by Dan Henk
Water pools on the base of my steering hand, dribbling off the knuckles. The clouds rage and whirl in a seething vortex, stretching overhead and blotting out the horizon. This is starting to feel like the climax of something, a dam about to burst. I have a bad feeling.
The downpour diminishes, and I make out a sign for Baton Rouge. The interstate splits, and I veer through the opaque chaos onto what looks like the entrance for Highway 12. It’s a bit of a shortcut, and I’ll take whatever I can get. I’m starting to feel like this car might not have much left to give.
Water sloshes at my ankles, the black dashboard beaded in drops of precipitation. Little pools undulate gently in the alcoves of the deep-set gauges. The vibration of the road causes the water to writhe in small eddies and waves, the overflow splashing out in glistening strands. C’mon... Just a little more...
The torrent has waned into a drizzle as I roll into Baton Rouge. The sky is clearing, becoming a pale blue, with spacious cumulonimbus clouds drifting lazily across the firmament. I roll through the bland, sepia-tinted streets of downtown, the lazy spread of squat buildings and gray shingled houses extending out through the clutter of low-lying trees into a nameless oblivion. Rejoining Route 10, I roll over a trestle bridge and back into the anonymity of the bucolic South. I’ve encountered no real resistance so far, Virginia aside. It could be the Southern states are joined in some sort of loose confederacy, but I’m sure Texas is a different matter. If any state is likely to have struck out on its own, it would be Texas. Even when things were normal, half its population had secession on their minds.
I ascend onto a bridge, the broad expanse rising above the forest in a smooth plain of white. The trees fall away, and a shining expanse of tranquil water rolls out beneath. Clouding the end of the bridge, a thin line chokes off the opposite bank. As I draw in, it slowly resolves into a barricade of sandbags. The right and left sides are flanked by watchtowers, the sunlight shimmering brilliantly off their canvas rooftops. The glare blurs the contours, but I can make out the silhouettes of soldiers and what looks like a large-caliber machine gun. Behind the barrier, I see the outlines of a couple of HMMWVs as well.
As I draw near, details take shape. Just visible past the crest of sandbags are servicemen in camouflage fatigues, the regalia overlaid with OTV vests and topped off with ACH helmets. All suited up with the latest gear and spoiling for a fight. Somehow, I wouldn’t expect any less of Texas. Shimmering in the early morning glow is the unmistakable outline of a Stryker, nestled among the HMMWVs.
I maintain a constant speed, steadily closing the distance between me and the barricade. A tense moment of idleness passes before I am greeted with the anticipated spray of gunfire. Holes materialize in the windshield, the glass cracking into elaborate spirals. The seats emit a dull thud and expel a plume of stuffing as rounds tear around me. A couple of slugs hit my chest, mushrooming into a wad of lead before sliding off. I step on the brakes and turn the wheel, trying to bring the car into a sideways skid. I succeed in completing a ninety-degree turn when the side window shatters. A moment later my surroundings turn into a bubbling inferno.
I watch the rubber melting off the steering wheel, dripping from my hands in a sticky morass and continuing downward in spindly strings. I pull my hands free and shake them, flinging melted rubber into the circle of flames. Spinning to the door, I give it a kick. The hinges tear apart in a baleful shriek, and the door flies outward. The bottom edge collides with the pavement, the corner bending at a sharp angle and twisting it into a skipping tilt as it bounces across the tarmac. As I start to step out of the fire, a bullet hits my leg. I continue to emerge slowly. Lead spews forth, pummeling me mercilessly, the rounds rolling off like liquid. I straighten up and scan the surroundings.
Sidewalls of concrete separate the lanes and close off the edges of the road. Just beyond lies a steep drop into the forest, its trees rolling out in a maelstrom of orange and red toward a hazy horizon. A wriggling swath of olive river splits the woods. Atop the bridge, a metal sign proudly proclaims:
Texas State Line
Orange County
Something pounds heavily against my right eye, and my line of sight is suddenly blotted out. The blindness dissipates almost as quickly as it sprang up.
What the fuck?
A wave of pressure drums along my side.
Wait a minute—I’ve been pelted by machine gun fire the entire time, and a round just smacked me in the eye!
