The Day after Oblivion

by Tim Washburn

  “Hell if I know. I’m just glad it’s not us.” Zane releases the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “That takes Deliverance to an entirely new level. The only thing missing was an inbred boy picking a banjo.”

  “I bet he was there somewhere.” Alyx rubs her arms and shudders, the shotgun still nestled in her lap.

  CHAPTER 43

  Lakeville, Minnesota

  As the light fades, a slow drizzle begins. Not knowing the current atmospheric conditions, or how much radioactive material remains, Stan McDowell is eager to find an indoor structure for the group to bed down in. The temps are probably in the midfifties and most of the kids are shivering. Up ahead he spies an office building and hurries ahead of the group for a look. According to a placard out front, the place is some type of sign-manufacturing company. He stops and looks around. The office building fronts a large construction yard filled with all manner of equipment. A newer pickup is parked in the lot out front, but the place has a vacant feel to it.

  McDowell walks into the equipment yard to check out the barns. The place is littered with trucks of various sizes—and not just one or two but dozens and, off to the right, is a group of semitrailers lined out in a row. The two large barns are open-air structures offering little shelter from the elements. The rest of the yard is a hodgepodge of metal poles, metal signs, and other sharp objects that won’t blend well with a group of teenagers. He hurries back to the office and kicks out the glass in the front door. He reaches through and turns the lock, pushing the frame open. He clicks on his flashlight and walks deeper into the building. A fine layer of dust coats the desktops, suggesting no one has been here since the whole mess started. The building is fairly large, containing three offices, a kitchen, and a reception area with a couch and three chairs positioned around a desk. As far as accommodations go it’s nothing special, but it is dry. He steps back outside and waves the group in. They’re only a hundred yards away and the students break into a run with Melissa and Lauren bringing up the rear at a slow jog.

  Once everyone is inside, the first thing to hit McDowell is the odor. Teenagers exude a certain funk—probably something to do with the raging hormones—and that’s now mixed with the smell of damp clothes that haven’t been washed in a week. In the close confines, McDowell is suddenly nauseous. Melissa and Lauren don’t seem bothered by it, their immunity probably built up over years in the classroom, McDowell thinks. He steps back outside for some fresh air and turns to look through the glassless door. “If you need to go to the bathroom, do it before it starts raining harder. I saw some toilet paper in the bathroom in the back. Make sure you go out a ways before doing your business.”

  The girls step out as a pack and turn one way, while the boys file out and turn the other way, each group with a roll of toilet paper. McDowell steps back into the office. “Was that man serious back there?” Lauren asks.

  McDowell rubs his chin. “Yes, and we’re only about fifteen miles from where we started. We have a tall order if we’re going to keep the kids safe. Conditions are only going to get worse, and that guy was right, most won’t be asking.”

  Lauren shivers. “I wish we had more weapons.”

  “Ever fire a gun, Lauren?” McDowell asks.

  “I grew up in West Texas. Of course I’ve fired a gun.”

  “Let me ask the question another way. Ever fired a weapon when someone was shooting back?”

  “Of course not. But how hard can it be? You just point and shoot.”

  McDowell wipes his damp forehead with his sleeve. “I served twenty years in the Air Force. Believe me when I tell you there’s a big difference.”

  “Still, I’d feel safer if Melissa and I were armed.”

  “We’ll keep an eye out for other weapons as we proceed. That sound reasonable?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  The girls come back in a clump, followed closely by the boys.

  “I’m going to see if I can get a fire started out behind the building,” McDowell says. “Will you take an inventory of items here in the office? Food or utensils would be great.”

  “Will do,” Melissa replies.

  McDowell pulls the lighter he’d scored from a restaurant back at the terminal from his suitcase and steps into the closest office to rummage through the drawers. The only thing he finds of use in the first desk is an eight-pack of double-A batteries. After slipping two into his pocket to replace the batteries in his flashlight, he moves on to the next office and finds several pair of scissors and a small pocketknife. He leaves the items on top of the desk and grabs a handful of old newspapers and steps out the back door.

