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Authors: Scott B. Williams
The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid (20 page)
BOOK: The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid
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The three of them huddled together behind a stranded tractor-trailer rig where they would be out of sight of anyone passing by in the night, and took turns keeping watch while trying to get some sleep during their off-watch hours. Jessica slept better than Casey or Grant did. She still had not caught up from being awake almost the entire night of the pulse event and she was exhausted from her long day that began with walking to Joey’s house and later being attacked by the would-be bicycle thieves. Casey finally got a couple of hours of deep sleep before dawn, but it seemed to her she had just closed her eyes when Grant gently shook her shoulder and said it was time to get up and get ready to move out. He wanted to get in a full day of travel, and hoped they would be able to cover enough ground so that they would only have to stop one more night and then could reach the cabin the following day.
“You would probably already be there if not for us holding you back,” Casey said as they each drank coffee and ate a bowl of oatmeal with chunks of almonds and dried fruit in it to give it more flavor and substance.
“I might be, but that’s not even a consideration. You’re not holding me back from anything. We’ll get there when we get there.”
“I don’t think I can even sit on that bicycle seat today,” Jessica said. “I can’t believe how sore I am.”
“The pain goes away after the first mile or so when you get warmed up. You’ll be fine. We’ll keep on at about the same easy pace as yesterday and before you know it, we’ll be off this bridge, through all the towns on the North Shore, and out in the countryside.”
Grant was right about the soreness going away. Casey couldn’t believe how much it hurt to sit down on the narrow bicycle saddle when she first got back on it, and her legs felt so stiff she didn’t think she could turn the cranks. But ten minutes into the ride she was starting to feel better, and the cool morning air made it a lot easier to breathe than it had been in the heat and humidity of the previous afternoon. The ride might have been pleasant if not for another gruesome reminder of the new reality they passed before they got off the bridge. This time the victim was a young man who didn’t look unhealthy or out of shape at all, nor had he died in a car accident. His body was lying between an undamaged pickup truck and the concrete retaining wall. A stain of dried blood darkened the bridge deck beneath his head, and when Grant looked more closely he saw what could only have been a bullet hole. The back window of the truck was covered in a large Mossy Oak camouflage clothing logo, and the bed was empty except for some nylon ratchet straps that looked like they had been cut with a knife.
“He had something in the back of this truck somebody wanted,” Grant said. “It looks like he was into hunting; it was probably some kind of four-wheeler ATV with a pull-start engine they were able to get running.”
“Somebody killed him for it?” Casey asked in disbelief.
“It sure looks that way.”
“Those motorcycle guys?” Jessica asked.
“No. They wouldn’t have wanted or needed a four-wheeler, and this guy’s been dead longer than that. It probably happened the first day, when everyone first realized they were going to have to walk if they ever wanted to get back to land. My guess is that it was someone with about the same mentality as those punks that tried to take our bikes. He probably put up a fight and lost.”
It was still early in the morning when they left the Causeway for good and rolled onto the smoother pavement of the four-lane highway that began where the old bridge ended. Like Grant, Casey felt a lot better now that they were off that narrow route. It had felt like a trap, where the only avenue of escape was straight ahead or back the way they’d come. At least now that they were back on a regular road they could turn off in any direction if they had to, or even cut across a parking lot or yard to get away from any potential attackers.
Highway 190 mostly ran through an area of strip malls, gas stations, car dealerships, and fast-food restaurants, all built with automobile access in mind, unlike the older environs of New Orleans such as the Tulane campus area. Because of this, there were far fewer pedestrians and bicyclists out and about. Just as in Metairie and the other suburban areas of New Orleans, all of these businesses were closed. Some were boarded up with plywood as if in anticipation of an approaching hurricane; others were guarded by owners sitting or standing by the entrances with shotguns and rifles. A few stores, especially the convenience stores that sold food items, had obviously been broken into and looted already, their windows shattered and merchandise and packaging strewn out in the surrounding parking lots. But as they pedaled north, they saw more of a police presence on this side of the Causeway than they had to the south, mostly in the form of small groups of well-armed officers patrolling on foot. In addition, a few older vehicles that would still run had apparently been rounded up by the Covington Police Department and the St. Tammany Parish Sherriff’s Department. Some of these were nicely restored antiques that had probably once been proudly displayed at car shows by their owners but were now pressed into utilitarian service as patrol and rescue vehicles. However they were doing it, it was obvious that the authorities in this smaller city on the north shore of the lake were doing a better job of maintaining some semblance of law and order than the overwhelmed law enforcement agencies of the Big Easy to the south. As Casey remarked on this, Grant said it was a good thing they had gotten here when they did, because the citizens of this town might decide to put a stop to an influx of desperate evacuees from New Orleans if the volume started increasing. As he had suggested the evening before, one measure the authorities could take would be to simply open the Causeway drawbridge, using Lake Pontchartrain itself as a moat to protect them from invading hordes of refugees.
Their passing was not unnoticed by these watchful authorities, but since they stayed on Highway 190 and did not stop except to get off their bikes and drink some water and eat from the supplies they were carrying with them, they were not questioned or hassled. Grant said the best thing they could do was to appear focused on where they were going and ride through these patrolled areas as if they had every right to be there. Hesitation and the appearance of confusion or uncertainty might get them unwanted attention.
“The last thing we want to do is end up in some refugee camp,” he said. “It could certainly happen. Right now, there’s no organization or coordination among different levels of authority, but I would expect that they will eventually try to work out some system to control all the displaced people.”
“How would they do it?” Casey asked. “I thought you said that without communication and with the whole country likely shut down, they wouldn’t be able to send in the National Guard or any outside help like they did after Katrina?”
