Harbor

by Tom Abrahams

  Norma chuckled. It was good to laugh. And her husband could still make her laugh. “Touché,” she said. “I don’t know where he is. But he knows we were on that train, so it shouldn’t be long.”

  Norma was turned, her back to the lot, to talk with Rudy. Her eyes drifted past him to the building at the edge of the tracks. The old brick station resembled something out of nineteenth-century England, complete with a two-story turret at its center. It was something her grandmother would have called a conversation piece.

  The air was cooler here. Spring hadn’t quite sprung as much as it had in Texas. Though in west Texas there were only two seasons: summer and almost summer.

  “I think I see him,” said Rudy. He motioned behind Norma with his chin. “Big truck?”

  Norma turned to see the bright twin headlights of a large truck. Its engine rumbled and the brakes squealed as the driver downshifted. The beams flashed at them. She used her hand like a visor to shield her eyes.

  A quick scan of the parking lot told her it was otherwise empty, as best she could tell. There were a couple of workers inside the building, but they hadn’t stepped outside since the train pulled out of the station and headed for Birmingham.

  “I’ll go check,” she said.

  “I’ll go with you,” said Rudy. “Hand me a bag, please.”

  Norma frowned at him. “No need to be chivalrous. I can handle it.”

  Rudy smiled. His teeth shone in the lights. “I know you can handle it. I don’t want you leaving me alone here.”

  He winked. She smirked and handed him a bag. The two of them crossed the lot toward the driver’s side of the truck.

  “How are we going to know?” asked Rudy.

  “We’ll know,” said Norma.

  The truck’s engine idled. Heat from its machinery rolled off the cab in waves. The smell of diesel was pungent and stung the back of Norma’s nostrils. She coughed and shook her head free of the fumes.

  At the driver’s side door, she reached up and banged on the metal. It echoed in the parking lot; Norma stopped after the first few hits. Then she knocked softer. It was a pattern of knocks. While it wasn’t “two shaves and a haircut,” it was a code nonetheless.

  The driver rolled down the window. His thick forearm rested on the open sill and he leaned his head out the window.

  A burly man, he looked to her like the photographs of loggers she’d seen in books about the Pacific Northwest in the twentieth century. He had a large handlebar mustache and a wiry beard that almost looked like an uncoiled Brillo pad. His eyes were pinched between the folds of his full cheeks and heavy brow. He wore a wool beanie despite the weather. His left ear bore a black gauge earring the size of a quarter.

  “I’ve never seen the Llano River,” he said. “But I hear it’s disgusting this time of year.”

  Norma gave him a thumbs-up and glanced back at Rudy. “It’s him.”

  Rudy mumbled, “Llano River? Really?”

  The driver dropped his arm from the sill and slapped the outside of the truck like it was the hindquarters of a thoroughbred. He dramatically jerked his head toward the passenger side of the truck. “Climb on in,” he said. “Let’s get on the road, eh?”

  They clambered into the truck and the driver shifted into gear. He worked the truck backward and then forward until they were on the road. Norma sat in the front. Rudy was in a comfortable jump seat in the back positioned at the center of the truck’s cab.

  The truck smelled like mint and sawdust. Norma noticed a cup in the center console. Dark liquid sloshed around inside the plastic. The driver had a wad in his left cheek.

  “Chewing tobacco?” asked Norma. “I didn’t know that was available anymore.”

  The driver shifted gears and glanced at Norma. He smiled, some of the juice leaking onto his lips from between his teeth. She could see it in the glow from the dash.

  “Everything’s available if you know where to look,” he said. “You should know that, Norma.”

  “I thought we weren’t using names,” said Rudy. “Isn’t that part of the deal on the railroad?”

  The driver accelerated and the truck lurched forward, the seats bouncing on their shocks. “This isn’t technically the railroad. I’m just giving you a ride, you know?”

  “Then why the spy stuff when we met?” asked Rudy. “The special knock, the inside joke about the LRC?”

  “Old habits die hard,” he said. “And this was arranged by the railroad. So there’s that, you know?”

