Sailing under the Causeway illustrated the severity of the situation in New Orleans yet again. Like the Interstate 10 bridge, the lanes above them were full of abandoned vehicles and apparently the bodies of some of those who had waited too long to try to leave the city. There were the telltale flocks of circling vultures, though not in the concentrations they had seen on the Twin Span. They sailed under it without incident and continued some five miles farther west until they reached the point adjacent to the south shore that was nearest to the airport and the entrance to the canal that ran near it. Scully rounded up into the wind and Artie lowered the anchor from the bows. They were approximately a mile from land, far enough out to be safe from swimmers and to have a good escape route if someone ashore started heading their way in a rowing or sailing craft. While waiting for darkness to fall, they all stayed on deck to keep a sharp lookout for such dangers, and Artie changed his brother’s bandages and inspected his wounds.
“You’re doing good, little brother, considering the lack of proper medical treatment.”
“What do you mean, ‘proper’? I know you’re a little rusty when it comes to ER trauma work but I think you did a passable job,” Larry laughed. “It still hurts like hell, especially when I’m trying to sleep, and I still can’t use it much, but at least it hasn’t fallen off.”
“Yet!” Artie said, “But, seriously, you’re doing fine. Give it a little more time and you’ll be good as new.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m not complaining, I just wish I could go ashore with you and Scully. I’m worried about you, Doc.”
“Well, as you said before, we have to worry about the boat too. We couldn’t leave it alone in a place like this even if all three of us were able. I’m also worried about how you’re going to defend it if someone does come out here while we’re gone. We’re going to have the shotgun.”
“That’s why we’re anchored out this far. I know it’s a pain in the ass for you and Scully to have to paddle an extra mile both ways, but if the breeze holds at all, as I think it will, at least I can sail off the anchor from out here if I have to. I don’t think I can haul it in with one arm, but I can cut the rode. I know I can get the jib up, and that’s enough to get going.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Artie said. “I hope we can make this quick and get back out here so we can get over to the West End Park canal and then go get Casey.”
“Me too, Doc. Me too.”
They ate a meal of rice with rehydrated dried fish steamed on top of it as they watched the sun go down and twilight fall over the city spread across the land to the south of them. As in all the populated areas they had seen since arriving at Charlotte Amalie on St. Thomas, when darkness fell there were no streetlights, vehicle headlights, or any other significant man-made lights.They could, however, see the glow of countless fires in the increasing darkness, some of them apparently large and burning homes or buildings, and others scattered near the shoreline, pinpricks of light that were probably the campfires of frightened survivors. Artie and Scully lowered the kayak from the forward deck and climbed down into their seats, with Scully in the stern and Artie in the bow position. Larry handed down their gear before casting them off. Artie had the shotgun tucked under his legs, close at hand, and a small canvas shoulder bag of Larry’s that contained his key ring, extra shotgun shells, a large fixed-blade dive knife, a hand-bearing compass, two LED flashlights with fresh batteries, and a pair of heavy-duty wire cutters from the ship’s toolbox. Scully had his machete, the same one that had proven so effective in the fight against their unexpected visitors at Isleta Palominito.
Artie wasn’t familiar with the use of the awkward, double-ended kayak paddle, but with some quick tips from Scully, he was soon able to contribute to their forward motion, though Scully’s paddling was so strong and efficient it hardly mattered if Artie paddled at all. As they approached the shore, Artie began to feel nervous. There was no telling what they would find, and he feared a confrontation with desperate survivors who might want to take the kayak if they were seen.
“Got to stay quiet now, mon,” Scully said as the opening to the man-made canal appeared in front of the bow. “Bettah if you don’t paddle. I an’ I don’t make no splash. Got to creep up in dis place like a thief dem don’t hear. Jus’ keep dat shotgun ready,” he whispered.
Just as he said, Scully’s solo paddling was virtually silent, even from Artie’s position just in front of him in the boat. He slowed down and carefully controlled each stroke, letting the blades enter and exit the water with as little disturbance as possible, exerting force only when each one was fully buried. In moments, they were off the open lake and within the confining banks of an arrow-straight, man-made ditch with undeveloped marsh on the west side to their right, and a high levee on to the east, forming the bank on their left. Beyond this grassy levee on the east side were the warehouses, office buildings, and city streets the levee was supposed to protect from rising waters in flood events such as the storm surge of hurricanes. From their perspective low on the water in the kayak, they could only see the rooflines of most of these structures, as well as the overhead power lines strung from poles running parallel to the avenues below them. Artie relaxed a bit, seeing that they were blocked from the view of anyone on the other side of the levee by its elevation, and that under the cover of darkness in the silent kayak they would likely be able to transit the canal unnoticed unless someone just happened to be on top of the levee looking out over the water. The marsh on the right side of the waterway was nothing but a flooded wetland of grass and low bushes, completely inhospitable to any kind of travel on foot, so they didn’t have to worry about threats from that side. There were also numerous side channels leading off to the west on the marsh side of the canal, and these gave Artie even more comfort as they offered the possibility of an escape route other than just going back the way they had come. As they paddled, Scully also kept their course as close as possible to that marshy edge of the waterway, where they would be farther from anyone throwing or shooting something at them from the levee.
