One Second After

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Overview

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 ...

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Overview

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.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

In this entertaining apocalyptic thriller from Forstchen (We Look Like Men of War), a high-altitude nuclear bomb of uncertain origin explodes, unleashing a deadly electromagnetic pulse that instantly disables almost every electrical device in the U.S. and elsewhere in the world. Airplanes, most cars, cellphones, refrigerators-all are fried as the country plunges into literal and metaphoric darkness. History professor John Matherson, who lives with his two daughters in a small North Carolina town, soon figures out what has happened. Aided by local officials, Matherson begins to deal with such long-term effects of the disaster as starvation, disease and roving gangs of barbarians. While the material sometimes threatens to veer into jingoism, and heartstrings are tugged a little too vigorously, fans of such classics as Alas, Babylon and On the Beach will have a good time as Forstchen tackles the obvious and some not-so-obvious questions the apocalypse tends to raise. Newt Gingrich provides a foreword. (Mar.)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Library Journal
The explosion of nuclear bombs in space by an unknown adversary emits electromagnetic pulses (EMP) that instantly and permanently disable electronic devices throughout the United States, wreaking havoc. Forstchen's (We Look Like Men of War) well-crafted and compelling story, which focuses on one man's struggle to protect his family in an isolated North Carolina town, reminds us of how helpless we'd be without modern technology—a chilling thought, as EMP is a real threat to the industrialized world. Elegantly narrated by Joe Barrett (The Lay of the Land); a haunting, essential listen.—R. Kent Rasmussen, Thousand Oaks, CA
From the Publisher

"Civilization slides into the abyss of a new dark age in this horrifying apocalyptic novel.  Forstchen has put Bin Laden's wet dream on paper and, in the process, taken civilization straight to the rack."--Stephen Coonts, author of The Assassin

“The only thing more terrifying than this masterfully crafted story is the possibility of it actually happening—and not a damn thing being done to protect us.”
--W.E.B. Griffin & William E. Butterworth IV

"Forstchen's work has flair and power."--Joel Rosenberg, author of The Sleeping Dragon

"One of the most intriguing writers today in the field of historical and military science fiction."--Harry Turtledove, author of Guns of the South

"Good storytelling consists very simply of creating characters so believable that the reader forms a deep bond. Forstchen did such a damned fine job with One Second After that shortly after the first page, I had been reeled in hook, line, and sinker."--David Hagberg, author of Dance with the Dragon

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780765327253
  • Publisher: Doherty, Tom Associates, LLC
  • Publication date: 11/24/2009
  • Edition description: First Edition
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 352
  • Sales rank: 21,261
  • Product dimensions: 6.26 (w) x 9.24 (h) x 0.90 (d)

Meet 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.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

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 fit 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 foods 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 .ed 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 Pine cone 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 Pine cone 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 .at, 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.

Yes, he could see Mary in Jennifer, slender, actually skinny as a rail, shoulder-length blond hair tied back, still a lanky little girl. She slowed a bit, reaching out to put a hand on a tree as if to brace herself, Patricia turned and waited for her. John felt a momentary concern, wanted to go down to her, but knew better, Jen actually held him back.

"You are too protective," Jen whispered. "She must handle it on her own."

Young Jennifer caught her breath, looked up, a bit pale, saw them waiting, and a radiant smile lit her face.

"Me-ma! And you drove the Edsel today. Can we go for a ride?"

Jen let her hand slip, bent over slightly as Jennifer ran up to her grandmother, the two embracing.

"How's my birthday girl?"

They hugged and Grandma Jen showered Jennifer with kisses, twelve of them, counting each off. Pat looked over at the Beanies lined up, smiled, and looked up at John.

"Afternoon, Mr. Matherson."

"How are you, Pat?"

"I think she needs to be checked," Pat whispered.

"It can wait."

"Daddy!"

Jennifer was now in his arms. He lifted her up, hugged her with fierce intensity so that she laughed, then groaned, "You'll break my back!"

He let go of her, watching her eyes as she looked past him to the Beanie Babies lining the wall . . . and yes, there was still that childlike glow in them.

"Patriot Bear! And Ollie Ostrich!"

As she started to sweep them up, he looked over at Jen with a bit of a triumphant smile, as if to say, "See, she's still my little girl."

