One Second After [112]
"Sick. I'm hearing more and more stories up here about rape, murder, stealing even of baby formula. It's getting desperate on the road. You were going to offer to let her stay, weren't you?"
"Yeah. You could see it. She's far over the edge. I think she'll be dead in a few more days."
The two looked towards Carol, who was at the back of the column, staggering along.
Washington sighed.
"Yeah, God save her. You're right. You can look at these people and tell who still just might pull through. Poor woman, she's not one of them. No place in this world for her now, and what she has left to sell is fading."
John lowered his head.
"Damn all this," he sighed.
"I'm now seeing hundreds like her every day," Washington said wearily. "Sir, we let one in beyond those that can help us all survive, we break down."
He couldn't reply. He thought of the piece of a candy bar in his car, a survival ration if he got stuck. He was half-tempted to go get it, but if he did, it might not be there for Jennifer when she needed it.
"Maybe she'll get lucky," Washington said. "Maybe some guy farther down the road will take her in."
"God save us if we are really at this point already."
"Sir. I saw it in Nam. Hell, nineteen-year-old GIs thought it was heaven. A piece for a couple of bucks? But you looked at those girls, and I tell you southern Asian girls are some of the most beautiful in the world, and it made you sick. Fifteen-year-old kids that should have been in school, out selling their tail to feed their parents and kid sisters and brothers.
"And now it's come to America...."
Washington shook his head.
"Damn all war ...," he sighed.
"You wanted me down here for something?"
"Some bad rumors starting to come in this morning; I think Charlie needs to know. I'm going to head back into town shortly to tell him." "What is it?"
"Refugees are talking about something called the Posse taking over the interstate. They're down in the Charlotte area. Some said they're moving up Interstate 77 towards Statesville. Have a lot of vehicles that run."
"The Posse? Hell, it sounds like the Wild West."
"No. It's worse. The Posse was a name for a pre-war gang with branches all around the country. Punks, gangbangers who would pop a bullet into someone's head as a joke before this even started, drug dealers, the scum of the earth long before we ever got hit and the ones most ruthless to survive now than our worst nightmares have become real."
John realized just how really isolated their small town was. Several years back the Asheville paper had run a couple of articles about gang activity starting to flare up, but the local police had put it down fast.
"The Posse. One poor woman we let through with the last bunch said she was held prisoner by them for several days and escaped. Don't even want to talk about what they did to her, but it was beyond sick. Everyone's talking about it on the other side of the barrier. Sort of like an urban legend running with the refugee bands on the road. Some say a thousand or more and well armed. They're moving like ancient barbarians out there."
"Damn," John sighed, and yet again movie images, the Road Warrior films and all the cheap imitations of the genre back in the 1980s and early 1990s.
"I think we better start getting more vigilant. Just a gut feeling if this is real, they'll finally head our way. They'll figure Asheville, up in the mountains, must be loaded with food, and may be a good place for them to take over and hole up. They'll follow the trail of refugees and wind up here," Washington said.
"I heard a radio broadcast," John said.
"You mean Voice of America?" Washington replied.
"How did you know?"
"I was sitting up here last night, keeping an eye on things. The radio in that beautiful Mustang still works. Damn, I just turned it on. Sitting in an old Mustang, it was almost flashback time. Half-expected to hear Wolf-man Jack or Cousin Brucie."
John chuckled.
"Yeah."
"And loud and clear