PART IV Day eleven, Monday, October 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Monday, October 28

Fairfax, Virginia


Jackie was sobbing as Peter grasped her by the hand and led her through the CVS parking lot. He constantly glanced over his shoulder to watch for the last gunman to emerge in some poorly conceived effort to gain revenge for the deaths of his buddies. Peter had murdered them. That was a fact. Not that his actions could ever be justified, he knew that if he didn’t strike first, they would’ve killed him.

Once they crossed the boulevard and entered the woods, Jackie dropped to her knees from mental and physical exhaustion. Peter knelt down next to her. The sun was rising although it was mostly obscured by the smoky skies. The fires surrounding Washington had apparently intensified, and the cloud floating above them was mostly black from soot.

“I’m so sorry,” she said between her deep breaths and sniffles. “You needed me to protect you, and I crawled in the corner to hide.”

Peter gently patted her on the back as if she were a child. To him, it had all worked out well. At least she hadn’t panicked and shot him when he exited the pharmacy area.

“No worries. We’ve got your grandmother’s medicine and a few other things. That’s all that matters.”

“I knew them. At least one of them, anyway.” Jackie wiped her face and nose with her sleeve. Her blubbering subsided as she gathered herself. She glanced through the shrubs toward the drugstore before standing with the assistance of Peter. “I went to high school with him. I hope you shot him. He deserved to die.”

Peter scowled. “Whadya mean?”

“He raped my girlfriend when she was just thirteen. She went to a party to have fun. He was a senior in high school and got her drunk. When she passed out, he raped her.”

“God, Jackie. That’s awful. I’m so—”

“She tried to tell the police, but they said they couldn’t prove it,” Jackie continued. Her jaw was set, and there was anger in her eyes. “After they let him off the hook, he bragged all over school about his conquest, as he called it. My friend and I later found out he did this to other girls.”

Peter had no idea which man she was referring to. As they’d entered the pharmacy, he’d taken them out. Not that it mattered. Certainly, three of them were dead, and the fourth was like a frightened animal bleeding out in the back of the building.

“Well, it’s over now. Come on. Your grandmother and those cute little kids need you.”

Jackie laughed and spontaneously hugged Peter. “They’re not cute, frat boy. They are monsters.”

Peter laughed as he pointed down the path they’d used earlier. “Somehow I doubt that. They seemed well behaved when I was there.”

“They were afraid. Once they get to know you, the true monster comes out of all of them.”

Talking about her siblings seemed to place a new spring in Jackie’s step. She began to half-jog down the path, forcing Peter to do the same to catch up. Once they hit the sidewalks winding their way through the apartment complexes, Jackie was taking long strides as if she were power walking. Peter was amazed at how quickly she’d recovered from her angst.

“Mamaw is gonna be all right, isn’t she?” asked Jackie as they arrived at their complex.

Peter reached out to grab her arm. “Let’s talk about that before we get there. Jackie, this is just a temporary solution for her. I mean, after it’s taken from the fridge, it should last several weeks as long as temperatures stay cool.”

“You mean like they are right now?”

In the excitement, Peter hadn’t noticed the sudden drop in temperatures. “Yeah, actually. But what I’m saying is that this will run out eventually. You’re gonna have to find a hospital for her. I don’t think you can count on help from the government anytime soon.”

“You and I can start working on it tomorrow,” Jackie said as she started walking toward her building.

No, Jackie. Not me. I’ve gotta go.

The two of them rounded the corner and marched toward her apartment. Jackie suddenly stopped.

The front door was wide open.

“Something’s wrong,” she muttered as she took off running. “Mamaw!”

“Jackie, is that one of the kids over there?” asked Peter, pointing toward the parking lot.

Jackie took a step toward her youngest sibling. “Taysha! Come here. What are you—?”

“Jackie! Help!” her oldest sister screamed at her from inside the apartment, drawing her attention from the wandering child.

She raced ahead and rushed through the doorway. She immediately stopped and covered her nose and mouth with her arm. The apartment reeked with the stench of vomit.

Her grandmother was sprawled out on the floor facedown. She’d emptied the contents of her stomach next to her chair and again when she hit the floor.

“Mamaw!” Jackie screamed as she fell to her knees beside Asia.

Peter joined her. He pressed two fingers under her jaw against her carotid artery to feel for her pulse. Her meaty throat made it difficult.

“Help me roll her onto her side.”

“What?”

“Jackie, come on. Roll her over.”

It was difficult to move the extremely overweight woman. Peter needed to determine if she was alive. As they rolled her over, Asia began to gasp for air. She coughed up the last of the vomit in her throat and began to take rapid, shallow breaths.

“Honey, go get your sister out of the parking lot,” Jackie ordered her sister. Then she turned to Peter and looked him in the face. “Is she dying? We gotta do something!”

“Hold her steady.” Peter dumped the bag of insulin bottles onto the floor. He ripped open his cargo pants pocket and located the tactical flashlight. He read the labels of the dozens of insulin vials, looking for answers as to which one to give her. “Jackie, do you know what kind to use? They’re all different.”

“She uses Tresiba. It lasts almost two days.”

“We need something fast acting,” said Peter.

Asia began to get the dry heaves, as the contents of her stomach had emptied. “Peter! We have to do something!”

