There were four more in front of the bridge, three women and a boy, maybe in his mid teens. The leader said something in Spanish as he approached, sounding as if it was meant to be jocular but evoking only a suspicious look from the youth as he saw the strangers carrying guns and his own people without any. Moving to the edge of the break, Keene saw that the bridge spanned a shallow ravine containing a creek. The structure had collapsed on one side, shedding most of the pavement except for the right-hand shoulder, which hung as a succession of tilted slabs and flakes to afford a precarious crossing from the far side. The ravine was littered with trash and debris washed up by the tide and carried down by the creek from farther inland. The wreck of a small coastal freighter lay half buried in mud a short distance below the bridge on the seaward side. Keene guessed that the boat being slammed against the bridge had caused the initial damage, and the flood waters had taken things from there. On the far side of the bridge was an ancient green truck of the kind used for local deliveries, with a miscellany of boxes, bicycles, plastic-wrapped bundles, and suitcases tied to the top. Mitch and Cavan came up to stand alongside him and silently took in the scene. It told its own story.
“You see what happened,” the leader said, waving. “We get that far, and that’s it. We don’t wanna go back anywhere we’ve seen, man, I’m tellin’ you. Then Augusto sees the boat over this side here, and we come over to check it out. Figure maybe we’re gonna need it when the water comes in again, you know? So now, what you say? That big truck can easy take all of us. You ain’t goin’ anywhere this way, in any case. We don’t give you guys no trouble. I mean, what else you gonna do, just leave us here? Come on, man. We all gotta stick together in this, you know?”
Mitch swatted flies away from his face and looked at Cavan for guidance. “Looks like there might not be any other way,” Keene heard him say above the wind.
“What about my guys back there?” the leader asked. “Is it okay for them to come back now? We’re all friends together, right?”
“Over there, where we can see them,” Mitch said, waving at the shoulder on one side of the roadway. “Have one of them pick up the guns and leave them by the truck.” The leader yelled back to relay the directions in Spanish. Buff and Luke had come down from the cab and were staring at the bridge and the strip of highway disappearing into the swirling vapors beyond. Luke turned and said something; Buff shook his head stolidly. The others were appearing from the back and coming around to inspect the situation. “You guys bring some women too,” the leader commented, tugging his beard and grinning approvingly.
“What else are we going to do?” Mitch said. “Shoot them? We don’t have any choice but go back toward Corpus Christi. We can’t just drive away and leave them here to drown?”
“I suppose we have to take them that far,” Cavan agreed. “Then it would depend on what we decided. Are we still talking about finding a long way around, or do we give it up and head back for San Antonio?”
Mitch pulled a face and looked toward the sky. The booms and rolling of distant thunder had intensified in the last few hours. “I don’t like the way this is going. It feels like it’s building up toward the Big One that Charlie talked about. I don’t want to be anywhere near any ocean when it hits.” Cavan looked at Keene to invite comment, but in a way that said Mitch was speaking for both of them.
“What’s happening?” Charlie asked as he joined them.
Cavan gestured. “See for yourself. The only way now is back. What we do when we get to I-37 is the question.”
Alicia was turning her head from side to side, as if searching for a way around. “But . . . San Saucillo?” she said. “What about the shuttle?”