One Second After

One of the doctors, helped by a nurse, both in biohazard suits, was walking along a line of refugees who had been admitted through the barrier, looking at old driver’s licenses, interviewing, maybe finding the one or two who might be allowed to stay, their skills on the checklist John and Charlie had created…. Anyone who worked with steam, electricians, doctors, farmers, precision tool and die makers, oil and gas chemists, the list went on.

Someone was culled out of the line and stepped forward. He anxiously looked back and was then relieved when a woman and three children were allowed to follow him. Five more mouths, John thought. He hoped the trade in skills was a damn good one as they were led off via a path to where Makala worked.

Someone with a hand-pumped weed sprayer now walked down the line, spraying down each person in turn with a mixture cooked up by Kellor. At least it would take care of lice, fleas, but also was a psychological tool, to remind them that they were somehow different once past the line and would be kept apart.

The group set off, led and followed by two students in biohazard suits who were toting shotguns. Behind the cavalcade a Volkswagen Bug followed, “Black Mountain Militia” stenciled on the side. Inside were a student and one of Tom’s policemen, any weapons confiscated from the line of refugees piled in the back to be returned once they reached the far side of the barrier at Exit 59.

“Hey, Colonel, sir!”

It was Washington Parker up by the barrier. John waved.

Parker waved for him to come down and there seemed to be an urgency to his gesturing.

The refugees were now filing under the bridge and the sight was heartbreaking. They wore ragged, torn, filthy clothing, several pushing supermarket shopping carts with children piled inside.

John went to the edge of the bridge to slide down the embankment to the road.

“Good morning, Colonel, sir.”

Startled, he saw one of his students lying in the high grass, dressed in hunting camo, face darkened green. It was Brett Huffman, one of his ballplayers, a darn nice kid, backwoods type from up in Madison County, baseball scholarship with a real interest in history and wanted to teach high school. A kid who was a natural leader and looked up to by his classmates. John noticed the black sergeant’s stripes stenciled on his hunting jacket. He had a wad of tobacco tucked into his jaw.

“Brett, just what the hell—,” John started to ask.

“Vinnie Bartelli is on the other side of the bridge, staked out like me. If there’s any trouble at the barrier, or any of them folks down there try and bolt…”

He said nothing for a moment, just patted the 30/30 Savage with mounted scope.

“I had to shoot one yesterday, sir. Good shot, though, got him in the leg, thank God, didn’t have to kill him.”

John couldn’t reply. There was a bit of tightness in Brett’s voice but already the sort of casualness John had heard so often in debriefings after Desert Storm. Good young kids trained to be killers and trying to be hardened to it, though it was still a shock.

“I guess, though, with a 30/30 through the leg he’s a goner anyhow.”

“You did what you had to do,” John offered reassuringly.

“Still, sir. Reminded me of my first deer. Same kind of feeling, maybe a bit worse.”

“Take care of yourself, Brett.”

Yes, sir.

John slid down the embankment and out onto the road. He looked back. Brett was impossible to see. It registered, so many of the college kids from small towns, more than a few hunters, or Boy Scouts or just outdoor types, of course they’d learn, and darn quick. The refugees were moving along on the other side, a long strung-out column.

They moved slowly, a few listlessly looking up at John. They were like something out of another age, some so obvious caught ill prepared, a man in a three-piece business suit, scuffed worn dress shoes, bandage around his head. Looked like a lawyer or upper-level corporate type… with no skills to sell here for a bowl of watery soup. Parents side by side, exhausted, pushing a shopping cart, the wheels worn, squeaking, two children inside, both asleep, pale faced.

Some refugees were actually barefoot. Few had realized on that first day what a premium would soon be placed on shoes, good shoes for walking, a lot of walking. He cursed himself for not thinking of it as well and grabbing some extra pairs from the camping supply store the first day. Civil War campaigns had often hinged on which side had better shoes, which usually wore out in little more than a month of tough campaigning. Those hiking a hundred and fifty miles in wing tips or even just plain old canvas tennis shoes were soon down to nothing, and more than one walking by actually had a different shoe on each foot.

A woman who reminded him a bit of Makala on the first night, very sexy gray business jacket and skirt, stockings still on but absolutely shredded, heels knocked off her shoes to try to make them more walkable, was limping along.