Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

The second man is lying in a pool of blood a foot from the gravel driveway. Gage steps forward, kicks the rifle out of reach, and bends down for a closer look. The man’s left shoulder looks as if it has been run through a meat grinder and his chest is fluttering up and down with each breath. Gage squats down on his haunches. “Why did you attack us?”

“Truck,” the man whispers.

“You risked your life for a pickup?”

The man can do little more than nod.

“In the current climate, you know your odds of survival are slim to none, right?”

Another nod.

“I can walk away and let you bleed out or do you a favor.”

“Favor,” the man mutters.

Gage stands and moves ten feet away. He braces the stock to his shoulder and fires one round at the man’s chest. Gage turns away from the gory scene and returns to his father-in-law. He helps Henry to his feet and guides him to the truck. Henry doesn’t ask about the final shot. Gage helps him into the cab and rotates him so that he’s facing the open door. Gently, Gage lifts Henry’s sleeve for a look at the wound. “Looks like the bullet went through clean. We need to clean up the wound and see if there are any fragments of material inside. Might be best to wait until we get back to the house. You’re going to live but your bicep is going to hurt like hell for a while.”

“About what I figured. Thought I was a better shot than that.”

“It’s different when someone’s shooting back at you. Not that I would know a whole lot about that.” Gage helps Henry get situated and climbs behind the wheel. He fires up the truck and makes a big looping turn around the bodies before steering toward the drive.

Beebe, Arkansas

Now about fifteen miles northeast of Little Rock, Arkansas, Zane is eager to get back on 1-40 and away from these one-stoplight towns. He glances at the gas gauge and the needle is hovering near empty. He exits off Highway 67 to avoid a traffic jam of dead autos and makes a slow drive through town. They pass a looted Sonic Drive-In, and Alyx moans. “Wouldn’t a cherry limeade just hit the spot?”

“Thanks for the reminder. We need gas.”

“Dream crasher.” Alyx’s voice sounds odd, a result of her still-swollen nose.

They pass a retirement home on one corner with a funeral home just opposite. “Must have saved on travel expenses,” Alyx says. “Hell, they could have just walked a gurney across the street and hauled the dead back without ever firing an engine.”

“You’re morbid. Although, their business would be booming now if they were open.”

“And who’s morbid?”

They ride in silence for the next block, passing a couple of homegrown restaurants that dot small towns all across the country. Never large enough for the big chains, the locals made do with what they had, no matter the food quality. Zane makes a turn and they bypass a Walmart and a run-down shanty called a flea market. There are a few people out, but they appear to be paying little mind to the pickup motoring down the road. At the next intersection they find the high school and Zane steers into the lot. It appears the school was already in session when doomsday arrived. The lot is littered with autos, a veritable smorgasbord of vehicles to choose from to meet their gasoline needs.

“See anyone around?” Zane asks.

Alyx cranes her neck to look. “Nope. But make it quick.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

Alyx shows him her middle finger.

Zane pulls up to a newer Ford truck and puts the transmission in park. He climbs out and grabs the hose as Alyx steps out with the shotgun. He sets to work and, miracle of miracles, he gets the gas flowing with the first suck from his mouth. Despite the persistent haze, temps are in the midseventies and, in the distance, there’s a smattering of birdcalls. Old Goldie has a twenty-gallon gas tank and it takes a while for gravity to do its work. Zane plucks the bag of leftover turkey from the cab and walks over to Alyx, offering her some. “Eat up. It’ll be spoiled soon.”

Alyx props the shotgun against the hood of the truck and grabs a handful of turkey. “How’s the leg?”

“It’s sore. Could have been much worse if we hadn’t run into your friend Sarah. How’s the nose?”

“Tender.” Alyx feeds another piece of turkey into her mouth.

“How far from Little Rock to Weatherford?” Zane asks between bites.

“Six hours on a normal day. Now, probably twice that or longer. But given the luck we’ve had so far, it could be days.”

“I feel like we’ve been traveling for months. I’m ready for somewhere where we can hunker down.”

“At least we’re not walking.”

“There is that. Old Goldie might be ugly, but she saved our ass.” Zane grabs another piece of turkey and offers more to Alyx, who declines. “Tank ought to be about full.” He walks back to check the gas gauge. “Good to go, Alyx.” He pulls the hose out, tosses it into the bed, and secures the gas cap.

Cruising back through town toward the highway, Zane spots a sign for a gunsmith. He slows and pulls into the lot of a ’60s-era strip mall. The place hasn’t been updated since the day it was built, and the shake shingle facade is more tar paper than shingle. He spots the store in the far corner and eases the truck that direction. Someone, the owner presumably, has piled up sandbags to block entrance to the store. Sitting on top of the sandbags is a monster gun resting on bipod legs.

“This guy’s not screwing around,” Zane says, easing the pickup to a stop in front of the store.

“That thing looks like a cannon. What the hell is it?”

“It is a Barrett .50 caliber long-range sniper rifle. About as deadly as any hand-carried weapon there is, other than an RPG.”

“Why would someone, a civilian especially, need something like that?” Alyx asks.

“Probably come in pretty handy about now.” Zane leans over and pulls out the sack of meds, grabbing a bottle of antibiotics. “Keep that shotgun handy.”

“What are we doing?”

“Trying to get some more ammo for said shotgun.”

“And if the guy decides to shoot you with that monster gun?”

“I guess you’ll have to scrape up my insides from the parking lot.”

“Comforting thought. Do we need more ammo that desperately?”

“The luck we’ve been having? Absolutely. We’ve still got a long way to go.” Zane stuffs the pill bottle down his front pocket and exits the truck, his hands held high. He works around the nose of the pickup and approaches the store. At ten feet away, a heavily bearded face pops up behind the Barrett.

“What the hell you want?” the man says, peering through the rifle’s scope.

“I want to barter for a couple of boxes of 12-gauge shotgun shells.”

“What do you have?” The man eyes Alyx, and Zane’s hoping this man doesn’t mean he wants her.

“Medicine.”

“I’ve got more ibuprofen than I could use in a lifetime.”

“Do you have any antibiotics?” Zane asks.

“That I don’t have. How much you got?”

“I have a bottle of Augmentin, enough for a ten-day course.”

The man ponders for a moment. “That might get you one box of shells.”

Zane thinks of their tradable items and hits on an idea. “How about a couple of handfuls of turkey, cooked fresh this morning?”

This time the man doesn’t hesitate. “You got yourself a deal.” The man steps out from behind the rifle. Only his head is visible and it’s mostly hair. But judging from the height of the sandbags, he’s either tall or standing on a step stool. “How do you want to work this?”

“I’m a man of my word,” Zane says.