Jen, rising to the challenge, came up to Jennifer's side and held out the .at box.

"Happy Birthday, darling."

Jennifer tore the paper off. Ginger, thinking the paper was now a gift to her, half- swallowed it and ran off as Zach chased her.

When Jennifer opened the box her eyes widened.

"Oh, Me-ma."

"It's time my girl had a real gold necklace. Maybe your friend can help you put it on."

John looked down at the gift. My God, it must of cost a fortune, heavy, almost pencil thick. Jen looked at him out of the corner of her eye as if to meet any challenge.

"You're a young lady now," Jen announced as Pat helped to clasp the necklace on, and then Jen produced a small mirror from her purse and held it up.

"Oh, Grandma . . . it's lovely."

"A lovely gift for a lovely lady."

John stood silent for a moment, not sure what to say as his little girl gazed into the mirror, raising her head slightly, the way a woman would, to admire the gold.

"Sweetie, I think you better check your blood sugar; you seemed a bit winded coming up the hill," John finally said, and his words came out heavily, breaking the moment.

"Yes, Daddy."

Jennifer leaned against the wall, took off her backpack and pulled out the blood-sugar test monitor. It was one of the new digital readout models. No more finger pricking, just a quick jab to the arm. She absently fingered the necklace with her free hand while waiting for the readout.

One forty- two . . . a bit high.

"I think you better get some insulin into you," John said.

She nodded.

Jennifer had lived with it for ten years now. He knew that was a major part of his protectiveness of her. When she was in her terrible twos and threes, it tore his heart out every time he had to prick her finger, the sight of his or Mary's approach with the test kit set off howls of protest.

The doctors had all said that, as quickly as possible, Jennifer had to learn to monitor herself, that John and Mary needed to step back even when she was only seven and eight to let her know her own signs, test, and medicate. Mary had handled it far better than John had, perhaps because of her own illness towards the end. Jen with her strength had the same attitude.

Strange. Here I am, a soldier of twenty years. Saw some action, but the only casualties were the Iraqis, never my own men. I was trained to handle things, but when it came to my daugher's diabetes, a damn aggressive type 1, I was always on edge. Tough, damn good at what I did, well respected by my men, and yet complete jelly when it comes to my girls.

"There's a few more gifts inside," John said. "Why don't you girls go on in? Once your sister gets home and your friends show up we can have our party."

"Oh, Dad, didn't you get Elizabeth's message?"

"What message?"

"Here, silly."

She reached up and .shed the cell phone out of his breast pocket, tucked in behind a pack of cigarettes. She started to pull the cigarettes out, to stomp on them or tear them up, but a look from him warned her off.

"Someday, Daddy," she sighed, then taking the phone she punched a few keys and handed it back.

"Home late. Out with Ben," the screen read.

"She texted you and me during lunch."

"Texted?"

"Yes, Daddy, text message, all the kids are doing it now."

"What's wrong with a phone call?"

She looked at him as if he were from the antediluvian period and then headed inside.

"Texted?" Jen asked.

John held the phone so she could read the message.

Jen smiled.

"Better start keeping a sharper watch on Elizabeth," she said. "If that Ben Johnson has any of his grandfather's blood in him."

She chuckled as if remembering something from long ago.

"I don't need to hear this."

"No, you don't, Colonel."

"Actually, I kind of prefer 'Doctor,' or 'Professor.' "

"A doctor is someone who sticks things in you. A professor, well, they always struck me as a bit strange. Either rakes chasing the girls or boring, dusty types. Down here in the South, 'Colonel' sounds best. More masculine."

"Well, I am no longer in active ser vice. I am a professor, so let's just settle for 'John.' "

Jen gazed up at him for a moment, then came up to his side, stood on tiptoes, and kissed his cheek lightly.

"I can see why my own little girl once fell for you, John. You'll lose both of them soon enough to some pimply- faced boys, so do hang on to her as long as you can."

"Well, you sure as hell didn't help, draping that gold necklace on her. What did it cost, a thousand, fifteen hundred?"

"Roughly, but then again, no lady tells the truth when it comes to her buying jewelry."

"Until the bill comes in and the husband has to pay."

