The Day after Oblivion

by Tim Washburn

  Lauren smiles. “So that was it, huh? Crawl under the desks?”

  “Yes, and all the rooms were surrounded by glass, not these school bunkers they build nowadays. We wouldn’t have had a chance.” McDowell slows to steer around a semi. “I did a two-year stint at Global Strike Command. We ran every imaginable scenario. If our missiles cleared their silos, and Russia’s did the same, the number of dead might be north of three billion from the initial attack.”

  Lauren pauses to let the numbers sink in. “And after the attack?”

  McDowell glances at Lauren. “Not good. The results of one scenario predicted that half of the remaining population would die in the first year.”

  “Half?” Lauren asks, her eyes going wide.

  “Yes. And another half won’t survive the second year. What was the world population before this mess started?”

  “Somewhere in the neighborhood of seven billion.” Lauren pauses to do the math in her head. “Oh my God, that means that as many as six billion people will be dead by year two. Is that really possible?”

  “We won’t ever know for sure, but a variety of scenarios we ran predicted similar results.”

  Lauren turns to stare out the side window. After several moments of silence, she turns to look at McDowell. “Why did it happen, Stan?”

  “Don’t know. Could have been a simple mistake that started everything, or maybe someone hacked a system they weren’t supposed to hack.”

  “I thought all of those networks were secure.”

  “Nothing is secure. If something is operated by a computer, it’s vulnerable whether connected to the Internet or not. Secure networks do not exist.”

  “I read something about the Chinese and Russians being on our power grids,” Lauren says.

  “They are, or were, but we infiltrated their systems, too. No one is innocent in any of this.”

  Lauren reaches forward and cranks the passenger window down a smidge. “How do we survive?”

  “We take it day by day and do the best we can. There’ll be a bunch of people die off over the next month or two from radiation poisoning. Sad, but it means fewer mouths to feed.”

  Lauren turns to stare at him. “That’s rather cold, isn’t it?”

  McDowell shrugs. “There’s absolutely nothing that can be done to help them now.”

  She turns to stare out the side window for the next mile. Eventually, she turns back to McDowell. “I haven’t seen many birds or other wildlife. You’d think this place would be littered with deer.”

  “Most of them are probably dead from radiation poisoning, either by direct exposure or by eating contaminated food. Hopefully, a few pockets of wildlife survived, but it could take years to repopulate. And that’s if someone doesn’t kill any that are left. If that happens, we’ll either have to find a way to fish the oceans or face extermination.”

  A tear leaks out of the corner of Lauren’s eye. “If the prognosis is really that grim, what are we doing?”

  “The only thing we can do. Surviving.”

  CHAPTER 55

  Memphis

  Zane is working overtime to keep the pain at bay. He and Alyx switched positions and Alyx is now behind the wheel as they cruise back through town in search of medical supplies. The going slows as they near the downtown area. Ahead, three lanes of abandoned cars are waiting for a stoplight that won’t be functioning again anytime soon. Alyx detours down a neighborhood street to avoid the clogged intersection. Even a week ago the neighborhood would have been considered seedy, and it’s even more so today. Several of the homes have been torched, and Zane stops counting dead bodies after six.

  “Can we get out of this neighborhood, please?” Zane asks.

  “I’m trying.”

  “Where the hell are we going, anyway?”

  “There’s a complex of hospitals near the interstate. Thought we’d check it out.” At the next intersection, Alyx turns onto a main thoroughfare that cuts through a dilapidated commercial area. They pass a rickety strip mall featuring a massage parlor, a nail care salon, a used furniture store, and a piercing and tattoo place.

  “Too bad they’re not open,” Zane says, pointing toward a piercing shop. “I was thinking about getting my nipples pierced.”

  “You’ve already had something pierced today. I think that’s enough fun.”

  Zane grimaces at the mention of his leg. “Party pooper.”

  Alyx switches hands on the wheel and reaches over to take his hand. “How’s the pain?”

  “Tolerable. I’m more worried about an infection. And the nightmares to come.”

