Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

Burnsville, Minnesota

The pace is slowing as the children tire. By McDowell’s estimation they’ve covered almost eight miles. At this pace they’ll be lucky to cover twelve miles before dark. He curses under his breath and leads the group off the highway and into a copse of trees surrounding a small lake. “We’ll rest for a while. Hold off eating until later.”

“I’m hungry,” Jonathon Taylor whines.

His words elicit a round of similar comments from the other students.

McDowell mutters another string of curse words and kneels down beside the suitcase containing their food supplies. He pulls out two small bags of trail mix and hands them out. “Save some for the next person. That’s all we can spare for now.”

His comment is met with groans, which he ignores. “I’m going to fish for a little bit if anyone else wants to fish.”

Six of the boys stand and an argument breaks out over who gets to fish, Jonathon the only one not to enter the fray. McDowell looks to Melissa for help.

Melissa gathers up the four fishing poles and hands one to McDowell before facing the teens. “We are not fishing for fun. We’re fishing for food. The six of you will take turns, but I want the most experienced to fish first. Who has fished before?”

All six raise their hands and Melissa sighs. She casts a wary eye at Caleb Carson. “Caleb, when have you fished?”

“My dad and I fish all the time.”

Melissa knows that’s not true because he was a student in her class last year. Caleb lives with his mother and rarely, if ever, sees his father. At this point in time hurt feelings are way down the list of Melissa’s concerns. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”

Caleb puffs up to protest and Melissa cuts him off with a look only a teacher can give. She hands the three remaining poles out randomly and the boys follow McDowell down to the water. He hands them each a lure and ties a plastic worm onto his line. The boys tie on their own bait and two of the lures go skittering out into the lake on the first cast. McDowell sighs. “That’s it for you guys. Sorry.”

After twenty minutes of fishing and no bites, McDowell calls a halt. Using a pair of fingernail clippers swiped from a store at the airport, he cuts the remaining two lures from the lines and places them back in the sack and heads back to the group. As he nears, he spots Jonathon playing with the shotgun. He hurries forward, drops the fishing pole, and yanks the gun from the boy’s hands. “You do not touch this weapon. Ever,” McDowell shouts.

As Jonathon’s bottom lip begins to quiver, McDowell looks at the rest of the group. “This shotgun is for our protection. Without it we’re defenseless. Does everyone understand that?”

The kids nod and Melissa steps over and says in a low voice, “I’m sorry, Stan, I should have kept a closer watch on everyone.”

“It’s not your fault. They need to take some responsibility for their actions.” He looks down at the ground and packs the dirt back into a gopher hole with his boot, trying to regain his composure. He looks up at Melissa. “Hell, they’re just kids.” He turns to Jonathon. “I won’t apologize, young man, but you have to understand the situation we’re in.”

Jonathon wipes a tear from the corner of his eye and turns away.

“Damn it,” McDowell mutters. After stuffing the remaining lures into his suitcase, he stands, slings the shotgun over his shoulder, and walks over to the suitcase containing their cache of water. He zips it open to count the bottles. There are thirty full water bottles left and a dozen empties. He grabs three bottles and hands them out. “Take a few sips and pass it on.”

Once everyone has had a sip, he dumps the empties back into the suitcase and zips it up. “Time to go,” he says. He leads the group out of the woods and up the highway embankment and turns south. As the group plods forward, McDowell drifts to the back of the pack to talk to Lauren and Melissa.

An hour later they get their first real taste of life on the road.

In the distance, McDowell spots three men headed their way, rifles slung over their shoulders, and they’re pushing a couple of shopping carts. McDowell unslings the shotgun, jacks a shell in the chamber, and moves to the front of the pack, carrying the weapon low against his leg. He glances over his shoulder and waves a hand toward the left side of the road. The group meanders that way, hugging the outside shoulder.

When the three men are within ten yards, they stop and McDowell calls a halt. The three men appear to be in their late forties and all are missing teeth.

“Where you headed?” the man in front asks.

“South. You?” McDowell asks.

“The Twin Cities. Where y’all from?”

“Here and there.”

The man smiles and surveys the group before turning back to McDowell. “You in a tradin’ mood?”

“Maybe. What do you have?” McDowell asks.

“We’ve got some deer jerky.” The man looks over the group again and points, saying, “I’ll trade you some for the young blonde.”

Hannah Hatcher shrieks. She’s the blonde under discussion.

McDowell waves a hand to quiet her. “Trading’s now off the table. You best move along.”

The man shrugs. “Hey, at least I asked. They’ll be some that won’t. What about one of them young boys? We’re not too picky.”

McDowell braces the shotgun against his shoulder. “Move along.”

The man smiles again and nods. “I don’t know where you’re going, mister, but ain’t no way you’re all gonna make it.”

“I said, move along,” McDowell says, his voice low and laced with menace.

“See you down the road. Maybe,” the man says before turning and continuing on, the other two falling in behind him.

Weatherford

Gage carries the two suitcases out to the truck and helps Holly climb in. He swings the truck around and pulls back onto the road. His parents’ big spread is west of town. The 1,280 acres are planted mostly in soybeans and winter wheat, but Gage’s father, Raymond, runs a few head of cattle. Even with modern technology, it’s hard work and the fickle nature of the weather often determines whether the year is a boom or bust. And now the modern technology is gone. The high-dollar tractors his father owns rely almost exclusively on computer technology, and Gage doubts either will run anytime soon.

After traveling several miles west, Gage slows and makes a right down a dirt road. The county calls it a gravel road, but it’s more dirt than gravel and the tires kick up a whirlwind of red dust behind them. The dust has been a constant complaint of Gage’s mother for as long as he can remember. That’s the reason Gage refused to look at any property that was situated on a dirt road.

Gage’s older brother, Garrett, now does most of the farming. He and his wife, Juliet, built a three-bedroom house about two hundred yards from their parents’ house. Six months after they moved in they welcomed their first child, Emma, and three years later Emma’s sister, Elizabeth. With a third girl soon to join the mix, who will farm the land for the next generation remains to be seen. If there’s any farming to be done, that is. Gage slows and pulls into the long, winding drive leading to his childhood home. One large, old oak tree shades the front yard, the remaining trees cleared to make room for the crops. A picnic table is situated next to the massive tree trunk and a tire swing hangs from one of the tree’s gnarled limbs. Gage coasts the pickup to a stop, kills the engine, and steps out to help Holly.

Gage gets the feeling that something is wrong as soon as his boots hit the ground. Usually, his mother is there to greet them at the front door, but the door remains closed, the interior dark.