One Second After (10 page)

“We've got to prioritize,” Tom said. “Security for one thing. I've got five hundred strangers from the interstate on my hands this morning. What the hell should we do with them for starters.”

No one spoke.

“Well, we just can't kick them out,” Kate said.

John did not reply.

“Priorities for getting through this,” Charlie interjected, and now everyone was becoming agitated. John realized that for the last fifteen hours they had been waiting for “someone else” to tell them what to do. The reality was beginning to hit, that there just might no longer be “someone else.”

“Water first,” Kate said. “Once the tank on top of the hill runs dry, the pipes will start emptying out. We don't have any means then of pumping more back up to the tank. Most of the town will be dry within a day.”

“We're lucky in one sense,” Charlie said. “We get our water gravity fed from the reservoir. The dam face is at twenty five hundred feet above sea level, so at least here in town we'll get some, but anyone above that elevation line is screwed.”

John realized that meant him; his neighbor had a sign on his driveway: “Half mile high.” They were 250 feet above the gravity feed point for water. At least we have the pool, thank God.

“Food,” Tom said. “Jesus, no electric means no refrigeration.”

John was silent, on his third cigarette as the other three argued about what to do next.

“I'm making a quick run up to the college, and once the pharmacy opens I've got a very important errand to run,” John said. “I've told you all I know, so if you will excuse me.”

He stood up and started for the door.

“John.”

He knew this was coming. It was Tom.

“Concerning your car.”

“What about my car?”

“I'd like to have it.”

“Why?”

“I need to get around.”

“Use a bike; it'll be good for you.”

“John, don't bullshit around with me; I need that car. I'll give you a lift home, but I do need it.”

John stared right at Kate for a moment, then back at Tom.

“That car is mine, my family's. You declaring martial law?”

“I think we'll have to,” Kate said quietly.

“When you do, come and try and take it, Tom.”

“What do you mean ‘try'?”

“Just that. Just try.”

Tom stood silent, no one speaking, and then finally he nodded.

“OK, John.”

He looked back at Kate, who sighed and then nodded in agreement.

“Sorry, John, we were out of line.”

“That's OK. Just a bit of advice, Kate.”

“And that is?”

He pointed to the cigarette in her hand.

“Now that you are hooked again. You better go over to Smiley's and get several cartons. Cash only. If Hamid says he doesn't have cartons, pull rank on him. He's hiding them in the back of the store. You better load up now 'cause you're going to need them.”

John turned and headed out the door and then realized that Tom had followed him out.

“What the hell is it now?” John asked.

Tom hesitated.

“Look, John. Sorry. I haven't slept since yesterday. Sorry about back in there,” and he extended his hand.

John took it.

“Tom, I don't envy you your job one bit.”

“Look, John. I know I might not be the brightest lightbulb in the pack.
You're the smart guy. I like my job, though, and try to do what's right. But I never thought I'd be dealing with something like this.”

“Yeah, I know. Hard day. Damn, I hope I'm wrong about everything I just said back in there. My first thought was it was some sort of weird solar storm. Maybe I'm dead wrong and ten minutes from now the lights will come back on.”

“Think they will?” Tom asked hopefully.

John reluctantly shook his head, went over to his car, unlocked it, and got in. He almost felt guilty as he turned the switch and the car roared to life. Everyone gathered in the parking lot looked at him as he drove off.

 

The
run up to the college had been a quick one. He felt, though, that he had to go, just check on what was happening.

A lot of heads turned as he drove into the campus and pulled in front of Gaither Hall.

“Hey, Doc, cool wheels!” someone shouted, and John nodded and smiled.

The conversation with President Hunt only took a couple of minutes. He had basically figured out the same thing and was already organizing the place. The kids were feasting on steak and ice cream this morning; they were emptying out the freezers as quick as possible and stuffing the food into bellies. Anything preserved or canned could wait.

