William Forstchen - One Second After

Parker waved for him to come down and there seemed to be an urgency to his gesturing.

The refugees were now filing under the bridge and the sight was heartbreaking. They wore ragged, torn, filthy clothing, several pushing supermarket shopping carts with children piled inside.

John went to the edge of the bridge to slide down the embankment to the road.

“Good morning, Colonel, sir.”

Startled, he saw one of his students lying in the high grass, dressed in hunting camo, face darkened green. It was Brett Huffman, one of his ballplayers, a darn nice kid, backwoods type from up in Madison County, baseball scholarship with a real interest in history and wanted to teach high school. A kid who was a natural leader and looked up to by his classmates. John noticed the black sergeant’s stripes stenciled on his hunting jacket. He had a wad of tobacco tucked into his jaw.

“Brett, just what the hell—,” John started to ask.

“Vinnie Bartelli is on the other side of the bridge, staked out like me. If there’s any trouble at the barrier, or any of them folks down there try and bolt…”

He said nothing for a moment, just patted the 30/30 Savage with mounted scope.

“I had to shoot one yesterday, sir. Good shot, though, got him in the leg, thank God, didn’t have to kill him.”

John couldn’t reply. There was a bit of tightness in Brett’s voice but already the sort of casualness John had heard so often in debriefings after Desert Storm. Good young kids trained to be killers and trying to be hardened to it, though it was still a shock.

“I guess, though, with a 30/30 through the leg he’s a goner anyhow.”

“You did what you had to do,” John offered reassuringly.

“Still, sir. Reminded me of my first deer. Same kind of feeling, maybe a bit worse.”

“Take care of yourself, Brett.”

Yes, sir.

John slid down the embankment and out onto the road. He looked back. Brett was impossible to see. It registered, so many of the college kids from small towns, more than a few hunters, or Boy Scouts or just outdoor types, of course they’d learn, and darn quick. The refugees were moving along on the other side, a long strung-out column.

They moved slowly, a few listlessly looking up at John. They were like something out of another age, some so obvious caught ill prepared, a man in a three-piece business suit, scuffed worn dress shoes, bandage around his head. Looked like a lawyer or upper-level corporate type… with no skills to sell here for a bowl of watery soup. Parents side by side, exhausted, pushing a shopping cart, the wheels worn, squeaking, two children inside, both asleep, pale faced.

Some refugees were actually barefoot. Few had realized on that first day what a premium would soon be placed on shoes, good shoes for walking, a lot of walking. He cursed himself for not thinking of it as well and grabbing some extra pairs from the camping supply store the first day. Civil War campaigns had often hinged on which side had better shoes, which usually wore out in little more than a month of tough campaigning. Those hiking a hundred and fifty miles in wing tips or even just plain old canvas tennis shoes were soon down to nothing, and more than one walking by actually had a different shoe on each foot.

A woman who reminded him a bit of Makala on the first night, very sexy gray business jacket and skirt, stockings still on but absolutely shredded, heels knocked off her shoes to try to make them more walkable, was limping along.

She caught his eye, forced a smile, and brushed back her greasy, limp hair.

“Hi, my name’s Carol,” she said, and moved towards the median barrier, her hand extended. He could see the lost world in her. Sharp professional-looking woman, intelligent face, sexy and using it to advantage, the hand extended for a warm handshake to start the meeting… which she was used to having go her way.

“Ma’am, step back and away.” It was one of his students, face concealed in the hazmat suit, with rifle leveled. “Keep on the white line of the road as you were told.”

Carol stopped, looking back.

“I just wanted to say hi.”

The student shouldered her rifle.

“Ma’am, please move back. I will shoot if you try to go over that barrier.”

The other refugees in the line looked back. A few froze; others immediately scrambled to the far side of the road.

“The rest of you,” the student shouted, “do not attempt to leave the road!”

Carol looked at John appealingly.

“What kind of place is this?” she said, and her voice started to choke.

“We’re a town trying to stay alive,” John said.

“Ma’am!”

John held up his hand towards the student.

“At ease there, lower your weapon. I’ll handle this.”

“Colonel, sir, don’t let her get any closer to you. I don’t want to see you under quarantine.”

“Colonel?” Carol asked, still forcing the professional business smile as if just introduced. “You are the officer in charge then. I’m pleased to meet you.

He tried to smile.

“Former colonel, college professor now. And no, I am not in charge here.”

“I saw some of your people separating that family off and leading them away. Word on the other side of your fence is that if people have specialized skills you’re letting them stay.”

John took that in. If this was indeed known on the other side, security would have to be tightened. People would think up any kind of skill or profession and lie their way through the interview.

“Are they being allowed to stay?”

“I don’t know,” John lied.

“They asked us what we did. Is that it?”

“Really, miss, I don’t know.”

“Look, I’m a public relations consultant with Reynolds Tobacco.”

She looked at the student with the gun still aimed at her.

“Colonel, to be frank, your operation needs some upgrading, a better interface with the public. I can help you set up a plan for that in no time that can help you avoid a lot of problems in the future.”

It was a delivery, a sales pitch, cool, professional, and listening to her broke his heart. She actually was used to winning that way and believed it would work now.

“I’m sorry, miss. I don’t make that decision here. The doctor and the police do. I’m sorry.”

And in that instant her professional business poise, a vestige of the old world, collapsed.

She took a step closer and now it was both hands out in a gesture of appeal.

“Please let me stay!” He couldn’t respond. She took a step closer.

“Do you want to sleep with me?” Carol asked. “I’m serious. Let me stay. You’ll like me.”

She looked down at herself and her ragged suit.

“Once I get cleaned up, believe me, you’ll like me,” and she looked at him with head slightly turned now, eyes widening. “You have a tub at home? I’d love a bath and when you see me then… you’ll really like me. You can even help me bathe; I know you’d like that.”

“Carol, please don’t,” John said. “Don’t do this to yourself. Please don’t.”

She broke down sobbing.

“Don’t do this to myself?” she cried, her voice rising to near hysteria.

“Offer you a piece to stay alive? Three nights ago I was raped. Raped by four men who said they had some food hidden in a shack. I half-expected it but was so damn hungry I no longer cared. Do you hear that?”

“I’m sorry.”

She sobbed.

“And they gave me a bowl of watery soup in the morning, one of them did, and I felt it was damn near worth the trade. Please, Colonel, I’ll spend the night with you if you let me stay and just give me a little something to eat.”

And then she just stepped forward, heading towards the median barrier.