Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) (10 page)

Devil’s Elbow

Intracoastal Waterway/Calcasieu River

Near West End of Calcasieu Lock

Lake Charles, Louisiana

Day 26, 11:55 a.m.

Kinsey shook his head as he returned the VHF handset to its rack. “Nothing. I guess we’re out of range. I figured it might be a stretch.”

“Too bad,” Bollinger said as he steered the boat toward the sharp bend in the river. “I gotta admit, knowing the cavalry was on the other end of the radio was reassuring. But we knew it wouldn’t last.”

“Yeah, but it sure makes it all real, doesn’t it,” Kinsey said, adding, “And I thank you for coming along, Bollinger. You know you didn’t have to.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, boss. Besides—” Bollinger grinned “—Torres said it was my turn to watch you.”

Kinsey chuckled, and Bollinger focused on the river ahead.

“Crap!” Bollinger said as he eased the boat around the bend in the short section where the Intracoastal Waterway followed the existing river channel. “I guess that settles whether or not the lock’s open, Chief.”

Ahead in the distance, where the Intracoastal left the winding river to continue southeast as a man-made gash through the marsh, both sides of the entrance to Calcasieu Lock were lined with push boats, their barges grounded in the soft mud of the banks to hold them in place. Like the rest of the idle tows they’d seen so far, there were no signs of life. Anyone aboard was either staying out of sight or the crews had abandoned the boats to strike off for their homes.

“Half a dozen tows,” Bollinger said. “Actually, I’d have expected more with the lock closed all this time.”

“Me too, now that you mention it.” Kinsey stifled a curse. “I’d hoped we wouldn’t have to try the trailer until the locks further on. And I hadn’t figured on all these tows jamming access to the bank. I’m not sure we can get close enough to pull her out.”

“What are we going to do?” Bollinger asked.

Kinsey turned the VHF selector to channel 14. “Well, I doubt it does any good, but I guess I’ll hail the lock and see if anyone’s still there.”

He keyed the mic. “Calcasieu Locks, Calcasieu Locks. This is the US Coast Guard. Do you copy? Over.”

He repeated the call with no response. He was about to hail a third time when his radio crackled.

“’Bout time y’all showed up, Coast Guard. Ain’t nobody home at the lock. Y’all come on over and have some coffee.”

Movement caught Kinsey’s eye and he saw a man waving from the wheelhouse door of one of the towboats.

“That you waving at me?” Kinsey asked into the mic.

“That would be me,” came the reply.

“Take us alongside, Bollinger,” Kinsey said. “But lay off a ways until we get a better feel for the situation.”

Bollinger nodded, then glanced back to see how their own tow was riding before edging alongside the towboat. Kinsey studied the vessel as they approached. It was an older boat, but well maintained. Even under the present conditions, the blue and white paint looked fresh, the brass was bright, and the decks were clean, obviously freshly washed. The name JUDY ANN was neatly lettered across her stern and on a name board attached to the pilothouse. Under her name on the stern was her hailing port, Greenville, Mississippi.

Kinsey’s study of the boat was interrupted as someone came out of the deckhouse to stand at the rail. He recognized the man who’d waved to him and let Bollinger bring their boat to within twenty feet of the towboat.

“Hold her right here, Bollinger. And be ready to jet if I give you the word.”

“Got it, Chief,” Bollinger replied. Kinsey exited the small cabin, his hand resting casually on his sidearm.

“Mornin’,” he called across the gap.

The man’s smile faded as he noticed Kinsey’s hand. He nodded. “Mornin’ back. You plannin’ on shootin’ somebody?”

Kinsey flashed an uneasy smile. “You can’t be too careful these days.”

The man nodded. “That’s a fact. So why don’t you take that hand away from your gun nice and slow.”

“And why would I do that?” Kinsey asked.

“Because there’s a feller in that boat just ahead of us who has your head in the crosshairs of a thirty ought six, and another one with a bead on your boat driver there. One signal from me and you’re both dead meat.”

Crap
, Kinsey thought,
how could I be so friggin’ dumb
? He started to glance back toward Bollinger.

“I wouldn’t do it,” the man said. “I don’t want to blow y’all away, but I will, you force my hand. Now do us both a favor and take your hand away from your gun, slow like.”

