The Day after Oblivion

by Tim Washburn

“Seconds, sir,” White says.

  “That may be all the time we have. Flood the tubes and stand by,” Thompson says before returning to his place on the bridge. Thoughts of what Murphy might be encountering attempt to invade his brain, but he quickly builds a mental wall—there will be plenty of time for that later. “Mr. Adams?”

  “I’ve got her, sir. She’s running full out at a depth of six-zero-zero.”

  “Course?” Thompson asks.

  “She’s on an eighty-degree course, three miles out. If she maintains current course, she’ll pass within a half a mile of our bow.”

  “Any hints if they’ve discovered our presence?”

  “Negative, sir. I see no evasive maneuvers.”

  “Status of the surface ships, Mr. Adams?”

  “All screws are still turning for both ships. The USS Grant is six miles off our stern, running on a 360-degree course. The Chinese destroyer is ten miles off our bow and running on a 180-degree course.”

  “Maybe both ships are having targeting issues,” Garcia says.

  “Could be. Sounds like they’re lining up for an old-fashioned naval battle,” Thompson replies.

  Silence descends on the bridge. Thompson mops his face with his uniform sleeve and reclasps his hands behind his back. Garcia shuffles his feet wider to provide a more stable base.

  “Enemy sub two miles and closing,” Adams says in a hushed voice.

  “Conn, all stop,” Thompson orders.

  One of the young sailors piloting the sub dries his palms on his thighs and returns his hands to the controls. Thompson unclasps his hands and crosses his arms. Garcia repositions his feet and rakes a hand through his thinning hair. A blast wave from the battle overhead reverberates across the hull. Adams, the sonar technician, turns a knob to fine-tune the growing image on his screen.

  “One-point-five miles and closing,” Adams says in a near whisper.

  “Thank you, Mr. Adams,” Thompson says. A small smile forms on Thompson’s lips at the performance of his crew. All appear to be calm and steady, but Thompson knows their insides are tied up in knots, much like his own.

  “One mile and closing,” Adams says.

  “Same course?” Thompson asks, his voice low and clear.

  Adams nods.

  Thompson steps over to the attack center. “David, we’re going to let her in close. Stand by.” Thompson watches the target on the screen for a moment. “Conn, stand by right full rudder.” Thompson cranks his head left, then right, in an attempt to reduce the strain in his neck. Garcia quietly shuffles over to the navigation table for a peek at the sonar.

  Adams clears his throat. “Sixteen hundred yards and closing.”

  Thompson bends down to talk quietly to White. “Do you have the firing solution?”

  “Yes, sir,” White says, his eyes never leaving the control panel in front of him. A thin man, White’s hands appear steady at the controls.

  “Well done. Stand by.”

  “Fourteen hundred yards,” Adams says.

  Thompson calculates the distances in his head. If they’re correct, the enemy sub will pass within three hundred yards of their bow.

  “Mr. Adams, have they detected our presence?”

  “Negative, sir. Twelve hundred yards.”

  Thompson inhales a deep breath and releases it. A trickle of sweat runs down his back. He repositions his stance for the upcoming dive.

  “One thousand yards to port, three hundred yards off our bow,” Adams says in a soft voice.

  Thompson waits. The seconds tick by in absolute silence.

  “Eight hundred yards,” Adams says.

  Thompson leans over and whispers, “Mr. White, fire tubes one and two.”

  White punches the button for tube one then tube two, and the boat shudders as the torpedoes explode from their tubes. “Fish away,” White says.

  “Hard left rudder,” Thompson barks. “Emergency deep.”

  As the nose of the sub tilts down at a steep angle, Thompson orders a report on the torpedoes.

  “They’re tracking, sir,” White says.

  Those on the bridge are holding their breath. After an agonizing wait that feels like hours, White shouts, “Contact.” A collective sigh escapes from the crew as the blast waves from the two massive explosions rock the sub.

  “Status?” Thompson asks.

  “Multiple sonar signatures, Captain,” Adams says. “Target destroyed.”

