by Mike Kraus
The group crossed bridges over river inlets choked with debris, bloated fish and skiffs with smashed hulls floating aimlessly, torn into driftwood, half-sunk and useless. As they crossed one concrete span, Jerry caught up with Tom and stared down at the mess below them, gesturing at the swaths of dead fish.
“Is that from the anomaly?”
Tom kept his voice low but nodded. “The desalination killed the fish, and the rising waters pushed junk upriver in a massive surge.” Tom’s expression darkened. “I think every coastal city in the United States is going to look like this soon, especially on the northeastern seaboard. It’ll spread beyond that, too, and fast.”
They walked for another mile beneath a sky dotted with patches of light gray clouds, the sun sometimes peeking through, casting a warming light on their shoulders. But, more often than not, they travelled in chilly shadows with a merciless breeze that swept in to nip at their cheeks, bringing reminders of the hurricane and the near-death experiences that had accompanied it.
“It feels like football season,” Jerry whispered.
Tom blinked. “You’re absolutely right. It’s like October or November.”
“This seems bad. Is it?”
Tom gave the younger man a look and nodded once.
They continued along US-58 until they reached a cluster of a hundred people gathered in the road, the flow of refugees stopped, new groups melding with the flock before the entire line turned south. Jean stood tall, raising herself up on her toes to see over their heads.
“Is it blocked ahead?”
“Not sure,” Tom said. He tried to peer over the crowd, but he couldn’t see anything but a sea of people. Jerry stepped toward a burly older man with a child under one arm and his wife in the other.
“What’s going on?”
The man nodded west. “The bridge is out, but they say there’s another a little ways south of here. People are crossing there.”
Jerry thanked the man and looked to Tom, who nodded and looked west with a pained expression. “I guess we don’t have much choice but to follow these people for a spell. Anyone have any objections to that?”
No one did, so they turned south with the flow of foot traffic. Tom did his best to keep them out of the thick of it, skirting the edges of the crowd to the left, crossing a grassy median and stepping into the eastbound lane to join another road heading south. Small groups not unlike Jerry’s loan shark friends stood idly on corners in clusters of half a dozen or more, watching the flocks of refugees with hungry eyes.
“They’re like a pack of wolves,” Tom said. “Keep your back straight, eyes ahead and expression angry. They’ll go after the ones they think are the most vulnerable, first.”
Jean gazed at them with pursed lips and fearful eyes. “The stores are all looted, so I guess they’re looking for stragglers to pick off.”
The wolf packs crowded the storefronts, standing in a sea of broken glass from the overnight robberies. Tom spotted a shoe store with its shelves stripped bare next to an electronics store and a clothing consignment shop that had both been ravaged, the windows busted out and goods dropped in the lot.
“No wonder the crowd is packing in.” The stream of refugees had begun clustering tighter together, fathers and mothers stared at the roaming groups on the outskirts, offering up their own challenges to the groups’ implied threats. After an hour of marching, the retail stores and groups of miscreants thinned out, giving way to a string of fast-food restaurants. Tom glanced at Jean to see her shoulders slouched again. Her kids were half asleep in the wagon, and their little group wasn’t making headway like before, any energy they’d gotten from the bananas and snacks having long since worn off.
Tom picked out a burger joint and angled toward it. “Let’s take a break in this fast-food lot.”
They moved around to the takeout window where they could sit and watch the people walking south without being too obvious of a target, removing their packs placing them against the wall. Sam and Jerry dug out jerky sticks, snacks, and a pair of unsweetened iced teas which they all shared. Tom took a few steps away from the building and sat on the curb beneath the ordering kiosk, watching the flow of refugees, partially out of curiosity and partially to act as a lookout for any danger that might come their way.
Families of four or five staggered along haggard and exhausted, feet dragging on the concrete, a young couple guided their elderly parents down the road and several other groups had bonded together, the strong gathered around the weaker members for protection and safety. He spotted more bicycles, but the sounds of vehicles had grown distant several blocks back as people were likely moving off US-58 and onto I-264, which was bound to be a mess.
