Bobby Akart

NUCLEAR WINTER IV

DEVIL STORM

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Creating a novel that is both informative and entertaining requires a tremendous team effort. Writing is the easy part.

For their efforts in making the Nuclear Winter series a reality, I would like to thank Hristo Argirov Kovatliev for his incredible artistic talents in creating my cover art. He and Dani collaborate (and conspire) to create the most incredible cover art in the publishing business. A huge hug of appreciation goes out to Pauline Nolet, the Professor, for her editorial prowess and patience in correcting this writer’s same tics after fifty-plus novels. Thank you, Drew Avera, a United States Navy veteran, who has brought his talented formatting skills from a writer’s perspective to create multiple formats for reading my novels. Welcome back Kevin Pierce, the beloved voice of the apocalypse, who will bring my words to life in audio format.

Now, for the serious stuff. Accurately portraying the aftermath of nuclear war required countless hours of never-ending research and interviews of some of the brightest minds in the world of planetary science.

Once again, as I immersed myself in the science and history, source material and research flooded my inbox from around the globe. Without the assistance of many individuals and organizations, this story could not be told. Please allow me a moment to acknowledge a few of those individuals whom, without their tireless efforts and patience, the Nuclear Winter series could not have been written.

Many thanks to the preeminent researchers and engineers at the National Center for Atmospheric Research in Boulder, Colorado. Between responses to my inquiries and the volumes of scientific publications provided, I was able to grasp the catastrophic effect a regional nuclear war would have upon the Earth and its atmosphere. They impressed upon me the danger of inundating our air with the results of these massive nuclear detonations. It would result in a climatic event akin to the eruption of the Yellowstone Supervolcano.

A shout-out must go to Brian Toon, professor of atmospheric and oceanic sciences at the University of Colorado – Boulder. He has been a tireless advocate warning all who’ll listen of the consequences of nuclear winter. This quote had a profound effect on me and led to the writing of the Nuclear Winter series—It could potentially end global civilization as we know it. In other words, TEOTWAWKI.

At Rutgers University, Distinguished Professor and acclaimed climatologist, Alan Robock, has been studying the potential threat of nuclear winter with a particular focus on the human impact. The incredibly fast cooling of the planet would trigger global famine and mass starvation. His models of fires and firestorms in the aftermath of a nuclear war provided me detailed estimates of the extent of wildfires as well as the timeframes associated with the smoke and soot lofted into the atmosphere.

Now, to the special friends and acquaintances who helped make my characters realistic. Admittedly, my exposure to teenagers is non-existent. Yet, from time-to-time, I have teen characters who speak a different language, sort of. In order to add a sense of realism to their dialogue, I call upon a number of resources to enlighten me on their own unique vocabulary.

Thank you to Pam and Tim Johnson who reached out to their teenage grandson, Simon Andrews. He’s credited with a number of phrases in the Nuclear Winter series including—Yeet! Dear reader, this interesting term will be explained within First Strike, book one.

Thank you to Jessica Devenny, referred to me via Pam Johnson and her bestie, Betsy. Jessica’s sons, Jacob and Parker, also helped to fill my teenspeak dictionary.

Also, Dani’s followers on Instagram were up to the task. Instagram is one of the few social media networks where the vast majority of your interactions are positive compared to Facebook and the downright nasty Twitter platform. When called upon, hundreds of terms and phrases were offered. Thanks to you all!

The cigar selections in Nuclear Winter First Strike were suggested by my friend Brad Levy. Brad has read all of my novels, twice, in most cases. He always looks forward to his day on the lanai, enjoying a fine cigar and a good book. Thank you, my friend!

Finally, as always, a special thank you to my team of loyal friends who’ve always supported my work and provided me valuable insight from a reader’s perspective—Denise Keef, Joe Carey, Shirley Nicholson, Bennita Barnett, Karl Hughey, and Brian Alderman.

For the Nuclear Winter series, several avid readers volunteered to make my writing more better: Martin McDonell, Cody McDonell, Diane Ash, Rusty Ballard, Joe Hoyt, Cecilia Kilgore Sutton, Thelma Applegate, Joyce Maurer, Annie Kercher-Bosche, Steven Smith, Leslie Bryant, Tim Coppess, Caryl Lynne Honea, Mike Neubecker, Colt Payne, Pete Steffens, and Kelly Trone.

Thanks, y’all, and Choose Freedom!

DEDICATIONS

With the love and support of my wife, Dani, together with the unconditional love of Bullie and Boom, the princesses of the palace, I’m able to tell you these stories. It would be impossible for me to write without them in my heart.

Freedom and security are precious gifts that we, as Americans, should never take for granted. I would like to thank the men and women, past and present, of the United States Armed Forces for willingly making sacrifices each day to provide us that freedom and security. Also, a note of thanks to their families who endure countless sleepless nights as their loved ones are deployed around the world.

They are the sheepdogs who live to protect the flock. They bravely and unselfishly confront the wolves who threaten our country, our freedoms, and their brothers in arms from those who would bring destruction to our door.

Choose Freedom!

AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

February, 2021

Since scientific discoveries in the late 1930s made nuclear weapons a possibility, the world began to realize they posed an enormous threat to humanity. In 1942, with the secretive research effort in the U.S. known as the Manhattan Project, a race toward nuclear supremacy began. Since their very first use in World War II, different leaders and organizations have been trying to prevent proliferation to additional countries. Despite their efforts, more nation-states than ever before have obtained nuclear weapons.

Following pioneering research from scientists in the early 1980s, the world was introduced to the concept of nuclear winter. Researchers had known that a large nuclear war could cause severe global environmental effects, including dramatic cooling of surface temperatures, declines in precipitation, and increased ultraviolet radiation.

The term nuclear winter was coined specifically to refer to atmospheric cooling that resulted in winter-like temperatures occurring year-round. Regardless of whether extreme cold temperatures were reached, there would be severe consequences for humanity. But how severe would those consequences be? And what should the world be doing about it?

To the first question, the short answer is nobody knows with absolute certainty. The total human impacts of nuclear winter are both uncertain and under-studied. The aftereffects of the twin atomic bombs dropped on Japan to end World War II were not analyzed in depth. More research on the impacts would be very helpful, but treaties have limited nuclear weapons testing. Therefore research, other than theoretical conclusions, has been limited.

As to the question of what the world should be doing about it, all nations agree non-proliferation is a start. However, there are still more than sufficient nuclear weapons capable of being launched to bring the world to the brink of Armageddon.

Today, nuclear winter is not a hot topic among the world’s leaders. When the Cold War ended, so did attention to the catastrophic threat of nuclear winter. That started to change in 2007 with a new line of nuclear winter research that used advanced climate models developed for the study of global warming.

Relative to the 1980s research, the new research found that the smoke from nuclear firestorms would travel higher into the atmosphere causing nuclear winter to last longer than previously thought. This research also found dangerous effects from smaller nuclear exchanges, such as an India-Pakistan nuclear war detonating only one hundred total nuclear warheads.

Some new research has also examined the human impacts of nuclear winter. Researchers simulated agricultural crop growth in the aftermath of a hundred-weapon India-Pakistan nuclear war. The results were startling. The scenario could cause agriculture productivity to decline by around twenty to sixty percent for several years after the exchange.

The studies looked at major staple crops in China and the United States, two of the largest food producers. Other countries and other crops would likely face similar declines. Following such crop declines, severe global famine could ensue. One study estimated the total extent of the famine by comparing crop declines to global malnourishment data. When food becomes scarce, the poor and malnourished are typically hit the hardest. This study estimated two billion people would be at risk of starvation. And this is from the hundred-weapon India-Pakistan nuclear war scenario. A larger nuclear exchange involving the U.S., China, or Russia would have more severe impacts because the payloads are much larger.

This is where the recent research stops. To the best of my knowledge there have been no current studies examining the secondary effects of famines, such as disease outbreaks and violent conflicts due to societal collapse.

There is also a need to examine the human impacts of ultraviolet radiation. That would include an increased medical burden due to skin cancer and other diseases. It would also include further losses to the agriculture ecosystems because the ultraviolet radiation harms plants and animals. At this time, we can only make educated guesses about what these impacts would be, informed in part by research surrounding enormous volcanic eruptions.

A note on the impact on humanity, we can look to society’s reaction to recent political events. Imagine what U.S. cities would look like if the triggering event for protests and riots was based on lack of food. The social unrest would quickly spread into suburban areas as the have-nots would search for sustenance from those who might have it.

When analyzing the risk of nuclear winter, one question is of paramount importance: Would there be long-term or even permanent harm to human civilization? Research shows nuclear winter would last ten years or more. Would the world ever be able to come back from the devasting loss of billions of lives?

Carl Sagan was one of the first people to recognize this point in a commentary he wrote on nuclear winter for Foreign Affairs magazine. Sagan believed nuclear winter could cause human extinction in which case all members of future generations would be lost. He argued that this made nuclear winter vastly more important than the direct effects of nuclear war which could, in his words, kill only hundreds of millions of people.

Sagan was, however, right that human extinction would cause permanent harm to human civilization. It is debatable whether nuclear winter could cause human extinction. Rutgers professor Alan Robock, a respected nuclear winter researcher, believes it is unlikely. He commented, “Especially in Australia and New Zealand, humans would have a better chance to survive.”

Why Australia and New Zealand? A nuclear war would presumably occur mainly or entirely in the northern hemisphere. The southern hemisphere would still experience environmental disruption, but it would not be as severe. Australia and New Zealand further benefit from being surrounded by water which further softens the effect.

This is hardly a cheerful thought as it leaves open the chance of human extinction, at least for those of us north of the equator. Given all the uncertainty and the limited available research, it is impossible to rule out the possibility of human extinction. In any event, the possibility should not be dismissed.

Even if people survive, there could still be permanent harm to humanity. Small patches of survivors would be extremely vulnerable to subsequent disasters. They certainly could not keep up the massively complex civilization we enjoy today. In addition to the medical impact, the destruction of the power grid, the heartbeat of most nations, would likely occur due to the electromagnetic pulse generated by the nuclear detonations. It would take many years to rebuild the critical infrastructure ruined by the blasts.

It would be a long and uncertain rebuilding process and survivors might never get civilization back to where it is now. More importantly, they might never get civilization to where we now stand poised to take it in the future. Our potentially bright future could be forever dimmed, permanently.

Nuclear winter is a very large and serious risk. In some ways, it doesn’t change nuclear weapons policy all that much. Everyone already knew that nuclear war would be highly catastrophic. The prospect of a prolonged nuclear winter means that nuclear war is even more catastrophic. That only reinforces policies that have long been in place, from deterrence to disarmament. Indeed, military officials have sometimes reacted to nuclear winter by saying that it just makes their nuclear deterrence policies that much more effective. Disarmament advocates similarly cite nuclear winter as justifying their policy goals. But the basic structure of the policy debate unchanged.

In other ways, nuclear winter changes nuclear weapons policy quite dramatically. Because of nuclear winter, noncombatant states may be severely harmed by nuclear war. Nuclear winter gives every country great incentive to reduce tensions and de-escalate conflicts between nuclear-capable states.

Nation-states that are stockpiling nuclear weapons should also take notice. Indeed, the biggest policy implication of nuclear winter could be that it puts the interests of nuclear-capable nations in greater alignment. Because of nuclear winter, a nuclear war between any two major nuclear weapon states could severely harm each of the others. According to intelligence sources, there are nine total nuclear-armed states with Iran prepared to breakthrough as the tenth. This multiplies the risk of being harmed by nuclear attacks while only marginally increasing the benefits of nuclear deterrence. By shifting the balance of harms versus benefits, nuclear winter can promote nuclear disarmament.

Additional policy implications come from the risk of permanent harm to human civilization. If society takes this risk seriously, then it should go to great lengths to reduce the risk. It could stockpile food to avoid nuclear famine or develop new agricultural paradigms that can function during nuclear winter.

And it could certainly ratchet up its efforts to improve relations between nuclear weapon states. These are things that we can do right now even while we await more detailed research on nuclear winter risk.

Against that backdrop, I hope you’ll be entertained and informed by this fictional account of the world thrust into Nuclear Winter. God help us if it ever comes to pass.

REAL-WORLD NEWS EXCERPTS

THE COUNTDOWN TO AN ISRAELI WAR WITH IRAN HAS BEGUN

~ Foreign Policy Magazine, May 2021

The Israelis believe that the results of America’s foreign policy will strengthen the rogue Iranian regime that is committed to Israel’s destruction, while paving its path to obtaining and using nuclear weapons.

Tal Kelman, the general in charge of the IDF’s Iran strategy, was asked in an interview recently if Israel has the ability to attack and completely destroy Iran’s nuclear program. He responded without hesitation: “The answer is yes. When we build these capabilities, we build them to be operational. It’s not that there aren’t many strategic dilemmas, since the day after Iran can go back to the plan, but the ability exists.

In reaching the conclusion that their best ally, the United States, has chosen a course the Israelis fervently believe will end up increasing that threat rather than containing it will only confirm their view that Israel is on its own when it comes to stopping Iran’s march to the bomb and that its operational planning to act military to defeat it must be accelerated.

The risk of war in the Middle East is almost certainly rising.

INDIA – PAKISTAN CONFLICT: A TICKING TIME BOMB

~ Deutsche Welle, May 2021

India and Pakistan are trying to improve relations, but decades of hostility over territorial and ideological disputes hold progress back.

After the last American soldier departs Afghanistan this year, India and Pakistan will be left with some very difficult, unsavory choices. They must attempt to maintain their autonomy while the government in Afghanistan allows the Taliban to gain an upper hand. It will not be long before the Taliban exerts its will in Pakistan.

This scenario directly threatens India’s political, security, and economic interests. It will pave the way for the Indian government to insert itself in Pakistan’s affairs through possible military action against the Taliban. These changing dynamics are sure to create increased tensions between New Delhi and Islamabad, two nuclear powers.

MISSILES AND WARHEADS IN THE GROUND ARE NO WAY TO DETER NUCLEAR WAR NOW

~ Los Angeles Times, April 19, 2021

Across five Western states — under farmland, windblown fields of grazing cattle and Great Plains plateaus — 400 aging nuclear-armed ballistic missiles stand at the ready. From a distance, the isolated, fenced-off areas look like they might be for wells pumping water, or fiber optic cable repeaters. What is underground, however, is neither water nor the internet, but weapons so powerful that if used or attacked, it could alter global climate and end civilization.

Nuclear weapons today have only one purpose: to deter the other side from using theirs while governments work to prevent their spread and ultimately end them as a threat to the world.

If there were any doubts, the latest studies about how nuclear war could alter world climate suggest that even what’s considered a small war — involving several hundred weapons — could produce “nuclear winter,” shattering the planet’s food supply and setting off an unprecedented famine with devastating global repercussions. The economic, social and governmental collapse would mean the end of civilization as we know it, suicide for humanity.

HOW A SMALL NUCLEAR WAR WOULD TRANSFORM THE ENTIRE PLANET

~ Nature Magazine, updated May 2021

As geopolitical tensions rise in nuclear-armed states, scientists are issuing warnings on the global impact of nuclear war. The hypothetical:

It all starts in 2025, as tensions between India and Pakistan escalate over the contested region of Kashmir. When a terrorist attacks a site in India, that country sends tanks rolling across the border with Pakistan. As a show of force against the invading army, Pakistan decides to detonate several small nuclear bombs.

The next day, India sets off its own atomic explosions and within days, the nations begin bombing dozens of military targets and then hundreds of cities. Tens of millions of people die in the blasts.

That horrifying scenario is just the beginning. Smoke from the incinerated cities rises high into the atmosphere, wrapping the planet in a blanket of soot that blocks the Sun’s rays. The planet plunges into a deep chill. For years, crops wither from California to China. Famine sets in around the globe.

The worst impact would come in the mid-latitudes, including breadbasket areas such as the US Midwest. Grain reserves would be gone in a year or two. Most countries would be unable to import food from other regions because they, too, would be experiencing crop failures. The researchers did not explicitly calculate how many people would starve, but say that the ensuing famine would be worse than any in documented history.

The bottom line remains that a war involving less than 1% of the world’s nuclear arsenal could shatter the planet’s food supplies. “The surprising finding”, said one researcher, “is that even a small-war scenario has devastating global repercussions.”

EPIGRAPH

The Devil whispered in my ear, “You’re not strong enough to withstand the storm”.

Today, I whispered in the Devil’s ear, “I am the storm.”

~ Unknown

Anyone can hold the helm when the sea is calm.

~ Ancient maritime saying

Rough seas make stronger sailors. Tough times build greater people.

~ Robin Sharma, Canadian Attorney and Author

All tyranny needs is for people of good conscience to remain silent.

~ Thomas Jefferson, Founding Father

Panic is an energy thief.

~ Hank Albright

A man is not finished when he’s defeated; he’s finished when he quits.

~ President Richard M. Nixon

If you are going through Hell, keep going.

~ Winston Churchill

I think I can. I think I can.

~ The Little Engine that Could

PART I

Day twenty, Wednesday, November 6

CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday, November 6

Overseas Highway at Cross Key

Florida Keys, USA

“Hey! I’m Peter Albright. Does anybody know me?”

A crush of people trying to force their way through the barricades blocking access to the Florida Keys shoved Peter forward. A woman fell near him and was promptly trampled by the refugees trying to make their way to the front of the processing line. The scrum intensified as the low rumble of two airport baggage tractors caught the attention of the refugees, forcing them to stop their progress.

The momentary pause in the forward assault on the blockade allowed Peter to hear a lone voice in the midst of the chaotic scene.

“Peter! Peter! It’s Jimmy!”

“Jimmy?” Peter was elated that Jimmy Free, his longtime friend he’d grown up with on Driftwood Key, was standing among the guards manning the blockade. He was also surprised by his presence, as Jimmy had never worked for anyone other than Peter’s father, Hank.

“You have to hurry!” Jimmy shouted back. “They’re closing—”

Peter was unable to hear the rest of his sentence as the diesel engines of the baggage tractors began to roar from his right to left across the divided highway. The bright halogen lights used by the blockade guards blinded him as he shaded his eyes to see. A line of men dressed in dark clothing pointed their rifles menacingly toward the refugees. Thus far, none of them had pulled their triggers.

Amidst the rumble of the motors and the shouts emanating from both sides of the checkpoint, Peter could hear the sound of scraping metal along the pavement.

“All personnel, move back to the Jewfish checkpoint!” a man bellowed on a megaphone. Jewfish Creek was one of the small bodies of water that separated Key Largo from the mainland.

“They’re gonna blow the other bridge!” shouted a man to Peter’s left.

“I’m a resident! Let me in!” hollered another.

“Let’s go for it!” a third man bellowed in a deep voice.

Peter was spun sideways as several people charged ahead, crashing through the folding tables that had once been used for processing the refugees. The temporary intake center was no match for the people racing toward the concrete barriers and whatever lay beyond the massive halogen lamps that blinded them.

“Stop! We will shoot you!” warned the man with the bullhorn.

He failed to dissuade the crowd, who quickened their pace toward the row of generator-operated lighting. The first of the men leading the pack had approached the lights when the commanding officer of the blockade gave the order.

“Fire!”

Quick, staccato bursts of gunfire rang out. Peter could hear the bullets whiz over his head just before the crowd erupted in panic. The mass of people forcing their way through the barricades suddenly stopped and reversed course. Peter was caught between those fleeing and the momentum of the others who continued to push forward.

“Don’t run! They’re just warning shots!” yelled one of the men who’d encouraged the group to charge the checkpoint.

“He’s right. They’re not gonna shoot us!”

Peter had learned on the road that the old adage shoot first and ask questions later was rule number one of survival in a post-apocalyptic world. He wasn’t so sure the second round of gunfire would miss its mark.

The baggage tractors were shut off, reducing the noise level at the checkpoint. Peter, following two large men who cautiously approached the halogen lights, covered his eyes in an attempt to see beyond the temporary lighting equipment. He shouted for his friend again.

“Jimmy! What do I do?”

He didn’t respond.

“Fire!” the man with the bullhorn ordered his men. The automatic weapons sent another short burst of bullets whizzing by, causing everyone at the front of the advance to drop to the ground. Shrieks and screams filled the air as those refugees behind Peter ducked for cover or began running the other way. Then another order was given. “Fall back!”

Jimmy took advantage of the momentary cessation of order-giving. “Peter! Now! You have to hurry!”

Peter, along with a dozen others, began to run toward the halogen lights. They were blinded by the multiple sixteen-hundred-watt portable light towers as they straddled the concrete barriers. Without regard to the flash blindness that overwhelmed their retinas, they pushed forward, and once in the open, they sprinted toward the darkness on the other side.

He allowed the others to lead the way, as he was still concerned about being shot. He kept his pistol in its holster, as he knew he was no match for the weaponry used by the guards.

The mob broke through the sawhorse barriers stretched between the portable lighting. Peter’s hopes were lifted when he didn’t hear any more gunfire. Maybe he could make it across the bridge before it was destroyed like the one north of him at Card Sound Road.

And then the most painful, bloodcurdling screams he’d ever heard filled the air in front of him.

CHAPTER TWO

Wednesday, November 6

Overseas Highway at Cross Key

Florida Keys

One by one, those charging to the front were greeted with two rolls of concertina wire strung across the Overseas Highway. Similar to barbed wire, which features pointed barbs along a strand of wire, concertina wire was used by the military and prisons to control people. However, rather than having pointed barbs, concertina wire was made with sharp blades, which can slice deep into flesh and are oftentimes fatal to the unsuspecting person who tries to climb over it.

The spiral, coiled wire made of razor-sharp stainless steel had been stretched across the road by two baggage-towing machines on loan from the Marathon airport. They were used by the checkpoint guards as the last line of defense before the Overseas Highway crossed the water at the Jewfish Creek Bridge.

The first wave of people in front of Peter never saw the two rolls of wire stretched across the road in front of them. The dark conditions coupled with their panicked state of mind had prevented them from registering what was about to happen to their bodies until it was too late.

It was a brutal, arguably illegal way of securing any border. The results of the first group of people who encountered it in those early morning hours proved why it was often used to secure a perimeter.

Cries of agony filled the air as limbs were severed and faces were sliced open. The men who ran into the wire first were then crushed by those behind them, who fell on top of their bodies. As they squirmed and wiggled to get free, they only became more entangled as the concertina wire dug into their flesh.

Peter reached the wire and slipped on a pool of blood just before he was cut by the sharp blades. He pushed himself away from the carnage just as another wave of refugees ran past him and ran into the wire.

“Peter! You have to hurry!” shouted Jimmy, who was standing on the other side of the double strands of wire. “We’re running out of time.”

“Last chance, Free! Let’s go!” shouted one of Jimmy’s fellow guards.

Jimmy looked back and forth, deciding what to do.

“Go! I’ll find another way,” said Peter amidst the pleas for help from the wounded. Despite the gruesome scene along the wire barriers, others continued their attempts to cross it or even crawl under it. It didn’t end well for them.

“I’m not leaving you!” Jimmy yelled back.

“Retreat, Free! Now!”

Jimmy ignored the order. He moved closer to the concertina wire to get a closer look. He found an option, albeit a brutal one.

“Peter! Over here. Climb over.”

“What?” Peter was confused, but he followed the sound of Jimmy’s voice about forty feet to his left. When he arrived, he discovered what Jimmy had in mind.

A pile of bodies lay across the rolls of wire. The initial push of refugees attempting to cross had forced the two rolls together. However, the wounds they’d encountered when their legs and arms became snarled with the razor-sharp wire had halted their progress. Peter suspected the people at the bottom of the pile were dead. Those on top were bleeding profusely and would succumb within minutes.

He shook his head in disgust. In that moment of adrenaline-fueled desire to join his friend and return home, visions of the despair he’d witnessed along the borders of Serbia and Croatia filled his head. Anger built up within him at the thought of someone in the Florida Keys, quite possibly Jimmy’s aunt, Mayor Lindsey Free, ordering the barbaric concertina wire to be put into place. Then again, somebody had made the foolish decision to blow up the bridges entering the Keys.

“Peter!” Jimmy’s shout brought him back into the present.

Peter had always been athletic as a kid and still enjoyed running for exercise. In high school, he had been on the track team and competed in the high hurdle events. The hurdles measured forty-two inches, somewhat taller than the concertina wire. However, unlike a hurdle used in a track and field event, the doubled-up rolls of wire measured nearly six feet deep.

He took a deep breath and stepped several paces back from the pile of mangled bodies. Then he began to run toward them. He’d have to use the backs of the people as a springboard to push him up, over and past the coils of wire. Peter focused on his own survival and tried to force the uncivilized act out of his mind.

He took off toward the wire. He planted his left foot firmly on the pavement, and then his stride carried him upward until his right foot barely pushed off the back of a dead man. Peter’s body rose into the air, and he sailed past the second coil of razor wire until his forward momentum sent him tumbling along the highway on the other side.

It was crashing into Jimmy that prevented him from further injury other than the scrapes and bruises he received. Both men were on their knees when they came face-to-face.

“Are you okay?” Jimmy asked.

“Helluva an entrance, right?” Peter replied with humor. He shook his body and moved his arms and legs to confirm nothing was broken.

“We’ve gotta go,” said Jimmy as he hoisted his friend off the pavement.

Suddenly, three men rushed past them in the darkness toward the bridge. They were followed by two women and a child. Jimmy and Peter stood dumbfounded, wondering how they were able to pass so quickly.

“They followed your lead,” Jimmy surmised as he encouraged Peter to run toward the bridge.

Soon, a pack of a dozen people were racing along the road toward Key Largo. Peter fought through the pain of his knees and elbows, which had taken the brunt of the impact when he’d hit the pavement. Jimmy slowed to help him along, which allowed several more refugees to race past them into the darkness.

“We’ve gotta pick up the pace. They’re gonna take down the Jewfish Creek Bridge.”

“This is nuts, Jimmy,” said Peter as he willed his legs to move faster. They were running now although they were still being outpaced by several people on both sides of them.

“You have no idea,” Jimmy said under his breath but loud enough for Peter to hear.

Without warning, an explosion filled the air, accompanied by a bright light, which provided enough illumination for Peter to read the highway signs mounted to the concrete guardrail. The signs read All-American Road, Florida Scenic Highway at Mile Marker 108. Until they, along with the scenic highway, disappeared in front of them.

CHAPTER THREE

Wednesday, November 6

Driftwood Key

Mike Albright lay on the ground, staring up at the mangrove trees hovering over him like the Grim Reaper’s army. He struggled to breathe. With each desperate attempt to fill his lungs with air, he felt like he was drowning. In the distance, he could hear shouting. His mind, slipping in and out of consciousness, tried to identify the voices. Hank. Sonny.

Jess?

Mike turned his head in the direction of his wife’s voice. Where was she? The gate. The dock. Somewhere above him?

Was it over? Had he died, and Jessica was trying to find him to bring him back?

Mike went into another coughing fit. He couldn’t shake the feeling that blood was coming out of his nose, mouth, and chest. Chest?

He pulled his hand upward toward his heart. A warm, steady trickle of blood poured through his fingers. He pressed hard, moaning in pain as he did. He had to keep his blood inside him. He doubted Phoebe had an extra supply in her secret storage room.

Delirium had set in. He was on the cusp of death, at that point when his body made the decision that the battle had been lost. It was his turn to check out.

“Mike!”

His eyes popped open. There she was again. Closer now. He tried to call out, but it just caused him to have a coughing fit filled with bloody sputum.

“Over here!”

“Jessica! This way!”

More familiar voices. Here comes the cavalry.

“Oh, Jesus, Mike,” said Jessica as she fell to her knees on the ground next to him. She took his face in her hands and turned her head so she could listen to his breathing. She touched her fingers to his neck. “A pulse! He’s still alive!”

“We’re coming!” Hank Albright shouted as he followed the sound of her voice. He knew the trails of the hammocks along the brackish water separating Driftwood Key from Marathon. He’d carved most of them as a boy, and others kept them maintained. Seconds later, he was by their side along with Sonny Free. He crouched down next to his brother and tried to see in the dark. “How bad is it?”

Sonny helped by illuminating Mike’s body with his flashlight.

Jessica was remarkably calm as she spoke. “Sonny, keep the light focused on his chest.”

She gently lifted Mike’s hands from the knife wound, which was just below his left breast near his lungs. Blood spurted out as Mike’s chest heaved, begging for air, gurgling out of his chest with every gasp. A noticeable hissing, sucking sound could be heard as Mike fought for every breath.

Jessica immediately applied pressure to the hole in his chest and implored her husband to fight for his life. “Dammit, Mike! Don’t you quit on me!”

Sonny pulled the flashlight back so she could see her husband’s face. Mike was alert, but his eyes were darting wildly in all directions, looking toward his brother, toward the gnarly mangroves, and then back to Jessica. His mouth was agape with a trickle of blood dripping over his lips. Mike didn’t try to speak, allowing his eyes to plead for help.

“We gotta get him to the hospital,” said Hank.

Jessica took a deep breath and exhaled to steady her nerves. Mike didn’t need his emotional wife right now. He needed a trained paramedic. She looked at Sonny and Hank.

“He’s got a sucking chest wound. He needs a chest tube.” The knife had plunged into Mike’s chest cavity and punctured the lung.

“Do you have one on the boat?” asked Hank.

“No, but there’s a workaround,” she replied. She turned to Sonny. “I need Saran Wrap and duct tape. Hurry! Go!”

Without hesitation, Sonny disappeared into the mangroves, leaving the Albrights behind. Hank rose and walked over to Patrick’s body. He kicked the dead man in the ribs to confirm he was dead. Then he angrily kicked at his head although he missed in the darkness.

“He did this,” he muttered as he returned to Mike’s side. “First he attacked Phoebe and then this.”

“Why? Is Phoebe okay?”

“Phoebe will be fine, and we don’t really know what caused that asshole to snap.”

Mike began to cough again, so Jessica turned her attention back to her patient. “Mike, look at me. I know this hurts and you’re afraid. It’s gonna be all right. I love you, and I’m not lettin’ you off the hook this easy. Got it?”

Mike managed a smile and slowly nodded once.

“What are you gonna do, Jess?” asked Hank, his voice filled with trepidation and concern.

“The knife created a hole in his chest. As he breathes, air is being sucked into his thoracic cavity through his chest wall instead of into his lungs through his airways. When he tries to breathe, his chest cavity is expanding in order to inhale. The problem is air not only goes into his mouth and nose like normal, it’s getting pulled into the hole.”

Hank ran his fingers through his hair and wiped the sweat off his face. “It sounds awful.”

Remarkably, Jessica chuckled. “It does, but in actuality, it’s the sound of not dying. Right, Mike?” She bent over and kissed her husband on the forehead. Their eyes locked, speaking to one another as only a loving husband and wife could.

“Comin’!” Sonny shouted from the direction of the main house. Seconds later he was by their side with the Saran Wrap and duct tape in his left hand. He had a gallon of spring water and the first aid kit Phoebe kept in the kitchen in the other.

“Good thinking, Sonny. I need your shirt, too.”

Sonny pulled his sweatshirt over his head and turned it inside out so the fleece side was exposed.

“Okay,” he muttered.

“Pour some of the water on it so I can clean the dirt and debris from around the wound and chest. It’s hard to get tape or even a chest seal to stay in place when the patient’s skin is bloody, sweaty, or dirty.”

Mike coughed again, and his breathing became shallower. Jessica smiled and rubbed her fingers through his hair.

“Hang on, Mike,” she said encouragingly as she pulled a square of the Saran Wrap out of the box. She tore it until she’d created a four-inch-square piece. She placed it over the knife wound and held it firmly with both hands.

She looked to Hank to give him instructions. “Rip off three pieces of the duct tape about eight inches long.”

“Just three?” he asked as he stretched out the first strip and used his front teeth to create a slight tear in the side.

“Yeah. It’s called a three-sided occlusive dressing. I’ll show you.”

Hank quickly created the strips, and Jessica expertly taped the Saran Wrap over the wound, leaving one side open. As she worked, she explained the method.

“Every time Mike breathes in, air gets through the wound. It gets caught in his chest, pressing on his lungs. This acts as a one-way valve. It seals the wound as he inhales and lets out air through the fourth side when he exhales.”

Sonny held the flashlight in his shaking hands but managed to provide Jessica sufficient light to work. When she was finished, she paused for a moment before pulling her hands away from the chest seal.

Mike’s breathing slowed and became more rhythmic. As he took a deep breath, the Saran Wrap pulled into his chest as if it had become a second skin. When he exhaled, the opening created a gap, and air mixed with a few droplets of blood escaped.

“There you go, babe. Just relax and breathe.”

Mike tried to raise his arm, but he was too weak. He mouthed the words thank you to Hank and Sonny. Then tears flowed out of his eyes to mix with the blood on both cheeks. He turned to the paramedic, his wife, who’d just taken the first step toward saving his life.

“I love you,” he whispered as the loss of blood caused him to lose consciousness.

CHAPTER FOUR

Wednesday, November 6

Gulf of Mexico

Near Pass Christian, Mississippi

No one was chasing them. There wasn’t anybody left alive on the dock except for the other would-be passengers who’d jumped over the side to save themselves from the barrage of bullets. Yet every fiber of Lacey McDowell’s being wanted to rush the forty-five-foot trawler into the Gulf of Mexico as far away from the bloodbath that had occurred at Bay St. Louis as she could.

After her pulse slowed and the epinephrine coursing through her veins found its way back into her adrenal glands to be used another day, Lacey became a little more comfortable with the modified Grand Banks trawler powered by the big 855 Cummins diesel engine and the six hundred horsepower it generated. Her overzealous escape from the mayhem had resulted in her tearing out of the harbor at full throttle. The Cymopoleia, as the trawler was named, began to shudder as she reached her top speed of nearly twenty knots. The high-pitched roar and the gauges screamed at Lacey to slow down to an ideal cruising speed of fourteen knots. Yet she was intent upon leaving the visions of bloodied, bullet-riddled bodies behind in Bay St. Louis.

Finally, it was a man’s voice that startled her, bringing her back into the present.

“Ma’am!” He spoke loudly. “You’ll run us out of diesel before we hit the Alabama state line. And, about that, you might wanna turn her to the left; otherwise we’ll be out there with the oil rigs.”

Lacey and Tucker both spun around. Frightened, Tucker pointed his weapon at the man while Lacey fumbled to find the gun she’d set to the side.

During their panic, the man raised his hands and continued. “Easy, everyone. We’re not with them. Remember? That’s my wife and daughter back there.” He turned slightly and pointed to the aft deck seating. They were sitting in the darkness, but their silhouettes could be made out against the boat’s running lights.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” said Lacey. She’d forgotten about the man and his family who were waiting on board when the melee began. She gave up searching for her weapon and placed her hand on the shotgun Tucker was holding. It had belonged to the captain, who had been killed with a single bullet to the heart fired by one of their attackers. Lacey gulped and asked, “Are you all okay?”

“Yes, we are. My name’s Erick Andino, and that’s my wife, Anna, and our daughter, Katerina,” he said in response as he half-turned toward his family. The short, stocky man with jet-black hair and a bushy mustache continually watched Lacey’s and Tucker’s body language as he spoke. “We live in Tarpon Springs. Do you know of it?”

Lacey turned to the console and ran her fingers across the many switches. She flipped on the interior lights of the wheelhouse so they could see one another better. Then she waved to Andino’s family and urged them to come into the enclosure.

“I’ve heard of it but never visited. It’s the place with all the sponges, right?”

“Very good. That’s correct. Where are you from?”

Lacey introduced herself and Tucker before explaining how they had traveled from San Francisco with the goal of returning to where she’d grown up in the Florida Keys.

Tucker left for a moment to rummage through the galley, where he found some snacks and drinks for everyone. Andino told his family’s story as they sailed along the Mississippi coastline in the dark. The boat’s navigational equipment was working properly, so she was able to ease along parallel to the shore without fear of running aground or dragging the hull along a sandbar. It would be some time before they’d have to adjust course to follow the bend of the Gulf Coast.

“My ancestors were born and raised in the Greek seaside villages before immigrating to the United States. They entered through Ellis Island like so many others following the Second World War but immediately made their way to Florida because jobs were available that suited them.

“Before long, they heard about Tarpon Springs, and every member of the Andino family flocked to the coastal village. Along with others, my grandparents became a part of this incredible Greek coastal town located in America.”

His wife, Katerina, added, “It’s the largest concentration of Greek-Americans in the nation. If you didn’t know better, you’d think you were in the old country.” Unlike her husband, she didn’t have a hint of an accent although her facial features and black hair befitted her Greek ancestry.

“Why were you in Mississippi?” asked Tucker.

“New Orleans, actually,” replied Andino. “My company, um, our family’s company operates sponge boats. We are part of the so-called sponge capital of the world in Tarpon Springs. We Andinos come from a long line of sponge divers.

“Anyway, Kat and I have never been to New Orleans. When a trade show was announced there that involved the natural sea life products we sell wholesale, we volunteered to make the trip. We never expected this to happen.”

“None of us did,” added Lacey as a wave of sadness swept over her. She didn’t reveal to the Andinos that Owen had died. In fact, she wasn’t certain she could say the words aloud without becoming an emotional mess. She coped with her husband’s loss by trying to stay strong for Tucker and focusing on getting them home to Driftwood Key.

“Are you familiar with driving a fishing boat of this size?” Andino asked.

Lacey chuckled. “My dad has a Hatteras that’s slightly shorter. He let me drive a few times, like, oh, fifteen years ago.”

Andino laughed and nodded. “May I take the helm? This is similar to the vessels we sail in our sponging operation.”

Lacey smiled and stepped aside. She allowed Andino to peruse the boat’s controls and check its gauges. He jutted out his lip and nodded repeatedly, indicating he was comfortable with what he was seeing. Then he reached over his head to turn on the boat’s marine radio. He slowly scanned through the channels but scowled when he received nothing but static.

Lacey spoke while he assessed their electronics. “We have a two-way radio, or actually, it’s a ham radio given to us by a friend. We tried it a few times when driving to Bay St. Louis but never could reach anybody.”

“We’ll try it again later,” said Andino. “Let me chart our course for Tarpon Springs, using a steady pace to conserve fuel. I’ll do some calculations to ensure you can make it to the Keys. How’s that sound?”

“Perfect,” responded Lacey, who then turned to Andino’s wife and daughter. “Are you guys interested in checking out the galley? I’m starving.”

Andino’s daughter shyly nodded her head. She’d seen everything unfold on the dock and would likely never get it out of her mind. The three women went into the galley, leaving Tucker and Andino alone together at the boat’s helm.

“Are you a sailor?” asked Andino.

“No. I’m more into hiking, camping, and snowboarding.”

Andino sensed a sadness in Tucker. “I guess you’ve seen a lot on the road, huh?”

Tucker grimaced and nodded. “My dad died.” He just blurted out the words. He wasn’t looking for sympathy. It was simply a natural reaction to recalling what they’d endured since they’d left their home in Hayward.

Andino continued to study the GPS and looked toward the dark water off the stern. It was a response he hadn’t expected.

“I’m sorry, Tucker. This is not the kind of life any of us expected to endure. Would you like to talk about it?”