Kinsey hesitated, wondering whether the guy was bluffing, then did as ordered.

“Look,” he said, “You don’t want to—”

“Now,” the man said, “unzip them coveralls and drop them to your waist. I want to see your arms.”

“What the hell—”

“I’m lookin’ for tattoos. Just do what I say and don’t make a move for that gun, and everything will be fine,” the man said.

Suddenly, Kinsey understood. He shucked his Coast Guard coveralls to his waist, exposing his tee-shirt-clad upper body and bare arms. On his right upper arm, a small tattoo read US Coast Guard and, below that in script,
Semper Paratus
.

The man smiled. “Now that there’s about the most welcome sight I’ve seen in almost a month.”

“A youthful mistake,” Kinsey said, ‘but one I’m glad I made now. Can I pull my coveralls back up?”

“Oh yeah, sorry,” the man said, “but like you said, you can’t be too careful these days.”

Kinsey nodded and struggled back into his coveralls. “I understand,” he said, glancing at the boat ahead. “Now about those rifles …”

The man grinned again. “You might say that was a little creative exaggeration.”

Kinsey felt a flash of irritation, but it passed quickly. Things had worked out well, considering the alternatives. He returned the man’s grin. “Play much poker?”

“Now and again,” the man replied. “By the way, I’m Lucius Wellesley. The
Judy Ann
is my boat.” There was obvious pride in his voice when he mentioned the boat.

“Matt Kinsey,” Kinsey replied as he zipped his coveralls and nodded toward the small cabin of his own boat. “And that’s Dave Bollinger at the wheel. So you were looking for prison tattoos, right? How’d you know about that?”

“It’s a long story,” Wellesley replied. “Why don’t y’all come aboard and I’ll tell you all about it. And the offer of the coffee stands. I just made a fresh pot.”

Kinsey nodded and instructed Bollinger to bring them alongside the
Judy Ann
, then moved to pass lines to Wellesley. Minutes later with their own boat secure alongside, the Coasties boarded the push boat and followed Wellesley into the mess room, where other men waited. Wellesley made introductions, going down the line of men, who each nodded as they were introduced.

“This here’s Dave Hitchcock, captain of the
Rambling Ace
tied up just ahead of us. Then we got Jerry Arnold, Sam Davis, Bud Spencer, and Tom Winfield; they’re all from boats that left.” Wellesley grinned. “And that greasy-looking customer on the end is Jimmy Kahla, chief engineer of the
Judy Ann
.”

Kinsey introduced himself and Bollinger, and Wellesley waved them to a table as the other men took other available seats in the galley and Wellesley excused himself and moved into the small galley. He returned with three steaming white china mugs of coffee on a tray and set it down on the table before them.

“The rest of you jokers can serve yourselves,” Wellesley said, “I’m only waitin’ on the guests.” There was good-natured laughter as the others got up and headed into the galley. “There’s sugar and creamer there on the table if you need it,” Wellesley said to Kinsey and Bollinger.

The Coasties nodded and took a cup, both preferring it black. Kinsey sipped his and set it down on the table as the other men drifted back into the mess room to take seats.

“So, back to my original question, Captain Welles—”

“Call me Lucius,” Wellesley said. “You mean about the tattoos?”

Kinsey nodded, and Wellesley continued. “Well, some of the boys that left ran into some trouble west of here—”

“The boys that left?” Kinsey asked, obviously confused.

Wellesley sighed. “It would probably be better if I just started at the beginning.”

Kinsey nodded.

“Well, there were already tows stacked up on either side of the lock, waiting transit, when the lights went out. We was all just sitting here the night before, watching all the pretty lights in the sky; then come daylight, the power went down ashore. At first we just thought it was some sort of routine problem, and we didn’t hear much else because VHF reception was horrible and nobody had cell reception. Then after a couple of days, more tows were stacking up, and nobody showed up to work on the lock. VHF reception started to gradually improve, and we started hearing bits and pieces of news from Lake Charles all about this solar storm thing. There wasn’t much we could do but sit here, because even when the radios started working better, cell reception was out, and none of the boats could call their company offices to find out what we were supposed to do. What we were hearing on the radio didn’t sound too good, and of course, everyone started worrying about their families.”

“Understandable,” Kinsey said. “What happened?”

