The Rift (50 page)

TWENTY

As we passed the point on the left hand below the island, the bank and trees were rapidly falling in. From the state of alarm I was in at this time, I cannot pretend to be correct as to the length or height of the falls; but my impression is, that they were about equal to the rapids of the Ohio. As we passed the lower point of the island, looking back, up the left channel, we thought the falls extended higher up the river on that side than on the other.

The water of the river, after it was fairly light, appeared to be almost black, with something like the dust of stone coal
—
We landed at New Madrid about breakfast time without having experienced any injury
—
The appearance of the town, and the situation of the inhabitants, were such as to afford but little relief to our minds. The former elevation of the bank on which the town stood was estimated by the inhabitants at about 25 feet above common water; when we reached it the elevation was only about 12 or 13 feet
—
There was scarcely a house left entire
—
some wholly prostrated, others unroofed and not a chimney standing
—
the people all having deserted their habitations, were in camps and tents back of the town, and their little watercrafts, such as skiffs, boats and canoes, handed out of the water to their camps, that they might be ready in case the country should sink.

Matthias M. Speed, March 2nd, 1812

The President gazed at the solemn faces that ringed the conference table in his hotel in Louisville. “What I need, people,” he said, “is for somebody here to tell me that General Frazetta is crazy. Wacko. Out of her mind.”

The others looked uneasily at the table, at their papers, at each other. “It can’t be done, sir,” offered the Senate’s Minority Leader. “We can’t evacuate the whole Mississippi Valley. And in the middle of an emergency like this one? That’s
insane
.”

The President looked at Lipinsky. “Boris?” he said.

Lipinsky drew his bushy brows together. “I fear, Mr. President,” he said, “that General Frazetta may have just presented us with our only sane course of action.”

The President felt the others take a breath. “Well, people,” he said. “Well.”

“But we lack data, sir,” Lipinsky said. “I will order my HAZMAT teams to test the water immediately and continually.”

The President had flown to the Midwest shortly after word came that south St. Louis had blown up, and he had taken with him select members of his administration and the congressional leadership of both parties. If his nation’s cities were going to explode, he was going to be on the scene. And so he had visited St. Louis and Memphis; the Vice President and First Lady had gone to Chicago and Springfield, respectively; and tomorrow, after the military made absolutely certain it was safe, he would visit the graveyard of Helena.

And of course he had made a point of being
seen.
Not for crudely political reasons— though those played a part— but because the news of his activities could bring people hope.

He was still cynical enough, however, to tell the First Lady and the Vice President that after he had to return to Washington, they were “to remain on PCD”— Permanent Compassion Duty, visiting every refugee center, hospital, and relief effort in the emergency zone; feeling the public’s pain, preferably on television and in prime time.

“We will need time to prepare an evacuation on this scale, sir,” said the supported CINC. “And most of our transport is already committed to bringing personnel and materiel to the devastated zones. The recommitment alone will take days.”

“I need you to begin the logistical planning now,” the President said, “before Boris’s teams assess the danger.”
Fortunately,
he thought,
the areas we need to evacuate are the areas south of the quake zone where the transportation infrastructure is still largely intact.

“This is
crazy
!”
the Minority Leader proclaimed. “That means shutting down industry and commerce throughout the middle third of the country.”

“General Frazetta,” the President said, “suggested that vital industry and ports like New Orleans could be kept open. We could ship in enough fresh water to do that.”

“We can’t, Mr. President!” the Minority Leader proclaimed. “The disruption will be—” Words failed him.

The President looked at him. “Are you prepared to go on television and tell the American people that it is their duty to our economy to poison themselves and their children by drinking contaminated water?” He leaned forward, looked at the man. “I’d like to see you do that, I really would.”

The Minority Leader fell into glowering silence.

The President leaned back in his chair. “I’m not going to authorize any action right away,” he said. “But I want plans made, just in case Boris’s HAZMAT teams find out that we need to move a lot of people, and fast.”

*

“Des bestioles! Des bestioles dans le bouffe!”

“Out,”
Dr. Calhoun cried, “unrighteous one, Spawn of the Pit! Leave this man in peace!”

