The Day after Oblivion

by Tim Washburn

  “Probably not fit to eat, anyway,” Gage says. “I don’t think I’d want to risk it.”

  Garrett sighs. “I know.” He glances at the kids ahead and lowers his voice. “It scares the hell out of me. I got two young mouths to feed.”

  “And I now have one of my own. A lot of open country. I guess we’ll go back to hunting.”

  Garrett steals another quick glance at his family. “I went out to scout a couple of days ago. Everything I found was dead.”

  “They can’t all be dead, Garrett. There have to be pockets of wildlife that are still alive.”

  “We’ll have to find them if there are. Any of your cattle survive?”

  “Nope. I herded them all up into the barn and even that didn’t help.”

  Once they reach the house, Holly, Juliet, and the girls take seats at the picnic table while Gage and Garrett duck into the house. Their father is bound up in the sheet. Gage takes the head and Garrett the feet as they carry Raymond Larson out of the family home for the last time. Ginny follows them and joins the girls and, as dusk descends, the family procession makes their way to the grave amid a shower of tears. The boys, aided by ropes, lower their father into the ground, and each family member takes a turn on the shovel, the white sheet gradually disappearing beneath the red Oklahoma clay.

  CHAPTER 87

  Off the coast of Hatteras, North Carolina

  The Outer Banks are a boomerang-shaped series of barrier islands that stretch for two hundred miles along the coast of North Carolina. The islands vary in size—some narrow enough to be measured with a tape measure while others widen to a mile or more—and Brad is now tacking the EmmaSophia toward Hatteras, one of the larger islands.

  As the veiled sun drifts lower on the horizon, Brad works the wheel as his mind works through a quandary. There has been no further discussion of Nicole’s status aboard ship and Brad is now conflicted. Yes, he and Emma had hit a rough patch in their marriage recently—the second time in two years—but is it sacrilegious to now have another, different woman on board the EmmaSophia? he wonders. Especially so soon after the death of his wife and daughter? He sighs and tries to push the thoughts from his mind.

  About a half mile from shore, he drops the mainsail and tosses the anchor overboard. They’ll stay here and fish before moving out to deeper water to bed down. On shore, a hodgepodge of tents and shelters built from scavenged material stretch to the horizon. Cooking fires are scattered among the shelters, creating a smoky haze that lingers now that the wind has died. Brad stands and stretches. “Nicole, work your magic with the fishing pole, please,” he says. He turns to watch as she moves comfortably around the boat in a pair of Tanner’s shorts and one of his T-shirts.

  “Any particular species of fish I should be baiting for?” Nicole asks. “What’s your palate craving?”

  “Food,” Brad answers. “I guess we’ll eat whatever you can catch.”

  “I’m going to rig it for yellowfin tuna and see if I can get any bites. I’ve never fished the Outer Banks before, so it’s going to be hit or miss.”

  “I could go for tuna,” Brad offers.

  Once Nicole has her pole rigged up, she tosses the lure toward the deeper water. “I can’t make any guarantees. We’ll see what happens.”

  Brad notices her gnawing her bottom lip as she works the lure through the water. His gaze drifts lower to her legs and bare feet. “Where are your shoes?” Brad asks.

  Nicole glances over her shoulder. “Lost them when you made me jump back in the water.”

  “Oh.” Brad looks down at his feet as if searching for a lost valuable.

  Nicole yanks on the pole. “Got something. Not sure what. Brad, will you grab the net?”

  “I’m on it.”

  Tanner ventures up on deck, his dark, wavy hair matted with sleep.

  “You fall asleep?” Brad asks.

  “Yeah. What’s going on up here?”

  “Nicole is about to land another fish. Luckiest fisher-person I’ve ever seen.”

  “I don’t think luck is the right word, Dad. She could probably teach you a thing or two.”

  Brad scowls at this son before turning back to the water. As the fish draws closer, Brad leans over the rail and scoops up the fish, placing the net on the deck. Nicole bends over to work the hook out.

  “What kind is it?” Brad asks.

  Nicole blows the hair out of her face. “A mackerel. If Tanner’s not too fond of fish, we should probably throw it back. It has a distinct fishy taste.”