  “Nightmares?”

  “Yep. A dog bit me when I was seven. A Doberman. Wasn’t a terrible bite, just my hand, but, jeez, did I have some nightmares. I’d wake up in a sweat thinking a dog was chasing me. That’s why I nearly pissed my pants when I heard that pit bull growl. But his biting days are over.” Zane cracks the window open. “It makes me wonder what happens when all of these stray dogs get a taste for humans? Think we’ll become a delicacy?”

  Alyx shudders. “I sure as hell hope not. Sorry, I couldn’t pull the trigger. I knew the dog was no good.”

  “If you can’t shoot a dog, will you be able to shoot a person if we get in a jam?”

  “I think if our lives are threatened, I could. It’s us or them, right?”

  “Exactly. Any hesitation could be fatal for us.”

  Alyx makes another turn and the growing profusion of medical buildings suggests they’re in the right place. “That’s why I prefer you handle the shotgun.” She pulls up into the parking lot of what used to be University Hospital. The parking lot is scattered with hospital gowns, hospital beds, and dead bodies. “This is not going to work,” she says, turning to exit the lot.

  “Drive around a bit. Maybe we’ll spot another place. Everything around here has already been ransacked.”

  Six blocks square, the area is an amalgam of hospitals, physician’s offices, and modestly priced hotels that once played host to patients’ families. “Wait a minute,” Alyx says, “I’ve been here before.”

  “Here, where?”

  “I’ve been on this street before. One of my friends from undergrad has an office somewhere around here. I met her a few times for lunch on my way through.”

  “I don’t think a lunch meeting is in the works for today,” Zane says.

  “No, but her office might have exactly what we need.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s an OB doc. And her husband, Christopher, is a pediatrician. They’re like the perfect before-and-after team.”

  Zane chuckles. “I bet they end up working some funky hours. Can you remember where her office is?”

  “Somewhere around here. I remember the office was tucked away in the corner of a strip mall.” Alyx steers the pickup into a parking lot and drives slowly along the storefronts. Most of the stores are what you’d expect them to be: a uniform shop, a medical supply store, an outpatient therapy center, and, all the way in the back they spot a sign stenciled on the glass: SARAH MICHAELS OBSTETRICIAN/GYNECOLOGIST. “There it is,” Alyx says, easing the truck to a stop.

  “The office appears to be intact. I guess prenatal vitamins aren’t high on the list of street drugs. Now what? Break the glass and go in?”

  “I hate to break in.”

  “I suppose we could camp out for a week or two in hopes she eventually shows up.”

  Alyx scowls. “Smartass. Let’s drive around back. Maybe the rear door is unlocked.” Alyx takes her foot off the brake and eases the truck around the building. There’s nothing on the doors to indicate which business they belong to, but if the doors correspond to the configuration of the façade, the last door on the left would belong to Sarah Michaels, MD. Alyx confirms Zane’s speculations. “That’s her car, there,” Alyx says, pointing toward an older red Mercedes convertible.

  “Think she’s inside?”

  “I doubt it. My bet is her car wouldn’t start.” Alyx pulls up next
to the Mercedes and kills the engine. “I guess we can knock to see if she’s here.”

  “And if there’s no answer?”

  Alyx sighs. “I guess we break in.”

  Zane cracks the breech on the shotgun to make sure it’s loaded before pushing the door open and climbing gingerly from the cab. He hobbles toward the door and Alyx climbs out to meet him. He rattles the doorknob and finds it’s locked. Not only is the knob locked, but the steel door is outfitted with dead bolts at the top and bottom of the door. “She store gold in the office?” Zane asks.

  Before Alyx can answer, a gunshot shatters the silence and a chip of concrete, a foot above their head, flies into the air. They turn in unison to find a woman crouched in a shooter’s stance forty feet away. Zane leans over and places the shotgun on the ground and he and Alyx reach for the sky. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the woman shouts.

  Alyx lowers her arms.

  “Hands up, bitch,” the woman says, walking slowly forward, the gun never wavering.

