Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

With trembling hands, Alyx feeds two more shells into the chamber and snaps the breech closed. “Now what?”

“I’ll figure that out when my nerves settle.” Zane takes a long moment to regain his composure then turns to look at Alyx. “That didn’t go as planned.”

“You think? Thank you, Zane.”

“I did kind of speak out of turn. I hope I didn’t spoil a romantic moment for you.”

“He forgot to bring flowers on the first date.”

They share a nervous chuckle and the tension drains from Zane’s body. The shaking subsides and Zane shifts in his seat. “Alyx, will you grab the map and find the closest crossing?” After Zane lost the map by throwing it at the pit bull, the Michaels found an old, yellowed map of Tennessee in one of their junk drawers and passed it on to Zane.

Alyx unfolds the map across her lap. “There’s a crossing just south of here on Interstate 55.”

“It’ll be the same there, I bet. What’s next?”

Alyx traces her finger along the river. “The next crossing south is Lula, Mississippi, that crosses over to West Helena, Arkansas. It’s about thirty miles from here.”

“I’ve had my fill of Arkansans, or Tennesseans, or whoever is responsible for that roadblock. What’s the next crossing?” Zane asks.

“We’d have to drive all the way to Greenville, Mississippi.”

“That far south is a no-go. Mississippi and Louisiana are littered with military bases. You probably couldn’t find an unburned blade of grass in either state.”

Alyx returns to the map. “The nearest crossing to the north is about fifty miles away. We’d have to backtrack to Highway 51 and take that north to Interstate 155 and cross over into southern Missouri.”

“That’s a lot of backtracking, but I think it’s our only option.” Zane eases up an on-ramp to the highway, heading back the way they came.

North Atlantic

Still at periscope depth, Thompson is in a quandary. The USS Grant is ten miles out and the sub’s radio crew has failed to make radio contact with the ship. With no way of knowing if the radio problems are on his end, or with the Grant , or a systemwide failure, a surprise surfacing could be dicey. With no visual markings on the hull, there’s concern the destroyer crew might misidentify the New York as an enemy sub. “Sonar, any other contacts, surface or otherwise?”

“Negative, Skipper. Just our destroyer, sir,” Sonar Tech Adams, replies. “She’s slowed down and is now turning fifteen knots.”

“She’s using one screw to conserve fuel,” Thompson mutters, turning to Garcia. “Think they’ll know we’re friendly with the Russian warship torpedoed and on the verge of sinking?”

“I don’t think we have much choice one way or the other and we have no idea who else is playing in the sandbox. In all reality the Grant could have sunk us when we launched the torpedoes.”

“Periscope up,” Thompson orders. He steps over and catches handles as the scope slides into position. He walks a circle until the destroyer comes into view. He dials up the magnification and studies the approaching ship. With no radio contact, he wants to make damn sure nothing is amiss. The ship is still too distant to distinguish any crew characteristics, but all appears normal. He steps away from the periscope. “Dive, take us to the surface.”

The nose of the submarine tilts up as the boat ascends. Sailing at periscope depth it doesn’t take long for the immense boat to breaks through the surface. Thompson turns to the quartermaster. “Chief Chambers, send someone topside to run up the flag,” Thompson orders. “Conn, send a helmsman up the sail.” Once his orders are confirmed, he and Garcia make their way to the forward hatch. After strapping on the life vests, Thompson grabs the binoculars and a handheld radio, and both climb up, stepping out onto the matte black deck. The destroyer is now only three miles away and heading straight for the surfaced sub. Thompson puts the high-power binoculars to his eyes and glasses the bridge area of the ship. The destroyer is still too far away to distinguish much, other than a group of sailors standing watch. Thompson puts the radio to his mouth and triggers the talk button. “Helm, come to a heading of one-three-six degrees. All ahead two-thirds.” With both ships now moving toward each other the gap will close quickly.

Thompson takes advantage of being topside by inhaling and exhaling several deep breaths. The briny scent of the sea smells much fresher than the recycled air below. With the Gulf Stream current, the breeze is warm and he can almost feel his skin sucking up the moisture from the humidity. With the destroyer now closer, Thompson returns to his binoculars. He adjusts the focus and zeros in on the bridge. He laughs and hands the binoculars to Garcia. “Murphy has a message for you.”

Garcia puts the binoculars to his eyes and starts laughing. Standing on the bridge of the ship, with binoculars to his eyes, is Captain Wayne Murphy, the middle finger of his right hand extended. Garcia returns the salute and hands the binoculars back to the captain. “You know, I don’t think I’ve laughed since this whole mess started.”

“None of us have.” Thompson radios all stop and they wait for the ominous-looking warship to pull alongside. Several sailors spill out of the front hatch of the sub. They attach cleats to the deck of the sub fore and aft and wait for the Grant crew to toss over the ropes. The crew on the destroyer lowers fenders over the rail to keep the two ships from bumping against each other and within moments the two ships are tied together and the destroyer’s crew lowers down a gangway as the ship’s anchor drops to the bottom of the sea.

Murphy is there to greet Thompson and Garcia and they exchange back-slapping hugs. “You’re still as ugly as ever,” Thompson says to Murphy.

Murphy, at six-two and a heavily muscled 220 pounds, is the tall, dark, handsome man women swoon over. And swoon they did, all through their academy years. Thompson stopped counting after the first year because he couldn’t compete—with the numbers or in the bedroom. Thompson drapes an arm over Murphy’s shoulders as they make their way inside.

Des Moines, Iowa

With darkness approaching, McDowell is searching for a place to hole up for the night. The problem—they’re still north of Des Moines, and not a single structure remains. He slows the truck when they come to a fork in the highway. The lettering on the overhead signs is blistered and unreadable. It appears one road leads to the city center, while the other swings out to the west. He opts for the western spur, hoping it’s a loop around the downtown area. Here, some of the larger concrete structures are still standing, but the insides are hollowed out from the fires. If McDowell remembers correctly, the Iowa National Guard Joint Forces Headquarters had been located on the north side in Des Moines, meaning conditions should improve the farther south they go.

They cross a wide debris-filled river and the landscape begins to change.

“Did the river act as a firebreak?” Lauren asks.

“It played a part, for sure. But mostly it was wind direction. I’ve flown into Des Moines several times and we almost always faced a southerly wind.”

Intact neighborhoods begin to appear, and McDowell’s spirit lifts a notch. Five miles farther on, the road makes a long looping curve to the south. McDowell leans forward to click on the headlights and curses when nothing happens.

“I guess the damn headlights don’t work. We need to find someplace to bed down before it gets too dark.”