FOUR

He woke to bird songs. Angela was pulling her watch, sitting in a chair and looking out on the marsh.

“Do you always sleep with that gun?” she asked.

He explained how he started doing that after they killed his father.

“It makes me feel safe,” he said.

He did not tell her about his father sleeping with the machine gun. She would not understand. He had never really understood, but now that he had killed the men and his father was dead, he did. It seemed like a normal rational act.

“After Mother and Daddy were killed, I slept with that butcher knife,” she said.

So perhaps she did understand.

“I saw that picture of you with your parents,” she said. “Your mother’s beautiful.”

Josephine had taken the picture of them standing together on the front porch of his house. Early in the summer his father had enlarged it and tacked a print to the wall over his bed. Stephen had wondered why he did that when there were no other pictures of his mother in the house. Over the years other pictures had been taken, but he had not chosen to display any of those.

After breakfast they loaded the airboat. He took plenty of ammunition and all the weapons, along with water, food and fuel. He took a little gas camping stove and some cooking utensils. When he tried out the gps, he found it wouldn’t work. He wondered if it was a problem with the machine or if the service had been blocked or lost. Somewhere in the house was a compass, but he couldn’t find it. He took the radio. The report on the hurricane this morning from the Texas station was that it was going to make landfall somewhere in Mexico. He tried the mystery station but only pulled in static. He had never had much luck with that station during daytime hours.

Before they left, he stood with Angela at his father’s grave. Her parents were unburied, still in the house, their corpses rapidly decomposing in the heat. He hoped she was not thinking about them.

“We should put up a cross,” Angela said.

“He wouldn’t like that,” he said.

“You mean he didn’t believe in God?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“I’ll pray for him.”

She looked down at the grave. He wondered how many people she had seen buried. For him, his father was the first one. She turned to him.

“And you. What do you believe?”

“Same as my father.”

“I’ll pray for you too.”

It seemed to him she was going to be wasting her time praying over people who didn’t believe. He didn’t imagine the men he killed believed in much of anything. But he kept all this to himself. He didn’t know exactly what a person was supposed to do when someone said they were going to pray for you and you had made it clear to the person doing the praying that you didn’t believe in that person’s god or any other god.

“Thank you,” he said.

She looked like she was getting ready to say something but changed her mind. She just stood there, looking down at the grave.

Then she spoke.

“Do you think your mother will ever come visit his grave?”

“Probably not,” he said.

He wondered if she was thinking of her parents, lying there rotting in the house. It would be a kindness, he thought, if the vultures came in through, say, a broken window and devoured them. She would return and there would be nothing but clean bones left. Or if the house washed away or burned. That would be good too.

“And you?” she asked.

He told her of his vision of his father’s grave covered by a warm shallow sea.

“I like that,” he said.

“Me too,” she said. “There could be coral. And those fish with all the colors. The water would be very clear.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

He imagined schools of bright-colored fish hovering over his father’s grave. That was a pleasant daydream. But it made him vaguely uncomfortable that she was participating in his vision.

“Sharks too and huge rays,” he said.

“To stand guard on his grave,” she said.

Then he realized they were both becoming too fanciful. And unexpectedly this did not feel like a good cure for grief.

He went to the shed where they kept tools and welding equipment. It was set up on steel pilings just like the house. He used a cutting torch to cut a rectangular piece, about the size of a license plate, out of a sheet of steel. Then he formed his father’s name, WALTER COLE, from pieces of wire and welded the letters to the steel. He welded the plate to a steel pipe and took it out to the grave where he drove it deep in the ground with a sledgehammer.

“No hurricane will bother this,” he said.

“We should say something,” she said.

He went to the house and got his father’s copy of The Iliad, his favorite book. They stood together at the foot of the grave while he read a passage from the account of the funeral of Patroklos. “‘And let us lay his bones in a golden jar…,’” he began. After he finished he felt satisfied. He thought his father would be pleased. But Angela was not pleased or satisfied. She stood there and said some sort of prayer under her breath. He could see her lips moving. He kept his mouth shut and tried to be respectful.

