Refuge: After the Collapse

by Scott B. Williams

  The ancient Perkins ran flawlessly, and, according to the fuel gauge, the tanks were half full. Scully kept the speed down to five or six knots in the river, but figured once he got out to open water she would probably make ten. He knew there were two bridges to pass under between him and the Gulf. The first would be the big four-lane superhighway, the likes of which he’d never seen on the islands. Then there was the smaller highway with the drawbridge that had been locked down, forcing them to unstep the mast of the Casey Nicole to pass beneath it when he and Larry and Artie had first entered this river. Scully wasn’t sure of the vertical clearance of that bridge, but he was sure this fishing boat, with its high pilothouse, must be pushing it. Still, unless the boat had been north of the bridge before the pulse shut down the power, she must be low enough to clear. He would put aside that worry until he got there. Looking at the angle of the sun, now low enough that it was below the tops of the riverbank trees, he figured he would get there just before dark.

  He reached the first bridge in just under a half hour, keeping a steady pace as he passed under the twin spans far overhead. There was nothing here other than the bridge and forest on both sides, as the roadway was inaccessible from the river. He did notice a long, straight, water-filled ditch running parallel to the bridge and leading off the river to the east. Scully figured a small boat could navigate it, but since no road came down to the river from the superhighway, the banks here were deserted. Once again, he found it strange how Americans lived. Here was all this richness of life along the natural corridor of the river: fish for the taking; deer, squirrels and more species of birds than he could count; as well as a huge diversity of plants, many of which he was sure were edible. And yet, despite all this natural bounty, the people in this country crowded in their cities and towns, and fought and killed over what little was left in the stores and in their homes. It made no sense to him, but neither did most things that most people did.

  He had not gone more than another two miles below the bridge when he saw something floating far ahead of him in the middle of the channel. The river was wide here, and the bends were farther apart, so the distance was great enough that he could barely discern that it was a boat of some sort. Scully slowed the engine just a bit as he closed the gap. There was no way to avoid passing fairly close, as the boat was right in the middle of the river. As he drew nearer, he could see a lone figure sitting in the rear with a paddle. The boat was one of those square-ended aluminum Johnboats that seemed so popular here, and at first, because it had no outboard, he didn’t recognize it as the very one he had recently spent so much time in, first with Artie, then Grant, and finally Joey and Zach.

  Scully was close enough now to see that it was Joey who had been so awkwardly trying to keep the boat going straight as he attempted to move it downriver at a crawling pace. But now that he was upon him, Scully saw that Joey had dropped the paddle, and in its place was holding the shotgun that belonged to Larry. He looked weak and unsteady, but he brought the barrel up and was pointing it directly at him in the pilothouse. Scully realized he had made a mistake in getting this close. If he were farther away, out of shotgun range, he could grab the .357 Magnum carbine and Joey would be an easy target out there in the open in that tiny boat. But it was too late for that. Instead of reaching for the gun, he jammed the throttle forward and locked down the helm. Then he quickly ducked out the side door and practically dove to the lower deck behind the bulkhead.

  The shotgun blast that he expected to hear at any moment never came. But there was a satisfying impact of the big boat hitting something hard a few seconds later, then the sound and sensation of something bumping along under the hull, the way it felt when a boat ran over a floating log. Scully glanced astern as he climbed back up the steps to grab the controls before the boat hit something else he didn’t want it to, such as the riverbank. In the churning wake he saw the overturned Johnboat, barely awash, as well as a life jacket and some other items, including the wooden paddle, floating nearby. There was no sign of Joey.