“Get me a syringe!”

Peter frantically read the labels. His hands were shaking, as he could feel Asia’s life slipping away. Then he held a vial and rotated it through his fingers. This had to be it.

Jackie returned with a syringe. Peter handed her the vial.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“No, but we have to try. It’s called Novorapid. Rapid means fast. Do it!”

Jackie, who’d administered her grandmother’s insulin shots in the past, expertly drew out a large dose of the fast-acting insulin. She pulled her grandmother’s nightgown aside, exposing her belly. She inserted the needle and depressed the plunger. Then, with a sigh, she lovingly covered Asia’s stomach.

She managed a chuckle. “She’d kill me if she knew you saw her uncovered like that.”

Peter reached over and squeezed her hand. “When she comes to, we’ll gladly take the tongue-lashing, right?”

Her siblings had returned, and she ordered them to their rooms. If Asia was going to die on the living room floor, she didn’t want the young children to witness it. She and Peter sat on their knees next to Asia. Jackie lovingly stroked her grandmother’s face as the minimal sunlight moved across the horizon so that it shone through the open doorway.

Asia’s breathing became less labored. Her clammy skin became warmer. She began to stir.

“What happened?” she whispered. Her voice was strained from the vomiting fits.

“We’re here, Mamaw. Don’t worry. We got your medicine.”

Peter whispered to Jackie, “How do you test her blood sugar? Do you have anything besides the glucose meters?”

“She has a patch on her other arm,” replied Jackie. “It’s called a FreeStyle Libre. It constantly checks her blood sugar levels.”

“We’ve gotta help her up to check it.”

Jackie shook her head. “It quit working after the bomb hit.”

“Jackie! Is Mamaw okay?” It was her little brother.

“Yes! She’s gonna be all right.”

Peter agreed, for now. Asia was breathing normally and began to complain about the vomit. Peter helped her sit upright, and Jackie instructed the kids to come out of their rooms.

The kids raced to embrace their grandmother. Nobody cared about the mess on the floor and her gown. Then they cried tears of joy because they hadn’t lost the woman who’d been forced to raise them for the last couple of years. Jackie let out all of her emotions again, relieved that she didn’t have to carry the burden of protecting her siblings, and herself, alone.

Peter didn’t try to stop the tears flowing down his cheeks. Breaking into the pharmacy. Shooting those men. All of it was worth this moment. The saving of a good woman’s life. The ability to give these kids a chance to survive.

He stood and stepped back from the family as they held one another. Then, as if the sun had been eclipsed, the minimal amount of sunlight went away. Instinctively, Peter swung around to look outside. What he found was a hulking figure that filled the door frame from side to side and top to bottom.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Monday, October 28

Fairfax, Virginia


“Who are you?” the man’s deep voice boomed through the living room. Peter was frozen, unsure of what to do. He hesitated to reach for his weapon in case the man had a gun in his hands. What happened next shocked him.

“Daddy!” jubilantly yelled one of the kids.

Jackie’s father, a gentle giant of a man, entered his living room, allowing the hazy sunlight to enter with him. He dwarfed Peter and stood somewhat menacingly just a few feet away. Then he was surrounded by arms and hugs and joyful tears as his three youngest rushed to his side.

“Praise Jesus!” exclaimed Asia. She grasped Jackie’s arms. “Help me up, honey.”

Peter was still speechless as he stood off to the side, the man’s wary eyes locked on his. Their father knelt down and wrapped his massive arms around all three of the young children and lifted them into the air. His son hugged his dad’s neck while the others were easily hoisted upward until they wrapped their legs around his waist. Peter had never seen anything like it.

“Mama, are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes, son. I am,” she replied as she leaned on Jackie to stay upright. She had difficulty standing on a good day. This one had started out poorly, but things were looking up.

Jackie appeared to be in a state of shock. Almost in disbelief. She’d been through so much trying to carry the load as a teenager. His sudden appearance was surreal.

“Peter, this is my daddy, Al.”

Al set his youngest kids down, still keeping a guarded eye on Peter. He slowly approached Jackie and his mother. Without regard to the vomit-covered clothing on both of them, he hugged them and showed his tender side as tears began to stream down his face.

“I’ve missed y’all so much,” he said as he choked back the tears. “I’ve worried every minute since, you know. God has answered my prayers.”

“Ours too, Daddy,” said Jackie.

She stepped back to allow mother and son to reunite. They held each other for half a minute, whispering in each other’s ear. When they finally broke their embrace, Al grabbed his mother’s walker for her, and she made her way down the hallway toward her bedroom to clean up.

Finally, Al spoke directly to Peter. He reached toward Peter to shake hands. Peter was struck by the size of the man’s hand and fully expected his to be crushed by the handshake. Instead, it was rough but somehow soothing.

“Mama said God sent you to save her life. Is that true?”

“Well—” Peter began before Jackie interrupted.

“Yes, Daddy. He did. If it wasn’t for Peter …”

Her voice trailed off as her eyes welled up with tears again. She wrapped her arms around her father, as did her brother and sisters. The family enjoyed another moment as Peter watched. He was beginning to get the sense he was intruding upon their reunion. He looked around the living room for his gear and the second bag of pharmaceuticals he’d managed to gather.

Al whispered to his children, “My babies, go to your room for a minute while I talk to this gentleman and Jackie. Okay?”

