Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“Did you attend the Air Force Academy?”

“Nope, but I ended up selling my soul to the Air Force anyway. I went to Texas A&M on a ROTC scholarship. Graduated from there and went on active duty.”

Lauren turns in her seat and leans against the door. “Did you like the Air Force?”

“Mostly. They taught me how to fly, which allowed me, in retirement, to climb behind the wheel of a civilian airliner.”

“What was the worst part of being in the Air Force?”

McDowell glances at Lauren. “Dropping bombs on people.” He turns his gaze back to the road.

“Which war?”

“Dubya Bush’s. Iraq. I flew a bunch of sorties during the opening days. I’m just thankful I punched out shortly after.”

“They ever try to recall you, later in the war?”

“They tried, but I had my twenty in and a steady job.”

“Can they compel a person to return to active duty?”

“Yes, until you’re five years past retirement. I made it by the skin of my teeth, before they did the big buildup in Afghanistan. Hell, mostly now they fly drones. Some pilot sitting at Creech, out in Nevada, can control a plane on the other side of the world. Or could, I should say. Won’t be much flying anything for the foreseeable future. What about you? Did you always want to be a teacher?”

“Yes. I think it’s a calling. I know it’s damn sure not for the money. There are far more good days than bad.” She nods toward the back. “This is a critical time in their lives. Middle school is a turning point in a child’s life. They transition from childish behaviors, or at least most do, into young adults. It’s a very impressionable age and it’s rewarding to see a child blossom before your eyes.”

“You’re a better person than me, dealing with those kids. I think I would pull my hair out if I had to spend every day in the classroom with them.”

“There are days when I feel the same, but overall it’s the perfect job for me. Like I said, it’s a calling.” Lauren turns back in her seat, kicks off her shoes, and props her feet on the dash.

McDowell slows to steer around a group of expired semis. The truck bumps over to the shoulder and he slowly navigates around the bottleneck, pulling back on the road when clear.

“Why are you going back to Dallas?”

McDowell glances over. “Don’t really know. Don’t know where else I’d go.”

Lauren lets the silence linger for a moment, before turning to look at McDowell. “Come to Lubbock with us.”

McDowell mulls that statement over for a while. “And do what?”

Lauren shrugs. “I have my own home. I thought, maybe, you… you could live with me.”

“Oh,” McDowell says.

They travel in silence for the next mile or two, McDowell’s brain zinging with unasked questions. Finally, he stumbles upon a safe one. “As roommates?”

Lauren grabs a strand of hair and twirls it around her index finger. “Or more.”

Well, hell. What does she mean by that? “Well… uh… you do realize I’m nearly twice your age?”

Lauren releases that strand of hair and grabs another. “Who cares?”

“Huh,” McDowell mutters. “We’ve only known each other for a few days.”

“Again, who cares?” She turns to look at him. “Don’t get hung up on the age issue, Stan, or the length of time we’ve known one another. They’re only numbers that don’t really mean a damn thing.”

“O… kay.” He switches lanes to avoid a pickup, his mind spinning. He steals a peek at Lauren, who’s still twirling her hair. He turns back to the road.

Lauren glances over. “No pressure, Stan. Just a possibility.”

McDowell switches hands on the steering wheel. “Can I think about it?”

Lauren laughs. “Of course. I’m thinking of my own future, too, and I want all possible options on the table. And one of those options, I hope, is you coming to Lubbock.”

McDowell’s face flushes red, and Lauren laughs again. “Stan, you’re blushing.”

“Well, hell, it’s a lot to take in.”

An hour later, nearing Wichita, McDowell’s prediction proves true. Wichita is gone. A few concrete buildings remain, the rest scoured from the earth. From the looks of it, not one living thing remains. The highway leading into downtown is clogged with the burned-out husks, some large, some small—all unidentifiable. Before they get in too deep, McDowell slows the truck to a stop to allow everyone a chance to stretch their legs and answer the call of nature.

McDowell exits and walks behind a charred auto to take a piss, his mind still turning with thoughts about Lauren and how all that would work. At fifty-six, I might have twenty years of good living left, maybe twenty-five if I’m lucky. Dad made it to seventy-four before succumbing to cancer and Mom made it to seventy-eight before Alzheimer’s took her. Okay, not twenty-five, but a good twenty, surely. Not knowing Lauren’s exact age, but assuming she’s in her late twenties, she could end up being a widow before her fiftieth birthday . He zips his pants and returns to the truck. Once everyone is loaded up, McDowell resumes his place behind the wheel and is somewhat relieved to find Melissa parked in the passenger seat. “We need to find another road that bypasses what was the downtown area.”

Melissa tucks her legs under her. “I bet there’s a loop around the city. All fairly large cities have some type of highway loop to funnel the commuters into and away from the city.”

“I wonder what happens if we stay on this highway?”

“Guess we won’t know unless you try.”

“Good point.” McDowell steers over to the far shoulder to get around the roadblock and is feeling good about his choice until they top a ridge to see the highway in front of them gone.

“Hell, I forgot the Air Force base was down in this area.”

“Where was it?” Melissa asks.

McDowell points out the window. “See those big craters in what used to be a runway?”

Melissa sits up to look through the window. “Jeez, it looks like a meteorite hit.”

“Pretty much what it was, only worse.” McDowell makes a U-turn and backtracks north. After twenty minutes of turning, backtracking, and missed exits, he finally reaches a highway that leads south.

Melissa turns to look at him. “Do you have any idea where we’re going?”

McDowell shakes his head. “Not really. I’m kind of playing it by ear.”

“Well, I assume since you’re a pilot you have a pretty good sense of direction.”

“Oh, I do. But everything looks a little different on the ground.”

Melissa chuckles.

A mile farther on, they come to a highway running west again and McDowell takes it. It looks to be the highway he’s looking for, and it must have been a popular route, judging from the number of scorched auto frames. The going is slow as he weaves across the three-lane highway, making good use of the extra-wide shoulder.

Melissa uncrosses her legs and stretches. “How many people do you think lived in Wichita?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I’d estimate it’s north of three hundred thousand.”

“And they all died?”

“Most likely. Many of them would have been vaporized instantaneously, judging by the size of those craters.”

“And the rest of them?”

“Some would have died in the resulting pressure wave, especially if they were inside a building that wasn’t constructed out of concrete. What the blast and pressure wave didn’t get, the resulting firestorm would have.”

Melissa looks ahead at the long string of incinerated vehicles stretching out ahead of them. “Do you think these cars were occupied when bombs hit?”

McDowell turns to glance at Melissa. “Yes.”