“II y a des bestioles partout!”

“I command you in Jesus’ name!”

“Ayaaah!
Des bestioles! Des centaines! Des bestioles dans le bouffe!”

“Out!” Frankland shouted, and brandished his Bible. Father Robitaille gasped for air, then let out a howl.

Despite the persistence of the exorcisms, and the unexpected flair shown by Dr. Calhoun for the work— Frankland had to admit that “Out, unrighteous one, Spawn of the Pit” was pretty darn good— Robitaille’s demon seemed content to remain in residence.

The room stank of spilled food and vomit, soiled bedding and unwashed humanity. Robitaille hadn’t kept any food down, and he’d just flung his latest meal to the floor without even trying to taste it. Just a sip of water brought on the dry heaves. And despite this lack of nourishment, he still demonstrated surprising power and mobility. Sometimes it required the weight and strength of all three exorcists to keep him on his bed.

“Des bestioles! Des bestioles!”

“Out! Out!”

“Des bestioles! Des bestioles!”

“Out!”

Frankland felt himself flagging. Robitaille was wearing all of them out. If this went on much longer, the smell alone would gas the three exorcists to death.

He summoned his resolution. It was the demon, he thought, or him.

Wearily, he wondered if “Desbestioles” was the demon’s name.

“Out, Desbestioles, out!” he shouted. “In Jesus’ name!”

But it didn’t seem to help.

*

After Nick and Jason fled from the dead city of Helena, the bodies began to rise. Apparently the corpses had been there all along, rolling along the bottom of the river, but now they’d decayed to the point where they came to the surface. They were bloated, horrible dough-figures, facial features submerged in swollen flesh, splayed fingers fat as sausages. Nick told Jason not to look, and Jason did not give him any resistance. Nick kept his gaze away from the corpses himself.

He didn’t want to look down at a body and recognize Viondi.

More than a dozen of these macabre figures appeared in just a few hours, and it was as if the boat somehow attracted them. The bodies kept closing with the boat as if trying to invite themselves on board. Finally Nick decided to keep the motor going all the time, at low speed so as to conserve fuel, so that he could maneuver clear.

“River won’t let us go,” he heard Jason mutter. Jason crouched on the foredeck, rubbing his forearms.

Nick closed his eyes and saw Arlette with the water crawling up to her chin. He snapped his eyes open.

There were other corpses in the river: a surprising number of birds, wings stiffened in startled attitudes of half-flight. Whole flocks of them floated like feathery rafts, or spun in whirlpools. They weren’t just water birds, but land birds like crows and hawks. Nick even saw a bald eagle.

“I’m glad we didn’t catch any fish the other day,” he said.

“Yes?”

Nick indicated a nearby raft of floating birds. “Remember all those dead fish the other day? I bet these birds ate them.”

Jason looked at the birds and swallowed hard. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

Nick thought of Arlette, of Manon. All the things that could befall them.

No chemical plants in Toussaint, at least. Whatever happened to Helena wouldn’t happen there. And surely there couldn’t be severe quake damage that far into Arkansas. Surely the bodies weren’t rising on the bayou that flowed past Arlette’s home.

Surely,
Nick told himself. Surely that was the case. But he didn’t
know,
and in the absence of knowledge his mind filled with fantasies, fantasies of Arlette trapped in the cellar as it collapsed, or caught in a burning building, or swept away by flood.

He needed to
know.

Jason stood in the cockpit, pointed frantically astern.
“Boat!”
he shouted. “It’s a
boat
!”

Nick gave a surprised look over his shoulder. There was a towboat flanking through the bend behind them, exhaust pouring from its stubby stacks as it shoved its pack of barges downriver, moving fast on the heels of the drifting speedboat.

“Yes!”
The boat rocked as Jason began a kind of lunging dance.
“Yes!”

A
grin rose to Nick’s lips. He pushed the throttle forward, felt the big Evinrude respond. He cranked the wheel over and the boat heeled into a turn. Jason gave a whoop and jumped up on the gunwale, balancing with one hand on the struts for the canvas cockpit cover. He edged forward till he was on the foredeck, and then he jumped up and down, waving his arms.

