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Overview
A post-apocalyptic thriller of the after effects in the United States after a terrifying terrorist attack using electromagnetic pulse weapons.
New York Times best selling author William R. Forstchen now brings us a story which can be all too terrifyingly real...a story in which one man struggles to save his family and his small North Carolina town after America loses a war, in one second, a war that will send America back to the Dark Ages...A war based upon a weapon, an Electro Magnetic Pulse (EMP). A weapon that may already be in the hands of our enemies.
Months before publication, One Second After has already been cited on the floor of Congress as a book all Americans should read, a book already being discussed in the corridors of the Pentagon as a truly realistic look at a weapon and its awesome power to destroy the entire United States, literally within one second. It is a weapon that the Wall Street Journal warns could shatter America. In the tradition of On the Beach, Fail Safe and Testament, this book, set in a typical American town, is a dire warning of what might be our future...and our end.
The John Matherson Series
#1 One Second After
#2 One Year After
#3 The Final Day
Other Books
Pillar to the Sky
48 Hours
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429922067 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tor Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 04/26/2011 |
| Series: | John Matherson Series , #1 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 352 |
| Sales rank: | 11,507 |
| Lexile: | 860L (what's this?) |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
William R. Forstchen is the author of We Look Like Men of War, among numerous other books in diverse subjects ranging from history to science fiction. He has co-authored several books with Newt Gingrich, including Gettysburg: A Novel of the Civil War, Pearl Harbor, Days of Infamy, To Try Men's Souls and Valley Forge. Forstchen holds a Ph.D. in History from Purdue University, with specializations in military history and the history of technology. He is currently a Faculty Fellow and Professor of History at Montreat College, near Asheville North Carolina. He is a pilot and flies an original WWII recon "warbird." He resides near Asheville with his daughter Meghan.
William R. Forstchen is the author of the New York Times bestseller One Second After and We Look Like Men of War, among numerous other books in diverse subjects ranging from history to science fiction. He has co-authored several books with Newt Gingrich, including Gettysburg: A Novel of the Civil War, Pearl Harbor, Days of Infamy, To Try Men’s Souls and Valley Forge. Forstchen holds a Ph.D. in History from Purdue University, with specializations in military history and the history of technology. He is currently a Faculty Fellow and Professor of History at Montreat College, near Asheville North Carolina. He is a pilot and flies an original WWII recon "warbird." He resides near Asheville with his daughter Meghan.
Read an Excerpt
One Second After
By William R. Forstchen
Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
Copyright © 2009 William R. ForstchenAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-2206-7
CHAPTER 1
BLACK MOUNTAIN, NORTH CAROLINA, 2:30 EDT
John Matherson lifted the plastic bag off the counter.
"You sure I have the right ones?" he asked.
Nancy, the owner of the shop, Ivy Corner, smiled. "Don't worry, John; she already had them picked out weeks ago. Give her a big hug and kiss for me. Hard to believe she's twelve today."
John sighed and nodded, looking down at the bag, stuffed with a dozen Beanie Babies, one for each year of Jennifer's life, which started twelve years ago this day.
"Hope she still wants these at thirteen," he said. "God save me when that first boy shows up at the door wanting to take her out."
The two laughed, Nancy nodding in agreement. He was already enduring that with Elizabeth, his sixteen-year-old, and perhaps for that, and so many other reasons as well, he just wished that he could preserve, could drag out, just for a few more days, weeks, or months the precious time all fathers remember fondly, when they still had their "little girl."
It was a beautiful spring day, the cherry trees lining the street in full bloom, a light shower of pink petals drifting on the wind as he walked up the street, past Doc Kellor's office, the antique stores, the new, rather Gothic-looking art gallery that had opened last month, the usual curio shops, and even an old-style ice-cream parlor ... at a dollar fifty a scoop. Next up the street was Benson's Used and Rare Books. John hesitated, wanted to go in just for a few minutes, then pulled out his cell phone to check the time.
Two thirty. Her bus would be rolling in at three, no time today to go in, have a cup of coffee, and talk about books and history. Walt Benson saw him, held up a cup, gesturing for John to join him. He shook his head, pointed to his wrist even though he never wore a watch, and continued to walk up to the corner to where his Talon SUV was parked in front of Taylor's Hardware and General Store.
John paused and looked back down the street for a moment.
