Refuge: After the Collapse

by Scott B. Williams

  They went on like this until daylight, keeping an eye out for the canvas pack with the money as well as the other stuff that had floated away, but never saw any of it again. Joey hadn’t spoken to Zach for more than an hour when his friend suddenly stopped paddling and turned around. “Hey, I just thought of something. Maybe water got in the carburetor somehow. We need to disconnect the fuel line and drain it.”

  Joey stopped and turned to look at the motor. “Like we did to get the gas out of the motorcycle, right?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Let’s pull over and look. There’s no sense paddling all day if we can fix it. I remember now how my dad used to do that with his lawn mower. Bad gas would have water in it and cause it to fuck up. He also used to clean the spark plug. We need to check the spark plug and see if it’s firing when you pull the cord.”

  They steered for the nearest sandbar and got out of the boat, both of them studying the inner workings of the old engine, trying to figure out what they were looking at. The carburetor was easy enough to find. A screw on the bottom that could be turned by hand allowed the bowl to drain when opened and Joey backed it off, then waited until the flow slowed to a drip.

  “I don’t know if there was water in it or not. How can you tell?”

  “I don’t know, but there probably was. We need to get the spark plug out and check it, too. Did you see any tools in here?”

  “I wasn’t looking for tools, I don’t know. Check in that bag under the front seat. Grant had some shit in there.”

  Joey doubted he would find what they needed, but when Zach opened the bag and emptied the contents, which included extra flashlight batteries and a tube of some kind of caulk or glue with a label that said “marine sealant,” there was also a small canvas roll pouch that contained something heavy. Inside it, they found three different-sized screwdriver blades and a large socket, all designed to fit a single metal handle.

  “This is it!” Zach said. “This must be the tool kit that goes with the motor. This socket is bound to be the plug wrench; try it and see.”

  Joey took it and looked at the inside of the engine again. “Where?”

  “You gotta pull the plug wire off first, dumbass! Here, I’ll do it.”

  “How the fuck would I know? I’m not a fuckin’ mechanic.”

  “You might have to be now, unless you want to paddle. Hey, this is it, look!” Zach turned the socket a half turn with the handle inserted; then the spark plug was loose enough to unscrew by hand. When he took it out and examined it, he showed Joey all the black carbon built up on the contacts. “That’s what’s wrong with this motherfucker. It’s filthy.”

  “So what do we do, how do you clean it off?”

  “By scraping this shit off until the metal is shiny.” Joey watched as Zach pulled out his pocketknife and went to work. When he was done, the end of the spark plug did look much better.

  “Let’s put the wire back on and hold the end of the plug next to the metal on the motor. That’s what my dad did. That’s how you tell if it’s firing or not. Here, I’ll hold it; you pull the rope. We’ll see if there’s a spark.”

  Joey yanked the starter cord again and Zach yelled as he jerked his hand away, letting go of the plug.

  “It’s firing. It just shocked the shit outta me!”

  Joey laughed at him. “Put it back in then, dumbass! We’ll see if it’ll crank now.”

  Zach reinstalled the plug and tightened it with the socket wrench. Then, he reconnected the fuel line from the gas tank and pulled the rope himself. Nothing happened on the first three tries, and Joey swore. But on the fourth pull, the outboard suddenly sputtered to life, running roughly at first, then smoothing out to purr almost as well as it had before the dunking.

  “Son of a bitch!” Joey slapped Zach on the back. “You did it, you little shit!”

  “I didn’t feel like paddling anymore. Did you? Now, let’s get the hell down this river!”

  Grant approached the big camp house on the river with caution, even though it had certainly appeared deserted when he and Scully had passed it in daylight some ten hours earlier. He slipped quietly through the woods to the perimeter of the yard surrounding it, stopping to look and listen before going any closer. He was not surprised that the owners had not returned since the blackout; after all, they were probably residents of New Orleans or Baton Rouge, and likely had little hope of getting here even if they wanted to. It did surprise him that the place had apparently not yet been looted, but he was sure it was just a matter of time before it would be.