  “Sarah, it’s me, Alyx. Alyx Reed.”

  Sarah moves closer, the gun steady in her hands. At the ten-foot mark, she takes a long look at Alyx and lowers her weapon, rushing in to give Alyx a hug. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  “We dropped by for lunch,” Alyx says, stepping away from the embrace, both women chuckling.

  Assuming he’s safe, Zane lowers his hands and takes stock of Sarah Michaels. She’s lithe and lean and nearly a head shorter than Alyx. Her dark hair is cut in a fashionable bob and, when she turns to face Zane, he’s instantly mesmerized by her sea green eyes.

  “And who is this handsome man?” Sarah asks. “Another in a long line of boyfriends?”

  Alyx playfully slugs her friend in the arm. “Sarah, this is Zane Miller. Boyfriend status yet to be determined.”

  Sarah holsters her pistol and shakes Zane’s hand. “If I wasn’t married with two kids, I’d steal you away from Alyx. Lord knows she owes me.” Sarah gives his hand a final squeeze and breaks the grasp. Zane bends over to retrieve the shotgun as Sarah digs out her keys. “What are you doing here, Alyx?”

  “Zane battled a pit bull and lost. His leg needs stitches.”

  “And if I hadn’t happened along?”

  “Undecided,” Alyx answers, smiling. She quickly changes the subject. “Why are you coming to the office?”

  Sarah unlocks the door and removes a small flashlight from her back pocket. “I still see some of my pregnant patients out of my home and I need to restock some supplies.” She opens the door and all three enter and Sarah relocks the door.

  CHAPTER 56

  North Atlantic Ocean

  After a rotating lunch of chicken soup that was 99 percent water, the crew of the USS New York is back on station. There have been some grumbles about the food situation, but everyone is aware of what happened at Ponta Delgada. The video of torpedoing the Portuguese frigate played on a loop until Captain Thompson got tired of seeing it. Back on the bridge, the captain is joined by Carlos Garcia. “Think we should deploy the communication buoy, Carlos? See if we can make radio contact with someone?”

  “I don’t know, Bull. We towed the damn thing for hours on the way to Ponta Delgada and never heard a blip.” Garcia glances at his watch. “It’ll be dark in a few hours. Might be best to wait till then. You really think we’ll make radio contact with someone?”

  “Who knows? We can’t be the only boat left. Be nice to hook up with a surface ship and take on some supplies. We’re still five days from Bermuda and tonight’s soup wasn’t the most filling meal I’ve ever had.”

  “It’s generous to call it soup. What happens if we do make contact and it turns out it’s a Russian warship?”

  “Don’t know. We have no idea if we’re still at war or even who’s left to fight. I didn’t pay close attention to the targeting package for our missiles, but I’d have to think Russia was absolutely decimated. Probably the same applies for our country. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing to communicate with a Russian ship.”

  “And what happens if they pinpoint our location and send a torpedo up our ass? I think it’s best if we continue to believe we’re at war, Bull.”

  “We need food. We have no idea how much longer we’ll be at sea. My bet is there isn’t a port left on the East Coast. Hell, the same probably applies to the West Coast, for that matter. And I can guarantee you Pearl Harbor has been obliterated. Our only hope might be docking in the U.S. Virgin Islands if they still exist. If that’s the case, that’ll add two or three days to our journey.”

  “Are we going for a look-see at Kings Bay?”

  “We’ll go for a look, but I’m not holding out much hope. That would have been a primary target for sure.”

  Garcia winces. “Think they bombed Jacksonville?”

  Knowing that’s where Carlos’s wife and children are living, Thompson is hesitant to answer. After several moments of silence, he does. “I bet they hit the naval air station, but I have no idea if they hit the urban parts of the city. The town is protected somewhat by the St. Johns River and might have been spared from the wildfires. As for radiation, it all depends on the wind conditions.”

  “Many of the crew’s families also live in and around Jacksonville. Think we could take a peek while we’re in the area?”

  “Absolutely. But we’ve got a lot of ground to cover before then.”

