Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“That’s part of it. The other part is we have no way to forecast the weather. From your house, it’d take me about half an hour to drive over here and climb up the tower. If we get a thunderstorm that pops up, as they have a tendency to do, the turbine could destroy itself before I could get up here to stop it.”

“You said it earlier. We’re going to need help with this, and not just with security. The ideal situation would be having someone in or near the turbine around the clock. Maybe that same person would be responsible for stopping the turbine in an emergency.” Henry takes a swig of water from one of the two bottles they brought from the garage. “Right now, all we’re doing is speculating. We won’t be able to diagnose all the problems until we get her running.”

Des Moines

McDowell pauses digging Hannah Hatcher’s grave and mops his brow. It’s been a while since he’s done any manual labor and his muscles are screaming in protest. The digging was good for the first hour, but two feet down, he hit a ledge of sandstone that he’s trying to chip his way through. McDowell lays the shovel aside and grabs his bottle of water. There are a few people out and about, but so far none have approached McDowell to inquire about his activities. He guzzles half the water and reseats the cap and scans the neighborhood again. On the opposite corner he spots a man walking the sidewalk who turns away when McDowell looks in his direction. Did I see him earlier? He watches as the man turns a corner and walks out of view.

McDowell probes a blister on his right palm, thinking, I did see him earlier, when I was returning to the office building after finding Hannah’s body. Or is it a different guy wearing a similar coat to this guy? McDowell reaches behind his back and touches the Glock to make sure it’s still there. With no definitive answers, he sighs and picks up the shovel.

A half an hour later, McDowell has only chipped away a few inches of rock and dirt. He pauses to stretch his back and glances up to see the same man walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. If the guy’s wondering what I’m doing, why doesn’t he walk over here and ask? McDowell ponders that question for a moment while he probes another blister on his left palm. It’s the size of a quarter and filled with fluid. He glances back toward the man. He’s too far away to discern many physical features, other than the man is tall and lanky. McDowell mulls the situation over and a thought charges to the forefront of his mind: unless he already knows what I’m doing. McDowell climbs out of the hole, thinking, It won’t hurt to talk to him, would it?

McDowell waits for the man to walk out of view, before hurrying across the street. He sidles up to a large elm tree and peeks around the edge of the enormous trunk. The man is almost to the next intersection. McDowell waits a moment and looks again just as the man glances over his shoulder. Cursing, McDowell ducks back behind the tree. The next time he looks, the man is gone. “Damn it,” McDowell mutters. He steps out from behind the tree and hurries up the sidewalk. The neighborhood has a blue-collar feel to it. Most of the homes are older and many are in desperate need of fresh paint. They’re small by today’s standards, and many of the homeowners have converted their garages into additional living spaces. As McDowell closes in on the next intersection, he slows, glancing to his left. The man didn’t go that way. Using the cover of a tall wooden fence he shuffles forward and glances around the corner to the right. The man is in the middle of the block, still walking west. McDowell waits. After another moment or two, he leans forward for another peek.

The man is walking up the driveway of a home six houses down. McDowell marks the location—a white Ford pickup in the drive—and pulls back behind the fence. He counts to twenty then slips around the corner. He squares his shoulders and strolls down the sidewalk like any neighbor would do. When he reaches the home with the white pickup, he turns up the drive. A large maple tree obscures most of the house and McDowell steps into the deep shade. Two square windows are positioned on either side of a front door that looks out over the weedy front lawn. McDowell slips over to the side of the house and eases toward the door. He pauses to glance through the closest window. The interior is dark, but not dark enough to conceal the trash scattered across what was once white carpet. McDowell ducks down below the window and crab-walks toward the front door. He kneels and pulls out the Glock, checking to make sure a round is seated.

McDowell reaches up to test the doorknob and finds it unlocked. He pauses for a deep breath and stands. In one swift move, he twists the knob and launches into the house, the Glock up and ready to fire. The man, seated in an easy chair, lunges forward, reaching for a pistol on the coffee table. McDowell takes two long strides and stomps on the man’s hand, pinning it to the table. He swats the short-barreled revolver to the floor and takes a step back, clicking on his flashlight and sweeping the beam across the man’s face. “How did you get those scratches on your cheeks?”

“Clearing brush. What the hell is it to you, and why the fuck are you in my house?”

McDowell ignores the questions. “Those scratches look pretty fresh. You were clearing brush yesterday, and what? You just happened to scratch both sides of your face?”

“Fuck you. Get out of my house.”

“Hannah.”

“What? Who the hell’s Hannah?”

“Hannah is the name of the girl you raped and strangled last night.”

The man tries to lunge out of the chair again and McDowell fires, punching a hole in the man’s forehead. He slumps back into the chair and McDowell tucks the Glock into the waistband at his back, turns, and walks back through the front door.

Back at the office building, McDowell takes the shotgun from Lauren. “We’ll go to the park as a group. Once there, you and Melissa can get Hannah wrapped up and then we’ll carry her to the grave.”

Lauren nods. Her eyes are red rimmed and her cheeks are damp.

“How’d they take the news?” McDowell asks in a low voice.

“Not well. There were some hysterics from the girls, but they’ve since calmed down. The boys are stoic. I think half of them were in love with Hannah.” Lauren sniffles and McDowell gives her shoulder a squeeze.

He rounds up the group, leads them out of the building, the shotgun slung over his shoulder. At the park, Melissa and Lauren, with tears streaming down their faces, roll Hannah onto the blanket and wrap her up. Once they finish, McDowell and Melissa carry the body to the grave and lower Hannah into her final resting place. Now everyone is weeping. In halting, broken voices, the students each take a turn to say something about Hannah. When they finish, Melissa recites a Bible verse from memory and everyone takes a turn on the shovel. McDowell finishes shoveling the dirt while the kids search for something to mark the grave. They return, each carrying a small rock. Taking turns, they each lay a stone at the head of the grave and the group walks solemnly back to the truck. Working silently, Lauren, Melissa, and McDowell load everything up and McDowell climbs behind the wheel. They won’t get far today with probably only four hours of daylight left. But anywhere is better than here.

North Atlantic

With the Chinese ship still a good distance out, Captain Thompson orders a slow ascent to periscope depth. The sonar technician hasn’t spotted any subsurface contacts, but that’s not much consolation—submarines are damn hard to detect. As the sub levels off, Thompson grabs a radio handset from overhead then hesitates. Any radio broadcast will pinpoint their position. But there are too many unanswered questions. He clicks the button and says, “Thompson to Murphy. Over.”