I turn and blitzkrieg the blockade, running straight at the sandbags and into the torrent of fire. Barely a full step in, and I’m smothered with dust. A clap of thunder immediately ensues, and grains of rock rain down on me. My whole balance feels suddenly off, like I’m drifting through the air in reverse. I land on my ass, cratering the pavement and trailing a sunken groove as I slide backwards. The crumbling road grinds me to a halt.
That must have been another rocket blast. I leap up and start sprinting, zigzagging my path. Mortar shells explode around me, transforming the atmosphere into a smoky haze. Concussions and flurries of rock pound me on all sides. A pulsing roar resonates through the thick turmoil.
I reach the sandbags through the heavy smog. The soldiers are in a state of confusion, barking questions at one another and backing away from their posts, abandoning the .50-calibers like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Leaping over the barricade, I crash down on the other side. The explosions die down for a moment as the soldiers attempt to find me in the smoke. They wouldn’t dare set off heavy artillery on this side for fear of friendly fire.
I make out the contours of an HMMWV through the fumes and dart toward it. Lead bludgeons my back, some of it ricocheting off and generating shocked screams as it finds new victims. No doors, thankfully, on the HMMWV, and I dive into the driver’s seat. No keys either apparently. Bending under the steering column, I attempt to hotwire it. I hear a deep grinding sound close by. It sounds menacing, like a large vehicle. Maybe even a tank. I lean out the doorway and turn my head in the direction of the noise. Through the smoke I see what looks like a barrel swinging in my direction. Ducking back in, I anchor my feet on the door well and propel myself out the passenger side. Just as I’m crashing down, the truck explodes in a ball of fire. Metal shrapnel pelts me as I scramble to my feet. I can hear the grate of vehicles revving their engines. The smog is blinding, so I head for the closest noise.
A HMMWV emerges out of the haze, the shadow of a soldier nestled behind the windshield. I duck down in a crawl and circle around toward the passenger side. The smoke thins out enough for me to get a good view of the door well. I sprint forward and jump in the passenger seat.
In the driver’s seat is a young soldier in fatigues, his sandy blond hair cropped close under a desert camo helmet. Just as he turns to confront me, I instinctively punch. Forgetting the strength of this body for a moment, I inadvertently punch through his face, my fist impacting the soft flesh with a wet crunch. My hand continues through and erupts out the back coated in gore, little pink chunks of brain and bone clinging on.
I pull, and the limp body comes with. Using my palm as an anchor, I pry loose my buried hand, a burst of gristle accompanying the release. The bloody tunnel seems to stare at me for a second before falling backwards, the corpse tumbling out the open door. I climb over and turn the key, the metal slippery under my blood-coated fingers. The motor grinds, and I realize it’s already running. I pop the lever into reverse and spin the wheel around, assuming I’m pointed in the opposite direction of the wall of sandbags. I stomp on the gas and surge forward. A bellow of noise, followed immediately by a rain of asphalt, punctuates the smog. Close, but not close enough. The smoke rapidly thins, diminishing into a slender shroud of white before falling away completely.
A broad thoroughfare stretches out before me, its faded white span simmering in the midday sun. Thickets of dwarfish trees border both sides, the left the only avenue not barricaded by a concrete wall. From behind me come metallic noises. Probably vehicles turning to mount a pursuit. Turnin
g the wheel, I cross the gravel shoulder, bounce through a dirt side road, and plow into a field of yellow grass. The tall weeds swallow me up, the stalks pelting the sidewalls like drums of war.
I bear at a diagonal angle, aiming for a gap in the trees big enough to fit this wide truck through. The tanks can’t follow me in the woods; neither can any other high-speed pursuit vehicles. It’s just down to the HMMWVs. I don’t know if the local militia will risk losing more armor after our little confrontation at the sandbags. It depends on how stubborn they are.
The grass falls away and I’m delivered into the trees. It’s hardly the forest it appeared to be from a distance, more a smattering of oaks and pine clustered into frail groves. The foundations of the trunks are smothered by a legion of tall brown weeds, the tenuous islets winding haphazardly through a boggy marsh.
