by David Sachs
“Darren! Darren!” Travis heard Corrina amid the screams.
“I’ve got him,” Travis shouted. With Darren still in his arms, he was sinking while the other bodies were pushing up around him. There were seconds until the crowd would surge again and he and his son would be under it.
A pair of black hands stretched down to him out of overcoat sleeves and white shirt cuffs. The hands grabbed his arms and pulled him upwards. Travis could see the man tensing his body to resist the pressure from behind him. He was in his fifties, dressed in a suit and overcoat, the tie gone. With his help, Travis was able to turn himself and pull himself upright behind Corrina.
Darren bawled, and Travis could just give him little squeezes on his back to calm him.
“Thanks,” Travis said without being able to see the man behind him then, feeling him pressed into his back.
“Soft spot for kids,” the man said.
Travis turned his head and just caught the forced smile that lit up the man’s furrowed face.
He saw that Gerry and Corrina’s suitcases were gone.
They could see armed National Guardsmen in the space between the stairs and the ship’s hull. The Guardsmen themselves had a desperate look; they were there to protect these people. How would they act if the people became the danger? Travis could see another ship beginning to pull away. He couldn’t see the crowd beneath that ship. He heard gunfire, and then screaming filled the air. Pushing Corrina ahead of him, with the stranger pushing him from behind, he was on the gangway stairs. The move up was halting, but manageable.
There was shouting around him now distinct above the other screams.
“This way, this way!”
“Matthew! Matthew!”
“Don’t lose me!”
“This way! Please follow the crew!”
This was a voice with authority. The voice assured Travis, and he felt the tension around him ease, too, with the voice. Looking out at the Hudson, he saw another cruise ship on its way down river, following closely behind a freighter whose deck was packed with escapees.
Travis heard all the voices around him going up the stairs. It was a habit he could not break. He was an observer of people and a listener, and he always heard the voices around him.
“I have to go back!”
“Oh God, help me!”
“This way, through here!”
“Please, I have to go back!”
“My leg is broken! Please help me!”
“Follow the crew!”
“Please, I have to go back!”
Corrina was suddenly gone ahead of him, and Travis was pulled off the gangway through the opening into a great hall by white-sleeved arms. He was shoved to the left. He was aware of soft light and colors around him, weird on this dark day.
“This way! Follow the crew inside!”
“Please, I have to go back!” he heard one last time from behind him.
5
He had seen fear before, in places of conflict and famine, where the worst things happen and life is carried out in unceasing desperation. The low ground, he called that state of living in his own private lexicon. So many millions of people around the world had lived there in the last twenty, fifty or hundred years – yet it was a completely alien place to most Americans. The low ground had followed him home. The low ground had found his son.
These Americans, Travis thought, have never considered death this way: announcing itself to each of them at once, for their families and friends and neighbors. He wondered what showed in his own face, how the possibility of losing everything was displayed in his eyes.
They were shuffled down the hallway by staff standing alongside another opening in the wall, from which a bright glow lit those turning and disappearing into it.
“Head to the light,” the staff called.
There was no need for the direction, the pump was primed and the flow set. The group turned into the light, a wide white-on-white staircase leading only down. After the first flight, the staircase walls gave way to banisters and railings and the open belly of the vessel. Travis saw the vast area of the ship’s Grand Atrium, a football field space with the feel of a Roman plaza, 70 foot gold-foil columns and drapes piercing the great hall vertically, the floor level marked by fountains, flower boxes, food counters and bars, lined by shop-fronts on all sides. The central fountain featured a great marble statue of a thin, broadly-finned fish, its angular impressionistic form curled into a violent surface dive through the array of water sprays. There were several of these staircases, and all those on the port side funneled the refugees in here. The space was already crowding.
Dark wood-paneled columns arose at the sides of the Atrium, supporting the many tiers of balconies above. The tourists, those paying passengers who had departed Key West on their 21-day cruise only the day before, lined the railings on each level. The floors themselves, cutting off at the edge of the Atrium airspace, were front-lit a bright emerald green, while the open staircases, Travis now saw, were alight with bright green paneling as well. From the railings, the rows of tourists looked down in silence at the refugees filling their ship. The line slowed on the stairs, but here there was not the pressure of bodies stacked against each other.
Travis wondered if this could be real. Had he finally taken too many pills to sleep? Was this a dream? Had he died, and this was something else? It was as though the drugs had returned to his blood. He felt as though he was stumbling through a liquid.
“We’ll find out if the president’s an idiot or not,” Corrina said.
As their own group reached the Atrium floor, Travis thought back to high school dances in the gym: that was his standard for crowd estimation, a full high school gym to him meant 800 or so heads. He guessed there were already two thousand in this room alone. He looked up to the crystal roof a great distance above, passing over the faces of the tourists on the radiating balconies. It seemed like a scene from the Wizard of Oz. He realized how much quieter it had become. Individuals crying out for lost loved ones or sobbing over their thoughts could be heard. There was a release of tension at getting where they were going, to a place that promised safety. Their brains now raced through what could happen on this ship. They desperately hoped to feel the ship move.
