Authors: Walter Jon Williams
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Post-Apocalyptic
He thrust gently, making certain she was comfortable, then increased his movement. Megan gave a little cry of surprise at the post-orgasmic intensity of her pleasure. She set the cigar on the edge of the spa again. Charlie lengthened his thrust. The intense look came back to Megan’s face; her breath began to hiss again. Charlie grabbed ahold of her hips and lunged into her. She met him with a grin and a gleeful half-shout, a kind of sexual battle cry. He drove furiously into her, his fingers slipping beneath her to cup her buttocks, lifting her off the formed fiberglass seat. She clasped her arms around his neck. Charlie lifted her just above the lowest of the several water jets set into the back of her seat. Both gasped as a jet of water pulsed over their genitals. Her breath hissed in his ear. Frantically he licked her neck and shoulder. Her hips began the sequence of furious lunges that signaled the approach of orgasm, and Charlie increased the fury of his thrusts. The spa poured a jet of bubbling pleasure along the underside of his cock. A river of sweat ran down his face. Water leaped out of the tub, poured onto the deck around them. His orgasm triggered first, and hers a half-second later.
Afterward he ducked his head under water to wash away the sweat and clear his head. He rose, shaking water from his bleached locks. Megan was perched half out of the water, letting the night air cool the glistening water drops on her shoulders and breasts. Strands of her pinned-up hair had straggled into the water, and wet hanks of hair curled about her shoulders like dark serpents.
“We’ll do it slow next,” Charlie said.
“If I’m not too sore,” she said.
He grinned at her. “I’ll kiss and make better.”
“Ha ha,” she mocked. She looked around for her cigar, then bent to peer over the edge of the spa. “Shit,” she said. “I dropped my smoke.”
“I’ll get it.”
He vaulted out of the spa, water pouring off his body, and found her Cohiba where it had rolled next to a potted ficus. The night air was wonderfully cool on his overheated body. He sipped at the cigar, found it had gone out. He reached for his lighter, puffed it into life, and handed it to her.
He clamped his hands on the deck rail and looked at the glowing pool below. Well-being sang through his blood. “I feel like Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle,” he said.
“If you do that yell,” Megan said, “I’m leaving.”
“Maybe I’ll just go find an alligator and fight him hand-to-hand.” On sudden impulse he jumped up on the rail, swayed back and forth on his bare feet. Megan’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Get down from there!” she said.
“We’re going to make money!” Charlie shouted into the night. He pounded his chest with one hand while the other arm, extended, helped him balance. “Tarzan make big bucks!” he shouted in Weissmuller-inspired pidgin English.
“You’re crazy!” Megan said. The Ozarks rang in her voice. “Your neighbors are going to—”
“Tarzan is Lord of Jungle!” Charlie yelled. “Tarzan swing big dick in world of finance!”
“You’re out of your mind, Charlie!” Megan yelled back.
He bent at the knees. He could feel a wide grin spreading across his face at the thought of what he was about to do.
“You’ll kill yourself!” Megan shouted, guessing what was on his mind.
“Tarzan live forever!” Charlie shouted, and leaned forward, toes digging into the wooden rail for one last push as his body sailed out into the night.
“Charlieeee...!” Megan called.
The wind flowed through Charlie’s hair as he flew, straight as an arrow, downward to the pool.
The cool waters received him as their lord.
FIVE
Arrived in this place on Friday morning last. Mr. John Vettner and crew, from New Madrid, from whom we learn, that they were on shore five miles below the place on Friday morning the 7th instant, at the time of the hard shock, and that the water filled their barge and sunk it, with the whole of its contents, losing every thing but the clothes they had on. They offered, at New Madrid, half their loading for a boat to save it, but no price was sufficient for the hire of a boat. Mrs. Walker offered a likely negro fellow for the use of a boat a few hours, but could not get it.