  He circled around to the other side, staying in the shadows at the edge of the clearing until he reached the boathouse shed where the canoes were stored. When he had come here before with Jessica, he had dismissed the rather generic plastic kayak that was stored there along with the canoes. It was no use to him then, as he needed a boat that could take the three of them and their gear upriver, and one of the 17-foot aluminum canoes was the obvious choice. Now Grant decided the kayak merited a second look, but, like the canoes, it was chained and padlocked to its rack. He didn’t have the machete that he’d used to cut through the other rack when he took the canoe weeks before. It was still in the Johnboat. But Grant didn’t have to look far to find an axe next to the stacked firewood on the back porch of the cabin. Taking it back to the boat shed, he quickly demolished the two-by-four supports and pulled the chain away, allowing him to slide the kayak out onto the ground where he could examine it in the moonlight.

  It was a sit-inside type of river kayak of around thirteen feet in length, the kind made for recreational day paddlers rather than serious expeditions, but Grant figured he could still make better time in it than he could paddling one of the big canoes solo. The kayak lacked watertight bulkheads or a spray skirt to keep water out of the cockpit, but that wasn’t needed on the river, anyway. Once he determined that the hull was sound, he found the cheap two-piece aluminum and plastic paddle that went with it; then he dragged it down the steep bank to the river, shoving his single bag, the .22 rifle and the axe into the space under the deck behind the seat. He felt better as soon as he was afloat, and he quickly paddled the boat into the main current midstream and began a rhythmic stroke with the double-ended paddle, pushing the kayak as fast as its short waterline would allow it to go. He felt more comfortable in it on the river at night than he would have in a canoe. The plastic hull was impervious to the inevitable bumps and scrapes against logs and the gravel bottom, and the chances of tipping it and capsizing were slimmer as well. He planned to paddle until he was too exhausted to move, and as motivated as he was, he knew that would likely be until after daybreak.

  A few miles downstream from where he started, he came to one of the few sections of fast water on the Bogue Chitto. Though it would hardly be considered challenging compared to rivers with serious rapids and white water, all of the river’s current here was funneled over a series of clay drops that greatly increased its speed, making it a bit dicey to navigate at night. Grant back-paddled and slowed as he approached, expertly putting the kayak in the best position in the flow to maintain control. For him it was easy, even in the dark, and soon he was back in the sluggish current more typical of lazy Southern rivers.

  He hadn’t gone another quarter of a mile when he noticed something in the moonlight that looked familiar, caught on a submerged treetop at the edge of the channel. Grant adjusted his course, paddling directly to it until he was sure that it was what he thought it was. He reached out to grab one of the branches of the dead tree to hold his position, and then, using the paddle, lifted the object free of the tangle until he could grasp it. It was one of the two life jackets that had been in the Johnboat when he’d first met Artie and Scully, and he could not be mistaken about it because those life jackets were a type not typically used by canoeists or fishermen on the rivers around here. He checked to be sure, and verified his first impression by finding the logo of a company that made gear for offshore yachting. Grant wondered why the jacket had gone overbo
ard, and after stuffing it under the bungee cords that crisscrossed the afterdeck of the kayak, he continued scanning the banks and snags as he resumed his downriver journey. He did not have to go far before he found something else: this time, a plastic dry bag that he recognized as one of his, from his camping gear at the cabin. Grant plucked it out of the river and opened the seal. It contained two boxes of wheat crackers and a jar of peanut butter, which were definitely from the supplies Joey and Zach had taken from the cabin. He knew they wouldn’t have casually let something like that go overboard, as they might have the life jacket. Grant began to wonder what had happened. Had they encountered difficulty in the tricky stretch of water he had just traversed? Until finding this, he had assumed Joey and Zach were far ahead of him down the river, even if they had stopped somewhere for the night, but now he was not so sure. He decided it best to proceed with a bit more caution, taking care not to make any unnecessary noise with the paddle, but also to pick up the pace as much as possible. Knowing that if they did have a problem, he might come upon them at any point, Grant racked the bolt on the 10/22 to chamber a round, keeping the short carbine in his lap in the cockpit of the kayak, where he could grab it at a moment’s notice.

