“Help me,” he moaned.
A hand, heaven-sent, reached down. Up and into the truck he went, tumbling over bodies as the vehicle shot forward. A syncopation of bone-jarring bangs followed as the truck sailed out of the building and down the steps. Through the fog of terror and confusion, Brian Elacqua experienced a revelation: his life had been unworthy. It might not have begun that way—he’d meant to be a good and decent man—but over the years he had strayed far from the path. If I get out of this, he thought, I won’t ever touch a drink again.
Which was how, sixteen hours later, Brian Elacqua came to find himself on a school bus of 87 women and children, deep in the physical and existential sorrows of acute alcohol withdrawal. It was still early morning, the light soft, with a golden color. He had, with many others, watched from the window as the city faded, then disappeared from sight. He wasn’t completely sure where they were going. There was talk of a ship that would take them to safety, though he found this difficult to fathom. Why had he, of all people, a man who had squandered his life, the most worthless of worthless drunks, survived? Seated on the bench beside him was a little girl with strawberry-blond hair, tied in back with a ribbon. He supposed she was four or five. She was wearing a loose dress of thick woven fiber; her feet were dirty and bare, covered with numerous scratches and scabs. At her waist she clutched a ratty stuffed toy, some kind of animal, a bear or maybe a dog. She had yet to acknowledge him in any manner, her eyes staring forward. “Where are your parents, honey?” Elacqua asked. “Why are you alone?” “Because they’re dead,” the little girl stated. She did not look at him as she spoke. “They’re all dead.”
And with that, Brian Elacqua dropped his face to his hands, his body shaking with tears.
At the wheel of the first bus, Caleb was watching the clock. The hour was approaching noon; they had been on the road a little more than four hours. Pim and Theo sat behind him with the girls. He was down to half a tank; they planned to stop in Rosenberg, where a tanker from the isthmus would meet them to refuel. The bus was quiet; no one was talking. Lulled by the rocking of the chassis, most of the children had fallen asleep.
They had passed through the last of the outer townships when the radio crackled: “Pull over, everyone. Looks like we’ve lost one.”
Caleb brought the bus to a halt and stepped down as his father, Chase and Amy emerged from the lead Humvee. One of the buses, the fourth in line, was parked with its hood open. Steam and liquid were pouring from its radiator.
Hollis was standing on the bumper, slapping at the engine with a rag. “I think it’s the water pump.”
“Can you do anything about it?” Caleb’s father said. “It’d have to be fast.”
Hollis jumped down. “No chance. These old things aren’t built for this. I’m surprised it’s taken this long for one to conk out.”
“As long as we’re stopped,” Sara suggested, “probably the children need to go.”
“Go where?”
“To the bathroom, Peter.”
Caleb’s father sighed impatiently. Any minute of delay was a minute they’d be driving in darkness at the other end. “Just watch for snakes. That’s all we need right now.”
The children filed off and were led into the weeds, girls on one side of the buses, boys on the other. By the time the convoy was ready to move again, they had been stopped for twenty minutes. A hot Texas wind was blowing. It was 0130 hours, the sun poised above them like the head of a hammer in the sky.
The patch was complete, the dock ready to fill. Michael, Lore, and Rand, in one of six pump houses along the weir, were preparing to open the vents to the sea. Greer was gone, headed with Patch to Rosenberg in the last tanker truck.
“Shouldn’t we say something?” Lore asked Michael.
“How about ‘Please open, you bastard’?”
The wheel had not been turned in seventeen years.
“That’ll have to do,” said Lore.
Michael wedged a pry bar between the spokes; Lore was holding a mallet. Michael and Rand gripped the bar and leaned in.
“Hit it now.”
Lore, positioned to the side, swung the mallet. It glanced off the top of the rim.
“For God’s sake.” Michael’s jaws were clenched, his face reddened with effort. “Hit the bastard.”
Blow after blow: still the wheel refused to turn
“This isn’t great,” Rand said.
“Let me try,” said Lore.
“How’s that going to help?” Then, when Lore just stared at him, he stepped aside. “Suit yourself.”
Lore left the pry bar where it was, gripping the wheel instead.
“You’ve got no leverage,” Rand said. “That’ll never work.”
Lore ignored him. She planted her feet wide. The muscles in her arms tightened, thick ropes stretched over bone.