machine in a county government hall might start thinking of themselves and their friends first, and the hell with the rest. John could barely imagine what it might be like, at this very minute, in a city of a million, of five or ten million.
“If we let them all in, it will cut in half the time we have before we run out,” Charlie sighed, “and I doubt if they’ll help us then.
“So I figured it was best not to stick around and argue. I just told him I’ll take it back to the town council. He then said it was an order. I didn’t argue. I just got out. As I left, a couple of cops asked me how I got into town and I lied, said I had walked it. Well, that’s why I was running. I got a block or two and they started to follow me.”
“I know this might sound stupid.” It was Jeremiah. “But I thought we were all in this together. We’re neighbors….”
He hesitated.
“We’re Americans….”
John glanced back to the rearview mirror, unable to speak, then focused his attention ahead.
They were up to the turnoff onto Route 70. He went down the ramp, swung onto what he still felt was the correct side of the road, and floored it.
The line of refugees they had passed earlier was actually larger now, more people on foot, some on bicycles, others having already learned the old refugee trick that a bicycle can be a packhorse; loaded it down, properly balanced, it could be pushed along with a couple of hundred pounds.
“Gun,” Washington announced. “Swerve left.”
John swung the old Edsel across the highway. Strange, it was right in front of the DMV office. A week ago, a dozen cops would have been piling out to give him a ticket, the gunman cause for a SWAT team to jump in.
The gunman was the same as before, standing in front of a car dealership, now stepping out, waving his pistol.
Washington raised his AR-15, leveled it out the window. Some refugees were scattering, others just staring at the sight of the Edsel, some just oblivious.
“Don’t do it,” Washington hissed.
As if the man had heard Washington or, far more likely, seen the leveled rifle, he stepped back.
Washington tracked on him as they sped past, then exhaled noisily.
“Professor, I think your student just asked a question,” Washington said calmly.
John, trembling from the tension, spared a quick glance back at Jeremiah, Charlie by his side.
“We’re still Americans,” John said softly.
An hour later they were back into Black Mountain. There was a roadblock up on the west side of Swannanoa; the chief there had chosen a good spot, a bottleneck where ridges came down on both sides, Route 70, Swannanoa Creek railroad track, and I-40 side by side. The roadblock had not been up when they had driven through several hours earlier.
John had slowed as they approached the barrier. Charlie leaned out of the car and a couple of the cops recognized him, asked for news, and he had confirmed the rumor that had already reached them that more refugees were coming out of Asheville.
John pulled back onto the interstate there, and once past the sign marking the town limits of Black Mountain he breathed a sigh of relief and he felt the others in the car relax as well, Washington finally lowering the AR-15. It was if they had gone to an alien land and were now safely back home.
But as they rolled into the parking area in front of the firehouse and police station, John tensed up again. A crowd had gathered, half a thousand or more, and for a few seconds he thought they were trying to storm the building for the emergency supplies.
The five of them got out, and at the sight of Charlie several came running up.
“They got two thieves in there, Charlie,” someone said excitedly.
John shook his head. Hell, half of the people in this town in the last five days had stolen something. Even himself, he had never bothered to go back to the drugstore to pay for the medication or chocolate or the twenty bucks he still owed Hamid. Besides, there was no money anyhow.
“The bastards that raided the nursing home!” someone else shouted, and an angry mutter went through the crowd.
Charlie pushed his way through, and John followed along with Washington.
They got to the door.
“John, maybe you should wait.”
“I got a stake in this. I was there; Tyler was affected.”
“Ok.”
He followed Charlie in. There was a crowd gathered round the door to the conference room, and John stepped through the group with Charlie. Kate looked up, visible relief in her eyes. “You’re back safe, thank God.”
“What’s going on here?”
“Got these two,” Tom said.
At the far end of the room two men, midtwenties from the look of them, one as described by Ira, shaved head, distinguishing tattoo, earring; the other, almost an opposite, looking not much different from John’s students now waiting outside: fairly well built, hair cut short, but his eyes… John could tell this kid was something of a stoner.
“Charlie, Tom wants to shoot them,” Kate said quietly.
Charlie sat down against the edge of the table and looked at them.
“What do you got, Tom?”
“When I got the description from the nursing home, I knew where to look for him,” Tom said, pointing at the serpent arm.
“Busted him three years back on a meth charge. Regular lab, a home just up over the crest of Route 9. Owned by his cousin here.”
“I didn’t have nothing to do with it!” the clean-cut one cried. “Larry here, he’s the one.”
“Shut the fuck up, Bruce,” Larry snapped, trying to lunge towards him but unable to move. Both were handcuffed and bound to chairs.
“So I went up there this morning and sure enough found these two. Wasted as shit. You’ll see the track marks from the morphine.”
John looked closely at the clean-cut kid; there was some recognition.
“Professor Matherson. You know me, I took History one-oh-one with you four years ago. You know me.”
John looked at him carefully. He was never that good with names, but faces he did remember. Yes, Bruce had been a student, showed some promise, then just disappeared from the campus after a semester or two.
Tom looked over at John.
“He was a student once. Several years back.”
“That doesn’t matter now,” Tom said.
“I want a lawyer. A fucking lawyer!” Larry shouted. “I know my rights. You dumb-ass cop, you didn’t even read me my Miranda, so you really fucked up this bust. I’m outta here once I get a lawyer. Brutality as well,” and he turned his head to show a swollen cheek, right eye half-shut.
“We are under martial law now,” Charlie said quietly, breaking into the argument.
Bruce looked over at Charlie, eyes wide.
“What does that mean?”
Charlie stood up and looked around.
“Witnesses?”
“We fetched the supervisor down from the nursing home. She’s outside.”
“Bring her in,” Charlie said.
John stood up as Ira came in. She looked worse than yesterday, hair uncombed, dirty. It was obvious from the stains on her silk blouse, and the smell, that she had, at some point, snapped out of her shock and was trying to help with the patients.
She looked at the two young men.
