The Day after Oblivion

by Tim Washburn

  “I wonder if there’re any dogs,” Alyx whispers.

  “I think they would have smelled us by now. Hell, maybe they ate it.”

  Alyx punches him in the arm. “What now?”

  “We watch for a while. Maybe wait till dark to see if anyone lights a candle.”

  Alyx steps deeper into the trees, finds a bare spot of ground, spreads out one of the stadium blankets, takes off the heavy smock, and plops down. “Tell me if you see anything.”

  “Four eyes are better than two,” Zane whispers.

  “You could watch that house with one eye and not miss a thing. I need to stretch out for a few minutes. My back is killing me.”

  Zane scowls, but doesn’t argue. He moves deeper into the trees, trying to work his way a little closer. He finds a tree stump and sits. His stomach is growling loud enough to be heard if anyone was around to hear it. He tries to push the hunger from his mind and his thoughts drift to his traveling companion. Tall and thin to begin with, Alyx now more closely resembles a scarecrow. The veins and tendons are visible on her arms and neck, and her collarbones stand in stark relief to her muscled shoulders. Even with that, she’s still attractive as hell, as far as Zane is concerned. They’ve gotten along well but there are no hints of a budding romance, at least on Alyx’s part, or so Zane thinks. He’s not exactly an expert on women, having been single for a number of years.

  In his peripheral vision he catches slight movement from the curtain on the far window. He watches intently for a few more minutes, but the curtain remains still. With the number of cats snuggled on the couch on the front porch, there’s a high probability there are more inside the house. Zane closes his eyes for a moment to reduce the strain. After a time, he, too, grows weary. He decides to wait until dark and works his way back to Alyx and strips off his smock, joining her on the blanket. She rolls over and spoons against his back. With the physical contact, and despite being exhausted and starving, Zane’s little head takes over the thinking department. He moves his hands to his crotch to conceal the tenting of his jeans.

  Zane is astonished moments later when Alyx’s right hand slips over his side and drifts down to his crotch. She whispers in his ear, “Would you like to put your little friend to use?”

  “He’s my big friend,” Zane says, rolling over to look Alyx in the eyes.

  Alyx cackles softly. “Is he now? Truth or dare?”

  Zane ponders the question for a moment. “Truth.”

  Alyx begins to stroke his penis through his jeans. “How many times have we fucked in your mind?”

  It doesn’t take Zane long to answer. “Too many times to count.”

  Alyx smiles and leans in for a long, lingering kiss. “I’ve had similar thoughts, too.”

  It doesn’t take long for them to shed their clothing. Though neither has bathed in a week, the mix of musky odors only adds to the desire, and their lovemaking is intense, passionate, and exhausting.

  Alyx rolls over and says, “That was nice.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. We should do this more often.”

  Alyx laughs. “I could probably be persuaded.” Alyx sits up and removes the hoop from her left nostril, then all of her earrings, and tosses everything into the woods.

  “Why did you have all of that stuff to begin with?” Zane asks.

  Alyx shrugs and stretches out next to Zane, pulling another blanket over them. “I guess to announce my presence. Know how many female programmers there are?”

  “Yeah. Not many.”

  “Exactly. It’s damn hard to get ahead.” Alyx sighs. “I guess I wanted to shove my femininity in their faces. Anyway, all that shit’s behind me now.”

  Zane runs a finger across the tattoo above her left breast. “And the butterfly tattoo? Any significance?”

  “Nope. That’s the result of too many tequila shots when I was in college.” She turns to face Zane and snuggles against his chest, draping an arm across his midsection. After several moments of silence, they drift off into an easy, contented sleep. When they wake it’s full dark and both quickly dress. “Are we going in?” Alyx asks.

  “If there are no signs of life, yes.” He clicks on a flashlight and smothers the lens with his palm as they creep closer to the house. The interior is as dark as the outside, with no sign of a candle flicker or any hint of movement. He looks around on the ground and leans in to whisper in Alyx’s ear. “Grab that big stick, in case we need a weapon.”

