Darkness After Series (Book 4): The Savage Darkness

by Scott B. Williams

  Tara had just dropped Rebecca off in front of the campus a few minutes early on that fateful day when everything in their world suddenly changed again and even more drastically. She had pulled into the street and barely gotten to traffic speed when her Honda Accord suddenly became difficult to steer. It took her a second or two to realize that the engine had died, causing the power steering pump to shut down. She fought the wheel to direct the car to the edge of the road before it rolled to a complete stop. Tara glanced in her mirrors and over in the lanes beside her, thinking other traffic might run her down because of her sudden stop, but to her surprise she saw that many other vehicles were either stopping in the middle of the road or pulling to the side as well.

  That seemed strange, but her immediate concern was her own car as she shifted into park and turned the key again and again to try and restart it. The ignition switch did nothing. There was no click and no sound of the starter spinning; only silence. Tara looked around her and tried the key again. When it once again had no effect, she pulled the hood latch and got out to see if she could figure out what was going on. She knew enough about car engines to check for obvious problems, like steam pouring from a busted radiator or hose, or a broken drive belt and the like, but there was nothing obvious like that in evidence.

  Other people were raising their hoods and getting out of their vehicles as well, and it struck Tara as really odd that so many of them would have car trouble at the exact same time. Not seeing anything that might indicate the source of the trouble, she stepped back around the car to her door and reached inside to try the key again, but there was still nothing—no click—no sound at all. She fished her cell phone out of her purse so she could call for assistance, but when she tried to activate the screen to open a web browser and look up a towing service, she saw that the phone was completely dead. Pushing buttons and trying to power it back on did nothing.

  Looking around her, she saw that some of the other stranded drivers were apparently having issues with their phones too. She saw that the traffic signal at the next intersection ahead was out, and then realized the power was out in the stores along both sides of the street. Business owners and customers alike were pouring out of nearby doors to see what happened. It was that moment that Tara Hancock first suspected her problems might be much more than car trouble. A few quick exchanges with some of the other drivers closest to her confirmed that none of them had a working phone.

  Tara didn’t waste time speculating about it or trying to figure out what the problem was though. She instinctively knew that standing around waiting wouldn’t do any good. She locked her car doors by manually pushing the buttons and made her way straight back to the school, walking as fast as she could. She assumed that whatever happened, it was caused by some kind of disturbance in the atmosphere, like when thunderstorms interrupted TV and radio signals. How something like that could have affected cars though, Tara had no clue.

  Whatever it was, with no electricity to run the air-conditioning and lights in the buildings, she was certain all classes would be dismissed, and she didn’t want Rebecca waiting there frightened and wondering what was happening. She might not be able to drive her home, but at least she could be there with her, and that was what she did. And from the moment she got there and found her, she had not let her daughter out of her sight since. They left the school later that afternoon when she realized by then that the power was not likely to come back on before dark, and that her phone was still as useless as a brick. The six-mile walk to their apartment had taken nearly two hours, but they made it well before sunset. Because she had been living on the Gulf Coast for most of her life, Tara kept hurricane supplies on hand, so she and Rebecca had flashlights, candles and battery-powered fans to keep them comfortable in the darkness. And hurricane season or not, Tara always kept a decent supply of groceries in the pantry. They were not going to go hungry; at least not for a few days.

  When they woke the next morning to no change and no new information about what might have happened, Tara began to get seriously worried. People everywhere in the city were out wandering around on foot or by bike, talking to each other, trying to figure out what was going on. The power was still off, no one had a working phone, and the only vehicles running were the older models that some said were unaffected by whatever had happened because they lacked modern electronic engine controls.

  Tara was already hearing rumors of looting before the middle of the second day. Remembering how bad things sometimes got in the wake of major hurricanes, and especially after Katrina, Tara knew it wouldn’t be safe to stay in the apartment if the power stayed off much longer. Not everyone would have extra food, nor would they be willing to patiently handle the inconveniences and disruption of their prior lives of comfort and ease. When nothing had improved by the end of the second night, Tara knew she had to get Rebecca someplace safer.

  With the morning sun streaming in the windows of the apartment the next day, she began sorting through their belongings and picking out the clothes and shoes that would be most useful for walking. She packed them into small bags that they could carry on foot, and added what food there was room for, just in case. She was confident that if they hurried though, there would still be all they needed where they were going.

  The hike to the marina from her apartment was much further than the walk that first day from the school, and took them more than half a day, including several rest stops. Tara had placed all her bets on her parents’ sailboat, the Sarah J, still being tied to the docks there where they’d left it. Her folks would not be aboard, as they had been visiting her mom’s sister in Minnesota and didn’t plan to return until sometime in June. Tara had no way of knowing the true extent of the power failure, and she wondered if her mom and dad were frantic with worry, trying to call to check on her and Rebecca as they did most every day, or if they were somehow in the same situation up north. No one knew the extent of the blackout. At any rate, there was nothing she could do to tell them of her plans. Her dad especially, would agree that it was a smart move though, considering the situation. The boat would provide shelter and mobility, as well as most of the comforts of home, none of it dependent upon being connected to the grid.

