William Forstchen - One Second After

“I know that, sir.”

John nodded. He didn’t want to think too much further about how Ben loved her; no father really would. But John could see that, though seventeen, Ben was trying to be a man at this moment and would have to be a man in the days to come.

John stood up, hesitated, then extended his hand.

“Thank you, sir,” and Ben’s voice cracked a bit.

John nodded.

“Just don’t call me Dad yet,” he finally said. “I’m not ready for that.”

“Yes, sir.”

He knew Elizabeth, in the next room, had heard the exchange, and she came through the doorway and flung herself into his arms. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Now he did fill up. Her voice still sounded like his little girl. He saw Jennifer standing in the doorway as well, smiling. “So you’re not going to kill them?” Jennifer asked, and that broke the tension for the moment.

“No, of course not, sweetie.”

“Ok,” and she was gone.

He felt there was some sort of ritual required now, and as Elizabeth slipped out of his arms he took her hand and placed it in Ben’s hand.

“Once the next few days are over, well, since our priest disappeared, we’ll ask Reverend Black to do the marriage.”

Elizabeth smiled and leaned against Ben’s shoulder.

“But we got other worries now. Like I said, we’re leaving this house within the hour. Girls, you better pack what you can fit into the car. Ben, get down to your family and tell them to get out as well; have them come up to the Cove for now. They can stay with us if need be.”

Elizabeth and Ben looked at each other.

“You can do your good-byes later; there isn’t time to waste. Tell your folks I’ll drive your family up to the Cove in an hour, so be ready.”

He hesitated and suddenly it truly hurt, what he was about to say next.

“Ben. We’re going to be attacked, most likely early tomorrow morning. You’ll have to fall in with the town reserve guard.”

“Yes, sir.”

Elizabeth started to cry.

“Daddy, can’t he stay with us in the Cove?”

“Absolutely not,” Ben replied forcefully.

She looked at Ben and then back at John, eyes filled with tears.

“It’s his duty now,” John said softly.

Ben looked at Elizabeth, hesitated, then kissed her lightly on the lips.

“I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”

She couldn’t reply, hugging him fiercely.

“Elizabeth, go help your grandmother and Jennifer pack.”

She hesitated.

Ben broke free from her embrace. “I’ll be ok, sweetheart. Go on now.”

Crying, she left the room, and Ben turned back to face John.

John opened his gun cabinet. Scanned the weapons and pulled out one of his best, an Ml carbine.

“You know how to load and handle this?”

“Remember, sir, you took me shooting with it last year.”

John checked the clip, it was full, and there was a box of extra ammunition for it.

“Take this; you’re going to need it.”

Ben nodded.

“Report to Charlie Fuller. Tell him I’ve assigned you to be one of his runners.”

“Sir, you are not keeping me back, are you?” John lied with the shake of his head. “You’ll be in the middle of it, son.”

Ben nodded solemnly, hefting the carbine and looking at it. “Let me help Elizabeth first if you don’t mind, sir.”

“Sure, you got a few minutes.” He looked at John, eyes solemn. “If anything happens to me, sir…” John forced a smile.

“You’ll be ok, Ben. Now go help Elizabeth.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ben left the room and Makala was standing at the doorway, smiling. “You did the right thing,” she said. “Let me think about it.”

To his surprise she came up and kissed him on the lips. “I better get up to the conference center and evacuate the folks there. From what I just heard, I assume that will be in the middle of it.” John nodded.

“I’ll drive you up there. Charlie should be sending up some vehicles to get people out. We’re evacuating everybody from here clear back to the town. Once you get your patients out, report to Doc Kellor. I think you’d be most useful there.”

“Is it going to be bad?”

John nodded again.

“Real bad, I think.”

She squeezed his hand and went back to help the girls pack up.

He looked around. What to take? The guns of course. Seven rifles, including the original Civil War Springfield and the replica Hawkins .50 flintlock. Throw them in the trunk of the car for now. He scanned his office. What to take? The portrait of Mary of course, and as he picked it up he thought of Makala in the next room. Neither would mind, he realized with a sad smile.

He took the picture out of its frame and slipped it into his pocket. He then checked the loads in the Glock and the shotgun and shouted for his family to get moving.

The entire mountainside north and south of the interstate was burning. He gazed at the inferno, feeling nothing, even though his home was somewhere within that blaze.

Scattered shots still rang out. A holdout band of the Posse was barricaded inside a single-story house facing the interstate on a side road a couple of hundred yards back from the gap. It was a key position because it looked down on both the interstate and the flanking approach of the abandoned paved road and the railroad.

Two of his militia sprinted towards the building, approaching it from a blind spot, where a truck was parked. They crawled under the truck, came out the other side, and rolled up against the side of the building. One opened her backpack; the other took out a Zippo, flicked it to life, and touched the fuse.

Inside was a ten-pound charge of black powder, packed into three-inch PVC pipe, nails mixed in. The girl stood up and threw it through the smashed window, then collapsed backwards, shot in the chest.

He could hear screaming inside the building, someone standing up, trying to throw the backpack out, a fusillade of fire dropping him.

The explosion seemed to tear off the side of the house.

With harsh, guttural screams a dozen militia were up, charging, pushing through the wreckage and into the smoke-filled house.

Seconds later several Posse poured out the front door; none made it more than a dozen feet.

Two more houses to go at the top of the ridge. A couple of dozen holdouts within, surrounded now on all sides. A barrage of Molotov cocktails rained onto the buildings; from within one there were bursts of automatic weapons fire.

The assault teams waited. In just eight hours they were veterans, no dumb-ass heroics, no “follow me” charges. One of the buildings finally started to burn, and then the second, suppressive fire pouring in through every window to keep those within down.

It took ten minutes, a dozen more Molotovs tossed against the side of the wooden structure to feed the flames, which finally went into the eaves of the house. It was ablaze now. Screaming from inside. The front door burst open and the militia was waiting. Half a dozen were gunned down as they came out. The last two out were women, falling to their knees, hands up.

No one fired and they crawled away from the inferno, then fell on their faces, crying for mercy.

One house left, the one with the automatic fire. John, watching the fight, had a gut sense of who was in there.

He picked up a megaphone.

“I want prisoners from that house!” he shouted.

The house was ablaze.

“Come out and we won’t shoot!” John shouted.

Seconds later the door burst open and six men and a woman staggered out, throwing weapons aside.

“Down on your knees, hands over heads!”

They did as ordered and the student militia circled in around them.

The thunder of the battle was dying away now, a burst of shots from down near the second railroad tunnel, a volley from up on Rattlesnake Mountain, the louder sound now the forest fire sweeping both sides of the interstate, driven by a westerly breeze.