William Forstchen - One Second After

He pulled up to the town hall complex. The rumble of a generator outside varied up and down in pitch as more power or less was being used.

One of the fire trucks was being washed down. The mechanics had finally bypassed all the electronics, done some retrofitting, and the engine had finally kicked back to life ten days ago.

He walked in. Charlie was in his office, cot in the corner unmade, looking up as John came in.

Charlie had lost at least thirty pounds or more, face pinched. He had a cup of what looked to be some herbal tea.

“Two dead up at my house, shot them this morning,” John said matter-of-factly.

“That’s eight reported now just this morning,” Charlie replied, his voice hoarse.

John sat down, looked at his pack of cigarettes, fourteen left, and offered one to Charlie, who did not hesitate to take it.

“Damn it, Charlie. You got to get at least one extra meal in you.”

He shook his head.

“Might not matter soon anyhow.”

“Why’s that?”

“We think the Posse is coming this way.”

“What?”

“Don Barber flew his recon plane out a couple hours ago to take a look for us along Interstate 40 heading towards Hickory; he’s yet to get back. Four days ago we didn’t have a single refugee at the barrier, two days ago nearly a hundred, yesterday more than two hundred; it’s as if something is pressuring them from behind. Rumors running with them that Morgan-ton was just looted clean, a damn medieval pillage. Also, we had a shooting last night on the interstate.”

“So, that’s becoming almost a daily routine,” John said coolly.

“This one was different. One of the few heading east. Big guy, looked fairly well fed.”

“So what did he do?”

“Washington spotted him. He just had a gut feeling because he had seen this same guy, the day before, heading west; he stood out because he looked so well fed. Washington tagged along with the escort taking this guy and some other refugees east and played dumb. The big guy was peppering him with questions. How many folks lived here, how much food left, any organized defense.”

“A spy?”

“Exactly.”

“So Washington drew down on him just before the gap, and almost got killed for it. The guy had what Washington called an old-fashioned pimp gun up the sleeve of his jacket. Small .22. He actually got off the first shot and then Washington blew him away.”

“Washington ok?”

“Nicked on the side. Kellor said another inch in and, given the way things are now, he’d of been in deep trouble.”

“Where is Washington now?”

“Up at the college.”

“I think we should go up.”

Charlie nodded and the two got into John’s Edsel for the short drive.

The drive up to the campus reminded him yet again of the lost world of but several months back, his daily commute of not much more than four miles, and he thought again of bacon and eggs. Damn, that would be good now.

He almost said it to Charlie. Food had indeed become the obsessive topic on people’s minds, but now there was a ban on it being spoken of, a major breech of etiquette. It just made everyone crazy to talk about what they would eat when things “got better.”

As they passed the turnoff to the North Fork road, there were two more bodies covered with sheets out in front of a home.

“Ah, shit, not the Elliotts,” Charlie sighed.

Three children were out on the lawn, all of them skinny as rails, except that their stomachs were bloating, a neighbor clinging to them. That had started to appear over the last couple of weeks, kids with stomachs bloating out, even as they starved. Kellor told John it was edema, fluid buildup as their bodies inside began to shut down. It was the type of images he would always turn off when an infomercial ran for some save-the-kids type charity. Always it was kids in Africa or some disaster-stricken area in Asia with the bloated stomachs. He wondered if now, at this very moment, in a place in the world where electricity still flowed, such images were on their screens: “Give now to save the starving children in America.”

God, it was a sobering thought. Would our friends overseas, those we had helped so many times, without a thought of any return, now be coming to us? Were ships, loaded with food, racing towards us… or was there silence or, worse, laughter and contempt?

“He was getting an extra ration as a grave digger, in fact two rations because he was digging two a day,” Charlie said, interrupting John’s thoughts.

“And taking them home to the kids and his wife,” John said quietly.

They didn’t even slow down but just drove on.

They passed three boys, early teens, two of them toting .22s, the other a pellet gun, and the youngest with, yes, a bloated stomach as well. All three moving stealthily, peering up at the trees, the interlacing telephone and power lines.

There was most likely barely a squirrel or rabbit left in town now, and birds were now becoming part of the pot. John’s own hunts had started to come up empty unless he went deeper and deeper into the Pisgah forest. It knotted him up thinking about it. Zach had not even died with a meal in his stomach. He had come close to fighting with his Ginger for the rabbit he had bagged yesterday. Ginger was only allowed the bones after Jen had scraped off every bit of flesh for a rabbit stew.

“You know, we’re actually starting to run short of small-caliber ammunition,” Charlie said as they drove past the boys.

“Most folks who had a .22 in the closet rarely dragged it out and at best maybe had a box of fifty to a hundred rounds. Understand trading now is five bullets for a squirrel or rabbit.”

Fortunately, John still had several hundred himself, but he was short on shotgun shells. The heavier-caliber stuff, he had kept that for other reasons.

The gate ahead was roadblocked. In the past the students guarding it recognized his car and waved it through. Not today. They forced him to a stop, one of them standing back with a 12-gauge leveled, while the other came around the side and looked in.

“Good morning, sir; are you ok?”

“It’s Rebecca, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

She looked in his backseat, nodded, and two students started up the Volkswagen blocking the gate, let it roll forward for him to pass, then backed it into place and shut it down.

“Kids are getting more cautious.”

“Well, with all the dead last night in break-ins,” John said. “Lord knows how many others we’ll find out today were successful and the families inside the homes are now dead and rotting.

“I think it’s safe to assume that some of this Posse crowd have already infiltrated in, looked us over, and decided we are worth taking, at the very least to then move on to Asheville. Perhaps some are even holed up in some houses watching if we are getting prepared.”

They turned into the drive leading up to Gaither Hall. And the troops were out. The days of close-order drill long past, they were practicing covering fire and withdrawing in front of the library, Washington pacing back and forth, yelling instructions as John pulled up and turned off the car.

Washington turned and went through the ritual, still the annoying ritual for John, of saluting, which he returned.

Kids were all around. Hunkered down low, concealed behind trees, under vehicles, up in windows of buildings. Farther up the road John could see what must be the red force, Company B, deployed out beyond the girls’ dorm, a dozen vehicles running, some Volkswagens, again courtesy of Jimmie Bartlett, a few farm pickup trucks. One had a fake machine gun mounted on the back, technicals, John thought they were called in Somalia.

Washington held up his megaphone.

“Captain Malady. Now!”