  Just as they had done every winter since they retired four years ago, her mom and dad had sailed the Sarah J. south to the Bahamas, spending most of their time there cruising the Exumas. Tara knew the vessel was likely well stocked, as they always over-bought provisions for their four or five month winter excursions. In addition to food, there would be drinking water in the tanks and diesel fuel for the inboard engine. Built in the late 1970’s, the now-classic Tartan 37 had a basic 12-volt electrical system and Tara knew the engine could even be hand-started if necessary because of a dead battery. Like some of the antique cars and pickups they’d seen weaving among all the stalled newer models clogging the roads, the boat would be functional even if some of the newer accessories like the radio, GPS and autopilot her dad added were fried. If she could get the engine started, its simple alternator could keep the batteries charged and they would at least have interior lights and cabin fans whether at the dock or at sea. And even if that failed, there were brass oil lamps that her parents enjoyed reading by in the lovely teak interior on cool evenings at anchor. All-in-all, Tara knew that aboard the Sarah J. they would be better off than almost everyone stuck on land.

  Much to her relief, when they reached the gates of the marina she saw the top of the sloop’s tall mast right where it was supposed to be, towering over her parents’ slip near the end of Pier C. The majority of the vessels usually docked there were still present as well. Most of them, especially the larger sailboats, were owned by out-of-towners who only occasionally came to visit their boats and even more rarely, go sailing. The majority of these vessels were in varying states of neglect, their engines and other mechanicals suffering from disuse; their canvas and brightwork faded from the daily abuse of the Gulf coast sun. Tara new that most of these people would not be returning anytim
e soon even if they could. If they were in the same situation where they lived as everyone here on the coast, getting back to their neglected boats would be out of the question, even if they realized the advantages of taking to the water.

  Tara and Rebecca moved aboard Sarah J. to wait out the blackout and see what was going to happen. After their first night spent on board at the marina, Tara began taking a careful inventory of the provisions on board and was relieved to discover that she was right about her parents bringing the vessel back to port well supplied. They had no doubt restocked somewhere in Florida on the way back north because when they returned from their trip to Minnesota they were surely planning frequent weekend excursions on the boat whenever the weather permitted. Her dad wanted to live aboard and cruise full-time Tara knew, but her mom wasn’t quite ready to give up their home ashore and commit to the lifestyle. Sailing often and cruising part time in the winters was the compromise they’d agreed on.

  Tara was relieved to find the fuel tank full, just as she’d expected. She remembered her dad saying that it was important not to leave a boat sitting idle with lots of empty air space in the diesel tanks. Condensation would form there, leading to water in the fuel, one of the few things that could give a diesel engine trouble. The 20 gallons in the full tank would run the three-cylinder 27-hp Yanmar a long time, providing a constant motoring range of around 300 miles at six or seven knots. The engine was seldom used that way on the Sarah J. though. In the kind of cruising her mom and dad did, it was running only when entering or leaving tricky harbors or when they needed it to assist in charging the batteries. That was rare since her dad had installed a pair of large solar panels on the stern rail when they started going to the Bahamas. Tara wasn’t sure if the solar panels were still functioning properly or not though, because the charge controller circuitry that regulated the current they produced was apparently destroyed by the pulse. That was something that could be looked at later, hopefully by someone with a better understanding of marine electrics. For now it was enough simply to have the boat as a safe shelter.

  Chapter Three

  The situation in the city got worse day-by-day as Tara and Rebecca took refuge in the marina. They didn’t venture beyond the marina property because they had everything on board that they needed. But the harbormaster and a few other boat owners who were around passed on bits of news from their own excursions. Looting had become widespread, and armed gangs were taking by force what they could from those who had food or other useful items, especially running vehicles such as motorcycles or older automobiles unaffected by the pulse. There were stories of heated gun battles in the streets, and the police could do little about it because of the lack of communications, central command and organization, not to mention the problems individual officers had taking care of their own families. It was much like the situation in New Orleans in the days after Katrina, but far worse and far more extensive. No one seemed to know just how far reaching the effects of the blackout were, but they began to assume they were well beyond the Gulf coast region. If not, help would have already arrived from the outside, just as it always did after hurricanes. But there were no convoys of National Guard troops and utility company trucks; no helicopters or planes flying overhead; and no influx of volunteers from The Red Cross and various church congregations. Even though not a single roof had been blown away or a single waterfront home flooded by storm surge, the situation on the coast had turned into a disaster beyond the worst hurricane proportions.