Sam and Jerry kept Jean’s kids occupied and entertained, plucking their minds out of the stressful situation for a few moments. Jean, meanwhile, approached Tom, sitting next to him, arms wrapped around her knees. Gone was the false bravado and fierce protecting attitude from when they had first met, peeled back by the McKnights’ and Jerry’s collective kindness to reveal her soft, demure core.
“Did you say your wife and youngest are back in Bristol?”
“That’s right. I haven’t been able to reach them since all this started. Well, no, I take that back. Cell phone service came on for a bit, and I got a bunch of messages from Barbara. I sent her a reply, but I’m not sure if she got it.”
“I hope she did,” Jean smiled, giving him a pat on the arm.
“What about you? Do you have a spouse to get to?”
“Newly divorced here.” Jean raised her hands with a guilty look.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was long overdue. At least we got a couple little angels out of it.”
“Yes, you did.” Tom glanced back. “They’re cute kids.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, I heard you whispering to Jerry back there. I mean, I know you’re out here like the rest of us, but you seem to have an idea of what’s going on.”
“What do you mean?” Tom glanced at his hands. “It’s pretty simple. We just got run over by a hurricane.”
“Come on, now,” Jean prodded as she stared out at the marching crowd. “You know it’s more than that. I’m not that stupid.”
Tom nodded reluctantly. “Obviously I’m not directly in touch with anyone from the government or any science agencies, but my background is in engineering, and I have my theories.”
“Do tell.”
He pulled a face. “I don’t want to give you any false information, or dash your hopes, or raise them or anything else.”
“I’m a big girl. Tell me what you think and I’ll be the judge for myself.”
“Fair enough,” he nodded. “There’s a lot of moving parts to what’s going on.”
“It’s not just the hurricane, is it?” Jean fixed him with a firm look. “It’s that thing the news people were talking about right before the storms hit, isn’t it? The anomaly, or whatever.”
“Yeah.”
“I wasn’t paying much attention between my two jobs and taking care of my little monsters.” She gestured back toward her kids. “But I heard what they were saying about the freshwater hurting the oceans. Then I caught part of the president’s emergency announcement before I had to leave for my waitress shift.”
“I only saw the headlines on my phone,” Tom admitted. “I didn’t watch it myself. Are you concerned about something specifically?”
Jean’s expression turned troubled. “Well, he mentioned something about the temperatures dropping but that it wasn’t going to happen for months.” She lifted her chin and blew a breath of moist air into the sky. “I’ve got news for them, though. This is Halloween weather.”
“We were just saying that.” Tom jerked his head toward Jerry. “But we used the term ‘football weather.’”
“So, what do you think? Did they feed us a bunch of crap?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Tom tilted his head, still trying to remain evasive
while satisfying at least some of the woman’s curiosity. “But they may have mis-calculated. Or, hey, this could be an unexpected cold spell. They’ve happened before.”
Jean sighed. “Yeah, you sound real convinced of that. Come on, Tom. What’s really going on?”
“Nothing good. Nothing good at all.” He replied, his tone darker than he intended. For a moment Jean sat in silence, mind churning through the possibilities before she spoke again.
“Any advice on what we should do?”
“Get home to your parents. Then think about…”
“Bundling up?”
Tom looked her directly in the eyes, meeting her gaze fully, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Think about moving south. For good.”
Jean’s jaw fell open and she sat, staring at Tom, struggling to find the words to respond. “Move south? For good?” She let out a half-laugh. “Come on, you’ve got to be kidding around. Right?”
Tom stared at the ground between his feet, then shrugged. “Just think about it, okay?” Without waiting for a response, he stood, calling back to the others. “Come on, Sam. Jerry. Put the little ones back in the wagon. We’ve got to get going.”
They shouldered their packs, got the kids situated, and rejoined the flow of traffic heading south. In spite of the glum subject matter during the talk between Tom and Jean, their group as a whole was re-energized and rested, and then soon surged ahead, passing others in the crowd.
