Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“Other than the fact it feels like a hot coal is embedded under my skin, it’s good. Could have been much worse.” He repositions himself in the chair and winces. He glances up to make sure Susan is out of earshot and lowers his voice. “What did you do with the bodies?”

“I drug them into the middle of the field and left them there. Burying them would have taken the better part of the day; time I don’t have.”

“They didn’t deserve a proper burial,” Henry says, rubbing a hand across the bandage on his right arm. “I’m sorry about your dad, Gage. He was a man of few words and a hard man to get to know, but that’s not necessarily a negative. He was a damn good man who could work circles around men half his age.”

Gage smiles. “He worked from daylight to dark most every day of his life. I always thought he’d die out in the field doing what he loved doing.”

“We don’t get to choose how or when we die, Gage. The only thing we know for certain is that we will die. From what you told me, him being unconscious the last few days is a blessing in the end.” Henry repositions himself in his chair and falls silent.

Gage is eager to change the subject. “How much longer before the turbine is up and running?”

“My injury is a setback. There’s no way I can climb the tower, but I don’t think much else needs to be done topside. You can handle the problems up there. I figure half a day to finish with the step-up transformer. My hope is we have the turbine up and running by the end of the day tomorrow.”

Gage nods and pushes up out of the sofa. He says good night to Susan and Henry and returns to the bedroom. Holly is asleep in the bed, the baby cuddled up next to her bare breast. Gently, Gage lifts Olivia and carries her to the bassinet, snuggling her down in the blankets. He strips off his clothes, clicks off the flashlight, and climbs into bed. Staring into the darkness, sleep proves elusive as he wonders what calamity will befall them tomorrow.

Kansas City

McDowell is now fully awake, a sudden dump of adrenaline pumping through his system. In the darkness he feels for Lauren’s hands and fits the Glock into her right palm. He leans forward and whispers, “Which direction?”

“Back toward the road,” Lauren whispers. “I think.”

McDowell grimaces at how loud the whispers sound in the stillness of the night. He extends a hand, searching for Lauren’s face. He finds it, slips his hand around her head and pulls her forward, placing his mouth next to her ear. In the faintest of voices he asks, “How many?”

“Don’t know,” Lauren whispers. Her hot breath in his ear sends a shiver down his spine.

“Sit tight. Make them think we’re still sleeping. If shooting starts, herd the kids up under the truck. The pistol is locked and loaded. Okay?” With his hands still on her neck, he can feel her head nod. McDowell gives her neck a squeeze and pushes quietly to his feet, reaching for the shotgun. The darkness is absolute— the only hints of light coming from the dying embers of the fire. Working slowly, McDowell shuffles out into the darkness. He calls up a mental picture of the area and uses the position of the truck and the fire to get his bearings. If he’s correct, the dirt road leading to the property is in front of him. He pauses to listen. The only sound is the faint rattle of cottonwood leaves from the large trees lining the creek.

McDowell angles toward the left, one hand extended in front of him, the shotgun riding against his right leg. With the bandolier of shotgun shells wrapped around the lower stock and the five shells already loaded in the shotgun, he has fifteen rounds of ammo. And no idea the number of people he’s facing. He feels his way toward a large oak tree and snuggles up to the trunk, his eyes searching forward for any hints of movement—a futile attempt because he can’t see his hand two inches in front of his face. He’ll have to wait for someone to make a mistake. After a few minutes with no hints of noise, he’s wondering if Lauren had been hearing things.

Seconds later, a twig snaps.

McDowell knows now, she wasn’t. He brings the shotgun up and rests the barrel against the tree trunk, the stock seated against his shoulder and his index finger stroking the trigger. Listening, he hears feet shuffling through the leaves out in front of him. But there’s still no indication of how many are coming. McDowell clicks off the safety and waits.

Someone stumbles to the far left and curse words zing around inside McDowell’s head. The tree trunk is now a liability, limiting his field of fire. Carefully, he shuffles forward three steps, but the last step is costly because his foot hits a limb that snaps loudly. He stands frozen as the shuffling of feet stops. McDowell holds his breath, the shotgun up and ready.

A voice to his right says, “All we want is some food.”

McDowell swings the barrel to the right, locking in on the voice.

Silence descends in the darkness as McDowell plots his moves in his mind: Take the one on the right and shuffle hard left? I know there’s at least one on the left. How many in the middle?

“I know you’re here,” the voice on the right says. “We’ll make you a deal. We’ll split the food down the middle. Half for you and half for us.”

McDowell remains silent. He lets his legs relax a little to keep from cramping up.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the voice on the right speaks again. “Or we can take it all.”

McDowell remains silent. Dealing with the unknown, especially when weapons are involved, ratchets the tension up to an unbelievable level. Only those who have been to war have ever experienced the sensation. And McDowell’s been to war.

“I don’t know who you are,” the man on the right says, “but, pardner, you’re seriously outgunned.”

Either the man’s boasting or McDowell is in for the fight of his life. Either way, it’s seconds from happening.

“You had your—”

McDowell pulls the trigger. The shotgun barks and he spins to his left and drops to his haunches, the barrel swinging left. A pistol fires from the left, kicking up dirt where McDowell had been standing. McDowell targets the flash and fires again, flame shooting from the barrel and lighting the night. In the brief flash, McDowell spots two people moving forward from the middle. McDowell pivots the shotgun and fires off two quick shots. He jumps to his feet and lunges to the left, needing to draw their fire away from the campsite. A limb slaps him in the face, bringing tears to his eyes. He grabs the limb and follows it to the trunk, where he squats down and feeds more shells into the shotgun.

After several more seconds of silence, McDowell hears the shuffle of feet, but this time they’re moving away. McDowell waits for the footsteps to fade before standing. Using the dying coals of the fire as a beacon, he makes his way back toward the campsite. He stops when he comes within earshot and says in a low voice, “Lauren it’s me.”

He hears a sigh of relief in the distance and makes his way toward Lauren. The fire casts some light and McDowell can just make out the students crawling out from underneath the truck like babies scampering away from the mother spider. Once they’re huddled up, McDowell whispers a series of orders. Within minutes, the truck is loaded up and everyone is aboard. Melissa reluctantly climbs behind the wheel as McDowell takes up a position in the back, the shotgun tight to his shoulder and extended over the top of the cab.

With no working headlights, Jonathon is ducked down beside the cab with a flashlight, which he clicks off and on every few seconds. After several stops and starts that nearly send everyone tumbling out the back, Melissa gets the truck turned around and pointed in the right direction. She eases out on the clutch and the truck stutters forward before finding a rhythm. She shifts to second as McDowell keeps a watchful eye on their left flank. He has no idea about the status of the four people he shot, nor does he care. Getting away safely is the only thing that matters now. Melissa has to swerve to avoid hitting a tree, and the kids tumble across the bed. Shots ring out and McDowell orders the students on their bellies. He swings the shotgun left and fires off three well-spaced rounds, hoping to drive the enemy to cover. Finally, mercifully, they reach the main road.