“I’ll let you know when it’s cleared,” he announced, and then he went forward, crouching low in the ditch, his .45 out.
He pressed up alongside the road another fifty yards. He saw someone lying in the road, half sitting up, clutching his side. It was old man Wilson Stepp.
He drew closer, Wilson half turning to look in his direction. He suddenly realized his own field training was definitely rusty. The lake, illuminated by the burning shed and moonlight, was behind him, thus clearly showing his silhouette if anyone was on the other side of the road.
“Hey, John—get down,” Wilson gasped.
At that same instant, he saw it—a bright-red spot of light sparkling on his chest.
“Oh shit.” The words barely slipped out of him.
“Okay, Matherson, just hold your hands up, and walk up this road real easy like.”
“Sorry, John,” Wilson gasped. “You stupid ass, shouting out your name like that. They’re just behind me.”
His response was instinct, lowering his pistol to shoot at the laser sight that he could see glinting from a concealed position upslope from the road.
Less than a second later, the impact of the shot hitting his chest knocked the wind out of him, and he went down on his knees. He heard running, more shots. He started to turn—it looked like Maury was going down just behind him—then a stunning blow to the back of his head and a falling away into darkness.
* * *
Dawn.
The sound of an engine, a jolt of pain, a feeling that he was falling, even as he looked up at the canopy of trees overhead. A bounce that made him gasp from the pain, the back of his head, his chest.
He tried to move, but his hands and feet were bound. What in the hell?
He tried to sit up. A harsh voice close to his ear, breath stinking. “I’d stay right where you are if I was you. Otherwise, you get another tap to the head.”
He was silent for a moment, each jostling bounce triggering a wave of pain. He felt light-headed, disoriented—a concussion, most likely. He half opened one eye, caught a glimpse of a rough-hewn-looking character, bearded, in camo fatigues, cradling a short-barrel M4 with laser sights, sitting in the bed of the truck.
The sun was up, golden light filtering through the forest canopy softened with morning mist. They were on a downhill grade that kept going and going. Something told him that they must be on the far side of the Mount Mitchell range, heading down the long slope of over six thousand feet of altitude to the inhabited valleys on the far side of the mountain. The driver shifted out of gear for a moment; John heard at least one other vehicle, some laughter—and a strange sound then … squealing. It sounded like pigs.
Damn it, he thought. I get tangled up in this for some damn pigs and moonshine. What a reason to get taken by whoever this is.
He looked up at his captor. “Where am I?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Silence for a moment, his head throbbing. “Thirsty. Could I have something to drink?”
His captor chuckled, waited a few minutes, looking off as if to convey who exactly was in charge, and then he reached into a pocket, pulled out a bottle, and uncorked it, offering it over.
“Hands tied,” John said, and his captor grinned.
“Yup, well, have a touch of this.” He held the bottle to John’s lips. It was shine, pure shine, but John took a gulp anyhow, coughing and gasping, and a moment later, he vomited it back up, his captor cursing him and then laughing even as he passed out again.
* * *
“All right, drag the son of a bitch out.”
John came back to consciousness as someone pulled him by his feet toward the tailgate of the truck. He opened his eyes, and there was a moment of barely suppressed panic at the sight of a hunting knife, wondering if he was about to have his throat cut. Someone cut the bonds around his ankles and roughly pulled him upright, ordering him to turn around. His hands were freed, a slice of skin from his wrist going with the rope.
He flashed back to his nightmare experience of POW training as a green second lieutenant during a time when outright physical abuse was an accepted part of the program. Even though all knew they were in Fort Bragg, North Carolina, more than a few cracked under the torment. He limped out of that training with a sprained ankle, one eye swollen shut, and a cracked rib when he had attempted an escape, which all were expected to try. He had run afoul of a Green Beret “guard,” whom he had at least had the pleasure of kicking in the groin, which triggered the “guards” into giving him some payback.
