Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

McDowell bends his leg and props his foot against the wall.

“A lot of luck. Minnesota is one of the few states that lacks a sizable military installation. Now extrapolate what I said about those other airports and expand it to the rest of the country. The Deep South is littered with military installations as are Texas, Oklahoma, and most of the West. Add in the missile silos in the Dakotas and Wyoming and there’s a high likelihood a vast portion of this country has been destroyed.”

“But there’ll still be pockets of people.”

“Most likely. Probably even in Lubbock if the wildfires didn’t scour the area. But back to your original question, the only option for making it back home to Lubbock is to walk.”

“It’s over a thousand miles. Do you foresee two teachers and seventeen teenagers ever making it that far? I sure as hell don’t.”

McDowell ponders her question for a moment. “I’m itching to get out of here, too.” He pauses, considering his options. After a few moments, he says, “I’m based out of Dallas and I’ll accompany your group to the Texas-Oklahoma border where we can split up and go our separate ways.”

“You’d do that?” Lauren asks.

“We’re at the end of the line here. Between now and when we leave, have your kids hoard anything that’ll hold water. I’m going to see if one of the policemen will let me take one of their shotguns and some ammo.”

Lauren steps in to give him a hug. “Thank you. When are we leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning would be best. Are there any atlases in the bookstore?”

“I don’t think so, but I’ll look. What are we going to do for food?”

“We’re going to ration everything left in the storeroom this evening. We’ll have to stretch it as far as we can until we can find some game along the way. And, Lauren, I’d prefer you not tell the children before later tonight. Be best if we could sneak away without creating an uproar.”

“Of course. I’ll tell them later tonight. That’ll give them time to pack a few of their things. I assume we want to travel light?”

“Yes—one extra outfit and one additional pair of shoes for everyone. Oh, and a jacket if they have one. Everything else gets left behind. We’ll pile our food and water supplies into a couple of empty suitcases.”

“Are we tilting at windmills?” Lauren asks.

“We won’t know the answer to that until we hit the road.”

Saddle Rock, Long Island, New York

The West Shore Hospital is choked with people, and patients are packed six to a room designed for two. Any hopes of patient privacy lasted all of about thirty minutes after the bombs rained down on Manhattan. Tucked into one corner of a room on the third floor is ten-year-old Sophia Dixon. For a week her parents have been by her bedside as the ventilator pumps, breathing life into her small body. Outside when a nuclear bomb airburst over Queens, Sophia is now suffering from radiation burns, and her lungs are scarred from the heat of the blast. And she’s just one of the hundreds in this one hospital.

Today, Emma Dixon, her mother, is snuggled up in bed with Sophia, quietly reading The Hunger Games while stroking her unconscious daughter’s hand. She and her husband started rotating shifts to allow them to spend more time with Tanner, their twelve-year-old son. Their home damaged in the attack, the family has been camping in the basement of the local YMCA. Luckily for most on Long Island, the atmospheric winds pushed most of the toxic radiation north and the firestorms that erupted over Manhattan failed to make a jump across the bay.

Emma’s favorite nurse, Latreece, a transplant from Kingston, Jamaica, comes striding into the room, a grim expression on her face. She bypasses the other five patients and makes a beeline for Sophia’s bed. “Ms. Dixon, Dr. Bhatia would like a word with you in his office.”

Emma slides off the bed and pulls the covers up to Sophia’s chin. Tall and thin, Emma’s short, dark hair is matted from lying on the bed. “Do you know what he wants to talk to me about?”

Normally chatty, Latreece is now demure, failing to meet Emma’s eyes. In fact, Latreece’s dark, cherub face doesn’t drift much above her shoes “No, ma’am, I truly don’t. I do know he’s had several other members from other families in and out of his office most of the day.”

“I wonder if it’s a problem with the insurance? Oh, wait, that can’t be it. I don’t think they can even process a claim. It’s not the backup generators, is it? Or maybe they’re going to move her to another floor,” Emma says, rambling on to avoid thinking about the upcoming conversation with Sophia’s doctor.

Latreece refuses to engage and says, “If you’ll follow me, please, I’ll take you to his office.”

The way the nurse is acting, so out of character, has the hairs standing up at the nape of Emma’s neck. She wishes she could call her husband, Brad, but there’s not a phone within 4,000 miles that still functions—cell or landline. She wrings her hands as she falls in behind Latreece. They take the stairs down a floor and the nurse leads her to a nondescript office and opens the door, still refusing to meet Emma’s gaze. “Have a seat, Ms. Dixon.”

“Will you check on Sophia while I’m down here?” Emma asks.

“I will. The doctor will be with you in a moment.” Latreece pulls the door closed, leaving Emma alone with her thoughts. Her brain clicks through possible reasons for this meeting and her blood pressure rises with each scenario that plays through her mind. She picks up a magazine six months out of date and immediately places it back on the table. Emma stands and begins to pace. The room is small and after three trips around the perimeter, she stops and leans against the wall.

A blood-curdling wail pierces the silence, startling Emma. She walks over to the outer door and opens it for a peek down the corridor and doesn’t see anyone in despair. It’s then she hears the deep sobbing coming from within Dr. Bhatia’s office. Shortly thereafter a young couple, dazed and bereft with grief, exit, the man carrying most of the woman’s weight as she leans into him, hands covering her mouth.

Dr. Bhatia, a short, thin-framed man, steps out of his office. “Ms. Dixon, please come in.” He stands aside as Emma enters the office, closing the door behind her. He waves to a pair of chairs fronting his desk. “Please, have a seat.” Though the doctor left his homeland, his heavy Indian accent accompanied him to this country.

Emma looks at the chairs and thinks, momentarily, about turning around and leaving. “I’ll stand.”

The doctor pulls out his chair and sits, crossing one leg over the other. “As you wish.” After straightening his tie, he gets to the heart of the matter. “Ms. Dixon, we knew upon admission that Sophia’s prognosis was not good. Since her admission date there has been no improvement in her—”

Emma holds up a hand. When she speaks, her voice is filled with venom. “Stop right there, asshole. You are not removing my baby from that ventilator.”

Taken aback, Dr. Bhatia is momentarily stunned. “Ms. Dixon, I do not appreciate your language. I understand you are upset, but we must be reasonable about this matter.”

“Fuck reason. Sophia is my child.” She stabs her chest with a thumb. “Mine.”

Bhatia uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his chair. “You must understand, Ms. Dixon, the hospital has a very limited supply of critical medical equipment. There are other, more viable, patients in need of ventilators.”

“More viable? You summon me to your office without the courtesy of including my husband to discuss the viability of my daughter’s life? What kind of monster are you?”