I'm living in a damn Norman Rockwell painting, he thought yet again, for the thousandth time.
Winding up here ... he never imagined it, never planned for it, or even wanted it. Eight years back he was at the Army War College, Carlisle, PA, teaching military history and lecturing on asymmetrical warfare, and waiting to jump the hoop and finally get his first star.
And then two things happened. His promotion came through, with assignment to Brussels as a liaison to NATO, a rather nice posting to most likely end out his career ... and then Mary had returned from the doctor's several days after the promotion, her face pale, lips pressed tight, and said four words: "I have breast cancer."
The commandant at Carlisle, Bob Scales, an old friend who had stood as godfather for John's Jennifer, understood the request he then laid before him. John would take the promotion, but could it be to the Pentagon? It'd place them nearby to Johns Hopkins, and not too far from Mary's family.
It didn't work. Cutbacks were hitting as it was, oh, there was great sympathy from upstairs, but he had to take Brussels if he wanted the star and maybe a year later they'd find a slot for him stateside.
After talking to Mary's doctor ... John resigned. He would take her back home to Black Mountain, North Carolina, which was what she wanted and the cancer treatment center at Chapel Hill would be nearby.
Bob's connections were good, remarkably good, when John first mentioned Black Mountain. A single phone call was made; the old-boy network, though disdained as politically incorrect, did exist and it did help at times when needed. The president of Montreat College, North Carolina, in Mary's hometown, did indeed "suddenly" need an assistant director of development. John hated development and admissions work but survived it until finally a tenure-track professorship in history opened four years back and he was slotted in.
The fact that the president of the college, Dan Hunt, owed his life to Bob Scales, who had dragged him out of a minefield back in 1970, was a definite mark in John's favor that could not be ignored between friends. Dan had lost his leg, Bob got another of his Bronze Stars for saving him, and the two had been buddies ever since, each looking out, as well, for those whom the other cared for.
So Mary got to go home, after twenty years of following John from Benning, to Germany, to Okinawa, sweating out Desert Storm, from there to the Pentagon, then a year, a wonderful year, at West Point and then three more wonderful years teaching at Carlisle. At heart he was a history teacher, and maybe whichever bastard in the personnel office at the Pentagon had nixed John's request to stay stateside had done him a favor.
So they came home to Black Mountain, North Carolina. He did not hesitate one second in granting her wish, resigning his commission and promotion and moving to this corner of the Carolina mountains.
He looked back down Main Street, frozen for a moment in time and memories. Mary would be gone four years next week, her last time out a slow, exhausting walk down this street, which as a girl she had run along.
It was indeed a Norman Rockwell town. That final walk down this street with her, everyone knew her, everyone knew what was happening, and everyone came out to say hi, to give her a hug, a kiss, all knowing it was farewell but not saying it. It was a gesture of love John would never forget.
He pushed the thought aside. It was still too close and Jennifer's bus would be pulling up in twenty minutes.
He got into his Talon, started it up, turned onto State Street, and headed east. He did love the view as State Street curved through town, past yet more shops, nearly all the buildings redbrick, dating back to the turn of the century.
The village had once been a thriving community, part of the tuberculosis sanitarium business. When the railroad had finally pierced the mountains of western North Carolina in the early 1880s some of the first to flood in were tuberculosis victims. They came by the thousands, to the sanitariums that sprang up on every sunlit mountain slope. By the early twenties there were a dozen such institutions surrounding Asheville, the big city situated a dozen miles to the west of Black Mountain.
And then came the Depression. Black Mountain remained frozen in time, and then came antibiotics right after the war and the sanitariums emptied out. And all those wonderful buildings, which in other towns would have given way to shopping plazas and strip malls, had remained intact, progress passing Black Mountain by.
Now there were conference centers for various churches and summer camps for kids where the sanitariums had been. His own college had been founded at such a site up in what everyone called the Cove. A small college, six hundred kids, most of them from small towns across the Carolinas and a few from Atlanta or Florida. Some of the kids were freaked out by the relative isolation, but most of them grudgingly admitted they loved it, a beautiful campus, a safe place, an old logging trail across the edge of the campus leading straight on up to Mount Mitchell, good white water nearby for kayaking, and plenty of woods to disappear into for partying for some of them, to get around the fairly strict campus rules.