“Daddy, we wanna hear all about your trip home,” said the oldest of the three.

“No, baby girl, you don’t. Now, hop to it.”

The three feigned being upset in a childish sort of way, but they dutifully followed their father’s orders. When they’d left, Al turned to Peter.

“I wanna hear about how you got Mama her insulin.”

Jackie stood tall and pulled her shoulders back. She was still nearly a foot and a half shorter than her father, but in that moment she, too, was a giant as she threw his words back at him.

“No, Daddy, you don’t.”

The insolence was not lost on Al, and he immediately bellowed in laughter. Peter doubted the loving father had had many opportunities to laugh like that in the last couple of years. It made all three of them feel good.

After he calmed down, with a toothy grin, he pointed at Jackie. “I’m gonna give you a pass this time, young lady. There will be a time when we’ll discuss this and everything else. For now, I’d like to talk to Peter.”

“I’ll go change clothes,” said Jackie. She hugged her dad around the neck and kissed him on the cheek. Once he and Peter were alone, Al sat on the couch, and Peter pulled a chair from the dinette set.

The two men chatted about their experiences since the bombs hit. Al explained that he’d been convicted of conspiracy to distribute drugs although he never actually sold them himself. He’d been arrested driving a delivery van that had opioids hidden in the back. He’d refused to testify against his employers and was saddled with a stint in the Virginia prison system at Coffeewood, southwest of Fairfax, on the way to Charlottesville.

His wife had been similarly charged on another bust except her charges were federal in nature. She was housed at the Federal Prison Camp in Alderson, West Virginia. It was the same facility that had held TV icon and businesswoman Martha Stewart.

“Al, I was glad to help. Please don’t be too hard on Jackie. She’s been through a lot, and I had no business allowing her to go with me to the CVS.”

“She’s headstrong, like her mother. Even if you told her no at the top of your lungs, she would’ve just followed you over there anyway.”

Peter laughed. “Asia said the same thing. I figured that out pretty quick.”

“I don’t know how I can repay you for saving Mama’s life and, really, all of my kids. She’s overweight, but she gives this whole family strength.”

“Don’t worry about it. They’re tough, and I see they have their father, and Asia, to thank for that. I do need to be on my way, though.”

“Where to?”

“My family lives in the Keys. It’s a long haul.”

“No doubt about that,” said Al as he nodded his head. “Do you have a car that runs?”

“No,” Peter replied. He pointed toward the duffel bags, backpacks, and camping gear. “I’m gonna walk.”

Al thought for a moment, and then he stood from the couch. “I have something that’ll help.”

He walked through the front door onto the sidewalk. Lying on the ground was a gray Schwinn Mendocino bicycle. It was an eBike, a new design of electric bicycle with a rack-mounted battery above the rear wheel.

“I felt bad because they let me out of jail, and less than a day later, I stole something,” explained Al. “The battery needs chargin’, but I couldn’t figure out how. Either way, it pedals like a regular bike and holds me pretty good. You might be able to strap your bags on the rack or somethin’ like that.”

Peter walked to the bike and set it upright. It appeared to be fairly new. Then he hesitated as he set it against a support post holding up the walkway above them.

“I can’t, Al. You’re gonna need this to find your mom a hospital.”

“No arguments. Jackie and I can manage. This is perfect for you, and you know it.”

Peter nodded and shrugged. Other than a nonstop flight from Dulles to Miami that wouldn’t likely happen for years, this was his best option.

“Okay. I have something for you, too.”

Peter wheeled the bicycle closer to the front door so it didn’t inadvertently ride off with someone else. The family had gathered in the living room again, and Jackie worked with her sisters to clean up the floor.

He gathered up the medications and distributed the potassium iodide tablets for everyone to take. He also provided them a bottle of amoxicillin for infections.

Finally, the tears flowed once again as Peter said goodbye to everyone, especially Jackie. They hugged until she finally relented. It was if she thought she could keep him if she didn’t let go.

But go he did. Peter had a long journey ahead of him. One that would present him with many challenges if the stories Al relayed were true. Staying nourished and healthy would only be part of his difficult task. Not being killed for his belongings would be a bigger one.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Monday, October 28

SNO-PARK at Echo Lake

Near South Lake Tahoe, California


The night before, Lacey and her family had ventured up the access road leading to Echo Lake and its surrounding campgrounds. It had taken them several hours to search for anything of value in the wrecked vehicles on the bridge. In addition to finding the ammunition for both pistols, the pickup had two full cans of gasoline, a loaded shotgun, and two hunting knives. Some of the other things they found included a Craftsman toolbox containing a variety of tools and several operable flashlights with batteries. Pushing through the pileup was an arduous task considering the slick conditions, but the additional snowfall proved to be a benefit, as the mud and snow tires mounted on the Bronco were up to the task.

It was getting dark, and Lacey was concerned about approaching South Lake Tahoe on the Nevada side of the state line. This was a tourist destination full of casinos, hotels, and surrounding campgrounds. The town was likely full of people, as, ordinarily, October was a beautiful time to visit the mountainous region.

So they turned off the highway and ventured up the access road toward Echo Lake, an outdoor paradise allowing visitors to hike, camp, and cross-country ski in the winter. A mile up the road was the first SNO-PARK, a permit-only parking area maintained by the State of California for visitors to be guaranteed a parking space that had been plowed in the winter.