  Once he was back on the river he paddled nonstop until dawn, when he heard something ahead of him that made him pause: voices. They were far away, and it was impossible to make out what they were saying, but there was no doubt that it was human voices he was hearing. Grant let the kayak drift as he listened, not even dipping a paddle for fear of making sounds that might interfere with his ability to hear whoever it was that was talking. The current was fast enough to keep him moving downstream, ever closer, so he used a blade of the paddle as a rudder to steer him close to one bank, out of the main channel. A heavy morning mist was hanging low over the river, limiting visibility to about fifty feet, and he didn’t want to suddenly run upon whomever it was without seeing them first. There was another intermittent sound between the sounds of the voices, something rhythmic and mechanical. He listened as he tried to figure it out and then it suddenly dawned on him: someone was pulling the starter rope of an outboard motor! Grant felt a rush of adrenaline as he realized the chances of it being a different boat out here were indeed slim. He began paddling again, as fast as dared, wanting to get close enough to see but careful not to hurry around a bend into full view. The voices were getting more excited and the cranking sound more frequent. There was a minute or two of silence, and then it started again, the same determined pulling on the starter rope. But this time something happened. The engine came to life, and he heard it sputter as it revved up, then smoothed out and ran normally. Cursing under his breath, Grant began paddling as hard and fast as he could, not worried at all anymore about being quiet. They were close, oh, so close, but then he heard the engine go into gear and the motor roar to nearly wide open as the boat sped away ahead of him downstream before he even got close enough to catch a glimpse of it.

  Grant smashed the water with his paddle in fury. If only he’d been a few minutes faster! He could have stopped them, stopped them and freed Scully, too! Now it seemed they were as far out of reach as ever. But, he reminded himself, clearly they’d had some trouble with the outboard. He hoped it would quit again. If it did, they wouldn’t have a chance of outpaddling him, even if he stopped to rest, which he didn’t plan to do until he was utterly exhausted and could not go on. He surged forward, doubling his efforts with renewed energy and purpose. Maybe, just maybe, he would get his chance to make sure that Joey never saw that catamaran, and that Jessica never saw Joey.

  FOURTEEN

  Artie was surprised that they were actually able to tow the thirty-six-foot catamaran at a decent pace with just two people paddling a kayak. Getting it started took a some effort, but once the boat was moving, its narrow twin hulls knifed the water as easily as the kayak, frequently gliding even faster, causing the twenty-foot towline to go slack. Then, he and Jessica would catch up, and the line would jerk the stern of the kayak a bit as it went taut. With Larry at the helm steering the cat, they didn’t have to worry about where it went, as long as they paddled down the center of the channel.

  It was a great relief to be leaving the scene of the carnage surrounding the Miss Lucy, and Artie knew that even Jessica was glad to be getting away from there, despite the fact they were leaving without waiting for Grant and Scully. She paddled silently from the bow, and Artie didn’t bother her with small talk, as he knew she had a lot on her mind. It was clear to him that both Jessica and his daughter thought Grant was pretty special, and Artie figured they were both right about that, considering all he had done to help them get out of a dangerous situation at such great risk to himself. He wondered what would happen when Grant did rejoin them, as he was sure he and Scully would. Would he be witness to an overt rivalry between the two girls? He wondered what Grant thought of both of them, and if he was already more enamored of one than the other. Artie knew that he had known Casey a lot longer, and she had talked about him several times, too, long before all this happened. But Grant had spent a lot of time alone with Jessica when they were searching for Casey, and from the way she was acting, he figured they must have bonded quite closely during that time together, especially considering the circumstances. If Grant weren’t attracted to her at least on a physical level, Artie would be surprised. Time would tell, he figured, but it didn’t really matter to him as long as all involved were happy. It was just that thinking about it gave him something other than worry to occupy his mind as they paddled.

