William Forstchen - One Year After

“Something’s burning,” Maury announced. John didn’t need to be told, the red glare of it reflecting off the surface of the lake.

They reached the dam face of the reservoir where he had a watch station in place. The two students assigned there came out of the concealed bunker, reporting that they had heard voices echoing across the lake, followed by a couple of minutes of sustained gunfire and then something going up in flames.

If voices alone could echo across the lake, then most certainly their arrival in a Jeep and four-wheel-drive truck could certainly be heard, as well.

He stood silent for several minutes, gazing across the quarter-mile-wide lake. It looked like a shack of some kind was indeed burning on the far shore. Back before the Day, this had been the reservoir for the city of Asheville, and any kind of building within the watershed was strictly forbidden. Chances were it was some kind of still or squatter’s shack burning over there.

Was it worth the risk to check it out, or should they wait until dawn?

The Stepps, who had settled this valley over two hundred years earlier, had hung on rather well compared to many after the Day. Over the last year, they had produced enough of a surplus to start breeding hogs, chickens, and drop off the town rationing, and they traded well and fairly with the community. The raid might be aimed at their food. One branch of the family, however, lived more on the fringe, and it was they who usually were either trading with or wrangling with the reivers. He guessed this was some kind of payback attack. Illegal still or not, something was going on, and he had to find out what it was.

Darkness played to his advantage if it was raiders; he knew this territory, and they most likely did not. If it was just the Stepps doing something stupid, he had to deal with that, as well… and hoped that was all it was.

He motioned for his reaction team to gather round. He looked at their young faces in the waning moonlight. They were tense but ready to go in.

“I’ll take point. I want you deployed back fifty yards behind me in a skirmish line.”

“Sir, that’s our job to be point, not yours.” It was Grace, typical of her to speak up.

“Not this time,” John offered. “If it’s just the Stepps, they know me; they might not know you and fire first and ask questions later.”

He stood up, indicating there would be no more debate, stepped out from behind the bunker, and started along the access road that followed the west shore of the lake. He heard someone behind him, turned back, and saw that it was Maury, his World War II–era M1 carbine raised.

“What the hell are you doing?” John asked.

“Just taking a walk with you, that’s all,” Maury replied.

“Okay, but let’s not go off half-cocked. If it’s the reivers, they usually hightail out rather than face a fight with a full squad of our troops. If it’s someone else…” His voice trailed off.

They moved silently along the bank of the river. All was silent except for the crackling of the fire, the lake reflecting the light and that of the moon.

He began to think of the notoriously bad line from old movies—“It’s quiet; too quiet”—just before all hell broke loose.

A gut instinct suddenly kicked in; something didn’t feel right. Long ago, instructors in advanced infantry training had drilled into him that in combat, listen to gut instincts; chances were that something your conscious thinking had not even registered—the faint crack of a broken branch, a barely detected scent on the air, just a feeling that something wasn’t right—was screaming at you to react.

“Hey! Whoever’s coming, we need help up here!” The cry for help close by. It sounded like old Wilson Stepp.

“Wilson Stepp, is that you?” John shouted.

There was no reply.

“Wilson, it’s John Matherson. What the hell is going on?”

A momentary pause, and then Wilson’s voice, sounding strained. “Hurt, John. I need help.”

“We’ll go up and check it out, sir.”

Turning, he saw Grace creeping up behind him, crouched low. He motioned for her to freeze in place, deciding that she was going to get one hell of a chewing out once this was over for breaking orders.

Only a couple of years older than Elizabeth, Grace had made the campus her home after the Day. Her family lived in Jacksonville. It was ironic that he had actually discussed with her parents what would happen if ever there was a serious crisis, her folks telling John to make sure she stayed put at the school, where they knew she would be safe. It was almost as if they had some insider word that something bad was coming. As he looked at her, he thought of the risks she had already taken and wanted to now take again—and how he would ever be able to face her parents if one day they did show up on the campus. How he would feel if Elizabeth went off and one day he confronted her commanding officer.

That made his decision as to what to do next all so clear.

If someday they finally show up for their daughter, do I tell them she died because I sent her into a trap?

“Stay put,” he whispered.

He suddenly felt an overwhelming urge for a cigarette. He could make out Maury’s features, his friend tight lipped, eyes wide.

“It smells bad, John,” Maury whispered.

“No shit,” was all he could say. He was suddenly afraid, but he could not let that take control of his judgment now.

“Hey, for God’s sake, someone help me!” The cry sounded weak, strained. From behind him, he could hear voices. It was some of the Stepp family coming up the road, armed.

Either the raiders are gone, or this could turn into a bloodbath, John realized. They were not the type of people to stop if they thought one of their kin was hurt.

“Grace, go back. Tell those folks to stay back, and the same for the rest of you.”

“Sir?”

“Just do it,” John hissed. “Maury, keep them back. I’m going up.”

“Are you flipping crazy, John?” Maury snapped. “You go back, and I’ll go forward and check it out. Your job is back there, not getting your ass blown off by some damn drunk reiver. And if that is old man Stepp hurt up there, it’s most likely because he fell down drunk.”

“So I send your ass to get blown off, is that it?” John replied, and he forced a smile. “Chances are there aren’t even any reivers—just these damn fools got drunk and started shooting at their own shadows.”

He stood up.

Maury was right, and he knew it. But given all that had happened against the Posse and just hours earlier with Fredericks, he realized he was sick to death of sending others forward. At the moment, it was so much easier to just do it himself.

“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.