Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) (35 page)

“Looks like it’s working, Andrew,” Kinsey said.

“Let’s just hope we can get through Baton Rouge before they figure it out,” Cormier replied.

But their luck held. They were fired on three more times, each time with the same result. When they finally passed under the US 190 bridge, Kinsey heaved a sigh of relief and focused on their real enemy, the clock.

An hour later, the clock gained an ally.

“We’re sucking fuel like there’s no tomorrow,” Bollinger whispered, worry in his voice.

“Will we have enough?” Kinsey asked, equally quiet.

Bollinger shrugged. “No way to tell. The motor’s running flat out. It’s settled down a little, but still not running anywhere near normal efficiency. Throw in the extra resistance of the current on this lash-up we’re pushing, and fuel efficiency is in the toilet anyway.”

“Suggestions?”

“Not really,” Bollinger said. “If I slow down to conserve fuel, it’ll take longer to get there and pretty much guarantee we’re limping past the prison in daylight.”

“Should we lighten the load more?”

Bollinger shook his head. “I don’t think it matters unless you’re planning on throwing people overboard. Nothing else is heavy enough to make much difference, and we’re pretty well-balanced now; changing things might even make it worse. Avoiding the strongest currents will help. We got nothing but farmland on either side now, so I’ll hug the banks and take every bend on the inside radius. Whether it helps enough is anyone’s guess.”

“Do what you can,” Kinsey said.

So they clawed their way upriver through the darkness. Around them the others rode in quiet uncertainty, wives leaning against husbands’ shoulders, and kids sleeping in mothers’ laps. Two hours later, they swept around a long bend and began to head due west as the sky lightened in the east.

Kinsey glanced back east. “How far you think?” he asked Bollinger softly.

He almost jumped out of his skin when a voice answered out of the darkness from the seat in front of him. “Let me have the glasses, and I’ll tell you.”

“Geez! You scared the crap out of me,” Kinsey said.

Cormier chuckled. “Nervous, Coast Guard?”

“Hell yes,” Kinsey said, taking off the NV glasses and reaching over to press them against Cormier’s chest so he could accept them by feel.

The big Cajun put the glasses on and studied the riverbanks. “We’re about five miles from Angola Landing, I think. We ain’t gonna make it past the prison in the dark. Keep to the left bank from now on. The channel to the levee is about two miles beyond the prison landing.”

They rode in silence under a lightening sky, and Kinsey imagined the outboard was getting louder with the rising sun. People were starting to stir on their seats, and Cormier and Bollinger took off the NV glasses.

Kinsey strained to see the far bank of the river. “You think there’ll be anybody at the landing, Andrew?”

Cormier shrugged. “Who knows? I’m hoping all the cons like their beauty sleep. Even if they see us, we’re out of range, so they’ll have to chase us. If they don’t have a boat ready, we might get a big enough lead to slip behind the island and up the channel to the levee without them seeing which way we go.”

“Your lips to God’s ears,” Kinsey said.

The landing was clearly visible across the river now, and Kinsey saw boats tied to the dock. He saw no movement and said a silent prayer the cons were all asleep and there was no one to hear the roar of the outboard.

They were in the swiftest part of the current now, forced to the outside of a sweeping river bend to maintain their distance from the prison landing. Their progress slowed perceptibly, and Kinsey realized the big outboard WAS louder as it strained against the increased load. Just two more miles and they’d be home free. Kinsey turned his attention from the prison dock and stared upriver, willing them forward.

They’d covered a half mile when Bertrand spoke.

“Trouble,” he said, and Kinsey turned and followed the man’s pointing finger. Behind them, a boat was leaving the prison dock. Kinsey watched as it cut across the river diagonally to fall into their wake, growing larger with each passing minute.

“They’re gaining on us,” he said.

Bertrand raised his rifle, but Kinsey reached up and pushed it down, nodding toward the passengers. “Let’s not start a gunfight just yet. We’re a much bigger target and have a lot to lose.”

Bertrand nodded, and Kinsey turned to Cormier. “Think we can lose them behind the island, Andrew?”

Cormier shook his head. “Doubtful. They’re already too close and gaining. They’ll be right on our butt when we turn up the channel.”

Kinsey muttered a curse. “All right,” he said. “It probably won’t help, but let’s start lightening the load.” He tossed one of Connie’s remaining boxes over the side.