There was a pause. He knew he had misspoken. If he had said such a thing around Mary, she'd have lit into him about a woman being independent and the hell with a husband handling the bills . . . and in fact she did handle all the family finances right up till the last weeks of her life.

As for Tyler, though, he no longer even knew what a bill was, and that hurt, no matter how self-reliant Jen tried to appear to be.

"I best be going," Jen said.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it that way."

"It's all right, John. Let me go up to the nursing home to spend some time with Tyler and I'll be back for the party."

"Jennifer was expecting a ride in that monstrous car of yours."

"The Edsel, my dear young man, was a generation ahead of its time."

"And the biggest .op in the history of Ford Motors. My God, look at that grille; it's ugly as sin."

She lightened up a bit with the banter. There were half a dozen cars in her huge garage, several newer ones but also an actual Model A, up on blocks, and, beauty of beauties, a powder blue 1965 Mustang convertible. A lot of bad memories, though, were tied to that Mustang. When John and Mary were dating, they had conned her parents into letting them borrow the car for a cruise up the Blue Ridge Parkway to Mount Mitchell and John, driving it, had rear- ended an elderly couple's Winnebago.

No one was hurt, but the car was totaled and Tyler had poured thousands into getting it restored . . . and swore that no one other than him or Jen would ever drive it again. And Jen still lived by that ruling.

"This Edsel will run forever, my dear, and just check on eBay to see how much it's worth. I bet a heck of a lot more than that SUV thing you've got."

He settled back against the stone wall as Jen maneuvered "the monster" around and cruised down the driveway at breakneck speed. The wall was warm from the afternoon sun. The Beanies were still there, and oh, that did hurt a bit; at least she could have carried Patriot Bear or the ostrich in.

Inside he could hear Jennifer and Pat chatting away about the necklace until the stereo kicked on. Some strange female wailing sounds. Britney Spears? No, she was old stuff now, thank God. What it was he couldn't tell, other than the fact that he didn't like it. Pink Floyd, some of the old stuff his parents listened to like Sinatra or Glenn Miller, or, better yet, the Chieftains were more his speed. He picked up one of the Beanies, Patriot Bear.

"Well, my friend, guess we'll soon be left behind," he said.

Leaning against the wall, he soaked in the view, the tranquility of the moment, broken only by the distant rumble of traffic on I-40 and the noise inside the house.

Ginger and Zach came back from their romp in the field behind the house and flopped down at his feet, panting hard.

The scent of lilacs was heavy on the air; if anyone wanted to truly see spring, they should live in these mountains. Down in the valley below, the cherry trees were in full bloom, just several hundred feet higher here at his home they were just beginning to blossom, but the lilacs were already blooming. To his right, ten miles away, the top of Mount Mitchell was actually crowned with a touch of snow, winter was still up there.

"When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed . . ."

The scent always triggered in his mind Whitman's lament for Lincoln. It reminded John that to night, the second Tuesday of the month, was Civil War Roundtable night in the basement of the Methodist church. It'd be another fun round of the usual raucous debate, the other members all needling him as their one and only Yankee, whom they could pick on.

And then the phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, expecting it to be Elizabeth. There was going to be hell to pay if it was. How she could stand up her kid sister on her birthday to sneak off with that pimple- faced, horny, fast- handed Johnson kid . . .

But the area code was 703 . . . and John recognized the next three numbers . . . the Pentagon.

He opened the phone and clicked it on.

"Hey, Bob."

"John, how you doing? Where's my goddaughter?" He said it doing a halfway decent imitation of Marlon Brando as Don Corleone.

Bob Scales, now three stars, John's former boss at Carlisle and a damn good friend, had stood as Jennifer's godfather, and though Irish Catholic rather than Italian, he took the job seriously. He and his wife, Barbara, usually came down three or four times a year. When Mary died they had taken a couple of weeks off and stayed to help. They never had children and thus they considered Jennifer and Elizabeth to be their surrogates.

"Growing up," John said sadly. "Her grandmother gave her a gold necklace that must of cost a grand or more, which counted a helluva lot more than the Beanies, and the stack of Pokemon cards still waiting inside. I even got tickets to Disney World for once school lets out that I'll give her at dinner, but I wonder now if it will be the same."