The kids on this small campus were a good crew and ready to help out. A group had been organized to push cars clear of the road; others were hauling buckets of water all the way from the lake up to makeshift tanks near buildings in case of fire. The water in the campus pool would serve as drinking water, and four Porta Potties, hauled with much groaning and complaining, had been commandeered from the construction site for the new gym and a couple of new houses going up in the Cove and placed in front of the dorms.

The head of campus security, Washington Parker, who until now was viewed by most of the kids as a “rent-a-cop” to be teased about falling asleep in the student union at three in the morning, now had a job. He was old ex-military, an actual marine sergeant from long ago, in his early sixties and the good-natured guy who usually had nothing more to do than bust a kid for being publicly drunk or shine a spotlight into a parked car to break up a hot and heavy session. Parker had already met with the heftier
members of the ball team and their coach to discuss keeping the campus safe and setting up a twenty-four-hour watch.

Parker had taken his job seriously for years, in spite of the fact that if ever there was a “safe” campus in the mountains of western North Carolina, it was Montreat College up in the Cove. A year or two would go by without even a minor crime, let alone the far more serious issues of rape, assault, or heavy drugs. But he had religiously attended every conference on campus security offered by the government, especially the ones that dealt with the potentials of a terrorist takeover of a campus. He had once talked with John about that issue, pointing out that the fact that they were, in general, so darn safe up in these mountains meant they were exactly the type of campus that just indeed might be hit.

As John pulled away from Gaither Hall and turned to head back into town, he spotted Washington standing by the gateway that led into the campus. John slowed and came to a stop. Washington looked over at him and then actually saluted.

“Morning, Colonel.”

It was an old joke between the two, colonel and sergeant, but today it felt more than a little strange.

“Inspecting the troops?” Washington asked.

“Just figured I'd drive up and see how things were here.”

“It's EMP, isn't it?”

“How'd you know?”

“Your car for one, sir,” Washington drawled, his deep South Carolina African-American accent rich and full, mingled in with that clipped tone of a former marine drill sergeant.

“Pre solid-state electronics. I bet Miss Jen's Mustang will run as well.”

Her home was within walking distance of the campus. The realization caught him . . . everything was measured in walking distance now.

“You dropping a hint, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. I am. It'd be good to have at least one vehicle up here so I can move around quickly if needed. Besides, once people start figuring things out, it'll get stolen.”

“She'll kill me if I ever tell her, so it's between us, Washington.” John fished into his pocket and pulled out his key ring and snapped one off.

“That's to her house. Security code number is . . .”

He laughed softly and shook his head.

“The key to the Mustang, well, I never had security clearance for it.”

Washington laughed.

“I can jump it.”

“It's yours for the duration,” John hesitated, “or until this old beast breaks down or someone gets it. Chief Barker and I nearly got on that very issue less than an hour ago. I managed to hang on to this monster, but Barker just might remember the Mustang, so I suggest you get over there now. Possession is always nine-tenths of the law.”

“Deal, sir. I'll take good care of her, no joyriding, sir.”

“Come on, Washington. It's ‘John'; cut the ‘sir' shit. I work for a living now.”

Washington smiled.

“You said the duration, sir, when it came to the car,” and now his features were serious.

Washington finally looked away from him and back to the gate.

“Good position here, you know that,” Washington said.

John had thought about it more than once on his drive up the Cove to the campus. The gatehouse was a stone arch over the roadway, a tiny stone building, with nearly sheer ledges to either side, the road having been cut through the ledge a hundred years back. Long ago, back in the 1920s, it had been the entry to a tourist road that weaved up the mountains all the way to the top of Mount Mitchell. The gatehouse was a quaint leftover of that long-abandoned road. To the east of the gate, Flat Creek tumbled by; to the west, a near vertical cliff cut through the descending ridge to open the lane for the road. There was only one way in and one way out, and it was here.

Washington had obviously contemplated this fact long years ago.