  Those words elicit a subdued cheer from those on the bridge. Yes, the torpedoes found their target, but the crew of Chinese submarine were sailors doing their jobs, a point that hits a little too close to home for the crew of the USS New York.

  “Mr. Patterson, plot a course for that Chinese destroyer.”

  CHAPTER 83

  Weatherford

  Rather than climb up and down the turbine’s tower, Gage stays topside as Henry works below after climbing down following lunch. All of the electrical work is completed—or so they hope. They won’t know for sure until Gage releases the brake and the blades start spinning. Gage grabs a large crowbar and stuffs some wrenches into the pouch on his tool belt before climbing into the hub. During normal operation, the computer controls blade pitch and the position of the turbine head relative to the wind. But now it’s as far from normal as anyone ever thought possible a couple of weeks ago.

  When the turbine was taken off-line, the blade pitch was set to an acceptable angle and now Gage’s job is to make sure it stays that way. The electric motors are fried and the stench of burned plastic and melted wire still lingers within the confined space. Gage reaches back through the hub and grabs a handful of metal plates. Ideally he would weld the plates in place—a twenty-minute job pre-doomsday—but that’s out the window now with no electricity. Now he’ll have to go through the laborious process of bolting the metal plates in place. He pulls a wrench from his pouch and starts working.

  It’s not long before he’s dripping sweat. Add the fact that he’s working in tight quarters and the job is downright miserable. The wrench slips off a nut, ripping the skin from Gage’s knuckle. He mutters a string of curse words that goes on for a good minute. After wrapping a rag around his hand, he retrieves the offending wrench and continues working. After a couple of hours, he finishes bolting the last plate onto to the last blade and climbs out of the hub, arching his back to stretch out the kink in his lower spine. He lifts his wet shirt away from his torso, allowing the breeze to sneak in while mopping his face with a rag. He steps over to the side of the nacelle and shouts down to Henry, “How’s it looking?”

  Henry looks up and shouts, “Looks good. Give me a few more minutes and we’ll give her a try.”

  “Okay,” Gage shouts, unhooking his tool belt and letting it drop to the floor as he reaches for a clean rag. He sits, wiping the grease and grime from his hands. A loose flap of skin is dangling over his middle knuckle and he rips it off. A trickle of fresh blood sprouts and he wraps a clean rag around his hand and pushes to his feet to retrieve a bottle of water. Gage takes a long pull from the bottle and returns to his seat. A few minutes later, Henry shouts something he can’t hear and he stands and walks over to the side. “What?” he shouts.

  Henry cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Release the brake.”

  Gage glances up to see two people turning up the road to the turbine, rifles slung over their shoulders. The turbine is situated on a gravel drive about two hundred yards from the main road with nothing but plowed fields for as far as the eye can see. The pair is too far away to identify so Gage doesn’t know if they’re friend or foe, but if they’re looking for trouble, Henry and the truck will be impossible to miss.

  Gage doesn’t want to shout down to Henry and give away his position or reveal the fact that there’s more than one person around. But he has no idea if Henry has seen them. With the shotgun still in the truck, there’s no way Gage can get to it before the pair arrives. He grabs a wrench from the tool belt on the floor and chucks it toward th
e truck. Two seconds later, the wrench clangs off the hood, and Henry snaps his head up. Gage waves a hand toward the road. Henry turns that way, drops his tools, and hurries for the truck as the two coming up the road brace their rifles to their shoulders. Shots ring out as Gage clambers through the hatch and grabs the ladder.

  Trying to hit every other rung with his feet, Gage’s descent is herky-jerky. More shots ring out and it’s all rifle fire. When Gage touches down on the upper platform, the shotgun comes to life. The booms from the 12-gauge shells reverberate up the tower, but they’re a comfort to Gage knowing that Henry is still alive. Gage swings around to the lower ladder and continues the descent. More shots ring out, a quick succession of rifle fire, answered by the booming blasts from the shotgun. Gage is trying to keep count of the number of shots fired from the shotgun and almost loses his balance. He turns his focus back to the ladder. The shotgun barks twice more before an eerie silence settles in. Gage scampers down the last twenty feet and takes a peek out the door. No one is waiting to kill him so he eases out the door and works his way around the tower and nearly trips over Henry, who’s crumpled at the base. Gage squats down for a closer look. Henry’s eyes are open, but his breath is ragged. “Are you hit?”

