The Final Day (After, #3)(60)

With the mention of Florida, he saw the sudden look in Bob’s eyes.

“Sorry I mentioned that place, sir.”

Bob sighed. “Like I said, I know my Linda is gone. I just pray it was peaceful.”

“Same for that girl. She got married in our chapel across the hall a year ago. Had a baby three months ago. No husband now—he was killed in the attack where Fredericks was holed up at the end.”

“I understand the tough edge to her now,” Bob replied.

“We all have tough edges now, sir. No father for her baby, nightmares as to what happened to the rest of her family. This school is all she knows now.” He hesitated. “She feels she has nothing to lose if she dies fighting to defend it.”

“There is no need anymore to fight, John.”

“Really, sir?” He could not control the sarcasm in his voice, but Bob did not react.

“Damn, I’m cold and thirsty.”

“It’s a dry campus, Bob. At least we try to keep it that way.”

“Coffee, then?” Bob asked hopefully.

“None of that either. All those K-Cups of coffee belong to my friend Forrest—you remember him, the sergeant who left an arm in Afghanistan—but I can roust up some herbal tea.”

“Please, if you don’t mind.”

John nodded, left the office, and leaned over the dutch door that led down to the old business office, which had been converted into the formal administrative office of the town. He shouted down the stairs, Reverend Black opening the door down below, and John passed along the request.

He returned to the president’s office, where Bob had returned to staring at the painting of George Washington.

“Do you think he really prayed like that in the snow of that winter?” Bob asked.

“He was a man of faith, and if ever this country needed faith, it was that winter. So yes, I believe it is real.”

“So do I,” Bob said softly.

The two were silent for a moment, both gazing at the painting.

The historian in John knew that the weather during that first winter at Valley Forge was nowhere near as severe as the one at Morristown, New Jersey, a couple of years later when the army was encamped at Jockey Hollow. Several units—unpaid, unshod, desperate, and hungry—had finally mutinied. Washington had taken the hard choice of executing several of the ringleaders and in a tense standoff was ready to order troops still loyal to the cause to fire, if need be, on the regiments in mutiny. The revolution had indeed hung by the slenderest of threads on that desperate day. Only Washington’s strength of character and leadership had prevented a complete breakdown of the army and the collapse of his years of effort with all disintegrating into chaos and most likely dictatorship or capitulation.

There was a tap on the door, his friend Reverend Black bringing in two steaming mugs of herbal tea. John thanked him, and there was a moment of hesitation.

John made the formal introductions, Bob coming to his feet to shake Black’s hand.

“Everything all right? Everyone standing down?” John asked.

“It’s not good over Asheville. Half a dozen dead and wounded. I spoke on the phone with some officer who said he had just placed our person Dunn there under arrest.”

John looked over at Bob.

“I’ll straighten that out once I’m done here, John.”

“So, are we all under arrest?” John asked coldly.

“I didn’t want any bloodshed,” Bob replied. “I promise to straighten it out.”

“Tell that to the families of the dead,” Black snapped back.

Bob nodded, keeping his composure. “If you’re still on the phone with them, tell the officer there—it’s most likely Major Minecci—that I am safe and secure here, will be up there in two hours, and expect a full report. If fired on, he is not to return fire unless the situation is life threatening. Can you help me with that, Reverend?”

Black looked over at John, who gave a nod of reassurance, and he left.

“You could have given us warning,” John said. “It would have prevented what happened in Asheville.”

“Maybe, maybe not. The way I read things when we last met, I knew I could trust you. But my people who mingled with yours while we were talking? It wasn’t good. Reports back were that your people would fight if we just tried to walk in.”

“Can you blame them after what the last attempt to bring us into the fold of Bluemont turned into?”

“I balanced all and finally felt this was the right approach. It’s tragic that anyone had to die. God knows after what happened in Roanoke, Richmond, and Lynchburg, I know the cost. The only way I felt could work was to show overwhelming force in the first move and count on you being moral and sane in response. It could have been far worse, and you know it.”

“So my next question, Bob. Why this?”

“I already told you that before. I’ve been tasked with establishing a reunified state east of the Appalachians from central Virginia down to the old border of Florida.”

“Why not Florida as well while you’re at it?” Again, he could see the flash of pain in Bob’s eyes at the mere mention of that place.

“We’ve written off Florida. I remember some years ago—I think I read it in American Heritage or some magazine like that—until DDT and air-conditioning came along, except for the coastal regions, the state was relatively empty. Well, it most certainly turned into that after the Day with tens of millions living there, a high percentage of them elderly and dependent on that air-conditioning, modern sanitation, a reliable supply of medications, modern hospitals, a freezer full of steaks, cold margaritas out on the screened-in lanai every evening, and of course mosquito control. Word is the few left down there again face malaria, cholera, Nile Valley, you name it.”