C H A P T E R T H R E E

D A Y 2

The scream woke him up. He fumbled for the shotgun, got half to his feet, and heard Elizabeth cursing.

"There's no hot water, damn it!"

Putting the gun down, he walked into the bedroom as Elizabeth stormed out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her. "Dad, there's no hot water!"

"What in hell did you expect?" he grumbled, heart still racing a bit. Jennifer was sitting up, Rabs tucked under her arm, smiling.

"No school, Dad?"

"Nope."

"Great!"

"Dad, how am I going to take a shower?"

"Take it cold; it won't kill you," he muttered, and then wandered into the kitchen. Coffee, damn it, coffee.

He pulled the foil bag down, the paper filter, made the coffee extra strong, filled the pot up, poured it in, and flicked the switch.

He stood there like an idiot for a good minute before the realization hit. "Ah, shit." He pulled a small pot out from under the cabinet, filled it with water and walked out onto the porch, flicked on the grill, and set the pot on it. Fumbling in his pocket, he got out a cigarette and lit it. Though he was watching the pot, it finally did come to a boil, and a minute later he had a cup, doing it the old way he had learned in the Boy Scouts: throw a couple of spoonfuls of coffee into the cup, pour the hot water in, and to hell with the grinds.

"Got one for me?"

It was Jen. Sure.

He mixed a second cup and she looked at it with disdain.

She went back into the kitchen and opened the fridge, sniffing the plas-tic jug of milk after opening it, then came back out on the porch, taking a sip.

"Keep your teeth closed and that will filter out the grinds," John said, fi-nally forcing his first smile of the day.

"Got to find an old-style percolator," she said. "Always thought that made the best coffee anyhow. Never liked those Mr. Coffee machines."

It was a bit chilly out and he found it invigorating. The coffee and ciga-rette were working their magic, bringing him awake.

Unlike the vast majority of men who had made careers in the army, he had never adjusted to early morning rising and hated all those who could do it, especially the cheerful ones. His instinct always was to be a night owl, to go to sleep around two or three, then wake up at nine or ten for his first lecture at eleven.

The college had learned that quickly and never scheduled a class for him prior to that time. But he did have to admit, mornings were beautiful and he regretted missing them at times. Mary had been a morning person. He thought about her . . . remembering how sometimes at dawn she'd wake him up, at least for a few minutes to . . . The memory was too painful and he let it drop.

"That fire is still burning," Jen said, pointing to Craggy Dome. He nodded. The flame had spread out, a plume of smoke flattening out, then drifting down towards the Asheville reservoir in the valley below. Looked like a hundred acres or more. Far in the distance, out on the distant horizon, he saw two more plumes of smoke from fires. The world was silent, no traffic; down in Black Mountain nothing was moving. Nothing had changed. "Can I have some?"

It was Elizabeth, hair wet, rubbing it with a towel, a heavy winter bathrobe wrapped around her, shivering.

"Sure, sweetheart," and he mixed up a third cup, which she drank with-out complaint. Jennifer came out on the porch as well, Rabs tucked under her arm. She looked so adorable. When asleep, or half-awake as she was now, there was still that certain look, the eyes of a baby still there.

"You sure there's no school?"

"Doubt it."

She yawned, turned about without comment, and went back inside. "You do your blood test?" he asked.

"Yeah, Dad, it's OK," and she wandered back to the bedroom to go back to sleep.

"I think I'll head down to town now, see what's going on." "Can I come?" Elizabeth asked. "No, I'd like you to stay here."

"Ahh, come on, Dad. Everyone will be down there; I want to see what's happening." He took her gently by the arm and led her away from the screen door. "I want you here to guard the house." She gave him a sarcastic smirk. "From what? Terrorists?"

"Don't joke about it," he said forcefully, and she fell silent, looking up at him.

"You know how to handle the shotgun. It's the 20 gauge, so don't be afraid of it. The safety is off, but I don't have a round chambered in it. So if need be, pump and then shoot."

"Dad, you're freaking me out here."

"Listen, Liz, I'm not joking around. I think something serious has gone down." "What?"

"Look around. There's no power, nothing." "It'll come back on." He didn't say anything, just staring at her.

"Anyone you know coming up the driveway, OK. But if it's a stranger, I want you to stand in the doorway, but use the frame to cover yourself. Let them see you have a gun pointed in their direction. Don't take any bullshit or con lines. I don't care how pathetic they might look. If they're looking for a phone, water, help, just tell them to walk on into town and there'll be people there to help them. Got it?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Got it?" And this time his voice was sharp. "Yes, Dad."

"If they try anything, anything at all, you don't hesitate, Liz. None of this warning-shot crap. You aim straight at their midsection and squeeze. If it's more than one man, drop the one closest to you, or anyone armed."

"Dad, you're scaring me."

He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed them tight.

"I taught you and your mom to shoot. And remember what I said about what was most dangerous."

"A woman with a gun who doesn't have the guts to use it," she recited. Mary had always said it was such a sexist line.

"A guy like that drunk last night, he can sense it if you are not really going to shoot. You make it clear you're not taking," John hesitated, "not taking any shit and chances are you'll go through life and never have to pull a trigger."

"OK, Dad."

He forced a smile. "I'm just being paranoid, sweetie. Keep Jennifer close by; if Pat comes up to play, so much the better." "What about Ben?" He hesitated. Jen was inside. "No problem."

"He really is a sweet guy, Dad, if you'd give him a chance." He nodded. "I know that."

"Why do you dislike him so much, Dad?" "You know." She smiled.

"Like he's going to get beyond a little making out with me? I think you used to call it past first base." He stiffened a bit; it was the first time she was even being slightly direct. All the "female"-related issues he had left to the care of Grandma Jen, in-cluding "the talks," other than the traditional old-style father routine of glaring at any boy who started to hang around. John knew he wasn't much of a father for this new century, maybe a bit old-fashioned, but that was the way he was raised . . . and he had assumed for so many years that such things were Mary's territory.

"It's because of Mom in a way, isn't it?"

"How's that?"

"You know. We lost Mom, but you lost your wife, your friend and com-panion. Jennifer and I, we're filling in for some of the loss, and down deep you hate the thought that we're growing up and, in doing that, eventually we're moving away from you as well."

He didn't say anything, a bit startled by her insight.

"What makes you think that?"

"Oh, the therapist we went to after Mom died. But it's the truth, Dad. It's OK.

"I love you, Daddy; I always will," she said, going up on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. "You'll always be my number one guy."

He hugged her, eyes filled with tears. "Thanks, honey."

They stepped back from each other, both feeling a bit awkward. "I'll see what I can work up for breakfast," she said, and went back into the kitchen.

"Your girl is definitely growing up." It was Jen coming up to him, of-fering a second cup of coffee. He sniffled a bit, nodded, then smiled.

"Mary was like that at sixteen. Wise beyond her years. Used to throw Tyler for a loop sometimes." John drank the second cup. It was cooling, but that didn't matter, though two cups and two cigarettes without a breakfast did make his stomach feel a bit jumpy.

"You mind if I borrow the monster, go downtown, and see what is go-ing on?"

"No," and she smiled. "The Mustang, though, that's still a different story."

As he drove past the interstate all the cars were exactly where they had been the night before. The road was empty, except for a lone trucker, sitting in his cab, door open, puffing on a cigar, the driver waving to John. It was the guy from the night before, and the sight of him was a reassurance. John felt a bit of relief, fearful that something ugly might have indeed happened down here during the night, but all was quiet, no sign of any problems.

