Without knowing why, Jason ducked behind the roulette table. He decided it was because he hadn’t quite liked the sound of those laughs.
He wondered what he should do. Tell Nick, perhaps. But tell him what? That there were people aboard who laughed funny?
There was another crash. Jason felt his heart give a lurch. Cackling laughter filled the air, and then Jason heard footsteps. He hunched down behind the table.
“I’m getting tired of popcorn and peanuts,” a man said.
“We shoulda brought Janine to cook for us.”
“We shoulda brought a woman for each of us,” said another voice. “They’d give us all the food and lovin’ we want, allowing as how we’re both going to be so rich.”
In the dim light Jason saw two men leave one of the darkened rooms off the main room. The sign above the door, he saw, said Paddlewheel Saloon. The two headed aft, boots crunching on broken glass. Heart in his mouth, Jason ghosted after them, keeping low. He smelled cigar smoke. Tables and ranks of slot machines helped screen him from the interlopers. As he passed the Paddlewheel Saloon Jason saw that the bar’s colorful art nouveau window had been smashed by some well-aimed beer bottles. These were the crashes he’d heard.
Talking in loud voices of matters clear only to them, the two men walked aft to the tellers’ cages, then walked behind the screen. Jason paused and wondered whether to slip back to Nick, or try to find out first what the two intruders were doing.
He thought about what might happen if Nick came looking for him, and his mouth went dry. Then he heard a series of metal banging sounds, like a hammer ringing on an anvil.
He slipped toward the last teller’s cage on the left, close by the wall. Trying not to breathe, he peered through the teller’s window and saw the two men at work.
The younger of the two men wore a T-shirt and jeans. Lank hair straggled out from behind his battered baseball cap, which he wore with the bill pointed aft. The older man revealed a substantial belly between his T-shirt and the blue jeans that were belted low on his hips. His burly arms were covered in tattoos, and a short cigar was clamped between his teeth. Spectacles glittered beneath the bill of his baseball cap. Each took a swig from a bottle of Jack Daniels as they rummaged through canvas bags filled with tools. The two were working on opening the casino safe, trying to chisel and pry open its door. They had gotten a chisel between the door and its frame, and were striving to widen the gap.
“Gaw-damn!” the older one said. “They built this sucker good, didn’t they?”
“Fill the boat with fifty-dollar chips,” said the younger one. “Good as cash any day.” Boat, Jason thought. They had come in a boat.
“Lend a hand here, Junior.” Junior, it appeared, was the older one. The two leaned on a pry bar for a moment, grunting, boots scrabbling for traction on the tile. Muscles stood out on forearms, in necks. The door didn’t move. The two relaxed.
“Gaw-damn,” breathed Junior. He bent to root in his tool bag.
The younger man laughed. “How many casinos do you reckon we can find this side of Helena?” he asked. “Ten? Fifteen? All with cash, checks, and fifty-dollar chips?” He gave a little hop of sheer enthusiasm. “Jesus shit howdy!” he said. “We’re going to have to buy a Chevy Suburban just to haul it all around.”
“We aren’t going to be able to afford a third-hand Yugo,” Junior said, “if you don’t help me bust this safe.”
Boat, Jason thought again. They have a boat.
It had to be on the starboard side of the Lucky Magnolia. He and Nick had tied up to the port side and hadn’t seen another boat there.
He crept to the starboard side, keeping crouched down below the ranks of poker machines, then slid along the side. The main entrance wasn’t hard to find: it was huge, a twenty-foot-tall glass alcove set into the side of the riverboat, leading to a ramp and white plastic tunnel that clearly led to the shore. Two sets of glass doors blocked the entrance, but one door in each set had been smashed open. More confirmation, if any were needed, that this was the way to the intruders’ boat. The area in front of the alcove was wide open, and light coming in through the glass walls lit it well. Jason waited until he heard the ring of hammers on metal again, then ran for daylight, fast as his feet could carry him. His sandals grated on broken glass and then he was in the tunnel, sprinting down the ramp into fresh air and freedom.
