Apocalypse Drift

by Joe Nobody

  The first task was to determine the emergency mooring points. Even in the year 2017, pleasure boats weren’t all that reliable. Propellers hit obstacles or ran aground in uncharted shallows. Engines overheated or failed. Fuel lines became clogged. There wasn’t any capability to call a wrecker or a towboat, if equipment failed. Deep water anchoring was beyond the capability of the average recreational boat as well. A common requirement for “setting the hook,” was ten times the amount of anchor rope as the depth of the water. The fleet would be voyaging through areas where the depth was 50 feet or more, and no one carried 500 feet of line. This meant that a damaged boat would need a safe, protected shallow-water mooring, and a harbor with those specs must be reasonably close by. Areas that met these requirements were identified and noted on the charts.

  The next order of business was security. The fleet would be traversing through several different areas where the shoreline was close. All of the captains attending the meeting shared a common concern over being big floating targets in these narrow passages. People might just be desperate and crazy enough to shoot at them. Pirates and waterborne assaults were another potential threat. No one believed Marinaville had the only functioning boats in the region. It was well publicized that there were over 25,000 pleasure craft in the Houston and Galveston area alone. Were there people out there using boats for dubious purposes?

  It was finally determined that the flotilla would use tactics similar to the configuration of a military fleet. The nimble, faster craft would form an outer ring and scout ahead. The medium-sized vessels would be a second ring of defense, with the larger, slower boats in the middle. Their fleet would travel south using the same formation as a US Navy Carrier Battle Group, steaming with its aircraft carrier in the middle and several rings of defense around it. This formation would work well except for just a few areas on the route. There were two narrow passages that would require everyone to motor through in single file.

  The final stage of the meeting was devoted to determining which boats would be used on the trip. While each man knew his own vessel better than any other, some of the boats didn’t make any sense to take along. This was the most emotional part of the planning, as no captain wanted to leave his vessel behind, surely to be looted by the surrounding neighborhoods. On the other hand, a boat without a working generator was a liability. Water making capacity, food storage capability, and fuel consumption were all valid selection criteria.

  Some boaters fought an internal struggle fostered by ethics and morals. None of the captains wanted to take someone else’s boat. It just didn’t seem right, regardless of the circumstances. The inventory of suitable vessels was finally agreed upon. Charts were noted and diagrams of the fleet’s formation were drawn.

  It was getting dark, and everyone was exhausted. The final decision of the day was to call it quits until the morning when Marinaville’s citizenry would reconvene, and a vote would be taken at first light. If the plan were approved, the rest of the morning would be devoted to reviewing the details so that every single person on the trip would be fluent with the plan. A target departure date was set for three days out at sunrise.

  Chapter 8

  March 4th, 2017

  The eastern horizon was just beginning to glow with a new sun when the first boat fired up its engine, disturbing the pre-dawn calm with the rumbling of its powerful motor. While the vessels of Marinaville had promoted an almost constant humming of generators, these trifling, sound-shielded motors were nothing compared to the roar of twin 600 horsepower diesels reverberating across the landscape. That first yacht was soon joined by dozens of internal combustion engines as their chorus shattered the calm.

  All over the marina, radar antenna began to spin, radios hissed to life, and GPS plotters booted. Crews scrambled, performing last-minute system checks, preparing for the long voyage ahead. They would travel half the distance to Army Hole today, spend the night at anchor, and hopefully arrive tomorrow around noon. That was the plan anyway.

  Wyatt hesitated on Boxer’s bridge, observing as Sage started untying the inch-thick lines that secured the heavy vessel to the wooden finger piers. The radio crackled to life on the preselected channel as the captains began to report in. Every boat was assigned a number - Boxer was number 11. As each vessel pulled out from its respective pier, the captain would announce the boat number and the single word status, “Departing.”

