by Tim Washburn
With no power and no water, the terminal building smells like a cesspool. The restaurants and stores were raided the first day, and if it hadn’t been for an older airline captain who took charge, the situation could have turned perilous. With the assistance of two police officers who were stationed at the airport, the food was confiscated from the looters and what remains is stored behind a locked door. There is one good thing about the situation—there are no weapons handy because the passengers and crews passed through TSA screeners at their original departure cities.
Lauren glances at her watch. “Jonathon, you’re about due to start your shift.”
Jonathon rolls his eyes. “I don’t like working in the bookstore.”
“Tough. You’re not going to sit around here all day bothering everyone.”
Jonathon scowls. “Make someone else take my shift.”
“No, sir. Everyone earns their keep.”
With drooping shoulders, Jonathon shuffles up the corridor. Melissa, Lauren, and two other stranded teachers converted the terminal bookstore into a lending library. Those who wish to borrow a book or magazine—all the newspapers are pulp, they’ve been read so many times—must present an ID and provide their location within the terminal. At least it keeps the kids occupied. They played with their electronic devices until they crapped out on the second day. It took them all of about thirty minutes after device death to start moaning about being bored, forcing Melissa and Lauren to find something to occupy their time.
Lauren spots Stan McDowell walking up the corridor. He’s the airline pilot who’s now ramrodding the show. A tall, broad-shouldered man, he has a head full of gray hair and, today, he’s dressed in his uniform slacks and white shirt. Watching him walk, Lauren can still see the traces of his military training. She threads her way through the crowd and meets him. “What have you heard from the city councils?”
“Basically, they’re refusing to acknowledge we even exist. They’ve discontinued any further talks.” Using an old airport tug, Stan had sent a stranded attorney to parlay with the city councils of Minneapolis and Saint Paul.
“How can that be? Isn’t this airport their property?”
“Yes, but they’re more concerned with their constituents than an assemblage of strangers stranded at the airport. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I wouldn’t do the same if I were in their shoes. It’s a new world, Lauren.”
“How much food do we have left?”
McDowell takes her by the elbow and steers her toward a sparsely populated corner of the terminal. “A day, maybe two, but that information needs to remain confidential.”
“Of course,” Lauren says. “What happens then?”
“I guess it’s everyone for themselves.” He leans against the wall. “Tell me again where you and the kids are from?”
“Lubbock, Texas, a long damn way away. What about the airplane we flew in on? Could we refuel it and have you fly us back home?”
“There are several reasons we can’t fly the aircraft—one, there is no power to run the pumps to refuel and, even if we could find another way to do it, there are few if any places to land a jet of that size. We were damn lucky to make it here without radios or navigation. Things were dicey getting these planes landed without further incident. But the more pressing issue is whether more bombs are going to be dropped, something we have no way of knowing. The last place I want to be is in the air if that happens.” McDowell rakes a hand through his hair. “Know how many airline crashes I saw between here and New York City?”
“How many?”
“I stopped counting at thirty. And every major airport we passed was either bombed to hell or cluttered with crashed aircraft.”
Lauren gasps. “But how did this airport survive?”
McDowell bends his leg and props his foot against the wall.
“A lot of luck. Minnesota is one of the few states that lacks a sizable military installation. Now extrapolate what I said about those other airports and expand it to the rest of the country. The Deep South is littered with military installations as are Texas, Oklahoma, and most of the West. Add in the missile silos in the Dakotas and Wyoming and there’s a high likelihood a vast portion of this country has been destroyed.”
“But there’ll still be pockets of people.”
“Most likely. Probably even in Lubbock if the wildfires didn’t scour the area. But back to your original question, the only option for making it back home to Lubbock is to walk.”
“It’s over a thousand miles. Do you foresee two teachers and seventeen teenagers ever making it that far? I sure as hell don’t.”
McDowell ponders her question for a moment. “I’m itching to get out of here, too.” He pauses, considering his options. After a few moments, he says, “I’m based out of Dallas and I’ll accompany your group to the Texas-Oklahoma border where we can split up and go our separate ways.”
