Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2)

by R. E. McDermott

  Kinsey nodded, and they took advantage of the waning light to eat a meal. Then they said their goodbyes to a forlorn Breaux, the man obviously irritated he’d drawn the short straw and boat-sitting detail, and watched him scramble up over the levee and out of sight.

  The minutes dragged for Kinsey. Being this close to his family and unable to fly downriver grated on his nerves. But ever so slowly the sky darkened until finally they were wrapped in the inky blackness of a post-event night. After whispered conversation with Cormier, they cast off and moved down the short channel and into the stream of the mighty Mississippi.

  They moved on a single trolling motor, propelling both of the lashed boats, and Kinsey was amazed how quickly the bank slipped by in his nightvision goggles. Cormier had been right about the current.

  By mutual agreement, Cormier’s man, Bertrand, was at the helm, wearing one of the Coasties’ pairs of NV goggles. Kinsey and Bollinger were alternating overwatch duties, trading off the other pair of NV goggles every half hour to keep their eyes fresh.

  It was near the end of Kinsey’s first watch when the channel turned almost due south. He glanced over to where Cormier sat, staring into the dark.

  “We’re turning due south,” Kinsey said softly. “We’re past the prison, right?”

  Cormier nodded in the green-tinted world.

  “That wasn’t too bad,” Kinsey said.

  “It ain’t going downstream I was worried about,” Cormier said. “It’s clawing back against this current with the outboards blastin’. We won’t be exactly hard to spot.”

  “They might hear us,” Kinsey said. “But it will be night, and we have the NV equipment.”

  “They might have it too. You ever think of that?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve been trying not to,” Kinsey said.

  Mississippi River

  Southbound

  Just North of Baton Rouge

  Day 29, 1:25 a.m.

  Their approach to Baton Rouge was signaled by increasingly large fleets of idle river barges tied up along both banks and glowing green in Kinsey’s night-vision goggles. They made a sharp bend to the right, and a bridge loomed across the river in the near distance.

  “That’s the 190 bridge,” Bertrand said softly. “Should I kill the outboard?”

  “Oui,” Cormier replied, and the rumble died abruptly as Bertrand switched back to the trolling motor.

  The quiet was eerie, but short-lived. As they moved closer to the city, Kinsey heard sporadic gunfire, and here and there distant fires flared green in his glasses.

  “You sure you can recognize this place, Kinsey?” Cormier asked.

  “I’m not sure of anything,” Kinsey said, “But the place I saw on the chart was just south of the I-10 bridge and almost directly across from the Port Allen Lock. If we start hugging the east bank at the bridge, we should be able to spot it. Besides, any dock in the area should work. We’ll be close to LSU and I know the way from there. We just cut across the campus to Connie’s neighborhood.”

  When Cormier spoke again, there was doubt in his voice. “Just how much do you know about Baton Rouge?”

  “Not a lot,” Kinsey said. “We visited Connie fairly often, but my brother-in-law always did the driving around town. Why?”

  “Because not every neighborhood around LSU is a good one, and it sounds like we’re headed right into the projects,” Cormier said. “The locals say to stay off streets named after presidents if you don’t want to end up dead. And that’s when things were normal; I can’t imagine how it is now.”

  “Okay, what’s the alternative? Beyond this short stretch, there are no other good landing spots for at least four miles. That would make it a long hike to Connie’s house, to say nothing of getting back to the boats. Besides, I know my way from the LSU campus, but we get too far away and we’re gonna be groping around in the dark with no clue where we are.”

  Kinsey heard Cormier sigh. “No, you’re probably right. We’ll just have to slip past the projects. It’s the middle of the night, and if we don’t show a light, we should be okay. The LSU veterinary school is right near the river. We can use that as a landmark.”

  “I-10 bridge coming up,” Bertrand called softly from the stern. “What y’all want me to do?”

  “Hug the east bank,” Cormier said. “Let’s see if we can find Kinsey his dock.”

