The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid (26 page)

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Authors: Scott B. Williams

BOOK: The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid
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“I
am
armed, and I intend to stay that way,” Grant said. “I’m really grateful you told me they were confiscating weapons at the roadblock, though. We won’t attempt it now.”
“Well, I hope y’all have good luck trying to find some place to go. I’d give you a ride somewhere, but as you can see, we’re loaded down. Don’t know really what we’ll do, but my wife’s got some friends that’s got a place out in the country a bit north of Hammond. I reckon we’ll go there and see if they’ll let us camp out on their property. I’ve just barely got enough gas left to get there.”
“Good luck to you too. I hope it works out that you can stay there. I’ve got a couple of alternate ideas, and the info you gave me helps a lot.”
The man put the pickup back in gear and drove off. Grant turned to Casey and Jessica, who were expectantly looking at him, waiting to see what he had to say about all this.
“Can you believe that? Confiscating guns, closing a state line to non-residents…this is crazy. It’s like I told you before about New Orleans after Katrina. The cops there were going around collecting weapons, even from innocent citizens who only had them in their homes for self-protection.”
“So now we can’t even try to cross the state line,” Casey said.
“Why not?” Jessica asked. “We won’t need a gun when we get to the cabin, will we? I mean, I know it’s your dad’s gun and all, but we could just buy him a new one later, after all this is over, couldn’t we?”
“That’s not the issue,” Grant said. “Right now, in this situation, any gun is priceless and cannot be replaced for any amount of money. We can’t risk losing it. And yes, we may well need it for self-defense, even at the cabin, and if not for that, then certainly for small game hunting.”
Jessica was exasperated. “So a gun is the reason we can’t try to cross the border. What are we going to do, then?”
“It’s not just about the gun, Jessica. It’s clear that they wouldn’t let us in anyway. They turned that guy down and he has a wife and small boy with him, not to mention that he’s
from
Mississippi, even if he doesn’t live there now. Besides that, there’s no telling what those lawmen will decide to do next. They’re obviously on a power trip and are making up new rules on their own. Like the man said, you two attract a lot of attention, even if you do look like a couple of soaking wet rag dolls right about now.”
Casey smiled. The rain was letting up so there was hope they wouldn’t have to stay soaking wet much longer. “So what is the alternative, if we can’t even
attempt
to cross the state line?” she asked.
“I didn’t say we couldn’t attempt to cross it. I just said we can’t risk trying that roadblock, or any other roadblock for that matter. That means we won’t be crossing into Mississippi by road.”
“So how are we supposed to get there, then?” Jessica asked.
“The river. I’ve been thinking about it since we left Franklinton. The river goes right to the cabin, and nobody will be watching it because there’s nothing but woods where it crosses the state line. In fact, it’s so remote between bridges you really don’t have any way of knowing that you’ve crossed from one state to another.”
“What do we do, walk along the banks pushing the bikes or something?” Casey asked.
“No, that would be impossible. You couldn’t walk the banks at all, much less with a bicycle. It’s too swampy and the undergrowth is far too dense. It’s almost like a jungle, in fact, and you’d need a machete to go a hundred yards. It would take days to walk it and in places you’d have to wade or swim across sloughs and side creeks. Nope, we can’t walk it, we’ve got to go by canoe, that’s the only way.”
“But where are we supposed to get a canoe?”
“I’m not a hundred percent certain, but I think I have a pretty good idea. But first we have to keep going north just a few more miles. Then we’ll turn back west on the last road that crosses the river on the Louisiana side of the state line.”
They continued riding on Highway 25 into an increasingly rural setting, where large pine plantations and other wooded areas outnumbered pastures and clearings. The turn-off to the west that Grant wanted to take was less than a mile south of where 25 crossed the state line and became Mississippi State Highway 27. In the flat, wooded terrain, though, it was impossible to see that far, so despite their curiosity about the roadblock, Grant led them west onto Highway 438, the northernmost east-west road in Louisiana to bridge the Bogue Chitto, and the closest river access to the cabin on this side of the state line.
