Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“No,” Alyx says before pushing open her door and stepping out.

Zane grabs a flashlight and the shotgun, and climbs out of the truck. Frogs are croaking, filling the night with sound. Zane clicks on his flashlight and shields the lens, picking his way down to the water. He sweeps the beam across the surface, looking for possible dangers, such as tree stumps or other obstacles. Finding none, he clicks off the light, lays down the shotgun, pushes off his shoes, and strips out of his clothes. Carrying his clothes with him, he slides out into the water. He spends a few moments rinsing out his filthy clothing before carrying them back to the bank where he spreads them out to dry. He returns to the water and drifts a little farther out, dunking his head beneath the surface and scrubbing his face. He pops back up and scans the riverbank, searching for Alyx’s flashlight. She’s not there, or if she is, she’s not carrying a flashlight. He drifts along with the current, cursing himself for broaching the subject of Alyx’s past. It’s none of his damn business and he knows it. Without warning something clamps on to his thigh, and fearing it might be a gator, he shouts and thrashes in the water, trying to push whatever it is away.

Alyx pops up in front of him, laughing. “You’re forgiven,” she says, climbing into his arms and wrapping her long legs around his torso.

Weatherford

Gage is despondent, refusing to eat the small dinner Henry prepared. His gaze is repeatedly drawn to the foyer, where they discovered the pool of blood that Henry has since cleaned up. Sitting on the edge of the sofa with his face buried in his hands, Gage’s mind spins with possibilities—none of them good. They don’t know if the blood had been Holly’s or if Susan had somehow injured herself. And with no phones or other working automobiles, all they can do is wait. Gage pushes to his feet and paces the living room like a caged lion. Henry emerges from the kitchen with two highball glasses filled to the halfway point with bourbon. He passes one to Gage and sags into his easy chair.

Gage gulps the bourbon in one swallow, the alcohol singeing his throat and landing heavily in his already roiling stomach. He places the empty glass on an end table and continues to pace. He glances at the clock again. It’s nearing 11:00 P.M. “Henry, do you know where Holly’s doctor lives?”

“I know the neighborhood, Gage. It’s across the street from Prairie West Golf Club, but that’s a good five miles from here. And we don’t know for sure that’s where they are.” Henry watches as Gage paces to the far end of the room, turns, and retraces his steps. “You’re about to wear a hole in my wood floors, Gage.”

Gage doesn’t even crack a smile as he continues pacing. “First my dad and now this,” he mutters.

“Gage we don’t know what this is. You’re letting your imagination get the better of you.”

Gage pauses his pacing. “Okay, Henry, what’s your theory?”

“I don’t have a theory. And all you have are a bunch of suppositions.”

“And a pool of blood in the entryway,” Gage says with a little too much heat in his voice.

“It could be Holly’s water broke and she’s now delivering the baby.”

“If that’s the case why hasn’t Susan returned to pick me up? I’m sure Holly would want me there, goddammit.”

Henry takes a sip of bourbon, delaying. “I don’t know, Gage.”

“Exactly. We don’t know a damn thing.” Gage tires of pacing and sags onto the sofa.

“Maybe Susan is helping with the delivery,” Henry offers. “The doctor could probably use an extra pair of hands now that the hospital is closed.”

Gage pushes out of the sofa. “I’m going over there.”

“You don’t know where the doctor lives.”

“I’ll look for the truck.” Gage pauses. “My shotgun is in the truck. Can I borrow one of yours?”

Henry drains his bourbon and stands. “Only if you’ll let me go with you.”

“No, you stay here in case they come back. I’ll take Arapaho Road over to Lyle. You can tell Susan to come pick me up.”

“We could just as easily leave a note. Holly is your wife, but she’s also my baby girl, Gage. I’m as concerned as you are.”

Gage’s anger evaporates. “I’m sorry, Henry. I know Holly is important to both of us. If you’ll write the note, I’ll get the shotgun.”

“Grab my deer rifle and a handful of cartridges. I don’t have any expectations of trouble, but I’d feel more comfortable if we’re both armed.”

Gage nods and heads down the hallway to Henry’s study. He and Henry, along with Gage’s father and brother, used to hunt every year, both birds and deer. But somewhere along the way Gage lost his taste for killing. The same feeling must have passed through the group because none of them have been hunting for several years. But that doesn’t mean any of them have parted with their guns. Chalk it up to life in small-town America. Gage enters the four-digit code and spins the wheel, unlocking the gun safe. Of course, with Henry being an engineer, the eight weapons are perfectly ordered by type and caliber, with a couple of handguns precisely arranged on the upper shelf. Gage selects the Kimber SuperAmerica for Henry. A bolt-action rifle, the weapon is chambered for the .308 Winchester cartridge—large enough to stop most anything on four legs and absolutely lethal for any two-legged species. Gage’s weapon of choice is a Browning 12-gauge pump shotgun, prized the world over for its close-in stopping power. After grabbing ammo for each from the bottom drawer of the safe, Gage relocks the door and returns to the kitchen. He lays the weapons and ammo on the counter. “Flashlights?”

“In the utility room. I’ll grab them if you’ll load the guns.”

Gage loads the rifle magazine and seats it in place before feeding the double-aught shotgun shells into the shotgun. He puts a handful of shotgun shells in both pockets and lays out extra rifle ammo as Henry, carrying a pair of headband lights, returns from the utility room.

He passes one of the lights to Gage. “They’ll allow us to keep our hands free.” Henry looks over the weapons on the counter. “Think we need a handgun?”

“If we can’t get out of a jam with what we’re carrying, a handgun’s not going to do us a damn bit of good.”

“Agreed. I left the note by the coffeepot. You ready?”

Gage nods and heads toward the front door, his eyes lingering on the spot where the blood was found.

North Atlantic

With their movements cloaked by darkness, most of the crew from the USS New York is now aboard the destroyer, enjoying their first real meal in days. They’ll rotate with those crew members still on the sub so everyone has the opportunity for chow. After dinner in the officers’ mess, Captain Murphy leads Thompson and Garcia to the officers’ wardroom. He unlocks a file cabinet and pulls out a bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon, easily identifiable by its distinctive red wax top. Murphy gathers up three coffee mugs and pours an equal measure into each and passes them around.

“Why aren’t you with a battle group, Murph?” Thompson asks.

“We were delayed at port waiting on parts. We were on our way to join Carrier Strike Group Two when the world turned to shit.”

“When did you leave port?” Garcia asks.

“A week before it all started, and we haven’t refueled since. The fuel level is currently at forty percent and I have no idea when or how we’ll refuel.” Murphy drains his bourbon and pours himself another. “How long have you been out?”