Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

McDowell puts his flashlight on the desk and picks up the pistol. It’s a Glock 21, and he pops the magazine and finds the clip full. He reinserts the magazine and stuffs the gun into his waistband and drops the ammo in his front pocket. The situation is going to require some thought. Not that he thinks Lauren incapable, but in the hands of a teenage boy the consequences could be disastrous. He grabs the two five-gallon buckets and steps out, pushing the door closed. He makes his way back to the building, his mind spinning through the pros and cons of having another weapon in play.

Lakeville

Twenty people sleeping in a confined space is noisier than you might imagine. Mix in the snores and the coughs and McDowell is having little trouble staying awake. The teenagers opted for the two back offices, and Melissa and Lauren are racked out on the sofa. One of the teachers emits a whistling snore on each exhale, but in the dark, McDowell doesn’t know which one. The faint whistling is soothing, until it isn’t. Divorced from his wife, he’s lived alone for the past eight years and his body is more attuned to silence at night. Sitting in the cheap chair at the reception desk, he’s having trouble getting comfortable. Every time he moves the chair squeaks, so he’s trying to limit his movements, a difficult task in a chair that feels like you’re sitting on a two-by-six. He readjusts the Glock in his lap and leans back in the chair.

Even though it’s noisy, there’s a certain rhythm that develops over time. Enough so that McDowell’s eyelids grow heavier every passing minute. His head is rocking against his chest when he hears a noise different from all the others. He slowly lowers his feet to the ground and the chair squeals in protest. It sounds loud in the room, but maybe not loud enough to be heard outside. He freezes and turns his ear toward the door, listens, and hears the sound again. It sounds like a boot scraping on gravel.

McDowell braces his hands on the desk and pulls himself carefully out of the chair. After tucking the Glock under his belt, he grabs the shotgun and walks quietly to the door for a peek outside. He’d plugged the bottom piece of broken glass with one of the signs and had left the top open for a situation such as this. His night vision is exceptional, but he’d need X-ray vision to see anything beyond his nose in this lightless world. He focuses his mind on other senses and hears another scrape. Not enough to identify a location. Then he hears a faint whisper of words, which drift from the direction of the main road. Regardless of who they are, they’re here.

Feeling his way toward the sofa, he bends down and feels around for Lauren’s long hair. When he finds it, he nudges her shoulder and places a hand over her mouth. She gives a violent shake of her head when she wakes. McDowell puts his mouth to her ear and whispers, “It’s me. Someone’s outside. Hold out your hand.”

Still disoriented, Lauren holds out her hand and McDowell finds it and puts the Glock in her palm. With his mouth still against her ear, he says, “Just pull the trigger if they get past me. Can’t let them inside.”

He feels her head nodding.

“Wait for the all clear.”

Another nod.

McDowell gives her neck a squeeze and stands, using the wall as a guide toward the back door. If he was calling the shots, he’d have someone watching the back door, but he has no idea if he’s facing one or ten, or if they have any tactical knowledge. Slowly and silently, he racks a shell into the chamber of the shotgun. If it’s more than six, he’s going to be in a world of hurt. He debates going back for more shells, but decides against it, time now being the most important variable. McDowell feels along the trigger guard to make sure the safety is off and eases the back door open and slips through, easing the door closed behind him.

The fence to the construction yard is about thirty yards behind the office. He turns his head to the left and listens. The clock ticking in his head is urging him forward, but he takes a deep breath to slow his heart rate. The one thing that hinders him is also the very thing that protects him—the absolute darkness. After hearing nothing, he stands and feels his way to the corner of the building.

He pauses again, to listen. Hearing nothing, he presses forward, using the exterior wall as a guide. He tries to remember if this side of the building is landscaped, and can’t. Careful with his steps, he works his way toward the front. At the midway point he feel something with his shoe. He reaches down to feel around and assumes the rectangular piece of metal is part of the guttering system and steps over. At the front corner he squats down to listen. He can hear the faint whisper of voices. Sounds like two people, at least. McDowell turns his head and cups a hand around his left ear. From the whispers, he pinpoints their location to a group of pine trees a hundred feet away. McDowell stands, but maintains his position.

The word jammed floats across the darkness and McDowell tucks the shotgun tight to his shoulder. A smothered flashlight clicks on in the distance and in the faint wash of light he recognizes two of the men they encountered earlier in the day. Now he has a number. He holds his fire, not wanting to announce his presence until locating the third man. The light clicks off and, after a moment, McDowell works his way to the abandoned truck parked out front. From here, he has a 180-degree field of fire, with the building behind him. He rests his left forearm on the truck’s hood and places the stock of the shotgun against his shoulder, waiting.

Although the night is cool, a bead of perspiration pops on his forehead and trickles down his nose. He ignores the sweat and focuses on the task at hand. The waiting is hard. At this point he just wants it over and he works to tamp down his growing impatience. Finally, he hears a boot scrape off to the left and he now knows the location of all three men.

The wait drags on.

After several moments, he hears a grunt from the front. McDowell swings the barrel that way, and waits. Unwanted, images pop into his mind of what the three men might do to the group of young girls. He quickly pushes the thoughts from his mind and sharpens his focus.

He hears footsteps, this time boots on asphalt. McDowell tucks the shotgun tight to his shoulder and caresses the trigger with his index finger. Now he can hear the nervous breathing of the two men approaching from the front. McDowell estimates the distance at fifteen feet. He nudges the barrel to the left and pulls the trigger.

Flame leaps from the barrel, lighting the two men like a photographer’s flash. The one on the left falls face forward as McDowell jacks another shell, eases the barrel to the right, and fires again. The second man drops where he’s standing as screams erupt from the students inside the building behind him. A rifle fires from the left and McDowell feels the bullet whiz past his ear. He scoots around the nose of the pickup, putting the truck between him and the shooter.

“Donnie?” the man on the left shouts.

McDowell eases the barrel a smidge to the left.

“John?” the man shouts again.

McDowell centers the shotgun on the voice and pulls the trigger. The flash of gunpowder lights the night as the double-aught buckshot fans out at a speed of over a thousand feet per second. McDowell jacks another shell and waits. After what feels like an hour, but in reality is only a few moments, McDowell steps out from behind the truck, the shotgun up and ready. Slowly, he works his way toward the third man. He knows for certain the two men in front are dead. Not so with the third.

He steps lightly across the gravel road leading to the yard, his ears searching for sounds. He makes his way to where he thinks the third man might be and pauses, listening. After several moments, McDowell reaches into his pocket for his flashlight and clicks it on. The third man is lying by the sign, his face and upper torso pockmarked from the heavy shot. Blood is already pooling around the man’s upper body. If he’s not dead now, he will be shortly.