William Forstchen - One Second After

“We are at war, and martial law has been proclaimed in this town. These two men have been condemned to death under the rules of martial law. They have been convicted and condemned for stealing vital medication, painkillers from Miller’s Nursing Home, leaving the residents there to suffer in agony. Of that crime and the general crime of looting they have been found guilty beyond all reasonable doubt at a fair and open hearing.”

“Fuck your trial!” Larry screamed. “This is a lynch mob!”

John was silent and no one from the crowd replied. There were no shouts or taunts.

“I am a citizen of this town,” he said, his voice now softer. “By tradition, even in times of martial law, our police who directly enforce the law will not participate in what will now happen, nor our governing body. I want all of you to understand that. This is not a police state and it never will be. The condemned were found guilty at a fair hearing, and the sentence will now be carried out, not by those who are temporarily in charge of law and order, but by two duly appointed citizens who have volunteered for this task.”

He lowered his head and swallowed, knowing he could not let a tremor get into his voice.

“I do not want this task. I did not seek it. I loathe doing it.” He paused. “But it must be done.”

He paused again for a moment, realizing something more still had to be said.

“We are all Americans here. There are hundreds of you, perhaps thousands, who did not live here but five days ago,” again a brief pause, “but you do now. All of us are equal under the eyes of the law here. All of us. We must work together as neighbors if we wish to survive. The tragic justice to be dealt out here is the same for all of us, whether born here, moved here as I did some years ago, or arrived just yesterday. It must be the same for all of us….”

His voice trailed off. Nervously he looked back at the two guilty men, Reverend Black holding Bruce up with one hand, open Bible in the other; Larry still held by Tom, his eyes glazed from the drugs, and with a boiling hatred.

John wondered now just how legal, how close to law in the tradition of Western civilization, his act and his words truly were, but he felt they were right, right for here, this moment, if the people of Black Mountain were to survive as a community.

He fell silent and looked over at Charlie. There was a pause until Charlie realized that ritual demanded that he say something.

He stepped in front of the group.

“By the power vested in me by emergency decree by the civilian government of this community, the town of Black Mountain, now under local martial law, I have found Larry Randall and Bruce Wilson guilty of looting of medical supplies and, in so doing, causing pain, suffering, and death. Their sentence is death by firing squad, to now be carried out by Dr. John Matherson and Mr. Washington Parker, appointed by me to perform this task.”

Charlie looked over at John, nodding. John turned to face the condemned, his hand shaking.

“Remember what I said: first shot to the chest, let him drop, then empty the rest of the clip, last one in the head,” Washington whispered.

The two walked the few dozen feet to the prisoners. Tom stepped back and away from Larry, who glared at him with cold hatred. But Reverend Black did not move, holding Bruce up.

“I think we should pray,” Reverend Black said, and John nodded in agreement, embarrassed that he had not thought to do so.

Still holding Bruce, Reverend Black looked to the crowd.

“I ask God, in his divine mercy, to grant forgiveness to these two. But we must now render unto Caesar the law of Caesar. Forgiveness and redemption now rest between Bruce, Larry, and their Creator.

“Bruce, do you ask God for forgiveness?”

“Yes, please, God, please forgive me.”

“Larry?”

He was silent.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

John repeated the prayer, hoping that the trembling of his hands would stop. He looked at Larry, making eye contact.

There was nothing but rage there, blind animal rage, and John almost felt pity.

“For thine is the kingdom, the power, the glory, forever and ever. Amen.” The last word, “Amen,” echoed from the crowd.

John shifted the Glock to his left hand and, for the first time in years, made the sign of the cross; then he shifted the pistol back.

Reverend Black stepped away from Bruce, who now struggled to make a show of standing up straight. John suddenly realized there should have been something, blindfolds, sacks over their heads.

No, get it done; get it done quick.

“Move closer,” Washington whispered. “Fire and I’ll fire with you.” John looked straight at Larry, who was now only ten feet away. “Go ahead; do it,” Larry said coldly.

It all seemed to move so slowly. Without ceremony, flourish, John raised the pistol, centered it on the man’s chest. At the very last instant Larry started to move, to try to fall to one side.

John squeezed the trigger.

He saw the impact; Larry staggered backwards against the concrete wall. The roar of Washington’s .45 exploded next to him, startling him. He saw his second shot miss, striking above Larry’s head as he slid down against the wall, leaving a bloody streak.

Two more quick shots from Washington’s .45.

John fought to center his Glock, aimed at Larry’s midsection; he was kicking feebly. John could hear screams behind him. He fired again, again, and then again.

A hand was on his shoulder. It was Washington.

“The head,” Washington said softly.

John walked up to Larry. Was he dead? Blood was pooling out under his body, the front of his pants wet, another stench added in, bladder and bowels having let go.

There seemed to be a flicker of eye movement. John aimed at the center of Larry’s head, standing over him, and fired.

A second later another explosion, the coup de grace being delivered to Bruce.

Woodenly, John turned. All were now staring at him, all silent. Hands to mouths, a few were crying. The way they looked at him, it was different, different from anything he had ever seen before in the eyes of people gazing at him. Fear… awe… revulsion… from a few strange glazed eyes almost a look of envy and lust.

He felt the vomit coming up. He had to control it. He held the Glock up, not sure if he had actually emptied it or not. His student Jeremiah was standing in the crowd, and John made eye contact. Jeremiah stepped forward and John handed him the gun.

“Secure the gun and meet me at the car,” John whispered.

He turned and walked away from the crowd, got behind the concrete wall, bent double, and vomited.

Gasping, he remained doubled over.

“It’s ok, sir.” It was Washington.

John looked up at him, suddenly ashamed.

“Puked my guts out the first time I killed a man. Sir, if you hadn’t I’d of been worried about you.”

“Stop calling me ‘sir,’ god damn it,” John hissed between the continuing heaves.

“You did the right thing, sir. You did it well.”

“Well? How can you say killing a man like that was done well?”

“No, sir. Not that. It’s always a stinking mess. I mean what you said. That’s why I call you ‘sir’ now. We used to joke about it before. Frankly, sir, you were a professor type, but I knew you were a colonel, so I played along. But today, sir, you led out there, you faced something horrible, and you led.”

“Ok,” John sighed.

“Come on; let’s get out of here.”

John nodded. Wiping his mouth with the hack of his hand. He winced with pain. His finger was infected and the act of shooting the Glock had ripped the cut wound open.

He came back around the wall and the crowd, mysteriously, was all but gone. Few had hung around. The bodies were gone, Bartlett’s van already driving off.