One Second After

“Good luck. And tell people up there we really need help here,” the cop said. “Some of the staff, the doctors and nurses, have stayed on, but a lot left, and hardly anyone has come back.”

“Why are you here?” John asked out of curiosity.

“Somebody came in yesterday and said a couple of the nursing homes in the area were hit by druggies. Well, there’s a lot of that stuff inside that building. Figure they need some protection. Besides, I was a marine, took one at Hue, 1968. Those are my comrades in there. I don’t have no family to worry about, so I guess these guys are my family.”

He then thumped his left leg and there was a hollow echo.

“Semper fi,” Washington said, and he leaned out the open window and shook the guard’s hand.

“Some advice,” Washington then said. “Don’t stand out in the middle of the road. Set up some sort of road barrier and keep to one side; use a stalled car as protection. I could have blown you away before you even blinked.”

The cop nodded.

“Yeah, guess you’re right. Forgot. Tired, I guess.”

“Good luck, Marine.”

“You, too.”

They backed out of the driveway, pulled out onto 70, and continued towards Asheville. A mile farther on, as they came up out of a hollow and started down the long hill that would pass the Department of Motor Vehicles; straight ahead they could see the Asheville Mall… a thick pall of smoke hanging over it.

“Get on the bypass,” Charlie said. “Don’t go anywhere near it.”

Driving fast, John went up the ramp onto the I-240 bypass that led straight into the heart of Asheville. Once onto the bypass he began to wonder, yet again, about the wisdom of coming into the city.

It was like driving an obstacle course with all the stalled cars. Ahead, through the highway cut in Beaucatcher Mountain, he could see numerous fires burning in the city, plumes of smoke rising up, spreading out in the morning heat, forming a shadowy cloud.

A trickle of people were walking along the side of the road, and for all the world they reminded him of an old film clip of French refugees fleeing the German advance in 1940. Some were pushing baby carriages, supermarket shopping carts, a wheelbarrow, one family pulling a small two-wheeled cart like the type hooked up to the back of a yard tractor. All piled high with belongings, children, strange things like an old painting, a treasured piece of furniture, a stack of heavy books.

As he drove by going in the opposite direction all looked towards him, as if he were an alien. More than one tried to step out, to wave him down.

“Gun!” Washington shouted.

John hunkered down and hit the gas. A man was running towards them from the side of the road, waving a pistol, and lowered it.

“Damn it, Jeremiah, drop him!” Washington shouted.

Jeremiah picked the shotgun up from off the floor, but they were already past the man. He had not fired a shot, just waved the pistol angrily.

“You keep that gun ready, boy,” Washington snapped, “and if I say shoot, you shoot.”

“Yes, sir.”

John looked in the rearview mirror. Jeremiah’s features had gone pale. He was a good kid, a ballplayer. Like so many on the team he tried to act tough and macho, but down deep most of them were small-town church-going kids, who never dreamed that in less than a week they’d go from worrying about the next game, final exams, which should have started today, or convincing small-town girls to head off into the woods with them to aiming a gun at someone and squeezing the trigger.

The overpass to Charlotte Street had two cops on it, and as he weaved towards it, one of them motioned for him to take the exit ramp off and threateningly pointed what looked to be an AR-15 at him. The interstate bypass ahead was completely blocked.

He was planning to exit here anyhow, but still, he had never quite expected such a threatening welcome.

The ramp was cleared of vehicles and he turned left off the ramp and onto the overpass where the cop with the AR-15 stood, weapon leveled.

John rolled to a stop.

“Who the hell are you?” the cop asked.

Charlie held his hands up slowly, motioned to the door, opened it, and started to get out.

“Did I tell you you could get out?”

“Listen,” Charlie replied sharply. “I’m director of public safety for Black Mountain. I’ll show you my ID.”

The cop nodded. Charlie slowly reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and opened it up. The cop stepped forward and leaned over to look at it.

“Asshole,” Washington whispered from the backseat of the car, his .45 tucked up against his left side.

“I’m here to see Ed Torrell, county director of emergency preparedness, to find out what’s going on.”

The cop nodded, then looked back at the car.

“I have orders to confiscate all vehicles that are moving.”

“Listen, Officer. We drove up from Black Mountain. I need to see Ed right now. If you confiscate our vehicle, how the hell do we get back?”

“You walk. I’ve got my orders.”

“Like hell. This is my car and we’re keeping it,” John snapped, and the cop turned towards him.