Apocalypse Drift (31 page)

David keyed the microphone, “Everyone hold in place. The channel is blocked.”

Boats don’t have brakes or a parking gear. While there wasn’t any wind yet, the channel always had a current, one direction or the other, depending on the tide. It was very difficult for a floating vessel to maintain a fixed position with even slow moving water pushing on her hull. For the smaller boats, this wasn’t much of a problem as they could circle in the narrow channel. For Boxer and the larger boats, it was a very tight squeeze, requiring no small level of skill. Adding to the general apprehension of potential collisions, the captains all sensed that the longer the fleet was in this tight passage, the higher the risk of shore-born problems.

The other
waverunner motored to David’s boat and a quick discussion ensued. The scouting party determined that David would board the boat while one of the mid-sized cabin cruisers came forward to tow the relic. Dock lines would be used to pull the big hulk out of the channel.

David climbed aboard the ghost ship and right away noticed a horrible odor. Before he could even register what the offending aroma was, he saw a gash in the transom’s fiberglass that looked like a bullet had impacted at a low angle, carving a groove in the white material. That image immediately connected with the odor in his brain. Within seconds, he discovered the bodies and turned away from the gruesome sight. A man and a woman both lay dead on the bridge, their decomposing corpses resting in a large pool of dried blood. Scavengers, most likely airborne vultures, had visited the deceased. He noticed two more bullet holes as he hurried back to the swim platform and
gagging into the channel.

The driver of the other
waverunner saw what was happening and motored up. “You okay, man?”

Despite his churning stomach, David signaled he was fine. “Can you bring me some water when you get a sec?”

Todd rummaged for a second, “Here, take mine. You look like you need it about now,” and tossed the clear plastic bottle over.

In a few minutes, one of the small cruisers maneuvered close enough to throw across two lines. David used a hitch knot to quickly secure the ropes to the bigger boat, and then
motioned for Todd in to pick him up.

The little cruiser revved its engines and began pulling on the ghost ship. There was a moment of suspense when it looked like the bigger vessel was going to stay aground, but after a few moments the ghost ship budged. As soon as the passage was clear, David again boarded the offending sport boat and untied the towlines, hastily flinging them back in a high arch. He wasted no time getting off her, and into some fresher air.

News of the bodies traveled up and down the line on the radio. As the flotilla passed the big sports fisherman, several of the captains veered slightly off course. Much like gawking rubberneckers driving past a wreck on the interstate, they couldn’t tear their gaze from the carnage. Wyatt, following Morgan’s lead, tried to find a “silver lining,” in the incident - his hope being that everyone in the group would take the situation a little more seriously after the incident.

The next obstacle was the highway bridge. Giant concrete pillars were set into the channel to support the huge structure looming over the waterway. The navigable space between the supports was the narrowest part of the entire journey. It was the only place where the boats would get close enough to shore that someone could jump from land onto one of the vessels as it passed. David and the other scouts were relieved to see the entire area was void of spectators. Two large grey gulls were the only inhabitants at the moment, and they didn’t seem to pose much of a threat to anything other than the finger mullet schooling next to the supports.

After clearing the bridge came Shrimper’s Row. Large steel-hulled commercial shrimping vessels lined the north side of the channel, moored to the wooden bulkheads lining the bank. A small seafood processing plant resided immediately behind the big ships, ready to accept the delicious bay crustaceans immediately after the shrimpers docked nearby.

David knew most of these commercial fishermen were Vietname
se. His father and he passed by these boats hundreds of times over the years. Most of the families actually lived on their boats. It was a common sight to see small children playing aboard while mom and dad hosed off equipment or scrubbed decks. During the holidays, many of the boats would decorate with traditional Buddhist lanterns and other décor. At night, it was commonplace to see young mothers on deck, reading stories to their children or fishing with regular rods and reels into the nearby channel. Once, David had observed a school bus unload several small Asian children next to the shrimpers. He watched as the tallest of them peeked into a mailbox along the nearest street.

Even at dawn, the shrimping boats buzzed with activity. The first sign of life was the movement of a fishing pole, swinging in a wide arch as its line was cast out into the channel.
That’s to be expected, given the tide
, thought David. The next thing that caught his eye was a man, standing beside the fisherman, carrying a double barrel shotgun.

David
pointed out the sentry to Todd. “Stay right here. We don’t want to look like a threat.”

The first boat of the
Marinaville fleet was still a little behind them. David wanted to make it clear to the man with the shotgun that Todd and he were only there for escort duty, not to harass or threaten the fishermen in any way. “Wait until boat one catches up a bit, and then stay directly between him and the guy with the shotgun. No fast movements, but be ready to hit the throttle if I yell out.”

The shrimper’s guard could now see at least the first few boats in line behind David, and the approaching armada caused quite the stir aboard several of the commercial boats. Evidently some warning was given, because suddenly there were people scrambling all over the big steel-hulled boats.

Within a few seconds, David counted at least seven people aiming guns at them.

“Okay,” David whispered to his driver, “go up there real slow. I’m going to see if I can communicate our peaceful intent.”

“You better,” came the nervous response.

David took the AR15 and swiveled the weapon around to his back. He held up both hands in a “Don’t shoot” position as they approached the closest boat. “Good morning,” he called out.

He could hear voices coming from the shrimp boats, and while he couldn’t understand the language, he was reasonably sure the greeting had caused some disagreement. A few moments later, a young teenager appeared next to the man with the scattergun. “What do you want,” he called out in perfect English.

“We are only passing through to the bay. There are over 20 boats behind us, and we
are just escorting them.”