They discovered several cars abandoned there despite the fact it was the least active of the nineteen SNO-PARK locations at Echo Lake. Once Owen pulled up to the small cabin that was used as a visitors’ information center, he parked the truck, allowing the three of them to observe their surroundings.

“If anybody’s here, I’m sure they’ll show themselves out of curiosity, don’t you think?” Lacey asked.

“I agree,” replied Owen. “Plus, it’s been three days since they hit the west coast. I imagine these people walked the ten or twelve miles to Tahoe.”

“Do you want me to go look around?” asked Tucker. “I could take a gun for—”

“No!” protested Lacey a little too aggressively. She caught herself and explained, “Tucker, you need to learn how to use a gun first. I think I’m the only one who’s ever shot a gun, and that was when I was a teenager.”

“That’s right, son. You can’t mess around with those things. Your mom has to teach us both how to use them.”

“We don’t have enough bullets to practice,” said Tucker.

“That’s true, but it doesn’t mean we can’t practice. Uncle Mike taught me how to handle a weapon by dry-fire training.”

“Dry-fire?” asked Tucker.

“That’s right. I’ll teach you what I know about handling a gun safely, and then we’ll practice pointing and shooting with no bullets in the gun. It’s called dry-fire shooting. Believe it or not, I got pretty good at shooting before I ever fired an actual bullet.”

Tucker was anxious. “Let’s get started!”

“Let’s make camp first,” said Owen, tamping down Tucker’s enthusiasm to practice with the weapons. He turned to Lacey. “Since you can handle a gun, can you stand watch while Tucker and I set up a camp? I wanna check out the little cabin. It looks like it has a stovepipe sticking up through the roof.”

Lacey checked the twelve-round magazine and confirmed it was full. She reinserted it into the base of the PT-111 Millennium Pro nine-millimeter handgun made by Taurus. It was a compact model and fit into her hand easily. She smiled and nodded to her husband, appreciating the confidence he had in her.

“Okay, I’ll walk around the truck while you guys get us set up. There’s some firewood over there, if you can use it.”

“We’re gonna have to sleep in shifts from now on, don’t you think?” Owen asked.

She grimaced and managed a smile. If the shoot-out at the bridge was any indication, their world was far more dangerous than it had been prior to the bombings.

“Dad, the door’s open,” announced Tucker, who had slipped out of his father’s sight and approached the visitors’ building without him. He tried the light switch several times with no success. He used a penlight flashlight he’d found in the wrecked Kia to light up the small building. “There’s a wood-burning stove. The place was trashed by somebody, but the windows aren’t broken out.”

Ten minutes later, a fire was built in the stove, and their sleeping bags with bedding had been unloaded into the small cabin. It was plenty warm, and the trio was in good spirits as they settled down for the second of their three meals of stale MRE bars.

“These things taste awful, but they give you enough energy to make it through the day,” said Owen.

“We’re gonna have to find real food, Dad. This stuff sucks. Plus, we only have one more for each of us.”

“We can check out these cars in the morning,” said Owen.

“I already looked,” said Lacey. “I wandered around to make sure nobody was hiding. Most are locked, not that I saw anything in plain view anyway.”

“That sucks,” said Tucker with a moan.

Owen tried to be realistic. “We’ll just have to pick and choose our opportunities to eat. Tonight, after we drain our water, let’s pack the empty bottles with snow and bring them inside to thaw. We can fill up our containers before we leave and filter out the ash and soot later.”

“Which way should we go?” asked Lacey.

“I was looking at the map,” Owen began to reply. “The problem with all of these back roads is they’re curvy and mountainous. I was looking at Highway 50, which we took to this point from Placerville. It stretches all the way into Colorado and beyond. Because it’s a U.S. highway and not a state or local road, they probably went through the trouble to blast out mountains to keep the road grade kinda flat and the direction straight. I vote we take it across Nevada, Utah, and Colorado until we reach Kansas. At that point, we’re on flatlands, and taking a back-roads route will be much easier.”

Lacey shrugged and finished off her MRE bar. “Works for me.”

“I don’t care. Y’all are doin’ the driving. Maybe in Kansas I can practice driving?” Tucker used his best I’m-a-responsible-teenager tone of voice.

Owen chuckled. “Okay, maybe. Son, why don’t you take the first watch?”

“Cool,” said Tucker. He stretched out his arm toward his mother. “Mom?”

Tucker expected her to hand over the pistol. Instead, he got an empty MRE wrapper.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Monday, October 28

Driftwood Key


“I missed these evenings,” said Jessica as she peeled off her sneakers and sport socks. She and Mike had spent the day herding nonresidents off the Keys, a task that was met with loads of open hostility but, fortunately, no violence.

Phoebe had noticed the stress the Albrights were under. Between the two law enforcement officers acting to keep the peace in the Keys and Hank, who, despite his statements to the contrary, had become increasingly worried about the welfare of Peter and Lacey, together with her family, the family remained on edge.

Phoebe had managed their provisions well and had learned to take advantage of the few hours a day when the electricity was still on. The rolling blackouts had become more frequent and came without warning. When the power was restored, albeit temporarily, she summoned everyone to help her cook, do laundry, and prepare meals to be frozen.