“You’d do that?” Lauren asks.
“We’re at the end of the line here. Between now and when we leave, have your kids hoard anything that’ll hold water. I’m going to see if one of the policemen will let me take one of their shotguns and some ammo.”
Lauren steps in to give him a hug. “Thank you. When are we leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning would be best. Are there any atlases in the bookstore?”
“I don’t think so, but I’ll look. What are we going to do for food?”
“We’re going to ration everything left in the storeroom this evening. We’ll have to stretch it as far as we can until we can find some game along the way. And, Lauren, I’d prefer you not tell the children before later tonight. Be best if we could sneak away without creating an uproar.”
“Of course. I’ll tell them later tonight. That’ll give them time to pack a few of their things. I assume we want to travel light?”
“Yes—one extra outfit and one additional pair of shoes for everyone. Oh, and a jacket if they have one. Everything else gets left behind. We’ll pile our food and water supplies into a couple of empty suitcases.”
“Are we tilting at windmills?” Lauren asks.
“We won’t know the answer to that until we hit the road.”
CHAPTER 25
Saddle Rock, Long Island, New York
The West Shore Hospital is choked with people, and patients are packed six to a room designed for two. Any hopes of patient privacy lasted all of about thirty minutes after the bombs rained down on Manhattan. Tucked into one corner of a room on the third floor is ten-year-old Sophia Dixon. For a week her parents have been by her bedside as the ventilator pumps, breathing life into her small body. Outside when a nuclear bomb airburst over Queens, Sophia is now suffering from radiation burns, and her lungs are scarred from the heat of the blast. And she’s just one of the hundreds in this one hospital.
Today, Emma Dixon, her mother, is snuggled up in bed with Sophia, quietly reading The Hunger Games while stroking her unconscious daughter’s hand. She and her husband started rotating shifts to allow them to spend more time with Tanner, their twelve-year-old son. Their home damaged in the attack, the family has been camping in the basement of the local YMCA. Luckily for most on Long Island, the atmospheric winds pushed most of the toxic radiation north and the firestorms that erupted over Manhattan failed to make a jump across the bay.
Emma’s favorite nurse, Latreece, a transplant from Kingston, Jamaica, comes striding into the room, a grim expression on her face. She bypasses the other five patients and makes a beeline for Sophia’s bed. “Ms. Dixon, Dr. Bhatia would like a word with you in his office.”
Emma slides off the bed and pulls the covers up to Sophia’s chin. Tall and thin, Emma’s short, dark hair is matted from lying on the bed. “Do you know what he wants to talk to me about?”
Normally chatty, Latreece is now demure, failing to meet Emma’s eyes. In fact, Latreece’s dark, cherub face doesn’t drift much above her shoes “No, ma’am, I truly don’t. I do know he’s had several other members from other f
amilies in and out of his office most of the day.”
“I wonder if it’s a problem with the insurance? Oh, wait, that can’t be it. I don’t think they can even process a claim. It’s not the backup generators, is it? Or maybe they’re going to move her to another floor,” Emma says, rambling on to avoid thinking about the upcoming conversation with Sophia’s doctor.
Latreece refuses to engage and says, “If you’ll follow me, please, I’ll take you to his office.”
The way the nurse is acting, so out of character, has the hairs standing up at the nape of Emma’s neck. She wishes she could call her husband, Brad, but there’s not a phone within 4,000 miles that still functions—cell or landline. She wrings her hands as she falls in behind Latreece. They take the stairs down a floor and the nurse leads her to a nondescript office and opens the door, still refusing to meet Emma’s gaze. “Have a seat, Ms. Dixon.”
“Will you check on Sophia while I’m down here?” Emma asks.
“I will. The doctor will be with you in a moment.” Latreece pulls the door closed, leaving Emma alone with her thoughts. Her brain clicks through possible reasons for this meeting and her blood pressure rises with each scenario that plays through her mind. She picks up a magazine six months out of date and immediately places it back on the table. Emma stands and begins to pace. The room is small and after three trips around the perimeter, she stops and leans against the wall.
