months of crisis, and then the long winter afterward, he came to realize that not only did he depend upon her as a friend and ally, but that they had fallen in love as well. He could no longer imagine life without her … her emotional strength, her empathy, and a strong moral compass that he completely trusted and relied upon.
Since they were heading to Asheville, she decided to dress a bit more formally, wearing a light-blue knee-length skirt and gray blouse. Hardly anyone wore white anymore. What little bleach remained was for water purification and manufacturing a couple of different medications. Hearing of the mission he was setting out on, she had even disappeared into the woods a bit downstream from their house for a very chilly dip to clean up, and thus she exuded a fresh, scrubbed, nearly cheery glow that he always found so appealing.
When heading out of town, he preferred that she did the driving; it freed both of his hands if a weapon was needed.
“Just wish I was driving my old Bimmer rather than this beast,” she announced. “My God, to have that BMW and something like the parkway with a good radar detector … now that was driving! It was one of the reasons I loved it up here and wanted to move here out of Charlotte after the divorce. So now I am here, and no Bimmer—just your beat-up Edsel, John Matherson.”
She reached out to take his left hand. His other hand rested on the Glock holstered on his right hip.
If not for the nature of the trip and always the slight sense of danger when heading outside the confines of Black Mountain, he actually was enjoying this ride on the open road.
It was a delight to be on an absolutely empty Interstate 40. The tires of the old Edsel were starting to bald—new tires for such a car were of course impossible to find—so for safety, they kept it at a stately thirty-five miles per hour.
The road had always been a favorite of his. A long, sloping climb a couple of miles west of the entry ramp at Exit 64 revealed a magnificent view of the Mount Mitchell range to his right, the highest mountains east of the Rockies at over 6,600 feet. At this time of year, the lower slopes were a lush green, but the peaks even in mid-May could still be dusted with snow, which was indeed the case this morning. The lower range of mountains to the left of the highway, rising up only four thousand feet, was awash with the spring coloration of pale brilliant green.
The interstate was beginning to show the effects of two years without maintenance other than work crews pushing the hundreds of abandoned cars aside. The first year, the grass had not been cut, and now in the second year, spring saplings were beginning to sprout along the shoulders.
Houses out along the fringe of town had long been abandoned, with folks moving into vacated homes in town for security. Many of the abandoned homes had broken windows, vines creeping up along the outside walls, overgrown walkways, and abandoned cars with flattened tires beginning to rust in driveways. In one sense, it could be a depressing sight, but in another way, John saw it as nature reclaiming the lushness of this land, working to erase some of the monuments of man.
The flat, rich farmland flanked the road; nearly all of it was under cultivation. Precious gas was rationed out for the tractors, and that had been a deeply troubling concern for John and the town council. Gasoline might hold out for another two years or so, if rationed wisely and treated to maintain its volatility, but then what? He still harbored fantasies of trying to build steam-powered tractors, machines he had always been fascinated with as a historian.
Several such tractors had actually been located in the barns of remote farms, rusted solid and forgotten. It was hoped that parts from the machines might be cobbled together by the time of autumn harvest into one tractor that could actually run on wood rather than gasoline. Again, his wish was that the community had more old-fashioned machinists and tool and die makers who could build such things from scratch.
They drove past several well-guarded pastures along the highway, where the few precious horses that had not been killed for food in the first year were kept. He caught sight of a newborn colt frolicking about, and he smiled
at the sight. It was not just the beauty of new life; it might be their main source of energy for farming in a few more years if the technological infrastructure of their world—at least to an early- to mid-twentieth-century level—was not restored.
The scent of an apple orchard wafted through the car, and he breathed deeply. The last of the petals of spring were still falling and swirling about on the late-morning breeze.
It had been a beautiful land when he had arrived there over a decade earlier, and it still was. In spite of human folly, the land was breathtakingly beautiful, whether cloaked in the glory of spring or covered with the mantle of winter snows. He had to keep reminding himself to look past the crisis, the terror and fear, that today was a good day to be alive up in the mountains of western North Carolina.
Ahead was the barrier his community had set up just beyond the Exit 59 turnoff. The sight of it refocused him on the reason for a noonday drive along an empty interstate highway.
He had called the new federal administrator in Asheville, Dale Fredericks, as he had promised Ernie and the gathering in front of the post office, and when told that the administrator was busy but could see him later in the week, John had offered a few choice words to the unidentified assistant and said he would arrive at noon and hung up. The game of bureaucrats, a game he knew well from his time serving in the Pentagon, had attuned him to how power was played—and to wait hat in hand for a callback was an admission of subservience. Beyond that, he had promised the community he would have some answers by evening, and to tell everyone to wait would definitely not play well at all.
One Year After: A Novel Page 3