Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

Lauren leans forward in the seat. “I see a sign for a hotel ahead.”

“Probably already filled with refugees. We need someplace out of the way. A warehouse, or something similar to the office building we stayed in last night.”

Lauren rocks her head from side to side, trying to pop her neck. “Damn, and I was hoping for a bed.”

“I doubt you’ll find a bed until you get home to Lubbock.”

“You sure know how to shoot down a girl’s dream. Can we find someplace where we won’t be interrupted by a gunfight in the middle of the night?”

“I could do without that, myself.” McDowell points to a cluster of buildings on the other side of the roadway. “That look like a school to you?”

“Don’t do that to me, please. Besides, the local community is probably using it as a shelter since it’s government property.”

“Didn’t think about that.” McDowell continues driving south. They hit an industrial area and he pulls off the highway. Time is of the essence now as the darkness settles in. They drive past a Lowe’s and head deeper into the complex, passing a cluster of plundered restaurants and small office buildings. McDowell spots a building off by itself and pulls into the drive. According to the sign, it’s some type of financial services company. “This place might well be out of business forever. How’s it look?”

“It’s fine, if we can get inside.”

“We’ll get inside—that I can assure you.” He pulls the truck around behind the building and noses into a dense pocket of trees and kills the engine. The truck shakes as those in back jump to the ground. McDowell pushes out of the cab and arches his back, trying to stretch out the kinks. The stretching offers little relief and he reaches back inside and grabs the shotgun, slinging it over his shoulder. “Hey, gang,” he says in a low voice, “keep the noise to a minimum. Unload the food, water, and utensils only.” He eases around to the other side of the truck and unlocks the glove box. After tucking the Glock into his waistband, he grabs the ammo for both weapons and steps over to Lauren. “The back door is steel and set in a metal frame. Keep them back here and I’ll unlock it from the inside.”

McDowell makes his way around to the front of the building. He clicks on his flashlight and twists the lens to red. The front entry is a pair of glass doors bookended by two large plate glass windows. He turns and shines the light around the landscaped flower bed and finds exactly what he’s looking for. McDowell picks up the rock, turns, and tosses the rock at the door on the right. The glass shatters, launching an avalanche of tiny pieces as the tempered glass falls to the pavement. He steps through the frame and pauses to listen. After several moments of silence, he makes his way toward the back of the building, threading his way through a disorganized stockroom to unlock the back door. While the students unload the truck, McDowell reconnoiters the rest of the building.

Measuring maybe 10,000 square feet, the building contains a handsomely decorated reception area, complete with a comfortable-looking large leather sofa and a pair of overstuffed leather wing chairs—all positioned precisely on an expensive-looking Persian rug and facing a large natural-stone fireplace. McDowell continues down the hall, wondering who would be crazy enough to let this company handle their assets after seeing the opulence of the reception area. The opulence continues as he passes a half a dozen offices, all outfitted like some private Manhattan gentleman’s club with expensive furniture and real artwork on the walls. At an intersection of hallways, he finds a modern conference room with seating for thirty. Down the next hall, he discovers where the real work was done. The generous, rectangular room is bisected by a series of cubicles while the perimeter of the room is made up of series of smaller glass-fronted offices. At the end of the hallway is a small break room, complete with a refrigerator and coffeemaker. McDowell returns to the stockroom. Four flashlights are on, lighting the room.

“Stan, may we have a fire?” Lauren asks.

“Let me scout around outside before I answer. In the interim, there’s a kitchen down the far hallway. Might see what you can scare up.” McDowell eases out the back door. He walks a wide circle around the building. The back of the building butts up to a greenbelt to the south, and to the north and east are more deserted office buildings. Curious to know what’s on the other side of the natural buffer, he makes his way through the trees. After a hundred yards, he steps out onto a residential street. The neighborhood is concerning, but with the greenbelt, not a deal breaker. McDowell retraces his steps and returns to a lean-to he spotted on the far side building. Pulling the door open, he finds a stack of firewood and loads up, returning to a secluded area where the building’s walls form an inside corner. Sheltered on two sides, the spot is hidden from the main road. McDowell dumps his load of firewood and returns inside.

The one thing an investment business never lacks is paper. After gathering up a handful, he returns to his fire spot. He shreds some paper and lights it. After adding more paper, the fire is ready for the wood. It looks well seasoned and doesn’t take long to ignite. McDowell returns to the storeroom. “Fire’s going. A couple of rules before we head out: No loud noises and I’ll be the one handling the flashlight.” He turns to Melissa. “Any luck in the kitchen?”

“We found two dozen cans of food, mostly chili and soup, and a case of bottled water. I think the kids are wanting to sample the chili.”

“That sounds really good to me. If you’ll dump it all in the big pot, we’ll get the party started.”

After dinner, and after a nature call, the kids break into groups to bed down for the night. Because of their relative seclusion, and because of the possible side effects from the greasy chili, it’s decided the students could go outside in pairs if anyone needs to use the bathroom during the night. McDowell unslings his shotgun and settles into one of the leather wing chairs. Melissa takes the other and Lauren stretches out on the couch. McDowell reaches back and removes the Glock, placing it on a side table in case it’s needed during the night. He’s hoping like hell it isn’t.

Weatherford

It’s now full dark and there’s still no sign of Susan Reed. Gage’s worry meter is redlining as he sits on the trailer. Gage had left his flashlight with his tools, 260 feet up, and now, with the smoke-filled skies obscuring the moon and stars, it’s darker than a windowless room with a broken lightbulb. It was daylight when they descended the turbine, and climbing the treacherous tower ladder again, this time in the dark, is something neither he nor Henry is willing to risk. Without aid of a flashlight they start the journey home. The going is slow as they travel down the winding gravel drive, working their way to the main road. Gage peers into darkness, astounded by the total lack of light. The town is only a couple of miles away, yet you wouldn’t know it existed if you didn’t know for sure it was there. Add in the absence of vehicle headlights and the darkness is absolute. Gage trips over a limb and falls on his ass, losing all sense of direction. He pushes to his feet with no idea which way to go. “Henry?”

“I’m here, Gage,” Henry says. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Say something else so I can find you.”

“Did I mention how pissed I am at Susan? She knows better than to leave us out here in the dark.”

Gage zeros in on his voice and shuffles in that direction, his hands extended, searching for contact. He brushes across the fabric of Henry’s shirt and they play handsy until Henry grabs one of Gage’s hands. “I’ve got you, Gage,” he says, locking hands with his son-in-law.