One Second After

“No. It’s worse. The Posse was a name for a pre-war gang with branches all around the country. Punks, gangbangers who would pop a bullet into someone’s head as a joke before this even started, drug dealers, the scum of the earth long before we ever got hit and the ones most ruthless to survive now than our worst nightmares have become real.”

John realized just how really isolated their small town was. Several years back the Asheville paper had run a couple of articles about gang activity starting to flare up, but the local police had put it down fast.

“The Posse. One poor woman we let through with the last bunch said she was held prisoner by them for several days and escaped. Don’t even want to talk about what they did to her, but it was beyond sick. Everyone’s talking about it on the other side of the barrier. Sort of like an urban legend running with the refugee bands on the road. Some say a thousand or more and well armed. They’re moving like ancient barbarians out there.”

“Damn,” John sighed, and yet again movie images, the Road Warrior films and all the cheap imitations of the genre back in the 1980s and early 1990s.

“I think we better start getting more vigilant. Just a gut feeling if this is real, they’ll finally head our way. They’ll figure Asheville, up in the mountains, must be loaded with food, and may be a good place for them to take over and hole up. They’ll follow the trail of refugees and wind up here,” Washington said.

“I heard a radio broadcast,” John said.

“You mean Voice of America?” Washington replied.

“How did you know?”

“I was sitting up here last night, keeping an eye on things. The radio in that beautiful Mustang still works. Damn, I just turned it on. Sitting in an old Mustang, it was almost flashback time. Half-expected to hear Wolf-man Jack or Cousin Brucie.”

John chuckled.

“Yeah.”

“And loud and clear had the signal for about an hour or so. Just wish they’d knock off the patriotic stuff, play some old R & B or rock. Yeah, I heard it.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s propaganda for morale, nothing more. Maybe the news about the coastal towns is on the mark, but for the rest of us, today, next week, it’s bullshit. We got to look out for ourselves. I’m passing word at the barrier for people to turn around, to start heading for the coast. I know that’s insane, none have the strength to make it now, but maybe it will be a coun-terrumor that will work back down the line.” John nodded.

“Downside, though,” John said. “If the rumor hits that Posse crowd, that will move them up our way even faster. Under martial law every one of those bastards will be shot; the last thing they want now is any authority anywhere. We better work out a good tactical plan to defend this place against a serious attack right now and stop thinking about mob control or a few desperados trying to sneak in. If they have any ex-military types at all with them, they’ll do a probe first, then hit us hard. We got to keep an eye on our back doors, the railroad tunnel and the old back roads down to Old Fort. We’re no longer dealing with refugees; we’ll be facing an army as ruthless as anything in history.”

Washington nodded in agreement.

“I think I’ll go home,” John said.

The two shook hands and John went back up the slope by the bridge. He nodded to Brett concealed in the grass.

“Fran got a bit jumpy there. Glad she didn’t shoot that woman.”

“Same here,” though John wondered if a bullet in her head might have been an act of mercy.

He got in the Edsel and headed for home.

As he pulled into the drive, the two fools Ginger and Zach came off the deck to greet him. He knelt down to pet both and found himself hugging them.

“Daddy!”

It was Jennifer, Pat with her. “Everything ok?”

“Sure, Daddy.”

He looked at Jennifer closely. She had lost a few pounds. At every meal Jen had been pushing as much food into her as possible, meat and vegetables, which right now were still boiled dandelions. He looked up at the orchard. If only the trees were peach trees; in another several weeks they could start to gather the peaches. The apples were growing, but far too slow, it seemed.

He had never had any real interest in the eight trees, other than their beauty in the spring. The apples were rather sour in the fall, and they usually just left the fruit there to drop, delighted when the apples lured in bears to feed on them.

“She had to eat a little chocolate earlier,” Pat said. “Blood sugar went down.”

“Snitch,” Jennifer snapped.

“I promised your dad I’d keep an eye on you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

He hugged both of them, the two arguing as he went into the house. Jen was half-asleep, book laid across her chest, an old book on the Civil War.

“Where’s Elizabeth?”

“Oh, she and Ben went out for a walk,” Jen said, and sat up, rubbing her eyes.

“They’re out there walking a lot these days,” John said.

“Well, Son-in-law, you better sit down.”

“Why?”

“I think you need to talk to the two of them.”

“About what?”

“Sex, getting pregnant.”