  McDowell pulls out his flashlight and rotates the lens to clear and clicks on the light. Made by Gerber, the flashlight lens can be rotated to four different colors, perfect in the cockpit of an airplane for preserving night vision. He fans the beam around the yard and spots a wooden pallet in the closest barn. Using an iron pole, he frees the boards and carries them to the back of the office building and starts to work on the fire. He wads up a few sheets of newspaper and places them under the pile, firing the lighter. The paper catches and he rips the remaining newspaper into long strips, feeding them into the fire. The wood begins to smoke and finally ignites. He lays on more boards and steps back into the building.

  The kids are sprawled on the floor and Melissa and Lauren are rummaging through the cabinets and remaining desk. McDowell calls them to the back office. “The fire’s lit and should be ready to go in about fifteen minutes. Let’s start with the gallon of baked beans and see how far that gets us. You guys have any luck?”

  “We found about a dozen coffee mugs which we can use to serve food. The biggest find is two five-gallon jugs of water we found stashed in a closet. I guess they had one of those water dispensers. I can’t believe no one came back and got it.”

  “They still might,” McDowell says.

  Lauren brushes her damp hair out of her face. “I’ll shred some of the remaining beef jerky and add it to the beans. We need all the protein we can get.”

  “Sounds good. I’m going to poke around outside and see what I can find.”

  Outside, McDowell adds another board to the fire and walks out into the yard, clicking on his flashlight. Comprising what looks to be about ten acres, the muddy field is jammed with equipment. Most of the sign-making part of the business is off to the north so McDowell veers south and walks along a row of storage containers. He spots two that pique his interest—two jobsite trailers that are ubiquitous at building sites the world over. He grabs a piece of scrap iron and pries open the door to the first. The trailer is outfitted with two offices, one for the receptionist or secretary and another at the back that would be reserved for the foreman or jobsite manager. Against the far wall is a section of floor-to-ceiling cabinets. The first one is full of grimy paper, probably permits or invoices. McDowell hits a gold mine when he opens the second door. It’s stocked with canned goods, a mixture of soup and chili, and a cooking pot. Two moldy bags of bread and reams of copier paper are all he finds behind the third door.

  McDowell climbs down and grabs a pair of five-gallon buckets up next to another trailer. They’re full of nuts and bolts, which he dumps on the ground. He returns to the trailer and loads up the food. There’s too much for the two buckets, but a return trip is no big deal. He places the buckets by the door and riffles through the first desk and finds what you’d expect to find—pencils, pens, paper, staplers, and, in the top drawer, a tube of red lipstick. He works his way around the desk and starts in on the second office. In the bottom right-hand drawer, behind a stack of files, he finds a handgun. He pulls it out and places it on the desk. He’s not surprised to find a weapon. Construction workers come and go on a daily basis and many don’t part on friendly terms. He opens the top drawer and finds a box of .45 caliber ammunition. He places the box beside the weapon.

  McDowell puts his flashlight on the desk and picks up the pistol. It’s a Glock 21, and he pops the magazine and
finds the clip full. He reinserts the magazine and stuffs the gun into his waistband and drops the ammo in his front pocket. The situation is going to require some thought. Not that he thinks Lauren incapable, but in the hands of a teenage boy the consequences could be disastrous. He grabs the two five-gallon buckets and steps out, pushing the door closed. He makes his way back to the building, his mind spinning through the pros and cons of having another weapon in play.

  CHAPTER 44

  Lakeville

  Twenty people sleeping in a confined space is noisier than you might imagine. Mix in the snores and the coughs and McDowell is having little trouble staying awake. The teenagers opted for the two back offices, and Melissa and Lauren are racked out on the sofa. One of the teachers emits a whistling snore on each exhale, but in the dark, McDowell doesn’t know which one. The faint whistling is soothing, until it isn’t. Divorced from his wife, he’s lived alone for the past eight years and his body is more attuned to silence at night. Sitting in the cheap chair at the reception desk, he’s having trouble getting comfortable. Every time he moves the chair squeaks, so he’s trying to limit his movements, a difficult task in a chair that feels like you’re sitting on a two-by-six. He readjusts the Glock in his lap and leans back in the chair.

