The Day after Oblivion

by Tim Washburn

  “Who knows? Let’s get off the main thoroughfare.” They take a left at the next residential street and the damage to the homes escalates with each block as they near Long Island Sound. Across the bay is the Bronx, which was leveled by an airburst nuclear detonation on the first day. The day Sophia was injured. Saddle Rock avoided the fires, but the pressure wave from the blast caused considerable damage.

  A vice president at a Manhattan bank, Brad had scheduled this week off for family time. At six-two, Brad has been carrying an extra twenty pounds on his thin frame of late, despite regular visits to the gym. Now the pounds are melting off with very little effort. They cross to the other side of the street to avoid a downed tree, Brad thinking how lucky he is for not being in Manhattan on the day it happened. Or how lucky he was. The luck ran out yesterday, and thoughts of his wife and daughter crowd into his mind. A tear forms and drifts down Brad’s cheek—he, too, has a mountain of grief to work through. He wipes away the tear as they continue pressing forward. At Vista Drive, they make a right, now only a block from their home. The two-story house on the corner is listing badly while the house across the street shows little evidence of damage. Leaves and limbs lie scattered across the lawns and an uprooted pine tree blocks the road.

  Two houses farther on they turn up the driveway to their home, a white two-story Federal-style house. The shutters Emma had insisted on hanging are catawampus, and all the glass at the front of the house is blown out. A section of the roof is gone and the large pine tree between their house and the neighbors’ caved in the roof on the east side of the house. With a balance of $450,000 remaining on the mortgage, the house will never be repaired—nor be paid off. Brad and Tanner step through one of the broken windows and Brad says, “Gather up what you want to take with you. Pack an assortment of clothes; both warm- and cool-weather stuff. I’d like to be out of here fairly quickly.”

  Tanner nods and climbs the stairs to his room. First stop for Brad is the master bedroom. He pauses at the doorway, suddenly nauseous. The sight of the bed he shared with his wife for nearly fourteen years almost brings him to his knees. He grabs the doorframe for support as tears well up. In a watery haze, he shuffles toward the bed and sits. After several minutes of sobbing, Brad wipes his cheeks dry and stands, shuffling into the master closet. Turning his focus to what lies ahead, he picks out several articles of clothing, a pair of sandals, a pair of hiking boots, and underwear, tossing everything on the bed. From the back of the closet he retrieves an old lever-action .30-.30 rifle that once belonged to his father. Brad hasn’t shot it in years, but he does have a couple boxes of ammunition, which he pulls down from the top shelf of the closet. Placing the rifle and ammo next to his other items, he kneels and pulls a suitcase from under the bed. After loading everything but the rifle, Brad grabs a backpack from the closet and enters the bathroom to retrieve a few items.

  He exits the master and enters the kitchen. He opens a cabinet door and pulls out the baskets of meds that Emma had organized. After spending a moment trying to predict what meds they’ll need in the future, he shrugs and dumps the entire contents into his backpack. He pulls down another basket and adds bandages, gauze, alcohol, and hydrogen peroxide to the backpack.

  Next he ventures out to the garage. The sight of his daughter’s bicycle threatens another shower of tears, but he pauses, inhales a series of deep calming breaths, and tries to shake it off. For a week they knew Sophia’s prognosis wasn’t good, allowing the family some time to come to grips with what might happen. But still, her loss hurts like hell.

  With his emotions in check, Brad ignores the two cars parked inside and steps beyond them to grab the wheelbarrow. He loads it up with a tackle box full of fishing gear, grabs his bag of tools from the workbench, and discovers a case of small green propane bottles he’d bought on sale last year. It all goes into the wheelbarrow, and Brad steers it inside and adds his suitcase and backpack, before stopping in front of the pantry. All the canned goods get tossed in the wheelbarrow as well as a few remaining bottles of wine. Pausing, Brad debates grabbing the five thousand in cash he keeps in the safe, but disregards the notion. The money isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. He opens a box of cartridges and feeds several into the rifle’s magazine and carries it out to the front porch where he takes a seat on a rocker, waiting for Tanner.