Coming up State Street, he passed the elementary school. The front door was propped open, and for a second he wondered if indeed school was open today but then realized that all the school buses were still parked in the lot. There was a hand-lettered sign out front: "Emergency Shelter." Pete's Barbecue House, the restaurant across the street, had volunteered their big outdoor grill, the kind used at festivals and fairs, and there was Pete, set up in front of the school, wearing his absurd pink apron and pink chef's hat with a smiling pig painted on it, a couple of kettles on the grill, a line formed for coffee and barbecue for breakfast. Typical of Pete, always there for the town. John honked and Pete looked up in surprise, as did those on the line, and Pete waved. The light up ahead was off and John had to slow down, half a dozen cars blocking the road. It forced him to swing over to the eastbound side and he came to a stop first, looking both ways. It felt absurd doing it. Of course there was no traffic in sight other than all the stalled cars at the in-tersection. He weaved around, turned right, and pulled into Smiley's con-venience store, got out of the car, and walked in.

"Hey, Hamid, how are you?"

Hamid had proven to be a fascinating addition to the town. He was Pakistani, married to a local girl, and purchased the store a few months be-fore 9/11. Two days after "that day" the FBI had shown up and arrested him, claiming that there was a report that he had made a statement in sup-port of the attack and would love to help out if anything was tried locally.

The arrest, to John's delight, had triggered a firestorm. The town turned out, rallied support, harassed the daylights out of the district's con-gressman to investigate, and finally Hamid had returned, a block party being held for him.

On the morning after his return, a huge hand-lettered sign was plas-tered across the window of his store. "I am proud to be an American. . . . God bless a l l of you, my friends." Hamid was behind the counter; in fact, John suspected he damn near lived in his store.

"Crazy out there," Hamid said. "I had to stay here all night. People coming in from the highway. It's been nuts."

"How about a couple of cartons of Camel Lights?" John said. Hamid shook his head. John rattled off several more brands until finally he got a hit with Kool Lights.

"Still got three cartons." "I'll take 'em."

John pulled out his wallet and started to draw out his bank card. "John, that's down, you know." "Oh yeah."

He pulled out some cash, fifty dollars, still twenty dollars short. "Just pay me later today; I know you're good for it." He hesitated before taking the cartons.

"Hey, look, Hamid, I think I gotta tell you this first. You've always been a good guy to me. I'm not even sure about giving you money at the mo-ment. Things might be a whole lot worse than it looks right now."

Hamid looked at him quizzically.

"What do you mean, John?"

He pointed to the money on the counter.

"I mean that."

"The money?" And he laughed. "Maybe in my old country, but here, American money? You're kidding?"

"Just that I felt I had to tell you, the price of cigarettes might be a whole helluva lot more than twenty three bucks a carton in a few days."

Hamid took it in and, smiling, he pushed the cartons across to John.

"Thanks, John, I see your point, but take them, my friend."

John breathed a sigh of relief. At the moment he'd have emptied his wallet for one pack, but now he could take them without feeling guilty.

"Thanks, Hamid."

John took the cartons and looked around the store. Nearly all the beer was gone, most of the soda as well. Munchies, chips, pork rinds, all gone. Hamid laughed.

"Best night of business I've ever done. Must have a couple thousand in cash here."

"Hamid, do yourself a favor." "What?"

"Take down the rest of your cigarettes and stash them." "Why?"

"Just call it an investment, a hedge on inflation." Hamid shook his head.

"Can't do that. Maybe for strangers from the highway, but my friends here?" John smiled.

"Just a friendly suggestion, Hamid. Stash them away; from now on, if you want to sell them to friends, do so just one pack at a time."

Leaving Hamid, who as soon as John was out the door began to pull the cartons off the display rack, he drove another block to the center of town, again weaving around the stalled cars, and turned up Montreat Road, usu-ally the route of his daily commute to the college. The fire station and police station were on his right and there was a moderate-size crowd there, all looking in his direction. He pulled in, got out of his car, this time locking it and pocketing the keys.

"Hey, John, how the hell did you get that old beast rolling?"

It was Charlie Fuller, the town's director of public safety, which made him head of both the fire department and the police department. He was also a long-standing member of their Civil War Roundtable and often John's chief antagonist when it came to debates about the Constitutional justice of the Southern cause.

John looked around at the open parking area. All the fire engines were hangared inside the building along with the ambulance.

"Anything moving here?" he asked.

Charlie shook his head.

"Nothing. It's been a difficult night."

"How so?"

"Somewhere around a dozen dead, for starters." "What?"

"Heart attacks mostly. One overweight out-of-shape guy walked in from the highway and collapsed right here, right where we're standing. I have no ambulance, nothing. We got Doc Kellor over, but the guy was al-ready gone."

Charlie hesitated.

"Three dead up at the nursing home. Tyler's OK, though," he added quickly. "At least last I heard.

"Folks have been walking in, or riding bikes in, reports of accidents, and that fire up on Craggy."

"Yeah, I saw it."

"Someone said it was a plane, a large one, going in." John didn't say anything.

"John, all my communication links are down. Everything, landline phone, radio. I have not heard a word from Asheville and I'm in the dark." "What I figured." There was the sound of a rattling engine, a sound he could instantly rec-ognize, and around the corner an old Volkswagen van appeared, driven by Jim Bartlett, John's neighbor from down the street. Jim pulled up by John's Edsel and got out. The sight of Jim always cracked John up; it was as if he had stepped out of a time machine from 1970, raggedy jeans, collarless shirt, headband like the kind Willie Nelson used to wear, the only giveaway of time passage the fact that Jim's chest-length beard and short-length hair were nearly all gray.

" Hey guys, what's happening?" Jim asked with a bit of a sardonic smile.

"So your old VWs are still running," Charlie replied.

Jim smiled. "Even if the world is coming to an end my man, they'll keep on rolling right up until the final big boom."

"Well," Charlie said quietly, voice pitched low so others wouldn't hear, "I'd prefer you not going around saying it's the end of the world."

"But it is," Jim replied, still smiling. "Been saying it for years. The Mayan Prophecy. They were saying December 2012, but somebody obvi-ously got the date wrong.

He raised his voice a bit.

"This is it, my friends. The Day of Doom, just like them Mayans pre-dicted." John looked around, half a dozen small groups were gathered outside the station, and as Jim spoke people started to turn and look towards him.

"Been telling you all for years that this day was coming," Jim an-nounced, strangely he was still smiling.

"The Mayans had it right."

"My kid told me about that last night," someone replied, "yeah, some sci-fi guy wrote a book about it, my boy gave me the book and it seemed on the mark with all of this. Jim's right, this could be it." John had always liked Jim, in almost every way he was a level handed, gentle soul, but he did harbor a few eccentric ideas, and now he had an au-dience.

"Power going off is just the starter. Wait until you see what happens to the sun."

"Damn it, Jim," Charlie hissed, "come over here."

Charlie forcefully put a hand on Jim's shoulder, moving him closer to the firehouse, John following.

"Are you crazy?" Charlie whispered hoarsely. "You want to start a panic?

Jim looked at him confused.

"I should haul your butt inside right now for inciting panic."

"Just a minute," John interjected, putting his hand on Charlie's and pulling it off Jim's shoulder.

"Jim, maybe you're right," John said hurriedly. "But there are lot of kids standing around. You want to scare the crap out of them at a time like this? Come on, my friend, chill out, let parents tell their kids in their own way. Please."

Jim nodded thoughtfully.

"Sorry bro, didn't mean to scare anyone."

John made eye contact with Charlie. If his friend tried to collar Jim and make a scene, it just might very well start the panic rolling. Charlie got the message.

"Ok, sorry, Jim. Just I don't want the kids getting frightened any more than they already are. So do us all a favor, and don't talk about this Mayan stuff for right now. Got it."

"Sure, my man, got it."

"Now just go around and tell people you were joking, calm them down," John interjected, "it'd help a lot." "Got it."

Jim made a show of turning back to face those who had been watching them.

"Just having some fun, that's all," Jim announced. "Some fun," came a bitter reply. "We want to know what the hell is going on."

"That's what we're working on right now," Charlie announced, so just stay calm."

"You two, we gotta talk." Coming out of the station was Tom Barker, the chief of police.

"Shit," Jim muttered. "Here comes the man." "Tom, how you doing?" John said quietly.

