One Second After by William R. Forstchen Read Free Book Online

Inn with a good restaurant as well. You should be able to still get a room till this thing clears up.”
    â€œJohn?” It was Jen, standing behind him, whispering. “Help her.”
    He let his hand drift behind his back and put his hand out forcefully, extended, a signal for Jen to shut up.
    In many ways, eight years here had indeed changed him. Women were addressed as “ma’am” and doors were held open for them, no matter what their age. If a man spoke inappropriately to a woman in public and another man was nearby, there would be a fight brewing. The woman in the business suit looked at him appealingly. To refuse her went against a lifetime of thinking and conditioning.
    Hell, there was even a touch of something going on here that he never would have dreamed of but ten minutes ago. Since Mary had died, there had been a few brief flirtations, even one brief affair with a professor at the state university, but down deep his heart was never in it; Mary was still too close. The woman on the other side of the fence was attractive, professional looking, early to mid-thirties; a quick glance to her left hand showed no ring. An earlier incarnation of himself, before Mary . . . he’d have cut the fence down to get to this woman and act as the rescuer. John was almost tempted now to do so.
    But there was that “something else” now. A gut instinct that ran deeper. Something had gone wrong, what, he still wasn’t sure, but there were too many anomalies, with the power off, the cars stalled, except for the Edsel, no planes. . . . Something was wrong. And at this moment, for the first time in a long while, his “city survival senses” were kicking in.
    Growing up in a working-class suburb of Newark in the sixties and seventies he had learned survival. He was only seven when the big riots hit Newark in ’67, dividing off for a generation any thought of what some called diversity. Italians stuck to their neighborhoods, Poles and the Irish to theirs, Hispanics to theirs, blacks to theirs, and God save you if you gotcaught in the wrong neighborhood after dark, and usually in daylight as well.
    The interstate, at this instant, had become the wrong neighborhood. The way the four construction workers stood and gazed at him and the car—the one car with a motor still running—was triggering a warning. One of them was obviously drunk, the type that struck John as a belligerent drunk.
    Something was changing, had changed, in just the last few hours. If alone, John might have chanced it, and chances were nothing at all would go wrong, but he was a father; his two girls and his mother-in-law would be in that car.
    â€œCome on, buddy,” the one worker said, his voice now edged with a taunting edge. “Help the lady. We’ll push her over for you; then we’ll climb over and you can give us a lift as well.”
    She looked back at the four.
    â€œI don’t need your help,” she said coldly.
    The drunk laughed softly.
    John felt trapped, especially as he spared a quick glance back to Jennifer. Suppose the car was taken right now; it would be a long haul back for her.
    At that moment he caught a glance from the truck driver. There was a slight nod and ever so casually he let his right hand, which had been concealed behind his back, drift into view. He was holding a light-caliber pistol. There was a moment of gut tightening for John, but the exchange of glances said it all. “It’s OK, buddy; I’m watching things here.”
    John looked back to the woman.
    â€œMa’am, I’m sorry, I’ve got to get my kids home. You just walk a little less than a mile to the west and you’ll find food and shelter.”
    â€œRotten shit,” the drunk growled, and moved to start climbing the fence.
    â€œGirls, into the car,” John snapped, and there was no hesitation. The doors slammed behind them. John backed up to the car, the drunk