  “I’m Rudy.”

  The driver offered a salute. “I’m Nolet.”

  “You Canadian?” asked Norma.

  Nolet raised an eyebrow. His meaty hands twisted on the wheel. “That a problem?” The question was playful.

  “No,” said Norma. “I’ve just never met one.”

  “One what?”

  “A Canadian.”

  That drew a belly laugh from the big truck driver. He grabbed the cub and spat out a healthy gob of chew and cleared his throat. “Sorry about that.”

  “What’s so funny?” Norma was on the verge of laughter too, despite being clueless.

  “You said it like I’m a unicorn,” he said, “or an American beer.”

  Rudy leaned forward as far as he could and said, “Canada is in America.”

  Nolet chuckled and wagged his hand. “Meh. Not anymore. This place here, the lower forty-eight, or however many states still exist, are a far cry from Canada. That’s why my people closed the border.”

  “The border between the US and Canada is closed?” asked Norma.

  “It’s not really the US, now is it?” asked Nolet. “But yes, aside from the straggler who manages to get through, it’s closed down to northern-flowing traffic.”

  Norma put her hand to her chest. “I had no idea.”

  Nolet shrugged. He picked up the cup and spat into it as politely as possible. “How would you? You’ve had your hands full south of the wall, from what I hear. Plus, the government doesn’t go around advertising you can’t get to Canada. If people knew that, it would cause a problem.”

  Rudy asked, “A rush of people?”

  “That.” Nolet nodded. “Especially the twice pregnant folks, eh? But also people knowing that Canada closed its borders makes people question why. It creates demand where there wasn’t any before. Like Cuban cigars used to be. Honduran were always better, but when you Americans couldn’t get Cubans, they became the forbidden fruit.”

  It made sense. Norma hadn’t given any thought to the world beyond her own, beyond the daily life-and-death struggle of her family, her extended family, and those who needed the railroad.

  “Is there a railroad?” she asked.

  The husky Canadian scratched his belly and then the back of his neck. He raked his fingers through the wiry tendrils of his beard. “You mean other than the one you know about?” He said the word about like he was saying “a boot.”

  Norma nodded.

  “Of course,” he said. “There are railroads for everything if you know where to look.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything,” he repeated and waved his hand in the air as if swatting away flies. “You name it, there’s a way to pay to get out of it. I know of three routes that get you to Canada. Four can get you to Mexico, though it’s no better there now. Then there’s your own little endeavor.”

  “It’s that bad?” asked Rudy.

  “Did you ever read George Orwell or Margaret Atwood? Aldous Huxley?” asked Nolet. “I liked Atwood. She was a Canadian.”

  “I read a couple of Orwell books in school,” said Norma. “Brave New World? Is that Huxley? I read that too.”

  The trucker nodded. “Yes, that’s the one. Well, mix ’em all up like a nice plate of poutine and you got what’s going on in your world right now. Toss in a little bit of religious extremism, add social oppression, a pinch of reproductive control, a dash of conditioning, and that’s your America.”

  “It’s not my America,” s
aid Rudy.

  The trucker sighed. “It’s somebody’s. That’s the truth.”

  They rode in silence for a couple of miles. The truck vibrated against the rough highway, heading east. Although the occasional truck or car zipped past going west, traffic was virtually nonexistent. It was the middle of the night, the predawn hour when most were asleep no matter where they were.

  “You two can get some sleep,” he said. “There’s a bunk big enough for two back there behind your seat, Rudy.” He motioned over his shoulder with his thumb.

  Norma glanced behind her husband but couldn’t see the bunk. The space behind the driver’s cab was large though.

  “I’ll go for a few more hours,” said Nolet. “Then I’ll find a place to stop, take a catnap myself. Then we’ll make the final stretch.”

  “Final stretch?” asked Rudy.

  Nolet exchanged a quick glance with Norma. “Did you tell him?”

  “Tell me what?” asked Rudy.

  Norma turned to address him. “Our next stop is the Harbor. We got the express flight.”