Travis noticed Corrina and Gerry holding each other tight, and he saw tears flowing down his ex-wife’s cheeks and over her smile. He kissed Darren on the forehead. He’d saved his son. Oh God, it was a terrifying and wonderful feeling.
“Come on,” Travis said. “Let’s push in. Darren, do you have to pee?”
Darren shook his head, no. He had stopped crying; his eyes were red and his nose dripped, but he was trying not to look scared anymore.
“Don’t worry, Daddy,” he said. “I can swim if we fall in. I can swim by myself now in the deep end.”
“That’s great, champ,” Travis said. “We’re not going to go in the water, though.”
They shuffled on together, tightening in the crowd as the city’s deserters continued to stream in from the several staircases. Huddled together, they simply stared, losing track of time. Travis noticed the on-board shops closed and deserted. After twenty minutes, or perhaps half an hour, they felt the vibrations of the engines coming to life. Soon, there was the sound of the ship’s whistle. Nothing else from outside could be heard, and Travis imagined the scene of desperation outside, as the ship freed from the pier.
With the last arrivals still pouring into the room, they felt the escape begin. The ship separated from port and from the unlucky still behind. From the desperation they’d been in moments ago, it was bizarre and jarring for the refugees now to find themselves surrounded by such exaggerated, fantastical luxury.
By the bottoms of the staircases, Travis noticed white uniformed men. Ship’s security, he presumed. This conveyed a real and specific sense of safety. The men were unarmed. Another statement of safety.
“Have you made your pick who’ll be first to piss in the fountains?” a voice near Travis
said.
The speaker was the stranger from the pier, his arm outstretched. Travis shook his hand.
”I got that old rummy by the calla lilies,” the man said.
“Thanks for your help,” Travis said.
“No problem, no problem,” the man had a deep, rich and rough voice. “Got a granddaughter about his age. I’m Claude Bettman.”
“Travis Cooke. This is my son Darren.”
“Hi,” Darren said.
Claude Bettman crouched like a baseball catcher. “Hi Buddy. Not so scary in here, huh?”
Darren shook his head. Claude stood up straight.
“This is---- Corrina. And Gerry.” Travis turned to include them. “Claude helped us out after the crowd collapsed. I’m really in your debt, Claude, I mean that.”
Claude grinned. His lips were slightly purple, and he had an aristocrat’s smile. “I think this is the kind of event that cancels all debts.”
“Did you hear anything about how the evacuation was working?” Corrina asked.
Claude shook his head slowly. “I heard ships would head out to sea to ride out the wavefront. That was from a military guy on TV.”
“I don’t have the slightest clue what this actually IS,” Travis said. “I just woke up and all hell was breaking loose.”
“An earthquake,” Gerry said. “It split a huge shelf off the Antarctic. They kept changing the story. Whether the earthquake caused the tsunami, or whether one earthquake caused a split of the ice shelf that caused another earthquake, or what. But they say we’re going to have higher water levels. Once the wave comes in, the water may not be going back out. The whole East coast might be under.”
As a few outside the group listened in, Gerry pulled out his cell phone for a more current update. He couldn’t connect.
“Networks overloaded,” Claude said. “Every cell phone owner in America is trying to use it right now.”
Corrina had Darren in her arms now, and they rubbed noses and smiled eye to eye.
Nothing stops her, Travis thought, and he felt the familiar craving, wishing he could just join that embrace.
There was an electric sound as speakers around the ship came to life.
“This is Captain London. To all our new guests, welcome aboard the Festival of the Waves. An unfortunate name for this very difficult time, but this is a good safe ship.”
It was the voice Travis had heard coming up the gangway, the strong voice that first pierced the terror. It had been the captain himself pulling the refugees on board.
“We have an excellent crew that will keep us all comfortable as best we can. We will be making 15 knots out to open sea, and should be rendezvousing with that bump in several hours. That’s all it will be. A tsunami in the open sea is just a wave, you’ll hardly feel it. For safety reasons, I ask that all the newcomers please remain indoors whether in the Atrium or Royal Theater, and that our other guests please remain in their rooms. I will be giving a warning prior to meeting the waves. I know that this is a devastating day for all of you right now. But we’re safe here. Be grateful for that. Breathe.”
6
Lee Golding stood on the Penthouse forward deck, cupping his hands to light a cigarette in the wind. This was the top deck housing cabins, and the level had an extended lip at the bow, an outside deck at the far forward reach of the ship.
Lee Golding, the Mighty Lee Golding, the Alabama Assassin. The biggest name and most-hated-bad-guy of professional wrestling (once upon a time), was on board as a celebrity guest. The cruise line had planned a screening of his greatest matches followed by a Q-and-A. Over the three-week cruise he was booked to do a talk, sit at the Captain’s Table, and provide color commentary for a kids’ water polo game. Two of his films were going to be shown on the Festival’s big screen, the new comedy and one of the action ones. Probably not anymore.
His massive frame had not swollen with fat in his retirement from the ring like many of his comrades’. Not quite that much, anyway. His blonde hair receded slightly around his reddish temples, and hung long to his shoulders. He still had the trademark goatee, dyed silver. His face was neither ugly nor especially attractive. It was heavy and pleasant. He made friends easily.
