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

riding in it made John think of the movie Patton , except unlike that eccentric leader, John did not stand up and take on the affectations of a siren throughout the ride.
    They reached what had been a minimum-security detention center with its ugly and now useless barrier fence and turned onto the winding road up to the North Fork Reservoir, the main water supply for the entire city of Asheville.
    “Something’s burning,” Maury announced. John didn’t need to be told, the red glare of it reflecting off the surface of the lake.
    They reached the dam face of the reservoir where he had a watch station in place. The two students assigned there came out of the concealed bunker, reporting that they had heard voices echoing across the lake, followed by a couple of minutes of sustained gunfire and then something going up in flames.
    If voices alone could echo across the lake, then most certainly their arrival in a Jeep and four-wheel-drive truck could certainly be heard, as well.
    He stood silent for several minutes, gazing across the quarter-mile-wide lake. It looked like a shack of some kind was indeed burning on the far shore. Back before the Day, this had been the reservoir for the city of Asheville, and any kind of building within the watershed was strictly forbidden. Chances were it was some kind of still or squatter’s shack burning over there.
    Was it worth the risk to check it out, or should they wait until dawn?
    The Stepps, who had settled this valley over two hundred years earlier, had hung on rather well compared to many after the Day. Over the last year, they had produced enough of a surplus to start breeding hogs, chickens, and drop off the town rationing, and they traded well and fairly with the community. The raid might be aimed at their food. One branch of the family, however, lived more on the fringe, and it was they who usually were either trading with or wrangling with the reivers. He guessed this was some kind of payback attack. Illegal still or not, something was going on, and he had to find out what it was.
    Darkness played to his advantage if it was raiders; he knew this territory, and they most likely did not. If it was just the Stepps doing something stupid, he had to deal with that, as well … and hoped that was all it was.
    He motioned for his reaction team to gather round. He looked at their young faces in the waning moonlight. They were tense but ready to go in.
    “I’ll take point. I want you deployed back fifty yards behind me in a skirmish line.”
    “Sir, that’s our job to be point, not yours.” It was Grace, typical of her to speak up.
    “Not this time,” John offered. “If it’s just the Stepps, they know me; they might not know you and fire first and ask questions later.”
    He stood up, indicating there would be no more debate, stepped out from behind the bunker, and started along the access road that followed the west shore of the lake. He heard someone behind him, turned back, and saw that it was Maury, his World War II–era M1 carbine raised.
    “What the hell are you doing?” John asked.
    “Just taking a walk with you, that’s all,” Maury replied.
    “Okay, but let’s not go off half-cocked. If it’s the reivers, they usually hightail out rather than face a fight with a full squad of our troops. If it’s someone else…” His voice trailed off.
    They moved silently along the bank of the river. All was silent except for the crackling of the fire, the lake reflecting the light and that of the moon.
    He began to think of the notoriously bad line from old movies—“It’s quiet; too quiet”—just before all hell broke loose.
    A gut instinct suddenly kicked in; something didn’t feel right. Long ago, instructors in advanced infantry training had drilled into him that in combat, listen to gut instincts; chances were that something your conscious thinking had not even registered—the faint crack of a broken branch, a barely detected scent on the air, just a feeling