Wellesley smiled wanly. “You might say we had a little imbalance. Most everyone on the stranded tows lives somewhere along the waterway system, but way more of ’em live east of here, either along the coast near the Intracoastal or up the Mississippi system. Thing is, it’s not divided evenly by boat; most crews are a mixed bag with crewmen from all over. Well, naturally, everyone wanted to head home, or at least in the general direction, and based on what we were hearing on the VHF, we all figured sticking to the water was way safer. Headin’ home in the boats seemed the natural choice, but the problem was, only the tows on this side had anywhere to go.”

Kinsey nodded. “The locks.”

“That’s right,” Wellesley said. “All the boats on the east side are trapped between locks. They can’t get north to the Mississippi from Morgan City because of the locks at Bayou Sorrel and Port Allen. And likewise, they can’t get east to New Orleans because the Bayou Boeuf Lock is closed at Morgan City, and even if they could, they couldn’t lock up into the Mississippi, ’cause both the Harvey and Algiers locks are abandoned, just like everything else.” He shook his head. “Not that anybody in their right mind would head for New Orleans. It’s a war zone, last we heard.”

“You have contact?”

“Had. Just a VHF relay passin’ news from boats spread along the waterway as far east as New Orleans and north to Memphis. But we ain’t heard nothin’ from those guys for a week now. It appears like anyone who could leave the cities did, and the gangs are running wild. From what we hear, those FEMA assholes ain’t doin’ nothing to help the situation. They seem more focused on looting the civilians.”

Kinsey stiffened. “Baton Rouge?”

“Not quite as bad, I hear. The governor and the state government are there, so I imagine they kept some National Guard troops there to try to keep a lid on it.” Wellesley sneered. “Politicians are right good at lookin’ out for number one.”

Kinsey gave a relieved nod, then refocused on the topic at hand. “You said something about an imbalance …?”

“Oh yeah. Like I said, the crews were mostly a mixture, so we all congregated up there on the lock wall to try to hash it out. As you can probably imagine, there was a lot of arguing back and forth. Finally, everybody who lived on the west side of the lock, which means this part of Louisiana and Texas down as far as the Mexican border, came over to boats on this side. The problem was, there weren’t near enough people left on this side to crew all the boats, so there was a lot more arguing. They finally decided on six boats, and each one of them took a barge of diesel and loaded up on groceries and water from the abandoned boats and headed west. That’s how we knew about convicts pretending to be the law.”

“They warned you?” Kinsey asked.

“Not directly,” Wellesley said. “They separated and one of ’em stopped in Port Arthur to let some guys look for their families, and had a run-in with the fake cops. They were at the edge of VHF range and breaking up pretty bad, but we heard ’em warning the other westbound boats about the cons on the radio; then we lost ’em. They mentioned prison tattoos. That’s why when you showed up from that direction, I wasn’t sure if you were legit or not. I didn’t know what to do, which is why I bluffed you into the little striptease.”

Kinsey laughed. “And quite well, I have to admit. But what about the boats on the other side of the lock?”

“Still there, of course,” Wellesley said. “The tows anyway. Lots of the guys took the towboats’ aluminum skiffs and took off to see how far they could get, and a few lit out up the road, luggin’ gas cans and hopin’ to find an abandoned car. There are a lot of single guys in this life, though; those of us with no close family figured with everything going to hell, this didn’t seem to be a bad place to ride things out. We’re at the dead end of a road in the middle of nowhere with marsh and river all around us, so I doubt we’ll attract much unwanted attention. The boats that left loaded up supplies, but that still left plenty of groceries on the abandoned boats. We got power and showers and air-conditioning. Our biggest worry is fresh water, but between the tanks on the abandoned boats and the few of us, we’ll be okay until things get better.” He paused. “Which I think makes it your turn to share. I’m hoping the US Coast Guard showing up means things ARE getting better.”

Kinsey shook his head. “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you there, Cap—Lucius. I’m actually trying to get to Baton Rouge to find my own family. This isn’t in any way an official Coast Guard operation.”

“So is the government doing anything?”

“Nothing I want to be a part of,” Kinsey said, and beside him Bollinger nodded.

Wellesley’s face fell; then he looked resigned. “Yeah, actually that’s kind of what I’d figured from the VHF traffic. It’s kind of a shock to hear it ‘official like’ though.”