by Tim Washburn
Gage nods and brushes past. He’s working hard to tamp down his growing anger as he climbs back in the truck. “I’ll find out one way or another,” he mumbles as he backs out of the drive.
CHAPTER 101
8 miles south of Portsmouth Island, North Carolina
After a good morning of sailing, the breeze gradually diminished in the early afternoon and the EmmaSophia is now slowly drifting south toward Cape Lookout. Brad climbs on top of the cabin to examine the hull for damage from the flaming shrapnel. He scrambles across the top of the cabin and inspects the furled jib for burns or gashes. Nothing is apparent, but he won’t know for sure until they unfurl it. He works his way back along the perimeter and discovers a couple of pockmarks in the hull. He kneels down for a closer look. It appears the shrapnel chipped the paint and did no permanent damage. Brad sighs with relief and stands.
Nicole is at the stern, drift-fishing after swapping the sweatshirt for a T-shirt. Tanner is curled up on the side bench, his nose buried in Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. To look at them you wouldn’t know they had witnessed a naval battle that put their lives in jeopardy only hours ago. Brad steps down into the cockpit and resumes his place behind the wheel.
Nicole, sitting sideways in the seat, reels in her line to make sure the lure is still attached. It is and she recasts, letting the boat’s wake pull the lure farther out. She swivels around. “Where do you think the Chinese went?”
“South, is all we know,” Brad says. “My bet is we encounter them again.”
Tanner dog-ears a page and closes the book. “Dad, who’s in charge?”
“Of what?” Brad asks.
“Well, I guess the world.”
“No way to know, Tanner.”
“Is it the Chinese?”
“No doubt they have a hand in it. But we don’t know what’s happened in our own country, much less the rest of the world.” He turns to Nicole. “What do you think?”
“I think it doesn’t really matter. What’s left to take charge of? A group of devastated countries with more problems than anyone could ever imagine?”
Tanner brushes the hair out of his eyes. “We studied China last year in social studies. I know they have to import a lot of natural resources to keep up with demand. What if they take over our country for the oil?”
“Hadn’t really thought about that, Tanner,” Brad says. “If that’s true, their presence here, now, would add some legitimacy to that idea.”
Nicole tucks her legs beneath her, the fishing pole still in her hands. “And we have no way of stopping them, if that is indeed their intent.”
Brad turns where he can see both Nicole and Tanner. “Some of our military assets must have survived. Someone was shooting at those Chinese warships.”
“Could have been Russians, for all we know,” Nicole says. “Either way, there is little doubt the other ship was destroyed or they would have continued their pursuit.” Nicole feels a tug on the line and jumps to her feet and looks back over her shoulder. “Even if some of our military assets survived, who’s left to command them?” She tugs the pole up and reels on the downswing, over and over again.
Brad finds himself admiring the strain of her shoulder muscles beneath the T-shirt and is not quite sure how he feels about it.
“Tanner, will you grab the net?” Nicole asks.
Tanner stands, grabs the net, and steps to the back of the boat.
Brad watches as they work together. At the beginning of the trip, Tanner had been withdrawn and depressed. But since Nicole came aboard he’s gradually returned to his normal self. It could be he simply emerged from his period of grieving or, more likely, Nicole has played an important role in his recovery—maybe for both Tanner and himself.
“Scoop it, Tanner,” Nicole says.
Tanner bends over the rail and nets the fish, pulling it aboard. He reaches into the net to pull the fish out, and Nicole puts a hand on his arm. “Better let me do it, Tanner. It’s a bluefish with razor-sharp teeth.”
“I can handle it,” Tanner says. He digs into the net and grabs the fish by the gills. “It’s heavy.” He pulls the fish out and holds it up.
“Maybe fifteen pounds,” Nicole says. “Time for a feast.”
Thoughts of the Chinese taking over the world fade from conversation as Nicole teaches Tanner how to clean the fish and Brad lights the propane stove. Once the catch is cooked, each carries a plateful topside. Brad disappears back inside and returns with a bottle of chardonnay—one of four on board—and three glasses. He pulls the cork, pours, and passes out the drinks. Tanner takes a sip and scrunches his nose. “Is this supposed to be good?”