  Even though it’s noisy, there’s a certain rhythm that develops over time. Enough so that McDowell’s eyelids grow heavier every passing minute. His head is rocking against his chest when he hears a noise different from all the others. He slowly lowers his feet to the ground and the chair squeals in protest. It sounds loud in the room, but maybe not loud enough to be heard outside. He freezes and turns his ear toward the door, listens, and hears the sound again. It sounds like a boot scraping on gravel.

  McDowell braces his hands on the desk and pulls himself carefully out of the chair. After tucking the Glock under his belt, he grabs the shotgun and walks quietly to the door for a peek outside. He’d plugged the bottom piece of broken glass with one of the signs and had left the top open for a situation such as this. His night vision is exceptional, but he’d need X-ray vision to see anything beyond his nose in this lightless world. He focuses his mind on other senses and hears another scrape. Not enough to identify a location. Then he hears a faint whisper of words, which drift from the direction of the main road. Regardless of who they are, they’re here.

  Feeling his way toward the sofa, he bends down and feels around for Lauren’s long hair. When he finds it, he nudges her shoulder and places a hand over her mouth. She gives a violent shake of her head when she wakes. McDowell puts his mouth to her ear and whispers, “It’s me. Someone’s outside. Hold out your hand.”

  Still disoriented, Lauren holds out her hand and McDowell finds it and puts the Glock in her palm. With his mouth still against her ear, he says, “Just pull the trigger if they get past me. Can’t let them inside.”

  He feels her head nodding.

  “Wait for the all clear.”

  Another nod.

  McDowell gives her neck a squeeze and stands, using the wall as a guide toward the back door. If he was calling the shots, he’d have someone watching the back door, but he has no idea if he’s facing one or ten, or if they have any tactical knowledge. Slowly and silently, he racks a shell into the chamber of the shotgun. If it’s more than six, he’s going to be in a world of hurt. He debates going back for more shells, but decides against it, time now being the most important variable. McDowell feels along the trigger guard to make sure the safety is off and eases the back door open and slips through, easing the door closed behind him.

  The fence to the construction yard is about thirty yards behind the office. He turns his head to the left and listens. The clock ticking in his head is urging him forward, but he takes a deep breath to slow his heart rate. The one thing that hinders him is also the very thing that protects him—the absolute darkness. After hearing nothing, he stands and feels his way to the corner of the building.

  He pauses again, to listen. Hearing nothing, he presses forward, using the exterior wall as a guide. He tries to remember if this side of the building is landscaped, and can’t. Careful with his steps, he works his way toward the front. At the midway point he feel something with his shoe. He reaches down to feel around and assumes the rectangular piece of metal is part of the guttering system and steps over. At the front corner he squats down to listen. He can hear the faint whisper of voices. Sounds like two people, at least. McDowell turns his head and cups a hand around his left ear. From the whispers, he pinpoints their location to a group of pine trees a hundred feet away. McDowell stands, but maintains his position.

  The word jammed floats across the darkness and McDowell tucks the shotgun tight to his shoulder. A smothered flashlight clicks on in the distance and in the faint wash of light he recognizes two of the men they encountered earlier in the day. Now he has a number. He holds his fire, not wanting to announce his presence until locating the third man. The light clicks off and, after a moment, McDowell works his way to the abandoned truck parked out front. From here, he has a 180-degree field of fire, with the building behind him. He rests his left forearm on the truck’s hood and places the stock of the shotgun against his shoulder, waiting.