  “Throw it back,” Tanner says.

  Nicole grabs a pair of pliers and jiggles the hook out of the fish’s mouth and Brad tosses it overboard. He looks up to see a dead powerboat coming their way, two makeshift paddles rowing on either side of the boat. Brad grabs the rifle and jacks a shell into the chamber. When the boat cuts the distance in half, Brad orders them to stop. A tall man with a large round belly works his way toward the bow of his boat. He looks to be in his midsixties and is outfitted with paisley swimming trunks and a stained white T-shirt.

  “Hi, neighbor. I was hoping you’d give me a ride,” the man says with a wave of his hand.

  Holding the rifle down by his leg, Brad says, “I’m sorry, we’re anchored for the night. Out of fuel?”

  “Yes. Ran out this morning and this boat is a real bitch to paddle.”

  “I bet it is,” Brad says. He scans the cockpit area of the forty-eight-foot Sea Ray and spots the tops of two other heads, but all he can see is hair. Brad’s gaze flicks back and forth between the man and cockpit. “That your boat?”

  “Yep. Bought it new two years ago.”

  The boat most likely cost north of four hundred grand when the man bought it and now it’s as worthless as a partially inflated inner tube. “You alone?”

  “Yep, just me. My wife didn’t make it out of D.C.”

  “You two get down,” Brad whispers out of the corner of his mouth. Nicole and Tanner slowly duck below the rail and hunker down on the deck as Brad repositions his feet, his eyes never wavering from the man and his boat. “Now, sir, that can’t be true. I saw two sets of hands rowing.”

  “You must be mistaken,” the man says. “I’m the only one aboard.”

  “I hate to call a man a liar to his face, but you, sir, are a lia—”

  The man makes a sudden move for something behind his back and a pistol is just clearing the man’s swimsuit when Brad tucks the rifle to his shoulder and fires. At this range, and being on unstable footing, the large bullet knocks the man off his feet. Brad quickly levers another shell and pivots toward the cockpit area as Nicole screams and claps her hands over her ears. Two other men pop up, pistols extended over the top of the cabin. Brad fires again, hitting the man on the left before he can fire a shot. The second man fires, and Brad can feel the pressure wave of the bullet whizzing by his ear. He levers another shell and fires, but the man ducks down behind the cabin at the last second. Brad squats down until only his head and the rifle are exposed. “Tanner, reach under the helm’s seat and hand me some more ammo.”

  Tanner crawls across the deck, lifts the seat, and grabs a box of cartridges, sliding them over to his father. With his eyes glued to the Sea Ray’s cockpit, Brad blindly feeds more shells into the magazine. When the rifle is fully loaded, he scans the rest of the enemy boat. If the man ducks into the cabin, he could possibly pop up in the forward hatch. Brad’s eyes flick back to the cockpit and he spots a hand easing out from behind the cabin. He waits to see if the man’s going to fire blind or take a peek. Sighting in on the hand, Brad eases the barrel up and left to line up with the side of the cockpit. Seconds later the man sticks his head up and Brad drills him in the nose. Before the man’s pistol can hit the water, Brad orders Tanner to pull the anchor and raise the mainsail. The cabin on the Sea Ray is large enough to easily hold ten or fifteen people, and the question drilling through Brad’s brain is: Are there more? He keeps the rifle tucked tight to his shoulder.

  Tanner gets
the mainsail partially up and a gust of wind hits, pushing their boat closer to the dead powerboat. “Screw the sail, Tanner,” Brad says in a low, urgent voice. “Fire up the engine.”

  Tanner twists the key and the engine purrs to life. He cuts the wheel hard to the left and the EmmaSophia turns away. They’re a half a mile away before Brad lowers the rifle.

  Nicole climbs up on the rear seat, her face ashen. “What the hell just happened?”

  Brad feeds another cartridge into the rifle. “Welcome to life in the new world.”

