Tuesday, October 29
Mount Weather Operations Center
Northern Virginia
“Erin, thank you for making the trip to Mount Weather. I understand your bird’s-eye view of the devastation was gut-wrenching.” Chief of Staff Chandler was cordial to Secretary of Agriculture Erin Bergman as she entered the briefing that morning. In fact, the stress level of all the attendees was considerably less than the prior sessions.
The White House physician had ordered a sedative and bed rest for the president. President Helton was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The decision was made both for his physical and mental well-being but also for the morale of those who’d witnessed his tirades. The president was losing the confidence of his cabinet and military leaders. There were already whispers to the effect he should step down in favor of the vice president taking the helm. Before that happened, his doctor insisted he take some time off to clear his head.
Besides, Chandler ran most of his briefings anyway. Rarely did the president make a decision without discussing it at length with his longtime friend and confidant. The president wanted to turn his attention to the recovery effort, and Chandler assured him more meetings would be held with that in mind.
Within the president’s cabinet, Erin was considered the most knowledgeable on the concept of nuclear winter and how it would impact the nation’s agriculture and food supply. Although she was well-versed on the topic of electromagnetic pulse energy and its effect on transportation, she deferred that issue to her counterpart at the Department of Transportation.
“It’s sickening, Harrison,” replied Erin, who was on a first-name basis with the president’s chief of staff. The president understood the need for formality, but within his immediate circle of advisors, such as the chief of staff and the cabinet, he instructed them to address one another on a first-name basis. In President Helton’s mind, disagreements would be less acrimonious when the combatants referred to each other by name rather than mister this or miz that. “I’d seen the satellite imagery, but flying the chopper past our nation’s capital brought tears to my eyes.”
“I understand it’s difficult to see in more ways than one,” said Chandler.
“Very much so. The thick smoke from the out-of-control fires makes visibility difficult. At times, the extraordinary ground-level winds created an opening in the smoke that allowed me to see the immense crater. It’s hard to believe we all worked in that spot just a few days ago.”
Chandler sighed and nodded. “Erin, we’re trying to find a way forward that both saves the lives of those in the paths of radiation or these superfires and Americans who live away from the blast zones. NOAA has provided me some sobering graphics of the fallout spanning the globe, especially in the Northern Hemisphere.”
“I’ve seen them as well. I’ve had an opportunity to speak directly with some of the research scientists at NOAA. They’re all astonished at how widespread the effects of nuclear winter have been.”
“And so quickly,” added Chandler. “I had a working knowledge of the concept as it pertained to a regional nuclear war between India and Pakistan. I’d never seen a hypothetical that involved as many nukes as they fired off and a fallout spread that circumnavigated the planet with such speed.”
“That’s the key. The speed at which the massive cloud of soot and smoky ash reached the atmosphere and then began to spread is remarkable. It’s been ten days since the exchange in the Middle East and eight days since South Asia. Yet the entirety of North America is now feeling the effect.”
Chandler brought her up to speed on the administration’s directives. “We’ve ordered all personnel to remain within the confines of Mount Weather and underground due to the poor air quality. Now I’m told by the National Weather Service that average temperatures have dropped eight degrees already.”
“That’s right, Harrison. As we know, temps can fluctuate, but what we’re witnessing is a steady decline. Keep in mind, there are regions, like the Mountain West, that will experience plunging drops in the next few days. The west coast superfires are generating so much heat that the prevailing winds are being held off the coast and even pushed backwards toward the center of the Pacific. This is allowing frigid air to swoop down through the Rockies. Eventually, these icy conditions will make their way across America’s heartland.”
“What does that mean for our agricultural and livestock supply?” asked one of the attendees in the room.
“There is some good news in that regard,” Erin began in her reply. “By this point in the season, the vast majority of crops in the Midwest had been harvested. Obviously, there were late-season crops like most of the root vegetables. The problem lies with what happens next. Any notion of planting this spring should be abandoned.”
“What do you mean?” asked Chandler.
“Unless there’s some kind of miracle from God or Mother Earth, the grounds across the upper latitudes of North America will remain frozen until late spring or even summer. If you couple that with the toxicity levels resulting from the nuclear fallout, including ash and debris, you’re looking at soil that isn’t fit to grow anything.”
“How long will this last?” asked the labor secretary, who insisted on sitting in even though it was beyond his purview. Every member of the cabinet wanted to play a role in the recovery effort.
