As Travis donned his gear and tied a rope to the catch bags, he consulted with the sensei about the dive.
“Here’s the plan. I’m going to take a quick exploratory look to see what, if anything, is left down there. If it shows promise, you toss me the two nylon catch bags and I’ll fill them with goods. When I’ve got them loaded I’ll jerk on the line, sharp, two times, and you pull them up. Then we’ll do it again.”
The sensei nodded, tying the nylon rope to the bow rail. Just before Travis dropped into the water he turned back to the Japanese,
“Watch for my bubbles on the surface. It will give you an idea where I am—not that it’ll make much difference.”
The sensei nodded again. “I will watch for you, Travis-san.”
When Travis hit the water, he noticed that it too was reacting to the cooler weather, and had a bite well beyond cool and refreshing. He paused for a second, floating on the surface, and let his body adjust to the temperature while studying the bottom. Drifting directly above the store, he could see the bent and broken remains of the aisle shelves that had displayed food. There were canned goods scattered across the floor, their round bottoms looking like giant pieces-of-eight from a recently gutted Spanish galleon.
Travis treaded water and yelled to the sensei, “Throw me the rope. I’m going down here.”
Grabbing the rope with the catch bags as it was tossed to him, he dove for the bottom. He drifted silently downward, his eyes scanning the scattered ruins of what was, until recently, his world. Travis swam past an overturned car and observed a grisly reminder of the killer wave—an arm extended out of the passenger window, moving stiffly up and down in the current, almost as if beckoning him. He shivered and swam on until he came to a large overturned display rack. On either side were hundreds of cans. Settling onto the bottom he began sorting, then loading his bags. When the two bags were stuffed with corned beef, tuna fish, baked beans, etc., he hauled them closer to the boat and tugged on the rope. Up they went, as the sensei pulled from above. Two minutes later, the bags were back, and he began to fill them again.
That went on for the better part of an hour. In the process, they accumulated everything from fruit juices and jars of almonds, to peanut butter, canned fruit, peas, corn, and dog food. They had recovered sufficient supplies to last them at least a month. Travis surfaced with the last load and checked his pressure gauge. He still had eight hundred pounds left—enough time for a short dive on the other store. Handing his tank to the sensei, Travis pulled himself up over the stern. He put on some warm clothes they had found in one of the dressers on board, then they upped anchor and repositioned the boat about two hundred yards away, over the K-Mart. Travis, deciding to go below and warm up for half an hour, was greeted by an exuberant Carlos. The diminutive Cuban, an open can of beans in one hand and a jar of peanut butter in the other, praised Travis as he entered the cabin.
“Hey man, chu a pretty amazin’ son-a-bitchee. Most hombres, they go in the ocean, they catch a pescado, maybe a lobster. But chu man, chu catch peanut butter!”
The boy was awake, huddled in the corner of his bunk, his legs drawn up to his chest as he watched Travis and Carlos, but said nothing. Beside him sat an empty can of beans, a sign of a returning appetite, anyway.
Travis reached down and picked up a can of peaches from the pile of canned goods on the floor. He popped the pull-top, walked over to the boy, and knelt in front of him. “Hi, little buddy, how ya doin’?” he asked, extending the can of peaches. “How about splitting these with me?” The lad looked up at Travis for a few seconds, then nodded his head. Travis pulled a slice out for himself, then handed the can to the boy, who slowly reached out and took it. “You eat the rest.”
Travis got up and sat on the bunk next to the youngster, and a moment later Ra came over to him and nuzzled his hand affectionately. The lad watched with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Ra, who seemed to understand intrinsically that the rules had changed regarding his protection of the boat, raised his head and sniffed the newcomer.
Travis stroked the dog and said, “His name’s Ra. He won’t hurt you; he’s just big, not mean.”
The boy nodded solemnly, not convinced, holding his can of peaches with both hands.
“What’s your name, son?” Travis asked. The child paused for a moment, then his mouth moved, but there was no sound. Obviously struggling with himself, he tried again, still without success. Suddenly his face became a mixture of pain and frustration, and tears ran from the corners of his eyes. Travis realized then that the boy couldn’t speak.
