allow a full view of the canoe bottom and his sides, to show he is not
packing a weapon. As the canoe bumps shore, a couple men step forward
to pull it onto shore. One of them gives Finegan a hand, which he grabs
to steady himself as he steps out onto the shore. The farmer says,
Thought you were one of them.
Finegan explains.
We came through Memphis and heard about them
yahoos. You militia?
The farmer says,
Shore patrol, yeah.
Finegan introduces himself.
I’m a trader. Been all along the new coastline
since Georgia. Might have something you folks
need, been lookin for. We don’t raid and run,
that’s for sure.
Finegan casts a glance to his right, down river down the shoreline.
Recon it’s safe to leave my boat there? Do they
come up this far, during the day?
The farmer meets the eyes of the others for a moment, getting
confirmation on what he is about to say.
Look, I’ll come back with you and show you a
good bay, out of view and all. If there’s a
problem here, we’ll hear about it.
The farmer raises a horn he has been holding in one hand. It’s a
child’s toy trumpet made of plastic. He hands the trumpet to one of the
others and steps into the water to step into the canoe.
______________________________
82
Finegan and the Farmer are emerging from some woods near a tumbledown
farm. They are walking side by side, but the farmer is leading
slightly. They are talking as they walk toward the collapsed barn and
house. Joey is bringing up the rear, dawdling to look at things in the
woods as he goes. These woods are different from the woods along the
coastline of Georgia, where he had been raised.
The farmer has bib coveralls on, farmer boots that come up near to his
knees, and for a shirt is wearing dirty long johns. He is balding, has
not shaved in days, and a few wild hairs are growing out of his ears
and eyebrows. Appearance is the least of his worries. The farmer is
explaining their troubles.
Can’t get our rest at night. They sleep during
the day, I guess. Half of us sleep during the
day and patrol at night, the other half patrol
during the day, and no work gets done. Hell of
a business.
Exploring for a solution, Finegan asks,
If you could see at night, as well as day,
could you cut your night patrol?
The farmer responds,
You mean lights? We ain’t got those no how.
Finegan continues to explore for a solution.
No, I mean night vision goggles. I’ve got
several from a military depot. If you had a few
people on high points, good view of the water,
how many needed to sight the boats incoming?
Now the farmer ponders.
Well, lessee. . .
The farmer has stopped in his tracks to mentally compute, and is
pointing off into the air in a half circle where the water surrounds
the farming community.
I guess 3 at the least, best off would be 5,
but 3 would do it.
Finegan is finally onto something.
OK, I’ve got those 3. Next step. Trip wires.
You got wild life that would trip wires 3 feet
or more above ground? You cleaned out the deer
around here?
The farmer laughs.
Oh, deer are extinct! We kept our breeding
stock and the chickens in the house, slept
outside, but the deer, they got taken out.
Finegan says,
83
From what I seed of that group, they’d not be
inclined to crawl along the ground. We could
trip wire the whole perimeter to see off
alarms. Double trip it, in fact.
In what is to be their typical response, the farmer says,
I got no wire a’tall.
And once again, Finegan to the rescue.
I do. Plenty enough. Fine wire, but it won’t
break. Now, next step. Best is something like a
bell, a clang, can’t mistake it, ya’know. Have
your night vision guys with a bell too.
The farmer says,
I got no bells.
Finegan says,
I do. Lets get started.
Finegan turns to put his hand out for a handshake with the farmer.
What’cha got in trade?
______________________________
The night, along the humid river front, is filled with the sounds of
insects singing. Finegan, the farmer, and several other farming folk
are sitting in the shadows of an outdoor camp next to the collapsed
farmhouse and barn. Occasionally someone swats a mosquito. No one is
saying a word, all listening intently, eyes ranging along the perimeter
of the farmstead. Suddenly there is the sound of a clanging bell,
followed minutes later by a second clanging bell of a different pitch,
coming from a different direction. Finegan points.
That’s your far guard and a trip wire on this
other end.
The group mobilizes, grabbing clubs and pitch forks, one carrying a
coiled rope over his neck and down under one shoulder. They take off in
the direction of the trip wire.
______________________________
Three teenage boys are clustered in the woods. The raid leader says,
What the fuck was that?
They are standing, momentarily confused, looking around. One of them, a
clumsy goof, says,
I ran into somethin here. Ah . . it’s a wire. A
wire.
