Sloan took a few steps, tripped, and nearly fell. That was when he remembered the flashlight app on his cell phone and turned it on. A blob of light preceded him down the stairs. Once Sloan was outside, he had to turn the light off or run the risk of attracting trouble. The moon was up, thank God, which meant there was enough light to navigate by. And that reminded Sloan of the compass on his phone. All he had to do was check it occasionally to stay on course.
Sloan tried to remain in the shadows as he began what promised to be a five- or six-mile hike back to the gulf. The same five or six miles he’d walked earlier that day. But that couldn’t be helped. What was, was. Now, as Sloan’s night vision continued to improve, he could make out glimmers of light in some of the buildings that he passed. Battery-powered lanterns perhaps, or candles, mostly hidden lest they attract predators. And they were out and about. More than once, Sloan had to seek cover as headlights appeared and a pickup loaded with gun-wielding men roared past. Gangbangers? Yes. On their way to participate in one of Tampico’s never-ending turf wars.
The sky was lighter and it had started to rain by the time Sloan entered the flood zone. There wasn’t much to see at first. But it wasn’t long before he found himself in among smashed cars and damaged buildings. Objects of every sort were strewn about, including hundreds of plastic jugs, a sizeable section of fishing net, a motorcycle helmet, brightly colored toys, a seaweed-draped sofa, a straw hat floating in a puddle, and a scattering of identical knapsacks. From a cargo container? Probably. They were navy blue and adorned with the Adidas logo. Sloan took one for himself. It was wet but would dry out once the rain stopped.
Then, as Sloan entered the area immediately west of the beach, he saw a navy patrol boat. It was big, at least sixty feet long, and looked like a beached whale. Was that the vessel his fellow officials had been on? Quite possibly.
He paused to look up. The rain had slackened a bit—and the sun was no more than a dimly seen glow. What if a semipermanent haze kept the normal amount of sunlight from reaching the ground? The solar industry would suffer… But that was the least of it. Crops would fail all around the world, and millions, if not billions of people would starve. It was a horrible thought, and all Sloan could do was hope that his worst fears wouldn’t come true.
Sloan turned onto the Corredor Urbano Luis Donaldo Colosio and followed it north.
An hour passed. And about the time the rain stopped, and people began to emerge from their homes, Sloan came across a rusty bicycle. It was leaning against a fence—and was too good an opportunity to pass up. After a quick look around, Sloan climbed aboard and pedaled away. The terrain was flat, and he made good time.
The highway was headed west, so Sloan turned right onto the Boulevard de los Ríos, which took him north into an industrial area. A car sprayed him with water as it passed, but Sloan was so wet he barely noticed.
Eventually, he spotted a convenience store that was still open for business and hurried to seize the opportunity. Assuming his theories were correct, the local tiendas would start to run out of goods or be overrun by looters soon. So it was important to buy what he could.
Sloan parked the bike out back, circled around to the front door, and went inside. He had the equivalent of $168.00 US and was determined to spend every peso of it before merchants stopped accepting government currency. The store’s interior had a homey feel—and the shelves were well stocked. Sloan filled a basket with two Bic lighters, a large pocketknife, a plastic cup, a small cooking pot, and the sort of prepackaged foods that are light and easy to prepare. He topped the load off with a large bottle of water.
If the woman behind the counter was curious, she gave no sign of it as she rang up the purchases. It didn’t pay to ask questions… Not in the city of Tampico. She had long pink fingernails, each of which was decorated with a finely drawn gold cross, and they seemed to dance over the cash register’s keys. As the proprietress handed Sloan the bill, he saw that the total was a third more than what he’d expected. And when he asked her about it, she shrugged. “Prices have gone up.”
“Since yesterday?”
“Sí.”
Sloan sighed, removed a third of the food from the basket, and asked her to total it again. The second bill came in slightly under what Sloan had—so he bought a map and three crispy taquitos. After loading his purchases into the damp knapsack, Sloan went out back to eat. Judging from the trash that lay strewn about, other people ate there all the time. He was hungry, and the taquitos were gone in no time.
The next hour and a half was spent pedaling north to a bay called Puerto de Altamira. An access road took him east past the bay and onto land that bordered the east–west ship channel. Because the terrain was low and flat, the tidal wave had been able to sweep across it without encountering any resistance. Multihued shipping containers with names like MATSON, SEALAND, and MAERSK were scattered like abandoned toys.
And crowds of people, many with pickup trucks, were swarming around the containers, taking what they could. Sloan gave them a wide berth as he continued on his way. The air was thick with the smell of rotting sea life, a rusty freighter sat high and dry, and Sloan saw a body lying facedown next to a pile of debris.
Then Sloan spotted the yacht. It was at least fifty feet long and lying on one side. And there, secured to the deck just aft of the streamlined cabin, were two red kayaks! A kayak would be perfect for paddling up the coast. Sloan did a 360, looking for other scavengers, and saw that two men were working on a fishing boat. But they were a thousand yards away—and were busy patching a hole in the boat’s hull.
Thus encouraged, Sloan made his way up to the yacht and lowered the bike to the ground. Then came the task of climbing in over the downside rail and making his way up to the spot where the brightly colored watercraft were waiting for him. After considerable effort, Sloan managed to cut one of them loose. The plan was to lower it gently to the ground, but once the kayak was free, it fell.
Fortunately, the surface below the yacht was dirt rather than cement, and no significant damage was done. The kayak was about ten feet long, weighed about forty pounds, and came with a hard, plastic seat. That meant it was intended for recreational use rather than touring, but beggars can’t be choosers.
The only thing he lacked was a paddle. Was that stored inside the yacht somewhere? If he entered the yacht, Sloan feared that looters might take the kayak. But a kayak without a paddle was worthless, so there was no choice. It was difficult to move around inside the boat, but after ten minutes of searching, Sloan found two collapsible paddles that were stored in a side locker. He took both along with a coil of line and some canned goods.
Once outside, Sloan was relieved to find that the kayak was right where he’d left it. After placing the paddles and his other belongings in the cockpit, he had to haul the kayak across open ground to the slate-gray water beyond.
The biggest problem was figuring out a comfortable way to carry it. Sloan carried it like a suitcase for a while. Then, when that grew tiring, he hoisted it up over his head. But being a desk jockey, he couldn’t maintain that position for very long.
Finally, after fifteen minutes of effort, Sloan made it to the water. It was choppy and littered with floating trash but a welcome sight nonetheless. Sloan’s plan was to follow the coast north, paddling at night and hiding during the day. And that should be possible given all the inlets, bays, and lagoons that lay along the coast.