The New Madrid Run (7 page)

As they shared a couple of cans of chicken soup, Carlos explained a little of his recent history and recounted his meeting with the wave. Although it was basically a tragic story, Carlos’ way of telling it, with his accent and his gallows humor, had Travis laughing out loud. A half-hour later, when the sun had risen high enough to warm the air, Travis rose from his seat in the galley.

“Time for us to get underway, Carlos. You make yourself comfortable, get your strength back. We’re going to set sail, see if we can find civilization—and maybe another couple cans of that chicken.”

Carlos offered a wide smile of approval. ”
Buena
idea,
amigo
,
buena
idea.”

Night passed in dark oblivion, but when the boy woke in the morning, the crushing terror and desperation of the previous day’s events wrapped around his sanity like the hands of a strangler. His mother was gone, washed over the side by the rough seas in the night. He hated himself for the relief he felt, knowing that the terrible decision had been taken away by the sea. He tried to fight it—the panic and nausea, but as the sun rose over a gray sea, it all cascaded down on him again. He slid down onto the floor of the raft, pulled himself into a fetal position, and closed his eyes. The young man stayed that way all day and into the night. He didn’t really sleep. His mind, in mechanized defense, simply short-circuited and turned off.

In the early hours of the next morning, the needs of the boy’s body brought him back to life. He awoke with a parched mouth that gave thirst a new dimension. His face and arms were badly sunburned. His skin was hot, but he found himself shivering. His mind was so numbed that he felt like a stranger in his own body. The child steeled himself to concentrate only on the present— remembrance was not allowed.

At first, even he was unaware of the deep wounds to his psyche the trauma of the past few days had caused. It was when he saw one of his mother’s sandals in the raft and attempted to cry out, that he realized he couldn’t speak. Although his mouth moved, no words came forth. Startled, he tried to speak again and still there was no sound from his throat, no words from his lips. It wasn’t at all like the time when he had laryngitis and could just barely whisper. It was more as if the part of him that gave voice was gone—just gone, lost to the sound of the waves slapping against the raft and the cries of the gulls above. The boy collapsed back against the side of the hard rubber and cried, tears of pain and frustration rolling down his cheeks.

It was thirst that brought the young castaway around once more. He lay there, dry mouth cradling his swollen tongue, when a thought burst into his consciousness—there was water in the raft!

His father always kept a half-gallon of drinking water in a pouch in the back of the raft near the transom! In the kaleidoscopic events of the last twenty-four hours, he had forgotten all about it. The youth crawled over to the pouch and clawed at the zipper. There was not only water, but, sealed in a plastic bag were a dozen granola bars.

His hands shaking, he tore the cap off the water bottle and drank greedily. He paused for a moment, savoring the wondrous feeling of moisture, then took another long swallow. Without missing a beat, he snapped the lid on the water and attacked the granola bars. He devoured one without even tasting it, then he slowed down and ate another, but resisted the temptation for a third. After the second granola bar, the boy had another slug of water, then reluctantly put away his meager supplies.

As the dawn gave life to sullen, cloud-filled skies, the young man tried to sleep—to escape. But when he closed his eyes, he was assailed by nightmares recounting the death of his mother and father. He sobbed in silence, his voice trapped like an insect in a mason jar, and he lay awake sweating and shaking. The sun rose and tortured him, and when it finally set, the velvet coolness of night seduced him into sleep and the nightmares came again. He awoke drenched in sweat, drank a little water, and mechanically ate part of a granola bar, but he could feel the life force ebbing from him—the desire to exist, to survive, was fading. Night bled into morning again. He had long since lost track of time, and everything around him had become surreal. When he heard the voice calling, the boy thought it was his father’s. There was a part of him that knew it couldn’t be, yet the voice persisted.

Once again it was the sensei, riding on the bow, who spotted the raft. He pointed to starboard as Travis changed course slightly and brought the boat abeam. There in the raft lay a boy, blond hair plastered to his head from salt spray, soft blue eyes staring up, vacant and uncomprehending, arms and face burned reddish brown. The sensei, holding a line, jumped into the raft and tied it off. He lifted the lad up to Travis. The boy didn’t respond as he was picked up and handed to the man on the sailboat, but as Travis laid the child on a bunk in the cabin, the boy suddenly looked at him with frightened, pleading eyes. His mouth moved but made no sound.

“Easy son, easy,” Travis whispered. “You’re safe now. Just relax.”

They offered him water and he drank a small swallow but refused any food, then he curled up in a tight ball in the corner of the bed and dozed fitfully. The lad was nearly as tall as Carlos, still lithe, but at that age where he would soon begin to fill out. The features of his face were child-soft yet, but handsome. Travis thought he would grow up to be a fine-looking man, if he got the chance.

However, he was another mouth to feed, and unless Travis was successful in finding supplies, survival for the boy, and everyone else, was going to become questionable very soon. So after assigning a weak but attentive Carlos to watch over the youngster, he went topside and ran out every inch of sail, his eyes constantly searching the horizon.

An hour later, almost as if he had willed it, Travis spotted what was left of a huge, partially collapsed building protruding from the water. Dropping the jib, they sailed slowly and carefully over the area as Travis tried to verify their location. It appeared, by luck more than skill, they were over the Publix Supermarket/K-Mart shopping center he had hoped to find.

The depth of the water was approximately thirty feet. Though the recent turbulence had clouded the sea, the water was still clear enough to discern crushed and mangled cars in the parking lot below them. Many of the vehicles had been thrown against the side of the building by the force of the wave. The walls that had received the greatest impact of the wave had been completely destroyed; part of the back wall had held, but the roof was gone, carried away or broken into pieces and mingled in the carnage. The contents of the building were scattered over several blocks. Travis tried to keep himself from wondering how many hundreds of people had died in the wreckage below.

There were two sets of snorkeling equipment with masks, fins, and snorkels stored in the forward compartments of the boat. Accompanying them was a single dive tank and regulator, miraculously undamaged, registering twenty-two-hundred PSI, and two nylon catch bags. At a depth of thirty feet, an experienced diver like Travis could squeeze out about an hour and a half of bottom time with the tank—if he took it slow and easy. He decided to tackle the grocery store first. Afterwards, if he still had air, he’d try the K-Mart for whatever hardware and supplies he could find there.

Travis checked the boy before preparing to dive. The child still slept, but occasionally he would thrash back and forth silently. Looking down at him, Travis knew that the kid had been through a rough time, but at the moment, there was nothing more he could do for him.

They anchored the sailboat over what used to be the center of the Publix store. A cold, northern wind whipped at Travis as he stripped to his T-shirt and underwear, and it occurred to him that the weather had suddenly become unseasonably cold for this time of the year. He wondered if the damages the earth sustained had actually altered climatic conditions, as Cody said they would. If he could find supplies they needed, he was for heading north. If there actually had been some sort of polar shift, and the weather was getting colder in the tropics, it made sense that it might well be warmer farther north.

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.”