Scott Williams - The Pulse

When they came to the edge of the no man’s land of empty, grassy space surrounding the airport, they found the expected perimeter fencing, a 12-foot-high, chain-link barrier with three strands of barbed wire at the top. Very conspicuous “No Trespassing” signs were wired to the fence at closely spaced intervals that no one could miss. Though they could have walked around the perimeter of the airport property and perhaps found a way into the long-term parking lot where Artie had left his car, they had decided in advance that would take too long and expose them to too many opportunities to be seen by people who might be on the nearby road. Going through the fence and proceeding in the most direct route was the best option. Airport security would have been out of commission since the first day after the event, and worrying about trespassers on that kind of property would be the last thing on anyone’s mind now.

Artie took the wire cutters out of the backpack and went to work on the fence while Scully kept watch with the shotgun. As far as they could tell, there was no sign of life around the airport. Once they were inside the fence, they continued east, staying in the grassy perimeters of the property beyond the runways. Passing the terminals, they could see the outlines of the buildings and grounded jets that had been stranded when the pulse hit. They were too far away to see the details, and didn’t want to pass any closer to the buildings than necessary, in case there were people still holing up in them. The walk to the parking area took nearly fifteen minutes, and in the darkness, Artie had to stop and try to get his bearings in order to remember the approximate location where he’d left his silver Chevy Tahoe.

As they made their way through the hundreds of vehicles parked there, he was surprised to see that only a few of them had smashed windows. But then it made sense that most looters would focus their attention elsewhere, as vehicles parked long-term at the airport would be unlikely to contain food or money. When he finally spotted his own, he was relieved to see that all the glass was intact. Knowing the electronic door opener on his key ring would be useless, he inserted the metal key into the door lock instead.

“Nice truck, dis,” Scully whispered.

“It was at one time. I guess it’s just a useless pile of junk now, like all the rest of these overpriced vehicles.”

Artie slid behind the wheel into the driver’s seat and unlocked the glove compartment. He was certain the pistol was still there, because not only was the compartment locked but so were his doors, with no glass broken. He felt around under the owner’s manual packet and then pulled everything in the compartment out in disbelief. The pistol was gone! He was absolutely certain it had been there when he left the vehicle to check in for his flight, as he had consciously put his hands on it and covered it up with the manual before closing and locking the compartment door and getting out.

“Give me one of those flashlights, Scully!” he whispered. Turning it on, but keeping a hand cupped over most of the end of it to minimize the chances of it being seen from a distance, he directed the beam around the vehicle, onto the passenger seat and passenger side floorboard. Nothing else was out of place. Artie opened the lid to the center console compartment, despite knowing for certain that he had not put the pistol in there. As soon as he lifted it, a folded piece of notebook paper lying on top of his CDs and everything else he kept in there caught his eye. He took it out and turned it over to reveal what it could possibly be, knowing he had not left anything like that there.

His heart nearly stopped when saw that it was a letter and read the opening salutation: “Dear Daddy.” Casey had been here! It was a letter from Casey! “Scully! She was here!” he whispered, barely able to contain himself from shouting out loud. “Hold on… let me see what she said.” He continued reading.

I don’t know if you will ever read this or not, but if you somehow find a way to make it back to New Orleans, I know you will be worried to death about me and will be looking for me everywhere. My friend Grant is leaving this in your car in case you couldn’t get to my apartment for some reason and find the note I left for you there. If you read this before I see you again, I won’t be here on the campus or even in the city. Things have gotten really bad here just one day after the lights went out. Jessica and I are leaving with Grant, who was here through Katrina and says that it would be far too dangerous to stay here with no power. He says that if we don’t get out now, we may not be able to. My car won’t start, of course, and hardly anybody has one that will. We are going to leave later this afternoon on our bicycles, because riding them is much faster than walking. Grant’s family owns a cabin in the woods not far across the state line in Mississippi. He says we will be safe there, and I believe him. It is on a secluded river called the Bogue Chitto, and they have a well and lots of food and other gear stored there. He says we can stay there as long as it takes for the power to be restored. He drew a map that will tell you how to get there in case you find this before the power comes on. The map is on the back of this page. We won’t be coming back here (until/unless?) that happens.

I have been thinking about you all the time since this happened and worrying about you out there on that boat, but I know you are with Uncle Larry and I’m sure he knows what to do and that you two are okay, wherever you are. I love you, Daddy, and I can’t wait to see you again!

Artie’s hands were trembling as he read the last line. There was another note at the bottom of the page, written in a different handwriting that he knew was not Casey’s.

Dear Dr. Drager:

I hope to get to meet you someday soon, I’ve heard a lot about you from your daughter. I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to keep her and Jessica safe. That’s why we’re going to my parents’ cabin in Mississippi. It is far off the beaten path and safe from the looters and desperate people who will soon be going crazy anywhere near the cities. I came here to leave this note for Casey before we get on our way. I hope you don’t mind, but I found your .22 pistol and a box of ammo in the glove box. I know how to use it, so I borrowed it, because it is dangerous to travel now and I thought it would be a good idea to have it. I know it’s unlikely you will be able to get here and read this, but I wanted you to know I will take care of it until I can meet you someday soon and return it to you in person.

Artie turned the letter over and for the first time saw the drawing on the back of the piece of paper. It was a map, just as Casey had said, roughly sketched, but with carefully printed labels in Grant’s hand identifying roads along the route, which led north over the Causeway to the other side of Lake Pontchartrain, and continued on beyond the state line. Artie looked at the squiggly line denoting a river and the tiny square that showed the cabin. It was at the end of a long private lane that was labeled “dirt,” which in turn was at the far end of a curvy country road labeled “gravel.” In the margin, Grant had made a note that the approximate distance from Tulane to the cabin was 90 miles.

“Ninety miles!” Artie whispered to Scully. “She says she and Jessica left here on their bicycles with a guy friend of theirs, heading for his parents’ cabin 90 miles to the north, on a remote river in Mississippi. They took my pistol for protection. They say they left the day after the lights went out.”

“I t’ink she and Jessica smart girls, dem. Goin’ to de river, dem havin’ watah to drink, an’ in de bush like dat, dem got some place to hide. Dis New Orleans dangerous place, mon.”