Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

Zane takes a deep breath and lunges to his feet, racing for the safety of the barn. The footing is treacherous in the high grass, but Zane does his best to zigzag before finally reaching the door. He ducks inside, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He grabs Alyx by the arm and leads her toward the back of the barn. “We… have… to keep… moving. Don’t… know… how many there… are.”

At the back door, Zane pauses for two quick breaths before sliding the door open just far enough to look out. A line of scrub oaks runs from east to west about fifty feet behind the barn. “Okay, here’s what we are going to do. You still have the revolver?”

Alyx reaches for the gun tucked into the waist of her jeans, but her hand comes away empty. Her shoulders slump and a moan of despair escapes her lips. Zane tilts her chin up. “It doesn’t matter. We’ve still have the shotgun. We’ll move on to plan B.”

Alyx’s eyes are shimmering with tears. “I’m sorry, Zane. I should have put the pistol in the backpack.”

“Water under the bridge, Alyx.” Zane pauses to think for a minute. “Okay. This is what we’re going to do. Give me ten seconds to get back to the front then take off for the trees. I’ll wait a few minutes and follow. I’ll be watching for a signal from you if you spot anyone coming up behind me. Just wave a hand and I’ll know to turn around. Ready?”

Alyx nods.

“Count to ten and take off.” Zane hurries back to the front of the barn. He eases the door open a sliver and squats down, the shotgun braced against his shoulder. Zane focuses his attention on the back of the house, but occasionally scans the field between the two structures. After several moments of watching and waiting, he spots movement out of the corner of his left eye. Zane pulls more shells from his pocket and places them on the dirt floor beside him. He’s determined to end this now. Otherwise, they’ll be looking over their shoulders for days to come.

Scanning the field from left to right again, he spots the high grass moving unnaturally on the right side. One left and one right, about thirty yards apart. Zane hopes it’s only the two, or he’s going to have to do some pretty slick reloading. He takes two deep, calming breaths and waits, thinking how quickly life has changed. A week ago his hands were tickling the keys of his laptop and today his hands are grasping a shotgun, waiting to kill another human being. It’s hard for Zane to wrap his mind around. A grunt on the left pulls him back to the present.

Like a covey of quail, the man on the left flushes from the high grass, hurrying for safety at the side of the barn, not knowing that Zane is crouching down by the door. Zane allows the man to draw closer before unloading the left barrel of the shotgun. The double-aught shot hits the man in the chest and he drops like someone had tripped him. Zane doesn’t need a second look to know the man is dead. He immediately shifts his focus to the right. The man on that side is up and firing a pistol at Zane’s position. It’s the smiling man. The bullets kick up dirt just in front of Zane and he hunkers down, waiting. When the man is less than ten feet away, he unloads the other barrel. It hits the man center mass and blows a section of the man’s rib cage away, creating a red mist that floats in the air. With the man still falling, Zane quickly reloads and waits.

After several minutes, and no other sign of movement, Zane slips back inside the barn and eases the door closed. He strides toward the back and, on the way, discovers a door he hadn’t seen before. He steps over and pulls it open. “I’ll be damned,” he mutters before hurrying to the rear door and waving Alyx back in.

She shoots him an angry glare, but wades back through the brush and arrives back at the barn. “I thought we were going out that way?”

Neither makes mention of what just occurred. “Change of plans,” Zane says. “Follow me.” He leads her back to the recently discovered door and swings it open.

Alyx steps inside. “What makes you think it runs?”

“We didn’t see any other vehicles in the yard, other than those junkers up on blocks. This has to be their everyday vehicle.” Zane steps over and cracks the door open. “Keys are in it.” It is a 1976 Chevy half-ton pickup, painted harvest gold with a strip of lighter yellow running horizontally through the middle of the body.

“It’s more rust than truck,” Alyx says.

“I don’t care.” Zane slides across the tattered seat and clicks the key over a notch and discovers the truck has a half tank of fuel. “Alyx, look around for a gas can.” He twists the key all the way and the old pickup fires to life. Leaving it running, he jumps out to help in the search. He finds an old water hose and cuts off a few feet, tossing it into the bed as Alyx returns with a five-gallon gas can. From her lack of strain, he knows it’s empty. “Toss it in the bed. We’ll siphon gas from some of the dead cars along the road.” Zane takes a quick look around for other items they may need and scores when he discovers a partial case of bottled water near the back doors of the garage area.

He swings the doors open and snatches up the shotgun, returning to the front of the barn for another look. There is no further movement—the two dead men a deterrent against another approach. Zane hurries back to the truck and jumps behind the wheel. “I’m going hit the driveway pretty fast. We still don’t know how many people are around that bend.”

Alyx searches for the seat belt and finds a frayed fragment, the rest probably cut out years ago. Zane backs out of the barn and drops the old truck into gear. He shoots across the pasture and veers around the house. When he hits the dirt road, he floors it. When they reach the bend in the road, they discover a group of fifteen to twenty people who scramble to get out of the way. Before they can react, Zane blows by them. He slows to make the turn onto the main road then feeds the big V-8 more gas.

Saddle Rock

After a long, tearful night, Brad and Tanner Dixon are up early at the YMCA. Tanner, who lost his sister and his mother on the same afternoon, had spent most of the evening asking why . Brad, also still dazed, had few answers. After much discussion, they both decided it was time to leave their temporary shelter. Brad walks across the floor and puts his wife’s things into the donation box before returning to retrieve his backpack. Tanner grabs his stuff and the two ascend the stairs, stepping outside.

The sun is a hazy smudge on the horizon as they strike out down the road, headed back to their damaged house. Not to live, but to retrieve a few items and all the remaining food. They turn right on Middle Neck Road, surprised at the number of people out and about. The area is fairly secluded and it appears the town hasn’t yet been inundated by the unwanted. Nevertheless, Brad and Tanner avoid direct eye contact.

At the corner, the CVS has been plundered, with garbage and abandoned shopping carts littering the parking lot. When they reach the next intersection they discover the sushi restaurant ransacked and, across the street, all the glass is shattered at the local art gallery. Tanner sidles up next to his father. “Why would they break into the art gallery?” Those are the first words of the morning from Tanner. Brad will hear an occasional sniffle from his son and each instance breaks another piece from Brad’s heart. No twelve-year-old should be suffering the grief that Tanner is now dealing with.

“Who knows? Let’s get off the main thoroughfare.” They take a left at the next residential street and the damage to the homes escalates with each block as they near Long Island Sound. Across the bay is the Bronx, which was leveled by an airburst nuclear detonation on the first day. The day Sophia was injured. Saddle Rock avoided the fires, but the pressure wave from the blast caused considerable damage.