“How long is it going to be before people come back?”
Jessica leaned back in her chair, looked morosely at her crowded desk. “The river will clean itself. It does that. But it will take months.” She looked at her husband sadly. “Months if we’re lucky. And that means months with the entire middle of the country out of commission, living on handouts in refugee centers.”
TWENTY
As we passed the point on the left hand below the island, the bank and trees were rapidly falling in. From the state of alarm I was in at this time, I cannot pretend to be correct as to the length or height of the falls; but my impression is, that they were about equal to the rapids of the Ohio. As we passed the lower point of the island, looking back, up the left channel, we thought the falls extended higher up the river on that side than on the other.
The water of the river, after it ivas fairly light, appeared to be almost black, with something like the dust of stone coal—We landed at Neiv Madrid about breakfast time without having experienced any injury—The appearance of the town, and the situation of the inhabitants, were such as to afford but little relief to our minds. The former elevation of the bank on which the town stood was estimated by the inhabitants at about 25 feet above common water; when we reached it the elevation was only about 12 or 13 feet—There was scarcely a house left entire—some wholly prostrated, others unroofed and not a chimney standing—the people all having deserted their habitations, were in camps and tents back of the town, and their little watercrafts, such as skiffs, boats and canoes, handed out of the water to their camps, that they might be ready in case the country should sink.
The President gazed at the solemn faces that ringed the conference table in his hotel in Louisville. “What I need, people,” he said, “is for somebody here to tell me that General Frazetta is crazy. Wacko. Out of her mind.”
The others looked uneasily at the table, at their papers, at each other. “It can’t be done, sir,” offered the Senate’s Minority Leader. “We can’t evacuate the whole Mississippi Valley. And in the middle of an emergency like this one? That’s insane.”
The President looked at Lipinsky. “Boris?” he said.
Lipinsky drew his bushy brows together. “I fear, Mr. President,” he said, “that General Frazetta may have just presented us with our only sane course of action.”
The President felt the others take a breath. “Well, people,” he said. “Well.”
“But we lack data, sir,” Lipinsky said. “I will order my HAZMAT teams to test the water immediately and continually.”
The President had flown to the Midwest shortly after word came that south St. Louis had blown up, and taken with him select members of his administration and the congressional leadership of both parties. If his nation’s cities were going to explode, he was going to be on the scene. And so he had visited St. Louis and Memphis; the Vice President and First Lady had gone to Chicago and Springfield, respectively; and tomorrow, after the military made absolutely certain it was safe, he would visit the graveyard of Helena.
And of course he had made a point of being seen. Not for crudely political reasons—though those played a part—but because the news of his activities could bring people hope. He was still cynical enough, however, to tell the First Lady and the Vice President that after he had to return to Washington, they were “to remain on PCD”—Permanent Compassion Duty, visiting every refugee center, hospital, and relief effort in the emergency zone; feeling the public’s pain, preferably on television and in prime time.
“We will need time to prepare an evacuation on this scale, sir,” said the supported CINC. “And most of our transport is already committed to bringing personnel and materiel to the devastated zones. The recommitment alone will take days.”
“I need you to begin the logistical planning now,” the President said, “before Boris’s teams assess the danger.” Fortunately, he thought, the areas we need to evacuate are the areas south of the quake zone where the transportation infrastructure is still largely intact.
“This is crazy!” the Minority Leader proclaimed. “That means shutting down industry and commerce throughout the middle third of the country.”
“General Frazetta,” the President said, “suggested that vital industry and ports like New Orleans could be kept open. We could ship in enough fresh water to do that.”
“We can’t, Mr. President!” the Minority Leader proclaimed. “The disruption will be—” Words failed him.
The President looked at him. “Are you prepared to go on television and tell the American people that it is their duty to our economy to poison themselves and their children by drinking contaminated water?” He leaned forward, looked at the man. “I’d like to see you do that, I really would.” The Minority Leader fell into glowering silence.
The President leaned back in his chair. “I’m not going to authorize any action right away,” he said. “But I want plans made, just in case Boris’s HAZMAT teams find out that we need to move a lot of people, and fast.”
“Des bestioles! Des bestioles dans le bouffe!”
“Out,” Dr. Calhoun cried, “unrighteous one, Spawn of the Pit! Leave this man in peace!”
“II y a des bestioles partout!”
“I command you in Jesus’ name!”
“Ayaaah! Des bestioles! Des centaines! Des bestioles dans le bouffe!”
“Out!” Frankland shouted, and brandished his Bible. Father Robitaille gasped for air, then let out a howl. Despite the persistence of the exorcisms, and the unexpected flair shown by Dr. Calhoun for the work—Frankland had to admit that “Out, unrighteous one, Spawn of the Pit” was pretty darn good—Robitaille’s demon seemed content to remain in residence.
The room stank of spilled food and vomit, soiled bedding and unwashed humanity. Robitaille hadn’t kept any food down, and he’d just flung his latest meal to the floor without even trying to taste it. Just a sip of water brought on the dry heaves. And despite this lack of nourishment, he still demonstrated surprising power and mobility. Sometimes it required the weight and strength of all three exorcists to keep him on his bed.
“Des bestioles! Des bestioles!”
“Out! Out!”
“Des bestioles! Des bestioles!”
“Out!”
Frankland felt himself flagging. Robitaille was wearing all of them out. If this went on much longer, the smell alone would gas the three exorcists to death.
He summoned his resolution. It was the demon, he thought, or him.
Wearily, he wondered if “Desbestioles” was the demon’s name.
“Out, Desbestioles, out!” he shouted. “In Jesus’ name!”
But it didn’t seem to help.
After Nick and Jason fled from the dead city of Helena, the bodies began to rise. Apparently the corpses had been there all along, rolling along the bottom of the river, but now they’d decayed to the point where they came to the surface. They were bloated, horrible dough-figures, facial features submerged in swollen flesh, splayed fingers fat as sausages. Nick told Jason not to look, and Jason did not give him any resistance. Nick kept his gaze away from the corpses himself.
He didn’t want to look down at a body and recognize Viondi.
More than a dozen of these macabre figures appeared in just a few hours, and it was as if the boat somehow attracted them. The bodies kept closing with the boat as if trying to invite themselves on board. Finally Nick decided to keep the motor going all the time, at low speed so as to conserve fuel, so that he could maneuver clear.