Water, Water, Everywhere

Back on I-10 the next morning, I had to work my way through many stalled cars and trucks, buses to get to the tunnel under Mobile Bay. But when the tunnel was in sight, it proved to be flooded. Unsure of where to go, I backed up until I saw an exit into downtown that was also cluttered with vehicles, making my headway difficult. And, there was the water, water all over ruined downtown Mobile from 1 to 3 feet deep that I navigated with caution. Not knowing what was working underneath. Debris that would cut my tires? An open manhole that my wheels would drop into?

Using derelict vehicles and other landmarks to judge water depth, I crept along the deep streets until I finally saw a ramp leading to 165. I was beginning to sweat as I drove. It was nerve-racking. Was so very glad to see that ramp; afraid of getting caught in deep water and losing my rig.

Interstate feeder 165 took me high and dry northward until I saw a sign for New Bay Bridge and took that. It was the old US Highway 90 that paralleled I-10 across the country. I was grateful for that bridge high above the water, my only way across Mobile Bay. Before I knew it, I was back on I-10 with the Gulf of Mexico on my right again. Within a half-hour, I arrived at Pensacola and hoped to see some beach there that I could stop and enjoy. But the Gulf had already engulfed all the beaches and was once again bordering the highway at high tide. There was evidence that water had been over the highway by all of the pavement erosion. But it was low tide and I made it through even though it was treacherous at times. Got my adrenaline pumping. Afraid I would cut my tires up too badly or lose control as I bounced over chunks of upturned concrete or plowed through deep water.

Except for occasional alligators again, the road from Pensacola was fairly open. By midmorning, I passed through Tallahassee seeing more of the same devastation, partly by flooding and mostly by the big meltdown following three winters of devastating cold. For all I knew, Antarctica had melted, but hopefully, not… I would've been under water where I was driving. Sixty feet under.

Up ahead, I saw telltale smoke in the northwest and southeast. As I drove, I passed the smoke to the north and eventually later in the day, to the south. Glad I was passing them and not having to drive through their clouds. When I got to Tallahassee, it was flooded like Pensacola and Mobile. There seemed to be no end to flooded and otherwise, destroyed, cities. No signs of human life anywhere except those still burning fires that clearly were nuclear reactors melting down. What a waste.

I wondered how far south I could go in Florida before I would run into water. I reached I-75 by nightfall and slept there, deciding whether I would head south into smoke billowing down near Tampa or drive over to Jacksonville and south on I-95. I elected the latter, although there was smoke ahead in the northeast as well. Here, in the Eastern United States, nuclear reactors were plentiful. It would be hard going to avoid them all.

The next morning, I got an early start into the rising sun and the fog that hung around from all the recent rain. Dead vehicles ahead appeared like ghosts out of the soup and I had to be wary of them as I drove. Before I knew it, the fog was gone and I was rolling into Jacksonville. No surprise to me, Jacksonville was flooded. But the 95 was high and dry, so I turned south. The traffic was probably the lightest that highway had ever seen. And all of it but me was standing still.

When I got to St. Augustine, that beautiful old city no longer stood against the encroaching Atlantic Ocean. The high freeway, once again, allowed me to pass by, but I could see breakers from the ocean ripping away at buildings that had stood for over 300 years. Now being rapidly dismantled by rising water, storms and high tides.

Just south of St. Augustine, I-95 dipped down ahead into the ocean and never came back up. There was no going further south. There were many more coastal towns named after beaches ahead: Cocoa, Palm, Daytona, Fort Lauderdale, Pompano, Miami, to name a few. But it didn't matter. There was no one there to even notice--all dead or left. But if they left, where did they go? I hadn't found anyone still alive but Charlie. And now he was gone.

I took a u-turn and drove back on the wrong side of the freeway. I stayed on that side because it was generally a little higher than the other side and not as close to the ocean. The only relief I had from the monotony of driving was seeing all the birds and many animals large and small along the way. There were still alligators to drive around, but not as many. There were occasional places where there was water on the road, but nothing I couldn't navigate, fortunately.

North of Jacksonville, I shut off my air conditioning and closed the windows as I drove through a radioactive cloud to the west of me for about an hour. I about passed out from heatstroke before the sky became clear again and I could turn on the AC and cool off.

That evening I arrived at Savannah, flooded like all the rest. Stopped for the night and set my sights on Atlanta the next day. I woke to the sound of geese flying overhead. The Spring Eastern flyway was in full flight and I was glad for that. Hoping the birds were adapting. But I wasn't heading up the East Coast with them and more water anymore. I turned west on I-15 with the sun on my back for a change headed for Macon, and hopefully, Atlanta, by end of day.

With few obstacles on the road, I made good time and didn't see anything but devastation and new growth. Ate lunch at Macon and headed north on I-75. I was so glad to leave all the water behind, but I knew there would be washouts and rivers high in flood ahead. It seemed to be the new normal, especially in Spring.

On the Piedmont, I began to see the characteristic rusty red soil. But I didn't see the stands of tall loblolly pine that covered the landscape wherever there weren't farms. There was grass, flowers and 3 to 4 foot pine sprouts thrusting up from the rusty soil. Disturbingly, especially around burned-out buildings, I saw large patches of kudzu growing rapidly in the sun. Like a radiation mutated monster, the Japanese import was surviving better than most native plants. So were the wild pigs. I saw them everywhere and tried not to run over one and wreck my truck. I still had pork from the last one to eat.

As I approached Atlanta from the south, I saw its shining towers tarnished by fire, wind and neglect and began to run into too many abandoned vehicles to continue downtown. So I took 285 to the west around the city. As I passed by Atlanta International Airport and saw all the cars still in the parking lot and planes at the terminals and on the runways, as if ready to take off, I wondered about all the people in those cars. Had they left on some planes? Were they stranded at the airport? I didn't know, and there was no one to ask.

I picked up I-20 and headed west. Very soon, I crossed the very muddy and flooded Chattahoochee River. To my left was Six Flags over Georgia, looking like the Lost City of Jurassic Park with its kudzu covered canopy. Those rides were rusting in place, never to see the joy of children again. At the top of Bear Mountain, I pulled over at a burned-out gas stop to spend the night.