by Lopez, Rob
Returning to the pilothouse, Darla watched the sun drop below the horizon. The sky went from azure to cobalt, then slate gray. Herons preening their feathers on the banks took off in search of their roosts. Swifts and nighthawks swooped to catch nocturnal insects foolish enough to rise too early, and crickets tentatively began their night chorus. At this time, streetlights ashore would start to wink on, porch lights would twinkle and automobile beams would crawl along distant roads like glowworms. But not tonight. As the sky grew dark, the land grew darker still, an opaque veil swallowing up distant shapes and creeping closer, shrinking the world and bringing a sense of loneliness. She wondered how Jo was making out on the farm. Probably adapting as a dutiful daughter-in-law, reading a story to her youngest kid by candlelight then curling up on the porch with her husband Jeff, watching the same sun go down and talking about the immediate future and other sensible stuff. Darla had no doubt she’d have planned for most contingencies. She’d go to bed tonight having figured out some activities to keep Stephanie busy the next day so she wouldn’t keep bitching about not being able to text her friends anymore. In fact, knowing Jo, she’d probably already arranged for a couple of those friends to stay over if they lived close enough. Stephanie would be just fine then.
Darla stroked the helm, thinking of her own daughter. All she remembered were the sleepless nights and the depression setting in. She couldn’t recall Rose’s first smile and never got to see Rose’s first steps. She did recall the long evenings where Rose would cry herself to sleep because Darla had simply given up trying to make her feel better. Then one night she didn’t wake up.
Darla gripped the helm tight and shut her eyes. Biting the inside of her cheek, she tasted blood.
Voices drifted up from the jetty as figures emerged from the twilight. A squad of National Guard soldiers carried a generator and boxes on board. Darla dried her eyes and straightened up.
Ms. Roberts came up to the pilothouse. “I need you to sail tonight,” she said.
“I’d already decided that,” said Darla.
“It’s vital we get the generator and pumps to the reactor.”
“I know that.”
“If we can buy enough time, we can evacuate the city, but we need to move quickly.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want any delays.”
With that last word, Ms. Roberts left the pilothouse.
“Do you think I’m stupid or something?” called Darla.
There was no reply.
“I’m the captain of this boat and I decide when we go and when we don’t,” shouted Darla.
The FEMA representative was long gone and Darla slammed her fist into the bulkhead.
“Sure,” she said. “Don’t ask me how difficult it is to navigate at night with no lights. No, don’t worry about any of that stuff you preening bitch.”
Angrily, she sounded the steam whistle. When the lines were cast off, she ordered Slow Ahead, spinning the helm.
10
Sailing the Mississippi at night used to be like driving past an amusement park, what with the refineries and plants all lit up like Christmas trees, the lights reflecting on the water. The sky would glow above every town, and every dock would be floodlit. The river itself would be the darkest part. That was reversed now. The land was a pitch black mound, while the water reflected the stars. For the first time that Darla could ever recall, the milky way was visible as a streak of blue fluorescence across the heavens. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Darla learned to use her peripheral vision to pick out the subtle difference between land and river, and when the river curved, it got difficult to tell when the bank was getting closer. Turning the helm slowly, she tried to keep the boat in the center of the river. It was like walking a tightrope. Back in the heyday of steamboats, this delicate business would have been routine, with the best pilots earning their keep at the wheel. For Darla, it was more difficult. The familiar landmarks were invisible and her mental map of the river, gleaned during daylight, didn’t correspond to what she was finding now. Disoriented, she found herself second-guessing when the next bend would come up and then wondering if she was in a different part of the river. Twice she turned the helm suddenly to avoid the dark shadows of moored barges that seemed to come out of nowhere, then wondered whether she had imagined them, because, looking back, she saw nothing. Bridges were the biggest headache as they blended into the darkness beyond until she got close enough to see them silhouetted against the sky. Then she had to steer quick to get through an arch without hitting a pillar.
Footsteps caused her to turn and she glimpsed someone’s head and shoulders.
“The lieutenant asked me to come up and see if you needed a hand at the wheel,” said a voice.
Darla assumed it was one of the Coast Guard crew.
“No, I’m good,” she said.
She was disappointed that Carl himself hadn’t come up to check on her.
Some time later, Jacques came up and Darla could smell the coffee he carried.
Jacques peered out through the open window. “How can you see anything?” he asked.
Darla didn’t want to admit that she couldn’t. “You get a feel for the river,” she said. “How are the others doing?”
“Manny is back in the boiler room. Everybody else is asleep. How will we know when we reach the nuclear plant?”
Darla wasn’t sure. She could very well carry on down the center of the river until she reached the Gulf. Maybe she’d get to Mexico after all.
“Is Zack awake?” she asked. “I need him on the bow watch. Oh wait, he doesn’t have the confidence. I don’t need him falling overboard right now. I’ll never see him.”
“I can do it,” said Jacques.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Listen for the generator they’ve got running. I’ll try and steer closer to the west bank. You might be able to hear it.”
It was a long shot. The splash of the paddle wheels likely drowned out everything else. Clouds scudded overhead, partially obscuring the stars, and it was like entering a tunnel. Darla blew the whistle on the speaking tube.
