Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“Not until 2008. My father had a life insurance policy that my grandparents put away for our education. They were both gone by the time the Libyans ponied up any money. The families were supposed to receive eight million dollars, but by the time the attorneys were through, we received a little over two million dollars. I’d trade every cent if it would bring my parents back.” Zane pauses to stare out the windshield for a few moments. “Anyway, my sister and I divided the money equally. I donated my portion to the 9/11 memorial.”

“And your sister?”

“Jennifer. Her name’s Jennifer. She donated some and kept some.”

“Younger or older?”

“Younger by three years. She’s thirty-three now and lives in Monterey with her husband and two kids.”

Alyx pauses to wonder what it would be like to lose both parents at eight years old, and can’t even fathom the idea. “And that’s why you went into intelligence?”

“Yes. After college I joined the army after assurances they would place me with an intelligence unit. I served five years of active duty, most of it overseas in the Middle East, and punched out and went to work for the government.”

“How long before you ended up at the National Security Agency?”

Zane glances at Alyx. “Not long. I’m good at what I do.”

Alyx scoots across the seat until their bodies are touching. “What was your degree in?”

“Undergrad in computer engineering and a master’s in computer architecture, both from Columbia.”

“Wow. That’s impressive, and here you had me fooled, playing dumb all along.”

Zane smiles. “I had to see if you had the chops. What about you?”

Alyx playfully punches him in the arm. “Undergrad in computer engineering and a master’s with a primary focus on distributed and networked systems, both from Vanderbilt.”

“Very impressive. How did you end up at the NSA?”

“I spent a year working toward a Ph.D., and said screw it. With my résumé, it wasn’t hard to get a job. Hell, they were begging people with computer science degrees to come to work for them.” Alyx tucks a flyaway of hair behind her ear. “I thought about going out to Silicon Valley and striking it rich, but I’ve never been motivated by money.”

Zane slows to veer around a collection of cars. “What does motivate you?”

“Catching the bad guys. I want to be the smartest person on any network I’m operating on.”

“So what do we do now? We may never have a working computer network during our lifetime.”

Alyx sighs. “I’ll—no we’ll —help my dad rebuild the wind farm.”

“Do you think he has a turbine up and running by now?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Plus, he has my brother-in-law, Gage, to help him. They’re both very resourceful.”

“We can hope.” Zane’s eyes dart to the gas gauge. “We’ll need to get gas soon.”

“We’re almost to I-35. There’s a big amusement park there and I’m sure the lot is full of abandoned cars.”

Zane glances at the gas gauge again. “We could stop anywhere along here to siphon some gasoline.”

“Let’s wait if we can. I feel like we have some momentum for the first time in days. And I’d like to stretch my legs for a few minutes. The place is somewhat secluded and I’d feel safer.”

“How far?”

“From here, maybe five miles. It’s the first exit off I-35 once we leave the turnpike.”

“We can make that.”

A few minutes later he takes the exit for I-35 south and Alyx points out the exit to the amusement park. Zane threads the truck through three lanes of dead cars and pulls off the highway.

“Next left,” Alyx says scanning the surroundings. “Oh shit. Stop, Zane.”

Zane brakes to a stop. “What?”

Alyx points. “The truck stop.”

“Damn it. It’s not our fight, Alyx.”

“They’re kids, Zane. And a bunch of them.”

Zane groans but relents, and they spend a moment studying the layout. There’s a flatbed truck parked next to a tanker, which is wedged in by another semi that looks as if it had been in a demolition derby. The most distressing matter are the two large men standing at the edge of the group, their pistols up and ready to fire. An older gentleman is leaning against the flatbed, his shirt covered by what appears to be blood. Zane counts sixteen younger people, probably teenagers, and two women who look to be older, but not old enough to be parents to any of the kids.

One of the men holding a pistol steps forward and grabs one of the female teenagers by the hair and begins dragging her toward the cab of the battered semi.

“Bastard,” Zane mutters as he crosses the intersection and pulls in behind a ransacked McDonald’s. He kills the engine, crams his pockets full of ammo, grabs the shotgun, and slips out the door. “You stay here, Alyx.”

“I can—”

Zane cuts her off with the wave of his hand. He leans through the window and lowers his voice. “I know you want to help, but let me clear the area first. I can’t be worried about you.”

Alyx scowls for a moment, then nods.

Using the building as cover, Zane works his way forward and peeks around the corner. There’s a cluster of vehicles in front of him that will allow him to move freely. He races up a short incline and ducks in behind a truck. After quickly working through the jam, he sidles up next to an older sedan and kneels down for a look. A large grouping of feet is visible beneath the adjacent tanker, meaning the bad guys are positioned at three o’clock. Not knowing how much time he has left, he slips around the back of the sedan and sidles up next to the tanker. Zane kneels down for a closer look. The kids, and the two older women, are just in front of him. One of the men is standing to the right, his pistol covering the group. The other man is still trying to get the young girl into the cab of their truck. Yanking on her hair, he turns the girl around and slaps her in the face. The girl sags to her knees.

“Get your ass in the truck,” the man shouts.

Zane has seen all he needs to see. He tamps down the rage that’s building in his gut like a roaring fire and steps carefully to the front of the big rig, easing around the nose. Now he has a clear field of fire—except for the man with his hands on the girl. Zane calculates the firing order in his brain. Shoot the closest man and hope the other turns around and steps clear of the girl? Or will the man have the presence of mind to grab the girl to use as a hostage ? All unanswerable questions, but Zane can feel the time ticking down.

Suddenly the unexpected happens. The girl fighting to stay out of the truck switches tactics. Instead of fighting, she lets her body go slack and she slips from the man’s grasp. Zane fires the right barrel and the man drops to the ground as if a sinkhole had opened up beneath him. Zane swings the barrel to the closest man and fires before the man can even turn, shredding the man’s upper body with the double-aught buckshot. The man turns a quarter turn and face-plants on the asphalt. Zane cracks the breech and reloads as he moves out from behind the truck, his hand up. “Don’t move yet,” he shouts.

He steps over the closest man and doesn’t even pause before moving on to the second. The young girl, still on the ground, is weeping and trembling. “It’s okay,” Zane says in a soft voice. “It’s all over.” With the shotgun still aimed at the second man, he steps in for a closer look. The man is facedown, but the rapidly spreading pool of blood tells Zane all he needs to know. He removes his finger from the trigger and helps the young woman up. “What’s your name?”

“A… Amanda,” she says between sobs.

Zane puts his arm around her. “It’s all over, Amanda. That was a very brave thing you did.”