  Realizing this and that the situation was not likely to improve anytime soon, Tara decided that the best option for her and Rebecca was to cast off the dock lines and leave. A few of the other boat owners who were aboard their vessels in the marina had already left, most of them headed for Florida. Tara didn’t think that was a good idea though, as Florida was much more heavily populated than the northern Gulf coast. Where they should go, she wasn’t sure, but she was sure that if they stayed in the marina it was just a matter of time before the gangs found them. When the easy pickings in local houses and stores were depleted, they would figure out that many of the boats in the coastal harbors were another source of supplies and useful gear for survival. Some of them would also figure out that many of the boats, especially those with sails, were still a viable means of transportation too. When they became that desperate they would surely kill anyone already aboard who was in their way, and Tara shuddered to think what they might do to her and her daughter first.

  “I know you hate sailing because you always get seasick, but we really don’t have a choice,” she’d told Rebecca, once her mind was made up.

  “Why do you think we’re going to be any better off out there, Mom? It’ll be just our luck the stupid boat will sink; or a hurricane will hit us. We’re all going to die anyway, so we might as well stay here and do it.”

  “We’re not going to die, Rebecca. Don’t even say that. All we’ve got to do is get some distance between us and all of these people who are running out of control. We can do that with the Sarah J. She’s our best option.”

  “Our options suck then! People suck too! Why are they so crazy? Why is everyone being so mean? Why can’t they just wait like we’ve been doing until help comes or the lights come back on?”

  “Because they’re scared, Rebecca. They don’t know what to do, so they’ve panicked. It’s what most people do when they’re faced with the unknown. But we’re smarter, aren’t we? I’m scared, and I know you are too, but we’re going to keep our cool, because we’re survivors, aren’t we?”

  “I’m not scared to die. Everybody has to die some time. What difference does it make when?” With that, Rebecca disappeared back down the companionway and slammed the door to the v-berth cabin behind her. Tara understood her pain, or at least she thought she did. Her heart was broken for all the emotional suffering her daughter had been through. No thirteen-year-old child should have to deal with such things, but she had. She knew Rebecca was being truthful when she said she wasn’t afraid to die, and there had been a few times when Tara was afraid she actually wanted to.

  Rebecca would protest and sulk about it, but she wouldn’t physically resist Tara’s decision to set sail. In other circumstances, maybe she would try to run away, but not now. There was nothing for her anywhere else within walking distance, and at least she could lock herself in the fore cabin and keep it dark with the curtains over the port lights. Tara made a pre-departure checklist and after she was satisfied all systems on the boat were in order, she made ready and got underway without any help from her daughter.

  Tara was far from an expert sailor; much less a navigator, but her dad had first acquired the boat while she was still in high school, so she was no stranger to it, either. Weekend trips and a couple of longer vacations had left enough of an imprint that she was confident she could safely take the Sarah J. at least somewhere. And for now, that somewhere was out to the nearby Gulf Islands National Seashore, a chain of low-lying sandy islands just barely visible on the horizon south of the mainland on a clear day.

  The day she left was one of those clear days, where line of sight navigation to the islands was possible. Once out of the harbor and far enough out in the open waters of the sound to shut off the engine and raise sail, Tara steered for the old brick fort on West Ship Island. It was a familiar landmark and she’d spent time in the deep anchorage there before. She thought it would be a good place to wait and see what happened next while making plans to go somewhere more remote if things didn’t change.

  The ten-mile passage went fast, the Sarah J. heeled over on a beam reach and making hull speed most of the way. But as she closed the gap to landfall at the island, Tara began to have doubts about her choice. Smoke rose from several large fires on the beach and there were nearly a dozen boats of various sizes clustered around the pier and the anchorage in front of the old fort. Something about the crowd there just didn’t feel right, and Tara put the helm down to fall off to leeward before she got within a mile of the island. She set
a new course for Cat Island, the next island to the west and the last in the chain before the Mississippi Sound gave way to Lake Borgne and the Louisiana marshlands surrounding New Orleans.

  Tara knew Cat Island didn’t have a deep-water anchorage relatively close to the beach like the one at West Ship. Sandy shoals extended far out from its shores, over a half mile in places, but the nice thing about the Tartan 37 with its keel-centerboard configuration was that she only needed a little over four feet to float—not much for a vessel that size. Tara found the island deserted that first day she got there, but then the Owens arrived the following day on their larger Catalina 42, anchoring a bit farther out. Tara had nervously watched the approaching sail through her father’s binoculars, but when she saw the gray-haired couple at the helm, she relaxed and returned their friendly wave as they drew near. When they came over later in their dinghy to introduce themselves, Tara learned that like her, since they had access to a comfortable vessel, they felt better about coming out here rather than remaining in Slidell. From what they said, things were really bad in New Orleans and the survivors who could make it out were pouring over the Causeway and the I-10 Twin Span Bridge to the North Shore.