by Jf Perkins
Shaun ran at top speed for another mile or so, just in case there were angry lake pirates looking for revenge, and then throttled back to a sedate cruising speed. He explained that the rest of the lake was safe enough, patrolled by permanent state authorities, and used by the general public. Bill wanted to know why they didn’t run the upper lake at high speed, and Shaun told him that they had learned the hard way that the pirates were known to leave underwater traps in the narrow channels, which could tear a boat to shreds. Also he noted, they could generally hear the bad guys before they could see them, and that fact made it worth running slow and quiet.
The men were too wired to get any more rest, and now that they were traveling at speed, they arrived at the old Hermitage landing in less than an hour. Terry was fascinated by the massive dam that held the lake, and was slightly disappointed when they turned away from it on their final approach to the landing. Shaun drove his boat past the dilapidated docks, half under water, and up onto the muddy beach just on the right of the loading ramp. Bill’s crew began unloading their gear onto the grass. The sky was still obscured with a benign white overcast, and Bill dug in his pocket for an antique railroad watch. He flipped the lid and found that it was after two in the afternoon. He was surprised by how long the lake crossing had taken and wondered what else was waiting on this day. Terry helped Shaun inspect the boat for damage, and finding three bullet holes, learned Shaun’s method of patching the hull with squares of aluminum sheet metal and an old bucket of driveway tar. When the repairs were complete, Shaun checked his own watch.
“You ride should be here by now. I wonder what’s keeping them,” he said.
“I hope they’re having an easier time than we are,” Bill responded.
“Hope so, speaking of which... Hey John!” Shaun called, and John looked up from his third gear check of the day.
“Yeah, captain?”
“If you ever need a job, you can be my gunner, ok?”
“Thanks, Shaun. I’m happy with my current employer,” he said with an exaggerated sideways look in Bill’s direction. “But you never know,” he added, with a finger to his lips. Jeffry laughed at Bill’s reaction to the open secret.
“Ok, John,” Shaun said with a grin. “Great shooting. I can see why they picked you folks for this job.”
John shrugged and said, “No one’s more surprised than we are.”
“That’s the state for you...” Shaun said with eternal acceptance. “Well, nothing to do but wait for your ride, and more importantly, my replacement gunner. May as well take a load off for a while. I’ll take the watch.”
“Thanks, Captain.”
Chapter 4 - 9
Arturo made it, but his leg hurt for the rest of his life. We kept a close watch on him for the first night of his return. The Carrolls hovered around, trying to think of anything they could do to improve his chances. Dad finally thanked them for all of their gifts, and told them to head back before dark. He had shared the story of the school with George during the afternoon, and George found himself in agreement with the idea that anyone who is willing to eat human flesh needs to be destroyed with any means available. His intent was to give Dad some emotional relief from the horrors of that day, but it was clear that he meant exactly what he said.
Martha accepted hugs from all of us, except Kirk. He was never much of a hugger. I was amazed again at how fast the trials of the time turned into serious bonds. I never loved my grandfather as much as I loved Mr. Carroll, even after only two encounters. Maybe it was my stomach producing the love, but in any case, I would have happily hugged the man, too, if it weren’t for the new unspoken rules of being a man, rules that applied even to eleven year old boys in the days of the Breakdown.
George mounted the high seat on his tractor, and Martha seated herself on his lap, with all the grace of a Homecoming Queen in a parade. She even had the royal wave mastered, and sent it our way, as George started his tractor and drove towards home in the long gathering shadows of the 4th of July.
Arturo slept fitfully on the picnic table that night, at first seeming to get worse, rather than better. Juannie told us that Arturo had told her that his wound was fine all the way back, and she was stupid enough, in her own words, to listen to the dumb Mexican, also her own words. She was Puerto Rican and Cuban herself, and that seemingly came with a cultural superiority that applied to everyone else, especially Mexicans. She was unaware that he was in real danger, until she saw Dad’s reaction to his wound. Now, she held Jimmy on her lap facing her as she watched over Arturo. Jimmy was over the reunion love and squirmed to get down and play with Tommy before they were sent to bed. She held her baby boy for ten minutes longer, and finally let him escape.