Gnats swarm around me angrily as I tear through the swampy terrain. The tires keep losing traction, sticking in shallow ruts and spewing dirty water. I jerk the wheel back and forth in an attempt to retain traction. Crunching through a thick snarl of branches, my front tires sweep up into the air. I come crashing down raucously on sloping ground and plunge down a hill, thin trunks popping up in front of me as a maze of poles. Hard jolts throw the tail end of the truck into complaining trees. Branches pelt the windshield, the limbs snapping against the glass so hard I expect it to shatter at any moment. Off in the distance I hear the sounds of pursuit. They’re probably using HMMWVs. They might even have gotten a hold of some ATVs or dirt bikes, although they can’t really carry heavy weaponry on those. I hope they don’t have a jacked up Jeep at their disposal. That would be way more navigable in this terrain, and it could support some serious artillery.
The bog transforms into a solider thicket of small trees and foliage. I jerk to the right, tearing past the copse and into a wall of reeds. The stalks tear apart with a watery crunch as I plow through. The tires spin, and mud flies up to splatter the roof, but I don’t move. I turn the wheel side to side and gun the engine. The truck rocks back and forth, spewing sludge and pulverized strips of greenery. I lean out the door well and look down. The left front tire is half-buried in a murky brown quagmire. I jump out, my feet sinking into the olive muck, a spray of dirty water shooting up to greet me as I drop. Great.
I tramp behind the truck, picking my way through a stringy slush of leaf and root. Grasping the metal tailgate, I widen my stance and push. It rocks slightly forward and then back, shoving me into a backwards slide. Fuck!
I dig my toes in and push again. It moves a little. I inch closer to the tailgate, dig my toes in once more, and shove. The vehicle starts a gentle roll. Taking slow steps, I force the truck forward. A few feet, and I hit a resisting wall of reeds. The sound of pursuit is louder now, and with the crushed trail of vegetation I left behind, I won’t be hard to find. Glancing around, there’s nothing solid I can spy to secure the winch to. I’ll try airing down the tires. Circling around, I lower the PSI and climb back in. I stomp on the gas pedal and start to roll forward. I hear a crunching sound in the distance. A quick glance in the rear view mirror reveals at least three HMMWVs descending the slope behind me, their sharp contours framed through the trailing tunnel of trampled reeds. I glance forward again. The stalks are collapsing in a noisy, brittle torrent before my front end. The truck is picking up speed! Suddenly the underbrush parts and I’m delivered out of the marshy entanglement and into sparse woodland. My tires lumber up a small embankment and kick me into a cluster of Chinese tallows. I jerk back and forth, bashing through a thick huddle of underbrush. The foliage opens up into a small stream, and I bound over, plowing into a wall of bushes on the opposite bank. Just through, and a thin assembly of trees barely conceals a large body of water beyond.
The crests sparkle in the sunlight, the currents swirling and writhing as they sweep by. That’s probably the river I crossed at the border. I pull up to the tree line and jump out. A short embankment of white sand ushers down into a wide river. On the far bank, a sheath of pine and fiery leaves span the horizon. I’m not really sure where this river leads. I conclude it must eventually empty into the Gulf, flowing by the city of Port Arthur. I planned to take Route 10 to Mexico, but right now, I need to lose my pursuit. After that I can concentrate on a destination. Running back to the HMMWV, I climb in and shove the lever into reverse. Backing up a few feet, I stomp on the gas.
As I charge through the brush I lose my right headlight in a jarring sideswipe. The truck careens awkwardly, a throng of cordwood snaring the undercarriage. It pauses uneasily for a moment, then plunges down the embankment and into the river.
Water flares up the sides and pours in the door wells. I roll down the riverbank, the translucent shallows quickly mutating into a murky green. Propelling myself out the open door, I gyrate into a swimming position. Something strikes my leg forcefully, pulling me down. It’s the Humvee, dragging me along as it sinks to the bottom. The water slows both of us into a sluggish ballet, the stage a steady descent through darkening waters. Things blur into dusty silhouettes as I fall. The vehicle tilts sideways and angles downward. One tire strikes the river floor, and the whole truck rotates forward, drifting onto its roof and agitating the mire into a cloudy squall. I kick my legs and swim upwards.