Tucker rolled his head around his shoulders and then sighed. “No, thanks. Not really. The thing is, it happened so fast and unexpectedly. We had people who were really trying to help, but Dad had suffered too much. Mom and I are just trying to get to my grandpa’s so we can figure it all out.”

Andino respected Tucker’s wishes, so he changed the subject. “You two will have a lot of sailing ahead of you after you drop us off in Tarpon Springs. Your mom can’t do it alone, you know?”

Tucker agreed, and then he picked up on Andino’s subtle suggestion. “Will you teach me what you can about this boat and how to drive it?”

Andino patted Tucker on the back and studied his face for a moment. A boy becomes a man when a man is needed. It was Tucker’s time.

CHAPTER FIVE

Wednesday, November 6

Overseas Highway at Jewfish Creek

Florida Keys

The concrete girder bridge that crossed Jewish Creek rose sixty-five feet above the water. Until it didn’t. The strategically placed TNT explosives at the base of the bridge supports effectively knocked the legs out from under the giant, causing it to separate where the steel beams were welded. The side and median barriers across the bridge, which had been painted Belize Blue upon the recommendation of famed marine artist Robert Wyland, crumbled and then sailed into the water below.

As did the dozen or so refugees who’d raced ahead of Jimmy and a hobbled Peter. It was Peter’s injury, which took away his normal fleetness afoot, that saved his life. Jimmy, on the other hand, wasn’t safe.

The blast below the bridge caused the entire structure to shudder as the massive force rolled through the structure. Both men were thrown upward. Peter fell hard on the concrete with his right arm hanging over the edge and his face staring into the dark abyss below.

Jimmy was gone.

Peter jerked himself away from the edge and rose onto his knees. The concussive blast caused his ears to ring and blurred his vision, not that he could see far in the darkness anyway. Smoke and debris floated in the air as the wind currents along the creek forced the lightweight material upward. Behind him, the shock wave toppled over the temporary lighting, causing beams of light to point in multiple directions. The frightened wave of refugees had turned around as the blast chased them off the end of the bridge and back toward the mainland.

Peter stood and called out his friend’s name. He repeated it over and over again until he was begging for Jimmy to answer.

Then he heard it. Faint, at first. Muted by the shouting of the refugees. A voice.

Peter dropped to his knees and carefully crawled to the edge of the bridge to look over. His chest was heaving from the anxiety of staring into the black space. He hollered again.

“Jimmy!”

“Down here! Peter, I don’t know if I can hold on!”

Peter remembered he had one of the tactical flashlights in his cargo pants pocket. He ripped open the Velcro flap and retrieved it. After nervously turning the flashlight in his hands so he could press the rear button, he illuminated it and began to scan the side of the bridge structure that had been left exposed by the blast.

The concrete box girders had crumbled apart, as the weight of the structure was too much once the foundation supports had been blown apart. With the highway’s load transferred to the girders, absent the concrete and steel foundation, gravity had pulled the structure into the creek.

The bridge’s deck, the roadway itself, had been ripped apart in a fairly straight line from one side to the other. Concrete and rebar were exposed in addition to parts of the girders. Peter hastily shined his light along the edge of the bridge in search of Jimmy. His eyes grew wide, and he gulped when he found him.

Jimmy was hanging on to a twisted piece of steel rebar that jutted out of the concrete roadbed, which continued to crumble. Bits of concrete were breaking off and falling sixty-five feet into the creek, a distance far enough away that the splash couldn’t be heard.

“I can’t do this much longer,” said Jimmy in a remarkably calm voice. “Can you see the water below? Can I drop?”

Peter shook his head rapidly from side to side, knowing full well Jimmy couldn’t see him. Not only could he not see the murky waters below, but it was also too dangerous to even consider. He had to bring Jimmy back up somehow.

His first inclination was to find help. He quickly glanced around and used his flashlight to search out anyone who could hold his legs while he reached down to grasp Jimmy’s hands. Everyone had fled in fear the bridge would collapse further.

It just might, Peter thought to himself, but he had to do something. He turned around and lay on his belly, inching over the edge more and more until he could see better. He continued to shine the light against the torn-open side of the bridge. Rebar was jutting out in a variety of twists and bends.

“Jimmy! Can you reach the curved piece of rebar to your right? Do you see it?”

Peter shined the light on a piece that been bent at an upward angle to create a hook. Jimmy continued to hold on with one arm. He was facing away from Peter toward the other side, making it difficult for him to see the ripped-apart side of the bridge.

“Hold on,” he said, using an ironic choice of words. Jimmy reached up with his other arm until he’d grasped the rebar. He slowly twisted his body until it was turned toward the right. “I see it.”

Peter held his breath as he watched Jimmy gently sway his body back and forth to create some momentum. With the last swing he removed his left hand and half-jumped to grasp the hook-shaped piece of rebar.

“You got it!” exclaimed Peter.

He studied Jimmy’s position. His arms were spread apart and stretched over his head. His left hand was closer to the edge of the bridge, but he also would have more rebar to use for his climb upward. He was about to give his friend his next set of instructions when the sound of truck horns and shouting filled the air.

CHAPTER SIX

Wednesday, November 6

Overseas Highway at Jewfish Creek

Florida Keys

Peter turned briefly to see what was causing the commotion. Headlights could be seen in the distance, and the low rumble of diesel engines, not unlike the truck he’d taken from North Carolina to Homestead, could be heard. He returned his attention to Jimmy.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Better now that all the weight is off one arm. What’s next?”

Peter studied the rebar. “Hold tight with your left and bring your right to the same piece. Then pull yourself up slightly. There’s another straight piece just above it.” He leaned his body over the edge and directed the light to the piece he was referring to.

Jimmy took a deep breath and strengthened his grip on the hook-shaped rebar. He pulled himself up six inches and then reached upward, slapping the side of the bridge structure in search of the straight piece. Dust and debris fell on top of his head, causing him to lose focus. His body began to sway back and forth as his left arm quivered under the strain of his body weight dangling in the air. After blindly searching for the rebar, he found it and gripped it.

“There ya go, Jimmy. Good work!”

“This piece is kinda loose,” he responded.

Peter reached his arm down toward Jimmy’s hand. They were only inches away but not close enough to get a good grip on one another. Plus, even in a prone position, Peter wouldn’t be able to support the body weight of the heavier man. Jimmy would likely pull Peter over the side, leaving them both tumbling toward the water six stories below.

“Does it wiggle?” asked Peter.

“A little, but if I tug on it, it seems to hold.”

Peter took a deep breath. His palms were sweaty, so he could only imagine what Jimmy’s were like. He put the tactical flashlight in his mouth and leaned over the edge a little bit more. He grabbed the next piece of rebar and gave it a good shake. It was solid. He inched backwards and pulled the flashlight out of his mouth. He focused the light on Jimmy’s hands.

“You’ll have to move quickly, but there’s another piece of rebar just to the left and above your right hand. You can either stretch your right arm up or, if you think you can hold on, pull up and grab it with your left hand.”

He had to give Jimmy the two options. His decision would depend on how confident he was that the loose piece of rebar would hold.

Without saying another word, Jimmy released his grip on the hook-shaped piece and kicked his legs as he tugged on the loose rebar. A second later, he had a firm grasp on the piece closest to the edge of the road. Now Peter was able to help.

He inched forward with the flashlight in his mouth. He stretched his right arm downward until his fingers could touch Jimmy’s hand. He nodded up and down to indicate to Jimmy he was ready. The light danced from Jimmy’s hands to his face, revealing the sweat pouring out of his forehead.

Showing trust in his friend, Jimmy reached up with his right arm to grab Peter by the arm. The two men clasped their fingers around each other’s forearms, and Peter began to pull upward. As he did, Jimmy reached for another protruding bent piece of rebar for support. Peter slid backwards and tugged while Jimmy got a grip on another piece.

With a grunt and a strong pull, Jimmy was brought upward to a point where he could hold on to the edge of the pavement. Peter rose to his knees and grabbed both arms. Seconds later, Jimmy was hoisted upward and fell onto Peter’s chest, knocking both of the men backwards until they collapsed on the pavement.

They both rolled over onto their backs and began coughing fits. Throughout the entire ordeal, they’d been breathing in the concrete dust and debris left lingering in the air after the explosion. That, coupled with the ash and soot that had begun to find its way into the lower latitudes, caused the guys to hack and cough as it was sucked into their lungs.

“Let’s not do that again, okay?” asked Jimmy jokingly.

Peter’s chest was heaving as he spoke. “Do you remember the tree forts we used to build when the bungalows were under construction?”

Jimmy chuckled and then coughed again. “We were, like, eight years old.”

“Yeah. My grandpa would get mad because we quit using scrap lumber and started pilfering two-by-eights out of the contractor’s stack.”

Jimmy slapped his friend in the ribs. “We had a helluva fort that one time. It had rope swings and platforms built between the palms.”

“We thought we could head to Sarasota to join the Ringling Brothers Circus. Remember?” Peter asked.

“Yeah. Then our dads ruined our dreams.”

“And whipped our asses, too.”

The guys busted out laughing as they reminisced about their days growing up together. They finally sat up and rested their elbows on their knees as they looked across the void where the Jewfish Creek Bridge once stood.

Peter rolled his head around his neck and shoulders. “We could wait ’til morning and swim across.”

Jimmy shook his head side to side. “Nope. They’ve already thought of that. They’ve stretched that razor wire stuff all along the shoreline right at the water’s edge. We’d never be able to set foot on dry land before we were shredded.”

“Geez, Jimmy. This is craziness,” said Peter as he glanced in the direction of Gilbert’s Resort, which was located just below the bridge on the mainland side of Jewfish Creek. He gestured with his right arm. “Maybe somebody down there would give us a lift. Hell, it’s just a few hundred feet.”

“They were evacuated, and the boats were moved yesterday,” countered Jimmy. “Peter, they’ve thought of everything. My aunt’s been working overtime to set this whole thing in motion.”

“Lindsey? What does she hope to achieve?”

“Create the Conch Republic, I think. There’s not been anything official announced. I think she was waiting until we were cut off from the rest of the country.”

“It’s not gonna work, Jimmy. They’ve sent a convoy of National Guard trucks full of troops to Homestead. I passed them on the road and heard they were staging at the speedway.”

Jimmy shrugged and was about to speak when they heard voices and heavy footsteps moving rapidly in their direction. As they turned, a woman raised her voice and pointed toward them.

“There! They’re part of all of this.” Several flashlights danced across the pavement until they lit up Peter and Jimmy. They suddenly fanned out until at least eight different lights washed their faces and clothing.

“What?” Peter asked, confused by what the woman was referring to. Then he caught a glimpse of the back of Jimmy’s tee-shirt. He hadn’t paid attention to it before, but now he realized why the woman made the statement. The green shirt had MCSO emblazoned across the back in gold lettering.

“And he’s one of their soldiers!” shouted another man. “See his camo?”

Peter looked down at his hunting clothes that he’d worn since he left Virginia. “Wait! You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Shut up!” a real soldier ordered as he shoved the barrel of his M16 in Peter’s face. “Flat on the ground. Facedown. Now!”

Another guardsman approached and pointed his rifle toward Jimmy’s chest. The guys slowly turned around. Apparently, it wasn’t quick enough for the angry guardsmen. Both men used the butt end of their rifles to drive Peter and Jimmy onto the pavement.

“You can’t do this!” shouted Jimmy. The guardsmen kicked both of their legs until they were spread apart.

“Frisk them!” shouted a voice from the darkness. A hulking figure emerged from a small crowd that had gathered to watch the National Guard members manhandle Peter and Jimmy.

“Hey! Take it easy!” shouted Peter. He began to wrestle with the two guardsmen who were shaking him down.

“Sarge, he’s got a weapon!”

“Cuff him!” shouted the sergeant. “The other guy, too. Take them back to the base.”

“You can’t arrest us!” shouted Peter before adding, “We didn’t do anything!”

“That’ll be for a military tribunal to decide, pal,” the sergeant hissed as Jimmy and Peter were pulled onto their feet.

“What are you charging us with?” Jimmy asked.

The sergeant responded by firing back with one nebulous charge after another. “Insurrection. Treason. Sedition. Destruction of public property. Violations of the president’s martial law order. That’s just for starters, asshole!”

“You can go—” Jimmy began before Peter cut him off. He knew his friend was rarely one to use curse words, but in the right moment, Jimmy was certainly capable. It would just make matters worse.

“Okay! Fine!” Peter shouted to drown out Jimmy’s voice. “We want lawyers.”

The sergeant and his fellow guardsmen laughed uproariously. “Sure. Due process, too. Right? How about a trial by jury? Maybe three hot meals and a cushy bunk?” This drew more laughter from the guardsmen. After it died down, the sergeant moved close to the guys until his face was mere inches from theirs. He leaned in and allowed his onion breath to accentuate his words.

“You ain’t got nothin’ comin’. You hear me. In fact, you’re lucky we don’t throw your handcuffed asses in the creek.” He paused and then grinned. “Take ’em to the holding cell. Wait’ll these two see what’s in store for them.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Wednesday, November 6

Driftwood Key

With Mike wrapped in blankets to prevent him from going into shock, Jessica quickly prepared him for transport. She didn’t have a long spine board on her WET team boat, so she borrowed one of Jimmy surfboards to create a stretcher for Mike. She strapped him down with ratchet tie straps and, with Hank’s assistance, loaded him up for the fifty-minute ride.

They’d briefly debated taking him by truck to the only hospital in the lower keys capable of treating him. It was located in Key West approximately forty miles away. Jessica told Hank about the clogged roads full of stalled vehicles and wanderers, as she called them. Wanderers were locals and stranded tourists alike who aimlessly walked the highway in search of food, assistance, or something to steal.

Mike was stable now that his chest wound had been sealed and his other injuries had been properly treated. He was still unconscious, but Jessica wasn’t concerned with that. As a medical professional, while a state of unconsciousness might concern some, she understood it was the body’s way of forcing itself to rest.

Opting to travel by water, the guys got Mike settled on board her boat while she looked in on Phoebe. She checked her wounds and rebandaged them. Phoebe assured her that she’d be fine, so Jessica stopped insisting she ride with them to the hospital.

The Lower Keys Medical Center was located on Stock Island just before the Overseas Highway enters Key West. Jess traveled in the dark, relying upon her instruments and familiarity with the island chain’s coastal waters. She slowed her boat as she entered the shallow waters between Raccoon Key and Stock Island.

The suburban hospital was sandwiched between the College of the Florida Keys and the Key West Golf Club. Once they were tied off, she radioed the emergency room, and they dispatched an ambulance to meet her at the boat dock adjacent to the college’s power plant. After a two-minute ride, Mike was in the emergency room, being attended to by doctors and their medical team.

It was morning when the doctor emerged from Mike’s room to discuss his condition with Jessica and Hank.

“Jessica, before I tell you about Mike, I want to commend your work,” began Dr. Andrea Alvarez. She wrapped her stethoscope around her neck and gladly accepted a bottle of water from one of the ER support staff. “You and I both know there are a lot of wannabe pirates around here who love to get into bar fights. Occasionally, as you know, they get stuck. They don’t always make it. What you did to save your husband’s life was remarkable.”

“The words save his life are all I needed to hear,” said Jessica, whose face beamed, not from the compliment given by Dr. Alvarez but from hearing those three simple words.

“Yes, Detective Mike Albright is a tough old bird, and he’s stubborn, too. I threatened him with a healthy dose of propofol if he didn’t stay put. The damned fool tried to get out of bed and nearly pulled out his IV line as well as everything else he’s hooked up to.” Propofol was a commonly used, short-acting medication that induces sleepiness and relaxation in patients.

“I use a baseball bat to knock him out,” said Jessica. “It’s easier and works like a charm.”

The women laughed, but Hank still stared toward Mike’s room with a concerned look on his face. “Can we see him?” he asked.

Dr. Alvarez replied, “Yes, although Mike will be out for a while. I’m pretty sure he’ll be excited to see the two of you.”

“Thanks, Doc,” mumbled Hank, whose worried look was apparent. Jessica wrapped her arms around her brother-in-law and hugged him as Dr. Alvarez walked away.

“He’ll be fine, Hank. It’ll take a whole lot more than a beatdown to take my husband.”

Hank grimaced and forced a smile. “I know. You’re right. Mr. Indestructible. Or so he thinks.”

Jessica led him down the corridor toward the ER recovery rooms. She slowly pulled the curtain back so as not to disturb Mike’s sleep. The two of them settled into chairs in the corner of the room and spoke in hushed tones.

“This whole thing sucks,” began Hank. “My kids are out there somewhere. My brother got attacked by this maniac I let into our home. I knew better, as did Mike and Sonny. The only difference was I don’t know how to say no.”

“We can’t take in every stray dog,” added Jessica, not intending to pile on but simply as a reminder they were living through unusual times.

“I don’t understand, Jess. I’ve known Patrick for years. Not well, but casually as in a fellow islander kind of way. He’s a banker, for Pete’s sake.”

“He had a screw loose, obviously,” she added. Jessica sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. She squeezed Hank’s shoulder to signal to him he should not carry the burden of what had happened. He continued to anyway.

“He could’ve killed Phoebe and Mike. What the hell was he thinking? Kill us all and cozy up in one of the rooms?”

Jessica shrugged. “That’s possible. Hank, there’s a lot of weird shit going on around here. People are desperate, and they seem to have lost their moral compass, if they even had one to begin with. You know how it is in the Keys. We’ve got an awful lot of people here who ran away from one thing or another. Petty thieves. Wife beaters. Drug addicts. Homeless. Our little paradise is prime feeding ground for criminals who can prey upon drunk tourists or people wanting to live the Margaritaville dream.”

Hank nodded. His mind raced as he tried to recall every interaction he’d had with Patrick. He thought about the first time they’d met. How Patrick had tried to solicit his business. The few conversations they’d had together when Patrick had showed up at Driftwood Key’s gate and was recovering from his beating.

Then he sighed. It was over, and Mike was in good hands. Yet he hoped when Mike woke up, he could shed some light on why Patrick had snapped. Hank wouldn’t have to wait until late in the evening to learn what had happened to his brother and who Patrick really was.

“Okay, I see how it is. You two are one helluva welcome-back committee,” said Mike as he awoke from a twelve-hour sleep. He’d removed his oxygen mask long enough to speak before replacing it over his nose and mouth.

Hank and Jessica had pulled their chairs together so they could fall asleep with their heads propped up against one another’s.

“What?” said Hank, who was the first to stir. He saw that his brother had awakened, so he nudged Jessica with his elbow.

She reacted quickly and shot out of her chair to join her husband’s side. Her trained eye glanced over at his heart and respiratory monitors to confirm everything was within safe readings. Her face exploded with excitement as the tears of joy streamed down her face.

Mike gingerly raised his arm to his face to remove the mask altogether. He felt around his cheeks and mouth, which were sore from the beating he and Patrick had exchanged with one another.

“Everything freakin’ hurts. Don’t these assholes believe in pain meds?”

Jessica gently kissed her husband on his swollen lips and allowed the tears to roll off her cheeks onto his. “Shut up,” she lovingly whispered. “I’ll see if Dr. Alvarez is still here.”

“I’m kidding,” said Mike. “It hurts, but I don’t care ’bout the pain. It means I’m alive.”

“Hey, Mike,” said Hank, who positioned himself on the other side of the bed. He leaned against the shiny stainless railings of the Hill-Rom bed. “You gave us a pretty good scare.”

“Patrick?” he asked, his eyes darting between his wife and brother.

“Dead. GSW, among other things.”

Mike closed his eyes and nodded. “Good.”

“Hey, are you sure you don’t want me to get the doctor?” asked Hank.

Mike shook his head side to side. He looked up to Hank. “He fooled us all. He’s the killer, I think.”

“Wait. What did you say?” asked Jessica.

“I think he was the serial killer. He called me Detective Mikey. Real sarcastic and smug-like.”

Mike paused to take several deep breaths.

Jessica glanced up at the heart-rate monitor and saw his pulse quicken. She squeezed his hand and whispered to him, “There’s plenty of time for this later. Let me get—”

Mike squeezed her hand back and cut her off. “I’m okay,” he said reassuringly. Then he continued. “I asked him why he attacked Phoebe and me. He said, ‘You would’ve never caught me.’ And something about it being too easy.”

Hank interrupted. “That makes you think he might’ve been the serial killer?”

Mike glanced at Jessica and nodded. “He said, ‘I’m Patricia.’ I asked him what he meant, and the sonofabitch died.”

“Good,” said Hank. “I mean, it was good that he died.”

“Are you sure, Mike?” asked Jessica. “He said I’m Patricia?”

Mike furrowed his brow and nodded. He eased the oxygen mask back on and took several deep breaths before removing it again.

“I think this guy cross-dressed to conceal his true identity. I have no idea what brought him to killing people, who knows. I’ve always believed every killer is insane, regardless of motive.”

Jessica was about to ask another question when Dr. Alvarez poked her head through the curtains. “I heard three voices. Lo and behold, the stubborn old cuss is awake and all chatty Cathy. No surprise there, I s’pose.”

Mike raised his hand and playfully gave Dr. Alvarez the middle finger. The two had known one another since high school. There had been many times when Mike needed medical information on a criminal suspect who was in the hospital’s care. Dr. Alvarez accommodated him when she could.

She flipped him off in response. “Back at ya. Say, hang on while I go fetch my toolbox out of the truck to fix up that chest wound of yours.”

Mike’s eyes grew wide because he knew she meant it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Wednesday, November 6

Overseas Highway

South of Homestead, Florida

Two National Guardsmen restrained Peter and Jimmy with plastic flex-cuffs. Their arms were pulled behind their back with a little more force than was required. It wasn’t necessary to encounter a malicious law enforcement officer of any kind for zip-tie plastic handcuffs to be put on too tightly or to do real damage to the person being restrained. Many of those restrained experienced nerve damage due to improper use. In the case of Peter and Jimmy, whose bodies had been traumatized by the blast, among other things in Peter’s case, long-term damage could easily be done to shoulders and arms.

Both guys complained to anyone who’d listen, but it didn’t result in their pain being relieved. For hours, they sat against the wheels of a troop transport. They were watched from a distance by an uninterested young woman who seemed annoyed at being given the task. It gave the guys a chance to speak before they were taken away.

“Jimmy, we both know this is a load of crap, but we gotta keep our heads cool. This is obviously part of a bigger issue that’s pissed off either the governor or the president. And, knowing the governor, I doubt this is his idea. These troops came from Georgia or Alabama.”

Jimmy sighed as he continued to wiggle and pull at the flex-cuffs. His were tighter than Peter’s, perhaps because of his obvious association with the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department.

“I didn’t want any part of this,” he began to explain to Peter. Earlier, while they were outside earshot of their captors, Jimmy had brought Peter up to speed on Driftwood Key and his father. At this point, he was unaware of what had happened with Patrick the night before. “My aunt is on some kind of power trip. Maybe she thinks she’s doing the right thing by her people. I don’t know. Anyway, Mr. Hank had to offer me up to become a deputy.”

“Lindsey thinks she can form her own country? Seriously?”

“Man, I don’t know what’s in her head. I do know that some of the real deputies handpicked the temporary guys like me to watch the checkpoints. They’re really close to one another, you know. I hear talk. They’re a little too gung-ho-marine for me.”

“I get it,” added Peter. “Peon power, right?” Peon power was a term his grandfather had used years ago to refer to someone who ordinarily had little authority within government or an organization. Then, suddenly, they were elevated to a position of power and wielded it mercilessly.

“Yeah,” Jimmy responded with a shrug. “There’s been talk of gathering up all the food in the Keys and putting it in a central distribution center. Share and share alike is what I hear them say the most. There’s also been talk about the sheriff’s people getting theirs first.”

Peter shook his head in disgust. “Sounds like the way Washington operates.”

Jimmy elbowed Peter. “We’re about to have company.”

Peter whispered his instructions. “Okay. No matter what, admit to nothing. Answer questions but be evasive. You never had a gun. Got it?”

“What do I say when they ask what my job was or whatever?”

“Tell them you weren’t a real deputy. You just took the offer because they promised to give you food. They’ll understand, hopefully.”

Jimmy’s eyes darted back and forth between the men approaching them. “What are you gonna say?”

“I’m gonna tell them the truth. It’s worked so far. But listen. I may have to throw you under the bus a little. You know, to separate us. It’s the only way I can help get us out of this mess.”

Jimmy chuckled and leaned back against the massive truck tire. He bounced the back of his head a few times as he contemplated their predicament.

“Just don’t get me put in front of a firing squad,” he said half-jokingly.

One of the men growled his instructions. “All right, gentlemen, your ride’s here. On your feet!”

Two guardsmen brusquely lifted Jimmy up by grasping him under his arms. They pushed him roughly against the side of the truck, and one of the men pressed the palm of his hand into Jimmy’s chest to restrain him. With the help of a third soldier, Peter was similarly manhandled.

“Over here!” one of the guards shouted, waving his arm toward an approaching vehicle.

Refugees who continued to mill about the area began to spread apart in order for the vehicle to get through. From the front, it appeared to be a white Dodge truck with some kind of camper on the back. As it got closer, Peter recognized what it was.

“This is bullshit!” he complained loudly. “You can’t make us ride in that!”

“We can, and you will,” one of the guardsmen hissed in response.

The white truck bearing the logo of the Miami-Dade County Animal Services department slowed to a stop in front of them. The steel and white box container on the back had several lockable door handles protruding off the side. There was a compartment for each animal that needed hauling away.

In this case, the prisoners.

Jimmy began to squirm until he was forcibly restrained by two of the men.

“Listen up, gentlemen. You either cooperate or your ride will be a lot more difficult with the air vents shut. Trust me, you’re gonna want some air.”

The guard motioned to the driver, who opened up one of the compartments. The stench of dog feces permeated the air around the truck, filling Peter’s nostrils to the point he almost vomited. He resisted the urge to unleash a tirade of expletives. At this point their captors were getting a special thrill from their two high-value prisoners. Neither of whom had played any role in the destruction of the bridges or the decision to do so.

Peter looked to Jimmy and rolled his eyes. The two men accepted their fate and decided to cooperate so their punishment wasn’t made more severe. Each of the guys was shoved into a separate compartment by the soldiers, and the doors slammed behind them. The guards began to laugh, apparently taking great pleasure in slapping the side of the truck to indicate their prisoners were ready for transport.

As they drove away, Peter closed his eyes and set his jaw. He loved his country, but not when those in position of authority acted like this. The words he’d uttered minutes ago came to mind. Peon power. It had apparently become an epidemic.

CHAPTER NINE

Wednesday, November 6

Overseas Highway

South of Homestead, Florida

The military police were tasked with protecting the lives and property of the Army National Guard installations, both permanent and temporary. The Guard had established its operations at the Homestead-Miami Speedway in a matter of three days, but the law enforcement arm was a late arrival to the scene. The Army expected their troops to provide the Keys’ residents a show of force that would encourage them to back down from their attempts to block traffic on the two bridges. Clearly, that hadn’t worked, as they had been destroyed within hours of one another.

As a result, the law enforcement arm, together with several investigators, was quickly dispatched to Homestead. The Pentagon considered the destruction of the bridges an act of domestic terrorism, which also made it a matter for the FBI. However, the Justice Department was slow to respond to the Pentagon’s request for agents to assist in the investigation.

That left the task of dealing with the alleged insurrectionists to a criminal investigations special agent who’d been dispatched from Camp Blanding, a military reservation and training base for the Florida Army National Guard located southwest of Jacksonville.

Lieutenant Virgil Robinson was not a full-time member of the Guard. He was also a correctional officer at the nearby state prison located in Starke. A CO for nearly twenty years, he had an unparalleled bullshit meter. Prisoners in maximum security were able to spend their days finely honing their con-man craft. They were able to sense weakness in their captors and fellow inmates. They learned what emotional tools worked and which ones didn’t in a particular situation. They also became adept at lying.

His experience made him an ideal interrogator, and that was exactly what the military police needed with their first two prisoners, Peter and Jimmy.

The guys were taken inside the bowels of the Homestead-Miami Speedway to a Miami-Dade Police department substation, where drunks were held in the event they acted out during a race event. Each was held in a separate cell, awaiting interrogation. They remained in their clothes but were given an MRE ration and a bottle of water. For several hours, they sat alone without any contact with each other. Nor did they encounter any other prisoners.

This unnerved Peter, who became concerned that the military would take out their anger towards Mayor Free and those in concert with her on him and Jimmy. He paced the floor of his cell, constantly looking through the bars toward the long hallway that led to the substation’s offices. He held his breath, focusing his senses to eavesdrop on any conversations that were being held.

The loud clank of the steel locking mechanism shattered the silence as a uniformed guardsman ambled down the hallway past Peter’s cell. The smug man didn’t even glance in Peter’s direction as he made his way to the end of the twelve cells to retrieve Jimmy first. Peter stood at the cell bars and waited for Jimmy to pass him by. The two men stared at one another, and as soon as the guard’s attention was away from Peter, he raised his right index finger to his lips. Jimmy provided his longtime friend an imperceptible nod, indicating he was still on board with the plan.

Hours passed, during which time Peter nervously paced the floor of his six-by-ten-foot cell, which consisted of a concrete slab and a stainless-steel toilet-sink combo. The miniscule amount of ambient light that emanated from the single window providing a glimpse to the outside was insufficient for him to make out his surroundings.

He continued to pace the floor. Every third or fourth trip around the sixty-square-foot space, he stopped at the cell door and listened. It had to be approaching midnight when he finally sat down and tried to make sense of it all.

Where was Jimmy? Why would his questioning take so long if he had nothing to say? Or did they break him? It would mean nothing as far as Peter’s level of complicity was concerned, but it might make it impossible to gain Jimmy’s release. Peter knew enough about martial law to realize the government had the power to lock people up indefinitely, virtually without cause. “Rights,” they’d say. “You ain’t got no stinkin’ rights.”

Suddenly, the same clanging sound he’d heard when the guard arrived earlier brought him back into the present. He scampered back to the cell door and tried to press the side of his face between the bars to get a look at Jimmy.

Another guard had returned without him. Peter didn’t wait to begin peppering the man with questions.

“Where’s the other guy?” he asked as he tried to maintain the façade that the two of them didn’t know each other that well. “Did you let him go? Can I leave now?” His tone of voice reflected his genuine concern. Prisoners feared the unknown and had difficulty coping with uncertainty. Peter was about to learn how a skilled investigator like Lieutenant Robinson used that to his advantage.

“Turn around and stick your arms through this slot,” said the guard, who slapped the flat opening in the cell door with the palm of his hand.

Peter complied without comment, and seconds later he was handcuffed again, but this time with the traditional nickel-finish, chain-link style. His anxiety levels shot up as he was led down the hallway into the outer offices of the police substation. There was more activity than earlier when he had been brought in. A map of Homestead, which included the roads leading onto the Keys, was hung on one wall. A whiteboard containing the names and titles of Monroe County’s highest-ranking government officials filled another wall.

“This way,” said a heavyset man who suddenly emerged from an office next to the whiteboard. He never made contact with Peter, instead addressing the guard who escorted him until this point.

Peter was led into a room with a single folding table and two uncomfortable side chairs. He doubted, under ordinary circumstances, that the Miami-Dade police would have a reason to interrogate prisoners. This appeared to have been thrown together for his benefit.

“Take a seat, sir. I’m Lieutenant Virgil Robinson with the Army National Guard’s Military Police. I’d like to come to an agreement with you on something from the beginning. Would that be okay?”

“Yes, sir,” said Peter. Humble and polite.

“If you’ll be honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. Fair enough?”

“Yes, it is,” Peter replied, using a different response so as not to appear disrespectful or robotic. He was tapping on what he’d learned in press briefings during his career as a reporter in Washington. Seasoned journalists, liked police investigators, could see through someone being disingenuous.

Robinson nodded and put on his reading glasses, which he’d retrieved from the shirt pocket of his fatigues. “Okay. Here’s the deal. Straight up. You need to know what I can and cannot do.”

Peter sat up in his chair and nodded. He listened intently as the man laid out the harsh realities of the president’s declaration of martial law. Peter absorbed every word before coming to a harsh conclusion. He and Jimmy were screwed.

“Sir, you asked for honesty, so here it is. I’m from Washington. My name, as I told the guards, is Peter Albright. I’m a reporter for the Washington Times, and I’ve almost died four times trying to get home to my family. It’s as simple as that.”

Robinson thumbed through papers attached to a file folder with black binder clips. He scowled as he slowly appeared to read every word twice and backwards. Peter nervously sat there, forcing himself not to get chatty.

“What’s your connection to the other man? Jimmy, right?”

Peter was at a crossroads. He had to decide whether Jimmy had held up during the interrogation. His friend had never experienced the kind of pressure that a military investigator was capable of bringing upon him. It would’ve been easy for Jimmy to slip up and make a mistake during the hours of questioning he must’ve endured.

Yet where was he? If he held his tongue, wouldn’t he have been returned to his cell? Maybe he’d told the truth, and they’d determined he was a minor player in this whole scheme and let him go? Or maybe he didn’t break and they’d secured him elsewhere to trick Peter.

He inwardly chastised himself for not thinking about this scenario before he was brought in to be interrogated. He’d paused for too long, and Robinson noticed his delay.

“Young man, this is not a difficult question.”

Peter feigned a cough as if he was clearing his throat. “I’m sorry, sir. I haven’t slept in a few days, and I almost died earlier today. My head’s not a hundred percent clear.” But, then, you probably banked on that, didn’t you?

“Do you know this Jimmy person or not?” asked the lieutenant.

Peter stifled a smile. He’d never mentioned Jimmy’s last name. He held firm.

“I was running across the bridge like a dozen others. I’d hurt myself, and Jimmy stopped to help me. When the bridge blew up, he fell over the edge but held on to some rebar. Because he helped me, I helped him.”

Robinson continued to pause between each exchange of questions and answers. He tapped the back of the file folder. “When you were running toward the bridge, what did he say to you?”

Peter furrowed his brow. His interrogator was searching. “About what?”

“Anything. Did he tell you to hurry because the bridge was about to blow up, for example?”

“Um, no. Not that I can recall. It was pretty chaotic with all the people rushing toward Key Largo.”

“What about after you helped him?”

“No, not really. He thanked me, and we just kinda lay on the road, catching our breath. It wasn’t easy.”

“You knew he worked for the Monroe County Sheriff’s department, right?”

“No. Well, I mean, not until I saw his shirt. It wasn’t long after I pulled him up that people were running toward us with the National Guardsmen.”

“Hmmm,” muttered Robinson.

He abruptly stood from his chair and walked out of the room. Peter never saw him again.

CHAPTER TEN

Wednesday, November 6

Monroe County Administration Offices

Key West

Mayor Lindsey Free snuck out of the rear entrance of the Monroe County Administration offices without saying a word to her staff. She didn’t want them to see the harried look on her face. Lindsey, who’d quit smoking years ago, found that the apocalypse was as good an excuse as any to light up again.

She took a long drag on the Marlboro Menthol cigarette, allowing the cool sensation to block the otherwise harsh irritation she felt in her throat when she smoked regular cigarettes. She walked briskly through the parking lot reserved for county vehicles until she emerged under the tree canopy behind the Bad Boy Burritos location on Catherine Street. The restaurant was closed, and the revelers who usually filled every street of the downtown area at that time of night were no longer in town.

Lindsey had effectively orchestrated the eviction of all nonresidents as well as quite a few vagrants from the Keys. She knew she faced difficult challenges ahead to protect, feed and care for her permanent residents. Days prior, after a heated screaming match between Lindsey and the president’s chief of staff, she’d made up her mind to ready the Keys for the possibility of a federal government takeover.

Her decision to remove people from the Keys was a humane one in her mind. She had no intention of feeding them, as her constituents had to come first. By moving them out quickly, she gave them a better opportunity to get to their homes before society collapsed further.

Instituting a blockade of the two bridges leading onto the Keys was a difficult one but necessary. It made no sense to reduce the island chain’s population to legal residents, only to leave the bridges open for them to return at some point.

To be sure, as many members of her staff had pointed out, the destruction of the bridges was a drastic measure, and it would be costly to rebuild. Privately, the county attorney told her it was likely criminal. To give her cover, he drafted an executive order that mirrored the one issued by the president. It also added language that allowed her to close off the county to outsiders because they might be a public health risk.

The reasoning was a stretch, but it was the only way she could protect the lawful residents of the Keys. As it turned out, Monroe County deputies patrolling the northernmost part of the county on the mainland had observed the National Guard coming across Alligator Alley. When the convoy headed toward Homestead, she ordered the bridges destroyed. It was a challenge to find sufficient TNT to bring the two structures down. Drafting volunteers to strategically place the explosives on the bridge supports required promises of expensive homes to live in and food rations on par with her executive team. The latter was a promise she’d most likely break.

Food in the Keys was a real issue. Many residents had rushed out and emptied the shelves at the first hint of a nationwide shortage. Restaurant owners had emptied their storerooms and hid food in their homes to prevent it from being stolen.

During those early days as the onset of nuclear winter took its toll, Lindsey had been constantly calculating and analyzing how she could take care of the most people with the limited resources the county had. She quickly determined there would have to be some kind of shared sacrifice in order for everyone to have a chance to survive.

After the bridges were destroyed, her goal was to turn her attention to creating food banks up and down the Keys, using county rations together with food from businessowners who had hoarded it for themselves. Both the president’s declaration of martial law and her own executive orders gave her administration carte blanche to confiscate everything.

Food. Beverages. Medical supplies. Vehicles. Boats. The work product of any business. Land. You name it. If it was an asset, it could become the property of Monroe County.

She and the sheriff agreed to take the next day to regroup before formulating a framework for identifying items to confiscate and to be warehoused for subsequent distribution. It had been a long twenty-four-hour workday, and she was ready to go home.

In fact, she was on her way out the door when a courier delivered a letter ostensibly from the President of the United States. She had no idea how it had managed to make its way through her checkpoints or onto the Keys following the destruction of the bridges. Nonetheless, it had reached her hands, so she felt compelled to read it.

On the one hand, she thought it was humorous. She really couldn’t understand why her tiny county was of such great concern to a president who should really have his hands full dealing with the big picture. For some reason, the president had taken her stubborn and obstinate position regarding the roadblocks personally. The animosity between the two only became worse when she destroyed sections of a federal highway.

The words scribbled on the handwritten note could’ve been a forgery, but the more she thought about them, the more she believed the letter to be genuine. It simply read—This isn’t over, followed by the letters POTUS.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Wednesday, November 6

Gulf of Mexico

Near Dauphin Island, Alabama

After everyone enjoyed a meal of smoked fish, canned sardines and crackers, the women found a comfortable spot in the crew’s quarters to sleep. Lacey told Andino she was most comfortable navigating during the daylight although their visibility would be greatly reduced due to the ever-present sooty atmosphere.

Andino gave Tucker a crash course in boating mixed with a number of fishing stories from the present and the past. Despite their weariness, the two were alert and attentive to the perils of traveling in the dark waters off the coast. Once they entered Alabama and cleared Dauphin Island, Andino included Tucker in assessing whether they should set their course directly across the open waters of the Gulf or continue to navigate using the shoreline as their guide.