John said nothing and he drove off heading back into town, crossing State Street and over the tracks of the Norfolk & Southern. He passed the Holiday Inn. A number of people were sitting around outside; a group of kids were playing tag. Several grills were set up, food cooking on them.

He slowed as he spotted someone standing down by the road, her arms folded, just gazing off towards the mountains. He pulled up, again a bit uncomfortable with how many people turned at the sight of his car.

The woman looked at him. There was a flicker of recognition.

“Ma'am, I owe you an apology.”

“I think you do.”

She was still dressed in her business suit, but the high heels were gone, replaced with a battered pair of sneakers.

He opened the door and got out and extended his hand.

“Look, seriously, I apologize. I had my kids with me, my mother-in-law, and frankly . . .” He hesitated.

She relented and extended her hand and took his.

“Sure; I understand. Guess I'd have done the same if the roles were reversed.”

“John Matherson.”

“Makala Turner.”

“Curious name.”

“My granddad was stationed in Hawaii during the war. Said it was a flower there. Talked my dad into using the name.”

John couldn't help but let his eyes drift for a second. She was tall, even without her heels on. Five ten or so, slender, blond hair to shoulder length, top two buttons of her blouse unbuttoned.

It was just the quickest of glances, but he knew she was watching. Strange. If you don't check an attractive woman out, even for a second, it's an insult; if you do, there might be a cold, icy stare.

She smiled slightly.

“Where you from?” John asked.

“Charlotte. Supervising nurse for a cardiac surgical unit. Was coming up here to attend a conference at Memorial Mission Hospital on a new procedure for heart arrhythmias.

“Now, could you do me a favor and tell me just what the hell is going on?”

“That reminds me,” John said. “Look, I've got to do something right now. Will you be here in ten minutes?”

“Sure.”

He got back into the car, hesitated, and looked at her.

“I'm heading to the drugstore right now. I need to get something. If you want, you can come along.”

She didn't move.

“I'm not trying to pick you up or anything. Really. I got to get some medication for my daughter. Just I can answer your questions while I drive.”

“OK. Don't seem to be going anywhere else.”

It was only several more blocks to the shopping plaza with Ingram's market and the CVS drugstore. The parking lot was nearly full, but no one was about.

He got out and looked at the drugstore, disappointed; it was dark. Damn, it must be closed, but then he realized the absurdity of that; all the stores were dark.

“I think it was EMP, like I just said,” John said, continuing their brief conversation.

“Had the same thought.”

“Why?”

She smiled.

“I help run a surgical unit. We had a lot of disaster drills, especially since nine-eleven. We did a scenario on that one, EMP. It wasn't pleasant. Kept me awake thinking for nights afterwards. Hospitals aren't hardened to absorb it; the emergency backup generators will blow out along with everything else, and you know what that means.”

“You'll have to tell me more later on,” John said. He pulled on the door and it swung open.

Inside was a minor bedlam, a harried clerk behind the counter shouting, “Please, everyone, it is cash only. I'm sorry, no checks. . . .”

John walked past her to the back of the store and the pharmacist counter. One of the regulars was there, Rachel, her daughter was one of Elizabeth's friends. One of a line of a dozen people, a heavyset man in his early forties, bit of a tacky suit, tie pulled down and half open, was at the counter.

“Listen to me!” he shouted at Rachel. “I need that prescription filled now, god damn it.”

“And sir. I keep trying to tell you, I'm sorry, but we don't know you, we don't have a record for you on file, and that, sir, is a controlled substance.”

“I'm from out of town, damn it. Don't you hicks up here understand that? Now listen, bitch, I want that prescription.”

John caught the eye of Liz, the pharmacist. She was in her early thirties and, John always thought, about the most attractive pharmacist he had ever laid eyes on. She was also married to an ex-ranger. Unfortunately, her husband was nowhere around and with Liz at not much more than five two and a hundred pounds, she was definitely way out of her league.