A Town Is Drowning

by Frederik Pohl

  “The burgess, Mr. Starkman, needs oxygen and they can’t get at the firehouse tanks. It occurred to me that there might be some in the school—those little tanks they call lecture bottles that they use for demonstrations in chemistry classes.”

  “I haven’t taken chem yet, mister, I don’t know,” the boy said unhappily.

  “Are there any teachers here?”

  “Yes sir! Mr. Holtz the math teacher’s making the coffee back there.”

  Groff approached Holtz, a small, harried man. Holtz listened and said: “Not in the junior high, no. No lecture demonstrations, just recitation and lab. But the senior high across the river would have some. My good friend Mr. Anderson lectures there and he believes in making it spectacular. Yes; they would have lecture flasks. I’d guide you there if I weren’t assigned. Perhaps you can find somebody—”

  Groff decided he would not. These people were working at top capacity now. He could do the job on his own.

  Groff and Polly picked their way through the silt to the river bank. A rowboat manned by two husky youngsters with the improvised brassards was unloading a weeping woman and a silent child.

  “Get to the school,” one of them told her in an important, basically uncertain voice. “They’ll take care of you there. They’ve got nurses and everything.”

  She walked off clutching the child’s hand, still weeping.

  The kids looked after her, round-eyed. They told Groff: “That’s Mrs. Vostek. Her husband drowned. We just found her sitting on her porch crying. Maybe she’s gone crazy.”

  “Can you get us across the river? We want to get into the high school and look for oxygen bottles. The sick cases need it.”

  “That’s what we’re here for, mister!”

  Good kids…

  On the other bank, perilously attained, the kids pointed Groff and Polly in the right direction and took aboard two grim brassarded men who carried a limp, moaning girl of ten between them.

  The other side of the river was the older part of town; the inevitable slum had grown up there. Here in the streets and on the steps they saw drunken men and women with blank despair in their eyes tilting bottles skyward. One of them drained his bottle and yelled: “To hell with it!” and hurled the empty through the plate-glass window of a silt-choked little magazine-and-candy store. A man, not young, sitting in the store came charging out with a sawed-off ball bat in his hands, swinging. “You cheap rotten bum!” he yelled. “Things aren’t bad enough, you have to make them worse!”

  While the drunk stared stupidly, Groff rushed between them and caught the wrists of the man with the bat. “Easy,” he said. “For God’s sake, you’ll kill him with that thing.”

  The drunk came to life. “Let him kill,” he yelled. “What’s the damn difference now? No job, no house, no furniture. Let him kill!” But he reeled off down the street while Groff held the furious man.

  “Stupid bastard,” the proprietor swore. “I’ll give him bottles. Three-fifty he owes me, I’ll give him bottles!” Then the fight suddenly evaporated out of him. Groff let go and they walked on, looking back to see him shamble into his store again and sit down with the bat across his knees.

  They passed a bar, and there was no nonsense about that. Two men who looked like brothers stood grimly at the door. Each had a shotgun over his arm. When Groff and Polly walked by they shifted the guns a little and said nothing.

  A corner grocery had become a sort of involuntary relief station. There was a long unruly line leading to the door. The grocer stood there; behind him in the store his wife was bringing up canned goods, bottled pop, everything. The grocer, sweating and afraid, was handing out the food and drink to the sullen people as they “Please,” he was saying, “I haven’t got time to write this down. Please remember what you take and come around and settle when things clear up.”

  After a fashion he was avoiding the sack of his store.

  The high school was an old red brick building, smaller than the new junior high across the river. Groff marched up the steps and tried the door. “Bloody hell,” he said. “Locked, of course.”

  She pointed. “There’s an open window.”

  They climbed in and found themselves in the principal’s office. Three men with sledge hammers and crowbars were knocking the knob off the safe. They turned menacingly.

  “Go ahead.” Groff shrugged. “I can’t stop you.”

  “Get the hell out of here,” one of them said.

