“How did you hear that?”
“Word of such wonders travels fast. Mind if I go up to take a look at what they’re doing? If those kids are all that some are reporting, I got far bigger projects waiting for them in Asheville.”
“I’m sure they’ll be glad to show you around their workshop and power plant.”
“Thanks, John. Now get some rest.”
As the screen door slammed shut, the Humvee outside roared to life.
There was a gentle tapping on the door. It cracked open, and Makala peeked in.
“Enter?” she asked with a smile, and he nodded. “You look exhausted, John. We’ll talk about whatever happened later, but for now, dear patient, you need to get some sleep.”
She slipped out of the darkened room, but sleep would not come. There was far too much to think about now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“So that’s the offer,” John said to the hundreds gathered in the town square, finishing up a recounting of his discussion with Dale two days earlier.
The members of the town council had come to sit down with John the day after Fredericks’s visit. No one was really sure how to read their new district administrator. He seemed friendly enough, but all were bothered by the fact that, after finishing his visit with John, he had spent a fair part of the day “poking around,” as Ed put it. He had indeed been up to the dam to talk to Paul and Becka, then to the campus to watch as the students still living there were running through a practice drill of clearing a house, using the MacGregor dorm with several “aggressors” hiding inside. The fact that Dale had seen only that troubled John; he was concerned it would leave the wrong impression that the college had become nothing more than a military barrack.
Fredericks had then made a show of going about town in his Humvee, rarely talking to anyone. John knew the reaction to Fredericks was actually rather normal. Across the previous two years, he and the community had learned how to function on their own. What Ed and the others saw as “poking around” was a normal part of an inspection tour upon taking a new command. Most would look askew at new guys until they had proven themselves. Though John had his own questions—and Makala had outright disdain—he was willing to concede a testing-out time.
“The few that cornered him long enough to ask about the draft,” Ed continued, “were given a stock reply, John, that the two of you were working out an arrangement that ‘everyone will be happy with.’”
So the word was out. After the visit by the town council, it was decided to call for a town-square meeting to be held in the town park if the weather was good. Makala had objected to the physical strain of him addressing what might be several hundred or more who might get a bit ugly, but he felt it had to be done before he went back to Asheville. The town still had a functional bullhorn, and she insisted that everyone understood why he was sitting down rather than his usual method of delivery, which was on his feet, walking about and into the crowd.
The crowd was far bigger than he had expected, five hundred or more. A mixed array of vehicles were parked along State and Main—motorcycles and mopeds, precomputerized cars from the ’50s and ’60s, tractors, vehicles that ran on recycled cooking oil, an old flatbed tractor trailer from up in Swannanoa that hauled fifty or more people in, even half a dozen cars with the strange-looking canvas balloons on their roofs storing gas from charcoal burners strapped to tailgates or pickup truck flatbeds. How those worked John still couldn’t figure out, but apparently they had been something of a fixture on the streets of Japan in the final months of the Second World War.
They opened with what was now the firm tradition of Reverend Black offering a prayer, followed by the news. The public announcement was made of Pat Stepp’s death; at John’s behest, Reverend Black did not state the cause of death, and then he quickly moved on to the happy news of three births in the community. Then the group sang the national anthem and pledged to the flag.
The first question from the crowd actually asked for a brief account of what had transpired with the reivers. With a couple dozen of the Stepp family present, he thought it best not to have two controversies blow in one night, so he simply said he was taken prisoner, traded for salt—for which, since it came from the town supplies, he would personally find a way to compensate the community—expressed remorse for the loss the Stepps had endured, and said that, henceforth, the guard along that border would be doubled. He felt it best to talk to the Stepps afterward, in private, to ask how they felt about a truce rather than seeing them go out on a vendetta raid.
And then he recounted the discussion with Dale, struggling a bit to remember precisely the nature of the exchange, asking for forgiveness if he had forgotten anything but that he was still rather battered up when Dale had arrived. Taking a deep breath, he opened the meeting for questions, asking that folks step up in front of all and speak loudly so all could hear, and that if anyone wished to comment, to keep it to the agreed-upon limit of two minutes; otherwise, they would be at it half the night.
The community had reverted in many ways to the old New England tradition of open town meetings, except in cases of actual trials for crimes, which were again handled as they had been before the Day. Norm Schiach, the town’s well-respected lawyer, acted as judge. There was no town jail other than a holding tank in the police station for the drunk and disorderly. Theft of food was still considered to be just about the most heinous of offenses, and several times, the punishment of banishment from the community had been the sentence. The starving times were still such a close memory that all saw such an act as close to murder.
John finished his description of the conversation with Dale Fredericks and then dropped the bomb—that he had been offered a position with the federal government and that if he accepted, the draft for their community would be cut in half. That caused a stir, and it was several minutes before the meeting came somewhat back to order. He sighed inwardly.
Ernie Franklin was already on his feet, and half a dozen followed him, ready to pull the parliamentarian game that as Ernie’s time was up, the next person behind him would just announce, “I yield my time to speak to Ernie,” who could then continue to press whatever it was he was peeved about.
It was going to be a long night, and regardless of how his head still throbbed, John would have to play his role.
“So let me get this straight,” Ernie said without preamble or need for introduction. “You volunteer to go in with the fancy rank of major general and half of those who got draft notices are let off the hook. Is that it, John?”
“Yes. If I volunteer, the draft quota is cut in half.”
“So which half goes if you accept?”
“I didn’t say I’d volunteer,” John replied. “I just said that was the offer.”
“Well, are you going to volunteer, John? I mean, what the hell… you get to be a major general. Rations must be damn good with those pencil pushers who created this mess in the first place and then ran to their bunkers up in Virginia, most likely even get some sort of pay, as well.”
“Like I said, Ernie, I haven’t decided yet.”
“Why not volunteer? You get to be a major general, the draft for our town is cut in half, and the other half gets a safe assignment with you. It strikes me as a darn good deal, John, for you and for us.”
There was a loud muttering of agreement from the crowd.
“I have to look at all the factors, Ernie, and ultimately, it’s a personal decision.”