"You mean when you took her there when she was six and Elizabeth ten? Hell, yeah, it will be different, but you'll still see the little girl come out down there, even with Elizabeth. How's Elizabeth doing, by the way?"

"I'm thinking of shooting her boyfriend later today."

Bob roared with laughter.

"Maybe it's best I didn't have daughters," Bob finally replied. "Sons, yeah . . ."

His voice trailed off for a moment.

"Hey, let me speak to Jennifer, OK?"

"Sure."

John walked into the house, shouting for Jennifer, who came dashing out of her bedroom, still wearing that damn necklace, and grabbed the phone.

"Hi, Uncle Bob!"

John tapped her on the shoulder.

"You take your insulin?" he asked.

She nodded her head; then chattering away, she walked around the house. John looked out the window across the valley to the mountains beyond. It was a beautiful, pristine spring day. And his mood began to lighten. Several of Jennifer's friends would be over soon for a small party. He'd cook up some burgers on the grill out on the side deck; the kids would then retreat to Jennifer's room. He had just opened the pool in the backyard over the weekend, and though the water was a chilly sixty-eight, a couple of the kids might jump in.

He'd flush them out around dark, go to his Roundtable meeting, and maybe later this eve ning he'd dig back into that article he was committed to for the Civil War Journal about Lee versus Grant as a strategic commander . . . a no- brainer but still an extra five hundred bucks when done and another vita builder for tenure review next year. He could stay up late; his first lecture wasn't until eleven in the morning tomorrow.

"Dad, Uncle Bob wants you!"

Jennifer came out of her bedroom, holding up the phone. John took it, gave her a quick peck on the top of her head and a playful swat as she ran back off. Seconds later the damn stereo in her room doubled in sound.

"Yeah, Bob?"

"John, I gotta run."

He could sense some tension in Bob's voice. He could hear some voices in the background . . . shouting. It was hard to tell, though; Jennifer's stereo was blaring.

"Sure, Bob. Will you be down next month?"

"Look, John, something's up. Got a problem here. I gotta—"

The phone went dead.

At that same instant, the ceiling fan began to slowly wind down, the stereo in Jennifer's room shut down, and looking over to his side alcove office he saw the computer screen saver disappear, the green light of the on button on the nineteen- inch monitor disappearing. There was a chirping beep, the signal that the home security and .re alarm system was off- line; then that went silent as well.

"Bob?"

Silence on the other end. John snapped the phone shut.

Damn, power failure.

"Dad?"

It was Jennifer.

"My CD player died."

"Yeah, honey." Thank God, he thought silently. "Power failure."

She looked at him, a bit crestfallen, as if he were somehow responsible or could snap his finger to make the CD player come back on. Actually, if he could permanently arrange for that damn player to die, he would be tempted to do it.

"What about my party? Pat just gave me a CD and I wanted to play it."

"No worry, sweetie. Let me call the power company. Most likely a blown transformer."

He picked up the landline phone . . . silence, no dial tone.

Last time that happened some drunk had rammed into a telephone pole down at the bottom of the hill and wiped everything out. The drunk of course had walked away from it.

Cell phone. John opened it back up, started to punch numbers . . . nothing.

Damn.

Cell phone was dead. He put it down on the kitchen table.

Puzzling. The battery in his phone must have gone out just as Bob clicked off. Hell, without electricity John couldn't charge it back up to call the power company.

He looked over at Jennifer, who stared at him expectantly, as if he would now resolve things.

"No problem at all, kid. They'll be on it, and besides, it's a beautiful day; you don't need to be listening to that garbage anyhow. Why can't you like Mozart or Debussy the way Pat here does?"

Pat looked at him uncomfortably and he realized he had committed one of the mortal sins of parenting; never compare your daughter to one of her buddies.

"Go on outside; give the dogs a run. They'll have the power back by dinnertime."

Excerpted from ONE SECOND AFTER by William R. Forstchen

Copyright © 2009 by William R. Forstchen

Published in March 2009 by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 757 )
Rating Distribution

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 761 Customer Reviews
  • Posted April 24, 2009

    I Also Recommend:

    WOW what a ride this book took me on

    I rarely cry over books, but I cried three times while reading this spectacular and frightening book. There are many post-apocalyptic books available (see my recommendations), but this one is a step above them. Plausible, well-written, good character development, it has all the elements of a must-read book.