The town itself finally revived, starting in the 1980s, but wonderfully, the charming turn-of-the-century look was maintained, and in the summer and fall the streets would be crammed with tourists and day-trippers coming up from Charlotte or Winston-Salem to escape the boiling heat of the lowlands, joined by hundreds of summer "cottagers" who lived in the Cove, many of the cottages darn near mansions for some of the older wealth of the South.
That had been Mary's family, Old South and wealth. Me-ma Jennie, Mary's mother and Jennifer's namesake, still hung on doggedly to their home up in the Cove, refusing to consider moving, even though "Papa" Tyler was now in a nearby nursing home, in the final stages of cancer.
John continued to drive east, the traffic on Interstate 40, coming up through the Swannanoa Gap, roaring by on his left. The old-timers in the town still expressed their hatred of that "darn road." Before it came in, Black Mountain was a sleepy southern mountain hamlet. With the road had come development, traffic, and the floods of tourists on weekends that the chamber of commerce loved and everyone else tried to tolerate.
Staying on the old highway that paralleled the interstate, John drove for less than a mile out of town, then turned right onto a dirt road that twisted up the side of a hill overlooking the town. The old mountain joke used to be "you know you're getting directions to a mountain home when they say, 'Turn onto the dirt road.'"
For a kid from New Jersey, John still got a bit of a kick out of the fact that he did indeed live in the South, on the side of a mountain, halfway up a dirt road, with a view worth a million bucks.
The home he and Mary had purchased was in one of the first new developments in the area. In a county where there was no zoning, the lower part of the hill had several trailers, an old shack where Connie Yarborough, a wonderful down-the-hill neighbor, still did not have electricity or town water, and next to her was an eccentric Volkswagen repair shop ... the owner, Jim Bartlett, a true sixties throwback, his lot littered with dozens of rusting Beetles, vans, and even a few precious VW Buses and Karmann Ghias.
The house (Mary and John actually named Rivendell, because of their mutual love of Tolkien) offered a broad sweeping view of the valley below; the skyline of Asheville was in the distance, framed by the Great Smoky Mountains beyond, facing due west so Mary could have her sunsets.
When trying to describe the view he'd just tell friends, "Check out Last of the Mohicans; it was filmed a half hour from where we live."
It was a fairly contemporary-looking type of home, high ceiling, the west wall, from bedroom across the living room to the dining area, all glass. The bed was still positioned to face the glass wall, as Mary wanted it so she could watch the outside world as her life drifted away.
He pulled up the drive. The two "idiots" Ginger and Zach, both golden retrievers, both beautiful-looking dogs—and both thicker than bricks when it came to brains—had been out sunning on the bedroom deck. They stood up and barked madly, as if he were an invader. Though if he were a real invader they'd have cowered in terror and stained the carpet as they fled into Jennifer's room to hide.
The two idiots charged through the bedroom, then out through the entryway screen door ... the lower half of the door a charade, as the screen was gone. Put a new one in, it'd last a few days and the idiots would charge right through it again. John had given up on that fight years ago.
As for actually closing the door ... it never even crossed his mind anymore. This was Black Mountain. Strange as it seemed, folks rarely locked up, keys would be left in cars, kids did indeed play in the streets in the evening, there were parades for the Fourth of July, Christmas, and the ridiculous Pinecone Festival, complete to the crowning of a Miss Pinecone. Papa Tyler had absolutely humiliated his daughter, Mary, in front of John early on in their courtship when he proudly pulled out a photo of her, Miss Pinecone 1977. In Black Mountain there was still an ice-cream truck that made the rounds on summer nights.... It was all one helluva difference from his boyhood just outside of Newark, New Jersey.
There was a car parked at the top of the driveway. Mary's mother, Me-ma Jennie.
Me-ma Jennie was behind the wheel of her wonderful and highly eccentric 1959 Ford Edsel. Ford ... that's where the family money had come from, ownership of a string of car dealerships across the Carolinas dating back to Henry Ford himself. There was even a photo framed in the house up in the Cove of Mary's great-granddad and Henry Ford at the opening of a dealership in Charlotte back before World War I.
Though it wasn't polite to be overtly "business" in their strata and Jennie preferred the role of genteel southern lady, in her day, John knew, she was one shrewd business person, as was her husband.
John pulled up alongside the Edsel. Jennie put down the book she was reading and got out.
