Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) (36 page)

Cormier stepped across the gap between the boat and the dock without waiting for the boat to be secured, and raced away with Lisa, eager to see his son.

***

Cormier seemed like a new man when he came back down to the dock twenty minutes later to find Bollinger and Kinsey still on the Coast Guard boat.

“Where’s everybody else?” he asked.

“Some of your folks are showing them where to bed down for the night,” Kinsey said. “Bollinger and I figured we’d stay here to plan our trip to Texas. We appreciate the help, but we don’t want to abuse your hospitality.”

Cormier shrugged. “We’ll take anyone who wants to stay, as long as they pull their weight. They’re Cajuns too.” He paused and looked from Kinsey to Bollinger. “You too, Coast Guard, if you want.”

The offer took Kinsey by surprise. “Thank you, Andrew. That’s very generous, but I have to say I’m surprised.”

“It’s no mystery. They were doing okay in Baton Rouge, so I think they’ll be willing to work. The bayou and our gardens will provide our food, and it rains enough here that freshwater is no problem. Finally, we can use the extra manpower, both for survival and defense,” Cormier said.

Kinsey thought about it a moment, then nodded. “I’ll put it to them. I suspect some of them will accept.”

“What about you two?” Cormier asked.

“I’ll be going back to the ship,” Bollinger said quickly. “I appreciate the offer, but I’d feel like I was deserting my friends when they need me.”

Kinsey was nodding. “Same here.”

Cormier nodded. “
Je comprends
.”

They lapsed into silence a moment before Kinsey spoke. “It may be crowded, but if we reduce the number going back, maybe we can fit them all into our boat.”

“Too bad we can’t get word to Wellesley to wait for us,” Bollinger said. “He should be taking off any time, but our rescue took a lot less time than we figured, thanks to Andrew. If we can get to the lock before he leaves, we can put some of the folks in one of the push boats and all go back to Texas together. I don’t really look forward to having a boatload of noncombatants if we get into another gunfight.”

Cormier shrugged. “Why not call him on your radio?”

Kinsey shook his head. “Even if he’s still at the lock, that’s over a hundred miles from here. The VHF won’t reach that far.”

Cormier rubbed his bearded chin. “I know a lot of people between here and there. Some worked on crew boats, and others own shrimp boats. We could probably set up a relay to pass word to him, if you want to try.”

Kinsey nodded enthusiastically and reached for the VHF handset, but Cormier stopped him with a raised hand and shook his head.

“No transmitting here. We have to go on the river, and I want to be moving while we transmit. I don’t want to take the chance on anyone locating us from your transmission.” Cormier looked at the sky. “It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. We take your boat on the river with your NV glasses, almost down to Morgan City.”

Same Day, 10:20 p.m.

They went south almost to Morgan City before Cormier felt comfortable transmitting. Bollinger killed the engine and Kinsey nodded at Cormier. The big Cajun picked up the handset and began speaking French.

“What’s with the French?” Bollinger asked.

Cormier shrugged as they waited for a response. “I figure if any FEMA assholes are listening, they’re probably less likely to speak Cajun than English.”

Kinsey nodded. “Good point.”

Cormier called several times before he raised anyone, but when he got a response, he explained he was attempting to relay a message to the push boat
Judy Ann
. The message was simple, consisting of only ‘Kinsey coming. Please wait.’

After almost an hour and three relays, the message was apparently delivered, with the last relay link switching to English for Lucius Wellesley’s benefit. The radio squawked in Cajun, and Cormier bobbed his head at the two Coasties. He acknowledged the transmission then lowered the mic and looked at Kinsey quizzically.

“What is it?” Kinsey asked.

“There was a reply,” Cormier said. “Wellesley said, ‘Trouble in Texas. We are holding here.’”

Kinsey felt a chill run down his spine. He thought about the reply a moment.

“Pass the word for Wellesley to try to find a French speaker among his guys. We need to discuss this a bit more.”

Chapter Twenty

US Maritime Administration Reserve Fleet

McFadden Bend Cutoff

Neches River

Near Beaumont, Texas

The Previous Day

Day 29, 5:10 a.m.

