One Second After

His roommates were freaked, one of them cried that they were in the middle of Deliverance. But their attackers had not counted on one of the “faggots” being from New Jersey, already into Civil War reenacting, and someone who knew guns. He had come out, Dragoon revolver in hand, leveled it, and fired off two rounds of his cannon. Not aiming to kill, just to make them duck a bit. After pumping out the two rounds, he lowered his aim straight at the chest of the redneck with the shotgun.

“Next shot’s for real,” John said calmly.

The rednecks piled into their truck and disappeared in one helluva hurry, his buddies standing on the porch, in awe as he walked back, feeling more than a little like Gary Cooper in High Noon.

“Peace through superior firepower,” he said calmly, then went inside and poured himself one helluva vodka to calm down while his roommates chattered away, reenacting the drama for half the night.

What had truly scared him? The realization that he was ready to kill one of the bastards if they had tried to venture another shot. Reflecting on it later, he didn’t like that feeling at all, and hoped he’d never have it again… though he would, years later in Iraq, but at least then he was not pulling the trigger just ordering others to do so.

The following morning, a Saturday, the landlord had come over with a case of beer, asked to see this now-legendary gun, and said that “you boys got some respect now.”

A month later, stopping in a roadside bar with a couple of friends to get a beer, John had run into one of the four who had been his harassers. John recognized him, there was a tense moment, and the redneck broke out laughing, brought John a beer, and told everyone the story, concluding with “this Yankee boy’s ok,” and they shook hands.

Damn, even then he did love the South.

The revolver was already loaded, and he put it on his desk.

He suddenly realized someone was in the room and looked up. It was Jen in the doorway.

“This is serious, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Go to sleep.” He hesitated. “Mom.”

She stood silent for a moment, nodded, then disappeared.

Without taking his shoes off, John stretched out on the sofa in his office, laying the shotgun down on the floor by his side.

It was a long couple of hours before he finally drifted to sleep. As he began to fall asleep, Zach disengaged himself from Jennifer’s embrace, came out to the office, and with a sigh settled down by John’s side.

CHAPTER THREE

DAY 2

The scream woke him up. He fumbled for the shotgun, got half to his feet, and heard Elizabeth cursing. “There’s no hot water, damn it!”

Putting the gun down, he walked into the bedroom as Elizabeth stormed out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her. “Dad, there’s no hot water!”

“What in hell did you expect?” he grumbled, heart still racing a bit.

Jennifer was sitting up, Rabs tucked under her arm, smiling.

“No school, Dad?”

“Nope.”

“Great!”

“Dad, how am I going to take a shower?”

“Take it cold; it won’t kill you,” he muttered, and then wandered into the kitchen.

Coffee, damn it, coffee.

He pulled the foil bag down, the paper filter, made the coffee extra strong, filled the pot up, poured it in, and flicked the switch.

He stood there like an idiot for a good minute before the realization hit. “Ah, shit.”

He pulled a small pot out from under the cabinet, filled it with water and walked out onto the porch, flicked on the grill, and set the pot on it. Fumbling in his pocket, he got out a cigarette and lit it.

Though he was watching the pot, it finally did come to a boil, and a minute later he had a cup, doing it the old way he had learned in the Boy Scouts: throw a couple of spoonfuls of coffee into the cup, pour the hot water in, and to hell with the grinds.

“Got one for me?”

It was Jen. Sure.

He mixed a second cup and she looked at it with disdain.

She went back into the kitchen and opened the fridge, sniffing the plastic jug of milk after opening it, then came back out on the porch, taking a sip.

“Keep your teeth closed and that will filter out the grinds,” John said, finally forcing his first smile of the day.

“Got to find an old-style percolator,” she said. “Always thought that made the best coffee anyhow. Never liked those Mr. Coffee machines.”

It was a bit chilly out and he found it invigorating. The coffee and cigarette were working their magic, bringing him awake.

Unlike the vast majority of men who had made careers in the army, he had never adjusted to early morning rising and hated all those who could do it, especially the cheerful ones. His instinct always was to be a night owl, to go to sleep around two or three, then wake up at nine or ten for his first lecture at eleven.

The college had learned that quickly and never scheduled a class for him prior to that time.