We were watching from a distance, not sure what to do to help. We were aware of our parents’ sense of hopelessness, and that translated to a certain sense of restlessness for us kids. Kirk and I walked out beyond our tree house and stood on the steep slope while Lucy tried to get Juannie to eat and helped put the leftover food back in the Carroll’s cooler. I sat on Dad’s tree stump sawhorse while Kirk practiced drawing his automatic pistol and aiming it at any tree he decided was the enemy. He went at it with a deadly obsession that seemed creepy at the time, but paid off hundreds of times in the future.
His other favorite pastime was sharpening a short machete he had commandeered from our tool stash. Dad called it a cane knife, but Kirk called it his new best friend. Over time, it not only became razor sharp, it slowly changed shape from a utilitarian tool into a sinister looking weapon. Kirk slowly carved and smoothed the handle until it fit him perfectly and ground the blade into a gentle curve that he claimed was to improve the balance. The rounded hook on the back of the blade, used for grabbing cane and shearing it, morphed into a deadly metal talon, and ultimately the spine of the blade was sharpened as well, until the entire blade was one continuous razor edge. He spent many hours working with it, testing it on wood and weeds, and once even used it to shave his wispy facial hair. At some magical point in time, he decided it was perfect for his dark needs.
The next morning, Arturo was still sweating and talking in his feverish sleep. Mom and Dad exchanged worried glances, as Dad made another liquid antibiotic solution and poured it slowly into Arturo’s mouth. Dad had made a rough rope system for lifting supplies into the treehouse, and we quickly cobbled together a human shaped basket to get Arturo under shelter. It took three of us to hoist Arturo up to the second level of the treehouse, and carry his unconscious form into the tent. Juannie spent most of her time sitting with him, and Lucy and Tommy went back to their role as primary entertainment for Jimmy. Dad gave Arturo his medicine every four hours, like a clockwork machine.
After two more days, it was clear that Arturo was improving. The red streaks were gone, and while he still felt hot to the touch, he was no longer shiny with sweat. His skin had lost its grayish undertone, and he no longer thrashed and mumbled in his sleep. For the first time, Dad expressed some confidence in the man’s recovery. On the 7th of July, Juannie had taken a break from her vigil, and the rest of us were milling about on various idle projects, basically surviving the heat of a Tennessee summer.
We heard a panicked yell from the treehouse.
“Hey! Where the hell am I?” It was Arturo. “Hello!”
I was the first one up the ladder, and burst in on Arturo, who was trying to unzip the sleeping back, and failing. The zipper was caught in the material.
“Hey, Arturo. Let me get that for you,” I said, holding out my hands in an instinctive I-mean-no-harm gesture.
“Bill? Bill! It’s you. We made it back?” Arturo was confused.
“Yeah, Arturo. It’s me. You’re back. You’re safe.”
“Is everyone else ok?” Arturo asked, with his wild eyes starting to calm a bit.
“We’re all good. Francine didn’t make it, but everyone else is fine.”
Dad stuck his head in the tent. “Hey, Arturo!” He drew the name out like a game show annou
ncer.
“Hey David,” Arturo relaxed, seeing his new but trusted friend alive and well. “What’s up?”
Dad grinned with a single laugh that caught in his throat.
“Oh, man. Long story... What’s up with you?”
“Well, I’m truly stuck in this sleeping bag, and it’s hot as... heck in here,” Arturo replied.
“Bill, how you coming on that zipper?” Dad asked.
“Working on it... Almost there, Dad.”
The zipper popped loose from the tightly pinched fabric. I backed it up and pushed the material out of the way as I finally got the bag open. Arturo immediately tried to sit up and winced with sharp pain.