“Under these circumstances, the main benefit of following the coastline is we can summon help if the engines fail or something else happens,” began Andino. “The downside is that, believe it or not, we add a couple of hundred miles to the trip. That’s a lot of fuel consumed that I believe you and your mom will need to get to Marathon, where your grandfather’s place is.”

“Can we make it to the Keys if we hug the coast?”

Andino furrowed his brow. “I honestly don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Can we refuel or top off the tanks in Tarpon Springs?”

The experienced sailor ran his fingers through his hair. He knew everyone in the tiny fishing town, and they were all good people. But things had changed since the nuclear war came to America. He was sure Bay St. Louis had been full of nice people, too. That was no longer the case.

“You can’t count on that,” he replied after some sober thinking.

“The worst case is we get stuck out in the open, obviously,” said Tucker as he processed the options in his mind. “But if we did, all of us would be together to help get through it.”

“True,” Andino added. Then he unselfishly added, “It’s riskier, and we’re putting a lot of trust in this vessel, but it will shave a day off the trip and give you a better chance of making it all the way.”

It would have been safer for Andino and his family to follow the coastline. There was sufficient fuel to make it to Tarpon Springs even with the increased time and longer route. He was appreciative of the risks Lacey and Tucker had taken to get them to this point. It was the least he could do to return the favor in his own way.

Tucker turned toward the bow and slapped the teak trim that wrapped its way around the boat’s console. He adopted a cartoon pirate’s voice and pointed ahead. “Chart our course, Captain. Across the Gulf we shall sail!”

Andino laughed and then gently pulled Tucker’s arm toward the right. “This way, actually. Maybe we should talk about the use of the compass and nautical charts now.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Wednesday, November 6

National Guard Encampment

Homestead-Miami Speedway

Homestead, Florida

Peter woke up with a start as a door slammed in the outer offices of the police substation. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, as exhaustion had swept over him when he laid his head down on top of the table. He could hear muffled voices outside the door, and he stood to look through the small eight-inch-by-eight-inch window. Before he could make out who was speaking, the rattle of keys grabbed his attention, and he shot backwards into his chair. He took a deep breath and awaited his fate.

A guard walked in and threw a clipboard on the table in front of Peter. He tossed a pencil on top of it and then slowly moved around the table until he was standing behind Peter.

“Stand up and hold still,” he ordered.

Peter obliged, and the man grabbed his wrists. Peter wanted to complain about the brash treatment, but when he realized the guard was removing his handcuffs, he bit his tongue. Once he was free, he slowly pulled his cramped hands and arms in front of him, gingerly rubbing his wrists to massage away the pain.

“Thanks,” mumbled Peter.

The guard wasn’t interested in Peter’s appreciation. “Sit. Fill this out. Truthfully! Knock on the door when you’re done.”

Peter sat back down at the table and turned the clipboard around so he could look at the document in front of him. He picked up the pencil and fiddled with it as he read.

It was a prepared affidavit that the government wanted him to sign under penalty of perjury. It required him to list all of his addresses and contact information. Peter chuckled at the requirement that he list all available telephone numbers. This didn’t appear to be a standard form, as it contained statements he was required to affirm that dealt specifically with Jimmy and the Monroe County government officials’ alleged actions regarding the bridges.

When it came to the address field, he hesitated. He didn’t want to list Driftwood Key, so he used an old girlfriend’s apartment address at Sunset Marina. By simply writing down 5555 College Road, Key West, without an apartment number, they’d never be able to confirm it one way or the other. It was a risk worth taking.

However, it wasn’t the only half-truth he told. He had to confirm, under perjury, that he didn’t know Jimmy. Once again, to his relief, he noticed Jimmy’s last name wasn’t used. It gave him comfort in knowing the ruse had worked. As for the perjury part, the president had thrown the rule of law out the window with his martial law declaration. What difference would a perjury charge make when the government could detain him for no reason anyway?

He completed the form and gently knocked on the door. The guard, who was sitting at a desk, thumbing through a stack of papers, made him wait for a couple of minutes before responding. Eventually, he let Peter out and reviewed his statement. After another minute, he turned to Peter.

“Raise your right hand,” he said finally. After Peter did, the guard recited the affirmation of truth and veracity used so often in a court of law. “Do you swear that what you have provided us is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“Yes.”

The guard tucked the clipboard under his armpit and tossed the pencil on his desk. He opened the door and yelled for another guard to come to the door. The two men whispered to one another, and then the clipboard was taken away. The guard turned his attention back to Peter.

“Okay. Back in your cell. You’ve earned the privilege of remaining uncuffed. Don’t do anything that would cause the loss of that privilege and get shot as a result. Are we clear?”

Peter nodded. “Yes.”

A minute later, he was returned to his cell and given a paper bag with a bottle of water and some kind of freeze-dried trail mix. Peter was weak from physical and emotional exhaustion, as well as hunger. However, all he could think about was Jimmy’s fate. As soon as the guard locked the door separating the cells from the substation’s offices, he called out for his friend.

In a loud whisper, he asked, “Jimmy, are you here?” Peter had to be careful. He couldn’t be certain whether his captors could hear him. He and Jimmy had been disciplined in not speaking to one another when they were initially locked up. Peter thought he’d successfully passed Lieutenant Robinson’s test and didn’t want to jeopardize his opportunity to be freed.

Jimmy didn’t respond, so Peter tried a little louder this time. “Jimmy.”

Still nothing.

“Shit!” he said in frustration. He began to wander through his cell, wondering if he’d just hanged himself for treason by signing the perjured statement.

He flopped on the concrete slab designed to be a bunk and buried his face in his hands. He needed sleep if he was going to be of any help to Jimmy when the time came to escape. At this point, there was nothing he could do but rest and imagine what his options were. It would be nearly fourteen hours before he got his chance, and the turn of events weren’t like anything he’d envisioned.

PART II

Day twenty-one, Thursday, November 7

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Thursday, November 7

Driftwood Key

Hank missed his just-after-dawn, early morning walks along the beach. He tried to force himself multiple times to stroll along the calm shore as he mentally prepared for his day. Since the nuclear wars broke out, the inn’s guests were gone. The sun stopped gracing Driftwood Key, or any other place, with its presence. Everything around him seemed—dead.

He stood at the water’s edge, mindlessly staring off into the distance, trying to determine where the gray skies ended and the water began. So many thoughts filled his mind. Mike’s recovery was at the forefront, but now he was concerned about Jimmy as well.

When he’d arrived back at Driftwood Key late last night after securing a ride with an ambulance that was responding to a call in Marathon, his first sign of trouble was that nobody was manning the gate. After what he’d encountered on patrol one night and with Patrick’s rampage fresh on his mind, Hank broke out into a run to get to the house.

Out of breath as he reached the stairs to the front porch of the main house, he immediately noticed shadows traversing the dining room and the main foyer. He rushed inside, where he found Sonny and Phoebe, who were still awake, pacing the floor. The dimly lit rooms were illuminated by candles and kerosene lanterns.

As he entered, their worried faces touched his heart. After what they’d all been through, he tried not to assume the worst. However, the fact Jimmy wasn’t there took his mind to a dark place he didn’t want to be.

They talked it through, and Hank promised to look into where Jimmy was assigned. He’d learned while at the hospital and through additional conversation with the ambulance driver on the way home that the decision had been made to blow up the bridges coming into the Florida Keys. He’d also learned from the ambulance driver, who regularly serviced medical care centers from Key Largo to Key West, that the president had ordered the military to cross into the Keys to restore order, as the driver put it.

Hank was puzzled by the choice of words. Granted, he’d been spending all of his time on Driftwood Key, and his only information regarding what might be happening elsewhere came from Mike, Jessica, and Jimmy. However, none of them had mentioned rioting. Looting, yes. However, nothing that would warrant an incursion by the National Guard to restore order.

He stepped onto the front lawn to think. As he was recalling the evening’s events, the wind picked up at his back. It was more than the winds that normally started to blow as the sun rose over the Atlantic as cooler surface air was greeted by the warmer air above it. This wind was sustained, not gusty. And then, as quickly as it had arrived, it stopped again. Hank had seen it before but was shocked at what it portended, especially under these atmospheric conditions.

He put the thought out of his mind and returned to the house. After a quick bite to eat, he was gonna pack a change of clothing for Jessica and Mike along with toiletries. He wasn’t sure what Jessica’s plans were, but he suspected she’d want to stay with Mike during his recovery.

His other reason to travel back to Key West was to question Mayor Lindsey Free, Sonny’s former sister-in-law. Hank would have to find a way to be diplomatic as he opened the conversation. Somehow, leading with the question what the hell are you thinking? wouldn’t be such a good idea.

Sonny helped him pack the Wellcraft runabout and top off its fuel tanks. He hadn’t driven the boat since Mike had confiscated it the night the fuel thieves mistakenly messed with the wrong family. He didn’t want to take his Hatteras out with all the uncertainty around the Keys. If something were to happen, any would-be pirates could have the runabout.

Hank donned a yellow Nautica jacket and khakis. He promised Sonny he’d find out about Jimmy, but he felt the need to remind his old friend that the gate and the grounds needed to be patrolled. This would not be a good time to let their guard down.

With a promise to hustle back, Hank was off as he followed the same route Jessica had taken previously. During the hour and a half ride, he encountered more unexpected gusts of wind. By the time he arrived at Sunset Marina in Key West, which was located in the vicinity of the hospital, the gusty winds became more frequent.

He craned his neck to find a place to dock the boat. He was not surprised at what he saw as he idled through the No-Wake Zone. Armed men strolled along the floating docks nestled in the protective cove within Stock Island. Despite its proximity to the sheriff’s station, the operators of the marina—and the boat owners, Hank presumed—felt compelled to protect their boats and fuel. He couldn’t blame them.

After seeing a familiar face and making small talk, he found an available slip and was then given a ride over to the hospital in a solar-powered golf cart, one of many on the island. Despite the cloudy skies, the small batteries necessary to run the vehicles were able to be charged although it took an extraordinarily long time.

Hank entered the hospital and was thrilled to find Mike sitting upright and eating solid food. Jessica was standing by his side, stretching after another cramped night of sleep in the chair. Not that it bothered him, but Hank got the distinct impression she was happier to see the duffel bag of clothes and personal hygiene products than she was to see him. A minute after his arrival, she hustled off with the duffel, leaving Hank alone with his brother.

“How’re ya doin’?” Hank asked.

“It only hurts when I breathe,” Mike replied. He winced and swallowed hard before turning back to his Jell-O.

“Well, you’re looking good,” he began. “But hey, Rocky Balboa was handsome in a punch-drunk, beat-all-to-hell sort of way.”

Mike laughed. “Yeah. Yeah. Have you looked in the mirror? What’s your excuse?”

Hank hadn’t looked in the mirror although he imagined the lack of sleep and worry about his family had taken its toll. He felt like he’d aged a decade or two.

He sighed before responding, “I’m glad you’re okay. Mike, I’m really sorry. I should’ve never let that guy on the key.”

“Nobody knew,” said Mike. “Jess and I started to notice how squirrely he was. When you spend your days around criminals, you start to pick up on things they all have in common. You can tell they have something to hide. Some, like Patrick, play the game better than others. We compared notes, and it started to make sense.”

Hank hung his head. So much was weighing on him. He grimaced and nodded before making eye contact with his brother. He hesitated before broaching the subject.

“There’s something else…” His voice trailed off, giving Mike time to anticipate what Hank was going to bring up.

“I heard they blew the bridges. A few of the guys came by to check on me when the word got out. I understand it’s a pretty contentious subject between the commissioners and Lindsey.”

“Yeah, I heard, too. I hope to corner Lindsey after I leave the hospital. But that’s not what I was referring to.”

“Did something happen at Driftwood Key? I told Jess to go home and that I was in good hands.”

Hank glanced into the hallway and then explained, “As you know, Jimmy has been assigned to man the checkpoint at Gilbert’s Resort. His shift was supposed to end yesterday morning.” Hank gulped.

“What is it?” asked Mike, wincing as he pushed himself up in bed.

“He’s twenty-four hours past due for coming home. Sonny and Phoebe are freaking out, and frankly, so am I.”

“None of the detectives have said anything about Jimmy although most of them aren’t assigned to the sheriff’s border detail,” he said. He shook his head. “This had to be Lindsey’s idea to blow up the bridges. Now she can be Queen of the Keys.”

“Well, I promised to get some answers. I think I’ll start with the sheriff.”

Mike chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Good luck with that. The guys tell me he stays holed up in his office. He meets with his undersheriff and his aide. That’s about it. He won’t even sit down with our two majors or the chief. It’s really bizarre.”

“I have to try,” said Hank.

Mike agreed but had a suggestion. “You might have better luck with Lindsey.”

“Why?”

“We have something she wants access to—food production.”

“I’m not giving it up, Mike. And I’m damn sure not offering up the bungalows for people to sleep in. Been there, done that.”

Mike felt compelled to caution his brother, who was in a difficult emotional place. “Tread lightly with Lindsey. She’s on a helluva power trip right now and couldn’t care less about what we’ve been through or where Jimmy is.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Thursday, November 7

U.S. Army War College

Carlisle Barracks

Carlisle, Pennsylvania

Despite the fact the five-hundred-acre campus of the U.S. Army War College was nowhere near completion to house all of the major departments required to run the government, President Carter Helton insisted upon his administration making the transition above ground, as he liked to put it. Operating within the confines of the bunker at Mount Weather had been taxing on the president’s emotional state. He was ready for a fresh start and eager to tackle the nationwide recovery effort.

For days, the Army had diverted considerable resources to securing Carlisle Barracks and the entire campus. The roads and highways leading into the small town of twenty thousand had been cordoned off during the preparations.

At first, their activities were shrouded in mystery, especially to those who resided in nearby Harrisburg, Pennsylvania’s state capital. Many presumed, rightfully so, that the native Pennsylvanian would choose Philadelphia as the nation’s capital following the devastating war. Even if on a temporary basis. The activity at Carlisle Barracks surprised everyone.

In the predawn hours that morning, the president had surreptitiously departed Mount Weather and was whisked away by Marine One to the temporary White House. By the time he was given a tour of his new offices and touched base with the members of his cabinet and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Chief of Staff Harrison Chandler was alerted by FEMA that a massive hurricane had formed in the Caribbean Sea off the coast of Venezuela. He would be briefed on its path within the hour.

President Helton spoke with his military advisors regarding the actions of the Florida Keys officials who’d ordered the destruction of the bridges. There had to be repercussions, but he was advised the only way to remove the government officials responsible for the destruction was to initiate some form of air and sea assault. Even as angry as the president was, he couldn’t imagine bringing the might of the United States military against the insubordinate inhabitants of the Florida Keys.

He settled into a classroom within the complex that had been assigned to FEMA because its walls were completely covered in whiteboards. One of them provided data on the coming storm he’d been told about.

HURRICANE MOVING NORTHWESTERLY AND ACCELERATING.

DEVELOPING AND STRENGHTENING. WINDS SUSTAINED 55 KNOTS.

SEAS 12 TO 22 FEET WITHIN 300 NAUTICAL MILES.

982 MILLIBARS.

The president furrowed his brow, and he read through it twice. He imagined it was the type of weather forecast no fisherman wanted to hear. An aide to the NOAA representative distributed printed reports detailing the storm. The president studied the satellite imagery.

This monster appeared as a huge swirl stretching from Caracas on the northern coast of Venezuela to just below Guantanamo Bay in Cuba. A second page provided a computer model of the storm’s track and intensity. Under the circumstances, the National Hurricane Center did not have the multiple assets available to them to chart the hurricane’s path. Ordinarily, as many as forty computer models would be at their disposal to advise the president. Today, there was only one.

“Mr. President, all we can say is this hurricane is a scientific anomaly that defies explanation. Its characteristics certainly have all the earmarks of a hurricane, such as the fact that it’s a strengthening low-pressure system with its signature tight cyclonic spin. Like others that form in the Caribbean region, they can gain in strength when fueled by warm surface waters.

“That’s where the anomaly comes in. To create and sustain a hurricane, you need warm water of at least eighty degrees. The second ingredient is moist air. Finally, you need the right combination of converging winds to create the cyclonic activity.

“When the surface water is warm, even this late in the typical hurricane season, the counterclockwise rotation sucks up heat energy from the water very much like the way a straw sucks up liquid out of a glass.

“This heat energy is the fuel of the storm. The warmer the water, the more moisture in the air, which results in a broader and stronger hurricane.”

The president interrupted the scientist’s explanation. “All I’ve been told these last few weeks is that the fallout, or nuclear winter, is blocking the sun’s rays, resulting in rapidly cooling temperatures. Wouldn’t that apply to the ocean’s waters as well?”

The NOAA representative nodded and referred to a stack of graphs stapled together. “Yes, sir, that is true. As you can imagine, data is not available from all of our resources, but I do have sufficient readings from buoys spread throughout the South Atlantic, the Caribbean Sea, and even into the Gulf of Mexico to provide a response.”

He offered to provide the dozen pages or so to the president to review, but he waved his arm, declining. The president was interested in the bottom line and how this would impact the nation.

“That’s okay. What does it reveal?”

“Let me explain it this way. Hurricanes are like machines whose job is to move heat from the warm ocean below to the cooler atmosphere above. Under present conditions, the water temperatures have dropped well below eighty degrees, which is considered ideal to form a hurricane.

“Nuclear winter puts us in uncharted waters, sir. What we’ve learned is that this storm is acting much like a polar low. As the name suggests, this is a low-pressure system that forms over the Arctic ocean in winter where the ocean water temperatures are cold, but the atmosphere above it is much more frigid.

“In the Caribbean Sea right now, and I’ll go ahead and include the Gulf of Mexico in this analysis, we have a situation where the water is, shall I say, lukewarm. However, the air above it is much, much colder, especially for the region. The result has become the tropical equivalent of a polar low. A hurricane like no other. May I give you an example?”

“Please do.” The president leaned back in his chair and motioned for the NOAA representative to continue.

“In mid-January 2016, Hurricane Alex was the first storm to occur in the winter since Alice sixty years prior. Because of the cold wintertime temperatures, it originated as a nontropical low near the Bahamas. At first, its path took it northeast toward the open waters near Bermuda.

“Then a high-pressure system turned it back to the southeast. The storm deepened and strengthened. Now, the path is not the issue. What I’m trying to illustrate is this phenomenon has happened before, at least twice. It’s happening for a third time.”

The president sat forward in his seat and rested his elbows on the table. “What can you tell me about this storm’s path, strength, and timing?”

“Sir, the eye of the storm will be moving between Cuba and the Dominican Republic hours from now. We expect it to maintain its strength as it travels over open waters before turning slightly on a northwesterly track to the south of The Bahamas.”

“U.S. landfall?” asked the president.

“The storm will pass over the Florida Keys and enter the Gulf of Mexico. Our buoys indicate the surface waters in the Gulf are warmer than the Caribbean Sea, oddly. In any event, the storm may strengthen as it enters Florida Bay and the Gulf. We’re unable to state this with certainty at this time.”

President Helton leaned back in his chair and clasped his fingers together behind his head. He studied the information scribbled across the whiteboards, which included the computer model’s indicated track for the storm.

He set his jaw and allowed a barely perceptible smirk. That’ll teach ya.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Thursday, November 7

Tarpon Springs, Florida

It was only a few weeks ago that fishing boats of all types would be making their way back to the docks, easing their way past Anclote Key before entering the protective inlet at Tarpon Springs. Located thirty miles north of Tampa, Tarpon Springs was known as the Sponge Capital of the World or, in some cases, the Venice of the South because the mouth of the Anclote River ran through the middle of the small coastal town.

Like the fishing villages of the Mediterranean, Tarpon Springs was replete with whitewashed buildings spread out along narrow streets, where Greek food, culture, and traditions were on full display. No more so than along the waterfront, where working commercial fishing and sponging operations were comingled with tourist activities, including diving trips and eco-tours.

Now, the boats were tied off at the docks, devoid of human activity unless their owners lived aboard them. Gone were the throngs of tourists who spent their days wandering the shops, filling their bellies, and emptying their wallets in order to bring a piece of this way of life to their homes.

Andino slept a few hours before returning to the helm to guide the boat into Anclote River, navigating his way past Chesapeake Point toward the historic sponge docks. Boats were everywhere, as fuel was scarce and the need to conduct commercial fishing had ceased.

To be sure, food was an absolute necessity, but the cost of harvesting it from Florida’s fertile coastal waters was excessive. At this point the value of the American currency had become virtually nothing. Barter markets were growing in popularity, and very few merchants were willing to accept greenbacks. Anyone willing to accept the almighty dollar as payment demanded an exorbitant sum for the simplest of items. To say the inflation rate had skyrocketed would not do justice to the diminished value of the dollar.

Those who did trade in currency were speculators. Their belief, or hope, in any case, was that the U.S. government would take corrective measures and the U.S. currency would once again become of value. For now, it was practically worthless, and a box of cereal, for example, was selling for nearly two hundred dollars.

Everyone was huddled around the helm as Andino gave Lacey and Tucker the nickel tour. He directed their attention to points of interest while he and his family gasped as they spotted several familiar landmarks that had been looted or even destroyed by fire. The once-bustling fishing village had become somewhat of a ghost town, and only a few curiosity seekers hustled to the water’s edge to view the new arrival.

After the boat passed the Spongeorama Sponge Factory on the south side of the river, Andino made a wide sweeping left turn to point the boat toward a large building with another fishing boat of a similar size parked inside. The corrugated steel building had survived hurricanes and years of corrosion. The galvanized steel panels that were the oldest were a dark rust color. Those that had been replaced in recent years due to wear and tear or hurricane-force winds were a grayish silver.

“Here we are,” he said as he pulled the throttle back and began to slowly drift toward the dock. Suddenly, three young men came rushing into the building through an opening in the chain-link fence surrounding their sponging operation. Like Andino, the young teens were stocky with jet-black hair. A couple sported a hint of a mustache as they grew into men. Their appearance was the total opposite of the tall, athletic Tucker, who looked more surfer dude than Greek fisherman.

“They’re my cousins,” Katerina said as a smile broke out across her face. Being home from their own perilous journey and seeing familiar faces changed her demeanor substantially. She immediately sprang into action. Katerina, the meek, shy young girl, suddenly became an experienced deckhand.

Without hesitation, she ran along the port side of the fishing vessel and waved to her cousins, who stood patiently along the dock. The oldest of the three teens was prepared to place buoys to buffer the boat against the fixed dock. The other two boys waited with rubber-tipped grappling hooks to reach for the vessel’s railings or cleats to pull it flush with the dock. The group of kids expertly brought the fishing boat into position and secured it in just a few minutes.

Tucker leaned into his mother. “Grandpa would be proud of these guys, but don’t tell him. Okay?”

“Why not?” she asked.

“He’d spend the entire day teaching me the ins and outs of docking boats. I wanna hang with Jimmy and go fishing.”

“Jimmy will teach you the same thing,” said Lacey with a laugh.

“Yeah, true. The thing is, Jimmy won’t tell me a bunch of stories like the time so-and-so tried to dock at Driftwood Key or when such-and-such happened this other time.”

Lacey took the taller Tucker in a playful headlock before mussing his hair further. “Your grandpa is gonna be thrilled that you’re back. Please indulge him for a while. Besides, he’s got a lot to teach someone, especially under these circumstances.”

Andino checked the teens’ work and then returned to the McDowells. “Our homes are a short walk from here. We have three in a row, across from the docks, that have been in the family since, well, the day the first of my ancestors arrived here.”

“We don’t want to be a bother,” began Lacey. “I would appreciate it if we could fill up our water jugs.” The boat had stored water in its hold, but it had a funky taste, as Lacey put it. There were also eight five-gallon stackable water containers in the galley. The group had consumed ten gallons of fresh water en route from Bay St. Louis.

“I’ll see what my sister has in mind for dinner. While we eat and relax, we’ll talk about what is next.”

Lacey and Tucker exchanged glances. A home-cooked meal, regardless of what it consisted of, sounded like heaven at the moment.

“Lead the way,” said Lacey as she pointed toward the cube-shaped water containers. Tucker snatched them up, and they were off to the Andino family compound.

Like most of the simple, wood-framed homes interspersed with sponge packinghouses around the docks, their one-story homes were lined up in a row and were almost identical to one another. A white picket fence surrounded the three lots with a single gated entry in front of the middle home. All were white with a galvanized metal roof. The only remarkable feature that separated the three was the color of the front doors—blue, white, and blue-white striped, all intended to honor the colors of the national flag of Greece.

The center home with the blue-and-white-striped paint job belonged to Andino and his family. Katerina broke away from the group and raced up the sidewalk. She rushed onto the covered porch and opened the unlocked front door in a flash before disappearing inside.

“Do you think she’s glad to be home?” Andino asked his wife.

“The difference between me and our daughter is I’m trying to show restraint in the presence of our guests. I wanna run and jump into our bed!”

Andino wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her tight. He planted a kiss on her cheek and whispered in her ear, “Music to my ears, erastis.”

She giggled, slapped him on the chest, and began to walk across the overgrown yard to the home next door.

“I’ll deal with you later, lover,” she said with emphasis. “Let me speak to Sophia and tell her about our new friends. It may not be much, but the family should come together for dinner.”

Seconds later, every member of the Andino family came pouring out of the adjacent houses to greet their loved ones’ return from New Orleans. Everyone was talking loudly and over one another. Some spoke Greek and others spoke English even in the same conversation. For Lacey and Tucker, it was a heartwarming reunion to watch although confusing because of the language barrier.

After the joyful reunion, the group turned to welcome Lacey and Tucker. As before, questions were flying around, and the McDowells could barely keep up with their responses. Finally, it was Andino who reminded everyone that they’d been on a long, treacherous journey and that there would be plenty of time to talk later.

It was his brother, Sandros, who made a comment that included a word that sent chills through Lacey. During the hectic conversations between the Andino families and the McDowells, he learned they planned to continue their journey to the Keys first thing in the morning. That was when he revealed a rumor he’d heard.

Hurricane.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Thursday, November 7

National Guard Encampment

Homestead-Miami Speedway

Homestead, Florida

“Roll it up, Albright! You’re being released.”

Peter jerked himself awake after he’d succumbed to the weeks of mental and physical exhaustion. The jail cell might have taken away his freedom, but it certainly provided him a place to recharge his batteries, albeit an uncomfortable one. He sat there for a brief moment to gather his wits and to stretch his upper body. The concrete slab of a bed was unforgiving on his sore body.

The loud clank of the cell door being unlocked lifted his spirits. He jumped up and forgot about what he’d been through for the last couple of days. Now he could focus his efforts on finding Jimmy.

“Let’s go, pal. Everybody’s bugging out.”

“Whadya mean?”

“I mean we’re evacuating this outpost, and that means you’ve gotta go. Now!”

Peter glanced at the toilet but was afraid to relieve himself for fear of remaining locked up. Besides, he turned his attention to Jimmy.

“Um, what about the guy I was brought in with. Jimmy? I think?” This guard was different from the others he’d dealt with, so he felt comfortable in directly broaching the subject. He added, “He kinda saved my life, and I wanted to thank him.”

The guard stood back a couple of paces and motioned toward the door. He rested his hand on his sidearm as he studied Peter’s demeanor and movements.

“I think he’s in the infirmary,” he replied. “He suffered some injuries that needed to be attended to.”

Peter screamed the words in his head. Injuries? What injuries? He was fine when we got here.

“Wow. Okay. I’d still like to look in on him. Would you point me in the right direction?”

“Look, Albright,” the guard began in response. “You don’t get it. This is not social hour. We’re movin’ out, and most likely anyone in the infirmary will be medevacked out.”

Geez. What did you do to him?

The guard escorted Peter out of the police substation and into the tunnel underneath the grandstand seating that faced the Start/Finish line at the track. The first thing that struck him was a cold, howling wind that entered through the open portals leading up into the grandstands. A familiar whistling sound was made by the steady winds that were reminiscent of tropical storm activity he’d endured while growing up at Driftwood Key.

“Which way?” Peter asked.

The guard pointed ahead of them. “Up ahead about a hundred yards will be an open area leading to the parking lot.”

“And where’s the infirmary?” he asked, knowing he risked being rebuked by the guard.

The guard pointed toward a long corridor that ran perpendicular to the tunnel. “Out there. It’s the Infield Care Center near the entrance to pit road. But I’m tellin’ ya, he’s probably gone already.”

Peter nodded and began walking toward the exit of the speedway. He glanced over his shoulder after he passed the corridor leading to the heart of the racetrack to see if the guard was still watching him. When he saw the door to the substation closing behind the guard as he returned to his post, Peter darted back toward the corridor and ran toward a chain-link gate. Seconds later, he was standing at the gate overlooking the racetrack. He shook his head in disbelief as a gust of wind smacked him in the face.

Despite the late time of year and the unusually cool conditions for South Florida, a tropical depression must’ve formed somewhere in either the Atlantic or the Gulf of Mexico. The Florida Keys and the southern tip of the state were visited frequently by hurricanes. Some formed in the Atlantic, like Hurricane Irma in 2017 that resulted in eighty-four deaths, while others grazed the island chain from the west, like Hurricane Donna in 1960 that nearly destroyed Marathon and Driftwood Key.

In Peter’s memory, the worst storm to hit the Keys was Hurricane Wilma in October of 2005. That had been considered a late-season storm. It was early November, although Peter had no idea what today’s date was. Somehow, dates and times didn’t matter much when you were constantly fighting for your life.

He pushed open the gate and fought the wind that struck him in the chest. The open speedway, filled with concrete and infield grass, allowed the gusts to blow unimpeded. Peter slowly walked down the slight, three-degree banking near the Start/Finish line. Darkness was settling in that allowed him only limited visibility. Once he hit the infield, he ran across the grass toward the entrance to pit road, where the guard said the Infield Care Center was located. He caught a glimpse of light emanating from the gray trailer adjacent to a building that resembled a small fire hall. There were several tan-colored Humvees parked haphazardly between the two.

Using blue and yellow stacks of painted tires as cover, he ran at a low crouch until he was only forty feet away from the entrance to a building identified as Motorsports Complex EMS. He also had a direct view of the Infield Care Center, which was nothing more than a gray office trailer. Peter had watched enough racing to know that after a wreck of any kind on the track, the drivers had to report to medical to get checked out.

He knew he couldn’t waltz into either building, introduce himself, and ask to see Jimmy. His friend might not even be there if the substation guard was correct. Peter sighed as he considered his options. As his eyes darted back and forth between the two buildings in search of activity, wind-blown raindrops began to pelt his face.

If Jimmy was there, the coming storm might provide just the distraction he needed to free his friend.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Thursday, November 7

National Guard Encampment

Homestead-Miami Speedway

Homestead, Florida

In those first few moments, Peter got antsy. Then he settled in to wait despite the worsening conditions. He was cold and wet but determined to help Jimmy. If his friend had already been medevacked out of Homestead, then there was nothing he could do. If he hadn’t, Peter would take every risk to free him of this wrongful imprisonment.

After forty-five minutes, two uniformed National Guardsmen left the gray trailer and climbed into the driver’s seat of two separate Humvees. They quickly turned around and began driving directly for the gate where he was positioned. He scrambled into the corner of the stacked tires that acted as barriers to protect race cars from further damage in case they ran off the track. As the Humvees sped out of the Infield Care Center, they didn’t notice him hiding away. Peter rose slightly to remain unseen. He wanted to follow the Humvees to determine where the exit to the speedway was located. Then he turned his attention back to the buildings.

The remaining two Humvees were sitting off to the side near the roll-up doors to the EMS building. Peter imagined the garage portion of the structure contained the fire trucks used during accidents. A hedgerow of sweet viburnum shrubs lined the administration building around the corner from the roll-up doors. If he could get to them undetected, he’d only be a few feet away from the Humvees, with sufficient cover under the darkened conditions to avoid recapture.

He took a deep breath and raced past the MUSCO controls that managed the lighting system around the racetrack. As he crossed the open pavement, he caught a glimpse of a light going off in the trailer. Peter skidded to a stop and dropped to a knee to look around. Another light turned off in the trailer. They were closing down. He didn’t have time to make it to the row of shrubs, so he scrambled to hide behind a large ice machine like the kind you’d find outside any convenience store. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his nerves. He’d only have one shot at this, and he had to be stealthy about it.

The white door to the trailer flung open and crashed hard against the exterior wall of the building. The wind had picked up to a steady gale. That was when he caught his first glimpse of Jimmy. His arms were pulled behind him, and he appeared to be handcuffed. A soldier stood behind him and half shoved him onto the platform sitting outside the elevated trailer.

Jimmy leaned against the steel railing while the guard struggled to close the door. Suddenly, the wind had become Peter’s ally. Without thinking of the consequences, he rushed from behind the ice box, bounded up the three steps leading to the platform, and crashed hard into the guardsman by driving the crown of his head into the man’s ribs.

The force of Peter’s tackling maneuver slammed the guard’s head into the doorjamb, knocking him out instantly. Peter fell to his knees, slightly dazed from the impact. Jimmy knelt down next to him.

“Are you crazy?” he whispered, looking around the parking lot to determine if they’d been seen.

“Sort of,” replied Peter with a chuckle. “What did they do to you?”

“It wasn’t waterboarding, but it was close. The CIA sucks, man.”

Jimmy didn’t have to say another word. Peter had covered the State Department and the Department of Defense. He’d heard more than rumors. He’d seen firsthand what agency operatives were capable of doing to extract information.

“You didn’t give ’em anything, did you?” asked Peter.

With his face partially covered in bandages, Peter couldn’t see Jimmy wince in pain as he smiled. “Hell nah.”

Peter slapped his friend on the shoulder, drawing another wince, not that Jimmy complained. Both men looked down to the unconscious soldier.

Peter took charge. “Let me drag him inside, and then I’ll get you out of those cuffs.”

Once they were inside, Peter located some surgical scissors and cut through the flex-cuffs binding Jimmy’s wrists. He immediately massaged his arms to alleviate some pain. Then he found a switch to the undercounter lighting at a row of cabinets. This provided sufficient lighting to see without drawing attention from anyone outside.

Jimmy walked to a wall mirror and began to remove his bandages.

Peter abruptly stopped him. “Wait. Not yet.”

“Why? I wanna see what they did to me.”

“I have an idea,” replied Peter. He pointed down to the unconscious soldier. “I’m about the same size as this guy. Let me put on his uniform. I’ll use his identification to get us out of here.”

“What about me?”

“You’ll be in the back seat, pretending to be in cuffs. If they ask, I’ll tell them you’re being evacuated.”

Jimmy looked from Peter to the soldier sprawled out on the vinyl tile floor and back to the mirror. “I think it’ll work. Let’s do it.”

It took several minutes to transform Peter from mild-mannered reporter to National Guardsman with an infirm prisoner. After the man was stripped to his skivvies, they dragged his body to a back office and cuffed him to a bed. It was a disrespectful move, but it provided Jimmy some semblance of revenge for the beating he’d endured.

The guys were ready. Peter took the guard’s sidearm, and Jimmy grabbed a rucksack that he filled with medical supplies to treat his wounds as well as injuries at Driftwood Key. Everything was a valuable resource now.

After they rushed through the blowing rain and got settled in the Humvee, Peter started the motor. The roar of the six-point-two-liter V8 could barely be heard over the howl of the wind. He turned slightly in his seat and looked Jimmy in the face.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Green. Green. Green. As they say.”

Peter became serious. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Jimmy, I’ve had to shoot people. Kill them, too.”

Jimmy stared at his friend, who’d never shown a violent streak in all the years they’d known one another. He sat up in his seat and pulled his arms behind his back to feign being handcuffed. Then he offered words of support.

“Things have changed, and there don’t appear to be rules anymore. It’s dog eat dog, you know? Survival of the fittest and all that.”

Peter nodded and slowly unclasped the weapon in his newly acquired utility belt. He understood where Jimmy was coming from and appreciated the words of support. He’d made the statement for another reason, however. He wanted to provide Jimmy advance warning.

They might have to shoot their way out.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Thursday, November 7

Key West

After Hank visited with Mike, he had a conversation with Jessica in the hallway. He explained to her the concerns he had about Jimmy. He laid out his plans for the afternoon, and she gave him the names of a couple of deputies who would know the most about the newly deputized private citizens brought on board for checkpoint duty. She’d heard a rumor that the new people were going to be released from their commitment to the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office, but then, later in the night, she had been told that the mayor was building a militia of some sort.

Also, it was Jessica who acknowledged that she needed to get back to Driftwood Key to help protect their home. Mike was well taken care of, and if she knew her husband, he’d begin to insist that he be released. In fact, she said, it wouldn’t surprise her if he simply dressed and moseyed out the door without so much as a wave goodbye.

Hank agreed to touch base with her before he left Key West, but at the same time, he couldn’t make any promises as to when that might be. He’d been warned by Mike that the sheriff was elusive, and Hank believed Lindsey was in way over her head in her effort to take on the federal government.

His first stop after leaving the hospital was to return the golf cart to Sunset Marina. He asked if he could continue to dock the Wellcraft there and if someone would assist him in bringing Jessica’s WET team boat over as well. Afterwards, he walked across the street to the MCSO.

Sheriff Jock Daly, who was named in part after his father’s favorite television character, Jock Ewing of the old television show Dallas, had also been a star athlete in high school. He went on to play football at Florida State before graduating with a criminal justice degree. He had been trained at the FBI National Academy and considered a position as a special agent but chose to return home. His résumé included stints with the fire department and as a detective investigating drug cases alongside the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.

He was not known to be overly friendly, and most described him as serious. As a public servant, he was required to run for office. He wasn’t a campaigner and preferred to allow his record as a law enforcement officer to speak for itself. For the most part, the community was pleased with the job he’d done over the years, as he’d won reelection twice.

Despite the fact that he wasn’t amiable, he’d never been known as a shy or introverted person. Nor had he ever been accused of hiding from controversial subjects. Hank had met the man on several occasions over the years and generally had a decent rapport with him. He’d never had a reason to have a sit-down, face-to-face conversation with Sheriff Jock, as most residents of the Keys called him. Until now.

Hank’s reason for meeting with the sheriff was mostly personal and partly to satisfy his curiosity. He felt responsible for what, if anything, might have happened to Jimmy. The mayor had forced his hand, which had resulted in Jimmy being deputized by Sheriff Jock or his subordinates. Jimmy had no business wearing an MCSO uniform even though it consisted of nothing more than a pair of khaki pants and the signature green tee shirt with MCSO emblazoned across the back in gold lettering.

Hank was mad at himself for not standing up to Lindsey, and he intended to let her know how he felt as soon as he learned of Jimmy’s whereabouts. Then, in the course of conversation, he wanted to know why they thought it was a good idea to blow up the bridges entering the Keys. Hank also thought he should let Lindsey know how the decision might impact Peter’s and Lacey’s ability to return home.

Unfortunately, Sheriff Jock refused to see Hank. He waited and waited, periodically getting up from the chairs outside the sheriff’s office suite to look for some of the personnel on Jessica’s list. He learned more about the bridges being taken down and the aftermath. He was told how the National Guard had staged in Homestead and were en route to the Keys. It was presumed, based upon the president’s statements, that the Guard intended to replace the sheriff and the mayor with U.S. military officers pursuant to the martial law declaration.

