by Tim Washburn
The kids are slumped in the chairs surrounding the conference table. “Gang, if any of you need to go to the bathroom you may. But stay close to the building. Lauren and Melissa, may I speak to you for a moment?”
Lauren and Melissa follow McDowell into one of the other offices. He takes a deep breath and turns to face them. “Hannah is dead.”
Lauren sags and has to catch herself on one of the chairs. She shuffles around to the front and sits. “What happened?”
“There’s no easy way to say this, but it appears she was raped and strangled.”
Melissa shuffles to the other chair and collapses into it, tears streaming down her cheeks. “What are we . . . going to do? How are we going . . . to tell her parents?” She glances up at McDowell. “Who . . . who did it?”
“Unknown. There’s a residential area on the other side of the greenbelt. If she was out waving around a flashlight, the killer could have spotted her from over there. The odds of finding the murderer are long and it would be an arduous task that could stretch on for days.”
“Can we go to the police?” Lauren asks, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
“I’m not sure a cohesive police unit still exists this deep into the crisis. Most have probably drifted off to rejoin their families. Crime, even one as heinous as this, would be far down their list of worries.”
Melissa palms the tears from her cheeks. “So, what should we do?”
The question hangs in the air for a moment.
McDowell pulls the chair from under the desk and sits. “The way I see it, we have two choices: bury Hannah here, or take her body with us to deliver to her family.”
Lauren winces at the mention of Hannah’s family. “God, I don’t know what we’re going to tell her family. She was our responsibility.”
“When you planned the trip you had zero chance of predicting the current situation. You two are going well beyond what was ever expected of you,” McDowell says. “In the end, Hannah shouldn’t have gone outside alone.”
Lauren sniffles. “But still. I should have kept a better eye on her.”
“You can’t watch them twenty-four/seven. At some point they have to take some responsibility,” McDowell says. “So, back to the body. I hate to be brusque about the matter, but we need to make a decision. Take her or bury Hannah here?”
Lauren wipes her nose. “Riding around with Hannah’s body seems ghoulish, especially with a group of curious teenagers.”
“Speaking of the teenagers,” Melissa says, pulling a tissue from the box on the desk. “What are we going to tell them?”
“I think we have to tell them the truth,” Lauren replies. “Not all the details of how she was killed, only the fact that she was murdered.” She glances at McDowell. “If we bury her here, can we do some type of service that would include the students?”
“Of course,” McDowell replies. “I need you two to scour the offices for some type of blanket to wrap Hannah’s body in. We have a shovel from the sign shop, but it’s probably going to take me a couple of hours to dig the grave. We’ll bury her in a small neighborhood park three blocks east of here.” McDowell pushes out of the chair. “I’ll return to lead you back to the grave.” He picks up the shotgun and hands it to Lauren. “When the kids are finished using the bathroom, I want all of you to remain indoors. We know there’s at least one killer out there.” McDowell pauses for a moment to let the statement sink in. “Lauren, you know how to handle that shotgun?”
“Yes. Pump and shoot, right?”
“Yes. And if someone tries to force their way inside, it’s shoot first and ask questions later. Can you handle that?”
Lauren nods.
McDowell digs the truck keys out of his pocket and hands them to Lauren. “There are extra shells in the glove box. I’m taking the pistol, but if anything happens to me, you get those kids on board and haul ass.”
CHAPTER 75
Hayti
During the night, the mosquitoes drove Zane and Alyx into the cab. Lying side by side on the bench seat, Zane stirs awake and sits up. Who knew mosquitoes could survive a nuclear war? Zane wonders as he pushes open the door and climbs out to empty his bladder. His urine is dark and his usual steady stream is a dribble. The water situation is now critical. He walks over and grabs his still-damp clothing and tugs on his jeans and shirt, envious that Alyx’s clothes are dry because she was too busy to wash them out last night. In the daylight, the water looks clear, but with the high number of agricultural fields surrounding the river, there’s no telling how much pesticide or fertilizer has been washed into the stream. He bends down and scoops up a handful of water and takes a sniff. The water smells fine and he gives it a taste. There is no chemical taste and no nasty aftertaste. But getting the runs could be a fatal illness in the current climate.
The door squeals and he turns to see Alyx climb down from the cab. She moves around to the front of the truck and squats. Zane chuckles at her modesty. Alyx stands, pulls up her pants, and saunters down to where he’s standing. The flip-flops she had on the day they left Fort Meade are now more flop than flip.
“We need to find you some new shoes.”
“Sure, we’ll pick up a cheap pair at Target when we stop for groceries. Is the water fit to drink?”
“It tastes okay, but I’m not sure we should risk it.”
Alyx brushes her hair out of her face. The color is beginning to lighten, transitioning back to her more natural brunette. And the left side of her head that had been shaved close to the skull is filling out. Zane zeros in on her delicate collarbones as they rise and fall with each breath.
“What in the hell are you looking at?” Alyx asks.
“Your collarbones.”
“Well, hell. You keep that thing in your pants. We need to worry about finding water.”
“With all these fields around here, you’d think we’d find a windmill pumping water.”
