Throughout the environmental evangelist’s tirade, Travis and the group stood in tongue-fettered silence. The effect of the one-sided conversation was rather like somebody telling you a funny joke while robbing you. Travis thought, this guy is three sheets to the wind, but if he has his facts right, the local world is flat-ass screwed.
The radio squelched and there was a loud burp over the air. “Well, I’m back. And now, for those within the sound of my voice, it’s time for a status report on the country . . . I call it the NBC report —notable bullshit and commentary. Anyway, I’ve been gettin’ messages from people up and down the New Coast, as we’re callin’ it. They’ve been receivin’ and relayin’ information darn near across what’s left of the U. S. of A. It ain’t a pretty picture, but I’m a-gonna tell you about it anyway. One, because I always wanted to be a newscaster, and two, because I just luuuuv being right!
“First off, it appears it weren’t no meteorite that caused this mess. That is to say, nobody’s reportin’ any major holes anywhere. It looks more like some massive shifting of the earth’s surface in places. Some areas seem to be in terrible shape or just plain gone, others fared a little better. No one got away without payin’ the piper. There ain’t no more Florida, except for a piece of high ground near the panhandle. Did I hear ya gasp? Well, that’s about as good as it gets.
“California’s damned near disappeared—lock, stock, and tomahawk. There was a country song about waterfront property in Arizona a few years back. I think it’s available now! How about a little good news-bad news? The good news is that there won’t be any more cost-of-living riots in New York. The bad news is there ain’t no more New York. There ain’t much of an Eastern Seaboard left, for that matter. From what they’re a-tellin’ me, it made a big, crumbling sound and dropped off into the ocean.
“Now here’s a little info that I’m not too happy about—there don’t seem to be much of a Louisiana anymore. Looks like the Mississippi Valley filled with water from somewhere and rushed through New Orleans like a case of clap through a whorehouse! I reckon with the way things look, I could putter this here little shrimper right up to the Great Lakes. ’Scuse me just a second folks, got to pour a little more refreshment. Ah, Dr. Jack. Good for all that ails ya; soothes the nerves, numbs the past, brightens the present, but unfortunately, don’t do squat for the future.”
The group listened in shocked silence to the world report given by the drunken shrimper/preacher.
“He can’t be right,” Jan whispered, a stricken look on his face. Christina, obviously shaken as well, reached over and put her hand on his shoulder, almost as if to console them both.
Travis looked across at the sensei, who maintained his impenetrable expression throughout. He could be listening to the sports scores for all it shows, thought Travis.
Carlos and Todd stood to the side. Carlos’ expression was one of angry acceptance. ” Jesus Christe, now I never get a hamburguesa.”
The others smiled. “You hang in there, Carlos,” Travis said. “I’ll find you that hamburguesa yet.”
The boy, who had been through so much already, accepted the news with a subdued indifference.
“I heard it, but I still can’t believe it,” muttered Jan.
“By God, my buddy Cody was right on the money,” Travis said. “I mean, right on. If I ever see him again, I owe him a bottle of Jose Quervo. That was the bet.” Then, with a sad shake of his head, he said, “But, I don’t suppose there’s much chance of him collecting on it.”
Travis reached for the radio. “I want to try to get this guy on the horn here, see if there’s any more he can tell us.” In moments, Travis located the preacher’s frequency and was broadcasting to him.
“Preacher, Preacher, this is The Odyssey” —it just happened to be the name of the boat; it hadn’t seemed important up to this point, but when he used the name for the first time, he considered the significance—"This is The Odyssey calling the Preacher. Come back, Preacher, come back.”
A few moments later, the preacher’s slurred voice boomed through the speakers. “Well howdy, you God-forsaken sinner. What can I do for you? Are you a-lookin’ for the way to Heaven or do you just need another can of aerosol hair spray—or could you be callin’ for our leather-bound, gold-embossed first edition of The Animals That Used To Be, the thrilling story of a boy and his bird, ’cept the bird is extinct, along with about a hundred other species you managed to extinctatize in less than a century. Yeah, I said extinctatize. May not be a word, but I like it, and I’m damned near writin’ the rules now. So what’s it gonna be, Sinner? God’s a-waitin’ and so am I.”