“Years, based upon current projections,” replied Erin. “All of this effects livestock and poultry as well. These animals rely upon our fields and nutrients from the ground to survive. It’s doubtful there’s a rancher in America who has stored sufficient grasses to feed their cattle. Every food-producing animal relies upon what is produced in the nation’s breadbasket to survive. There will be a war trying to decide whether to feed animals or people.”
“There already is,” said Chandler as he shook his head. “The president is being called upon to nationalize all farming operations. They want us to seize every ear of corn and potato available.”
“Martial law?” asked Erin.
“It has to be considered. The president considers it a last resort. Frankly, he hoped the largest agricultural producers would voluntarily make their inventory available to the government. That hasn’t been happening, so the president is weighing his options.”
“Harrison, nuclear winter results in a semidarkness that will last for years. This current crop will likely be the last one produced in America by normal farming techniques. Those with greenhouses and hydroponic operations will fare better as long as they have the power to operate their systems. However, there are not near enough of those sustainable farming operations to feed a nation.”
“And you say the sun will be blocked for years?” asked the transportation secretary.
“Yes. The ash from burning cities and the surrounding areas is in the process of creating an umbrella shielding large portions of the planet from the sun. As you diminish the amount of sunlight making its way to the surface, then the atmospheric temperatures are reduced as a result. This umbrella cloud will interfere with the process of photosynthesis for years.
“We’ve had scenarios like this in the recent past. For example, there was evidence of the Indonesian volcano, Krakatoa, erupting in 1883. It blasted enough volcanic ash into the atmosphere to lower global temps a couple of degrees. In 1815, when Mount Tambora erupted in the same region, it blocked sunlight around the globe, causing what came to be known as the year without summer. The U.S. experienced summer snows and temperatures up to ten degrees less than normal.”
“That’s what is going to happen to us now?” asked another attendee.
“No,” replied Erin before pausing. “It will be much worse.”
Tuesday, October 29
Virginia
The old expression just like riding a bike was often used to describe an activity that came second nature and was therefore easy to do. It implied that somewhere in our memory banks, we recalled how to do something and could immediately pick up where we left off when the time came.
For Peter, that was not exactly the case. For one thing, he’d never owned a bicycle. Growing up in the Florida Keys, everything was about water. Paddleboards, Jet Skis, boating, and scuba diving were his outdoor activities of choice. When he played with other kids, their days were spent on the water, and to get to one another’s houses, they walked, swam, or paddled.
After Peter loaded his gear onto the Schwinn motorized bicycle, he stepped across the frame and straddled it. He held the handlebars with a firm grip and considered his next move. With his backpack stuffed full, he had to twist his entire body to look behind him. He gave one final inspection of the duffel bags strapped down with bungee cords to the battery rack above the rear wheel. He realized the bike was going to be difficult to balance, as a slight shift in his weight could cause it to topple.
He’d already given up his shelter gear consisting of a tent and sleeping bag. He was trying to eliminate the bulk he had to travel with. He felt he could locate suitable shelter along the way and chose to carry cold-weather clothing to help ward off the continuously falling temperatures.
Peter said his goodbyes, and Asia had ventured out onto the sidewalk with her family to wish him well. He found himself nervous for several reasons. One, he had a long way to get home, and he’d learned desperate people were everywhere. Second, the effects of nuclear winter had set in, making conditions uncertain. Finally, with all eyes upon him, he wasn’t sure whether he could make it out of the apartment’s parking lot without wrecking.
Growing up, he’d had the opportunity to ride another kid’s bike on occasion. It had been twenty years or more. Today, it wasn’t second nature. However, learning to ride again might be what kept him alive. He took a deep breath and recalled a Chinese proverb he’d heard once. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. He was ready.
Peter set his jaw, took a deep breath, and placed his left foot on the pedal. As if he were riding a scooter or a skateboard, he pushed off the asphalt with his right several times in order to get up a head of speed.
Once he was rolling forward, he pushed up onto the seat and began pedaling. As he picked up speed, he gained confidence and let the world know about it.
“Woo-hoo!” he shouted. Pleased with himself, he took his right hand off the handlebars and waved to the family as they hollered encouragement. Peter learned a difficult lesson. Keep your hands on the wheel, as they say.
Immediately after he let go of the handlebars, the bike lurched to the left toward a parked car. Peter panicked. He pulled his right hand down to correct his course, but he overcompensated. For several seconds, the bicycle turned wildly back and forth as his forearm muscles struggled to keep the front wheel straight. He unconsciously pedaled faster, his mind certain the increased speed would help him regain control.
