One Second After [120]
But still his old friend had come through for him, a debt he could never repay, and he felt like a beggar every time he wandered in.
"For my favorite little girl," Hamid would say as he pressed a small package into John's hands, a piece of newspaper with a pound or two of ice inside. Ice, a precious pound or two of ice to try to keep the temperature of the remaining vials down a few degrees.
"I still owe you twenty bucks," John would always say, and Hamid would just smile, for he had little girls, too, and he knew, and he was proud to be an American helping a friend.
Makala. Funny, John hadn't thought of her these last few days. My own starvation, he thought. The unessentials of the body shut down first and after four years of celibacy after the death of Mary he had grown used to it. He knew Makala was interested in him; in a vastly different world they would definitely have been dating, but not now. Besides, he did not want to upset the delicate balance of his family. Jen had been Mary's mother; how would she react? The girls? They might like Makala as a friend, but as something more? For Jennifer, her mom was already becoming remote, but for Elizabeth, the death had hit at twelve, a most vulnerable of times, and her room still had half a dozen pictures of the two of them together and one that still touched John's heart, a beautifully framed portrait from Mary's high school graduation, the color fading but Mary very much the girl he had met in college.
He pulled up to the town hall complex. The rumble of a generator outside varied up and down in pitch as more power or less was being used.
One of the fire trucks was being washed down. The mechanics had finally bypassed all the electronics, done some retrofitting, and the engine had finally kicked back to life ten days ago.
He walked in. Charlie was in his office, cot in the corner unmade, looking up as John came in.
Charlie had lost at least thirty pounds or more, face pinched. He had a cup of what looked to be some herbal tea.
"Two dead up at my house, shot them this morning," John said matter-of-factly.
"That's eight reported now just this morning," Charlie replied, his voice hoarse.
John sat down, looked at his pack of cigarettes, fourteen left, and offered one to Charlie, who did not hesitate to take it.
"Damn it, Charlie. You got to get at least one extra meal in you."
He shook his head.
"Might not matter soon anyhow."
"Why's that?"
"We think the Posse is coming this way." "What?"
"Don Barber flew his recon plane out a couple hours ago to take a look for us along Interstate 40 heading towards Hickory; he's yet to get back. Four days ago we didn't have a single refugee at the barrier, two days ago nearly a hundred, yesterday more than two hundred; it's as if something is pressuring them from behind. Rumors running with them that Morgan-ton was just looted clean, a damn medieval pillage. Also, we had a shooting last night on the interstate."
"So, that's becoming almost a daily routine," John said coolly.
"This one was different. One of the few heading east. Big guy, looked fairly well fed."
"So what did he do?"
"Washington spotted him. He just had a gut feeling because he had seen this same guy, the day before, heading west; he stood out because he looked so well fed. Washington tagged along with the escort taking this guy and some other refugees east and played dumb. The big guy was peppering him with questions. How many folks lived here, how much food left, any organized defense."
"A spy?"
"Exactly."
"So Washington drew down on him just before the gap, and almost got killed for it. The guy had what Washington