  A few minutes later his son appears, wheeling a suitcase behind him. He’s wearing a heavy backpack that Brad knows is filled with books. “Put all your stuff in the wheelbarrow and we’ll take off.” Brad pushes to his feet and returns inside, grabbing the wheelbarrow and pushing it out the front door. They now must trek all the way to the other side of the island to reach their destination. They spend a moment discussing whether to search the surrounding houses for food and decide against it. Brad steers the wheelbarrow down the driveway and into the street.

  Two houses down, their neighbor Don Mathis meanders out of his home. “Where you going, Brad?” Mathis is thin and has the ruddy complexion of an alcoholic, which he is. He’s also an asshole.

  Brad continues walking. The last thing he needs now is a tagalong. “Hitting the road, Don. Don’t see any reason to stay here.”

  Mathis follows them down the street. “Where you going? And where are Sophia and Emma?”

  Brad winces at the names of his wife and daughter. “Don’t know where we’re going, Don.” Brad picks up his pace, eager to get away from their nosy neighbor.

  “But what about your wife and daughter?”

  Brad stops, puts the wheelbarrow down, and turns. “They’re dead. Now leave us the hell alone.” Brad turns, picks up the wheelbarrow, and continues down the road, Tanner loping along beside him.

  Once they’re a block away, Brad slows his pace. They walk for four grueling hours before reaching their destination.

  The Cedar Creek Marina is located on the south side of Long Island and fronts Island Creek, with access to South Oyster Bay. Brad steers the wheelbarrow up to the locked gate and parks it. His hands are cramping and he struggles to open the combination lock. After several attempts, he dials the correct combination and springs the lock, opening the gate to the docks. His palms blistered, he grimaces when he grabs the wheelbarrow handles again. He grits his teeth and steers it through the gate and down the dock. At the next intersection, they hang a left then a right and traverse another hundred yards to their new home, the EmmaSophia, a thirty-seven-foot Dufour Gib’Sea sailboat.

  In anticipation of taking the boat out sometime this week while on vacation, Brad had filled the 120-gallon freshwater tank, the fuel tank, and had stocked up on groceries. His father, when he died of a heart attack at fifty-seven, left his older boat to his son and, when Brad made a little extra money, he traded up in model years. The EmmaSophia, a 2002 model, is capable of sailing the open seas. For now the plan is to sail south along the coast to see what they find.

  After stowing all of their gear, Brad inserts the key into the ignition. Outfitted with a twenty-four-horsepower diesel engine, he has no idea if the engine will start. It appeared the EMP was hit-or-miss for some electronic devices, and Brad’s praying for a miss. He twists the key and the engine purrs to life. But it’s not all good news. None of the delicate electronics will power up. That means no navigation, fish finder, and more important, no radio. Brad shrugs off the bad news. They can always sail within sight of mainland and use the old mechanical compass to navigate. He asks Tanner to free and stow the dock lines before dropping the engine into gear. They motor down Island Creek, cut through the outer banks at Lookout Point, and venture into the North Atlantic Ocean.

  CHAPTER 35

  Weatherford

  Gage awakens to the aroma of frying bacon and fresh-brewed coffee and his mouth is watering before he can get untangled from the covers. He and Holly made the decision last night to stay with her parents until the baby arrives. One reason is that Gage couldn’t pry Holly away from the air conditioner. With a generator and a thousand-gallon propane tank, Holly�
�s parents have been running the generator enough to keep the freezer frozen and the house cool. Gage rolls over, kisses his still-sleeping wife on the cheek, and climbs out of bed. The generator also powers the pump for the water well and the propane fires the water heater. Gage steps into the bathroom and flips on the shower. They didn’t make it to Gage’s parents’ yesterday and that’s on the agenda for today.

  After the water warms, Gage steps in for his first shower in over a week. Not wanting to be gluttonous, he keeps the shower under three minutes and steps out to dry off. He’s wishing they had thought to bring fresh clothes as he tugs on his dirty jeans. Instead of putting on the stinky shirt, he slips into the master and borrows a T-shirt from Henry. Fitting Gage’s broad shoulders inside of a size large T-shirt is difficult, but with some pulling and stretching he accomplishes the task. The end result is that Gage looks as if he’s been squeezed into a sausage casing.

