The river stretched a mile wide, maybe more, to a tree-covered shoreline. Beyond the half-submerged trees, perhaps half a mile away, was the levee, which he imagined was broken in many places on both the east and west banks. Where the creek entered the much stronger current of the river, there were some standing waves that might have swamped a johnboat, but for the bridge boat they were no problem.
His plan was to select a levee break on the east side of the river and hope it would lead them into the big field that held the Indian mound. All they could do was guess, but at least they were heading in the right direction. They would just have to be careful not to go too far downriver.
They clung close to the east bank to avoid the strong midriver currents. They saw no boats, only debris: houses, furniture, farm buildings, dead animals. He decided not to take the first break they came upon, while Angela was for taking it.
“We’re going to end up in the Gulf,” she said.
“Just remember how long it took to get through those swamps and flooded fields,” he said. “We’ve got to conserve fuel.”
But he realized she was right about overshooting. So he turned the boat into the next levee break. It was a wild ride through the flooded timber and then the break itself, with a big standing wave that would also have swamped the johnboat. Now they were down to a single barrel of diesel and whatever was left in the boat’s fuel tank.
They spent the day working their way through a swamp and then into a big field that turned out not to be the right one. They spent the night in the field. The next day they had a hard time making their way through another swamp because of underbrush blocking the way to the south.
But late that afternoon they finally made it out of the swamp and into a field. They came around a timber-covered point, and there ahead was the mound and the house and trees rising out of the water.
When they drew closer, they saw the skiff. The kayak and the second johnboat were gone. They moored the bridge boat and started up the hill to the house.
“I wonder where they went?” Angela asked.
“I have no idea,” Stephen said.
“Why would they take the johnboat and the kayak?”
“Don’t know that either.”
Stephen checked the Saiga to make sure there was a round in the chamber.
“Look, there’s no other boat here,” he said. “It’s just Mr. Parker and Holly.”
“Yes, that’s because someone has come and gone,” Angela said.
As he approached the house and nobody came out to meet them, he unslung the Saiga. He told Angela to stay outside.
“What difference does it make,” she said. “We both know what we’re going to find in there.”
He hoped he would find them sitting at the table on the screened porch. But when they approached the open door, he smelled death.
Mr. Parker lay just inside the door, a rifle beside him. This time Angela did not cry or scream. She did put the bottom of her T-shirt over her mouth and nose. They found Holly’s naked body on the porch. Someone had slit her throat.
“They’re better in the water,” Angela said. “Don’t stink so much.”
Stephen told himself he should not be surprised at her detached reaction. They had both simply grown used to loss and the dead. Perhaps his father would be proved right. Death would replace love. For the first time he realized his father had been speaking of himself. He pitied him. He pitied himself and Angela. Only the dead were free.
Angela left him and walked back into the house.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To cover him up,” she said.
Whoever had done it had taken food from the freezer and drained all the gas out of the generator tank. There was water in the cistern Mr. Parker had improvised out of sheet metal. Empty plastic jerry cans Mr. Parker had stockpiled were scattered about on the floor. The killers had taken all they could carry. Stephen expected the gasoline from the tank by the garage was all gone, but that would do them no good anyway. They needed diesel. The big farm shop and the diesel tank beside it were underwater.
When Angela returned, her face was pale and she walked unsteadily.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Give me a little while,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
“We’ll take the skiff.”
“It’s tiny. And it leaks.”
He told her he thought he could repair it.
“We’ll need another paddle,” he said. “Maybe some oars. I can make some in Mr. Parker’s little shop.”
“We’ll spend the night here?” she asked.
“We have to. It’ll be dark by the time I finish.”
“We could go in the dark.”
“Not a good idea.”
He did not blame her. He did not look forward to spending the night among the dead.
They set to work on the skiff. He rigged some oarlocks. The skiff had been designed to be sculled through the narrow twisting pathways of cypress swamps, but he thought that a set of oars would be useful and more efficient on the rivers and creeks and when they had to cross immense flooded fields. He made the oars using a drawknife and some cypress planks he took off the wall of Mr. Parker’s shop.
The rest of the afternoon they spent caulking the skiff. They would scull, row and perhaps pole it through the swamps and flooded creeks to high ground. They decided that they would put the skiff on the bridge boat or tow it behind. By using the diesel they had left, they would get as close to high ground as possible. They would approach any checkpoint in the skiff, not the bridge boat. This time the soldiers would take one look at them and know they were refugees, not criminals.
“It’ll still leak a little,” he said. “But not like before.”
“These mosquitoes are going to eat us up tonight,” she said.
“As near as I can tell they’ve been doing that most every night.”
She glanced up the hill in the direction of the house.
“I don’t think that porch is a good place to sleep,” he said.
“We could bury her,” she said.
“I guess we’ll have to decide which is harder.”