It was only a short ride on 438 to the river from the turnoff, and when they reached the east end of the bridge, Grant pulled over on the wide gravel shoulder and dismounted. There was a deeply rutted dirt and gravel access lane leading down the steep bank and curving out of sight under the bridge. The river was wide here, flanked by heavy woods on either side, and swollen above normal levels by the rain of the past two days, its current running strong, especially in midstream.
“Let’s push our bikes down the bank and get them out of sight of the road, in case someone comes along.”
“Wow, this river is bigger than I thought,” Casey said. “From the way you described it, I thought it was more of a creek.”
“It is, normally. The rain’s got it up. It rises fast in rains like this, but goes down fast too. It looks like the rain is about over now, and if it is, the river will be back to normal in a couple of days or so. It’s a lot nicer when it’s lower. The sandbars in this stretch are normally a lot wider, but you can’t see all of them because they are partially underwater right now.”
“How could anybody paddle a canoe upstream against that?” Jessica asked. She had never been canoeing, but remembered how hard it was to paddle against the wind when she and Casey were out playing on Larry’s kayak during their island vacation the summer before.
“You can’t go against the main current,” Grant said. “But you can play the eddies close to the bank, get out and pull it in some shallow places, and use a pole to push off the bottom in others. It’s doable, you’ll see.”
“But I still don’t see any canoes, Grant,” Casey said. “Where do you plan to get one?”
“Downstream. There’s a camp not too far up below the bridge on this side of the river. I remember seeing it last time I paddled this stretch from our cabin and we took out down in Franklinton. There must be a private road leading to it from somewhere off of Highway 25, I’m not sure, but it’s one of those really nice weekend getaway camps, not a full-time residence. Probably owned by someone in New Orleans or Baton Rouge. I remember seeing a separate boathouse up on the high bank next to it, with a whole rack of canoes in it. I seriously doubt whoever owns that camp was able to get here after the lights went out. It’s probably vacant unless someone local is using it.”
“You’re not thinking of stealing a canoe, are you?”
“Not stealing—buying. I wouldn’t do it if they just had one, but there must have been at least six in that boathouse. I figure our three bikes are worth a lot more than one canoe, and besides, after all this is over we can bring it back and maybe even get our bikes back. But we sure don’t need them as bad as we need a canoe right now.”
“How will you ask them to trade if no one’s home?” Jessica asked.
“I don’t plan to ask, and I’m counting on the odds that no one will be home. We can’t get these bikes through all the undergrowth downstream to the camp anyway. I figure we can hide them somewhere partway up there and leave a note for the owners of the canoe, telling them where to find them, and explaining what we did.”
“Isn’t that still stealing, in a way?” Casey asked.
“It’s survival, Casey. If we don’t find a way to get to my cabin soon, we’re going to be out of food and in real trouble. Do you have a better idea?”
“No, I guess not. I just don’t want to get in trouble, and I don’t want to get shot by somebody for trespassing and stealing from them.”
“We’ll be extremely careful. Here’s what I had in mind. I’ll need one of you to go with me to help me carry the canoe down the bank and paddle it back up to here. Someone needs to stay behind with the bikes and our gear just in case we can’t get a canoe and still need them. Casey, I think that should be you, since you know how to use your dad’s pistol. I’ll leave it with you and take Jessica with me to get the canoe.”
“Shouldn’t we all just go look for it?” Jessica asked. “Can’t we just hide the bikes and our other stuff?”
“We’ll hide everything, but I’ll still feel better if one of us is with it. It shouldn’t take more than an hour to get there and get back with the canoe, assuming we can find paddles, which should be stored in the boathouse too. We’ve got to be quiet. If we all go, it will be harder to sneak up to the cabin, just on the off chance someone
is
home.”