The town of New Madrid has sunk 12 feet below its former standing, but is not covered with water; the houses are all thrown down, and the inhabitants moved off, except the French, who live in camps close to the river side, and have their boats tied near them, in order to sail off, in case the earth should sink. It is said that a fall equal to that of the Ohio is near above New Madrid, and that several whirls are in the Mississippi river, some so strong as to sink every boat that comes within its suck; one boat was sunk with a family in it. The country from New Madrid to the Grand Prairie is very much torn to pieces, and the Little Prairie almost entirely deluged. It was reported when our informants left it, that some Indians who had been out in search of some other Indians that were lost had returned, and stated that they had discovered a volcano at the head of the Arkansas, by the light of which they traveled three days and nights. A vast number of sawyers have rissn in the Mississippi river.
Russelville, Kentucky, Feb. 26
“Damn. Look at that. River’s sure high.” Viondi paused at the top of the crumbling concrete ramp.
Nick Ruford passed him and kept walking down the ramp. “There’s floods up north, you know.”
“Hadn’t heard,” Viondi said.
“Haven’t been watching the news, huh?”
“Been workin’ double shifts remodeling those old buildings down on Chouteau. Ain’t had time to watch the news.”
Nick paused at the water’s edge. The swift river rippled purposefully across the boat ramp, as if it resented the presence of the concrete. There was a splash as the wake of a tow-boat raised a wave that splattered Nick’s shoes. He stepped back.
Viondi Crowley walked down the worn ramp in his sandals, paused to put down his creel, then stepped into the water, washing the dust from his big, square toes.
“River’s a cold motherfucker today,” he said.
“Careful. Or you’ll fall on your ass.”
The towboat’s wake slopped water over Viondi’s ankles. He backed out of the river, shook the Mississippi off his feet.
“Hand me the soap,” he said.
The Mississippi ran blue here— thirty miles above where, at St. Louis, the Missouri dumped half the mud of the Midwest into the Father of Waters. Long wooded islands stretched down the river, though at the moment most of them were half submerged, willow branches trailing listless in the flood. Two towboats were in sight, both pushing long tows against the current. The sound of their powerful diesels whined distantly off the water.
Nick looked out at the sparkling waters, felt the sun on his face. A mild wind stirred the hairs on his neck. He took a breath, tried to relax. Tried to
make
himself relax. And then wondered why it was so hard.
It’s not like he had a job to worry about. Or a home. Or a family.
Hell, relaxing should be
easy.
So why wasn’t it?
He looked down as Viondi held the bar of soap in one big hand and carved it into chunks with his pocket knife. He retained two of the soap chunks, put the rest in their original wrapper, then put the wrapper in his pocket.
He reached out a hand, and Nick mutely handed him the fishing rods. Viondi baited them both with chunks of soap, then handed one to Nick.
“Better cast off the ramp,” he said. “With the river this high, there’s bound to be snags everywhere else.”
Viondi stepped away to give himself some casting room, then brought the rod back over his shoulder and let it fly out. The reel sang as the baited line flew out over the river. There was a splash as it struck the water.
Relax,
Nick told himself.
You should relax. Fishing is the most relaxing thing in the world.
He cast into the water, his movement more awkward than Viondi’s. The hook and its chunk of soap landed about twenty feet from where Nick intended. He had come to fishing late in life— his father, as he was growing up, had always thought the son of a general had more important things to do. Nick’s sports had been wrestling and track, and he’d been expected to stay on the honor roll for academics as well. There’d been Scouting— if a general’s son couldn’t make Eagle Scout, there was obviously something wrong with them both. And afterward there had been more school, and family, and his job with McDonnell.
Where did fishing fit into all that?
He hadn’t gone fishing in his life until he met Viondi.
“Hey, Nick,” Viondi said, as he reeled in. “What do you call a woman who can suck a golf ball through a garden hose?”
Nick looked at Viondi’s grin. “What?” he said.
“‘Darling.’”
A reluctant laugh pushed itself up from Nick’s diaphragm. “Where you hear these?” he asked.