  He backed down on the throttle and turned the boat to starboard, making a circle around the wreckage. Joey still hadn’t surfaced, but Scully remembered his own escape and knew it was possible to swim a long way underwater on a breath of air. He doubted Joey had this ability, but still, he stood waiting and watching as he drove the Miss Lucy in a wide arc around the scene of the collision. If Joey were still out there, he couldn’t see him in the fading light. Scully knew he could have been dealt a fatal blow by the boat’s big prop, but even if he did survive, Scully was confident he was no longer a threat. He wondered why the one called Zach wasn’t with him in the Johnboat, and he also wondered what had happened to the outboard. And why hadn’t he fired the shotgun when he had plenty of time? Was he out of ammunition? Scully shrugged his shoulders and decided it didn’t matter. The fact that he had been here in the river, still in the Johnboat, at least meant that he was not on the Casey Nicole. He wondered, too, if there had been a confrontation, and if maybe Larry had somehow gotten his outboard back. But if so, why would he not have taken the shotgun, too? Scully couldn’t figure it out, but he had a feeling he would find the answers on Cat Island. He moved the throttle forward and brought the Miss Lucy back up to speed, making for the last bridge that was in his way.

  As he passed the community of Pearlington on the east bank of the river, Scully realized that his fears of the bridge being too low were valid. The Casey Nicole, being of such a sleek and low-profile sailing design, was only a few feet above the waterline at the highest part of her twin cabins. With the mast down and lashed in a horizontal position, she had cleared the locked Highway 90 bridge with feet to spare. This fishing boat with its tall pilothouse was another story altogether. Scully slowed as he approached the bridge from the north, and then put her out of gear and drifted. It was obvious now that whoever had brought her up the river had done so before the pulse event occurred, and had passed through an open drawbridge. Scully recalled from studying Larry’s chart of the area that there were some other deep-water channels off of the lower Pearl River. Perhaps the Miss Lucy had been tied up to a private dock at some waterfront residence, or even hauled out for maintenance at some backwater boatyard. In any case, there would be no getting under this bridge without hitting the boat’s superstructure, especially now, as the tide was at its highest point. Scully confirmed this by the absence of higher water marks or marine growth on the pilings. He let the boat get as close as he dared, trying to estimate just how much of the pilothouse structure was too tall. At this water level, he doubted the helm would clear, but if the water dropped even two feet at the next low cycle, then the plan he had in mind might work. It would be risky, but there was no better option he could think of. He motored a quarter mile back upriver to get plenty of swinging room, and dropped anchor in a deep area as far from the east bank of the river as he could get.

  After reaching the mouth of the Pearl River, Grant paddled east along the low, marshy coastline to find a place to rest for the long open-water crossing to Cat Island. The mainland shore here was uninhabited and undeveloped for several miles, as it was mostly unfit for anything other than wading birds and mosquitos. A mile to the east, Grant found a narrow strip of sand beach between the marsh grass and the shallow, murky brown waters of the Sound, and pulled the kayak ashore. It was the kind of place that would be utter hell for camping in the absence of a breeze to keep the salt marsh mosquitos and no-see-ums at bay, but since it was daytime and the wind was around ten miles per hour from seaward, he was able to sleep. The lack of shade was a problem he could do little about, other than to lie as close to the kayak as possible, waiting for the sun to angle low enough for its shadow to help a little.

  He woke well after dark, when the breeze died and the sound of gently lapping waves was replaced by the hum of bugs swarming around his ears. He slapped them away as best he could, enduring dozens of bites while getting the boat back into the water to get underway. If not for the mosquitos, he would
have built a driftwood fire and made some more of the bannock, but in these conditions, he decided it was hardly worth it. He paddled away from the shore and ate more of the ramen and the last of the crackers and peanut butter as he drifted. There was not a lot of food left, but as long as he had enough calories to supply him the energy to get to Cat Island, he wouldn’t worry about what came after. If the catamaran was not there for some reason, he would worry then.

  He had many hours of darkness to get through before setting out on the crossing, and he intended to use them by making his way east along the coast to make his jumping off point that much closer. Grant had never been in these waters, along this particular stretch of the extreme western edge of the Mississippi coast, but he knew that human habitation here began further east, at the towns of Waveland and Bay St. Louis. Who knew what conditions were like there now? But Grant didn’t intend to go quite that far. He just wanted to be within sight of Cat Island before leaving the mainland, as he had no compass or charts, so a visual confirmation of his course would be the only thing to give him confidence he would find it.

