Wine, of course, would be offered at the entrance - not my beloved Carolina Red or Hatteras Red, but a vintage from France or Italy. Extended pinkies would probably need something with a foreign name to truly stir the creative juices. Anything less might leave them feeling as if they were looking at insect guts spilled across a windshield.
An ant scurried across the hood of the truck. Beyond Little, a stand of tall grass swayed in a wind that was not making it through my window.
The sheriff pored over my paperwork.
I sighed. Both documents combined were less than a minute read at best.
“Okay if I roll down the window on the passenger’s side so I can let some air in here?”
He grunted, the sound like distant thunder rolling down a mountain valley. I took it as a yes and fingered the switch on the door. The air that slid through wasn’t cool, but at least it was fresh and pushed some of the heat out of the window next to me.
The sheriff finally looked up. He didn’t hand my license or registration back though. Both looked tiny in his oversized hands.
“Mind telling me where you’re going, Mr. Hill?”
I tried not to sigh again. The road sign in front of the Durango stood out like a cross mounted on top of a hill. Nothing else marred the lonely stretch of road and sand ahead. Two destinations printed in black stood out against a white rectangular background. One noted the four remaining miles to Williston. The second proclaimed Atlantic to be another twenty miles. I suppose I could have had another destination in mind, but not many. The road meandered up the swampy and nearly deserted coast where North Carolina embraced the Pamlico Sound. After a twisting, torturous arc around the eastern edge of a waterway big enough to be a small sea, the highway eventually led north into Virginia. No one in their right mind would take that route when fifty miles west, I-40 blazed a trail due north.
I pointed at the sign. “Atlantic, I reckon.”
“You reckon?”
I nodded.
“Have you seen the news in the past couple of weeks? Do you realize a travel ban could be issued soon or that the country could be in a state of martial law in the next few days?”
I knew. Everyone knew. Everyone had an opinion.
“There may be a travel ban soon,” I said calmly, “but there isn’t one right now.”
His mouth tightened. “DHS guidelines released two days ago warned travelers to avoid unnecessary travel.”
I looked up. A pair of thin white lines crisscrossed each other, their edges crisp and clean as if God had drawn a giant X across the sky.
“The planes are still flying. I passed half a dozen Greyhound’s on the way down,” I said, again keeping my voice calm. “I’ve heard advertisements for cruise ships, travel packages to Disney World, even a plug trying to lure people to Branson, Missouri. Travel is still optional, Sheriff.”
I studied his mirrored glasses and wished I could see the eyes behind them. “My presence on this road is not illegal - at least it wasn’t when I pulled out of Morehead City half an hour ago. I’ve had the radio on since I left. It’s been old rock tunes and commercials, but not one ounce of news. If there’s been a change in the government’s stance, the world hasn’t heard about it yet.”
I paused to catch my breath.
“So tell me, what did I do? According to the speedometer, I wasn’t speeding. The tag on the Dodge is up to date. I know North Carolina requires tags on trailers, but if you notice, I’m from Tennessee. Trailer tags are not mandatory in my state. I checked the tail lights this morning. All were present, accounted for, and working. You’re holding my license, which is up to date, as is my insurance.”
He leaned closer to the window. Alien eyes or not, the anger was clear on his face. “You’re on my fucking road, asshole.”
I made a face. “Sorry, I must have missed that sign.”
“What sign?” he demanded.
“The one that said this road belonged to D period Little.”
His fingers tightened on the papers I had given him. I grimaced, watching as they crumpled in a fist that looked ready to come flying through the open window.
“Do you have family in Atlantic?”
I shook my head.
“Then why are you here?”
I jerked a thumb back towards the boat behind me. “I’m going sailing and probably fishing too.”
He stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. “There is nothing up there for you. Turn around and go home.”
I shrugged. “I will, as soon as I’m done or the government comes along and tells me I have to.”
Watching him regain his composure was like watching a video of glass breaking in reverse. After a long moment, he held out my license and registration. I reached out to take them, but he didn’t let go.
“Let’s put it this way,” he said quietly. “If I catch you in my district when the ban comes down, I will detain you in the county jail until that ban is lifted. And if they declare martial law, I’m going to remember how much of a pain in the ass you chose to be today. Is that clear?”
“As glass in a Windex commercial,” I said. If anyone had passed in that moment, they would have thought we were engaged in a tug of war over a slip of paper. He wouldn’t let go. I didn’t either. The second dragged on, feeling like hours. Finally he released his grip.
“I know why you’re here.”
I squinted against the sun. “Yeah?”
He nodded. “You think you’re going to run out to the islands and escape what’s coming. I see a couple of you every day.”
He leaned over and spat on the road, leaving a dark stain the size of a golf ball standing out against the weathered gray asphalt.
“You’re fucking cowards. That’s what you are. Want my advice? Keep moving. You might get by out there for a few weeks, maybe a month, but sooner or later you’ll have to come back in. There’s no water, no food, nothing out there. Atlantic is a small town. When you come back, I’ll find you. Take my word on that.”
