Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

Gage takes his foot off the gas and lets the old truck coast up to the intersection. It’s eerie with no other vehicles on the road. In the distance, Interstate 40 looks more like a parking lot than the cross-country interstate it once was. Dead cars are scattered haphazardly across the asphalt, stopped where they died. Gage wonders about the people who were in them then pushes the thought away, having more than enough problems to worry about. On the opposite corner, the Quick Stop is dark and all the glass is shattered, unwanted items such as antifreeze and motor oil scattered across the parking lot. Gage eases through the intersection and, two blocks farther on, hangs a right to take a drag down Main Street. Holly stares out the window at the devastation, her mouth agape.

Weatherford is a small town and the main drag stretches only four blocks. They pass the ransacked Braum’s, a local ice cream store and market. The parking lot is stained with melted ice cream, and cockroaches skitter through the abandoned cardboard containers. Farther on, several other businesses remain intact. The tag agency and the local insurance office are closed, their plate glass windows still in place. The same can’t be said about the bank on the next corner. The brick façade is blackened by fire and the ATM machine is overturned, the doors pried open.

“Why would they break into the bank?” Holly asks. “What are they going to buy?”

“Don’t know. My bet is there wasn’t any money in there to begin with. Or if it was, it was locked up in the vault. You’d need dynamite to blow that thing open.”

At the next intersection, the parking lot of the Walgreens looks like a war zone. Baskets are overturned and the shelving from inside the store is bent and twisted and scattered around the lot. Plastic bags, snagged by the light poles, flutter in the breeze. “I bet there’s not a pill left in that store,” Gage says. “Let’s hope no one gets sick.”

“Who did all of this damage, Gage? Surely, not the people we know.”

“Probably some from those people stranded on the highway, but I’d bet there were some locals involved. People are desperate. Let’s check out the Walmart.” Gage steers under the highway bridge and picks up the access road. When he turns into the parking lot, Holly gasps.

“Are those bodies?” She turns to stare at her husband. “There must be twenty or thirty bodies just lying in the parking lot.”

Gage throws the old truck into reverse and backs out of the lot, launching a swirl of grit and gravel. He quickly shifts to first, mashes the gas pedal, and hits second gear under the bridge.

“What if some of them are people we know?” Holly asks.

“There’s nothing you can do for them now.” Gage hits fourth gear and winds up the engine, heading out of town. Holly’s parents live north of town on an acreage they bought when they moved to town Holly’s junior year of high school. Holly’s dad, Henry Reed, is an engineer for a national wind company. He got his start in the wind-blown deserts around Palm Springs where Holly lived until moving to Weatherford.

The ash falling from the sky has lessened, but smoke paints the skies a leaden gray. In the far distance fires continue to rage and probably will for years, or until the next big rainstorm hits. Gage slows the pickup as they near the turnoff leading to Holly’s parents. They bump across the cattle guard and he steers up the driveway.

The house, a low, sprawling four-bed ranch, is in immaculate condition. Henry and Holly’s mom, Susan, designed it to exacting specifications. The family rented a house in town during the fourteen months it took to construct. Fronting the house is a wide, deep porch, complete with half a dozen rocking chairs. The yard, still retaining most of its deep green shading from the latest fertilization, is devoid of weeds. A giant oak tree, surrounded by a precisely manicured flower bed, shades one side of the yard and is offset by a large metal barn on the other side of the house. The exterior of the home receives a paint job every three years, whether it’s needed or not. Gage pulls up close to the front door and kills the engine.

Holly’s parents push through the front door before they’re out of the truck. “I’ve been worried sick about you two,” Susan Reed says, stepping off the porch. “I tried to get your father to run me over there, but none of our vehicles are running.” Susan wraps an arm around her daughter and leads her into the house.

Henry steps off the porch and shakes Gage’s hand. “Follow me to the barn. I want to show you something.” In his late sixties, Henry Reed is a thin, wiry man with a full head of flowing gray hair that was once red. Steel-framed rectangular glasses are perched on his nose, magnifying his bright blue eyes. Not only is he Gage’s father-in-law, but also his mentor and employer. Henry pushes the large sliding door aside and steps inside. Against the far wall is a workbench surrounded by a rack of carefully arranged tools. He leads Gage over to the table and unfurls a set of blueprints.

“I want to tap into one or two of the wind turbines for power,” he says.

Gage bends down for a closer look at the modified plans. “How are we going to control the blade pitch?” Blade pitch determines the turbine’s speed.

“That’s where I’m hung up. Everything else I have figured out. But without a computer to control the pitch, I don’t know how we’d keep the turbine from destroying itself.”

Gage pulls a stool from beneath the table and sits. “Is it safe to work outside?”

“I believe it is. The radiation decays relatively quickly and we’re a good distance from any of the heavily bombed areas. It would be nice to have some dosimeters or a Geiger counter, but we don’t.”

Gage crosses his arms. “To change the subject for a moment—Holly and I drove by the Walmart. The parking lot was littered with dead bodies. Hear anything about that?”

“Yeah, I did. The sheriff stopped by the house. He’s got one of those government surplus military Hummers that’s hardened against an EMP. Apparently, right after everything happened, some unsavory characters from up on the highway broke into the store and went straight to the guns. They barricaded themselves inside and shot anyone who tried to enter. I think it went on for a couple of days until the sheriff deployed a couple of snipers up on the highway. They eventually picked off three or four inside the store and the rest made a break for it, sparking a gun battle in the parking lot.”

“They just going to leave the bodies out there in the open?” Gage asks.

“None of the county’s heavy equipment is operational. There’s nothing left to dig a grave with. Especially one big enough to hold all those bodies. I think because the store is situated on the outskirts of town, the sheriff decided to leave them be. No telling what diseases are lurking around that place. I hope you didn’t linger in the area.”

“Nope, turned around and got the hell out. Any locals killed?”

“I don’t know the answer to that question, Gage. I know the area was swamped with stranded people. My guess is most were out-of-towners.”

“Huh,” Gage says. “Hell of a thing. Never thought I’d see something like that. Especially here.” Gage stares at something at the back of the barn for a moment before turning to Henry. “Back to the turbine problem. Instead of using blade pitch to control the speed, why don’t we use the braking system? I’ve got enough spare parts to replace the brake pads several times over. Plus we could scavenge parts from the other turbines if needed.”

“Might work,” Henry Reed says. “But how are we going to control the braking systems? That was all controlled by the computer.”