    71 out of 75 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted January 10, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    A powerful apocalyptic cautionary thriller

    Retired Colonel John Matherson lives in Black Mountain, North Carolina with his two daughters; one of them suffers from Type A Diabetes and needs insulin to stay alive. They think the serenity of their location high in the mountains can never be destroyed until the day the lights go out. Everything electric based no longer works to include cars. John immediately understands what happened; that the United States was nuked in the atmosphere by a few bombs containing an Electro Magnetic Pulse (EMP).<BR/><BR/>John becomes one of the town¿s leaders trying to keep things calm and peaceful as no station on the transistor radio in his car broadcasts. Food rationing is instituted and former high school students are trained as a militia. They turn away desperate refugees and as the food supply dwindles they must hunt and forage, and chop wood for heat. The Posse, a cruel group of cannibalistic gangbangers, murders, and rapists, are taking over the mountain. John and his allies must stop them before they overrun Black Mountain.<BR/> Meanwhile, his daughter¿s supply of insulin is getting dangerously low.<BR/><BR/>Already frightening the Pentagon and the Congress is the plausibly including the ease in which the United States can be sent reeling back to a modified medieval era. John and his fellow survivors are figuratively and literally in the dark as to who did this, but the first directive is survival which includes not giving up o hope that the USA still functions and will bring relief especially medical. Fans will appreciate this powerful apocalyptic cautionary thriller but also fear how simply this can actually happen.<BR/><BR/>Harriet Klausner

    53 out of 63 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted August 18, 2010

    If you do not like this book or actually believe that this could happen and happen this way, then something is wrong with you

    I can not believe that people do not like this book because of of a few phrases that are not grammatically correct to them, but are not meant to be correct because it is the way the character speaks. GO READ AN ENCYCLOPEDIA IF YOU WANT CORRECT GRAMMAR. Anyone that wrote bad about the writing style and especially grammar, go outside and talk to five people and see if anyone of them has the ability to speak and write with perfect grammar. I mean seriously. The plot is great, characters are great, and yes this could definitely happen and most likely it will occur similarly as it did in this book, if you actually think about it. I think this book has actually portrayed southerners with a lot more credit then they deserve. If you ever want to see how people read and write then become a manager of a business and read the resumes you get and you will see what I am talking about. Great F***ing Book!!!

    25 out of 39 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 23, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    Sorry! This book just doesn't cut it.

    I normally don't write negative reviews at all. I kinda subscribe to Thumper's line in Bambi - "If you can't say something nice, then don't say nothin' at all". For the most part I have an utter disdain of critics in all guises since I know what it takes to write a book and it ain't easy, but I felt it imperative that I make an exception in this case.

    Even though the science discussed in the book is very plausible, Mr. Forstchen has jumped on the Politico Band Wagon to Black PR Iranians, and North Koreans, with a veiled stab at the Chinese as the "Probable Cause" behind our possible, future debacle. Furthermore, I feel he underestimates how quickly society would self destruct if the infrastructure should collapse overnight. His story has people wandering around the country 6 months after the debacle = unreal.

    However, his greatest disservice to his readers lies in his xenophobic character creation of a cannibalistic, cult leading protagonist.

    In a time when all Hell is breaking loose with our American Economy, when American popularity is at an all time low around the globe, when tent cities are growing exponentially around this once great land of ours, Mr. Forstchen has written a work which promotes "Fear of those who are different", and then beats the same drum our political leaders are playing while using Christian rhetoric to do so.

    What about a little tolerance for other ethnicities and creeds Mr. Forstchen??? Isn't it time we grew up and attempted to make friends with our neighbors??? After all, the World is a very small place nowadays and what happens half way across the Earth DOES affect all of us in one way or another.

    Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.

    Sorry for the critique, but it needed to be said.

