One Year After: A Novel by William R. Forstchen Page A

of eight from the town’s military company, pulled weeklong rotation shifts and were bunked in the firehouse next to the town hall. Exchanges of gunfire and skirmishes along the northern border of the community were nothing new. It was most likely the border reivers raiding for food or a continuation of their ongoing feud with the Stepp families, who lived at the base of the Mount Mitchell range. The raids were more annoyance rather than a real threat, though several had died on both sides over the last year. And there was always the threat, as well, that some far deadlier gang had moved into the region. Rumors that survivors of the Posse lingered, that they were coalescing again and bent on vengeance against Black Mountain.
    Regardless of who had started the flare-up tonight, like a marshal of the Old West, he felt obligated to see about it.
    He pulled on trousers and a flannel shirt, an early morning chill still in the air. Makala helped him don a Kevlar vest, a present from the army before they had left Asheville. He holstered his .45 and headed for the door.
    “Most likely another damned feud.” John sighed. “But it could be some other group setting us up. Until I find out who exactly is shooting at whom and why, we got to assume the worst—that some splinter group of reivers are hitting us. So if they do get into this cove, you know what to do.”
    She was already holding the twelve gauge as if to reassure him that his home would be safe, and she kissed him lightly. “Be careful.”
    He smiled. “Soul of caution.” It had become his standard reply. Then he was out the door. The Edsel reluctantly turned over after thirty seconds of grinding and John’s muttered curses.
    He roared out of the driveway, through the gateway into Montreat, where the one guard was obviously awake and offered a half wave, half salute, and two minutes later, he was at the town hall. The reaction squad was already loaded up into a heavy, four-wheel-drive pickup truck. His old friend Maury Hurt rolled up in his WWII Jeep just as John pulled in.
    Reverend Black was at the door of the town hall.
    “Anything new?” John shouted.
    “Just that one call from the watch post reporting an intrusion. Firing has stopped, though some sort of building is burning above the north bank of the reservoir.”
    He hoped that whatever the ruckus was, it was over. It could be nothing other than some drunks shooting at each other, or it could be an infiltration, the team at the outpost dead and raiders pouring into the valley of the North Fork. He had received more than one chewing out from old vets, the town council, and others that, at such moments, his job was to stay in the town hall and let others do the job. He had been forced to do that in Iraq and swore he would never do it again. If his people were going to put their asses on the line, he would be there with them.
    He settled into the Jeep beside Maury and pointed to the road. The two-vehicle task force set out, rolling west along State Street. The once-thriving shops, the town hardware store, and the wine and chocolate shop all had long ago shuttered up, windows boarded up or broken. No traffic lights blinking, just an empty road, the stalled vehicles from the Day long ago hauled off for salvage. Dropping down the slope on the west side of town, everything was dark. It was still a few hours till dawn, the air chilled but rich with the scent of spring, the wind flowing around the Jeep slapping him awake.
    Maury turned off onto old Highway 70 past John’s favorite hot dog stand, looted and burned out long ago, then past the state veterans’ cemetery, where it had been decided that those who had died in defense of the town were to be buried rather than the golf course. Instinctively, he raised his hand to his hat brim in salute, Maury, a veteran of the air force, doing the same.
    It was a chilly journey in the open Jeep, a vehicle Maury had purchased years before and had lovingly restored. Even now,