They boarded the airboat, and he started the engine. It ran beautifully. They went out to the flooded road and headed for town. They would be able to pick up the highway to Lake Pontchartrain there. The bodies and the vultures were all exactly in the same place. When they went down Main Street, Angela pointed out her father’s appliance store. He hoped she did not want to visit her house.

In the center of town he turned the boat onto the highway that led toward the lake. He placed Angela in the bow to look out for debris and ran as fast as he dared. They went through one flooded little town after another and did not see a single person. Before long, the water was over the tops of some of the houses, and they floated cautiously over the submerged towns. In the countryside they came upon dead animals and an occasional human corpse. He was beginning to think this was going to be easy. He had feared what they might meet up with in one of those little towns. Besides the problem of running into people who might want to kill them, there was the additional worry that they would encounter stranded people in need of food and water. They had only enough for themselves. But it would be hard to say no to desperate people.

Late in the afternoon, when he calculated that they were close to the lake, he ran the boat up into a cypress swamp and went several hundred yards into it until they were concealed from the highway. They had yet to see anything of Interstate 12. There was a good chance it was completely underwater. Parts of it might have been washed away. They ate some sandwiches he had made for supper.

As he rigged up the mosquito netting he had brought along, he cautioned Angela not to show any lights. They would be able to hear the sound of a motor before anyone got close to them. No one was likely to come into the swamp at night.

Once it was dark Angela went to sleep under the netting. He sat in the padded driver’s seat, the Saiga within easy reach. He picked up the radio and cranked the generator. Then he set the volume very low and dialed in the mystery station. And it came in, perfectly clear. He was tempted to wake up Angela but decided against it. The Swamp Hog told him the levees were breaking everywhere along the lower Mississippi. And New Orleans was finally flooded. But Baton Rouge was still mostly all right.

“New Orleans is now the city in the sea,” the voice said.

Then the Swamp Hog started reading a poem:

“Lo! Death has reared himself a throne

In a strange city lying alone

Far down…”

But his voice began to break up, and Stephen could hardly understand a word he was saying.

“Apocalyptic Poe,” the voice announced.

After that there was nothing but static.

The hours passed, and he woke her for her watch.

“Wake me if you hear or see anything,” he said. “Just people moving about. I don’t need to know about alligators or turtles or snakes.”

She said she understood.

It seemed that he had just closed his eyes when he felt her shaking him.

“There’re lights,” she said.

He got up and saw the lights off toward the highway. They were far away and looked as if they were moving away from them. He heard the sound of a motor. Then he heard shots, from an automatic weapon he could not identify. The lights went out, and the sound of the motor faded and disappeared.

“Can you hear it?” he asked her.

“No,” she said.

They sat there for a long time, not talking, listening for a return of those threatening sounds. But the only thing they heard was a splash somewhere from deep in the swamp. It was probably a turtle sliding off a log, or an alligator. He went back to sleep; she returned to her watch.

In the morning they had rice and beans for breakfast. That was safe because the camping stove did not put out any smoke.

“I wonder if people down here are going to live like this for a long time,” she said.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“I mean if the land stays flooded and the sea comes up.”

“You mean doing whatever they wish?”

“Yes.”

“It won’t be many people.”

He told her it seemed to him that new boundaries between land and water would be established. The army would restore order. He wondered what sort of people would return to what was essentially a new country.

There would be opportunities.

“I guess those washing machines belong to me now,” she said.

“You’d run the store?” he asked.

“No, I expect I’ll sell them. Bury my parents. Go someplace where it’s dry.”

He wanted to tell her that by the time she returned there would not be much left to bury. But he saw nothing to be gained by pointing that out.

Instead they sat quietly talking for some time about the new country that would take shape after the water receded. He considered telling her of the Swamp Hog’s prediction of jungle-covered mountains but changed his mind. She was going to have to hear the voice first. If she did not, she would think he had gone mad.