  “We came to get some oxygen,” Polly said. “For the sick people across the river.”

  “Sick people? Okay.”

  They went into the corridor and wandered from room to room; on the second floor they found an old-fashioned lecture theater, bowl-shaped with steep rows of seats focusing on a laboratory bench piped for water and gas. There was a promising-looking door behind it.

  It was locked. Groff kicked at the door and swore with pain; the building was old-fashioned brick and its woodwork was old-fashioned golden oak, the stuff you can hardly drive a nail into. He trudged down to the office again. The three men were gone; the door of the safe swung open. They had left one sledge; somehow he had expected to find all the tools dropped, but apparently they were going to work their way methodically through every safe they could find.

  He returned with the sledge and bashed at the golden-oak door until its latch sprung and it swung open. It was the storeroom for lecture supplies and the gas flasks were neatly stacked on the top shelf. There was a complete carton of a dozen twelve-inch cylinders marked 02 and another carton with eight cylinders.

  “Thank God.” he said. Let’s go.”

  The things were horribly heavy.

  As they retraced their way to the river bank they were stopped three times by loungers collected in groups of half a dozen and had to show them the cartons’ contents and explain that it was for the sick people across the river.

  There was a long wait before they could hail one of the boats passing back and forth; finally a rowboat with a roaring outboard motor pulled up. Two men with American Legion caps manned it. They explained their mission and were taken aboard. One of the Legionnaires asked: “How are things in Old Town?”

  “Breaking up fast,” Groff said.

  The man understood perfectly. “The goons,” he said, nodding. “There’s talk about sending in the National Guard,” he said. “Meanwhile I guess it’s our problem.”

  He took the heavier carton from Groff when they reached the river bank and Groff took Polly’s; together they walked to the gymnasium where Harry Starkman lay.

  One of the doctors—Brandeis?—looked at the lecture bottles dully, took one and shambled over to the burgess’s litter. He drew the blanket over Starkman’s face, slipped the bottle under and cracked the needle valve for a few hissing minutes, then checked the old man’s pulse.

  “Very good,” he said at last to Groff and Polly. “There’s something to hope for now. Now clear out, you two. Find something useful to do.”

  “There’s going to be trouble in Old Town tonight,” Groff said. “And it may spill over here.”

  Polly, preoccupied, said, “The number is still imperfect. Two of us will have to go. I do hope it won’t be you, Mickey.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  There was a solid line of cars, bumper to bumper, on the northbound side of the highway. It ended against a roadblock consisting of two state troopers, one standing in the middle of the lane with a double-barreled shotgun over his arm, the other by the roadside where he could look into the cars. Their patrol car was pulled over on the soggy shoulder, its motor idling.

  A new Lincoln with a middle-aged man at the wheel was next.

  “Why do you want to get through, mister?” the trooper demanded. He had long ago given up the time-consuming request for registration and operator’s permit.

  The man was flustered. “I have some friends in Newtown,” he said. “I thought maybe there was something I could do for them—”

  The trooper glanced into
the back of the car. Empty. “You haven’t got anything they need,” he said. “Turn around and go home.”

  Meekly the man U-turned around the trooper in the road and sped south.

  The next car was a tired, top-down convertible with two young couples who might have been high-school seniors, college freshmen or young working stiffs. The driver explained, too glibly, indicating the girl by his side: “Her mother lives in Bradley, so she got me to drive her in. You know the railroads and buses aren’t running, officer.”

  But the girl giggled.

  “Where does she live in Bradley?” asked the trooper. The girl hesitated and took a deep breath before beginning to lie. The trooper gave a weary shushing gesture. “Skip it,” he said. “Turn around and go home. This is no circus.”

  The driver began to bluster. “I’ve got a license, I can drive where I want—”

  “Turn around and go home,” the trooper said. “If you keep arguing I’ll run you in for obstructing traffic. If you’re stupid enough to proceed down that road, Schultz there will fire one warning shot and will then blow your goddam head off. Move.”