The tunnel opened onto a wide pontoon pier against which the gambling boat was moored. The pier was held against the levee by steel cables, and connected with a foot ramp that led to the levee’s crown. A row of flags snapped overhead in the cool breeze. Jason looked wildly for a boat, and had no trouble finding it at all.
It was moored bow and stern to the upstream side of the pier. It was longer than the bass boat, maybe twenty feet, with a windscreen and cockpit and a white canvas top. A big hundred-fifty-horsepower Evinrude outboard was fixed to the stern, which was filled with big translucent plastic fuel jugs, each aglow with amber fuel. The motor was tilted forward to keep the prop out of the debris-filled water. Triumph sang in Jason’s blood as he gazed at the boat. He untied the stern line, then took the bow line in hand and walked the boat to the edge of the pier, where the Lucky Magnolia lay against huge rubber fenders intended to preserve its paint. Jason jumped from the pier to the gambling boat, clung for a precarious moment to the outside of the rail, then hopped the rail onto the Magnolia’s deck, the motorboat’s bow line still in hand.
He walked the boat forward, passing the line around the fluted white iron pillars that supported the deck above, then walked clean around the bow to the port side, where he moored the boat next to Retired and Gone Fishin’.
He felt a warm satisfaction as he contemplated his handiwork for a minute, then spent at least five seconds thinking of ways to steal the intruders’ tools while he was at it. But then he decided he’d better tell Nick there were thieves on board, before Nick decided to call him in for dinner or to use the toilet. Jason slipped back into the Lucky Magnolia, careful to close the door quietly behind him, then made his way through the restaurant to the kitchen. Nick was still cooking, oblivious to everything that had occurred to Jason since he left the kitchen. The smell of pork chops sizzling in the pan made Jason’s mouth water, and for a lightheaded instant he considered eating his meal before telling Nick about the two men trying to break into the safe.
Nick looked up at him, grinned. “You like coffee gravy?” he said. “Give you energy for the rest of the day.”
“Nick,” Jason said, “there are people on the boat.”
Nick seemed pleased. “They belong to the casino? Or did they drift up like us?”
“They’re thieves,” Jason said, and Nick’s grin vanished in an instant. “They’re drunk, and they’re breaking into the safe,” Jason went on. “They’re going to steal the money here, then rob every casino on the river.” Nick’s eyes never left Jason’s face as he reached to turn the flame off underneath the pan. “We’d better get back to our boat,” he said.
“Let’s put the food on a plate and take it with us,” Jason said.
Nick walked to him, grabbed him by his shoulders, and turned him around. “March on outta here,” he said, “and don’t make any noise.”
Just for that, Jason thought, I don’t tell you about how I stole their boat. Nick was so wary, skulking through the restaurant with such theatrical care, that Jason wanted to laugh. When they got into the corridor outside, the sound of banging and hammering on the safe could be heard clearly. Nick raised a finger to his lips—Jason wanted to laugh again—and then they slipped outside to where they had left the bass boat.
Jason went ahead so that he could see Nick’s face when Nick realized what Jason had done. Nick stepped out, intent only on the bass boat, and then slowed, puzzlement plain on his face as his eyes moved to the larger boat. He stopped, one hand on the line that tied the bass boat to the Magnolia, and then a conclusion seemed to pass across his face. He turned to Jason, his eyes suspicious.
“This is their boat?”
“Yeah!” Jason laughed. “I took it!”
Nick’s eyes narrowed. “You took their boat? You stole it?”
Jason was surprised by the suspicion in Nick’s tone.
Defiance bubbled up in him. “Yeah!” he said. “I stole it! They’re here to take money, and I took their boat! What’s wrong with that?”
Nick looked thoughtfully from Jason to the stolen boat and back, then stepped close to Jason, put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re sure those men are thieves?” he asked. “You didn’t just take their boat and then make up a story about their being robbers?”
