Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

Once back inside, Zane opens every window in the small house and props the front door open for the flies to escape. Alyx is scrounging for candles and finds some, which she lights. “Time to take stock of the situation,” she says, opening cabinet doors. After enduring the stench of the dead bodies, the dead refrigerator remains closed.

In a small pantry, Alyx finds a loaf of moldy bread and then gives a small shout of joy when she discovers a good number of canned goods. There are soups, several tins of Spam and Vienna sausages, along with cans of corn, beans, green beans, and snow peas. She passes a can of the sausages to Zane and he pops the top and peels back the lid. He’s hungry, but not so hungry to plunge his filthy hands into the container. After opening four drawers, he finds the forks and tosses one on the counter for Alyx and digs in. No, it’s not a juicy fillet, but when you haven’t eaten for two days it almost tastes like one.

Alyx opens a can of Spam, grabs the fork, and takes a seat on the sofa. Zane polishes off the first can, grabs another, and follows, sagging onto the couch and propping his feet up on the coffee table. The pistol digs into his side and he pulls it out and places it on the table. “We’ll do a more thorough search in the morning. But, judging from the age of the house, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a root cellar. If we’re lucky, it’ll be loaded with food.”

Alyx finishes her Spam, grabs one of the three remaining bottles of water, and takes a swig before passing it on to Zane. “We have two bottles of water left. Hopefully, we can find a water source around here.” Alyx stands and returns to the kitchen for more food and comes back with her own can of Vienna sausages. She spears one and plops it into her mouth before sitting. “How long we going to stay?” she asks around a mouthful of sausage.

“A few days, hopefully.” He points to the pistol. “At least we now have a weapon.”

Saddle Rock

Emma Dixon has no recollection of how long she’s been sitting on the bench in the hospital’s rose garden. Dusk has descended and when Emma stirs from her reverie the ember of rage burning in her gut reignites. She struggles to her feet as her brain clicks through the various ways to inflict pain on Dr. Bhatia. “How dare you,” she mutters as she shuffles down the street toward the local YMCA. Two blocks down, she cuts over a block, now within in shouting distance of the location.

Her husband, Brad, usually spells her for the night shift to allow her to spend some time with their son, Tanner. As she nears the Y, her husband steps through the front door and approaches. “I was just coming to relieve you,” he says.

Emma zombie-walks forward, collapsing against her husband’s chest. “They… killed… her… Brad,” she says between sobs.

“Who?” he asks, wrapping her in his arms.

“That asshole Bhatia!” she shouts. “He… he called… me into his… office… and when… I… went… back… to… Sophia’s… room… she… was… gone.” Her sadness veers to anger and she begins pummeling Brad’s chest with her fists.

Brad pulls her closer, trapping her flailing arms against his body.

Her flash of anger subsides almost as quickly as it began and the sobs return, racking her body. “Then the bastards… escorted me out… of the… hospital… like I was… a piece… a piece… of… garbage.”

Brad Dixon holds his wife as tears drip down his face, wetting his wife’s hair. They sob for several moments and then Brad dries his eyes and says, softly, “Maybe she just slipped away.”

Emma wriggles out of his grasp, the anger returning. “No, Brad. She didn’t slip away. They killed her.”

“Why? What possible motive would they have?”

“For the fucking ventilator.” She places her balled fists on her hips. “They need them for other, more viable , patients. That’s what that asshole Bhatia told me.”

Brad, his eyes downcast, says, “We knew the possibilities for Sophia—”

Emma presses in and gives him a hard shove. “Don’t you do it. Don’t you take up for that son of a bitch.” She brushes past her husband and hurries toward the entrance.

“Where are you going?” Brad shouts after her.

She stops and whirls around. “To fix it.” She turns back and disappears inside.

It hits Brad then, what she has in mind. He races to the entrance, ducks inside, and hurries down the corridor, taking the steps to the basement two at a time. The place is jammed with people, and Brad plows through the crowd, heading for the tiny space they carved out on the far side of the room. Tanner is propped against the wall, his nose buried in a book. “Did you see your mother?”

Tanner glances up. “Yeah. She grabbed one of the backpacks and said she’d be back in a little while. How’s Sophia? Any better?”

Now is not the time to tell him his sister is gone. “Which way did your mother go?”

Tanner waves to the other side of the room. “Up the back stairs. What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain, later,” Brad says, turning away. Hurrying toward the back stairs, a toddler darts in front of him and he’s forced to stop as the mother crowds in after the child—precious seconds ticking away. Brad turns sideways, edges past, and hurries for the stairs. At the top, he runs down the corridor and bangs through the outer door. It’s dark as hell and it takes a moment for him to get his bearings. He turns, spots the lights of the hospital, and takes off at a sprint. Arriving at the hospital, his breathing is ragged and he holds his side while scanning the area in a desperate search for his wife. Wondering if he arrived first, he loiters near the front entrance for a moment, berating himself for not following the shelter’s rules. Seeing no sign of Emma he hurries inside and grabs the first nurse he sees. “Where’s Dr. Bhatia’s office?”

“All physician offices are on the second floor.”

Brad hurries to the elevator and slams his palm against the button.

The nurse shouts at him. “Elevators are for patient transport only.”

He resists the urge to shoot her the finger and races toward the stairwell and flings open the door, lunging up the stairway to the next floor. Brad bursts through the door on the second floor and scans the corridor. When he looks left he catches a brief glimpse of his wife entering an office farther down the hall. “Emma!” Brad shouts.

Emma doesn’t acknowledge his presence.

Brad takes off at a dead sprint. As he slows to round into the office a gunshot rings out. He pushes into the office to find Dr. Bhatia slumped in his chair, the medical certificates on the wall behind him coated with blood and brain matter. Brad turns to his wife, his pistol grasped firmly in her hand—the same pistol that was supposed to be under lock and key with the authorities back at the YMCA.

“Emma, give me the gun.”

His wife appears composed and calm, as if in a trance. She raises the weapon and points it at her husband. “No, Brad. I have one more person to see. Latreece.”

“Emma, you can’t do this. Please give me the gun. You can’t bring Sophia back.”

“I can make them pay.” Tears spring from the corners of her eyes. “Move, Brad.”

“No, Emma. You’re going to have—”

Two men charge into the room, guns drawn. They knock Brad to the ground and turn their weapons on his wife.

“No!” Brad shouts, but his words are muffled by an eruption of gunfire. Brad looks up in time to see his wife slump to the floor, her body riddled with bullet wounds.

Weatherford