One Year After: A Novel (11 page)

They reached the dam face of the reservoir where he had a watch station in place. The two students assigned there came out of the concealed bunker, reporting that they had heard voices echoing across the lake, followed by a couple of minutes of sustained gunfire and then something going up in flames.

If voices alone could echo across the lake, then most certainly their arrival in a Jeep and four-wheel-drive truck could certainly be heard, as well.

He stood silent for several minutes, gazing across the quarter-mile-wide lake. It looked like a shack of some kind was indeed burning on the far shore. Back before the Day, this had been the reservoir for the city of Asheville, and any kind of building within the watershed was strictly forbidden. Chances were it was some kind of still or squatter’s shack burning over there.

Was it worth the risk to check it out, or should they wait until dawn?

The Stepps, who had settled this valley over two hundred years earlier, had hung on rather well compared to many after the Day. Over the last year, they had produced enough of a surplus to start breeding hogs, chickens, and drop off the town rationing, and they traded well and fairly with the community. The raid might be aimed at their food. One branch of the family, however, lived more on the fringe, and it was they who usually were either trading with or wrangling with the reivers. He guessed this was some kind of payback attack. Illegal still or not, something was going on, and he had to find out what it was.

Darkness played to his advantage if it was raiders; he knew this territory, and they most likely did not. If it was just the Stepps doing something stupid, he had to deal with that, as well … and hoped that was all it was.

He motioned for his reaction team to gather round. He looked at their young faces in the waning moonlight. They were tense but ready to go in.

“I’ll take point. I want you deployed back fifty yards behind me in a skirmish line.”

“Sir, that’s our job to be point, not yours.” It was Grace, typical of her to speak up.

“Not this time,” John offered. “If it’s just the Stepps, they know me; they might not know you and fire first and ask questions later.”

He stood up, indicating there would be no more debate, stepped out from behind the bunker, and started along the access road that followed the west shore of the lake. He heard someone behind him, turned back, and saw that it was Maury, his World War II–era M1 carbine raised.

“What the hell are you doing?” John asked.

“Just taking a walk with you, that’s all,” Maury replied.

“Okay, but let’s not go off half-cocked. If it’s the reivers, they usually hightail out rather than face a fight with a full squad of our troops. If it’s someone else…” His voice trailed off.

They moved silently along the bank of the river. All was silent except for the crackling of the fire, the lake reflecting the light and that of the moon.

He began to think of the notoriously bad line from old movies—“It’s quiet;
too
quiet”—just before all hell broke loose.

A gut instinct suddenly kicked in; something didn’t feel right. Long ago, instructors in advanced infantry training had drilled into him that in combat, listen to gut instincts; chances were that something your conscious thinking had not even registered—the faint crack of a broken branch, a barely detected scent on the air, just a feeling that something wasn’t right—was screaming at you to react.

“Hey! Whoever’s coming, we need help up here!” The cry for help close by. It sounded like old Wilson Stepp.

“Wilson Stepp, is that you?” John shouted.

There was no reply.

“Wilson, it’s John Matherson. What the hell is going on?”

A momentary pause, and then Wilson’s voice, sounding strained. “Hurt, John. I need help.”

“We’ll go up and check it out, sir.”

Turning, he saw Grace creeping up behind him, crouched low. He motioned for her to freeze in place, deciding that she was going to get one hell of a chewing out once this was over for breaking orders.

Only a couple of years older than Elizabeth, Grace had made the campus her home after the Day. Her family lived in Jacksonville. It was ironic that he had actually discussed with her parents what would happen if ever there was a serious crisis, her folks telling John to make sure she stayed put at the school, where they knew she would be safe. It was almost as if they had some insider word that something bad was coming. As he looked at her, he thought of the risks she had already taken and wanted to now take again—and how he would ever be able to face her parents if one day they did show up on the campus. How he would feel if Elizabeth went off and one day he confronted her commanding officer.

That made his decision as to what to do next all so clear.