He decided to teach Angela to drive the airboat so he could take a position in the bow with the Saiga. Unfortunately she would be exposed, sitting up high in the driver’s seat, but he could not shoot and drive at the same time. Depending on her to drive was going to be a safer bet than depending on her to shoot.

Following his instructions, she eased the boat through the cypresses toward the highway. Once they reached the highway, he could see nothing but trees and water and sky. He let her continue to drive so she would have more practice as they headed toward the lake. He sat in the bow with the Saiga beside him and watched the water before them for debris.

They had not gone far before he saw up ahead something moving in the lower limbs of a big live oak. It was probably a raccoon or a possum. But then, as they came closer, he saw it was a human figure. He picked up the Saiga and pointed toward the tree. Angela nodded her head to let him know she had seen it too.

The figure, he could now tell for sure it was a man, stood up on the thick limb and waved both arms above his head. Stephen motioned to Angela to ease them in slowly and then told her to make a circle of the tree. She did that well. He got a good look at the man, who appeared more frightened than dangerous. After they made two circles of the tree, it was clear nobody was setting an ambush for them. The tree was not filled with riflemen. He told Angela to put the engine in neutral so he could speak with the man.

“Don’t shoot me,” the man said. “I ain’t done nothing to you.”

He lowered the Saiga.

“How did you get here?” Stephen asked.

He told them he was from New Orleans. He had fled the city by boat. He went across the lake, following the ruined bridge. Sections had collapsed when some barges got loose and were driven by hurricane-force winds against it.

“These men come up in a big inboard and took my water, food and gas,” he said. “Then they shot my little boat full of holes while I was in it and told me to swim for it.”

He explained how, when he was at the end of his strength and thought surely he was going to drown, he came upon a big chunk of Styrofoam. He was able to use that as a life preserver until it broke apart beneath his weight.

“I climbed right up on this limb,” he said.

“Why did you leave New Orleans?” Stephen asked.

“Because it’s full of water,” he said. “The levees broke. Most of the people are gone. The National Guard has pulled out.”

Stephen asked him what he thought the area around Audubon Park might be like.

“I imagine it’s under about twenty feet of water,” he said. “But I don’t know. I never had a reason to go there. That’s where rich people live. Besides, it’s foolish talking about high places. There’s no high ground in New Orleans.”

If the man was telling the truth, it confirmed what he had heard on the radio. Perhaps he should be more inclined to trust what he heard from the mystery station.

Stephen considered what he should do. One thing was certain—going across the lake would be dangerous. On a day when the lake was perfectly smooth, they would probably be able to outrun many boats. But he could not count on that.

“Boy, are you gonna leave me up in this tree?” the man said.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“A dry place,” he said.

“Us too,” he said. “Come aboard.”

He did not know how Angela felt, but he just could not leave the man in the tree to die.

Stephen expected him to climb out along the limb to where it trailed off into the water. Instead he simply dropped out of the tree. He swam to the boat, and Stephen helped him climb over the side.

“I thought I was going to be in that tree until Christmas,” he said.

After he drank plenty of water, ignoring Stephen’s warning about drinking slowly, he told them his name was Byron Williams and that he worked in New Orleans as a bartender.

“When they closed the bar, I should’ve gotten out,” he said. “But I thought I’d just hole up in my apartment. It’s on the third floor. I wasn’t counting on those new levees breaking. That damn Corps of Engineers can’t build a levee that’ll hold.”

Stephen decided they would head west through the swamps and flooded farmland toward Baton Rouge and high ground. If they were lucky, they would find Interstate 12 and follow it to Baton Rouge. There he would find out for sure if New Orleans had been completely abandoned. Perhaps his mother was in Baton Rouge.

With Byron in the bow to look for debris, he took a seat in the passenger’s seat in front of Angela, the Saiga across his legs. He was glad he had stowed the other weapons away. And he would insist that Angela and he would pull watches and let Byron sleep. Angela would wake him if Byron got up. The first dry ground they came to he was going to drop him off and tell him goodbye.