While he waited, Hank also obtained a copy of the president’s martial law declaration and read it several times while he waited for the sheriff to emerge from his office. Finally, as the day grew long, he became concerned Lindsey might leave her office. Having given up on an audience with the sheriff, he hitched a five-minute ride to a location near the Monroe County Administration building.

He briskly walked the final two blocks to the center of Monroe County’s government, half-expecting the place to be empty already. He was wrong.

He’d never seen it bustling with so much activity. The parking lot was full of vehicles bearing the county’s yellow license plates. The portico entrance to the two-story, white building was packed with county personnel talking. Their conversations were animated and excited. Something big was happening, and Hank wanted to know what it was.

He didn’t waste any time and marched directly up the stairs to Lindsey’s office. Unlike Sheriff Jock’s office suite that was on lockdown thanks to his ornery secretary and an armed deputy, the double doors entering the administration suite were wide open. Within the suite that included the office of the mayor, formerly known as the county administrator, and her staff, there was also space for the county business manager, a legislative affairs director, and the assistant county administrator.

Hank stopped for a moment to take it all in. This wasn’t the way this place had looked before the nuclear war started. There was something up. He walked deeper into the office suite toward Lindsey’s office. The director of Disaster Recovery, a casual acquaintance of Hank’s from years ago, pushed through the crowd until the two men bumped shoulders.

Hank made eye contact with the frenzied man, who waved his arm as a form of apology. Although the two men knew one another, in his frantic state of mind, Ken Waller almost didn’t recognized Hank.

“Ken!” Hank raised his voice to be heard over the noisy county personnel. “Hey, what’s goin’ on?” He expected to hear that the National Guard was about to invade the shores of the Florida Keys with tanks and armored personnel carriers.

“Oh. Sorry, um, Hank. Gotta go.” He immediately spun around and headed toward the hallway.

“Ken, what is it?” Hank hollered after him.

“Storm’s comin’,” replied Waller as he waved his arm over his head.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Thursday, November 7

Monroe County Administration Offices

Key West

Hank had to know what was going on. Was the man referring to a storm in the literal or figurative sense? It wasn’t too late in the season for a hurricane, but the incredibly cool temperatures due to the onset of nuclear winter would prevent one from forming. Hank had to assume the military planned on retaliating against the Keys for their harebrained idea to blow up two bridges.

In the chaotic outer office, people rushed back and forth. Voices were raised in order to be heard. Arguments ensued over who was responsible for performing a certain task. There was no leadership or direction.

He marched past the mayor’s secretary and pushed his way around an armed deputy who was preventing a distraught woman from entering Lindsey’s office. Two uniformed members of the county’s emergency management team were standing near her desk, reviewing a map book.

Hank wasted no time in addressing the mayor. “Lindsey, what’s going on?”

She was hunched over her desk, studying a larger map of the Middle Keys. She scowled at the interruption. “Hank, what are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you about—” Hank replied sheepishly before getting cut off.

Lindsey raised her hand like a New York City traffic cop might do to demand an oncoming car to stop. “Now’s not the time, Hank. As you can see, we’re a little busy.”

She turned back to the maps and pulled out a black Sharpie. She began circling certain roads and marking other areas with Xs and Os. Hank leaned forward to make sense of it all. She looked like a general planning a battle who didn’t have a clue as to how to fight the enemy.

“Lindsey, I came down here to find out what happened to Jimmy.”

She dropped her head and allowed the marker to roll out of her hands. She locked eyes with Hank. “Who?”

“Jimmy. Remember? Your nephew? You made me send him into your new deputy program, and now he’s gone missing.”

“Oh, right. Ask the sheriff.” She rubbed her temples and returned her attention to the map. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the Sharpie again to start drawing lines and circles on the map.

Hank was insistent. “I tried, and he wouldn’t meet with me.”

Without looking up, she said sarcastically, “It’s like I said, we’re all a little busy right now.”

Hank was tired of being ignored and Jimmy’s well-being marginalized. He slammed the palm of his right hand on the desk, smacking the top with a loud thud that caused the occupants of the room to stop talking.

“Dammit, Lindsey! Your nephew has disappeared after your foolish idea to blow up the bridges. Now, obviously, you’re in a load of shit with the government, but that’s not my problem. That young man’s life may be at risk, and you should bear some responsibility for that.” Hank had thrown down the gauntlet to get her attention.

With the room deathly quiet, Lindsey calmly stood upright and capped the Sharpie. She feigned laughter and shook her head from side to side as she looked toward the ceiling. Then she pointed the Sharpie at Hank.

“The damn military’s not the problem, Hank. And the decision to blow those bridges was a good one for the protection of everyone in the Keys.”

“Then what’s all of this?” asked Hank as he waved his right arm around the room.

“There’s a hella-big hurricane bearing down on us, and if you don’t hustle your ass out of my office, you might not make it back to your precious inn before it hits.”

Hank was perplexed. There had been late season storms before, but they usually came during a year of unusually warm weather. The effects of nuclear winter were anything but warm, although certainly unusual.

“I didn’t know…” he said, his voice trailing off. He was sorry for the interruption, but he still wanted to know about Jimmy’s whereabouts. “Who can help me with Jimmy?”

“Help yourselves, Hank. Aren’t you people all about self-reliance? The whole we-got-ours while the rest of us fend for ourselves mindset?”

Hank could feel all the eyes in the office staring at his back. “It’s not like that.”

“Yes. Yes, it is,” Lindsey snarled. “And that will be addressed when this is all over. For now, I’ve got the business of the Keys to attend to, so it’s time for you to go.”

“But—” Hank began to argue before the mayor shouted over him.

“Deputy! Mr. Albright needs an escort out of the building!”

Hank swung around to a dozen faces glaring at him. Hateful eyes. Full of contempt. Strangers who made assumptions about him based upon his brief interaction with Lindsey, their fearless leader. Suddenly, he felt vulnerable. Outnumbered. Despised.

A storm was indeed coming. Perhaps more than one.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Thursday, November 7

Tarpon Springs

Despite the dire circumstances brought on them by nuclear winter, the Andino family pulled out all the stops that evening to welcome the travelers. Delicacies like spinach pie, grilled calamari, beef-filled gyros, and of course, for dessert, a tray of baklava, the Greek pastry made of layers of chopped nuts, flaky crust, and honey.

The Greeks who inhabited Tarpon Springs, especially those who’d remained true to their heritage, had a knack for preparing for catastrophic events. The shoreline from Anclote Key around the Big Bend just south of Tallahassee all the way to Apalachicola was frequently visited by hurricanes every season. As a result, regardless of the time of year, they prepared and stored food in anticipation of a long-term power outage.

The Andinos were willing to share their food and drink, their homes, and their knowledge of sailing under dangerous conditions. After dinner they shared a toast with their guests by filling shot glasses with ouzo, a licorice-tasting spirit enjoyed by Greeks around the world. Andino explained to his guests the importance of ouzo to Greek culture as being akin to wine to the French, vodka to Russians, and tequila to Mexicans.

Even Tucker tried a sip. As it burned going down his throat, he swore he’d never touch a drop of alcohol for the rest of his life. Lacey smiled and thanked her hosts for discouraging her teenage son from partaking in the future.

After the table was cleared, the shot glasses were filled with another round, and each of the men lit up a Marlboro, an American cigarette that was wildly popular in Greece. Because the families had such strong ties to the country of their ancestors, they were hugely influenced by Greek pop culture right down to their smoke and drink of choice.

Lacey had politely waited until after dinner so as not to offend her host. However, she was anxious to learn more about a possible hurricane to their south. Was it just a rumor, or did somebody have firsthand knowledge? Were they broadcasting the weather over the emergency stations? If a storm was brewing, should she and Tucker wait it out in Tarpon Springs?

“Do you mind telling us what you’ve heard about a storm?” Lacey asked, looking at the men, who were settled into their chairs around the large dining table.

Andino’s oldest sibling, his brother Sandros, explained, “We’ve had an agreement with our fellow sponge fishermen to share the burden of bringing food in for our families. Mostly, we focus off nearby Anclote Key, where snook and mullet are abundant. We try to conserve fuel on our fishing runs, so we bait up-current of the drop-offs near Clearwater. Rooker Island has been a great location for mackerel and snapper.

“Anyway, you have to understand that it’s hard to keep our old sea captains on dry land. They don’t care about nuclear wars or economic collapse or fuel shortages. As far as they’re concerned, they’ve got a job to do, and they’ll always find a way.

“They do, however, worry about storms. Many trust the weather reporting from NOAA and the news networks. Others trust their own instincts and years of experience to sense changes in barometric pressure, winds, and even the color of the water.”

Andino laughed. “To most of these guys, our way of relying upon meteorological reports about wind intensity, pressure, and predictive storm tracks is for the weak.”

Sandros slapped his brother on the shoulder. “They’d rather get swamped than listen to some fool on the Weather Channel, right?”

Andino winked and sipped his ouzo.

Sandros leaned back in his chair and addressed Lacey. “You grew up on the water, right?”

“Technically, an island. Driftwood Key is small, one of hundreds in Monroe County. It’s still an island.”

He continued. “You’ve probably heard some of these old sayings like red sky in the morning, sailors take warning. Followed by red sky at night, sailors’ delight.”

Andino jumped in with another well-known reference about a ring around the moon. “To the old-timers, a ring around the moon was an indication that a storm could be coming. We know, of course, that a lunar corona could be caused by many factors and isn’t necessarily a harbinger of a storm.”

Lacey had become impressed with the Andino brothers as she listened to them. They were experienced and learned. Sponge fishing was their job, and their most valued asset was their boat. They’d schooled themselves in order to prevent a catastrophe while at sea.

Sandros added, “Before satellite imagery and hurricane hunter airplanes came around in the last sixty years or so, boat captains relied upon radio reports from other vessels at sea. Before that, they used barometers. The problem back in the day was that the best you could do was have a few hours’ warning that a storm was imminent. Also, you had no idea how intense it might be, which gave you little time to take action.”

Tucker, who’d been listening intently to the conversation, chimed in, “Unless something is different farther south, we can’t see signs like red skies in the morning or rings around the moon. It’s one continuous sky of gray.”

“You’re correct, which is why our friends have placed such a heavy emphasis on their barometers,” said Sandros. “I’m not talking about the electronic kind, either. Some use a single barometer that ranges from a low of twenty-eight to a high of thirty-one.”

“Twenty-eight? Millibars?” asked Lacey.

Andino explained, “There are two ways to look at atmospheric pressure. One is by measuring inches of mercury, of Hg. The lower the Hg reading, the stormier the conditions. For example, a reading between twenty-eight and twenty-nine equates to roughly nine hundred fifty to nine eighty millibars.”

“Right,” interjected Sandros. “When you see on the news that the weather guy reports the pressure is dropping to those levels, the storm is intensifying.”

“So with a barometer, you don’t really need a weather report,” Tucker opined.

“No, not necessarily,” said Andino as he shook his head. “Your barometric pressure readings are only for your particular location. You could be in the middle of a high-pressure area full of sun, you know, before all of this. Suddenly, a strong low-pressure system could build and bring a drastic change in the weather.”

Lacey pushed away from the table and walked to the front windows of the home. The house was lit up with candles. That, coupled with the heat emanating from the wood-burning stove in the kitchen, had caused her to sweat somewhat. Or perhaps it was perspiration generated as she considered the prospects of sailing into a storm.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Thursday, November 7

National Guard Encampment

Homestead-Miami Speedway

Homestead, Florida

Peter wanted to take a lap around the speedway. He really, really wanted to. With the storm approaching, he doubted anyone would’ve noticed. But if they had, the two of them would be back in the substation, answering questions and facing assault charges. Instead, he followed the access through the underground tunnel at the start of Turn Three and emerged on the other side.

He slowly approached the tangerine-colored guard shack that ordinarily stopped recreational vehicles and racecar transports before allowing them into the infield. Instead of uniformed track personnel manning the exit, armed guardsmen stood in the road, dressed in rain gear, with their automatic weapons raised to low ready as Peter approached.

“Jimmy, I don’t know if I can fake this.”

Jimmy offered some words of encouragement, and then he sent a shock wave through Peter’s body. “You’ll be fine. But, um, what’s your name?”

Peter subconsciously gripped the steering wheel with both hands and let off the gas. “What?”

“Your name. The name of the soldier.”

“Shit!” Peter slowed to a stop short of the gate. It was pitch dark outside except for temporary lighting illuminating the entrance and exit on both sides of the guard shack. He pulled the fatigues away from his chest and dropped his chin to get a better angle to read it. “I don’t know! I don’t freakin’ know!”

Jimmy leaned forward in the back seat. “Peter, you gotta wing it. They’re getting antsy.”

Peter noticed the guards were looking at one another and slowly approaching the vehicle. A third guard had exited the guard shack and was resting his right hand on his holstered weapon.

Panicked, Peter began to roll forward toward the approaching guards a little faster than he, and they, expected. This set into a motion a series of events that almost resulted in them getting killed.

The guardsmen raised their rifles and pointed them directly at Peter’s side of the windshield. “Stop! Do not move forward another inch!”

Peter obliged and quickly rolled down the window. “Sorry, fellas, I had to finish up a phone call.”

He’d said the words before he realized how absurd they were.

“What?” yelled the guard approaching the driver’s side window.

“Um, I mean, sorry, I was on the, um, walkie-talkie.” Peter was failing miserably at impersonating a National Guardsman. None of the guards bought it, either.

“Out of the truck. Now!” shouted the man who’d emerged from the guard shack. He’d pulled his weapon and was walking briskly toward the driver’s side.

“Dammit! Get down!” Peter shouted to Jimmy.

He mashed the gas pedal down to the floorboard, causing the heavy Humvee to lurch forward. His tires spun slightly on the wet pavement, which startled the soldiers. It was that split second of confusion that allowed Peter to roar through the lowered gate arm, tearing it from its post.

The guardsmen opened fire, stitching the back of the enclosed Humvee while one shot obliterated the rear window. Peter never slowed down as he roared past the NASCAR credential’s trailer and whipped the steering wheel to the left to avoid crashing into a chain-link fence. He fishtailed as his two right tires found the soggy turf and then grabbed the pavement again.

“Which way?” Jimmy shouted his question as he leaned up in the back seat to rest his arms on the passenger’s seat.

Peter’s mind raced as he tried to recall anything he could about the speedway. He hadn’t tried to look through the small air vent of the animal control truck when they had been brought in the day before. However, he did know they were at the back side of the track.

“Right,” he responded as he whipped the steering wheel to the right, causing the back of the truck to swerve again. He floored the gas and took off down Palm Drive, which was bordered by the speedway on the right and parking lots on the left.

Peter blew through a stop sign, driving on the wrong side of the road to avoid a triangular medium. He finally exhaled after holding his breath for half a mile. Then he glanced in his rearview mirror. Two sets of headlights pulled out of the speedway exit behind him.

“We’re gonna have company.”

“Yeah, from the right, too,” added Jimmy.

Peter glanced over his right shoulder to see another set of headlights with grille-mounted red and blue lights flashing on and off. He shook his head in disbelief.

This was how it ends.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Thursday, November 7

Homestead, Florida

Peter’s eyes spent as much time looking forward as they did in the rearview mirror. The headlights of the trio of military police vehicles chasing them seemed to grow larger with each quarter mile they traveled south down the Overseas Highway.

Jimmy climbed across the console between the bucket-style seats to join Peter in the front. He immediately began to remove the gauze bandages that were wrapped around his face. He’d been scratching at his face since he’d woken up from the last beating he’d sustained during an over-the-top interrogation session conducted by a mad-at-the-world CIA agent.

He’d refused to tell the agent anything. He’d been threatened with waterboarding. At first, he’d been slapped across the face. Then he’d made the mistake of grinning at the demented agent. That had been when slaps turned to punches. The result was open cuts across his cheeks and jawline. A swollen lower lip and a bloodied nose were the least painful of the injuries.

As he gingerly removed the bandages, he asked, “Do you have a plan?”

“We gotta get to the Keys somehow. What’s your face like? Could you swim up Jewfish Creek to Largo Point?”

Jimmy laughed. “And then what? Stroll through the swamps at Crocodile Lake? I’d rather take my chances with those guys.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward the pursuing guardsmen.

“How about the other direction? There’s a boat ramp near Snake Point. I doubt they stretched wire that far.”

“Probably right, but here’s the thing,” began Jimmy in response. “We’ll never make it to where the bridge was blown. Even in this crap weather, you can see there are people still walking back and forth on the side of the road. There’ll be more of them the closer we get.”

Peter glanced in the mirror for what seemed like the thousandth time. “I was thinking we could blend in with them to hide from those guys.”

Jimmy turned sideways in his seat and noticed they’d gained ground since he’d moved to the front. He had a thought.

“The Southern Glades Trail is up ahead. You could kill your lights and take the off-ramp. Instead of going under the bridge along the creek, hang a right and double back. We can hide until they give up.”

Peter grimaced and shook his head. “I thought about that, but with this rain coming down, that sandy road will become a real problem. We could get stuck. If we’re gonna bail off the highway, there’s another option we could try.”

“What?”

“The Manatee Bay Club.”

The Manatee Bay Club was a private community that offered dock and boat slip rentals. Along with the SeaHunter Marina, the small key at Manatee Bay had nearly two hundred boats docked there. In addition to the marina, there were nine slivers of fingerlike land protruding into the bay that had as many as twenty boat slips. There were also half a dozen private residences with their own docks.

“Steal a boat?”

“Yeah, or even just find a place to hide. Think about it. Their orders are to bug out of Homestead. I’m sure these guys will look for a while, but they’re not gonna go slip to slip or boat to boat.”

Jimmy laughed and then winced. Certain facial movements hurt worse than others. “Yeah, if we can hide from my old man on Driftwood Key, we can hide from a bunch of soldiers who are just gonna give it a half effort.”

“Okay,” said Peter, satisfied they had a plan, at least for now. “This is gonna be tricky, but it might throw them off and buy us some time.”

“What’re ya thinkin’?”

“Help me navigate. I’m about to kill the lights.”

Jimmy reached for the grab handle on the door and leaned forward to brace himself against the dashboard. Just as Peter arrived at the exit ramp to the Southern Glades Trail, he turned off the headlights.

They were suddenly surrounded by darkness, and as if to exacerbate their task, Mother Nature threw a feeder band across the highway as they eased over the creek. Instinctively, Peter slowed down to be more careful. He also focused a little too much on the rearview mirror to determine if his ploy worked.

“Peter! Look out!”

Peter jammed on the brakes as they reached the entrance to the sailboat and kayak rental business at South Dade Marina. A group of people had gathered at the gated entry, waiting for others who were trying to break in. They were seeking any kind of refuge from the storm. Several were milling about in the road and didn’t see Peter’s approach, nor did he see them.

The Humvee skidded to a stop on the wet pavement, and Peter inadvertently slammed on the horn to warn those in the road to move. The refugees immediately began to curse him and started toward the truck. His stealth maneuver had failed, so he turned his headlights back on and started south again, this time on the wrong side of the road.

“They’re almost up our ass,” complained Peter as he slapped the steering wheel. “Can’t this tank go any faster?” He moved up and back, rocking in his seat as if to urge the Humvee along. His foot had pressed the gas pedal to the floorboard, but the heavy vehicle needed time to get back up to speed.

“Less than a mile, Peter. Listen, I know this place. As soon as you pull in, take a hard right and crash into the gate. Then stop right away. Let’s lead them in the wrong direction to buy some time.”

“Are you sure?”

Jimmy set his jaw, and a look of intensity washed over his battered face. “Yeah, I’ve got this. Trust me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Thursday, November 7

Manatee Bay Club

Overseas Highway

Key Largo

Peter turned off the lights again as he approached the entrance to the small marina and boating community. Without trying, his adrenaline-fueled mind caused him to overshoot the entrance slightly. He was forced to whip the steering wheel to the left to avoid crashing into the guardrail. The Humvee was in a hopping slide on the wet pavement when it struck the white, steel entry gate to the first of the fingers of sand holding boat slips.

The impact with the gate threw Jimmy hard against the passenger door, but he managed to hold his neck firm to prevent his head from smacking the glass. After the abrupt stop, he didn’t hesitate to exit the vehicle and provide Peter instructions.

“Follow me through these trees. Stay low.”

Peter pulled the keys out of the ignition and flung them into a stand of palmetto trees after he jumped out of the truck.

Jimmy had always been quicker than Peter when running on uneven surfaces or through wooded areas. He was gone in an instant, his body disappearing among the mangrove trees that separated the main entrance from the water.

The wind was howling at this point, and the trees were blowing unpredictably as Peter rushed to keep up. They’d made their way a hundred yards from where they’d abandoned the Humvee when the sounds of sirens and skidding tires indicated the three pursuing trucks had arrived.

Jimmy didn’t hesitate as he led the way. There was a section of clearing that he ran across without looking back toward the entrance to the marina. They had to keep going to put some distance between them and the soldiers.

Peter used the opening to catch up to his friend before they lowered their heads to enter another stretch of mangroves. He was gasping for air as he tried to speak to Jimmy.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m trying to get us to the end of the street where the houses are,” said Jimmy, who showed no signs of slowing despite his injuries.

“Why don’t we try to find a boat?”

“You can’t see it from here, but they’re all out in the open. If those guys have flashlights or lights mounted on their trucks, they’ll find us. Plus, that was your first thought. It’s probably theirs, too.”

Peter was impressed with Jimmy’s logic. He wasn’t a worldly guy, having spent his entire life on Driftwood Key. In fact, Peter wasn’t sure if Jimmy had ever been farther north than Miami. Regardless, he had common-sense street smarts, and thus far, his plan was working.

The two men were heaving for air as they rounded the bend and came to the first of several homes built on pilings at the end of the road. Homes in the Keys as well in most of Florida’s coastal communities were built on steel-reinforced concrete pilings to lift them above sea level. Along the water’s edge, it wasn’t unusual for structures to be sixteen feet off the ground to allow storm surge during hurricanes to flow underneath.

Residents used the space under their homes to park cars and boats, as well as other things, much like anyone would use a garage space. Access to the homes might be via an elevator that opened into the ground floor or by steps leading onto decks.

They backed off their frenetic pace to a brisk walk as they entered Hazel Street, where the houses were located. Peter was by Jimmy’s side now.

“Did you notice the squatters hanging around?” Peter asked in a loud whisper so he could be heard over the storm.

“Yeah. Apparently we’re not the only ones looking for a place to hide away. Different reasons, of course.”

Peter pointed to their left. “Those facing the bay are easily two million plus.”

“Yeah, and that’s where they’ll look for us. We need something busted up. Um, like this one.”

Immediately across the street from a gorgeous three-story home overlooking Manatee Bay was an unremarkable, rectangular home built on stilts. It resembled a Jim Walter modular home placed on pilings. Its aluminum windows and lack of landscaping made it unattractive to the refugees, who were looking for a luxurious place to ride out the storm in comparison to the simple homes on the other side of the street.

Suddenly, the headlights of an approaching Humvee caught their attention. The guys darted down the crushed-shell driveway toward an entry door leading to the carport under the house. There was a single car parked underneath, something they couldn’t see from the road.

“They’re going house to house,” said Peter, who glanced over his shoulder to follow the slow-moving Humvee.

“Hurry,” said Jimmy loudly as he raced ahead toward the entry door. His face was beginning to ooze blood as a result of his overexertion and being slapped with palmetto tree fronds as they’d run away from the entrance to the community.

Peter pushed past him and arrived at the door first. He grabbed the doorknob.

“It’s locked.”

He looked around, as did Jimmy. The Humvee had stopped in the center of the road several houses down. Shouts could be heard as they barked orders to anyone they encountered.

The guys moved underneath the building in the direction of the water and the home’s dock. A Jeep Wrangler sat underneath the house, with a cab cover stretched over it. They made their way around the back of the house to the deck stairs leading up to the main level. Soaked with salty rainwater, the guys slowly made their way up the slippery stairs.

Peter reached the wraparound deck first, where it was the hand of God that saved his life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Thursday, November 7

Manatee Bay Club

Overseas Highway

Key Largo

BOOM!

The shotgun blast flew over Peter’s head. Had he not lost his balance on the rain-soaked steps and fallen to his knees, he would’ve been decapitated by the pellets.

Peter had been through this before. He didn’t bother pleading with the shooter. He rolled over and slid down the steps on his backside until Jimmy grabbed him by the arms and pulled him up.

BOOM!

Peter felt the air displaced by the pellets as they soared over their heads and ripped through the fronds of a solitary date palm tree that had grown to the height of the house. The orange-colored, edible fruit mixed with the blowing rain peppered the guys’ heads below it.

Headlights suddenly appeared, washing over the driveway and then finding the side of the house. Jimmy slapped Peter’s chest and began running toward the water. They gathered steam as they made their way down a slight incline to the floating dock at the side of the home.

Without regard to his injuries, Jimmy flung his body into the water. With his arms outstretched over his head, the splash was barely heard over the howling winds. Peter mimicked his friend, although he wasn’t quite as graceful. The slight belly flop almost knocked the wind out of him and made a noticeable splash compared to Jimmy’s effort.

Nonetheless, within seconds, they were halfway across the canals that separated the properties and their boats, without being noticed by their pursuers. Jimmy, a much faster swimmer, arrived at the dock on the other side of the water first. He located a wooden ladder that stretched into the water and climbed up a couple of rungs to get Peter’s attention.

Once Peter arrived, Jimmy tried to listen to the conversations at the house where they had almost been shot. The soldiers were questioning the homeowner, but he couldn’t make out what was being said. The three uniformed guardsmen walked to the water’s edge behind the house and began looking along the dock. They illuminated the flashlights on their rifles and began to slowly sweep the grounds, the docks, and the water that surrounded three sides of the small house.

“We’re gonna be trapped if we don’t find a place to hide,” said Peter.

“Maybe. Come on.” Jimmy quickly climbed out of the water and helped Peter. They used the docked boats as cover as they slowly walked across a vacant lot toward a large house at the end of the street.

It was a home straight out of an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. The entry was protected with an ornate iron gate that included two tall posts holding security cameras. The red flashing lights indicated the driveway was monitored and that the property still had power.

They dashed under several areca palms and crouched behind a white pickup truck parked half on and half off the driveway.

“Jimmy, we gotta do something, but I’m not interested in getting shot at again.”

Jimmy crouched and moved to the back of the pickup so his movements wouldn’t be picked up on camera. The Humvee was joined by a second one. The third must’ve left or continued searching elsewhere.

“I got it,” Jimmy said finally. He turned to look back toward the house. There were no other lights on and no indication that security cameras were filming from the house itself. He patted Peter on the shoulder and began running toward the water where the security fence and a row of palm trees ran toward a seawall built to prevent the rolling waves from eroding the shoreline.

Peter dutifully followed until they reached the wrought-iron fence. Holding onto the pickets, the guys slipped into the water until they were waist deep and then swung their bodies around the end of the fence. Once on the property, they got a lay of the land.

The guys ran up the walkway toward the house. A large waterfall flanked both sides of the entryway, which included a set of two-story-tall storm shutters that utilized mechanical arms to cover the glass. An iron swing gate marked the entry point into a large courtyard that extended under the house. It was locked, so they moved quickly to the left toward the bay. The home was built like a fortress and appeared to be impenetrable.

Every part of the property was utilized with some form of hardscapes. A large, kidney-shaped pool was at the rear of the house although the heavy rains and storm surge had flooded it. Around the rear of the house was an undersized croquet court that was full of puddling water. Another iron gate sealed the entrance to the sweeping concrete stairs leading up to the main floor of the home.

The guys continued to walk around the perimeter of the house until they reached a grouping of coquina rocks that formed a tropical garden. Jimmy was the first to climb to the top and surveyed their options.

“You wanna break in?” asked Peter. “We’re at the end of the road.”

“I can’t guarantee we won’t get shot at,” Jimmy replied with a sigh.

“What else have we got?” As soon as he’d finished his question, Peter’s head snapped around and looked through the home’s pilings toward the front entry.

Two Humvees were slowly approaching the home’s gated entry. They’d spread apart so that the entire front entrance was lit up with the trucks’ headlights.

“They’ve got a pretty big boathouse. Let’s try there first.”

The guys ran around the side of the house farthest away from the entrance. They raced along the yard where the overgrown St. Augustine grass met the riprap that prevented the built-up lot from washing away with every storm. A boathouse structure that resembled a miniature version of the main house appeared in front of them. Its stucco walls and round, rotunda-style roof with a wraparound deck on top would be suitable to live in by most anyone in the Keys.

Peter tried the door and was relieved when it flung open with the aid of the wind. Inside was a thirty-eight-foot speedboat. The long nose and sleek shape were familiar to Peter. He’d seen cigarette boats around the Florida Keys his entire life. They’d stopped making them years ago, but the used ones were highly sought after by connoisseurs.

“Let’s check it out,” said Jimmy, who once again ran inside without waiting for Peter.

They made their way into the dark building, which smelled of salt water and dead fish. Peter quickly closed the door behind them. He located an iron latch on the inside of the door and secured it. At the very least, he thought, it might act as a deterrent to the soldiers who were pursuing them.

“I’ll check the boat for the keys,” said Peter, who used his familiarity with go-fast boats to conduct his search. While he did, Jimmy peered through the porthole-style windows to determine if the guardsmen were coming inside the compound.

While frequently monitoring the activity outside, Jimmy checked all the cabinets and toolboxes, hoping the owners kept the keys in the boathouse for convenience’s sake. He paused at the windows to check the soldiers’ movements. Thus far, they were content waiting by the gate.

Peter emerged from the sleeping compartment in the hull of the powerboat. “I tore that thing apart. There’s nothing.”

“Crap!” said Jimmy. He cupped his face and pressed it to one of the glass portholes. “The third truck is here. They must know they have us trapped.”

“Are they making a move on the gate?” asked Peter as he jumped out of the boat and made his way to a window near the boathouse door.

“Not so far.”

Peter focused his attention on the house. “I don’t see any lights coming on inside. If these cameras are being monitored, you’d think the damn Army at your gate would bring them out of the house.”

Jimmy interrupted. “Wait! They’re coming.”

“Around the fence?”

“No,” Jimmy answered, his voice somewhat high pitched due to anxiety. “They’ve pushed it open with the third truck. And, um, they’ve got help.”

Peter and Jimmy studied the soldiers’ movements. After the gate was forced open, two armed guardsmen came up the driveway first. They were flanked by a third soldier, who was being led by an overly excited dog.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Thursday, November 7

Manatee Bay Club

Overseas Highway

Key Largo

The Belgian Malinois, also known as a Belgian sheepdog, had become the dog of choice for police and military work. They were smaller and more agile than German shepherds and generally had fewer health issues. Trainers and handlers loved the breed due to their intense drive and focus. They rarely became distracted when tracking a suspect.

The dog began barking excitedly and pulled his handler toward the house. As he did, Peter looked away and turned to Jimmy.

“That is the same kind of dog the Secret Service uses. I’ve seen them in action. He’ll track our every step and lead them right to this door.” He waved at the boathouse door behind him.

Jimmy paced the inside platform surrounding the cigarette boat. He continuously glanced into the rafters at the two personal watercraft suspended above the speedboat. They were held in place by two steel cables that were attached to a harness wrapped underneath the PWCs.

“I think I can hot-wire one of those,” he said, pointing up to the rafters. The WaveRunners swayed gently back and forth as the wind periodically swirled and found its way to the leeward side of the property.

“We’re gonna have to move this thing out of the way,” said Peter, pointing at the cigarette boat.

The sound of the Belgian sheepdog barking at the rear of the house near the pool indicated the guards were halfway through their search. It gave the guys an increased sense of urgency.

“Untie these dock lines,” ordered Jimmy. “I’ll get the other side. We can push it out into the canal without them seeing it. That’ll give us time to lower the WaveRunners.”

Working together, the guys pushed the heavy boat halfway out of the boathouse. Then the wind began to fight against them and tried to force it back inside. They struggled for nearly half a minute until the bow nudged its way out. With one final shove, they forced it out far enough to let the waves and wind finish the job. Soon, the expensive boat was aimlessly adrift, rocking on the waves toward the boats tied off on the other side of the canal.

Neither of them bothered to watch the speedboat’s demise. Instead, they frantically turned the handles on the wall-mounted cranks. The WaveRunners were lowered together, with Jimmy’s landing in the water first.

Using a fishing gaff, Jimmy pulled the Yamaha WaveRunner over toward the platform. He slowly slid his body off the wooden dock until both of his feet were securely in place on the WaveRunner.

“We’re in business!” he shouted a little too loudly.

Whether it was his excited tone of voice or the fact that the military dog felt he was closing on his prey, the dog began barking rapidly. “I’ve got the remote transmitter.”

Some PWC models didn’t use keys in the traditional sense. A few had alternative security measures like a push-button keypad, while others, like these particular WaveRunners, utilized an electronic key fob similar to the kind used for cars. Jimmy found the key fob attached to a floating keyring that was slung over the grip of the handlebars.

The sound of the dog barking was closer, panicking Peter. He whipped the crank around and around until his WaveRunner fell into the water with a loud splash. The wake it created caused Jimmy to rock back and forth. The momentum of the other WaveRunner carried across the water until their bumpers were crashing into each other.

Jimmy held the second watercraft in place until Peter lowered himself into the water and boarded it from the rear. He raised his hand and exchanged high fives with his best friend. The two riding WaveRunners together was reminiscent of their days growing up after school. It had been their preferred method of transportation when traveling around the Keys.

WOOF! WOOF, WOOF!

The dog was at the door, and the soldiers were yelling to one another.

“Cover the back!”

“Yes, sir!”

“You! Inside. Open up and come out with your hands raised high. This will not end well if you don’t!”

Jimmy and Peter exchanged glances. There was no doubt what they intended to do. With the flip of a switch and the press of a button, the Yamahas fired up. Jimmy didn’t hesitate. He gave his machine its full throttle, and he jumped forward through the end of the boathouse.

Peter was close behind, following in Jimmy’s wake. Jimmy made a wide, sweeping left turn just as bullets splashed in the water all around them. The lack of light and the adverse conditions made it impossible for the National Guardsmen to take an accurate shot. They fired hoping to get lucky, and the dog roared his disapproval at the fleeing prey.

In less than a minute, Peter and Jimmy were crashing through the waves created by the hurricane that was pummeling the Florida Keys. And, at the time, they were in the relatively safe waters of the hurricane hole located at Manatee Bay. By the time they entered Barnes Sound, their visibility was reduced to near zero, and the blowing rain stung so hard that Jimmy’s somewhat healed wounds began to bleed.

Using their knowledge of the shorelines from one end of the Keys to the other, the guys located the entrance to Jewfish Creek. They slowed as they approached where the bridge had once carried tens of thousands of cars and trucks daily. Now it had disappeared beneath the water’s surface, leaving a mangled opening that Jimmy was all too familiar with.

Several bodies floated in the middle of the creek while others were seen tangled in the razor wire at the shoreline. The metallic smell of blood mixed with the brackish water forced both men to cover their mouths and noses with their shirtsleeves.

At Gilbert’s Resort on the right, refugees yelled at Peter and Jimmy as they slowly drove past. Several National Guard vehicles could be seen parked at the hotel and restaurant. At that point, the guardsmen were unaware that the guys were fugitives escaping their comrades’ pursuit.

Once they cleared Gilbert’s Resort, they accelerated slightly into Blackwater Sound, where the eye wall of the hurricane would soon greet them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Thursday, November 7

Key West

Hank had no allies to call upon for a ride back to the hospital. The streets were packed with locals commiserating about the coming hurricane while frantically boarding up windows, as they’d done so many times in the past. Only, the storm was upon them, and the winds weren’t cooperating.

To clear his head and process what he’d learned, Hank chose to jog the four miles back to the Lower Keys Medical Center. After a mile, he became winded and blamed his lack of energy on the fact he hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. Of course, being out of shape had nothing to do with it. After that first mile or so, he alternated between a brisk walk and a jog. During the forty-minute jaunt through the increasingly rain-covered streets of Key West, his thoughts alternated between the conversation he’d had with Lindsey and the one he dreaded having with Jimmy’s parents.

He needed help to organize a search party for Jimmy. It would have to wait until after the storm passed. He passed a group of people huddled in the portico entry of a closed hotel. They were holding one another to keep warm as the wind-driven rain pelted them.

Hank tried to put their plight out of his mind and returned to his thoughts. Something had struck Hank as odd from his encounter with Lindsey. He hadn’t seen any computer-generated satellite imagery in the documents she had been studying. In fact, unless something had changed, he didn’t believe Monroe County’s government had internet access due to the collapse of the power grid.

They had been studying maps and fishing charts. The government personnel were resorting to handwritten notes. How could they even know what the track or the intensity of the storm was? Unless, of course, they’d learned about it like they did in the old days via word-of-mouth. Hank began to understand how people in the Midwest felt about tornadoes. The vicious, deadly wind events often came without warning. Meteorological advances provided the ability to issue warnings, but tornadoes were the most unpredictable weather threat man faced.

Hurricanes were different. NOAA and the National Hurricane Center had an abundance of resources at their disposal. For days if not weeks, people knew when they were in the path of a deadly storm. Whether they chose to get out of the way was up to them.

What was apparently happening now was more akin to a tornado. In the middle of the night, without warning, a hurricane had drawn a bead on the Florida Keys, and people would be caught unaware. Hank had no way of notifying Sonny and Phoebe other than to race back to Driftwood Key before it hit.

He picked up the pace and began to run toward the hospital. He’d have to convince Jessica to leave Mike’s bedside and return to Driftwood Key. If the frantic scene at the county administration building was any indication, they might not have much time.

He slowed his pace and caught his breath as he entered the emergency room waiting area. Without checking in, he walked briskly down the hall to the room where Mike had been kept as he recovered. Mike was gone, and another patient now occupied the room.

Hank swirled around and approached the nurses’ station. “Where’s Mike Albright? He was there when I left earlier.” Hank gestured toward the trauma wing.

“And you are?” the nurse asked, looking over her reading glasses.

“Hank, his brother.”

She thumbed through a large three-ring binder. Apparently, the hospital was minimizing the amount of electricity used as their generators worked overtime, and chose not to bother with computers.

“Through those doors is the north wing, or trauma recovery. Rooms are to your right, and the nurses’ station will be on your left.”

Hank thanked her for her help and hustled down the corridor in search of the nurses’ station. He was almost upon it when Jessica emerged from one of the recovery rooms.

“Hank, in here. Quickly.”

His heart rate soared. He was immediately concerned that his brother had taken a turn for the worse. He ran down toward Jessica, who held the door open until he was inside. Much to his relief, Mike was sitting upright in the bed and was apparently fine.

“Did you have any luck?” Mike asked without a hint of the respiratory issues that had beset him as a result of the knife wound.

“No. Stonewalled at every turn. The sheriff’s a coward, and Lindsey’s a… well, no help.”