Around him on deck were several other of the booked tourists, mostly keeping to themselves, enjoying the air that the ship’s captain had just asked them to forsake. There was no social convener to introduce them to each other. The ship’s security was more than engaged in handling the load of refugees in the ship’s belly and didn’t worry themselves with keeping the paying guests off the decks, at least for now. When the crowd below was under control, perhaps they would sweep the decks. For now, the captain’s voice on the loudspeakers was the deterrent. Lee Golding was undeterred.
He’d stayed in his room with his wife Jessica until the ship had left the pier. Then he’d left her there to watch the ship make it out to sea, and to watch what New York looked like being left behind to die.
Lee was out on deck passing by 15th Street and Pier 57. He saw industrial freighters, top heavy with loading cranes. There were still many ships loading, and the crowd remaining did not seem to him hopelessly large. He imagined he could still hear their screams over the sound of the many ships coming and going. As he saw one ship pull away from the dock, he heard shots fired. He thought of New Orleans, how the desperate had shot at helicopters in a gambit for attention. It was more likely the police, he thought. There’s no way you could wait at the back of the crowd. There was no way people would do that peacefully, unless a cop was there with a gun.
He wondered how it would go when the cops left. It would have been so much better for the ones left behind if there’d been no warning. They’ll die just the same, but first they have to go through this. If. If anyone gets left behind. If there really is a tsunami at all.
There were small ships in the water, heading in the opposite direction, up the Hudson and inland towards Albany. The little boats bobbed in the headwind. All those little guys going one way, and this big ship splitting the herd in the other direction. Lee thought of the tsunami in Southeast Asia, the stories of animals sensing disaster and heading to safety while fishermen marched to the docks like any other day.
The Empire State Building stood out above the island’s skyline. The Festival of the Waves rounded Battery Park at the south end of town. The rough dark waters of Upper Bay opened up before her. The Statue of Liberty came closer. The few there on the deck made towards the starboard rail to watch the Statue pass. It was the reverse trip of refugees of other eras, past the statue, past Ellis Island, Brooklyn to one side, Staten Island to the other, then under the Verrazano Bridge, to leave the outpost of America behind.
“Not quite the same feeling as when we pulled out from Key West, is it?” came a voice.
Lee came out of his daydreaming and smiled as he turned to the man a few feet away along the railing.
“No,” Lee agreed. “The cruise has definitely lost some je-ne-sais-pas.” Lee’s voice was louder than necessary, deep and amiable. Not quite his stage voice, but bigger than mortal.
“I’m Rick,” the smaller man said, a Texas accent. “Rick Dumas. I saw your wife and you a couple times on the ship, I’m just down the hall from you. You’re Golding, right? The Mighty Lee Golding.”
“Yeah,” Lee replied as they shook hands. “You don’t have to say ‘The Mighty’ every time, though.”
He sized Rick Dumas up as they stood together. His ship-neighbor was small, and had a pleasant but nervous face, as if he didn’t know when anyone might turn on him.
“I was a huge fan,” Rick said. “Really, your feud with Sinbad was phenomenal. Can you do your shtick for me? Come on. Do your shtick.”
Lee smiled. His face bulged out red, his eyes popping from his head like eggs, as he laughed devilishly. His fingers went to his lips in a V and he wagged his bendy tongue through the V.
“Golding gonna getcha!” he hissed.
His face softened and he laughed, and Ri
ck laughed, and the Alabama Assassin slapped him on the back.
“Give my regards to Broadway, huh?” Rick said. “So long 42nd Street. Take a deep breath, 40’ latitude, 74’ longitude. That’s central Manhattan. I have one of those GPSs and I try to remember important places. When did you come up and start watching?”
“Just after the pick-up, when we left,” Lee replied.
“I came out when we were coming in. Man, you should have seen the air traffic. So many helicopters.”
“All going to United Nations, I bet.”
“There’s no shortage of people in Manhattan who can afford a helicopter ride,” Rick said. “I bet there were a lot of rooftop landings. Say, could I have a smoke? I don’t usually smoke, but what the hell. How often does the East Coast get destroyed?”
Lee reached for the pack in his windbreaker pocket, contorting his girth. Rick lit his smoke with difficulty, Lee again using his hands as a wind screen, holding the lighter, too.
“You don’t seem nervous,” Lee said. “You worried about this or what?”
“No, no. These ships, they’re really the greatest feats of engineering of our time. I mean, just turn around, turn around.”
Rick spun his finger and the two turned to face the majesty of the Festival of the Waves, towers of decks, of gleaming white steel and glass above them.
“A city under its own power at sea. A 90,000-ton traveling island of amusements and indulgence for 2,400 paying guests and 930 crew. It’s our era’s Great Pyramids. But they were for kings only.”
“Yeah, but they had to be dead first.”
“Listen, this is as heavy duty as ships come,” Rick continued. “Do you ever hear of a cruise ship going down? OK, there was that one off Greece but the captain was drunk. I mean, they put hundreds of millions of dollars into these. If any company ever lost a ship, they’d be ruined. Just think of the lawsuits.”
“Ever hear of the Titanic?” Lee asked.