Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) (48 page)

Cormier faced forward in time to see Kinsey’s hand signal from the Coast Guard boat. He nodded his understanding, then stood up in full view of the other boats and wound his right hand above his head in a circular motion, then pointed forward at the Coast Guard patrol boat.

“
ALLONS
!” Cormier shouted, his voice booming above the muted rumble of the outboards creeping along in their moving hideaway.

The Coast Guard boat rocketed from between the barges toward the gap between the stern of the
Pecos Trader
and the shore. Bollinger was at the helm, and Kinsey and a half dozen armed Cajuns literally rode shotgun. The airboats followed, running side by side and close together fifty yards back, with the rest of the little armada following at the agreed interval.

The Coasties were first through the gap, hugging the bank and shooting past the stationary convicts, firing as they passed, not so much a threat as a distraction as they roared past the convicts and raced away up the oxbow channel. The cons were all still tracking the Coast Guard boat when the airboats roared through moments later, side by side. Bertrand glanced over at Cormier, who nodded. As the boats began to separate, a man in Cormier’s boat fed a half-inch-diameter cable into the water between them. The boats diverged quickly, and when they were fifty feet apart, the wire shackled securely to the heavy fan frames of each boat leaped out of the water, stretched taut between the boats, a scythe running two feet above the surface at sixty miles an hour.

The other Cajuns in the airboats blazed away at the confused convicts while Cormier lined up on a half dozen boats in a rough line and roared toward them with Bertrand at his side. They bracketed the convict boats, and their improvised scythe put twenty men in the water in seconds, not all of them in one piece. It was as effective as it was bloody and barbaric, and terrified convicts began to flee toward the gap near the bow of the
Pecos Trader
.

The Coast Guard boat executed a tight turn and raced back toward the convicts, guns blazing, just as the remainder of the Cajun Navy burst through the gap and fell on the fleeing convicts from the rear. Though outnumbered five to one, the Cajuns attacked with a ferocity and confidence that totally unnerved the convicts. The rout was complete.

The first few boatloads of convicts fled through the gap under the bow, but a collision soon blocked the only escape route. Boats jammed together in a confused knot, unable to flee the tightening ring of approaching Cajuns, who poured fire into the convicts as they came. Some convicts fought back while others raised their hands. All of them died.

M/V
Pecos Trader

Bridge

Hughes reached for the radio as the gunfire died. “Kinsey, this is
Pecos Trader
. Request SITREP. Over.”

“We’re good here. Can you contain the fire? Over,” Matt Kinsey replied.

“Unknown. We’ll try, but please get all the boats you can spare to our stern so we can start evacuating our nonessential folks in case we can’t. Over,” Hughes said.

“Roger that. Do you need manpower? Over.”

Hughes looked over at Howell and Gowan, who shook their heads in unison.

“Negative your last. Please just concentrate on getting our families off. Over.”

Kinsey acknowledged, and Hughes hung up the mic and turned to the others. “All right. Let’s break out the fireman suits and see if we can get some foam—”

Gowan reached over and put his hand on Hughes’ shoulder. “She’s gone, Jordan. If the cargo piping was shot up, the firefighting systems were as well. And even if they weren’t, everything on deck has been engulfed in flames, and if it’s not melted, it’s red hot or close to it. We go pumping cold water into it, it will crack wide open.” Gowan paused. “I don’t want to write her off either, Cap, but the only thing we’re likely to do if we try to fight this fire is get more people killed. That’s the bottom line.”

Hughes looked away and stared out the bridge window, his view of the raging fire distorted by the water gushing over the glass from the hoses rigged on the flying bridge. He could feel the heat, despite the water curtain, and he knew Dan Gowan was right. He blew out a sigh.

“You’re right, but we might be saving these people just to starve to death. Most of our extra supplies were in the containers on deck, and they’re toast. And even if we get everyone ashore, there’s no way we’re going to have time to even save what we have here in the deckhouse.”