Jessica offered Hank a bottle of water. After the four-mile trek from downtown Key West, he was both winded and sweaty. He took a deep breath and then several long gulps of the spring water. As he did, Jessica reported what she’d learned.

“I went to the sheriff’s department to look for you, but I guess you’d already left. Hank, they tell me a hurricane’s coming. A big one, actually. They wanted me to stay to help, but I danced around the issue.”

“Actually, tell Hank how you lied,” said Mike.

Jessica rolled her eyes. “Okay, I lied. I told them I was gonna check on Mike, and then I’d report for the graveyard shift. Hank, I’m not going in.”

“Won’t you get fired?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter. Mike and I talked about it. It’s time for us to take care of our family and Driftwood Key.”

Hank looked toward Mike, who continued to stare at him, presumably to gauge his reaction to the news. Hank turned to Jessica and asked, “Did you hear anything about the storm’s timing? I learned about it while in Lindsey’s office, but she didn’t exactly offer any details.”

“Within the next couple of hours,” she replied. “We need to hurry.”

“What about Mike?”

“I’ll be fine,” Mike answered in a tone of voice that brought the issue to a close. “You guys hit the road, or the water. Jess, it’ll be your call. You know how to access the vehicle pool, right?”

She laughed as she replied, “It would be grand theft auto at this point.”

“No, not necessarily. You’re still a county employee until terminated. Same for me.”

Jessica leaned over his bed and planted a kiss on his forehead. “I love you. Follow your doctor’s orders for a change, okay?”

“Aye-aye, cap’n,” he said with a weak attempt at a snappy salute. Mike was still sore all over.

He and Hank exchanged a half-hug as they said their goodbyes. Mike promised he’d join them at Driftwood Key soon and not to worry about picking him up. Jessica tried to argue, but he insisted before shooing them both out of his room.

Once they made their way outside the front of the hospital, they began briskly walking toward Sunset Marina. The winds had picked up and were now sustained in the forty-to-fifty-mile-per-hour range. They were much stronger than just an hour ago when he’d left the mayor’s office.

Hank sensed a hurricane was barreling down on the Keys, and he hesitated to take the boat back home. However, Jessica successfully argued that the roads were still clogged, and it would take some time for her to secure a vehicle. They were out of time and had no choice.

She was right.

PART III

Day twenty-two, Friday, November 8

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Friday, November 8

Blackwater Sound

Florida Bay

Personal watercraft were made for frolicking upon, not navigating the open seas. Those who enjoyed the water jumped waves, raced friends, and drove in circles as the exhilarating experience coursed through their veins. PWCs were the water enthusiast’s version of the motorcycle.

They certainly were not meant for use during a hurricane.

Unlike boats with sophisticated electronics guiding the user through darkness and inclement weather, the riders of PWCs had to rely upon visual, line-of-sight navigation. There was no map or compass. GPS wasn’t a standard feature on a Yamaha WaveRunner. Celestial navigation using the stars was out of the question during a storm.

In a hurricane, and under the conditions created by nuclear winter, if the rider was more than a thousand feet from the shoreline, they had to rely on gut and instinct. If their mind was cluttered, or they lost focus, even an experienced rider could easily get confused, turned around, or lost altogether.

Still concerned with being caught by the National Guard, Peter opened up the throttle and rushed into Blackwater Sound. Jimmy was close behind him, riding his WaveRunner just outside Peter’s wake.

Because the pursuit was still fresh in their minds, they moved faster and faster toward Florida Bay, the body of water that was located between South Florida and the Keys. It was akin to the driver of a car who’d been flying along the interstate for several hundred miles at seventy-five miles an hour only to forget he needed to slow down as he entered the exit ramp. Peter and Jimmy were in the clear. They’d escaped their pursuers. They were less than a mile from Key Largo and a long walk home. Yet their fear-filled minds dictated otherwise.

The square-shaped Blackwater Sound was almost three miles across. It was surrounded by an almost impenetrable barrier of mangrove-covered sandbars forming a semicircle from the north at the Overseas Highway, into Florida Bay and down to the south at Dusenbury Creek, where the police had discovered one of Patrick’s victims near Key Largo.

On a typical Florida-sunshine day, the guys would’ve been able to easily see the shoreline at Key Largo as well as the Boggies, the small main channel that cuts through the mangroves, leading to the open water.

The feeder bands of the hurricane had become fiercer. Peter tried to gauge the direction the storm was traveling, but without knowing its origin, whether it was formed in the Atlantic or the Gulf, he was simply guessing.

He and Jimmy were both experienced WaveRunner riders although they knew better than to get caught out in a storm, especially at night. Residents of the Florida Keys always kept one eye on the weather. It was ingrained in every native of the island chain.

Growing up, there had been times before a hurricane was about to hit that the guys would take their WaveRunners out into the open waters for a quick joyride. They understood there was a difference between choppy water and rough water.

Choppy water referred to one-to-two-foot swells that could be caused by high winds or even a large boat passing. WaveRunner enthusiasts loved trailing a motor yacht motoring along near Driftwood Key. Their adrenaline would surge as they jumped the waves, oftentimes alongside a pod of dolphins.

Rough water was considered dangerous, as the waves were typically above three feet. Hurricane-force winds generated that kind of wave activity, and even the most daring, fearless teen knew better than to challenge a wave crest that rose taller than their PWC.

To attack waves of that size, the most important thing Peter had learned was to stand up from the saddle. Riding in a crouched or even standing position let him use his legs like shock absorbers. It also enabled him to see his surroundings better amidst the high swells of water.

Peter slowed his pace, finally recalling the best way to ride in harsh weather was to keep his speed slow and consistent. Now was not the time for fast runs or aggressive accelerations. Wave jumping could be fun, but not in the midst of a hurricane under pitch-black conditions.

As he slowed, he glanced over his shoulder to confirm Jimmy was still behind him. His friend was hunched over the handlebars like a Jedi Knight hunched over a speeder bike. The strong wind coupled with the tall waves pelted both of them but was especially painful to someone whose face was covered with open wounds, and their eyes weren’t covered with protective goggles.

Peter could only imagine how the rain mixed with salt water was stinging Jimmy’s injured face. Wind-driven rain was painful anytime, he thought to himself. As a result of his empathy, he made a critical mistake.

He wanted to let Jimmy catch his breath and allow his face to get a respite from the deluge. He slowly released the throttle and held his right arm out to let Jimmy know he intended to stop. The waves, which were cresting at nearly two feet in the protected sound, had been battering the hulls of their WaveRunners, and even as he slowed, the rollicking water caused him to sway back and forth.

It also turned them around, causing them to lose their bearings. Key Largo was no longer to their left, as it had been when they’d exited Jewfish Creek. It was, well, they had no idea.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Friday, November 8

Driftwood Key

Jessica had to yell to overcome the roar of the wind. “Hank! The wind keeps shifting, so I can’t let it carry us alongside the dock. I’m gonna take it in bow first. I need you to loop the line around the cleat a couple of times. Then I’ll bring the stern about.”

“On it!” he hollered back. Hank positioned himself by kneeling on the seat cushions near the open bow and readied the rope. Jess had already tried to fight the wind and waves to parallel park the vessel. The hurricane wasn’t gonna let that happen.

Jess pointed the bow so that it was perpendicular to the dock. This allowed her to reverse direction if they were blown forward. Her careful touch and finessing of the wheel did the job. Hank leaned forward and threw the line so that it was around the cleat at roughly half the line’s length. Then he pulled the line to tug the boat closer to the dock until the bow almost touched it. A wave rolled over the boat, forcing Jessica to reverse the engine’s power slightly to prevent the bow from crashing into the dock.

Once Hank gave her a thumbs-up, using the secured line as leverage, she swung the rear around and quickly raced to the stern line. Her technique minimized the turning effects of the wind by her aggressive use of the throttle coupled with quick-reaction steering.

After securing the bumpers so the boat didn’t get pummeled during the hurricane, they disembarked and immediately checked on the Hatteras. Apparently, Sonny had beaten them to the task. He’d battened down the hatches, as the saying goes, by closing any openings below deck and covering the windows with taut tarps.

The two of them fought the crosswinds and headed toward the main house. Between the blowing rain and the lack of power, it was difficult to make out any of the buildings near the shoreline of Driftwood Key.

The twenty-nine-acre island was on the leeward side of the Keys to the storm, but it didn’t really gain the benefit of a buffer. It was located along one of the thinnest stretches of Marathon. The narrow strip of land did nothing to slow or weaken a hurricane.

Many of the hurricanes entering the Keys from the Caribbean pass over quickly, as there is little in the way of land mass to slow them down. Naturally, a storm stalls on occasion based upon atmospheric conditions such as a high-pressure area to the west. Hank had an innate ability to analyze winds based upon their velocity, direction, and moisture content. He feared this storm might be slow moving, which meant it would take its sweet time before it moved into the Gulf.

Their feet hit the sand, which was soaked from the constant battering of the storm surge. The three Adirondack chairs that had provided the Albrights a place to wind down at the end of their hectic days had been turned on their sides and gradually buried by the migrating beach.

The younger, more athletic Jessica raced ahead of Hank toward the steps leading onto the porch of the main house. Once gently swaying palm trees were bent over. Their dying, lower fronds, which had been scheduled to be pruned, were ripped away by the hurricane. Each one became a whipping, boomerang-like projectile capable of knocking a person down.

Before Hank could reach the steps, Jessica announced that the front side of the main house, which would bear the brunt of the storm, was already boarded up. She raced down the porch past the windows of Hank’s office overlooking the rain-soaked lawn.

“Let’s try the kitchen entrance!” she shouted as she reached the edge of the porch and leapt onto the wet sand below.

Hank pivoted and willed his body to move faster to keep up with his sister-in-law. Part of him was impressed with her speed and agility while part of him cursed his aging body. By the time he rounded the corner of the house near the kitchen entry, Jessica stood in the crossroads of the path that led to the bungalows in one direction and the Frees’ cottage in the other.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his chest heaving and his heart pounding within it.

She pulled her hair back and wiped the rain off her face. “It’s locked. I knocked hard, too. Nothing.”

Hank was glad to catch his breath. “Sonny knows what to do when a storm is approaching. He probably felt it coming before anyone in the Keys. I don’t understand locking the doors, though. Unless…” Hank’s voice trailed off. They’d been threatened by outsiders multiple times since the nuclear attacks. His eyes grew wide as a feeling of dread came over him.

Jessica was one step ahead of him. “You check the greenhouses to make sure they’re secure. I’ll try their cottage. Let’s meet at the front gate.”

Without waiting for a response, Jessica was off in a flash, ducking to avoid a bundle of coconuts that had been dislodged above their heads. With a deep breath, Hank broke off toward the greenhouses, when a heavy gust of wind smacked him in the back, causing him to face-plant on the sandy path.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Friday, November 8

Blackwater Sound

Florida Bay

“This is brutal!” Peter shouted to Jimmy as the two of them attempted to keep their WaveRunners upright. The waves rolled over them, causing their machines to rise and fall with each crest. Notwithstanding their efforts to shift their weight over the rolling water, the guys struggled to maintain their balance while adrift.

“My face feels like it’s peeling off!” Jimmy yelled back.

Peter sat down on his WaveRunner and wrangled the handlebars in an attempt to point into the continuously blowing wind. Lowering his center of gravity helped stabilize the machine, but sitting still made the task near impossible. His mind hearkened back to Fairfax when all of this had started when he’d attempted to ride a bicycle for the first time in many years. He’d almost run into multiple cars despite his best efforts.

He wiped the moisture off his face as he stated the obvious. “There’s no way we make it to Driftwood Key like this.”

Jimmy was similarly wrestling with his WaveRunner. When he wiped moisture off his face, it was tinged with pink because of the blood oozing from his wounds. Yet he soldiered on and was in good spirits.

“Agreed! Let’s go straight to Key Largo and hunker down until it passes. I can deal with walking fifty miles. What about you?”

“Piece of cake,” replied Peter, who meant it. He’d mentally prepared himself to walk from Fairfax at one point. A combination of methods of transportation had shortened his trip by many weeks. He took a deep breath and shouted his question. “Ready?”

“Lead the way!” Jimmy yelled his response over the roar of the storm.

Peter thought for a moment. Earlier, they’d seemed to be riding parallel with the wave crests as they left Jewfish Creek. From his recollection of the geography of the Keys, that had them pointed in a southwesterly direction. He wasn’t sure how far they’d taken the WaveRunners into Blackwater Sound, but regardless, if they began riding head-on into the wind and the storm surge, they’d eventually find Key Largo. The ride would be rough, as they would be constantly fighting the gales and the choppy waves, but by his calculation, they were only a mile or so from shore.

“Let’s hit it, but slow and easy this time!” Peter shouted. He barely heard Jimmy’s response over the howling wind.

While the Yamaha WaveRunner was capable of traveling nearly sixty-seven miles an hour depending on the model, Peter tried to ride at a speed that kept him in control of the watercraft rather than cede its maneuverability to the storm surge.

Fighting the waves, they bounced along, with Jimmy trailing Peter over his right shoulder. The two had maintained this separation to prevent running into one another if they were running parallel. They took off directly into the wind, braving the elements, in search of land. The guys had been cut off from their families and the Keys where they’d grown up. Neither was certain what the future held for them and their family, but without a doubt, they felt they could survive together as a group.

Peter remained focused on the task at hand. He constantly monitored his speed, trying his best to find that sweet spot, as he thought of it, that was not too fast and not too slow. Although it was a fruitless exercise, his eyes constantly scanned ahead in search of the shoreline. Even if the power was out, he hoped any harbor buoys operated by battery or solar power would provide him some kind of navigational beacon to guide him.

He imagined himself riding a horse around a ring. Rising in the saddle to prevent his nether regions from being pummeled, he was also able to take the jumps over the increasingly tall waves.

Naturally, Peter’s calculations as to time and distance couldn’t be precise. He couldn’t see his destination, and he was unaware of his starting point. From recollection, he suspected they had been a mile or so out when they began their push toward Key Largo. Even riding at low speeds, especially necessary at night to minimize contact with floating debris stirred up by the storm, he expected a fifteen-minute trip before making landfall.

It had been at least fifteen minutes, maybe more, when he began to question whether the winds had shifted, sending them in the wrong direction. Regardless, at some point, they had to hit the four-mile-long shoreline of Key Largo that stretched from Dusenbury Creek up to where the bridge had been destroyed at Jewfish Creek.

Peter was beginning to doubt himself. He was certain he was riding in the same direction, as the waves were breaking as he’d expected. Unless he’d miscalculated and took them farther away from Key Largo, toward the Boggies and hammocks bordering the north and west side of Blackwater Sound.

Perplexed and angry with himself, he decided to stop and get Jimmy’s advice. He slowed and then turned to look over his shoulder to get Jimmy’s attention.

However, Jimmy was gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Friday, November 8

Driftwood Key

Trying to do anything outdoors in the throes of a hurricane was damned near impossible, especially at night. Even when the Keys experienced power outages, Driftwood Key had numerous generators and solar-powered security lighting to provide some form of illumination. At the very least, for someone like Hank, who’d spent virtually every moment of his life walking the island, a pathway light or the steady glow of the string lights near the bungalows would provide him some point of reference.

However, these conditions were like nothing he’d ever experienced before. It was pitch black. No ambient light whatsoever. The air was an odd mixture of salt and soot, as if the ocean had caught on fire.

Without warning, unseen gusts of wind swept over him as he fought his way through the vegetation lining the paths leading to his sustainable gardens and hydroponics operation. Thanks to Sonny’s diligent supervision, they’d been able to continue to grow their own food despite the minimal sunlight. The greenhouses might have been their single most important survival asset other than a roof over their head. Now a vicious hurricane threatened to destroy it.

“Help me, Sonny!”

It was Phoebe.

Hank furrowed his brow and pushed his way through the hammocks that writhed and turned under the constant stress applied by the winds.

With the assistance of a wind gust at his back, Hank raced into the clearing, where he found Sonny and Phoebe struggling to board up the greenhouses.

“Sonny! Hang on!” yelled Hank. Sonny was standing atop a ladder propped against the side of the tallest greenhouse. Phoebe was standing below him, trying to slide a precut sheet of plywood up the aluminum extension ladder.

Years ago, Hank and Sonny had purchased a hundred sheets of three-quarter-inch marine-grade plywood. They’d cut the pieces to fit the dimensions of each pane of the greenhouses. When a storm approached, they’d take the numbered pieces, secure them over the greenhouse panes, and remove them when the threat passed. They’d never attempted to do it in the midst of the storm. This storm, like nuclear winter, had come without warning.

Hank arrived by Phoebe’s side. He grabbed the bottom of the plywood and slid it up the ladder. He climbed up the first several rungs in order to prevent Sonny from reaching down.

“Hey!” shouted Sonny, who grasped the board and slid it up onto the roof. “Can you believe this crap?”

Hank and Phoebe exchanged hugs. He’d gotten close enough to her face the see the stress that consumed her. He immediately wondered if it was the storm or concern for Jimmy. Hank wished he had better news. Hell, any news would’ve been better than nothing.

“How much ya got left?”

Sonny gripped the ladder and the steel frame that made up the edge of the greenhouse roof. “One more on this side and then all of the back. We’ve got everything else covered.”

Hank spun around and rushed over to the covered shed the two of them had built to store the panels. Each one was numbered, and Sonny had taken the time to create a diagram inside the shed door, showing where the panels were placed.

Several battery-operated puck lights illuminated the interior of the storage shed when there was a power outage. Hank studied the diagram to select the right panel. He paused to remember all the times he’d worked with Sonny and Jimmy to board up the buildings around Driftwood Key. Their lives were intertwined, and now all of their children were missing.

“Hank!” Sonny hollered for him to snap him out of his trance.

“Comin’!”

As he arrived and began climbing the ladder to slide the panel to Sonny, Phoebe stood to the side so he could see her.

“Hank, what did you find out?”

He hurried down the ladder and held it firmly with both hands as Sonny secured the final panel. He turned his head to Phoebe although the two of them could barely see each other in the dark.

“I couldn’t get any answers, Phoebe. Lindsey ordered the bridges to be destroyed, and now they’re losing their minds over this storm.”

Hank could hear Phoebe break down in tears. As Sonny made his way down the ladder, Hank waited until he was on the ground to explain. When he was done, the grieving parents directed their ire at their former sister-in-law for her callous attitude toward their son, her nephew.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, Jessica appeared by their side. “The gate was secure. I thought you might still be here.” She and Phoebe exchanged hugs.

Over the next several minutes, the group worked together to place the last of the plywood panels on the greenhouse. After a quick check of the fuel levels in the generator operating the hydroponics facility, they made their way back to the main house.

Phoebe explained that she’d been locking the kitchen door since the night Patrick had attacked her. She also showed Hank and Jessica the paddle holster secured against her waist. She vowed to never be caught off guard like that again.

After a quick meal and a few stiff drinks, the group’s batteries were recharged as they prepared to ride out the storm.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Friday, November 8

Blackwater Sound

Florida Bay

“Jimmy! Jimmy!” Peter shouted at the top of his lungs. He wrestled the handlebars around and began riding back in the direction he thought he’d come from. The wind was at his back now, allowing him to travel a little smoother than previously.

Riding at just above idle speed, Peter shouted Jimmy’s name until he was nearly hoarse. There was no ambient light whatsoever, as the stars had been obliterated by the smoky, soot-filled skies of nuclear winter and, on this night, by the throes of a tropical cyclone that hovered over the heart of the Florida Keys.

He rode with the waves, certain he was backtracking along the route he’d been riding. Peter cursed himself for losing touch with his friend. He had been singularly focused on leading them to shore. The safety of the land. An ordinary task made complicated by the conditions, but in his mind, relatively safe compared to being shot at by men with automatic weapons.

“Jimmy! Come on, man. Where are you?”

Peter became emotional as reality set in. He’d lost Jimmy in the middle of Blackwater Sound. He tried to remain calm.

His dad used to say that panic was an energy thief. While you drag on your nerves with negative thoughts, meaningless regrets, and fatalistic thinking, you’re starving your body of the energy it needs to problem solve. Staying calm in a life-threatening situation might not guarantee your survival, but it will enhance your chances.

However, for all intents and purposes, he was blind. Think. Think. Think, he said to himself repeatedly in an effort to approach the dangerous situation logically. Do I continue to shore? Was I even going toward shore? Why was it taking so long to travel a mile or even a mile and a half?

“Jimmy!” he shouted again as he began to travel with the wind at his back again. He rode for several minutes, screaming his friend’s name until he thought he’d gone too far. Then he did a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn and rode into the wind once again.

“Dammit, Jimmy! Where are you?”

It happened in an instant.

Jimmy was riding to the back side of Peter’s WaveRunner. He’d focused on mimicking Peter’s speed and direction. For twenty minutes or so, the ride had become routine. Mundane. Tedious and tiresome.

The monotonous bouncing caused by the oncoming waves had taken a toll on his tired body, yet the splashing of the waves into his face coupled with wind-driven rain kept him alert despite his lack of sleep. Unlike Peter, who’d rested for more than a dozen hours before rescuing him from the Infield Care Center, Jimmy had been kept awake. His interrogators had used sleep deprivation in addition to the beatings in an effort to extract information out of their prisoner. Jimmy had held firm against the onslaught of the CIA’s best. However, the lack of sleep and physical exhaustion was catching up to him.

Accidents can occur in a blink of an eye. A car suddenly stops in front of you. Perhaps a child chases a ball into a street. A toddler is left unattended near something hot. Without warning, a lack of focus or attention can result in lasting and irreparable damage. Even death.

Jimmy’s mind began to wander as he followed Peter just outside the WaveRunner’s wake. He thought of his parents and his life on Driftwood Key. He had no regrets for the path he’d chosen. Mr. Hank had offered to pay his tuition to go to college as if Jimmy had been a member of the Albright family.

However, Jimmy had turned down the offer. He loved the life he’d grown up with. His passion was the outdoors, whether diving or fishing, camping or swimming. He was very much like Lacey in that respect. For Jimmy, it was not about how much money he made. It was the freedom he enjoyed, living and working on what amounted to an island paradise.

When he had been forced to join his aunt Lindsey’s team of militia guarding the roads leading onto the Florida Keys, he did so with great trepidation. He understood the need to secure their border, so to speak. The Florida Keys were not large enough to accommodate a massive influx of refugees who had nothing but the clothes on their backs.

When he first reported to duty, he’d carefully positioned himself to handle tasks that didn’t involve carrying a weapon or dealing directly with the refugees. While he didn’t want them flooding the Keys, he also lamented the suffering and angst they were subjected to.

The last straw was the day they’d looked for volunteers to conduct a diving exercise. He had no idea what the purpose was, but his gut told him not to volunteer even though he was one of the most-respected skin divers in the Keys. Very few people could hold their breath under water for ten minutes or more. Jimmy was one of the best at it.

While he had been manning the barricades and performing mainly menial tasks, his mind remained focused on the whereabouts of Peter and Lacey. He and Peter had been inseparable growing up. It had been difficult to stay behind on Driftwood Key while Peter went off to college. As for Lacey, while they were always friendly in a brother and sister sort of way, their age difference had prevented them from playing together growing up.

He had no doubt his close friends and quasi-siblings would survive what had happened to America. Lacey, like himself, could make the best of any situation posed by Mother Nature. Peter had an ability to read people that was unparalleled. He could talk his way out of anything and convince others to see it his way.

Wave after wave. Bounce after bounce. His WaveRunner kept pace with Peter’s. Jimmy, however, lost focus for just a split second. His hand slipped off the throttle, and he lost sight of Peter. He tried to maintain his positioning and adjusted the handlebars to point into the wind, as he had been during the first part of their ride.

Concerned he might not be able to catch up with Peter at the slow speed that was barely above an idle, Jimmy sped up. He gave it a little too much throttle. It didn’t take much, but when he did, the WaveRunner crashed hard into an oncoming swell, forcing the hull of the WaveRunner upward.

He gripped the handlebars and released the throttle to maintain control of the watercraft. Holding his breath, his body tensed as he attempted to rectify his mistake. He started again, certain he was traveling in the right direction toward Peter. Just like before, in an effort to catch up, he squeezed the throttle to gain speed.

The second attempt was less forgiving.

The additional speed forced him high into the air as the next wave rolled through. His left hand slipped off the handlebar, causing the machine to lurch to the right. As it did, Jimmy was thrown into the violent, murky water of Blackwater Sound while his WaveRunner drifted into the darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Friday, November 8

Blackwater Sound

Florida Bay

Peter was becoming agitated and panicked. He’d adopted a different way of searching and had produced nothing in the way of results. He began to take the WaveRunner in a series of concentric circles, starting at a point and gradually making the size of the circle wider and wider. He hoped to expand his search area without aimlessly wandering atop the water in the dark.

He had a plan. He thought it was well executed. He shouted for Jimmy periodically. Then he lost his voice completely.

The salty air and water he’d inhaled had entered his larynx. This, combined with his constant yelling for Jimmy, caused his vocal folds to hemorrhage. The tissue in his voice box had ruptured and filled with blood. In addition to not emitting any sounds, it became extremely painful to try.

Peter slammed his fist on the center post of the WaveRunner’s handlebars. He rubbed the rain mixed with salt water from his face again, although within seconds the moisture would return. He looked to the sky and prayed for it to end.

It didn’t, so he continued his quest. He rode for thirty more minutes in an effort to locate his friend, to no avail. He stopped to regroup; then he widened his arc. The minutes turned to hours, and Peter Albright began to cry in despair.

He couldn’t believe he’d allowed this to happen to Jimmy, who was like his brother. He was responsible for his safety, and Jimmy had trusted him to deliver him to shore. And during it all, he’d lost track of where he was. One minute he was just behind him. The next, he was gone.

Peter contemplated going to shore and coming back with a search team. He inwardly chastised himself for waiting so long to make this decision. Could Jimmy have been saved hours ago if he’d sought help? Maybe, but Peter still couldn’t see any part of the shoreline that enclosed Blackwater Sound, much less Key Largo. For all he knew, he could be riding the WaveRunner toward the hammocks or, worse, back toward the Overseas Highway and a contingent of guardsmen.

He decided he had no choice but to abandon his search and seek help. Even if he rode consistently in the wrong direction, he could at least find land and, along with it, his bearings. From there, he’d stick close to the shoreline, where his biggest concern would be running aground.

With a new sense of purpose, he set his jaw, strengthened his resolve, and raced into the darkness, focused on keeping a straight line as he traveled across the three-foot swells. He had barely traveled five minutes when he grazed the side of Jimmy’s WaveRunner, causing his to tilt on its side until he fell off.

Peter struggled to stay above water. He flailed for a bit, and then he began swimming in the direction his WaveRunner’s forward momentum would’ve taken it. With the aid of the waves, he crashed hard into the WaveRunner, cracking his forearm on the stern platform. Pain shot through his body, but he quickly shook it off. He was relieved that he had been able to find it so quickly, and was elated at locating Jimmy’s watercraft.

He fought the waves to climb back onto his WaveRunner. He slowly turned and steadily pushed the throttle to head back in the direction that he came. Excited that he’d made contact with Jimmy’s WaveRunner, albeit the hard way, Peter fought the elements to locate it. Minutes later, he came upon the WaveRunner rocking back and forth in the waves.

He tried yelling again but was unable to hear himself. His throat felt as if someone had rammed a twig into his lungs only to repeatedly jerk it out with a sadistic twist.

He had to make a decision, so Peter internally processed what he knew. Jimmy has to be close by, right? I mean, how far could he drift from the WaveRunner?

He was straddling his own WaveRunner while bending over to hold Jimmy’s handlebar. The waves continued to roll past him, causing him to lose his grip at times. Peter realized this was unsustainable, so he dropped into the water and got a firm grip on the grab handles affixed to the back of the seating area. His arms were stretched from time to time, but he was able to hold them together.

Peter thought by allowing his machine to idle, it put out sufficient noise for Jimmy to follow if he heard it. Also, the two WaveRunners, together with his outstretched arms, made a larger footprint on the water compared to him sitting atop his watercraft. With a little luck, they’d collide with one another just as Peter had unexpectedly come across Jimmy’s WaveRunner.

Peter tightened his grip, closed his eyes, and prayed.

The first thing Jimmy did was kick his shoes off. It was infinitely easier to tread water and swim without any shoes.

The shock of suddenly being thrown from his WaveRunner with little hope of finding it in the dark caused his survival instincts to kick in. He was an excellent swimmer and considered swimming to shore. Even if he used the waves from the hurricane-force winds, he could find his way to some part of Blackwater Sound to wait until daylight.

He continued to tread water, hoping the WaveRunner would somehow float back toward him. He knew it was a long shot, but treading water was something he’d practiced since he was old enough to walk. In calm waters, Jimmy had learned to float on his back, allowing the natural buoyancy of his body to do the work. The only tension he’d have to exert in calm waters was holding his head above the waterline.

Rough water floating was more dangerous. Jimmy routinely practiced lying facedown in the water, allowing his body to float. That was how he’d taught his body to hold air in his lungs for more than ten minutes. For years, he’d learned to float this way, stretching his need for air until the last minute, when he’d lift his head above water long enough to take a deep breath.

He’d exhale underwater as necessary and eventually learned he could use this technique to float for an hour, only coming up half a dozen times during that period of time. Rough water front floating, as it was called, was a means to survive in the open water without any form of floatation device.

Jimmy didn’t know how long he’d waited for his WaveRunner to miraculously find him, but he eventually gave up on the notion. At last count, he’d come up for air twelve times from front floating. He might have been at it for two hours, more or less. He wasn’t sure, but he’d made up his mind it was time to try something different.

He decided to swim to shore. Any shore. Whichever way the current and the hurricane-generated waves would take him. So he began swimming.

At first, he tried the traditional long crawl method of swimming. He stretched his body flat and horizontal atop the water and took long, consistent strokes with his arms to propel him forward. Despite the assistance from the waves, he quickly began to tire. His body was spent from the mental and physical trauma it had been through.

Jimmy treaded water for a while, and then he started swimming again, this time using the breaststroke. Swimming like a frog, as he used to say as a kid, he used a combination of leg kicks and outward arm strokes to propel himself forward. He focused on timing his strokes with riding the crest of a wave. He eventually found a rhythm that allowed him to pick up speed without exerting extraordinary effort.

Jimmy was beginning to make progress although he was not sure where he was headed. He didn’t care as long as he found something to hold onto. His limbs were tiring. His muscles were screaming. His lungs were beginning to burn. And his bloody, swollen face was becoming numb.

Then the winds picked up again. A roaring sound filled his ears that was so loud, he stopped swimming and turned in all directions, believing a large vessel was headed toward him. He began to tread water in part to ease the soreness that had come over his shoulders, and to confirm he wasn’t in the path of a boat.

After looking in all directions and twisting his body to confirm he was safe, he became slightly disoriented. He sensed that the wind had shifted, but he had no point of reference to confirm it. He’d been through many hurricanes in his life. Rarely did they stay in one place, hovering over land or sea as it pounded everything around its eye. Jimmy expected the storm was on the move, which meant he might have entered it at one quadrant, but the passage of time had placed him another.

That meant only one thing. He could’ve been swimming in circles if he was relying too much on wind and wave direction. Or he might have been close to making landfall only to change his course as the wind shifted.

Frustrated, he simply stopped swimming. He continued to tread water, hoping to make it until the sun rose. He and Peter had been out in the open water for hours. Surely, daylight would make an appearance soon. He could make it until then. He was sure of it.

Comforted in knowing the storm would pass and the sun would rise in the east as always, Jimmy rolled onto his back and allowed the waves to lift him upward before dropping him again. He closed his eyes and thought about his parents. He relaxed his body and allowed his mind to drift to a happier place.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Friday, November 8

Tarpon Springs, Florida

That night, Lacey, despite being exhausted, slept in fits and starts. Her imagination ran wild as she envisioned the two of them battling a hurricane alone. She considered paying Andino or someone to accompany them to the Keys. She even thought about promising them the boat together with topping off the two one-thousand-gallon tanks with diesel.

After tossing and turning a few more times, she’d chastise herself for worrying needlessly. It was the middle of November in a world in which temperatures had dropped to levels well below record seasonal lows. Hurricanes were not only implausible, they were most likely impossible.

Yet the thought nagged at her as she awoke early that morning. She lay in bed and ran all the possibilities through her head. She’d make a point to speak with Tucker alone before making the offer to Andino to either accompany them to the Keys or allow them to stay a few days until the inclement weather, or hurricane, as the case may be, passed.

It was before dawn when someone began banging on the Andinos’ front door. She could hear excited voices outside her window, which faced the street. Lacey scrambled out of bed and rushed to the window. Pulling the sheer curtains open, she pressed her face against the glass to see who was at the door.

The teen boys who’d helped dock their boat yesterday were milling about near the stoop, the illumination of their flashlights darting about or shaking as a result of their excited state of mind.

The front door opened, and Andino addressed the boys. The next thing Lacey knew, the boys had taken off through the gate into the street, and she could see Andino rush after them, wearing jeans, sneakers, and no shirt. He was also carrying a shotgun. At the gate, like the teens, he appeared to turn left in the direction of their boathouse.

Tucker gently knocked on her door and then respectfully cracked it open. “Mom! There’s something going on.”

“I heard. They ran toward the boats. We should help.”

“On my way,” said Tucker, who immediately turned toward the stairs.

“Together, Tucker! Wait up!”

The two of them rumbled down the oak treads without regard for anyone who might’ve been sleeping. The teens’ banging on the door had most likely woken up the entire household already.

Seconds later, Tucker led them outside into the cool, dawn air and picked up speed as they turned the corner past the gate down the street. They were running as fast as they could when they slowed at the entrance to the boathouse. The beams from several flashlights could be seen dancing around the walls and ceiling of the structure as well as across their boat.

Their chests heaved, begging for fresh air. Lacey and Tucker slowed their pace to a fast walk as they made their way through the chain-link gate. Sandros greeted them as they entered the boathouse.

“We got lucky this time,” he said ominously.

“What happened?” asked Lacey.

“In recent days, many of us have noticed an influx of strangers making their way into Tarpon Springs by water. One of the town’s larger operations, located at Port Tarpon, was hit last week by fuel thieves. They snuck into Anclote River in the middle of the night, siphoned diesel into their containers, and then snuck out into the Gulf.

“They managed to steal twenty to thirty gallons at a time. You know, it’s a cost of doing business that we accept, but things are different now. Diesel is like liquid gold.”

“Was somebody trying to steal our diesel?” asked Tucker as he looked over the shorter man’s shoulder.

“Yes, and we caught them. Since this started, we’ve all joined together to take overnight shifts. We patrol one another’s docks and then administer justice to the thieves.” He turned around and glanced toward the dark boathouse.

“Justice?” asked Lacey.

Sandros spread his arms wide and moved forward in an attempt to herd them away from the boathouse. “Let’s go back to the house and get some coffee. Would you like that?” He was trying to shield them from what was about to happen next.

Lacey held her ground. “Okay, but, Sandros, what’s going to happen to the thieves?”

“The boy will be given a stern warning. His father will receive a harsher punishment in front of his son. Lessons will be learned by both of them.”

“But they’re just trying to survive, right?” she asked.

Sandros dropped his chin and stared at his feet for a moment. “They weren’t trying to steal food or even fresh water. Do you understand where I’m coming from? If these two had come to us and asked for a meal, we would’ve gladly helped, just like we opened our homes to you. They took the cowardly way out by stealing.”

“What will they do to him?”

“My brother is taking care of it. Do not concern yourselves. Now, please. Let’s go.”

Lacey’s eyes darted from Sandros to their boat. She was seeing a different side of the Andino family, which was surprising based upon their prior interaction and was completely unexpected. They seemed like a fun-loving, generous group. Yet there were lines that couldn’t be crossed, and they didn’t hesitate to punish those who crossed them.

Despite all of her mental machinations and internal debates from the night before, Lacey had made up her mind. It was time to go home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Friday, November 8

Lower Keys Medical Center

Key West

It had been a long, boring and uneventful day for Mike Albright, who was already plotting his escape from the evil clutches of the medical staff at the Lower Keys Medical Center. He was a well-known figure around the Keys, and the staff there were working overtime to give him the best possible care. It wasn’t their fault he was a stubborn mule of a patient.

As the hurricane winds picked up, Mike noticed the flurry of activity outside his door. He was still dressed in a hospital gown. You know, the kind that allows your butt to catch a draft if you got out of bed. When he was finally allowed to go to the bathroom without an escort or the use of a walker, he vowed to find something else to wear that might be hospital approved. They forbade him from putting on his regular clothes, which Hank had dropped off earlier.

So, during a shift change earlier in the day, he’d snuck into the hallway and entered a storage closet, where he’d secured a set of all-white scrubs. He wasn’t sure what the color designation meant because the nurses and doctors wore some shade of blue or green. Hopefully it didn’t mean he was designated as a psych patient.

In any event, as the nurse visits to his room became less frequent, he dressed himself and then kept the blankets pulled up to his neck whenever someone looked in on him. The last several visits by the nursing staff involved nothing more than a glance at the monitors and a question that was some variation of how’re ya doin’? His answer was always twofold. Fine and can I leave now? Their response was always the same. Good and not yet.

Truthfully, Mike was feeling much better although it still hurt to take a deep breath. He imagined he could make his way to the sofa in their room at the inn or even wander around the main house to get a little exercise. Cocktails were a possibility, but his beloved cigars would have to wait a while. He’d never forget the disapproving look he had been given after he regained consciousness and the doctor had asked him if he was a smoker.

Only cigars.

He was read the riot act about how cigars caused cancer of the mouth and throat even if he didn’t inhale. The doc droned on and on about how cigars were not a safe alternative to cigarettes. Cigars have twenty times the amount of nicotine as a cigarette.

Blah-blah-blah.

If Mike didn’t need the medical team to keep him alive, he would’ve correctly pointed out that it was a homicidal maniac with a knife who had landed him in the hospital with a hole in his chest. Not his occasional Macanudo.

Mike was no longer hooked up to the monitors. His blood pressure was checked periodically, and he was required to show the nurses that he’d been staying hydrated. He was always thirsty, so that wasn’t a problem.

He was also told to use a volumetric exerciser on a regular basis. The handheld device was frequently required for patients who were recovering from surgery or lung illnesses. The spirometer device helped keep the lungs free of fluid. Mike did it because he was incredibly bored, and the process became like a game to him. It also enabled him to perform a self-assessment as to his eligibility to be discharged.

He’d been given a pen and notepad. Using the battery-operated clock on the wall, he recorded the time and the volume of air, and using a few dots that wouldn’t make any sense to the medical staff, he recorded his pain level. As his stay in the hospital wore on, Mike found his ability to take deep breaths increased, and the pain associated with the ordinarily simple bodily function decreased.

As far as he was concerned, he was ready to be released despite the hospital’s anticipated refusal to sign off. It would be the sound of gunshots that hastened his exit.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Friday, November 8

Lower Keys Medical Center

Key West

The report of a large-caliber handgun was unmistakable. Mike’s trained ear could make out the sound of a .45-caliber bullet being discharged from its weapon despite the echoing effect of the hospital corridor.