There was some hesitation; then the others began to toss things over as well.

“How we looking on fuel?” Kinsey asked Bollinger.

“Running on fumes,” Bollinger replied. “But I think we’ll make it.”

The words had hardly left his mouth when the big outboard sputtered, coughed three times, and fell silent.

“Or not,” Bollinger said as their speed dropped dramatically, and the pitch of the two smaller motors changed as they coped with the suddenly increased load.

“We’re screwed,” Bollinger said.

Chapter Nineteen

Mississippi River

One Mile North of Angola Landing

Day 30, 5:50 a.m.

Kinsey looked back. He could make out five convicts in the boat, and he saw one of them point to a jettisoned box as they flashed by it. The con shouted something to the others, and Kinsey saw them all laugh. They knew they had won the race and were enjoying the victory.

Then it hit him.

“ZACH! Put that down.”

Zach looked confused, but set the case of Jack Daniel’s he’d been about to jettison on the deck. Kinsey pushed past the others to get to him at the stern.

“Take your ski belt off, and buckle it around the booze. Make sure not to cover the markings on the box.”

“What are you—”

“DO IT!” Kinsey screamed, and Zach hastened to do as ordered. Kinsey reached over and began to untie the tow rope for Cormier’s decoy, which still trailed the boat. Zach finished buckling the whiskey in the ski belt, and Kinsey pulled ten feet of the tow rope in and handed it to Zach, letting the loose end trail on the deck at their feet.

“Don’t let this go,” Kinsey said as he dropped to his knees and began tying the end of the rope to the ski belt encircling the case of whiskey. When he was done, he gave it a tug to make sure it was secure, then ordered Zach to toss the slack back over the side.

“Cormier and Bertrand,” Kinsey said, “get to the small outboards. Slow down to just hold us in place against the current, but DON’T stop. Then be ready to haul balls when I give the order.”

“We ain’t haulin’ anything with this rig, but we’ll do what we can,” Cormier replied as he and Bertrand maneuvered through the crowded boats to take control of the two functioning outboards.

Kinsey looked astern, judging the distance to the oncoming boat, as he waited for the Cajuns to get into place. When they were there, he said, “Cut speed now.”

He heard muttered curses from the passengers as the speed dropped further, and he slipped the whiskey over the stern and let it go, watching briefly as it fell behind in the boat’s wake. He stood and faced the others.

“You’re going to have to trust me on this, folks,” Kinsey said. “I want everybody to turn and face the oncoming boat, with your hands over your heads.”

“Are you nuts?” Zach asked.

“Do it,” Connie said as she raised her hands as ordered.

One by one, the others followed Connie’s lead. Kinsey turned back to face the oncoming boat himself and raised his own hands.

He heard the motor on the convicts’ boat change pitch as, unsure what was happening, they cut their own speed. They closed the gap steadily, but not as rapidly as before. The whiskey floated between the two boats, moving ever closer to the cons. When he thought they were close enough to hear him, Kinsey shouted across the gap.

“WE SURRENDER.”

Kinsey heard angry muttering behind him; then after a moment’s hesitation, a cheer went up from the convicts’ boat. About that time, one of the cons shouted and pointed at the whiskey, and the boat veered toward it and circled it, preparing to pull it aboard.

Kinsey held his breath as the cons’ boat passed over the semi-submerged towline, then smiled as the plaintive sound of mechanical mayhem announced the rope had wrapped in the propeller and jammed it tight. As soon as he heard the cons’ motor stop, Kinsey reached for his M4 and began to shout.

“GO! GO! GO! EVERYBODY DOWN. EVERYBODY DOWN.”

He steadied himself against the slight rocking of the boat on the current and began firing at the cons, dropping one immediately and sending the rest diving for cover. He heard firing beside him and glanced over to see Bollinger, M4 at his shoulder.

“Hold your fire,” Kinsey said, “so we’re not both changing mags at the same time. We don’t have to take them out, but one of us has to keep their heads down until we’re out of range.”

Bollinger grunted his understanding and his gun fell silent as Kinsey continued to fire well-placed single shots anytime one of the cons showed himself. The distance between the boats widened as the disabled craft bobbed downstream on the swift current, and Kinsey’s overloaded and lashed-together boats clawed their way slowly upstream on the small straining outboards.

When they were out of range, Kinsey lowered his rifle and swiveled to look upriver.

