The Day after Oblivion

by Tim Washburn

  “Hard contractions?”

  “Are you a fucking doctor?” she snaps.

  Gage has learned over the past few months when to speak and when not to speak. He unlocks the front door and slips inside, taking up position at the edge of the front window. Holly is still breathing hard, her hands pushing on her swollen womb. Over the past month the contractions have come and gone in a matter of minutes and Gage is hoping these also subside. It’s not like he can rush her to the hospital. Hell, for that matter, he can’t take her to the obstetrician, either. They’re all out of business. Gage makes a mental note to find out where Holly’s doctor lives. After one final deep breath, Holly shuffles toward the front door as Gage makes a beeline for the bedroom.

  He removes two suitcases from beneath the bed and begins adding clothes to one of them. Holly wobbles down the hall and takes a seat on the end of the bed. Not knowing if it’s safe to speak, Gage holds his tongue and returns to the closet. He grabs a couple pair of jeans, a handful of T-shirts, underwear, and socks, tossing everything into his suitcase. His wife remains seated on the bed. Gage steps around the bed and kneels in front of his wife. “Are you okay, babe?”

  “I think so. Those were the hardest contractions I’ve felt. Sorry for snapping at you.”

  Gage smiles. “And all the other times, too?”

  “You put a bowling ball in your stomach and see how you feel. My ankles are swollen, my back hurts, and she keeps kicking me in the ribs.”

  “How many children did you say you wanted?”

  Holly shows him her middle finger and tries to push up off the bed. Gage stands and helps her up. She leans into him and gives him a kiss before toddling toward the closet. “How long are we going to be staying at my parents’?”

  Gage thinks of the hot water and the stocked freezer. “As long as you want. Or until they kick us out.”

  Ninety-five percent of the clothes in Holly’s closet no longer fit. She grabs some sweatpants, the rest of Gage’s T-shirts, and dumps them into the empty suitcase. She returns to the closet for her oversized bras and panties, looking wistfully at her satiny negligees. Most of her shoes also no longer fit, so she opts for flip-flops and two pairs of slip-on house shoes. She looks at a pair of tennis shoes, but the thought of trying to tie the laces makes the decision for her. She tosses the remainder of her items into the suitcase and lumbers down the hall to the bathroom to retrieve the rest of her essentials.

  Gage changes into fresh clothes before following her into the restroom to grab his toothbrush and deodorant. “I’m going to drive out to the barn to get more of my work tools and a couple of other items. You about ready to head out?”

  “I’m almost finished in here then I need to change. I’ll be ready when you get back.”

  Gage disappears down the hallway as Holly packs the last of her creams and lotions into an overnight case. After stepping back in the bedroom, she peels off her dirty clothes. Pushing her panties down, she steps out of them. When she bends to pick them up she discovers the panties are soaked with blood.

  CHAPTER 40

  Burnsville, Minnesota

  The pace is slowing as the children tire. By McDowell’s estimation they’ve covered almost eight miles. At this pace they’ll be lucky to cover twelve miles before dark. He curses under his breath and leads the group off the highway and into a copse of trees surrounding a small lake. “We’ll rest for a while. Hold off eating until later.”

  “I’m hungry,” Jonathon Taylor whines.

  His words elicit a round of similar comments from the other students.

  McDowell mutters another string of curse words and kneels down beside the suitcase containing their food supplies. He pulls out two small bags of trail mix and hands them out. “Save some for the next person. That’s all we can spare for now.”

  His comment is met with groans, which he ignores. “I’m going to fish for a little bit if anyone else wants to fish.”

  Six of the boys stand and an argument breaks out over who gets to fish, Jonathon the only one not to enter the fray. McDowell looks to Melissa for help.

  Melissa gathers up the four fishing poles and hands one to McDowell before facing the teens. “We are not fishing for fun. We’re fishing for food. The six of you will take turns, but I want the most experienced to fish first. Who has fished before?”

  All six raise their hands and Melissa sighs. She casts a wary eye at Caleb Carson. “Caleb, when have you fished?”