Travis decided to fight humor with humor. “I’ll take three cans of hair spray and a copy of the book. I’m sure it’s gonna be a bestseller. I’ll bet your publisher’s swamped.”
The preacher’s belly laugh echoed across the radio. “Well said, sinner, well said! God likes a man with humor.” The preacher paused while he took a noisy sip of whisky, then continued, “Tell me, Sinner, have you been saved?”
“Have I been saved?” Travis said to himself as much as anyone. “In the last week I’ve been saved from an airplane crash, I’ve been saved from drowning, and I’ve been saved from starving. I’d say, offhand, that I’ve been saved about as much as anyone I know.”
“No, no, no, Sinner. I mean, have you been saved by Jesus?” the preacher responded loftily.
“Well, I’ll tell you, Preacher, if it ain’t Jesus who’s been saving me, then the devil’s working overtime.”
“He’s doin’ that for sure, Sinner,” the preacher bellowed. “He’s doin’ that for sure."In a more serious voice, Travis spoke again.
“Preacher, we heard your report. Can you give us any further details? Clarify the situation somewhat?”
“How clear do you want it? The world’s gone to hell in a bread basket.”
“Yeah, I know,” Travis said, “but have you heard anything that relates to the authorities? The government? If we’ve lost the coastlines, what’s the condition of the central U.S. and the rest of the world?”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I’m hearin’. It ain’t much, but I believe it’s solid. I got a Ham and a sideband radio on this ol’ tub, so I figure, for information, that puts me on par with CNN—if there is a CNN anymore.
“The government, huh? Well, from what I’m a pickin’ up, there ain’t much cohesive government left in the U.S. of A. right now. Oh, there’s a few military bases that didn’t get hit too bad, from Langley in Virginia to Fort Benton in Montana. These folks seem to still be functioning but they’ve all got their share of problems, and martial law has been declared. The story is, about half the armed forces just up and left, trying to get to wherever they’re from to help save their own.
“Nobody seems to know if we have a federal government at all. Communications are down everywhere, so no one’s got the foggiest what anybody else is doin’, but then that’s just about par for the government anyway. The federal and the civil authorities are in a state of collapse. The civilian population is on its own. My guess is it’s gonna be years before we see any real semblance of order.”
“To top it off, it looks like we’ve had a couple of major nuclear accidents where earthquakes upset reactors. Meltdowns have occurred where California and upstate New York used to be. Most of the coast of Texas is gone, too, and they’re reporting a nuke melt outside Dallas.
“As for the central U.S., it seems to have survived the best. Oklahoma, Arkansas, Kansas, up Montana and Colorado way—those areas did a lot of shakin’, rattlin’, and rollin’, but they’re still intact. Big news is the inland sea in the center of the country now. And there’s a report that Oregon broke off from the coast and is now an island, but that’s third- and fourth-hand news at this point, so I don’t know for sure.
“The armchair estimators out there figure that somewhere near a hundred million people are dead. Lots more are gonna die from radiation, starvation, and each other. As far as what
’s happened to the rest of the world, it’s pretty sketchy right now.” The preacher paused for a moment and took a noisy swallow of whisky, then continued. “I’ll tell ya, Sinner, I don’t think we’re gonna be givin’ a tinker’s damn about other countries for quite a piece to come. We’re gonna be pretty damned busy shuckin’ our own peas for a while.”
“What about the Turkey Point nuclear reactor in South Miami?” Travis asked.
The preacher chuckled. “If that had been a problem, son, we wouldn’t be talking now, we’d be a-sizzlin’ like a couple strips of bacon in a frying pan. Evidently they got it shut down ahead of time, or maybe the reactors were down for repairs. Who knows? There weren’t no earthquakes here, just a little shaking and lots of water. All I know for sure is that it didn’t blow up or melt down, or whatever they do.”
