As he waded through the debris toward the bow, Travis thought he saw something move in the V-berth up front. “What—” he muttered as he stopped, waiting. Again, there was a movement in the gloom. The light was fading fast but it appeared that someone, or something, was lying on what was left of the bed in the front berth. He moved forward slowly, shuffling his feet in the water to make less noise. As he reached the threshold of what once was an attractive sleeping quarters, he looked in at the disarray. The dresser was shattered, drawers were broken, clothing was scattered everywhere. Expensive pictures had been ripped from the walls. The bed frame had collapsed and the mattress was askew on the floor.
But there, partly on the mattress and partly on the rug, was a dog —a huge black-and-brown Rottweiler the size of a leopard. Travis gasped and drew back involuntarily. He studied the creature for a moment from the doorway. There was blood in the water and on the mattress, lots of blood. As Travis inched closer he could see a raw, gaping wound on the side of the animal’s head that still oozed slick and red against the black fur. The dark eyes, though dulled by pain, remained locked on the man.
The dog had apparently been thrown against something when the boat was slammed by the tsunami. There may have been other injuries, but God knows the one he could see was enough. Travis stood there in the fading light. The Rottwelier made a feeble effort to rise and a low growl escaped his mouth. It sounded like an attempt at a challenge, but ended in a moan.
Travis decided to take a chance. “Easy boy, easy now,” he whispered as he moved forward and knelt in front of the dog.
The animal looked up at him, full of anger and pain, and bared his teeth. Another growl, deep and low, rumbled in his big chest, but this time he didn’t try to rise.
Travis had seen too much devastation and death in his life, and now everyone he knew, all those he cared about, were gone. He suddenly realized he wanted to save this dog, to retrieve something from all the ruin. Travis grabbed a shirt from the water-soaked floor, then paused. “I’ll make a deal with you big guy,” he said as he eased in and tentatively touched the massive head. “I clean you up a bit and you don’t eat me when you’re better, okay?” The dog watched the man’s hand as Travis slowly stroked the muscled neck and spoke soothingly. Travis took the other hand and began to wipe the blood from the gash with the shirt. Again, the animal tried to raise its head only to collapse back down. Travis continued a soothing refrain as he cleaned the wound and gently inspected the animal for broken bones.
Half an hour later, it was nearly dark inside the cabin. As far as he could tell, the dog had no other major injuries, but was suffering from a concussion and severe loss of blood. The bleeding had been reduced, but he had nothing with which to close the cut. Maybe he could find a needle and thread tomorrow. If the dog would let him, he’d stitch him up—if it was still alive. He stroked the dark flank once more and murmured, “You hang in there, buddy. We’ll see you in the morning. And remember, we have a deal.” The animal still gazed at him, but there seemed to be less anger in those black eyes.
As he stepped back out onto the deck, gray, windswept clouds buried the last of the sunlight against the horizon, smearing reddish hues across a charcoal sky. Peering out into the darkness, Travis studied the agitated sea. Water movement like this was only found in channels where the current, or fast tides, forced the water against strong winds, causing the waves to roar up and slap against each other. It was as if the whole ocean were being jostled by a giant hand. There wasn’t much surface wind anymore, but high above, at three or four thousand feet, stratus clouds were racing along at almost hurricane speed. There were indeed some strange phenomena taking place.
Travis was reminded of his old friend from the Keys—William J. Cody. Cody had been a partner during a particularly exciting time in his life. He met William J. what seemed like a hundred years ago, at a bar called Sloppy Joe’s in Key West. As it turned out, he, like Travis, flew for a living. The difference between the two was the cargo they carried and Cody’s distinct aversion to Customs clearances. Cody Joe smuggled pre–Columbian gold, emeralds, and rare birds out of South and Central America, fine art of questionable ownership into Mexico and Jamaica, and money into the banks of the Cayman Islands. He had even smuggled diamonds out of Africa. He was always on time and he always delivered. The man had a reputation for being scrupulously honest in a dubious profession—he was much in demand. The only thing Cody wouldn’t smuggle was drugs of any sort. It was a hard-and-fast rule with him, and he never broke it, no matter how much money was offered.