  “My dad and I fish all the time.”

  Melissa knows that’s not true because he was a student in her class last year. Caleb lives with his mother and rarely, if ever, sees his father. At this point in time hurt feelings are way down the list of Melissa’s concerns. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”

  Caleb puffs up to protest and Melissa cuts him off with a look only a teacher can give. She hands the three remaining poles out randomly and the boys follow McDowell down to the water. He hands them each a lure and ties a plastic worm onto his line. The boys tie on their own bait and two of the lures go skittering out into the lake on the first cast. McDowell sighs. “That’s it for you guys. Sorry.”

  After twenty minutes of fishing and no bites, McDowell calls a halt. Using a pair of fingernail clippers swiped from a store at the airport, he cuts the remaining two lures from the lines and places them back in the sack and heads back to the group. As he nears, he spots Jonathon playing with the shotgun. He hurries forward, drops the fishing pole, and yanks the gun from the boy’s hands. “You do not touch this weapon. Ever,” McDowell shouts.

  As Jonathon’s bottom lip begins to quiver, McDowell looks at the rest of the group. “This shotgun is for our protection. Without it we’re defenseless. Does everyone understand that?”

  The kids nod and Melissa steps over and says in a low voice, “I’m sorry, Stan, I should have kept a closer watch on everyone.”

  “It’s not your fault. They need to take some responsibility for their actions.” He looks down at the ground and packs the dirt back into a gopher hole with his boot, trying to regain his composure. He looks up at Melissa. “Hell, they’re just kids.” He turns to Jonathon. “I won’t apologize, young man, but you have to understand the situation we’re in.”

  Jonathon wipes a tear from the corner of his eye and turns away.

  “Damn it,” McDowell mutters. After stuffing the remaining lures into his suitcase, he stands, slings the shotgun over his shoulder, and walks over to the suitcase containing their cache of water. He zips it open to count the bottles. There are thirty full water bottles left and a dozen empties. He grabs three bottles and hands them out. “Take a few sips and pass it on.”

  Once everyone has had a sip, he dumps the empties back into the suitcase and zips it up. “Time to go,” he says. He leads the group out of the woods and up the highway embankment and turns south. As the group plods forward, McDowell drifts to the back of the pack to talk to Lauren and Melissa.

  An hour later they get their first real taste of life on the road.

  In the distance, McDowell spots three men headed their way, rifles slung over their shoulders, and they’re pushing a couple of shopping carts. McDowell unslings the shotgun, jacks a shell in the chamber, and moves to the front of the pack, carrying the weapon low against his leg. He glances over his shoulder and waves a hand toward the left side of the road. The group meanders that way, hugging the outside shoulder.

  When the three men are within ten yards, they stop and McDowell calls a halt. The three men appear to be in their late forties and all are missing teeth.

  “Where you headed?” the man in front asks.

  “South. You?” McDowell asks.

  “The Twin Cities. Where y’all from?”

  “Here and there.”

  The man smiles and surveys the group before turning back to McDowell. “You in a tradin’ mood?”

  “Maybe. What do you have?” McDowell asks.

  “We’ve got some deer jerky.” The man looks over
the group again and points, saying, “I’ll trade you some for the young blonde.”

  Hannah Hatcher shrieks. She’s the blonde under discussion.

  McDowell waves a hand to quiet her. “Trading’s now off the table. You best move along.”

  The man shrugs. “Hey, at least I asked. They’ll be some that won’t. What about one of them young boys? We’re not too picky.”

  McDowell braces the shotgun against his shoulder. “Move along.”

  The man smiles again and nods. “I don’t know where you’re going, mister, but ain’t no way you’re all gonna make it.”

  “I said, move along,” McDowell says, his voice low and laced with menace.

  “See you down the road. Maybe,” the man says before turning and continuing on, the other two falling in behind him.

