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Authors: Scott B. Williams

The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid (13 page)

BOOK: The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid
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On the larger thoroughfares, people had pushed most of the cars and trucks blocking the streets out of the roadway to the curb. Many of these had been broken into already, as evidenced by smashed windows and pried-open fuel doors. Grant assumed that those who did have motorized transport that was still working would soon or already had run out of options for buying fuel and would find a ready supply in the tanks of all these abandoned vehicles. He was glad he didn’t have to worry about such things. Though a working vehicle would make it easier for him to get his friends out of the city and to the safety of the cabin, he knew such a vehicle would be a target. Those without options would soon become desperate enough to try to take what they needed by force. Even the possession of bicycles put them at risk, and Grant knew they would have to remain vigilant against potential attackers. As he made his way to the airport, he scanned the roadway ahead, looking for groups of people congregated in one place and detouring around them, even if it required going several blocks out of his way. He knew he could outrun any pedestrian attackers with his bike, but only if he had a clear escape route and they could not cut him off or surround him.
He felt he was in less danger when he reached the wide four-lane roadway of Veterans Memorial Boulevard. From there it was a straight shot west to Kenner and the New Orleans International Airport. Grant rolled into the long-term parking area when he got there and scanned the rows of vehicles until he found a silver Chevy Tahoe with Alabama plates and a “Life is Good” sticker on the rear bumper. Like Casey’s late-model Camry, the Tahoe had an electronic door opener that no longer worked, but he was able to unlock it with the key. Grant left Casey’s note in the center console where she said he would certainly find it if he made it back to his vehicle, as that was where he kept his driving sunglasses. Sitting behind the wheel of Casey’s father’s car, Grant wondered what it must be like for him to be stuck somewhere among islands so far away with no likely prospect of getting back home or even getting in touch with his daughter. Grant hoped he was up to the task of protecting her until she and her dad could be reunited. While thinking these thoughts, it occurred to him to look around the vehicle a bit for anything of her father’s that Casey might want. Opening the locked glove box with the key, he found several photos of Casey, including some obviously taken at a recent birthday celebration. There was another pair of sunglasses in a case, and the vehicle owner’s manual packet was resting atop something else.
Grant reached under the booklets and was surprised to see that the something else was a gun. Casey had not mentioned anything about her father having a gun in the vehicle. Grant took it out and examined it. It was a stainless-steel automatic pistol with dark brown, checkered wooden grips, the barrel and most of the receiver protected inside a soft nylon holster. He unsnapped the strap that secured the pistol in the holster and pulled it out. The stamp on the receiver said “RUGER 22 CAL. LONG RIFLE AUTOMATIC PISTOL.” The pistol had a solid heft to it and a long barrel fitted with adjustable sights. Grant hadn’t owned another gun since he’d lost everything in Katrina, but he was familiar with the .22 caliber because it was the same cartridge used by the well-worn Colt Woodsman pistol his father had taught him to shoot shortly after they bought the land on the Bogue Chitto. He depressed the magazine release catch at the bottom of the grip and removed the slim magazine. It was fully loaded with hollow-point ammunition. He pulled back the slide and checked the chamber to make sure it was empty. Grant knew enough about guns to know a .22 pistol was not really intended for defensive purposes, but he figured Casey’s father kept it handy, just in case, and he knew it could do the job in a pinch, at least in some circumstances. Looking deeper into the glove box, Grant found a hundred-round box of hollow-point ammunition, labeled “CCI Stinger,” the container full except for the ten rounds already loaded into the magazine.
Grant wondered again why Casey had not mentioned that her father kept a gun in his vehicle. Maybe she simply didn’t know about it, or perhaps it didn’t occur to her that a gun was something they might need. Grant knew that while Jessica seemed clueless about what they were facing, even Casey had not come to the full realization of the hardships that could lie ahead. She probably couldn’t fathom that they might actually have to defend themselves with deadly force, or kill animals for food. Though he didn’t believe in taking things that did not belong to him, there was no way Grant was going to leave something as potentially useful as the pistol in the vehicle. He knew that Casey’s father would understand, and would probably be glad that someone with her had it to protect her. Grant found a pen and quickly scribbled his explanation on the bottom of Casey’s note, adding that he would do his best to take care of the pistol until it could be returned when this was all over. Then he locked the Tahoe and remounted his bike, the Ruger and its ammunition zipped inside his handlebar bag.
