by Joe Nobody
News of the bodies traveled up and down the line on the radio. As the flotilla passed the big sports fisherman, several of the captains veered slightly off course. Much like gawking rubberneckers driving past a wreck on the interstate, they couldn’t tear their gaze from the carnage. Wyatt, following Morgan’s lead, tried to find a “silver lining,” in the incident - his hope being that everyone in the group would take the situation a little more seriously after the incident.
The next obstacle was the highway bridge. Giant concrete pillars were set into the channel to support the huge structure looming over the waterway. The navigable space between the supports was the narrowest part of the entire journey. It was the only place where the boats would get close enough to shore that someone could jump from land onto one of the vessels as it passed. David and the other scouts were relieved to see the entire area was void of spectators. Two large grey gulls were the only inhabitants at the moment, and they didn’t seem to pose much of a threat to anything other than the finger mullet schooling next to the supports.
After clearing the bridge came Shrimper’s Row. Large steel-hulled commercial shrimping vessels lined the north side of the channel, moored to the wooden bulkheads lining the bank. A small seafood processing plant resided immediately behind the big ships, ready to accept the delicious bay crustaceans immediately after the shrimpers docked nearby.
David knew most of these commercial fishermen were Vietnamese. His father and he passed by these boats hundreds of times over the years. Most of the families actually lived on their boats. It was a common sight to see small children playing aboard while mom and dad hosed off equipment or scrubbed decks. During the holidays, many of the boats would decorate with traditional Buddhist lanterns and other décor. At night, it was commonplace to see young mothers on deck, reading stories to their children or fishing with regular rods and reels into the nearby channel. Once, David had observed a school bus unload several small Asian children next to the shrimpers. He watched as the tallest of them peeked into a mailbox along the nearest street.
Even at dawn, the shrimping boats buzzed with activity. The first sign of life was the movement of a fishing pole, swinging in a wide arch as its line was cast out into the channel. That’s to be expected, given the tide, thought David. The next thing that caught his eye was a man, standing beside the fisherman, carrying a double barrel shotgun.
David pointed out the sentry to Todd. “Stay right here. We don’t want to look like a threat.”
The first boat of the Marinaville fleet was still a little behind them. David wanted to make it clear to the man with the shotgun that Todd and he were only there for escort duty, not to harass or threaten the fishermen in any way. “Wait until boat one catches up a bit, and then stay directly between him and the guy with the shotgun. No fast movements, but be ready to hit the throttle if I yell out.”
The shrimper’s guard could now see at least the first few boats in line behind David, and the approaching armada caused quite the stir aboard several of the commercial boats. Evidently some warning was given, because suddenly there were people scrambling all over the big steel-hulled boats.
Within a few seconds, David counted at least seven people aiming guns at them.
“Okay,” David whispered to his driver, “go up there real slow. I’m going to see if I can communicate our peaceful intent.”
“You better,” came the nervous response.
David took the AR15 and swiveled the weapon around to his back. He held up both hands in a “Don’t shoot” position as they approached the closest boat. “Good morning,” he called out.
He could hear voices coming from the shrimp boats, and while he couldn’t understand the language, he was reasonably sure the greeting had caused some disagreement. A few moments later, a young teenager appeared next to the man with the scattergun. “What do you want,” he called out in perfect English.
“We are only passing through to the bay. There are over 20 boats behind us, and we are just escorting them.”
David could hear muted discussions going back and forth on the closest vessel. His answer came back, “If you don’t bother us, we won’t shoot at you.”
David smiled and yelled back, “Fair enough.” He also noticed none of the guards on the shrimpers relaxed. Trust, but verify, he thought.
Beyond the shrimpers, the last significant landmark before the bay was the Boardwalk. A popular attraction for tourists and locals alike, the Boardwalk consisted of a long row of seaside restaurants, shops, and a small amusement park.
The Boardwalk brought back childhood memories for David. As the flotilla motored past, it seemed so odd for it to be abandoned. When the waverunner got closer, he could clearly see the shops and restaurants were more than closed – they had been ransacked. Shards of broken window glass piled in mounds on the wooden walkways, and chairs were scattered haphazardly, most resting on their sides, very few of them upright like he remembered. He noticed two doors that had been splintered, and all of the buildings appeared to have been gutted by vandals.
David had to look away, the reckless destruction of the Boardwalk making his already distressed stomach flutter. Instead, he focused his gaze out to the open bay just beyond the plundered shoreline. The sun was still low on the horizon, its yellowish orb reflecting off of the glass-smooth water. One of the primary reasons for leaving so early was to cross as much water as possible before the winds whipped up the bay. While very shallow across most of its 23-mile width, Galveston Bay could develop a nasty 2-3-foot chop. Such waves were no threat to the boats of Marinaville, but they could make the ride feel like a car going over a washboard road.
The green and blue water was interrupted here and there by manmade objects. A straight line of channel markers marched off into the distance, many slightly misshapen by the gulls that constantly rested on their tops. To the south were a handful of platforms and wellheads. Mostly rusty relicts or capped gas wells, the structures provided good fishing spots and were favored by numerous species of birds.