The towboat came on. The water at the bow of the barges whitened as the tow increased its speed.

Better get out of the way,
Nick thought.
Bet those barges can’t slow down so good.

He swung wide. Jason gave a disappointed shout. Nick swerved back to pass the towboat on its port side.

The towboat was a big one, increasing speed now that it was in a straighter section of the channel. White water surged under its counter. Nick counted eighteen barges in its tow. When Nick cut the towboat’s wake, the boat rocked so much that Jason had to crouch on the foredeck to keep his balance.

Nick saw a dark silhouette in the pilothouse, but he couldn’t see if the crewman had seen him or not.

“They’re not stopping!” Jason yelled.

Nick spun the wheel and rolled into the towboat’s wake. He pushed the throttle forward— the boat skittered on the water, the bass boat swinging like a pendulum on the end of its tow rope— and then he leaped the wake again, the boat’s fiberglass hull banging down on the brown river. The river seemed a lot harder than it had been at lower speeds.

Nick roared up alongside the towboat. Jason stood again, shouted and waved his arms at the figure in the pilothouse. Nick wished he had an air horn to blow, or some other means of alerting the towboat’s crew.

Nick swung closer. Jason waved.

The man in the pilothouse turned, stared out the side window. He’d clearly seen the boat.

The crewman opened the door, waved and shouted. He was a big man, with a big round belly in his green overalls. It looked as if he were waving the speedboat
away.

“Stop!”
Nick could barely hear Jason’s words over the cry of the Evinrude and the roar of the towboat’s engines.
“Stop! Help us!”

The crewman waved the boat away again. Nick felt anger reach for his heart. Who was this man to deny them help?

The man went into the pilothouse again. The towboat’s roaring engines increased in volume. The towboat was moving faster. Nick cranked his own throttle forward.

“God damn it!” Nick shouted. What was wrong with that man?

Jason waved and shouted. The man in the pilothouse resolutely ignored him. Nick wondered wildly what he could do. He and Jason were like a pair of mice trying to stop a charging elephant.

The man in the pilothouse ducked his head. He seemed to be talking into a handset. Jason howled abuse. “Fuckdroid! Cocksucker!”

A door opened in the superstructure, and another man appeared. He dropped down a ladder with practiced ease, then came to the gunwale. Nick maneuvered the speedboat closer. The crewman shouted and made gestures for the speedboat to clear off, but Nick couldn’t hear what he was saying. He saw Jason’s shoulders slump, though, and saw the boy turn aft.

Nick maneuvered away from the towboat, then cut the throttle and let the big boat’s wake overtake him. The speedboat rose as the wake slapped the stern counter.

“What was that?” Nick demanded. His ears rang with the sound of the speeding engines.

Jason slumped into the cockpit. “Hazardous cargo,” he said in a quiet voice. “It’s too dangerous to take us aboard.”

Disappointment whispered through Nick’s blood. “Well,” he said, “we know all about hazardous cargo, I guess.”

“Don’t want to blow up again.”

“I guess not.”

Nick watched the white water boiling under the swiftly receding stern of the towboat, and sadly turned the wheel.

“The river won’t let us go,” Jason said. “Every time we try to leave, it takes us back.”

The day of the corpses was not yet over.

Two more towboats passed that day, one heading upstream, one down. Neither were pushing barges, and both were moving fast, water creaming at their bows. Nick didn’t try to intercept them. They seemed too determined to get to where they wanted to go.

Which is why it seemed so surprising when, after more dull hours on the river, they found a towboat that didn’t seem to be going anywhere at all.

The boat just sat there behind its tow of barges, facing upstream. Nick was too disheartened to find this sight encouraging. Even Jason seemed only moderately interested.

But as they got closer, signs looked more auspicious. The radar unit atop the pilothouse glittered silver as it spun. They could hear the subdued sound of the boat’s powerful engines, see exhaust rising from the stacks. And when Jason stood and gave a hopeful wave, Nick almost jumped out of his skin as the boat responded with a blast on its horn.