Tonight, she wanted to give the trio a chance to relax like they had before the attacks. She made a pitcher of the inn’s signature mojitos to be shared by Hank and Jessica. Mike was provided a fifth of Jack Daniel’s with a glass and a bottle of water. Ice was available but was dispensed sparingly. The Manitowoc commercial ice makers couldn’t generate enough ice during the brownouts to keep up with their needs. For tonight, they were given a bucketful stored in an Igloo cooler.

Hank nodded as he raised his glass to toast with the others. They clinked their glasses and took a generous first sip to start the evening.

He was appreciative of Phoebe’s thoughtfulness and thanked her several times before she finally told him to hush. After she left, he expanded on Jessica’s comment.

“Even though we operated a fairly quiet hotel, you could always feel the energy of the guests around us. They were here for a good time, and we never had to pull them back by the reins. I don’t think there was a single instance since I took over that we’ve had to ask someone to leave due to bad behavior.”

Mike laughed. “I remember when Mom and Dad were running things. There was this rock-star guy who wanted to book the entire property for his entourage. They moved other reservations around and made him pay in advance. Do you remember what happened?”

Hank threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. “Yeah. The kid was swimming in money, I guess. It makes me think I missed my calling.”

“Being a rock star?” asked Jessica.

“No, country. But the same thing.”

Mike laughed so hard he snorted. “Hank, there’s a big difference between having star power and singing karaoke down at Bobby’s Monkey Bar.” A local haunt frequented by locals, inside Bobby’s Monkey Bar one would find dozens of Velcro-handed monkeys dangling from chandeliers and rafters while others were perched on virtually any flat surface, smiles plastered on their faces and multicolored lights reflecting off their plastic eyes.

“I could’ve been good,” said Hank somewhat seriously. He was a beach crooner, but so were thousands of other people in the Florida Keys.

Mike continued the story. “Well, anyway, mister rock-n-roller parties with his bros and hos in the W hotel in Miami and tore the place up. They had to send the SWAT team to empty the suites he rented. He was taken to jail, held for several days without bond on some drug-related charge, and never made it to Driftwood Key.”

“I remember,” said Hank. “Mom decided not to book the rooms since they were paid for times two, right?”

“Yep,” answered Mike. He took a sip of his drink. “It was the one and only time we went to Disney World as kids.”

Hank sighed. His parents had been married to the inn. There was never a time that the two of them could be away together for more than a day. Hank and Mike had accepted that. They’d made the islands their playground.

The sun set over the Gulf of Mexico. The normally turquoise and orange hues were displaced by gray, drab clouds with a hint of burnt orange. The operative word being burnt.

Being situated directly between two bodies of water, the Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico, was a benefit, as the winds blew continuously. The soot-filled air was present but less noticeable. Thus far, none of them had experienced the coughing fits taking place around other parts of the country.

“Did you guys learn anything new today?” asked Hank.

“Yeah, people hate cops,” said Jessica with a hint of snark.

“Nah,” said Mike. “They hate us right now because we’re making them leave. When they need us, they can’t wait to call and yell for help.”

“You know, at times it feels like a thankless job,” said Jess. “Then you make a rescue at sea. Or Mike solves a case. A life is saved or, at the very least, not ruined by some criminal. You become heroes again.”

Hank realized Mike hadn’t spoken about his serial murderer case since the bombs struck the mainland. “What about the killer? Do you think he left with the others?”

“My gut tells me no,” replied Mike. “Here’s the thing. Many of the facts point to a local, as hard as that is to believe. This guy knows the Keys. He’s dumped bodies where they can’t be found until decomposition has set in. His victims have been carefully selected, indicating he meets them in a setting that allows them to become intimate with one another.”

“Intimate?” asked Hank. “The victims have all been male. Is the killer gay?”

“That thought has crossed my mind,” replied Mike. “We do have a lead up in Key Largo that actually relates back to Miami. That vic was taken out of a bar by a well-dressed, supposedly attractive woman.”

Jessica joined in. “I told Mike it might be a cross-dresser. Or a transvestite.”

“There’s a difference?” asked Hank.

Jessica sipped her mojito and shrugged.

“Not really,” replied Mike. “Honestly, we don’t have enough to go on. It could be a guy who’s working with an accomplice. Maybe the two get their jollies killing?”

“Sick puppies,” quipped Jessica.

“No doubt,” said Mike. “In any event, at least so far, knock on wood, no other bodies have turned up. Also, we don’t have any new missing person reports for locals other than people wanting to find their loved ones on the mainland.”

“I know that feeling,” said Hank. “Are you still able to monitor the civil defense communications through Homeland Security?”

“They are at the main station,” replied Mike. “Jess and I are getting information secondhand through conversation with the deputies. The northeast is a hot mess. The west from the Rockies to the coast is on fire. There are parts that haven’t been affected yet, like Northern Nevada, Utah, and Southern Colorado. The rest … It’s pretty bad from what I’m hearing.”

Hank was sorry he asked, and Mike was sorry he answered. The topic put a damper on the evening, and minutes later, Hank poured himself another drink and told them he was going to turn in for the night even though it was barely nine o’clock.