  Although the night is cool, a bead of perspiration pops on his forehead and trickles down his nose. He ignores the sweat and focuses on the task at hand. The waiting is hard. At this point he just wants it over and he works to tamp down his growing impatience. Finally, he hears a boot scrape off to the left and he now knows the location of all three men.

  The wait drags on.

  After several moments, he hears a grunt from the front. McDowell swings the barrel that way, and waits. Unwanted, images pop into his mind of what the three men might do to the group of young girls. He quickly pushes the thoughts from his mind and sharpens his focus.

  He hears footsteps, this time boots on asphalt. McDowell tucks the shotgun tight to his shoulder and caresses the trigger with his index finger. Now he can hear the nervous breathing of the two men approaching from the front. McDowell estimates the distance at fifteen feet. He nudges the barrel to the left and pulls the trigger.

  Flame leaps from the barrel, lighting the two men like a photographer’s flash. The one on the left falls face forward as McDowell jacks another shell, eases the barrel to the right, and fires again. The second man drops where he’s standing as screams erupt from the students inside the building behind him. A rifle fires from the left and McDowell feels the bullet whiz past his ear. He scoots around the nose of the pickup, putting the truck between him and the shooter.

  “Donnie?” the man on the left shouts.

  McDowell eases the barrel a smidge to the left.

  “John?” the man shouts again.

  McDowell centers the shotgun on the voice and pulls the trigger. The flash of gunpowder lights the night as the double-aught buckshot fans out at a speed of over a thousand feet per second. McDowell jacks another shell and waits. After what feels like an hour, but in reality is only a few moments, McDowell steps out from behind the truck, the shotgun up and ready. Slowly, he works his way toward the third man. He knows for certain the two men in front are dead. Not so with the third.

  He steps lightly across the gravel road leading to the yard, his ears searching for sounds. He makes his way to where he thinks the third man might be and pauses, listening. After several moments, McDowell reaches into his pocket for his flashlight and clicks it on. The third man is lying by the sign, his face and upper torso pockmarked from the heavy shot. Blood is already pooling around the man’s upper body. If he’s not dead now, he will be shortly.

  McDowell grabs the man’s rifle and turns back for the building. When he reaches the front door, he calls softly to Lauren and waits for the all clear before opening the door and stepping through. He fans the flashlight around the room to see the students huddled in a group, holding hands. Lauren and Melissa are holding each other, both trembling.

  McDowell walks over and takes the pistol from L
auren. “It’s over.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Near Memphis, Tennessee

  Taking turns behind the wheel, Alyx and Zane drove most of the night, only stopping for three hours of sleep deep in a wooded forest. They have now traversed most of Tennessee with Memphis, tight to the border with Arkansas, the last major city to pass through. Zane, now driving, pulls up to a newer Ford F-250 and puts the transmission in park. “Let’s just hope this truck has some gas in the tank. We’re running on fumes.” Zane climbs out and grabs the hose from the bed, looking over the Ford to make sure it’s not one of the more popular diesel models. Luckily for them, it’s not.

  Alyx steps out, the double-barrel shotgun riding across her shoulder, and moves to the front of the truck.

  “Don’t shoot me,” Zane says as he pops the fuel door and crams the hose down the filler neck of the Ford.

  “I might shoot you if you don’t hurry up.”

  Zane blows out a deep breath and puts the other end of the hose to his mouth. He gives two good sucks and lowers the hose to see if the fuel will siphon out. He’s rewarded with a small dribble that flows for a second before stopping. This seems to be a common theme with him. He still hasn’t gotten the hang of stealing gas and, worse, now the hose will taste like gasoline. He wipes the end with his hand and sticks it back in his mouth. After three sucks, he gets a mouthful of gas and spits and sputters as he sticks the hose into Goldie’s tank. He wipes his mouth as the fuel transfers. “See anyone?”

  “Not yet. But I don’t want to wait around here forever. We’ve seen a lot of people walking along the highway.”

  “Can’t rush gravity. Want me to take over the shotgun?”

  “I will if I see someone approaching.”