Angry with himself, and embarrassed for the pain he had just caused the child, he tried to mollify the situation. “Hey, it’s okay. You just hang out, relax and catch up on a few meals. We’ll take it slow and let everybody get to know one another in their own time, all right?” He stood up. “I’m Travis. This is Carlos, and I guess you can call the Japanese guy on deck, Sensei. I’ve got to get back topside and do a little diving, but Carlos, here, will watch out for you. I’ll be back in a little while.”
As Travis moved up the stairs to the deck, Carlos called after him, “Hey Travees, chu see any Bud-a-wiser down there with da peanut butter?”
Ten minutes later Travis was back in the water. It was late afternoon, but daylight wasn’t a factor as he had only about half an hour of air left. Even so, the next round of underwater shopping was extremely important. There were a number of things they needed to enhance their chances of survival. Among those items were fishing gear, propane gas and a grill for cooking, foul weather gear, and dozens of other things, not the least of which were weapons.
Cody’s words of long ago echoed in Travis’ ears: “When the shift comes and the damage is done, there won’t be any law for quite a while in the majority of this country. It’s gonna be every man for himself and I guaran-friggin’-tee you, it’s gonna get sticky. When the people left alive in the cities have eaten everything but the cardboard advertisements in all the grocery stores, there’s gonna be a mass exodus toward the rural areas. Trust me, when they arrive, they’ll kill you for a candy bar if you can’t protect yourself. By the end of the first winter after the shift, better than half of the original survivors will be dead from disease, starvation, exposure to the elements, and exposure to their fellow man. The only way to survive will be to have a place far enough from the cities and difficult enough to get to, that you filter out the majority of the predators. You arm yourself like Patton and treat aggression like Attila the Hun. A few heads on stakes, marking the boundaries of your property, is a relatively effective deterrent to unwanted guests.”
Travis had to smile when he thought of Cody. What a character. But damned if it didn’t look like he may have been right.
He glided toward the bottom in the cold water and studied the area for the items they needed. There was no determining departments in the store anymore. Everything was scrambled and strewn everywhere. He’d just have to work fast and cover as much ground as possible. After five minutes of precious time, he had worked his way back to the partially existing wall when he began to recognize sports equipment. Soon he found two good fishing rods and reels, a couple of raincoats, a hunting knife and, under an overturned display rack, packages of hooks, sinkers, and lures. Travis dragged the load back and tied it to the rope, which the sensei promptly pulled up. Then he was off again.
It appeared that the sporting goods department must have been near the surviving wall, as much of it was piled against that crumbling barricade. He rummaged through the debris, eventually coming to a smashed display case. Remembering that weapons at K-Mart were kept in such cases, he began to dig around and, sure enough, there in the wreckage lay a Smith and Wesson nine-millimeter pistol. Moments later, a few feet away, he found a .38 revolver with a four-inch barrel. Travis stowed the guns in his bag, then swam over to the remains of the display case. The glass was scattered all about, but the solid lower compartment was still intact. He pried open the sliding door, and was rewarded wit
h the sight of ammunition cartons. Thank God for sealed plastic boxes. He found six boxes for each weapon, which he added to the catch bag, then continued on.
Making his way back to the boat, he picked up a spear gun and some lubricating oil. He also found a small gas-operated Hibachi, but no propane gas. When that load had been transferred to the boat, Travis checked his pressure gauge. The remaining two hundred and fifty pounds was enough for one more run. He worked quickly now, gathering such miscellaneous items as fishing line, suntan lotion, oil for lanterns, etc. He was about one hundred feet from the boat when he saw the barrel of a rifle protruding from beneath a huge display rack. The metal rack lay tilted on its side, supported by surrounding debris, creating a cave-like effect. The gun lay in the back, wedged beneath the base. Travis, excited by the prospect of having a more powerful weapon to add to his arsenal, quickly swam under the metal shelving, grabbed the barrel and pulled. The rifle broke free with a lurch, but in doing so disturbed the delicate balance of the structure above him.
