William Forstchen - The Final Day

As he looked around at those gathered with him, a favorite hymn came to mind that Aaron Copland had titled “Simple Gifts.” As if there were some sort of mental prompting, with the meal done, the daughter got up, went over to the piano in the living room, thumbed through a layer of sheet music, picked out a piece by Debussy that John recognized, and began to play.

There was a moment of silence from the others as they listened appreciatively. It flashed John to the day he was in Gaither Chapel with Makala and a student was singing the haunting song “Try to Remember,” a song that so symbolized to John the world they now lived in. The daughter just simply playing a song took John to the thought of a world that must have existed even before his own time, when a family would gather for Sunday dinner, and then afterward someone would play the piano and perhaps others might even sing.

We’ve lost so much, he realized, but then again, maybe we are learning again about the simple gifts of still being alive. The gifts of a warm, filling meal, family and friends together, and rather than the cluttering noise of some ridiculous game turned up too loudly on a television afterward, it was instead a family entertaining themselves while the cold wind of winter swept down from out of the mountains and across icicle-coated orchards and snow-drifted fields beyond.

He realized, that at this moment, whatever was about to come… it was good to be alive.

“John, wake up. Wake up! We’re under attack!”

It was the dream, the jumble of dreams that always ended with him bolt upright in bed, sweat soaked, shivering. Out on the desert, the Bradley up ahead burning, racing forward to find the medics already pulling out the charred bodies, two of them still alive, faces burned black, red mouths open, screaming, and he stood helpless, could do nothing other than stare in shock… Doc Kellor pulling back a blanket revealing Ben, the father of his grandson, features contorted in the agony of death… then Jennifer…

“John, wake up!”

He was sitting up, shaking, the room freezing cold, Makala’s arms around him, kissing him awake. He opened his eyes. This time, there was no soothing, kissing his forehead, wiping the sweat from his face, whispering it was okay; it was just “the dream” again.

“You’ve got to wake up now. Reverend Black’s on the phone. We’re being attacked!”

He nodded, standing up, bare feet hitting the freezing-cold floor, shocking him, Makala helping him to put on a heavy bathrobe, steadying him as consciousness returned.

“Who’s calling?”

“Reverend Black. John, there are helicopters circling.” She started to lead him to the sunroom where the phone was.

“Who? Where?”

She picked up the receiver of the phone, an old-fashioned black rotary unit, and handed it to him.

“Matherson here.”

“John, it’s Black. I’m at the campus office. We’ve got three Apaches overhead. Can’t you hear them?”

That finally startled him awake, and he realized the room was reverberating with a low, steady rumble. He walked to the sunroom window, which was half-covered with frost, looked out, and caught the glint of flashing rotors sweeping by overhead.

“Any shooting?”

“Not yet.”

John continued to look out the window. The choppers were staying high, circling out along the crest line of Lookout Mountain. He watched them for a moment, catching glimpses. “Any come in low over the campus?”

“Not yet.” He could hear the nervousness in Black’s voice.

“Get on the phone to downtown Black Mountain, Asheville, any connections we have. Tell them not to shoot unless fired upon first and report anything they’re seeing. I’ll be right up.”

He hung up. Makala was already scrambling to fetch clothing and boots, helping John to get dressed.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Not sure, but if it’s a surprise attack with intent to kill, they’d already be hitting us.”

Pulling on his boots, he heard a vehicle outside, and opening the door, he saw that it was Maury in his jeep. John ran out to him, looking up, the distinct thump of a helicopter rising in pitch as the chopper raced by overhead, still keeping altitude.

“What the hell is going on?” Maury shouted as John climbed in, brushing snow off the passenger seat before sitting down.

“They’re military, desert camo pattern. They must be with General Scales. Get me to the office.”

Maury spun the jeep around through the deep snow and set off downhill to Montreat Road, the vehicle skidding as he hit the base of the road and went sideways onto the main street through the village without slowing. Maury edged off the road to get around a tree that had fallen in the last storm and had yet to be cleared and then turned to race up to Gaither Hall. As they skidded to a stop, John looked up again and saw that there were several Black Hawks as well, slowly circling at more than a thousand feet above the narrow valley.

Black was at the office door, motioning for John to come in. Out on the snow-covered front lawn, a dozen or more students were looking up, all of them with weapons. One of them was Grace.

“Do not point your weapons at them! Everyone get the hell inside!” John shouted.

“Someone on the ham radio, asking for you.”

John went to the radio, the tinny-sounding speaker crackling.

“Matherson, this is Bob Scales; please respond.”

John picked up the old-fashioned handheld mike and clicked it several times before replying.

“Matherson here. Bob, are you overhead?”

A momentary pause.

“Affirmative, John. Assumed you were in that jeep.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nice vehicle. I’d like to see it up close.”

John hesitated for a moment. “You’re welcome to land, but flag off those Apaches and send them home.”

“Can’t do it, John. Please listen carefully. I’m asking for your immediate surrender.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“John, I’ve got assets over you that can take down your campus and all those kids in five minutes. We’re already landing in Asheville. You might have disabled the Asheville airport, but I have two C-130s touching down on the interstate next to it. I’ve also got a support column on the ground coming up from Greenville, and they have some Bradleys. It’s your call. I’ll give you five minutes to think it over.”

John put the mike down and looked at Reverend Black and Maury.

They were silent, staring at him.

The phone began to ring. Black picked it up, listened for a moment, simply said, “We already know,” and looked at John, still holding the receiver.

“That was Dunn in downtown Asheville. He said several Black Hawks have touched down near the county office complex. They’ll be in his office in another few minutes.”

“Any fighting?”

Black relayed the question, sighed, and looked back to John. “One of the security team there is shot, bad. Fired on them as they landed.”

John looked back out the window, helicopters still circling, and in spite of his orders, students were coming out of buildings, some already in winter camo, weapons up.

“John, what are you going to do?” Black whispered, still holding the phone.

He looked at his troops, his kids. Against the Posse, even against Fredericks, it was one thing, and those two fights had cost dearly. This time?

It would be a bloodbath, and for what?

“We don’t stand a chance against them.” John sighed. “I know Bob Scales. This is the A team, not those pathetic ANR kids they threw at us last spring.”

“John, I need your answer now.” It was Bob again on the radio. “I just got a report a couple of your people and mine were shot in Asheville. Stop it before it turns into a full-scale fight.”