"Like a legless dog that's covered in fleas and can't scratch," Tom replied, and John smiled a bit at yet another of Tom's colorful southernisms.

"Charlie, a question for you," John said. "Absolutely no communication whatsoever and all vehicles dead except for my car and Jim's here?"

"Yeah, that's about it. Also the old Jeep down at Butler's Garage still runs, though. We've got a couple of older mopeds and motorcycles, and Maury Hurt's antique World War Two jeep. We've got that out on the highway now, checking on some emergency cases that people reported."

"Not good," John said softly.

"I think we're on the same wavelength," Charlie replied softly. "Where's Orville Gardner?" John knew that Orville worked downtown in Asheville, as assistant di-rector for the county's emergency preparedness office. "Not a word from him. Guess he's stuck in Asheville." "Tom, Charlie, can we go inside and talk?"

"Why?" Tom asked. "I'd like to know why you two have cars and the rest of us don't."

"Because nothing can kill a Volkswagen, man," Jim said with a grin. John stepped between Jim and Tom.

"I really think we should go inside, gentlemen," John said. Though most of his career in the military had been spent behind books or up front in a classroom, he had led troops in the field and still did remember a bit about command voice, and he used it now.

Tom bristled slightly, but Charlie smiled.

"Sure, let's go. The mayor's inside; let's go to her office."

The three went in, Jim trailing along, and though John hated to insult the man, he turned and looked at him with a smile.

"Hey, look. You know you're a hair up Tom's butt."

Jim smiled.

"He's out in my back lot every year prowling for weed and never caught me once."

"Maybe you should skip this meeting. Keep an eye on the cars. Help keep people calm and no more of this stuff about prophecies. OK?"

"Sure, my man," and Jim gave him a friendly salute.

John walked into Mayor Kate Lindsey's office and she looked up from behind her desk, bleary-eyed. They were old friends. Kate and Mary had grown up together.

"You look beat, Kate."

"I am. Never should have run for a third term. Damn thankless job at the best of times, and now this. Did Tom tell you that someone came down from the nursing home? They've got three dead up there."

"Yeah, I heard."

"One of them was the Wilson boy."

John sighed and shook his head. The boy had been a freshman at the college. Car accident three years ago, the usual story, a drunk who walked away from it, had left the boy in a vegetative state, kept alive by a respira-tor, his parents clinging to hope.. . . Well, that was finished.

"I thought the law required all nursing homes to have emergency gener-ation. Those folks up there are going to be facing one helluva lawsuit," Kate snapped.

"What about the highway?" John asked. "Any problems there? I had a bit of a confrontation with a drunk last night."

"I got four drunks in the lockup right now," Tom said. "Your boy's most likely one of them. You want to press charges or anything?"

"Naw, no bother."

"Someone came riding in on a bike a few hours ago from the North Fork, said a trailer burned there and old Granny Thomas burned to death in it.

"Damn," John whispered.

Kate looked out the window and then back to John. "So why are your car and Jim's running?"

John looked around for a chair and sat down without being asked, then handed over the report he had pulled down from his shelf the night before and tossed it on Kate's desk.

"Something from my war college days."

" 'Potentials of Asymmetrical Strikes on the Continental United States,'" Kate read the cover.

"Some of us working at the war college put it together for a series of lectures. No one listened, of course, other than the officers taking our classes. I kept a copy as a reference. What you want is chapter four on EMP."

"EMP," Charlie said quietly. "Exactly what I thought when I saw all the stalled cars on the highway. Glad you came in, in fact was hoping you might know something."

"All right, not to sound like the dumb female in the crowd here," Kate said sharply, "but what the hell are you guys talking about?"

John couldn't resist looking over at Tom.

"Heard of it, but don't really remember. Are you saying this is some sort of terrorist thing?" John nodded.

"EMP. Electromagnetic Pulse. It's the by-product of a nuclear detona-tion."

"We've been nuked?" Kate asked, obviously startled. "I think so."

"Jesus Christ, what about fallout? We got to start moving on that right now." John shook his head.

"Give me a minute, Kate. This gets a little complex. When you got some time, read the article; that will explain it better." "John, have we been nuked? Is this a war?"

"Kate, I don't know. I know as much as you do at the moment as to what is going on outside of right here, in Black Mountain, but that alone tells me a lot."

"How so?"

John took a deep breath and looked at the Styrofoam cup on her table, the paper plate covered with crumbs.

"Look, guys, I hate to ask this. I'm starved and could use a little more caffeine." No one moved for a second. Kate made it a point to remain firmly in her chair, not budging an inch.

"We got a pot boiling out back," Charlie said, and left the room and came back a minute later with a cup of coffee, black the way John always liked it, and, amazingly, some bacon and eggs.

"Picture an EMP as something like a lightning bolt striking your elec-trical line or phone line during a thunderstorm." John said between quick sips of his coffee. "Boom, and everything electronic in your house is fried, especially delicate stuff with microcircuitry in it. That bolt is maybe pack-ing thousands of amps the microchip in your computer runs on hun-dredths of an amp. It just cooks it off." Kate said nothing, giving him a moment to wolf down one of the eggs and a piece of bacon before continuing.

"Back in the 1940s, when we started firing off atomic bombs to test them, this pulse wave was first noticed. Not much back then with those primitive weapons, but it was there. And here's the key thing: there were no solid-state electronics back in the 1940s, everything was still vacuum tubes, so it was rare for the small pulses set off by those first bombs to damage anything.

"We finally figured out that when you set off a nuke in space, that's when the EMP effect really kicks in, as the energy burst hits the upper atmos-phere. It becomes like a pebble triggering an avalanche, the electrical dis-turbances magnifying. It's in the report. It's called the "Compton Effect."

"Now come forward. When we did those articles back in the nineties, we were getting word that the Chinese were doing a helluva lot of re-search on how to boost the EMP from a nuclear blast, making it a helluva lot more powerful."

"So it's the Chinese who hit us?" Tom asked. "Damn bastards."

"I don't know," John said, a bit exasperated. "No one knows, at least not here, not yet. Maybe even the Pentagon doesn't know yet."

He hesitated after saying that, thinking of Bob Scales up there. Did the Pentagon exist? There was no news. One scenario that his group had kicked around was an initial EMP strike to take down communications, then selected ground bursts of nukes on key sites to finish the job . . . and of course D.C. would be the first hit.

It was maddening; John just did not know.

"How can nobody know anything around here?" Kate snapped.

"That's the whole idea behind an EMP strike," John replied. "Whether a full-scale strike from a traditional foe like Russia during the Cold War or a terrorist hit now. You pop off a nuke that sends out this strong electro-magnetic wave, it fries off communications, and a lot of other things, then either sit back or continue. The frightful thing we realized was that some third-rate lunatic, either a terrorist cell member or the ruler of someplace like North Korea or Iran, with only one or two nukes in their possession, could level the playing field against us in spite of our thousands of weapons. That's what is meant by 'asymmetrical strike.'"

"So, is the whole country like this right now?" Kate asked. "Or is it just us?" He shook his head.

"Look, I'm kinda tired, sat up most of the night keeping watch on the house, so let me try to explain this in order if that's OK." "Sure, John, take your time," Charlie intervened.

"Well, at the same time the potential energy release of EMP grew, and believe me, I don't understand the technical side of it at all, just that I know that it happens when a nuke goes off and we suspect there's ways of calibrating a small nuke to give off a high yield of energy. Our electronic equipment was getting more and more sensitive to it."

"No one saw an explosion," Charlie said, "and believe me, I've asked around, kind of suspecting the same thing."

"That's just it, it's in the report," and John motioned to the article on Kate's desk. She looked at it, thumbed through it.

"Mind if we run off some copies? . . . " And she fell silent, blushing slightly at what sounded like a dumb comment.

"We're all conditioned," John said with a reassuring smile. "I tried to make coffee in the machine this morning. It's OK, Kate."

She smiled sheepishly and nodded. "Go on, John."