  “Right arm. They rushed the truck. Had to take cover behind the tower.”

  “And the two men?”

  “Dead, I hope.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No.”

  Gage pries the shotgun from Henry’s hands. “Any ammo left?”

  “Left pants pocket. Had to grab what I could.”

  Gage wedges his hand into Henry’s pocket and retrieves three shells. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

  Henry nods as Gage feeds the shells into the gun and racks one into the chamber. He takes a step forward and peers around the tower. One of the assailants is lying by the front tire, but there’s no sign of the second one. Gage hunches over and runs for the front of the truck. He slides along the nose to check on the first man. No need to feel for a pulse—his midsection is shredded. Gage turns and eases back the other way, turning around the right fender. Carefully, he creeps toward the rear. At the edge of the tailgate, he pauses for a deep breath, tucks the shotgun tight to his shoulder, and swings around the rear of the truck.

  The second man is lying in a pool of blood a foot from the gravel driveway. Gage steps forward, kicks the rifle out of reach, and bends down for a closer look. The man’s left shoulder looks as if it has been run through a meat grinder and his chest is fluttering up and down with each breath. Gage squats down on his haunches. “Why did you attack us?”

  “Truck,” the man whispers.

  “You risked your life for a pickup?”

  The man can do little more than nod.

  “In the current climate, you know your odds of survival are slim to none, right?”

  Another nod.

  “I can walk away and let you bleed out or do you a favor.”

  “Favor,” the man mutters.

  Gage stands and moves ten feet away. He braces the stock to his shoulder and fires one round at the man’s chest. Gage turns away from the gory scene and returns to his father-in-law. He helps Henry to his feet and guides him to the truck. Henry doesn’t ask about the final shot. Gage helps him into the cab and rotates him so that he’s facing the open door. Gently, Gage lifts Henry’s sleeve for a look at the wound. “Looks like the bullet went through clean. We need to clean up the wound and see if there are any fragments of material inside. Might be best to wait until we get back to the house. You’re going to live but your bicep is going to hurt like hell for a while.”

  “About what I figured. Thought I was a better shot than that.”

  “It’s different when someone’s shooting back at you. Not that I would know a whole lot about that.” Gage helps Henry get situated and climbs behind the wheel. He fires up the truck and makes a big looping turn around the bodies before steering toward the drive.

  CHAPTER 84

  Beebe, Arkansas

  Now about fifteen miles northeast of Little Rock, Arkansas, Zane is eager to get back on 1-40 and away from these one-stoplight towns. He glances at the gas gauge and the needle is hovering near empty. He exits off Highway 67 to avoid a traffic jam of dead autos and makes a slow drive through town. They pass a looted Sonic Drive-In, and Alyx moans. “Wouldn’t a cherry limeade just hit the spot?”

  “Thanks for the reminder. We need gas.”

  “Dream crasher.” Alyx’s voice sounds odd, a result of her still-swollen nose.

  They pass a retirement home on one corner with a funeral home just opposite. “Must have saved on travel expenses,” Alyx says. “Hell, they could have just walked a gurney across the street and hauled the dead back without ever firing an engine.”

  “You’re morbid. Although, their business would be booming now if they were open.”

  “And who’s morbid?”

  They ride in silence for the next block, passing a couple of homegrown restaurants that dot small towns all across the country. Never large enough for the big chains, the locals made do with what they had, no matter the food quality. Zane makes a turn and they bypass a Walmart and a run-down shanty called a flea market. There are a few people out, but they appear to be paying little mind to the pickup motoring down the road. At the next intersection they find the high school and Zane steers into the lot. It appears the school was already in session when doomsday arrived. The lot is littered with autos, a veritable smorgasbord of vehicles to choose from to meet their gasoline needs.

  “See anyone around?” Zane asks.

  Alyx cranes her neck to look. “Nope. But make it quick.”