“Easy there, friend,” Dad said. “Let me help you.” He pulled Arturo up and sent me to get water.
I waited on the bottom platform of the treehouse while Juannie shot by on her way up the ladder. She was on a ballistic trajectory for her dumb Mexican. Moments later, Dad came down the second story ladder, gave me a look I didn’t understand, and said, “The water can wait a bit.”
***
An armored truck pulled up in the parking lot of Hermitage landing. It looked twice as deadly as the one they had driven to Murfreesboro, but then, there was no question of its purpose. If they wanted to go stealthy, they were out of luck. This thing was designed to intimidate.
“Must be designed by cops,” Bill remarked to Terry.
“Impressive,” Terry said in return.
They got to their feet in time for the second truck to arrive. This one looked like any typical old pickup, with battered white paint and a hand stenciled state logo on the door. Three men got out of this truck and walked by with respectful nods as they shook Shaun’s hand and boarded the boat. A grizzled old man got out of the armored truck and walked over to Bill.
“You Carter?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Bill Carter,” Bill responded in the same clipped tone, but extended his hand in greeting.
“Ned Pierce. I’m leading you in. Don’t expect me to get too close, though.” Ned reached out and gripped the proffered hand, giving it one quick pump.
“You could just give us directions, Ned.” This appeared to be the key to Ned’s heart.
The old man cracked a stained tooth grin and spit tobacco juice over his shoulder. “Nah, I wish, but you need someone who knows the ground. Stuff changes too much down on the river.”
“Ok, then. It’s good to meet you, Ned. What’s the plan?”
“You boys will load up in the Big Bertha here, and I’ll take Whitey. You’ll follow me into town. We can take the interstate fairly close to the State Salvage Yard, but the big interchange bridges have been down since the nuke. We’ll have to run the surface streets on the opposite side of the river. There’s only one bridge still standing on that stretch. We’ll cross that bridge about a half mile from the target. That’s where I’ll bid you fine folks good day and run like hell.” Ned looked like he was uncomfortable with all the talk, and spit another puddle of juice next to the first one.
“Anything I need to know about, uh, Bertha?”
“Nothing special. She’s armored with gun ports all over, built on a reinforced 4500 chassis. You can load her up with almost anything, drive her over a bomb, bash through barriers, you know... anything you’re crazy enough to try. Just don’t drive her into the river,” Ned said with an evil smile. “That wouldn’t work out too well.”
“Sounds good. How much fuel does she carry?” Bill asked.
“A metric ton. If fuel is a problem, you got no problems. You could probably drive to Chicago on that tank.”
“Aye, aye, Ned. You ready?”
“Soon’s you boys load up.”
Bill nodded at John, who took charge of the loading and positioning of the men. Bill turned to see Shaun and his new crew preparing to shove off. “Hey Shaun.” Bill called. “Your boat have a name?”
“Yeah, Bill. I call her Wild Lucille,” Shaun answered as he chunked the boat into reverse.
“Good name... And, good luck. Thanks for the ride.”
“All in a day’s work, Bill. Good luck to you. You’ll need it.” Shaun threw Bill a casual salute as he spun the boat and accelerated away.
John walked up and told Bill the men were ready. Terry was once again stuck in the toddler seat in the middle of the cab. John leaped up into the shotgun seat, and Bill walked around to the driver’s side. The rest were clearly visible in the steel box behind the cab. They had already figured out how to open all the ventilation and gun ports to avoid being roasted alive. They had a metal bench down the center of the truck bed, and wasted no time piling the gear against the cab wall, and sitting down for the ride. Jeffry and Nick were facing the left side, Rob and Seth the right.
Bill opened the sliding metal ports in the lower section of the windshield, and took a minute to check out the truck. The windows were already open, but each door held a second, larger crank, which was revealed to crank up a quarter inch steel plate outside of the glass, complete with a small slot for viewing and shooting.
“Slick,” he said.