If someday they finally show up for their daughter, do I tell them she died because I sent her into a trap?

“Stay put,” he whispered.

He suddenly felt an overwhelming urge for a cigarette. He could make out Maury’s features, his friend tight lipped, eyes wide.

“It smells bad, John,” Maury whispered.

“No shit,” was all he could say. He was suddenly afraid, but he could not let that take control of his judgment now.

“Hey, for God’s sake, someone help me!” The cry sounded weak, strained. From behind him, he could hear voices. It was some of the Stepp family coming up the road, armed.

Either the raiders are gone, or this could turn into a bloodbath,
John realized. They were not the type of people to stop if they thought one of their kin was hurt.

“Grace, go back. Tell those folks to stay back, and the same for the rest of you.”

“Sir?”

“Just do it,” John hissed. “Maury, keep them back. I’m going up.”

“Are you flipping crazy, John?” Maury snapped. “You go back, and I’ll go forward and check it out. Your job is back there, not getting your ass blown off by some damn drunk reiver. And if that is old man Stepp hurt up there, it’s most likely because he fell down drunk.”

“So I send your ass to get blown off, is that it?” John replied, and he forced a smile. “Chances are there aren’t even any reivers—just these damn fools got drunk and started shooting at their own shadows.”

He stood up.

Maury was right, and he knew it. But given all that had happened against the Posse and just hours earlier with Fredericks, he realized he was sick to death of sending others forward. At the moment, it was so much easier to just do it himself.

“I’ll let you know when it’s cleared,” he announced, and then he went forward, crouching low in the ditch, his .45 out.

He pressed up alongside the road another fifty yards. He saw someone lying in the road, half sitting up, clutching his side. It was old man Wilson Stepp.

He drew closer, Wilson half turning to look in his direction. He suddenly realized his own field training was definitely rusty. The lake, illuminated by the burning shed and moonlight, was behind him, thus clearly showing his silhouette if anyone was on the other side of the road.

“Hey, John—get down,” Wilson gasped.

At that same instant, he saw it—a bright-red spot of light sparkling on his chest.

“Oh shit.” The words barely slipped out of him.

“Okay, Matherson, just hold your hands up, and walk up this road real easy like.”

“Sorry, John,” Wilson gasped. “You stupid ass, shouting out your name like that. They’re just behind me.”

His response was instinct, lowering his pistol to shoot at the laser sight that he could see glinting from a concealed position upslope from the road.

Less than a second later, the impact of the shot hitting his chest knocked the wind out of him, and he went down on his knees. He heard running, more shots. He started to turn—it looked like Maury was going down just behind him—then a stunning blow to the back of his head and a falling away into darkness.

*   *   *

Dawn.

The sound of an engine, a jolt of pain, a feeling that he was falling, even as he looked up at the canopy of trees overhead. A bounce that made him gasp from the pain, the back of his head, his chest.

He tried to move, but his hands and feet were bound.
What in the hell?

He tried to sit up. A harsh voice close to his ear, breath stinking. “I’d stay right where you are if I was you. Otherwise, you get another tap to the head.”

He was silent for a moment, each jostling bounce triggering a wave of pain. He felt light-headed, disoriented—a concussion, most likely. He half opened one eye, caught a glimpse of a rough-hewn-looking character, bearded, in camo fatigues, cradling a short-barrel M4 with laser sights, sitting in the bed of the truck.

The sun was up, golden light filtering through the forest canopy softened with morning mist. They were on a downhill grade that kept going and going. Something told him that they must be on the far side of the Mount Mitchell range, heading down the long slope of over six thousand feet of altitude to the inhabited valleys on the far side of the mountain. The driver shifted out of gear for a moment; John heard at least one other vehicle, some laughter—and a strange sound then … squealing. It sounded like pigs.

Damn it,
he thought.
I get tangled up in this for some damn pigs and moonshine. What a reason to get taken by whoever this is.

He looked up at his captor. “Where am I?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Silence for a moment, his head throbbing. “Thirsty. Could I have something to drink?”