  The fleet’s waverunners were first. Two of these fast, maneuverable craft would act as the scouts and escorts for the main body of vessels. Each carried two men onboard, the driver and a passenger armed with a rifle and a handheld radio. The waters along the central Texas coast were still chilly this time of year, so all of the riders donned neoprene diving suits, adorned with life vests in case the worst occurred. Initially, Wyatt had disagreed with arming the escorts. The miniature hulls were unstable, and it seemed ridiculous to think anyone could aim a rifle while bobbing around on the water. He had eventually been won over by the logic that “looking ready for trouble” might avoid an actual confrontation. Someone quoted the famous old Roman idiom, “If you want peace – prepare for war.”

  After the waverunners reported the channel to the lake was clear, the next set of boats began their parade down the passageway. These were the smaller cabin cruisers and sport boats. Ranging between 30 and 36 feet in length, each was a small floating apartment, capable of accommodating up to four people in reasonable comfort.

  The third set of vessels to depart was the sailboats. This group had caused the most controversy during the planning for several reasons. The charts indicated the waters around Army Hole were shallow, and sailboats typically drew the most water because of a deep keel under the boat. They also were the best equipped for self-sufficient living. The average sailing vessel had more food storage, water making and renewable power generation onboard than the equivalent size motorboat. Many people bought sailboats with visions of extended trips to distant islands where land-based replenishment wasn’t an option. Their equipment might prove invaluable.

  Fortunately, Marinaville was home to a few large catamarans, which afforded a reasonable compromise. Well-equipped for independent voyaging without drawing as much water, the three, immense, multi-hulled “cats” motored out of Southland next.

  The final group to unite and leave its mooring was the larger motorboats. Boxer fell into this category of 45 to 60-foot diesel powered cruisers. While large and comfortable, these vessels sucked fuel at alarming rates while underway. Yachts are like automobiles and pizza, Wyatt thought. Everything’s a compromise.

  At Wyatt’s signal, Sage loosened the last mooring line and hopped aboard Boxer. Morgan climbed the ladder to sit on the bridge with her husband while Wyatt’s deft touch on the throttles spun the heavy craft out of its slip and into the fairway.

  The tension in the air was thick as the captains checked in on the radio, but there was also a sense of freedom and adventure in everyone’s voices. Morgan loved cruising in the boat. It was a completely different feeling than driving or flying in an aircraft.

  The sun cleared the horizon as the last of Marinaville’s vessels cleared the harbor, an unusual, eerily quiet settling over the remaining, unoccupied boats.

  The route to Army Hole began with a three-mile jaunt down an inland waterway known as Clearlake. Wyatt had once been told by an old sailor that Clearlake was neither clear, nor a lake. The shallow, brackish body of water was directly connected to Galveston Bay and could boast one of the largest concentrations of pleasure craft in the world. On any normal weekend day, hundreds of vessels in all shapes and sizes plied the lake, most on their way to or from the bay.

  This morning, the waterway was empty with the exception of the 27 boats departing Southland Marina. As Wyatt increased Boxer’s engine speed to keep his place in line, he couldn’t help but notice pillars of smoke rising from several different locations close to the lake. While the dome of smoke over Houston to the north was no longer visible, the sight of the
smaller fires reminded everyone that this wasn’t a vacation cruise. The single file of boats formed a straight line almost a mile long. As Boxer made it to the middle of the lake, the waverunners leading the column were entering Clearlake Channel, a narrow, twisting path leading to the wide-open spaces of the bay.

  The channel resembled a medium-size river lined with homes, businesses, and even a theme park. A little less than a mile long, the waterway was home to the most densely populated portion of the lake. David was riding shotgun on the lead waverunner, and Wyatt jumped a little when his static-laden voice crackled over the radio. “We see people along the edge of the channel. Can’t see what they’re up to just yet, but there are small fires burning along the northern bank.”

  Less than a minute went by before David reported again, “I think there are lots of people camping along the channel. I see tents, a couple of RVs and even two guys fishing. No problem so far.”