  Bertrand did as ordered, and the bank grew more distinct in the green glow of Kinsey’s NV goggles. They passed a dock almost immediately under the I-10 bridge. Kinsey shook his head and waved Bertrand forward. The riverbank was lined with large blocks of empty and idle barges now, and Kinsey was beginning to worry the dock he was looking for would be blocked. Then he saw it through an opening in the blocks of barges, a floating dock with a crane in place, tethered to shore by a movable ramp designed to accommodate the changing level of the river.

  “That’s it,” Kinsey said. “Take us in.”

  Bertrand reversed the trolling motor to slow the boats, but momentum and the current behind them were strong. The boats slowed ever so slowly as the little electric motor strained. It was obvious the motor could not counter the powerful current, and for a long, terrifying moment, Kinsey was afraid they’d be swept past the dock. But the Cajun handled the joined boats expertly, maneuvering them so they bumped along beside the dock at much reduced speed, allowing Kinsey to grab one of the ropes hanging down from the dock, no doubt placed there for that very purpose. Kinsey held them alongside in the current as Bertrand killed the trolling motor and rushed to tie them up securely to the dock. Only then did Kinsey release his grip on the catch rope.

  “I think we should be safe using the headlamps here as long as we keep them in low-intensity red-light mode,” Cormier said. “Anyone who spots us from across the river can’t get to us, and we’re well below the levee, so we don’t have to worry about anyone spotting us from this side.”

  “Agreed,” Kinsey said. “But first Bollinger and I should take the NV glasses and sweep the area to make sure we’re alone. We can’t stumble ashore lit up like Christmas trees.”

  “Okay,” Cormier said. “But hurry, eh? We need to do this fast. This place ain’t gonna be too healthy in daylight.”

  Kinsey murmured agreement, and Bertrand passed his NV goggles to Bollinger. Moments later, the Coasties were moving up the sloping ramp toward solid land, night vision in place and M4s at the ready. The ramp terminated in the well-worn gravel parking lot of what had previously been McElroy Fleet Services, empty except for a battered flatbed truck of indeterminate but ancient vintage.

  The offices were in a utilitarian metal building, the windows smashed and front door standing open. They entered to find the large one-room structure ransacked. Metal desks and filing cabinets were overturned, no doubt savaged by looters frustrated at the lack of anything of value. They exited the building and made their way around the periphery of the parking lot, examining the open shops and work areas. All were vacant and vandalized. Satisfied the area was secure, Kinsey signaled Bollinger, and they started toward the dock.

  “I wonder if that heap runs,” Bollinger said as they neared the old truck. “A ride sure would be sweet.”

  Kinsey stopped and opened the truck door, grimacing as it squeaked. “Not locked, but good luck finding any keys.”

  “Not a problem, boss,” Bollinger said. “I wasn’t always the model citizen you know and love. I have a few skills from my misspent youth.”

  Kinsey grunted and raised the hood. “Surprise, surprise. No battery. It’s probably the only thing of value the looters found. I doubt anyone wanted this old beater, but you’re right, it’s worth a shot. Let’s go get the others.”

  Cormier looked in their general direction as they moved across the dock in the darkness, obviously locating them by sound. “That you, Kinsey?”

  “It is,” Kinsey replied. “And we found—”

  “We got a problem,” Bertrand blurted. “I clicked on my light to check the lines, and the stern
line is already chafing. We can’t leave the boats tied up like this and bouncing around on this current; if one line breaks, the other will go quick. And what if we don’t make it back before daylight? We can’t just leave the boats here in plain sight. We gotta find a hiding place out of this current.”

  Kinsey cursed and turned his NV goggles toward the riverbank. He was scrutinizing a block of empty barges lashed together and moored to the tree-lined shore downstream when Bollinger spoke.

  “Maybe we can take them around the downstream end of these barges into the backwater between the barges and the bank,” Bollinger said. “Nobody will be able to see them from either the dock or the river, and the trees will screen them from the bank. There can’t be much surface current there.”

  Kinsey nodded. “Looks like our best shot, but first let’s get our gear ashore.” Kinsey turned to Cormier. “Andrew, we’re done with the trolling motors, right?”

  “Mais yeah,” Cormier replied. “They ain’t gonna do no good against the current. We go back upstream on the outboards. Why?”