He was wrong. I had nothing to say though. The man wanted a fight, a reason to throw me in the back of the cruiser and haul me off to a cell. To argue would only prolong the situation and potentially give him an excuse to bust my ass.
Instead, I held his gaze and waited. Rather, I should say, I stared up at him and waited. Little was anything but little.
He spat again and started to turn back towards his car. Halfway through the motion, he slid to a halt and looked back at me. “William Hill?”
I nodded.
“You don’t go by Bill, do you?”
I shook my head, confused.
“No, why?”
His mouth twisted into a sarcastic grin. “Just asking. Bill Hill, now that would sound funny. That would get a man a nickname like Hill Billy.”
“Ahh, gotcha,” I mused. “No, I’m not Bill Hill or Hill Billy.”
He did turn then and started towards the car behind me.
I knew better, but couldn’t resist. Leaning out of the window I called after his retreating figure.
“Hey, Sheriff?”
He craned his head back towards me. “Yeah?”
“Your first name isn’t Dick, is it?”
I didn’t wait for the puzzlement to turn to anger. The Durango growled to life when I flicked the switch. Leaning out again, I waved and shot him a grin. A few seconds later, an ocean of sand bisected by a thin line of asphalt swam into view in the side mirror. Little’s figure disappeared moments later, hidden by the curve of Angel’s hull.
I didn’t know at the time that I would be seeing him again soon. That meeting wouldn’t go well either, nor would many of the rest in the months to come.
Chapter III - Elsie and Angel
Every time the road curved behind me, I glanced back to see if Little had decided he didn’t need to wait for a presidential order to arrest a smart-assed country boy from the mountains. Twenty miles later, when the community of Atlantic swung into view, I was still looking and sighin
g with relief each time the empty stretch of highway behind me appeared in the mirror.
Atlantic had never incorporated into a city. The tiny collection of homes and businesses could barely call itself a community. Some would call it quaint. Others would drive through without even knowing the miniscule splotch of life carved out of the swampy coastline had a name. Seeing Atlantic for the first time felt like stepping into a time machine with the dial set back two hundred years, but somehow dragging the present with you when you hit the Go button. Seventeenth century houses still squatted on some of the side streets, homes built in an era when Blackbeard and his pirates slipped through the inlets. Just as evident were mobile homes, satellite dishes, and four-wheel-drive pickups.
The state still touted commercial fishing as one of the main drivers for the coastal economy. In reality, the industry had been on its deathbed for decades, with declining catches and rising costs driving the smaller and more traditional operators out of business. Those that remained often found themselves at odds with residents, visitors, and conservationists over wasteful practices that littered the nearby ocean with thousands of dead fish. The most divisive of those practices carried the sanitized designation of legal discard. Explaining it would take a while, but imagine a net that holds fifty fish and a government that says you can keep one. The dead went back over the side to rot in the ocean. The system prompted howls of protest and demands for the state’s Marine Fisheries Division to adopt new restrictions and better regulatory control over the fleets.
The area’s economic lifeblood remained tied to the sea, but over the years, tourism had taken a stronger and more vital role.
Ten miles up, the southern end of the North Carolina Ferry system delivered a constant flow of tourists and visitors. Where the state left off, capitalism took over. Another ferry, a privately owned enterprise based in Atlantic, serviced outlying islands not included on the state’s route, namely Portsmouth and another set of islands farther south that included the southern Core Banks. Split by Drum Inlet, both were popular fishing and hard-core camping destinations, hosting nothing but miles and miles of empty beach. The Gulf Stream slid by not far off shore attracting both sportsmen and migrating fish. Twice each year, spring and fall, the ocean teamed with schools heading north as winter released its grip on the upper latitudes and south in the fall when cooling temperatures drove them back to more hospitable waters.
Vacationers, anglers, and tourists passing through the two hundred miles of pristine beaches and quaint seaside towns, poured more than a hundred million dollars into the local economy every year. Those fighting the commercial fleets took inspiration in the rising dollars, hoping to supplant a dying industry with one more sustainable and one that left the fisheries relatively intact.
On a map, the Outer Banks looked like one long barrier island stretching from the northern end of the state to the southern end. In reality, the Banks were comprised of a series of islands. Heading south, the last stop for civilization occurred at Ocracoke. The remaining islands of the Core Banks had been designated as National Sea Shore and were officially uninhabited. The northernmost of those, Portsmouth, had been named for the town that had once thrived at its upper terminus. Hurricanes and changes in shipping lanes had doomed the community as jobs and money flowed elsewhere. By the early 1970’s, the last inhabitants moved away, leaving the town and island empty. Soon afterward, the US government stepped in and took over the entire island, designating it as National Sea Shore like the other islands farther south. Workmen and park service officials descended, leaving the town restored and standing as a historic monument to a seafaring past.