His captor chuckled, waited a few minutes, looking off as if to convey who exactly was in charge, and then he reached into a pocket, pulled out a bottle, and uncorked it, offering it over.

“Hands tied,” John said, and his captor grinned.

“Yup, well, have a touch of this.” He held the bottle to John’s lips. It was shine, pure shine, but John took a gulp anyhow, coughing and gasping, and a moment later, he vomited it back up, his captor cursing him and then laughing even as he passed out again.

*   *   *

“All
right, drag the son of a bitch out.”

John came back to consciousness as someone pulled him by his feet toward the tailgate of the truck. He opened his eyes, and there was a moment of barely suppressed panic at the sight of a hunting knife, wondering if he was about to have his throat cut. Someone cut the bonds around his ankles and roughly pulled him upright, ordering him to turn around. His hands were freed, a slice of skin from his wrist going with the rope.

He flashed back to his nightmare experience of POW training as a green second lieutenant during a time when outright physical abuse was an accepted part of the program. Even though all knew they were in Fort Bragg, North Carolina, more than a few cracked under the torment. He limped out of that training with a sprained ankle, one eye swollen shut, and a cracked rib when he had attempted an escape, which all were expected to try. He had run afoul of a Green Beret “guard,” whom he had at least had the pleasure of kicking in the groin, which triggered the “guards” into giving him some payback.

Try never to show pain, don’t show fear—it had been drilled into him then. He hated to admit it now, but he definitely felt pain, and it was hard not to show fear.

They were in a forest clearing, definitely miles north of Mount Mitchell, its peak and ridgeline clearly visible in the early morning light. Somewhere up in the Burnsville area, he guessed.

Reiver country.

“Bring him over here.”

He was shoved hard, nearly falling over, struggling to maintain his footing and some semblance of dignity. They were at a mountain crossroad, of all things a local fire station, engine still within, a burned-out gas station next door and a few run-down houses and single-wide trailers, run-down long before the Day. Whoever called for him was sitting in an overstuffed lounge chair inside the open fire station. Several men, all dressed in camo gear, were gathered around the chair, whispering, glancing back at John.

In spite of his dazed condition, his thoughts flashed to a movie about some dumb-ass canoeists going out for a weekend in the mountains of Georgia, a movie that scared the crap out of every Northern boy. When he moved from New Jersey to attend college at Duke, his Southern friends often teased him with suggestions they go canoeing and see if they could find some locals for him to meet.

A couple of the men inside the fire station definitely looked like extras from the film, especially the one that he assumed had shot him, his few remaining teeth blackened as he gazed sardonically at John. The only thing missing to make the moment terrifyingly complete was a mentally disabled kid playing a banjo. It fit every worst stereotype ever held about folks living in the mountains of southern Appalachia.

“So this is the great John Matherson?”

Things were out of focus, his head aching from the blow that had knocked him out. His damned tooth was throbbing, and another wave of nausea was hitting. This was certainly turning into one hell of a rotten day.

Shoved again from behind, John staggered into the gloom of the fire station, the shadowy figure in the lounge chair chuckling at his obvious discomfort and then ordering someone to fetch a chair for their guest.

Knees trembling, John half collapsed into the chair and leaned forward, gasping for air, each breath a torment thanks to what he assumed must be a cracked rib or two from the bullet impact.

“Get a medic. George might’ve cracked this poor man’s skull.”

“Lucky if that was all I cracked,” a voice replied. “I popped him square in the chest before tapping him on the back of his head. If it weren’t for that fancy Kevlar vest of his, you’d be talking to a corpse now.”

“Nice vest, Matherson. You’d be dead now if you didn’t have it on,” the voice interjected. “Someone help him out of it. We can use it ourselves.”

John did not object as the flak vest was pulled off, suppressing a gasp as the one taking it off none too gently pointed out the impact point, bruised black and blue.

“Vest is mine now; I claim it,” his captor announced. “I’m the one that shot him, then took him prisoner.”