“Yeah?” came Manny’s voice. He still sounded sleepy.
“Slow it down a touch,” said Darla. “Just give me a little forward momentum.”
The thrashing of the paddle wheels diminished slightly. Darla glanced from one invisible bank to the other, trying to gage where she was within the river. A bridge loomed suddenly, sweeping overhead, and Darla looked anxiously for the pillars so she didn’t ram them. The boat passed smoothly underneath, and Darla had a mental imprint from her peripheral vision of latticework. That meant it was the Gramercy Bridge. At least, she thought it was. If so, they were entering the metropolitan area of New Orleans. The vague structures of industrial plants began appearing on both sides of the river. Darla avoided looking at them directly, because whenever she did they would just disappear against the background. The odor of the sugarcane fields gave way to the more pungent smell of gasoline and chemicals, and she felt sure she was on the right track. A line of blackness grew ahead like someone was rapidly coloring in the space with a marker pen, and it was like the river was coming to a dead end, but she caught a glimpse of more water angling to her right and knew they’d reached a big bend. She turned the helm, trying to feel her way around the bend. A dark, blocky shape appeared suddenly ahead and instinctively she spun the helm. It was a barge, and as they attempted to clear it, the paddleboxes scraped against steel with a grinding that set Darla’s teeth on edge. More shapes emerged from the gloom and she realized she’d run into a flotilla of barges, all anchored on the bend. She was either too close to the bank, or they’d broken loose and drifted into the channel.
“Collision,” shouted Jacques from the bow.
Darla was fully aware of what was coming, but the Mississippi Rose had very little momentum and it wasn’t responding well to the rudder. As they angled out, the current caught them, dragging them sideways agains
t the obstacles. Darla yelled for Full Ahead. There was a pause, then the engines answered, the paddle wheels thrashing hard and fast. The vessel leaped forward and Darla slackened off the rudder, then spun it the other way. The boat passed through an imaginary gap, hitting nothing solid, then the expanse of water opened up. Darla slowed the vessel down again, trying to feel the trim of the boat to see if it was running with the current in the middle of the channel again. Testing the rudder first one way then the other, she settled on what felt like the right heading, and as they rounded the bend, they saw a campfire on the shore, with a dark structure looming behind it.
Darla blew the steam whistle, and someone threw more fuel on the fire, causing it to flare up, illuminating a jetty and the slope. The pump and pipes leading to the reactor housings were outlined, and figures leaped up and down, waving their arms. Darla brought the vessel gently in to the jetty, reversing momentum and hitting it with a bump. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t a bad landing.
Jacques leaped ashore to tie the boat up and Darla called All Stop, the paddle wheels resting. The fire illuminated grateful faces and high fives and Darla broke into a tired smile.
She patted the helm. “Thank you, Rose,” she said.
11
Equipment and stores, including military MRE rations, bottled water and bedding, were unloaded. The new generator was fired up and the pump put into action, engineers running up the slope with the tubing. Aguilar came up to the pilothouse.
“Looks like we made it just in time,” she said. “The rods were exposed and they were worried about hydrogen buildup. It was getting dangerous.”
“Does that mean it’s okay now?” said Darla.
“As long as we keep the pumps running, I think they’ve got it under control. Technician says we need to keep the rods submerged for at least a month to initiate cool-down. I guess that gives us enough time.”
Darla wondered about the difficulties of keeping the generators running 24-7 for so long. “What about diesel?” she asked.
“They’ll have to improvise,” said Aguilar. “They’ve been draining the tanks from the cars in the parking lot.”
“Are you staying here?”
“No. I’ll leave a couple of guys, but I’ve got to inspect the levee pumps, then I’ll come back. Will you be available to ferry my team back and forth?”
“That’s what I’m here for. What about food and water?”
“We’ll need you to keep us supplied with that too.”
“Got all that at the armory?”
“For a few days maybe, but after that …”
Darla nodded her understanding.
“I’ll see what I can source,” she said.
“Thanks. I appreciate what you’re doing.”
After Aguilar left, Darla mumbled to herself, “I’m glad somebody does.”
With a toot of the steam whistle, Mississippi Rose made ready to get underway. Casting off, she headed downriver into the blackout. Darla proceeded cautiously, conscious of stranded shipping. Looming shapes drifted by in the darkness. Drawing closer to New Orleans, she could smell burned carbon. Rounding the final bend she saw another campfire at the docks, illuminating the docked Pride of Orleans. Darla maneuvered her boat and tied up behind the larger paddle steamer.
There were several campfires on the dock, with cops and National Guard personnel chatting by the firelight. Charred warehouses reeked and it was like a vision of hell. The guardsmen she was carrying disembarked, carrying rations and bedding, and Darla entered the saloon where she was immediately accosted by Ms. Roberts.
“I need you to be available in the morning,” said the FEMA rep.
“That’s just a few hours away,” said Darla. “I need to sleep and we have to do maintenance on the boiler before we fire her up again. It’s not like turning a key in an ignition switch.”