Jason jerked away. “No way!” he said. “They’re here to steal!” Nick looked thoughtful, then cast a glance back over his shoulder at the door. “Oh, sure!” Jason scorned.
“Go ask them! Junior and his redneck buddy’ll be happy to see you!” He waved his arms. “You heard them hammering on the safe! You figure they’ll just say howdy and offer you some of their Jack Daniels?” Nick turned back to Jason, and his look softened. “I believe you,” he said. “We’d better leave.” Jason’s heart leaped. He jumped for the new speedboat, and dropped into the white vinyl seat behind the wheel. “Hey,” he said, “we’ve got push-button starting! Let’s blast outta here!”
“No!” Nick said sharply, and then lowered his voice. “They might have guns. We don’t want to make any noise. Let’s just drift away, then start the motor once we’re clear.”
Nick used one of the mooring lines to tie the bass boat’s bow to their new boat, and then he untied them from the Lucky Magnolia and pushed the boats into the current.
Nick crawled beneath the canvas cover to the seat next to Jason’s in the cockpit. Jason, heart beating, watched as they slowly slipped past the huge gambling boat. His eyes strained at the windows for a glimpse of Junior or his friend.
Nothing. The Magnolia fell astern. He laughed, then turned to Nick. “Start the engine?” he said.
“I guess it’s time.” Nick made his way to the stern and tilted the Evinrude’s propeller into the water. Jason pressed the start button.
Nothing happened.
Jason tried again and again, and then realized that there was an ignition lock, like the lock on a car, on the console. Junior or his buddy doubtless had the key.
Jason’s heart sank. He’d gone to the trouble and risk of stealing the boat, and now it might as well be a raft.
“No problem,” Nick said, when Jason told him of the trouble. Nick hopped back to the bass boat, got some tools out of one of the storage lockers, then returned and ducked under the console. “Move your feet, okay?” he said—Jason did—and then Jason heard him work with the electronics for a moment.
“Give it a try now,” Nick said.
Jason pressed the button, the starter whined, and the engine coughed. Jason gave a laugh. He let up on the button and the engine died. He tried again, and the engine again refused to start.
“Give it some choke,” Nick said as he clawed his way out from beneath the console. Jason looked for a button labeled choke, found it, and pushed it. Then he tried to start the engine again, and again the engine died.
“Let’s see what you’re doing,” Nick said as he settled into the seat next to Jason. Jason showed him. Nick reached over and pulled the choke button. “Pull it out, not in,” he said. And the engine started.
Still need the grownups, Jason thought as he pushed the throttle forward. Damn it. But his heart leaped as the engine roared, as the boat began to speed through the sluggish water. He turned to Nick and grinned. “Where did you say your daughter lives?” he said. “Bet we can get there in a couple days.”
Nick was looking over his shoulder at the bass boat bumping along behind. “Once we get out of sight of the casino,” he said, “we should cut back our speed, save fuel. Maybe tie up or drift at night so we don’t run into anything.”
“Fine,” Jason said. “Whatever.”
And then laughed, because the boat was his and now so was the river.
Larry Hallock stood in the pilothouse of the fireboat as it eased its way toward the Poinsett Landing plant. The boat moved slowly, feeling its way through the ruined facility so that it wouldn’t go aground on some half-ruined obstacle.
He could see the fire crew standing ready by their water cannon. They were in full firefighting togs, helmets, capes, faces masked, breathing from respirators. They had to be suffering from the Mississippi heat.
Which Larry knew firsthand, because he was suited himself. Not, thank God, in a complete radiation suit, one that looked like what the astronauts wore on the moon, but in something that was bad enough. He was in anti-C clothing—the C stood for Contamination—which consisted of heavy overalls, boots, gloves, skullcap, and a gas masklike respirator to keep him from breathing in any airborne contamination. The boots and gloves had been duct-taped to the overalls to make certain that no contaminated particulates got into his clothing. If any of the portable radiation detectors on the boat showed that he’d been contaminated, he’d be able to throw away the suit and walk away free.