For nearly thirty minutes, Mike and Jessica sat in silence. It was becoming colder, and Mike dug out a firepit with his feet. He approached the tiki bar that was normally surrounded by guests at that time of the evening. He pulled out a Duraflame fire log and a Bic stick lighter.

He rose from behind the bar, and a flash of light on the water caught his eye. He gently set everything on the bar top and listened. The faint sound of a boat engine idling close offshore captured his attention. He closed his eyes to block out the sound of the palm fronds rustling in the wind so he could focus.

He was certain now, as the inboard engines put off a distinctive sound when idling. He stood and cupped his eyes to prevent any ambient light from behind him interfering with his field of vision. The sound of a boat was confirmed. But there were no running lights to be seen. This meant only one thing to Mike.

Somebody was sneaking up on Driftwood Key.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Monday, October 28

Driftwood Key


Mike eased from behind the bar and walked in a low crouch back toward Jessica. He felt his right hip for his weapon, knowing full well he’d left it on the bed along with his clothes when he’d returned home. He stealthily approached his wife and whispered to her, “Do you have your sidearm?”

“Yeah. Strappin’, too. Why?” Jessica had made the decision to carry her service weapon on her hip as well as a smaller, concealed weapon strapped to her ankle under khaki pants. She’d been concerned about the reactions of the nonresidents to being removed from the Keys. She’d compared every encounter to walking into the middle of a domestic dispute.

“There’s a boat pretty close offshore. They’re idling, and they’ve turned off their running lights. It’s almost like they’re sizin’ us up.”

Jessica stood and pulled her service weapon. She handed it to her husband and then retrieved the Sig Sauer P365 from her ankle holster near her bare feet. With dimensions and weight almost identical to a subcompact, the Sig P365 had a ten-plus-one capacity that gave her added protection in a potential shoot-out.

“Whadya wanna do? Warn them off?” she asked.

“I’d rather deal with them head-on; otherwise, they’ll just try to come back another time,” replied Mike as he walked slowly toward the dock.

“I’ve got your back, Detective,” she said jokingly. When on duty, the two routinely referred to one another by their rank within the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department.

The two hustled toward the dock and quietly walked along the high-dollar Trex composite decking that had replaced the deteriorating pressure-treated lumber years ago. It took a minute to walk in a low crouch to the end of the dock where the covered part of the decking was located.

Hank had secured the Hatteras with a tarp-like material just as he would’ve when a hurricane was approaching. After speaking to Peter and Erin, he was concerned about the boat’s electronics being exposed to the ash cloud spreading across the planet in the form of nuclear fallout.

Mike entered the covered area first, with his gun raised. Jessica waited, crouched several paces behind her husband, watching both sides of the dock. The couple was unsure of what they were facing, and they didn’t want to get caught bunched together in case the stalkers decided to open fire.

Mike focused on the boat. Its engines had been cut, but he could hear it drifting just on the other side of the Hatteras. Suddenly, he heard a faint click. Barely noticeable to most, but to Mike’s adrenaline-amped ears, it sounded like a symbol had been crashed together to end Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture.

The cocking of a pistol’s hammer was unmistakable. Mike dropped to a knee and whispered to Jessica, “Gun!” He’d lowered his body just in time.

A spattering of gunfire sailed by where he’d been standing only a split second before. The bullets embedded in the thatched hut’s supports or flew toward the beach. Mike glanced toward Jessica, who was crouched and ready to move. With hand signals, he directed her to go left toward the bow of their Hatteras, and he tapped his chest and pointed right. The center flybridge of the yacht would serve to split their target.

Jessica moved swiftly and crouched behind a white icebox used to preserve the catch of the day. It was empty and would provide little ballistic protection, but at least she could obscure herself from view. Mike went to the opposite end of the covered dock and crouched next to one of the telephone-pole-sized dock supports that had been driven into the ocean floor. He was exposed slightly, but it enabled him to get a clean shot if the assailants broke cover.

Their boat was a simple runabout made by Wellcraft. Roughly twenty-three feet long, the inboard was more for pleasure boating than anything. It was worthless for fishing other than around the dock with light tackle.

Donde estan ellos?” one of the men asked in Spanish. Where are they?

Los cobardes,” the other man responded with a chuckle. Cowards.

Si. Rapido!” a third man ordered, telling the others to move quickly.

One of the men leapt from the rear engine cover of the Wellcraft onto the aft deck of the Hatteras. Mike didn’t hesitate to show them he wasn’t a coward.

He fired two rounds toward the shadowy target. He was unable to get a better view of the man, but at fifteen feet away, Mike was a deadly shot even in the pitch-black conditions.

Vamos! Vamos!” shouted one of the men into the dark. The inboard engine of the Wellcraft fired, and the rumble of the exhaust caused the waters to churn.

Jessica took the offensive. She jumped onto the dock’s storage box and over the yacht’s railing. She slid across the deck on her knees until she reached the other side of the boat. She fired several rounds toward the steering console of the Wellcraft. A man screamed in pain and fell over the side of the runabout into the water.

The third man returned fire in Jessica’s direction. He never had a chance. Mike had climbed aboard the Hatteras and found the silhouette of his target in front of the Wellcraft’s dash. He fired three rounds in rapid succession, two to the body and one near the man’s head. Then, with a cool demeanor, he fired subsequent rounds into the heads of each of the would-be killers to ensure the battle was over.