Just moments ago, the halls had been filled with hospital personnel trying to take care of people suffering from out-of-the-ordinary illnesses like dysentery and complications resulting from malnutrition. It had been over three weeks since the nuclear attacks and about that same length of time since nuclear winter with its sooty fallout had overtaken the keys. Residents were not faring well due to the lack of water, food, and clean air.

Now they faced a threat that could end their misery unexpectedly—a gunman. Mike jumped out of bed and rushed to the door. He knelt down to keep his body low and poked his head into the corridor to get a look toward the nurses’ station.

Several hospital personnel had crowded behind the counter and workspaces. Another was crouched behind a rolling cart full of medications due to be delivered to patients. Half a dozen or more raced past his room to the far end of the hallway in an effort to get farther away from the ER entrance.

Mike pulled back into the room and considered his attire. It was purely speculation as to what the gunman’s motives might be. He could be looking for a particular target, or perhaps he was frustrated that a loved one had died while in the care of the medical center. He felt he’d have a better chance of survival should he come in contact with the shooter if he was dressed in his own clothing.

Without regard to the pain that seemed to worsen as his adrenaline kicked in, Mike quickly changed into blue jeans, sneakers and a turquoise blue sweatshirt with the words I heart Key West emblazoned across the front. The word heart was actually the symbol, not that it mattered. He didn’t particularly heart Key West, anyway.

Satisfied he didn’t look like any of his presumed targets, Mike Albright did what every dedicated first responder did in the face of danger. He ran toward it rather than away from it.

At first, he raced thirty or forty feet until he reached the nurses’ station, where he crouched behind the counter alongside a large contingent of staff members. Several of them shot him a puzzled look of recognition. They’d attended to Mike on and off throughout the day, but with him dressed in street clothes instead of a drafty gown, they couldn’t quite place him. Mike managed a smile as he wondered if he should pull down the backside of his jeans and shoot them a moon. Perhaps they’d recognize him then.

More gunshots rang out, but this time, deep concern entered Mike’s mind. They had been fired in rapid succession and appeared to come from two different weapons. Multiple shooters.

He sighed and closed his eyes as he grimaced. He turned to the frightened nurses and doctors. “Do you have armed security on this floor?”

Nobody answered at first, and then the charge nurse rose from her crouch to join Mike’s side. “One per floor but they’re unarmed. The hospital never thought guns were necessary since the sheriff’s office is down the street.”

Mike shook his head in disbelief. “How does that help you now?” he asked, immediately feeling guilty for berating the RN in the midst of a crisis. It wasn’t necessarily her decision to avoid arming their security personnel.

He leaned out into the corridor again and decided to move closer. Thus far, the gunshots seemed to emanate from the large, open entry corridor near the emergency room portico. A set of double sliding doors separated the outside from the intake center of the ER. With the levels of soot in the air and the hurricane barreling down upon them, Mike would’ve expected them to remain closed in favor of the normal swinging doors flanking both sides.

Without communications lines, he questioned whether anyone had the presence of mind to run to the sheriff’s office. He considered doing it himself if his lungs would allow it, but first he had to get out of the building. Like most hospitals, manners of ingress and egress were limited to two or three locations at most.

He couldn’t count how many times he unconsciously reached for his service weapon. Instincts had taken over, and he knew exactly what needed to be done. He simply didn’t have the tools to do it.

Hank broke cover and quickly moved forward until he could slip inside the open door of a patient’s room. Inside, an elderly woman lay perfectly still with the covers pulled up to her chin. Her eyes were wide with fear, and Mike had learned enough about heart rate monitors from staring at his own to know she was on the verge of cardiac arrest.

He was closer to the ER’s reception area, and he was clearly able to make out two men shouting. Screams filled the corridors of the hospital. Mike needed to get closer to get a handle on what he was dealing with. Before he left the woman’s room, he tried to reassure her, speaking softly so as not to be heard. Then he exited her room and pulled the door closed behind him.

That was when the lights went out.

Mike would never learn what had caused the sudden power outage at the Lower Keys Medical Center. The storm could’ve been identified as the culprit, but the facility had been drawing upon its generators for power already. Perhaps it was the hospital’s security team’s only plan to thwart the gunmen.

It might have been a tactic employed by the MCSO’s SWAT team to gain an advantage over the gunmen. He hadn’t been directly involved in their training, and frankly, they’d rarely been used in the last several years. It didn’t take a SWAT team to clear a bunch of drunks off Duval Street during Fantasy Fest. Regardless, it gave him an opening, and he took it.

In the chaos, Mike used his vague familiarity with the corridor from his exercise trips back and forth to his room under the watchful eye of a nurse. Each time, he’d pushed his body a little harder until he was able to reach the ER’s patient registration area before being asked to turn around.

It was dark, but he used that to his advantage to quickly close the gap between himself and the source of the gunfire. He’d just reached the large double doors that separated the recovery wing from the reception desk when two bullets zipped down the corridor and slammed into the medications cart behind him.

Mike pressed his body against the door of a utility closet, using the eight-inch doorjamb to provide some semblance of ballistic protection. His heart was pounding, and adrenaline coursed through his veins, as he could feel the presence of the shooters in the dark not more than thirty feet away.

Seconds later, one of the gunmen fired again. The muzzle flash grabbed his attention first followed by the sharp smell of gunpowder that filled his nostrils. The sound of brass casings clattering across the floor provided Mike the ability to identify the man’s location. He used the opportunity to dart across the corridor so that he had a view of the entrance, which was slightly illuminated by a battery-powered EXIT sign.

The gunman was standing in front of the reception desk and shooting at anyone who tried to enter the ER from the outside. The two sliding doors in the center of the outer wall had been forced open, and a gurney was toppled over on its side in between them. Between the gunfire and the open doors, smoke and haze mixed with wind-driven rain filled the reception area.

Panicked screams could be heard over the howling wind outside. They were coming from the direction of the ER’s trauma rooms. Mike knew the surgery suites were on the floor directly above them. However, for less serious wounds like his, the trauma rooms enabled physicians to provide all manner of treatment short of extensive major surgeries.

Mike couldn’t see the entire reception area, but the lack of chatter between the gunmen was an indication that the man standing just around the double doors from his position was acting as a lookout while the other one undertook whatever his goal was.

He took a deep breath and winced. The rush of adrenaline was wearing off as he calmed his nerves, and the pain medication he was due to take had worked its way out of his nervous system. All of his rushing about made the pain excruciating as he sucked in air. It felt as if someone had pushed a hot fireplace poker into the same spot Patrick had stuck him.

Mike took a chance to ease his head around the open door. Like before, he dropped to a low crouch. A nervous shooter tended to surveil his surroundings by searching for faces and eyes to determine if they were a threat. Rarely did they focus their field of vision below their waist.

In the dim ambient light, Mike could make out the man’s hunting rifle. While he couldn’t pinpoint the brand or caliber, it looked like a Remington-style rifle that used .223-caliber ammunition, very popular for hunting and home-defense use. For Mike, under these circumstances, it was a bulky weapon that couldn’t be wielded with accuracy by a nervous gunman.

He pressed his back against the door and listened. He had to get eyes on the shooter, so once the man turned his attention and the barrel of the rifle toward the other corridor, Mike could make his move.

The collision would hurt like hell and quite possibly break open his sutures, but at least he was in a hospital, where they could quickly patch him up.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Friday, November 8

Lower Keys Medical Center

Key West

The opportunity came less than a minute later. Someone made the mistake of breaking through the swinging double doors leading into the trauma corridor. Startled, the gunman swung wildly toward them. The bullets ricocheted off the stainless-steel doors and embedded in the drywall inside the hallway. The woman shrieked and fell to the floor, making Mike think she’d been hit. The gunman raised his rifle and walked toward her body.

He didn’t hesitate as he quickly moved around the propped-open safety door and lowered his head. He hit the back of the gunman at full speed, driving the crown of his head into the center of the man’s back.

The shooter cried out in pain before the ferocity of Mike’s attack knocked the wind out of him. The two men crashed to the floor in a heap, with Mike further punishing the man with the full weight of his body landing on top of his back. The rifle had been dislodged and flew several feet ahead until it came to a rest near the woman who’d emerged from the trauma wing.

Instinctively, Mike reached for his waistband in search of a weapon, pepper spray, or handcuffs. Anything to subdue the man until he could be restrained. The pain of the collision shot through his body. As predicted, blood began to ooze onto his fleece sweatshirt.

The shooter had regained his ability to breathe and was beginning to squirm under Mike’s weight. Mike looked forward and realized he’d be putting everyone in further danger if the shooter was able to shout for his accomplice. He used the only weapons available to him to subdue the attacker. His fists. With several well-placed blows to the man’s temple, he successfully knocked the man unconscious without using too much force that might lacerate his meningeal artery. Mike wanted him subdued, not dead. He wasn’t in the mood to hang around and explain his use of force.

Mike pounced onto his feet and grabbed the gun. He shook his head in disbelief when the people hiding behind the reception desk gasped as if he were just as dangerous as the shooter. He knelt down and helped the distraught nurse off the floor and led her against the wall adjoining the trauma corridor. He forced her to look at him instead of the dead security guard who lay ten feet away.

He spoke to her in a loud whisper. “Do you how many shooters there are?”

She was breathing fast and shallow, most likely on the verge of hyperventilating. Mike needed to get answers before she panicked. He leaned toward the door opening and checked the hallway. There wasn’t any movement, so he turned his attention back to the woman.

“Please, I need you to tell me what you know.”

She took several long, deep breaths and then nodded. “They’re in trauma three. A man had multiple GSWs. He was helped inside by another man about his age. Forties. Tanned or dark skin. I’m not positive.”

“Which one is trauma three?” asked Mike.

“Third door on the left across from the trauma nurses’ station. He’s got several doctors and a couple of nurses locked in the room. I was the last one to leave the trauma wing.”

Mike was pleased that the woman had recovered from her hysteria. “Okay. One more thing. We need to seal off the recovery wing. Pile furniture in front of it, whatever needs to be done. Just don’t let anyone abandon the patients. There’s an old lady just past the entrance on the right who needs attention. Can you do that?”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“One more thing. Find the fastest, most reliable person you can and send them to the sheriff’s office for help. Tell them to use my name—Detective Mike Albright.”

She nodded rapidly with her eyes locked on Mike’s. He took a quick glance down the hallway before sending her on her way. He waved to the other hospital personnel and loved ones who’d crouched beneath the reception desk to get out of the building. He admonished them to be quiet so the other shooter wasn’t alerted.

Then he turned his attention to the gunman and the victim of the gunshot wounds. There must’ve been a reason they felt the need to shoot up the hospital to get him treated. Mike intended to find out.

He dropped the magazine out of the carbine-style rifle and tried to count the rounds remaining using the light provided by a cigarette lighter offered to him by one of the desk personnel. He asked if anyone knew why the generator had cut off. There was no explanation offered. Clearly, the cavalry in the form of the SWAT team wasn’t responsible, as they’d made no effort to come into the building once the frightened people filed out. It would be one of the mysteries Mike didn’t care to solve.

He turned his focus back to trauma room three and the hostages who were being forced at gunpoint to treat the wounded patient. Mike had no idea how surgeons could extract bullets and deal with the internal damage associated with them in the dark. There had to be some kind of lighting, perhaps battery operated.

He slowly approached the curtains leading to the space that happened to be adjacent to where he had initially been treated. He paused to recall the layout of his trauma room. It was a tight fit between the many pieces of equipment, the patient’s bed, and the personnel who’d be standing alongside to perform the medical procedures. The room, the hospital staff’s word for the open area divided by curtains, might’ve been expanded depending upon how many medical personnel the gunman had elected to take hostage.

Somehow, he had to get eyes on the gunman. He imagined a panicked man wildly waving the .45-caliber handgun Mike had heard earlier. He’d only get one shot at the gunman. He contemplated waiting for the sheriff’s office to send help, taking the burden off his shoulders for the hostages’ lives.

But despite the pain searing through his chest and the blood soaking his sweatshirt, Mike wanted to get into position to take the shot.

A man’s desperate voice could be heard. “What are you doing? You have to do something!”

That had to be the gunman, Mike thought to himself. His buddy must be losing the battle, and the guy was losing it. A panicked fool with a gun takes innocent lives. Mike determined there was no time to wait for the cavalry.

One of the doctors shouted back, “Sir, we’re doing all we can under the circumstances.”

Mike stepped forward until he could locate where the outer curtains came together. There was a gap of about twelve inches that enabled him to see into the room. He had to be careful because the temporary lighting mounted on portable towers cast its warm glow under the curtains, which would enable the gunman to see his feet.

The man was acting just as Mike had predicted. He had one arm wrapped around the neck of a short nurse with the other pointing the pistol in all directions. He alternated between the nurse’s head and anyone else in the room who crossed him.

From this angle, Mike couldn’t get a clear shot. However, the curtains separating trauma three and the adjacent space had been pushed toward the wall to accommodate more equipment and surgical trays to be brought in.

He stepped away from the curtain as the argument between the two men escalated and became more heated. He quickly moved down the corridor until he could find the gap in the curtains marking the opening of trauma four.

He eased his head in and evaluated his options. He had a clear shot at the man’s back. Chivalrous? No. Was the scumbag deserving? You betcha.

Mike prepared his weapon and slipped the barrel between the curtains. He waited until the man was distracted or pointed his weapon somewhere other than directly at one of the hostages. With his finger on the trigger, he took a deep breath and exhaled.

Wait for it, Mike. Steady.

His inner thoughts became mute, but his muscle memory didn’t fail him. Just as the gunman began to swing his weapon from the surgical team back toward the nurse’s head, Mike squeezed the trigger. The report of the rifle frightened everyone in the confined space, causing them to scream and duck for cover. Only one body remained upright, albeit for a brief moment.

The now-headless gunman.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Friday, November 8

Gulf of Mexico

1013 millibars.

“We’re really on a roll, Mom!” exclaimed Tucker as Lacey emerged from taking a nap. Her poor night of sleeping had eventually caught up with her. That, plus the steady drone of the diesel engine and the gentle rocking of the Gulf waters, had resulted in her eyes drooping until she was almost asleep standing up.

Earlier that morning, as soon as the sun rose enough to create a brighter shade of gray across the horizon than the early-dawn level of lightness, Lacey and Tucker had prepared to leave Tarpon Springs.

Andino and his brother had given them a refresher course on the use of their barometer and also performed some fuel calculations for them. Unless something happened out of the ordinary, they would have sufficient diesel to make it all the way to Key West if they chose to go that far. Otherwise, they were facing a four-hundred-mile journey down the west coast of Florida until they reached the Everglades. From there, they could easily make their way to Marathon and Driftwood Key.

As they’d entered the Gulf, they’d set a course using the GPS that took them outside the range where most of the fishing boats were operating. They’d manned the helm together to grow accustomed to the boat’s navigational panel as well as how it reacted to certain wind and wave conditions. During their trip from Bay St. Louis to Tarpon Springs, they’d relied upon the expertise of Andino to operate a fishing vessel of this type. Lacey had only marginally paid attention to the intricacies of this boat. When she was in the wheelhouse, she compared it to her dad’s Hatteras, which Lacey was familiar with.

As they sailed due south, they’d both kept a wary eye on the boat’s barometer. Registering in millibars, the digital device fluctuated only slightly as they reached the open water and set their course. The normal barometric pressure at sea level was 1013 millibars. That had risen slightly, according to Sandros, because of the consistently low ceiling caused by nuclear winter. He’d cautioned them to monitor the barometer to determine if it was falling into the nine hundreds, an indicator a weather system was approaching.

Andino said one of the ways they could determine if there was a change in the barometric pressure was to notice the onset of a headache. The closer the pressure dropped to 1003 millibars, the more likely people susceptible to migraines or headaches would take notice.

While Lacey napped, Tucker had been diligent about monitoring the boat’s digital readouts, including the barometer. Every time he looked, the reading was similar, so he eventually grew tired of the exercise.

“Wow, I feel so much better,” his mom responded to his greeting. “There’s nothing better than sleeping on a boat.”

“It’s easy because it’s so low-key,” said Tucker. “I’m ready to get there.”

“Me too, son. Me too.”

“I’m gonna hit the head,” he said with a smile.

Lacey laughed. “Spoken like a true sailor. Say, do you wanna get some sleep now? I was gonna talk to you about riding through the night until we get there.”

Tucker stopped midway down the steps into the galley. He turned slightly as he spoke. “I just assumed we were going all the way. We have GPS, so it doesn’t really matter if we can see, right?”

Lacey gave him a disapproving glance. There were a lot of factors to be considered when driving a boat on the open seas. One of them was seeing if anything was in your way. Inexperienced boaters at night created a recipe for disaster.

“It’s not quite that easy, son. Go hit the head, and we’ll talk when you come back.”

1008 millibars.

While Tucker was away, Lacey got her bearings. They were approximately fifty-five miles off the coast of Sarasota. She couldn’t see the barrier islands of Longboat Key or Siesta Key as they motored past. The ever-present haze of soot seemed to blend in with the water, resulting in a feeling that they were completely alone in a sea of fog.

Tucker returned with a sixteen-ounce can of Monster energy drink. The fact that he was guzzling it down told Lacey all she needed about her son’s plans for the rest of the trip. He was going to remain jacked up on B vitamins and caffeine until he crashed on the dock below the Conch Republic flag at Driftwood Key.

They talked for a while, alternating between reminiscing about boat trips she and Owen had taken Tucker on when he was young and speculation about how the Keys had fared following the nuclear attacks.

They shared their recollection of how Hank operated the Driftwood Key Inn and the role everyone played. The McDowells were healthy eaters, so they were looking forward to eating the organic-grown vegetables from Sonny’s greenhouses and eating the fresh fish that Jimmy was so adept at catching.

The conversation turned to Mike and Jessica. Lacey and Mike were always close. He was more of a big brother to her than an uncle. When he married Jessica, who was slightly younger than he, Lacey had immediately found a sister to commiserate with following the death of Lacey’s mom. The trio had become tight, and Lacey looked forward to seeing them both.

1001 millibars.

Their conversation bounced around as they continued heading south-southeast along the coast. Their course took them along Captiva and Sanibel Islands off the coast of Fort Myers. After they’d gotten married, Lacey and Owen had honeymooned by going camping in several of Florida’s state parks, including Cayo Costa, a sand-filled barrier island accessible by a small boat or kayak. It was one of the largest barrier islands and had afforded the newlyweds plenty of privacy.

As daylight turned to dusk, Lacey began to develop a slight headache. She asked Tucker to bring her one of the Monster drinks. It would never be her beverage of choice under any circumstances, especially since it was not chilled. But his inability to find any pain relievers or analgesics on board necessitated the alternative method of using caffeine to narrow the blood vessels leading to the brain, which restricted blood flow and alleviated the pain.

The wind had begun to pick up occasionally. As pitch darkness overtook them, the occasional breeze turned to unexpected gusts that were strong enough to rock the fishing boat from side to side. They’d pass without Lacey or Tucker giving them a second thought.

The two had grown complacent and comfortable during the uneventful trip. They were more than halfway to Driftwood Key when they sailed past Marco Island. However, everything suddenly changed.

Lacey’s head was pounding from an incessant headache. The wind gusts had become more frequent. The sea spray turned to rain. The previously uneventful trip was about to become far more interesting.

998 millibars.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Friday, November 8

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

995 millibars.

In Greek mythology, Cymopoleia, daughter of the sea god Poseidon, was the Greek goddess of violent seas and storms. The boat had been renamed by its original owner several years ago to pay homage to the thirteen people who’d died when their commercial liftboat capsized during a hurricane in the Gulf. The death of anyone on the Gulf waters tugged at the heartstrings of commercial fishermen who made a living there.

The fishing boat had a padded captain’s chair designed for comfort. However, it was positioned far enough from the helm so the captain of the vessel didn’t, as they say, fall asleep at the wheel. The wheel of their fishing boat was the size of a bicycle tire with stainless-steel spokes. It had signs of wear and tear from the many hands that had gripped it, fighting the waves and navigating to the most-fertile fishing waters.

The wheel was mounted waist high. Behind it, a number of essential devices were mounted at the helm, including radar, the LORAN, and a control panel dedicated to navigation. Embedded amongst all the dials and switches and displays was the boat’s barometer. Ironically, it was located near the marine radio, which would ordinarily have been set to monitor the weather in the region. Now it was turned off, as static was the only thing being broadcast.

The barometer had dropped precipitously, but Tucker, who’d cozied up in the captain’s chair as they sailed just off the coast, had stopped monitoring it early on when it had shown no evidence of dropping as the Andinos had suggested it might.

Yet it had. Tucker wasn’t a seasoned boater. Every once in a while, he’d look down toward the helm to see if any warning lights were flashing. Mainly, he’d glanced at the GPS to determine where they were in relation to landmarks on the coast. Like a passenger on a long road trip, he’d become more interested in his surroundings and calculating the answer to the question are we there yet?

Nonetheless, Tucker considered himself a seasoned boater by this point. He’d spent hours under the tutelage of Andino together with hands-on experience as they’d crossed the Gulf from Bay St. Louis to Tarpon Springs. His familiarity with the controls caused him to become overconfident and lackadaisical. Like on a highway, things can go wrong when on the open seas.

The Gulf waters had become tedious to look at. Waves rolled past as the bow of the commercial fishing boat crashed through them. The conditions created by the fallout of nuclear winter resulted in the water and the sky visually merging into one.

Dull. A shade of gray without form except for the hints of darkness both above and below the whitecaps, which were becoming more frequent.

They say a good sailor knows when to stay in port, but that axiom was based on the ship’s captain knowing the weather conditions around him. Lacey and Tucker were sailing blind into a storm that had a full head of steam as it roared across the Florida Keys. An experienced boater might hear their story and say, “Well, I’ve never been caught in bad weather.” They’d either be lying, or it just hadn’t happened to them yet.

As the first feeder band washed over their boat, forcing the bow to suddenly push toward the west, Lacey and Tucker realized they were headed for trouble. They began to question their present course. Together, they studied the GPS and the nautical charts. If they changed direction toward land, where could they dock, and how long would it take to get there? Would they be met with friendly, helpful people like the Andino family, or modern-day pirates who’d steal their fuel or their vessel or worse?

The longer they waited to make a decision, the more severe the storm became. The gusts turned to a steady moisture-filled wind. The conditions had turned raw. Harsh. More than they thought they could handle. Despite their fears of the unknown, Lacey and Tucker had become hardened to the threats they faced.

Suddenly, the bow rose out of the water and dropped hard, throwing Lacey to the deck of the wheelhouse. She scrambled to find her footing, and just as she did, the stern lifted and the bow dropped, creating a surfing effect as the boat dipped its nose into the canyon created between the waves.

At the bottom of the sudden drop, the crest of a breaking wave crashed into the boat, driving into them like an out-of-control Mack truck. It had all changed with lightning-fast speed.

Lacey flew across the wheelhouse again, as she couldn’t find something to latch on to.

“Mom!” Tucker shouted as he scrambled to help her to her feet.

He glanced through the side windows of the wheelhouse and was shocked to see the whitecaps. Despite his inexperience, in that moment, he felt relieved. Being eye level to the whitecaps meant they were safe. If he’d seen nothing but water, it meant they were sinking.

He held her around the waist while keeping one hand on the wheel to keep the bow pointed into the unruly waters. Lacey gripped the teak trim on the helm until she could locate the stainless-steel grab bar near the entrance to the galley.

Up they went again as another massive wave rolled past with a violence only the planet itself was capable of generating. Man may be able to conjure up destructive nuclear bombs, but nothing compares to the annihilation caused by naturally occurring catastrophes like volcanos, earthquakes, and killer storms.

The bow popped up out of the water like a cork, only to be crushed by another wave taller than the wheelhouse, forcing it back down again with a crushing blow. Two forces of nature battled one another—gravity and buoyancy. The powerful waves used their ally, gravity, to force the boat toward the bottom of the Earth. The boat’s buoyancy fought back, using its upward lift to seek air at the surface.

Over and over again, the waves, which had now caught up to the wind speed, attacked the vessel at its most vulnerable. The constant battering of the boat tossed its crew around the wheelhouse. The Cymopoleia was without a captain, as Lacey and Tucker were unable to regain control of themselves, much less the boat. Flailing about in the water as the storm had its way with her, the vessel was caught in a battle to the death between gravity and its ability to float.

Then a massive gust of wind struck her on the port side, forcing it sideways. Now, rather than the hull acting as a buffer to the incredible waves they encountered, the Cymopoleia was turned sideways to the storm.

Advantage: gravity.

With gravity continuing to use its powerful grip on the vessel to pull it down, the buoyant nature of the boat had shifted to one side. They were now broadside to the waves, beam-to, as boat captains say. Even aircraft carriers can be rolled in rough seas when they’re beam-to.

If these captains didn’t right the ship, it would capsize.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Friday, November 8

Gulf of Mexico

984 millibars.

The sound of the wind was unnerving. It had changed from scream to shriek to moan. Then it turned preternatural. It was alive, playing a macabre tune resembling a ghoulish figure angrily slamming its hands down on the keys of a church organ. Deep. Growling. Like an AI-generated sea creature rising from the dark water, throat open, ready to consume them.

Man versus the forces of nature. Tucker gave up on the prospect of making it to shore. His mind raced. He recalled the conversations around the dinner table at the Andinos’ home as well as during his hands-on training from the day before. Certain things stuck in his head.

If you can’t make it to shore in time, stay away. Waves get steeper and break more easily as they approach the shoreline. Tucker had visions of his inability to control the boat as it crashed into Marco Island.

Keep your speed, or the storm will drive you. With rain pelting him from all directions, Tucker wiped his face clear and then rubbed the gauges located behind the wheel. He was deeply focused now that he’d gathered himself. He was ready to soldier through.

After they had regained their footing, Tucker stayed with the helm while Lacey went in search of protection in the event they were washed overboard or capsized.

“Put this on!” shouted Lacey, who returned from below deck with life jackets.

Tucker continued to grip the wheel in order to bring their boat around, turning it back into the waves that were rolling toward them. He provided a little more throttle as the bow dipped into the water, using the surfer’s method of taking advantage of the wave’s energy to turn. The boat responded, and they were once again toe-to-toe with their heavyweight opponent.

Lacey held onto the stainless-steel grab bars mounted within the wheelhouse. She helped Tucker slip on the life jacket and secure the buckles before pulling the tabs to adjust for his slim waist. They both exhaled for the first time in a while.

“This is nuts, Mom!”

She shouted back to him, “Just keep doing what you’re doing! I have one more thing to get!”

Patting her son on the back as she left, Lacey struggled to keep her balance as she descended the stairs into the galley. After a moment, she returned with two safety lines. These elastic tethers had carabiner anchor points at each end. One connected to a stainless clasp at the back of their life jackets, and the other could be attached to any suitable spot on the boat, including railings or cleats.

Tucker caught a glimpse of the barometer on the water-soaked helm. The pressure had dropped to 982 millibars. The storm was continuing to strengthen, battering the boat mercilessly.

Tucker’s head was on a swivel, looking in all directions as if an exit ramp from this highway to hell would suddenly emerge. He wiped the moisture off his face and leaned into the wheel to glance at all the gauges. They offered nothing in the way of comfort. Finally, he convinced himself it would be okay speaking aloud, as if verbalizing his rationale would make it so.

“We gotta hang on. It’ll pass over us eventually. They always do, right?”

Lacey leaned against the bench seat on the other side of the wheelhouse and gripped the helm. Tucker set his jaw and continued to fight the wheel. He was gaining confidence and focus.

The waves were coming every fifteen seconds or so with a steady, almost set-your-watch-by-it predictability. The rhythmic motions allowed Tucker and Lacey to breathe when pointed toward the water and hold their breath as the bow was thrust upward, praying that the coming wave didn’t crest more than a slight whitecap.

As the period between waves gets shorter, they become steeper. The steeper they become, the more likely they are to break in the middle of the Gulf. A tall, breaking wave at that frequency could destroy their boat. They weren’t breaking yet.

Tucker’s prior obsession with the GPS and their course was abandoned. He simply steered the boat with survival in mind, hoping to outlast the storm.

Then it happened.

The bow was forced downward, deeper than normal, it seemed. The massive wave pounded its fist on the deck, snapping the antennas that were bolted to a steel mast adjacent to the wheelhouse. Losing their antennas meant they’d lost their GPS and LORAN navigation system. Any hope they had of reaching out by radio to issue a Mayday was dashed. Not only did they lose track of where they were, but they were unable to detect or reach out to any boats that might be in the area. Issuing a Mayday on Channel 16, the international distress frequency, would fall on deaf ears or be silenced by the drone of the hurricane-force winds.

The ramifications were simple. If they capsized, nobody would know until the debris, or their bodies, floated ashore.

CHAPTER FORTY

Friday, November 8

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

It was after midnight when the sea sucked Lacey overboard. Above the wheelhouse, the Bimini top that covered the upper helm had been ripped from its supports. Still holding on by a thread, the winds whipped the canvas around in circles, beating the top deck as well as the windows of the wheelhouse. The metal supports that had been dislodged from the fiberglass threatened to break the glass of the cabin with each blow. A boat that loses its windows can fill up with water in minutes.

Lacey refused to let Tucker go out of the wheelhouse to harness the flying canvas. She insisted he was more experienced driving this boat, although it was really a ploy to keep him safe. After a lot of convincing, she moved below to rummage through the stateroom and galley cabinets in search of a serrated knife. All she could do was cut the Bimini top loose without having it beat her down in the process.

“Mom, you’ve got to stay tethered!”

“I know. Just hold it steady and don’t slow down. We’ve got this!”

She leaned over and kissed her son on the cheek. She held onto the cushioned seating and the ceiling as she made her way through the door onto the aft deck. The nonskid gelcoat was no match for the three inches of standing water that seemed to remain on the decks during the deluge. She immediately wondered if she’d be able to pull off the task as the wind caught her clothing and tried to lift her into the air.

Lacey reached out to grasp the ladder leading to the top deck. She gathered up the nylon rope attached to her carabiner. She clipped it to the ladder and began her ascent topside. The boat continued to pitch with the passing waves, making her task near impossible. It was hard to imagine a more difficult job than doing anything outside the protective confines of a boat’s cabin during a violent storm.

On land, hurricane-force gusts can slow anyone to a crawl. On the water, that same wind can knock you flat. The decks are soaked with water. The boat is rolling, pitching and heaving. The sea spray is pelting your body like birdshot from a shotgun. In the back of your mind, the fear of a misstep resulting in your being blown overboard begins to consume you.

Lacey climbed the stairs and emerged topside on her hands and knees. Her nylon rope had gotten tangled up in the antenna that was barely attached to the boat by a rubber-coated cable. She struggled with the cable, finding it difficult to hold onto something and untangle her safety line.

She pushed her way across the deck with the balls of her feet until her back was wedged into the corner of the side railing. Lacey started to cut through the cable with the serrated edge before stopping herself. If she did that, they’d have no hope of using their marine radio. She let out a deep sigh and surveilled her surroundings.

The Bimini top was flying overhead like a large kite trailing a commercial airliner. It whipped upward, and then, as the boat rode down the back side of a wave, the change in windspeed brought it downward, where it swirled from starboard to port across the windshield in a counterclockwise motion.

It was everything attached to the canvas that created the threat. The stainless supports were like sharp, twisted clubs seeking a target. The Garmin radar antenna had broken loose of its supports and was entangled with the canvas, adding a powerful punch each time the remains of the Bimini top struck the boat.

The entire tangled mess was being used by the hurricane as a weapon to pummel the Cymopoleia. Lacey couldn’t reach the cables and ropes that held the top to the boat because her safety line was tangled. She didn’t want to cut off their only chance of issuing a Mayday. She had an idea.

Lacey disconnected the safety line’s carabiner from her life vest. She held on to the ladder as she untangled the antenna’s wire from the safety line. Just like the frustration every Christmas decorator had ever experienced untangling string lights, she wound the rope over and then through the wire. Slowly, she was able to extract the safety line from the antenna’s wiring.

“Finally,” Lacey muttered as she gave the safety line a shake to confirm it was free. After securing it back to her life vest, she pulled all thirty feet of the slack up the ladder to give her plenty to work with. After another deep breath, she wiped off her face and turned around on her hands and knees to face the unpredictable top hurling itself around the boat.

In a tug-of-war against the changing momentum of the boat, Lacey pulled her way forward to the helm located on the top deck. The wires and ropes were wrapped through the front railings. Each time the Bimini top whipped around over her head, she could see the railing give and begin to pull away from the fiberglass. Only a couple of screws prevented the entire railing structure from joining the twisted mess.

Lacey climbed to her feet and used the chair to steady herself. The wind gusts continued to push her toward the starboard side. The Bimini top suddenly flew upward, sucked up like it was being pulled into a vacuum. This gave Lacey the opportunity to cut through the nylon lines that kept it in place.

One by one, she sawed through the ropes, each time causing the canvas to pull farther away from the boat. She allowed herself a smile as she saw the progress she was making.

“Come on. One more.”

She cut through the last of the ropes, fully expecting the canvas to fly off into the deluge.

It didn’t.

The Garmin radar antenna remained tangled with the top. She had to cut the coated wire. Lacey stood and gripped the circular antenna with her left hand and pulled the cable taut. She vigorously sawed through the hard plastic exterior and then began to sever the steel cables that ran through it until she reached the heavy-duty copper wire.

She grunted as she gave it one more full effort. Her strength surprised her as she cut through the final obstacle that threatened to break every window in the wheelhouse.

It only took the blink of an eye. Less than a second. A freakish event caused by the mind failing to coordinate one hand with the other.

But the second the cable was cut, and the tangled Bimini top was released from bondage, Lacey had unconsciously kept her death grip on the Garmin radar antenna a little too long.

She was suddenly airborne and flying over the back of the Cymopoleia.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Friday, November 8

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

The transition from crisis to catastrophe came in an instant. Once Lacey was sucked into the air, her release of the Garmin antenna was of little consequence. The hurricane took control. As her body was heaved upward and then flung over the stern, she let out a primal, guttural scream. Her arms flailed like a windmill as if she were trying to swim in the wind-driven rain.

None of this mattered as she was body-slammed into the water just twenty feet behind the boat’s transom. Stunned, Lacey lost her breath momentarily as she was drawn underwater by the forward momentum of the Cymopoleia, which was riding another wave to the bottom of a trough.

Lacey struggled against the water that wanted to drag her away from the boat. She caught her breath when the boat topped the next wave, hull exposed, only to crash down the other side of the crest. The nylon rope whipsawed as the boat picked up speed on the descent, pulling her five feet out of the water.

The momentary respite allowed her to catch her breath. She wanted to scream in an attempt to get Tucker’s attention. However, the boat entered another swale, and she was sucked below the surface again. The normally warm waters of the Gulf were cold, but not paralyzingly so. The chills that came over her body during the ordeal were more from the wind when she was airborne than when she was being dragged below the surface.

As another wave crested, the Cymopoleia’s bow rose into the air until it came crashing down, followed by the fish on a line—Lacey. She thought of Owen. His face. His touch. His kiss. She fought to live for him. For their son.

She gripped the nylon rope with both hands until they bled. The stinging salt water sent pain throughout her upper body. It also helped her stay focused. She was beginning to time the waves. In her mind, she could count the seconds between the boat’s rising and falling. She’d caught her breath, and she willed her body to respond. She was going to survive.

“Help!” Lacey screamed as loud as she could when she was pulled out of the water. “Tucker!”

Then she was sucked below again and dragged along. Sometimes tumbling as she rolled over and over. Other times, simply pulled out of control, the life jacket squeezing her ribs and belly. Another ten to twelve seconds passed. She readied herself. Out she flew.

“Tucker, help meee!”

Tucker thought he’d imagined hearing his mother’s voice. As he fought the wheel and the never-ending waves trying to crush their hull, he pressed his face against the starboard windows and the windshield. He’d noticed that the Bimini top was no longer pounding the boat. He breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed that the barometric pressure had stabilized at 980 millibars. The storm was no longer strengthening, at least for now.

Then he became concerned. He knew his mom was most likely being deliberate and careful, but she should’ve been back inside the relative safety of the wheelhouse by now. He was becoming frantic as he searched for her through the windows.

At one point, he made the mistake of releasing the wheel just to take a quick look on the aft deck. In a matter of seconds, the boat was shoved to the right, and if not for his quick reflexes and upper-body strength, the Cymopoleia would’ve been slammed in the side.

The second time Tucker heard her cry for help, he had to do something. He couldn’t leave the helm. Releasing control for a moment could get them rolled. Early on, before the seas turned angrier, he’d tried deploying autopilot to guide them through the waves. That didn’t work.

He needed to find a way to lock the ship’s wheel in place. The only way was to tie it down using his safety line. Tucker ignored the admonitions of his mother to remain tethered to the boat while they rode out the storm. After reducing the boat’s speed but not too much so it couldn’t climb the oncoming wave, Tucker unclipped the safety line from his life jacket. He quickly proceeded to wrap it through the ship’s wheel and around the stainless grab bars until it was tight. Then he used the carabiner to secure the line again. He gripped the spokes and gave it a good back and forth tug. To confirm it would work, he let go for a few seconds as the boat powered through another wave.

He heard his mom scream again. This time, he was certain of it. Tucker put all the risks out of his mind and raced out of the wheelhouse. His first inclination was to look up where he’d noticed the Bimini top was gone. The Cymopoleia rose high into the air and came slamming down, as it had hundreds of times before during the night. Tucker was airborne as weightlessness overcame him. His legs kicked and his arms were outstretched, looking for anything to grab onto to keep from going overboard.

That was when he found his mother’s lifeline. Taut. Stretching. Holding onto the boat’s ladder for dear life. And now, it had become Tucker’s lifeline too.

He fell hard to the deck, but he managed to hold the nylon line with his right hand. A searing pain shot through his shoulder as the boat’s motion fought against his grip. But he knew his mom was still attached. He just knew.

Unable to gain his footing, Tucker grasped the line and slowly allowed it to slip through his hands, rubbing his palms raw. Not that it mattered. It was almost as if he could feel his mom’s beating heart on the other end. No different than when she’d fed him in the womb.

The outstretched line bent over the half-wall at the stern. The heat of Big Cam, the powerful diesel motor, rose through the engine compartment hatch as it struggled to propel the boat against the waves.

Suddenly, as the boat’s bow rose to ride another crested wave, Tucker slid hard to the rear, crashing into the stern wall with his back. He managed to crawl to his knees just as the bow reached its apex and came crashing downward again into the trough.

This was unsustainable, and Tucker doubted his makeshift autopilot would hold.

During the lull between the crest-to-trough series of waves, Lacey screamed again. “Help!”

Only this time, she got a response. Tucker saw her emerge from the darkened water, illuminated only by the boat’s running lights. He shouted to her, “Hold on, Mom! I’ll pull you in.”

“Tuck—!” The second syllable was garbled as she was dragged below the surface again.

In those next few seconds, Tucker thought through the dynamics of what he faced. He’d have to time it just right. And he’d have to hold on.

Without delay, he climbed onto the transom with both hands on the rope. He pressed his back against the stern, fighting off the searing heat generated by the diesel engine.

