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Authors: Scott B. Williams

The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid (25 page)

BOOK: The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid
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“I don’t know how you do it, little brother,” he said, as he handed the binoculars back to Larry. “That was an incredible feat of navigation with nothing but a compass.”
“Nah, no big deal. I just followed the dolphins,” Larry said, but as he looked around, he saw that they had disappeared. “The good news is we made it to the U.S. It looks like the bad news is that the lights are out here too. From here you would normally be able to see a whole string of towns lit up along the Overseas Highway, dead ahead. You’d also see the glow of Key West off to port and the glow of Miami way up there to the northeast. But I don’t see anything. This is truly bizarre.”
“I guess every place we come to that has no lights just proves how incredibly widespread this event was, whatever it actually was. I don’t guess there’s any reason to hope it’s not the same in New Orleans.”
“Nope, I wouldn’t think so. We all need to keep a sharp lookout now. There aren’t any reefs to worry about if we hold this course, but there could be other obstructions. We should be able to see the Seven Mile Bridge soon. It will be to the left of the closest key we’ll pass on this route, where Marathon and Boot Key Harbor are located. We want to aim for the high-rise span in the bridge that’s about three miles from the eastern end. The vertical clearance there is 65 feet, so we don’t have anything to worry about there.”
Though they had no working depth sounder, it was obvious from the change in the wave patterns when they crossed into the shallower waters of Hawk Channel as they passed the Sombrero Key light tower. From the edge of this area of somewhat protected waters inside the scattered reefs that paralleled the Keys, it was less than five miles to the Overseas Highway, a road that consisted of numerous bridges stringing the island chain together from Key Largo to Key West.
“There’s only a few places in this part of the Keys where a boat with a tall mast can get under the bridges,” Larry said, “and this is one of the highest spans.”
Artie could see the bridge looming ahead out of the darkness as they closed the gap. Scully eased the sheets to spill some wind and reduce speed as they approached the channel under the elevated section of the span. It was a surreal scene after being so long at sea and among less-developed islands. Here was a modern concrete and steel highway bridge that was totally silent in the absence of traffic and totally dark without the lights on its lampposts lit or the headlights of cars shining. As they drew nearer, they could see parked vehicles spread out at intervals on the roadway overhead.
“They’ve been there since they stalled out, I suppose,” Artie said.
“Yeah, I’m sure. All the traffic to and from Key West has to come this way. It wouldn’t be the best place to be right now, unless you had a boat.”
“My God, can you imagine how many cars must be stuck on the Causeway? It’s much longer than this. I hate to think of what it must be like for anyone to get stuck in the middle of a bridge like that and have to walk to the shore.”
“It would be a nightmare for sure,” Larry said. “But you don’t have to worry about Casey being in a mess like that, at least. From what she and Jessica told me during their vacation last summer, most of their life in the city revolves right around the campus and the immediate area nearby.”
“Yeah, unless she tried to leave. After this many days without electricity and phones, I don’t know if she and Jessica could sit still that long.”
“Just try not to worry; we’ll be there in just a few more days now. Soon as we pass under that bridge, we’re in the Gulf!”
Artie was elated to be back in U.S. waters, two-thirds of their voyage behind them. But he still couldn’t help but worry about Casey, especially now as he saw the reality that even a country as modern as the United States was shut down and blacked out. Looking up at the rail just before they sailed under the bridge, he was startled to see movement. There were two people leaning over to look at them.
“Hey! Stop that boat and give us a ride!” one yelled. The other one threw something at them that they could not see, but a couple of seconds later there was a huge splash in their wake as something heavy hit the water.
“Rock! Watch your heads!” Larry said.
“Fockin’ kids, mon.” Scully said as he looked up.
Just then they moved out of danger as the boat slid under the overpass and was hidden from the view of anyone above. Scully hardened the sheets as soon as they were between the pilings, and the
Casey Nicole
accelerated out from under the other side, but whoever had thrown the rock didn’t follow up and in a few minutes the bridge was receding astern.