“I’ll stay,” Casey said, “but in case someone is there, don’t you need to take the gun with you?”
“No, I hardly want to get into a gunfight with the owner. If anyone’s around, we’ll forget the whole thing. But I don’t want you staying here alone near the bridge unarmed. Someone could come down to the river at any time. Let’s get the bikes out of sight, and all you have to do is sit tight and wait. We’ll be as quick as possible.”
When they had rolled the bikes into a patch of tall river cane where they could not be seen from the bridge or the dirt lane leading under it, Grant set out, picking his way through the woods downstream, with Jessica following him. He carried his machete, but didn’t want to make noise by cutting vines and brush out of their path, so they had to weave their way through the worst of the undergrowth. The rain had turned all areas of the bank that were not sand into mud, making the walking difficult, but because everything was so wet, they were able to move quietly without the worry of crackling leaves or snapping twigs.
Grant was beginning to wonder if his memory was playing tricks on them by the time they had worked their way maybe a half mile down the river. Then they came to a clearing in the riverside forest, and carefully approaching the edge while staying in the cover of the trees, he saw that it was the camp he remembered. The cabin, which was as big as many regular houses, was situated on a clay bluff that overlooked the river from maybe 20 feet up. He could see the boathouse on the other side of it. It would be too risky to simply walk out across the open yard to it, as they would have to walk right past the front of the house to reach the canoes and it was impossible to tell if anyone was home or not. He whispered to Jessica and she followed him as he began to circle the property, staying out of sight within the edge of the woods as they worked their way all the way around to the other side to the boathouse.
When they crossed the gravel driveway leading into the house from the east, Grant could see no sign that anyone was there. They waited and watched for a few minutes, and when he was completely satisfied that they were alone, they walked to the boathouse and, much to his delight, found the canoes on the racks he’d remembered, overlooking the river from the bank where he’d seen them as he’d floated past over a year ago. Four of them were well-used Grumman 17-foot aluminum canoes, the kind that was popular with canoe rental outfitters for their durability and low maintenance. One was a short solo canoe made by Mad River, and the other was a 16-foot Kevlar-hulled Mohawk. The Mohawk was the best of the lot, but a little small for three adults. All of the canoes were locked to the wooden racks with light chains and padlocks. Grant selected one of the Grummans that looked to be in the best shape, and, with his machete, easily liberated it from the chains by simply hacking through the two-by-fours they were passed around. Jessica helped him set it outside, then he picked out three decent wooden paddles and a spare, as well as three life jackets, and put all these in the canoe. This done, he hastily scribbled out a note explaining his actions and describing the location of the bicycles. He didn’t mention their destination in the canoe, of course, and figured anyone would assume it was downstream somewhere anyway, as no one in these parts ever paddled upstream. He wedged the note into a gash he cut in the canoe rack and looked around the shed one more time. One item that looked too tempting to pass up was one of a dozen fishing rods and reels hanging on one wall. He grabbed one and also found a small tackle box with a few artificial lures and hooks in it.
“You don’t eat fish, either, do you, Jessica?”
“No. I used to, when I was growing up, but not since I became a vegetarian.”
“We’re getting pretty low on supplies, and I don’t know how long it’s going to take to buck that current up to the cabin. We may be reduced to what we can catch before long. I hope you don’t get hungry.”
“I’ll be all right,” Jessica said. “I don’t eat much anyway.”
Grant dropped the topic. He felt certain Jessica would be changing her diet sooner than she thought, but there was no point in pressing it now. Satisfied that he had what they needed for the trip, he was ready to get the canoe to the river and get going. There was a path winding down from the boathouse to a small deck built at the water’s edge; it had turned to slippery mud after two days of rain. By the time they got the canoe to the bottom of the high bank, both of them had slipped and fallen and had gotten mud smeared all over the knees and seats of their pants. Grant pushed the bow of the canoe into the river pointing upstream, and held it steady so Jessica could step in.

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