  Alyx nods and bends to pick up the stick before continuing their approach. When they reach the porch, a cat darts through Zane’s legs, momentarily stopping his heart. Zane can feel Alyx trembling beside him as he steps up to the door. He buries the light against his thigh and cups a hand around his face to peer through the window, but it’s too dark to see a damn thing. He lets a little of the light from the flashlight eke out and reaches for the door handle, surprised to find it unlocked. Carefully, he twists the knob and nudges the door open. The first thing to greet them is an awful stench. Alyx gags and claps a hand over her mouth as they step farther into the house.

  “What’s that awful smell?” Alyx whispers in his ear.

  “Something dead,” Zane whispers. He repositions the flashlight, allowing more light to leak out. They’re in the living room. A tattered floral couch, similar to the one on the porch, holds center stage and is flanked by a pair of scarred wooden end tables. At a right angle to the couch sits a broken-down red recliner. Newspapers are stacked on a stained coffee table and a threadbare rug lies underfoot. The only concession to modernity is the fifty-inch television resting on a pair of plastic milk crates. Behind the couch is the kitchen, with a narrow hallway leading to the rest of the house. Imprinting the layout in his mind, Zane kills the light.

  Not sensing any threats, he whispers to Alyx to ditch the club and takes her hand, leading her around the couch and down the hallway. Within the confines of the corridor, the stench is gut clenching, and both are gagging. Zane covers the lens and switches on the flashlight. Three doors lead off the hallway, and as luck would have it, all are closed. Zane gags, bends over, and dry heaves. “Screw it,” he mutters, shining the flashlight down the hallway. He opens the first door and it’s a filthy bathroom, but not the source of the odor. He deduces the other two doors are bedrooms. He approaches the first door on the left and quietly pushes it open to find a bedroom that had been converted into a sewing room. Partially completed quilts drape across every surface. Zane backs out and steps over to the last door and sucks in a deep breath, something he instantly regrets.

  Zane twists the knob and nudges the door open. The odor that escapes makes his eyes water as a swarm of flies zip past their heads. Zane aims the flashlight through the door and shines the beam around the room. On the bed, and atop one of the quilts, are two dead people. The bodies are bloated and there are enough flies still left in the room to produce a near-constant hum. Zane steps farther into the room. Most of the skin has sloughed off their faces but the remnants of gray hair suggest the couple was older. Congealed blood covers nearly every inch of the quilt, and, upon closer examination, Zane discovers half of the woman’s skull is missing.

  “What happened to them?” Alyx says out loud, making Zane jump.

  “Murder, suicide, I think.” Zane edges around the bed and spots an old revolver on the ground. “Found the gun. Looks like he shot her, then himself.”

  “Why?”

  “Guess they didn’t want to spend their last days in a screwed-up world.” Zane places the flashlight on top of a broken-down dresser and rolls the edges of the quilt over the dead couple. He leans down and scoops up the pistol and tucks it into his waistband. “Grab one end. We need to get them out of the house.”

  “Where are we going to put them?”

  “Outside. I’ll try to bury them in the morning.”

  Alyx gags as she grasps the edges of the quilt. The couple hadn’t been large in life and the corpses are even lighter. Working together, she and Zane scoot down the h
allway and out the front door. Alyx backs down the porch steps and they carry the dead couple over to the tree line.

  Once back inside, Zane opens every window in the small house and props the front door open for the flies to escape. Alyx is scrounging for candles and finds some, which she lights. “Time to take stock of the situation,” she says, opening cabinet doors. After enduring the stench of the dead bodies, the dead refrigerator remains closed.

  In a small pantry, Alyx finds a loaf of moldy bread and then gives a small shout of joy when she discovers a good number of canned goods. There are soups, several tins of Spam and Vienna sausages, along with cans of corn, beans, green beans, and snow peas. She passes a can of the sausages to Zane and he pops the top and peels back the lid. He’s hungry, but not so hungry to plunge his filthy hands into the container. After opening four drawers, he finds the forks and tosses one on the counter for Alyx and digs in. No, it’s not a juicy fillet, but when you haven’t eaten for two days it almost tastes like one.

