The Day after Oblivion

by Tim Washburn

  The captain replaces the handset and walks over to the periscope, triggering the video camera. He leans forward to peer through the lens and dials in the strongest power and turns the scope toward the mainland. The graphic images of the destruction are broadcast throughout the boat. Submarines depend on silence to maintain their stealthiness, but at this moment, the boat is as quiet as Thompson has ever heard it. After a little more than two minutes he orders the periscope down and issues a dive order. “Mr. Patterson, set a course for the Azores. All ahead, two-thirds.”

  The helmsman repeats the order as Thompson walks over to his XO. “Too heavy?”

  “Right on point, Bull. At least they have an idea what it looks like topside. So Azores, huh?”

  “It’s on the way, and it won’t cost us anything to take a look.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Near Knoxville, Tennessee

  Other than dodging around expired automobiles, Zane and Alyx are making good progress in Old Goldie. Now they’re approaching Knoxville, hoping to pick up I-40 west. Zane exits the highway they’re on and steers into the parking lot of a plundered convenience store situated near a run-down residential area. With the shotgun in hand, he exits the truck and steps through the shattered door in search of a map. The inside of the store looks like a herd of bulls stampeded through. The cash register is busted into a thousand pieces and all the shelving is overturned. Not only is the store in shambles, there’s also a foul odor that smells like spoiled milk and rotten meat. With a hand covering his nose and mouth, Zane approaches the front counter and comes up empty in his search for a map. Cursing, he glances behind the counter and discovers a partial source for the stench—a body. The body is bloated and a puddle of organic matter has oozed onto the floor, attracting a horde of flies. Zane gags and hurries from the store.

  When he steps outside, he sees a dozen people converging on their location. Zane hurries to the pickup and climbs in, handing the shotgun to Alyx before shifting the truck into gear and making a wide turn back toward the road. “You might have to shoot. You okay with that?”

  Looking at the growing crowd, Alyx nods. The nearest person, a male, comes to a halt in the middle of the road about fifty yards away. Zane spots the pistol in his hand and stomps the gas, aiming the nose of the truck down the centerline. He doesn’t want to hit the man and risk damaging the truck, but more people are converging onto the road and he may not have a choice.

  He scans the area ahead for options and comes up blank. “They picked the wrong guy, if they want to play chicken,” Zane mutters. Now only twenty yards away, the man raises his arm and fires before diving out of the way. The man misjudges his timing and the side mirror hits him in the face, sending him head over ass, the pistol skittering away. Zane keeps the accelerator to the floor and, with only seconds to spare, the center portion of the group collapses, with people fleeing in all directions. Zane sideswipes a woman, who spins around and face-plants on the pavement, but he never lets up on the accelerator as gunshots ring out behind them.

  Once clear of the people, Zane slows the pickup to a more normal speed. “That was an operational error on my part,” Zane says. “From now on, if either of us leaves the pickup the other will stand guard with the shotgun.”

  “I agree. Damn, that was creepy. Was all of that an effort to steal the pickup?” Alyx asks.

  “I have no idea. Maybe they thought we had a stash of food. Whatever it was, it damn near cost us our lives.” He steers up the ramp to I-75, the highway they’ve been traveling on.

  As they draw closer to Knoxville, the landscape begins to change. Fires have scoured the ground and, when they reach a high ridge in the road, they discover downtown Knoxville no longer exists. “Why the hell would they bomb Knoxville?”

  “Not Knoxville. They nuked the Oak Ridge National Laboratory and the Oak Ridge Reservation.”

  “Where are, or where were, they located?”

  “Just west of Knoxville. I did some computer work at the Oak Ridge Reservation several years ago.”

  “What kind of work did they do?”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  Zane scowls.

  “The lab did nuclear weapons research and Y-12, a portion of the Oak Ridge Reservation, did nuclear weapons production work. It was considered a National Security Complex and was part of the National Nuclear Security Administration.”

