him to one of the towers and explaining the refining process.
“It sounds pretty dangerous,” Peter said.
“Things happen, it’s true.”
“Where’s the reserve?” The oil, Peter knew, came from a holding tank deep underground.
“About five miles to the north of here. It’s actually a natural salt dome, part of the old Strategic Petroleum Reserve. Oil floats, so we pump in seawater and out it comes.”
His friend had acquired a bit of Texas in his voice, Peter noted. Not “oil” but “awhl.”
“How much is left down there?”
“Well, a shitload, basically. By our estimates, enough to fill the cookers for another fifty years.”
“And once it’s gone?”
“We go looking for more. There are plenty of tanks spread along the Houston ship channel. It’s a real toxic swamp up there, and the place is crawling with dopeys, but it could tide us over awhile. The next closest dome is Port Arthur. It wouldn’t be easy to move the operation up there, but with enough time we could do it.” He gave a fatalistic shrug. “Either way, I doubt I’ll be around to worry about it.”
Michael announced that he had a surprise to show Peter. They walked to the armory, where Michael retrieved a shotgun, then to the motor pool for a pickup. Michael clipped the shotgun into a stand on the floor of the cab and told Peter to get in.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
They drove out of the compound, then turned south on a cracked blacktop that ran parallel with the water. A salty wind gusted through the truck’s open windows, taking the edge off the heat. Peter had seen the Gulf only a couple of times; its ancient span, too huge to hold in his mind, unfailingly took his breath away. Most entrancing were the waves, long tubes gathering size and momentum as they approached, falling in a curl of brown foam at the water’s edge. He couldn’t take his eyes off them. Peter knew he could sit on the sand for hours, just watching the waves.
Stretches of the beach were swept clean, while others still bore the evidence of catastrophe on a grand scale: mountains of rusting metal twisted into incomprehensible shapes; beached ships of every size, their hulls bleached and pitted or else stripped to the struts, tilted on the sand like exposed rib cages; ridges of undifferentiated debris, pushed inshore on the tide.
“You’d be surprised how much stuff still washes in,” Michael said, gesturing out the window. “A lot of it comes down the Mississippi, then curves along the coast. The heavy stuff’s mostly gone, but anything plastic seems to last.”
Michael had veered off the road and was now driving close to the water’s edge. Peter stared out the window. “Do you ever see anything bigger?”
“Once in a while. Last year, a barge still loaded with big containers washed in. The damn thing had been drifting for a century. We were all pretty excited.”
“What was in them?”
“Human skeletons.”
They came to an inlet and turned west, following the edge of a tranquil bay. Ahead was a small concrete structure perched on the water’s edge. As Michael brought the truck to a halt, Peter saw that the building was just a shell, although a sign in the window still read, in faded letters, “Art’s Crab Shack.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Peter said. “What’s the surprise?”
His friend smiled mischievously. “Leave that smoke poker here,” he said, gesturing to the Browning strapped to Peter’s thigh. “You’re not going to need it.”
Wondering what his friend had in mind, Peter deposited the gun in the glove compartment, then followed Michael to the rear of the building. A small dock on concrete piers, perhaps thirty feet long, jutted out over the water.
“What am I seeing?”
“A boat, obviously.”
A small sailboat was tied up at the end of the pier, gently bobbing in the swells.
“Where did you get it?”
Michael’s face shone with pride. “A lot of places, actually. The hull we found in a garage about ten miles inland. The rest we cobbled together or made ourselves.”
“We?”
“Lore and me.” He cleared his throat, his face suddenly flustered. “I guess it’s pretty obvious—”
“You don’t owe me an explanation, Michael.”
“I’m just saying it’s not quite what it looks like. Well, maybe it is. But I wouldn’t say we’re together, exactly. Lore’s just … well, she’s just like that.”
Peter found himself taking perverse pleasure in his friend’s embarrassment. “She seems nice enough. And she obviously likes you.”
“Yeah, well.” Michael shrugged. “ ‘Nice’ wouldn’t necessarily be the first word I’d choose, if you know what I