  When he steps back into the guest bedroom, Holly is waking.

  “Is that bacon I smell?” she asks.

  “Yep. And coffee, too.” Gage holds his hand to help Holly out of bed. “There’s hot water for a shower.”

  Holly, ravenous, says, “The shower can wait. I want food. Oh, by the way, nice shirt. Could you not find a smaller size?”

  Gage chuckles as she waddles down the hall toward the kitchen. He slips on his socks and boots and joins Holly. Henry and Susan are both up, sitting at the granite-topped breakfast bar, a mug of coffee in hand.

  “We have eggs, bacon, and coffee,” Susan says. “No toast, though. Bread ran out a couple of days ago. We’ve eaten. The rest is for you two.”

  “I think I can manage without toast,” Gage says, heaping the food onto his plate. He places it on the counter and walks across the kitchen to pour coffee for himself and Holly, whose plate looks as if it could use some sideboards. Gage passes his wife a cup of coffee and sits.

  “How much food do you have left?” Holly asks.

  “We have enough,” Henry says. “I had a steer butchered a couple of weeks ago. We’re having steaks for dinner.”

  Knowing this is not the end of the food, Holly savors every bite as she forks in eggs and chomps on a piece of bacon. Gage wolfs down a mouthful of egg and washes it down with a sip of steaming coffee. “Did you hear anything from Alyx before all of this started?”

  “She sent me a text message about thirty minutes before it all started,” Susan says. “Said she and one of her coworkers, a Zane somebody, had made it away from Fort Meade and were headed west. If anyone can find her way home, it’s Alyx. It’s just going to take her some time.” Alyx was already in college when Holly and her parents moved to town.

  Gage, knowing the odds are long for Alyx, holds his tongue and continues to eat. He and Alyx have a strained relationship. Of course the fact that Alyx believed Holly was marrying beneath her might have something to do with the strain. But single and thirty-four, Alyx doesn’t have a lot of ground to stand on when it comes to relationships. Despite their disagreements, Gage is hoping like hell Alyx does make it home.

  “Gage, did you give any more thoughts to the wind turbine idea?” Henry asks.

  Gage finishes chewing the food in his mouth and takes another sip of coffee. “I think the only way it’ll work is to manually set the pitch angle and lock the blades down. We’ll use the braking system to control speed. And if it looks like the wind is getting up, one of us will have to climb up and lock her down.”

  Henry stands and retreats to his office, returning with a piece of paper, which he hands to Gage. The paper is filled with small, precisely drawn mathematical equations.

  “Henry, I might as well be reading Chinese. Help me out here,” Gage says, passing the paper back to his father-in-law.

  “We’ll set the angle of the blades to a medium pitch angle. Can you free up the yaw control, so the turbine will turn with the wind?”

  “Yeah,” Gage says. “We’ll have to keep an eye on the cables running down the tower. Otherwise, they’ll be a tangled mess. How are you going to step up the voltage?”

  “I have a couple of transformers in the barn that have never been put into service. They should be fine.”

  Gage polishes off the last of his eggs. “When are we starting?”

  “Today?” Henry says.

  Gage carries his empty plate over to the sink. “Works for me. But I’d like to go say hi to my parents before we get started.”

  “That’ll work,” Henry says. “I could probably use some more time to refine the design.”

  Susan rolls her eyes. “Holly, you staying with me or going with Gage?”

  She glances up at her husband. “Can you wait for me to take a shower?”

  “Absolutely. We should probably run by the house and grab some more clothes.”

  “Why? You looking forward to a shirt that’ll actually allow you to breathe?”

  Susan and Henry laugh as Holly carries her plate to the sink. She runs her hand across her husband’s shoulders as she waddles down the hall.

  CHAPTER 36

  Off the coast of the United Kingdom

  After running all night, the USS New York is closing in on Her Majesty’s Naval Base Devonport. Sailing submerged along the English Channel, they’ll have to navigate around the point at Plymouth and travel inland to reach the naval base—all without the aid of GPS. Luckily, the onboard computer and the sub’s internal navigation systems are still working. During the night the submarine occasionally ascended to periscope depth to plot their course via celestial navigation. But now, entering the area where navigation is critical and with daylight waiting to greet them, the sub has slowed to a crawl, relying on passive sonar to work their way around the obstacles.