“Three dead!” he shouted to Jessica as he scanned the interior of the boat.

“What the hell, Mike?” Jessica was astonished the men would fire upon them without compunction.

“Hey, is everybody okay?” Hank hollered from the end of the dock. Lights from several flashlights were dancing along the beach and trying to illuminate the end of the dock.

“Yeah! Clear!” replied Mike. Then he turned to Jessica. “I guess they planned to steal the boat or strip it for parts.”

The Wellcraft was still idling, but the waves from offshore had pushed it toward the Hatteras. This allowed Jessica to get a look inside.

“Gas cans and siphon hoses,” she said calmly. “They must not have seen us on the beach. They were gonna drain our tanks.”

Mike reached for the side rail of the Wellcraft and pulled it closer to him. He jumped on board and stepped over the dead body, careful not to slip on the blood covering the once white deck. He located the keys and cut the engine.

“Jimmy, tie them off,” Hank ordered as he arrived with the Frees. Everyone on Driftwood Key began to clean up the mess left by the shoot-out. Hank turned to Mike and shined the light in his face. “Don’t criminals give it a rest, even in the apocalypse?”

Mike took a deep breath and exhaled. “Apparently not.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Tuesday, October 29

Key West, Florida


Serial killers were like functioning alcoholics. Their hunger for killing was every bit as strong as the drunk’s thirst for booze. The apocalypse didn’t change the insatiable needs of either the drunks or the demented.

If the Washington Post wrote an article about the most prolific serial killer in the history of the Florida Keys, they’d write that Patrick Hollister was a mild-mannered man who had a normal childhood.

His parents never divorced. Normal.

He grew up in a modest neighborhood. Normal.

He wasn’t a troublemaker in school and received good grades in all his studies. Normal.

He dated and eventually lived with a woman for a time. Normal.

He got a job as a banker and eventually became a branch manager. Normal.

Normal, normal, normal.

Only, Patrick Hollister was anything but. He’d learned he was gay when he attended the University of Florida in Gainesville. He tried to assimilate into the party scene there. College sports ruled supreme, and therefore drunken gatherings were the norm. He was a good-looking young man who seemed to attract interest from college girls, who often inquired about dating him. But he turned them down, claiming to be in a relationship with a girl back home.

Then, during one night of cocaine and excessive drinking, Patrick found himself in the dorm room of a buddy of his. The young man claimed to be bisexual, and he encouraged Patrick to explore his sexuality, which he did.

And he liked it. Yet, he didn’t. Even for the time, many in the LGBTQ community felt compelled to remain withdrawn from some aspects of society. “You can’t be an openly gay doctor or lawyer or accountant,” they told themselves.


Patrick soon began to resent the fact that he couldn’t be who he needed to be to live life to the fullest. So he learned to hide in plain sight by cross-dressing as a woman. At first, he was nervous as he went into public. He’d stroll the mall or go to a restaurant. Testing the waters of life as someone he wasn’t but who he wanted to be.

He continued through college, excelling at business administration, and graduated with high honors. From time to time, he’d sneak out of Gainesville and drive to Atlanta or Tampa or especially Orlando, where he could remain anonymous.

He’d meet men. Sometimes, he was Patrick. Other times, he was Patricia. He would change personas like most people changed socks. He mastered his craft and eventually settled on Patricia during the evening and Patrick during the day.

To say Patrick Hollister had descended into madness would be incorrect. He was simply mad. Not mad in the sense that he’d lost his mind, although many would argue anyone capable of the heinous murders he’d perpetrated must be at the highest level of bat-shit crazy.

No, Patrick was mad because he felt compelled to hide himself from the world. He felt cheap. Like he was forced to lurk in the shadows in order to find his soul mate. This ate away at him until he acted out in a drunken rage.

His first kill was a brutal affair. He’d had too much to drink, and the man he picked up in the bar was furious when he found out Patricia was actually Patrick. A fight ensued, and Patrick bludgeoned the man to death with a bottle of vodka before slicing open his throat. This happened in Ybor City near Tampa, a crime that was written off as a lovers’ quarrel gone horribly wrong.

After that night, he’d never felt more alive. He killed twice more. Once in Orlando and a second time in Hialeah near Miami. Then he stopped. He tried to get a hold of himself.

With his degree and exceptional grades, he landed a job as an assistant manager at the Island State Bank branch in Islamorada. Then, by a stroke of luck, for him, anyway, the branch manager had a heart attack and died. He was named the temporary branch manager, a title that became permanent after six months. He was a young man and a hustler. Patrick had an empathetic side that endeared himself to all of his customers, young and old, male and female.

However, the hunger within him continued to fester. One thing he’d learned about himself was that his desire to kill, the act of stealing the life of another human being, gave him more pleasure than the sexual encounters he engaged in.

The silent rage festered within him, and he took his lust for murder to Coconut Grove. He scoped out the lively crowd. One lonely man emerged as an easy mark. The kill was enjoyable. Exhilarating. Worthy of taking the risk of doing it again.

With his appreciation of fashion and makeup, Patrick, as Patricia, became indistinguishable from any other attractive woman. So he tried his luck closer to home, adding to the excitement.