"Well, to Charlie's question. EMP doesn't really hit unless you blow off the bomb above the atmosphere. Again the 'Compton effect,' and believe me, I've read about it, but don't have a real grasp on it myself; I need a tech head for that. Just that the burst above the atmosphere sets off an electro-disturbance, kind of like a magnetic storm, which cascades down into the lower atmosphere like a sheet of lightning and bango, it fries everything with electronics in it."

"Just one bomb?" Kate asked.

He nodded.

"Remember a TV back in the fifties, the early sixties, all those tubes, and hot as hell? That same thing now sits in the palm of my kid's hand when she's playing one of those damn games." He wondered for a second if maybe all the pocket-size computer toys were gone.... If so, no regrets there at least.

"So the stuff gets more and more delicate, and more and more prone to even the slightest electrical surge."

"Someone could now fire off a nuke, calibrated to do a maximum load of EMP, and anything within line of sight from up in space gets fried, even from a thousand miles away. For that matter, anything hooked into our electrical web goes as well. Electrical lines are like giant antennas when it comes to EMP, and guide it straight into your house, through the sockets, and, wham, right into anything hooked up."

"Surge protectors, though?" Kate said. "I spent a hundred bucks on one for my new television." He shook his head.

"Surge protectors don't work for this," Charlie interjected, and John looked over at him.

"We had one, exactly one, briefing on this about two years ago," Charlie said. "Hundreds on every other threat, just one on this, but I remember somebody asking that question. Seems like this EMP

moves a lot faster than ordinary power surges like from lightning. Not faster in terms of speed, just that the impact hits and peaks faster, three or four times that of a lightning bolt hitting your electric line. So fast that the relay inside the surge protector doesn't have time to trigger off and boom, the whole sys-tem is fried. That's why it's so darn dangerous. It fries out all electronics before any of the built-in protections can react."

"You still haven't answered my question about your damn car," Tom snapped. "Why is yours working and I've got six squad cars out there that are dead?"

"The electronics," Charlie interrupted. "That's what got me thinking on it, too, but I didn't feel it was right to say anything about it." "Why not?" Tom asked.

"Panic. That's why. I saw an article on the Web about this a couple of months back, and it was a lot worse than what we were talking about just two years ago. Some people who don't like us have apparently been spend-ing a lot of time and money to get a bigger bang for the buck."

"So why didn't we just protect ourselves?" Kate asked. "Hell, what does it take to build a better surge protector?"

John sighed and shook his head. She was so damn right.

"Kate, it's some rather technical stuff, but it meant retrofitting a lot of stuff, hundreds of billions perhaps, to do all of it. And besides, a lot of people in high places, well, they just glazed over when the scientists started with the technical jargon, the reports would go into committees, and . . . "

"And now we got this," Charlie said coldly. John nodded, frustrated.

"Global warming, sure, spend hundreds of billions on what might have been a threat, though a lot say it wasn't. This, though, it didn't have the hype, no big stars or politicians running around shouting about it. .

. and it just never registered on anyone's screen except for a few."

"I don't get it with the cars, though," Tom interjected. "Computers, yes, but a car?"

"Any car made after roughly 1980 or so has some solid-state electronics in it," John said. "Remember carburetors, thing of the past with fuel injec-tion and electronic ignition. That's why my mother-in-law's old Edsel is OK and Bartlett's VW out there. No computers in the engine, and vacuum tubes in the radio. The surge had nothing to fry off; therefore, it still runs. Now everything in a car is wired into some kind of computer. Better living through modern science."

John fished in his pocket for a cigarette, pulled it out, then hesitated. Kate was glaring at him, as was Tom. The town had a no-smoking ordi-nance for all its buildings.

John hesitated, but damn, he wanted one now.

"Look, guys, if you want me to talk, I get a cigarette."

"Mary would kick your ass if she knew you were still smoking," Kate said.

"Don't lay the guilt on me," John replied sharply. It was Mary's dying that had snagged him back into smoking after being clean for ten years. The army had started getting uptight on it, and amongst all the other as-pects of grooming for the star, smoking was a checkmark against him with some of the bean counters and actuaries in the Pentagon who argued why invest the effort on a guy who might die early?

"Go on; light up." She hesitated. "And give me one of those damn things, too." Now it was his turn to hesitate. He hated leading someone back into sin, but on this day . . . what the hell.

He lit her cigarette. She leaned back in her chair, inhaled deeply, let it out, and sighed.

"God damn, I've been wanting that for six years now. Damn, is it good." A couple of seconds later she actually smiled, the first time she had done so since he walked in.

"Head rush," she muttered, then took another puff.

"Damn near everything has a computer in it now," John continued. "Cash registers, phones, toys, cars, trucks, but, most vulnerable of all, the complex web of our electrical distribution system. All of it was waiting to get hit."

Tom leaned against the wall and let a few choice words slip out.

"You think they'd of seen this coming. Done something about it."

"Who is 'they,' Tom?"

"Jesus, John, you know. The president, Homeland Security. Hell, I was getting e-mails damn near every day on terrorist alerts, training on what to do if they hijacked a truck loaded with nuclear waste, even a drill with the hospital last year if they unleashed some sort of plague. I got twenty bio and hazmat suits in a storage closet. Never even heard about this thing be-ing talked about." John sighed.

"Yeah, I know. It was off most people's screens. Seemed too sci-fi to some of them. But that doesn't matter now."

"I'm still worried about radiation, though," Kate said, "fallout." "Don't."

"You sound rather assured of yourself."

"You don't have a single radio working here, nothing at all?" John asked. Tom shook his head. "I do."

"Where?"

"In the Edsel. It's an old tube radio. I checked it last night. Static from one end to the other. If this thing was local, if they had popped a bomb over Atlanta, Charlotte, we'd still be picking up radio stations from the Midwest and Northeast,"

"Why?"

"It's a horizon event. Line of sight, like I said. I'll guess it was one to three nukes, lit off a couple of hundred miles up above the atmosphere, cov-ered most, maybe all, of the United States. Fallout is a by-product of rubble blown up into the atmosphere from a bomb going off. Pop an EMP above the atmosphere . . . and, well, at least you don't have any fallout worries."

"Jesus Christ," Charlie sighed.

That caught John slightly off guard. Charlie was strict Southern Baptist, and for him to say that. . . well, it was a major sin, though a Catholic wouldn't think twice about it.

"Who do you think did it?" "Does it matter?" John replied.

"Yeah, maybe it does to me?" Tom said. "I got a boy over in Iraq right now. You know that one of my nephews is with the navy out in the Pacific. I sure as hell would like to know who they're fighting. If it was the Chinks, my nephew will be in it. The rag heads and it's my son."

"Doubt if it's China," John said quietly.

"Why? You said they were the ones doing the research."

"Doing the research, but using it in a first strike? Doubt it. They are just as vulnerable to EMP as we are. Do it to us and we'd flatten them and they know it."

"We have it, too?"

"Sure we do. What the hell do you think the threat was to Saddam back in 1991 ? Charlie, you were over there then, same as me; you remember."

"Yeah, if they hit us with any weapon of mass destruction the word was we'd pop a nuke off about twenty miles above Baghdad."

"When a nuke goes off above the atmosphere or even in the high upper atmosphere, it sets off that electrical chain reaction I talked about. Again, just like a solar flare, usually the upper atmosphere absorbs the magnetic disturbance of a solar flare and up north we see that as the northern lights. But if it's big enough, the disturbance hits the ground and starts shorting things out. So we threatened Saddam with an EMP if he unleashed any-thing on us," John said. "It would have shut down the entire power grid of central Iraq and shut down their entire command and control system as well. They didn't, so we didn't."

"Wouldn't that have fried our stuff, too?" Kate asked.

"No. Remember, it's line of sight. Twenty miles up, our forces in Saudi Arabia would have been below the horizon. Besides, all our equipment was hardened against EMP to varying degrees. They spent a lot of money on that back during the Reagan years."