Cymopoleia rose toward the sky again. He fought gravity to keep from being thrown past his mother and a likely death. At the top of the wave, he tensed his muscles. He firmly planted his feet and gripped her lifeline, waiting for the right moment.

The bow dropped. The stern began to lift. His mother emerged from below the surface. Tucker yanked the rope, pulling hand over hand as he quickly reeled her onto the transom just as the boat reached the bottom of the swale and started its upward climb.

He wrapped his left arm around his mom and draped his right over the stern’s half wall. She tried to help but lost her footing, which almost dragged them both back into the water. Tucker told her what to do.

“Wait ’til the top!”

The boat made its way up and over. As it hit the crest, the momentum shifted, and gravity became their ally. Tucker hoisted his mother and flung her onto the aft deck. A second later, he leapt upward and flew over himself, belly flopping on the water-covered decking and sliding hard into the wheelhouse.

Lacey was clinging to the ladder, somewhat stunned by the sudden turn of events. Tucker wanted to hug his mom. Comfort her and make sure she was okay. But he’d noticed the battering of the Cymopoleia’s bow had forced it off course so that it was no longer hitting the waves head-on.

He grabbed his mother by the life jacket and jerked her through the door of the wheelhouse. He allowed her to lie on the floor as he pulled her safety line inside. Then he slammed the door shut with a snarl directed toward the beast that had tried to swallow them.

Tucker stumbled toward the helm, crashing hard into the captain’s chair as the boat lurched toward starboard. Now he had to quickly undo the tightly wound security line meant to hold the boat on course, not beyond her captain’s control.

At the top of the next wave, the Cymopoleia pivoted slightly. It was as if she’d become stuck in the center of its gravity on a ball. The next trip down the wave was more of a sideslip than another descent on the water roller-coaster ride from hell.

Tucker reacted quickly. He loosened the safety line enough to turn the wheel back to the left so that the bow was hitting the next wave head-on. He also gave it more throttle at the same time. He’d saved them from being turned, and he was once again attacking the waves head-on.

Days later, Lacey and Tucker would recall this as the moment they knew they’d survive.

PART IV

Day twenty-three, Saturday, November 9

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Saturday, November 9

Blackwater Sound

Near Key Largo

It wasn’t the kind of dawn of a new day that Peter was used to. Florida, the Sunshine State, rarely failed to live up to its name. Even when a storm passed, the bright blue skies coupled with a glorious sunrise could lift the spirits of even those in the direst of situations. However, in the throes of nuclear winter, pitch darkness simply gave way to a smoky, hazy shade of gray.

Nonetheless, Peter’s biological alarm clock woke him with a start. He was disoriented and confused as he tried to make sense of why he was floating. His arms ached beyond belief, as he’d managed to stuff his hands and wrists through the handles located at the rear of the WaveRunner seats.

At first, the nerves had been pinched for so long that his arms wouldn’t respond to his commands. Unlike during the night he’d endured when the hurricane-force winds had tossed him atop the sound like a fishing bobber that had broken loose from a line, the water was now smooth with barely a ripple.

Peter’s mind forced him awake. Everything that had happened the night before flooded through his consciousness, especially his recollection of losing Jimmy. He forgot about the searing pain in his shoulders and let go of one of the WaveRunners. He kicked his legs and used all the diminished strength he could muster to climb onto the saddle of the WaveRunner.

He lowered his eyes and cupped his hands over them to adjust to the glare created by the grayish clouds that hovered over the Keys. Then he tried his voice.

All he could manage was a whisper. He recalled his efforts to yell for Jimmy until his vocal cords became severely damaged. Without any way to call for his friend, Peter fired up the WaveRunner. He was going to resume the search, but first, he tried to get his bearings.

He was astonished to see that he was only half a mile from shore. The waterfront homes at Stellrecht Point jutted out into the sound to his left. To his right, the mid-rise buildings of the Key Largo Bay Marriott marked the beginning of the hammocks that stretched around Blackwater Sound to his rear.

Remarkably, Peter started to laugh, hoarse as he was. They’d been so close when he’d lost track of his friend. Had Jimmy not fallen off his WaveRunner, within minutes, they would’ve been pulling onto the small beach at the Marriott or nearby at Rowell’s Waterfront Park, which was the favorite playground of dog owners in Key Largo.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t assume that Jimmy had swum to shore. Once again, he cupped his eyes and looked in all directions. There were no boats on the water, and the typical flotsam prevalent following a hurricane surrounded him.

Even under normal conditions in which residents and businesses had ample warning of a coming storm, invariably many failed to secure items that could be picked up by the wind. Patio furniture, canoes, surfboards, umbrellas, and portable signage was oftentimes found floating just offshore following a hurricane.

Peter cursed aloud as he tried to differentiate between an overturned canoe and a body floating in the water. But he had to check everything out in case Jimmy had latched onto a piece of debris to survive the night, much as he’d used the WaveRunners to keep him afloat.

So he took off to inspect the debris nearest to his position. Unlike during the night and the worst of the storm’s passing over him, he could now keep up with his position because visibility was somewhat better than what he remembered from the day before. It was if the hurricane and its strong winds had acted like a vacuum cleaner to suck up the sooty fallout and carry it northward as it terrorized the rest of Florida.

For more than an hour, as dawn turned to morning, Peter searched for Jimmy but was unsuccessful. Finally, he decided to go ashore and enlist help from the sheriff’s department. He hoped he could get in touch with his father or at least Mike and Jessica. He was certain they’d drop everything to help search for Jimmy.

The fire department had locations near the destroyed bridges and farther down U.S. 1 from Blackwater Sound. There wasn’t a police substation near his location that he could recall. His best option was the Marriott resort. They were the most prominent buildings that he could see from the middle of the sound, and he believed Jimmy would notice them first if he’d swum to shore.

As he entered the man-made inlet created in the middle of the resort to accommodate visiting yachts, he was able to observe the destruction wrought by the hurricane. Although the resort had been closed, anything not adequately secured had been blown around the property. Even some windows were broken out, which was an indicator of how strong this hurricane had been.

Most of the commercial buildings in the Keys had been retrofitted with windows to withstand a Category 5 hurricane. A Cat 5 would feature winds greater than 155 miles per hour and, depending on circumstances, could be accompanied by storm surge over eighteen feet. Peter saw evidence of this in the smaller buildings flanking the Marriott.

Roofs had blown off or collapsed. Many shrubs, trees, and signs were twisted, shredded relics of their former selves. Several small boats from the boat dealer across the highway from the Marriott had found their way into the parking lot. Even a red KIA had landed nose down in the middle of Breezer’s Tiki Bar, a place Peter had frequented often during his years of commuting to college.

Peter was relieved when he saw two uniformed private security guards rushing toward him as he rode under a covered walkway that stretched over the water. Not surprisingly, as had often been the case during his travels from Virginia, the men approached him with weapons drawn.

“Hey! This is private property. You need to turn it around.”

Peter was exhausted and in no mood for a fight. He needed to find Jimmy. Peter, whose throat was parched and still somewhat hoarse, tried to speak as loud as he could.

“I got stuck on the sound during the storm last night. My friend fell off his WaveRunner, and I can’t find him.”

“Well, he’s not here,” said the second man as they towered over Peter from the floating dock that lined the resort’s marina facilities.

“Do you know that for certain?” asked Peter sarcastically, gulping hard as he realized he’d tried to speak too loudly. He softened his tone. “His life may be in danger, and he needs help.”

“There are a lot of folks who need help after last night,” the first man shot back. He waved his arm around the hotel. “Look at this mess.”

Peter was incensed. He whispered loud enough for the security guards to pick up on his outrage. “I’m talking about a man’s life, not your precious palm trees and patio furniture!”

This angered both men, who raised their weapons at Peter. “That’s enough. You’ve been warned. Martial law has been declared, and we can shoot you if necessary.”

Peter stood on his WaveRunner. He wanted so badly to climb onto the dock and pummel these two rent-a-cops, but that wouldn’t help Jimmy. Without saying another word, he gunned the throttle and did a quick one-eighty to leave the Marriott’s territorial waters. As he straightened the handlebars to direct him toward the sound once again, he lifted his middle finger to the two security guards. It was a gesture that conveyed a clear and unequivocal message that didn’t require him to strain his voice.

He was going nearly forty miles per hour when he turned the WaveRunner to the right in search of a place to tie it off. The Caribbean Club, another of Key Largo’s favorite watering holes, was just ahead. They had a T-shaped dock protruding into the water as well as a boat ramp that he could beach the WaveRunner on if necessary. When he arrived there minutes later, he was relieved to see he wasn’t greeted by men with guns.

Which reminded him. He felt his holster and realized that his weapon was miraculously secured in its holster. Then he looked at the National Guard uniform he’d stolen at the speedway. He began to wonder if this might get him shot by some overzealous local who’d bought into the whole Conch Republic secession thing.

Peter pulled the WaveRunner up to the dock and quickly disembarked. He tied it to a cleat and didn’t bother with the bumpers. He wasn’t sure he’d ever use it again anyway. Then he took off his shirt, leaving nothing on but a green tee shirt and the light green digital camo pants that were still soaking wet. He ditched the holster and tucked the firearm into the waistband of his pants. Then he covered the handle with the tee shirt.

With a deep breath and a quick look at his surroundings, he moseyed over to a boat that had been lifted ashore during the storm surge. Several bottles of water were strewn about the ground next to it. Without a second thought, Peter quickly gulped one down and then opened another, which he sipped. It provided him an instant lift and gave his throat some much-needed relief. Next, he made his way across the sandy parking lot of the Caribbean Club to the highway in search of anyone associated with law enforcement.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Saturday, November 9

Blackwater Sound

Near Key Largo

Peter walked south along the highway toward the more populated part of Key Largo. He was concerned that if he walked all the way to the fire station at Lake Surprise, he might be mistaken for a National Guardsman, a sworn enemy of the Keys, he presumed. He’d just have more guns pointed at him.

Two women rode past him on bicycles, so he waved his arms to flag them down. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Hey! I need a cop. Do they have a station up here?”

“Nah, man,” one of the women said as she barely slowed long enough to make eye contact with Peter. “They’s all up at the roadblock.”

“You mean where it once was,” said the other woman. “They blowed up the bridge.”

Peter smirked and shook his head. I know. I was there.

He had to shout his questions as the women kept riding down the highway. “They don’t have another station down here? Maybe a place where they gather?”

“Try the fire station. This way about four miles!”

Frustrated, Peter mustered the energy to jog down the highway on the wrong side of the road. He expected some kind of shift change if they were still maintaining a contingent of deputies near the destroyed bridge. He’d stop every car coming his way, using his gun, if necessary, until he found help.

He’d jogged a mile or so before an MCSO deputy sheriff’s car approached from the south. Peter stood in the middle of the road and began waving his arms overhead so they would stop. The deputy slowed and tried to pull around him, but Peter quickly moved in front of his bumper. After honking and failing to move Peter out of the way, the deputy pushed the driver’s side door open and stomped out of the car.

“Get the hell out of—!” the deputy began to yell before Peter cut him off.

“I’m Peter Albright. Mike’s nephew. I need help.”

“Detective Mike Albright?”

“Yes. My dad is Hank over at Driftwood Key.”

The deputy looked around and sighed. He walked toward Peter and pointed toward his chest. Before he was able to ask, Peter explained.

“I was trying to get home, and then they blew the bridge. My friend who works for my dad was working as a deputy at the checkpoint. He tried to help me, and we got stuck on the wrong side of the bridge. Anyway, we were arrested by the National Guard. They beat Jimmy and, um, well, we had to steal a guy’s uniform to get away. Listen, none of that matters. Jimmy and I got caught on WaveRunners last night on Blackwater Sound. He fell overboard, and I can’t find him. I need a team to help search for him.”

“Peter. Right?” asked the deputy.

“Yeah.”

“Listen, I’ve got some bad news about your uncle. He was attacked the other night by someone staying at the inn. He was stabbed and is in pretty rough shape.”

“What? You can’t be serious!”

“Afraid so. He’s at Lower Keys Medical in Key West. I heard he’s in stable condition, but I’m really not certain because—”

Peter slapped the sides of his head with both hands and grabbed fistfuls of hair. He wandered in circles, alternating looking back toward Blackwater Sound and then in the direction of Key West. Conflicted, he paced for several seconds before he made a decision. Mike had medical care. Jimmy didn’t.

He plead with the deputy. “Okay. Okay. I’ve gotta find Jimmy. He’s out there floating somewhere. Can we get the WET team on the water to search for him?”

The deputy chuckled although it was more of a reaction to the request rather an attempt at being disrespectful. “Here’s the thing. Nobody knew about this hurricane coming. Sure, some of the old-timers who had those weather-glass things on their kitchen table might’ve called it. However, the rest of us were blindsided, as I gather you were. It’s all hands on deck right now to stop looters and rescue people.”

“Jimmy needs to be rescued,” said Peter dryly. “Can you call my aunt, Jessica Albright. She’s on the WET team.”

“Yeah, I know her. Gimme a sec.”

The deputy returned to his patrol car and slid into the front seat. He spent more than a minute on the radio, trying to raise Jessica on her two-way. Their coverage area had been greatly diminished following the collapse of the grid, and the repeater towers weren’t always functioning.

Peter approached the driver’s side door. “What did you find out?”

“Deputy Albright didn’t respond to my call on the open frequencies. I contacted dispatch, and she hasn’t reported in since leaving the hospital yesterday.”

“What about a search party?” asked Peter.

“I’m gonna be honest. We’re disorganized as hell. The mayor had us focused on kicking people off the Keys, and then she shifted gears to blowing up the bridges. Now, with the storm, I don’t think I could organize a one-man fishing tournament much less send a flotilla out to find your friend.”

“I’ve gotta do something,” lamented Peter.

The deputy furrowed his brow and looked up the highway. “Blackwater Sound, you say?”

“Yeah. I think we were close to the Marriott, but it was so dark, and the wind was howling…” Peter’s voice trailed off as he became emotional.

The deputy noticed his change in demeanor. “You know what? Get in. I have an idea. No promises, though.”

Peter nodded and turned away to wipe a few tears from his cheeks. He hustled around the back of the car and jumped into the passenger’s seat after the deputy set aside his rain gear.

“Thanks for helping,” began Peter as he settled into the seat. The deputy immediately turned on his emergency lights and roared up the road, drawing the attention of several residents who were cleaning up debris.

“No promises, remember. I have some folks at Captain Jax who owe me a favor. They’re not much, but they have boats, and I think I can get ’em to give you an hour or two.”

Peter sighed. He’d take anything at this point. A minute later, the deputy slowed at the entrance to Captain Jax Mobile Home Park. He stopped short of the open entry gates, not because they were guarded but because a travel trailer had been picked up and dropped on its side just beyond the entry.

“Jesus,” muttered the deputy. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “It’s like this all up and down the Keys. Nobody’s been spared.”

Peter grew frustrated again. “This is a waste of time. These people will be digging out for days.”

“Maybe. Do you wanna give it a try? I’ll make the introductions, but dispatch needs me at the bridge.”

“Sure. Thanks.” Peter exited the patrol car. His tee shirt rose on his back, revealing the pistol grip protruding above his waistband.

“You armed?” asked the deputy.

Peter’s face turned pale, and he closed his eyes momentarily. He’d completely forgotten about the weapon. “Yes. I should’ve told you. I’m so preoccupied with finding Jimmy that I—”

“Don’t sweat it, bud. Let’s go.”

The deputy led Peter through the debris. Several of the mobile homes had been tipped over while others had been torn open like a sardine can. Many of the owners were wandering around aimlessly, some of whom were bloodied and injured.

The deputy confronted a group of residents. “Hey! Where’s Jax?”

They all pointed toward the office adjacent to the boat slips.

The two men stepped over a fallen power pole. Its transformers lay partially covered in a heap of sand while the power lines were twisted on the ground at its base. The irony wasn’t lost on Peter. The evidence of America’s beating electrical heart was just as dead as it had been before the hurricane. At least now it could be given a proper burial.

“Wait here,” instructed the deputy. “He owes me the mother of all favors. I’ll call in the chit just to get you some help.”

Peter grimaced and nodded. After several minutes, the deputy returned with Captain Jax and a handful of others.

“Okay, Peter. Here’s what you’ve got. Jax and these folks can give you a couple of hours. They’re gonna need to be reimbursed for their fuel. Do you think your dad’s willing to do that?”

Peter scowled. He was grateful for the help and not all that surprised they’d requested their tanks to be refilled.

“Deal.”

“And they said you can have a boat for yourself,” the deputy continued as he threw Peter a key attached to an orange floating key ring. He fumbled the catch, and the keys hit the sand. He knelt down to grab it and nodded his appreciation to the deputy at the same time.

Captain Jax addressed Peter. “You can have the boat. The owner died last night, and we got more boats around here than you can shake a stick at. Besides, it’s full of empty fuel cans. Fill them up when you get back to your place and return ’em full. Are we straight?”

“Yep. Thanks for helping.”

“All right, let’s get to it. Two hours. That’s it. Understand?”

Peter nodded again and followed Captain Jax with his rescue contingent to the marina, where the first order of business was to clear a path to get the boats out.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Saturday, November 9

Blackwater Sound

Near Key Largo, Florida

Peter and the other boaters spent more than two hours looking for Jimmy. He didn’t like the conclusion Captain Jax had reached at the end, but it was inarguable. Jimmy was no longer in the water. Well, on top of it anyway.

Peter raised the issue that Jimmy might have swum to shore. He explained to the disbelieving residents of the mobile home park that his friend was a helluva diver and swimmer. They didn’t try to dissuade Peter, and they encouraged him to keep the faith, but the search was done as far as they were concerned.

Peter cut the engine for a moment and floated adrift just beyond the entrance to Dusenbury Creek near Bush Point at the southernmost end of Blackwater Sound. He checked his fuel levels and then did some calculations.

He felt he had more than enough fuel to make it to Driftwood Key, roughly fifty miles to his southwest. Then he had a thought. He stood on the aft deck of the center-console fishing boat and looked around Blackwater Sound. He guessed there was ten to fifteen miles of shoreline to cover around the perimeter.

He returned to the center console and searched for the horn. A silver button was positioned to the left of the steering column, and he gave it a try. It wasn’t a loud air horn; however, it was good enough to get someone’s attention.

Logically assuming Jimmy was able to receive some help if he’d made it to Key Largo, Peter turned the boat and began ambling along the shoreline of the hammocks, such as they were. The semicircle of land that encompassed much of Blackwater Sound was nothing more than scraggly plant material protruding up through the shallow water. If Jimmy did make it to the hammocks, he’d likely be hugging a tree.

At first, he tried to holler for his friend as well as honk the boat’s horn. As his vocal cords became strained, it was too painful to yell, so he repeatedly pressed the horn’s button.

On the far west side of the sound, he reached the Boggies, a stretch of the hammocks that was more sandbar than plant material. The trees that protected the beach from eroding had been uprooted by the storm, and many floated in the water. Peter was uncertain where Blackwater Sound ended and Florida Bay, which led to the Gulf of Mexico, began.

He stopped for a moment and studied the landscape in front of him. He thought of how high the waves had grown during the worst part of the hurricane. He looked across the opening that had been created by the surge of water that had swept over it for hours.

Suddenly, a sick feeling came over him, and he became physically ill. Without warning, his stomach retched, and he hung his head over the side of the boat to vomit.

What if Jimmy had been swept out of Blackwater Sound?

Peter continued around the perimeter of Blackwater Sound. He slowly drove past Gilbert’s Resort and looked up at the void where the bridge had once stood. The place where it had all started. As he thought about the events of the last couple of days, like so many others would do once he brought the news of Jimmy’s disappearance to Driftwood Key, resentment began to build inside him.

Peter didn’t know all the circumstances of why Jimmy had been forced into manning the checkpoint in furtherance of Lindsey’s ill-conceived plan. Regardless, she was directly responsible for Jimmy being placed in that position to begin with, and therefore she should pay a price.

With the anger welling up inside, he completed his circular search grid and returned to the mouth of Dusenbury Creek. He stared at the hundred-foot-wide opening. It was the most direct route to Driftwood Key and would require the least amount of fuel. Then he turned his attention toward the western end of the sound. That nagging sensation that Jimmy might have been swept away with the storm surge bothered him. It was even possible that he’d grasped onto something floating atop the water that took him outside the confines of Blackwater Sound during the storm.

Peter turned the boat toward the Boggies and pressed down the throttle. He was going out into the bay to search for a while, and then he was going home to get help. No matter what, he wasn’t giving up until he knew what had happened to his friend.

For Peter, not knowing meant it was possible that Jimmy was still alive.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Saturday, November 9

Blackwater Sound

Dejected and exhausted, Peter lost track of time as he wandered around Florida Bay just outside the barrier sandbars and hammocks protecting Blackwater Sound. He repeatedly tried to call out for his friend but once again strained his vocal cords so bad that he began gargling with salt water to help heal the irritated tissue in his throat.

After hours of circling in an ever-widening arc, Peter became aware of his fuel levels. He was not an experienced boater. Growing up before he left for college, he’d rarely taken the Hatteras into the Gulf on his own. He almost always had his dad or Jimmy with him, the two people on Driftwood Key who seemed to enjoy being on the water more than on land.

That wasn’t to say Peter disliked boating. But with Jimmy and Hank around, the opportunities to go it alone were few. He wasn’t sure how far away he was from Driftwood Key when he noticed the fuel gauge drop off precipitously. He didn’t want to stop looking, but it was a fruitless exercise under the circumstances. An occasional dry gust of wind swept over him, a reminder that the storm was not that far away.

He’d seen hurricanes stall and even wander back toward the Keys when a strong high-pressure system collided with it in the Gulf. He didn’t have sufficient fuel to risk running out that far away from the Keys.

As it turned out, he didn’t have enough fuel to make it home, either.

Unlike the rest of his family, Peter wasn’t completely familiar with the shorelines and all the landmarks that helped identify the Keys. Not that it mattered because the constant haze that smothered the area reduced visibility to a minimum like a dense fog would obscure London from approaching ships.

But there wasn’t a glimpse of light to help with his navigation, and the boat he had been given at the marina didn’t have the usual navigation devices. It was stripped to its bare minimum with only a compass to work with.

Peter tried to calculate his location based upon where he’d exited the Boggies and how far out his circular search pattern took him. Since he’d never run into the Everglades at the southern tip of the mainland, he presumed he was safe to sail due south. Southwest might have been a more accurate option, but it also meant he might miss the Keys entirely if he miscalculated.

With a deep breath and a verbal promise to Jimmy that he’d return the next day with help, Peter pressed down on the throttle as nightfall was fast approaching. He hoped to find his way to the shoreline, pick out a point of interest that was familiar to him, and ease down to Driftwood Key, which stuck out from Marathon.

He ended up nearly running aground at Shell Key off the coast of Islamorada. After he turned toward the shore, he ran out of fuel. The engine seized, immediately shut down, and left Peter adrift in the middle of Little Basin near Bass Pro Shops on Overseas Highway. After a swim that zapped nearly all of his energy, he walked onshore at the private beach of a local bar.

Peter had no idea what time it was other than the fact it was late in the day. That wasn’t surprising, as every day bore the same characteristics regardless of where he’d been during his twelve-hundred-mile journey.

After getting his bearings straight, he began walking down U.S. 1 toward Marathon. He came upon Mile Marker 80, which meant he was about to pass over the Teatable Channel Bridge. He was thirty-two miles from home.

Peter picked up the pace. His feet hurt. He was dehydrated from the lack of water and especially after he’d continuously gargled salt water to relieve the pain in his throat. But he pressed forward. With each mile marker, he mentally ticked off twenty less minutes until he was home.

As he approached Mile Marker 61, he considered approaching Hawk’s Cay Resort on Duck Key. The resort had once been owned by a longtime friend of the Albrights until he’d sold out to an investment group for nearly one hundred fifty million dollars. There were many times thereafter that Peter and Lacey had urged their parents to sell the inn and retire to a life of luxury.

Hank’s response had been where would we live? His mom had been concerned with Hank driving her nuts because he had nothing to do all day. When his mom got sick and eventually passed away, his dad had thrown himself into managing the inn’s operations. Driftwood Key had been more than a business. It had been their family’s home for generations. To the Albrights, it was priceless.

He gave up on the notion of stopping at Hawk’s Cay and continued walking until he came upon a gift from heaven, as he saw it. Actually, it caused him to laugh uproariously until his throat hurt again. Peter had gone full circle.

A bicycle had been thrown off the side of the highway near the Dolphin Research Center. He glanced around for a moment and didn’t see anyone. Knowing the area, he couldn’t imagine where the owner might have gone, as there was nothing there except the research facility. He smiled as he settled onto the seat. This would certainly make the final fifteen miles of his journey a little easier and faster.

He was pedaling with ease as U.S. 1, the Overseas Highway, officially turned into famed Florida State Road A1A near the Marathon airport. Peter sped up, fast enough to create a steady breeze in his face that blew his long hair. When he’d left his home the night of the attacks, he had been in need of a haircut. Now, several weeks later, he was almost unrecognizable as a result of his shaggy beard and matching hair. In fact, he could’ve been cast as Shaggy in a Scooby-Doo movie.

He pedaled faster, thrilled with the sight of Marathon Community Park on his left. He actually saw people milling about the parking area in front of the Marathon Fire and Rescue Station. He waved his arm back and forth as he shouted hello. He was in great spirits until he wandered off the highway ever so slightly during his exuberance. The front wheel caught a pothole created by the heavy rains during the hurricane.

The sudden stop caused the front wheel to sink into the hole and threw the back wheel upward until for a brief moment, Peter was suspended above the ground. And then, like a bucking horse at the rodeo, the stubborn bicycle threw its rider head over heels onto the pavement and coquina shells making up the shoulder of the road.

Peter rolled over and over again. He had the presence of mind to tuck his body to prevent breaking any limbs, but the hard landing took its toll on his skin. His hands and arms were ripped open, as was his chin. Blood poured out of his wounds, covering his clothes.

He was less than a mile from home.

Peter lay flat on his back for nearly five minutes, trying to catch his breath. He closed his eyes in an effort to mentally shake off the million bees that were stinging his hands and arms. After he shook his head in disbelief, he rolled over on his stomach and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. The pain was excruciating.

Peter began to drag his feet down the shoulder of the highway until he reached the side road leading to Driftwood Key. The skies had turned from black to a smoky gray as he trudged toward the bridge crossing over to his home.

He chuckled to himself as he imagined what he looked like as he dragged his right leg behind him as he walked. The cartoonish Hunchback of Notre Dame came to mind. He was having difficulty breathing, and his left leg had buckled as he stepped onto the bridge. Thinking that he should hurry before his lower body gave out completely, he walked a little faster.

As he reached the center of the bridge, he noticed that the gates were pulled closed. Not surprising, he thought. Then the silhouettes of two figures appeared on the other side of the gate. They were holding rifles. Peter hesitated and lowered his eyes to make out who the armed guards were. He slowed his pace and focused on the gate.

Then he tripped over a piece of metal lying in the middle of the bridge. He dropped hard to one knee and tried to brace his fall with his hands, but his weak arms couldn’t support his weight.

The momentum of Peter’s body caused him to land on his side in the fetal position within feet of where another man in search of help named Patrick had fallen ten days ago.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Saturday, November 9

Driftwood Key

Hank and Sonny had agreed to patrol the grounds together that evening although it meant they’d both have to pull a double shift that day. It was agreed that Jessica was capable of guarding the gate and the key’s perimeter alone because of her weapons training. She’d sleep first and then relieve the guys for a twelve-hour shift.

The men had been chatting about Mike’s condition when Sonny noticed the shadowy figure approaching the bridge. At first, they kept behind the posts until they determined what they were dealing with.

The scene was all too familiar to Sonny. He remembered vividly what Patrick had looked like that evening as he approached the gate. How pathetic his battered body had appeared. Sonny wasn’t heartless, but he certainly understood the circumstances under which they now lived. He wouldn’t have allowed Patrick onto Driftwood Key although he’d never throw that in Hank’s face. His old friend beat himself up over it every day.

“Another straggler,” he whispered to Hank as the two men strolled to the middle of the gate with their rifles raised and their eyes trained on the newcomer.

The barely discernible figure slowly approached, dragging a gimp leg behind him. Then, like an old drunk might, he stumbled and fell to one knee on the bridge before toppling over.

As if Hank could read Sonny’s mind, he said, “I promise you. No more Patrick situations. Let’s just let him lie there and die if we have to. We’ll just roll him over into the water to feed whatever’s down there today.”

“Works for me,” said Sonny, who slowly lowered his gun.

For nearly ten minutes, Hank and Sonny studied the figure curled up in a ball on the bridge. Finally, Hank leaned over to Sonny.

“Do you think he’s dead? I mean, the guy hasn’t moved since he hit the road.”

“Hell, I guess we could go take a look,” replied Sonny.

“What if it’s a trap? This guy may have an army hidden on the other side of the bridge. Even with the low light, we’d be sittin’ ducks out there.”

Sonny shrugged. “There’s no rule that says we have to help him, right?”

“Nope.”

Hank sighed and lowered his rifle. He and Sonny stood still, studying the body that lay in a heap on the bridge. They waited for any slight movement to give them an indication of whether the intruder was dead or alive.

Another couple of minutes passed, and Hank whispered to Sonny, “What if this guy is a diversion? While we’re waiting on him to do something, they could approach us by water.”

Sonny turned to look in that direction and then returned his gaze to the lifeless body on the bridge. “Could be. Let’s bring this thing to a head, you wanna?”

Hank shrugged. “Sure, why not? It’s kinda weird, and I trust no one, you know. Whadya have in mind?”

“I could shoot him in the leg,” replied Sonny. “If he screams, then he’s alive. If he doesn’t, then we have our answer.”

Hank looked over at Sonny’s face. His amiable, kindhearted friend had hardened through all of this, especially after what Patrick had done to Phoebe and Mike. Hank looked around in all directions and wiped the perspiration that had developed on his brow, his natural reaction to being under stress.

“Unlock the gate,” began Hank. “I’ll go out there and see what the deal is. You stay here so we don’t both get caught outside the gate. If I get jumped, you lock up. Got it?”

“Hank, let me do it,” insisted Sonny. “You’re too import—”

Hank cut him off. “Bullshit, Sonny. You’ve got a wife and a kid.” He caught himself at the last moment. The Frees were distraught over their missing son, and they coped with it by not discussing it until they could send out a search party. It was agreed that once Mike recuperated, they’d conduct a thorough search of the Upper Keys, using Mike and Jessica’s friends in the sheriff’s department to assist.

Sonny wanted to argue the point, but Hank was firm in his resolve. He pointed to the lock and readied his rifle. Sonny pulled the gate open to let Hank out and then closed it without locking it just in case his friend needed to beat a hasty retreat.

Hank approached the body cautiously, pointing the barrel of his rifle toward the man’s back. He was a soldier of some kind. Very odd, Hank thought.

He watched for any movement but paid particular attention to the man’s hands, which were tucked under his stomach. His face was turned away from Hank, not that it mattered because his long hair would’ve covered it anyway. Puzzled, Hank suddenly stopped. He tilted his head sideways and scowled. There was something about this guy.

Suddenly, Peter groaned and turned his face toward his father. He mouthed the word, but his vocal cords refused to let him speak.

Dad.

“Peter?” Hank set his rifle down and began to run toward his son. “Peter! Son! I’m here.”

Hank rushed to his son’s side and fell to his knees. He was sobbing as he frantically tried to wipe the long stringy hair off his face. He turned slightly to Sonny so he could be heard.

“Sonny! It’s Peter! Get Jess! Hurry!”

All he heard in response was some kind of hoot and holler and shouting directed toward the main house. He turned his attention back to his son.

“Here. Sit up. Are you hurt?”

Peter managed to sit up and then laughed. It was a simple act that felt good and painful at the same time. Peter whispered to his dad, who’d wrapped his arms around him, “I’ll be good as long as you don’t squeeze out my insides.”

Hank started crying again, coughing and choking as the tears flowed. “Thank you, God. Thank you for bringing home my son!”

“Hank! We’re coming!” Jessica shouted from a distance.

“Hang in there, Pete. We’ll get you fixed up. You have no idea how much I’ve worried about you.”

Peter managed a smile. “I know. I should’ve called.” Then he began choking as he caused himself to chuckle.

Hank hugged him hard again, and Peter feigned losing his breath before he forced his body to go limp. This caused his dad to panic, thinking he had in fact squeezed the life out of his boy. He released his bear hug.

“No! Peter, are you with me?”

“Yeah, Dad,” he whispered with his hoarse voice. “Just kiddin’.”

Hank touched Peter’s bearded face. “You’re a rotten kid.”

“I know,” Peter said as the tears found their way out of his dehydrated body.

Seconds later, Jessica led Sonny and Phoebe across the bridge, where another tearful reunion began. They hugged and cried before helping Peter to his feet. Phoebe promised him all kinds of hearty foods to eat; he simply needed to make his choice. Sonny raced off with her to get Peter’s room ready. After an initial assessment, Jessica was comfortable Peter would live, but he needed to be bandaged up. She rushed off to her boat to get her full first aid kit after confirming that Peter could make his way to the house, using his dad for support.

Once father and son were left alone again, Peter waited while Hank locked the gate. He ran his arm through the sling of his rifle and stood next to Peter, who draped his arm over Hank’s shoulder. They walked twenty feet or so before Peter stopped.

After gulping two bottles of water, his voice had recovered somewhat. He was capable of whispering louder without pain.

“Dad, I’ve got to tell you something.”

“What is it? Is it about Lacey?”

“Lacey’s not here?” Peter asked, his tone reflecting his surprise.

“No, son. I haven’t heard from her at all.”

Peter sighed and dropped his chin to his chest. He thought Lacey would’ve come home before the attack, as he’d suggested to her. He’d broach the subject after he had some rest.

He continued. “Dad, I was with Jimmy. It’s a long story, but he and I were trapped on the other side of U.S. 1 when they blew up the bridge. Anyway, we made our way into Blackwater Sound when we got caught in the middle of the hurricane.”

Hank welled up in tears again. “Is he, um? Son, is Jimmy…?” Hank’s voice trailed off because he couldn’t bring himself to say the word dead.

“I don’t know. We got separated. I found his WaveRunner, but he was missing. I’ve looked all day trying to find him. Nothing.”

Hank took a deep breath and glanced toward the main house. “Let’s get you cleaned up and fed. Then we’re gonna have to tell his parents. This is not good.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Saturday, November 9

Lower Keys Medical Center

Key West

If the world wasn’t in the midst of the apocalypse, Mike would’ve thought he was arriving at the scene of any other crime. Uniformed deputies milled about, hyped up by the events they didn’t witness but could only talk about. Civilians huddled in corners, comforting one another even though they were on the second or third floors far away from the drama.

He’d been called hero more times than he could count as one person after another filed by the trauma recovery room, where he awaited a doctor’s final clearance to leave. His sutures had been torn open and continuously oozed blood throughout the ordeal. However, he was easily stitched up by one of the less frenzied nurses with a steady hand. He was thankful for that.

There was pain, but not the sharp, stinging pain he’d been warned about as a sign of trouble. After he’d been left alone, he did a self-assessment to determine if there was internal bleeding.

Weakness or numbness on the wounded side of his body? Nope.

Tingling in his extremities? Nope.

Headaches, impaired vision, or hearing? Nope, nope, and nope.

As far as Mike was concerned, he was good to go, and if he wasn’t released, he’d simply slip out the door in his street clothes.

After the shooting was over and the hospital erupted with activity, he had some time to clear his head in between visits by congratulating well-wishers. The world had gone to shit and would only get worse for years. The decision he’d reached with Jessica was confirmed by what had happened at the hospital. It was time to protect his family and Driftwood Key.

Mike came up with a plan, one that involved taking advantage of the chaos following the hurricane as well as the distraction of the MCSO at the moment. In addition, for his plan, he had another advantage. Political capital. Heroes garnered lots of political capital.

The moment he walked out the doors of the hospital, he was going straight to the sheriff’s office. He’d adopt an Action Jackson superhero crime fighter type of attitude when he arrived. He’d play the part of hero if that was what they wanted. He’d put on the cape and mask in order to do one thing.

Prepare to defend their home.

“Mr. Albright,” the emergency room physician announced, snapping Mike out of his daydream, “under any other circumstances, I would never consider letting you out of my sight, much less this hospital. That said, you have two things going for you. One, you proved that you can be mobile. That goes without saying. Two, we’ve got a flood of patients inbound from throughout the Keys who’ve been seriously injured by this devil of a storm that passed over us. Actually, you can thank the hurricane for me signing this.”

The doctor handed Mike a number of pages that included aftercare procedures. He only had to see the front page of the stapled packet to manage a smile. He’d been discharged.

Mike tried to control his exuberance. He had work to do. “Thank you, Doc. I appreciate you guys fixin’ me up.”

The physician looked down and studied the floor covered in crusty drops of Mike’s blood. He seemed to get emotional before he spoke. He slicked back his thinning hair and let Mike know what was on his mind.

“You know, in the heat of the moment and under harried conditions, one might not have the opportunity to study those around them. Mr. Albright, I was the physician standing over the GSW patient. I was wearing a surgical mask, and the lighting was not optimal. And you probably never saw my face. Nonetheless, I firmly believe you saved my life earlier.”

Now Mike understood his demeanor. “Doc, I was just doing my job.”

The doctor looked his patient in the eyes. His eyes were red and swollen, as well as filled with teary moisture. “Maybe. You could’ve been justified in sitting it out, too. There are a lot of appreciative people around here who’ll never forget your bravery.”

Mike smiled. He didn’t receive words of appreciation very often.

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the corridor. The doctor turned to take a look. It was a few of Mike’s fellow detectives. They’d come to check on him and heap praise of their own.

The doctor slipped out of the way, and the detectives joined Mike in the cramped trauma recovery room. He rolled up his discharge paperwork and used it as a club to playfully swat at the detectives as they entered. After some ribbing, they escorted Mike out of the hospital and to the sheriff’s office. He was told Sheriff Jock wanted to personally thank him for his valor.

Mike couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity to implement his plan. When he entered the MCSO facility, he was applauded like a rock star. He had to warn his fellow law enforcement officers that hugs and backslaps were off-limits. He didn’t need his sutures torn open again. The appreciative doctor might not let him leave the next time.

“Hey, Mike!” shouted one of the captains on the force. “Sheriff Jock would like to see you. But a heads-up. He’s knee-deep in the shit, if you know what I mean. He does wanna throw some kudos in your direction.”

Mike thanked the captain and made his way to the sheriff’s office. As he did, he formulated his pitch. He’d have only one shot at this, and he’d better make it a good one.

He waited outside Sheriff Jock’s office. Mike had a decent rapport with the rarely amiable sheriff. He’d learned early on after Sheriff Jock was elected that the man wished he worked for the FBI. Nobody knew why the sheriff didn’t pursue his dream of a career at Quantico or one of the many field offices staffed by FBI agents around the country.

He was certainly not a politician capable of slapping backs, shaking hands, or kissing babies. In his three elections thus far, he’d let voters in Monroe County know where he stood on certain issues, and they could take it or leave it. In a way, Mike thought, that had been refreshing. Full transparency should be a requirement of all politicians with no false promises.

