The Pulse

by Scott B. Williams

  “Nah, some will, but you gotta remember, most people are conditioned to expect a government handout when some disaster strikes, like a hurricane, for instance. I think most of them will hang around hoping help is on the way until they finally realize it ain’t coming. Besides, from what I’ve seen my last few times in the States, most people these days aren’t in shape to walk out of their neighborhoods, much less far enough to get to the rural areas. And even though some could do something like that, far fewer have access to good, seaworthy boats that could reach the kinds of places I’ve got in mind. No, Doc, we don’t have to worry about that. As long as some other freak of nature doesn’t come along and shut down the wind, the world is our oyster here aboard the Casey Nicole.”

  “I just hope we get there before Casey decides to leave,” Artie said, suddenly worried about this new possibility. “If she were to evacuate or something before we get there, I don’t know how I would ever find her.”

  “We’re gonna find her, Doc. Just try not to worry too much about all the what-ifs. Just help Scully sail this boat and when we get there we’ll figure it out one step at a time.”

  SIX

  CASEY GLANCED OVER her shoulder one last time at the terrible place on the Interstate where a dead man was sprawled face down on the concrete slab. She shuddered to see that at least a dozen of the big black vultures they had disturbed in their passing had returned to swarm over the body, while more circled downward, gliding in for the feast in lazy, spiraling loops. Casey looked ahead with apprehension for signs of more winged scavengers, as Grant had said it was inevitable that they would pass more dead bodies, but, at least for now, she didn’t see any.

  By the time they reached the exit to Causeway Boulevard, where they would get off the expressway to turn north, the mid-afternoon sun was baking the hot concrete beneath their tires. New Orleans’s heat and humidity, even in March, could sap the strength of the fittest athlete. Sweat dripped on her handlebars as she rode, and her quadriceps burned from spinning the cranks. Jessica was struggling even more than she was, while Grant made it look effortless.

  “I don’t think I can go much farther without resting,” she said, as they coasted down the ramp at their exit.

  “It’s only a little over two miles from here to the start of the Causeway Bridge,” Grant said. “If you can just try to push on that far, we’ll stop there and take a real break before we start the crossing. We need to eat something to keep our energy up, but I’ll feel a lot better if we don’t stop until we’re on the bridge.”

  Causeway Boulevard, like every other road they had seen in the city, was packed with stalled cars and trucks, but in the short ride north to the start of the bridge, they had to move out of the way several times to make room for the occasional running vehicle as well. Most of these were pickup trucks, station wagons, or sedans twenty years old or more. Without exception, all were bound north, out of the city, most jam-packed with families and as many of their belongings as they could pile in the back or lash onto the roof. All of them faced a 24-mile-long obstacle course of more stalled vehicles blocking the bridge, but Grant said that by now people had probably pushed enough cars to one side or the other to open a route. Most of those few lucky enough to be riding in motor vehicles were focused on the obstructions ahead of them and hardly gave Casey, Grant, and Jessica a second glance. While a lone traveler without much stuff might have had some chance of hitching a ride, no one was going to stop for three people loaded down with gear. There were other bicyclists riding out of the city too, as well as a few people walking with large backpacks or duffel bags slung over their shoulders. The refugees moving north that first day were the vanguard of what would surely become an exodus from the city when more of the population of the greater New Orleans area figured out that help was not coming. Grant said it would probably be several days before many people accepted that reality and decided that their survival was up to them, and even those who realized the truth would likely hesitate due to indecision until it was too late.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life,” Jessica said, “except in a movie or something. This is just unreal.”

  “It’s sort of like a hurricane evacuation, but without the traffic jams. You should have seen what it was like here just before Katrina hit. Every road north was backed up bumper-to-bumper for a hundred miles. It was that way all the way across Louisiana to Mississippi and Alabama. But the big difference was that the cars were running. Everyone who had access to a vehicle and any common sense at all got out and got out early.”

  “But they also had someplace to go, right?” Casey asked. “I mean, all they had to do was drive far enough inland from the Gulf to get out of the danger zone. Where will all these people who are leaving go if the power is out everywhere? I don’t imagine most of them have a cabin like yours to go to.”

  “No, but a lot of them may have relatives or friends nearby. Maybe they think everything will be normal somewhere else within reach, or at least they can hope. But they’re making the right choice to get out of New Orleans while they can.”

  “Don’t you think there will be someone willing to help all these people, like there are when hurricanes hit?” Jessica asked. “Surely there will be some somewhere.”

  “It’s possible, but we just don’t know the scale of this. If it’s as bad as the worst-case scenario, I just can’t imagine how anyone could do much, no matter how much they may want to. I think you’ll see small groups of neighbors joining together to help each other, especially in the smaller towns and rural areas to the north of the city. But I don’t see how they can do much to help a bunch of outsiders flooding in with nothing to eat. I’m just glad we have what we need with us and a place to go so we don’t have to depend on anyone’s generosity, because it will probably be in short supply.”