  “Because I want one of the batteries.” Kinsey told them about the old truck.

  They got their gear ashore, including a battery and a five-gallon can of gas, working in the soft warm glow of their red headlights. Given his claimed expertise, Kinsey left Bollinger working on the truck with Bertrand’s assistance while he and Cormier hid the boats. As hoped, they found a protected backwater between the barges and the riverbank and tied the boats up securely to a tree. By the time they’d slogged up the muddy riverbank and through the trees to the parking lot, their two companions were ready to try the truck.

  “Ready when you are, boss,” Bollinger said from the driver’s seat.

  Kinsey nodded, then grimaced as Bollinger touched two wires together under the steering column and the starter ground loudly, followed immediately by the roar of an unmuffled exhaust as the engine caught.

  “Shut it down!” Kinsey hissed, and Bollinger complied.

  “We can’t drive around in that,” Kinsey said. “We may as well take out an ad.”

  But Bollinger was already out of the truck and on his back in the gravel, inching under the truck with his headlight. He emerged with a diagnosis. “The exhaust system is Swiss cheese, but I saw some sheet metal scraps in one of the shops. I can patch it, at least temporarily.”

  Cormier looked at his watch. “It’s two thirty. We don’t have much time.”

  Bollinger ignored the Cajun and fixed his gaze on Kinsey. “Five minutes now can save us an hour later. It’s worth a shot, boss.”

  Kinsey looked from Bollinger to Cormier. “Okay. Five minutes. No more.”

  Bollinger was moving before Kinsey finished speaking, and emerged from the nearest shop moments later with a handful of sheet metal scraps of various sizes. He tossed them on the ground, then rummaged in his pack for a roll of duct tape. He motioned for Bertrand to assist, and dove under the truck again. Kinsey and Cormier watched as Bollinger periodically asked for a piece of sheet metal and Bertrand passed it under the truck. Kinsey kept glancing at his watch.

  “Time’s up, Bollinger,” Kinsey said. “Get out of there and let’s—”

  “Almost done, boss. One more minute, two max.”

  And so it went for ten. Kinsey was about to drag Bollinger out feet first when the man scrambled out, grinning. “Done!”

  “And how long is friggin’ duct tape gonna last?” Kinsey asked.

  Bollinger shrugged. “Ten or twenty minutes or until we catch fire, whichever comes first. I figure it’ll keep us quiet enough to get past the projects and to your family’s house, and that’s all we need, right?”

  “Let’s hope so,” Kinsey said. “Give it a try, but shut it down if it’s too loud.”

  Bollinger slid into the driver’s seat, and Kinsey cringed again as the starter ground. But this time the engine was much quieter; still not exactly a whisper, but not a roar.

  “All right, I’ll drive. Bollinger, get in back with night vision and an M4. Andrew, you guys ride front or back, whichever you want,” Kinsey said.

  “Back,” Cormier said. “Even if we can’t see nothin’, if Bollinger starts shooting we can shoot in the same direction. Maybe we get lucky, eh?”

  “Fair enough,” Kinsey said, sliding behind the wheel as Bollinger got out.

  “Just a minute, boss,” Bollinger said, and disappeared around the back of the truck. Kinsey heard several loud whacks and the sound of something breaking.

  “Dammit, Bollinger!” he hissed. “Can you make any more noise—”

  “Sorry, boss,” Bollinger said softly. “Just takin’ out the brake lights.”

  “Okay, okay. Let’s go,” Kinsey said.

  He settled behind the wheel of the idling truck, and moments later, Bollinger knocked on the cab, signaling everyone was ready. Kinsey put the truck in first gear and crept out of the parking lot and up the steep incline to the top of the levee. He turned right, down the road on the levee crest rather than descending to the mean streets below. The higher vantage point would make it easier to avoid an ambush and give Bollinger a clear field of fire.

  Any pretensions to stealth quickly evaporated when he shifted into second gear and the raucous sound of mechanical mayhem rose from the ancient transmission. He cursed and shifted back to first, and the transmission quieted. He built up sufficient speed to shift directly into third, hoping it wasn’t gone as well, and heaved a relieved sigh as the truck slid smoothly into higher gear. The old beater moved quietly along the crest of the levee, ‘quiet’ being a relative term. In less than a mile he spotted a large office complex to his left at the foot of the levee: the vet school. He slowed, looking for a way down, and spotted a wide sidewalk angling down the side of the levee to the street below.

