Under a Tell-Tale Sky: Disruption - Book 1 (5 page)

Anthony nodded. “It’s a fact women are social creatures. I think men can be much more content in isolation. But what exactly were we supposed to do? We couldn’t go blabbing around about our plans, and no one trustworthy seemed interested. You got no family to speak of but us, and Celia’s our only living child. And I SURE as hell don’t want to be spending the apocalypse with none of my no-account relatives, nor Josephine’s either.”

Levi hesitated. “That prepper group over at Bryson’s Corners. We might still hook up with them if …”

Anthony was already shaking his head. “There’s good people and bad people, black and white,” he said, “and you know I’m not one to be hollerin’ ‘racist’ every time some white man opens his mouth before he engages his brain. Black people say pretty dumb stuff sometimes, and for sure, no race has a monopoly on stupid. I go mostly by how I see folks actin’ more than what they say. I suspect most of the members there are good folks, but there’s a few of them who make me uncomfortable, no matter how friendly they might seem. I don’t want to be the only black family in that group. At least not yet.” He paused. “We gotta play the hand we’ve been dealt. I expect we’ll do just fine as hidden river rats.”

Levi nodded and grew pensive.

“What?” Anthony asked. “I’ve seen that look before. C’mon, out with it.”

Levi hesitated. “There are some people I trust completely, not far away.”

“The folks on your ship?” Anthony asked, and Levi nodded.

“You sure you can trust them? And why would they want to come here anyway? And what about food, will ours stretch?”

“First, yes, I trust them completely” Levi replied, “most of them, anyway. And I’m not sure any would want to come here, but some might, at least the single folks might come temporarily. There’s food aboard, so we could probably barter for a bit extra if any of the guys come back with us, and even if we don’t, I think we can stretch what we have over at least two or three more people, especially if hunting and fishing are even marginal.”

“You sure you’ve thought this out, Levi?”

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about it since we got here. It didn’t seem right to desert the ship, but the family came first. And this has possibilities, even if they are a bit remote. These folks are used to operating independently and they all have practical skills we can use. There aren’t any repair shops at sea. Anybody I invite here will be able to pull their weight.”

Anthony looked skeptical. “How do you know the ship’s even there anymore, it’s been six days?”

“I don’t for sure,” Levi said, “but the radio’s getting clearer. I didn’t want to transmit, but I can risk a quick call to see if they’re still docked in Wilmington.”

“And if they are, what then?”

“One thing at a time, Anthony. One thing at a time.”

Levi Jenkins’ Fishing Camp

Day 6, 8:00 p.m.

Levi and Anthony stood beside the flat-bottom aluminum boat, surveying their handiwork in the fading light. The sun had just dipped below the tree line and would be fully set in half an hour. The pair were going over everything one last time. They both had sidearms and holsters, along with an AR-15 and Anthony’s old Model 12 Winchester shotgun. Two pairs of night-vision goggles lay on the boat seats.

Levi always planned on the river as their main access. Water didn’t leave tracks and he could move on the river stealthily. Mounted on the boat’s stern was a twenty-horsepower outboard, the model and brand chosen for its quietness rather than speed or power. At Anthony’s suggestion, Levi muted the motor even more with a layer of adhesive Ensolite insulation under the cowling. A large bow-mounted trolling motor powered by two deep-cycle marine batteries completed the propulsion options. He’d had to compromise, as the older model outboards wouldn’t meet his noise requirements and none of the newer models were completely free of electronics. Nor did the older trolling motors have near the power he needed. He’d solved the problem by opting for the newer models and shielding both the outboard and trolling motor in makeshift Faraday cages made of old oil drums lined with plywood. Overkill, as it turned out, since Levi had planned for the worst-case scenario of an electronics-frying EMP, and the damage from the solar storm was largely confined to the power grid. Better safe than sorry, he thought, as he looked at the outfitted boat.

Anthony broke Levi’s reverie. “That about it?”

“Almost,” Levi said. “I’m bringing a thirty-eight revolver and the old twenty gauge, along with ammo. We don’t have much for those anyway and they’re mismatches to everything else we have. I figure they’ll need some protection, and other than maybe a thirty-eight in the Old Man’s safe, there are no guns aboard.”

