Grant fell asleep in the sand next to the canoe thinking about what Scully had said and wondering what life really was going to be like wherever they ended up on the boat. He didn’t know what, if anything, would develop between him and either of the girls, but he did know that it was likely he would have a lot of time with both of them to find out.
They left at daylight the next morning to continue their struggle with shallow water and obstructions, making slow but steady progress against the current, even swifter in these upper reaches of the Bogue Chitto. One place where the water was particularly fast was a series of drops that funneled past clay shoals and created an area of small standing waves. It was a bit of a stretch to call it white water, but it was the closest thing to rapids he knew of on the river. As they worked their way through it, he remembered that this place was not far below the bridge crossing where Casey had been abducted. He and Jessica had run it shortly after heading downstream in pursuit.
Grant still blamed himself for leaving Casey alone in the first place. They should have all stuck together, but instead he had foolishly left her to guard the bicycles they no longer needed while he and Jessica set out to look for a canoe just a short distance away at a weekend camp house where Grant knew some were stored. Upon learning of roadblocks along the state line, effectively blocking them from using the road to cross into Mississippi where his family’s cabin was located, Grant had decided that a canoe was the only way to slip by the authorities unnoticed. From the bridge where they’d left the bicycles, it was only a few miles of upstream paddling, and while inconvenient and slower, certainly safer.
The canoes had been there, stored in a rack beside the camp just as he had remembered, and he hadn’t felt bad about “borrowing” one, knowing the absentee owner wouldn’t likely have transportation to get to this remote place anyway. He had selected the one best suited to carry the three of them, and he and Jessica had dragged it down a steep bank and launched it when they were surprised to see a lone canoeist traveling the other way, heading downstream. The lone paddler had returned their wave, but they had not spoken. He was long gone by the time they reached the bridge and found Casey missing.
Grant remembered the stab of fear he’d felt when he deciphered the footprints in the sand that told the story of what had happened. He’d never felt so helpless in his life as he did when he and Jessica had taken to the river to try and catch up with that mysterious paddler who he then knew had somehow taken Casey with him, evidently hidden under the pile of gear they’d seen protruding well above his boat’s gunwales. It had been so disheartening to know how much of a head start he’d had before they realized what had happened. Trying desperately to catch up, they’d had no way of knowing if he was still traveling downstream ahead of them, or if he had left the river with her, hiding the canoe in the forest somewhere along the way. At the time Grant thought the odds of ever seeing her again were slim to none, but they had to try. They were both determined to search for her for as long as it took. That they found her at all was more luck than anything else, and as it turned out, Casey had escaped all on her own.
Grant cautioned Scully to slow down and keep to the far side of the channel as they neared the camp where he had taken the canoe. Even though the canoe they were towing was the one that had belonged to Derek, and not the one from the camp, he was still concerned someone might be there now and would be suspicious of anyone traveling the river. Grant had the lever-action rifle in his hands and at the ready, but as they passed under the bluff there was no sign of life, and the small cabin appeared as abandoned as it had on that day he and Jessica had been there, the remaining boats still in the shed where he’d left them.
They approached the bridge upstream with equal caution, but there, too, there was no one to be seen. He knew the motor would alert anyone in the area of their approach, and it was possible that if someone were around they were hiding and watching, but if so, they were afraid to show themselves. Grant wondered if the bicycles they had stashed in the dense canebrake near the bridge were still there, but it didn’t really matter. Bicycles were useless to them now, and he had no intention of traveling by road anytime in the foreseeable future.
Just upstream of the bridge, Grant stared as they motored past the sandbar where Casey had been taken after a swim in the river. He wondered if the rains had washed away all the signs of her struggle by now, and figured they surely must have. And though he knew she was now safe with her father and aboard her uncle’s boat, he also knew the ordeal she had just been through would affect her for a long time to come, even if life as they had all known it before was immediately restored. What she’d done in order to escape would scar anyone, but Grant was just glad she’d been strong enough to do it.
