Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“When you planned the trip you had zero chance of predicting the current situation. You two are going well beyond what was ever expected of you,” McDowell says. “In the end, Hannah shouldn’t have gone outside alone.”

Lauren sniffles. “But still. I should have kept a better eye on her.”

“You can’t watch them twenty-four/seven. At some point they have to take some responsibility,” McDowell says. “So, back to the body. I hate to be brusque about the matter, but we need to make a decision. Take her or bury Hannah here?”

Lauren wipes her nose. “Riding around with Hannah’s body seems ghoulish, especially with a group of curious teenagers.”

“Speaking of the teenagers,” Melissa says, pulling a tissue from the box on the desk. “What are we going to tell them?”

“I think we have to tell them the truth,” Lauren replies. “Not all the details of how she was killed, only the fact that she was murdered.” She glances at McDowell. “If we bury her here, can we do some type of service that would include the students?”

“Of course,” McDowell replies. “I need you two to scour the offices for some type of blanket to wrap Hannah’s body in. We have a shovel from the sign shop, but it’s probably going to take me a couple of hours to dig the grave. We’ll bury her in a small neighborhood park three blocks east of here.” McDowell pushes out of the chair. “I’ll return to lead you back to the grave.” He picks up the shotgun and hands it to Lauren. “When the kids are finished using the bathroom, I want all of you to remain indoors. We know there’s at least one killer out there.” McDowell pauses for a moment to let the statement sink in. “Lauren, you know how to handle that shotgun?”

“Yes. Pump and shoot, right?”

“Yes. And if someone tries to force their way inside, it’s shoot first and ask questions later. Can you handle that?”

Lauren nods.

McDowell digs the truck keys out of his pocket and hands them to Lauren. “There are extra shells in the glove box. I’m taking the pistol, but if anything happens to me, you get those kids on board and haul ass.”

Hayti

During the night, the mosquitoes drove Zane and Alyx into the cab. Lying side by side on the bench seat, Zane stirs awake and sits up. Who knew mosquitoes could survive a nuclear war? Zane wonders as he pushes open the door and climbs out to empty his bladder. His urine is dark and his usual steady stream is a dribble. The water situation is now critical. He walks over and grabs his still-damp clothing and tugs on his jeans and shirt, envious that Alyx’s clothes are dry because she was too busy to wash them out last night. In the daylight, the water looks clear, but with the high number of agricultural fields surrounding the river, there’s no telling how much pesticide or fertilizer has been washed into the stream. He bends down and scoops up a handful of water and takes a sniff. The water smells fine and he gives it a taste. There is no chemical taste and no nasty aftertaste. But getting the runs could be a fatal illness in the current climate.

The door squeals and he turns to see Alyx climb down from the cab. She moves around to the front of the truck and squats. Zane chuckles at her modesty. Alyx stands, pulls up her pants, and saunters down to where he’s standing. The flip-flops she had on the day they left Fort Meade are now more flop than flip.

“We need to find you some new shoes.”

“Sure, we’ll pick up a cheap pair at Target when we stop for groceries. Is the water fit to drink?”

“It tastes okay, but I’m not sure we should risk it.”

Alyx brushes her hair out of her face. The color is beginning to lighten, transitioning back to her more natural brunette. And the left side of her head that had been shaved close to the skull is filling out. Zane zeros in on her delicate collarbones as they rise and fall with each breath.

“What in the hell are you looking at?” Alyx asks.

“Your collarbones.”

“Well, hell. You keep that thing in your pants. We need to worry about finding water.”

“With all these fields around here, you’d think we’d find a windmill pumping water.”

“Maybe we will now that it’s daylight. I don’t want to risk getting sick by drinking that water. Besides, we have no idea if it’s contaminated with radiation. We need to find an underground source.”

“What if we boiled some of this water?” Zane asks.

“Two problems with that. We don’t have any way to start a fire or anything to boil the water in. We should have taken some pans and a lighter from that house with the dead couple.”

“If I recall correctly, we kind of left in a hurry. But, hey, they start fires all the time on Survivor .”

Alyx laughs. “I must have missed that season. Were you on the show?”

“Well, no. But how hard can it be?”

Alyx turns and starts walking back to the truck. “C’mon, Mr. Survivor. Let’s get the hell out of here. Maybe we’ll find one of your windmills.”

They climb in the truck and Zane eases the pickup up the hill and makes a right onto the main road. Four miles farther on they come to another small town. Zane skirts around the town and picks up a highway running at a diagonal, leading them toward the south-west. It’s more of the same on this side of town—fields for as far as the eye can see with homes spaced miles apart. Zane slows when they pass the houses, hoping to find a place that looks unoccupied. Most of the homes are set close to the road and are dwarfed by the barns and grain silos that sprout up like weeds. The clutter of farming trucks and tractors makes it extremely difficult to determine if a home is vacant or not. A mile farther on, he spots a secluded home that’s well off the road and devoid of farm clutter. He slows to a stop.

“See any cars?” Zane asks.

“No, but that doesn’t necessarily mean no one’s home. Maybe the car died in town and they walked home.”

“Hadn’t thought of that.” Zane gooses the gas, and Old Goldie picks up speed. After another two miles, Zane groans when they pass a sign welcoming them to Arkansas. “Looks like we’re back in the land of crazies.” In the distance Zane spots what he’s been looking for—a windmill. He eases up the road and coasts to a stop at the head of the gravel drive leading to a small home. The drive is vacant and the windmill is positioned off to the side of the house, the blades turning lazily in the morning breeze. A hose runs away from the base of the windmill and ends in a galvanized stock tank on the other side of a barbwire fence. About a hundred yards behind the house is a barn that was in desperate need of repair twenty years ago. “What do you think?”

“I think we don’t have a choice.”

Zane turns into the driveway and steers around behind the house, putting the truck in park. They take a moment to study the area. No one has charged out of the house, but Zane’s hand doesn’t stray far from the shifter or the shotgun. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

“Either that or they’re waiting to shoot us when we get out of the truck.”

Zane scowls. “You’re a pessimist. I can’t see any movement through the windows. My bet is the place is vacant.”

Alyx begins gathering up the empty water bottles. “How do you want to do this?”

“Do you think I should pull up closer to the windmill?”

“I’d rather the truck remain hidden.”

“Okay, I’ll cover you with the shotgun while you refill the bottles.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They open the doors and spill out of the truck. Zane takes up a position where he can see both the house and the windmill and crosses the shotgun across his chest and waits, sweeping his gaze back and forth. Alyx removes the hose from the stock tank and lets the water run for a few seconds to clear the line. She takes a tentative sip, ponders the taste for a moment, then takes a much longer drink. Once her thirst is quenched she begins filling the bottles. She glances up and shouts, “Zane!”