A crank directly over Terry’s head slid the slotted metal plate down from the roof to cover the windshield. If they needed it, Bill would be driving almost blind.
“Terry, if we need the armor, crank that thing like your life depends on it,” Bill said.
“No problem, Bill. I expect it will.”
Bill turned the key and waited for the engine to settle into a dull throb. Then, he threw his hand out the window to wave Ned by in the second truck. Ned eased by on the left and circled the parking lot slowly. Bill pushed the gas pedal and Big Bertha roared up through first gear.
“No sneaking around in this thing. She’s a showoff,” Bill said, getting a feel for the huge steering wheel and a truck with an automatic transmission. Bertha dropped into second, and caught up with Ned, who was not wasting any time.
Bill was focused on driving the big truck, and John was canning continuously for threats. Terry decided his best bet would be to memorize the route, in case they came back the same way. His first sign of the big city was the fact that they passed another motor vehicle in the first mile.
Bill watched Ned ignore it, and realized that not every motorized machine was a threat in this area, which made sense, as the lake itself was full of people in motor boats. Maybe some semblance of life was returning to Nashville. As the little red station wagon passed, he channeled one of his father’s favorite sayings. “Volkswagen TDI. Don’t see those every day.”
They dropped onto I-40 from Old Hickory Boulevard, and Bill revised his initial theory. The highway was empty, other than their two trucks. By the time they passed the remains of the airport, it was clear that Percy Priest was as close as people approached the city, if they had a choice. The high points on the road told the story. It was easy to see the burn patterns across the landscape. It was an inverse play of light and shadow. The light areas, still reasonably intact in the shadows of nuclear fire. The dark areas, unshielded by anything between the burn and ground zero, represented the light -- in this case, the light of destruction. Some places broke the clear pattern, but Bill assumed those were the regular fires, set in the panic of the Breakdown.
The overview was chilling, more so because they were traveling ever closer to the site of the nuclear strike. They followed the highway onto I-24 as they approached the remains of Downtown Nashville. There was a brief minute or two, cresting the last rise before the city proper, when they whole arena of disaster was laid out like a map. The burn pattern was a blackened flower upon the blocky landscape. Even low rises created blurry islands of remains, where the black areas were mostly stripped to the earth. Even roadways were erased in waves of heat. The former skyscrapers were jagged broken teeth and patterns of melted debris made it look strangely like the dead buildings were racing to the southwest. Following these imaginary paths off into the distance, Terry could see that there was absolutely nothing left in a wobbly circle of eradicate
d city, beyond the hill on which the Capitol once stood.
More importantly to their immediate purpose, an elevated section of the highway ahead was collapsed over a half mile stretch. Beyond that pile of rubble, another mile-long piece of highway was still standing like a monument to the once-massive trucking industry. Even further out, the elevated interstate had fallen again, traced by chunks of concrete and steel until it curved out of sight in the distance. It was almost more than Terry could take in, first the sheer scale of everything he saw, and then the extra stretch to understand what it would take to break all of the city it into non-functioning bits. He was distracted from the overwhelming view when Ned peeled off on the last exit before the highway’s ragged edge. Bill wheeled the big truck down the ramp and followed Ned around to the left. They passed under the freeway less than a hundred feet from the scorched rubble of the collapse. They turned in a seemingly random pattern that nonetheless was leading them westward. From the map, Terry knew they would have to pass under another elevated highway section that once formed the major loop around the city.
Soon enough, he saw the highway in question, a series of sections that fell to the streets below mixed with sections that still stood incongruously against the overcast sky. Ned knew exactly which streets were clear. He turned southwest for a few blocks and crossed under one of the pristine sections of freeway. Broken buildings of larger size surrounded them as they turned back towards the Cumberland River and zigzagged along the clearest roads. How Ned knew them all was a mystery. On the other hand, the man was old enough to have been a taxi driver before Nashville fell. Seemed like a good answer at the time.