A blood-curdling wail pierces the silence, startling Emma. She walks over to the outer door and opens it for a peek down the corridor and doesn’t see anyone in despair. It’s then she hears the deep sobbing coming from within Dr. Bhatia’s office. Shortly thereafter a young couple, dazed and bereft with grief, exit, the man carrying most of the woman’s weight as she leans into him, hands covering her mouth.
Dr. Bhatia, a short, thin-framed man, steps out of his office. “Ms. Dixon, please come in.” He stands aside as Emma enters the office, closing the door behind her. He waves to a pair of chairs fronting his desk. “Please, have a seat.” Though the doctor left his homeland, his heavy Indian accent accompanied him to this country.
Emma looks at the chairs and thinks, momentarily, about turning around and leaving. “I’ll stand.”
The doctor pulls out his chair and sits, crossing one leg over the other. “As you wish.” After straightening his tie, he gets to the heart of the matter. “Ms. Dixon, we knew upon admission that Sophia’s prognosis was not good. Since her admission date there has been no improvement in her—”
Emma holds up a hand. When she speaks, her voice is filled with venom. “Stop right there, asshole. You are not removing my baby from that ventilator.”
Taken aback, Dr. Bhatia is momentarily stunned. “Ms. Dixon, I do not appreciate your language. I understand you are upset, but we must be reasonable about this matter.”
“Fuck reason. Sophia is my child.” She stabs her chest with a thumb. “Mine.”
Bhatia uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his chair. “You must understand, Ms. Dixon, the hospital has a very limited supply of critical medical equipment. There are other, more viable, patients in need of ventilators.”
“More viable? You summon me to your office without the courtesy of including my husband to discuss the viability of my daughter’s life? What kind of monster are you?”
“Time is of the essence, Ms. Dixon. This situation demands difficult decisions. I understand you are devastated by the injuries your daughter sustained, but as a physician, I must do what’s in the best interest for all the patients under my care.”
Emma Dixon reaches for the door handle. “Touch my daughter and it’ll be the biggest mistake you ever make. That, you can take to the bank.” She pushes through the door and it’s not until she’s in the stairwell that the dam breaks. Tears are streaming down her cheeks as she slowly ascends the stairs. Wishing deeply for the accompaniment of her husband, she shuffles through the door leading to the third floor, her eyes in a watery haze. Blindly, she staggers down the hall, turning into her daughter’s room. She sags to her knees and releases a howl of despair when she discovers her daughter’s bed empty. Two large men appear at her side. The men gently lift her to her feet and lead her down the stairs to the main floor, never uttering a word. They usher her outside and before retreating allow her to collapse on a bench in the garden.
CHAPTER 26
Weatherford
Discovering the dead cattle sent Gage Larson scurrying back to the underground tornado shelter. Once he catches his breath he tells Holly what he found.
“The cattle have been dead for a while, Gage,” Holly says. “That doesn’t mean the radiation is as bad now. Surely, after a week, the wind has dissipated most of it.” She stands, fisting her hands on either hip. “I can’t spend another moment down here, Gage. I just can’t.”
“Holly, think of the baby. We don’t know what effects the radiation will have on her.”
“I’m nearly full-term. We’re past all of the major growth milestones.” Although they know the sex of the baby, they continue to argue over names. Holly’s pushing for Olivia while Gage favors Rachael. Gage has no doubts about who will eventually win this contest, but he’s not ready to give in just yet. “I’ll go by myself if I have to. Another day or two is not going to make much of a difference. Besides, we’re almost out of food and the baby needs protein.”
“Where are we going to find protein?”
“Mom and Dad have that generator. I bet the freezer is still running.”
“Is it worth the risk, Holly?”
Holly throws her hands up in the air. “Whatever.”