But he was hot, even in the shade of the pilothouse. The respirator was claustrophobic. Sweat kept dripping from his forehead onto the inside lenses of his spectacles, and he’d wished he’d remembered to put on a sweatband before he donned the gear.
Larry wasn’t alone in his misery. Accompanying him on the boat were separate teams from the power company and from the Department of Energy, all in their own anti-C apparel. The fantail of the boat looked like an astronauts’ convention.
Helicopters thundered overhead. A nuclear accident was just the sort of thing to really concentrate the government’s attention as well as the attention of the media, which with its usual efficiency was in the process of blowing the incident into mass panic. Larry figured that more people were going to die of heart attacks and strokes while listening to the television coverage than would ever die of radiation exposure.
The depth sounder made ticking noises as the boat edged closer to the auxiliary building. The helmsman fired the stern thrusters briefly to nudge the back end of the boat around, then paused, the boat hovering alongside the long, buff-colored flank of the storage building, its engines providing just enough thrust to hover in the current. The depth sounder reported fourteen feet of swift-moving water under the keel.
“I believe, sir,” the captain said, in soft, deferential Southern tones, “that we may commence.” Larry had spent the night in his own bed, in his quake-damaged home. His wife Helen had survived the quake without so much as a scratch, but the house had not been so lucky. Most of the shingles had fallen from the roof. The rear porch had become detached and moved about five feet into the yard. All the windows had broken, and all the shelves had fallen.
Helen had coped perfectly well with his absence, however. The fallen books and smashed crockery had been cleared up, and the shelves set up again, this time fixed firmly to wall studs with anchor bolts. Nothing was going to fall again unless it took the entire wall with it. Larry was thankful that he’d married a practical girl who knew how to use his tools.
That morning, on his way to his rendezvous with the fireboat, Larry had flown over the Poinsett Landing plant and surveyed the collapsed roof of the auxiliary building, looking for places to rain water into the holding pond. He’d taken a number of Polaroid photographs from the air, and he reached into an envelope for these and blinked at them past the smeared lenses of his spectacles. He made his way out of the pilothouse, then told the captains of each of the water cannons where to direct their attack. Pumps began to throb. Valves were turned.
And brown Mississippi water began to flow from the nozzles of the water cannon. It took most of the day before Larry’s radiation detectors suggested that the great reservoir of the holding pond had at last been filled, and the spent fuel’s furious heat temporarily quenched. At this point Larry thankfully got out of his anti-C gear; the teams of inspectors left the boat to enter
the auxiliary building to analyze the damage and dump large amounts of radiation-absorbing boric acid into the cooling water. Larry himself was spared this duty, both because of his injury and because all the access routes to the building lay under water and would have to be entered by people using scuba equipment. Operation Island, as General Frazetta had dubbed it, was getting under way.
NINETEEN
On Wednesday, in the afternoon, I visited every part of the island where we lay. It was extensive, and partially covered with willow. The earthquake had rent the ground in large and numerous gaps; vast quantities of burnt wood in every stage of alteration, from its primitive nature to stove coal, had been spread over the ground to very considerable distances; frightful and hideous caverns yawned on every side, and the earth’s bowels appeared to have felt the tremendous force of the shocks which had thus riven the surface. I was gratified with seeing several places where those spouts which had so much attracted our wonder and admiration had arisen; they were generally on the beach; and have left large circular holes in the sand, formed much like a funnel. For a great distance around the orifice, vast quantities of coal have been scattered, many pieces weighing from 15 to 20 lbs. were discharged 160 measured paces—These holes were of various dimensions; one of them I observed most particularly, it was 16 feet in perpendicular depth, and 63 feet in circumferences at the mouth.
Narrative of Mr. Pierce, Dec. 25, 1811
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