  CHAPTER 28

  APRIL 22, 2054, 6:30 AM

  SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  “What do you mean the boat’s not here?”

  The strain in Marcus’s voice was evident in each word. His fists were balled, the blood vessels in his neck bulging beneath the wrinkled skin.

  He held his hat in one hand and jabbed at the air with the other. His anger was directed at nobody and everybody. But really, it was aimed at Sally.

  “What kind of plan is this?” he asked. “We’re standing here at the end of the line. And you tell us we’re meeting a boat. There’s no boat.”

  The seven of them stood in an open area between what used to be tennis courts and a building that appeared to be a former yacht club. Beyond the yacht club was a deteriorating but apparently functional series of wood plank docks and slips.

  “Can’t we go somewhere else?” he asked. “Wherever the boat actually is? The longer we’re standing here, the longer we’re exposed.”

  Sally visibly bristled at the tongue-lashing. She started to say something a half dozen times, but Marcus followed one question with the next and didn’t give her a chance to respond.

  When he finally took a breath, she crossed her arms in front of her, jutted her hip to one side with attitude, and ignored the blinding headache that pulsed behind her eyes.

  “Do you have a magic wand?” she asked, a bite in her tone.

  Marcus wasn’t sure what to make of it. He didn’t say anything. He held onto his grimace though.

  “Well,” Sally pressed, “do you?”

  Marcus felt Lou staring at him. Dallas and Andrea too. Even David was awaiting an answer. He could feel it. “No.”

  “Neither do I, Marcus,” she said. “I can’t make a boat appear out of thin air. I’m not on the boat. I’m not the captain. All I can do is plan to have the boat here. I did. Well, Gladys did. But it was planned and—”

  In the distance, the squeal of tires on pavement interrupted the conversation. It was a block or two away, Marcus figured. A moment later, the rev of an engine told him the vehicle was getting closer. It was coming fast. It was coming for them.

  “We need to get out of here,” Marcus said. The anger in his voice was gone. This was concern. Flat, unadulterated concern.

  Sally’s posture shifted. She visibly tensed.

  “Now,” said Marcus.

  Sally bolted past the tennis courts to the truck. Dallas already held the infant. Marcus picked up Javier. Andrea had her infant pressed tight against her. Lou took David’s hand and urged him toward the truck.

  They piled in and Sally pushed the ignition. The truck’s engine turned over and she shifted into gear.

  The truck was already moving when Marcus slammed his door shut. He reached into the glove box in front of him and pulled out a nine-millimeter pistol, dropped the magazine out of the gun, and pulled a fresh one from the glovebox. He racked the slide and loaded the first round into the chamber.

  “Why’d you do that?” asked Sally. “You had plenty of bullets left in that other—”

  “First, drive,” Marcus said. “Second, you can never have too many bullets. Take a right.”

  “First,” said Sally, “you shoot; I drive. Second, the water’s to the left.”

  “I know,” said Marcus, “but the people chasing us are to the left.”

  “I like her,” said Lou from the back seat.

  Sally rolled the wheel to the right and the truck leaned as if it might tip. Everyone crashed to the left of the cab. Marcus held himself with stiff arms against the dash.

  “Do you know your way around here?” asked Sally.

  “No better than you,” said Marcus.

  “A no would have been fine,” said Sally.

  “I really like her,” said Lou. “I mean really. I misjudged—”

  “Not now, Lou,” Marcus said. “Dallas, roll down your window. Get your sidearm. You might need to provide cover on that side.”

  Sitting behind Sally, Dallas nodded his understanding and quickly did as Marcus instructed.

  “How much gas?” he asked Sally. “Turn left.”

  She braked and turned left. They were headed north on Concord Street. A long waterfront park stretched between them and the water.

  “A half tank?”

  She accelerated and then braked again suddenly. It was a dead end. Left was the only option. Everyone slammed forward. David shrieked. One of the babies started crying.

  “Mother of—” Marcus clenched his teeth. “Turn left. Make a quick right and then go north again.”

