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

by R. E. McDermott

  “What are you—”

  “DO IT!” Kinsey screamed, and Zach hastened to do as ordered. Kinsey reached over and began to untie the tow rope for Cormier’s decoy, which still trailed the boat. Zach finished buckling the whiskey in the ski belt, and Kinsey pulled ten feet of the tow rope in and handed it to Zach, letting the loose end trail on the deck at their feet.

  “Don’t let this go,” Kinsey said as he dropped to his knees and began tying the end of the rope to the ski belt encircling the case of whiskey. When he was done, he gave it a tug to make sure it was secure, then ordered Zach to toss the slack back over the side.

  “Cormier and Bertrand,” Kinsey said, “get to the small outboards. Slow down to just hold us in place against the current, but DON’T stop. Then be ready to haul balls when I give the order.”

  “We ain’t haulin’ anything with this rig, but we’ll do what we can,” Cormier replied as he and Bertrand maneuvered through the crowded boats to take control of the two functioning outboards.

  Kinsey looked astern, judging the distance to the oncoming boat, as he waited for the Cajuns to get into place. When they were there, he said, “Cut speed now.”

  He heard muttered curses from the passengers as the speed dropped further, and he slipped the whiskey over the stern and let it go, watching briefly as it fell behind in the boat’s wake. He stood and faced the others.

  “You’re going to have to trust me on this, folks,” Kinsey said. “I want everybody to turn and face the oncoming boat, with your hands over your heads.”

  “Are you nuts?” Zach asked.

  “Do it,” Connie said as she raised her hands as ordered.

  One by one, the others followed Connie’s lead. Kinsey turned back to face the oncoming boat himself and raised his own hands.

  He heard the motor on the convicts’ boat change pitch as, unsure what was happening, they cut their own speed. They closed the gap steadily, but not as rapidly as before. The whiskey floated between the two boats, moving ever closer to the cons. When he thought they were close enough to hear him, Kinsey shouted across the gap.

  “WE SURRENDER.”

  Kinsey heard angry muttering behind him; then after a moment’s hesitation, a cheer went up from the convicts’ boat. About that time, one of the cons shouted and pointed at the whiskey, and the boat veered toward it and circled it, preparing to pull it aboard.

  Kinsey held his breath as the cons’ boat passed over the semi-submerged towline, then smiled as the plaintive sound of mechanical mayhem announced the rope had wrapped in the propeller and jammed it tight. As soon as he heard the cons’ motor stop, Kinsey reached for his M4 and began to shout.

  “GO! GO! GO! EVERYBODY DOWN. EVERYBODY DOWN.”

  He steadied himself against the slight rocking of the boat on the current and began firing at the cons, dropping one immediately and sending the rest diving for cover. He heard firing beside him and glanced over to see Bollinger, M4 at his shoulder.

  “Hold your fire,” Kinsey said, “so we’re not both changing mags at the same time. We don’t have to take them out, but one of us has to keep their heads down until we’re out of range.”

  Bollinger grunted his understanding and his gun fell silent as Kinsey continued to fire well-placed single shots anytime one of the cons showed himself. The distance between the boats widened as the disabled craft bobbed downstream on the swift current, and Kinsey’s overloaded and lashed-together boats clawed their way slowly upstream on the small straining outboards.

  When they were out of range, Kinsey lowered his rifle and swiveled to look upriver.

  “How much farther?” he called to Cormier.

  “A bit over a mile, I’d say,” Cormier replied. “But we’re barely moving and the big boat’s nothing but drag now. We gotta lose it or it will take us more than a half hour to get there, and for sure we ain’t got that much gas.”

  Kinsey nodded. “Bollinger, you and Zach go through our empty gas cans and those milk jugs and drain every last drop that’s left. Split it between the gas tanks on the smaller boats while I divide everyone between the two smaller boats. Then we’ll figure out how to separate.”

  Bollinger’s task didn’t take long, as ‘every last drop’ from the various gas containers amounted to less than a cup, which he and Zach dutifully split between the two boats. Dividing the people was more difficult, as Kinsey had to move them one at a time so as not to destabilize the delicate equilibrium of the overloaded boats. It took five long minutes with Kinsey making on-the-fly assessments of each passenger’s weight before he had both boats loaded more or less equally, with him in the bow of Cormier’s boat and Bollinger in the bow of Bertrand’s.