  At the edge of Lake Pontchartrain, the broad northbound and southbound lanes of the boulevard disappeared and the roadway transitioned into two separate, parallel bridges, with two lanes going north and two going south. Low concrete retaining walls bordered the edges of the lanes on either side, allowing a good view of the water from the height of a bicycle seat. The three of them pedaled onto the bridge, leaving land behind for an open horizon of empty water for as far ahead as they could see. Driving across the Causeway was about as close as a person could get to being out at sea without a boat, and Casey had found it interesting the few times she’d crossed it, especially in the middle sections of the span where no land other than the bridge itself could be seen in any direction. She had never dreamed of riding across such a bridge on a bicycle, and knowing how long it seemed to take in a car, she felt a good deal of apprehension about pedaling such a distance.

  Grant said he thought it was okay to stop once they’d ridden about half a mile onto the bridge. He was visibly more at ease now that they had this small bit of isolation between themselves and the streets of the city. Casey and Jessica followed his lead and leaned their bikes against the rail. They all drank from their water bottles and sat in the shade of an abandoned delivery van to get some relief from the hot concrete. The three shared peanut butter and crackers, some dried fruit and almonds; Casey and Grant ate some of the beef jerky Grant had bought at the store. Grant said they would have a hot meal later that night when he felt they had gone far enough to camp safely. High-energy snacks would get them through the miles until they could rest.

  As they sat there eating, an occasional car or pickup motored by headed north, and one young couple on expensive touring bicycles with a covered baby carrier hitched behind the man’s bike made their way by as well. The trailer was occupied not by a child, but rather by a small dog that looked to be some sort of schnauzer.

  “They’ll probably be eating him before this is over,” Grant said. Seeing Jessica’s expression of horror, he felt bad about bringing it up. “Well, they eat dogs in a lot of other cultures,” he explained. “It’s weird how we have such a strange attachment to some animals while we slaughter
others. What’s the difference really, between a dog and a pig?”

  “Dogs are cute!” Casey said. “That’s what.”

  “I know. Man’s best friend and all that. But still, they are just another variety of animal that our particular culture has chosen to live with as pets rather than raise as meat-producing livestock like pigs or cows.”

  “That’s why I don’t eat meat,” Jessica said. “There’s not really a difference and it’s not our place to decide which species are better. All animals have a right to live, just like we do.”

  “Agreed!” Grant said. “Except that it’s not a right. Humans are the only animals able to comprehend such complex concepts. In the animal kingdom it’s all about survival of the fittest. We just happen to be at the top of the food chain—for now. In the overall scheme of things, we haven’t always been, though, and we’re still not in some places, like out there.” He pointed to the empty expanse of sea over his shoulder. “In the sea, it’s all about who’s the biggest and who has the most teeth. Now, I’m afraid a lot of people are going to see that survival of the fittest applies to us, too, once you take away all the technology that has made our lives so easy. I’ll never forget how my first undergrad anthropology professor put it. He said if you compared the entire span of human history to the span of a single twenty-four-hour day on the clock, then the advent of the Industrial Revolution would not occur until about five minutes to midnight.”

  “Really? I never would have thought about that,” Jessica said.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?”

  “I feel like survival of the fittest is already about to apply to us,” Casey said. “I’m not looking forward to riding all the way across this bridge.”

  “Me either. It already hurts just to think about getting back on that bicycle seat. I don’t think I can go much farther today.”

  “You both are doing just fine. We’ll take it easy and stop as much as we need to.

  If we have to keep going after dark, that’s fine too, but I want to get past the main navigation channel under the bridge before we stop. There’s a drawbridge there, and if for some reason the authorities decide to open it, we’ll be screwed. I’ll feel a lot better if we camp on the other side of it, even if we are still on the Causeway.”

  “How far is it to the drawbridge?” Casey asked.

  “It’s closer to the north shore, really, I think about two-thirds of the way across. So figure maybe 15 or 16 more miles.”

  “Ugh! That’s a long way.”

  “You can do it. We’ll find a place to camp after we pass it and sleep long enough to be refreshed for tomorrow. We should easily be able to push past Mandeville and Covington in the morning and get out in the country, where I’ll feel a lot safer.”

  “I hope you’re right about that,” Jessica said. “Places like that scare me. When I think of rural Louisiana and rural Mississippi, all I can picture is a bunch of rednecks with guns.”

  “Well, there are some rednecks there to be sure, and most people out there have guns. But those are the kind of people who generally won’t mess with anybody who is not messing with them. As long as we’re not trying to steal something or trespass on somebody’s land, we’ll be fine. I know you’re from California and all, but it’s not quite like Deliverance down here.”

  Grant got them back on the bikes before they had time for their tired muscles to cool down and stiffen. They continued north on the bridge as the late afternoon sun began to sink, casting a glaring reflection on the watery horizon to their left. Casey couldn’t imagine doing something like this on her own, without Jessica’s company and Grant’s encouragement and guidance. She wondered as she rode what she and Jessica would have done if he had not offered to help them, and she still wasn’t quite sure why he wanted to be burdened by them. She guessed that without him, they would have just stayed put like almost everybody else and waited—but for what? If Grant was right about all the things he’d told them, life in New Orleans would be a lot harder than riding a bike 90 miles. She didn’t want to think about the entire distance, but the least she and Jessica could do was make their best effort, considering all he was doing to help them. She gritted her teeth and focused on riding 15 miles; just 15 more miles and then they could stop for the night, eat something, and get some sleep.