Passing that place meant they were only about five miles from his parent’s cabin. The outboard motor was still running smoothly, but they had used more gas than Scully and Larry had estimated it would take. Grant assured him this would not be a problem, as there was gasoline for the generator stored at the cabin. With that added to what was left in the boat, they would have enough to motor all the way back down to the lower Pearl. Grant was relieved to be so close and to see that they still had at least four hours of daylight, judging by the angle of the sun. It would be great if they could go through everything in the cabin and get it sorted and loaded in the boat and canoe before dark. Then, if they left at first light in the morning, they could easily rejoin the others on the catamaran by late afternoon, as running downstream would be far faster, even with all the shoals and logs. Going with the current, they could simply tilt the motor up and muscle their way past most obstacles with the paddles.
Navigating against the current in this upper section of the Bogue Chitto was a real challenge in the Johnboat, however, and Grant had to keep a constant lookout for obstructions and shallows from the bow, instructing Scully by hand signals which way to steer. Several more times they had to get out and wade, dragging the boat and canoe over logs barely covered by an inch or two of clear-running water. Grant was intimately familiar with this section, and as they passed a prominent clay bluff that loomed some forty feet over the river on the right bank, he motioned for Scully to slow down.
“The cabin is just two more bends in the river up from this point,” he said.
Scully shut down the outboard and allowed the boat to drift until he could grab an overhanging branch to hold their position in the current. “Mehbe we need paddle now, not to make de noise in case somebody in dat place.”
“That’s what I’m thinking, too, Scully, only this boat would be too hard to paddle against the current. Why don’t you wait here while I hop in the canoe and go take a look? From here, I know I can paddle there in about fifteen minutes. I hate to waste the time, but I don’t want us to run into a surprise either.”
“Dat’s a good plan, mon. You take de rifle an’ keep a sharp eye. I an’ I waitin’ here and when you come bok we takin’ de boat.”
“And if I don’t come back?”
“Den I comin’ wid de Mossberg!” Scully grinned, holding up the shotgun.
After pulling the canoe alongside, Grant climbed in and knelt in the middle, bracing against the center thwart and beginning his upstream paddle with long, purposeful strokes. The aluminum canoe was inefficient and slow, but, still, he was able to make decent headway, and at the first bend he cheated the current by playing the eddies near the bank. He hoped this entire exercise was merely an unnecessary precaution, but he realized it was possible that someone had taken up residence in the cabin, and, if so, would be reluctant to give up the bounty they had found there, free for the taking.
When he’d rounded the second bend, Grant landed the canoe on the small sandbar at the base of the steep bank below the cabin. From that vantage point, he could see no sign of anyone, so he made his way up to the top and circled around through the woods to the side of the small clearing in which the cabin was built. From this angle, all he could see was one side of the board and
batten cypress structure. There was a small window in the middle, but a closed curtain on the inside made it impossible to determine if the cabin was occupied or not. Grant worked his way further along the edge of the clearing until he could see the front door, which was closed, just as it should have been. Holding the rifle ready in both hands, he stepped out of the woods and crossed the small yard to the door. He was about to reach for the key he knew had been hidden in a crack in the planking to one side when he saw that he wouldn’t have to. The door casing around the dead bolt lock was cracked and split, and though it appeared shut, Grant now realized that the door was merely pulled to and not latched. He pulled the hammer back on the rifle and pointed it at the door as he kicked it the rest of the way open with one foot. The door swung wide and Grant knew immediately that someone had moved in and set up housekeeping in the cabin. Parked right in the middle of the open living area, with a small puddle of oil staining the varnished floor beneath it, was an old, beat-up, and rusty Harley Davidson motorcycle. Grant took a deep breath to suppress his adrenaline rush as he realized that whoever had ridden it in there was not in the cabin at the moment. A quick look around, though, was enough to assure him that whoever it was, they were using the supplies he had come to get. Grant quietly pulled the door to as he exited and quickly made his way back down to the canoe.
