“Call your outfit,” Jessica said. “Tell them we need a dustoff.” Larry Hallock let the others run waving and shouting as the Army helicopter roared overhead. He was too tired and hungry and sore to race around like a lunatic, so he just sat on the tailgate of Bill Henry’s camper pickup, cradled his arm, and waited.
The burned man had died in the night, screaming. Some of the injured were nearly comatose. No one had been able to help.
He had expected rescue before now. Someone in the Department of Energy, someone in the power company. He had figured he’d see the first helicopters silhouetted against the red dawn. Instead it had been hours. Things must be worse out there than he’d thought.
And while he waited, he’d seen that there was a current in the flood waters. Up till the morning they had been still, a calm brown lake that ringed the old Indian mound. But then the waters had begun to move. The debris that had been floating atop the water was carried away downstream, and as time passed the debris began moving by faster. Larry had watched to see if the level of the water was declining, if the current meant that the flood was draining away.
But the water level didn’t fall, and the current grew in power. Which meant that Poinsett Landing, the reactor vessel included, now sat on part of the bed of the Mississippi River. There was a flurry of people running to their vehicles, and then cars and trucks began to clear an area on top of the mound. The roar of the chopper increased to painful levels, a jet whine combined with the flogging of the rotors, and Larry felt blasts of wind on his face. The copter—it seemed pretty small for something that could make such a big noise—settled with surprising grace onto the cleared space of the mound.
Larry dropped off the pickup gate and shuffled toward the helicopter, holding his injured arm. His neck and shoulder throbbed. Some of the other people had suggested he’d broken a collarbone, but it was impossible to tell without an X ray.
A door slid open on the side of the helicopter, and an officer jumped out. A woman, Larry saw with some surprise. A short woman. A short woman with a flier’s helmet and Ray-Bans and camouflage fatigues and the stars of a general.
Larry blinked. When the government finally got around to moving, it moved with authority.
“Do you have any injured?” the woman general shouted. “And who is in charge?” Lieutenant Grimsley was a National Guard second lieutenant with washed-out blue eyes and a dusting of acne on his cheeks. “Sheriff,” he told Omar, “I’m supposed to tell you that we’re pulling out.”
“What?” Omar blinked at Grimsley sleepily.
Omar stood out in front of the courthouse, supervising the crews that were chainsawing away the fallen limbs of the lawn’s blackjack oaks. The old trees had taken a beating, and a couple of them were going to have to be cut down.
The Mourning Confederate, looking somberly down from his pillar, had survived without a scratch or a crack. Omar liked to think of it as an omen.
“The President has called up our outfit,” Grimsley said.
“We’re heading north to help restore order in Arkansas.” Grimsley seemed proud of this fact. Omar tried to clear the weariness from his mind. He had caught a couple hours’ sleep toward dawn, but he’d been wakened by an aftershock and the jolt of electricity the shock had put in his veins had kept him from getting back to sleep.
“But what about Spottswood Parish?” Omar asked. “We need you boys here.”
“Sorry, Sheriff. But things here are pretty much under control, and I guess the President figured we’d be more useful up north.”
Faggot President, Omar thought wearily. This was just like that asshole.
“When do you boys pull out?” he asked.
“Soon’s we can load up the trucks with seventy-two hours’ rations.”
“Well.” Omar offered his hand. “Good luck, son.”
They shook hands. “Thanks, Sheriff.”
A chainsaw stuttered as it caught an oakwood knot. Omar looked up, felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck.
He’d done his job, he figured. More than the President had. And voters would remember that come the next election.
Omar figured his career was right on track.
Omar was at the armory when the National Guard pulled out. All those guardsmen were voters—some were even his deputies—and he figured that it would be a good thing to pump a few hands as they loaded up.
The guardsmen were in battle dress and helmets, and they carried their rifles. All except one man, who Omar to his surprise recognized as Micah Knox.
“I’m heading north.” Knox grinned. “Your Guard are giving me a ride.”
“Great,” Omar said.
Knox indicated the heavy duffel bag on his shoulder. “I went by your house and picked up my stuff,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I won’t.”
“Your house is okay, by the way. Your buddy Ozie was there with his trucks and jacks. He said that you and Winona can move back in tonight.”
“Great.” Omar looked at the duffel, at the way it weighed on the kid’s shoulder, and knew that Knox had retrieved his firearms and ammunition.
Well. At least he was taking the guns out of town.
“Hey, Sheriff! Hold still for a picture!”
Omar turned to see Sorrell Ellen of the Spottswood Chronicle pointing a camera. He sensed Knox fade quickly from the frame. Omar stepped in the other direction just as the camera flashed. Omar blinked as purple blooms filled his vision. “Dang,” Sorrell said. “You moved.”
“Why don’t you get a picture of me saying good-bye to one of my deputies?” Omar said.
“That’s good,” Sorrell agreed.
He led Sorrell toward one of the trucks parked on the gravel drive in front of the armory. He saw Micah Knox fading away behind another truck, his heavy duffel bearing down one thin shoulder.
“Do you have any comments on the emergency?” Sorrell asked.
“Just that I’m very proud of the way my department has responded,” Omar said. “We’ve kept order, helped save lives, maintained communications that were vital to the parish.” Sorrell jotted this down. “Several of your deputies are moving out with the Guard, aren’t they?” he asked.
“Aren’t you going to be short-handed?”
Omar left that unanswered as he spotted one of his deputies, Frank Schwinn, in the act of loading gear onto the truck. He and Schwinn paused for the photo, and by that time Sorrell had forgotten about his last question.
Deputies, Omar thought. He was going to need to make some more, and he figured he knew just who to call.
Hell, he was their Kleagle.
SIXTEEN
Precisely at 2 o’clock on Monday morning, the 16th instant, we were all alarmed by the violent and convulsive agitation of the boats, accompanied by a noise similar to that which would have been produced by running over a sand bar—every man was immediately roused and rushed upon deck.—We were first of opinion that the Indians, studious of some mischief, had loosed our cables, and thus situated we were foundering. Upon examination, however, we discovered we were yet safely and securely moored. The idea of an earthquake then suggested itself to my mind, and this idea was confirmed by a second shock, and two others in immediate succession. These continued for the space of eight minutes. So complete and general had been the convulsion, that a tremendous motion was communicated to the very leaves on the surface of the earth. A few yards from the spot where we lay, the body of a large oak was snapped in two, and the falling part precipitated to the margin of the river; the trees in the forest shook like rushes; the alarming clattering of their branches may be compared to the affect which would be produced by a severe wind passing through a large cane brake.