Chief Mate Georgia Howell eased open the aft door of the enclosed lifeboat, struggling to do it quietly with one hand. She stepped out onto the almost nonexistent rear deck, set the bucket down on the two-foot-wide shelf, and used both hands to close the door for privacy. That is, if pissing outside in a bucket, floating in the middle of a river between the massive hulls of two gigantic, but empty and unmanned, ships could be considered private. Lifeboats didn’t have toilets, and they certainly weren’t designed for coeducational occupancy.
Here’s hoping I don’t fall overboard
, she thought as she dropped her pants and squatted over the bucket. Just another thing women had to worry about that guys didn’t, pissing in an enclosed lifeboat during the apocalypse.

She finished and pulled up her pants, then emptied the bucket overboard and dropped to her knees, leaning down to rinse the bucket in the river. The sky was lightening in the east now, and she’d be able to see well enough to navigate in fifteen or twenty minutes; she was considerably less quiet when she opened the door.

“Up and at ’em, guys. It’s almost daylight and we’ll be taking off in a few minutes. I’m leaving the bucket just inside the door. Do whatever you need to do and get something to eat and drink. This is likely to be a long day.” She heard sleepy acknowledgments, then closed the door and leaned back against the cabin to watch the eastern sky.

She wanted an early start, her theory being miscreants were unlikely to be early risers. It was nine miles to the boat club, and she figured they could make it in three hours max, even against the current in the lumbering lifeboat, but they had to pass some pretty crappy sections of town. Her ‘boat of many colors,’ as she came to think of it, might blend in well with the natural riverbank in the dusk, but it would still stick out like a sore thumb in broad daylight in an industrial area. She wanted to be safely docked at the boat club before the lowlifes woke up.

The lifeboat door cracked open tentatively, and she shifted to make room as it opened wider and Juan Alvarez stepped out and emptied the bucket over the stern. Then he dropped to one knee and repeated the ritual she just performed, though his longer arms made it much easier to reach the water’s surface. Alvarez finished the task, rose and leaned through the open door to pass the empty bucket to one of the others inside before turning back to Georgia.

“So what’s the drill, ma’am?” he asked.

“We’ll head upriver as soon as we can see,” Howell said. “It’s mostly vacant land or industrial areas on both sides of the river, but if we have any problems, I expect they’ll be from the west bank, probably closer to downtown. I want you and Jones watching that side, with Jimmy and Pete on the other. If we have any problems, I suspect it’ll be near Riverfront Park. Other than that, we play it by ear.”

Alvarez nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Rules of engagement?”

“I’m not second-guessing anyone,” Howell said. “If it looks like we’re in danger, fire at your own discretion. But remember, there are just five of us, so if we draw the wrong kind of attention, we’re toast. The plan is to get in and out as quietly as possible.”

“Copy that, ma’am. We’ll be ready when you are.”

***

They were moving ten minutes later. The east bank of the river was mostly undeveloped almost all the way to downtown Beaumont, and their camouflage paint job in the dim light of early morning still afforded some protection.
Use it while you got it
, Howell thought as she steered to starboard and hugged the east bank.

Despite the plodding pace of the underpowered lifeboat, they passed the Exxon-Mobil refinery on the west bank and were approaching Harbor Island Terminal in just under two hours. It was full light now, and the boat was readily visible. A railroad bridge spanned the river ahead and she steered as close as she dared to the right bank and called softly to the others. “Look sharp. Riverfront Park coming up on the left bank, just after the railroad bridge.”

There were murmured acknowledgments, and Howell put her hand on the throttle, unconsciously trying to press it forward, even though the lumbering boat was topped out. But the park was deserted, the area devoid of activity in the early morning hours. Minutes later she heaved a relieved sigh when she negotiated a sharp right turn and left the downtown area behind her to pass the old shipyard on her left.

“Almost there,” Howell said. “Fifteen or twenty minutes max.”

They rounded another turn to the left, and through the viewing port at the conning station, she saw the I-10 bridge looming across the river just ahead. The tops of abandoned cars were visible above the guardrail the length of the bridge.

“Alvarez,” Howell said, “can you see the bridge from the gun ports? We’ll be sitting ducks for anyone on the bridge, and we don’t have any armor on the top of the canopy.”