As people sometimes do, regardless of occupations, the two hit it off famously, and became the best of friends, sharing a number of remarkable adventures in the process. In looks, and personality, they were much the opposites, yet they had nearly everything else in common.
Both Travis and Cody were addicted to flying, and had seen Vietnam up close and personal. They shared a passion for sailing, tequila, and blondes, and both were physical men. After many a crazy evening in those days, they had still managed to meet at the local gym the next morning to work off the alcohol.
Travis was tall, about six feet with dark brown, curly hair. He had bright, expressive hazel eyes that changed from shades of brown to green, depending upon his mood. His demeanor was calm and controlled. He was a large, powerful man with a deep voice that women were drawn by and men naturally paid attention to, but he seldom used his size to intimidate and rarely displayed anger. However, when Travis did get riled, there was an almost tangible aura of violence about him, and one look at those fierce eyes was generally enough to quell the ambitions of the most belligerent of antagonists.
Cody, on the other hand, was about five-six, with long blond hair, a droopy “Custer” mustache, and luminous blue eyes. His personality was electric—his conversations were animated and filled with gestures, and it was rare that he wasn’t the center of attention at almost any gathering. William J. was so exhilarated with life that his effervescence was contagious, but his free and easy manner concealed a sharp, pragmatic mind that planned carefully and missed little. The man was everyone’s friend but nobody’s fool.
What had jogged Travis’ memory about Cody was the catastrophic event his friend was always talking about—something called a “pole shift” —likely to take place sometime during the first part of the new century. Cody read a lot and, on that particular subject, he had studied everything that had been printed. He could quote passages from the research of professors Charles Hapgood and Albert Einstein, to recent writers such as Richard W. Noone. Cody explained how the ever-increasing six-trillion-ton ice mass on the South Pole could be catalyzed by the gravitational pull of a significant planetary alignment, a solar storm, or a comet striking or barely missing the earth. The planet would shift on its axis and the crust of the earth would grind around, establishing new poles. Tectonic plates in the earth’s surface would rupture, causing massive earthquakes, volcanic activity, and tidal waves. Landmasses would rise out of the oceans, while others would be radically altered. It was a frightening dissertation by any standard. Cody’s theory, based on his acquired information, was that there were safe places in parts of the U.S. and the rest of the world that would survive the majority of the geological alterations. There were also a great many areas that would just disappear. The Keys had been on the latter list.
Cody had lots of money—a benefit of late night international flying with no respect to Customs. After he and Travis had become solid friends, and experienced a number of spectacular and profitable capers from the Caribbean to South America, he had talked Travis into buying property with him in the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas. Cody had explained that Arkansas was one of those safe places in America.
“When the smoke from the apocalypse clears, and everyone else is trying to find their ass with both hands, I’m gonna be alive and well on my own little mountain in Arkansas.”
Travis had purchased forty acres and a home on a quiet mountain in Polk County, abo
ut twenty miles from Arkansas’ western border. He was within easy driving distance of the small town of Mena—a peaceful community of about 7,000 people nestled in a scenic valley, surrounded by the Ouachitas. He still owned the property, allowing an old man and his wife to live there as caretakers. At the time, Cody had purchased eighty-five acres and a considerably larger house about fifteen miles east of town.
It had been a couple of years since he had seen Cody, and then only briefly. His old friend passed through the Keys every once in a while, but rumor had it that he was lying low and movin’ fast—that the IRS wanted to talk to him, not to mention Customs.
There was a side of Travis that sorely missed Cody, even as nefarious as he was. It was the handful of fairly legitimate adventures the two had shared which had provided Travis with most of his financial security. The money he’d made with Cody had bought his plane, his business, and, of course, his place in Arkansas.
Looking out across the darkening water to the eerie, reddish sky, Travis muttered to himself, “So I’ll be damned, it looks like the son-of-a-gun was right.”
