Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [118]
The problem left in her wake was not the wind, downed trees or erased homes, or the tornadoes that spun angrily off her heels or the cost of the damage. No, it was the several million cubic feet of rain that had rolled off her shoulders as she sauntered across land.
And all that rain had to go somewhere.
MIDNIGHT BROUGHT CALM, clear skies and the brightest moon that had ever shone. Bob’s canoe was sixteen feet, made of aluminum and had been painted dark green somewhere in the past. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing, nor was it forgiving, but she was fast and we needed speed more than comfort. I rolled up Indomitable and slid her into a PVC tube with watertight screw caps. Bob handed me a rainbow-colored umbrella and said, “To keep the sun off her.” I wedged both next to the seat and then laid Abbie on a foam pad along the bottom of the canoe.
Dressed in fraying cutoffs and half a bikini, Abbie looked like she did the first time we made this trip. Bob was still dressed. He lifted off his purple robe and laid it across Abbie like a blanket. I extended my hand. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “You know they’ve probably got people camped out on all the bridges.”
“Yeah.”
“Can you get around them?”
“Don’t know.”
“I don’t think you’ll get very far.”
“Never thought we’d get this far.”
Bob said, “Call me anytime. I can land her on a dime.” He pushed us off the bank, I reached deep into the water and pulled, staring forty-six miles and a lifetime in the face.
46
JUNE 11, 1 A.M.—THE LAST DAY
On the Florida side, the river had overflowed its bank by a wide margin. What was once a hundred feet across might stretch out a half mile now through pine trees and palmettos. It reminded me of pictures I’d seen of the Everglades. Given my experience with the river, and limited knowledge of how it drained, most of that rain had yet to hit the river. It would do so in the next twenty-four hours. By morning, the river would be unrecognizable. Even to me. The further we went, the faster it would flow. That meant I couldn’t necessarily judge our progress by known landmarks. Some yes, but I’d have to rely on the flow.
With enough flow, we could average as much as eight miles an hour. In a canoe on the river, that’s like breaking the sound barrier. The good news was knowing that much water would shut down the bridge at Highway 17. That only left the overpass at I-95. If we could slip beneath that, or around it, we had a shot. I knew they’d have people looking for us, but I’d worry about that when we got there. We could always travel under the cover of night, and with enough debris in the water, maybe we had a chance.
’Course, the debris could slow us, too. With the water rising to new levels every minute, it was picking up limbs and trash and sucking it all into the main flow of the river. In some places, where the water circled and swirled, the trash would accumulate, forming a mangled patchwork the size of a football field. Or several. While it might camouflage us, it could also hide the surface of the water. And if we ever got turned over—swamped—I wasn’t sure that we’d ever get it right again.
We’d been in the water two hours when I heard the motors coming. Along the Georgia side, somebody had planted eight palm trees in a row. They were older, mature and their fronds dragged the surface of the water. I ducked in behind the fronds, pulled hard and snapped two of them in half, letting them fall behind us. Two Pathfinders, moving at a