“Negative. It’s too high. We best move outside.”

“Do it,” Howell confirmed, but the two Coasties were already moving toward the back door and front entry port of the lifeboat. In seconds, they were standing on the bow and stern, M4s pointed up toward the bridge ahead.

“Have you given any thought to live-aboards, ma’am?” Alvarez asked Howell through the open rear door of the lifeboat, never taking his eyes off the bridge. “Some of the boats in this yacht club likely have generators and what have you. If I owned one, that’s where I’d be.”

“Agreed,” Howell said, hands on the wheel and her own eyes fixed up at the bridge as they approached. “But I also figure the last place I’d stay is in an urban marina when I could duck out of sight into a wooded inlet upriver where nobody could get to me by road.” She hesitated. “But you’re right, it’s better safe than sorry.”

Howell cut speed abruptly as they moved under the bridge, steering hard left toward the strip of wooded land lining the western riverbank under the bridge.

“What are you doing?” Alvarez asked.

“We’re only a hundred yards from the yacht club channel,” Howell said. “It’s to the left, just past these trees. We’ll go ashore here under the bridge and do a little recon from the safety of the trees. The boat will be directly under the bridge, so no one can spot it from above.”

“Good idea,” Alvarez said. “Jones and I will—”

“Negative,” Howell said. “I need to see it myself. It’ll be me and you while the other guys watch the boat.”

West End of I-10 Bridge

Beaumont, Texas

The police cruiser was parked at right angles across the highway in the westbound lanes, barring nonexistent traffic. The windows were open and its occupants sat in a lethargic daze. They were unkempt and unshaven, and a successive series of circular sweat stains emanating from the armpits of their rumpled shirts tracked the number of days since their last uniform change as surely as rings marked the age of a tree.

One of them stirred. “This sucks! The sun ain’t hardly up, and you can already fry an egg on the road. Turn on the AC.”

The driver shook his head. “You know the orders; fifteen minutes of AC every hour after eight. We got a while yet, and if Spike catches us wasting gas, we’re dead meat. So quit bein’ a whiny pussy; you’re gettin’ on my nerves.”

“Come on, who’s gonna know? There ain’t nobody around but us, and I don’t even know why we’re here. Nobody’s traveling the interstate anymore. We ain’t pulled any pussy or plunder off the bridge in a week.”

“Everybody’s gonna know when you get drunk again and start running your mouth. These orders came straight from Spike. Have you forgotten what he did to Miller last week when he screwed up?” The driver shuddered. “He is one mean dude, and I ain’t gonna cross him. And if Spike wants us here, we’re here. That’s all there is to it, so quit your bitchin—”

The driver cocked his head. “Hear that?”

“I don’t hear nothing—”

“It’s a boat. Not an outboard, something else,” the driver said.

His partner shrugged. “Still don’t hear nothing.”

“That’s ’cause it’s stopped now, numb nuts,” the driver said, reaching for the radio mike. “I’ll call it in; you go see if you can spot it.”

“Up yours,” his partner said, motioning to the bridge jammed solid with abandoned cars. “We can’t drive, and I ain’t walking all the way up there in this heat to see some boat that ain’t even there. If you’re so damned anxious to see what it is, YOU go, and I’LL call it in. Maybe I’ll turn on a little AC while I’m at it.”

The driver glared. “Am I going to have to kick your ass, Cecil? You do remember the last time, right?”

Cecil cursed under his breath. “All right, dammit, but you come with me. If I have to tromp around in this heat, I want company. And besides, we shouldn’t call it in unless we really see something; otherwise they’ll have us chasing our tails all over the place.”

The driver considered, then nodded. They got out, the driver grimacing when Cecil slammed his door. “Think you can make any more noise, asshole?”

Cecil snorted. “Like it matters. Let’s get this done. And when we get back, we WILL be turning on the AC.”

It was nearly a half mile walk from the foot of the bridge to the center of the river, and the two cons arrived sweat-soaked and irritable.

“We’re here, genius,” Cecil said. “So where’s your boat.”

“Keep it up, Cecil, and your ass is going in the river.” The driver looked over the guardrail. “Don’t worry, it’s not much of a fall; but, oh yeah, you can’t swim, can you?”