  Sally turned left, right and then left. Her foot punched the gas pedal and the truck’s thirsty engine responded. They surged ahead.

  “The boat’s back there,” said Sally. “Why are we—”

  “The boat wasn’t there,” Marcus said. “Maybe it will be, but it isn’t yet. We need some distance between us and whoever’s looking for us.”

  Dallas interjected, “Pop Guard.”

  Marcus shifted and looked back at Dallas. His window was down. The wind whipped through the back of the cab, whistling as it passed.

  Dallas motioned out the window with his head. “They’re a couple of car lengths back.”

  Sally checked the rearview. It was useless with the tarpaulin-covered collection of goods heaped into the truck’s bed. She stole a glance at her side view and then Marcus’s.

  “Are they closer than they appear?” she asked.

  Marcus rolled down his window and pivoted awkwardly, twisting his lower back. He saw the vehicle giving chase. Actually it was two vehicles.

  He sank back into his seat. With a jab of his finger, he aimed left. “Turn up here. It’s one-way.”

  Sally slowed, but only a notch, willing the truck to the left and onto Queen Street. They powered past a large sign for the Old Slave Mart Museum and sped up, passing Washington Square on their right.

  “What are we doing?” asked Sally. “Where are we going?”

  “They’re gaining,” said Dallas.

  “Lou, Andrea,” said Marcus, “get down as low as you can. All of that gear in the back will act like a barrier between you and whatever comes this way if they open fire.”

  Andrea shrank down with her infant and pushed Javi lower too. The boy was whimpering along with the baby. At least the wailing had subsided. Somewhat.

  Lou wasn’t as compliant. One of her eyebrows arched higher than the other. Her glare intensified. “Get down? Are you serious, Marcus? I’m not some shrinking violet you can—”

  “He’s right,” Sally cut in. “Protect that baby.”

  Lou grumbled and hunched down, taking the baby and David with her. “I don’t like you anymore,” she said flatly. “You had me. You lost me.”

  Dallas checked his wife with a knowing simper. He puckered his lips and blew her a kiss.

  Lou widened her eye
s, fluttered her eyelashes, and pretended to catch it on her cheek. She grumbled again.

  Marcus marveled at her. In the midst of this she hadn’t lost herself. Lou was Lou regardless of what was going on around her. He eyed David and then the infant in Lou’s arms. They were in good hands. They’d stay that way if he could help it.

  One of the Pop Guard vehicles, a gas-powered sedan, revved its engine and edged closer on the driver’s side. Dallas stuck his arm out the window. A loud pop followed the crack of a single gunshot. Wheels screeched and the loud bang of metal colliding with something brought Dallas back inside the cab.

  “One down,” he said.

  “Make a right up ahead,” Marcus said. “Try not to make it until the last possible second.”

  Sally nodded, her white knuckles wrapped around the steering wheel. Leaning forward in her seat, Marcus thought their conductor looked every bit the first-time driver getting tested at the DMV. She had that same intent look on her face as the frightened sixteen-year-olds who’d queue up for a chance at judgment from both the testers and their peers.

  Marcus didn’t know why he made that connection in this moment. He hadn’t considered it for decades. But there it was.

  The truck swung to the right. It fishtailed, drifting on the rough pavement. Sally got it under control and accelerated out of the turn, heading north again.

  The open window forced a thrumming in the cabin. Tiny tornadoes of air caused waves of pressure that filled the cabin with a whump, whump, whump. The resonant sound was so loud one of the infants started crying again.

  Dallas talked over them. “I had no idea there were so many gas-powered cars and trucks outside Texas.”

  Sally checked over her shoulder at Andrea, who was behind Marcus. She pressed a button and lowered the passenger-side rear window. The warbling stopped. Her hands again found nine and three on the wheel.

  “Refineries in Louisiana,” said Sally. “There are also some along the Delaware River. Virginia has some too. When Texas went off—”

  “No time for a history lesson,” said Marcus. “Roll down your window.”