“How much farther?” he called to Cormier.

“A bit over a mile, I’d say,” Cormier replied. “But we’re barely moving and the big boat’s nothing but drag now. We gotta lose it or it will take us more than a half hour to get there, and for sure we ain’t got that much gas.”

Kinsey nodded. “Bollinger, you and Zach go through our empty gas cans and those milk jugs and drain every last drop that’s left. Split it between the gas tanks on the smaller boats while I divide everyone between the two smaller boats. Then we’ll figure out how to separate.”

Bollinger’s task didn’t take long, as ‘every last drop’ from the various gas containers amounted to less than a cup, which he and Zach dutifully split between the two boats. Dividing the people was more difficult, as Kinsey had to move them one at a time so as not to destabilize the delicate equilibrium of the overloaded boats. It took five long minutes with Kinsey making on-the-fly assessments of each passenger’s weight before he had both boats loaded more or less equally, with him in the bow of Cormier’s boat and Bollinger in the bow of Bertrand’s.

“Okay, folks,” Kinsey said, “we’re really overloaded, so please keep as close to the centerline of the boats as you can, and don’t move around. We’re going to separate from the center boat, then bring the two boats back together and tether them side by side as we move upstream. That way, if one of our motors runs out of gas, we should still have enough power to at least maneuver both boats to the west bank. Everyone ready?”

There were murmurs and fearful nods, and after he confirmed Cormier and Bertrand were ready, Kinsey loosened the bow lashing on his own boat and held it wrapped around the cleat, ready to be thrown off at a moment’s notice. Bollinger duplicated his actions in the other boat as Kinsey called back and had men untie the stern lashings completely.

“Okay, Bollinger,” Kinsey yelled, “we separate on the count of three. Are you ready?”

“Affirmative,” Bollinger replied.

“ONE, TWO, THREE!” Kinsey yelled and threw the line off the cleat as Bollinger did the same, and Zach’s fishing boat slipped from between the two boats and fell astern. No longer encumbered by the dead weight of the larger boat or tied together, the smaller boats surged forward at different speeds and separated.

“CORMIER,” Kinsey yelled, “HOLD YOUR COURSE AND SPEED. BERTRAND, BRING YOUR BOAT ALONGSIDE, BUT CAREFULLY! THE BOW WAVES WILL FORCE US APART, SO DON’T PUSH IT. JUST GET CLOSE ENOUGH FOR US TO PASS LINES.”

The Cajuns handled the boats deftly, and soon the boats were running side by side, just feet apart and tethered together bow and stern. The rest of the short trip was uneventful, and they’d just turned out of the current and into the still backwater of the Lower Old River when Bertrand’s outboard sputtered to a stop and his boat bumped back alongside of Cormier’s.

“Pull in the slack and lash them side by side,” Kinsey ordered, then looked back at Cormier. “Think we have enough gas to make the levee, Andrew?” he asked.

Cormier shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not, but we can paddle from here if we have to.”

Kinsey nodded, relief written on his face.

Cormier grinned. “Relax, Coast Guard. The hard part’s over. Now we just gotta get back to the bayou.”

Somewhere in the Atchafalaya River Basin

North of Morgan City, Louisiana

Day 30, 4:20 p.m.

As Cormier predicted, the trip back to his bayou stronghold was uneventful. The extra manpower made getting the aluminum boats and gear over the levee easier, and the addition of more armed men discouraged any who might have considered challenging them on their return trip down the Atchafalaya. They arrived in the late afternoon, and Kinsey saw Cormier’s daughter-in-law, Lisa, standing on the little dock.

“How’d she know we were coming?” Kinsey asked.

Cormier scoffed. “Seriously, Coast Guard? You don’t understand by now nothing moves on the bayou we don’t know about?”

“Okay, dumb question.” Kinsey nodded to where Lisa stood, smiling. “But she does look happy to see you.”

Cormier nodded, and as they neared the dock, Lisa called across the gap, “Tim’s much better, Pop. The fever broke last night, and he demanded breakfast this morning. I think he’s gonna be all right.”

Kinsey saw Cormier swallow hard, then blink away sudden tears before he looked skyward and crossed himself. He laid a hand on the big Cajun’s shoulder and the man turned to him, grinning from ear to ear, but he could only bob his head, as if he were incapable of speech.