Scott Williams - The Pulse

Artie was growing more anxious and restless the more of this he heard. “Did you hear anything about what was going on down in the Garden District, or around Tulane?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t been in that area at all since the lights went out. All I know is there are fires everywhere and for days there was so much gunfire it sounded like a war zone. It’s got to be bad down there. It’s bad all over the city.”

“Have you heard any news from other parts of the country?” Larry asked. “Does anyone know for sure what this event was, and exactly how widespread it was?”

“Everyone says it was a cataclysmic solar flare. They say it was something scientists have been claiming could happen for years, but few people really took seriously. There are rumors that some people have been in contact by ham radio with operators in Europe and Asia and that there was some damage there, but nothing like in North America, and from what you guys are saying, in the islands too. I don’t know where I’ll go from here now. I had thought about trying to make it down to the Caribbean myself, but if nothing’s different there, I don’t know now.”

“We’ll probably head south again ourselves,” Larry said, “only not to the eastern Caribbean, but down to the Yucatán, or maybe somewhere among the islands off the Mosquito Coast.”

“That sounds good. I hadn’t thought of that,” Craig said. “Hey, I know I’m not going back to New Orleans any time soon, if ever. I’m sure you have charts on board for these waters, but I just remembered, I’ve got a street map of the city and a Louisiana state road map. They might come in handy if you don’t already have them.”

“That’s fantastic!” Artie said. “I’ve got a map of New Orleans, but it’s in my car, of course, and that is parked at the airport.”

“Those will be much appreciated,” Larry said. “As you know, nautical charts show almost nothing of the details on land, and we’ve got to come up with a plan for quickly getting in and out of the Tulane area to look for Casey, without wandering around guessing which is the best route.”

“It’s the least I can do, guys. I really appreciate your taking the time to help me out of this bind. I don’t know if I would have ever gotten the boat off without your help.”

The next morning, Artie, Scully and Larry said goodbye to Craig, who was now securely anchored in deep water and had decided to stay at Ship Island for the time being, at least as long as it was safe there. They sailed off the anchor and headed west in the Mississippi Sound, passing to the north side of Cat Island, another large barrier island in the chain that protected the mainland coast. Their destination was a pass into Lake Pontchartrain called the Rigolets. After discussing all the options with Craig, and studying his city street map, they decided that the safest way to look for Casey was to make use of the many man-made canals that penetrated the city from Lake Pontchartrain. Larry could wait safely offshore in the lake with the boat while Artie and Scully paddled into the city in the kayak at night, keeping a low profile and hopefully remaining out of reach of the dangers that they imagined plagued every street. The canal that would take them closest to the university area emptied into the lake near West End Park, right around the corner from the marina where Craig had kept his boat. They decided that before going there, they would first paddle up a smaller canal to the west of the Causeway—one that would take them right to the New Orleans International Airport where Artie’s car was parked, and, he hoped, still locked, with his .22 pistol in the glove compartment.

“I know it’s going to take some extra time,” Larry said when Artie protested, “but having an opportunity to grab another weapon, any weapon, is not something we can afford to pass up. You know what we’ve already been through, and you heard what Craig said. I think you and Scully need to take both my shotgun and your pistol for your trip to Tulane. You’re going to need every advantage you can get.”

Grant glanced over his shoulder one last time before they reached the canebrake where they’d left Casey with the hidden bikes. The solitary canoeist was disappearing from sight far down the river, carried swiftly by the current and his steady, practiced paddle stroke. Grant was envious that his destination lay downstream, while theirs entailed nothing but a struggle to go upstream. He steered the bow into the mud at the best landing spot and held the canoe against the bank by jamming his paddle into the bottom.

“Okay, you can step out now, then I’ll get out and pull it up on the bank.”

Jessica stepped ashore and immediately called out to announce their success: “Hey Casey! Guess what? We got a canoe!”

“Hey! Keep it down!” Grant whispered. “We don’t want anyone who might be crossing the bridge to know we’re down here.”

“Oh, sorry!” Jessica whispered back. She called Casey’s name again, this time in a quieter voice. When there was no answer, she turned back to Grant. “Where is she?”

Grant got out of the canoe and pulled the bow up far enough to tie it off to a small riverside bush. He pushed past Jessica into the dense cane to find the bikes just as they’d left them. “She probably walked over in the woods nearby to use the bathroom or something,” Grant said, then he called out to her too, in a loud whisper: “Casey! We’re back.”

Jessica joined him and looked at the bikes. “Hey, look, Grant. Her backpack is gone.”

“She must have taken it with her, then. I told her to keep the gun handy. She shouldn’t be far, though, because I told her we’d be back in about an hour, and we were. Let’s take a look around, but no more yelling, okay?”

“All right. She can’t be far. I know I wouldn’t wander off far into these woods alone, and I can’t imagine that Casey would either.”

Grant grabbed his machete and led the way out of the canebrake and back to the open area under the bridge. Casey was nowhere in sight. When they reached the sandy area at the end of the dirt access road that led up to the highway, he examined the ground and pointed out the footprints the three of them had made coming down the hill, as well as the tracks made by the bicycle tires as they had pushed them along. He walked closer to the river and then waved Jessica over to look at something else.

“She went this way,” he said, pointing at a separate set of tracks leading under the bridge along the sandbar that made up the riverbank here. The tracks were so obvious in the rain-swept sand that Jessica probably would have seen them too, if it had occurred to her to look for footprints at all. Grant said he’d learned a bit about tracking from the hunters he’d spent time with in Guyana, so it was second nature to him to try to figure out where Casey had gone by the trail she would have had to leave, especially in all this open sand, which he said was the easiest kind of terrain for finding and following footprints.

As they walked the route she’d taken upriver, Grant called Casey’s name several times in a slightly louder voice than he’d warned Jessica about before. After they passed under the bridge, it was obvious that no one else had come down to the river from the road, as there were no new tracks other than their own. But the farther Casey’s trail led upstream, the more surprised Grant was that she would walk so far alone when she was supposed to be watching the bikes. Once the bend in the river took them beyond sight of the bridge, he suddenly saw the reason she had come here. Hanging on a branch at the edge of the woods was a pair of black panties and a white sports bra. Casey’s New Balance walking shoes were sitting side by side on a log near the branch, her socks spread out next to them, along with her open backpack and a bottle of shampoo.