“Gettin’ kind of generous, aren’t you? Guns and ammo will be more valuable than gold about now, I expect.”

“I’m not GIVING them away. I’ll be looking for a fair trade. Besides, if we bring back recruits, it might make Captain Hughes a bit more willing to send along some extra food with them.”

“Fair enough,” Anthony said. “They expecting us?”

Levi nodded. “I got a light signal arranged so they don’t think we’re river pirates and try to drop something on our heads when we come alongside. We’ll leave here just after midnight. If there’s anyone along the river between here and there, I want to give them plenty of time to get to sleep. My biggest concern is downtown Wilmington. I’d like to pass there in the wee hours, when folks are likely to be sleeping the soundest.”

“How long you figure?”

Levi shook his head. “I’ve never run the river at low speed in the dark with night-vision goggles, so your guess is as good as mine. I’m figuring four hours max.”

“It’ll be longer coming back against the current, and the boat will be heavier.” Anthony paused. “Well, hopefully it’ll be heavier.”

“Yeah, but even at that, if we start back at midnight tomorrow night, we should still make it back here before daylight.”

Anthony nodded. “Well, I guess you’ve thought of everything. Make that almost everything. I’m gonna go get a long cane pole and put it in the boat. And by the way, stealth or no stealth, when we’re going out through those damned willows we WILL have the spotlight on high beam. I’m not dancin’ with no snake in the dark.”

M/V
Pecos Trader

Buckeye Marine Terminal

Wilmington, North Carolina

Day 6, 8:00 p.m.

Hughes called the senior officers together again that evening to announce his intentions. He tried to suppress his anxiety as he glanced around the coffee table, awaiting their reactions. Gowan spoke first.

“You’ll get no argument from me,” the chief engineer said. “I live in the area.”

“All of us here do, or at least we live closer to Beaumont than here,” Georgia Howell said, “but the problem is how it will play out with the rest of the crew. We might not exactly be a democracy, but I believe there’ll be some push back.” She looked at Hughes. “How you planning on selling this, Captain?”

Hughes ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I won’t lie. I want to get home like everyone else, but Beaumont is our only logical destination regardless. I can’t reach anyone in the company, and I doubt I will. Things here are generally going to hell, and Beaumont is the closest company terminal. I’m still responsible for the ship and cargo. If we eventually have to leave the ship, I want to at least leave it secured to the company dock.”

“Things might not be any better in Texas,” Rich Martin pointed out.

Hughes shrugged. “They’re probably not, but at least it’s worth a shot and will get most of us closer to home.”

“I think the ‘most of us’ is key,” Dan Gowan agreed. “It’ll get the majority of the crew near home, but what do we do if some refuse. We’re stretched pretty thin in the best of circumstances, and with the automation down, we really can’t afford to lose anyone.”

“Well, I can’t force anyone to go,” Hughes said. “This isn’t the navy. Legally, we’re in a US port and anyone can sign off at any time; all I can do is shake his or her hand and pay them off. I figure sooner or later all this uncertainty is going to get the better of folks, and they’ll strike off for home on their own anyway. If we wait too long, we won’t be able to move the ship.” He paused. “Any thoughts on who we might lose?”

“Of the deck officers, probably only Tex,” Georgia said. “Her folks live in western New Jersey and she’s very close. I doubt she’ll sail in the opposite direction. Among the unlicensed guys in the deck department, a couple are from somewhere here on the East Coast, but they’ve only been aboard a few weeks, so I don’t know much about them. I think everyone in the steward’s department lives close to Beaumont, so that won’t likely be a problem. I’ll let Rich speak for the engine gang.”

“We’ll lose Bill Wiggins, the second engineer, for sure,” Rich Martin said. “He lives in Maine with his wife and kid and another on the way. In fact, he was about to get off on vacation to be home for the delivery. No way he’s heading south voluntarily. On the unlicensed side, Jimmy the pumpman lives in Virginia, but I don’t really know which way he’d lean. The rest of the engine department would be okay with the trip south.” He paused. “Except, of course, for Levi. He’s home, and not likely to be going anywhere else. And speaking of Levi, when is he supposed to be here?”

“He was a bit vague on the radio,” Hughes said, “but I expect him in the wee hours.” He turned to Georgia Howell. “The watch straight on the light signal?”

