William Forstchen - The Final Day

He clutched Rabs tight to his chest. He would never let Rabs burn like that.

Sittingin President Hunt’s office, he gratefully took another sip of moonshine and looked over at Makala, who was resting on the sofa, two of the girls she had trained as nurses hovering over her. One of the girls looked back at John and smiled reassuringly.

“She’s okay, and so is the baby.”

He could barely see her smoke-smudged face looking toward him in the blacked-out room, curtains drawn.

She started to cough and then managed to clear her throat. “Moonshine is the last thing you should be drinking now, John Matherson,” she whispered, her voice husky.

“I know.”

“And damn it, if not for the baby, I’d join you,” came her reply.

A burst of gunfire echoed in the distance, and he could tell the difference of who was firing. Sustained bursts versus three-shot replies. Whoever they had cornered next to the cafeteria was firing back like a professional, conserving ammunition.

John stood up and went to the window to at least slip the curtain open to see what was happening, but Kevin reached out and blocked him.

“Their goal, sir, was to kill both of you. You’re staying here until this is over.”

“Those are”—he hesitated for a moment—“my kids out there doing my job.”

“They’re your troops doing the job you trained them for”—Kevin paused to add emphasis to his next word—“sir.”

There was a sudden explosion of gunfire—long, sustained bursts—and regardless of Kevin’s orders, he was not going to cower here, not after what they had done, and he carefully parted the curtain a few inches to look.

He could see the tracers snapping into the side of the cafeteria and what had once been a peaceful outdoor patio. Several dozen students had the area surrounded and were unleashing a fury of fire. One of their targets got up, trying to pull up someone else. John had ordered that if possible take them alive, but the rage unleashed by the assassination attempt could not be contained. In spite of body armor and helmet, their target’s legs and face were nevertheless exposed, and he was finally dropped. The other one, obviously wounded, tried to get up, and another explosion of fire took him down.

More shots continued to pour in until finally the cries went up to cease fire.

John started for the door, but Kevin blocked his way and made it clear by the way he stood in front of John that if need be, he’d physically take him down, something that Kevin was more than capable of doing.

“Let someone report in,” Kevin snapped.

“For once, John,” Makala whispered, “listen to someone else. He’s right.”

John simply nodded and then went over to his wife’s side, sat down on the floor by her side, and took her hand. “Are you really okay?”

“Just some smoke, John, that’s all.”

“The baby?” he asked nervously.

She tried to laugh but started to cough again. “Scared the shit out of the little bugger; he’s been squirming like a kickboxer ever since it started.” She paused. “Our baby is okay.”

She leaned over and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Why would your friend do this to us?” she asked. “You said he was honorable.”

“I don’t know,” John whispered. “I just don’t know.”

“Matherson.” It was a whisper from the corridor, followed by a knock. He recognized Reverend Black’s voice and started for the door, but Kevin stepped in front of him and opened it, shielding John.

It was indeed Reverend Black, and Kevin let him in.

Black went past John, knelt down by Makala’s side, and, taking her hand, whispered a brief prayer of thanks and then looked back at John.

“I got him on the phone, John. Pick up the line here.”

John nodded. “Did you tell him what happened?”

“I just did as you said—told him it was an emergency and to hold on the line.”

“John, don’t talk to him,” Makala said. “It will tell him you’re alive, and they’ll come back.”

His rage was nearly out of control. Hit him, that was part of it all, but to include his pregnant wife? For that matter, Elizabeth, her baby, and husband could have been in the house as well. The attack was not to just capture him; it was to kill him and anyone with him. He looked at the two girls tending to Makala and then at Kevin.

“As soon as you think it’s safe to move her, take her somewhere secure, and don’t tell me where it is until this is over with.”

She started to protest, but a sharp glance from him stilled her voice.

“It is about you and the baby now, not me,” John said sharply, and she did not reply.

He walked back to the desk and picked up the phone. “General Scales, are you on the line?”

“Yeah, John, what the hell is going on?”

“Perhaps you should tell me exactly what the hell is going on, you son of a bitch.”

“John?”

“Come after me, fine. That’s part of this game you’re playing, and I’ll accept that. But my pregnant wife?”

“John, in the name of God, what is going on up there?”

“You tell me,” John said again, uttering each word slowly and with unrestrained anger.

There was a long pause.

“John, whatever it is, tell me exactly what is going on.”

“Why don’t you come up here yourself and explain it”—he paused—“sir?”

Another long pause.

“John, just tell me, will you?”

“Fine then, play innocent. I trusted you, and less than an hour ago, eight of your storm troopers hit my house. If my people had not spotted them first and reacted, they would have killed my wife and the baby within her, and then me. That’s what happened up here.”

“God in heaven,” Bob whispered.

“Yeah, God in heaven, Bob.”

“Where are you, John?”

“Do you honestly think I’d tell you? Just know that wherever Makala is now, she is safely stashed away.”

There was another tap at the door, the person out in the corridor identifying herself as Grace. Yet again, it was Kevin who answered. He cracked the door open and, recognizing her, let her in.

“Don’t hang up, General Scales. I’ll be back.”

He put the phone down and looked at Grace. Her once beautiful hair was badly scorched, the right side of her face blistered. She tried to talk and began to cough.

“Young lady.” It was Makala. “You get that burn treated right now.”

“In a moment,” Grace replied, and then she looked back at John. “Seven accounted for, sir. We think one slipped through and is heading up toward Lookout Mountain. We’ve got a full platoon tracking him. He’s wounded and trailing blood.”

“Our side?” John asked, suddenly nervous. “How bad?”

She hesitated and then looked over at Kevin, who nodded.

“Five dead, twelve wounded at last count.”

“Who?”

She began to rattle off names, and John sagged with a sudden weariness. One was the girl he had seen running with her lover in the snow just days ago, another Jim Southerland, a beloved art teacher who had decided to live on campus and wasn’t even part of the militia but apparently had turned out with the others.

“Let the last bastard go,” John said, shaking his head. “These people were well trained. I don’t want anyone else hurt in this affair. You got that, Grace?”

“Yes, sir.”

But as she turned, John saw the exchange of glances with Kevin. They were out for vengeance and knew as well that as long as one of the hit squad was still alive, their beloved leader and his wife were not safe—at least for the moment.

Grace closed the door, and John picked the phone back up. “Bob, you still there?”