  The executive officer, Commander Carlos Garcia, returns from the mess to join in the navigation fun.

  “What do you think, Carlos? Periscope depth?” Thompson asks.

  “The question is whether there’s anything flying, but I guess we’re not going to know that until we look.”

  “I concur,” Captain Thompson says. “Q, take us up to periscope depth.”

  “Aye, Aye, Skipper,” the dive officer, Lieutenant Commander Thomas Quigley, replies.

  The nose of the boat tilts upward and everyone on the bridge leans forward to maintain balance. The submariners pride themselves on their ability to lean with the angle of the deck without grabbing for something to hold on to. After several moments of leaning, the boat levels out and the dive officer reports the sub is at periscope depth. “Periscope up,” Thompson orders. He steps over and catches the handles as the scope slides up through the deck. He positions his eyes in the eyecups and walks a circle before coming to a stop. What he sees sends a chill down his spine. The area is dotted with giant craters, and wildfires are still raging in the distance. Her Majesty’s Naval Base Devonport no longer exists. His shoulders slump as he steps away to allow Garcia a look.

  Garcia takes a peek and his head sags as he raises the handles of the periscope, aware that everyone in the room is watching them.

  “Sonar, depth?” the Captain asks.

  “One-five-zero feet, Skipper,” the sonar tech, Mike Adams, replies.

  “Conn, lower periscope. Q, take us down to seventy-five feet. Mr. Patterson, make our course one-nine-zero. All ahead, two-thirds.” The captain glances at Garcia then nods toward the far corner of the cramped control room. They huddle together and lower their voices. “What options do we have?” Thompson asks.

  “We could be in Bermuda in six days,” Garcia says.

  “We don’t have six days of food remaining. Hell, we don’t have two days of food left.”

  “What if we cut to quarter rations?”

  “That might stretch it out to three or four days. A hungry crew could be a dangerous crew. What about the Azores? We could make that in a day and half.”

  “That’s Portuguese territory, Bull. Might be pretty hostile to a ship sailing under the Stars and Stripes. At least Bermuda is UK
territory.”

  “I don’t think we can make it in six days, Carlos.”

  Garcia grinds his forehead against the palm of his hand. “I don’t know, Bull. Are we going to pull up to the Azores and beg for food? We sure as hell don’t have much cash on board and the Amexes in our wallets are worthless.” He ends the grinding and turns to look at his captain and friend. “I think we need to level with the crew. Tell them what’s going on.”

  “What does that buy us?”

  “Understanding? They know something’s up, Bull. And if we keep plotting courses for places where we never surface, they’re going to wonder if we’ve lost our minds. A crew left to wonder is also dangerous. I think we have to tell them.”

  Thompson rubs the whiskers on his chin. “What exactly am I supposed to tell them? That life as they know it is gone? And what would make them believe me?” The two men ponder those questions as the submarine continues to descend.

  Thompson snaps his fingers. “I’ve got an idea.” He strides back to his position on the bridge. “All stop. Q, takes us back up to periscope depth.”

  As the submarine makes another ascent, Thompson grabs a microphone from overhead and, before triggering the transmit button, orders, “Conn, sound the general alarm.” He allows the alarm to sound for several seconds before ordering it off. He places the microphone to his lips. “All crew members, this is the captain speaking. As you may have guessed by now, we were not the only ones who launched our nuclear weapons. We were hoping to resupply at one of the British naval bases, but are unsuccessful. You will see why on the shipboard monitors momentarily. I want all of you to know we are working diligently to find supplies. The next few days are going to test your patience. And that goes for everyone on the boat, myself included. I promise you as captain, we’ll work through the issues, and hopefully do it quickly.” As the boat levels off, Thompson orders the periscope up and puts the radio back to his lips. “The video feed will be up in a moment. As a point of reference, we are currently positioned just south of Plymouth, England.”