One Second After [61]
John looked over at Charlie.
"Not me, John."
"No, it can't be you, either, Charlie. You're the emergency government; and Kate, the traditional government. No, not you." "Then who?" Charlie asked. No one spoke.
"You, John," Kate said quietly.
Startled, he looked at her. He had simply been advising as a historian; he never imagined it would come back on him like this.
"Damn all, I was not volunteering myself." John said, "I was just trying to keep us in touch with who we once were as a country."
"I'm not going out there to ask for volunteers," Charlie said. "I will not let this turn into a circus with some sick bastards mobbing in to take a shot. I want you to do it. You're the historian, John; you understand it, the meaning of it. You're a respected professor in the town. Everyone knows you, or knows your kin here."
"Oh Jesus," John whispered, knowing he was trapped.
Reluctantly he nodded his head.
"Where?" Tom asked.
John couldn't think.
"The town park," Charlie said. "It's the public gathering place. I don't want it here."
"Fine then," Tom replied. "We take them down to the park now and do it. We load them into Jim's van. The tennis courts have a concrete practice wall. I'll go outside and announce it for one half hour from now."
The mention of the tennis courts chilled John. It made him think of the Taliban and the infamous soccer stadium in Kabul. Is that what we have now, tennis courts?
"Maybe in private," Kate ventured. "Maybe in private. I don't like the thought of public execution."
"I don't either," John said slowly, "but we have to do it. There's fear in this town. I'm hearing people say that the refugees from the highway are 'outsiders.' We're already beginning to divide ourselves off from each other. We do private executions and I guarantee you, within a day there'll be rumors flying from those who don't live here that we are doing Stalinist courts and executing people in the basement of the police station. If we are forced to do this, we do it in public."
"Besides," Tom interjected, "it's a statement to anyone else who might be thinking about stealing."
"Wait a minute, Tom," John said. "I pray we aren't down to killing people for stealing a piece of bread."
Tom shook his head angrily.
"John, don't misread me. You might not believe this, but I don't like it any more than you."
John stared into his eyes and then finally nodded.
"OK, Tom, sorry."
"I'll go make the announcement."
"Tom," Kate said. "Adults only. I don't want kids down there."
Tom left the room and seconds later there was the crackling hiss of an old handheld megaphone and Tom began to speak.
There was a scattering of applause, even a few cheers, someone shouting a rope would be better.
Damn, it did feel like an old western, John thought, the crowd all but crying, "Lynch 'em!"
The crowd immediately broke up, many setting off for the park, some, especially those with children, staying behind. Long minutes passed, John silent, looking out the window.
He heard cursing from out in the corridor and crying. The two were being led out.
"We better go," Charlie said, and opened the door.
John felt as if he were being led to his own execution. Could he do it? All those years in the army, the training, but never a shot in anger or even in detached professionalism, as they were told they should act. During Desert Storm he was XO of a battalion, but even there, he was in a command vehicle a couple miles behind the main line of advance, never on the actual firing line pulling the trigger.
He thought of the taunting rednecks back when he was in college, the frightful moment when rage drove him to the point that he might very well have shot one, and the shock of it afterwards ... and then the shaking of hands with one of them only days later and a shared drink.
He was outside. The two were in the back of Jim Bartlett's Volkswagen van, handcuffed, feet chained. The back of the van door was slammed shut, Tom up in the front seat with a drawn pistol, Reverend Richard Black crouched down between