  “Now it makes sense,” Zane says. “There’s no telling how many nukes they dropped on this place.” Now traveling on an elevated section of the highway, Zane looks up and stomps on the brake. The old truck shimmies and shakes as the back wheels lock up, sending Alyx face-first into the dash. The truck goes into a slide and Zane tries to steer in that direction to keep it under control. He glances over to see Alyx slumped on the floor, blood pouring from the lower half of her face. He pumps the brake pedal and, finally, the truck skids to a stop. He slams the gearshift into park and reaches for Alyx, helping her back onto the seat. “Where are you hurt?”

  “Nose,” she mumbles.

  He pulls his shirt off, then his T-shirt, and uses it to apply pressure to Alyx’s nose, trying to stem the flow of blood.

  She pushes his hands away and grabs the shirt, using her own hands to apply pressure. “Thanks . . . for . . . the . . . warning.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t see it in time.”

  Alyx lifts her head to gaze out the windshield. “Oh shit.”

  “Oh shit is right.” In front of them the highway is gone. Jagged pieces of concrete jut out into nothingness, the ground forty feet below them.

  Alyx removes the shirt and gently touches her nose. The blood flow appears to be slowing. “I think it’s broken.”

  “I think you’re probably right.”

  Alyx shoots him a nasty glare and puts the shirt back to her nose. “This shirt stinks.”

  “At least you can smell it.”

  Alyx shows him her middle finger. Zane opens his door and steps out, his heart still hammering. They missed certain death by ten feet. He walks up to the edge and looks down. A nest of charred cars rests on the remains of the collapsed roadway. He turns and retreats back to the truck. “How’s the nose?”

  “I’ll live.” She wads up the shirt and throws it at Zane. She opens the glove box in search of a napkin and finds a small package of travel tissues. After ripping it open, she wads up a couple of tissues and gently pushes them into her nostrils. When she speaks her voice sounds funny. “I should have thought of it sooner. We need to skirt the entire area. We’re probably sitting in the middle of a huge hot zone.”

  Zane drops the truck in gear and turns around.

  “We should have gone back into that house for the lead smocks,” Alyx says.

  Zane slows the truck to a stop. “Water under the bridge. How large of an area do we need to avoid?”

  “Large. Miles large.”

  “Means backtracking.”

  “No, it means staying alive.”

  “I remember seeing an exit for a highway leading west about fifteen miles back. That far enough?”

  Alyx rips a small piece from the tissue in her nose and tosses it out the window. The tissue drifts away, moving toward the rear of the truck. “Should be. Wind’s blowing from the north.”

  Zane releases the brake and eases down on the gas pedal, wishing he had a map.

  CHAPTER 38

  Along the coast of New Jersey

  With the sails up, the EmmaSophia is moving along at a good clip. Brad Dixon is surprised by two things—the number of boats and the number of bloated human bodies bobbing along the surface of the water. Many are charred beyond recognition, but a few leave Brad wondering about the cause of death. A nuclear bomb is designed for one thing—mass casualties. Not only does it kill with the initial burst, but it also kills months later via radiation poisoning. Brad spots a shark fin slicing through the water and turns away, not wanting to witness the shark feasting. For now they are keeping their distance from t
he other boats and the rifle remains within easy reach. They are sailing about two miles off the coast of Long Beach, New Jersey. Tents line the beach and smoke from the campfires drifts along the breeze. Brad wonders what they’ll do come winter. He glances over at Tanner, who is curled up on the front bench, staring at the water. Brad keeps trying to get him to open up, but Tanner remains silent.