There was a grating sound and a shift in the rack as the surrounding supports gave way and it fell. Travis had just enough time to turn around and begin to move out, head first, when the entire unit came crashing down on his waist and legs, pinning him painfully to the bottom.
For a moment he was stunned, but as the realization of his predicament set in, the pain in his legs was far overshadowed by the cold, knife-like fear gripping him. He struggled maniacally to free himself. Most of the weight was centered on the back of his legs. There was no way he could reach around, or gain any leverage to lift it off. He was trapped. He looked at his pressure gauge—fifty pounds, and fading fast. He struggled again, so violently that he could feel the flesh of his ankles tearing against the metal. Fear and the exertion were rapidly depleting the last of his air. The tank was already becoming harder to draw on. He shifted again and frantically glanced at a gauge that no longer offered any hope. He had only moments left.
The air faded as he struggled madly, his tortured lungs screaming for oxygen. Then, inhale as he might, there was nothing more coming through the regulator. Terror gradually faded to surrender, and his struggles were reduced to feeble, helpless movements. He was dying. As everything dimmed to shades of gray and black, he thought he saw a large shadow pass above him. His last cognizant thought was: Probably a shark—not bad enough I have to die like this, I have to get eaten as well.
Then suddenly, as the darkness began to overtake him, he felt something grab him and roughly drag him out from under the heavy metal frame. He was beyond caring. The next thing he remembered was being pulled across the surface of the water, throwing up saltwater and trying desperately to inhale the sweet, life-giving air into his lungs.
As the sensei pushed Travis up to the boat, Carlos dragged him on board and unceremoniously dumped him on the deck. “Hey, Travees, Travees. Chu okay, man? Chu no look so bueno, man.”
Travis couldn’t move. He lay on the deck gasping, incredibly thankful just to be alive. The sensei slipped up and over the rail of the boat in nothing but his birthday suit, knelt next to Travis and quickly examined him. He nodded a curt approval, then went to get his clothes.
Ten minutes later they were all gathered in the cabin. Travis had recovered sufficiently to speak again, and the color of his skin was no longer gray and mottled.
He turned to the sensei. “How’d you know? How’d you find me?”
The Japanese looked at him, “You say to watch bubbles. When there was no more, and you had not surfaced, I swam over to last bubbles and dove down.”
Travis shook his head in grudging admiration. “Not a bad free dive, considering you had to deal with lifting that rack off me and getting me to the surface.”
“Japan is surrounded by water,” said the sensei. “Part of training at Dojo is daily ocean swim.”
With new respect in his eyes, Travis stared at the Oriental. “Well, Higado Sensei, the first port we reach, I owe you the best bottle of saki in town. I’m in your debt.” He stood and bowed slightly to the sensei.
The Japanese smiled, and returned the bow. “The debt is already paid. You forget that it was you who rescued me from my sinking ship.”
“Then we’ll just split that bottle of saki when we find it,” Travis replied.
Carlos, who was sitting next to Travis, shook his head. “All this talk ’bout drinkin’ and not one stinkin’ Bud-a-wiser for Carlos.”
Everyone laughed—everyone except the boy.
CHAPTER 6
The sun descended slowly into the sea, piercing the evening sky with fiery daggers, surrounding the gray storm clouds on the horizon with a crimson luminescence.
They all sat together on the deck, watching nature’s light show, each lost in his own thoughts for the moment. Memories of other times, friends and lovers, other places, flashed through their minds in pinwheel fashion. Their lives had been changed forever. There was no going back. The past no longer existed, and the future—who knew what that held? They were embarking on a journey into the new world, as if they were ancient mariners, setting out in search of uncharted lands.
Aside from the tragedy that had brought him to that point in time, Travis couldn’t help but once again find himself excited, intrigued by the possibilities and uncertainty of the trek ahead. Born once more to adventure on the sea, he thought as he watched the last rays of the sun burnish the darkening waters. He smiled, remembering adventures he and Cody had shared on the ocean.
