Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

Along the coast of Maryland

Brad and Tanner sailed until dusk, reaching a point just north of Ocean City, Maryland, before dropping anchor a mile from shore. Both rattled from the events earlier in the day, they had cut a wide swath around other boats all day. Brad wakes when the sun breaks on the horizon, still exhausted after standing guard through the night. He throws off the blanket and stands and stretches. Off to the west, the horizon is smudged with smoke, and in the distance flames are visible as the firestorm, started days ago, rages on. With no one left to fight the fires, the only natural firebreak is the edge of the ocean.

As the crow flies, Ocean City is only a hundred miles from Washington, D.C. The area to the west must have been hammered, evidenced by the significant increase in the number of dead bodies, both human and animal, in the water. Having washed down the Potomac, they are now drifting along with the current. But bodies aren’t the only problem. The water is brimming with all sorts of debris, including shattered lumber, sections of ripped-apart houses, and unmanned boats on a voyage to nowhere. It looks as if a tsunami had hit. Life would be so much easier if that’s all that had occurred, Brad thinks, shielding his eyes against the rising sun and scanning the water. More than a dozen boats are anchored within a three-mile circle with many other boats motoring along in the deeper water. A good number of the boats passing by are motorboats and Brad wonders what will happen when they run out of fuel.

Brad unstraps one of the fishing poles from the top of the cabin. Ideally, he would prefer to fish with live bait, but unless he catches some, live bait is not an option. He ties on an artificially scented lure and casts it into the water. Far from an expert fisherman, he has no idea if it’s the correct bait or not, but all he can do is try. After reeling up the slack, he allows the bait to drift to the bottom before slowly reeling it in. After fifteen minutes of fishing and no bites, he moves to the starboard side and recasts.

He feels something bump the other side of the boat, but thinking it’s a piece of debris he fishes on. Then he feels another bump, this one accompanied by a grunt. Brad whirls around to see two hands latching on to the swim platform. He drops the rod and grabs the rifle as a large man pulls himself out of the water and pushes to his feet. Brad cocks the hammer, turns, and fires from the hip. He hits the man in the shoulder and a spray of blood coats the white vinyl seats. The man howls with rage and staggers forward, now only four feet away. Brad levers another shell, seats the stock to his shoulder, and fires again, hitting the man center mass. Blood and bone splatter across the boat and the man crumples to the deck.

Tanner rushes up the stairs, shaking. “Tanner, go back below,” Brad shouts as he steps to the stern, scanning the water for more swimmers. Feeling a sharp stick to his bare foot, Brad glances down to discover he’s standing on a piece of the man’s bone and flicks the fragment into the water. After several more moments of scanning and not spotting any more threats, Brad lowers the rifle and props it against the wheel. For the first time, he looks at the man he killed. The man is big, probably close to six-two and well over two hundred pounds. Facedown, Brad can’t obtain an accurate estimate of the man’s age, but the full head of dark hair suggests he’s fairly young. Trembling from the adrenaline dump, Brad feels zero remorse the man won’t ever reach retirement age.

Now the question is, how to get the body off the boat? Brad grabs a foot and attempts to pull with little result. He plants his feet, takes a deep breath, and tries again, moving the body only a few inches. Brad doesn’t want to involve Tanner in this mess, so he steps back to ponder another approach. While he’s pondering he makes another scan of the water. They really need to move farther out to sea. Screw it, he thinks, walking over to the hatch and shouting down into the cabin. “Tanner, I really need your help.”

Tanner haltingly climbs up to the deck, his eyes as big as dinner plates. He takes one glance at the bloodied boat and begins to shake again. “Who was he, Dad?”

“No idea. I need your help to move him.”

Tanner is staring at the blood pooling on the deck. “What… what are we… going to… do with… him?”

“Roll him into the water. About the only choice we have.” Brad looks up at his son, whose face is now the shade of the whitecaps breaking in the distance. “If you’ll just help me with that, I’ll clean up the rest of this mess.”

“O… kay.”

Brad moves behind the body. “I think if we both grab a foot we can drag him over to the stern.”

Trying to avoid the pool of blood, Tanner tiptoes across the deck. He hesitates for only a moment before reaching down to grab a foot. Working together they drag the body to the back of the boat then move around to the body’s other side and, with grunts of exertion, push it into the water. They stand and Brad wipes the sweat from his brow. “Son, if you’ll set up there on the top of the cabin and keep an eye on the water, I’ll finish up.”

Tanner nods and tiptoes back across the deck, taking a seat near the mast. Brad lifts one of the seats and retrieves a bucket. He dips it into the water and splashes it across the deck. After twenty-one more dunks and splashes, the deck and seats are free of blood. Brad grabs a rag to wipe the seats down then grabs the rod and reels in the line. “Tanner, pull up the anchor. We’re getting the hell out of here.”

After the anchor is aboard, Brad fires up the engine and motors out to deeper water before unfurling the mainsail. With the bow pointed south, the sail catches the wind and the EmmaSophia cuts through the water.

Near Ponta Delgada, São Miguel Island, Azores

At the half-mile mark from the docks at Ponta Delgada, the USS New York rises to the surface. The assembled security team waits near the main hatch for the order to go topside while Thompson and Garcia survey the harbor using both periscopes. The security team is armed with M16 rifles, and each man has a semiautomatic pistol strapped into the holster at his waist. They are also outfitted with a safety harness they’ll clip on to a line that will be deployed along the length of the sub.

Designed to perform flawlessly beneath the water, the nuclear submarine tends to wallow on the surface and, with no tug to offer assistance, getting to the dock will be a dicey proposition. Captain Thompson steps away from the periscope and snaps a microphone from the overhead bulkhead. “This is the captain. Security team, deploy.” The security team members climb the ladder of the main hatch, one at a time, the first providing covering fire if needed. “Carlos, you have the deck. I’m going topside.”

“Unarmed?” Carlos asks.

“There’ll be plenty of guns on deck.” Thompson slips on a harness, grabs a set of high-power binoculars, and climbs up the narrow set of ladders inside the sail. At the top he opens the hatch and climbs out onto the bridge. After ninety-some days below the surface, the fresh air is a welcome relief. What is not a welcome relief is the reminder of what happened. Confined inside the sub, thoughts of what might be happening topside take a backseat to the tasks at hand. But up here, the smoke and debris in the atmosphere blot most of the sun’s strength and Thompson feels a pang of regret for their role in the cause. He puts the binoculars to his eyes and scans the shoreline. Although there are a lot of pointed fingers, no one seems to be moving with any urgency. Thompson glasses the Portuguese frigate and finds it empty.