John bristled up. “I just told you—Dale Fredericks. I wasn’t aware that I had to be announced.”
“You mean the director of Carolina District Eleven,” the guard replied.
“I wasn’t aware I had to address him by his formal title.”
“Sir, I’m following my orders, and henceforth, proper titles are to be used.”
John glanced down at the guard’s sleeve. “All right, Sergeant, then I am Colonel John Matherson of the United States Army Reserve. You will address me as sir and inform whomever it is that put you out here that I am here to see Dale Fredericks.”
“Wait here.” There was a hesitation on the guard’s part. “Sir,” he finally added in.
He jogged back into the building, the other guard just standing silent, blocking their way and not making eye contact with either of them.
A moment later, his interrogator was at the doorway and gestured for them to climb the steps and come in. John slowed as he approached and flashed an angry glance at the guard. “Sergeant, I’ll let it pass this time, but in the future, you not only address me as sir, you salute my rank when I inform you who I am and show proper identification, and you do not wave me about as a traffic cop. You could have walked back down the few steps to tell me to come in, which I would have done anyhow. Do I make myself clear?”
The guard was silent.
“Do I make myself clear, Sergeant?” John snapped.
There was a muttered “Yes, sir,” and John opened the door on his own and held it for Makala to go in first.
“That last bit wasn’t necessary, John,” she whispered.
“Hell yes it was,” he replied, following her into the courthouse, and as he stepped within, he came to a sudden stop.
The interior was lit… with electric lights. The county courthouse had an open foyer that rose several stories, the upper floors facing the foyer cordoned off with ornate iron balcony railings that had a heavy, oppressive look, almost like the bars of a cell. Though no critic of architecture, John always felt that the 1920s-era building had a bit of a Stalinist-era feel to it when compared to the far more attractive county offices next to it. The half dozen fluorescent lights illuminating the foyer fluttered slightly as if the electrical current was not constant.
Of course, it was not the first time he had seen electric lighting since the Day. Mission Hospital had brought a generator online, which, when powered up, provided electricity for two operating rooms and an adjoining ICU established on the first floor next to the emergency room. A number of private and even some older industrial generators had survived the attack, but it was now, after two years, a question of fuel to run them. The vast majority of families that had tried to think ahead long before the Day and had put in backup power had been thinking in terms of days or weeks at most. The ones with ten to twenty gallons of gas on hand had run out within the first week. A couple of families in Black Mountain, such as the Franklins, had kept mum about their thousand-gallon propane tanks, but even those went dry after the bitterness of the previous winter.
The army had left a couple of generators behind, and it was now obvious where one of them was in use, and the sight of it set John on edge given how much fuel was being used just to provide lighting. For a moment, he stood there wondering if he was feeling the cooling touch of air-conditioning, as well.
“John Matherson of Black Mountain?”
John felt a bit embarrassed; he had actually been standing there as if he were a gape-mouthed tourist, gazing up at the electric lights. He caught sight of the man he assumed was Dale Fredericks coming out of his office, located on the ground floor of the courthouse. There was a friendly enough smile as the man approached, hand extended, which John took, and there was a firm enough handshake. Dale stood half a foot shorter than John, light, sandy hair worn a bit long and combed across his forehead to cover the fact that his hairline was receding. He was wearing a blue jacket, standard light-blue shirt, and red tie, the way most professionals dressed before everything had gone down. John didn’t know if the man’s clothes were setting him off or if they were actually a touch of reassurance that somehow, in some ways, things were coming back to normal. It made John awkwardly aware of his own well-worn dress shirt, collar frayed and permanently darkened from sweat, his jeans and hiking boots both a bit the worse for wear, as well.
Dale’s face was round, again a strange sight in a way for the survivors of what they now called the starving times, which had left a permanent mark on all who had survived it. Perhaps the only positive thing that could be said of those days was that the American slide into near universal obesity had finally come to a stop. Something else caught John’s attention. The man was freshly showered and shaved, a fact that made John feel suddenly out of place.
Dale’s pale gray eyes darted to Makala. His smile broadened slightly, and he offered his hand, which Makala took firmly, introducing herself.
“I assume this is Mrs. Matherson. My assistant told me you were coming.”
“It’s Makala Turner Matherson,” she replied, her smile as broad as his. “Director of public health and safety for our community. And I assume you are Dale Fredericks.”
There was a slight flicker of a frown from Dale, and then he regained instant composure over his faux pas. “Oh, sorry; I did not properly introduce myself. Yes, I am Dale Fredericks.”
She gave a sidelong glance to John as if nudging him. Though he felt comfortable with all of the aspects of his jobs as a colonel, a college professor, and the one who took on the role of near dictator operating under martial law during the darkest days of the crisis, there were nuances of the games of diplomacy at which he knew Makala was superior, and he caught it now as if she were saying, Don’t let the fact that the guy is clean and well dressed put us off.
“If my administrative assistant had clearly understood who was calling, she most certainly would have scheduled you in. Please accept my apologies for the confusion. Let’s go into my office and see what I can do for you.”
He led the way, graciously helping Makala to take a seat and offering water, which both Makala and John accepted. To John’s utter disbelief, the water was freezing cold.
“Oh, that?” Dale replied with a chuckle. “Indeed a luxury, I realize. We have an old-fashioned water cooler. I know it’s a bit of an excess, but on some of these hot days, it means a lot for staff morale.”
“Did I feel air-conditioning when we came in?” Makala asked innocently. “It really did feel wonderful.”
“We turn it on for a few minutes each day,” Dale said.
“Oh, how wonderful,” Makala whispered, and then she set her glass down after only one sip.
There was a moment of nervous silence, and Dale cleared his throat, pale eyes fixed on John. “I think I can guess why you came here today, but why don’t you open the discussion? But I have to warn you, I’m really tied up today, so we’ll have to keep it fairly short for now.”
John pulled Elizabeth’s draft notice out of his pocket and put it on the table. Before he could speak, Dale leaned over, took it, and held it up.
“Your daughter?” he asked.
“For starters, yes.”
Dale smiled disarmingly. “Well, in that case, I know I can work an arrangement for you. We’ll figure out some sort of deferment.”
John now actually did sit up straighter, and Makala gently reached over and put a light restraining hand on his arm.
“I didn’t come here to just plead for my daughter, sir.”
Dale’s features clouded for a second, and his gaze dropped. “Oh, I’m sorry. Forgive me, sir,” Dale replied hastily. “You see, these notices started going out a couple of weeks back. Mail to your town was a bit delayed, so it only went out there with this morning’s delivery from our post office. It’s why I’m in semi-hiding at the moment,” he said with a rueful chuckle. “I’ve got parents, wives, husbands, kids all pleading for deferments. I actually had a mother try to bribe me yesterday with a pie that had a silver dollar stuck in it. So please excuse me if I misspoke. I know an honorable man such as you would not come here just to ask for special treatment for a member of his family.”