    Sincerely,

    Ian "Doc" Shillington N.D. (Retired)

    24 out of 95 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted June 1, 2009

    Good plot, poor writing style

    This is an original, well thought out story that is thought provoking and causes the reader to stop and ask how their life would change in a similar circumstance. However, much of this is lost due to the author's folksy style of writing. There were far too many "darn good" this and "darn good" that passages in this book. Half way through this novel I was wishing Forstchen had sold the rights to his idea to someone better handled to bring this otherwise excellent plot to life. It was as if the author was writing to an audience that never left the 1950's.
    Overall I would still recommend the book simply for the plot and as a wake up call for those who believe the United States, as the most powerful nation in the world, could not be irreparably damage by a fairly simple attack.

    18 out of 45 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted August 8, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Great Read if you're not squeamish

    I have read a good bit of off-beat destruction of the world/post apocalyptic stuff. I would classify this as a gem I just happen to run across. It may not have the pages of character building that The Passage or The Stand has, but I enjoyed it every bit as much, and in half the time. I felt just as invested in the main character in this story as any of the other aforementioned. While it has sad portions it is nice to still have a book that somewhat ends in triumph and shows how resilient the human spirit can be in times of hardship. This is a must read if you like post-apocalyptic fiction. The writing may not be as polished as others, but the story was truly fascinating.

    17 out of 20 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted June 5, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    Republican Apocalyptic Panic-Mongers Rejoice!

    What a disturbing disappointment!

    The topic that forms the crux of this book, an EMP terrorist attack on the US, is a very real and important threat that our country needs to face head-on. The author makes no bones about the fact the he has written this novel to wake us all up to this danger. He deserves credit for this, and I hope that more people learn about this threat, and call or write to their Congressmen and Senators about it.

    The positive review ends there, however. Right from the beginning, when you read the foreword by Newt Gingrich, it is obvious that this book is list of GOP talking points. You'll find references to the waste of time global warming is, to mocking those who seek peace and diplomacy over war, and an almost romantic side-story between man and gun. In short, if you vote Republican up and down the board, you'll love it. Everyone else is likely to be at least mildly offended by this book.

    Additionally the characters and the decisions they make are not realistic. I don't want to give much away, but it seems like most common people in the US, following the disaster that takes place in this novel, just sit around killing each other and waiting to die. I guess the author has made clear what he thinks about 90% of the people, and that is most certainly his prerogative. But it doesn't make for good reading.

    This book is very disturbing. I do not recommend it for anyone. I would recommend that people should educate themselves on EMP, take the precautions we should all take anyway in case of any disaster, call or write their representatives in Washington to make sure they do something about our risk, and spend your money on a book that will be a whole lot better.

    15 out of 55 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 11, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    Scary possibility

    This book offers up a frightening scenario of a terrorist attack on our country and brings to light the horrible situation that would develop when there is no electricity, no communication, no authority or leadership. The author skillfully portrays the confusion and hysteria that would occur, along with some tough decisions that would have to be made. The book highlights our increasing dependency on technology, electronics, prepared food, drugs and our lack of any ability to go more then a few days without those things--its scary! At one point, I actually became upset at some of the events in the book. The characters that step into the leadership vacuum left when society starts to break down are believable and I liked them and cared about them. I recommend this book with the caveat that it may upset you but it will make you think.

    14 out of 15 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 28, 2009

    Fascinating, well told, and utterly terrifying

    One Second After is set in Western North Carolina, the area in which I happen to live. The accuracy with which Forstchen captures the character of the people and the geography of our area is uncanny. I've done enough research on Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) to realize that he is equally on the mark in his portrayal of what would likely happen to a community like ours if the United States were attacked by an EMP weapon.

    EMP is a by-product of a very high-altitude nuclear explosion. Given the present state of the world, and the fact that nations like Iran and North Korea are rapidly developing the ability to deliver nuclear weapons via ballistic missiles, this potential scenario unfortunately isn't just science fiction. The fact that an event like this could actually occur in our world today is what makes this book so vitally important.

    14 out of 15 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 8, 2011

    very thought provoking book

    i love this book however it really scared me at the same time. this book is haunting in the fact that it is so very possible and we as Americans are so ill prepared for it. i challange you to read this book and ask your self ' what would I do'?

    13 out of 13 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted October 31, 2011

    Poorly written, cartoon characters

    If this book had just been poorly written with cartoon characters I would have given it 2 stars. Since the author decided to go the extra mile and make the female characters idiots or damsels in distress, it gets one star. I've read this type of fiction before and if you want better writing and richer characters that develop, I suggest SM Stirling's series Dies the Fire.