Travis stared at the radio, thinking, as the preacher talked. After a few moments he said, “Listen, Preacher, I figure we’re about twenty to thirty miles southwest of your position. I’d like to talk with you some more before we make any major decisions. If we can find you, how about if we tie up sometime tomorrow morning and let us treat you to breakfast? You pick the restaurant.”
The preacher laughed again. “Sounds good to me, son. I could use the company. If you’re pretty sure about that southwest position, just set a forty-five degree course and look for what’s left of the big buildings off South Miami Beach. Stay east of them, in deep water, and come in from that direction. Look for the tallest building. I’m anchored just east of it. I’ll give you a holler on the horn tomorrow morning, just to make sure you’re on target.”
Travis replaced the microphone and turned to his companions. “This is the way I figure it: The guy may be a little bourboned-out, but he’s got access to incredibly valuable information which can help us make intelligent decisions for any course of action we take. This isn’t a dictatorship. I want your input. But for my money, I’d like to sit down with this fellow for a day or so and learn as much as I can before continuing on.”
Everyone agreed.
“All right, that’s that,” Travis declared. “Let’s set course and get underway. We still have three hours of daylight left.”
They sailed without incident for the rest of the day, a light sea and favorable winds giving them a chance to relax.
Young Todd caught two nice mackerel during the afternoon and Carlos treated them to another delicious dinner. Spirits were, for the first time, almost optimistic. The worst was over. Civilization was still out there and they were going to find it. Travis had listenedcarefully to what the preacher said about the inland waterway and the central U.S. being intact. He was beginning to formulate a plan, but he needed more information before he spoke with the others.
When supper was finished and the dishes done, Carlos brought out a slightly water-warped deck of cards he’d found onboard and the group played poker for about an hour. The sensei sat off to the side and cleaned his swords. As the game began to break up, Travis went topside to check everything before bed, as was becoming his routine. He sat for a moment on the cabin roof, watching the dark waves crest and fall, when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned, surprised, to find Todd standing a few feet from him. The boy looked at Travis, uncertain, then stared past him at the cold, moonlit water. Travis studied the child for a few seconds, then, in one of those rare moments of mutual understanding, raised his arm and beckoned the young lad to him. The relief of being understood flooded across the boy’s face as he came forward. Travis put his arm around him and held him. No words were spoken—none were needed, as the pair sat and watched the reflection of the yellow moon dance on the blue-black water.
CHAPTER 8
The following morning Travis was awakened by the sunlight as it streamed through the porthole and flooded his bunk. He opened his eyes and he realized that something else had roused him—voices. Cuban voices, not Carlos’, were coming from topside. As he quickly pulled on his shirt, that familiar feeling crept over him, and something deep inside shouted a warning. He grabbed the nine-millimeter from the drawer next to the bunk and shoved it into his belt at the small of his back as Jan showed up.
“There’s somebody up top in another boat. Cubans, I think.” He was attempting to be casual but his eyes betrayed him.
Travis looked at the other gun in the drawer, then on impulse took it out. “Can you use one of these?” he asked.
“Yeah, no problem,” Jan answered confidently.
Travis handed him the weapon. “Keep it tucked in your back, out of sight.” Jan nodded.
The others were awake and standing by the stairs to the hatch as the two men reached them. “Jan and I are going out. You folks can’t do any good up there and I don’t want them knowing how many of us there are. We’ll talk to them, see what they want.” The others nodded tensely. Travis could tell that the sensei wasn’t happy with the arrangement, but saw the wisdom of it.
The pair moved up the hatchway and out onto the deck. Anchored about twenty yards from them, was a fifty-foot Miami Cuban fishing boat. Beside the forecastle of the trawler stood two young Latin men. One was tall and lean—jet-black hair greased back against his skull, no shirt, a thick gold chain around his neck, nervous eyes. The other was large and well-muscled, with hard, bright eyes reflecting a fresh high,—faded blue jeans, a Carlos Santana T-shirt, and a bandana around his head. Most ominous of all, however, were the M16 rifles they held casually at their sides.
Travis and Jan halted in front of the cabin, and the big one spoke: ” Buenos dias, amigos. Habla Español?”