Todd gave their ride some throttle, and the small craft accelerated out of the channel and into the bay. David relaxed somewhat, the wide-open spaces seemingly fresher – the air easier to breathe. Normally, he would love riding on such smooth water, but there was no time today for fun. He thought about the last time he was out on open water this early - a fishing trip with his father and a high school buddy before leaving for the army. They hadn’t had much luck that day, but it didn’t matter. He loved the ocean and salt air.
As the jet boat skimmed across the surface, David made himself sit back and enjoy the experience. There was something unique about a boat, any boat, gliding across smooth water. It’s such a different sensation from riding in an automobile or airplane. It was almost as if the cushion of water deadened the sense of motion. My eyes see I’m moving quickly, but my body can’t feel it, he thought. I bet this is what the weightlessness of space feels like.
A quick glance showed the line of boats exiting the channel one by one. Radio chatter settled down. The next 20-mile leg of the trip involved traveling south toward Galveston Island and should be stress-free, a welcome change from the first part of the journey. David scanned the water around them and then shifted his weight to stick his leg into the chilly bay. He had always wondered if the water would clear up without the huge tankers and freighters traveling up and down the Houston Ship Channel. Those enormous vessels, combined with thousands of pleasure boats, had to stir up tons of silt. As he sank his foot into the water, he was curious if the two weeks without traffic would make much difference, but it didn’t. He could only see the outline of his foot down a few feet under the surface. The wind probably stirred up more bottom mud than propellers and hulls. Galveston Bay had probably been a cloudy body of water going back thousands of years.
Exhaling and righting himself back on the seat, David felt a slight twinge of guilt. Even though he was technically still on leave, he wondered if there wasn’t something more he shou
ld be doing for his country via the army. He hadn’t received his assignment before graduating from Officers’ Candidate School. Technically, he didn’t have a unit to report to right now. He had been told that his orders would be both mailed and emailed to him, but neither form of communication now existed. The collapse had caught him in limbo, and he had zero idea what to do about it. Right now, his family needed him more than anything. As soon as communications were restored, he would call in and find out where he was supposed to report, and how he was to get there. Where’s a good carrier pigeon when you need one, he mused.
March 4, 2017
Fort Meade, Maryland
The auditorium at Fort Meade was designated as the temporary capitol building, and now housed both the House of Representatives and the Senate. Rather than the normal pomp and circumstance of graduation ceremonies, the large hall was now filled with elected officials engaged in wild speculation and grandiose scheming to insure the country’s future. Folding chairs, small tables, and a mismatched assortment of furniture occupied most of the open floor, hurriedly assembled tools required for the legislative branch to function. The exposed steel beam structure of the roof and bare concrete floor were a far cry from Washington’s Capitol building, but no one complained. While the military base wasn’t adorned with world-class art, beautiful chandeliers, or marble floors, the bare bones facility did keep the cold, Maryland winds at bay, and there was enough space to conduct the business of state.
Shortly after arriving, Reed was assigned quarters in what must have been facilities normally allocated to military officers on temporary duty assignments. The living space was essentially on par with a three-star budget hotel, comprised of a double bed, closet-like bathroom, and two guest chairs. Plain, zero-frills furniture adorned the room, accented by mass-produced, soulless prints hanging from the walls. A mattress, just shy of marble slab on the hardness scale, rounded out the accommodations.
After his experience in Brenda’s apartment, the congressman from Texas felt like he had just checked in at the Four Seasons. From Reed’s perspective, the list of amenities offered by his new abode was practically endless. There was running water, both hot and cold, tiny bottles of shampoo, miniature bars of soap, and a plastic wrapped toothbrush. The first shower was a marathon event, the first shave just shy of euphoria. It’s all a matter of perspective, he speculated.
An aide soon delivered a parcel of clean clothes so distressed, they could have been leftovers from a recent garage sale or rejects from the latest charity drive. In Reed’s mind, the experience of donning the clean underwear, unsoiled pants, and odor-free shirt was akin to preparing for a Broadway opening in a stylish tuxedo.
It wasn’t just his ordeal of isolation in Brenda’s flat that shaped his newfound appreciation. On the drive from Washington, the surreal images outside the plain government sedan reminded him of news footage of a war-ravaged section of Syria or Libya, not the capital of the most powerful nation on earth.
Fires still raged unchecked, some consuming entire blocks. Freeways were jam-packed with abandoned vehicles for as far as the eye could see. Overturned cars littered the surface streets, often competing with smoldering ash heaps of bonfire-roadblocks ignited during the riots. When his escorts pulled away from Brenda’s apartment, one of the men had turned and offered Reed a handkerchief. “Here, you’ll need this in a bit.” Puzzled, Reed thought perhaps they would be passing through areas of intense smoke, but that wasn’t the reason. It was the dead, twisted, decomposing corpses. After the first few miles, Reed became acclimated to the view, and he stopped counting the fallen bodies of his countrymen. But it wasn’t only people – the cadavers of horses, dogs, and cats were scattered among the ruins.
