The Pulse: A Novel of Surviving the Collapse of the Grid by Scott B. Williams Page A

two V-shaped catamaran hulls were supported by heavy wooden cradles blocked up over the sand by various bits and blocks of timber. Workbenches and sawhorses surrounding the hulls were cluttered with other miscellaneous assemblies and fabrications that were obviously part of the boat, and tools, assorted hardware, jugs of epoxy, and cans of paint were scattered in haphazard piles on every available work surface. A stepladder stood next to one of the hulls, giving access to the deck, which was at least eight feet from the ground. Artie’s anticipation of getting underway to New Orleans turned to dismay, which was written all over his face when he looked back at Larry.
    “This isn’t a boat, it’s a construction project! It’ll take forever to put all this together and get it in the water.”
    “It’s closer than you think, Doc. Look, I know you can’t visualize how it’s going to be—most people can’t when they see it this way. But when these 36-foot hulls are spread apart to assembly width, the overall beam will be 20 feet—that’s a big platform with an easy motion at sea. All the beam and deck components are built. We just have to install some hardware here and there, step the mast, do some bits of rigging, and we’ll be ready to launch. Cosmetics be damned, I’ll paint her later after all this shit is over with. She’s one hell of a boat. You’re gonna see once she’s in the water.”
    “It all just looks so overwhelming to me. I mean, how are we supposed to even move these huge hulls apart to put them together? How do we get it in the water without a crane or something?”
    “It’s all downhill to the water, Doc,” Larry said, pointing out the barely perceptible slope from the boat shed to the high-tide line. “Trust me, I know how to get it done.”
    “So where’s this friend of yours, Scully, who’s supposed to be working on it?”
    “Right there,” Larry said, pointing to the harbor.
    Artie saw a lone figure paddling a long sea kayak with bright yellow decks and two separate cockpits, the front one empty. The paddler was coming from the direction of the main town, across the harbor. As he ran the bow of the kayak up on the beach and stepped out, Artie could see that he looked just the way his daughter had described him. He was shirtless and barefoot, clad in nothing but a pair of ragged cutoffs that had once been camouflage military fatigues. There couldn’t have been a spare ounce of fat on him. As he pulled the boat up above the tide line, wiry muscles rippled under his skin like knotted cords. That skin was a shade of ebony rarely seen today with so many generations of mixed blood lending lighter tones to the color of most people of his race. Scully looked like he could be purely African from some untouched equatorial tribal lineage, but what stood out even more than his striking dark color and outstanding physique was his wild hair. As he walked up to them, dreadlocks that hung nearly to his waist swung like tangled lengths of rope across his shoulders and behind his back.
    “Scully! What the hell have you been doing, mon? Why don’t you have my boat in the water yet?” Larry grinned as he stepped forward to greet his best friend.
    “A mon got to have a break sometime. I an’ I goin’ to de town to find out de news and den I look bok dis way an’ see dis rubber dinghy on de beach. T’ink some pirate be comin’ to steal de boat, so I comin’ bok fast to put a stop!”
    “I am a pirate, don’t you know, Scully. Hey, this is my brother, Artie. He’s Casey’s father. You remember Casey, don’t you?”
    “How can a mon forget de most beautiful girl ever comin’ down de island? Pleased to meet you, mon. An’ your daughter, she wid you?”
    “No, I wish she were.”
    “Casey’s in New Orleans at the college,” Larry said. “Artie’s not supposed to be here in Culebra with me. He came down to help me deliver a boat to St. Thomas. You remember that new little schooner I