He sets the glass aside, Brad and Nicole chuckling.
“It’s an acquired taste, son.”
“Yeah, if you say so. I’ll stick to water for now.”
They finish their feast, and Tanner and Nicole rinse the plates off the stern. Tanner’s statement had struck a nerve. Brad sneaks downstairs and pulls up a hatch in the floor. He’s been hesitant to look, knowing the news won’t be good. He grabs a flashlight from a drawer and kneels down. His heart sinks when he sees the freshwater tank nearly empty.
CHAPTER 102
Edmond, Oklahoma
Stan McDowell is still mulling over Lauren Thomas’s proposition when he sees a sign announcing: EDMOND NEXT SIX EXITS. Having flown in and out of Oklahoma City numerous times, he knows Edmond is a suburb just north of the state capital. By McDowell’s reckoning, he has about ten miles to make a shit-or-get-off-the-pot decision. He had told Lauren and Melissa he would travel with them to the Texas state line before going their separate ways, but really, Oklahoma City is the point where the decision needs to be made. From here, it’s a straight shot south to Dallas on I-35, or a straight shot west to Amarillo on I-40, then on south to Lubbock. McDowell switches hands on the steering wheel and sighs.
They pass a giant cross that’s nestled up close to the highway then a string of businesses situated on a hill overlooking the interstate. All have been looted, with the unwanted or unneeded items thrown across the parking lot. McDowell glances at Lauren, who had moved back inside at their last stop. “I wonder why they didn’t leave the things no one wanted inside the store.” He points out the window. “See, look at all those tires bunched up in a pile. Who needs tires?”
Lauren slips off her shoes and pulls her legs under her, sitting cross-legged. “Those stores have probably been searched a dozen times or more since all this happened. Maybe someone thought they could use a few tires for something and carried them outside and realized how pointless they were. Or, maybe there are dozens of people camped out inside the Walmart and they needed the space.” Lauren smiles. “We could stop and try to solve the tire dilemma.”
“I think we’ll pass.” McDowell eyes the gas gauge. “Although, we’re going to need to stop somewhere soon to refuel.” McDowell’s gaze flicks to the rearview mirror out of habit, something he’s done continuously throughout the journey. Every other time the result has been the same—nothing behind them except a static image of areas they’ve already passed. This time it’s different. “Looks like we have some company.”
Lauren swivels her head for a look. “Where did they come from?”
“No idea, but it’s smart when you think about it.” McDowell zeros in on the semi in the rearview. “Looks like an old Peterbilt or Kenworth, but the tanker looks to be of a more recent vintage. Must be nice for them, not having to search for fuel all the time. But, jeez, would you look at that truck. It looks like it’s been through a demolition derby.” The front end of the semi is battered, with both front fenders hanging on by a thread.
“Should we be concerned? My mind is flashing on images from one of those stupid Mad Max movies.”
McDowell chuckles. “Not a Mad Max fan?”
“No. Can’t say I made it past the five-minute mark on any of them. Seriously, Stan, should we be worried?”
McDowell glances over to see her face pinched with wo
rry. “I don’t think so. They have as much right to the road as we do.”
“That’s all well and good, but where did they come from? Have you seen that truck before?”
McDowell’s eyes dart to the rearview to see the truck inching closer. “No.” A tingle of dread flickers at the base of McDowell’s neck. “We’re not a threat to them.”
“No, we’re not, but you’re thinking about the situation from the wrong angle.”
“What?” Then it hits him. “Oh shit.” His eyes drift down to the gas gauge and a pit forms in his stomach. “We should have refueled earlier.”
“How far can we go on what we have?”
McDowell sighs. “Not far enough.” He glances at the side mirror. The truck has dropped back a bit, now maybe a hundred feet behind them. He turns his gaze to the front and spots a truck stop coming up on the right. The lot is littered with semis, including a couple of tankers. One of the smart things they did before departing the sign shop back in Minnesota was to break out the back window. McDowell glances over his shoulder and shouts, “Hold on!” He waits until the last possible second, then whips onto the exit ramp. Both he and Lauren exhale a sigh of relief when the semi zooms past.