  “Okay, folks,” Kinsey said, “we’re really overloaded, so please keep as close to the centerline of the boats as you can, and don’t move around. We’re going to separate from the center boat, then bring the two boats back together and tether them side by side as we move upstream. That way, if one of our motors runs out of gas, we should still have enough power to at least maneuver both boats to the west bank. Everyone ready?”

  There were murmurs and fearful nods, and after he confirmed Cormier and Bertrand were ready, Kinsey loosened the bow lashing on his own boat and held it wrapped around the cleat, ready to be thrown off at a moment’s notice. Bollinger duplicated his actions in the other boat as Kinsey called back and had men untie the stern lashings completely.

  “Okay, Bollinger,” Kinsey yelled, “we separate on the count of three. Are you ready?”

  “Affirmative,” Bollinger replied.

  “ONE, TWO, THREE!” Kinsey yelled and threw the line off the cleat as Bollinger did the same, and Zach’s fishing boat slipped from between the two boats and fell astern. No longer encumbered by the dead weight of the larger boat or tied together, the smaller boats surged forward at different speeds and separated.

  “CORMIER,” Kinsey yelled, “HOLD YOUR COURSE AND SPEED. BERTRAND, BRING YOUR BOAT ALONGSIDE, BUT CAREFULLY! THE BOW WAVES WILL FORCE US APART, SO DON’T PUSH IT. JUST GET CLOSE ENOUGH FOR US TO PASS LINES.”

  The Cajuns handled the boats deftly, and soon the boats were running side by side, just feet apart and tethered together bow and stern. The rest of the short trip was uneventful, and they’d just turned out of the current and into the still backwater of the Lower Old River when Bertrand’s outboard sputtered to a stop and his boat bumped back alongside of Cormier’s.

  “Pull in the slack and lash them side by side,” Kinsey ordered, then looked back at Cormier. “Think we have enough gas to make the levee, Andrew?” he asked.

  Cormier shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not, but we can paddle from here if we have to.”

  Kinsey nodded, relief written on his face.

  Cormier grinned. “Relax, Coast Guard. The hard part’s over. Now we just gotta get back to the bayou.”

  Somewhere in the Atchafalaya River Basin

  North of Morgan City, Louisiana

  Day 30, 4:20 p.m.

  As Cormier predicted, the trip back to his bayou stronghold was uneventful. The extra manpower made getting the aluminum boats and gear over the levee easier, and the addition of more armed men discouraged any who might have considered challenging them on their return trip down the Atchafalaya. They arrived in the late afternoon, and Kinsey saw Cormier’s daughter-in-law, Lisa, standing on the little dock.

  “How’d she know we were coming?” Kinsey asked.

  Cormier scoffed. “Seriously, Coast Guard? You don’t understand by now nothing moves on the bayou we don’t know about?”

  “Okay, dumb question.” Kinsey nodded to where Lisa stood, smiling. “But she does look happy to see you.”

  Cormier nodded, and as they neared the dock, Lisa called across the gap, “Tim’s much better, Pop. The fever broke last night, and he demanded breakfast this morning. I think he’s gonna be all right.”

  Kinsey saw Cormier swallow hard, then blink away sudden tears before he looked skyward and crossed himself. He
laid a hand on the big Cajun’s shoulder and the man turned to him, grinning from ear to ear, but he could only bob his head, as if he were incapable of speech.

  Cormier stepped across the gap between the boat and the dock without waiting for the boat to be secured, and raced away with Lisa, eager to see his son.

  ***

  Cormier seemed like a new man when he came back down to the dock twenty minutes later to find Bollinger and Kinsey still on the Coast Guard boat.

  “Where’s everybody else?” he asked.

  “Some of your folks are showing them where to bed down for the night,” Kinsey said. “Bollinger and I figured we’d stay here to plan our trip to Texas. We appreciate the help, but we don’t want to abuse your hospitality.”

  Cormier shrugged. “We’ll take anyone who wants to stay, as long as they pull their weight. They’re Cajuns too.” He paused and looked from Kinsey to Bollinger. “You too, Coast Guard, if you want.”