Gage grimaces. That word is often a precursor to nothing good. “Okay, Holly, you win.” He steps over and wraps most of her up in a hug. Even as big as he is, his arms no longer wrap entirely around his wife. “Stay underground until I get the old truck over here. Wet those blankets while you’re waiting. We need all the protection we can get.” Gage slips on the poncho, seats the respirator over his nose and mouth, and makes a break for the barn.
The old truck is a ’57 Chevy one-ton more covered with rust than paint. What little paint is visible consists of about fifteen shades of green, from dark to light. The truck might be hideous, but it has never failed to start, except for one very cold winter day. He grabs a tape measure and tugs open the door, measuring the width of the cab. Gage wasn’t kidding about the floorboards. A rash of weeds have sprung up through the floor, nearly filling the cabin. Once he has the measurement, he finds a piece of leftover sheet metal from a recent roof replacement on the barn and cuts it to size with a hacksaw. Bending the metal one way, then the other, Gage gets it fitted across the floor. He climbs in and twists the key. The old truck fires up, billowing black smoke like a mosquito fogger in the middle of June. While the engine warms, Gage prowls around the barn for items they may need. He grabs some of his work tools and throws them in the back and pulls two winter toboggans from a plastic bin and tosses them on the dash.
Gage follows the toboggans in and backs the truck out of the barn. The grass and weeds stay where they’re rooted, slipping under the new metal floor. He pulls around behind the house and parks next to the cellar. The door rises and Holly hurries into the pickup. Gage pulls up close to the front door. “I need to get one more thing before we leave.”
Gage pushes out of the truck and hurries into the house. After a few minutes, he returns carrying his shotgun and two boxes of shells, which he parks on the seat between them.
“Expecting a war?” Holly asks.
“To tell the truth, I don’t know what to expect. But it’s a damn sight better to be prepared. Where first? Your parents’ place or mine?”
“Mine are closer. Let’s go there first.”
“You got it.” Gage drops the truck into gear and steers around to the road.
CHAPTER 27
Tennessee
With the debris-filled atmosphere, it’s difficult to judge the time. But to Alyx and Zane it feels as if they�
�ve been walking for hours. A little farther down the road, Zane grabs her by the elbow and whispers in her ear, “I saw a splash of color way back in the woods. Could be a house.”
Exhausted and hungry, Alyx is desperate for food and a comfy place to sit down. “I’m game. But we need to be careful.”
Zane nods and glances around to see if anyone is nearby before pulling Alyx off the road. Rather than trekking the dirt road into the woods, they stick to the tree line. The going is tough. Limbs, covered by a dense layer of leaves, lie in wait as trip hazards, and Alyx stumbles twice, skinning the toes on her right foot. To make matters worse, the trees are unevenly spaced and the few openings that do exist are often blocked by patches of briar. The thorns tug at their clothing, making walking damn near impossible. Zane helps Alyx extricate herself from the briars and they take a moment to catch their breath.
“Let’s move a little closer to the road,” Alyx says.
“What if we’re spotted?”
“We’ll say sorry and get the hell out. I don’t have the strength to fight through all that brush.”
Zane ponders her request for a moment and looks over at the thick brush on the other side of the dirt road. “Maybe the other side is easier going.”
“Does it look easier?” Alyx snaps.
“I suppose you’re right. If we can hug the side of the road the trees will offer us a little cover.”
Walking along the side of the road, they travel a hundred yards, pause to look around, and continue on another hundred yards.
“Where is this house of yours?” Alyx whispers. “I think we’re on the road to nowhere.”
“The road has to lead somewhere. And the house being this deep in the woods could be a positive for us.”
They each take a sip of water from a water bottle and continue on. A quarter mile in, they catch first sight of the home. Zane leads them back to the tree line and they move closer. The small, square house looks as if it hasn’t felt the bristles of a paintbrush since Jimi Hendrix was singing at Woodstock. The yard is filled with an assortment of rusted vehicles, an old washing machine, and something so far gone neither Zane nor Alyx can determine its purpose. A narrow porch runs along the front of the house, and it, too, is overflowing with junk, including a ratty floral couch slumped in the corner, three cats napping upon it.