As the gloom starts to lighten, I hear a whistling noise. Several others follow it. There must be soldiers firing into the water! They probably don’t trust that I perished, seeing as how even a rocket blast didn’t stop me earlier. I spin forward, stopping my ascent, and follow the flow of the river. Small schools of fish flow around me in a murky fog. The water seems polluted. I’m registering traces of chemical compounds. I was never an expert on this stuff, and I’m not receiving any clear breakdown. I don’t think the readings are even in a human dialect.
After what seems like hours, the heaving mass is becoming oppressive. I’m starting to feel lost and a little claustrophobic. I swim toward the light, the shifting levels growing more translucent as I ascend. Finally, they fall away in a taut spurt as my head breaks the surface.
I’m in a huge lake. The choppy waves obscure my vision with an undulating horizon of crests and troughs. A weak mist peppers my face.
I can make out the distant forms of a few smaller ships, pale gray shapes bobbing up and down amongst the waves. One looks like a decent-sized barge, mostly a rust color with what appears to be a tire dangling over the edge. A few people mill about the deck, the afternoon sun beating down mercilessly, giving the whites of their clothes a reflected sheen. If I remember correctly this is Sabine Lake. My best chances are to make it down to the marshes bordering the Gulf of Mexico. It might not be worth it to risk procuring a vehicle right now. I’m still too close to that army blockade, and I would bet more of Texas is bound together in an antagonistic mentality than most northern states. This lake leads into the Sabine River, which should take me to a more desolate area. It’ll be much slower traveling than in a vehicle, but it should throw off any pursuit. Sinking back into the depths, I resume swimming.
Time drags by. Larger forms pass below me in the shadows. I wonder what else is down here. On a whim I propel myself lower, the darkness increasing as I descend. Even with my enhanced vision, the gloom is almost impenetrable. Black shapes writhe by, their contours barely visible in the twilight. An unnaturally straight silhouette juts up, its lattice of dim bars rising from the abyss below. It’s probably the girders of some antique oilrig, its limbs clutching in vain for rescue. I’ll bet there are bodies down here as well. Wasn’t there a Civil War battle not far from here? At Sabine Pass, I think. Most of Texas has been embroiled in some conflict or other until the recent century. The current quickens its pace. It must be the end of the lake, the water bottling up as it flows back into the river. I’ll need to surface soon.
The dark forms of massive underwater piles loom in front, supports for what must be a bridge overhead. That would be my gateway to the marshes, and freedom from this waterlogged tedium.
The concrete struts
drift closer, their algae-encrusted flanks materializing out of the dark. I angle toward the one on the right. It’s a giant stone pillar, its edges a tattered veil of clinging seaweed. Swimming past the column, I break the surface for a quick reconnaissance. There are the docks of an island—or possibly peninsula—in the distance. Just a little farther. I sink back under the waves and keep swimming.
After a few minutes, I pop my head up above the waves. Signs of civilization have disappeared. Churning water surrounds me, wispy tracks of grass dotting a distant shoreline on both sides. The two riverbanks look the same—devoid of trees and populated by scraggly plots of yellowed grass. No houses, nothing industrial. Just a blue sky and gently billowing vegetation. Much better.
I duck under and bear toward the shoreline, the sea floor rising up to greet me as I draw in. Slowing down, I drop my feet and start walking, breaking up out of the waves like a rising sea monster. I probably even look the part, blanketed by weeds.
The small stretch of sand flows into a rippling nest of tall marsh grass. I tromp up the strand and into the thicket.
The ground rises and sinks in small embankments of root-choked soil, radiating out for an elevated stretch before falling back down into swampy ravines of muddy water. I tread lightly, curling up the ends of my feet in an attempt to avoid getting entangled in the roots. Bugs skim by on the waterlogged surface, clustering in swarms of flickering black specks around my buried legs. I glance around, surveying the landscape. Wide fields of waving grass flow all around, a misty tree line far in the distance. Thick cumulonimbus clouds roll lazily through the darkening blue sky. The trailing vestiges of last night’s storm. The sun has sunk low, the fading yellow light casting the remote treetops into a ragged profile.
Night has arrived by the time I reach the woods. The vestiges of reflected light play off the edges of the clouds. I step out of the high grass and onto rocky soil. Tall columns of oak cast the landscape into a shaded maze. As I walk in, the ambient light fluctuates with the flow of clouds, degrading the wide corridors into a complex labyrinth.