When Grant returned to his apartment, he found Casey there alone. In the short time he’d been gone, she said, Jessica and Joey had gotten out of bed and immediately started arguing about what they should do next. Joey had insisted on going back to his house and Jessica had left with him. She told Casey she would be back in a little while, but Casey was not convinced, especially since Joey was adamant about not leaving the city.
“We can’t wait around to find out, Casey. Do you think she really wants to go with us or not?”
“I think she does, but she doesn’t know what to do about Joey. He’s not going anywhere. He said it again this morning. He thinks you’re full of it and he’s blaming you for putting stupid ideas in Jessica’s head.”
“From what I saw out there, we need to hurry, Casey. On the way back I passed a group of looters coming out of the broken windows of a CVS pharmacy with armloads of stuff. I also saw a fight with at least five people involved, and someone on the street threw a bottle at me that just barely missed my head.”
“Where are the police? Aren’t they trying to do something about all this?”
“Sure, they’re trying, but most of them are on foot too. I saw some officers on mountain bikes, and even a few on horseback down near the riverfront, but the mobs are getting bigger and getting out of control. There aren’t enough cops, Casey. After Katrina, it took the National Guard and even members of the regular army to restore order here. And they were sent in from areas that were not affected. They may not be coming this time, as far as we know, anyway.”
“So what do we do, go to Joey’s and try to talk to Jessica?”
“I’ll go. You stay here and keep the door locked. I’ve got to go tell her how it is, and she’s either going to have to come back with me or stay with him. When we get back, assuming she comes with me, we need to all get on the bikes and head for the Causeway. I want to be out of the city before dark.”
Grant left without telling Casey about the gun and rode as fast as he could to Joey’s house. Jessica had taken her bike with her, but Casey said she was pushing it, since Joey didn’t have one. Walking, they would barely have time to get to the house before Grant could catch up.
As he turned into the upscale neighborhood where Joey lived, Grant smelled smoke and heard several loud bangs that could only be gunshots. Before he reached the driveway to Joey’s house, he saw two New Orleans police officers in tactical gear running across a side street with rifles at the ready. One or more houses were burning somewhere in the direction they were headed, and from the sound of it, a gun battle had broken out between the police and whoever was responsible. He hopped off his bike and leaned it against Jessica’s, which was propped unlocked against the rail on Joey’s back porch. Grant knocked on the door. When no one answered, he began banging on it louder and calling their names.
“It’s Grant!” he heard Jessica yell from inside. “Open the door, Joey!”
“Son of a bitch! What the hell is he doing here?”
Jessica unlocked the door herself when Joey wouldn’t do it. “Grant! Am I glad to see you! I’ve been scared to death ever since we got here. Did you see what was going on in the neighborhood? We got in here and locked the door as fast as we could when the shooting started.”
“I did, Jessica. It’s starting even sooner than I thought. This area is a target for looters because it’s so upscale. I came to tell you we’ve got to go, and now.”
“Screw you, man!” Joey came to the doorway, pushing Jessica aside. “Who are you to say what she needs to do, or Casey either for that matter? You think we all wanna go ride bicycles freakin’ 90 miles to stay in some cabin in the middle of nowhere? I’m not leaving my house and letting a bunch of thugs come in here and clean it out—maybe burn it down too.”
“How are you going to stop them, Joey?” Jessica yelled. “You saw the same thing I saw. They’re shooting at the
police,
and you don’t even have a gun.”
“You can’t stop them,” Grant said. “No one can. There will be far too many of them. It would be crazy to stay here just to protect your property.”
“I
am
staying!” he yelled back at Grant, and turning to Jessica: “If you want to be with me, you’ll stay here too, where you belong. Let Casey go with this asshole if she wants to. No girl of mine is going to run off on a camping trip with some dude I don’t even know.”
“I’m not staying here, Joey. People are
shooting
at each other! If you loved me you wouldn’t want me to stay where I am in danger….”