Too tired to concern himself with food, Travis wrapped a damp blanket around himself and curled up in the cockpit. Before sleep overtook him, he thought about the dog. “Lord,” he said, “I know you’ve already done me a couple of serious favors today, but if you could squeeze in just one more, I’d really like that dog to make it.” He got up and closed the cabin hatch. “Just in case I get my wish and Buster wakes up more frisky than friendly,” he said, as he curled up once more and dropped into a dreamless sleep.
The first rays of the morning sun found him shivering as he struggled awake. It was late March and should have been comfortably warm, but there was a new, bitter chill to the air, and a cold haze draped the horizon, reminiscent of colder climes. He stretched and yawned, then stood to watch a brilliant orange sun complete its rise above the distant haze, changing the indigo sky to shades of pale blue and rose. After relieving himself over the side of the boat, Travis turned and looked at the hatch doors. “Time to check on Buster,” he said with just a touch of apprehension. He undid the latch and pulled the doors back slowly—nothing in the main cabin. Evidently, the animal hadn’t moved during the night. Although he was a little frightened of a dog that large, he had hoped to see him standing in the cabin. There was a knot in his stomach when he thought, Maybe he isn’t going to move anymore at all.
Travis shuffled through the water-filled cabin to the forward berth. “Gonna have to get the bilge pumps working today,” he muttered to himself as he sloshed along.
The dog was still where Travis had left him the night before, but he was no longer lying on his side. He had righted himself with his huge head resting on his paws, as if sleeping. As Travis came into view, the head swung up slowly as the dog bared his teeth and growled menacingly. The animal was apparently doing better, but it was also obvious that he still hardly had the strength to move. What little attempt he had made to rise had been immediately canceled.
The day before, as Travis passed through the boat, he had seen a jug of bottled water floating amid the debris. He backed away into the galley, found an unbroken bowl, and the jug. He popped off the lid and tasted the contents. It was good, fresh water. He took several swallows, paused for a moment, then took a few more, luxuriating in the feeling of the cool liquid against his parched throat. Afterwards Travis filled the bowl and brought it back to the dog. Slowly, he knelt, container in his outstretched hand. Again the dog rumbled, but no fangs this time.
Travis set the water on the mattress next to the dog’s head. “Here, big guy, how about something to drink? You gotta be thirsty.”
The dog turned his head toward the bowl and sniffed. Travis reached out and pushed it a little closer. Slowly, but still watching Travis, the great head dipped and he lapped at the water. The Rottweiler drank all but a swallow, then pulled back and his head collapsed wearily on his front legs. Those black eyes never left the man in front of him for a second.
Travis was pleased beyond belief, but he decided not to push his luck. After a cursory look at the wound, which seemed less serious in the light of day, he backed off slowly. “I think you’re gonna be okay, guy. Just hang in there and I’ll see if there’s anything for us to eat in here.”
Again he backed out, into the main cabin, and looked around as daylight streamed through the porthole. “Lord,” he muttered, “what a frigging mess.” He decided to begin with the galley, knowing that food and water were first on any survival list. Surveying what was left of the pantry, most of which was on the floor, Travis discovered a fairly good stock of canned goods. The refrigerator door had stayed closed due to specially designed latches, but when he opened it up, the insides, shattered and breached, spilled into the bilge water.
There were no fresh fruits or vegetables; the boat was not a live-aboard, but there were some good provisions otherwise. Travis found a fork and a couple of cans of corned beef—the kind with built-in openers. He cranked the lids back, and dished them onto two serviceable plates. He wolfed his down, not realizing until then just how hungry he was.
He took the other plate to the dog. Again the animal raised his head as the man entered the cabin. “Chow time, buddy,” Travis said as he slowly pushed the plate forward. Just as he did with the water, the dog sniffed the dish, then ate greedily, his eyes leaving Travis only for a second as he targeted his food.
As Travis crouched by the dog, he reached out slowly, cooing softly, and began stroking its muscled back. The dog stopped eating for a second and turned its head towards Travis’ hand. Travis froze his fingers on the dog’s shoulder. He could see flecks of food and saliva on the gray-and-pink maw. He could feel its breath on his outstretched arm. The mouth opened slightly, casually exposing canines curved like sabers. The creature sniffed tentatively.
