67
It wasn’t my imagination. The river is getting rougher, the submerged debris more common.
Because somewhere up ahead, the water gets really shallow and plunges off a cliff.
Night vision only shows a few hundred yards of water ahead before a rightward turn around a rocky outcropping and densely knotted foliage. Is that really a turn, or is that the end?
“How far?” I shout.
“’Bout a quarter mile,” Deke shouts back.
At our speed, that’s nothing. I drop the motor back to an idle and scan the riverbanks. Thick trees majestically draped in moss and vines, limned in black and synthetic green, cage us in.
The river is flowing more quickly.
I want to interrogate Deke, find out who he’s talking to, but there’s no time.
Noah’s men will have night vision goggles a little crappier than mine
