Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“We’re pushing a hundred days right now,” Thompson answers. “We’re hoping you’ll part with some of your food stores.”

“What’s mine is yours. How long you plan on cruising around in that tin can?”

Thompson chugs his bourbon and pushes his empty cup across the table for a refill. “I don’t know the answer to that, Murph. To tell the truth, I don’t have a damn clue what to do. Have you heard anything over the radio?”

“Crickets. We’ve been patrolling around this area hoping to find other friendlies, but so far the only one we’ve encountered is the Russian destroyer you torpedoed. And if the Aegis system was working properly, I’d have sunk her three days ago. I think the EMPs fried some components.”

“Did the Russians try to engage you?” Garcia asks.

“No. Which means he was probably running empty on hardware. Don’t know what the hell that means,” Murphy says. “I don’t know if they’ve been over here hunting our ships and he shot his wad or what. It’s a mystery.”

“What are your plans?” Thompson asks.

“I’m hoping we make radio contact with someone up the food chain. They can’t all be dead, can they?”

Thompson takes a sip of bourbon, relishing the heat as it travels down his throat. “I don’t know, Murph. You would think some of them survived. Maybe all the communication satellites have been destroyed.”

“Even the geosync satellites? Hard to believe anyone would target military satellites twenty-two thousand miles out in orbit.”

Thompson shrugs. “Hell maybe everyone is dead. But you risk running out of fuel waiting for a voice over the radio.”

“I won’t allow that to happen, Bull.”

“Think any naval bases survived?” Garcia asks. “A place where you could refuel?”

Murphy takes a swallow of bourbon. “We made a run by Norfolk and that’s a no-go. A dozen ships have been sunk or are in the process of sinking. The entire port facility is gone—wiped off the face of the earth. I assume the same applies to all the other navy facilities, including yours in Kings Bay. From here, if we can’t make contact, we’re going to make a run for the U.S. Virgin Islands. I’m damn sure not going to sit out here dead in the water.”

“And do what once you’re there?” Thompson asks.

Murphy shrugs. “I guess we’ll dock her and go ashore. Don’t know what else to do or where to go.” Murphy grows silent and takes a long sip of bourbon. “My wife and three kids… were… in… Norfolk. Same… for most of... the… crew.” Murphy chokes up and pauses. After several moments, he continues. “There’s nothing… left… there… for any… of us.”

Thompson stands and moves around the table, taking a seat next to his longtime friend. He leans forward and wraps an arm around Murphy’s shoulders. No words are exchanged as Murphy breaks into sobs. After several moments, he sniffles a final time and blows out a long, stuttering breath. The cup trembles when he lifts it to drain the remaining bourbon.

Thompson frees his arm and leans back in his chair. “We’ll go with you to the Virgin Islands.” He looks to Garcia, who nods. “We’ll make our own little convoy. I’d feel a hell of a lot safer with a surface ship to keep an eye on things.” Thompson leans forward and places his elbows on the table. “I do have one favor, though.”

“Shoot,” Murphy says.

Thompson struggles for a way to frame his request, in light of the last few moments. He decides straight on is the only way. “We make a run by Myrtle Beach then run south to Jacksonville. Karen and the kids left for a vacation at Myrtle Beach a week before everything happened. And Carlos’s family and most of my crew’s families were living in Jacksonville.”

“Deal,” Murphy says. “We should have enough fuel and it would be nice to know…” Murphy pauses, trying to reel in his emotions. After a moment or two of silence, he exhales and says, “…that some of our families survived this madness.”

Weatherford

Gage or Henry will occasionally light their headlamp to ensure they’re not about to crash into a dead auto or to confirm their position on the road. Approaching the third mile of their five-mile trek they have yet to encounter another human, which isn’t unusual considering the absolute darkness and the time. The fetid stench of decomposing cattle carcasses greets them when they reach the first section of Marston land. Before hell rained down, Gage’s buddy Mitch Marston was one of the largest cattle owners in the county, often running four hundred head or so across his three sections of land. Now the two thousand acres is littered with cattle remains and it will be weeks before the stench fades.

A vehicle turns at the next intersection, the headlights flaring across the road.

“I bet that’s them,” Henry says.

Gage chambers a shell. “Nope. Headlights are too close to the ground.”

“Who do you think it is?”

“I have a hunch and, if it proves correct, I’d rather be standing here with a loaded gun.”

Taking the hint, Henry pulls the rifle bolt back and a large .308 cartridge pops into the breech. He slides the bolt home and clicks on the safety. “Let’s don’t forget why we are out here, Gage.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I’m desperate to find Holly, but I’ve got a bad feeling about who might be driving that car.”

With their lights extinguished Henry and Gage move over to the side of the road as the automobile drifts closer, the headlights dancing across the blacktop. With enough firepower to stop an elephant, the thought of hiding never enters their minds. The car slows as it nears, and the rumble of the engine is loud in the quiet night.

Gage steps into the middle of the road and clicks on his light. The shotgun is braced across his chest and his index finger is stroking the trigger as the car coasts to a stop. Gage walks to the driver’s side and bends down to look in the car. Inside are two men, late twenties or early thirties, with long, greasy hair and scruffy beards. The driver has two tears tattooed near the corner of his left eye, their crude form suggesting an unskilled hand. Jailhouse tats, most likely, Gage thinks. “You’re driving Mitch Martson’s ’68 Mustang GT Fastback and neither of you are Mitch Marston.”

“We found the car,” the driver says.

Playing in Gage’s mind is the arsenal Mitch keeps at his house. A gun nut, Mitch has one of about everything, including an AR-15, a modified Uzi submachine gun, and a fully automatic AK-47. Henry works his way around the back of the car and takes up position on the other side. “Bullshit,” Gage says. “That car stays covered in my friend’s barn. You didn’t find shit. What happened to Mitch?” Gage asks.

“Mitch who?” the driver says. “We don’t know no Mitch.”

“You’re not from around here, are you, pard?” Gage asks.

“Nope, just passing through.”

“In this town, we look out for our neighbors. Now, I’ll ask again. What happened to the man you stole this car from?”

The driver turns and smiles, his hands buried somewhere in his lap. “Okay, you’re right. We took the car out of the barn. But we didn’t see this Mitch person you’re talking about.”

“So, if I let you go, I’ll find my friend and his family safe and sound at home? I may have been born at night, but it damn sure wasn’t last night. Get out of the car. Both of you.”

“Or what?” the driver asks.

In one swift motion, Gage pulls the shotgun tight to his shoulder and fires, the double-aught buckshot shredding the front tire. Gage jacks another shell and swings the barrel up, centering it on the driver. “Appears you have a flat. Now get out of the fucking car.”