  CHAPTER 88

  Near Little Rock, Arkansas

  In three hours, Zane and Alyx have covered, at most, ten miles, due to the number of scorched vehicles and the mountains of debris that litter the roadway. Whatever lies ahead was bombed to hell. Zane curses and steers off the shoulder to bypass a looted semi. Once back on the road, he thumbs the sweat from his brow and cuts the wheel to the right to veer around the charred remnants of a mobile home. Wildfires continue to smolder in the distance, leaving behind a funky stench that’s difficult to describe.

  “What the hell did they bomb?” Zane asks. “The Clinton Library?”

  “No, probably something more strategic. My bet is the Little Rock Air Force Base.”

  “Who flies out of there?”

  Alyx brushes the hair out of her eyes. “One of the airlift wings. Can’t remember which one, but it’s one of the largest fleets of C-130s in the world.”

  “Bastards,” Zane mutters as he slows to avoid running into the tail section of a large aircraft sitting in the middle of the road.

  “It’s getting too dark to see,” Alyx says. “I’ve seen better headlights on a riding lawn mower.”

  Zane steers around the scorched frame of a midsize sedan. “At least the headlights work. But, you’re right, we’re tempting fate, but I’d really like to get back to I-40 before we stop. At least we’ll feel like we accomplished something today.”

  “You’re driving.” Alyx pulls her legs up beneath her and focuses her gaze on the road ahead, pointing out objects for Zane. Finally, they reach the outskirts of what was once a small city. The place is identifiable as a city only by the sprawl of streets—everything else is gone, either burned up or blown apart by the succession of pressure waves from the nuclear bombs. In the failing light, the scene is eerie, making the hair stand at the nape of Zane’s neck. It reminds him of the images he’s seen of Hiroshima or Nagasaki. He shudders at the thought and taps the brakes, bringing the pickup to a stop. Ahead of them the highway is jammed with overturned vehicles scorched down to their metal frames. “No telling how many bombs they dropped on this place, whatever this place was.”

  “I think it was Jacksonville. Although it was called the Little Rock Air Force Base, it was actually located on the outskirts of Jacksonville. That’s about all I remember about it.”

  “The people around here never had a chance. I bet most were vaporized within milliseconds.”

  “I don’t want to think about it,” Alyx says. “We need to get the hell out of here. Probably still a major hot zone.”

  Zane turns the truck around and they backtrack on Highway 67 until they’re clear of the major destruction. “Getting back to I-40 is out for tonight.” Zane slows and steers down the highway embankment, picking up the feeder road heading back the way they came. Finding a place to bed down is difficult because the wildfires have burned every structure and every tree within sight. “Think there’s anybody left alive to worry about?”

  “Could be someone migrating through the area. I’d feel safer if we could find a place to hide.”

  Zane waves at the scoured earth. “I’m open for suggestions.”

  “Keep driving. We’ll find something.”

  Zane gooses the gas. Two miles down the road he spots a promising location and pulls into the parking lot. “What do you think?”

  Alyx uncrosses her legs. “Perfect.”

  The gate is hanging askew, and Zane eases the pickup into the lot. The charred automobiles are arranged in evenly spaced rows and stacked three or four high. Zane drives to the back of the salvage yard and parks at the end of one of the rows. He puts the transmission in park and kills the engine and the lights.

  In the darkness, Alyx says, “You take me to all the best places.”

  CHAPTER 89

  North Atlantic

  Captain Rex “Bull” Thompson glances at his watch and pulls a radio set from overhead. “Thompson to Murphy. Over.”

  Seconds later, Murphy answers, “I’m here, Bull. I’m thinking of changing your nickname to Ace. You smoked that Chinese destroyer.”

  “We aim to please. Anything on your radar?”

  “Negative. Blow your ballast tanks. It’s burger night aboard the USS Grant.”

  “See you in a few,” Thompson says. He clicks the handset back into the holder. “Mr. Adams, position of the Grant?”

  “A half a mile off our bow, Skipper.”

  “Roger. Thank you. Q, take us up.”

  Once on the surface, the two ships go through the same docking procedures as before. Thompson and Garcia make their way up the gangway and bump fists with Murphy, who leads them back to the officers’ wardroom. Thompson and Garcia sit, while Murphy retrieves the bottle of bourbon. Murph grabs three mugs and carries the booze over to the table, taking a seat in his usual chair.