“If you loved
me
, you wouldn’t leave me to go run off to the woods with some prick who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”
Grant stood in the open doorway, disgusted, but not wanting to step into the middle of the argument any more than he had to. He glanced around to make sure no one else was coming up the secluded, tree-lined driveway. The gunshots had stopped and he thought maybe the looters who had engaged the police in a firefight had made a run for it and were looking for places to hide anywhere they could find them.
“We need to get out of here before more of this starts, Jessica.”
At this, Joey turned away from Jessica and charged through the doorway, pushing Grant so hard that he fell over the porch railing into the hedges planted on the other side. “No,
you
need to get out of here, asshole, and stay the fuck out of our business!”
Grant was caught by surprise, but unhurt by the fall, and quickly scrambled to his feet, expecting to have to defend himself as Joey came outside to follow up. But before Joey could come down the steps to the lawn where he waited, Jessica slapped him in the center of the back, causing him to turn around to face her, which opened him up perfectly to catch her other open hand right across the side of his face. “I’m done with you, you bastard!” Jessica yelled. “You’re the asshole, and I’m not going to be with anyone who treats my friends like this and cares more about their stupid stuff than my safety. You can sit here with it from now on. I’m
leaving!”
Jessica grabbed her bike and pulled it away from the railing to get on it. “Let’s go, Grant.”
Grant half expected Joey to try to grab her or attack him again, but as they rode out of the driveway, all he did was vent his anger at her by yelling and kicking the wooden porch rail so hard that it broke: “Fuck you, you fuckin’ little bitch! You’ll wish you hadn’t left when all this shit is over and the lights come back on and you try to come running back to me. I’ll find someone who deserves me!”
As she pedaled away with Grant, “I hope not—for her sake!” was the last thing Jessica ever said to Joey.
Grant was nervous as they made their way out of Joey’s neighborhood at a much slower pace than he would have if he had been traveling alone. It was all Jessica could do to manage 10 miles per hour on her heavy Wal-Mart bike. Grant felt vulnerable on the mostly deserted avenue they were following. His worst fear became reality when two young men in their late teens stepped into the street from the sidewalk to intercept them before they could think about turning around or making a detour.
“Give us those bikes, man!” the first one demanded. He was lean and athletic, dressed in baggy shorts and a tank top that revealed sleeves of unintelligible gang tattoos that left little of his white skin showing. His black partner wore a Nike sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, despite the heat. They clearly were outsiders to the neighborhood on the prowl for targets of opportunity. Grant knew that, with Jessica holding him back, any escape would be impossible. They would catch her even if he could elude them, and there was no question that they were serious about taking the bikes. Grant knew that if they gave up their only means of transportation, getting replacement bikes would be impossible, and walking out of the city to his parent’s place would take days, if not an entire week.
But fighting back was out of the question too. Grant was no fighter, even though he was aerobically fit from constant bike riding. The idea of tangling with even one of these guys, much less both of them, was not something he relished. Though they were younger, they had the look of experienced street fighters, and probably wouldn’t hesitate to pound him into the pavement or even kill him, leaving Jessica at their mercy. He had to buy a few seconds to get the gun out—it was his only chance. He locked up both brakes before he rode into the leader’s reach and quickly dismounted, pulling his bike to the side of the road. Jessica didn’t know what to do and couldn’t react quickly enough. She was still on her bike when the guy in the sweatshirt reached her handlebars and pulled her to a stop. Jessica screamed and struggled but the tattooed guy came to his buddy’s assistance and grabbed her from behind in a bear hug, pinning her arms and pulling her away from the bike. This distraction gave Grant just enough time to unholster the Ruger pistol inside his handlebar bag and draw the slide back to chamber a round. He wished now he had test-fired the gun at least once to make sure it would function properly, but he had no choice but to trust it now. The attackers had made the mistake of discounting him as a threat and probably assumed he would either run and leave his bike behind, or make a hopeless attempt to help his female companion empty-handed, giving them the opportunity to work him over. They thought they were looking at clueless college students whose bikes were easy pickings. What they didn’t expect was to face a gun. The last thing Grant wanted to do was kill someone over a couple of bikes, but he was determined not lose them.
BOOK: The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid
11.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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