Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“We’ll go for a look, but I’m not holding out much hope. That would have been a primary target for sure.”

Garcia winces. “Think they bombed Jacksonville?”

Knowing that’s where Carlos’s wife and children are living, Thompson is hesitant to answer. After several moments of silence, he does. “I bet they hit the naval air station, but I have no idea if they hit the urban parts of the city. The town is protected somewhat by the St. Johns River and might have been spared from the wildfires. As for radiation, it all depends on the wind conditions.”

“Many of the crew’s families also live in and around Jacksonville. Think we could take a peek while we’re in the area?”

“Absolutely. But we’ve got a lot of ground to cover before then.”

“Karen and the kids still in Savannah?” Garcia asks

“They left for a week at Myrtle Beach two days before we launched our weapons. A last blowout before the twins start their senior year of high school.” Thompson pauses, tears glistening in his eyes. After another moment, he blows out a deep breath. “I haven’t wanted to think about them, yet I find myself doing just that when my mind is not occupied with submarine matters. I have no idea if they’re still alive or, if they are, whether we’ll ever see each other—”

“Surface contact, sir,” Sonar Technician Adams says. “Bearing two-nine-two degrees, distance thirty-two miles and closing.”

Captain Thompson pushes out of his chair. “Conn, all stop.” He steps over to sonar control. “Signature?”

“Working on it, sir.”

“Q, depth?”

“We’re sitting at three hundred eighty feet, Skipper.”

“Roger,” Thompson says. “Carlos, have wepps load tubes one and two.”

As the order to load the tubes with torpedoes is passed on, the captain taps his foot, waiting for the sonar technician to identify the ship.

“Sir, screw signature suggests the ship is a Russian destroyer.”

“Goddammit,” Thompson mutters under his breath. “Conn, sound a silent general alarm. Battle stations, torpedo.”

Iowa–Minnesota state line

McDowell eases the truck to a stop straddling the state line of Minnesota and Iowa. McDowell wonders why someone hasn’t a built a house here. A person could wake up in Minnesota and walk into Iowa for a cup of coffee from the kitchen. He smiles at the thought as he climbs out of the truck and informs the students it’ll be cold lunch, not wanting to take the time to build a fire. A few grumble but he ignores them.

“We’re making good time,” Melissa says.

McDowell steps away from the back of the truck to get out of earshot from the kids and Melissa follows. “For now. Things will change as we head farther south.”

“Why’s that?”

“More military installations. There’s a big National Guard base just outside of Des Moines. From there things go downhill. I expect most of Nebraska will be a burned-out wasteland. You have the missile silos out West and a large Air Force base to the east that’s home to the U.S. Strategic Command. With little but farm country in between, the firestorms most likely scoured most of the state.”

“How long until we hit Texas?”

“Unknown. During normal times, a day and a half. Now? I have no idea. We’ll have to skirt around Kansas City because of a military base, but once we hit Kansas it should be pretty easy traveling until we get to Oklahoma City.”

“So we stretch it to three days. Think that’s doable?”

McDowell wipes his brow and sighs. “A day at a time, Melissa. That’s all I can say.” McDowell turns and walks back to the truck. The students refuse to touch the Spam or Vienna sausages, so he grabs a can of Spam and pops the top. The ensuing aroma almost kills his appetite, but he grabs a fork, wipes it clean on his pant leg, and digs in. As he munches, he walks around the truck to make sure all the tires are holding up. Everything appears fine, and he polishes off the last of his lunch and puts the can in the trash bag the students had brought along. God forbid they should litter. He rounds everyone up and climbs behind the wheel. Melissa retakes the shotgun seat, and McDowell is surprised at his disappointment. He shifts the truck into gear and eases out on the clutch.

After a couple of miles of silence, Melissa says, “Are you okay after last night?”

“Yes.”

“How many were there?”

“Three. The same three we met earlier in the day. I guess they circled back to follow us.”

“What did they want?”

McDowell glances her way. “What do you think?”

Melissa shudders. “The girls. Or some of the girls.”

McDowell nods. They ride in silence for a few more miles. The landscape begins to change the deeper they travel into Iowa, the green giving way to black, the land singed by wildfires. They pass mile after mile of burned fields and the occasional remnants of charred houses, none spaced less than a half a mile apart. They travel past a family camped out in the front yard, the home a pile of bricks beyond.

It’s not until they arrive at the outskirts of Clear Lake that the devastation hits home. Clear Lake looks to have been a fairly good-sized town, judging by the number of city streets. That’s the only way to judge because not a single structure remains. McDowell slows to veer around a semi and spots a group digging through the ruins of a building next to the highway. Their bodies are coated with soot, their movements lethargic.

“It looks like there are a few survivors,” Melissa says.

“Is that a good thing? Their shelters are burned to the ground and there’s probably not a speck of food left anywhere in the area. Probably what they’re digging for now. I’m shocked they haven’t migrated out of the area.”

Melissa tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe it’s not food they’re digging for. It could be they’re searching for survivors.”

“Hadn’t thought of that. You could be right, but I would find it hard to believe there are any survivors left alive in that pile of rubble.”

“But if it was your child, or your parents, or your siblings, wouldn’t you want to know for sure? Wouldn’t you want some type of closure? To see with your own eyes the body of your loved one?”

“For how long? At some point you have to let go and move on.”

“Yes, you do. Maybe they haven’t yet reached that point,” Melissa says. “Or, on a grimmer note, they could have been exposed to a high level of radiation and know their days are numbered and are desperate to retrieve their loved ones so they can all be buried together. Many people have a strong desire to be buried next to their family members. Strange, I know, dead is dead, yet you see it at cemeteries the world over.”

“If you’re correct, these people are what? Digging their own graves? Then what? Hope you die first so your friends have time to put you in the ground?” McDowell shakes his head. “Jesus, what a macabre world we’re left with.”

Memphis

With his leg stitched up and a shot of penicillin in his left ass cheek, Zane is almost back to normal. Sarah slathers Zane’s wound with some antibiotic ointment and peels off her gloves. “I’ll put together some supplies for you to take.”

“Do you have any expired medicines that we could have?”

Sarah arches her brow. “Why?”

“To barter with. The bridge across the river is barricaded and those meds might be our ticket across.”

Sarah removes another key from her pocket and steps out into the hall to unlock a large cabinet. Alyx, the official flashlight holder, follows them into the hall. “These are all the meds I have,” Sarah says. “I’d prefer you only take what’s expired.”