  The offer took Kinsey by surprise. “Thank you, Andrew. That’s very generous, but I have to say I’m surprised.”

  “It’s no mystery. They were doing okay in Baton Rouge, so I think they’ll be willing to work. The bayou and our gardens will provide our food, and it rains enough here that freshwater is no problem. Finally, we can use the extra manpower, both for survival and defense,” Cormier said.

  Kinsey thought about it a moment, then nodded. “I’ll put it to them. I suspect some of them will accept.”

  “What about you two?” Cormier asked.

  “I’ll be going back to the ship,” Bollinger said quickly. “I appreciate the offer, but I’d feel like I was deserting my friends when they need me.”

  Kinsey was nodding. “Same here.”

  Cormier nodded. “Je comprends.”

  They lapsed into silence a moment before Kinsey spoke. “It may be crowded, but if we reduce the number going back, maybe we can fit them all into our boat.”

  “Too bad we can’t get word to Wellesley to wait for us,” Bollinger said. “He should be taking off any time, but our rescue took a lot less time than we figured, thanks to Andrew. If we can get to the lock before he leaves, we can put some of the folks in one of the push boats and all go back to Texas together. I don’t really look forward to having a boatload of noncombatants if we get into another gunfight.”

  Cormier shrugged. “Why not call him on your radio?”

  Kinsey shook his head. “Even if he’s still at the lock, that’s over a hundred miles from here. The VHF won’t reach that far.”

  Cormier rubbed his bearded chin. “I know a lot of people between here and there. Some worked on crew boats, and others own shrimp boats. We could probably set up a relay to pass word to him, if you want to try.”

  Kinsey nodded enthusiastically and reached for the VHF handset, but Cormier stopped him with a raised hand and shook his head.

  “No transmitting here. We have to go on the river, and I want to be moving while we transmit. I don’t want to take the chance on anyone locating us from your transmission.” Cormier looked at the sky. “It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. We take your boat on the river with your NV glasses, almost down to Morgan City.”

  Same Day, 10:20 p.m.

  They went south almost to Morgan City before Cormier felt comfortable transmitting. Bollinger killed the engine and Kinsey nodded at Cormier. The big Cajun picked up the handset and began speaking French.

  “What’s with the French?” Bollinger asked.

  Cormier shrugged as they waited for a response. “I figure if any FEMA assholes are listening, they’re probably less likely to speak Cajun than English.”

  Kinsey nodded. “Good point.”

  Cormier called several times before he raised anyone, but when he got a response, he explained he was attempting to relay a message to the push boat Judy Ann. The message was simple, consisting of only ‘Kinsey coming. Please wait.’

  After almost an hour and three relays, the message was apparently delivered, with the last relay link switching to English for Lucius Wellesley’s benefit. The radio squawked in Cajun, and Cormier bobbed his head at the two Coasties. He acknowledged the transmission then lowered the mic and looked at Kinsey quizzically.

  “What is it?” Kinsey asked.

  “There was a reply,” Cormier said. “Wellesley said, ‘Trouble in Texas. We are holding here.’”

  Kinsey felt a chill run down his spine. He thought about the reply a moment.

  “Pass the word for Wellesley to try to find a French speaker among his guys. We need to discuss this a bit more.”

  Chapter Twenty

  US Maritime Administration Reserve Fleet

  McFadden Bend Cutoff

  Neches River

  Near Beaumont, Texas

  The Previous Day

  Day 29, 5:10 a.m.

  Chief Mate Georgia Howell eased open the aft door of the enclosed lifeboat, struggling to do it quietly with one hand. She stepped out onto the almost nonexistent rear deck, set the bucket down on the two-foot-wide shelf, and used both hands to close the door for privacy. That is, if pissing outside in a bucket, floating in the middle of a river between the massive hulls of two gigantic, but empty and unmanned, ships could be considered private. Lifeboats didn’t have toilets, and they certainly weren’t designed for coeducational occupancy. Here’s hoping I don’t fall overboard, she thought as she dropped her pants and squatted over the bucket. Just another thing women had to worry about that guys didn’t, pissing in an enclosed lifeboat during the apocalypse.

