One Second After

Tom left the room and seconds later there was the crackling hiss of an old handheld megaphone and Tom began to speak.

There was a scattering of applause, even a few cheers, someone shouting a rope would be better.

Damn, it did feel like an old western, John thought, the crowd all but crying, “Lynch ’em!”

The crowd immediately broke up, many setting off for the park, some, especially those with children, staying behind. Long minutes passed, John silent, looking out the window.

He heard cursing from out in the corridor and crying. The two were being led out.

“We better go,” Charlie said, and opened the door.

John felt as if he were being led to his own execution. Could he do it? All those years in the army, the training, but never a shot in anger or even in detached professionalism, as they were told they should act. During Desert Storm he was XO of a battalion, but even there, he was in a command vehicle a couple miles behind the main line of advance, never on the actual firing line pulling the trigger.

He thought of the taunting rednecks back when he was in college, the frightful moment when rage drove him to the point that he might very well have shot one, and the shock of it afterwards… and then the shaking of hands with one of them only days later and a shared drink.

He was outside. The two were in the back of Jim Bartlett’s Volkswagen van, handcuffed, feet chained. The back of the van door was slammed shut, Tom up in the front seat with a drawn pistol, Reverend Richard Black crouched down between Jim and Tom.

John looked at the two as the door closed and realized when he made eye contact with Bruce, barely remembered but still a former student, there was one thing he could not do.

He saw Washington with Jeremiah and Phil and walked up to them.

“Washington, I need your help. God, do I need it,” and John told him.

Washington nodded, saying nothing, and got into the car with John, Kate, Phil, and Jeremiah squeezing into the backseat, Charlie up front with Washington and John.

The two vehicles set off and as they turned onto Montreat Road and then the side street over to the park, he saw people walking fast, heading for the park, others just standing there, staring.

“Killing is a sin!” someone shouted as he drove slowly, following the van that was dragging along at not more than five miles an hour.

It was like a damn procession out of the French Revolution, he thought.

They rolled down the steep hill to the corner of the park, a large crowd already gathered by the tennis courts and the concrete practice wall painted white, bits of paint flecking off.

The two were led out of the back of the van and all fell silent.

Swallowing hard, John stopped the car. He looked over at Washington.

“Just aim straight at the chest, sir,” Washington said. “You try for the head and you’re shaking at all you’ll miss. First shot to the chest, he’ll collapse. They don’t go flying around like in the movies; usually they just fall over or sag down to the ground. Once he’s on the ground, then empty the clip; just empty it. If you have your wits about you put the last shot into the head. Do you understand me, sir?”

Washington handed the Glock to him.

“A round is chambered.”

John nodded.

He got out of the car and the crowd separated back, opening a lane, the two prisoners ahead of them. Bruce was crying, begging, Larry silent, Reverend Black holding Bruce’s arm while Tom had Larry in a tight grip.

“This is wrong, Charlie!” someone shouted.

And there was an angry mutter, shouts back, arguments breaking out.

The condemned were led to the wall and placed against it.

More shouts from the crowd, some against, most for, a few yelling to string the guilty up rather than shoot them.

Sickened, John looked around, and before he even realized what he was doing he raised the gun straight up in the air and fired.

Bruce let out a scream of terror and collapsed to his knees. There were cries from the crowd and then silence, all eyes on John.

“I have been appointed to do something I never dreamed of in my worst nightmares!” John shouted.

No one spoke now.

“I will confess to you, one of these men I cannot bring myself to shoot; he was once a student of mine. I have asked Mr. Parker, a former marine sergeant major, to do that task for me and he will do it.”

“Our world has changed…” and John’s voice trailed off, but then he raised his head. “But this is still America. I want to believe this is still America.

“We are at war. Mr. Fuller will hold a town meeting this evening in the elementary school gym and share with you the latest news and information. This is a meeting for all of you, those born here, those who moved here like me, those whom circumstances now place here.”

He paused again.