McDowell slows and steers onto the access road, turning into the truck stop parking lot. He eases the truck up to one of the tankers, puts the transmission into neutral, and stomps on the parking brake. He peers through the back opening. “Everyone, sit tight.” He turns to Lauren. “Keep that shotgun handy.”
Lauren pulls the shotgun onto her lap. “Hurry, Stan.”
“Why don’t you climb out, just in case?”
Lauren nods and opens her door as McDowell exits. He quickly unlashes the hose and hurries over to the tanker. He spins off all the caps and cracks open the valves in search of diesel. Just as before, he finds it on the third attempt. After clamping on the hose, he nudges the valve open and carries the other end over to the truck’s tank, where he cranks off the cap and holds the hose, allowing the diesel to dribble into the tank. He looks up at Lauren. “This is too slow. Will you crank the valve open an little more?”
“How?”
“Follow the hose. Just turn the handle a quarter of a turn.”
Lauren nods and hurries over to the tanker.
Jonathon stands and looks over the railing. “Mr. McDowell, I really need to pee.”
McDowell groans. “Okay, Jonathon. Step off and pee, but don’t wander off.”
Jonathon jumps off the back, setting off a round of “Me, too’s” from the other students.
McDowell groans again. “I promise we’ll stop soon. Please try to hold it a little longer.”
“How come Jonathon gets to pee?” someone asks.
McDowell snaps and shouts, “Enough!” He then lowers his voice. “Did you see the semi that was following us? I don’t think they have good intentions.”
That sobers the students and they quiet down.
“Stan!” Lauren shouts.
McDowell looks up to see the semi turning off the overpass, heading in their direction.
“Shut it off,” he shouts. He turns and races over to Lauren as she’s closing the valve and takes the shotgun from her hands. “Unclamp the hose and tie it back on, then climb in the truck. We’re getting the hell out of here.”
He cracks the chamber to make sure a shell is seated and waits for Lauren to finish up. He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and turns. Jonathon is on the far side of the lot, a good two hundred yards away. He curses, then shouts, “Jonathon!”
CHAPTER 103
Weatherford
Still desperate for baby formula, Gage drives out to the Walmart on the other side of the highway and pulls into the lot. He gags when he gets a whiff of the decomposing bodies. It seems as though every fly in the state of Oklahoma has made this parking lot home. Even from this distance he can see a writhing, wiggling mass of maggots feeding on the bodies. Gage gags again and looks beyond the bodies to see the store’s facade blackened by fire. Gage gooses the gas and exits the parking lot and is passing under the highway when he’s struck with a sudden thought.
He whips a U-turn and drives up the exit ramp, pulling up close to the first car for a look inside. What he’s looking for is not there. He eases up close to an old farm truck, knowing the probabilities are unlikely and finds he’s correct. He passes one semi, then another. The possibilities of finding what he’s looking for in a semi are slim to none. Gage spots a sedan with Ohio plates, pulls up next to it, and finds what he’s looking for—a child’s car seat.
He climbs out, tries the door handle, and curses. “Who locks a dead car?” He grumbles as he returns to the truck. He grabs a hammer from the back and steps over to the sedan and smashes the driver’s side glass. After unlocking the door, he searches the car for formula and ends up finding a balled-up dirty diaper under the driver’s seat. After tossing the diaper back in the car, he returns to the truck for his crowbar. Sliding behind the rear of the sedan, he jams the crowbar beneath the trunk lid and presses down. The lid pops, but the trunk is empty.
Gage pauses to refine his strategy. If a person is stranded with a small child, what’s the one thing they’ll never leave behind? Of course the answer is as clear as a bell when Gage thinks about it. They’ll leave a purse, or a piece of luggage, but never the food, in this case formula, that would be critical for a child’s survival. Gage tosses the hammer and the crowbar in the back and climbs back behind the wheel. Unless they’re on a long, extended trip and packed more formula than they could carry, hoping they could return to their stash at a later date. Easing down the highway, he scans vehicles, searching for car seats and out-of-state tags.