“Maybe we will now that it’s daylight. I don’t want to risk getting sick by drinking that water. Besides, we have no idea if it’s contaminated with radiation. We need to find an underground source.”
“What if we boiled some of this water?” Zane asks.
“Two problems with that. We don’t have any way to start a fire or anything to boil the water in. We should have taken some pans and a lighter from that house with the dead couple.”
“If I recall correctly, we kind of left in a hurry. But, hey, they start fires all the time on Survivor.”
Alyx laughs. “I must have missed that season. Were you on the show?”
“Well, no. But how hard can it be?”
Alyx turns and starts walking back to the truck. “C’mon, Mr. Survivor. Let’s get the hell out of here. Maybe we’ll find one of your windmills.”
They climb in the truck and Zane eases the pickup up the hill and makes a right onto the main road. Four miles farther on they come to another small town. Zane skirts around the town and picks up a highway running at a diagonal, leading them toward the south-west. It’s more of the same on this side of town—fields for as far as the eye can see with homes spaced miles apart. Zane slows when they pass the houses, hoping to find a place that looks unoccupied. Most of the homes are set close to the road and are dwarfed by the barns and grain silos that sprout up like weeds. The clutter of farming trucks and tractors makes it extremely difficult to determine if a home is vacant or not. A mile farther on, he spots a secluded home that’s well off the road and devoid of farm clutter. He slows to a stop.
“See any cars?” Zane asks.
“No, but that doesn’t necessarily mean no one’s home. Maybe the car died in town and they walked home.”
“Hadn’t thought of that.” Zane gooses the gas, and Old Goldie picks up speed. After another two miles, Zane groans when they pass a sign welcoming them to Arkansas. “Looks like we’re back in the land of crazies.” In the distance Zane spots what he’s been looking for—a windmill. He eases up the road and coasts to a stop at the head
of the gravel drive leading to a small home. The drive is vacant and the windmill is positioned off to the side of the house, the blades turning lazily in the morning breeze. A hose runs away from the base of the windmill and ends in a galvanized stock tank on the other side of a barbwire fence. About a hundred yards behind the house is a barn that was in desperate need of repair twenty years ago. “What do you think?”
“I think we don’t have a choice.”
Zane turns into the driveway and steers around behind the house, putting the truck in park. They take a moment to study the area. No one has charged out of the house, but Zane’s hand doesn’t stray far from the shifter or the shotgun. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”
“Either that or they’re waiting to shoot us when we get out of the truck.”
Zane scowls. “You’re a pessimist. I can’t see any movement through the windows. My bet is the place is vacant.”
Alyx begins gathering up the empty water bottles. “How do you want to do this?”
“Do you think I should pull up closer to the windmill?”
“I’d rather the truck remain hidden.”
“Okay, I’ll cover you with the shotgun while you refill the bottles.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
They open the doors and spill out of the truck. Zane takes up a position where he can see both the house and the windmill and crosses the shotgun across his chest and waits, sweeping his gaze back and forth. Alyx removes the hose from the stock tank and lets the water run for a few seconds to clear the line. She takes a tentative sip, ponders the taste for a moment, then takes a much longer drink. Once her thirst is quenched she begins filling the bottles. She glances up and shouts, “Zane!”
Zane whirls around and brings the shotgun to bear on an older man exiting the side door of the barn. He’s carrying a pistol low to his side and he’s limping badly. He raises his free hand in greeting. Not sure of his intentions, Zane keeps the shotgun barrel centered on the man’s chest as he approaches. “I’m not gonna hurt ya,” the man says.
“How about putting that pistol away, then.”
The man shrugs and tucks the pistol into a pocket. “Where you folks from?” The man is dressed in tattered overalls and no shirt, his gray chest hair is peeking over the top of the bib.
The man seems friendly enough and Zane lowers the barrel a few inches.
“We’re originally from the Washington, D.C., area.”
“I bet that’s a real shithole,” the man says, coming to a stop ten feet away. “Name’s Roger. Roger Webb. Who you be?”
“I’m Zane and the woman filling the water bottles is Alyx. This your place?”
“This here’s my castle. Been here goin’ on thirty years.”
“The house looked unoccupied. I hope you don’t mind us taking some of your water.”
“You have somethin’ to trade?”
Zane’s brain replays the images from the roadblock. And here we are in Arkansas, again. “The woman, Alyx, is not available.”
The man laughs, displaying a mouthful of rotted teeth. “Hell, young un, I ain’t been able to get it up since I got Roto-Rootered ’bout twenty years ago.”
Zane expels a sigh of relief. “Why are you limping?”
Webb pulls up his pant leg to reveal a nasty pus-filled gash running the length of his calf. “Got hung up on a gotdamn barbwire fence near ’bout a week ago.” He turns back toward the barn and waves a hand.
Zane lifts the shotgun, preparing for the worst.
The man laughs again. “It’s just my wife. You’s a jumpy fellow, ain’t you?”
“It pays to be jumpy.”