Gowan rubbed his chin. “We might be able to do something. Let me and Georgia work on that while you figure out where the hell ‘ashore’ is. I expect there’s still plenty of pissed-off convicts on the other side of the river, and there’s nothing over here but marsh and mosquitoes.”

***

Thirty minutes later Hughes stood at the stern rail, alternating between casting worried glances forward at the raging fire and watching his crew help the families over the stern rail and down the rigid aluminum ladder to the deck of the barge below. He’d been relieved when Lucius Wellesley pushed the empty tank barge up against the stern and held it there with the
Judy Ann
. It was a much shorter drop and allowed them to use one of the aluminum extension ladders they had on board rather than subject everyone to the terror of the swaying rope ladder dangling over a small boat.

It also freed up Kinsey and the Cajuns. They transferred a machine gun back down to the Coast Guard patrol boat, and Hughes nodded as he watched the well-armed patrol boat providing security for the evacuation. On the other side of the ship, Cormier and his Cajun Navy were moving among the convicts’ boats, scavenging weapons, ammunition, and the boats themselves if they weren’t too badly shot up. Hughes looked over as Georgia Howell joined him at the rail.

“All done,” she said as the rest of the crew filed out of the deckhouse and took their place in line to descend to the barge. “We formed a human chain and passed things hand to hand down to the engine room. All the storerooms are cleaned out, but we just had to stack it wherever we found room down there. God only knows if we’ll ever be able to find anything, but if the deckhouse goes, the stuff should be all right until we can come for it.” She looked back toward the fire. “Whenever that is. How long you think it’ll take her to burn herself out?”

Hughes shrugged. “Until the cargo’s gone, I guess. God knows she won’t sink; we’re only a foot or two off the bottom.”

Hughes heard the muffled wail of the CO2 sirens and looked up as Dan Gowan and Rich Martin rounded the corner of the machinery casing, both red-faced and sweating.

“We got the engine room closed up tight, and we’re flooding the space with CO2,” Gowan said. “Kind of strange, actually, using something designed to fight an engine room fire to prevent it from happening to begin with. But whatever works, right?”

“Whatever works,” Hughes agreed. “That it, then?”

Gowan nodded. “I’m leaving the emergency fire pump running to keep the water curtain on the deckhouse as long as possible. It might not help, but it can’t hurt.”

“Then let’s get out of here while we still can,” Hughes said, and the group took their place at the back of the now short line waiting at the ladder. Hughes was the last one down and took a last long look at
Pecos Trader
as she died a fiery death. It was almost like losing a family member, and he swallowed a lump in his throat and climbed over the rail and onto the ladder.

But his real family waited on the barge, and he gave Laura and the girls a hug as crewmen lowered and stowed the ladder and the
Judy Ann
pulled the barge away from the ship. He left his family and made his way down the length of the barge to climb down one of the push knees to the short foredeck of the
Judy Ann
. From there he made his way up to the wheelhouse.

“Captain Wellesley?” Hughes asked as he stepped into the compact wheelhouse.

Lucius Wellesley extended his hand. “Call me Lucius.”

Hughes took Wellesley’s hand. “Only if you agree to call me Jordan.”

Wellesley smiled. “Deal,” he said. “And it’s nice to meet you face-to-face, Jordan.”

“I expect it was nicer for me,” Hughes said. “Y’all saved our asses.”

Wesley shrugged. “That was those other fellas. I’m just the bus driver.”

“It was a bit more than that, and you know it. But I’ll say I’m grateful and leave it at that,” Hughes said. “You know where we’re going?”

Wellesley nodded. “I’ve been up the Neches a time or two.”

The men fell silent as the
Judy Ann
pushed the barge upriver under Wellesley’s expert hand. In less than five minutes, the river widened dramatically into the expanse of the McFadden Bend Cutoff, home to the US Maritime Administration’s Reserve Fleet. Clusters of empty, unmanned ships, most far beyond their useful economic life, floated moored together in groups, held in reserve against a far different, and now unlikely, type of national emergency.

Wellesley nodded to starboard. “Which one?”

Hughes pointed. “We may as well check out the biggest group.”