  Todd was designated as the driver of David’s patrol craft, the thirteen-year-old controlling the small jet-powered boat as if he had been born on the thing. David had seen the teenager around the pier now and then, but didn’t really know him all that well. The kid’s father swore Todd was an ace with the craft, adding the family would be much wealthier if it weren’t for Todd eating up gasoline, running around the lake every weekend.

  When they first detected people along the bank of the channel, David nudged Todd to move on ahead of the fleet. The slight, two-man craft had quickly accelerated away from the first boat in line, blasting past the shoreline at almost 50 miles per hour. When they had approached within 100 yards of the first group of people, Todd slowed to a stop, floating in the gentle current of the channel.

  An audience began to gather onshore, gawking at the approaching line of boats coming down the lake. To David’s eye, many of them acted like they never seen a boat before. The few children in the group were pointing; most of the adults stood and blankly stared. In reality, the channel hadn’t seen much action of late.

  David surveyed the campsite, noticing an odd collection of items. Several 50-gallon drums served as fire pits, while other spots of smoldering ashes dotted the ground all around the area. Much of the ridge was bare earth, the once thick carpet of green grass worn away. The men were unshaven, and all the spectators appeared tired and unkempt. As the outgoing tide slowly pulled them closer, David counted more than 20 people congregating on the water's edge, all of them now staring at Todd and him.

  They looked more like refugees of some third world nation than citizens of the USA. Dark eyes, sunken cheeks, and lazy gaits painted a picture of little nourishment, minimal esteem, and less hope. Their camp enhanced the image – cardboard lean-tos braced with scrap lumber were mixed with two old campers and three faded tents. Tools, fishing poles and other items were scattered throughout the area.

  One of the children waved, and both of the guys on the jet boat returned the gesture. None of the adults made any motion, friend or foe. A few moments later, they had drifted within shouting distance of the shore. One of the men yelled out. “Hey, do you guys have any antibiotics? We’ve got some pretty sick people here and zero medical supplies.”

  David, remembering the incident by the pool, decided to play it out. He yelled back, “I don’t know. Let me check,” and then raised his small portable radio to his ear. “These people along the shore want to know if we have any antibiotics or medical supplies. They have sick among them.”

  No one answered the radio call, and David hadn’t really expected a response. After a reasonable pause, he lifted the device to his ear and pretended to be listening to an answer. Looking back to the shore, he carefully chose his answer. “No one in our group has anything. As a matter of fact, I was going to ask you folks the same thing. We’re low on just about everything.”

  One of the other men laughed and then replied, “We’ve got plenty of fish, but that’s about it.”

  The first boat in line had caught up by now, quietly gliding past on the smooth water. The people onshore could now clearly count the number of vessels on the move. David had to admit, it was probably a weird sight. Even during normal times, this many boats out so early would’ve been a little unusual.

  About half the fleet had passed when David detected movement a little further down the channel. A man, obviously not part of the group he had been addressing, appeared on shore. The fellow began shouting something to one of the passing boats, his body language displaying agitation. David pointed out the new arrival, and Todd throttled up the jet-ski, accelerating the water bike in the stranger’s direction.

  David couldn’t make out what the gentleman was saying, but the look in his eye was clear. The guy was wearing shorts and a dirty white shirt, torn and sporadically stained with sweat, blood, and clay. His crazed expression and body motions defied explanation. It was almost as if the guy was trapped on an anthill, jerking his arms one minute, performing a bad dance step the next.

  Without warning, the man screamed, “Take me with you! God have mercy – take me!” The stranger then dove into the frigid water, swimming directly at the nearest boat.

  “Block him,” shouted David, and Todd steered to do just that. All of the boats from Marinaville were propeller driven, many of them spinning blades large enough to suck a swimmer underneath the passing vessel. The propulsion units would then become meat cleavers.

