Peter Hernon - 8.4

He had both engines running full open and was barely making headway.

“Damn, take a look downstream,” he said. “Here’s trouble.”

Riding low in the water, three dark shapes emerged from the gloom. Barges. They’d come around a bend in the river and were bearing down on the ferry. One of them was on fire.

“Oil barges,” Marsden said. “There’s a fleeting area a couple miles downstream on the Missouri side. One of the big fuel tanks probably blew up and set them on fire. I thought I heard an explosion a while back. They must have broken their moorings and floated upriver.”

The barges were spread out far enough to make it difficult to maneuver around them. It would be like running an obstacle course.

“I’m gonna try to steer through them,” he said.

“Do you have enough power?” Atkins asked. He’d noticed how the engines were laboring. They sounded ready to burn up.

Marsden shrugged. “Let’s hope so, son.” He made a slow, careful turn, trying not to lose control in the strong current.

“Come on, Agnes, ” he said softly. “You can do this for me.”

The ferry was handling better. Working the wheel and throttles, Marsden skillfully maneuvered out of the way of the lead barge, which was burning from two hatches.

“We’ve got another problem here,” Marsden said, playing the controls like a keyboard, hands flying. The other two barges were still heading toward them. They’d drifted apart. The closest one was bearing down on them on a collision course.

“That’s getting pretty close,” Atkins said, measuring the distance with his eye. The barge was about one hundred yards away and rapidly closing.

“I’m gonna need a little more power, Agnes. You got to put out for me, old girl.” Marsden was wrestling the wheel. The engines were wide open. He cut a look at Atkins. “I’m not sure I can get out of the way.”

THE CAR WAS CREEPING AT A SNAIL’S PACE UP THE middle of the ramp. Lauren saw the driver hunched behind the wheel. An old woman.

“Stop!” she screamed.

Running down to meet the car, she grabbed the door handle and managed to pull it open. The woman still gripped the steering wheel. Running next to the car, Lauren pushed in next to her and got a foot on the brake pedal. The car finally stopped. Lauren jammed on the emergency brake.

“Didn’t you see the bridge was out?” she said, angrily turning toward the woman. She’d almost gotten both of them killed.

The old woman sat there, not moving. She wore a winter coat and had a green stocking cap pulled low over her eyes.

“Are you all right?” Lauren asked.

“I guess so,” the woman said. “I don’t see too well at night anymore. Cataracts.”

I guess not, Lauren thought. She noticed that the woman’s glasses were as thick as soda bottles.

“What were you trying to do?” Lauren asked, feeling her anger drain away.

“Girl, don’t you know we’ve had an earthquake?” the woman said. “I was trying to get out of town and must have got myself turned around.” In the dim light, the woman looked at least eighty years old. Her eyes were cloudy, and she had gray skin like etched leather.

“My name’s Milly Drew,” the woman said. “I’d be obliged if you’d drive me home. I should never have tried a stunt like this. I guess I just got scared.”

The ramp swayed in one of the repeated aftershocks.

“Bobby, get in Missus Drew’s car,” Lauren said, opening the back door. Her grandson scrambled in.

Lauren moved into the driver’s seat. She backed down the approach ramp and got the car turned around. She recognized the model—a 1963 Chevrolet Impala. She’d learned to drive in one. But this looked brand-new. White exterior, red seats.

“The car belonged to my boy,” the woman said. “He died some years back, and I never got around to selling it. My husband’s dead, too. He was a smoker.”

“Where do you live?” Lauren asked.

“On Old Benton Road near Interstate 24,” the woman said.

It was close, a couple miles.

Lauren hit the gas pedal and the car instantly shot forward. The acceleration almost took her breath away. Then she noticed the crossed-flags emblem on the steering wheel. It was a 327.

Mrs. Drew had a muscle car.

Lauren turned onto Route 62, heading away from downtown Paducah. Five minutes later she pulled into the driveway of the woman’s home. It was a one-story white frame house that looked beautifully maintained. A front window was broken and the porch sagged, but the place didn’t look badly damaged.

“I’ll be all right,” the old woman said. “I’ve got plenty of food and a daughter who lives in town. I don’t know how I can ever repay you for what you did.”

Lauren hesitated, then said what had been on her mind ever since she’d stopped the car on the bridge.

“There is something you can do, Milly. Let me borrow this car for a couple days.”

“Honey, you can have the damn thing,” the woman said. Lauren promised to pay her. “You’re sure you’ll be all right here alone?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about me,” the woman said. “I hope that old car gets you where you want to go.”

Bobby helped the woman climb up her front steps. They left her there, sitting in a swing chair on the porch wrapped in an overcoat and wearing her green cap. She waved to them as Lauren backed out of the driveway.

A few minutes later they were racing down Route 62, headed due west for Heath and her parents’ home.

Paducah was burning behind them. Lauren could see the glow of the fires in the rearview mirror. The road was in bad shape, and there was more traffic, people trying to get out any way they could. Many of them were driving like maniacs. Several cars lay overturned on the side of the road.

“Someone’s hurt back there,” Bobby said as they passed another wrecked car.

Lauren had seen two bodies lying in the grass. She didn’t slow down.

She was grateful for the big Chevrolet. It was fast enough to keep them out of trouble. The pavement was badly damaged, and some of the cracks were two and three feet wide. She had to slow down and pull around them.

They were almost to Heath when she ran into the first roadblock. Several cars were pulled to the side. Two cops with red flashlights flagged her down and told her to turn around. The road was closed. Something had gone wrong at the uranium plant, one of them said.

Lauren was vaguely familiar with the plant, which processed enriched uranium for weapons and nuclear reactors. It covered nearly forty acres.

Like most from the area, Lauren didn’t know the specifics of what went on there and didn’t wait for the cops to explain what was wrong. She gunned the Chevy and roared away, laying a long black streak of rubber on the pavement.

She ran into the next roadblock four miles later. It was on the outskirts of Heath. This time the men were heavily armed and had a barrier across the road. There were five or six of them, and they were dressed in strange-looking coveralls.

“What’s that over their faces?” Bobby asked.

They were wearing gas masks.

THE FIRST STRONG TREMOR HAD JOLTED GOVERNOR Tad Parker and his wife out of their bed in the third-floor bedroom of the governor’s mansion. A heavy mahogany bookcase crashed to the floor, narrowly missing Parker’s head. He was vaguely aware of his wife’s screams.

Parker tried to stand, but the shaking sent him sprawling. He tried again and was upended so violently it knocked the wind out of him.

Frankfort, the capital of Kentucky, was about 230 miles northeast of Memphis and roughly midway between Louisville and Lexington. All three cities had felt the earthquake that had struck Memphis three days earlier. There had been a lot of property damage, mainly cracked foundations and fallen chimneys, but no one had been killed.