Larry said there were still several scattered keys and shoal areas to the north of the bridge that they would have to be careful to avoid as they made their way to the open Gulf, but he knew the waters, and the moon was now high enough to provide good visibility, especially in the absence of lights ashore. The crab traps he had mentioned before were evident everywhere on this side of the island chain, marked by floating white buoys that were so numerous Scully had to constantly steer around them. With no inboard engine and consequently no prop in the water to hang up on the buoy lines, the markers were really no threat to the
Casey Nicole,
but since they showed up clearly in the moonlight, Scully avoided them anyway out of long habit on other boats. By midnight, they were back north off the extensive shallows and shoals on the Gulf side of the Keys and in the open sea once again. Larry went back below to retire to his bunk now that they were beyond the navigation hazards of the Keys, and Artie and Scully took turns keeping watch. Artie stayed on deck to rest even when he was off duty, the night being so nice with the light of the moon and the barely perceptible swell of the Gulf as the boat moved north at eight knots in a light breeze. He was elated that no other major obstacles stood between him and New Orleans. If all went as planned, they would be sailing into the waters of Lake Pontchartrain in four days or less.
EIGHT
 
“WHAT IF WHAT THEY SAID is true?” Jessica asked as the three of them pedaled north out of the town of Franklinton in the drizzling rain. “Where will we go if we can’t get to the cabin?”
“I don’t see any reason why policemen here would have made it up,” Casey said. “They probably don’t want us hanging around here either, and wouldn’t do anything to encourage us to stay. But still, it’s unbelievable that they would close a whole
state
to non-residents. Can they do that?”
“I don’t know,” Grant said. “I guess all bets are off as to what people may do and what may happen in a situation like this, mainly because it’s never happened before.” Grant was reeling with the impact of what the police officers had told them. If it were really true, he had made a terrible mistake to bring his two trusting companions all this way for nothing. If they couldn’t reach that cabin, he had no idea where they would go or what they would do. They were already low on food and he had no alternate plan for obtaining more. Turning back to New Orleans certainly wasn’t an option. Riding out of Franklinton in the continuing rain didn’t do anything to improve his optimism, but until they received this news, the cabin had seemed so close it had felt as if they were already there, and he could put up with any amount of discomfort knowing they would not have to spend another night out on the road. Now, everything had changed. They had come all this way only to learn they might not even be allowed to ride the rest of the way to their safe haven.
For now, it seemed as if the only logical choice was to continue on to the state line to see for themselves whether or not they would really be turned back. Maybe they could somehow convince the officers at the roadblock to let them in. It certainly didn’t seem fair that only those with Mississippi driver’s licenses could enter the state. His parents were landowners there, and the land and cabin were his to use any way he wanted while they were out of the country. But he also was painfully aware he didn’t have any way to prove the place even existed, other than by a verbal description and the address, which was on a remote rural lane in the middle of nowhere that few would likely be familiar with. It had never occurred to him that he would need to carry such proof. And of course, as his actual place of residence was the apartment in New Orleans, his driver’s license was issued in Louisiana, just like Casey’s, so neither license would do them any more good than the California license Jessica carried, if what they’d just learned was true.
At least they wouldn’t have far to go to find out. He couldn’t remember exactly how far it was to the state line, but a quick check of the map showed it was less than 12 miles. They could stop under a bridge or somewhere out of the rain and eat lunch, and still be there in two hours. As they pedaled he began to ponder a new idea. There was no way he was going to give up on reaching the cabin just because of some stupid roadblock that was probably illegal and unconstitutional, despite the circumstances. Grant figured they were blocking Highway 25 at the state line because it was a logical route from most of the populated areas to the south. Although there were some alternate smaller roads that also crossed the state line in the vicinity, he knew they would likely be watching those too, as there weren’t many of them and it would be easy enough to set up checkpoints at all of them if they were serious about keeping non-residents out. But what they likely would not be watching, he reasoned, was the river.