Viondi retrieved his lure, cast again. “There’s this rich white lady, see, goes to the doctor. And the doctor sits her down and says, ‘You’re in good health. And in fact I want to compliment you on the fact that your pussy is the cleanest I’ve ever seen.’
“And the lady says, ‘It better be, I got this colored man comes in twice a week.’”
Nick’s laugh bubbled up like a spring.
“Made you laugh twice in a row!” Viondi said. “Gold star for me.”
Nick wished he knew some good jokes he could use to answer Viondi’s. But Viondi was the only person who ever told Nick jokes.
“Where do you get these from?” Nick asked weakly.
“Work. Niggas gotta keep themselves amused working eighteen hours a day.” Viondi’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the water. “Strike,” he advised.
Nick had reeled his lure close to the shore; he looked down to see a dark shadow in the clear water, an engulfing mouth that opened startlingly wide before closing on the slice of soap and darting away. Nick jerked the rod to set the hook, felt the fish resist, heard the whine of the reel as the fish took the line out. Viondi cranked his reel to get his own line out of the way.
“Big ol’ catfish,” Viondi said, after they landed the fish. He laid the gasping fish on the fresh-cut grass he’d put in his creel, then smiled up at Nick. “Soap gets ’em every time.”
Viondi was a plumber. He ran his own plumbing company with about a dozen employees, and Nick had made his acquaintance when he’d hired Viondi to replumb his old house back in Pine Lawn. He and Viondi had hit it off. Manon hadn’t liked Viondi as much as Nick had. She thought Viondi was crude and irresponsible. “How can he be irresponsible,” Nick had pointed out, “when he’s running a successful company?”
“He’s irresponsible in his personal life,” Manon said.
Nick had to admit that this was true. Viondi was either working or playing, either pulling double shifts with his crew, or at a party that could last for days. Nick wasn’t quite certain how often Viondi had been married, but he’d heard reference to at least three wives, and he’d had children by at least three women, not necessarily the same women as his wives.
And Viondi
looked
like such a roughneck. He was big, with wide shoulders and big biceps and a short-cropped beard. He looked as if he could tear apart a human being with his large bare hands. Just Viondi’s looks made Manon nervous.
For weeks Nick would leave messages on Viondi’s answering machine without a reply, and then he’d know Viondi was working. But then he’d get a call, and Viondi would want Nick to pile with a few other friends into Viondi’s Buick and drive off for a weekend’s debauch in Memphis, or a road trip to Chicago, or to spend some time at the Greenville Blues Festival.
Or sometimes the call was just to go fishing on a Wednesday morning. A Wednesday like today.
Whatever the call, it had been easier for Nick to say yes once Manon had gone home to Toussaint.
A pair of freshwater gulls wheeled overhead in hopes that someone would clean a fish and give them the remains. Viondi rebaited Nick’s hook with another piece of soap. “You heard from Arlette?”
Nick’s heart sank. Just when he’d started feeling good.
“Yeah,” he said. “She’s going to France in a couple weeks.” Nick frowned at the river. “I’m not going to get to see her till, maybe, Christmas.”
“Shit. That’s tough. Your old lady ain’t cutting you no slack at all.”
Nick found himself wanting to defend Manon. “Well,” he said, “it’s an opportunity, you know. Going to France.”
“Arlette needs a daddy more than she needs a trip to France,” Viondi said. “I’ve kept all my kids in my life, no matter what else happened.” He finished baiting the hook and let it fall. Nick cast, heard the splash, saw the pale chunk of soap sink into the rippling water. Viondi cast, dropped his hook precisely. One of the gulls dipped toward the splash, then decided it didn’t want to eat soap. Viondi began reeling in.
“Why don’t you go down to Arkansas,” he asked, “see your girl?”
Nick’s heart gave a little jump at the thought. “My old car wouldn’t make it,” he said automatically. It needed new engine and transmission seals that he couldn’t afford. When he drove it, even the
driver’s
compartment filled with blue smoke.
“Take the bus.” Viondi gave him a severe look. “It’s not like you’ve got anything critical to do in St. Louis.”