But, to Artie’s relief, the entire area in the vicinity of the canal seemed lifeless and abandoned, as Larry had suggested it might when they were studying Craig’s city map earlier as they planned their route. Few residents would have a reason to hang around a place like that, and the gangs would be more interested in controlling the busier streets where there were plenty of abandoned houses and stores that might still have useful goods in them.
Scully paddled steadily without speaking, while Artie scanned the water ahead for any signs of movement. Using the street map, they had calculated that the distance to the airport from where the canal began at the lakeshore was about three miles. It took them approximately forty-five minutes to reach the overpass of Interstate 10 where it crossed the canal, and from there it was another half mile or so to the edge of the airport property. The main waterway turned west just beyond these bridge spans, but there was a flooded ditch that continued on south in the direction they needed to go. What they soon discovered, though, was that it wasn’t deep enough even for a kayak, much less any other kind of boat, and in places they had to both get out and wade in the muck, pulling the kayak along beside them as they slipped and stumbled along, sometimes sinking up to their knees in the soft mud of the bottom. It was tough going and took them twice as long as it would have taken to paddle the same distance in deep water.
When they came to the edge of the no man’s land of empty, grassy space surrounding the airport, they found the expected perimeter fencing, a 12-foot-high, chain-link barrier with three strands of barbed wire at the top. Very conspicuous “No Trespassing” signs were wired to the fence at closely spaced intervals that no one could miss. Though they could have walked around the perimeter of the airport property and perhaps found a way into the long-term parking lot where Artie had left his car, they had decided in advance that would take too long and expose them to too many opportunities to be seen by people who might be o
n the nearby road. Going through the fence and proceeding in the most direct route was the best option. Airport security would have been out of commission since the first day after the event, and worrying about trespassers on that kind of property would be the last thing on anyone’s mind now.
Artie took the wire cutters out of the backpack and went to work on the fence while Scully kept watch with the shotgun. As far as they could tell, there was no sign of life around the airport. Once they were inside the fence, they continued east, staying in the grassy perimeters of the property beyond the runways. Passing the terminals, they could see the outlines of the buildings and grounded jets that had been stranded when the pulse hit. They were too far away to see the details, and didn’t want to pass any closer to the buildings than necessary, in case there were people still holing up in them. The walk to the parking area took nearly fifteen minutes, and in the darkness, Artie had to stop and try to get his bearings in order to remember the approximate location where he’d left his silver Chevy Tahoe.
As they made their way through the hundreds of vehicles parked there, he was surprised to see that only a few of them had smashed windows. But then it made sense that most looters would focus their attention elsewhere, as vehicles parked long-term at the airport would be unlikely to contain food or money. When he finally spotted his own, he was relieved to see that all the glass was intact. Knowing the electronic door opener on his key ring would be useless, he inserted the metal key into the door lock instead.
“Nice truck, dis,” Scully whispered.
“It was at one time. I guess it’s just a useless pile of junk now, like all the rest of these overpriced vehicles.”
Artie slid behind the wheel into the driver’s seat and unlocked the glove compartment. He was certain the pistol was still there, because not only was the compartment locked but so were his doors, with no glass broken. He felt around under the owner’s manual packet and then pulled everything in the compartment out in disbelief. The pistol was gone! He was absolutely certain it had been there when he left the vehicle to check in for his flight, as he had consciously put his hands on it and covered it up with the manual before closing and locking the compartment door and getting out.
“Give me one of those flashlights, Scully!” he whispered. Turning it on, but keeping a hand cupped over most of the end of it to minimize the chances of it being seen from a distance, he directed the beam around the vehicle, onto the passenger seat and passenger side floorboard. Nothing else was out of place. Artie opened the lid to the center console compartment, despite knowing for certain that he had not put the pistol in there. As soon as he lifted it, a folded piece of notebook paper lying on top of his CDs and everything else he kept in there caught his eye. He took it out and turned it over to reveal what it could possibly be, knowing he had not left anything like that there.
His heart nearly stopped when saw that it was a letter and read the opening salutation: “Dear Daddy.” Casey had been here! It was a letter from Casey! “Scully! She was here!” he whispered, barely able to contain himself from shouting out loud. “Hold on…let me see what she said.” He continued reading.
I don’t know if you will ever read this or not, but if you somehow find a way to make it back to New Orleans, I know you will be worried to death about me and will be looking for me everywhere. My friend Grant is leaving this in your car in case you couldn’t get to my apartment for some reason and find the note I left for you there. If you read this before I see you again, I won’t be here on the campus or even in the city. Things have gotten really bad here just one day after the lights went out. Jessica and I are leaving with Grant, who was here through Katrina and says that it would be far too dangerous to stay here with no power. He says that if we don’t get out now, we may not be able to. My car won’t start, of course, and hardly anybody has one that will. We are going to leave later this afternoon on our bicycles, because riding them is much faster than walking. Grant’s family owns a cabin in the woods not far across the state line in Mississippi. He says we will be safe there, and I believe him. It is on a secluded river called the Bogue Chitto, and they have a well and lots of food and other gear stored there. He says we can stay there as long as it takes for the power to be restored. He drew a map that will tell you how to get there in case you find this before the power comes on. The map is on the back of this page. We won’t be coming back here (until/unless?) that happens.