  Brad glances behind for a quick scan of the surrounding area and turns back. Then does a double take. It’s the same small Sunfish sailboat he had seen earlier. Thirteen feet long, the small boat is overloaded with the four adults sitting around the cockpit and holding on to the mast. He grabs the binoculars for a closer look. The four appear to be two couples, probably in their midtwenties. Two suitcases are piled up in the middle of the small seating area. Brad refocuses the binocs on the boat itself. Up near the bow, above the waterline, is a sticker that he can’t quite make out. He fiddles with the focus, trying to sharpen the image. He can see the word Brigantine and that’s all he needs to see. The boat was stolen from the Brigantine Beach Club, a time-share place on the South Jersey shore. Brad lowers the binoculars and hands them to Tanner. “Keep an eye on that little Sunfish. Please.”

  Tanner nods.

  After clicking through the images in his brain, Brad realizes the boat has been following them since daybreak. Could be an ominous sign, or simply a coincidence. But Brad’s betting it’s not a coincidence. After all, which boat would someone rather have—a thirty-seven-footer with room below for a family of four, or a thirteen-footer with no room at all? Brad turns the wheel and the mainsail boom swings across the deck, temporarily luffing the canvas. He trims the main and the boat picks up speed as Brad steers the EmmaSophia farther out to sea. He glances back and, sure enough, the Sunfish is turning to follow. So much for it being a coincidence. Brad moves the rifle closer.

  Tanner is, at least, engaged with the binoculars. He’s zoomed in on the beach, and Brad’s hoping he’s checking out hot chicks—anything to take Tanner’s mind off what happened yesterday. Brad tugs on the rope to tighten the mainsail and the boat picks up speed. He hasn’t yet unfurled the jib, relying on the larger canvas for now. Brad glances back to see the Sunfish still following in their wake. The EmmaSophia is gaining distance, but that’ll change when they drop anchor at dusk.

  Tanner turns the binocs on the boat following them. “Dad, I don’t think they know what they’re doing. There’s too much slack on the mainsail.”

  “I agree. The sail has been that way the entire time. I think they took the boat from the beach at Brigantine, hoping to sail—”

  “Dad! Their boat overturned. They’re in the water.”

  Brad eases the mainsail and the boat coasts to a stop.

  “Dad, you have to turn around.”

  “And do what, Tanner? Allow them onto our boat?”

  “I don’t know. Take them back to shore, or something.”

  “What if they don’t want to go back to shore?”

  “Dad, they’ll never get that boat upright again.” Tanner moves to the back of the boat, his eyes still glued to the binoculars.

  Brad ponders the situation. If they’re good swimmers they can swim back to shore. It would be a difficult task, certainly, but doable. At present, the group is probably two miles from shore, a forty-five-minute swim, maybe.

  “Dad, they don’t look like they’re very good swimmers. They’re doing a lot of thrashing around.”

  Well shit. Now what? Brad didn’t invite them to follow along. And there’s little doubt the group has dubious intentions.

  “What are you waiting for, Dad?”

  Brad starts the engine and angrily spins the wheel. “We’ll get them on board, Tanner. But I want you to take the helm. We’ll take them to the closest dock.”

  “Why am I driving the boat?”

  “Because I’m going to be covering them with the rifle.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s just the way things are going to work.” If Tanner hadn’t lost his mother and sister yesterday, Brad would have sailed on. He steers the boat toward the swimmers and eases back on the throttle. “Help them into the boat and then take the wheel, Tanner.” Brad picks up the rifle and levers a shell into the chamber, moving toward the bow for a wider field of fire. He fits the stock against his shoulder and waits.

  Tanner helps the first waterlogged swimmer aboard. She’s a thin knock-kneed woman, but younger than Brad thought. She looks to be in her late teens and she’s in desperate need of an orthodontist. He waves the barrel toward the backseat and she timidly complies. The second person that comes aboard is also female. But this one doesn’t need any work. She’s a very attractive, tall young woman, probably early twenties. She gets the same treatment from Brad, but her reaction is very different. She gives him an ugly snarl before sitting. As of yet, no one has said a word.

  The next person to board is a male. He’s tall and thin as a rail. “Thanks for saving us.”

  “You’re welcome,” Brad says, the gun never wavering from the man’s chest. “Have a seat with your friends.”