"Hi, Jen."
She absolutely hated "Ma," "Mother," "Mom," or, mortal sin of all mortal sins, "Me-ma" or "Grandma" from her Yankee son-in-law, who was definitely not her first choice for her only daughter. But that had softened with time, especially towards the end, especially when he had brought the girls back home to Jen.
The two got out of their cars and she held up a cheek to be kissed, her height, at little more than five foot two, overshadowed by his six-foot-four bulk, and there was a light touch of her hand on his arm and an affectionate squeeze.
"Thought you'd never get here in time. She'll be home any minute."
Jen had yet to slip into the higher pitch or gravelly tone of an "old lady's" voice. He wondered if she practiced every night reciting before a mirror to keep that wonderful young woman–sounding southern lilt. It was an accent that still haunted him. The same as Mary's when they had first met at Duke, twenty-eight years ago. At times, if Jen was in the next room and called to the girls, it would still bring tears to his eyes.
"We got time. Why didn't you go inside to wait?"
"With those two mongrels? The way they jump, they'd ruin my nylons."
Ginger and Zach were all over John, jumping, barking, leaping about ... and studiously avoiding Jen. Though dumb, goldens knew when someone didn't like them no matter how charming they might be.
John reached in, pulled out the bag of Beanies, and, walking over to the stone wall that bordered the path to the house, began to line them up, one at a time, setting them side by side.
"Now John, really, isn't she getting a bit old for that?"
"Not yet, not my little girl."
Jen laughed softly.
"You can't keep time back forever."
"I can try, can't I?" he said with a grin.
She smiled sadly.
"How do you think Tyler and I felt about you, the day you came through our door?"
He reached out and gave her an affectionate touch on the cheek.
"You guys loved me."
"You a Yankee? Like hell. Tyler actually thought about driving you off with a shotgun. And that first night you stayed over ..."
Even after all these years he found he still blushed a bit at that. Jen had caught Mary and him in a less than "proper" situation on the family room sofa at two in the morning. Though not fully improper, it was embarrassing nevertheless, and Jen had never let him live it down.
He set the Beanies out, stepped back, eyeballed them, like a sergeant examining a row of new recruits. The red, white, and blue "patriot" bear on the right should be in the middle of the ranks where a flag bearer might be.
He could hear the growl of the school bus as it shifted gears, turning off of old Route 70, coming up the hill.
"Here she comes," Jen announced excitedly.
Going back to the Edsel, she leaned in the open window and brought out a flat, elegantly wrapped box, tied off with a neat bow.
"Jewelry?" John asked.
"Of course; she's twelve now. A proper young lady should have a gold necklace at twelve. Her mother did."
"Yeah, I remember that necklace," he said with a grin. "She was wearing it that night you just mentioned. And she was twenty then."
"You cad," Jen said softly, and slapped him lightly on the shoulder, and he pretended that it was a painful blow.
Ginger and Zach had stopped jumping around John, both of them cocking their heads, taking in the sound of the approaching school bus, the squeal of the brakes as it stopped at the bottom of the driveway, its yellow barely visible now through the spring-blooming trees.
They were both off like lightning bolts, running full tilt down the driveway, barking up a storm, and seconds later he could hear the laughter of Jennifer; of Patricia, a year older and their neighbor; and of Seth, Pat's eleventh-grade brother.
The girls came running up the driveway, Seth threw a stick, the two dogs diverted by it for a moment but then turned together and charged up the hill behind the girls. Seth waved then crossed the street to his house.
John felt a hand slip into his ... Jen's.
"Just like her mother," Jen whispered, voice choked.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from One Second After by William R. Forstchen. Copyright © 2009 William R. Forstchen. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Reading Group Guide
Questions for Discussion
1. One Second After depicts the near-destruction of the United States, with the deaths of some two hundred million of its citizens, as a result of a type of disaster that most Americans never think about—not an earthquake, a terrorist's bomb, or a nuclear strike on land. Had you heard of EMP before you read Forstchen's book? How realistic does the danger seem to you? What nations or groups do you think could have planned and executed the attacks that Forstchen portrays?
2. Most of us take for granted how utterly reliant we are on electrical power, especially the more technologically advanced our societies are. In a situation like that with which One Second After begins—all power shutting down, car and truck engines dying suddenly, generators failing to kick in, phones useless, a broad and ominous silence falling—what would be your first instinct? Where would you want to go? Whom would you first want to contact, or protect? How prepared would you, your family, or your home be for such a scenario?