  CHAPTER 41

  Weatherford

  Gage carries the two suitcases out to the truck and helps Holly climb in. He swings the truck around and pulls back onto the road. His parents’ big spread is west of town. The 1,280 acres are planted mostly in soybeans and winter wheat, but Gage’s father, Raymond, runs a few head of cattle. Even with modern technology, it’s hard work and the fickle nature of the weather often determines whether the year is a boom or bust. And now the modern technology is gone. The high-dollar tractors his father owns rely almost exclusively on computer technology, and Gage doubts either will run anytime soon.

  After traveling several miles west, Gage slows and makes a right down a dirt road. The county calls it a gravel road, but it’s more dirt than gravel and the tires kick up a whirlwind of red dust behind them. The dust has been a constant complaint of Gage’s mother for as long as he can remember. That’s the reason Gage refused to look at any property that was situated on a dirt road.

  Gage’s older brother, Garrett, now does most of the farming. He and his wife, Juliet, built a three-bedroom house about two hundred yards from their parents’ house. Six months after they moved in they welcomed their first child, Emma, and three years later Emma’s sister, Elizabeth. With a third girl soon to join the mix, who will farm the land for the next generation remains to be seen. If there’s any farming to be done, that is. Gage slows and pulls into the long, winding drive leading to his childhood home. One large, old oak tree shades the front yard, the remaining trees cleared to make room for the crops. A picnic table is situated next to the massive tree trunk and a tire swing hangs from one of the tree’s gnarled limbs. Gage coasts the pickup to a stop, kills the engine, and steps out to help Holly.

  Gage gets the feeling that something is wrong as soon as his boots hit the ground. Usually, his mother is there to greet them at the front door, but the door remains closed, the interior dark.

  “Where’s your mom?” Holly asks.

  “I don’t know. Something’s going on. I can feel it in my gut.” Gage pulls the screen door open and nudges the front door open to reveal the living room. Gage stops in his tracks, stunned. The bed from upstairs is sitting in the middle of the room and lying atop the bed is his father, and his mother is sitting in a chair nearby. Most of Raymond Larson’s hair is gone and he looks severely emaciated. He doesn’t appear to be conscious. Gage finds his feet and shuffles into the room. “What’s going on, Mom?”

  With effort, his mother, Ginny, pushes out of the chair and walks quietly across the hardwood flooring, nudging them back outside. Ginny walks over to the table and sits and Holly joins her. Gage, still stunned, leans against the tree.

  “I had no way to reach you, Gage. The phones quit working and none of the farm trucks are running.”

  “Was he outside when it started?” Gage asks.

  “Not when it started, but within an hour or two. I begged him not to go outside, but he was determined to get the cattle up and into the barn. He was only outside for a little while.” Ginny pauses and dabs a tissue at the corner of her eye. “By day three, his hair was coming out in clumps. Garrett and Juliet came over and moved the bed downstairs for me.”

  A tear breaks the surface tension and drifts down Gage’s cheek.

  “How long has he been unconscious?” Holly asks, tenderly.

  “He still has some lucid moments. They’re fewer and further between as the days pass. I don’t know how large of a radiation dose he received, but it must have been substantial.”

  “And the cattle?” Gage asks.

  Ginny glances up at her youngest son, tears shimmering in her eyes. “I checked on them about four days after and they were already dead.”

  A lengthy silence descends upon the trio, each with their own interpretation of possible outcomes, none of them good. After several moments, Gage asks, “Garrett, Juliet, and the girls?”

  “They’re all fine. Your brother walks up here a couple times a day to check on him. And me, too, I suppose.”

  Gage pushes off the tree. “I’m going to sit with him a spell. Holly, you okay?”

  Holly doesn’t know the answer to that question. With the bloody panties, and now this, it’s like an avalanche of dreadful happenings. “Go sit with your dad, Gage. I may walk down and see Juliet and the girls.”

  Gage nods, palms his cheek dry, and returns to the house. The chair his mother had been sitting in is still warm. He scoots it around where he can reach his father’s hand. “I know we don’t ever hardly say it, Dad.” Gage pauses as the dam breaks and a river of tears flows down his cheeks. “It’s only . . . three . . . words, yet between . . . us it was always . . . one”—Gage expels a shaky breath—“one of the most . . . difficult . . . things to say. So I’ll . . . say . . . it . . . now. I love . . . you.” Gage sobs as he grasps his father’s hand with both of his. “I love you, Dad.” After several moments of sobbing, Gage dries his eyes and stands, bending down to kiss his unconscious father on the forehead. “I love you so much.” Bleary-eyed, Gage makes his way to the door. This time his mother is there to greet him. She leans into him and Gage wraps his mother in an embrace.

