Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“Nose,” she mumbles.

He pulls his shirt off, then his T-shirt, and uses it to apply pressure to Alyx’s nose, trying to stem the flow of blood.

She pushes his hands away and grabs the shirt, using her own hands to apply pressure. “Thanks… for… the… warning.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see it in time.”

Alyx lifts her head to gaze out the windshield. “Oh shit.”

“Oh shit is right.” In front of them the highway is gone. Jagged pieces of concrete jut out into nothingness, the ground forty feet below them.

Alyx removes the shirt and gently touches her nose. The blood flow appears to be slowing. “I think it’s broken.”

“I think you’re probably right.”

Alyx shoots him a nasty glare and puts the shirt back to her nose. “This shirt stinks.”

“At least you can smell it.”

Alyx shows him her middle finger. Zane opens his door and steps out, his heart still hammering. They missed certain death by ten feet. He walks up to the edge and looks down. A nest of charred cars rests on the remains of the collapsed roadway. He turns and retreats back to the truck. “How’s the nose?”

“I’ll live.” She wads up the shirt and throws it at Zane. She opens the glove box in search of a napkin and finds a small package of travel tissues. After ripping it open, she wads up a couple of tissues and gently pushes them into her nostrils. When she speaks her voice sounds funny. “I should have thought of it sooner. We need to skirt the entire area. We’re probably sitting in the middle of a huge hot zone.”

Zane drops the truck in gear and turns around.

“We should have gone back into that house for the lead smocks,” Alyx says.

Zane slows the truck to a stop. “Water under the bridge. How large of an area do we need to avoid?”

“Large. Miles large.”

“Means backtracking.”

“No, it means staying alive.”

“I remember seeing an exit for a highway leading west about fifteen miles back. That far enough?”

Alyx rips a small piece from the tissue in her nose and tosses it out the window. The tissue drifts away, moving toward the rear of the truck. “Should be. Wind’s blowing from the north.”

Zane releases the brake and eases down on the gas pedal, wishing he had a map.

Along the coast of New Jersey

With the sails up, the EmmaSophia is moving along at a good clip. Brad Dixon is surprised by two things—the number of boats and the number of bloated human bodies bobbing along the surface of the water. Many are charred beyond recognition, but a few leave Brad wondering about the cause of death. A nuclear bomb is designed for one thing—mass casualties. Not only does it kill with the initial burst, but it also kills months later via radiation poisoning. Brad spots a shark fin slicing through the water and turns away, not wanting to witness the shark feasting. For now they are keeping their distance from the other boats and the rifle remains within easy reach. They are sailing about two miles off the coast of Long Beach, New Jersey. Tents line the beach and smoke from the campfires drifts along the breeze. Brad wonders what they’ll do come winter. He glances over at Tanner, who is curled up on the front bench, staring at the water. Brad keeps trying to get him to open up, but Tanner remains silent.

Brad glances behind for a quick scan of the surrounding area and turns back. Then does a double take. It’s the same small Sunfish sailboat he had seen earlier. Thirteen feet long, the small boat is overloaded with the four adults sitting around the cockpit and holding on to the mast. He grabs the binoculars for a closer look. The four appear to be two couples, probably in their midtwenties. Two suitcases are piled up in the middle of the small seating area. Brad refocuses the binocs on the boat itself. Up near the bow, above the waterline, is a sticker that he can’t quite make out. He fiddles with the focus, trying to sharpen the image. He can see the word Brigantine and that’s all he needs to see. The boat was stolen from the Brigantine Beach Club, a time-share place on the South Jersey shore. Brad lowers the binoculars and hands them to Tanner. “Keep an eye on that little Sunfish. Please.”

Tanner nods.

After clicking through the images in his brain, Brad realizes the boat has been following them since daybreak. Could be an ominous sign, or simply a coincidence. But Brad’s betting it’s not a coincidence. After all, which boat would someone rather have—a thirty-seven-footer with room below for a family of four, or a thirteen-footer with no room at all? Brad turns the wheel and the mainsail boom swings across the deck, temporarily luffing the canvas. He trims the main and the boat picks up speed as Brad steers the EmmaSophia farther out to sea. He glances back and, sure enough, the Sunfish is turning to follow. So much for it being a coincidence. Brad moves the rifle closer.

Tanner is, at least, engaged with the binoculars. He’s zoomed in on the beach, and Brad’s hoping he’s checking out hot chicks—anything to take Tanner’s mind off what happened yesterday. Brad tugs on the rope to tighten the mainsail and the boat picks up speed. He hasn’t yet unfurled the jib, relying on the larger canvas for now. Brad glances back to see the Sunfish still following in their wake. The EmmaSophia is gaining distance, but that’ll change when they drop anchor at dusk.

Tanner turns the binocs on the boat following them. “Dad, I don’t think they know what they’re doing. There’s too much slack on the mainsail.”

“I agree. The sail has been that way the entire time. I think they took the boat from the beach at Brigantine, hoping to sail—”

“Dad! Their boat overturned. They’re in the water.”

Brad eases the mainsail and the boat coasts to a stop.

“Dad, you have to turn around.”

“And do what, Tanner? Allow them onto our boat?”

“I don’t know. Take them back to shore, or something.”

“What if they don’t want to go back to shore?”

“Dad, they’ll never get that boat upright again.” Tanner moves to the back of the boat, his eyes still glued to the binoculars.

Brad ponders the situation. If they’re good swimmers they can swim back to shore. It would be a difficult task, certainly, but doable. At present, the group is probably two miles from shore, a forty-five-minute swim, maybe.

“Dad, they don’t look like they’re very good swimmers. They’re doing a lot of thrashing around.”

Well shit. Now what? Brad didn’t invite them to follow along. And there’s little doubt the group has dubious intentions.

“What are you waiting for, Dad?”

Brad starts the engine and angrily spins the wheel. “We’ll get them on board, Tanner. But I want you to take the helm. We’ll take them to the closest dock.”

“Why am I driving the boat?”

“Because I’m going to be covering them with the rifle.”

“Why?”

“That’s just the way things are going to work.” If Tanner hadn’t lost his mother and sister yesterday, Brad would have sailed on. He steers the boat toward the swimmers and eases back on the throttle. “Help them into the boat and then take the wheel, Tanner.” Brad picks up the rifle and levers a shell into the chamber, moving toward the bow for a wider field of fire. He fits the stock against his shoulder and waits.

Tanner helps the first waterlogged swimmer aboard. She’s a thin knock-kneed woman, but younger than Brad thought. She looks to be in her late teens and she’s in desperate need of an orthodontist. He waves the barrel toward the backseat and she timidly complies. The second person that comes aboard is also female. But this one doesn’t need any work. She’s a very attractive, tall young woman, probably early twenties. She gets the same treatment from Brad, but her reaction is very different. She gives him an ugly snarl before sitting. As of yet, no one has said a word.