“No, probably not, but who knows? I would be more worried about the local police and county sheriff’s departments taking things into their own hands. They’re going to have to set up some kind of control systems if they expect to keep any power at all and protect their immediate concerns. I just think it could get out of hand and I wouldn’t want to be among those who they might detain because they think they present a threat. That’s why I kept saying we had to get out early. We’re ahead of the curve so far and I want to stay that way.”
“Me too,” Jessica said. “Even if it kills me to keep riding this bike all day, I’ve seen enough now to know I’ve got to.”
They passed the intersection where Highway 21 splits from Highway 190 and runs northeast, and crossed the bridge over the Bogue Falaya River. Two more miles took them through the north end of Covington to where Highway 190 makes an abrupt turn to the west to connect to Hammond and Baton Rouge beyond, but Grant led them north onto Louisiana State Highway 25.This arrow-straight two-lane route would take them away from the large human population centers surrounding Lake Pontchartrain, with only a few small towns and semi-rural neighborhoods separating them from the real boonies Grant assured them they would find when they crossed the Mississippi state line. Shortly after they left the city limits, they came to another bridge over a small, fast-running creek that looked much more inviting than the murky waters of the Bogue Falaya had. Though the water was far from pristine and unpolluted, Grant said it would be safe enough after chemical treatment and that it would also be nice to wash their dishes from last night’s camp.
“How does that work?” Jessica asked as she watched Grant fill each of their water bottles and then add a capful of some liquid he carried in a small glass bottle that looked like a medicine bottle.
“The bottle contains iodine crystals,” he said. “They are kept inside it by a particle trap, so they can be re-used over and over. I filled the bottle with water before we left my apartment, and it mixes with the iodine to form a concentrated solution. A capful in each quart bottle of water will make it safe to drink after about 20 minutes.”
“Are you sure it works?” Casey asked.
“I’ll bet my life on it,” Grant said. “I’ve used this stuff everywhere. Even in the muddy Essequibo River in Guyana, where villagers dump their crap directly into the river and every kind of exotic tropical parasite known to man is likely to thrive. This stuff works for any kind of biological pathogens. And the best thing about it is that when this bottle of solution is empty, like right now after treating our bottles, you just simply refill it with more water and shake it up, and in an hour or so, you’ve got another bottle of solution ready to go. You can’t beat it. This one bottle could last us for months, if need be. But I’ve got two more in my bags too.”
“I’m impressed!” Casey said. She was indeed impressed and growing more so all the time—not with Grant’s water treatment solution in particular, but with Grant the person. She knew it was probably obvious, and it was becoming obvious that Jessica was impressed with him too. She just wondered what he really thought of them and then it occurred to her that he might very well decide he liked Jessica more than her. After all, she turned guys’ heads everywhere she went more than most any girl Casey had ever known. She wanted to think that Grant wasn’t that superficial, but he was, first and foremost, a guy, and guys noticed girls like Jessica. Even though Jessica came across as mostly clueless when it came to dealing with a situation like the one they found themselves in, Casey knew that Grant might overlook that and that Jessica might come around to reality sooner than she had first assumed. The more time Jessica spent around Grant, the more time she would have to learn from him—and the more time he would have to notice how beautiful she was—despite not being able to properly do her makeup and hair or even take a bath every day.
The creek did give them an opportunity to wash their faces and freshen up a bit, though, and with full water bottles and the clean cooking pot and utensils packed away, they set out north again on Highway 25. The pedaling was easy here on a mostly flat highway with smooth pavement. Housing developments began to give way more to empty fields and wooded areas the farther they rode from the city. Interspersed here and there were larger single homes surrounded by expansive lawns, many with horse barns and ponds. They were now in the outlying areas. This was where the commuters with good jobs in the city would drive home each day, to their semi-rural retreats. And each day they would get up and do it again the next—that is, until three days ago, when that entire automobile-dependent lifestyle ceased to be viable for the indeterminate future. Along the roadway, shiny BMWs, Hummers, and other status-symbol rides were left abandoned alongside the well-used utilitarian brands of the less affluent. These now-useless relics proved that the failure of technology made no distinction between marks of manufacture when it came to anything dependent upon modern electronic circuitry. The playing field had been leveled once again as it had been briefly in the aftermath of Katrina, putting wealthy and poor alike at an equal disadvantage. Many of them probably habitually complained about spending hours in traffic to get to and from work, but were now faced with the even more discouraging prospect of walking for hours just to travel a few miles. There was no choice for anyone, no matter how wealthy, but to adapt as best they could from a life of comfort, ease, and security to one of ever-increasing hardship and danger.
For Casey, Grant, and Jessica, this discomfort was multiplied exponentially a half hour later when the clouds that had been building all morning finally opened up in a steady downpour. Grant said it didn’t look like it was the kind of rain that was going to go away in a few minutes or even a few hours, like a typical summer thunderstorm in southern Louisiana. Instead, rain like this in mid-March usually indicated a large storm front moving into the area. Without any access to a weather report of any kind, they had left New Orleans not knowing such a weather system was coming their way. Grant had hoped they could make the entire trip to the cabin in the fair weather they had started out in yesterday. He didn’t have enough rain gear at his apartment for all three of them, though there were ponchos stored with the canoe gear in the cabin. Stuffed in his backpack was a decent waterproof cycling jacket that he frequently wore when commuting around the city, but with the three of them caught out on the open road and the rain already falling, there was little good one jacket could do. He didn’t feel right about riding in dry comfort while his companions got soaked, and there was no practical way for them to share the jacket, as everyone would get wet anyway when it wasn’t their turn, so he didn’t mention it or bother to get it out. Likewise, the tarp he brought for bivouacking along the way would keep them dry if they stopped, but would do little good on the road. Besides, the weather was warm enough that they were in no danger of exposure from getting wet; it was just unpleasant.
BOOK: The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid
13.07Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
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