They sat on the skiff and discussed the best way to deal with Holly’s body. The smell was not so bad on the porch. They could close the doors to the interior of the house and use the porch door.
“You ever done any grave digging?” he asked.
“You know I haven’t,” she said.
“It’s going to be hard work.”
“We don’t have to exactly bury her,” she said.
Her plan was to wrap the body in a plastic tarp and drag it well away from the house.
That seemed like a good idea to him. Who knew how many nights they would have to spend in the skiff? It would be pleasant to have one last mosquito-free night.
“Those mosquitoes have just about sucked every drop of blood out of my body,” he said.
“Let’s do it,” she said.
It turned out not to be as hard as he expected. It was fairly easy for the two of them to tow the slick plastic across the grass. They left her under a fig tree next to the garage. The sink of death mixed with the scent of the ripe figs. Wasps and yellow jackets were doing a good business with the fruit that had fallen to the ground and begun to rot.
They quickly filled a plastic bin with fresh figs from the tree.
Before they left, Angela insisted on saying some words over Holly. He felt foolish standing there with his cap full of figs while she prayed to Jesus. When she said “Amen” he said it too, and he could tell she was pleased with that.
“She’ll rest softly right here under this tree,” she said.
“Yes, I believe she will,” he said.
They returned to the porch. The smell was still strong, but as it grew dark a little breeze came up from the river and made it somewhat better.
“I wish we had some incense,” Angela said.
“You’d need a pile of incense,” he said.
By the time they had supper, they had either got used to the stink or the breeze had carried it away (he could not tell which). Once it grew dark he was glad he had listened to Angela. He looked forward to a sleep uninterrupted by mosquitoes.
“We should stand watches,” he said.
“If we don’t, I won’t be able to sleep,” she said.
If someone came by in the night, they would come looking for the keys to the bridge boat.
“I wonder if Mr. Parker’s wife is in Baton Rouge,” he said.
“I hope she’s been evacuated,” she said.
He considered what it was going to be like for her to come back to the house after the water had gone down and order was restored and the dead were buried. The smell of death would be long gone. The rattlesnakes and copperheads would have returned to the woods.
“Or dead,” he said.
“No, I like to think of her in Memphis,” she said. “That’s good high ground.”
She looked out into the darkness beyond the screen.
“Do you think we covered her up enough?” she asked.
“We wrapped that tarp pretty tight,” he said.
He considered what might get at her: possums, feral cats, a coyote. But he had seen none of those animals on the mound. He recalled how Hector’s body was preserved from decay in The Iliad. He wondered if Jesus had ever done something like that. He had never read any of The New Testament. He was reluctant to ask Angela. He did not want to get her started on Jesus.
“Vultures won’t be able to bother her?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
It seemed to him that he should be able to say something about the dead that would make them, the living, feel better. But there was nothing to say. There was no possibility of revenge and certainly no possibility of their unknown killers being brought to justice. There was a possibility that in the violent world of the flooded land, the killers themselves had already met a similar fate. He had extracted a certain measure of justice on his father’s killers.
He wondered how he would now handle the redheaded man’s surrender.
“I let one of my father’s killers escape,” he said.
She asked him to explain.
“I would’ve done the same thing,” she said.
“Now?”
“I don’t know about now.”
She paused for a moment.
“But maybe I would,” she said. “Maybe I would. And you?”
“I think that now I would’ve pulled the trigger,” he said.
“And felt bad about it later.”
“No, I’d feel nothing at all.”
“Nothing?”
“Yes, I think that’s what I’d feel.”
He recalled his father’s warning. But he was certain that he could love. He loved Angela.
He hoped she would not start talking about Jesus, and she did not. She simply sighed. Then she asked him to get out the radio.
They pulled in a few stations and heard about a riot in a refugee camp in Natchez and the usual contradictory reports about the water going up or down. No one mentioned anything about the situation in Baton Rouge, just that the flooded parts of the country were in a state of anarchy and chaos.
“I can’t imagine Americans doing what they’ve been doing,” the announcer from a Texas station said.
“Find the mystery station,” Angela said.
He turned the dial. Several tries gained him only a few scattered words from the Swamp Hog. But then the station came in clearly.
“The Rocky Mountains are gonna be a jungle,” the voice said. “Two hundred inches of rain a year. Palm trees, banyan trees, elephant grass. Big, big trees festooned with vines. Parrots, monkeys, tigers, peacocks, elephants, cobras.”
The list of animals and birds went on and on, finally trailing off into static.
“He’s crazy,” Stephen said.
“Maybe there’s some truth to it,” she said.
“All those animals?”
“No, the Rocky Mountains becoming covered with jungle.”
He made several more tries to find the station but had no luck. She went to sleep. He spent his watch with the radio, listening to tales of confusion and despair.