Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“Should we be concerned? My mind is flashing on images from one of those stupid Mad Max movies.”

McDowell chuckles. “Not a Mad Max fan?”

“No. Can’t say I made it past the five-minute mark on any of them. Seriously, Stan, should we be worried?”

McDowell glances over to see her face pinched with worry. “I don’t think so. They have as much right to the road as we do.”

“That’s all well and good, but where did they come from? Have you seen that truck before?”

McDowell’s eyes dart to the rearview to see the truck inching closer. “No.” A tingle of dread flickers at the base of McDowell’s neck. “We’re not a threat to them.”

“No, we’re not, but you’re thinking about the situation from the wrong angle.”

“What?” Then it hits him. “Oh shit.” His eyes drift down to the gas gauge and a pit forms in his stomach. “We should have refueled earlier.”

“How far can we go on what we have?”

McDowell sighs. “Not far enough.” He glances at the side mirror. The truck has dropped back a bit, now maybe a hundred feet behind them. He turns his gaze to the front and spots a truck stop coming up on the right. The lot is littered with semis, including a couple of tankers. One of the smart things they did before departing the sign shop back in Minnesota was to break out the back window. McDowell glances over his shoulder and shouts, “Hold on!” He waits until the last possible second, then whips onto the exit ramp. Both he and Lauren exhale a sigh of relief when the semi zooms past.

McDowell slows and steers onto the access road, turning into the truck stop parking lot. He eases the truck up to one of the tankers, puts the transmission into neutral, and stomps on the parking brake. He peers through the back opening. “Everyone, sit tight.” He turns to Lauren. “Keep that shotgun handy.”

Lauren pulls the shotgun onto her lap. “Hurry, Stan.”

“Why don’t you climb out, just in case?”

Lauren nods and opens her door as McDowell exits. He quickly unlashes the hose and hurries over to the tanker. He spins off all the caps and cracks open the valves in search of diesel. Just as before, he finds it on the third attempt. After clamping on the hose, he nudges the valve open and carries the other end over to the truck’s tank, where he cranks off the cap and holds the hose, allowing the diesel to dribble into the tank. He looks up at Lauren. “This is too slow. Will you crank the valve open an little more?”

“How?”

“Follow the hose. Just turn the handle a quarter of a turn.”

Lauren nods and hurries over to the tanker.

Jonathon stands and looks over the railing. “Mr. McDowell, I really need to pee.”

McDowell groans. “Okay, Jonathon. Step off and pee, but don’t wander off.”

Jonathon jumps off the back, setting off a round of “Me, too’s” from the other students.

McDowell groans again. “I promise we’ll stop soon. Please try to hold it a little longer.”

“How come Jonathon gets to pee?” someone asks.

McDowell snaps and shouts, “Enough!” He then lowers his voice. “Did you see the semi that was following us? I don’t think they have good intentions.”

That sobers the students and they quiet down.

“Stan!” Lauren shouts.

McDowell looks up to see the semi turning off the overpass, heading in their direction.

“Shut it off,” he shouts. He turns and races over to Lauren as she’s closing the valve and takes the shotgun from her hands. “Unclamp the hose and tie it back on, then climb in the truck. We’re getting the hell out of here.”

He cracks the chamber to make sure a shell is seated and waits for Lauren to finish up. He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and turns. Jonathon is on the far side of the lot, a good two hundred yards away. He curses, then shouts, “Jonathon!”

Weatherford

Still desperate for baby formula, Gage drives out to the Walmart on the other side of the highway and pulls into the lot. He gags when he gets a whiff of the decomposing bodies. It seems as though every fly in the state of Oklahoma has made this parking lot home. Even from this distance he can see a writhing, wiggling mass of maggots feeding on the bodies. Gage gags again and looks beyond the bodies to see the store’s facade blackened by fire. Gage gooses the gas and exits the parking lot and is passing under the highway when he’s struck with a sudden thought.

He whips a U-turn and drives up the exit ramp, pulling up close to the first car for a look inside. What he’s looking for is not there. He eases up close to an old farm truck, knowing the probabilities are unlikely and finds he’s correct. He passes one semi, then another. The possibilities of finding what he’s looking for in a semi are slim to none. Gage spots a sedan with Ohio plates, pulls up next to it, and finds what he’s looking for—a child’s car seat.

He climbs out, tries the door handle, and curses. “Who locks a dead car?” He grumbles as he returns to the truck. He grabs a hammer from the back and steps over to the sedan and smashes the driver’s side glass. After unlocking the door, he searches the car for formula and ends up finding a balled-up dirty diaper under the driver’s seat. After tossing the diaper back in the car, he returns to the truck for his crowbar. Sliding behind the rear of the sedan, he jams the crowbar beneath the trunk lid and presses down. The lid pops, but the trunk is empty.

Gage pauses to refine his strategy. If a person is stranded with a small child, what’s the one thing they’ll never leave behind? Of course the answer is as clear as a bell when Gage thinks about it. They’ll leave a purse, or a piece of luggage, but never the food, in this case formula, that would be critical for a child’s survival. Gage tosses the hammer and the crowbar in the back and climbs back behind the wheel. Unless they’re on a long, extended trip and packed more formula than they could carry, hoping they could return to their stash at a later date. Easing down the highway, he scans vehicles, searching for car seats and out-of-state tags.

Gage ransacks six more cars—all empty. He mulls the situation further. Who’d pack a bunch of formula knowing you could always stop at the next Target, the next Walmart, or the next grocery store? No one, unless they kept a large reserve at home, maybe bought at a two-for-one special. And how many times have you seen a two-for-one on anything someone might really need? Gage sighs. He could spend all of today and the next, and on, and on, tearing into cars and not finding a thing other than items no one needs in today’s world. Crestfallen, he climbs back behind the wheel.

Gage pulls into the drive of the Reed home and parks behind the house. The lights in the house are still on and the instant he walks through the back door, he cringes. Susan is holding a crying Olivia and pacing around the room, patting her granddaughter’s back.

“Has she been crying all day?” Gage asks.

“Not all day. Just most of it,” Susan replies. She makes a halfhearted attempt at a smile.

“I went over to Dr. Samia’s to see if she had any baby formula.”

Susan’s eyes widen with hope. “Did she?”

“Unfortunately, no. She said she was only responsible for the child until the moment of birth, when Dr. Abbasi was supposed to take over.”

Susan switches positions, snuggling Olivia to her chest. “Did you try his house?”

“He’s dead. Killed at the hospital. And she thought he lived somewhere in Oklahoma City. Dr. Samia suggested filling a bottle with warm broth.”