Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“Hi, neighbor. I was hoping you’d give me a ride,” the man says with a wave of his hand.

Holding the rifle down by his leg, Brad says, “I’m sorry, we’re anchored for the night. Out of fuel?”

“Yes. Ran out this morning and this boat is a real bitch to paddle.”

“I bet it is,” Brad says. He scans the cockpit area of the forty-eight-foot Sea Ray and spots the tops of two other heads, but all he can see is hair. Brad’s gaze flicks back and forth between the man and cockpit. “That your boat?”

“Yep. Bought it new two years ago.”

The boat most likely cost north of four hundred grand when the man bought it and now it’s as worthless as a partially inflated inner tube. “You alone?”

“Yep, just me. My wife didn’t make it out of D.C.”

“You two get down,” Brad whispers out of the corner of his mouth. Nicole and Tanner slowly duck below the rail and hunker down on the deck as Brad repositions his feet, his eyes never wavering from the man and his boat. “Now, sir, that can’t be true. I saw two sets of hands rowing.”

“You must be mistaken,” the man says. “I’m the only one aboard.”

“I hate to call a man a liar to his face, but you, sir, are a lia—”

The man makes a sudden move for something behind his back and a pistol is just clearing the man’s swimsuit when Brad tucks the rifle to his shoulder and fires. At this range, and being on unstable footing, the large bullet knocks the man off his feet. Brad quickly levers another shell and pivots toward the cockpit area as Nicole screams and claps her hands over her ears. Two other men pop up, pistols extended over the top of the cabin. Brad fires again, hitting the man on the left before he can fire a shot. The second man fires, and Brad can feel the pressure wave of the bullet whizzing by his ear. He levers another shell and fires, but the man ducks down behind the cabin at the last second. Brad squats down until only his head and the rifle are exposed. “Tanner, reach under the helm’s seat and hand me some more ammo.”

Tanner crawls across the deck, lifts the seat, and grabs a box of cartridges, sliding them over to his father. With his eyes glued to the Sea Ray’s cockpit, Brad blindly feeds more shells into the magazine. When the rifle is fully loaded, he scans the rest of the enemy boat. If the man ducks into the cabin, he could possibly pop up in the forward hatch. Brad’s eyes flick back to the cockpit and he spots a hand easing out from behind the cabin. He waits to see if the man’s going to fire blind or take a peek. Sighting in on the hand, Brad eases the barrel up and left to line up with the side of the cockpit. Seconds later the man sticks his head up and Brad drills him in the nose. Before the man’s pistol can hit the water, Brad orders Tanner to pull the anchor and raise the mainsail. The cabin on the Sea Ray is large enough to easily hold ten or fifteen people, and the question drilling through Brad’s brain is: Are there more? He keeps the rifle tucked tight to his shoulder.

Tanner gets the mainsail partially up and a gust of wind hits, pushing their boat closer to the dead powerboat. “Screw the sail, Tanner,” Brad says in a low, urgent voice. “Fire up the engine.”

Tanner twists the key and the engine purrs to life. He cuts the wheel hard to the left and the EmmaSophia turns away. They’re a half a mile away before Brad lowers the rifle.

Nicole climbs up on the rear seat, her face ashen. “What the hell just happened?”

Brad feeds another cartridge into the rifle. “Welcome to life in the new world.”

Near Little Rock, Arkansas

In three hours, Zane and Alyx have covered, at most, ten miles, due to the number of scorched vehicles and the mountains of debris that litter the roadway. Whatever lies ahead was bombed to hell. Zane curses and steers off the shoulder to bypass a looted semi. Once back on the road, he thumbs the sweat from his brow and cuts the wheel to the right to veer around the charred remnants of a mobile home. Wildfires continue to smolder in the distance, leaving behind a funky stench that’s difficult to describe.

“What the hell did they bomb?” Zane asks. “The Clinton Library?”

“No, probably something more strategic. My bet is the Little Rock Air Force Base.”

“Who flies out of there?”

Alyx brushes the hair out of her eyes. “One of the airlift wings. Can’t remember which one, but it’s one of the largest fleets of C-130s in the world.”

“Bastards,” Zane mutters as he slows to avoid running into the tail section of a large aircraft sitting in the middle of the road.

“It’s getting too dark to see,” Alyx says. “I’ve seen better headlights on a riding lawn mower.”

Zane steers around the scorched frame of a midsize sedan. “At least the headlights work. But, you’re right, we’re tempting fate, but I’d really like to get back to I-40 before we stop. At least we’ll feel like we accomplished something today.”

“You’re driving.” Alyx pulls her legs up beneath her and focuses her gaze on the road ahead, pointing out objects for Zane. Finally, they reach the outskirts of what was once a small city. The place is identifiable as a city only by the sprawl of streets—everything else is gone, either burned up or blown apart by the succession of pressure waves from the nuclear bombs. In the failing light, the scene is eerie, making the hair stand at the nape of Zane’s neck. It reminds him of the images he’s seen of Hiroshima or Nagasaki. He shudders at the thought and taps the brakes, bringing the pickup to a stop. Ahead of them the highway is jammed with overturned vehicles scorched down to their metal frames. “No telling how many bombs they dropped on this place, whatever this place was.”

“I think it was Jacksonville. Although it was called the Little Rock Air Force Base, it was actually located on the outskirts of Jacksonville. That’s about all I remember about it.”

“The people around here never had a chance. I bet most were vaporized within milliseconds.”

“I don’t want to think about it,” Alyx says. “We need to get the hell out of here. Probably still a major hot zone.”

Zane turns the truck around and they backtrack on Highway 67 until they’re clear of the major destruction. “Getting back to I-40 is out for tonight.” Zane slows and steers down the highway embankment, picking up the feeder road heading back the way they came. Finding a place to bed down is difficult because the wildfires have burned every structure and every tree within sight. “Think there’s anybody left alive to worry about?”

“Could be someone migrating through the area. I’d feel safer if we could find a place to hide.”

Zane waves at the scoured earth. “I’m open for suggestions.”

“Keep driving. We’ll find something.”

Zane gooses the gas. Two miles down the road he spots a promising location and pulls into the parking lot. “What do you think?”

Alyx uncrosses her legs. “Perfect.”

The gate is hanging askew, and Zane eases the pickup into the lot. The charred automobiles are arranged in evenly spaced rows and stacked three or four high. Zane drives to the back of the salvage yard and parks at the end of one of the rows. He puts the transmission in park and kills the engine and the lights.

In the darkness, Alyx says, “You take me to all the best places.”

North Atlantic

Captain Rex “Bull” Thompson glances at his watch and pulls a radio set from overhead. “Thompson to Murphy. Over.”

Seconds later, Murphy answers, “I’m here, Bull. I’m thinking of changing your nickname to Ace. You smoked that Chinese destroyer.”