Nick thought about it for a long, hopeful moment, calculating how much it would cost, how long he could afford to be away. As Viondi said, it wasn’t as if he had anything important here, a job or anything.
There wasn’t a hotel in Toussaint, he’d have to stay at the boarding house run by Manon’s aunt.
Man, Nick thought, Manon would be pissed.
He thought about Arlette’s eyes lighting at the sight of the diamond necklace.
“Tell you what,” Viondi said. “I could use a little R and R down in N’awlins. I’ll drop you off in Toussaint on the way.”
Nick looked at him. “What about those buildings on Chouteau?”
“Nearly done. I’ll let Darrell finish the job.” Darrell was Viondi’s eldest son. “Do him good to have a little responsibility for a change.” Viondi smiled. “I’ve got a weekend’s worth of work first, though, that can’t do without me. How about I pick you up on Monday?”
Hope rose in Nick, but he found that he was wary of hope these days. He didn’t want this to disappear.
“You sure about this?” he asked. “I mean, this is pretty sudden.”
Viondi shrugged. “It’s like I’m always telling you, man, you want a flexible schedule, you get a job like mine. Work hard, play hard, die with your boots on.” He looked at Nick. “It’s not too late for you, you know. I’m bidding up a big contract, could use a new apprentice.”
“Well,” Nick said “it may come to that.”
Viondi grinned. “Hey,” he said. “You know why God invented golf?”
Nick shook his head. “No idea,” he said.
“So that white folks could dress up like black people.”
A few more hours of this, Nick thought, and he might even start to relax.
*
As he drove around the bend and the plant came in sight around the pine thicket, Larry Hallock lifted his eyes automatically to the huge cooling tower and found something wrong. His eyes checked in their movement and returned to the tower, the elegant concrete hyperboloid curves whitened by the morning sun.
Something was missing. The plume of steam that normally floated above the tower.
Larry was annoyed with himself. He
knew
that. He knew that the reactor had been shut down for refueling, something that happened every eighteen months or so. He knew that there would be no plume of steam when the reactor wasn’t in operation.
But he’d got used to the steam plume being there, perched above the tower. Eighteen months was just long enough for him to forget how the plant looked when the reactor was shut down.
He passed by the old Indian mound that archaeologists, somewhat to the inconvenience of the facility’s designers, had insisted remain on the property. The front parking lot looked full. One of the concessions the power company had made to the locals when they’d acquired the site was that one-third of the plant workers had to come from the immediate area. As there were relatively few nuclear engineers and qualified power plant managers in rural Mississippi, the Poinsett Landing plant was blessed with a large and splendidly equipped janitorial, maintenance, and machine-shop force.
The parking lot was unusually full as workers busied themselves with maintenance and preventative maintenance while the reactor was cold, so Larry turned the Taurus down the fork in the road that led behind the plant, toward the river hidden behind the long green wall of the levee. The long morning shadow of the cooling tower reached across the grass and fell on him as he drove, and in the air-conditioned silence of the car, he felt a chill.
*
Larry’s feet rang on metal as he climbed the ladder that led up the maintenance truss that ran up the curved roof of the primary containment building. He tilted his head back in the bright yellow hood of the clean suit he wore and kept on climbing. The structure smelled of emptiness and wet concrete. Masses of concrete and steel loomed around him. Below, in addition to the water-filled chamber and the crane, the building was filled with a chaos of tanks, pipes, valves, conduit, ductwork, electric motors, girders, accumulators, and bundles of cable. All of it on a massive scale, dwarfing the suited figures of the crane operators.
Jameel, the foreman who was supervising operating the refueling machine, looked up as Larry passed overhead, then gave a wave. Larry waved back.
“How ’bout the Cubbies?” Larry called down. Jameel was from Chicago and maintained a dogged loyalty to the National League’s perennial losers.
“Two in a row!” Jameel shouted. He gave the thumb’s-up sign.
“Guess they didn’t need Gutierrez after all!”