  “That’s not what you said last night.”

  Alyx shows him her middle finger.

  Zane pulls up to a newer Ford truck and puts the transmission in park. He climbs out and grabs the hose as Alyx steps out with the shotgun. He sets to work and, miracle of miracles, he gets the gas flowing with the first suck from his mouth. Despite the persistent haze, temps are in the midseventies and, in the distance, there’s a smattering of birdcalls. Old Goldie has a twenty-gallon gas tank and it takes a while for gravity to do its work. Zane plucks the bag of leftover turkey from the cab and walks over to Alyx, offering her some. “Eat up. It’ll be spoiled soon.”

  Alyx props the shotgun against the hood of the truck and grabs a handful of turkey. “How’s the leg?”

  “It’s sore. Could have been much worse if we hadn’t run into your friend Sarah. How’s the nose?”

  “Tender.” Alyx feeds another piece of turkey into her mouth.

  “How far from Little Rock to Weatherford?” Zane asks between bites.

  “Six hours on a normal day. Now, probably twice that or longer. But given the luck we’ve had so far, it could be days.”

  “I feel like we’ve been traveling for months. I’m ready for somewhere where we can hunker down.”

  “At least we’re not walking.”

  “There is that. Old Goldie might be ugly, but she saved our ass.” Zane grabs another piece of turkey and offers more to Alyx, who declines. “Tank ought to be about full.” He walks back to check the gas gauge. “Good to go, Alyx.” He pulls the hose out, tosses it into the bed, and secures the gas cap.

  Cruising back through town toward the highway, Zane spots a sign for a gunsmith. He slows and pulls into the lot of a ’60s-era strip mall. The place hasn’t been updated since the day it was built, and the shake shingle facade is more tar paper than shingle. He spots the store in the far corner and eases the truck that direction. Someone, the owner presumably, has piled up sandbags to block entrance to the store. Sitting on top of the sandbags is a monster gun resting on bipod legs.

  “This guy’s not screwing around,” Zane says, easing the pickup to a stop in front of the store.

  “That thing looks like a cannon. What the hell is it?”

  “It is a Barrett .50 caliber long-range sniper rifle. About as deadly as any hand-carried
weapon there is, other than an RPG.”

  “Why would someone, a civilian especially, need something like that?” Alyx asks.

  “Probably come in pretty handy about now.” Zane leans over and pulls out the sack of meds, grabbing a bottle of antibiotics. “Keep that shotgun handy.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “Trying to get some more ammo for said shotgun.”

  “And if the guy decides to shoot you with that monster gun?”

  “I guess you’ll have to scrape up my insides from the parking lot.”

  “Comforting thought. Do we need more ammo that desperately?”

  “The luck we’ve been having? Absolutely. We’ve still got a long way to go.” Zane stuffs the pill bottle down his front pocket and exits the truck, his hands held high. He works around the nose of the pickup and approaches the store. At ten feet away, a heavily bearded face pops up behind the Barrett.

  “What the hell you want?” the man says, peering through the rifle’s scope.

  “I want to barter for a couple of boxes of 12-gauge shotgun shells.”

  “What do you have?” The man eyes Alyx, and Zane’s hoping this man doesn’t mean he wants her.

  “Medicine.”

  “I’ve got more ibuprofen than I could use in a lifetime.”

  “Do you have any antibiotics?” Zane asks.

  “That I don’t have. How much you got?”

  “I have a bottle of Augmentin, enough for a ten-day course.”

  The man ponders for a moment. “That might get you one box of shells.”

  Zane thinks of their tradable items and hits on an idea. “How about a couple of handfuls of turkey, cooked fresh this morning?”

  This time the man doesn’t hesitate. “You got yourself a deal.” The man steps out from behind the rifle. Only his head is visible and it’s mostly hair. But judging from the height of the sandbags, he’s either tall or standing on a step stool. “How do you want to work this?”

  “I’m a man of my word,” Zane says.

  “Yeah, well, fuck that. I’ll grab the shells and we’ll do the exchange on top of the sandbags.”