Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

Alyx shudders. “I sure as hell hope not. Sorry, I couldn’t pull the trigger. I knew the dog was no good.”

“If you can’t shoot a dog, will you be able to shoot a person if we get in a jam?”

“I think if our lives are threatened, I could. It’s us or them, right?”

“Exactly. Any hesitation could be fatal for us.”

Alyx makes another turn and the growing profusion of medical buildings suggests they’re in the right place. “That’s why I prefer you handle the shotgun.” She pulls up into the parking lot of what used to be University Hospital. The parking lot is scattered with hospital gowns, hospital beds, and dead bodies. “This is not going to work,” she says, turning to exit the lot.

“Drive around a bit. Maybe we’ll spot another place. Everything around here has already been ransacked.”

Six blocks square, the area is an amalgam of hospitals, physician’s offices, and modestly priced hotels that once played host to patients’ families. “Wait a minute,” Alyx says, “I’ve been here before.”

“Here, where?”

“I’ve been on this street before. One of my friends from undergrad has an office somewhere around here. I met her a few times for lunch on my way through.”

“I don’t think a lunch meeting is in the works for today,” Zane says.

“No, but her office might have exactly what we need.”

“How so?”

“She’s an OB doc. And her husband, Christopher, is a pediatrician. They’re like the perfect before-and-after team.”

Zane chuckles. “I bet they end up working some funky hours. Can you remember where her office is?”

“Somewhere around here. I remember the office was tucked away in the corner of a strip mall.” Alyx steers the pickup into a parking lot and drives slowly along the storefronts. Most of the stores are what you’d expect them to be: a uniform shop, a medical supply store, an outpatient therapy center, and, all the way in the back they spot a sign stenciled on the glass: SARAH MICHAELS OBSTETRICIAN/GYNECOLOGIST. “There it is,” Alyx says, easing the truck to a stop.

“The office appears to be intact. I guess prenatal vitamins aren’t high on the list of street drugs. Now what? Break the glass and go in?”

“I hate to break in.”

“I suppose we could camp out for a week or two in hopes she eventually shows up.”

Alyx scowls. “Smartass. Let’s drive around back. Maybe the rear door is unlocked.” Alyx takes her foot off the brake and eases the truck around the building. There’s nothing on the doors to indicate which business they belong to, but if the doors correspond to the configuration of the façade, the last door on the left would belong to Sarah Michaels, MD. Alyx confirms Zane’s speculations. “That’s her car, there,” Alyx says, pointing toward an older red Mercedes convertible.

“Think she’s inside?”

“I doubt it. My bet is her car wouldn’t start.” Alyx pulls up next to the Mercedes and kills the engine. “I guess we can knock to see if she’s here.”

“And if there’s no answer?”

Alyx sighs. “I guess we break in.”

Zane cracks the breech on the shotgun to make sure it’s loaded before pushing the door open and climbing gingerly from the cab. He hobbles toward the door and Alyx climbs out to meet him. He rattles the doorknob and finds it’s locked. Not only is the knob locked, but the steel door is outfitted with dead bolts at the top and bottom of the door. “She store gold in the office?” Zane asks.

Before Alyx can answer, a gunshot shatters the silence and a chip of concrete, a foot above their head, flies into the air. They turn in unison to find a woman crouched in a shooter’s stance forty feet away. Zane leans over and places the shotgun on the ground and he and Alyx reach for the sky. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the woman shouts.

Alyx lowers her arms.

“Hands up, bitch,” the woman says, walking slowly forward, the gun never wavering.

“Sarah, it’s me, Alyx. Alyx Reed.”

Sarah moves closer, the gun steady in her hands. At the ten-foot mark, she takes a long look at Alyx and lowers her weapon, rushing in to give Alyx a hug. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

“We dropped by for lunch,” Alyx says, stepping away from the embrace, both women chuckling.

Assuming he’s safe, Zane lowers his hands and takes stock of Sarah Michaels. She’s lithe and lean and nearly a head shorter than Alyx. Her dark hair is cut in a fashionable bob and, when she turns to face Zane, he’s instantly mesmerized by her sea green eyes.

“And who is this handsome man?” Sarah asks. “Another in a long line of boyfriends?”

Alyx playfully slugs her friend in the arm. “Sarah, this is Zane Miller. Boyfriend status yet to be determined.”

Sarah holsters her pistol and shakes Zane’s hand. “If I wasn’t married with two kids, I’d steal you away from Alyx. Lord knows she owes me.” Sarah gives his hand a final squeeze and breaks the grasp. Zane bends over to retrieve the shotgun as Sarah digs out her keys. “What are you doing here, Alyx?”

“Zane battled a pit bull and lost. His leg needs stitches.”

“And if I hadn’t happened along?”

“Undecided,” Alyx answers, smiling. She quickly changes the subject. “Why are you coming to the office?”

Sarah unlocks the door and removes a small flashlight from her back pocket. “I still see some of my pregnant patients out of my home and I need to restock some supplies.” She opens the door and all three enter and Sarah relocks the door.

North Atlantic Ocean

After a rotating lunch of chicken soup that was 99 percent water, the crew of the USS New York is back on station. There have been some grumbles about the food situation, but everyone is aware of what happened at Ponta Delgada. The video of torpedoing the Portuguese frigate played on a loop until Captain Thompson got tired of seeing it. Back on the bridge, the captain is joined by Carlos Garcia. “Think we should deploy the communication buoy, Carlos? See if we can make radio contact with someone?”

“I don’t know, Bull. We towed the damn thing for hours on the way to Ponta Delgada and never heard a blip.” Garcia glances at his watch. “It’ll be dark in a few hours. Might be best to wait till then. You really think we’ll make radio contact with someone?”

“Who knows? We can’t be the only boat left. Be nice to hook up with a surface ship and take on some supplies. We’re still five days from Bermuda and tonight’s soup wasn’t the most filling meal I’ve ever had.”

“It’s generous to call it soup. What happens if we do make contact and it turns out it’s a Russian warship?”

“Don’t know. We have no idea if we’re still at war or even who’s left to fight. I didn’t pay close attention to the targeting package for our missiles, but I’d have to think Russia was absolutely decimated. Probably the same applies for our country. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing to communicate with a Russian ship.”

“And what happens if they pinpoint our location and send a torpedo up our ass? I think it’s best if we continue to believe we’re at war, Bull.”

“We need food. We have no idea how much longer we’ll be at sea. My bet is there isn’t a port left on the East Coast. Hell, the same probably applies to the West Coast, for that matter. And I can guarantee you Pearl Harbor has been obliterated. Our only hope might be docking in the U.S. Virgin Islands if they still exist. If that’s the case, that’ll add two or three days to our journey.”

“Are we going for a look-see at Kings Bay?”