"So our military is still OK here in the states then?" Kate asked.

"Doubt it. That's the gist of the report I just gave you. Every adminis-tration since Reagan's has placed hardening of our electronics on the back shelf. Meanwhile the equipment kept getting more delicate and thus sus-ceptible and the potential power of the burst kept getting one helluva lot stronger. Remember how we were all wowed by the high-tech stuff back in 1991. That equipment is now as primitive as a steam engine compared to what we got now. And in constantly making computers and electronics faster and better we made them smaller, more compact, and more and more vulnerable to an EMP strike." He dropped the butt of his cigarette into his nearly empty coffee cup, offered a second to Kate, who took it, and lit another for himself.

"Who then?"

"For my money . . . maybe North Korea, maybe Middle East terrorists with some equipment supplied by Iran, Korea, or both. As for the war-head, we all know there's enough of those left over from the old Soviet Union that sooner or later someone would get their hands on, if for noth-ing else than the goodies inside that go bang. Iran and Korea were hell-bent on making nukes as well. But they'd be crazy to throw three or four at us when we could make the rubble glow for a hundred years with a thousand fired back in reply. But turn them into EMP weapons . . . and they win, at least in terms of hitting us harder than we could ever have dreamed of.

"Maybe launched from a sub, hell, even from a freighter that got up a couple of hundred miles from the coast. Get that close and even an old Scud could just about get the package high enough. One like I said, maybe two or three, and you've just castrated the entire country."

"We'll flatten the bastards for this," Tom snapped.

"Most likely already have, but do they give a shit? Hell no. The leaders will survive; they're most likely down in bunkers a thousand feet deep laughing their asses off right now. Hell, if we flatten them, they'll tell their own people that survive that we struck first and then they got millions more followers."

"I can't yet believe this," Kate sighed.

"Sun Tzu," Charlie said.

John looked at him and smiled.

"The enemy will never attack you where you are strongest.... He will attack where you are weakest. If you do not know your weakest point, be certain, your enemy will."

All three looked at him in surprise.

"Hey, I remember a few things from college."

No one spoke for a moment.

"What happened out there," John said softly, "doesn't matter to us now. It's what happens here in Black Mountain that does."

"How long before the power comes back on?" Kate asked. "Or we get some word from Washington on what to do? Or even from Raleigh or Asheville?"

Strangely, an old Civil War song flashed into his mind, a line from "Lorena": "It may be for years, and it may be forever."

"Weeks, months, maybe years," John said, and he found he could not look into Kate's eyes as he said it.

Yesterday, her biggest concern was the hot argument in the town about who would be grand marshal this year for the Fourth of July parade, that and the continuing wrangle with Asheville about water rates.

"We've got to prioritize," Tom said. "Security for one thing. I've got five hundred strangers from the interstate on my hands this morning. What the hell should we do with them for starters." No one spoke.

"Well, we just can't kick them out," Kate said. John did not reply.

"Priorities for getting through this," Charlie interjected, and now every-one was becoming agitated. John realized that for the last fifteen hours they had been waiting for "someone else" to tell them what to do. The re-ality was beginning to hit, that there just might no longer be "someone else."

"Water first," Kate said. "Once the tank on top of the hill runs dry, the pipes will start emptying out. We don't have any means then of pumping more back up to the tank. Most of the town will be dry within a day."

"We're lucky in one sense," Charlie said. "We get our water gravity fed from the reservoir. The dam face is at twenty five hundred feet above sea level, so at least here in town we'll get some, but anyone above that eleva-tion line is screwed."

John realized that meant him; his neighbor had a sign on his driveway: "Half mile high." They were 250

feet above the gravity feed point for wa-ter. At least we have the pool, thank God.

"Food," Tom said. "Jesus, no electric means no refrigeration." John was silent, on his third cigarette as the other three argued about what to do next.

"I'm making a quick run up to the college, and once the pharmacy opens I've got a very important errand to run," John said. "I've told you all I know, so if you will excuse me." He stood up and started for the door. "John."

He knew this was coming. It was Tom.

"Concerning your car."

"What about my car?"

"I'd like to have it."

"Why?"

"I need to get around."

"Use a bike; it'll be good for you."

"John, don't bullshit around with me; I need that car. I'll give you a lift home, but I do need it." John stared right at Kate for a moment, then back at Tom. "That car is mine, my family's. You declaring martial law?" "I think we'll have to," Kate said quietly. "When you do, come and try and take it, Tom." "What do you mean 'try'?" "Just that. Just try." Tom stood silent, no one speaking, and then finally he nodded. "OK, John." He looked back at Kate, who sighed and then nodded in agreement. "Sorry, John, we were out of line." "That's OK. Just a bit of advice, Kate." "And that is?" He pointed to the cigarette in her hand.

"Now that you are hooked again. You better go over to Smiley's and get several cartons. Cash only. If Hamid says he doesn't have cartons, pull rank on him. He's hiding them in the back of the store. You better load up now 'cause you're going to need them."

John turned and headed out the door and then realized that Tom had followed him out.

"What the hell is it now?" John asked.

Tom hesitated.

"Look, John. Sorry. I haven't slept since yesterday. Sorry about back in there," and he extended his hand. John took it.

"Tom, I don't envy you your job one bit."

"Look, John. I know I might not be the brightest lightbulb in the pack. You're the smart guy. I like my job, though, and try to do what's right. But I never thought I'd be dealing with something like this."

"Yeah, I know. Hard day. Damn, I hope I'm wrong about everything I just said back in there. My first thought was it was some sort of weird so-lar storm. Maybe I'm dead wrong and ten minutes from now the lights will come back on."

"Think they will?" Tom asked hopefully.

John reluctantly shook his head, went over to his car, unlocked it, and got in. He almost felt guilty as he turned the switch and the car roared to life. Everyone gathered in the parking lot looked at him as he drove off.

The run up to the college had been a quick one. He felt, though, that he had to go, just check on what was happening.

A lot of heads turned as he drove into the campus and pulled in front of Gather Hall.

"Hey, Doc, cool wheels!" someone shouted, and John nodded and smiled. The conversation with President Hunt only took a couple of minutes. He had basically figured out the same thing and was already organizing the place. The kids were feasting on steak and ice cream this morning; they were emptying out the freezers as quick as possible and stuffing the food into bellies. Anything preserved or canned could wait.

The kids on this small campus were a good crew and ready to help out. A group had been organized to push cars clear of the road; others were hauling buckets of water all the way from the lake up to makeshift tanks near buildings in case of fire. The water in the campus pool would serve as drinking water, and four Porta Potties, hauled with much groaning and complaining, had been commandeered from the construction site for the new gym and a couple of new houses going up in the Cove and placed in front of the dorms.

The head of campus security, Washington Parker, who until now was viewed by most of the kids as a

"rent-a-cop" to be teased about falling asleep in the student union at three in the morning, now had a job. He was old ex-military, an actual marine sergeant from long ago, in his early six-ties and the good-natured guy who usually had nothing more to do than bust a kid for being publicly drunk or shine a spotlight into a parked car to break up a hot and heavy session. Parker had already met with the heftier

members of the ball team and their coach to discuss keeping the campus safe and setting up a twenty-four-hour watch.

Parker had taken his job seriously for years, in spite of the fact that if ever there was a "safe" campus in the mountains of western North Car-olina, it was Montreat College up in the Cove. A year or two would go by without even a minor crime, let alone the far more serious issues of rape, assault, or heavy drugs. But he had religiously attended every conference on campus security offered by the government, especially the ones that dealt with the potentials of a terrorist takeover of a campus. He had once talked with John about that issue, pointing out that the fact that they were, in general, so darn safe up in these mountains meant they were exactly the type of campus that just indeed might be hit. As John pulled away from Gaither Hall and turned to head back into town, he spotted Washington standing by the gateway that led into the campus. John slowed and came to a stop. Washington looked over at him and then actually saluted.

"Morning, Colonel."