  The boy roared his motor spitefully to say the things he didn’t dare say, let up suddenly on his clutch and spun around the patrolman with the shotgun in a U-turn.

  The next car was black and driven by a man in black. Its rear and the seat beside the driver were filled with cartons; the trunk lid was half-up, tied by a rope to the bumper over more cartons.

  “I’m from the Beaver Run Meeting of the Society of Friends,” the man said quietly. “We’ve gathered some things they may need in there. Medicine, bandages, Sterno, flashlights.”

  The trooper hesitated. “We’re supposed to accept contributions and turn you back, then a truck comes and takes them in. But I haven’t seen any truck and I don’t know whether there’s going to be one or if it was just talk. You look as if you can take care of yourself, mister. Go on in and don’t get hurt.” He called to the trooper in the road: “Let him through.”

  “Thank you,” said the Quaker, and drove on at a careful thirty-five miles per hour.

  Down the southbound lane, the deserted left strip of the highway, a big car purred, slowing obediently to a stop at the outraged shout of the trooper. The old man who was driving said nothing; the young woman with him put out her head and called, “Dr. Buloff, Factory-ville, New York. Are there any instructions?”

  The trooper backed around the car and read the New York plates. The second two characters were MD. He said to the old man, “Just go in and freelance, doc. They can use you.”

  “Thank you, officer,” the old man said with a good trace of German accent, and the car purred on.

  In rapid succession three imbeciles followed the doctor’s example of using the southbound lane. All were sightseers, and all were turned back with curses.

  The next car in line was a *39 Ford driven by a whitefaced young man with the jitters and a narrow mustache. He had identification papers ready in his sweating hand. “John C. Barshay,” he said precisely. “As you can see from the address on this envelope I live at 437 Olney Street, Newtown. I work in New York City and come home weekends. My wife—I haven’t been able to get through on the phone.” His voice was rising hysterically. “I demand to be let through, officer!”

  “Calm down,” the trooper said gently. “Of course you can get through. We’re not here to stop people like you. I hope everything’s all right.”

  The young man fought his way back to composure. “Thank you, officer,” he said precisely, and drove on.

  Then there was a phenomenon, a car coming from the flooded area. It was coming fast until the driver, presumably, could see that the hassle up ahead was a roadblock and then it stopped and began to wheel around.

  “Hold ‘em, Schultzie!” the trooper yelled at his partner with the shotgun. He leaped into the idling patrol car, spun its wheels for an instant in the soft shoulder and then zoomed free down the highway. The other car had barely finished its turn; he had it crowded off the road in seconds. He got out with his gun drawn and a casual bead on the head of the unshaven, slack-jawed man in the driver’s seat. “Get out with your hands up,” he said, his body shielded behind the front of his car.

  The driver got out, dull-eyed.

  “Turn around.”

  He did, and the trooper frisked him. There were things in his pockets, none of them gun-size. The trooper, from behind, pulled out watches, a costly new spinning reel and some rhinestone rings and necklaces.

  The back of the car was filled with new suits and dresses, some crumpled and mud-stained. The trooper lifted the trunk lid and found shiny new appliances—a pressure-cooker, a steam iron, a handsome floor fan, a sandwich grill, a rotisserie.

  “Is this car yours?” the trooper asked interestedly.

  “No,” the man mumbled.

  “You’ll be sorry for this day’s work, boy,” the trooper promised. “Keep your back turned.”

  He rolled up the windows, took the car keys from the ignition and locked it up. With the man beside him he drove back to the roadblock and prodded him out with his gun.

  “Looter,” he said to his partner. “Stolen car locked up down there, full of plunder. Watch him.” To the man he said: “Stand over there and don’t try to run or you’ll get killed. Now, who’s next?”

  “Press,” said a jaunty young man in a convertible, showing a card quickly.