He set a westerly course by the sun. Sometimes they ran through flooded towns and sometimes through swamps. Late in the afternoon Angela guided the boat up into some flooded timber. Somewhere out to the west was Interstate 55, but he would not be surprised if it was completely underwater. Stephen realized it was going to be hard to find Baton Rouge unless they went all the way to the levee on the Mississippi and followed it down to the city.

Byron insisted on being the cook for their supper of beans and rice.

As he cooked, he began to talk about New Orleans, how everything was underwater. Angela told him Stephen’s mother was staying and about the security company who was guarding her house, protecting valuable paintings and furniture.

“She’ll really appreciate having you home,” Byron said. “Maybe she’s there. Maybe she’s not. Who’s to say how high the water is. We can go take a look. I know the way. I guess if I can escape from New Orleans then I can help you get back in. If I can’t get you there, I’ll get you to Natchez or Baton Rouge. I know Natchez ain’t flooded. If it is we need to be on the lookout for Mr. Noah.”

“I can get myself home,” Stephen said.

He suspected Byron was trying to take over. Perhaps he expected a reward from Stephen’s mother.

“I know you can,” Bryon said.

“He fixed the motor on this boat,” Angela said.

“He’s a smart boy, all right,” Bryon said.

After they ate, Stephen took the first watch, sitting in the driver’s seat with the Saiga across his legs. Angela was under the mosquito netting and Byron, who said he was not sleepy, sat in the bow. Pretty soon they could hear the sound of Angela snoring.

“She’s your girlfriend?” Byron asked. “I know she’s not your sister from the way you look at her.”

“What way is that?” he said.

“Not the way you’d look at your sister.”

He told him how he picked her up in the flooded town.

“You got a big heart, boy,” Byron said. “A big heart.”

Byron asked how old he was, and he lied and told him he was sixteen. He considered telling him about the men he had killed so Byron would be wary of him. But he feared it would sound like a boy’s bragging. Better to let Byron underestimate him.

Then Byron spent considerable time telling him about all the women he had had in New Orleans.

“A different one every weekend,” he said. “I’ll bet you just tear it up with them high school girls.”

Stephen shrugged.

“I do okay,” he said.

Now Byron had maneuvered him into lying and that made him uncomfortable. The next thing he knew Byron would be pressing him to provide details.

Byron laughed quietly.

“I bet you do,” he said.

But then he was back to bragging about his exploits with women.

Stephen wanted to tell him he did not see how Byron had time to tend bar and service all those women. But he kept his mouth shut and pretended he was impressed. Finally, to Stephen’s great relief, Byron crawled under the mosquito netting and went to sleep. Stephen wished he could hear him snoring like Angela, but he told himself that perhaps Byron did not snore.

He did not wake Angela, pulling a triple watch instead. No sound came from Byron. He tried finding the mystery station on the radio again, but there was nothing but static. Finally, when he was reduced to fighting to keep his eyes open, he woke Angela.

“Byron moves, you wake me up,” he said.

“We should’ve left him in the tree,” she said. “I don’t like the way he looks at me.”

Stephen had not been aware Byron had been looking at her in any particular way. If he were looking at her in that way, she would know, just like she knew about Byron. After all, even Byron had noticed. He slipped beneath the mosquito netting and lay down with the Saiga. He expected to have difficulty sleeping, but instead he fell immediately asleep.

When she woke him, he struggled to sit up, the Saiga in his hands.

“It’s all right,” she whispered to him. “Nothing’s wrong.”

The rest of the night their watches went smoothly. Once it looked like Bryon was awake, but he was just turning over. Then it was Angela’s turn.

“You watch him close,” he told her.

“I will,” she said.

“Don’t you go to sleep.”

“I won’t.”

She put her hand on his arm.

“Don’t worry, you can count on me,” she said.

He woke to the smell of beans and rice cooking. Byron was doing the cooking, and she was sitting beside him.

“Get up, boy,” Byron says. “Let’s eat and get out of this damn swamp.”