Chapter ELEVEN

There was a solid line of cars, bumper to bumper, on the northbound side of the highway. It ended against a roadblock consisting of two state troopers, one standing in the middle of the lane with a double-barreled shotgun over his arm, the other by the roadside where he could look into the cars. Their patrol car was pulled over on the soggy shoulder, its motor idling.

A new Lincoln with a middle-aged man at the wheel was next.

"Why do you want to get through, mister?" the trooper demanded. He had long ago given up the time-consuming request for registration and operator's permit.

The man was flustered. "I have some friends in Newtown," he said. "I thought maybe there was something I could do for them--"

The trooper glanced into the back of the car. Empty. "You haven't got anything they need," he said. "Turn around and go home."

Meekly the man U-turned around the trooper in the road and sped south.

The next car was a tired, top-down convertible with two young couples who might have been high-school seniors, college freshmen or young working stiffs. The driver explained, too glibly, indicating the girl by his side: "Her mother lives in Bradley, so she got me to drive her in. You know the railroads and buses aren't running, officer."

But the girl giggled.

"Where does she live in Bradley?" asked the trooper. The girl hesitated and took a deep breath before beginning to lie. The trooper gave a weary shushing gesture. "Skip it," he said. "Turn around and go home. This is no circus."

The driver began to bluster. "I've got a license, I can drive where I want--"

"Turn around and go home," the trooper said. "If you keep arguing I'll run you in for obstructing traffic. If you're stupid enough to proceed down that road, Schultz there will fire one warning shot and will then blow your goddam head off. Move."

The boy roared his motor spitefully to say the things he didn't dare say, let up suddenly on his clutch and spun around the patrolman with the shotgun in a U-turn.

The next car was black and driven by a man in black. Its rear and the seat beside the driver were filled with cartons; the trunk lid was half-up, tied by a rope to the bumper over more cartons.

"I'm from the Beaver Run Meeting of the Society of Friends," the man said quietly. "We've gathered some things they may need in there. Medicine, bandages, Sterno, flashlights."

The trooper hesitated. "We're supposed to accept contributions and turn you back, then a truck comes and takes them in. But I haven't seen any truck and I don't know whether there's going to be one or if it was just talk. You look as if you can take care of yourself, mister. Go on in and don't get hurt." He called to the trooper in the road: "Let him through."

"Thank you," said the Quaker, and drove on at a careful thirty-five miles per hour.

Down the southbound lane, the deserted left strip of the highway, a big car purred, slowing obediently to a stop at the outraged shout of the trooper. The old man who was driving said nothing; the young woman with him put out her head and called, "Dr. Buloff, Factoryville, New York. Are there any instructions?"

The trooper backed around the car and read the New York plates. The second two characters were MD. He said to the old man, "Just go in and free-lance, doc. They can use you."

"Thank you, officer," the old man said with a good trace of German accent, and the car purred on.

In rapid succession three imbeciles followed the doctor's example of using the southbound lane. All were sightseers, and all were turned back with curses.

The next car in line was a '39 Ford driven by a white-faced young man with the jitters and a narrow mustache. He had identification papers ready in his sweating hand. "John C. Barshay," he said precisely. "As you can see from the address on this envelope I live at 437 Olney Street, Newtown. I work in New York City and come home weekends. My wife--I haven't been able to get through on the phone." His voice was rising hysterically. "I demand to be let through, officer!"

"Calm down," the trooper said gently. "Of course you can get through. We're not here to stop people like you. I hope everything's all right."

The young man fought his way back to composure. "Thank you, officer," he said precisely, and drove on.

Then there was a phenomenon, a car coming _from_ the flooded area. It was coming fast until the driver, presumably, could see that the hassle up ahead was a roadblock and then it stopped and began to wheel around.

"Hold 'em, Schultzie!" the trooper yelled at his partner with the shotgun. He leaped into the idling patrol car, spun its wheels for an instant in the soft shoulder and then zoomed free down the highway. The other car had barely finished its turn; he had it crowded off the road in seconds. He got out with his gun drawn and a casual bead on the head of the unshaven, slack-jawed man in the driver's seat. "Get out with your hands up," he said, his body shielded behind the front of his car.

The driver got out, dull-eyed.

"Turn around."

He did, and the trooper frisked him. There were things in his pockets, none of them gun-size. The trooper, from behind, pulled out watches, a costly new spinning reel and some rhinestone rings and necklaces.

The back of the car was filled with new suits and dresses, some crumpled and mud-stained. The trooper lifted the trunk lid and found shiny new appliances--a pressure-cooker, a steam iron, a handsome floor fan, a sandwich grill, a rotisserie.