  The short plastic kayak was slow in open water and required more effort to keep it tracking in a straight line than a proper sea kayak would. He was grateful he wasn’t fighting a crosswind as well, or it would have seemed hopeless. The still evening was a blessing, and other than the dipping of his paddle blades, the calm water was disturbed only by the occasional reentry splash of an airborne mullet. Aside from the dark background of marsh grass off to his left as he paralleled the shore, there was nothing on the horizon ahead, behind, or off to the south in the direction of open water but darkness. In normal times, Grant knew these waters would be dotted with the lights of commercial fishing boats, but if any vessels were out there, they were unlit.

  Thinking about this, he wondered what was going on with the authorities by now. They had seen policemen and other law enforcement officers in the towns and cities along their route as they left New Orleans on the bikes, but nothing since. The Bogue Chitto and the Pearl River were both bounded by vast tracts of wildlife refuge land, so much of it so remote that enforcement presence was scant even in normal times. He had certainly not seen any game wardens or deputies since first arriving at the river with Casey and Jessica, and he wondered what the officers were doing now in this crisis. Had they been called to staff the roadblocks, or help at some centralized location, mobilizing in an attempt to restore order, or were they simply busy trying to protect their own families and survive like everyone else? And what about the state marine patrol and the U.S. Coast Guard? Would he encounter their vessels now that he was in coastal waters, or were they sticking to their bases and hunkering down, too? The grid going down was surely an urgent matter of national security, but if the effects of the solar flare were indeed widespread beyond the continent, or even worldwide, then every nation would be dealing with the same issues and would be concerned mainly with the situation within their borders. Grant was certain the military had safeguards and backups to prevent losing all of their capabilities simply because of an electromagnetic pulse, but where were they? Why had they seen no sign of their aircraft or other indicators they were still around and functioning?

  It was interesting to consider, and thinking of all this simply gave him something to keep his mind occupied as he bent to the toil of paddling. Eventually, miles of coastline had slipped by, and the new day was dawning in the direction he was heading. He landed again to stretch his legs, relieve himself, and eat, and when the sky grew lighter while he waited, he could at last make out the thin sliver of land far to the east-southeast that he knew was his destination because it was the only one of the islands visible from this part of the coast. From this angle, Cat Island appeared almost dead ahead in the direction he’d been traveling. At this point, the mainland curved away to the northeast, and he would follow it no further. Besides being out of his way, following the shore would have put him dangerously close to the survivors in the coastal towns. The island was probably ten miles away from this point, just at the edge of visibility, but as long as he could maintain his pace and the weather didn’t change, he figured he could make it there in four or five hours, even in the pathetic excuse for a kayak he was paddling.

  His best chance of getting across without encountering a foul wind was in the calm of early morning, before the afternoon sea breeze kicked up, so once he had his visual bearings, Grant wasted no time in getting underway again. Pointing his stubby bow at the horizon, he settled into an easy cadence and daydreamed of his landfall on the island. He couldn’t wait to see Casey and Jessica again, but what of Joey and Zach? Would they be there, too? And what about Scully? With any luck at all, he would have his answers today. He knew that Cat Island was a big island, though, and getting there was just the first step. If they were anchored on the far side, it would take hours more to paddle around the shore looking for them. And because of all the unknowns, he would have to be cautious. It would be far better to see them first and investigate the situation before making his presence on the island known.

  By mid-morning, he estimated he was more than halfway across. The ragged blue blur that he had known all along was a line of distant treetops now materialized into discernible tall pines, appearing more green than blue. Separating them from the water in the foreground was a broad expanse of white beach. But he had been so focused on forward progress, on projecting himself to his destination, that he had been mostly oblivious to what was behind him, feeling little need to look over his shoulder out here on open water. After all, there were no boats visible in any other direction, so why would it be different astern? Thus he was caught by surprise when the first indication he had that he was not alone was the sound of an engine.

