authorities.
10. All announcements placed upon this board are official and in force from the time of placement. Claiming of ignorance of said laws shall not be accepted as an excuse for non-compliance.
Signed,
WE SHALL WIN THROUGH TO ULTIMATE VICTORY. GOD BLESS AND PRESERVE THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
John turned away from the board and looked at Makala. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Feel like I’m in a bad movie or novel,” she sighed. “‘Long Live the King,’ or ‘Long Live Our Glorious Leader,’ or something like that should be on the board.”
“We are nowhere near that yet,” John said coldly.
“Might as well warn you now, I’m one of those old-style liberals who used to see conspiracies behind everything the right wing did.” He looked at her and saw a trace of a smile.
“I used to feel the same about the left,” and now it was his turn to smile. “Seems absurd now.”
“Still, to go from where we were three weeks ago to this, it’s impossible to grasp.”
They walked back to the Edsel. He noticed that the parking area around the police station had been cleared of all the newer and now-useless cars. There was a row of half a dozen VW Bugs, “Courtesy of Jim Bartlett” stenciled on the side of each with an old-fashioned peace sign added in. That must really rankle Tom, John thought. Two old Jeeps, one of them the antique World War II jeep with a white star stenciled on the hood, an assortment of cars from the fifties and sixties, a few from the seventies, the years that Detroit really started to turn out junk, which didn’t survive as well as the older ones. A number of older motorcycles and mopeds as well.
To his surprise a couple of horses were tethered there as well, and he stopped to look at them.
“Stables at the kids’ camps. Over forty horses in the community,” Makala said. “Most were appropriated by Charlie for patrolling the back roads.”
She walked up and rubbed the horse’s nose and it nickered. “Used to love riding. And you?”
“Actually, yes. The freedom of it when you’re out on open ground. But it’s been a while.”
“Poor things.”
“Why?”
“Charlie said we can use them through the summer, but once we go through the cattle and pigs, they’re next.” He nodded, saying nothing.
They got into the Edsel, Makala still driving, and headed up towards the college. As they approached the arched stone gate, a huge hand-lettered sign greeted them:
He rolled to a stop and two of his students, both with shotguns, blocked his approach, weapons leveled, but upon their recognizing him there were grins.
“What the hell is this?” John asked.
“Sorry, Professor. Interior defense. Some of those runaways from the interstate are still out there. Also, we’re starting to get people trying to sneak in off the old toll road behind us. Sergeant Parker has posted a twenty- four-hour guard here.”
John nodded, saying nothing as Makala drove through the gatehouse and then into the campus.
All was quiet here and then he saw them, lined up on the grassy slope in front of Gaither Hall. He motioned for Makala to pull over and stop.
He sat in the car for a moment and watched. Damn, it was like boot camp, fifty kids, a platoon-size unit, standing at attention, inspection arms, and every kid was indeed armed. Some had shotguns, others hunting rifles; a few stood there with pistols. Every weapon imaginable, from a Chinese SKS, to .22 semiautos, to a monstrous double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun, and he quickly recognized two boys carrying reproductions of Civil War .58 Springfield rifles.
He got out of the car to watch. A few of them looked his way. One girl grinned and started to wave; then realizing what she was supposed to be doing, she came back to attention.
And there was Washington Parker, walking down the line, grabbing a weapon from one student, levering the bolt action back, looking into the chamber, then slapping the weapon back into the student’s hands.
“Not clean enough! You want to live? You keep your weapon clean!”
John slowly walked up and the eye contact from students was a tip-off to Washington to turn. There was the flicker of a smile and Washington came to attention and saluted.
“Good day, Colonel, sir. Care to inspect the troops?”
John found himself returning the salute.
“Are we feeling better today, Colonel, sir?”
“Yes, Mr….” He fumbled for a second. “Yes, Sergeant Parker, I am, thank you.”
Embarrassed, John turned to look at his students, kids of but three weeks back. He had spoken to them more than once about the privileges they had. That kids their age were defending them on distant fronts even as they sat half-dozing in class. Several graduates of the college had been in Iraq, another in Afghanistan, and whenever an e-mail came in from overseas John usually read it to these same students. And now they stood lined up with guns, in front of the main campus building that housed the admissions office, the registrar, the music department, and one of the two chapels on campus.
He knew they were expecting him to now say something, but words failed him. He saw his two favorites, Jeremiah and Phil, to the right of the line, sergeant’s chevrons stenciled on the dark blue college T-shirts all of them were wearing like uniforms.
Jeremiah and Phil made eye contact and he nodded.
He wondered if these kids knew what he had done in the park. Of course they did, the whole town knew, and as he gazed at them he could see it in their eyes. They were looking at him differently. He had been the executioner. He was no longer the history professor who, though a former military man, was seen as having a soft heart.
“They look good,” was all he could say as he turned to face Washington, who saluted him. John returned the salute and headed into Gaither Hall.
“Rather paramilitary, isn’t it?” Makala asked, returning to his side.
John did not reply.
He walked into the building and for a moment wasn’t sure what to actually expect. Of course the corridors were darkened, the air heavy and humid. Fortunately, the building was old, having been designed long before central AC, so at least there was some circulation. The door to the admissions office and registrar were closed, but he could hear a piano in the chapel. He motioned for Makala to follow and he opened the door.
The chapel had been built in the 1930s, just as the chestnut blight had ripped through the Carolina mountains, so the trees had been harvested off and now were the beams, paneling, and ceiling, a beautiful warm, dark golden wood. Austere to a certain degree, for this was, after all, a Presbyterian school, but still a wonderful chapel in John’s eyes.
Up on the stage several kids were standing around the piano, Jessie, one of the music majors, just fooling around a bit.
A student whose name John did remember, Laura, said something, Jessie played a few chords, and she began to sing. Instantly John felt his throat tighten. Laura had sung this song in the spring musical review, and though it was from a play that he thought was way too sentimental,