The leader says,
Well duck under it. Common. Move it already.
The bell clangs out again.
84
Christ you can’t do anything right. Don’t pull
on it, duck under it.
The three boys get on hands and knees and are starting to crawl along
under the trip wire when the farming group bursts onto the scene,
swinging clubs.
______________________________
Half a dozen prisoners are tied back to back, in pairs. They are all
tied at the ankle too, so running is impossible for any of them. Five
are boys, one a teen-age girl. All are very resentful of being
captured. Coffee has been brewed over a campfire and scrambled eggs and
toast being served to the farming community. Finegan and Joey are
guests. The prisoners are not being offered anything but a drink of
water from a tin mug, held to their mouths. Finegan gestures to the
prisoners and turns to the farmer, who is seated on a hay bale next to
him. Finegan asks,
What’cha goin’ to do with ‘em?
The farmer replies,
Shoot em?
Finegan says,
One thing for sure, you’ve got to sink their
boats. They’d just take up again down the
coast. . . I can do that. Got a drill. Sink em
all and sink em good. Shame, but that’s the
first place they’d head.
The resentful farmer says,
Yeah, but they’d raid on land too.
Finegan says,
Harder to hide on land. And harder to run. On
the water, they could move, find new territory.
They had the ele
ment of surprise, at least at
first.
Finegan and the Farmer are pondering the situations, chewing and
swallowing and slurping, both staring at the glowering group of
prisoners. Finegan asks,
How much did they steal? Give me the value in
days stolen from y’all.
The farmer leans back for a moment, taking in a deep breath, looks up
toward the sky, and pausing in his chewing for a moment. Then he
swallows.
Given how many of us’en had to watch, and days
lost collecting our harvest? I’d say several
85
months. This been going on for months. We did
plant and have a harvest waiting, but made no
progress, y’know?
The farmer gestures around the site, indicating the state of his
outdoor camp, which is still out in the open except for some tarp tents
in the farmhouse yard. Finegan has a suggestion.
Here’s what I’d suggest. This group owes you
that time. Make a chain gang and work them for
that time. Take them months to work it off.
Maybe they learn something about farming and
don’t have to steal no more. Doing ‘em a favor.
Good behavior, that one gets off first, on his
own, across land. Send ‘em off as a group and
you’ve got a gang formed. The ringleader goes
last. Keep a night guard on for a good while
after too.
And as usual, the farmer says,
I got no chain and I got no locks.
And Finegan says,
I do.
______________________________
Finegan and Joey are walking across the gangplank with a plate of
scrambled eggs for Barney, who is wagging his tail, greeting them.
Several of the farming community are following him, bearing produce –
several bags of potatoes, a cardboard box filled with green cabbages,
another filled with turnips, and a jug of home brew. Finegan is
stashing the goods in vegetable bins as they hand it over on the deck
of the houseboat and leave, one by one. He and Joey wave goodbye as the
group trudges up the steep ravine from the hidden bay where the
houseboat has been stashed all this time.
Finegan still has the jug of home brew hanging from one of his fingers.
Joey looks at the jug, then back up at Finegan, not saying a word but
saying volumes.
This time’s gonna be different. I don’t feel
the need no more.
______________________________
The houseboat is pulled alongside the yacht, moored with the grappling
hooks. Finegan is on the deck of the yacht, handing duffle bags of gear
down to Joey, who stashes them onto the front deck, running some of the
bags into the house itself. Some of the bags clang as though cookware
86
or tools might be inside. The ring of rowboats can be seen to one side,
taking on water, as are the speedboats. The yacht is starting to list
to one side also. Finegan says,
Might be a change of clothes in there for you
too. You’re growing like a weed. Captain’s log
in there too. Might make for some interesting
reading. . . No sense letting all this stuff
rot in the water. . . It was stolen in the
first place.
Finegan tosses the grappling hooks back onto the houseboat, and climbs
down the ladder at the side of the yacht as the houseboat starts to
drift away. He opens one of the duffle bags and fishes out the
captain’s log and, seated on a box, starts to flip pages. The log
reads,
We were swept inland by a giant wave coming off
the Gulf. Our compass is no help, is erratic.
Finegan takes a swig from his jug and continues to flip pages, reading.