“It looks like we’re turning again.” Jean pointed.
Tom followed her finger to where the flock made a sharp turn, heading west along a set of railroad tracks moving inland. Just as they reached it, he stopped them and went to the wagon.
“Looks like you’ll have to leave your ride behind,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “We can’t take it on the tracks.”
The girl hopped out right away, but the little boy’s face twisted up in stubbornness born of anxiety and fear.
“Come on, buddy.” Tom knelt next to the wagon to coax him out. “We need you to be like your sister and get out. I’ll even carry you if you want.”
The boy clenched the sides and shook his head. Losing the battle, Tom gave Jean a helpless look and she leaned down, reaching for the boy. “Hey, Grandpa has a wagon, remember? You really liked that one. Don’t you want to get there so you can ride in it?”
He nodded but still wouldn’t budge.
“What kind is it?” Tom asked.
“Oh, it’s a Haul Master,” she said. “Looks like a big farm trailer.”
“Wow!” Tom raised his eyebrows at the boy. “Those are awesome. Don’t you want to get to your grandpa’s and play with the Haul Master?”
The little boy nodded.
“Okay, then. Let’s go, buddy!”
He held out his hands, and the boy finally grabbed hold, allowing Tom to pull him out of the wagon and into his arms. Fully laden with a backpack and small child, he turned and led the group on, leaving the red wagon behind. Jean took her daughter’s hand, walking next to Tom with Sam and Jerry bringing up the rear as they crossed the tracks and marched along the embankment on the left.
“Good job,” Jean whispered with a smile, no trace of their prior conversation in her tone. “Thanks for that.”
“No problem,” Tom replied.
They walked for a solid half hour before the crowd slowed and grew thicker, with those standing directly on the tracks pressing ahead while people on the sides climbed the bank to fall in line.
“Looks like a choke point,” Tom said, placing the little boy down.
“A traffic jam,” Jean added. “Like those times they shut down everything to one lane and funnel cars into it.”
They edged forward slowly, yard-by-yard, until they were standing on the tracks with everyone else. The crowd pressed together, and Tom brushed shoulders with a man on his left.
“Sorry,” Tom said, trying to give the man room.
“No problem,” the man replied with a friendly chuckle. “Getting a little cozy around here, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yep.”
“It won’t be long, and we’ll be on the other side.”
Tom nodded. “And hopefully to a better situation.”
“Well, it’s the military who’s waiting for us.”
“What?”
“This is a military checkpoint.” The man shrugged apologetically. “At least that’s what I heard. I could be wrong.”
Tom’s eyebrows raised, and he shot Jean a hopeful glance. “No, it makes sense. That’s probably why the line is moving so slowly. They’re probably checking IDs or distributing aide or something. If it’s true, it’s great news.”
“Honestly, it’s about time,” the man said. “They should have been here two days ago.”
“I won’t argue with you there.” Tom recalled the lawlessness they’d experienced over the past forty-eight hours. Between the mob at the hospital, the looting, and the gang who’d chased them halfway through the city and tried to kill them, he welcomed some semblance of law and order. They marched in silence as the tracks straightened out and Tom got his first look at the other bank. Over the shuffling crowd, were clusters of white tents spread over a wide area, dozens of military vehicles, and personnel wearing jackets with FEMA emblazoned on them. Soldiers of some sort – whether they were national guard or active duty he couldn’t tell – milled about amongst the feds, mostly keeping to themselves or performing menial tasks to help support FEMA’s work.
“I see the soldiers.” Jean nudged Tom’s shoulder excitedly. “I can’t believe we finally reached safety.”
Tom nodded, glancing back at Sam and Jerry. His daughter bit her lip and pumped her fist in the air, while the young man nodded his head enthusiastically. Tom, on the other hand, remained muted. The sight of law and order was welcome, to be sure, but he had a natural distrust of state and federal levels of enforcement. What might sound like a noble-sounding effort could quickly degenerate into a nightmare that could dwarf the initial event they were responding to.