He killed again and again. Unable to stop. More frequent. Increasingly elaborate. Unlike the bludgeoning, brutal death of his first victim. Patrick was studying anatomy and surgical techniques and watching Dexter on Showtime. He’d learned how to do it right, and now, despite the apocalypse, Patricia was ready to strike again.

With the bank branches closed until further notice, he had a lot of free time on his hands. The first thing he did was gain access to the Island State Bank branch in Key West on Whitehead Street. The island-style property was in fact a historic home that had been renovated into a bank building. It still maintained its Key West character, so to the casual observer, it looked very much like a home with its Victorian appointments together with upper and lower wraparound decks.

Inside, the lower level was devoted to retail banking. Upstairs, bank officers dealing with money transfers and loan administration occupied several offices. There was also a fully furnished apartment for visiting members of the bank’s board of directors, who were scattered throughout the country.

Patrick decided to move into the apartment so he could be closer to the action. Gasoline was nowhere to be found, and his killing opportunities were greatly reduced at his home in Islamorada. He moved his clothes, and Patricia’s, to the bank located a block off famed Duval Street and set up a base of operations.

Once he was ready to hit the late-night party scene, Patricia ventured out to the Green Parrot, which was just down the street. She marveled at the number of people who’d remained in Key West to party like it was the end of the world. Well, she thought to herself as she strutted down the sidewalk, maybe it is. If so, she planned on going out with a smile on her face.

That night, there were innumerable opportunities to score, she realized as she nursed a mai tai through a tall straw. As had been her MO, tried and proven, she waited until closing time to scoop up just the right guy. Small in stature. Inebriated. Horny.

They left the bar together, and the young man tried to immediately get handsy with her. She playfully patted away his advances. To the other drunks roaming the streets of Key West at that hour, they looked like any other couple headed for a hotel room to hook up.

Patricia led him to the front of the bank. In the dark, the young man squinted his eyes to take in the magnificent house turned community bank that had graced the cover of many issues of Key West tourist publications.

“You live here?” He slurred his words.

“Yes, I do,” Patricia replied in a deep, raspy voice. “You wanna come in for, you know?”

He wobbled on his feet and grabbed the handrail next to him. “Only if you’ll marry me tomorrow.”

He began to laugh uproariously at his joking proposal. Patricia played along.

“Of course, but after we spend the night together, you may not like me anymore.”

“I doubt that, baby. Let’s do this.”

The drunk man pulled his way up the railing and stumbled into the front door. Patricia hustled up behind him and unlocked it. The man’s momentum caused him to stumble forward and land face first on the area rug adorned with palm trees and monkeys.

“Let me help you up,” she said as she lifted him by the right arm.

As the man stood, he noticed the bank vault door directly in front of him. “Hey, baby. Is that the vault? You know, full of money?”

“Of course it is. Wanna see it?”

He nodded and stumbled toward the large polished steel door. Patricia moved ahead of him and grasped the handle to pull it open. It was heavy and took considerable effort, but it soon opened.

“Hey, it’s dark in there.” The man was again slurring his words. “Somebody turn on the lights.”

Patricia nudged him forward, and then she waved her arm just inside the vault. A battery-operated puck light sensed the motion of her arm. The man became confused.

“Wait. What’s all this stuff?”

More puck lights lit up, causing him to become disoriented.

Patricia crouched down, very ladylike, and picked up a pipe wrench. Then she dealt him a crushing blow to the back of his head, but not enough to kill him. Just enough to render him unconscious. The man’s knees buckled, and he slumped to the floor.

Twenty minutes later, Patrick hovered over the man’s body, sipping a glass of Beaujolais. His nude body was strapped to a stainless-steel table, with his wrists and ankles bound by leather straps to the four table legs. A gag was wrapped around his head and into his mouth.

As he awoke, he quickly sobered up. His eyes were wild out of fear as he writhed back and forth on the table. His body was twisting and squirming in an attempt to free himself from bondage.

Patrick moved slowly to a silver serving tray set atop a stool. He picked up a knife and carefully sliced off the gag.

“Help! Somebody! Help!” The man was screaming at the top of his lungs, his voice reverberating off the steel walls and metal safe-deposit boxes.

“Whaaaaa!” Patrick joined in the screaming. “Whaaa! Help him!” Then he let out an evil, guttural cackle.

The man lifted his head to look at his naked body. His eyes grew wide as he viewed the interior of the bank vault.

“Please, mister. Please don’t hurt me. I mean. I won’t tell anyone. I swear!” He shouted the last words at the top of his lungs to the point they were barely discernible.

Patrick shouted back, “Scream all you want! Nobody can hear you!”

He closed the switchblade and set it on the tray. He took another long gulp of wine before grabbing the bottle to refill the glass.

The man didn’t say a word as his eyes followed Patrick’s every movement. He walked around the table, studying every inch of his victim. Then he stopped and reached underneath the table. He pulled out a DeWalt cordless Sawzall. He held it upright and goosed the trigger, causing the reciprocating saw blade to rapidly move in and out of the tool.

“Noooo! Puhleeze!” The man screamed for mercy.

Patrick responded calmly, “Let’s get started, shall we? You’re not gonna need this anymore.”

The sound of the reciprocating saw cutting through flesh was drowned out by the shrieks of agony. Patrick and Patricia had stepped up their game.

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