  CHAPTER 42

  Oak Ridge, Tennessee

  Backtracking around the Oak Ridge area, Zane and Alyx top a ridge and finally get a look at the surrounding area. Both gasp.

  “It looks like Mars. There’s not a twig of grass left standing,” Zane says. “What was the thought process behind this madness?”

  Alyx finds her voice. “That’s the problem. There wasn’t any thought process. Just sheer madness, plain and simple. I hope those responsible were wiped from the face of the earth.”

  “Think Washington, D.C., is still standing?” Zane asks.

  “Not a chance.”

  “What do you think happened to General Vickers?”

  “I don’t want to think about what happened to any of them. I just hope they had time to lob some nukes at the asswipes who did this.”

  They drive another fifteen miles before finding a road that cuts back west. Now along the Kentucky-Tennessee border, Zane steers the pickup west through the Daniel Boone National Forest. The road is a winding two-lane dotted with run-down houses every couple of miles. The area is lousy with small creeks, and at the next bridge, Zane slows. “Think the water’s safe to drink? I’d like to save the bottled water until we really need it.”

  “What?” Alyx says. “Are you a hoarder? We have plenty of water for now.”

  “Okay, smartass, exactly how long is it going to take us to get where we’re going?”

  “I have no idea. Surely not more than a few days.”

  A few miles farther on, they pass a church, then another church, and finally a third church, all of differing denominations. “People like their churches around here,” Zane says. “They’re bunched so closely together you could visit all three on a Sunday morning and not break a sweat.” A mile down the road a sign welcomes them to Pine Knot, Kentucky. As they enter the outskirts of town, they pass two more churches, both of indeterminate faith. “There can’t be enough people in this small town to fill all of these churches.”

  “People and their ideologies,” Alyx says.
“They all think they’re going to the same place, with each thinking their path is the only way.” Alyx pulls the shotgun onto her lap and points the barrel out the side window. “All of these churches are making me nervous.”

  Zane laughs. “Why?”

  “They must be doing something to repent for on Sundays.”

  The pass an auto parts store, a local pizza place, and a Dairy Cheer—all ransacked.

  Alyx cocks both barrels. “I’m not picking up a good vibe from this place, Zane. Can we skirt this little downtown area?”

  Zane glances to his left. “I don’t see very many side streets. Might be best to stick to the main road.”

  “Do it quickly, then. People are moving toward the road.” Alyx turns in her seat and braces the stock of the shotgun against her shoulder, the barrel pointed out the side window.

  “I see them.” Zane spots a sign announcing a north–south highway ahead. “Coming up on a highway. Need to take that south.”

  “Fine, just don’t stop the truck.”

  Zane presses down on the accelerator as more people spill out of the downtown buildings. “Why are they blocking the road?” Zane shouts over the wind noise.

  Alyx repositions herself in the seat to improve her line of fire. “I told you I was getting a bad vibe about this place.”

  “Hold on. I think I spotted a way out.”

  Alyx braces a foot against the dash as they zoom past a funeral home. Planted on the front lawn are several oversized crosses, each draped with a dead body. A sign hung around one of the victims reads: LOOTER.

  “Why couldn’t they just shoot them?” Alyx asks.

  The group of people is growing as Zane keeps the gas pedal nailed to the floor. At the last instant, Zane cuts the wheel to the left and they shoot down a diagonal road that T-bones at Highway 27. He slows enough to keep the truck on four wheels, whips a left turn, and stomps on the accelerator. “What the hell was that?”

  Alyx pulls the shotgun in, lowers the hammers, and turns in her seat. “That’s what you call crazy. Think those were their fellow townspeople staked to the crosses?”