FOUR
Paddling as quietly as possible and conversing only in low whispers, Artie, Casey, and Jessica listened carefully but heard no follow-up shots after the single, distant blast that had shattered the silence and caused them to take the precaution of readying weapons. Artie relaxed a bit after nearly an hour went by, figuring that it was probably just a hunter, and that whatever quarry he or she had been shooting at was successfully downed with one shot. Experienced hunters would take care to do that, if at all possible, because conserving ammunition was critical in a time when getting more was so difficult. There would be some, like the survivalist nutcase who had abducted his daughter, who would have had large stockpiles on hand, just hoping some breakdown of law and order like this would happen, but most regular country folk who hunted in the legal seasons would likely only have a few boxes of their favorite caliber. Looking at the large duffle bag in the bottom of canoe, Artie was glad Casey had maintained the presence of mind to gather up her dead kidnapper’s weapons and ammo. With this newly acquired stash, he assumed they were now better armed than most, and if they were careful, what they had should last a long time. From the two encounters they’d already had in the Caribbean on the way here, he knew that even on the boat they were not safe without weapons. A fully functional sailboat was in fact a prime target for desperate folks anywhere on the waterfront, many of whom might now look to piracy as a viable occupation.
“How much further is it?” Jessica whispered as she rested her paddles across the gunwales of the canoe for a moment.
“I’m not sure, but we’ve got to be getting fairly close,” Artie answered.
“What is that?” Casey asked, lifting her own paddle out of the water and cocking her head to one side to better hear whatever sound she was referring to.
Artie stopped paddling as well, letting the canoe drift soundlessly as they all listened and finally heard what Casey had heard.
“Is it some kind of truck or something?” Jessica asked.
“It’s definitely a motor!” Casey whispered.
Artie tried to think where he’d heard a similar sound. It was a motor, but the rhythm wasn’t right for a truck engine. It was turning slowly, with a methodical chugging that didn’t vary with accelerations and gear changes as a truck or automobile engine would have. The distance and the echo effect of the surrounding forest made it harder to discern, but then it made perfect sense. “It’s a boat! I think that’s a diesel engine. It must be some kind of bigger boat than a Johnboat with an outboard.”
“Is it coming this way?” Jessica asked.
“Shh! Let’s listen for a minute,” he held his hand up, motioning them both to silence as they drifted in the almost-still water. The engine sound was steady and unchanging in speed, but it did seem that he could hear it more clearly now. If it was indeed a boat, then it must be coming up the river in their direction, although Artie knew from studying the charts with Larry that there were a couple of alternate channels connecting the two major east and west branches of the Pearl River. This basin that was known as the Honey Island Swamp was some five miles wide and sixty miles long. But though there were countless routes a canoe could thread through, only two or three of the channels were deep and wide enough for any kind of big boat.
“We’d better keep paddling,” he said to the girls. “I would like to find some place we can get off the main river if the boat is coming this way. There’s no sense in being caught out in the open when we have options.”
“I agree,” Casey said, shifting her grip on the paddle and dipping the blade to begin stroking again. “Better to see whoever it is first than to be seen by them.”
Jessica said nothing, but joined in the effort with equal enthusiasm. Considering what they had been through, none of them wanted to chance an encounter with strangers from the vulnerable position of a canoe in the middle of the river. After paddling another ten minutes, they spotted a narrow slough opening into the river from the west bank and Artie signaled for everyone to stop paddling. “Let’s pull over there and listen for a couple of minutes.”
The entrance to the slough was just five or six feet wide. Overhung with leafy branches, its banks dense with palmettos, it was barely noticeable from mid-river and would make a perfect place to hide and wait. Artie steered the canoe toward it and then back-paddled to put it in the opening stern first. Then he held them in position by sticking his paddle blade deep into the muck of the bottom and they remained quiet while they listened to the boat engine.
“It is coming closer!” Jessica whispered.
“Yes, you’re right. Okay, let’s back all the way in here. We need to get the canoe out of sight; there’s no way to know who they are and what they’re up to, and I don’t feel like taking any chances at this point.”
