Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“Conn, lower periscope. Q, take us down to seventy-five feet. Mr. Patterson, make our course one-nine-zero. All ahead, two-thirds.” The captain glances at Garcia then nods toward the far corner of the cramped control room. They huddle together and lower their voices. “What options do we have?” Thompson asks.

“We could be in Bermuda in six days,” Garcia says.

“We don’t have six days of food remaining. Hell, we don’t have two days of food left.”

“What if we cut to quarter rations?”

“That might stretch it out to three or four days. A hungry crew could be a dangerous crew. What about the Azores? We could make that in a day and half.”

“That’s Portuguese territory, Bull. Might be pretty hostile to a ship sailing under the Stars and Stripes. At least Bermuda is UK territory.”

“I don’t think we can make it in six days, Carlos.”

Garcia grinds his forehead against the palm of his hand. “I don’t know, Bull. Are we going to pull up to the Azores and beg for food? We sure as hell don’t have much cash on board and the Amexes in our wallets are worthless.” He ends the grinding and turns to look at his captain and friend. “I think we need to level with the crew. Tell them what’s going on.”

“What does that buy us?”

“Understanding? They know something’s up, Bull. And if we keep plotting courses for places where we never surface, they’re going to wonder if we’ve lost our minds. A crew left to wonder is also dangerous. I think we have to tell them.”

Thompson rubs the whiskers on his chin. “What exactly am I supposed to tell them? That life as they know it is gone? And what would make them believe me?” The two men ponder those questions as the submarine continues to descend.

Thompson snaps his fingers. “I’ve got an idea.” He strides back to his position on the bridge. “All stop. Q, takes us back up to periscope depth.”

As the submarine makes another ascent, Thompson grabs a microphone from overhead and, before triggering the transmit button, orders, “Conn, sound the general alarm.” He allows the alarm to sound for several seconds before ordering it off. He places the microphone to his lips. “All crew members, this is the captain speaking. As you may have guessed by now, we were not the only ones who launched our nuclear weapons. We were hoping to resupply at one of the British naval bases, but are unsuccessful. You will see why on the shipboard monitors momentarily. I want all of you to know we are working diligently to find supplies. The next few days are going to test your patience. And that goes for everyone on the boat, myself included. I promise you as captain, we’ll work through the issues, and hopefully do it quickly.” As the boat levels off, Thompson orders the periscope up and puts the radio back to his lips. “The video feed will be up in a moment. As a point of reference, we are currently positioned just south of Plymouth, England.”

The captain replaces the handset and walks over to the periscope, triggering the video camera. He leans forward to peer through the lens and dials in the strongest power and turns the scope toward the mainland. The graphic images of the destruction are broadcast throughout the boat. Submarines depend on silence to maintain their stealthiness, but at this moment, the boat is as quiet as Thompson has ever heard it. After a little more than two minutes he orders the periscope down and issues a dive order. “Mr. Patterson, set a course for the Azores. All ahead, two-thirds.”

The helmsman repeats the order as Thompson walks over to his XO. “Too heavy?”

“Right on point, Bull. At least they have an idea what it looks like topside. So Azores, huh?”

“It’s on the way, and it won’t cost us anything to take a look.”

Near Knoxville, Tennessee

Other than dodging around expired automobiles, Zane and Alyx are making good progress in Old Goldie. Now they’re approaching Knoxville, hoping to pick up I-40 west. Zane exits the highway they’re on and steers into the parking lot of a plundered convenience store situated near a run-down residential area. With the shotgun in hand, he exits the truck and steps through the shattered door in search of a map. The inside of the store looks like a herd of bulls stampeded through. The cash register is busted into a thousand pieces and all the shelving is overturned. Not only is the store in shambles, there’s also a foul odor that smells like spoiled milk and rotten meat. With a hand covering his nose and mouth, Zane approaches the front counter and comes up empty in his search for a map. Cursing, he glances behind the counter and discovers a partial source for the stench—a body. The body is bloated and a puddle of organic matter has oozed onto the floor, attracting a horde of flies. Zane gags and hurries from the store.

When he steps outside, he sees a dozen people converging on their location. Zane hurries to the pickup and climbs in, handing the shotgun to Alyx before shifting the truck into gear and making a wide turn back toward the road. “You might have to shoot. You okay with that?”

Looking at the growing crowd, Alyx nods. The nearest person, a male, comes to a halt in the middle of the road about fifty yards away. Zane spots the pistol in his hand and stomps the gas, aiming the nose of the truck down the centerline. He doesn’t want to hit the man and risk damaging the truck, but more people are converging onto the road and he may not have a choice.

He scans the area ahead for options and comes up blank. “They picked the wrong guy, if they want to play chicken,” Zane mutters. Now only twenty yards away, the man raises his arm and fires before diving out of the way. The man misjudges his timing and the side mirror hits him in the face, sending him head over ass, the pistol skittering away. Zane keeps the accelerator to the floor and, with only seconds to spare, the center portion of the group collapses, with people fleeing in all directions. Zane sideswipes a woman, who spins around and face-plants on the pavement, but he never lets up on the accelerator as gunshots ring out behind them.

Once clear of the people, Zane slows the pickup to a more normal speed. “That was an operational error on my part,” Zane says. “From now on, if either of us leaves the pickup the other will stand guard with the shotgun.”

“I agree. Damn, that was creepy. Was all of that an effort to steal the pickup?” Alyx asks.

“I have no idea. Maybe they thought we had a stash of food. Whatever it was, it damn near cost us our lives.” He steers up the ramp to I-75, the highway they’ve been traveling on.

As they draw closer to Knoxville, the landscape begins to change. Fires have scoured the ground and, when they reach a high ridge in the road, they discover downtown Knoxville no longer exists. “Why the hell would they bomb Knoxville?”

“Not Knoxville. They nuked the Oak Ridge National Laboratory and the Oak Ridge Reservation.”

“Where are, or where were, they located?”

“Just west of Knoxville. I did some computer work at the Oak Ridge Reservation several years ago.”

“What kind of work did they do?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Zane scowls.

“The lab did nuclear weapons research and Y-12, a portion of the Oak Ridge Reservation, did nuclear weapons production work. It was considered a National Security Complex and was part of the National Nuclear Security Administration.”

“Now it makes sense,” Zane says. “There’s no telling how many nukes they dropped on this place.” Now traveling on an elevated section of the highway, Zane looks up and stomps on the brake. The old truck shimmies and shakes as the back wheels lock up, sending Alyx face-first into the dash. The truck goes into a slide and Zane tries to steer in that direction to keep it under control. He glances over to see Alyx slumped on the floor, blood pouring from the lower half of her face. He pumps the brake pedal and, finally, the truck skids to a stop. He slams the gearshift into park and reaches for Alyx, helping her back onto the seat. “Where are you hurt?”