  Grant turned to look for the source and was shocked to see a large motor vessel bearing down on him. He frantically turned the kayak to get in a better position to see it and realized that whoever was steering it had already seen him first. When he paddled hard to the south to get out of the boat’s path, the helmsman adjusted course to compensate, still coming right at him. Grant knew that it was hopeless to try and outrun or outmaneuver the boat. He reached for his 10/22 and checked that there was still a round in the magazine. Whoever it was in the big boat, Grant was skeptical of their intentions.

  But as he watched the boat draw closer, something about it seemed familiar, yet odd. He could now see that it was not a pleasure boat, but rather a working fishing vessel. The upswept bow was now close enough that he thought he could make out the details of wood planking rather than smooth fiberglass or steel. But something else drew his attention even more than the hull. The entire top of the pilothouse had been somehow broken away, leaving the steering station wide open and exposed like an open runabout, rather than a cabin cruiser. He stared as the distance between them decreased, and could barely believe his eyes. Could it be true? Was that really a tall black man at the wheel, a mop of long dreadlocks draping well below his shoulders? Grant stared in disbelief, recognizing Scully before the Rastaman realized just who it was he’d run upon out here in the middle of the Sound in a tiny kayak. When he did realize who he was seeing, though, he flashed a huge white grin as he throttled the boat to idle and let it drift alongside.

  “Where you t’ink you goin’ out in de ocean in dat little boat, mon?”

  EIGHTEEN

  Casey and Jessica sat on the forward deck of the big catamaran, side by side and facing out to the open sea, as the boat swung to its anchor in Smuggler’s Cove, a south wind from the Gulf keeping the stern pointed towards the island. Sailing out here had only taken a little over two hours once they’d cleared the mouth of the Pearl River the morning before. Larry had given the north shore of the island a wide berth, as there were two larger monohull sailboats there, their deep drafts forcing them to anchor almost a half mile from the beaches of the semiprotected cove there. Smuggler’s Cove on the south side was better in every way, except in the event of strong weather from seaward.

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nbsp; Studying both boats through his binoculars as they sailed past, Larry had determined that each contained a family with children who were teens or younger. The boats were anchored close together, each one with the same hailing port of Madisonville, LA, painted on its stern under the name. It was obvious they were together. Larry didn’t think they would present a threat, but he didn’t want to take a chance or worry them about his own intentions, either, by sailing too close. The people aboard both boats returned the waves of the Casey Nicole’s crew. They sailed on until they were around the north point of the island and out of sight. In any case, those two boats would not be able to enter Smuggler’s Cove with their deep keels, but Larry said that if their crews stayed there long enough, he hoped they all could visit by dinghy as it would be interesting to learn if they had any news.

  Larry spent most of their second day at the island working on repairing the damage done by the big fishing boat. He said that it was not as bad as it looked, and that out here with full sun and warm, rain-free days, the epoxy would quickly cure after each step, and he’d have her shipshape for the ocean in no time.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, seeing the look on Casey’s and Jessica’s faces. “Just because the boat’s ready to sail, that doesn’t mean we’re going anywhere. I’m not leaving these waters without Scully and Grant unless it’s absolutely a matter of life or death. Unless we find out otherwise, I’m going to assume they’ll be here soon.”

  “This island is a lot farther from the river than I’d thought it would be,” Jessica said.

  “I know, but Scully has already seen it, when we sailed by on the way to New Orleans. And, according to Casey, Grant has been going on field trips everywhere around New Orleans for years.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he’s heard of it, even if he hasn’t been here, but I’m starting to wonder, too, if he could get here without Scully. What if they got separated somehow? He might be alone, and unable to get that boat running even if he finds it.”