One Second After

“If the board of trustees ever knew about this, they’d hang me,” Dan said, and John wondered it he was being serious or just joking. It was, after all, a dry campus.

John took the offered cup and waited for Dan to pour an ounce. He held it up.

“For the Republic, may God preserve her,” Dan said. The two drained the cups down in a single gulp, Dan exhaling noisily as he put his down.

“What’s up, John?” Dan asked.

“Well, sir, I guess you knew I was out of the loop for a week or so.”

“You had us scared there, John. At chapel every day for the last week Reverend Abel and the kids offered prayers for you.”

“Well, it most certainly worked,” John said, looking down at his hand. “What about classes. Are they still meeting?”

Dan shook his head.

“Remember, most of our faculty live miles from here; no, classes are canceled.”

“But you still hold daily chapel.”

“Now more than ever,” Dan said quietly.

That was reassuring, darn reassuring, a link to the past somehow. And yes, as well, in any time of crisis churches would fill up again. The Sunday after 9/11 John remembered the small chapel he and Mary used to go to over in Swannanoa was packed to overflowing.

“I felt I should check in, see what was happening on campus. After all, this place is my job.” He hesitated. “No, actually my life in so many ways. I was wondering if there was anything I should be doing here now.”

“Appreciate that,” Hunt replied softly, “but I think you have other responsibilities now.” John said nothing.

“I heard about your role on what people are now calling the Council. I think it’s darn good you’re part of that. They need someone like you. Focus your efforts on that; don’t worry about us.”

“These are my kids, too, Dan. I worry about them.”

Outside came the echo of Washington’s voice, chewing someone out. He sounded like a Marine DI again, the right edge of sarcasm but, in respect to the traditions of the campus, at least no overtly sexual, scatological, or downright obscene phrases thrown in.

“To survive, to keep these kids alive, we’re selling our services,” Dan said quietly. “But there’s a lot more behind this as well.”

John stood up and walked to the window, empty cup in hand, and watched as Washington, finished with the inspection, now started to run the kids through some close-order drill.

“What is that out there?” John asked.

“First Platoon of Company A of the Black Mountain Militia,” Dan said.

“What?”

“Just that. Charlie Fuller and I agreed on it a couple of days ago. A hundred and fifty kids so far. The other two platoons are out on a conditioning run up to Graybeard and back. We’d have more, but that’s all the weapons we could find so far. Company B will start forming up once we get more weapons.”

“Isn’t this a little overboard?” John asked. “Hell, I know Washington’s a good man, a great man actually, but come on, Dan. What is he doing out there, getting turned on with old memories, that it’s Parris Island or Khe Sanh again?”

“In truth, John, yes. I guess you heard about the riot at the gap.”

“Yes.”

“It was then that Charlie realized something, and Washington had most likely put the bug in his ear already: we need an army.” John sighed.

“Three weeks ago those kids were dozing in classes, trying to sneak up to Lookout Mountain with their boyfriend or girlfriend, or maybe, just maybe, studying for exams. Now we’re making them into an army?”

“I was younger than them when I lost this,” Dan said, and he slapped his left leg, a hollow thump resounding. “You were a lieutenant at twenty-two yourself.”

“Yeah, but Dan, this is a college. A small Christian college up in the mountains of North Carolina. Somehow it just doesn’t feel right to me.”

“Where else in this entire valley are there four hundred young men and women, in fairly good shape to start with, intelligence pretty darn good, already imbued with a sense of identity for the school and those who lead it, like you, me, Washington?”

“I don’t know,” John sighed, watching as the column went to right flank march and two girls screwed up, Washington in their faces and reaming them out so that one was crying as she tried to march.

“We had six hundred kids here, on the day before things went down,” Dan said, now at John’s side and watching the kids drill.

“About a hundred and fifty have left, trying to strike out for home. That was hard; you were not here for that meeting in the chapel. A lot of praying, soul-searching. I advised them to stay. Told them that if anything, their parents would want them to stay here until this crisis was over, knowing that they would be safe. Most who left are local, a day’s walk away, but a couple of them are from Florida, said they felt they should try and get home.”

John shook his head. The ones trying to get to Florida were most likely now facing hundreds of thousands heading the other way.