"Is this car yours?" the trooper asked interestedly.

"No," the man mumbled.

"You'll be sorry for this day's work, boy," the trooper promised. "Keep your back turned."

He rolled up the windows, took the car keys from the ignition and locked it up. With the man beside him he drove back to the roadblock and prodded him out with his gun.

"Looter," he said to his partner. "Stolen car locked up down there, full of plunder. Watch him." To the man he said: "Stand over there and don't try to run or you'll get killed. Now, who's next?"

"Press," said a jaunty young man in a convertible, showing a card quickly.

"Do that again," the officer requested. Reluctantly the young man did. The officer read aloud: "The Zeidler News Service requests that police and fire officials extend all press courtesies to its representative George E. Neumann." He grinned. "Back to Pittsburgh, Mr. George E. Neumann."

The young man shrugged and wheeled his car around.

The next two cars were, or appeared to be, driven by legitimate relatives of people in the flood area; at least they were filled with sensible supplies. The trooper passed them. The next was a year-old Dodge sedan with an oldish driver and a youngish passenger. "Haggarty," the driver said. "New York _Daily Globe_. This is Vince Ruffino, my photographer. The press card." It was a little green folder with picture--an embossed city seal through it--thumbprint, description, and the signature of the police commissioner. "Fire badge," said Haggarty, flipping open a leather folder. "Okay?"

"Okay," the trooper said, and waved them on.

The line of waiting cars was beginning to break up. The number of people turned back and the sour replies they had called as they passed those still in line explained it.

Another vehicle coming away from the flood area, fast. It had a cardboard sign with a red cross on it stuck in the windshield. A station wagon, full.

The trooper at the checkpoint paused to watch. The driver of the station wagon stopped by the trooper with the shotgun, spoke to him for a minute, nodded and slid into gear again. The trooper at the check point stared at the faces inside the station wagon, some drawn, some nervously exuberant, as it went past.

The trooper with the shotgun was walking down the road toward him. "Transients," he said. "They're getting them out."

The other trooper said hesitantly, "Did--did you ask--"

"Yeah. They haven't found anybody answering your wife's description, not that the driver knew about anyway. She'll be all right."

"Sure. Thanks." The trooper with the shotgun turned and walked back. His partner sighed and moved on to the car at the head of the line. It was stretched out of sight again.

* * * * *

"You want me to stop for any of this?"

The photographer said, "Nope. I'll wait until we get in the town. But jeez, it's pretty beat up, isn't it?"

Jay Haggarty nodded and concentrated on his driving. One of the beat-up elements of the landscape was the road they were on. Water had scoured gravel out from under the surfacing in places, and there were potholes; water had rushed across the road in a flood in other places, and left mud and debris.

A man in a leather windbreaker yelled at them to slow down, and Haggarty obediently put his foot on the brake. He followed the man's instructions and they crawled across what had recently been a four-million-dollar toll-bridge. It seemed to be vibrating as they crossed it, Haggarty had to remind himself that they wouldn't have been allowed on it if it weren't safe. The river was within two feet of the surface of the roadway, and there was an uneven thudding as flotsam rammed into the accumulated tangle on the upstream side.

They passed between the empty toll booths and headed for Hebertown.

Haggarty said, "I was here just before the war, Vince. Nice, quiet little town. It doesn't look as if it's been built up much since then."

Ruffino said, "Who the hell would want to build a house around here? You wake up some morning and you're under water. Give me Passaic."

There was a second roadblock just before the sign that said: ENTERING HEBERTOWN. Haggarty showed his card and leaned out of the window to ask where the emergency relief headquarters was. The directions turned out to be pretty complicated: It's straight down Center Street, only you can't get through there--trees across the road. So turn left on Maple, but you won't be able to take the bridge at White Street because it's blocked off; go three blocks further and cross on the highway bridge. Then you'll have to watch out for soft pavement on Locust....

Ruffino said, unbelievingly, "Jeez, Jay, it's worse here than it was down by the river. Do you mean that little creek had enough water in it to do all this?" He stared at the little gray stream that flowed under the highway bridge, and at the twisted, half-collapsed warehouses and storefronts that were easily five feet above water level.

"It's the little streams that do the damage," Haggarty told him. "Once the water gets into the rivers it's all right. It can flow away. But you see how close these buildings are set to the creek here? As soon as the water came up a couple of feet it clobbered them."

He stopped, because the photographer was opening the door of the parked car and no longer listening. It was as good a place to get started as any. Haggarty pulled over to the curb, locked the ignition and got out.