  She finished and pulled up her pants, then emptied the bucket overboard and dropped to her knees, leaning down to rinse the bucket in the river. The sky was lightening in the east now, and she’d be able to see well enough to navigate in fifteen or twenty minutes; she was considerably less quiet when she opened the door.

  “Up and at ’em, guys. It’s almost daylight and we’ll be taking off in a few minutes. I’m leaving the bucket just inside the door. Do whatever you need to do and get something to eat and drink. This is likely to be a long day.” She heard sleepy acknowledgments, then closed the door and leaned back against the cabin to watch the eastern sky.

  She wanted an early start, her theory being miscreants were unlikely to be early risers. It was nine miles to the boat club, and she figured they could make it in three hours max, even against the current in the lumbering lifeboat, but they had to pass some pretty crappy sections of town. Her ‘boat of many colors,’ as she came to think of it, might blend in well with the natural riverbank in the dusk, but it would still stick out like a sore thumb in broad daylight in an industrial area. She wanted to be safely docked at the boat club before the lowlifes woke up.

  The lifeboat door cracked open tentatively, and she shifted to make room as it opened wider and Juan Alvarez stepped out and emptied the bucket over the stern. Then he dropped to one knee and repeated the ritual she just performed, though his longer arms made it much easier to reach the water’s surface. Alvarez finished the task, rose and leaned through the open door to pass the empty bucket to one of the others inside before turning back to Georgia.

  “So what’s the drill, ma’am?” he asked.

  “We’ll head upriver as soon as we can see,” Howell said. “It’s mostly vacant land or industrial areas on both sides of the river, but if we have any problems, I expect they’ll be from the west bank, probably closer to downtown. I want you and Jones watching that side, with Jimmy and Pete on the other. If we have any problems, I suspect it’ll be near Riverfront Park. Other than that, we play it by ear.”

  Alvarez nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Rules of engagement?”

  “I’m not second-guessing anyone,” Howell said. “If it looks like we’re in danger, fire at your own discretion. But remember, there are just five of us, so if we draw the wrong kind of attention, we’re toast. The plan is to get in and out as quietly as possible.”

  “Copy that, ma’am. We’ll be ready when you are.”

  ***

&nb
sp; They were moving ten minutes later. The east bank of the river was mostly undeveloped almost all the way to downtown Beaumont, and their camouflage paint job in the dim light of early morning still afforded some protection. Use it while you got it, Howell thought as she steered to starboard and hugged the east bank.

  Despite the plodding pace of the underpowered lifeboat, they passed the Exxon-Mobil refinery on the west bank and were approaching Harbor Island Terminal in just under two hours. It was full light now, and the boat was readily visible. A railroad bridge spanned the river ahead and she steered as close as she dared to the right bank and called softly to the others. “Look sharp. Riverfront Park coming up on the left bank, just after the railroad bridge.”

  There were murmured acknowledgments, and Howell put her hand on the throttle, unconsciously trying to press it forward, even though the lumbering boat was topped out. But the park was deserted, the area devoid of activity in the early morning hours. Minutes later she heaved a relieved sigh when she negotiated a sharp right turn and left the downtown area behind her to pass the old shipyard on her left.

  “Almost there,” Howell said. “Fifteen or twenty minutes max.”

  They rounded another turn to the left, and through the viewing port at the conning station, she saw the I-10 bridge looming across the river just ahead. The tops of abandoned cars were visible above the guardrail the length of the bridge.

  “Alvarez,” Howell said, “can you see the bridge from the gun ports? We’ll be sitting ducks for anyone on the bridge, and we don’t have any armor on the top of the canopy.”

  “Negative. It’s too high. We best move outside.”

  “Do it,” Howell confirmed, but the two Coasties were already moving toward the back door and front entry port of the lifeboat. In seconds, they were standing on the bow and stern, M4s pointed up toward the bridge ahead.

  “Have you given any thought to live-aboards, ma’am?” Alvarez asked Howell through the open rear door of the lifeboat, never taking his eyes off the bridge. “Some of the boats in this yacht club likely have generators and what have you. If I owned one, that’s where I’d be.”