It was an old joke between the two, colonel and sergeant, but today it felt more than a little strange.

"Inspecting the troops?" Washington asked.

"Just figured I'd drive up and see how things were here."

"It's EMP, isn't it?"

"How'd you know?"

"Your car for one, sir," Washington drawled, his deep South Carolina African-American accent rich and full, mingled in with that clipped tone of a former marine drill sergeant.

"Pre solid-state electronics. I bet Miss Jen's Mustang will run as well." Her home was within walking distance of the campus. The realization caught him . . . everything was measured in walking distance now.

"You dropping a hint, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir. I am. It'd be good to have at least one vehicle up here so I can move around quickly if needed. Besides, once people start figuring things out, it'll get stolen."

"She'll kill me if I ever tell her, so it's between us, Washington." John fished into his pocket and pulled out his key ring and snapped one off.

"That's to her house. Security code number is. . ."

He laughed softly and shook his head.

"The key to the Mustang, well, I never had security clearance for it." Washington laughed. "I can jump it."

"It's yours for the duration," John hesitated, "or until this old beast breaks down or someone gets it. Chief Barker and I nearly got on that very issue less than an hour ago. I managed to hang on to this monster, but Barker just might remember the Mustang, so I suggest you get over there now. Possession is always nine-tenths of the law."

"Deal, sir. I'll take good care of her, no joyriding, sir."

"Come on, Washington. It's 'John'; cut the 'sir' shit. I work for a living now." Washington smiled.

"You said the duration, sir, when it came to the car," and now his fea-tures were serious. Washington finally looked away from him and back to the gate.

"Good position here, you know that," Washington said.

John had thought about it more than once on his drive up the Cove to the campus. The gatehouse was a stone arch over the roadway, a tiny stone building, with nearly sheer ledges to either side, the road having been cut through the ledge a hundred years back. Long ago, back in the 1920s, it had been the entry to a tourist road that weaved up the mountains all the way to the top of Mount Mitchell. The gatehouse was a quaint leftover of that long-abandoned road. To the east of the gate, Flat Creek tumbled by; to the west, a near vertical cliff cut through the descending ridge to open the lane for the road. There was only one way in and one way out, and it was here.

Washington had obviously contemplated this fact long years ago.

John said nothing and he drove off heading back into town, crossing State Street and over the tracks of the Norfolk & Southern. He passed the Holiday Inn. A number of people were sitting around outside; a group of kids were playing tag. Several grills were set up, food cooking on them. He slowed as he spotted someone standing down by the road, her arms folded, just gazing off towards the mountains. He pulled up, again a bit uncomfortable with how many people turned at the sight of his car.

The woman looked at him. There was a flicker of recognition.

"Ma'am, I owe you an apology."

"I think you do."

She was still dressed in her business suit, but the high heels were gone, replaced with a battered pair of sneakers.

He opened the door and got out and extended his hand.

"Look, seriously, I apologize. I had my kids with me, my mother-in-law, and frankly ..." He hesitated. She relented and extended her hand and took his.

"Sure; I understand. Guess I'd of done the same if the roles were re-versed."

"John Matherson."

"Makala Turner."

"Curious name."

"My granddad was stationed in Hawaii during the war. Said it was a flower there. Talked my dad into using the name."

John couldn't help but let his eyes drift for a second. She was tall, even without her heels on. Five ten or so, slender, blond hair to shoulder length, top two buttons of her blouse unbuttoned. It was just the quickest of glances, but he knew she was watching. Strange. If you don't check an attractive woman out, even for a second, it's an insult; if you do, there might be a cold, icy stare. She smiled slightly.

"Where you from?" John asked.

"Charlotte. Supervising nurse for a cardiac surgical unit. Was coming up here to attend a conference at Memorial Mission Hospital on a new procedure for heart arrhythmias.

"Now, could you do me a favor and tell me just what the hell is going on?"

"That reminds me," John said. "Look, I've got to do something right now. Will you be here in ten minutes?" "Sure."

He got back into the car, hesitated, and looked at her. "I'm heading to the drugstore right now. I need to get something. If you want, you can come along." She didn't move.

"I'm not trying to pick you up or anything. Really. I got to get some medication for my daughter. Just I can answer your questions while I drive."

"OK. Don't seem to be going anywhere else."

It was only several more blocks to the shopping plaza with Ingram's market and the CVS drugstore. The parking lot was nearly full, but no one was about.

He got out and looked at the drugstore, disappointed; it was dark. Damn, it must be closed, but then he realized the absurdity of that; all the stores were dark.

"I think it was EMP, like I just said," John said, continuing their brief conversation.

"Had the same thought."

"Why?"

She smiled.

"I help run a surgical unit. We had a lot of disaster drills, especially since nine-eleven. We did a scenario on that one, EMP. It wasn't pleasant. Kept me awake thinking for nights afterwards. Hospitals aren't hardened to absorb it; the emergency backup generators will blow out along with everything else, and you know what that means."

"You'll have to tell me more later on," John said. He pulled on the door and it swung open. Inside was a minor bedlam, a harried clerk behind the counter shouting, "Please, everyone, it is cash only. I'm sorry, no checks...."

John walked past her to the back of the store and the pharmacist counter. One of the regulars was there, Rachel, her daughter was one of Elizabeth's friends. One of a line of a dozen people, a heavyset man in his early forties, bit of a tacky suit, tie pulled down and half open, was at the counter.

"Listen to me!" he shouted at Rachel. "I need that prescription filled now, god damn it."

"And sir. I keep trying to tell you, I'm sorry, but we don't know you, we don't have a record for you on file, and that, sir, is a controlled substance."

"I'm from out of town, damn it. Don't you hicks up here understand that? Now listen, bitch, I want that prescription."

John caught the eye of Liz, the pharmacist. She was in her early thirties and, John always thought, about the most attractive pharmacist he had ever laid eyes on. She was also married to an ex-ranger. Unfortunately, her hus-band was nowhere around and with Liz at not much more than five two and a hundred pounds, she was definitely way out of her league.

Liz looked at him appealingly. John took it in, looked around, a book and magazine rack by the counter. Nothing he could use. The cooler for beverages, however, was about twenty feet away. He backed over to it, not many had hit here yet, reached in, and pulled out a liter bottle of Coors beer. Makala was looking at him with disgust, not understanding what was happening. Liz, coming up to the counter, tried to confront the belligerent cus-tomer, extending her hand for him to calm down.

"Listen, damn it. OxyContin, you hear me. I'll take thirty and you can call my doctor once the power comes back on and he'll confirm it."

"Sir. Please leave this store."

"That's it! Both of you bitches, get out of my way."

He started to climb over the counter, Liz backing up.

John was up beside him and slashed out, the bottle smashing across the side of the man's head, shattering.

As he started to collapse, John pulled him back from the counter, fling-ing him to the ground, and for good measure stomped him in the solar plexus, doubling him up.

The man was on the floor, keening with a high, piercing shrill. Every-one else stood silent, stunned. John looked over at Liz. Sorry.

He actually felt embarrassed by what had just happened. He had bro-ken a societal taboo; folks around here did not go around smashing beer bottles across a guy's head, from behind, in the local pharmacy. John al-most expected an alarm to go off, the police to come barging in.... There was only silence except for the pitiful cries of the man on the floor.

Still silence. John looked at the others lined up. Several turned and fled. One woman was shaking her head.

"Is this how you treat strangers in this redneck town?" she snapped. "I'll be damned if I ever stop here again."

She stormed out.

He recognized one of the men. Pat Burgess, a Baptist minister, part of his Civil War Roundtable club. Pat nodded.

"Good work, John. Sorry, but with my heart, I'd most likely pitched a coronary if I had taken him on." It snapped John out of the momentary haze, the shock, back to the real-ity of where they were and what had to be done, for that matter what he was here to do.

"Pat, can you see to him? Get a belt or something and tie his hands first. Maybe somebody can look at his face and see if I cut his eye."

