Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

Zane whirls around and brings the shotgun to bear on an older man exiting the side door of the barn. He’s carrying a pistol low to his side and he’s limping badly. He raises his free hand in greeting. Not sure of his intentions, Zane keeps the shotgun barrel centered on the man’s chest as he approaches. “I’m not gonna hurt ya,” the man says.

“How about putting that pistol away, then.”

The man shrugs and tucks the pistol into a pocket. “Where you folks from?” The man is dressed in tattered overalls and no shirt, his gray chest hair is peeking over the top of the bib.

The man seems friendly enough and Zane lowers the barrel a few inches.

“We’re originally from the Washington, D.C., area.”

“I bet that’s a real shithole,” the man says, coming to a stop ten feet away. “Name’s Roger. Roger Webb. Who you be?”

“I’m Zane and the woman filling the water bottles is Alyx. This your place?”

“This here’s my castle. Been here goin’ on thirty years.”

“The house looked unoccupied. I hope you don’t mind us taking some of your water.”

“You have somethin’ to trade?”

Zane’s brain replays the images from the roadblock. And here we are in Arkansas, again . “The woman, Alyx, is not available.”

The man laughs, displaying a mouthful of rotted teeth. “Hell, young un, I ain’t been able to get it up since I got Roto-Rootered ’bout twenty years ago.”

Zane expels a sigh of relief. “Why are you limping?”

Webb pulls up his pant leg to reveal a nasty pus-filled gash running the length of his calf. “Got hung up on a gotdamn barbwire fence near ’bout a week ago.” He turns back toward the barn and waves a hand.

Zane lifts the shotgun, preparing for the worst.

The man laughs again. “It’s just my wife. You’s a jumpy fellow, ain’t you?”

“It pays to be jumpy.”

An older, mousy gray–haired woman sticks her head out of the barn for a look before tentatively stepping out. She, too, is dressed in overalls, but unlike her husband, she’s wearing an old grimy T-shirt. “That there’s Dolores. We been married goin’ on ’bout forty years.” He glances over his shoulder. “C’mon, hon.”

“Anyone else in the barn?” Zane asks.

“Nope, just us. Too damn hot in the house. It’s a might cooler in the barn if you don’t mind fightin’ the skeeters.”

Dolores comes to a stop next to her husband. “Hi, ma’am. I’m Zane and my friend at the well is Alyx.”

“She’s mighty pretty. She belong to you?” Dolores asks.

“That’s undecided, ma’am.”

“If’n I were you, I’d latch on to that pretty gal while I could.”

“I think you’re right, ma’am. I have some antibiotics I’ll give you, Roger, to clear up that infection in your leg.”

“Mighty nice of ya. I’d ’preciate it.”

Zane ponders the situation for a moment “You’re not going to shoot us, are you, Roger?”

“Why’d I want to shoot ya?”

Zane places the shotgun on the top of the cab as Alyx returns, her outstretched shirt filled with full water bottles. “Alyx, these nice folks are Roger and Dolores Webb.”

Alyx nods at the couple. “Nice to meet you two. Thanks for letting us take some water. I’m sorry we didn’t ask before taking it.”

“Don’t worry your pretty noggin ’bout it,” Roger says.

Alyx dumps her load into the truck, grabs the remainder of the empty bottles, and returns to the windmill.

“Roger, you hear any news?” Zane asks.

“Nope. Ain’t nobody around here knows what the hell’s goin’ on.”

“I think it’s the same for everyone,” Zane says. “We may never know exactly what happened. Your home is fairly close to the road. Have you had any trouble?”

“Jes one time. I kilt a couple of fellers on the fourth… No, that ain’t right.” Roger turns to his wife. “Hon, what day was’t?”

“I think it was day six.” She looks at Zane. “I been tryin’ to keep track of the days on the calendar we got from the feed store.”

Alyx returns with the last of the water bottles and dumps them in the truck.

“You folks hungry?” Dolores asks.

Zane and Alyx share a glance, both wondering if this is too good to be true. “Yes, we are,” Alyx says.

“Roger kilt a turkey this mornin’. We got it roasting over the fire. ’Bout done, too.”

Zane’s mouth is watering. “You don’t mind sharing?”

“No, siree. The meat’ll spoil before we can finish it. ’Sides, we ain’t had no company since this whole mess started.”

Zane glances at Alyx again. She nods. “Okay, we’d love some turkey.”

“C’mon back to the barn,” Roger says.

Zane stares at the shotgun on top of the truck. His usually sharp instincts are muted by hunger. Take the shotgun, or don’t?

As if reading his mind, Alyx says, “Zane why don’t you put the shotgun in the truck and get this nice couple some antibiotics?”

Zane nods. He slides the shogun onto the truck seat and pulls out the bag of medicines. He grabs enough for two courses of antibiotics and shoves the sack back under the seat. He and Alyx walk hand in hand to the barn.

After an hour of visiting and eating their fill, Alyx and Zane say their good-byes. Carrying a bag of leftovers, they climb into the truck and steer back onto the road. Alyx brushes the hair from her face. “I think those two restored my belief that humanity still exists.”

“I agree. But we’re still a long way from home.”

North Atlantic

After breakfast for both crews, those on the ballistic missile submarine are back aboard and hard at work. Overnight, radio technicians from both ships worked to restore a rudimentary radio link, allowing the two ships the ability to communicate. But Thompson plans on using it sparingly, if at all. Once the last of the supplies is transferred from the USS Grant , Thompson and Garcia say farewell to their friend Murphy, and the lines connecting the two ships are freed. Thompson and Garcia make their way down the main hatch and back to the bridge. After several moments, the last of the sailors are back aboard and the main hatch is sealed.

“Mr. Patterson, set a course for Myrtle Beach,” Thompson orders. “Q, take us down to two-zero-zero.”

The dive alarm sounds as the dive officer monitors the movement of seawater into the ballast tanks as the submarine slips beneath the surface. “All ahead two-thirds,” Thompson orders. “Conn, I want you to match speeds with Grant when she’s under way.”

When Thompson receives confirmation of his orders, he steps over to the navigation station. “Distance to Myrtle Beach?”

Patterson looks up from his computer screen. “Eight hundred ninety-four nautical miles, sir.”

The captain does the math in his head. “Somewhere around thirty-eight hours?”

“Yes, sir, if we maintain twenty knots.”

“Let’s hope Grant can run at that speed without burning through too much fuel,” Thompson says before turning away. He steps over to Garcia. “Think Murph can maintain twenty knots?”

“It’ll be a chore if he’s aiming to save fuel.”

“Captain,” Adams says, “I have a new contact. A surface ship one hundred thirteen miles out.”

“One of ours?” Thompson asks.

“No, definitely not one of ours. I’m running the screw signature through the computer.”

“Is the propeller signature similar to the previous Russian ship?”

“Negative, Skipper.” Adams scrolls through the computer results. “It appears to be a Chinese destroyer, sir.”

“Heading?” Thompson asks.