3. One of the first moments at which the book's main character, John Matherson, is surprised by his own behavior is on Day One, when he refuses to give rides in his mother-in-law's car to a group of people, including Makala Turner, who are stranded on the highway. Why does John violate his own usual standards of behavior? What sudden shift takes place in him, and what does it foreshadow for the rest of the story? Would you have made the same decision, in those circumstances?
4. Guns appear very early in One Second After; John reaches for his only a few hours after the power first goes off. Were you surprised by the omnipresence of guns in the story, or how frequently they were key to its plot? How would John, his family, and the people of Black Mountain have fared had they had less access to guns? Would Forstchen's story have unfolded any differently if it had been set in a part of country in which few everyday citizens own weapons?
5. One Second After focuses on how human behavior changes in the aftermath of a catastrophe. What does the behavior of various characters in Forstchen's story say about human nature, stripped of the trappings and supports of modern-day civilization? Who in the book is most likely to lose control as the situation becomes increasingly grim? Which characters manage to hold onto their own moral code as things disintegrate around them, and how do they do it?
6. Several of the book's characters agonize over the idea that while "we were all Americans" before the EMP, in its aftermath people have abandoned all sense of national unity and turned on one another in their desperation to survive. At a local level, the people of Black Mountain quickly confront the question of who among them should be considered "outsiders" and denied food or medical care. What different levels of community, or belonging, do you see in Forstchen's story? Who do John and other characters prioritize and align themselves with—their families, their friends and neighbors, their town, their state, or their country—and how do those priorities change as the story unfolds? Whose priorities do you identify with most?
7. At a meeting of the town's leaders after the EMP has hit, John insists that they begin by reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. What rituals do various characters cling to in the course of the book? How much, and in what ways, do those rituals help each of them to go forward in the face of disaster? In a catastrophe like the one Forstchen envisions, what rituals do you think you would try to preserve?
8. Black Mountain and Swannanoa run into conflicts with the nearest city, Asheville, over the question of accepting refugees, and Forstchen often mentions the belief among city-dwellers that there is an endless supply of food to be found in a rural, mountainous area like Black Mountain. How often do conflicts between urban and rural areas arise in the course of the book? How do you think Black Mountain/Swannanoa's decisions and actions are influenced by their being rural communities? Are the ethics and values of rural towns and cities different, especially in a crisis?
9. In One Second After, John decides to lie to various characters at various times. What are his motivations for lying, and when does he do it? Is he right to do it, and would you have done differently in his situation? How do the town's leaders balance the responsibility of keeping the peace with their obligation to tell the public the whole truth? What "strategic" lies do they employ, and do those lies ultimately help or hurt?
10. Execution becomes an all-too-common theme in the book. How do you feel about the many executions that take place— from John's first public execution of the two men in the park for having stolen drugs from the nursing home, to the Posse's brutal executions of prisoners for food, to the mandatory execution of almost all wounded Posse members at the end of Black Mountain's final battle? Why does John spare the lives of the Posse's eight remaining members? Do you agree with his decision and the reasoning behind it?
11. John is frequently torn between his obligation to serve and protect the public and his anguish over his daughter Jennifer's deteriorating health and need for fresh insulin. How far is he willing to go to obtain medication and care for her when others are dying for lack of it? How far would you go were you in his shoes? Is it possible to prioritize the health of your town or community as a whole over the life of a member of your own family?
12. At the story's end, General Wright commends John and the populations of Black Mountain and Swannanoa for having stayed put and banded together in the aftermath of the EMP. Do you think that the residents of the two towns did the right thing by staying where they were and depending upon their own labor, ingenuity, and determination for their survival? Could they have evacuated to a larger city like Asheville, and what would have been the pros and cons of doing so? Do you think that more or fewer of them would have survived had they decided to relocate in search of more help and resources?
13. At the book's end, John wonders if General Wright sees "Americans" in the skeletal survivors of Black Mountain. Are Americans still Americans without our prosperity, our wealth, our technology and infrastructure, our immense strength? What qualities do you think make someone an American? Do those qualities survive the devastation in One Second After? Is there still a viable America left at the story's end?