  “Do that again,” the officer requested. Reluctantly the young man did. The officer read aloud: “The Zeidler News Service requests that police and fire officials extend all press courtesies to its representative George E. Neumann.” He grinned. “Back to Pittsburgh, Mr. George E. Neumann.”

  The young man shrugged and wheeled his car around.

  The next two cars were, or appeared to be, driven by legitimate relatives of people in the flood area; at least they were filled with sensible supplies. The trooper passed them. The next was a year-old Dodge sedan with an oldish driver and a youngish passenger. “Haggarty,” the driver said. “New York Daily Globe. This is Vince Ruffino, my photographer. The press card.” It was a little green folder with picture—an embossed city seal through it—thumbprint, description, and the signature of the police commissioner. “Fire badge,” said Haggarty, flipping open a leather folder. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” the trooper said, and waved them on.

  The line of waiting cars was beginning to break up. The number of people turned back and the sour replies they had called as they passed those still in line explained it.

  Another vehicle coming away from the flood area, fast. It had a cardboard sign with a red cross on it stuck in the windshield. A station wagon, full.

  The trooper at the checkpoint paused to watch. The driver of the station wagon stopped by the trooper with the shotgun, spoke to him for a minute, nodded and slid into gear again. The trooper at the check point stared at the faces inside the station wagon, some drawn, some nervously exuberant, as it went past.

  The trooper with the shotgun was walking down the road toward him. “Transients,” he said. “They’re getting them out.”

  The other trooper said hesitantly, “Did—did you ask—”

  “Yeah. They haven’t found anybody answering your wife’s description, not that the driver knew about anyway. She’ll be all right.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” The trooper with the shotgun turned and walked back. His partner sighed and moved on to the car at the head of the line. It was stretched out of sight again.

  “You want me to stop for any of this?”

  The photographer said, “Nope. I’ll wait until we get in the town. But jeez, it’s pretty beat up, isn’t it?”

  Jay Haggarty nodded and concentrated on his driving. One of the beat-up elements of the landscape was the road they were on. Water had scoured gravel out from under the surfacing in places, and there were potholes; water had rushed across the road in a flood in other places, and left mud and debris.

  A man in a le
ather windbreaker yelled at them to slow down, and Haggarty obediently put his foot on the brake. He followed the man’s instructions and they crawled across what had recently been a four-million-dollar toll-bridge. It seemed to be vibrating as they crossed it, Haggarty had to remind himself that they wouldn’t have been allowed on it if it weren’t safe. The river was within two feet of the surface of the roadway, and there was an uneven thudding as flotsam rammed into the accumulated tangle on the upstream side.

  They passed between the empty toll booths and headed for Hebertown.

  Haggarty said, “I was here just before the war, Vince. Nice, quiet little town. It doesn’t look as if it’s been built up much since then.”

  Ruffino said, “Who the hell would want to build a house around here? You wake up some morning and you’re under water. Give me Passaic.”

  There was a second roadblock just before the sign that said: Entering Hebertown. Haggarty showed his card and leaned out of the window to ask where the emergency relief headquarters was. The directions turned out to be pretty complicated: It’s straight down Center Street, only you can’t get through there—trees across the road. So turn left on Maple, but you won’t be able to take the bridge at White Street because it’s blocked off; go three blocks further and cross on the highway bridge. Then you’ll have to watch out for soft pavement on Locust…

  Ruffino said, unbelievingly, “Jeez, Jay, it’s worse here than it was down by the river. Do you mean that little creek had enough water in it to do all this?” He stared at the little gray stream that flowed under the highway bridge, and at the twisted, half-collapsed warehouses and storefronts that were easily five feet above water level.

  “It’s the little streams that do the damage,” Haggarty told him. “Once the water gets into the rivers it’s all right. It can flow away. But you see how close these buildings are set to the creek here? As soon as the water came up a couple of feet it clobbered them.”

  He stopped, because the photographer was opening the door of the parked car and no longer listening. It was as good a place to get started as any. Haggarty pulled over to the curb, locked the ignition and got out.