  Before they reached the drawbridge they crossed three smaller navigation channels where the Causeway rose to elevations ranging from 22 to 50 feet to allow the passage of smaller recreational vessels. At each of these places, the roadway rose in a steep hump that forced Jessica and Casey to get off their bikes and push, while Grant shifted to his lowest gear to spin along at a speed that matched their walking pace. They reached the crest of the second and highest of these elevated spans as the sun was beginning to set over the water in an impressive display of reds and golden yellows.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful sunset,” Jessica said.

  “Sunsets over the water are the best,” Grant agreed.

  “It sure makes me miss my dad,” Casey said. “I just hope he’s okay. I hope they found their way safely to land and that things in the islands are not as bad as they are here.”

  Grant was about to reply when they all became aware of a distant roar of engines to the south, in the direction of the city but obviously much closer, as they were now a good 12 miles from the south shore. The sound was growing louder, and it became clear that it was coming their way. From their vantage point on the elevated section of the bridge, they were soon able to see movement, and moments later that movement was distinguishable for what it was—a long line of motorcycles—winding among the stalled cars and trucks and coming their way at a rapid pace.

  “Quick! We’ve got to find a place to hide,” Grant said. “I don’t like the looks of this. There must be nearly a hundred of them! I don’t think they can see us yet. Let’s get the bikes down there behind that pileup of cars and get out of sight before they get here.”

  The pileup he was pointing to was the scene of a multiple-vehicle accident that must have occurred just as the pulse hit and the drivers lost control. Some were smashed against the guardrail, and an overturned GMC Yukon was halfway on top of a crushed compact car. As they made their way around it and pulled the bicycles out of sight into the jumble of vehicles, Casey saw to her horror that there was a dead woman hanging upside down from her seatbelt in the Yukon. A pool of blood had dried beneath the crushed car under it but Casey turned her eyes away before she saw another body. It was a gruesome place to hide, but they had no other options. The lane to the far right was just clear enough to allow passage of one vehicle at a time, and they could only hope the motorcyclists would go on by.

  “Is it a motorcycle gang?” Casey asked in a whisper, as the first few in a seemingly endless line of loud Harleys reached the foot of the elevated section.

  “Probably,” Grant said. “Or a motorcycle club, as they would prefer it.”

  “What would they do to us?” Jessica whispered.

  “Maybe nothing. But I don’t want to find out. Two beautiful girls out here with no law and order and no one but me to try and stop them…it’s not worth taking the risk. Now keep down, and don’t move!”

  The first of the motorcyclists crested the rise in the bridge and streamed by the pileup in pairs and groups of threes and fours. They slowed down, gawking at the wreckage, but none of them stopped. Some of the riders had female passengers behind them. All of the bikes were loaded down with saddlebags, duffels, and other luggage strapped to sissy bars, forks, and handlebars, and without exception, all were Harley Davidsons from the 1980s or earlier, running obnoxiously loud straight pipes. Some of the riders were carrying guns in plain sight: pistols in holsters at their sides or shotguns and rifles slung over their backs or strapped to their machines. As they passed by, Casey could see from the patches on the backs of their jackets and vests that they were indeed members of an organized club. She had heard of the name Bandidos somewhere before, probably in
a movie or something, but it didn’t mean much to her. Whatever Grant called them, they looked like a gang to her, and she was really glad that they were hiding right now instead of pedaling along in plain sight of these bearded, tattooed, and greasy-looking bikers. When the last of them finally rolled past their hiding spot, she felt a flood of relief. Grant was right, there must have been more than a hundred motorcycles in the roaring procession, but all of them were focused on getting to wherever they were headed to, and soon were far enough away that it was safe to come out.

  “Bandidos,” Grant confirmed. “They’re the dominant club in New Orleans and most of the Gulf Coast region.”

  “Are they like the Hells Angels or something?” Jessica asked.

  “Yep. Definitely an outlaw motorcycle club. They usually don’t mess with regular people unless they get in the way of one of their criminal enterprises, but in this situation, it’s not worth taking a chance.”

  “I’ll say. They sure look like they could take on anybody. Where do you think they’re going?” Casey asked.

  “Who knows? Probably somewhere to hook up with other chapters in their organization; there are thousands of Bandidos here in the South, and other, rival clubs as well. Riding those old Harleys with their simple engines, they’ve got an advantage now over most people, including law enforcement agencies. There’s no telling what they’re up to.”

  “I’m starting to think I’m going to like staying at your cabin in the woods,” Jessica said.

  “I’m telling you, any place away from people is the place to be in a situation like this. That river is not on the way to anywhere, and most people with criminal intentions would have no reason to go somewhere they wouldn’t expect to find lots of people to take advantage of. We’ll be so much better off when we get off the highway. The cabin is at the end of a dirt road that is miles from even the nearest crossroads. We’ll be safe there—or I should say at least as safe as anywhere I could imagine, in this country, at least.”