Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“I don’t think lucky is the word I’d choose,” Lauren says.

McDowell shrugs. “They’re still upright and walking. Some of them will make it out of this.” He pulls the truck up close to the tanker. “Will you cover with the shotgun?”

Lauren grabs the shotgun and climbs out of the truck. McDowell steps out and walks around the back, telling the students they can get down to stretch their legs for a few moments. He unlashes the hose from the side of the bed rails and grabs his bucket of tools. Using a large pair of pliers, he uncaps the four external valves on the tanker. Working down the line, he cracks the first gate valve open just a hair and finds gasoline. The second valve offers the same, but when he cracks open the third valve he finds diesel. He clamps on the hose and unscrews the lid of their truck’s fuel tank. McDowell steps over and cracks the valve open and a steady stream of diesel pours out. He fills the truck’s tank and refills all the spare containers. “See anyone?” McDowell asks Lauren.

“I see some people walking but they don’t appear threatening.”

“They’re all threats until proven otherwise.”

“Duly noted,” Lauren replies, offering a mock salute.

McDowell finishes up and wipes his hands on one of the leftover rags. He glances down and notices the rag came from Hannah’s dress. Remorse fills his heart. Not remorse for the man he shot, but remorse for a life snuffed out entirely too young. And worse, it happened on his watch. McDowell folds the rag and slips it into his back pocket as a reminder. As the kids reload, he takes a moment to study their surroundings in the failing light.

Two big-box home improvement stores are situated on opposite sides of the highway—too wide open, and too close to the highway for an overnight stay. After last night, McDowell is eager to find a secluded place, even if it means sleeping outside. He climbs behind the wheel and starts the truck, slipping the transmission into gear. At the next exit he pulls off the highway, and travels west on 152. They pass a looted Walmart, a plundered strip center, and a golf course before breaking into open country. The light is fading quickly and they have only minutes to find a spot before full dark settles in.

Lauren points to the left. “There’s a big open field and what looks like a small creek.”

“Perfect.” McDowell turns onto a side road and searches for a gate into the property. “Do you think the kids will mind sleeping outdoors?”

“We’re not going to give them a choice. After last night, the more secluded, the better.”

“Agreed.” McDowell spots a dirt road and turns onto it, following it until they come to the creek. He puts the truck in neutral and steps out for a quick look. There’s a line of trees that’ll shield them from view if someone approaches along the road, and a thicket of trees snuggled up to the creek to the west that will obscure their movements from that side. He walks out into the grass to check the ground for firmness. Getting the truck stuck now could well be a fatal mistake. The ground feels firm and he returns to the truck and steers off the road, nudging the truck into a dense copse of trees. He kills the engine and climbs out of the cab, slinging the shotgun over his shoulder. “Hey, gang, gather as much wood as you can before it gets too dark. I don’t want a bunch of flashlights waving around.”

The kids fan out and McDowell picks up a handful of smaller twigs. With some leftover paper from last night, he grabs the lighter and starts work on the fire. Lauren returns, her arms loaded down with wood. She dumps it in a pile and brushes the hair from her face. “Think we’re safe here?”

McDowell glances up, the orange-yellow flames lighting his face. “I sure as hell hope so. We’ll rotate guard shifts just in case.”

The students wander in and dump their wood on the pile Lauren started. McDowell puts on more wood as Melissa and the kids unload the food and water. Lauren returns to the truck and retrieves their meager supply of cooking gear. Once the fire builds up a layer of coals, McDowell places the pot in the coals for their dinner to warm. From the looks of it, they’re having some type of soup. It actually smells better than it looks.

Once everyone has eaten, McDowell banks the fire as the students work out their sleeping arrangements. The girls snuggle up next to the fire while the boys opt for a place under the truck. McDowell takes the first watch and Lauren and Melissa lie down beside the girls. McDowell unslings the shotgun and leans up against the pile of wood, the Glock in his lap. It’s not long before the girls fall asleep, their collective breathing falling into a natural rhythm. McDowell can hear the boys whispering to one another, but that too soon fades away. McDowell is left to stare at the flames.

Sometime later, Lauren stirs awake and takes over guard duty. McDowell adds more wood to the fire before stretching out on the ground. It takes him a while to fall asleep, the images from the day playing like a movie in his mind. He thinks briefly of the man he killed then decides the man shouldn’t merit much thought after what he’d done. He got what was coming to him. McDowell shifts positions, trying to get comfortable. Eventually the images fade and he falls asleep.

But sleep doesn’t last long. He feels Lauren’s hot breath in his ear as she whispers, “Wake up, Stan.”

McDowell sits up. “What?” he whispers.

“I heard something. Sounded like people whispering.”

Weatherford

Back at Holly’s parents’ house for the night, Gage and Holly are getting ready for bed. Still without power, they share a dampened cloth to wipe the grime from their faces and arms. Gage lifts Olivia to his face and kisses her tiny forehead. “I wish you could have met your grandpa,” he whispers to her. “He was a good man.”

“Yes, he was,” Holly says, wrapping an arm around her husband’s waist. They stand together in silence for a few minutes, staring at the tiny child they both created.

“I think she has my father’s chin,” Gage says.

“I think you’re right.” Holly gently brushes a flyaway of Olivia’s hair from her forehead. “It’s your chin, too.”

As if knowing that she is currently the center of attention, Olivia opens her tiny mouth and belts out a cry.

“Is she hungry?” Gage asks.

Holly removes Olivia from Gage’s hands and snuggles her against her chest. “Yes. I don’t know what we’re going to do if my milk doesn’t come in soon.”

Gage’s brow wrinkles with concern. “Do you think it has anything to do with radiation exposure?”

Holly sits on the edge of the bed and pulls up her shirt, positioning the baby’s mouth on her nipple. “I don’t think so, Gage. We were underground for an entire week. According to a few of the pregnancy books I read, some first-time mothers experience a delay in milk production.”

Gage is on the verge of asking a what-if-it-doesn’t? question before his brain takes over and clamps his mouth closed. He wanders out of the bedroom with his mind spinning through possible future scenarios, none of them good. He makes a mental note to pay a visit to Holly’s doctor in the morning to inquire about any leftover infant formula the doctor may have. If she doesn’t have any, Gage may be forced into going door-to-door in search of breast milk.

As Gage’s worry deepens, he shuffles into the living room. Susan has a half a dozen candles burning, the weak light casting shadows along the far wall as she putters around in the kitchen. Henry is sitting in his favorite recliner, his feet up.

“How’s the arm, Henry?” Gage asks, sinking into the sofa.