Like most rivers in the region, the Bogue Chitto flows mostly unseen through deep forests, swampy bottomlands, and other areas accessible by only a few roads. Although the river was popular with weekend canoeists and fishermen, few people in the area would think of using it as a travel route. And since recreational paddlers seldom bother trying to fight its sometimes swift current to travel upstream, the authorities would hardly suspect anyone would try slipping into the state by that route. Grant knew they could get away with it, and besides, the cabin they were trying to reach was right on the banks of the Bogue Chitto. There was a bridge crossing the river just a short distance south of the state line, and from that point he knew it was less than 10 miles upstream to the cabin. It would take a lot longer to paddle that distance than it would to ride the bikes to the cabin on the road, but it would be a sure way to get there undetected. The only problem was that they would need a canoe and paddles. He had one at the cabin, of course, as floating the stretch of river down to the next bridge was one of his favorite pastimes when he spent time there. That one wouldn’t do them any good, now, but an alternative might be found, if he remembered correctly. It still wasn’t his first choice by a long shot, but thinking about it gave him something to do while he pedaled.
Five miles north of Franklinton, they met a refugee family that had indeed been turned back at the state line. Seeing them riding their bikes in the rain, heading north, the driver of a southbound antique Ford pickup pulled over and rolled down the window to wave them over.
“I hope y’all ain’t tryin’ to go to Mississippi,” the man said.
Grant brought his bike to a stop and Jessica and Casey did the same. The truck was in great condition for its age, and had probably been kept in a garage and only driven occasionally or displayed in car shows prior to the family’s current need for it. The driver looked to be perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, his face weathered and tanned like that of a man who earned his living working outside every day. On the bench seat beside him was a boy of about six, and on the other side sat the boy’s mother, an overweight but pretty brunette who looked quite a bit younger than her husband. The back of the truck was covered with a blue tarp secured by an assortment of old ropes and bungee cords.
“We are,” Grant said. “My parents own a cabin not far across the state line. Is it true they are turning people back?”
“Yep. I got a brother lives out from Columbia, about an hour from here. Got a big place in the country and raises about everything he needs. I was taking the family up there to get away from that mess in Baton Rouge. I was raised up there myself but moved down here years ago for the work. I’m a roofer by trade. Now I wish I had never seen that place. A big city like that ain’t no place to be with the lights out an’ all. I never would have thought they’d turn us back at the state line though. I lived in Mississippi more than 20 years until I moved down here. Now I can’t even get in. I don’t know what we’re going to do now. We ain’t really got no place to go and no way to get anything we need. I sure don’t want to take my family back around all them people. Heck, I don’t even have any way to protect ’em anymore since they took all my guns away.”
“Took your guns? Who took your guns?”
“Them sheriff’s deputies up there at the roadblock. Said I broke the law trying to bring weapons into the state, and they didn’t even let us in to begin with. Heck, all I had was an old 12-gauge pump I figured would come in handy for huntin’, with all the grocery stores cleaned out, and my Smith .357 revolver that had belonged to my daddy.”
“How could they just take them? Doesn’t just about everybody around here in Louisiana and Mississippi have a gun in their vehicle? It’s not illegal to own one or transport it.”
“Naw, but everything’s changed now. Some of these gung-ho law enforcement officers act like they’re in a war zone or something. Do whatever they feel like doing, and there ain’t nothing you can do about it. Heck, they even
look
like soldiers, standing around out there with their BDUs on and carrying those M-4s. I tell you, there ain’t no arguing with ’em, and it’s only gonna get worse. If I was you, I wouldn’t be ridin’ up there on no bicycles trying to get across that line with them two pretty girls you got with you. I’d be gettin’ off the road too, unless you’re packing yourself.”
BOOK: The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid
10.37Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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