  David’s waverunner intercepted the swimmer about 20 feet from shore, acting like a football player blocking for a halfback. The demented fellow splashed around for a bit, and David realized he was becoming fatigued. Having nothing else handy to give the struggling man, David stuck out his foot for the guy to grab and hold.

  Initially, the desperate swimmer gripped David’s ankle and held on for a few moments, gasping for air. He then proceeded to climb up David’s leg, looking more crazed than ever. Not only did David have to adjust his balance to remain seated, the guy’s weight started to tip the waverunner over. Again, having no other option, David shoved the barrel of the AR15 in the guy’s face – right on the bridge of his nose. “That’s enough!”

  Something about the sharp pain of the barrel’s flash suppressor made it through to the swimmer’s brain, and he curtailed his ascent, panting for breath and just hanging on. “Take us in close to shore,” David told Todd.

  Slowly the water bike moved closer to the embankment. When the trio reached shallow water, David pressed down hard on the weapon until the fellow let loose. “Now go,” he instructed.

  As the jet boat idled off, David glanced over his shoulder and watched as the man just stood there in waist-high water, seemingly content with watching the rest of the fleet pass by. With David’s urging, Todd increased their speed in order to move to the front of the formation again. They were almost back on point when the radio crackled. “Someone had better get up here, this looks like trouble.”

  David nudged the driver and instructed, “Go…hurry to the front.”

  As they rounded a sharp bend in the channel, the issue became clear. The narrow passageway was blocked by a rather large sports fisherman that seemed to be abandoned. The 60-foot-plus vessel must have come untied and drifted to its resting place, bow wedged into the bank and blocking the deepest part of the channel. There was no way to pass around the boat.

  David keyed the microphone, “Everyone hold in place. The channel is blocked.”

  Boats don’t have brakes or a parking gear. While there wasn’t any wind yet, the channel always had a current, one direction or the other, depending on the tide. It was very difficult for a floating vessel to maintain a fixed position with even slow moving water pushing on her hull. For the smaller boats, this wasn’t much of a problem as they could circle in the narrow channel. For Boxer and the larger boats, it was a very tight squeeze, requiring no small level of skill. Adding to the general apprehension of potential collisions, the captains all sensed that the longer the fleet was in this tight passage, the higher the risk of shore-born problems.

&nb
sp; The other waverunner motored to David’s boat and a quick discussion ensued. The scouting party determined that David would board the boat while one of the mid-sized cabin cruisers came forward to tow the relic. Dock lines would be used to pull the big hulk out of the channel.

  David climbed aboard the ghost ship and right away noticed a horrible odor. Before he could even register what the offending aroma was, he saw a gash in the transom’s fiberglass that looked like a bullet had impacted at a low angle, carving a groove in the white material. That image immediately connected with the odor in his brain. Within seconds, he discovered the bodies and turned away from the gruesome sight. A man and a woman both lay dead on the bridge, their decomposing corpses resting in a large pool of dried blood. Scavengers, most likely airborne vultures, had visited the deceased. He noticed two more bullet holes as he hurried back to the swim platform and gagging into the channel.

  The driver of the other waverunner saw what was happening and motored up. “You okay, man?”

  Despite his churning stomach, David signaled he was fine. “Can you bring me some water when you get a sec?”

  Todd rummaged for a second, “Here, take mine. You look like you need it about now,” and tossed the clear plastic bottle over.

  In a few minutes, one of the small cruisers maneuvered close enough to throw across two lines. David used a hitch knot to quickly secure the ropes to the bigger boat, and then motioned for Todd in to pick him up.

  The little cruiser revved its engines and began pulling on the ghost ship. There was a moment of suspense when it looked like the bigger vessel was going to stay aground, but after a few moments the ghost ship budged. As soon as the passage was clear, David again boarded the offending sport boat and untied the towlines, hastily flinging them back in a high arch. He wasted no time getting off her, and into some fresher air.