  “How do you think we ended up on the wrong side with China, Murph?” Garcia asks.

  “Hell if I know. They shot the shit out of my helicopter. I guess we’re lucky the damn thing didn’t explode.”

  Thompson leans forward in his chair. “Were they targeting the chopper?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that, Bull. I was up to my ass blowing up torpedoes and firing missiles. Why?”

  “Can you call someone to find out?”

  “Sure. What’s going on in that noggin of yours?”

  “Nothing good.”

  Murphy shrugs and picks up a ship’s phone to contact the bridge. After a few moments of conversation, he says, “Punch it up on the officers’ wardroom’s screen.” He hangs up and picks up a remote to click on the video monitor. “We had all the cameras running. You guys want to eat before we wade through the video?”

  Although Thompson’s stomach is grumbling, he knows this could be important. “Let’s watch first.”

  “Okay.” Murphy switches the inputs on the monitor and fast-forwards through the video. “Where do you want me to stop?”

  “At your first interaction with them.”

  “Should be coming up. They were coming toward our bow and we made a jog to starboard to widen our firing stance. If that piece of shit Aegis system hadn’t crapped out we would’ve taken her much earlier.” When the Chinese destroyer comes into view, Murphy mashes the play button. They watch for a few minutes with very little happening on-screen. “Remember, at this point we didn’t know if the destroyer was friend or foe.”

  “I remember,” Thompson says. He scoots to the edge of his seat. “Fast forward to the first shots, Murph.”

  Murphy fast-forwards until they see a puff of smoke from the deck of the Chinese destroyer. Murphy slows the video to normal speed. “Their first shot was an antiship missile that we obliterated with the Gatling gun.”

  Seconds later on the video there are multiple puffs of smoke coming off the deck of the enemy ship. She, too, is firing her Gatling gun.

  “Are the cameras synced?” Thompson asks.

  “You bet your ass they are,” Murphy says. “The shipboard computers are working fine.”

  “Will you punch up the rear-deck camera?” Thompson asks.

  Murphy punches more buttons on the remote and the view switches to the rear deck of the Grant. He rewinds the video and hits play. On-screen the helicopter shudders as the 20-mm rounds from the Chinese shred the fuselage.

  “I’ll be damned,” Garcia says.

  Thompson leans back in his chair. “Their first shot was a missile they knew you could de
feat. But then they go after the chopper on the next barrage.”

  “Why?” Murphy asks.

  Thompson sags against the chair back. “At this point in the battle, they knew a submarine was lurking below after we torpedoed their sub. Their odds of survival went from fifty-fifty to a much lower number. I think they took out your helicopter as insurance in case they didn’t make it.”

  Murphy leans forward in his chair. “Insurance for what?”

  Thompson takes a sip of bourbon. “To keep you from discovering other Chinese ships in the area.”

  Murphy sags back in his chair. “Well, shit.” He chugs his drink and refills his cup. “We’re damn near running on fumes now.”

  “Where are you on fuel?” Garcia asks.

  Murphy sighs. “Less than twenty percent. Enough to maybe make the Virgin Islands, but not if we have to fight our way there. And that’ll be running only one screw.” Murphy punches off the monitor with disgust.

  All three men chug the shots of bourbon and sit, thinking. After a few minutes of silence Thompson says, “Think there’s any place left along the eastern seaboard to refuel?”

  “Not from what I saw. Certainly not Norfolk,” Murphy replies.

  “What about a Coast Guard station?” Garcia asks. “Surely, they couldn’t have targeted every one of those. There have to be twenty or thirty along the East Coast alone.”

  “Maybe,” Thompson says. “You’d have to cut that number in half now because anywhere north of Virginia will be toast. Might get lucky with one in the Carolinas. What do you think, Murph?”

  “Maybe, if they have the type of fuel we need. We’re headed that way anyhow. Might get lucky. If—and that’s a big if—we don’t encounter more Chinese ships before we get there.”

  Thompson leans forward and props his forearms on the table. “Fuel is not an issue for us. And we still have a good supply of torpedoes. Murph, how about you make a quick run for the Hatteras area and we’ll follow along at a slower pace to protect your tail?”