"You did, you goddamn bastard. I can't see! My lawyer's going to rip you an extra asshole!" The man started to scream again and John tapped him with his shoe. He cringed, falling silent. John leaned over.

"Listen to me. You threatened these women. One more word and I will cut your eyes out," John said, and the man fell back to crying, clutching his face, blood leaking out between his fingers. John looked back at Liz, then stepped around behind the counter.

"Liz, can we talk for a moment?"

"Sure, John."

He motioned to the back corner of the pharmacy area and the two went into the locked area and half-closed the door.

"Thank God you came in, John," Liz whispered hoarsely. "I've had three like that already. We bluffed the other two out, but that guy was crazy. Most likely addicted. Doesn't travel with any in case he ever gets stopped, and his supply is at home."

"Look, Liz, I need a favor."

Liz fell silent, the look of gratitude disappearing.

"I think we got a bad situation," Liz said quietly. "Don't we?"

"I won't lie to you. I think we do."

She looked back towards the counter, the line of customers, more com-ing in and queuing up.

"I've been here all night," she said wearily. "I live in Asheville, nothing was moving, I was hoping Jim might come to get me, but he hasn't shown ..."

Her voice trailed off.

"How long before the electric comes back on?" "I don't know." "How long?"

"A month, maybe a year or more." "My God," Liz sighed.

"Exactly, and you know what I am asking for."

"John, I have exactly forty vials in stock. There's one other kid in this town with the same thing your girl's got. Over a hundred adult diabetics with varying degrees of insulin needs.

"I've had four folks down here this morning already asking for extras. I can't give them out, John. I'm responsible to everyone here, not just Jen...." She hesitated. "Not just you, John."

"Liz, we're talking about my daughter, my little girl," and his voice be-gan to choke. She pointed towards the neatly arrayed cabinets with medications.

"John, I've got hundreds of people I'm responsible for, and if what you said is true a lot of them will die, some in a matter of days. We just don't keep that much inventory in stock anymore. None of the pharmacies do; we rely on daily shipments."

"There won't be daily shipments for quite a while, Liz."

"Then my patients with pancreatic enzyme disorder? They don't take their pills daily they die. If what you told me is true, Mrs. Sterling will be dead within a week...." Liz's voice trailed off and she stifled back a sob.

She took a deep breath and looked back up at him.

"Severe hypertensions, arrythmias, we got five people on antirejection drugs for transplants. Jesus Christ, John, what do you want me to do?"

He hated himself for doing it, but now started he couldn't stop.

"I lost Mary already, Liz. Please, dear God, not Jennifer, too. Not that." He lowered his head, tears clouding his eyes. He wiped them away, struggling for control. He looked back into Liz's eyes, shamed ... and yet, if need be, deter-mined. Liz looked straight at him and John could see that her eyes were clouded as well.

"It's going to get bad, isn't it, John?" He nodded his head, unable to speak.

Liz continued to gaze at him, then sighed, turned, and opened the re-frigerator. She pulled out four vials, hesitated, then a fifth.

John struggled with the horrible temptation to shove Liz aside, reach in, and scoop all of them out. The temptation was near overpowering.

He felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder and started to swing, won-dering if somebody was pushing their way in. It was Makala. She gazed at him and said nothing.

Liz quickly closed the refrigerator, opened a cabinet, took out a box of a hundred syringes, then bagged the vials and box up, wrapping several ex-tra layers of plastic around the package.

"Maybe I'm damning myself for doing this," Liz said quietly. "That's five for you; there'll be five for the Valenti boy, and one each for the re-maining thirty that come in here."

"That's fair enough," Makala whispered.

Liz looked at her, didn't say anything, then turned away.

"Stop at the cooler; there still might be some ice there. Grab up what-ever candy bars are left as well. Go straight home, John. They should be kept stable at forty degrees; every ten-degree increase cuts the shelf life in half. So go home now. Once you run out of ice, try and find the coolest spot in the house to store them."

"Thank you, Liz. God bless you."

"Please leave, John. I got a lot to think about, to do today." John nodded, still filled with a sense of shame.

"You want me to stop at the police station and bring someone back?" Liz shook her head. "I'll send Rachel into town to get some help. She rode her bike in here, so she can be there nearly as quick as you."

Liz then opened a drawer in the locked room and pointed down. Inside was a .38 Special.

"It was against company policy, but my husband insisted I keep it here. You know how he is, ex-ranger and all that. I'd of used it if you hadn't showed up," and her voice was now cold. John wondered if he had tried to shove Liz aside, would that .38 have come out? From the look in his friend's eyes, he knew it would.

"Some advice, Liz."

"Sure."

"Get out of here."

"You know I can't do that, John."

"I mean once it starts to run short. Load up what you think you'll need for you and your family; then get out. When you start running out, it could get ugly."

She looked up at him and smiled, all five foot two of her standing with shoulders back.

"Jim taught me how to use that gun," she said. "I'll see things through." John squeezed her shoulder.

"God bless you," and he walked out. The line behind the counter was growing. There were several nods of recognition; some were silent. Appar-ently everyone in line knew what had just happened with the bloody man whom Pat had thoroughly trussed up with, of all things, a roll of duct tape. One woman saw the bag John was carrying.

"Matherson, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She looked past John to Liz. "What did you give him back there?"

"Just some syringes for his little girl, that's all, Julie."

"I don't want to hear tell of any special treatment going on here, Liz. If so, I've been a customer of this firm for twenty years and let me tell you I have a list here...."

John went down aisle four. Surprisingly, there was a whole stack of one-pound Hershey bars, and without hesitating he scooped them all up and dumped them into the bag. The high-school-aged girl behind the counter saw him do it, not sure what to say as he walked by.

"Don't worry. Liz said I can take them now and pay later."

The girl nodded, his action setting off an argument with a customer who had no cash and wanted cigarettes.

Outside John opened up the ice cooler. There were still a dozen ten-pound bags inside. He unlocked the car, opened the back door, and went back, pulling out four bags and tossing them in, went back again, and started to grab four more, then hesitated, looking at Makala.

He took just two, closed the lid, tossed them in the car, and slammed the door shut. John got into the car, took a deep breath, started it up, and lit another cigarette.

"That'll kill you someday," Makala said quietly. He looked over at her, unable to speak.

"You did the right thing. And so did Liz. Any parent would have done the same." John sighed.

"Remember the old movies, the old cartoons from the Second World War. All the stuff about food hoarders." "A bit before my time." "Hell, I'm only forty-eight; I remember 'em." She didn't say anything.

"Your girl has type one diabetes, doesn't she?" "Yes."

"You better get home now like Liz said."

Makala reached over the backseat, and he felt like an absolute bastard, for he found himself looking at her as she stretched, dress riding up to midthigh.

She caught his eye as she pulled a bag of ice over, and said nothing as she broke it open. She dumped the box of syringes out of the plastic bag and then gently laid the bag containing the vials atop the open ice.

"That should do till you get home. Don't pack them inside the ice; they'll freeze and that will ruin them. Try wrapping insulation around the ice, but keep the top open and have the vials on top. That should keep them at roughly the right temperature. Stash the remaining ice inside your freezer; that's the best-insulated place for them.

"With some luck the ice should last you up to a week."

"I don't know how to thank you enough," John said.

"Well, helping me find some food might be a good starter," she said with a smile.

"I know where there's great barbecue."

"Sounds wonderful."

He pulled out of the plaza and headed back towards town. "Hope you don't mind a personal question?" she asked. "Go ahead." "Who's Mary?" "My wife." "How long ago?" "Breast cancer, four years back." 1 m sorry.

"It's OK," he lied. "She left me two beautiful girls."

"I could see that last night. I kind of suspected your younger was dia-betic. In my business you can spot it. That's why it didn't bother me too much when you took off like you did. Stress is bad for her situation."

"I know. Again, I'm sorry about running out on you like that."

She smiled.