“No, we don’t speak Spanish,” Travis answered, even though he did speak some.
The Cuban snorted disdainfully, as if the reply had been a rebuke. Then in English he asked. “How many people you have with you, amigo?”
“Just a couple. How about you?”
“Jus’ me and my amigo here, tha’s all, man.” Travis was positive he had heard at least three voices—maybe four—before he went topside. Every instinct in his body told him it was all about to hit the fan. The heavy Cuban smiled, exposing a mouthful of big, white teeth. He shifted his weapon slightly. It was a casual move but there was a subtle message of intimidation there. “Tha’s a very nice boat you have, amigo. How come you have such a nice boat like that?”
“I won it in a raffle last week.”
The smile drained from the Cuban’s face. “You know, amigo, we need some food. Maybe you have some you could give us, huh? Maybe if you don’ have too much food, maybe you have something you could give us so we could buy some food somewhere, huh, amigo?”
“Listen, buddy,” replied Travis, “my partner and I are out of just about everything but saltwater and sun. How about if we just up anchor—we’ll go our way, you go yours.”
The Cuban turned and casually spit over the gunnel, then brought his attention back to Travis. “Maybe we do that man, maybe we do that.” Then in a staccato burst of Spanish, he spoke to his friend, who moved over about ten paces.
Carlos’ voice came urgently from the hatchway. “He just tell his compadre to move down so to get you in a crossfire, Jefe.”
Jesus Christ, Travis thought, after all we’ve been through, now we have to get caught in an ocean version of the O.K. Corral. “Slide over some, Jan,” he whispered. “When they start to raise their guns, you shoot the one on the left. I’ll take the big guy with the Colgate smile.” Jan nodded and moved down slowly, obviously frightened, but maintaining.
No one knew, least of all the Cubans on the other boat, that Travis was an expert with a handgun—a natural, they called him. He had carried a service issue .45 in Vietnam for two years, and after the service had still practiced regularly.
Suddenly, without warning, the big Cuban shouted and started to raise his rifle. Travis had been standing with his hands on his hips to give him quick access to his gun. When the other man made his move, Travis dropped to one knee, drew his pistol and clipped off three rounds. Instantly, a trio of messy red
dots appeared in the man’s chest, throwing him back against the forecastle of his boat, arms flailing. A split second later, automatic rifle fire sprayed the top of the cabin next to Travis, missing him by inches as he hit the deck. The other Cuban was still standing, about to fire again, when Travis got off three quick shots in his direction. Unfortunately, the rolling of the boat threw the rounds off slightly, splintering the wood next to the man’s head and sending him flying for the cover of his gunnel. Travis found himself lying wide open in the middle of the deck, and in a hell of a quandary. If he got up and ran for the safety of the steering cockpit, the Cuban could pop up and kill him easily with that automatic rifle. But if he stayed where he was and waited for the fellow to come up from behind the gunnel, he had to get him right away, or he was dead for sure. Six of one . . . he thought. Just then, the Cuban stood up as though he was Vin Diesel in a bad “B” movie, and started to fire. Travis aimed quickly and touched off four more rounds. The smaller man did an imitation of his friend as a red line stretched up from his stomach to his throat.
“ Adios, amigo,” Travis muttered grimly as he watched the man slide down the blood-splattered wall of the cabin.
As he stood, Travis realized he hadn’t heard any fire from Jan. He looked over his shoulder to find his compatriot sprawled out across the top of the cabin. Jan’s chest and back had been laid open by the murderous 5.56 rounds that had sprayed the boat; his sightless eyes stared vacantly at the sky. Quickly, Travis moved over to him, knowing already that it was too late. He was kneeling by the dead man when a movement on the bow caught his attention. He looked up to see another Cuban pulling himself up over the bow with a rope attached to a gaff hook. The man had swum across and hooked the gaff to the bow rail while the firefight was going on. As the Latino stood up, Travis automatically raised his pistol and pulled the trigger, but there was no report. He suddenly realized the slide on the weapon was locked back—he had expended his last round.
The New Madrid Run Page 9