  Alyx opens a can of Spam, grabs the fork, and takes a seat on the sofa. Zane polishes off the first can, grabs another, and follows, sagging onto the couch and propping his feet up on the coffee table. The pistol digs into his side and he pulls it out and places it on the table. “We’ll do a more thorough search in the morning. But, judging from the age of the house, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a root cellar. If we’re lucky, it’ll be loaded with food.”

  Alyx finishes her Spam, grabs one of the three remaining bottles of water, and takes a swig before passing it on to Zane. “We have two bottles of water left. Hopefully, we can find a water source around here.” Alyx stands and returns to the kitchen for more food and comes back with her own can of Vienna sausages. She spears one and plops it into her mouth before sitting. “How long we going to stay?” she asks around a mouthful of sausage.

  “A few days, hopefully.” He points to the pistol. “At least we now have a weapon.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Saddle Rock

  Emma Dixon has no recollection of how long she’s been sitting on the bench in the hospital’s rose garden. Dusk has descended and when Emma stirs from her reverie the ember of rage burning in her gut reignites. She struggles to her feet as her brain clicks through the various ways to inflict pain on Dr. Bhatia. “How dare you,” she mutters as she shuffles down the street toward the local YMCA. Two blocks down, she cuts over a block, now within in shouting distance of the location.

  Her husband, Brad, usually spells her for the night shift to allow her to spend some time with their son, Tanner. As she nears the Y, her husband steps through the front door and approaches. “I was just coming to relieve you,” he says.

  Emma zombie-walks forward, collapsing against her husband’s chest. “They . . . killed . . . her . . . Brad,” she says between sobs.

  “Who?” he asks, wrapping her in his arms.

  “That asshole Bhatia!” she shouts. “He . . . he called . . . me into his . . . office . . . and when . . . I . . . went . . . back . . . to . . . Sophia’s . . . room . . . she . . . was . . . gone.” Her sadness veers to anger and she begins pummeling Brad’s chest with her fists.

  Brad pulls her closer, trapping her flailing arms against his body.

  Her flash of anger subsides almost as quickly as it began and the sobs return, racking her body. “Then the bastards . . . escorted me out . . . of the . . . hospital . . . like I was . . . a piece . . . a piece . . . of . . . garbage.”

  Brad Dixon holds his wife as tears drip down his face, wetting his wife’s hair. They sob for several moments and then Brad dries his eyes and says, softly, “Maybe she just slipped away.”

  Emma wriggles out of his grasp, the anger returning. “No, Brad. She didn’t slip away. They killed her.”

  “Why? What possible motive would they have?”

  “For the fucking ventilator.” She places her balled fists on her hips. “They need them for other, more viable, patients. That’s what that asshole Bhatia told me.”

  Brad, his eyes downcast, says, “We knew the possibilities for Sophia—”

  Emma presses in and gives him a hard shove. “Don’t you do it. Don’t you take up for that son of a bitch.” She brushes past her husband and hurries toward the entrance.

  “Where are you going?” Brad shouts after her.

  She stops and whirls around. “To fix it.” She turns back and disappears inside.

  It hits Brad then, what she has in mind. He races to the entrance, ducks inside, and hurries down the corridor, taking the steps to the basement two at a time. The place is jammed with people, and Brad plows through the crowd, heading for the tiny space they carved out on the far side of the room. Tanner is propped against the wall, his nose buried in a book. “Did you see your mother?”

  Tanner glances up. “Yeah. She grabbed one of the backpacks and said she’d be back in a little while. How’s Sophia? Any better?”

  Now is not the time to tell him his sister is gone. “Which way did your mother go?”