David could hear muted discussions going back and forth on the closest vessel. His answer came back, “If you don’t bother us, we won’t shoot at you.”

David smiled and yelled back, “Fair enough.” He also noticed none of the guards on the shrimpers relaxed.
Trust, but verify
, he thought.

Beyond the shrimpers, the last significant landmark before the bay was the Boardwalk. A popular attraction for tourist
s and locals alike, the Boardwalk consisted of a long row of seaside restaurants, shops, and a small amusement park.

The Boardwalk brought back childhood memories for David. As the flotilla motored past, it seemed so odd for it to be abandoned. When the
waverunner got closer, he could clearly see the shops and restaurants were more than closed – they had been ransacked. Shards of broken window glass piled in mounds on the wooden walkways, and chairs were scattered haphazardly, most resting on their sides, very few of them upright like he remembered. He noticed two doors that had been splintered, and all of the buildings appeared to have been gutted by vandals. 

David had to look away, the reckless destruction of the Boardwalk making his already distressed stomach flutter. Instead, he focused his gaze out to the open bay just beyond the plundered shoreline. The sun was still low on the horizon, its yellowish orb reflecting off of the glass-smooth water. One of the primary reasons for leaving so early was to cross as much water as possible before the winds
whipped up the bay. While very shallow across most of its 23-mile width, Galveston Bay could develop a nasty 2-3-foot chop. Such waves were no threat to the boats of Marinaville, but they could make the ride feel like a car going over a washboard road.

The green and blue water was interrupted here and there by manmade objects. A straight line of channel markers marched off into the distance, many slightly misshapen by the gulls that constantly rested on their tops. To the south were a handful of platforms and wellheads. Mostly rusty relicts or capped gas wells, the structures provided good fishing spots and were favored by numerous species of birds.

Todd gave their ride some throttle, and the small craft accelerated out of the channel and into the bay. David relaxed somewhat, the wide-open spaces seemingly fresher – the air easier to breathe. Normally, he would love riding on such smooth water, but there was no time today for fun. He thought about the last time he was out on open water this early - a fishing trip with his father and a high school buddy before leaving for the army. They hadn’t had much luck that day, but it didn’t matter. He loved the ocean and salt air.

As the jet boat skimmed across the surface, David made himself sit back and enjoy the experience. There was something unique about a boat, any boat, gliding across smooth water. It’s such a different sensation from riding in an automobile or airplane. I
t was almost as if the cushion of water deadened the sense of motion.
My eyes see I’m moving quickly, but my body can’t feel it
, he thought.
I bet this is what the weightlessness of space feels like.

A quick glance showed the line of boats exiting the channel one by one. Radio chatter
settled down. The next 20-mile leg of the trip involved traveling south toward Galveston Island and should be stress-free, a welcome change from the first part of the journey. David scanned the water around them and then shifted his weight to stick his leg into the chilly bay. He had always wondered if the water would clear up without the huge tankers and freighters traveling up and down the Houston Ship Channel. Those enormous vessels, combined with thousands of pleasure boats, had to stir up tons of silt. As he sank his foot into the water, he was curious if the two weeks without traffic would make much difference, but it didn’t. He could only see the outline of his foot down a few feet under the surface. The wind probably stirred up more bottom mud than propellers and hulls. Galveston Bay had probably been a cloudy body of water going back thousands of years.

Exhaling and righting himself back on the seat, David felt a slight twinge of guilt.
Even though he was technically still on leave, he wondered if there wasn’t something more he should be doing for his country via the army. He hadn’t received his assignment before graduating from Officers’ Candidate School. Technically, he didn’t have a unit to report to right now. He had been told that his orders would be both mailed and emailed to him, but neither form of communication now existed. The collapse had caught him in limbo, and he had zero idea what to do about it. Right now, his family needed him more than anything. As soon as communications were restored, he would call in and find out where he was supposed to report, and how he was to get there.
Where’s a good carrier pigeon when you need one
, he mused.

March 4, 2017

Fort Meade, Maryland

The auditorium at Fort Meade was designated as the temporary capitol building, and now housed both the House of Representatives and the Senate. Rather than the normal pomp and circumstance of graduation ceremonies, the large hall was now filled with elected officials engaged in wild speculation and grandiose scheming to insure the country’s future. Folding chairs, small tables, and a mismatched assortment of furniture occupied most of the open floor, hurriedly assembled tools required for the legislative branch to function. The exposed steel beam structure of the roof and bare concrete floor were a far cry from Washington’s Capitol building, but no one complained. While the military base wasn’t adorned with world-class art, beautiful chandeliers, or marble floors, the bare bones facility did keep the cold, Maryland winds at bay, and there was enough space to conduct the business of state.

Shortly after arriving, Reed was assigned quarters in what must have been facilities normally allocated to military officers on temporary duty assignments. The living space was essentially on par with a three-star budget hotel, comprised of a double bed, closet-like bathroom, and two guest chairs. Plain, zero-frills furniture adorned the room, accented by mass-produced, soulless prints hanging from the walls. A mattress, just shy of marble slab on the hardness scale, rounded out the accommodations.

After his experience in Brenda’s apartment, the congressman from Texas felt like he had just checked in at the Four Seasons. From Reed’s perspective, the list of amenities offered by his new abode was practically endless. There was running water, both hot and cold, tiny bottles of shampoo, miniature bars of soap, and a plastic wrapped toothbrush. The first shower was a marathon event, the first shave just shy of euphoria.
It’s all a matter of perspective
, he speculated.