A few fishing shacks run by the Park Service squatted at the southern end. In between lay twenty-two miles of open beach front defended by high dunes and backed by mosquito-filled swamps. The only roads were the beach itself and a long, unpaved lane that ran behind the dunes. Driving on the island could be an adventure even if you did nothing else. On one side, incoming tides chased vehicles up to the dunes. On the other, drivers had to navigate a dirt road scored with ruts, water holes, and shifting sands that no one, not even the Park Service, maintained.
On a given day, Portsmouth could host anywhere from zero to more than a hundred people. Most came for the fishing and retreated to the mainland compliments of the Drum Inlet Ferry by nightfall, leaving campers with a nearly deserted island and nothing but the feel of nature, wild and untamed, as company.
Despite its name, Atlantic sat on the sound side of the islands. The ocean lay several miles farther east, across a treacherous body of water that ran as shallow as a foot in some places. Although a rough chop could build on the sound, the true menace lay in water depths that could vary from a few inches to several feet with little warning. Snags, shell beds, and wide strips of bottom barely under the surface, pockmarked the crossing like booby traps for the unwary. Add choppy waters or high winds and those same obstacles could easily punch a hole in the bottom of a boat. While you might be able to get out and wade at that point, nothing guaranteed the next step wouldn’t send you shooting down into water ten feet deep and swirling with currents strong enough to drown even accomplished swimmers.
In good weather, the crossing slid by easily enough. In bad weather, it could both beat you to a pulp and worry you into an early grave.
Core Sound had been the only place Angel had ever sailed in salt water. I’d come with my father, and spent a week drifting between islands, fishing, and cooking what we caught on a two burner Coleman Camp stove with the Milky Way slathered across the sky like a thin and diaphanous veil. The days had been warm, the nights cool, and the relationship between us at its finest point. We were father and son and both had learned to respect the other as men instead of just as family. The trip turned out to be both the best and the last time we spent more than a day together.
The Sheriff had been wrong. I hadn’t come here to escape. My marriage to Becky hadn’t been the best of relationships. Having been married to a nurse, however, I’d suffered through enough infection control rants to know that barring a miracle cure, The Fever carried the potential to act as humanity’s own K-T boundary. To put that in simpler terms, our own extinction level event. Either way, a good many would die.
Portsmouth seemed like a good place to do that. I figured a few weeks of late summer sun, early autumn chill, fishing and solitude was as good enough a way to go as any. While the thought might have sounded as if I’d turned into the hermit my friends had accused me of becoming when Becky left, the only person I could have brought with me had been Jayne.
She had stood with arms crossed, her face expressionless while I packed the last few items into the boat. Even with our on and off relationship, I knew I was going to miss her. I also knew I was saying goodbye for what would most likely be the last time. Unlike the last few days with Becky, neither Jayne nor I were angry. We had no heated battles sitting behind us, no spiteful words. What we had was an easy, if somewhat guarded, acceptance of each other.
When the last tie-down had been secured, I turned to what I figured would be an awkward moment. Final goodbyes are never easy. I can attest to the fact that they’re much more difficult when neither of you knows what the next day will bring, or whether a week later, if either of you would still be counted among the living.
If she had asked me to stay, I would have. If she had wanted to come, I’d have opened the door for her, belted her in, and headed down to the nearest convenience store for the six pack of Mountain Dew I knew she would want. Neither option had presented itself. Jayne was the more skittish of the two of us when it came to permanency and commitments. Becky and I fought our way out of our marriage. Jayne’s ended abruptly when her ex-husband decided to tell her about the woman he had been dating for eighteen months. I had scars. Jayne still had open wounds.
“You take care of yourself, William,” she had said. Anyone else would have thought her face impassive. I’d learned though. Jayne could weather a hurricane without batting an eyela
sh. She carried her emotions deep and well protected. The only clue lay in her fingers. They tapped nervously against her arms when I turned toward her.
“You can come with me, you know,” I told her.
She shook her head. “No, you go. I believe in destiny and this is yours.”
“And yours?”
A brief smile tugged at her lips.
“I’ll let you know when I find out.”
We talked for a while, but that’s how I left her, standing in my driveway with her arms still crossed tightly across her midsection and her face betraying no emotion. Honestly, I’m not sure how much she had. Jayne tended to bolt anytime the relationship ventured towards getting closer. I let her come and go when she needed, but attachments grow when you spend that kind of time with someone, whether you want them to or not. Watching her disappearing figure dwindle away in the side mirror had cast a pall over the first few hours of driving. Part of me wanted to go back. Part knew she would be just as emotionless if I did. The situation contained no middle ground. Turning around would have screamed closer to her. I would have accomplished nothing except to send her scurrying home.
Even with two days of driving behind me, the image remained both strong and bittersweet.
I pulled off the road onto hard packed sand overrun by crab grass and dug through the center console until I found the address of Morgan’s General Merchandise. I’d originally called the Drum Inlet Ferry looking for long term parking. Angel would be my home for a while at least. If I beat the odds and came back, I’d need the Durango. I couldn’t just leave it sitting on the side of the road.
The Island - Part 1 Page 4