Try never to show pain, don’t show fear—it had been drilled into him then. He hated to admit it now, but he definitely felt pain, and it was hard not to show fear.
They were in a forest clearing, definitely miles north of Mount Mitchell, its peak and ridgeline clearly visible in the early morning light. Somewhere up in the Burnsville area, he guessed.
Reiver country.
“Bring him over here.”
He was shoved hard, nearly falling over, struggling to maintain his footing and some semblance of dignity. They were at a mountain crossroad, of all things a local fire station, engine still within, a burned-out gas station next door and a few run-down houses and single-wide trailers, run-down long before the Day. Whoever called for him was sitting in an overstuffed lounge chair inside the open fire station. Several men, all dressed in camo gear, were gathered around the chair, whispering, glancing back at John.
In spite of his dazed condition, his thoughts flashed to a movie about some dumb-ass canoeists going out for a weekend in the mountains of Georgia, a movie that scared the crap out of every Northern boy. When he moved from New Jersey to attend college at Duke, his Southern friends often teased him with suggestions they go canoeing and see if they could find some locals for him to meet.
A couple of the men inside the fire station definitely looked like extras from the film, especially the one that he assumed had shot him, his few remaining teeth blackened as he gazed sardonically at John. The only thing missing to make the moment terrifyingly complete was a mentally disabled kid playing a banjo. It fit every worst stereotype ever held about folks living in the mountains of southern Appalachia.
“So this is the great John Matherson?”
Things were out of focus, his head aching from the blow that had knocked him out. His damned tooth was throbbing, and another wave of nausea was hitting. This was certainly turning into one hell of a rotten day.
Shoved again from behind, John staggered into the gloom of the fire station, the shadowy figure in the lounge chair chuckling at his obvious discomfort and then ordering someone to fetch a chair for their guest.
Knees trembling, John half collapsed into the chair and leaned forward, gasping for air, each breath a torment thanks to what he assumed must be a cracked rib or two from the bullet impact.
“Get a medic. George might’ve cracked this poor man’s skull.”
“Lucky if that was all I cracked,” a voice replied. “I popped him square in the chest before tapping him on the back of his head. If it weren’t for that fancy Kevlar vest of his, you’d be talking to a corpse now.”
“Nice vest, Matherson. You’d be dead now if you didn’t have it on,” the voice interjected. “Someone help him out of it. We can use it ourselves.”
John did not object as the flak vest was pulled off, suppressing a gasp as the one taking it off none too gently pointed out the impact point, bruised black and blue.
“Vest is mine now; I claim it,” his captor announced. “I’m the one that shot him, then took him prisoner.”
“We settle that later. All captured supplies go into the common store.”
“The hell you say!” the man with the blackened teeth exclaimed.
There was a moment of silent confrontation between George and the apparent group leader sitting in the lounge chair. With a curse, George finally tossed the vest aside and walked out.
Relieved of the Kevlar, John sat back in the padded
chair, stretching his shoulders, breathing deeply, trying to judge for himself how badly he was hurt. Every breath hurt, but better that than an exit wound the size of his fist with his heart going with it.
“So where is this bastard?”
It was a woman’s voice, older. He looked back out the doorway at a gray-haired, slightly bent woman in faded jeans and a flannel shirt carrying an old-style medical bag.
She approached John, took out a flashlight, and shined it into his eyes so that he winced, telling him to follow the light, rough, callused hands fingering his head. It hurt like hell as she did so, the light causing him to lose focus for a moment.
She taped his chest, feeling along his sternum so that he winced when she pressed in hard. Sticking a dirty finger into his mouth and then pulling it out and examining it for a moment, she finally wiped the finger on her flannel shirt.
“Don’t see any blood in your spit. You cough any blood up?” she asked.
He said nothing, slowly shaking his head.
“Good. Just a cracked rib, no lung punctured by it. You puke at all?”
“Yes, a bit earlier.”
“Concussion, not too bad—that and a cracked rib or two. That’s all.”