Wellesley nodded and steered toward a group of ten ships of various types and sizes moored side by side near the center of the wide expanse of water. He moved in slowly, looking for the best place to put the barge alongside.

Hughes studied the aging ships as they approached, his seaman’s eye focusing laser-like on spots of bleeding rust and other signs of indifferent maintenance. He shook his head and sighed.

“Welcome to home, sweet home,” he said under his breath.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Bear Mountain Bridge

Hudson River—West Bank

Appalachian Trail

Mile 1400 Northbound

One Day Earlier

Day 32, 6:35 p.m.

Wiggins moved the last few feet through the thick woods and stopped at the six-foot-high wooden fence, Tex at his side. They’d left the Honda hidden in the woods almost a mile away while they checked out the bridge approach.

Wiggins grasped the top of the fence and pulled himself up a few inches to peek over the top, holding himself there a few moments to study the approach before lowering himself back down to stand beside Tex.

“Well?” Tex said.

“It’s manned all right,” Wiggins said. “But I’d have been amazed if it wasn’t.”

“FEMA?”

Wiggins shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s more like an ambush setup. There are cars parked haphazardly, like they stalled, with a zigzag gap through them about a car-width wide. It looks passable, but you’d have to take it dead slow. Whoever is manning the roadblock is staying out of sight between the pillars of the tollbooth. I spotted an elbow sticking out from behind one and what looked like cigarette smoke drifting up from behind another, so there’s at least two of them. I’m thinking freelance. FEMA will likely get around to it sooner or later, but they’re probably concentrating on the interstate crossings up- and downstream. This is about the most remote crossing we’re likely to find.”

“Maybe we can buy our way across,” Tex said.

Wiggins shook his head. “More likely they’ll kill us and take everything we have. And I doubt there’s only two of them. On a positive note, if this end is blocked, the other side is probably open. We need to watch a while before we figure out what to do. Let’s pile some deadfall and rocks against the fence to stand on.”

Tex nodded, and they set to work. Ten minutes later, they had a serviceable if somewhat rickety platform, which allowed them both to peer over the fence at the tollbooth fifty yards away. They didn’t have to wait long.

Three bicyclists approached from the west: a middle-aged couple and a teenage girl of perhaps sixteen. All had bulging packs on the handlebars of their bikes, and all looked dirty and road weary. The man and woman wore sidearms.

The man held out his hand and stopped in the road, eying the blocked tollbooth warily. There was conversation, and the woman pointed to the gap between the cars. The man nodded, then drew his pistol and started forward alone, steering with his left hand.

As he neared the tollbooth, there was a sharp crack, and his head exploded in a geyser of blood. He dropped the pistol and rolled forward a few feet before death overcame inertia and the bike toppled over.

Two rough-looking men in camo leaped from behind the tollbooth pillars, both bearing ARs pointed towards the woman and the girl.

“RUN, CARLY,” the woman screamed, clawing at her holster, obviously intent upon covering her daughter’s escape.

“She does, she’s gonna have a big hole in her,” said a voice behind the woman.

She spun, leveling her gun at a third man ten yards behind them, with a shotgun leveled at her daughter.

“Drop that shotgun and get out of the way, or I’ll kill you,” the woman said.

The bearded man laughed. “Maybe you will, but the question is, can you put me down before I pull the trigger and blow a great big hole in Carly here? And even if you do, don’t you figure my friends are gonna kill you? And they’ll be pissed you killed me. Too bad there won’t be anybody but Carly here to take it out on. So go ahead and shoot, bitch.”

Wiggins watched the woman’s shoulders slump; then she slowly lowered the gun. The man was on her in a heartbeat, backhanding her so violently the gun flew from her grasp and she went down in a tangle with the bike between her legs. The girl screamed and scrambled off her bike to help her mother, but the men from the toll booth dragged her away to duct-tape her hands behind her as the third man knelt and did the same to the fallen woman.

Wiggins heard footsteps on the pavement to his right and saw four men running toward the action from a stately stone building across a narrow parking lot.

“Well, what have we got here?” said the first to arrive. “A little feminine company for the night.”