The first waft of the cool night breeze brought him from his reverie and he shivered.
“It getting muy frio,” Carlos muttered next to him as he stood, his arms wrapped around his skinny frame.
“Yeah,” replied Travis. “Time to head below.” As the others stood, Ra, who had been lying next to them, rose and led the way to the warmth of the cabin.
Carlos had stored all the goods they had found. He had also cleaned everything from the walls to the floor and laid out a cold dinner of beef, carrots, potatoes, and chocolate pudding for dessert. Ra devoured the couple of cans of dog food prepared for him, then lay contented by the cabin door—the ever faithful guardian.
During supper, they learned a little more about one another. Carlos began by telling them of his life in Cuba. The small, animated man with dark, curly hair and mischievous smile recounted working for the Cuban equivalent of the U.S. Department of Transportation. He had repaired their trucks, from engines to two-way radios. To hear him tell it, he was nearly a genius—forced to repair antiquated equipment with inadequate tools and very few spare parts, keeping most of the Cuban government running almost single-handedly. Carlos paused, almost self-consciously for a moment in his narrative and brought his hands up, palms out, in somewhat of a submissive gesture.
“But there be a little problemo—some confusion—about radios disappearing in trucks I fix. Carlos find out they think maybe he steal them—gonna be ’investigacion.’ Carlos innocent, of course, but he no gonna stick around to find out if they think so. In Cuba too many times you guilty ’til you proven guilty . . .”
Travis told them of his flight service and how he had survived the wave. The sensei listened quietly and interjected a question or a statement here and there. The boy seemed to be gradually shaking off his lethargy, but there was a heavy aura of sadness around him that was almost tangible. He did, however, begin to show interest in the conversation, and when dinner was over, he lay down beside Ra on the floor. His tentative strokes to the animal’s flanks were answered by a huge, sticky tongue licking his fingers—an exchange that appeared to please both participants.
The sensei retrieved his swords from behind his bunk and performed his ritual cleaning. He brought the cloth back and forth across each blade and spoke, for the first time, of his personal life in Japan. The boy and Carlos, fascinated by the swords, listened intently as the modern-day Samurai told of his school, his home, and, with a touch of sadness, his family. He had left a wife, two sons, and three grandchildren in Japan, h
oping to return to them by late summer.
“Now,” he said, as he paused and his gaze fell away, “I must learn patience and practice faith while I await the judgment of powers greater than my own.”
An hour later, they extinguished the two oil lanterns and everyone retired to his berth.
While the occupants of the sailboat slept, two people fought a desperate, losing battle with rising water in a badly damaged 32-foot Chris Craft, ten miles to the north. The overworked, hand-operated bilge pump was failing and, with it, their chances of survival. They were bruised and bloodied, and weary to the point of collapse. Still, they refused to give up.
If not for the cuts and the grime, one would have said they were a handsome couple. Both of them were tall; he was six feet, and she, about five-nine. He was slim, with the well-defined muscles of a runner, or a racquetball player. He was in his early forties and wore his styled blond hair straight back. His aquiline nose and intense blue eyes gave him a handsome, sophisticated look—perhaps a little roguish.
She was in her mid-thirties, nice tan, hair a tawny strawberry blonde, thick and long. She was, beyond a doubt, attractive, but it was more the overall appearance than the individual parts that made her beauty work. If one studied her, there was a sense of contradiction in her features. There was perhaps too much height to her cheekbones, which lent a superciliousness, an aloofness that wasn’t necessarily earned. Her hazel eyes countered that, offering a hint of wit and spirit, but her mouth turned downward just slightly, diminishing the softness of her smile. Still, it all worked, and it was complimented by a remarkable figure—something she had enjoyed as a younger girl, but found distracting and appreciated less as she had grown up and entered the world of business.
They were well-tanned, well-endowed, and well-connected— yacht club material—equally at home at a cocktail party or on the tennis court, but as they struggled grimly in the water-filled cabin of a foundering boat, that life was a million miles behind them.
The New Madrid Run Page 6