  He stuck his left hand through his open window and pointed at the sidewalk. Bollinger knocked quietly on the top of the truck cab in acknowledgment and Kinsey started down. All went well until he bumped across a high curb and into the street, and cursed at the loud, grating sound of the truck dragging bottom. The impact was followed immediately by a rumbling roar, announcing he’d just undone Bollinger’s makeshift repairs to the exhaust system.

  ***

  Kinsey gritted his teeth and cursed himself for not vetoing the use of the truck immediately. But it was too late now. If anyone was around, they’d already heard, and since that was the case, the truck would minimize the time to Connie’s house. He muttered another curse and rumbled east on the first street he came to.

  He was unfamiliar with the campus this near the river and drove six or seven blocks before he saw Tiger Stadium looming in the glow of his NV goggles. Reassured, he accelerated and the old truck rumbled through the dark.

  Stadium Drive took him to Highland Road, where he made a sharp right. Connie’s house was less than a mile away, and for the first time since they left Texas, Kinsey felt optimistic. He fantasized about getting his loved ones back to the safety of Pecos Trader, but his daydream was interrupted by frantic knocking on the truck cab.

  “WHAT?” Kinsey yelled out the open window, the roaring exhaust system negating any need for silence now.

  “I THINK THE DUCT TAPE IS ON FIRE! THERE ARE FLAMES SHOOTING OUT FROM UNDER THE TRUCK!” Bollinger yelled.

  “WE’RE ALMOST THERE,” Kinsey yelled. “HOW BAD IS IT?”

  “WHO THE HELL KNOWS? JUST KEEP GOING,” Bollinger replied.

  Kinsey mashed the gas, trying to coax a bit more speed out of the old beater. He almost missed the turn to Connie’s subdivision, but he braked hard, managing to negotiate the left turn on to Sunrise Drive with his passengers still aboard. Then he slowed, remembering the numerous speed bumps along the quiet tree-lined street, a point of some irritation and frequent complaints from his brother-in-law. Flickering light illuminated the trees beside the truck as they passed, evidence of the growing fire under the truck.

  He drove as fast as the speed bumps would allow, and bits and pieces of the exh
aust system clattered to the pavement as they lurched over each bump. But whatever was falling off didn’t seem to have duct tape attached, because the flames continued to grow beneath the vehicle. How much of that crap did he use? Kinsey wondered as the truck moved forward. The engine noise was deafening now, precluding even shouted conversations.

  Kinsey spotted the entrance to the gated community ahead. The ornamental wrought-iron gate was closed, and he wondered if the old truck would hold together long enough to force it open. There was a sharp crack as a bullet shattered the windshield a foot to the right of him, and he slammed on the brakes just as the front wheels were starting over yet another speed bump. The combined assault transmitted through the steering system and jerked the wheel from Kinsey’s hands and the truck veered into the trunk of a massive oak tree. Only the relatively slow speed prevented the collision from being worse.

  He pushed himself back from the steering wheel, thankful his tactical vest had spread the force of the impact. He’d be bruised, but there were no broken ribs. But his self-congratulations were brief as the smell of gasoline from a broken fuel line drove him from the cab. Bollinger and the two Cajuns were still on the truck bed, disentangling themselves from a heap against the back of the cab. Another round ricocheted off the street near Kinsey and whined into the distance.

  “Get the hell off there and away from the truck!” he yelled at the others. “There’s a gas leak somewhere and this heap is liable to blow, and the fire is silhouetting us for the shooters.”

  Kinsey was dragging a groggy Bertrand off the flatbed as he spoke, and Cormier and Bollinger were gathering their weapons and gear. They were on the ground in seconds, moving away from the burning truck into the shadows and safety of the massive oaks on the opposite side of the street. They barely reached cover when the air was split by a thunderous explosion and the night flashed bright for a brief instant as the gas tank exploded.