She stepped back closer and again squeezed his hand. “You’re the leader in this town, John. You’ll manage somehow; you always do.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, shaking his head. He looked at the mailboxes and at the friends and neighbors gathering on the other side. “Damn it, Mabel,” he said, forcing a friendly smile. “At least next time, give me a call first so I can either figure out what to do first, or…” His voice trailed off, and he didn’t add, Or find a place to hide.
How often, from the very first days, had he wished he could do just that as he opened the door and stepped back out into the foyer.
Ernie Franklin was, of course, immediately in his face. Though in his midseventies, he radiated a definite “don’t ever mess with me” aura. Head of what all called “the Franklin clan,” who lived on the far side of Ridgecrest. Some had defined them as survivalists even before the Day. Ernie and his wife had, prior to the war, been tech heads—programmers starting way back in the 1960s. He had proudly let everyone know that he and his wife Linda had written some of the software for Apollo and the shuttle programs. Foreseeing the future, which finally did happen, he had bought up a hundred acres of mountain and built his fortresslike retirement home at the edge of town. It was well stocked with food that obviously was still supplying his “clan,” which now included a couple of sons, their families, a daughter, and a reclusive author who had come into their lives before the Day. They had survived on their own since the first day, never requesting rations or help from the town. On the day of the cataclysmic battle with the marauding Posse, the enemy’s flanking attack had swept along the edge of Ernie’s property but then shied back when confronted by an explosion of automatic weapons fire. Indirectly, his clan’s efforts had contributed to the town’s victory by forcing the enemy to funnel in along a narrow hiking path rather than using an old logging road, that would have flanked his own position along the Ridgecrest Heights and the Baptist conference center. As a result the main battle had been fought along Interstate 40, but whenever possible, Ernie let everyone know on a regular basis that whether part of the organized fighting force or not, his clan had played a crucial role in the battle and deserved recognition.
And now he was ready to unleash on John, and he did so in no uncertain and most definitely scatological language. John long ago learned to let him vent until he finally took a deep breath.
Finally, Ernie relented, breathing hard, and John held his hand up.
The foyer of the post office was packed, and given the level of sanitation all now lived with, it was a bit rank. He had always been sensitive to smells, something his boot camp drill sergeant picked up on and had made sure John’s job was to scrub out the barrack’s bathroom after the first round of use in the morning, with John usually vomiting up his breakfast while he worked. After two years, the natural scents of his irregularly washed neighbors had become something of a background norm, but it still troubled him at times.
“How about we all step outside?” John offered. “Let’s sit down, take a deep breath, and talk about this. Could you help me with that, Ernie?”
Caught a bit off guard by John’s standard maneuver to ask someone to help him, especially in a moment of crisis, the response was almost always the same. Ernie muttered an agreement and motioned to the door as if he were in charge—and the crowd followed him out.
As they stepped outside, John saw Ed, the police chief, who had most likely been summoned by Jim at the switchboard and had come down from the town office to keep an eye on things. John made eye contact and gave him a subtle hand gesture to just relax and walk away as if nothing was amiss. In this new world of theirs, everyone walked about armed. John always kept a light Ruger concealed in his pocket; most of the neighbors present had a rifle or shotgun casually slung over the shoulder or cradled under an arm. But Ed was the town’s armed authority, and he did not want to convey the slightest concern that he might need armed support to this ever-growing and angry crowd.
More than a hundred were now gathered, many clutching the draft notices for themselves or their children and kin, and John made it a point to let people see that he had one in his hand. Folks began to sit down along the curb, leaning against the odd assortment of old vehicles folks had retrofitted to function again after the EMP burst had blown out the electronics. Several of the cars had huge canvas bags strapped to the roof to store the gas from the charcoal burners that Mabel’s husband had figured out could actually power a car… just barely but enough at least to drive around town and out to the fields that were now their farmlands.
He cleared his throat and motioned for a moment of silence. That had become traditional with town meetings, formal and informal. If Reverend Black were there, there would have been a prayer, nonsectarian, an appeal for guidance and calm, but without his presence, there would just be silence for a moment.
John finally cleared his throat again and spoke. “I have no answers for you.”
“Well, that is one helluva start!” Ernie interjected sarcastically.
John looked over at him and held his hand out in a calming gesture. “Just let me say my piece, and then we’ll all have a chance,” John offered, and he saw that he had the support of the rest of the group.
Ernie reluctantly nodded and went to sit in the driver’s seat of his Polaris.
“My daughter Elizabeth got the same letter the rest of you got to report in three days for mobilization into this Army of National Recovery that we’ve been hearing about. We kind of knew that this draft would sooner or later be at our doorsteps—and today, it is. I’m asking that we hold our tempers for now. I’ll go into Asheville, talk to this new federal administrator that came in last month, Dale Fredericks, and see what he has to say, since chances are it came out of his office. I’ll call him right now and let him know I’m coming.”
He looked up at the sky and then back at the crowd. “Weather looks good for today.” His next move was definitely a calculated one on his part—some would say even cynical manipulation, others one of the basic principles of leadership. “Some of the boys at the college actually managed to get a wild boar night before last after trying to lure it in for weeks. They’re butchering it even now, and our friend Pete of barbecue fame is helping them. Rather than salt it down or smoke it, let’s just indulge ourselves this evening. I’ll ask Pete if he can get a roasting pit going right now in the town square. Ernie, maybe you and some others could help. How about we have a community meeting—say, at six—and I’ll have more information then and a bit of a meal, as well? It won’t be Pete’s finest pulled pork, but it should still be pretty good. And no ration cards for this. It’s time to celebrate after spring planting and all the good weather we’ve been blessed with.”
“Cook something like that takes days,” Ernie interjected. A glance from John, though, to at least give him a break on this point had its effect. “Yeah, okay, John. We’ll help Pete try to make the pig somewhat edible and ready for the meeting tonight when I’m sure you’ll return with some damn good answers,” Ernie replied.
There were outright cries of delight from those who were still trying to just barely get by on the public rations. A meal of real meat, no matter how tough, was always a lure and a promise.
“But before you go, John, I have something to say first,” Ernie announced, but John held up his hand.
“As I said before, Ernie, I know nothing more than the rest of you. I want to get that call in now and get on the road. Is that all right with all of you?”
John dreaded such informal sidewalk meetings. Everyone felt they had to have their say, and it would drag on for hours. His nature was such that he wanted to get the real information and get it now, sort it out, and then deliver the hard message as quickly as possible. He wondered if this mobilization of his community’s fittest and healthiest young men and women had more behind it than just simply a call-up for national service, such as what happened in the Second World War. He could see already from those who were waving the blue envelopes that the community’s most able-bodied, who were the backbone of their town’s defenses and hardest workers in the fields, were the first to be called.