Travis held his ground and whispered, “Now’s a good time for us to become friends, buddy.” The animal sniffed once more, then slowly turned back to the food and continued to eat. Travis exhaled and drew his arm back, infinitely pleased to have all his fingers still attached. “That’s it, old boy, let’s not be biting the hand that feeds you.”
He spent the rest of the morning working on the batteries and electrical system. The boat had taken on quite a bit of water and needed to be pumped out before anything else could be done. Fortunately, the batteries had survived intact, but some of the wiring had been torn loose and required repair. Travis placed the batteries high and dry while he rewired the cables. When finally he hit the bilge pump switch, he was rewarded with the humming sound of a functioning pump. He stepped out onto the deck and double-checked to see the stream of water jetting from the hull. While the bilge water emptied, he surveyed the boat and assessed the damage topside. She was, or had been, a beautiful craft—an Irwin 46, ketch design. Her forward mast was still intact, the other was snapped off about six feet above the deck, testimony to the battering she had received. The mainsail on the good mast was still attached to the boom. The self-furling jib had torn loose from its fittings on the deck and flapped uselessly in the light wind. The sheet lines to the good sail seemed to be in order and, with the exception of the bent and broken bow rails, she looked like she could be made seaworthy in no time.
By mid-afternoon Travis had the jib repaired and most of the water pumped out of the boat. He hoped the hull was still sound.
He found a can opener and made himself a lunch of canned peas and cold chicken soup. After lunch, he took some more water back to the dog. As he entered the cabin, the animal rose shakily to his feet. “Easy boy,” Travis said gently, as he moved forward cautiously. “Just relax now, buddy. Here’s some more water.” The dog’s lips curled slightly as the animal stared at Travis, but there was no sound from the dog’s great chest, and the fire in his eyes had cooled. It was as if he understood that a pact was being established. The dog took a few tentative steps forward and drank the water, then settled down again, satisfied to rest, and heal.
; Travis smiled. His new friend was going to make it.
After finding the spare anchor and securing the boat in about thirty feet of water, he spent the next two days organizing, cleaning, and repairing it. In that time, the dog grew stronger. He limped some, favoring his hind leg, and he moved slowly, but he was up and about.
From the initial truce, man and dog were beginning to accept each other, and a bond had begun to form. Travis was able to touch the animal without fear. The evening of the second day found the two of them sitting side by side on the cabin, watching the perennial magnificence of a Keys sunset. Travis turned to the dog, noticing the light reflecting off the veterinarian tag attached to the thick chain around the dog’s neck. “You got a name on that tag, big guy? Let me have a look.” Travis studied the front, then smiled. “Ra, huh? I like that. Very Egyptian. Well, Ra, tomorrow we up anchor and go looking for civilization.”
Fortunately, fresh water on board ship wasn’t a problem. The ship’s tank seemed to be intact and almost full. In addition, whoever had owned the boat had stored three two-gallon water jugs below. Food, though, at this point, was a much more finite resource. They had sufficient supplies to carry them for a while, but Travis didn’t want to find himself marooned on a boat with no food and a hungry, one-hundred-and-fifty-pound Rottweiler. No doubt their tentative friendship could evaporate rapidly under those circumstances.
The following morning found Travis in the cockpit of a relatively clean and operational sailboat. Taking the winds and currents into consideration, Travis figured his position to be roughly twenty miles northwest of the Middle Keys, or the Marathon area. As sustenance had become a major issue, he’d come up with a plan. He figured the waters had receded a few more feet by now, leaving perhaps twenty-five to thirty feet of water over the Keys. It was possible some portions of the larger, stronger stores in the Keys might have survived. There had been a large shopping center in Marathon that housed a grocery store and merchandise mart. There was diving gear on board the boat; he had discovered it while organizing. If he could find the remains of the stores, it was possible he could dive down and salvage supplies. The winds favored a cruise in that direction so, with no further delay, Travis upped the anchor, raised his mainsail, and set a course for the new world.
The New Madrid Run Page 3