Enough of the paranoia, Tom. He shook himself out of the thought spiral. This is a national disaster. It’d be crazy for them to not be out here.
The foul reek of dead fish announced their arrival to the bridge, and a moment later their boots were shuffling across the span, hollow sounds echoing on the old wood. Pressed against the rail, he looked down at waters bloated with garbage, boat scraps and even a clammy-skinned dolphin that was floating amidst a group of dead fish. More dead marine life flowed upriver, pressed along in a slow surge, pushed by unrelenting forces hundreds of miles away. The stench assaulted his nose, smacking him in the face, forcing him to turn his face away and swallow his rising bile.
“That’s a yucky smell, Mommy,” one of Jean’s kids said.
“It’s very yucky.” The mother turned and wrinkled their nose.
After twenty minutes of tired shuffling, Tom saw soldiers and FEMA personnel on the opposite bank separating refugees into lines. Staffers stood at a little farther in, appearing to be checking people in on computer tablets.
“This is it,” Tom said to the others. “Let’s try to stay in the same line, okay?”
Jean, Sam, and Jerry all nodded, huddling closer together, caught up in the excited murmuring of the crowd. The press grew more stifling toward the edge of the bridge as the people behind them pushed forward. Standing at the rear of his group, Tom shoved backward a few inches, feeling trapped against the rail. He quelled his claustrophobia by pinning his eyes forward and taking baby steps until they reached the other side as a staffer directed all of them into a single line angling off to the left and, finally, the space around them cleared, and Tom found he could breathe again.
They approached a soldier holding a computer tablet, checking people through using a stylus. The man addressed Tom in a stiff, cold manner. “Name?”
“Tom McKnight.” He gestured behind him. “This is my daughter, Samantha McKnight. And this is Jerry...” Tom realized he didn’
t know Jerry’s last name.”
“Sikes,” the young man offered. “Jerry Sikes.”
“Is anyone hurt?”
“Jerry had an arm and head injury,” Tom answered. Then he remembered his own bump from wrecking the RV in the tunnel. “And I took a knock on the head, too.”
The soldier stared at him, stylus poised over the screen.
“But nothing serious,” Tom hurriedly added. “We’re fine, obviously.”
“Destination?”
“We’re trying to reach Bristol, Virginia. Are there any busses ferrying people farther inland?”
“Not yet, but we should have those set up in a day or two.”
“What about rentals?” Desperation crept in at the edges of his voice. “Can I rent a car?”
“Unfortunately, most car rental agencies are east in the storm zone.” The soldier pointed back to the west. “There are two that way, but I guarantee those are out of vehicles.”
“Damn,” Tom murmured, running one hand through his hair, looking back at the people waiting behind him. “What are we going to do?”
The soldier’s eyes flashed with impatience. “You’ll have to walk or hitch a ride until you get out of the area. The highways from here to Suffolk are jammed.”
“Thanks,” Tom said with a shake of his head. He led the others through the checkpoint and waited for Jean and her kids. The soldier checked the three in and the small group reformed, gathering away from the throng in an uncertain circle.
“That wasn’t very helpful.” Jean shot a confused expression around the camp.
“Yeah, I was hoping for a little more direction.” Tom’s eyes darted through the center of camp, tracing over the fluttering tents and groups of people standing around, looking just as confused as they were. “They’ve got things set up for the injured, but no shelters for regular refugees.”
“Or a ride,” Sam added.
“Right.” Tom chuckled humorously. “But hey, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. At least they’re not detaining people.”
The camp spread out all around them, folks wandering through, soldiers patrolling on groups of two or three, armed but bearing casual demeanors, giving the impression that serious trouble had yet to reach them. Strolling through the crowd, Tom’s group reached some ration tables where FEMA personnel were handing out bottled water and snacks and Jerry snagged a pack of cheddar cheese chips, Sam grabbed an apple and Jean picked up a bite for her kids.