William Forstchen - One Second After

“Some people coming,” Jeremiah announced, and nodded up Charlotte Street.

“I hope you guys cooperate,” Washington said.

“Yeah, sure,” Bill replied. “I got no beef with you. Besides, you guys were right.”

“Wait until I tell the chief about this,” Gus said coldly. “Be my guest. I’m not the one who got thrashed.”

John saw where Jeremiah was pointing and the sight was absolutely startling. It was like a procession, a hundred or more. Mostly the downtown weirdos as Jennifer called them.

Asheville across the years had developed something of a reputation as a throwback, a “Haight-Ashbury East,” with a bizarre street life of aging hippies and New Agers, Wiccans, and just a lot of drugged-out kids. They were, to John’s view, harmless, though the more conservative element of the city and county had real difficulties dealing with them. Frankly, he sort of got a kick out of their presence; there was still, within himself, a touch of them from his own youth.

It was indeed a procession, some guys up front beating on drums, a couple of girls, one of them definitely cute, with long blond hair and a sixties-looking nearly transparent dress on, with nothing on underneath, an old guy, gray beard and hair, wearing a robe carrying a sign that actually declared; “The End HAS Finally Come.” Another sign read: “Stop Globalization,” other signs “We Got What We Deserved” and several “Peace Now.”

Jeremiah stood there grinning as the girl came up to him and did a bit of a provocative dance to the beat of the drum. As the group passed by the side of the Honda SUV, someone slowed.

“Hey, they’ve got some cops! Looks like they kicked the shit out of Gestapo Gus.”

The procession began to grind to a halt.

“Wow, man. Revolution now!” someone shouted, beginning to approach Washington.

“Revolution my ass,” Washington said coldly, and the protestor stopped in his tracks.

Bill stood up.

“George, you know me,” he said, speaking to the bearded character carrying the end-has-come, sign. “Yeah, Bill.”

“Everything’s cool here. Gus fell and broke his nose. These guys are helping out, so why don’t you just move along.”

The leader nodded, the beat was picked back up, and the parade moved on.

“Absolutely unreal,” Washington sighed.

“Asheville,” Bill replied. “You gotta love it, even now at times. I know a lot of those kids; most of them are ok, even if a bit misguided.”

The dancing blonde came up to him and kissed him on the cheek. Bill actually patted her on the butt before she danced off.

He caught John’s eye and grinned slightly.

“Monica and I had a little thing going a couple of months back.”

“Wow, you and her?” Jeremiah asked. Bill grinned but said nothing.

John pulled out two more cigarettes and gave another one over, both he and Bill lighting up.

“Poor kids,” Bill sighed. “Strange when you actually think of it. What’s happened, it’s what many of them have wished for, for years. That one guy, though, with the ‘Stop Globalization’ sign, him I never liked. Talks the peace bullshit line to score with the girls, but down deep a potential killer. Real anarchist, hell, if he could have pulled the plug he’d of done it and laughed.

“Regardless of that, most of them are ok, and besides, it’s a free country, isn’t it?”

He chuckled sadly and shook his head.

“They don’t get it now. If this is as bad as I think it is… they’ll be the first to die. They don’t know how to survive without a society that supports them even as they curse it or rebel against it.”

He sighed.

“Once they run out of food, then the reality will set in, but by that point, anyone with a gun will tell them to kiss off if they come begging. And if those poor kids, if they have food, the ones with guns will take it. They’re used to free clinics, homeless shelters when they need ’em, former hippie types smiling and giving them a few bucks. That’s all finished. They’ll die like flies, poor kids. No idea whatsoever how vicious the world can really be when it’s scared and hungry.

“Damn, I hate to see it. Wish their idealisms were true.

“Gandhi and Stalin.”

“What?” John asked.

“I used to tell Monica that when we’d get into politics. She’d always talk about how great Gandhi was. I’d tell her the only reason Gandhi survived after his first protest was that he was dealing with the Brits. If Stalin had been running India, he’d of been dead in a second, his name forgotten.”

John filed that one away; it was a good point.

The procession disappeared around the corner, heading back towards their traditional hangout, Pack Place, in the center of town.

“A Black Hawk flew over yesterday.” John asked, “Did it land here?”

“Yes, right down in Pack Place. From Fort Bragg.”

“What did you hear?”

“That’s when Ed finally declared martial law. We’re at war. That’s all I know. The guy on board, bird colonel, said he’ll be back in a week or so, then took off.”

“War with who?”

“No one really knows. Terrorists, North Korea, Iran, China. Just that we got hit with an EMP nuke, so he said that means we’re at war. How are things over in Black Mountain?”

“About the same. Some looting, but Charlie got that under control.”

“Memorial Mission Hospital, is it running?” John asked.

“No, sir. Generators never kicked on. I had to help take an old lady with a heart attack up there last night. We have some old trucks that run, a few cars we use as ambulances. My God, it was a damn nightmare up there. A hundred bodies or more lying in the parking lot…” And he stopped speaking, looking back towards the town where the old Battery Park Hotel, a hollowed-out shell, brick walls standing, was continuing to burn. Fires dotted the ridgelines beyond.

“The Doors,” Bill said.

“What?”

“You know, The Doors. The song ‘This Is the End,’ been thinking it a lot.”

“Here comes Charlie,” Washington announced.

He was coming back up the slope, jogging, obviously a bit winded, and motioned for them to get in the car.

John looked at Bill and Gus, who was still on the pavement, eyes red rimmed, glaring.

John went over to the Edsel, pulled a notebook out from under the passenger side, opened it and scribbled a note, then signed it.

He handed it to Washington, who read it, smiled, then signed as well.

To Chief of Police, Asheville, NC:

The officer bearing this note, Bill Andrews, is a professional and has our highest recommendation. The incident between us was unfortunate but solely the blame of Gus Carter, a stupid ass who should be fired before he gets himself filled.

Signed,

Washington grinned and then added underneath a postscript:

Carter’s lucky I didn’t kill him; a baby could disarm him.

John tore the note out of the pad, folded it, and handed it to Bill. “Hope that covers you.”

“What does it say?” Gus asked.

“None of your damn business,” John snapped.

“Get in the car now!” Charlie shouted, coming up the last few dozen yards.

“Colonel,” Washington said, “clear Bill’s weapon please, keep the ammo, and return it.”

John pulled the clip, chambered out the round in the barrel, and handed it back to Bill. Gus was on his feet, looking at Washington.

“I like your gun,” Washington said calmly. “And frankly, you are a danger to everyone but the bad guys when you are armed.”

“Give it back,” Gus snapped.

“I’m keeping it. Go explain to your boss how you lost it.”