"Oh, there was a truck driver there, a regular white knight. He finally beat the crap out of the drunk, then walked us ladies down to the motel." She hesitated.

"You kind of surprised me, the way you took that man out in the drug-store."

"You figured I was running out at first, didn't you?" "Well, to be honest, yeah, I did."

"I didn't, though." She chuckled softly.

"You sure as hell didn't. Bit underhanded maybe, but you settled it." "If you must fight, fight to win," John said quietly. "You know you got a cut hand, don't you."

He looked at his right hand, and for the first time the pain registered. Part of the broken bottle had laid a deep slice into his right forefinger clear down to the crease with his thumb. Damn, it suddenly hurt like hell.

"Pull over; let me look at it."

He drifted to the side of the road and came to a stop. She took his hand and gently spread the wound open; now it really hurt. "You'll need stitches. Ten to twelve from the looks of it." As she examined it, blood dripped onto her suit. "Be careful, your suit," he said. She ignored him.

"I don't have anything sterile on me. You should stop at a doctor's." "Later. I want to get the medicine home first. Besides, the doc is most likely swamped right now."

As he spoke he nodded towards the road.

Maury Hurt's World War II Jeep was coming down off the exit ramp of the interstate, four people piled in, one a child with shoulders hunched over, pale faced, gasping. Lying across the back of the Jeep was an elderly woman who John could see was already dead.

"We don't realize just how dependent we are," Makala sighed, watch-ing as the Jeep weaved around some stalled cars to head into town.

"I'd hate to be in my hospital right now. If the generators didn't kick on, everyone in ICU or under surgery is most likely dead. I watched one poor fool killing himself last night. Had a Beemer like mine. The drunks kind of scared him and he insisted on pushing the car as if somebody was actually going to steal it. Damn fool. Someone told me later that he col-lapsed. People are crazy and this is bringing it out big-time." She let go of his hand.

"If you can find something I'll bandage it up, but you should get that medicine home." He wondered if she was inviting herself over. And at that moment he honestly didn't know how to react.

He started the car back up and drove into town, turning onto State Street. More and more people were crowding in around the town hall complex. Poor Tom had a cordon of his officers out. A large hand-lettered sign was posted at the main intersection: "Emergency Medical," pointing towards the firehouse next to the town hall.

"Maybe I should go over there and help," she said.

"First get some food," John replied.

He had already turned onto State Street, and seconds later the elemen-tary school was in view.

"Why not go back there and get some stitches?"

"My mother-in-law can handle it," he finally said.

"Sure," and there wasn't any reaction in her voice one way or the other. "Just make sure you dose it well with an antibiotic. If things are as bad as I heard you say to Liz, you can't risk any kind of infection." Yes, ma am.

"Come on; it's 'Makala.'"

He smiled.

"Right."

He pulled up onto the lawn of the elementary school. Pete was still at his grill. The line was just about gone. John got out of the car and walked up; Makala followed.

"Hey, Pete, busy today?"

"You got that straight, Professor. Figure the stuff is gonna rot. Health inspector won't let me use the meat anyhow, going this long with no re-frigeration, so what the hell, might as well put on a damn good barbecue."

John smiled. He genuinely liked this guy. Pork barbecue was something John had never really cared for, especially with the spices Pete threw in, but still he'd eat there occasionally just to hang out and chat.

"Professor?" Makala asked.

"Regular brain there," Pete said. "Professor at the college here, army colonel, too. They were even going to give him a star and make him a gen-eral, but he quit...."

Pete's voice trailed off. Naturally, everyone in town of course knew why John retired early, but Pete was leading into private matters, and a bit em-barrassed he stopped.

"All right, Pete," John said with a smile, breaking the nervous pause. "This lady's a good friend. So give her double of anything she wants. OK?"

John started to extend his hand to shake hers and she smiled. "Get it bandaged, John; then we'll shake." Sure.

He started to walk back to the car, hesitated, and looked back. She was looking at him and he motioned her to come over. "Look. I guess you're staying at the Holiday Inn?" "I guess so."

"You know how to get back there?"

"Easy enough, turn left at the light and cross the tracks."

"Well, look, ahh. I don't want you to take this wrong. You need any-thing, you walk up this road just about a mile. Turn right on Ridgecrest Drive. I'm number eighteen."

"OK, John, maybe I will sometime."

"Thanks for your advice with the medicine. I better get it home."

"John?"

"Yeah."

"You were checking me out when I was leaning over the seat, weren't »»

you.

He found himself blushing.

"It's OK. After a high-stress situation, men usually think that way. I wasn't insulted. I just want you to know it's normal. It might bother you later, you know, given you should be worried about your girl, memories of your wife, and such."

Now she blushed slightly.

"That came out awkward. Get home now. I'll be OK." "Thanks, Makala." He got into the car and drove off, carefully balancing the bag of ice with one hand, the vials of medication on top.

As he turned the engine off he was delighted to see Jennifer and Pat up in the field, tossing the Frisbee back and forth. Ginger gave him a quick look but then went back to chasing the Frisbee, but old Zach came down, tail wagging in greeting.

Elizabeth was out by the pool, dressed in shorts and T-shirt, sunning herself, Ben sitting beside her, acting as if he was reading a book. The shotgun was leaning against the wall by Ben's side. He stood up at the sight of John and came up to the car.

"Could you help me get the ice in, Ben? There's some cartons of smokes in there as well."

"Sure, sir."

Still balancing the one bag with the vials on top, John headed into the house. Jen was in the living room, just standing quietly looking out the window, turning and smiling as he came in. She didn't need to be told what he was doing when she saw the CVS bag.

"Get the basement door for me, will you, Jen?"

She opened it. He was suddenly paranoid that somehow he might drop the precious load, and he clutched the bag of ice with one hand to his chest, the other on top of the vials, holding them in place. Going down to the basement, he looked around for a moment and spotted an old Styrofoam cooler. He laid the bag of ice in and placed it inside the shower stall and then carefully laid the vials on top. He put the lid on but left it cracked open and then with a pocketknife popped a small hole in the bot-tom of the foam cooler to let the melted water drain off.

It was getting to be a bit messy, blood dripping from his hand.

"How much medication did you get for her?" Ben asked.

John looked back and saw the young man looking at him intently.

"Five vials."

"Five months, not counting what's in the fridge?" It caught John by surprise.

"Yes, something like that." "I see," Ben said quietly. John stood up.

"Look, Ben. I'm not going to lie to you. The situation might be bad. I sus-pect we've been hit by a weapon that has shut down the electrical grid na-tionwide. That means it might be months before we get power back again."

1 le took it in, nodding his head, saying nothing.

"But not a word of this to Elizabeth or Jennifer. Understood? Let me tell them in my own way." Jennifer and again his throat tightened. She was one smart kid, very smart, and when she learned that the power would be off for a very long time she just might figure out that the clock was ticking for her. He looked back into Ben's eyes, saying nothing.

"Yes, sir," Ben whispered.

"Fine then."

"You're bleeding, sir."

"An accident, nothing serious."

He went back up the stairs and sat down at the dining room table. Jen was already waiting with the first-aid kit. "What happened?"

He looked up. Ben was standing by the door out to the deck.

"Everything's OK, Ben. But remember, I don't want those girls worry-ing about things. Given the way things are, I'm expecting you to be a man and keep a sharp watch on them."

"Anything you say, sir," and he left the room.

"You know, John, he really is a nice boy. By the way, while you were gone, we ran out of water."

"Already?"

"Poor Jennifer. She used the toilet, and well... it didn't flush and she was really embarrassed. Ben got a bucket, hauled the water in from the pool, flushed it, then filled the tank up again. He's a good kid." John laid his hand on the table and she peered at it.

"You should of stopped to get stitches."

"No time. I wanted to get the medication home."

"I'll butterfly bandage it for now," and she set to work. "You can have Kellor look at it later.

"Now what happened to you? And fill me in on all the news."

He told her just about everything ... except for Makala and, of course, the Mustang.