Without further comment, she picked up her medical bag, opened it, pulled out an oversized bottle of aspirin, shook out two, and handed them to John.
“Take these and call me in the morning,” was all she said, and she walked out.
“That’s one helluva medic.” John sighed, and his host laughed.
“Maggie is the best. She pulled two bullets out of me last fall with nothing more than a quick shot of white lightning before digging in.”
Focus was coming back, and John looked over at his host. The man, like so many now, had that ageless look—on the surface maybe in his midthirties but infinitely older inside. His skin was weather beaten, leathery. He was dressed a bit more neatly than the group of several dozen hanging about the fire station—jeans, a combat blouse with the eagle of the famed 101st Airborne draped around his narrow shoulders, left sleeve empty and pinned up at the shoulder, left eye covered with a patch, and jawline twisted and gnarled like the bark of an old oak.
“Name’s Forrest Burnett, once a first sergeant with the 101st.” He pointed at the empty sleeve with his right hand. “Lost that in some shit hole of a valley in Afghanistan about ten years back.” He smiled, pointing up to the eye patch and twisted scars of his face.
“Actually lost the arm first to an IED. Rest of my squad dead. When the bastards came up to check us, oh good Lord, how I wasted them all, but lost the eye and my good looks before I killed the last of them.” He laughed softly. “Not like your war … it’s Colonel, isn’t it?”
“Something like that,” John said cautiously.
Burnett looked to those gathered around. “We got us a special guest here,” Burnett announced loudly so all around him could hear. “A real live colonel. Oh, I know his record. Book-learning-type colonel. Even in the Pentagon, not like one of us grunts they sent out in that last war. Now a hero in these mountains for how he turned back that pagan Posse group.”
“Shit, fifty of us,” one of the group interjected, “would have kicked their stinking asses clear back to Greensboro.”
There was a laughing chorus of agreements.
The leader shot an angry glance back at the man who spoke up. “Keep your damn mouth shut!” he snarled, and the one he spoke to dropped his head and backed up.
John said nothing, for after all, what could he say? In a way, Burnett was right. He had received many an advantage ever since college and his decision to go into the military with the immediate rank of second lieutenant. From the accent, John knew Burnett to be a local, most likely a volunteer out of patriotic fervor or poverty after 9/11, sent back from Afghanistan twisted up in body and mind.
“Got the Silver Star for that, wasting those bastards, and then years of bullshit afterwards. How was your retirement, Colonel?”
John said nothing. Burnett was taking him into the game of who had it worse, and in that case, John would most certainly lose. John would always be the first to admit that, especially in the years just prior to the Day. Retired colonels did get far more perks. A one-armed sergeant with a twisted face and missing an eye might get a lot of sympathy at least and compassion—especially after the crap that had been heaped on the veterans of Vietnam—but in the long run?
“Look, Sergeant. You want to shoot me or hang me, then just do it and get it over with. So let’s cut the crap. It’s your call,” John snapped back, knowing that Burnett had every right to be bitter, and making an appeal for mercy would fall on deaf ears.
Most fell silent, though a few, led by George standing outside the firehouse, offered to help him with his suggestion of a firing squad.
Burnett gazed at him intently, and finally a smile creased his face. “Damn you, Matherson. At least you got some sand in your craw. George, find him a cot; let him sleep off his headache.”
The man who had been his captor sighed, stepped out from the group watching the encounter, and roughly pulled John to his feet.
“Lucky son of a bitch,” George announced to all.
“Just see to him,” Burnett said, “and cuff his ankle to the bed. Bet he got one of those bullshit escape-and-evasion courses, and now thinks he can pull a Rambo and split on us.”
John looked at Burnett.
“I escaped from mine,” Burnett asked. “How’d you do?”
“Got the crap kicked out of me,” John answered honestly.
“Figured.”
“Just one question.”
“Sure, Colonel Matherson.”
“The rest of my unit with me … what happened?”