When Mike was finally called into the sheriff’s office, he immediately noticed a change in the man’s demeanor. He usually remained stoic in a crisis. Sheriff Jock was the kind of field general who could lead his department through the worst of hurricanes or the rowdiest of Key West gatherings. He’d even provided Mike and the other detectives the support they needed while they pursued their serial killer.

Today, the sheriff seemed harried. Almost nervous. He was being hit from all sides with questions and demands from his staff. His secretary, the undersheriff, and two office personnel stood in a semicircle around his office, awaiting instructions. They parted slightly to allow Mike a path to approach the sheriff’s desk.

With a deep breath, Mike put on his politician’s hat and mentally put up his guard. Let the chess match begin.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Saturday, November 9

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

The nightmare had mercifully ended. At least this chapter in the story. The Cymopoleia gently rocked back and forth as the remnants of the hurricane gradually moved toward the north, taking the energy of the atmosphere with it. It wasn’t the lack of turbulent air or thrashing water that struck Lacey as odd. It was the glimpse of sunshine.

She’d sent Tucker below deck into the forward cabin to sleep. Ordered was more like it. He’d fought the storm all night and managed to rescue her from certain death. As daybreak came, Lacey expected to see what had become the norm—a thick layer of grayish, sooty clouds blocking out the sky. This morning was different.

“Tucker! Tucker! We have sun. I see it!”

Lacey pulled back on the throttle and allowed the bow to dip down toward the water. She called out his name again before racing out of the wheelhouse onto the aft deck. The brightness of the orb hiding behind the thinning clouds forced her to shade her eyes with her right hand.

Tucker rushed up the steps into the wheelhouse and out the back to join his mother. He squinted, partly because he had been sleeping in the dark cabin and due to the unusual brightness of the sky.

“Mom, do you think it’s over?”

Lacey closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the sun to allow her skin to soak in its muted radiance. It was warmer than normal, a welcome change from the conditions brought on by nuclear winter.

“I don’t know, son. It may just be temporary.”

“’Cause of the hurricane?”

“That was one heckuva storm,” she replied. “I’ve been through some bad ones before but never, of course, on the water. That storm was powerful, though. It could be that whatever this crap is that’s mixed into the atmosphere got pulled up the coast with the hurricane.”

Tucker’s shoulders drooped. His body language immediately reflected the conclusion he’d reached. “It’s just gonna come back.”

Lacey grimaced and wrapped her arm around her son’s shoulder. “Yeah, probably. But it does prove this smog isn’t invincible. Eventually, it seems like hurricanes and upper-level winds will cause it to dissipate.”

Tucker shielded his eyes and took in the moment before the opportunity was lost. “Who knows how long it will take. Eventually, there’ll be enough hurricanes and storms to push the bad air off to wherever pollution goes, right?”

Lacey could only guess what the answer was, but she had no problem giving her son some semblance of hope. “Right, skipper!” she said as she hugged her son.

At this moment, they were alive, and nothing stood in the way of their trip home. Riding out the storm had resulted in them being pushed way off course. She’d already done some mental calculations and determined they had just enough fuel to make it to the Keys. She understood how race teams felt when they did their calculations. Many pit bosses were gamblers by nature and would rather go for the win than refuel only to finish a couple of laps down. The closest point of land to their position was to backtrack toward Everglades City or even Naples. As far as she was concerned, that wasn’t an option.

She turned the helm over to Tucker with instructions to sail directly toward Driftwood Key. She was gonna go below, redress her bandages from the beating she’d taken when she flew overboard, and fix them something to eat. They would calculate their fuel levels in an hour and adjust their course for a closer point in the Keys if necessary.

As far as Lacey was concerned, if the Cymopoleia quit on them near the finish line, they’d gladly swim to shore. It was a gamble worth taking.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Saturday, November 9

Key West

“Mike Albright, come over here,” the sheriff instructed as Mike approached. “You need to be congratulated for a couple of reasons.”

Mike was surprised by the sheriff’s friendliness. His tone of voice was far from what Mike had expected considering the chaotic nature of the meeting with his staff. He was also confused as to why he’d made reference to a couple of reasons.

“Just doin’ my job, Sheriff,” he said, a phrase he’d repeated many times since he’d killed the two gunmen.

Sheriff Jock leaned onto his desk and extended his right hand to Mike, who gladly took it. The handshake seemed heartfelt.

“Detective, you saved a lot of lives in that hospital. Those drug runners have a rap sheet a mile long and were on the FBI’s most wanted. Apparently, they’d been holing up in a vacation rental house near Hemingway’s. The homeowner had returned from Georgia and confronted the three. There was a shoot-out resulting in the owner’s death. The leader of the trio, the guy on the table full of holes, decided it was a good idea to storm the hospital to get treatment. You showed him otherwise. Well done.”

An aide had entered the sheriff’s office and handed him a clipboard full of documents. He signed multiple pages without reading them. Apparently, despite the collapse of normalcy, the government hadn’t lost its love of a paper trail. This might make his job more complicated.

“Thanks, Sheriff. Um, I take it the ringleader of the bunch survived.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s the downside. I don’t want the scumbag in my jail. Hopefully, he won’t need any medical attention while he’s locked up. I’m sure the hospital will be a little slow to respond, if you know what I mean.”

Mike glanced around the room at the disinterested aides. None of them had left, so he assumed his time with the sheriff was drawing short.

“Well, there is something I’d like to—”

The sheriff cut him off. “Also, Detective, there’s something that just came in that only a handful of detectives are privy to. The guy who stabbed you, Patrick Hollister, is your serial killer.”

“What did you learn?”

“I picked a couple of guys who were available to toss his home and the bank branches where he worked. You have no idea what we found at their location on Simonton. He’s a demented jackass who needed to fry in Old Sparky at Starke.”

For seventy-five years, the electric chair had been the sole means of execution in Florida until the Florida State Legislature signed lethal injection into law. After 2000, prisoners awaiting execution had the choice of lethal injection or the electric chair. None of them had chosen Old Sparky, the nickname for the device located at the Florida State Prison outside Starke in Northeast Florida.

“I saved the state a lot of money,” quipped Mike.

“And burial expense,” added the sheriff. “I understand your family threw him into the water. The nasty SOB is fish chum. It’s better than he deserves.”

Mike saw an opening. “Sheriff, we have the potential for more of this type of lawlessness. All of a sudden, the Florida Keys looks very long and spread out. Whadya think about letting me set up a substation of sorts in Marathon? Jessica and I could cover everything from the Seven Mile Bridge up to Lower Matecumbe Key. That would free up your deputies to focus on high-population areas like Key West and Key Largo.”

The sheriff thought for a moment and then turned to his undersheriff. “You and I have talked about something similar. Until we can get the roads cleared of stranded vehicles, first responders can’t make it past Big Pine Key without delays. We could do something similar in Islamorada. Right?”

“Absolutely, Sheriff,” he replied. “We don’t have a facility up that way, but I understand the mayor has plans to confis—”

The sheriff quickly cut him off before he could finish his sentence. “All of that’s on hold for now and can be discussed later.” He turned to Mike, who quickly offered a solution.

“Sheriff, Jess and I could work out of Driftwood Key and respond to calls. There’s no need to create some formal substation. We only need to gear up so we can have the tools necessary to respond.”

“What would you do with anyone you arrest?” asked the undersheriff.

Mike shrugged. “Tie ’em to a tree, I guess.” His quip caused the people in the office to roar with laughter, especially the sheriff. It helped seal the deal.

Sheriff Jock raised his right hand and pointed at one of his aides. “Take Detective Albright to get whatever he needs. This man is one of our finest, and I have no doubt he can handle Marathon and the surrounding Keys.”

“Yes, Sheriff,” the aide responded. “Detective, if you’ll follow me…” Her voice trailed off, as she was uncertain whether the meeting was over.

“Okay, Mike. Well done on all counts. And you’re right. It’s gonna get worse around here before it gets better. It’ll take some time, but we’ll shepherd Monroe County through this storm.”

Mike said his goodbyes and hustled out of the office before anyone could change their minds. He followed the woman to her office, where she started rummaging through her desk in search of requisition forms.

Finally, out of frustration, she muttered a profanity under her breath. She whispered to Mike, “You know what, Detective, this whole paper trail thing is a waste of time. Only half of us fill it out, and then who the hell knows whether it’s getting logged in. Do you have an idea of what you want?”

“Yeah.”

“Where do you wanna start?”

“Communications and then the armory. Also, I’ll need a set of wheels together with a few things from the motor pool. It doesn’t have to necessarily be our equipment. Seizures will work.”

The woman nodded. “Let’s get started. I could use the fresh air, if we can manage to find any.”

Pleased with himself, Mike followed the young woman down the corridor into the bowels of the sheriff’s department’s complex of buildings. The stars had aligned for him to take whatever he needed, assuming he didn’t go nuts and unduly garner someone’s attention.

A quick hour later, Mike pulled out of the MCSO complex with a black, four-door Suburban that had been seized in a drug bust together with a six-by-twelve enclosed trailer from a cabinet maker who’d skipped town after taking his customer’s deposit checks. Both the Suburban and the trailer were full of weapons, ammunition, and a myriad of supplies Mike considered to be essential to his family’s survival. The six five-gallon gas cans strapped to the roof of the Suburban served as the icing on the cake of his retirement present. The only thing he forgot to do on the way out was give notice of his retirement, by design, of course.

After he drove past Stock Island, it took Mike over two hours to reach Seven Mile Bridge. Stranded cars and pedestrians constituted the biggest impediment to traveling across the long span of A1A. Prior to that, fallen trees and parts of buildings still covered the highway following the hurricane.

Big Pine Key had been hit hard. There, A1A made an S curve through the retail district along a stretch where the highway ran through the hammocks that were barely a few feet above water. Sand, vegetation, and the metal fencing that acted as guardrails had become melded together. The tangled mess swept across the road, making it difficult to differentiate between the highway and the rest of its surroundings.

Apparently, clearing the road of debris was very low on Mayor Lindsey’s list of priorities. That was fine with Mike. The undersheriff’s near slipup had confirmed what Mike suspected would be happening throughout the Keys very soon. Lindsey planned on tightening her grip on the county’s residents and businesses. Mike had two options. One, which he’d set into motion today, was to appear to join them or be a loyal participant when she consolidated her power. The other was to show his cards only if forced to. It would be a dangerous game that required a clear mind.

Standing up to an angry mayor and her puppet sheriff was a deadly proposition Mike didn’t want to contemplate. He leaned back in the seat of the Suburban and relaxed once he exited the bridge and arrived in Marathon. When Hank and Jessica left, he’d told them to stay away until the storm had cleared and they’d taken care of Driftwood Key first. From what he’d observed on the drive up, he suspected they had their hands full.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Saturday, November 9

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

As expected, the brief glimpse of the sun peeking through the clouds was soon lost, and the depressing hazy skies returned. That didn’t dampen the spirits of Lacey and Tucker. For the first time since they’d left Tarpon Springs, they could make out land in the distance. More than land. It was home.

They were moving at a steady pace and expected to make landfall within hours. That was when they encountered something unexpected. The United States Coast Guard.

It was not just a single patrol vessel. It was an armada that stretched as far as the eyes could see to the north. Tucker found the binoculars and counted the ships, although he was unfamiliar with their nomenclature. He described them as one large boat with a helicopter pad on the rear; then there were four or five short boats with orange railings that looked like rubber. Two grayish boats with their drivers on top flanked the group. Bringing up the rear was a boat the size of a cruise ship. Tucker described it as being five or six times larger than their fishing boat.

He returned to the open window of the wheelhouse next to the helm and described what he’d observed. “Mom, there aren’t any to our right. I think if we hurry, we can cut across their path before we get stuck. I’d hate to run out of diesel waiting on these guys to pass us.”

“Agreed. Come back in and let’s open her up until we’re clear.” She glanced down at the fuel gauge. There was no time for calculations. Let the chips fall as they may.

Lacey’s decision to take the Cymopoleia at full throttle to avoid contact with the Coast Guard was a wise one. The contingent had been dispatched on the president’s orders. Like its counterpart on the Atlantic side of the Keys, it was moving at a steady pace with one ship at a time dropping back and settling into a fixed position. By late that afternoon, the Coast Guard would have created a blockade that included orders to board and search every vessel coming in or out of the Keys.

After the encounter with the Coast Guard was behind them, Lacey and Tucker became more excited as they approached. Their eyes darted between the boat’s fuel gauge and what lay beyond the bow. The chain of limestone islands extending from Key Largo to Key West and geographically all the way to the Dry Tortugas were beginning to reveal themselves through the haze.

The calm seas and very little in the way of surf made their final leg of the journey uneventful. That didn’t stop their pulses from racing in nervous anticipation. Lacey turned giddy as the largest cluster of islands making up the Lower Keys could be seen off the stern. The large gap between the islands was clearly Seven Mile Bridge. As they got closer, she pointed out the various keys by name. Big Coppitt. Cudjoe. Big Pine.

And then Marathon.

Lacey began to cry tears of relief and joy. Somehow, in the back of her mind, there was still doubt whether the Florida Keys still existed. Her home in Hayward had likely been destroyed. She certainly expected Peter’s had been as well, or at least was uninhabitable. Would the devilish people who’d ordered the release of the nuclear weapons set their sights on a place like Miami as well? Maybe. And if so, had the Keys been spared?

Trepidation turned to elation as the dock came into view right where it should be. Her dad’s boat along with Jessica’s WET team vessel were tied off to the cleats.

“We did it, Mom! I knew we could!”

Lacey got emotional as she approached Driftwood Key. Thoughts of Owen filled her head. They should’ve made it together as a family. A freak winter storm event had taken his life, just as a devilish hurricane had tried to take theirs. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, speaking to her husband as if he were by her side. She told him how much she loved him and how much he would be missed.

She thought of his cremated remains secured in a thick, tightly sealed equivalent of a Ziploc baggie. During the shooting at the dock in Bay St. Louis, Lacey had made sure her small duffel with his remains made it on board the boat. She was glad she’d had the forethought to secure it away in the galley so Owen’s remains wouldn’t be disturbed. She’d find a special place to bury him on Driftwood Key, a place Owen had loved as much as he’d loved her family.

“Mom! Is that Sonny?”

“It is!” Lacey began to press the button on the helm to sound the air horn. She pressed it several times so that long, drawn-out blasts filled the quiet, still morning.

Tucker rushed out of the wheelhouse and made his way to the bow. He gripped the railing and waved his arm back and forth in a long arc. He and Sonny had always gotten along when the McDowell family came to visit. Growing up, Tucker had enjoyed learning about the greenhouses and the hydroponics operation in addition to the nonstop frolicking on the beach.

“Mr. Hank! Mr. Hank!” Sonny turned away from the shore and began running in the direction of the bungalows.

Lacey had slowed to an idle, and her wake began to push her towards the shoreline. She glanced over at the dock to check the waterline. It gave her an idea of whether the tide was low or high. Based upon her recollection of the shallow nature of the waters around Driftwood Key, she figured she was close enough to shore since it appeared to be low tide.

“Stand clear, Tucker!” she shouted through the side window of the wheelhouse. “I’m dropping anchor!”

Tucker stood back but remained on the foredeck, staring toward the shore. He waited to see his grandfather arrive to greet them. For an eternity, nobody else appeared on shore.

Mike eased across the bridge, eventually pulling the Suburban just short of the center point. He could make out traces of blood on the bridge, which immediately set off alarms in his mind. He reached for the holster sitting on the passenger seat and removed the .40-caliber Smith & Wesson handgun.

With the weapon swinging back and forth in search of a target, Mike slowly walked to the spot on the bridge where he’d noticed the blood. He dropped to a knee and felt the moist, sticky substance, which had begun to soak into the crushed shells.

He dared not call out for fear he might alert gunmen on Driftwood Key. The moist blood coupled with the unmanned gate concerned him. For whatever reason, they’d abandoned the only point of entry from land. Had a boat approached from the Gulf, forcing them to defend the dock? Then what about the blood? Whom did it belong to?

Mike didn’t waste any more time. He ran back to the Suburban and gently closed the driver’s door after retrieving the keys from the ignition. Then he locked it so that no one could steal the weapons or many thousands of rounds of ammunition he’d procured from the armory and the seizure lockers.

He made his way along the gate, using the strength of his arms to assist in climbing around the outside until he was within the compound. His wounds screamed at him, but he put all of that out of his mind as he focused on protecting his family.

Mike started running toward the main house but skidded to a stop as he heard someone shout his brother’s name.

Just as the anchor dropped into the water and Lacey put the boat in reverse to set it in the sand, several more people began running toward the dock.

The entourage was led by Hank and Sonny rushing toward them from the driveway. Jessica and Phoebe came from a different angle near the main house. Finally, Peter ambled along, moving somewhat like a pegleg pirate but keeping pace as he brought up the rear.

After shutting off Big Cam, Lacey ran out of the wheelhouse to join Tucker. Tears of joy streamed down their faces as they stood on the bow, waving to their family. Everyone called out one another’s names until Hank, Sonny, and Jessica ran into the water and began wading as fast as possible toward the Cymopoleia.

Without saying a word, Lacey and Tucker looked at one another. They climbed over the railing at the bow, grabbed each other’s hands, and jumped together into the waters off Driftwood Key.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Saturday, November 9

Driftwood Key

Everyone was sobbing as they hugged one another. Tears mixed with salt water soaked their bodies. Even Peter dragged his battered body into the water to hold his sister in an embrace they’d never shared with this level of emotional intensity. He’d been on the road like she had. He assumed she’d seen the devastation and depraved acts man could inflict upon his fellow man. He knew in his gut that something had happened to Owen and that she would bring herself to say it when she could gather the strength to do so.

The excitement of their reunion was muted by the absence of Owen and Jimmy. Lacey sobbed as she explained to everyone how Owen had died. She had difficulty catching her breath at times, so Tucker tried to explain in more detail. So much had happened to them en route from California. Lacey and Tucker weren’t sure they could remember it all.

Peter explained to his sister about Jimmy’s disappearance. The group had planned on starting a search for Jimmy, when Sonny had heard the boat arrive. Lacey immediately moved to comfort Phoebe, who broke down. For all of the joy surrounding the Albright family reuniting, in part, there was still the despair and uncertainty regarding Jimmy’s fate.

Searching for Jimmy became something they could all rally behind. Lacey and Tucker swore they had no need to sleep. Jimmy should be their priority. Peter, busted up as he was, agreed wholeheartedly. They all began walking on shore when Mike appeared at the driveway.

Lacey noticed him first. “Uncle Mike!”

The two had always been close. Mike never had children, and when Lacey was growing up, she was the little girl he’d always wanted. The two had been inseparable until Mike’s duties took him away from Driftwood Key and he married Jessica. Lacey had grown up, gone to college, and started a family. However, they still talked on the phone often and texted frequently, something Mike wasn’t a fan of but did in order to stay in contact with his niece.

It was a race up the beach, as Lacey got a head start, but the speedy Jessica quickly caught up. The two women joked as they playfully swatted at one another in their efforts to reach Mike first.

“He’s my favorite uncle!” shouted Lacey in a childlike manner.

“He’s your only uncle. He’s my husband!”

“Big deal! I’ve known him longer.” Lacey argued.

The two of them arrived at the same time. Mike had shoved his weapon into the waistband of his jeans and held up his arms to slow down the two charging women.

“Hold up, you two! Don’t forget. Knife wound.” He took a step back and gently tapped his heart with the palm of his hand.

Lacey stopped abruptly and scowled. “Knife wound? Jess said you were in the hospital. She didn’t say anything about a knife wound.”

“Long story,” said Mike with a smile. Now that the two were not moving at a pace capable of knocking him over, he opened his arms wide to hug the two most important women in his life.

“They released you early,” said Jessica as she buried her face between his neck and his shoulder.

“Yeah, long story. Speaking of long story, look at you, Lacey. You guys made it. That’s amazing.” Mike had more to say, but he stopped as he looked past the women toward the group walking toward them. He craned his neck and searched the rest of the beach. “Um, where’s Owen?”

Lacey looked into her uncle’s eyes and broke down crying again. All she could do was shake her head and bury her face against Mike’s chest. He gave them both a bear hug without speaking. There would be plenty of time to get caught up later.

Tucker joined the hugfest, and Mike pulled him close to his mom. The two locked eyes. Mike studied the young man. It had been more than a year since he’d seen Tucker. He was no longer a girl-crazy teenager who was more beach boy than young adult. That had changed. Mike could see it in his eyes. Tucker was hardened. Older than his years. And somewhat empty inside. He hadn’t given up on life. But it did appear he’d seen things that Mike felt sure he needed to talk about. He vowed to be Tucker’s sounding board when the time came.

“Let’s all go inside,” said Phoebe. “I know everyone is hungry, and I’m sure these two are tired of wearing the same clothes. Lacey, Tucker, I’ve had your rooms ready for you since this all started. And I can arrange for a hot shower for you. You have to make it quick, though.”

“Yeet!” shouted Tucker, one of the few times he’d been able to genuinely show his excitement. He rushed to his grandfather’s side, and the two of them walked with their arms wrapped around one another’s waist toward the main house. Tucker explained to Hank what he’d observed in the last hours of their trip home. The number of Coast Guard ships caught Hank’s attention, and he told Tucker to discuss this in more detail with Jessica.

Meanwhile, Jessica and Lacey tore themselves away from Mike and began marching toward the house arm in arm. “You’ve lost weight, girl,” said Jessica as she examined Lacey’s frame.

“Yeah, um, we didn’t always have much to eat. How are you guys doing? Can you still grow things in the greenhouses?”

“Yep. Hydroponics, too. Fish are still available although we have to go farther out. Jimmy knows all the best spots.”

“We gotta find him, Jess. I can see it in Phoebe’s eyes. She’s suppressing her feelings, and that’s not good.”

Jessica nodded. She leaned into Lacey and whispered, “Peter’s trying to remain positive, but I know those waters. It would be near impossible for him to tread water for this long. He’s a great swimmer, but I think we would’ve heard something by now. You know?”

Lacey sighed and rolled her neck around her shoulders. She was exhausted, but she didn’t want to be the reason the group didn’t start their search.

“Listen. A hot shower and some of Phoebe’s cooking and we’ll be good to go. But I guarantee we crash hard tonight.”

Jessica squeezed Lacey again. “I’m so glad you and Tucker made it. Owen is very proud of you. I promise.”

Lacey looked toward the sand and then up into the gray skies. “Yeah, I know.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Saturday, November 9

Driftwood Key

An hour later, the group had gathered in the dining room, where the chairs around the table were full except for Jimmy’s to the left of Sonny, and Owen’s, which was symbolically placed between Lacey and Tucker. They said a prayer before devouring a large stockpot of conch chowder doused with Cholula hot sauce and sprinkled with crushed saltine crackers. The group chatted away, allowing Lacey and Peter to alternate telling the stories of what they’d experienced along the way.

To their credit, the brother and sister avoided the details of their brushes with death. Peter managed to make lighthearted jokes about the father and son who’d fleeced so many people to give them a ride to Florida. He never detailed how they died, simply saying Mr. Uber had been put out of business.

Lacey talked about the positive aspects of their time in Otero County, Colorado, where Owen had met his demise. They were so appreciative of how Sheriff Mobley, his deputies, and everyone at the hospital had treated them. The sheriff had been representative of the town as a whole, who came together to make Lacey and Tucker feel welcome.

Hank, Mike and Jessica expressed their concerns that Lindsey’s approach to governance was completely opposite that of Sheriff Mobley. Rather than helping strangers in their time of need, she elected to kick them while they were down. Hank justified closing the inn well in advance of the attacks based upon Peter’s hunch that trouble was brewing. At least, Hank said, his guests were able to get to their homes before the bombs dropped on American soil.

While the others talked among themselves, Hank’s mind wandered to the day Erin Bergmann had left. Of all the guests of the Driftwood Key Inn during that period of uncertainty, she was the one person Hank wished had remained behind.

His mind wandered to recall their time together. He’d enjoyed walking along the beach with her in the morning, something he’d never done with another woman besides his wife before she died. It had been their serious conversation sitting on the trunk of a palm tree about the prospects of nuclear war and the aftermath, nuclear winter, that had led Hank to the difficult decision to empty the rooms at the inn. It had also prodded him to take so many steps to prepare for the climate disaster that had been unfolding for weeks.

In many ways, Erin had had a profound impact on his life. He’d learned he could find love again and that there was a partner out there who could provide him the strength to survive.

Hank rolled a piece of conch around in his soup bowl as he thought about that last day together. The fishing trip that had almost landed a trophy fish that would provide a lifetime of stories. The sudden appearance of the Coast Guard boat that had whisked her away to Washington.

Hank caught himself as his daydream of Erin became a little too real. He thought he could hear the steady beating of helicopter rotors offshore. He hadn’t seen or heard any kind of aircraft since the bombs dropped. He assumed there must’ve been some type of no-fly order in place around the country.

He dropped his spoon and pushed away from the table, where the rest of his family continued to chat about the new arrivals’ experiences outside the Keys. He slowly walked toward the windows of the dining room, which overlooked the beach and the grassy lawn that was slowly turning brown.

“Everyone! There’s a chopper swooping toward the house.”

Jessica leapt out of her chair first and joined Hank’s side. She pressed her face against the glass and cupped her hands so she could see with less glare.

“Coast Guard.”

“Is it Jimmy?” asked a hopeful Phoebe.

“Maybe,” replied Hank.

“Tucker and I saw a whole fleet of Coast Guard ships heading down the Keys,” said Lacey.

“What do we do?” asked Tucker.

Jess turned to Mike. “Weapons?”

Mike grimaced and shook his head. “Jeez, we might win this battle but not the next one. We need to see what they want.”

“I’ll do it,” said Hank as he adjusted his clothes and stood a little taller. “Everyone, please stay inside.”

He walked with some hesitancy toward the front door and let himself out. He pulled the door shut behind him and walked onto the porch. He stood there for a moment with his hand shoved into his pants pockets not unlike any other day before the bombs dropped when he’d greeted arriving guests. Only this time, these guests were unwelcome and had arrived in a most unconventional way.

Hank remained on the porch as the chopper set down. The powerful rotors of the Airbus MH-65 whipped the grounds into a frenzy, sending fallen debris from the hurricane back in all directions while dislodging any palm fronds that had begun to die.

The side door of the helicopter opened, and nothing happened for nearly thirty seconds. Hank had seen too many movies, some of which had been shot on Seven Mile Bridge, like Mission Impossible III. He took a deep breath and steadied his nerves, fully expecting a gatling gun or a portable rocket launcher to emerge to put him out of business, using Peter’s way of describing the death of Mr. Uber.

Instead, a woman stepped out of the helicopter onto the sand with a large duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Seconds later, the door was pulled shut, and the pilot lifted the chopper into the air. It took off in a rush toward the Gulf, leaving the woman alone on the sand.

Hank glanced toward the dining room window, where several faces were pressed against the glass, watching the scene unfold. He made eye contact with Mike and shrugged. Confident the threat posed by the person on the beach was not as great as a rocket-propelled projectile fired at his chest, Hank went down the steps and began walking toward her.

Then there was that moment of recognition not unlike the second he’d recognized Peter’s lifeless body lying on the bridge. There was a familiarity with the person who slowly walked toward him.

Hank began running toward her. She dropped her bag and trudged up the wet sand toward him. Hank and Erin Bergmann collided midway in the center of the lawn. The feelings they shared from their brief time together never waned. There was something between them. It was love they’d never expressed for one another. And now, the impossible seemed to have happened. The two found each other once again.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Saturday, November 9

1800 Atlantic Condominiums

Key West

Their bodies were tangled in the covers, intertwined as lovers sometimes end up. However, the release of tension was only temporary. It was time for a celebratory cigarette and another drink, the two habits that had returned to Mayor Lindsey Free’s daily routine of self-medication as a coping mechanism.

Smoking. Drinking. Sex. Rinse and repeat.

She crawled out of her bed and searched in the darkness for her pack of smokes. She flicked her Bic, instantly illuminating the room so she could see the carnage wrought by their tryst. She grabbed the candle off her nightstand and lit it, allowing the orange glow emanating from the flame to fill the room.

Lindsey was still getting used to her temporary home. Her house at the Key West Golf Club on Stock Island was too long a commute to the Monroe County Administration building. Prior to the collapse, such a statement would seem absurd, as it was only six miles to her office. However, with the late hours and unsavory characters who had begun to roam the streets of Key West, it was safer as well as more convenient for her to take one of the vacation rentals at 1800 Atlantic, an upscale condominium building overlooking the Edward B. Knight Pier and the ocean.

Take being the operative word. Lindsey had completely embraced the tone and tenor of the president’s martial law declaration. So much so that one of the first orders of business was to have her legal department draft a similar measure to be adopted via executive order and applied to Monroe County.

She saw the concept of martial law for what it was. The ability for the executive branch of any level of government to wield unbridled power over all aspects of its citizenry and businesses. If Lindsey wanted a penthouse suite atop 1800 Atlantic, she issued an executive order to seize it for the greater good of Monroe County. If a business had closed because it no longer wanted to sell its supply of a product she deemed of vital importance to the greater good of Monroe County, she sent in the sheriff’s department armed with an executive order and the firepower necessary to seize the business.

Nothing was off-limits. She could close churches as being a threat due to the fact it was a large gathering. She could order curfews. She could demand residents wear certain types of identifying clothing to delineate where they lived within the Keys. She could prohibit the use of automobiles and even instruct people to turn over their gasoline stored in containers. The carrying of identification cards confirming they were Florida Keys’ residents was already in place.

All for the greater good.

Lindsey believed in fairness. To her, it wasn’t fair that some households had sufficient food and supplies to last many months while others within the Keys were suffering from dehydration and starvation. Who could argue with her when she asked those who had the means to take their neighbors into their homes following the devastation wrought by the hurricane? Of course we should help one another. To do otherwise was selfish and inhuman.

And if people didn’t see it her way, the right way, then she would exercise the same powers afforded the President of the United States to bring them into the fold. By force if necessary. Share and share alike, she thought to herself as she downed the scotch. It’s the new American way.

Her lover stirred in the bed. She poured herself another scotch and lit a second cigarette. She took a long drag on the smoke and tilted her head back as she exhaled. The wispy trails of gray floated into the air until they came into contact with the heat generated by the candle nearby. The two forces combined to create an odd dance above the candlelight.

Never let a good crisis go to waste.

Lindsey couldn’t recall who made the statement, but it certainly made sense. She’d always had a vision for the Keys that couldn’t be implemented due to the constraints of politics and silly things like the Constitution.

Nuclear winter certainly was the kind of crisis a politician could use to effectuate change on a major scale. Compounding the suffering with a devastating hurricane that came without warning provided the impetus to exercise control like she never imagined. She knew what was best for the Keys and its residents.

That was why she felt it was necessary to isolate the island chain from the rest of the country. The fewer people who were present in her newly created fiefdom, the easier it would be to control them.

Naturally, she expected to piss off the administration in Washington. Frankly, she was surprised when they’d reacted the way they did to her simple roadblocks. She’d heard rumors of those independent-minded Texans trying to close their borders off to refugees. That was an entire state giving Washington the middle finger. The president should be focusing his attention on those people.

Yet, when she’d learned he was sending a large contingent of National Guard troops from outside Florida, she assumed he had every intention of displacing her as the chief executive of Monroe County. The president didn’t understand her use of the checkpoints and roadblocks, nor did he appreciate the need to evict noncitizens.

Perhaps the last straw was during a phone call before the grid collapsed when she’d shouted at the president’s do-boy, Chief of Staff Harrison Chandler, “You do you, and we’ll do us. Stay in your own lane!” After that, Lindsey had stopped taking phone calls from Washington and got prepared to defend the Keys, and her job, from outsiders.

She stood naked in front of the window overlooking the pool and the beach. The soft glow of solar-powered landscape lighting found its way to the top floor of the building. She was surprised there was sufficient sunlight to power them. She took another sip of scotch and leaned against the glass door, which was cold on her hip. She desperately wanted to open the sliding glass doors to listen to the waves lapping on shore, but the air quality was poor.

Blowing up the bridges had not been completely her idea. It had been his. For years, she’d been attracted to the man who was sprawled out in her bed, blissfully sleeping after a hard evening’s work in bed.

Despite their longtime acquaintance, the opportunity had never presented itself, as he’d moved away for a time and she’d married a local man. After her divorce, dating wasn’t even on her radar, as she intended to climb the political ladder as far as it would take her. Men, she decided, would be a distraction, and the wrong man would be a political liability. Yet she still enjoyed a man’s touch from time to time.

Then he’d returned to the Keys. A chamber of commerce event followed by several drinks at Nine One Five on Duval Street had brought the two of them together. They’d become reacquainted as friends with benefits, as the saying goes. It was a mutually agreeable affair to be kept quiet and out of public view, as neither could afford the scrutiny of city leaders or the community.

In addition to their sexual encounters, they became sounding boards for one another. Rarely did she make an important decision regarding Monroe County without his input. They analyzed every aspect of her political actions, and she provided him similar advice when requested. They had a great relationship that worked best if it was kept undercover, so to speak.

Now, he’d helped her implement her plans of making the Keys a better place during the collapse and into the future. She would reward him with her loyalty as well as her love. It was a partnership that sprang out of too many shots of Goldschläger, but one that endured thanks to mutually beneficial interests.

“Hey, what time is it?” her lover asked with a raspy, sleepy voice.

“I don’t know, late. Or early. Depending on how you look at it.”

“Come back to bed,” he plead with her as he moved the covers to clear a spot.

“Why? Is there something you need from me?” she asked with a chuckle.

He laughed. “More of the same, please.” He rose onto his elbow and patted the bed again.

Lindsey put out her cigarette and swigged the last of her scotch. Without another word, she slid into bed next to Sheriff Jock Daly and picked up where they’d left off a couple of hours ago.

THANK YOU FOR READING NUCLEAR WINTER: DEVIL STORM!

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WHAT’S COMING NEXT FROM BOBBY AKART?

NUCLEAR WINTER: DESOLATION, the epic finale in this survival thriller.

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OTHER WORKS BY AMAZON CHARTS TOP 25 AUTHOR BOBBY AKART

Nuclear Winter

First Strike

Armageddon

Whiteout

Devil Storm

Desolation

New Madrid (a standalone, disaster thriller)

Odessa (a Gunner Fox trilogy)

Odessa Reborn

Odessa Rising

Odessa Strikes

The Virus Hunters

Virus Hunters I

Virus Hunters II

Virus Hunters III

The Geostorm Series

The Shift

The Pulse

The Collapse

The Flood

The Tempest

The Pioneers

The Asteroid Series (A Gunner Fox trilogy)

Discovery

Diversion

Destruction

The Doomsday Series

Apocalypse

Haven

Anarchy

Minutemen

Civil War

The Yellowstone Series

Hellfire

Inferno

Fallout

Survival

The Lone Star Series

Axis of Evil

Beyond Borders

Lines in the Sand

Texas Strong

Fifth Column

Suicide Six

The Pandemic Series

Beginnings

The Innocents

Level 6

Quietus

The Blackout Series

36 Hours

Zero Hour

Turning Point

Shiloh Ranch

Hornet’s Nest

Devil’s Homecoming

The Boston Brahmin Series

The Loyal Nine

Cyber Attack

Martial Law

False Flag

The Mechanics

Choose Freedom

Patriot’s Farewell (standalone novel)

Black Friday (standalone novel)

Seeds of Liberty (Companion Guide)

The Prepping for Tomorrow Series

Cyber Warfare

EMP: Electromagnetic Pulse

Economic Collapse

ABOUT THE AUTHOR, BOBBY AKART

Author Bobby Akart has been ranked by Amazon as #25 on the Amazon Charts list of most popular, bestselling authors. He has achieved recognition as the #1 bestselling Horror Author, #1 bestselling Science Fiction Author, #5 bestselling Action & Adventure Author, #7 bestselling Historical Fiction Author and #10 on Amazon’s bestselling Thriller Author list.

Mr. Akart has delivered up-all-night thrillers to readers in 245 countries and territories worldwide. He has sold over one million books in all formats, which includes over forty international bestsellers, in nearly fifty fiction and nonfiction genres.

His novel Yellowstone: Hellfire reached the Top 25 on the Amazon bestsellers list and earned him multiple Kindle All-Star awards for most pages read in a month and most pages read as an author. The Yellowstone series vaulted him to the #25 bestselling author on Amazon Charts, and the #1 bestselling science fiction author.

Since its release in November 2020, his standalone novel, New Madrid Earthquake, has been ranked #1 on Amazon Charts in multiple countries as a natural disaster thriller.

Mr. Akart is a graduate of the University of Tennessee after pursuing a dual major in economics and political science. He went on to obtain his master’s degree in business administration and his doctorate degree in law at Tennessee.

A million copy bestseller, Bobby Akart has provided his readers a diverse range of topics that are both informative and entertaining. His attention to detail and impeccable research has allowed him to capture the imagination of his readers through his fictional works and bring them valuable knowledge through his nonfiction books.

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PRAISE FOR BOBBY AKART AND THE NUCLEAR WINTER SERIES

“Bobby’s uncanny ability to take a topic of ‘what could happen’ and write an epic story about it is short of preternatural!”

“Characters with depth coupled with an incredibly well researched topic wasn’t enough for the golden man of post apocalyptic fiction. Oh no, he went and threw in a murder mystery just to keep everyone guessing as well as what I believe is one of his best crafted cliff hangers.”

“I never would have believed that Mr. Akart could outdo himself! Well, he has! Nuclear Winter First Strike is quite possibly the best book he has ever written!”

“As with any of the best novels, this book really captures your attention and makes it hard to put down at the end of the day.”

“Nuclear Winter: First Strike and the Albright family are coming dangerously close to nudging my beloved Armstrong family (Lone Star series) into a tie for first place.”

“The suspense, the behind the scenes machinations of governments, the evil unleashed, the world on an uncharted path are all woven into another excellent story.”

“I am speechless. By far the most edge of your seat, acrylic nail biting book ever. E V E R.

The characters suck you in on a roller coaster ride of emotions.”

Copyright Information

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

© 2021 Crown Publishers Inc. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means including, but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the express written permission of Crown Publishers Inc.

Content

Bobby Akart
NUCLEAR WINTER IV
DEVIL STORM

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

DEDICATIONS

AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

REAL-WORLD NEWS EXCERPTS

EPIGRAPH

PART I Day twenty, Wednesday, November 6

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

PART II Day twenty-one, Thursday, November 7

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

PART III Day twenty-two, Friday, November 8

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

PART IV Day twenty-three, Saturday, November 9

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

THANK YOU FOR READING NUCLEAR WINTER: DEVIL STORM!

WHAT’S COMING NEXT FROM BOBBY AKART?

OTHER WORKS BY AMAZON CHARTS TOP 25 AUTHOR BOBBY AKART

ABOUT THE AUTHOR, BOBBY AKART

PRAISE FOR BOBBY AKART AND THE NUCLEAR WINTER SERIES

Copyright Information