Gage ransacks six more cars—all empty. He mulls the situation further. Who’d pack a bunch of formula knowing you could always stop at the next Target, the next Walmart, or the next grocery store? No one, unless they kept a large reserve at home, maybe bought at a two-for-one special. And how many times have you seen a two-for-one on anything someone might really need? Gage sighs. He could spend all of today and the next, and on, and on, tearing into cars and not finding a thing other than items no one needs in today’s world. Crestfallen, he climbs back behind the wheel.
Gage pulls into the drive of the Reed home and parks behind the house. The lights in the house are still on and the instant he walks through the back door, he cringes. Susan is holding a crying Olivia and pacing around the room, patting her granddaughter’s back.
“Has she been crying all day?” Gage asks.
“Not all day. Just most of it,” Susan replies. She makes a halfhearted attempt at a smile.
“I went over to Dr. Samia’s to see if she had any baby formula.”
Susan’s eyes widen with hope. “Did she?”
“Unfortunately, no. She said she was only responsible for the child until the moment of birth, when Dr. Abbasi was supposed to take over.”
Susan switches positions, snuggling Olivia to her chest. “Did you try his house?”
“He’s dead. Killed at the hospital. And she thought he lived somewhere in Oklahoma City. Dr. Samia suggested filling a bottle with warm broth.”
“Already tried. She won’t take it.”
Gage hangs his head. “Do you want me to take her?”
“No, I’ll hold her. You can console Holly. She’s in the bedroom.”
Gage nods and trudges down the hall. He eases the door open and finds the room dark. Thinking Holly might be asleep, he starts to pull the door closed and hears a sniffle. “Holly?”
This time it’s a sob. Gage clicks on the light to see his wife on the bed, a pillow over her head. He walks over and lies down beside her.
“Where . . . where . . . did . . . you go?” she asks, between sobs.
Gage wraps an arm around his wife and pulls her closer. “I went over to Dr. Samia’s to see if she had any formula.”
“She didn’t . . . did . . . she?”
“No.”
Holly lifts
the pillow off her head. “Maybe Dr. Abbasi has some?”
Gage is hesitant to tell her the truth in her fragile state of mind. “Doc says he lived in Oklahoma City.”
Holly drops the pillow back on her head and sobs.
“We’ll get through this, babe.”
The sobs stop and Holly flashes immediately to anger. She throws the pillow to the floor. “How? You going to start producing milk in your breasts?” She sits up and scoots back, sagging against the headboard.
“Dr. Samia seemed confident your milk will come in.”
“Yeah, well, she’s not here, is she?”
Gage pulls himself to a sitting position and leans back against the headboard. Holly refuses to look at him. “Are you producing any milk?” he asks in a soft, calm tone.
She shakes her head side to side like a dog with a snake. “Not enough!”
Gage knows another question will push her over the edge. Instead, he reaches out to take her hand and she yanks it away. “I even went looking through the cars on the highway. I don’t know what else to do, Holly.”
Holly swipes a tear away with the back of her hand and exhales a long, shaky breath. “Gage, our baby is going to die and I can’t do a damn thing about it.”
Gage scoots closer and tentatively reaches out for her hand again. This time she allows him to take it. “She’s not going to die, Holly. If I have to drive across the state looking for formula, that’s what I’m going to do.”
Holly, staring straight ahead, says, “You better start driving.”
Gage nods, pushes off the bed, and steps out into the hall, pulling the door closed behind him. Olivia is still crying and Susan is still walking.
“Where’s Henry?”
Susan glances up. “In the barn. How’s Holly?”
“Not good,” Gage mutters as he walks down the hallway to Henry’s study. After entering the combination he pops the door on the gun safe and grabs one of Henry’s pistols and a box of ammo before relocking the door. Gage heads for the door and strides across the yard, entering the barn. “Henry, you know everybody in town. You have to know where another pediatrician lives.”