“Think we killed one, the guy following you.”
John took that in, not trying to show any emotion. Was Maury wearing a Kevlar vest?
“Friend of yours?” Burnett asked.
“Yeah.”
“And if we killed him?”
“You know what I’ll do if I get out of this.”
Burnett nodded.
“Your Stepp friends started it. Traded us some bad moonshine a month back. Had lead in it. Damn near killed George over there. So we were paying a return visit to burn out their still and pick up a bit of food, and it went bad. Didn’t expect you as a prize, though, Matherson.”
“The Stepp family?”
“We don’t kill civilians unless we got to,” Burnett snapped.
John turned to look at George. “If you killed my friend and I get out of this, it’s personal for me, and you’re a dead man,” he said slowly, forcefully.
The punch to the jaw put John out cold for several more hours.
* * *
“You are one stupid bastard, you know that, Colonel?”
John forced his eyes open. He had actually been awake for at least a half hour or more but had mimicked sleep, trying to gather his thoughts and figure out what to do next. His defiance might have earned him a touch of respect, but the aching jaw from the uppercut was numbing, and he wondered if a couple of teeth had been knocked loose. Unfortunately, the blow hit on the other side of his mouth, so the toothache was still with him.
Opening his eyes wide, he found he could at least focus somewhat. It was Burnett, chair pulled up by the side of John’s cot, and he was holding a steaming mug. The scent all but overwhelmed John; it was real coffee.
He sat up, stifling a groan, and took the cup. He wondered if this was now “good cop” time with Burnett offering a treat that no one in Black Mountain had seen in nearly two years. But he accepted it anyhow, half gulping it down, though it was scalding hot, regretting it a few minutes later when the coffee hit his empty stomach.
“Here, eat this; it will settle your guts.” Burnett held out a slice of fresh-baked bread slathered with—of all things—real butter. It was slightly sour but still heavenly, which John took and wolfed down, trying not to sigh with delight. God in heaven, he thought. Real
coffee, bread, and butter, and we all took it for granted our entire lives.
“What in the hell am I going to do with you?” Burnett opened without any preamble. “The way I see it, I got three choices. One, we shoot you or hang you as a warning to any who try to mess with us. You really have quite a name around here, and killing you would be, as the natives of the region once said, a real coup. Two, we make you a slave. You know what most of the tribes and white folks did two hundred and fifty years ago when they had a captive they wanted to keep?”
“Cut their Achilles tendons so they couldn’t run—and if still a problem, castrate them.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“And the third?” John ventured. “Let me go or trade me back.”
“Good thinking, but still not certain on any of the three,” Burnett replied. “No sense asking you what you think. Pride will prevent you from appealing to the third choice; fear definitely the second one; defiance might make you ask for the first—and at the moment, I think a majority of folks with me would lean towards that. George was the one who put that round into your chest, and believe me, he was shooting to kill you. He’d have finished you if not for that nurse who took care of you. I heard Maggie kicked his gun up and told him to bring you in.”
“So why don’t you just finish the job publicly? Will win a lot of prestige points with some.”
Burnett took back the empty coffee mug and plate, setting them on the floor. “Response that I kind of assumed from you, Colonel. You ain’t the whining type. Whether that is really you or just a game you’re playing, it does work to a certain extent. Though the big drawback to shooting or hanging you is it will set off the biggest feud these mountains have seen since the Civil War. Your people won’t rest until a lot of dead have been piled up. So, Colonel, that’s an argument in your favor.”
“Can we cut the colonel-and-sergeant routine?” John said, and at that moment, he thought of his lost friend Washington, the security guard at the college who had taken a frightened group of kids and whipped them into a potent military force able to defeat the Posse, dying in that fight. Washington had never dropped the colonel-and-sergeant routine, and it had always rankled John and would for the rest of his life. It haunted him, because between himself and his lost friend, he felt Washington was indeed the better man.
One Year After: A Novel Page 9