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 sixties 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 Carolina, 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 features 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 reversed.”
“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