  He knew Larry felt bad about not being able to help with the towing, but there was no way he could do this work with his arm still in that condition. Artie gave him strict doctor’s orders regarding that. It had been decided that he and Jessica would paddle the first hour, then Casey would take her place in the front of the kayak for the next hour. The two girls would then paddle an hour to give him a break, and they would continue to rotate off so that no one person would have to paddle more than two hours at a stretch. Once they started moving, Larry estimated they were averaging two knots, and if they could keep it up, that would put them past the Interstate 10 bridge in just under three hours, plenty of time to get safely past it before dark. They would have to anchor somewhere for the night before they reached the coast, but Larry didn’t want to do so anywhere near that bridge, which was one of the few places people traveling by land might use to access this part of the river and the surrounding swamps.

  There was another five-mile stretch of forested riverbanks between I-10 and the town of Pearlington at the Highway 90 bridge crossing. They would spend the night somewhere in between, and then approach the final bridge on the next leg. It was that low highway drawbridge, which had been locked down in the closed position when the pulse occurred, that had forced them to lower the mast when he and Scully and Larry had first entered this river, heading upstream under the power of the old outboard. Since that day, the mast had remained lashed in a horizontal position to the wood racks Larry had erected over the main crossbeams, and the sails and rigging stowed below in the starboard cabin. Artie knew that once they cleared that bridge, the forest along the banks would disappear and give way to an expansive horizon of salt marsh grass, as the river at that point became a tidal estuary. He knew Larry would be anxious to restep the mast just as soon as they cleared that bridge again. If the wind was favorable, they could likely sail the remaining few miles to open water.

  Although the paddling was going well so far, Artie felt the same vulnerability that so bothered his brother in this winding waterway bordered by walls of trees. He knew that at every rounding of a bend they could potentially run into anything or anyone. It made him nervous, despite the fact that they were so well armed. The pump-action Remington 870 shotgun that one of the dead men from the Miss Lucy had carried was lying in the cockpit of the kayak between his feet, ready to grab. Jessica had the .22 rifle she had used in the ambush, and Casey carried his pistol. Larry had the AK right beside him on t
he helmsman’s seat, too, but still, they could be ambushed in the same way they had ambushed those unsuspecting would-be pirates.

  But they reached the Interstate bridge without incident or even seeing anyone along the way. If anyone did see them, and the strange arrangement of a man and a young woman in a kayak dwarfed by a giant catamaran in tow, then they must have been well concealed and unwilling to reveal their presence. Artie was not surprised, either, that the bridge was abandoned. It was a long, exposed span of concrete, reaching some five miles from the west to the east side of the lower Pearl River basin. Few survivors would want to risk being caught out on it now, and any that had been stranded there when their vehicles stopped that morning would either be long gone or dead. Even so, it was eerie gliding beneath it, a silent reminder of a once-busy web of connecting highways upon which millions of people had traveled at high speeds without giving a thought to the possibility that getting where they wanted to go would not always be so easy. Artie knew, because he had been guilty of it, too, that many of them bitched and complained at the slightest inconvenience—having to slow down because of a work crew, a broken-down vehicle, or even an accident. It had been so easy to take it all for granted when it was what you were surrounded with every day of your life. Larry, on the other hand, had chosen a different life. Testing himself against the ocean and willingly accepting the fickle whims of Mother Nature and all the fury of the storms she could brew, Larry was accustomed to long periods of waiting for weather to sail somewhere, or even being forced to turn back or pick an alternate destination. His lifestyle had given him a head start in adapting to this new reality, but, slowly and surely, all of them were learning to cope with it. There was simply no other choice.