I have been thinking about you all the time since this happened and worrying about you out there on that boat, but I know you are with Uncle Larry and I’m sure he knows what to do and that you two are okay, wherever you are. I love you, Daddy, and I can’t wait to see you again!
Love, Casey
Artie’s hands were trembling as he read the last line. There was another note at the bottom of the page, written in a different handwriting that he knew was not Casey’s.
Dear Dr. Drager:
I hope to get to meet you someday soon, I’ve heard a lot about you from your daughter. I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to keep her and Jessica safe. That’s why we’re going to my parents’ cabin in Mississippi. It is far off the beaten path and safe from the looters and desperate people who will soon be going crazy anywhere near the cities. I came here to leave this note for Casey before we get on our way. I hope you don’t mind, but I found your .22 pistol and a box of ammo in the glove box. I know how to use it, so I borrowed it, because it is dangerous to travel now and I thought it would be a good idea to have it. I know it’s unlikely you will be able to get here and read this, but I wanted you to know I will take care of it until I can meet you someday soon and return it to you in person.
Grant Dyer
Artie turned the letter over and for the first time saw the drawing on the back of the piece of paper. It was a map, just as Casey had said, roughly sketched, but with carefully printed labels in Grant’s hand identifying roads along the route, which led north over the Causeway to the other side of Lake Pontchartrain, and continued on beyond the state line. Artie looked at the squiggly line denoting a river and the tiny square that showed the cabin. It was at the end of a long private lane that was labeled “dirt,” which in turn was at the far end of a curvy country road labeled “gravel.” In the margin, Grant had made a note that the approximate distance from Tulane to the cabin was 90 miles.
“Ninety miles!” Artie whispered to Scully. “She says she and Jessica left here on their bicycles with a guy friend of theirs, heading for his parents’ cabin 90 miles to the north, on a remote river in Mississippi. They took my pistol for protection. They say they left the day after the lights went out.”
“I t’ink she and Jessica smart girls, dem. Goin’ to de river, dem havin’ watah to drink, an’ in de bush like dat, dem got some place to hide. Dis New Orleans dangerous place, mon.”
“But you saw what I saw when we sailed under those bridges today.” Artie couldn’t imagine his daughter traveling in such conditions; the thought was too horrifying to contemplate. But aside from that, he could scarcely imagine her traveling that far on a bike even in normal times. “I don’t know if Casey could ride a bike that far or not. She’s never done anything that extreme that I know of, but she is reasonably fit.”
“I t’ink she can, mon. When she and Jessica on de boat last summer, dem swimming strong every day. Paddle de kayak too. Not like most of dem tourist comin’ to de island from Bobbylon on de cruise ship, layin’ ’round on de beach like dem fat white whale, not to move ’cept goin’ back to de buffet table to eat.”
“Maybe so. At least I hope so. But I was counting on seeing her later tonight. I can’t tell you how it feels to come this far, and think I’m so close, only to find out she’s not here, though I’ve feared all along that might be the case.”
“It’s good dem got de young mon wid, and de pistol too. You said de note was written jus’ de day after Jah strike down de lights. I t’ink we gonna find dem safe in dat cabin he put on de map.”
“First t’ing, Doc, is we get outta dis place an’ bok to de boat. De Copt’n probably gonna have a plan when we discuss dis problem wid he. But we knowin’ now de girls dem not here. Too dangerous to stay in here for no reason now.”
“Yeah, let’s go.” Artie closed the glove compartment and center console, and reached into the back seat to get a small bag with an extra change of clothes he usually kept there when he traveled. Other than that, there was little of use in the Tahoe, so he got out and locked the door, and they hurried back across the airport property to the kayak. Thoughts of Casey’s journey with her friends ran through his mind with every step as he tried to picture the scene on that day when they left New Orleans on their bicycles. He had heard Casey talk about Grant, but had never met him. He could only hope that he was a young man who had a good head on his shoulders. The fact that he found and took the pistol showed that at least he was somewhat resourceful and recognized the possible need for it. It was also comforting that he’d written in the note that he knew how to use it. Artie could only hope that was true, and also that Grant wouldn’t have the need to prove it.
ELEVEN
“WHAT ARE WE GOING to do when it gets dark?” Jessica asked Grant. “Are we going to keep going, or stop?” The sun had dropped behind the tops of the trees in the forest surrounding the Bogue Chitto and the day was quickly fading into twilight.
“I would keep going if I knew he was still paddling, but at night there’s too much chance of running up on them in the darkness or even passing them if they stopped to camp somewhere out of sight of the river, which is what I would do in his place. Considering that, I don’t want to risk missing them entirely and somehow getting ahead of them on the river, or worse, getting shot.”
The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid Page 25