    The basic premise of One Second After is interesting. The USA is hit with 3 EMP's in early Spring. Loss of everything that makes modern life possible - so what happens then? The action takes place in a small town on the east coast and the author does do a good job making the town come to life. Too bad he couldn't take the same care with the people in the town.

    Kate, the town mayor, exists only to say stupid stuff during meetings so the men can show off how much they know. The female college students/turned soldiers exist to cry when being yelled at by their DI, miss shots, and generally screw up. Oh - and tug at heartstrings when they die. Makala is brought in because a love interest is needed for the main character, John. She's treated as somewhat competent, but I assume that's because she's a nurse and that's something the author thinks chicks can do.

    I don't need to have a female character be the lead or the hero, but it's irritating when you can tell what hang-ups the author has because he makes them impossible to ignore.

    11 out of 33 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 30, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    An excellent book

    If you like post-apocalyptic books, this is a book for you. Very realistic, it will grab you from beginning to end. The characters are excellent, I enjoyed watching them change as times got worse. The writing style is very good, it's an easy read that you can totally disappear into.

    11 out of 11 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 28, 2012

    The author doesn't seem to know the difference between "of&

    The author doesn't seem to know the difference between &quot;of&quot; and &quot;have.&quot; Typographical and grammatical errors abound. This is a dime store novel destined to be a Hollywood hit among the uneducated, Mountain Dew swilling masses. Fear driven and power indulgent, this book lacks character development and solid research on the author's part. Do yourself a favor, and wait for the movie. Better yet, skip it.

    5 out of 16 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 14, 2011

    This Book is a Bomb

    It's sad that this author has taken an exciting plot idea and completely ruined it with poor writing, endless silly references to old movies, and an inability to develop compelling characters or a story line that is the least bit interesting or believable. Please, Dr. Forstchen, continue writing only text books.

    5 out of 24 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 21, 2011

    Great book scary in a way.

    It was a great book but it seemed that the ending was cut a little short but it could not be longer unless the author would just stretch it out and make it boring. The Characters were all good and the interaction and the way society acts was great as well.

    5 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 7, 2010

    A gripping Read

    Subject matter not often covered. As far as apocolyptic stories goes, this one had me very concerned with the outcome from such an attack. Having worked in the electronics career field and a retired Air Force MSgt I can see the potential for such a problem. The plot and story are completely plausible and based on real science. Once I started reading this book I couldn't put it down (my Nook that is). I had to recharge the battery I read it that long. There are parts of the story that will bring tears to your eyes and have you rooting for the population. It is just a great read and I highly recommend it to anyone.

    5 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 14, 2012

    Common plot done better

    This plot device has been use several time in the past decade and mostly done better

    A dispointment given the authors past work

    4 out of 15 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted November 9, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    A scary potential future

    This is a very well written book by a man who has a handle on how people would respond to an EMP attack. Shut off the power and all electronics and the country will crumple within days. If this book doesn't make you think about how you need to prepare, nothing will.

    4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted May 20, 2010

    Haunting tale

    Dr. Forstchen's tale of the aftermath of an EMP weapon detonation haunted me for several days after finishing the book. Although I consider myself and my family to be better-than-average with respect to being prepared for most emergencies, the possible scenario that began "One Second After" forced me to re-think that opinion. Besides being an engaging fiction, this book warns of a devastating reality if only a fraction of the population was affected by a similar emergency. Read it before you decide "it could never happen here" - because something similar may be just around the corner.

    4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted May 6, 2010

    I Also Recommend:

    brb stocking up on cigs, water, and beef jerky.

    This book was definitely an eye opener about how fragile and dependant our lives as an industrialized nation. I tried to imagine what it would be like if this happened to me while I was on my way to work riding the subway in NYC definitely to scary to imagine. This book did seem to drag on at some points but the core message of the book remained, No Goliath is invincible. It was not a fun read but the story was very eye opening and did spark many interesting debates amongst my friends and co workers. Weather you live in a big city or in a remote area we are all dependant on the vast web of technology that exists in our daily lives.

    4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 761 Customer Reviews

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