Into the Guns (5 page)

In spite of the plywood nailed across the front door, Sloan felt sure there was a way in. And sure enough . . . As he circled the building, he came to a crude staircase. It consisted of a crate pushed up against an old dumpster. After climbing up onto the top, Sloan was able to step through an empty window into the hotel's kitchen.

Everything of value had been stolen by then, so the only things that remained were the enormous stove, a concrete prep table, and lots of trash. Were people living there? That was a distinct possibility, and Sloan knew he was taking a chance. Light filtered in through arched windows as he passed through the dining room, entered the lobby, and spotted the reception desk. The air was thick with the smell of urine. From there, it was a short walk to a marble staircase, which remained elegant, in spite of how filthy it was and the mindless obscenities that had been spray-painted onto its walls.

Sloan followed the stairs up to the mezzanine floor. That's where
the bar had been . . . And Sloan could imagine people sitting at tables and looking into the lobby below as they had a drink. Even though there were lots of rooms on the floors higher up, Sloan preferred to stay low, where he would know if people entered the building and would be able to escape more easily. With that in mind, he circled the mezzanine, looking for a spot to take a nap. He chose a corner where a previous “guest” had been kind enough to place a large piece of cardboard on the floor. It was dusty but otherwise clean.

So Sloan lay down, curled up into the fetal position, and allowed his thoughts to wander. The coast. He would return to the coast. It might be difficult to find a boat that hadn't been damaged by the tidal wave, but he would try. And assuming that he found one, he'd row or sail it north. And if that plan failed, he would walk. Three hundred miles divided by fifteen miles per day equaled twenty. That was how long it would take. Okay, twenty-five, just to be safe. But one way or another . . .

Sloan woke to the sound of machine-gun fire off in the distance somewhere. He sat up and looked around. It was dark, and only the slightest bit of light was leaking in through the windows—a sure sign that the power was off. The firing stopped. Sloan stood and checked his watch. It was time to get going. A task that would be more difficult without streetlights.
Why didn't you buy a flashlight instead of tacos?
Sloan asked himself.
Because I'm an idiot,
came the response.

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.

After stuffing his gear into the watertight compartment located aft of the kayak's cockpit, Sloan replaced the lid and checked to make sure that it was on tight. Then it was time to drag the fiberglass hull down a muddy bank and into the ship channel that led out into the Gulf of Mexico. After laying one of the paddles across the hull, Sloan stood astride the kayak and walked it out into the ship channel. As soon as the tiny boat was afloat, he sat down while bringing his feet up and in.

Then it was time to start paddling. A breeze was blowing in from the east, which forced Sloan to paddle harder than he would have preferred. But after a sustained effort, he managed to propel the kayak past a half-sunken ship and into the open sea.

He was paddling into the waves at first, but the moment he turned north, water slapped the side of the low-lying craft and threatened to swamp it. In order to prevent that, Sloan had to cut the waves at an angle and tack back and forth.

As hours passed, the beach was his constant companion. Any huts that had been on it were gone now . . . And the only people Sloan saw were occasional fishermen in small boats. Most waved, and he waved back.

Finally, as the light began to fade, Sloan knew it was time to go ashore on a deserted stretch of beach. Once on dry land, he could see where the high water had swept up and inland. Pieces of plastic had been left hanging in the scrub that lined the shore, but the hardy bushes seemed none the worse for wear. After locating a clearing about a hundred feet inland, Sloan went back for the kayak and dragged it up and out of sight. Then he cut a branch and returned to the water, where he backed up the beach and erased his footprints.

Overkill? Maybe, and maybe not. The cartels had been running drugs up that coast for a long time. Would the current set of circumstances bring drug traffic to a stop or cause it to grow? Sloan didn't know and wasn't about to run any unnecessary risks.

Once it was dark, Sloan built a small fire, which he used to prepare a simple dinner. Plain though the meal was, it tasted good and served to remind him of the fact that he'd have to find more food and ways to replenish his water supply. The beaches were littered with plastic bottles, but how to fill them? That would require some planning.

After gathering driftwood and constructing a rudimentary shelter, Sloan curled up and managed to sleep in spite of the insects that continually bit him. When morning came, he rose, enjoyed a cup of instant coffee, and wondered why he hadn't been smart enough to buy toothpaste. The day passed slowly, and he gave thanks for the ever-present clouds. The heat would have been unbearable without them. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, evening came and it was time for his much-anticipated dinner. Once his stomach was full, Sloan put the fire out and dragged the kayak down to the water.

Thus began what would be a pattern for days to come. Paddle at night and sleep during the day. During that time, Sloan mastered the art of stealing food from fishing camps, looting crab pots, and night fishing. And so it went for nineteen days. During that time, Sloan became stronger and leaner. He still had a couple of pellets in his back. But the wounds had healed, and there were no signs of infection. And that was all he could ask for.

As the twentieth night began, Sloan felt a rising sense of anticipation, knowing that if he hadn't entered US waters, he would soon. Moonlight filtered down through broken clouds to frost the surface of the gently heaving sea. He was enjoying the beauty of that when he heard a distant rumble and felt a stab of fear.

It wasn't the first engine he'd heard. Two days earlier, the steady thump, thump, thump of a diesel engine had announced the presence of a dimly lit fishing boat that passed within a hundred feet of the kayak. But
this
sound was different. The throaty roar belonged to a cigarette boat or something similar. Not the sort of craft a fisherman would use.