Tim Washburn: The Day After Oblivion

“I’m sorry, Gage. I had no idea.”

Gage slams the truck into park. “Now what?”

Henry scoots back in his seat.

“Know any other pediatricians?”

Henry shakes his head. “Have you tried the hospital?”

“No.” Gage reverses out of drive and returns to the main road. After a couple of miles he pulls into the parking lot fronting the hospital and eases up to the front door. The glass is shattered, the fragments scattered all around the entry area. Gage puts the truck in park and grabs the pistol off the seat.

“Want me to come with you?”

Gage pushes open the door and climbs out, grabbing a flashlight from the door pocket. “No. You stay with the truck. Somebody steals it we’ll really be screwed.”

Henry nods and pulls the shotgun closer.

Gage steps through the shattered door and clicks on the flashlight. The corridor is littered with desks, beds, chairs, dead bodies, and trash. Gage pulls his shirt up over his nose and takes it a room at a time, trying to tamp down his growing nausea while flinging open cabinet doors and searching for infant formula. The hospital is a reflection of the town; neither is very large. Gage darts down another corridor. The door to the hospital pharmacy is hanging on by a hinge, and he ducks inside. Nothing but empty shelves—not even a box of hemorrhoid cream. He returns to the corridor and continues to search. After ten minutes, he’s covered the entire hospital. Nothing. He hurries back to the truck and climbs in.

“I’ve been thinking, Gage. I have an old phonebook back at the house. We can use it to find another pediatrician.”

Gage drops the truck in gear. “About the only plan we have left.”

They skirt the edge of town and Gage turns onto Main Street, which transitions into Highway 54 outside of town. They cover the next three miles in silence. He makes a right then a left into the drive and brakes hard.

“Who the hell is that?” Henry asks.

Gage eases off the brake, steering around an old flatbed truck and a gold rusted-out pickup. “Keep that shotgun handy.”

Gage parks, grabs the pistol, and steps out. Henry piles out the other side, the shotgun up and ready for action. “What do you want to do?” Gage whispers.

Henry glances toward the barn. It doesn’t appear anyone is out there. “You go for the door and I’ll cover you.”

Gage eases up next to the house. The windows are covered by curtains, but he can hear voices, and a lot of them. Are we being raided by a gang of killers? He inches closer to the door, waving Henry to the other side, where he’ll have a clear field of fire if someone steps out. Gage puts a hand on the doorknob and takes a deep breath. He plays the scenario in his mind based on what he’d seen on Law & Order. They always go in low, so Gage squats down, turns the knob, and pushes the door open. He pivots inside, the pistol an extension of his arm. It takes him a moment to process what his eyes see, and then his brain kicks in—it’s Alyx holding Olivia. He points the gun toward the ceiling and stands. He ducks his head outside and calls Henry toward the house. “You’re not going to need the shotgun.”

Henry looks at him, bewildered. Gage steps aside, and Henry nearly sags to his knees at the sight of his older daughter.

Tehran, Iran

After weeks underground, the ayatollah is looking forward to a little fresh air—and some time away from his bickering wives. Buried deep, the bunker has been sealed since the first shot. The last contact the ayatollah had with the outside world was confirmation from General Mohammadi that the attack was under way. The ayatollah stops on the stairs and adjusts his turban. As the mastermind, and the first to initiate talks with the North Koreans, he’s now ready to receive the well-deserved adoration from his people.

After a furious argument with his security detail this morning, he will be stepping into the light alone. He climbs to the next landing and pauses to catch his breath. Members of his security detail did, for the first time, venture outside earlier in the day. They returned grim faced but had little to report. What the ayatollah doesn’t know is that they were reluctant to tell their leader the truth. The last security guard to report bad news had been shot on sight. The ayatollah looks up to see one more flight of stairs. The light spreads down the shaft, warming the leader’s face. He smiles and continues to climb. On the next-to-last step, well out of view of his people, he pauses to straighten his turban again. He takes a deep, calming breath, spreads his arms wide to welcome his flock, and ascends the final step.

His arms drop to his sides when he sees the utter devastation around him. The stench of rotting bodies is nearly overwhelming, and he puts a hand over his mouth and nose to keep from gagging. Slowly, he turns a circle. His beautiful palace, furnished to his exacting tastes, had occupied the space over his bunker. It is now rubble—as is all of Tehran. He stops turning when he spots a man in a tattered military uniform digging through a pile of stones. The man looks up, stands, and approaches, dragging his left leg.

It takes a while for the man to cover the distance, but the ayatollah waits patiently for him to arrive. When the man is within four feet he stops, and rather than defer to the Iranian leader, he stands tall.

The ayatollah is somewhat taken aback by the man’s brazenness. “What is your name, my son?”

“My name is Saman Rezaei. And I’m not your son.”

The ayatollah shuffles back a step. He looks at the insignia on the man’s uniform, but he’d never really learned to differentiate the symbols of the lower ranks. “Where are you posted?”

“I was stationed at the Semnan Missile and Space Center.”

“Why aren’t you with your unit?”

“There is no more unit. It took me six days to dig out of the rubble. I am the only survivor.” Rezaei limps forward a step. “Do you know what it is like to spend six days underground? Not in a bunker where you’re well fed and surrounded by your family, but six days, digging and scraping, no food and no water, and not knowing if you are going to live or die?”

The ayatollah glances around to see if any of his security detail had followed him up despite his orders not to do so. But the Iranian leader remains alone. He straightens his robe and squares his shoulders before turning back to Rezaei. “I’m proud of your service to our great country.”

“Your great country no longer exists.” Rezaei limps forward another step, the distance between them now narrowed to arm’s length. “I spent more than a week making the journey to this city. And even then I had to wait.”

“What were you waiting for, my son?”

Rezaei slowly reaches behind and pulls out his service pistol. “For the sniveling dog who started all this to show his face.” Rezaei raises the pistol and fires, punching a hole in the ayatollah’s forehead. As the Iranian leader crumples to ground, Rezaei calmly tucks the pistol behind his back and turns, limping back through the rubble.

Charlotte Amalie, Saint Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands

“Steady as she goes,” Thompson tells the helmsman, Roy Wisdom, who’s standing next to him on the sail. “The last thing we need to do is wreck the boat after everything we’ve been through.” They surfaced at the mouth of the bay and are now maneuvering toward the Havensight Point pier on the east side of the bay.

“Yes, sir,” Wisdom replies.

Spread out before them is Charlotte Amalie, the capital city of the U.S. Virgin Islands. Located on Saint Thomas, the irregular-shaped bay is surrounded by a string of heavily forested, low-rise mountains with homes perched at various levels before spilling down to the bay. The town itself is situated on the floor of the valley and spreads the width of the bay, the red tile roofs in stark contrast to the luscious greenery that slopes upward behind the town. It’s a spectacular sight, especially after everything the crew of the USS New York has endured.