  “Karen and the kids still in Savannah?” Garcia asks

  “They left for a week at Myrtle Beach two days before we launched our weapons. A last blowout before the twins start their senior year of high school.” Thompson pauses, tears glistening in his eyes. After another moment, he blows out a deep breath. “I haven’t wanted to think about them, yet I find myself doing just that when my mind is not occupied with submarine matters. I have no idea if they’re still alive or, if they are, whether we’ll ever see each other—”

  “Surface contact, sir,” Sonar Technician Adams says. “Bearing two-nine-two degrees, distance thirty-two miles and closing.”

  Captain Thompson pushes out of his chair. “Conn, all stop.” He steps over to sonar control. “Signature?”

  “Working on it, sir.”

  “Q, depth?”

  “We’re sitting at three hundred eighty feet, Skipper.”

  “Roger,” Thompson says. “Carlos, have wepps load tubes one and two.”

  As the order to load the tubes with torpedoes is passed on, the captain taps his foot, waiting for the sonar technician to identify the ship.

  “Sir, screw signature suggests the ship is a Russian destroyer.”

  “Goddammit,” Thompson mutters under his breath. “Conn, sound a silent general alarm. Battle stations, torpedo.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Iowa–Minnesota state line

  McDowell eases the truck to a stop straddling the state line of Minnesota and Iowa. McDowell wonders why someone hasn’t a built a house here. A person could wake up in Minnesota and walk into Iowa for a cup of coffee from the kitchen. He smiles at the thought as he climbs out of the truck and informs the students it’ll be cold lunch, not wanting to take the time to build a fire. A few grumble but he ignores them.

  “We’re making good time,” Melissa says.

  McDowell steps away from the back of the truck to get out of earshot from the kids and Melissa follows. “For now. Things will change as we head farther south.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “More military installations. There’s a big National Guard base just outside of Des Moines. From there things go downhill. I expect most of Nebraska will be a burned-out wasteland. You have the missile silos out West and a large Air Force base to the east that’s home to the U.S. Strategic Command. With little but farm country in between, the firestorms most likely scoured most of the state.”

  “How long until we hit Texas?”

  “Unknown. During normal times, a day and a half. Now? I have no idea. We’ll have to skirt around Kansas City b
ecause of a military base, but once we hit Kansas it should be pretty easy traveling until we get to Oklahoma City.”

  “So we stretch it to three days. Think that’s doable?”

  McDowell wipes his brow and sighs. “A day at a time, Melissa. That’s all I can say.” McDowell turns and walks back to the truck. The students refuse to touch the Spam or Vienna sausages, so he grabs a can of Spam and pops the top. The ensuing aroma almost kills his appetite, but he grabs a fork, wipes it clean on his pant leg, and digs in. As he munches, he walks around the truck to make sure all the tires are holding up. Everything appears fine, and he polishes off the last of his lunch and puts the can in the trash bag the students had brought along. God forbid they should litter. He rounds everyone up and climbs behind the wheel. Melissa retakes the shotgun seat, and McDowell is surprised at his disappointment. He shifts the truck into gear and eases out on the clutch.

  After a couple of miles of silence, Melissa says, “Are you okay after last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Three. The same three we met earlier in the day. I guess they circled back to follow us.”

  “What did they want?”

  McDowell glances her way. “What do you think?”

  Melissa shudders. “The girls. Or some of the girls.”

  McDowell nods. They ride in silence for a few more miles. The landscape begins to change the deeper they travel into Iowa, the green giving way to black, the land singed by wildfires. They pass mile after mile of burned fields and the occasional remnants of charred houses, none spaced less than a half a mile apart. They travel past a family camped out in the front yard, the home a pile of bricks beyond.

  It’s not until they arrive at the outskirts of Clear Lake that the devastation hits home. Clear Lake looks to have been a fairly good-sized town, judging by the number of city streets. That’s the only way to judge because not a single structure remains. McDowell slows to veer around a semi and spots a group digging through the ruins of a building next to the highway. Their bodies are coated with soot, their movements lethargic.