Many of Washington’s broad avenues were impassable, blocked by relic traffic or the rubble of collapsed buildings. Here and there, military vehicles and soldiers patrolled the streets. The driver commented, “It took the National Guard almost three days to muster and enter the city. It took another two days to establish order, but only in certain areas. We held the Capitol building and White House, but a lot of government facilities weren’t so lucky. Much of this town is still ‘no man’s land.’”
After what seemed like hours, they successfully maneuvered to the Maryland countryside. The earth sported a “just rained” clean smell, and Reed felt an even stronger urge to bathe. The foul, oily smoke from the city clung to his skin and clothing like a coating of grease. He recognized he hadn’t smelled daisy-fresh in the first place, but the drive through Hades-on-the-Potomac had saturated his soul.
Feeling physically refreshed, Reed’s mental outlook was bolstered as he absorbed the frenzied level of activity around the base. If it weren’t for a desperate longing to speak with his family, the congressman’s attitude would have appeared optimistic. Having no communication with his wife and children was practically unbearable. He was sure they were in a much better place than the average citizen was, but he didn’t know that for a fact. He craved some sort of confirmation. It’s impossible right now, so get busy and do your job, he thought. Roll up your sleeves and occupy your time. You won’t fix a thing by worrying about them.
Reed’s mood was elevated further as he began to acclimate to the current of energy that flowed through the gathered politicians. The country was in trouble, and these people had been elected to serve her. He forced himself to put aside his personal apprehensions, and began looking for his party’s leadership to report in.
Representative Wallace finally found a cluster of familiar faces and strode over to join the group. Hands pumped with a little more vigor than in the past. Standard political banter was replaced with seemingly heartfelt comments like, “Really glad you made it,” and “Good to see you’re alive.” Reed was a freshman and relatively unknown, so he remained on the fringe and just observed. The majority of the conversation concerned other parts of the country and what little news had filtered back to D.C. The legislators from rural areas believed things had remained stable in their districts, while those from districts that included larger cities were hearing bad news.
As best as anyone could tell, the chaos in Washington was the norm, not the exception. The congressman from Chicago had received a report that the second great fire to ravage the Windy City was blazing out of control; the burning skyline was apparently visible clear across Lake Michigan. Others had similar status reports from back home.
A loud, pounding noise sounded from the minute stage at the front of the room, commanding the attention of all present. “Please come to order and take your seats. Please come to order, ladies and gentlemen,” the vice president instructed, pounding his gavel.
Reed found his assigned folding chair and sat wondering how all of this would play out. The House Majority Leader joined the V.P. behind the podium and tested the microphone. The room quickly became quiet.
“Elected representatives of the United States of America, I hereby call this session to order. As you all know, our country has experienced a catastrophic chain of events, and I’m sure every single one of you has a million questions. As many of you already know, the president has declared martial law throughout the country. Federalized forces are making every attempt to reestablish order throughout the land. The president has tasked the legislative branch with recovery and recuperation. When I spoke to the commander-in-chief this morning, he asked that we have a plan, ready to implement, the moment order is restored. He assured me that the executive control and the declared state of emergency would be lifted as soon as possible. So, our first order of business today will entail a situational update and briefing from several different speakers. First up will be, Director Morton of the Department of Homeland Security.”
Reed was relieved. He had worried that his peers would opt for the usual political theater and positioning, and he just wasn’t in the mood for a bunch of long-winded speeches. Evidently, everyone else felt the same way as he did – time to get down to business and be Americans first, politicians second
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Galveston Bay, Texas
The last boat cleared the mouth of the channel, heading southeast toward Galveston Island. David was readying to move closer to the line of boats when something in the northern sky caught his eye. A dark line of clouds was just visible over the horizon, and his heart sank at the sight - a northerner was moving in.
This time of year along the gulf coast, the weather patterns were mostly mundane. About the only serious disturbances were the massive cold fronts rolling down from the arctic north. These powerful storms were strong enough to push the warm, humid air of the gulf out of the way. While frosts and snow were rare along the coast, these massive fronts were known to generate violent thunderstorms, high winds, and very cold temperatures. What a time to lose the Weather Channel, he thought.
Clouds normally trekked from the southwest to the northeast. Only a northerner came from the northwest, and that’s where this line of clouds was coming from. David keyed the microphone on his handheld radio and called out for Boxer. When his father answered, he asserted, “Dad, look over your left shoulder at the clouds.”
Everyone could hear the broadcast, and several of the boats were close enough that David could see heads pivoting to look. In a few moments, Wyatt answered for everyone. “We need to find a port – right now.” It wasn’t good news.
Wyatt turned and looked at Morgan who was already pulling out charts. While he had a very accurate picture on Boxer’s large screen GPS, the scale wasn’t large enough to pick out details, like finding a place to ride out the storm. But even without a map, Wyatt knew the bay quite well, and there were only a few options. The sailboats in the fleet simply were not fast enough to outrun the front. Maxing out at about six knots, or seven miles per hour, they would be caught out in open water when the weather turned bad. Riding out the storm on open water was taking a big risk.