She nodded. “Two longs, one short, three longs.”

“All right, I guess that’s it. We’ll deal with being shorthanded if and when the problem arises. I want to hear what Levi has to say, since he’s been out in the world. Let’s tentatively plan on calling the whole crew together tomorrow after breakfast.”

The others nodded and rose, and Hughes followed them towards the office door and closed it behind them before walking back to his desk. He picked up his favorite picture of his wife, Laura, smiling out at him, her long auburn hair framing a beautiful face accented by lovely brown eyes, and her arms around their twin daughters, one on either side of her, mugging for the camera. He set the picture down gently and mentally sent up what must be the thousandth prayer for their safety, then walked slowly toward his bedroom, knowing even as he did so sleep was unlikely to come.

Hughes’ Residence

Pecan Grove

Oleander, Texas

Day 6, 11:30 p.m.

Laura Hughes held Jordan’s picture and murmured another short prayer for his safety. He’d called from Wilmington as he always did if he had cell service and the hour wasn’t too late. This time he’d called from anchor as they awaited a pilot, knowing she’d likely be fast asleep by the time the ship docked. He was considerate like that, though she’d told him repeatedly that hearing his voice was worth being awakened.

She gazed at the picture, her favorite photo of him. He was totally camera shy, and she joked in posed family pictures he always looked like his underwear was a few sizes too tight. This was a candid shot on the bridge of his ship, Jordan’s dark hair flecked with just the right amount of gray and a bit mussed by a breeze, his slight squint as he stared into the far distance unable to obscure his clear blue eyes. He looked tan and fit and in charge; she called it his ‘captain’s’ picture. She’d received it out of the blue in an envelope with Dan Gowan’s return address and with a sticky note reading, “Thought you might like this picture of Cap I took when he wasn’t looking. It’s the only one I’ve seen where he doesn’t look like he has a stick up his ass. Best, Dan.” She laughed every time she thought of it.

A small desk lamp kept the dark at bay, and she could hear the low throb of the generator in its enclosure behind the garage. Jordan had installed the generator after one too many hurricanes left them without power for three weeks. It was a compromise between capacity and fuel consumption: big enough to run limited lights, the well pump, and the fridge and freezer. On hot southeast Texas nights, she temporarily diverted power from the freezer to two small window air conditioners in the master and guest bedrooms. She smiled, the guest-room unit was another ‘compromise,’ as the twins each wanted the unit in their own bedrooms. Jordan had issued a Solomon-like decision and installed the unit in ‘neutral territory.’ The girls were informed they could double bunk in the guest room during power outages or sweat. He called it a ‘compromise,’ but the twins characterized it as a ‘decree.’

She looked at the pile of unpaid bills and sighed. Oh well, with power down, there was likely no one at work to pay anyway; not a pressing problem in the scheme of things. Truthfully, other than Jordan’s absence, they had no major concerns. Water was no problem as long as she could run the well pump, and the generator ran on propane. She’d just had the tank filled last week to take advantage of low off-season prices. They were always prepared for hurricanes, and the ample kitchen pantry was well stocked. And if push came to shove, they could always eat pecans until the garden started producing more.

The sturdy old farmhouse built by her great-grandparents sat well off the blacktop, nestled in a grove of ninety-year-old pecan trees from which the property took its name. Laura thought naming property was pretentious in the extreme, and the practice always conjured up visions of yuppie assholes named ‘J Something the Third’ with overpriced McMansions built on one-acre lots in trendy suburbs. Houses the owners named ‘Long Ridge’ or ‘Beechwood’ prior to adding ostentatious driveway entrances suggesting Camelot lay within.

But unlike those efforts to fabricate a past that never was, Pecan Grove was a name bestowed not by the owners, but by area inhabitants. A name arising over time as the towering pecan trees grew to a landmark of note in the otherwise flat pastures and rice fields of Southeast Texas. A point of reference, such that ‘out by the Pecan Grove’ or ‘about a mile past the Pecan Grove’ became common directions. So common, in fact, Laura’s ancestors finally adopted the term as the name for home, without the least bit of pretension or posturing. It was always just ‘home’ to them, with ‘the’ omitted for convenience and ‘Pecan Grove’ becoming a place instead of a feature of the landscape.