An older, mousy gray–haired woman sticks her head out of the barn for a look before tentatively stepping out. She, too, is dressed in overalls, but unlike her husband, she’s wearing an old grimy T-shirt. “That there’s Dolores. We been married goin’ on ’bout forty years.” He glances over his shoulder. “C’mon, hon.”
“Anyone else in the barn?” Zane asks.
“Nope, just us. Too damn hot in the house. It’s a might cooler in the barn if you don’t mind fightin’ the skeeters.”
Dolores comes to a stop next to her husband. “Hi, ma’am. I’m Zane and my friend at the well is Alyx.”
“She’s mighty pretty. She belong to you?” Dolores asks.
“That’s undecided, ma’am.”
“If’n I were you, I’d latch on to that pretty gal while I could.”
“I think you’re right, ma’am. I have some antibiotics I’ll give you, Roger, to clear up that infection in your leg.”
“Mighty nice of ya. I’d ’preciate it.”
Zane ponders the situation for a moment “You’re not going to shoot us, are you, Roger?”
“Why’d I want to shoot ya?”
Zane places the shotgun on the top of the cab as Alyx returns, her outstretched shirt filled with full water bottles. “Alyx, these nice folks are Roger and Dolores Webb.”
Alyx nods at the couple. “Nice to meet you two. Thanks for letting us take some water. I’m sorry we didn’t ask before taking it.”
“Don’t worry your pretty noggin ’bout it,” Roger says.
Alyx dumps her load into the truck, grabs the remainder of the empty bottles, and returns to the windmill.
“Roger, you hear any news?” Zane asks.
“Nope. Ain’t nobody around here knows what the hell’s goin’ on.”
“I think it’s the same for everyone,” Zane says. “We may never know exactly what happened. Your home is fairly close to the road. Have you had any trouble?”
“Jes one time. I kilt a couple of fellers on the fourth . . . No, that ain’t right.” Roger turns to his wife. “Hon, what day was’t?”
“I think it was day six.” She looks at Zane. “I been tryin’ to keep track of the days on the calendar we got from the feed store.”
Alyx returns with the last of the water bottles and dumps them in the truck.
“You folks hungry?” Dolores asks.
Zane and Alyx share a glance, both wondering if this is too good to be true. “Yes, we are,” Alyx says.
“Roger kilt a turkey this mornin’. We got it roasting over the fire. ’Bout done, too.”
Zane’s mouth is watering. “You don’t mind sharing?”
“No, siree. The meat’ll spoil before we can finish it. ’Sides, we ain’t had no company since this whole mess started.”
Zane glances at Alyx again. She nods. “Okay, we’d love some turkey.”
“C’mon back to the barn,” Roger says.
Zane stares at the shotgun on top of the truck. His usually sharp instincts are muted by hunger. Take the shotgun, or don’t?
As if reading his mind, Alyx says, “Zane why don’t you put the shotgun in the truck and get this nice couple some antibiotics?”
Zane nods. He slides the shogun onto the truck seat and pulls out the bag of medicines. He grabs enough for two courses of antibiotics and shoves the sack back under the seat. He and Alyx walk hand in hand to the barn.
After an hour of visiting and eating their fill, Alyx and Zane say their good-byes. Carrying a bag of leftovers, they climb into the truck and steer back onto the road. Alyx brushes the hair from her face. “I think those two restored my belief that humanity still exists.”
“I agree. But we’re still a long way from home.”
CHAPTER 76
North Atlantic
After breakfast for both crews, those on the ballistic missile submarine are back aboard and hard at work. Overnight, radio technicians from both ships worked to restore a rudimentary radio link, allowing the two ships the ability to communicate. But Thompson plans on using it sparingly, if at all. Once the last of the supplies is transferred from the USS Grant, Thompson and Garcia say farewell to their friend Murphy, and the lines connecting the two ships are freed. Thompson and Garcia make their way down the main hatch and back to the bridge. After several moments, the last of the sailors are back a
board and the main hatch is sealed.
“Mr. Patterson, set a course for Myrtle Beach,” Thompson orders. “Q, take us down to two-zero-zero.”
The dive alarm sounds as the dive officer monitors the movement of seawater into the ballast tanks as the submarine slips beneath the surface. “All ahead two-thirds,” Thompson orders. “Conn, I want you to match speeds with Grant when she’s under way.”
When Thompson receives confirmation of his orders, he steps over to the navigation station. “Distance to Myrtle Beach?”
Patterson looks up from his computer screen. “Eight hundred ninety-four nautical miles, sir.”
The captain does the math in his head. “Somewhere around thirty-eight hours?”
“Yes, sir, if we maintain twenty knots.”
“Let’s hope Grant can run at that speed without burning through too much fuel,” Thompson says before turning away. He steps over to Garcia. “Think Murph can maintain twenty knots?”
“It’ll be a chore if he’s aiming to save fuel.”
“Captain,” Adams says, “I have a new contact. A surface ship one hundred thirteen miles out.”
“One of ours?” Thompson asks.
“No, definitely not one of ours. I’m running the screw signature through the computer.”
“Is the propeller signature similar to the previous Russian ship?”
“Negative, Skipper.” Adams scrolls through the computer results. “It appears to be a Chinese destroyer, sir.”