  The last person aboard is a large, broad-shouldered man. The man is a bear and he appears older than the rest of the crew, maybe late twenties.

  “Why are you holding the rifle on us?” the man asks.

  “Because I don’t know you. Why were you following us?”

  “We weren’t following you. We were just sailing.” He ends the comment with a snide smile then says, “Hell of a greeting.”

  “I could have left you in the water,” Brad says.

  “Yeah, you could have. But you didn’t. Lucky for us, huh.”

  Brad’s brain is churning through a string of bad scenarios. He makes a snap decision and steps forward, the gun centered on the last man aboard. “I’ve changed my mind. Take a swim.”

  “What?”

  “What are you doing, Dad?”

  “Quiet, Tanner. I’m not going to tell you again. Get your ass back in the water. You’re a big boy. You can swim back to the shore.”

  “And what happens if I don’t get in the water?” the man asks, crossing his arms.

  “You’re going in the water. You can do it alive, or we can roll you in after I shoot you. This rifle is loaded with .30-.30 cartridges. Ever see what that does to a man? It’ll blow a hole in you big enough to see daylight. Now get your ass in the water.”

  The man remains where he is.

  Brad cocks the hammer. “I’m not going to do any of that count-to-three bullshit. This is your last chance.”

  The man shoots Brad the finger and steps toward the back of the boat. He turns. “You better hope I never see you again.”

  “Jump in,” Brad says.

  The man hesitates again, and Brad fires the rifle. The shock of the blast startles everyone on deck. Brad quickly levers another round and cocks the hammer. He didn’t shoot the man, but he came damn close. “Consider that a warning shot.”

  This time the man doesn’t hesitate, jumping in headfirst.

  “Tanner, drive the boat.”

  Tanner is rattled by the series of events. He’s as still as a sculpture.

  “Tanner, take the helm.”

  After another moment, Tanner comes to life and, with trembling hands, takes the wheel. He eases the throttle forward and turns for shore. There are no pleasant conversations. The attractive young woman glares at Brad all the way to the dock. Near the shore, Tanner is struggling to get the boat parked next to the dock.

  “Idle the throttle, Tanner. This is close enough.” Brad steps toward the stern, the rifle tight against his shoulder. “You three, off the boat.” The three reluctantly stand and, one after another, jump into the water. Brad steps to the back rail, tracking their retreat down the barrel of the rifle.

  “Take us out of here, Tanner.”

  Tanner reverses the boat and after he’s clear of the dock, turns the wheel starboard and gooses the throttle. Once they’re clear, Brad lowers the rifle.

&n
bsp; “Would you have shot that guy?” Tanner shouts above the wind noise.

  Brad nods. “Yeah, I would have. Last week maybe not, but today, yes.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Weatherford

  Holly exits the bedroom after showering and dressing and Gage helps her into the truck. He slides behind the wheel and steers down the drive, hanging a right on Caddo Road. Soon after they were married and had purchased the land, Gage started work restoring the two-bedroom rancher that was in desperate need of repair. Slowly, he has made the home livable after reframing portions of the house, patching the roof, and remodeling the one and only bathroom. The kitchen is next on the to-do list, but Gage is wondering if the kitchen will ever get done.

  The sweet odor of alfalfa fills the cabin as they roll past one of the fields. Gage slows to make the turn onto their road and, after traveling a short distance, pulls into the gravel drive and eases the truck up next to the house. “Do you want to take some of the baby stuff over to your parents’?” Gage asks.

  “Let’s hold off. I still have a month to go.”

  Gage steps around to the other side to help his wife out of the truck. With her pushing and him pulling, she makes it out and waddles toward the front door. As she’s ascending the steps, she stops midstride and doubles over in pain, fighting for breath.

  “You okay, Holly?” Gage asks, concern etched on his face.

  Holly sucks in a lungful of air. “Just give me a sec.”

  “Are you having more contractions?”

  “Yes.”