  Tanner waves to the other side of the room. “Up the back stairs. What’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain, later,” Brad says, turning away. Hurrying toward the back stairs, a toddler darts in front of him and he’s forced to stop as the mother crowds in after the child—precious seconds ticking away. Brad turns sideways, edges past, and hurries for the stairs. At the top, he runs down the corridor and bangs through the outer door. It’s dark as hell and it takes a moment for him to get his bearings. He turns, spots the lights of the hospital, and takes off at a sprint. Arriving at the hospital, his breathing is ragged and he holds his side while scanning the area in a desperate search for his wife. Wondering if he arrived first, he loiters near the front entrance for a moment, berating himself for not following the shelter’s rules. Seeing no sign of Emma he hurries inside and grabs the first nurse he sees. “Where’s Dr. Bhatia’s office?”

  “All physician offices are on the second floor.”

  Brad hurries to the elevator and slams his palm against the button.

  The nurse shouts at him. “Elevators are for patient transport only.”

  He resists the urge to shoot her the finger and races toward the stairwell and flings open the door, lunging up the stairway to the next floor. Brad bursts through the door on the second floor and scans the corridor. When he looks left he catches a brief glimpse of his wife entering an office farther down the hall. “Emma!” Brad shouts.

  Emma doesn’t acknowledge his presence.

  Brad takes off at a dead sprint. As he slows to round into the office a gunshot rings out. He pushes into the office to find Dr. Bhatia slumped in his chair, the medical certificates on the wall behind him coated with blood and brain matter. Brad turns to his wife, his pistol grasped firmly in her hand—the same pistol that was supposed to be under lock and key with the authorities back at the YMCA.

  “Emma, give me the gun.”

  His wife appears composed and calm, as if in a trance. She raises the weapon and points it at her husband. “No, Brad. I have one more person to see. Latreece.”

  “Emma, you can’t do this. Please give me the gun. You can’t bring Sophia back.”

  “I can make them pay.” Tears spring from the corners of her eyes. “Move, Brad.”

  “No, Emma. You’re going to have—”

  Two men charge into the room, guns drawn. They knock Brad to the ground and turn their weapons on his wife.

  “No!” Brad shouts, but his words are muffled by an eruption of gunfire. Brad looks up in time to see his wife slump to the floor, her body riddled with bullet wounds.

  CHAPTER 29

  Weatherford

  Gage takes his foot off the gas and lets the old truck coast up to the intersection. It’s eerie with no other vehicles on the road. In the distance, Interstate 40 looks more like a parking lot than the cross-country interstate it once was. Dead cars are scattered haphazardly across the asphalt, stopped where they died. Gage wonders about the people who were
in them then pushes the thought away, having more than enough problems to worry about. On the opposite corner, the Quick Stop is dark and all the glass is shattered, unwanted items such as antifreeze and motor oil scattered across the parking lot. Gage eases through the intersection and, two blocks farther on, hangs a right to take a drag down Main Street. Holly stares out the window at the devastation, her mouth agape.

  Weatherford is a small town and the main drag stretches only four blocks. They pass the ransacked Braum’s, a local ice cream store and market. The parking lot is stained with melted ice cream, and cockroaches skitter through the abandoned cardboard containers. Farther on, several other businesses remain intact. The tag agency and the local insurance office are closed, their plate glass windows still in place. The same can’t be said about the bank on the next corner. The brick façade is blackened by fire and the ATM machine is overturned, the doors pried open.

  “Why would they break into the bank?” Holly asks. “What are they going to buy?”

  “Don’t know. My bet is there wasn’t any money in there to begin with. Or if it was, it was locked up in the vault. You’d need dynamite to blow that thing open.”

  At the next intersection, the parking lot of the Walgreens looks like a war zone. Baskets are overturned and the shelving from inside the store is bent and twisted and scattered around the lot. Plastic bags, snagged by the light poles, flutter in the breeze. “I bet there’s not a pill left in that store,” Gage says. “Let’s hope no one gets sick.”