In the background the yacht continues to list to the side, almost on
its side, and the smaller boats can no longer be seen, having sunk. The
raft make of logs had been tied to the houseboat earlier, and is
starting to tug away from shore with the houseboat as it drifts in the
current, the outgoing tide. The log continues,
Floods everywhere. Landmarks unrecognizable.
We’re out of food and water. Gas almost gone.
Finegan takes another swig from the jug, flipping more pages, scanning.
The shoreline is in the distance now, the floating raft lit from the
left by the setting sun. The final log entry says,
Drifted close to land. Taking the dinghy over.
Abandoning ship.
Finegan is about to take another swig from the jug but ponders it
instead. He goes over to the side of the houseboat and pours the rest
of the homebrew overboard, setting the jug down. He looks out at the
floating raft, drifting downstream with the outgoing tide along with
the houseboat. He says,
Lets cut that loose and go upriver a bit, see
what’s to see up there, eh?
Finegan picks up a knife and walks over to where the floating raft is
tied to the houseboat, slicing the line.
Eating Rats
The houseboat is peddling down what would have been main street of a
small town. Two-story brick buildings line both sides of the main
street, flooded to the floor of the second story. Much of the brick is
broken off, some buildings no more than a single wall with some boards
sticking out of it.
The place appears deserted until the mayor appears in a broken second
story window. The window has been knocked out to form a doorway, and a
rowboat is tied by a rope that disappears into the doorway. The mayor
is shirtless, has folds of skin hanging over the waist of his baggy,
dirty pants, as though he has lost a lot of weight. He has a scraggly
beard and hair on the long side too. He leans in the doorway, yelling
at Finegan.
You got any food?
Finegan replies,
Depends. You got anything to trade? I’m a
trader.
The mayor flaps his hand toward Finegan in disgust, as though to say
“go away”, and turns his back, walking back into the room.
The entire length of main street, several blocks, is flooded, with a
hillside at the end rising up out of the water. At the end of main
street is a hill topped with a nursing home complex. There are several
buildings, all of similar shape and size, and a parking lot. Finegan
heads for that hillside.
______________________________
Finegan and Joey are walking through the entry of the nursing home
complex. The buildings show the effects of quakes and high winds, some
thrown sideways, some collapsed in place, others standing but with
windows broken and roof partly blown off. A sign laying along the
walkway says, in fading paint, “Coolridge Retirement Home”. Finegan is
looking around as he walks, sometimes walking backwards, looking for
life. He hears a screen door creaking open. The woman manager says,
Can I help you?
A woman in her 30’s, her long brown hair held back by a bandana, is
standing in the doorway, holding the crooked screen door open. She is
wearing a man’s shirt that is too large for her, bound at the waist by
a tie, the sleeves rolled up t
o her elbows. She has a long colorful
skirt beneath, and is barefoot. Several cats run in and out of the room
88
as she opens the door. Finegan jerks his head to the side at the sound
of her voice.
Finegan Fine here, mam, trader. Perhaps I have
something you’ve been looking for, something
you need.
The manager says,
Oh, I don’t know. Unless you’re a floating
pharmacy. You that houseboat down there? The
one piled with, ah . . boy, you do come loaded.
What’all you got?
Finegan smiles and says,
Don’t rightly know, mam, until I do inventory.
As I said, I’m a trader, and I find I can rise
to any occasion.
Finegan stops short at this point, all but putting his hand to his
mouth, realizing they are flirting with each other and dropping
innuendoes. The manager catches this too, and tries to put the
conversation back on a safe footing.
Well, ah, we’ve got a retirement home here, old
folks. Mostly what they’re missing is
medication, but those that suffered from that
passed early. Now I’m here as head nurse with a
hardy lot. Old, but hardy.
The manager steps through the doorway into the driveway circling the
complex and motions to Finegan and Joey to follow her.
Come on back, I’ll show you.
______________________________
The nursing home vegetable garden is at the back of the complex. Most
of the gardens are raised beds, long rectangular beds formed by a heavy
lumber posts laid horizontally on top of one another, held firm by
stakes along the outside driven into the ground. The wall is two feet
tall with soil in the interior of the bed. There is a pipe running down
the center of each bed for watering with a spigot at one end. The pipes
have holes punched into them so water sprays out down the length of the
pipe. In between the beds is what was intended to be lawn, but it has
not been mowed in ages. Instead, there are wheelchair tracks and a path