“I’m not entirely stupid,” said Ms. Roberts petulantly.
“Not entirely, huh? Just mostly.”
“Just be here.”
Darla gave out a jaw-cracking yawn. “Sure,” she said, walking away. She didn’t have the energy to argue further. She entered the boiler room and saw Manny with his hand on the steam valve.
“Don’t do a blowdown,” said Darla. “We’ll let the boiler cool naturally. We have to conserve the water now.”
“I don’t like the crap building up inside,” said Manny.
“We’ll do it once a week. Until they get the network pumps working, we’ll have to use river water.”
“That’s got even more crap.”
“Can’t do anything about that. I’m heading into town. Need to get some stuff from my apartment.”
“We doing all this again tomorrow?”
“Most probably. Get as much sleep as you can.”
“You don’t want to be going down those streets alone at this time of night. Wait till the morning.”
“Ain’t nobody going to see me.”
“Want to take my rifle?”
“Hell no, I don’t need that dang heavy thing. I’ll be back soon.”
The dockside was busy as the new arrivals sorted themselves out. Guardsmen carried their gear into a small warehouse that hadn’t burned down. Inside there were already people sleeping. A hose extended from the Pride of Orleans, and it was clear they’d been using the steam-driven pump to fight the fires. The concrete was still wet and Darla picked her way through the puddles. Ms. Roberts was deep in conversation with Carl, laughing politely at something he said and throwing off coy feminine vibes — the opposite of how she treated Darla.
Darla figured the two were suited to each other and ticked Carl off her wish list. Anyone who got on well with Roberts probably wasn’t someone she wanted to know herself. Pointedly looking away, and secretly hoping Carl had seen her do so, she passed through the dock gates. In the movies, she’d have heard approaching footsteps as he’d run after her, apologizing for not having spoken to her, but the only footsteps she heard were her own. As the voices faded behind, the bleak silence of the city closed in around her.
With her night vision impaired from having looked at the camp fires, she could hardly see anything. After tripping over curbs and stumbling whenever a sidewalk ended she opted to walk down the middle of the road. Slowly her eyes adjusted, but the surreal feeling remained. She felt like she was the only person left in New Orleans. She began to wonder whether, in fact, it had already been evacuated. Only the sound of someone’s gentle snoring through an open window convinced her otherwise. Navigating the pitch-black streets also proved challenging. Thinking she knew where she was going, she encountered intersections that she wasn’t expecting and began to doubt where she was. Second guessing herself she turned down side streets and got more lost. It wasn’t until she hit the St. Joseph cemetery that she knew she was in the wrong place. She thought for a moment that she was just in a narrow street with small houses, but as her fingers trailed across the inscriptions on the front of the crypts, her heart jumped. It wasn’t simply the thought that she was now among the dead. She was also in the middle of a bad neighborhood.
Reorienting herself, she struck out in the right direction, picking up the pace. She froze when she heard the sound of tortured metal.
Someone somewhere was attempting to wrench open a security shutter.
It didn’t sound like an innocent endeavor and Darla turned around. Whoever was trying to break into a store could do so without her interference. If the looting had already started, she wanted to be long gone.
It took a while for her to get to her own street, and she counted doors until she got to her own. Letting herself in she groped her way up the stairs to her apartment, opened the door and closed it behind her.
Inside she tripped over some discarded shoes, a dropped towel and a laundry basket before she got to the kitchen. Finding scented candles in a closet she lit one, relieved to see familiar sights hoving into view. The apartment might have been a mess, but it was her mess at least. She crossed into the be
droom to begin packing, placing the candle on the vanity table.
The first thing she noticed was that the wardrobe doors were open, with clothes and shoes lying in a heap. She could be untidy but she was never that bad.
The second thing she noticed was that the picture of Rose on the nightstand was missing. Rushing over to see if it had fallen, she whirled as the wardrobe door creaked. Eric Whelan stepped out from behind it, holding the framed picture.
“Looking for this?” he said.
For a moment, Darla was stunned. “You give that back,” she said.
“Not sure I will,” he murmured, looking at the picture one more time.
“Get the hell out of here,” shouted Darla, recovering herself.
“Or what?” said Eric smugly.
“You have got no right.”
“Seems I got every right.” He waved the photo frame. “Only chance I got to look at my kid. Would have seen more of her if I wasn’t inside.”
“You put yourself inside.”
“No, no, no,” tutted Eric. “You’re the one who put me inside. We had a deal, remember?”
Darla did remember. “I wasn’t going to lie under oath for you. I had a child to think about.”
“All you had to do,” said Eric in a sing-song fashion, “was tell the judge I was with you the whole time. Weren’t no way the jury was going to disbelieve a pregnant woman. We had a good case.”
Darla scoffed. “Is that what you told yourself while you were inside? Oh I bet you told the entire wing. Probably got to believing it yourself, even though you were arrested with the security guard’s blood on your shoes …”
“I could have got that walking by.”
“… and your buddy snitched, saying it was your idea.”
“It would have been your word against his.”
Darla was aghast. “You put a guy in a coma!”
“That’s why he couldn’t ID me,” said Eric with a smirk.