Casey and Jessica nodded and helped Artie as they pushed the canoe backwards, their paddle blades sinking deep into the muddy bottom with each stroke. Beyond the entrance, the slough curved away in a slight bend, allowing them to tie the canoe to some bushes on the bank in a way that it could not be seen by anyone passing by on the river. Once they’d done that, Artie whispered that he wanted to get a look at this approaching boat, and Casey and Jessica said they did, too. Leaving the canoe, they crept into a position of concealment among the palmettos on the bank and waited.
As the sound of the approaching engine grew louder, Artie was really glad they had found a place to hide the canoe in time. He was getting sick of this feeling of fear every time there was a potential encounter with other people, but he knew from repeated recent experiences that the mistrust and suspicion was justified. And after what Casey and Jessica had already been through, he wasn’t about to put them into any situation of unnecessary risk. They crouched in the jungle-like palmetto thicket and tried to ignore the mosquitos that buzzed around their faces while they waited. It was bizarre to hear an engine of any kind after so many days without noise from traffic in the distance, aircraft overhead, or any other machinery. In the profound silence since the grid went down, Artie had realized for the first time just how loud the modern, industrialized world really was. The boat that was coming their way didn’t sound thoroughly modern at all though, but rather like a relic from a bygone era. The throbbing sound of the slow-turning diesel brought to mind the image in the old Bogart movie of the African Queen steaming up the Congo. The mosquitos, the greenery of the palmettos and the heat and humidity no doubt added to that impression.
Fifteen minutes passed like an hour. As they waited the sound grew louder and the boat drew closer. When at last it came into view, it looked much as Artie had already pictured it: dilapidated, old and made of wood, hand-pai
nted a fading and peeling blue and white with what was probably latex house paint. It was also big compared to the typical boats one would expect on a river like this; Artie guessed at least thirty feet. There was an oversized cabin house with a rounded front and large windows on all sides, so that the helmsman could see to navigate while remaining inside in inclement weather.
At first, the glare of sunlight reflecting on the panes made it impossible for Artie to see anyone inside the wheelhouse, but as the boat drew abreast of their hiding place he could see one man steering and another leaning back against what was probably a chart table or counter. Both men were shirtless and smoking cigarettes and Artie noticed that the one who was not steering had a weapon slung over his shoulder. He couldn’t tell in the shadows if it was a shotgun or a rifle and there was no way of knowing if there were others on board or not, as the main cabin was quite large.
Artie was frozen in place as he watched, not daring to move, and without glancing to look, he was sure the girls were just as cautiously still watching from their positions on either side of him. The fact that one of the men was carrying a weapon didn’t mean much one way or the other. He expected that anyone in their right mind traveling the waterways or roads would be armed if at all possible, considering the circumstances. The boat was obviously a commercial fishing vessel, and must have been the owners’ means of earning a living before the pulse event. Artie figured if they knew enough about fishing or shrimping to do it full time before things fell apart, they could probably catch more than enough food to survive and barter for other goods now, especially considering they were lucky enough to have a boat with a still-running engine. But he wondered what they were doing here and where they might be going. He knew from what he had seen upstream that such a boat could not travel much farther in that direction. But there were the cutoffs and channels that could lead to someplace he didn’t know about. Wherever they were going, they appeared confident in their navigation and seemed unconcerned about running aground or getting lost. The boat steamed by until he got a view of the stern, and that’s when Artie felt his heart almost stop. It wasn’t the name Miss Lucy painted in bold blue letters across the white stern that shocked him; instead it was what he could see lashed to the rail on the starboard stern quarter. There could be no doubt as to what it was: Larry’s long and slender two-seater kayak, its white hull and distinctive yellow decks making it unmistakable. Artie knew it well, as it had been part of the scene on the deck of the catamaran for their entire voyage. With Scully in the bow seat he had paddled that very kayak into the dangerous fringes of New Orleans, slipping unseen along a hidden canal to get to the car he’d left parked at the airport before all this madness began.
Refuge: After the Collapse Page 4