He forced his body upright and tried not to look down at his feet, as it caused him to lose his balance when he did. With each minor adjustment, the bike was traveling where Peter wanted it to although his speed had picked up considerably. He was afraid to slow down for fear he’d struggle to remain balanced.
At the end of the sidewalk, he bounced hard onto the street as the bike rode over the curb. This caused him to lose control slightly. Then, immediately in front of him, several cars had stalled, forcing him into an immediate ninety-degree turn to head west away from Fairfax. He whipped the handlebars back and forth to avoid more stalled vehicles and a group of people standing in the middle of the road, observing his antics.
Peter finally exhaled. Unknowingly, he hadn’t breathed since the pedals made the first full rotation. He glanced around and shook his head at this crazy notion. How am I supposed to do this for thirteen hundred miles?
After several minutes and a number of miles under his belt, his confidence grew. He remembered to pull up the lightweight gaiter he wore around his neck so his nose and mouth were covered. At first, he found it difficult to breathe. However, until he could put some distance between himself and the fires burning out of control around Washington, he’d make every effort to protect his lungs.
So he was off. He had no idea how many miles he could travel each day. Al claimed to travel about forty miles or more daily until his legs gave out. The incentive to get home to Asia and his kids helped the loving father push his body to knock out another few miles before resting.
There were going to be obstacles along the way, Al had warned. Namely, human obstacles. The biggest challenge for Peter would be traveling near any population center, including small towns. He had a means of transportation as well as duffel bags and backpacks full of gear.
Before he left the apartment, he’d torn out pages 115 and 83 from the Rand McNally Atlas he’d taken from Dick’s Sporting Goods. These pages provided detailed maps of Eastern Virginia and Eastern North Carolina. He kept them shoved in his jacket pocket for easy reference. Naturally, he could make his way to Interstate 95 and travel all the way to Coral Gables in Miami. He was certain he wouldn’t make it ten miles before he’d lost everything to a pack of refugees or was killed in a shoot-out trying to defend what he had.
Instead, he continuously worked his way west out of Fairfax toward Manassas and then started his ride through country roads and fairly desolate highways of Central Virginia. That first day, he experienced the depths of despair of humanity. What he encountered would haunt him the rest of his life.
Tuesday, October 29
Fairfax, Virginia
Because Jackie had led Peter to CVS along woodsy trails and apartment complex sidewalks the night before, he was unaware that the boulevard he was riding on now led him right past the proverbial scene of the crime.
During their mission to obtain the insulin, CVS had been quiet when they first approached. Inside, Peter had been relieved that the store was only inhabited by a few children munching on snack foods. Today, in the daylight, the floodgates had opened. Streams of people entered empty-handed and exited with their arms full of some treasure or another. Peter immediately wondered if the fourth man had died in the dark recesses of the pharmacy and whether any of his fellow looters cared.
Regardless, they were distracted, and only a few noticed him pedaling by. He wound his way through the streets just outside the bedroom community of Centreville. Apartments and neighborhoods were packed together from the historic town all the way to Manassas. Some of the county roads to the east of these communities were not in his atlas, but he used his sense of direction to continue on his way.
When he was a child, Hank had taught him to navigate on the open waters without a compass. Sailors, he’d said to Peter, had traveled the open seas for centuries without fancy GPS devices. They only had a crude compass, a sextant, and a timepiece to travel the world.
Peter chuckled to himself as he methodically pedaled southward. After the electromagnetic pulse emanated outward from the point of impact, GPS devices were rendered worthless. All around him was evidence of the devastating effect an EMP has on electronics. Nothing that relied upon modern technology worked.
He recalled how his father had taught him celestial navigation. For hours at night, he’d studied the stars at all times of the year. He and Jimmy would challenge one another to identify constellations. At first, they relied upon modern technology, namely, their smartphones, to confirm their identifications of the heavens. Then it became easy for the two amateur astronomers. They even ordered a sextant online to navigate old school, as Jimmy called it.
They were able to quickly identify the North Star, which gave them a fairly precise latitude. Using their knowledge of star charts, they could locate and shoot one of the equatorial stars. April and May was their favorite time of the year to stargaze. Just over the crest of the Atlantic Ocean’s waves, the Southern Cross would appear above the southern horizon. One of the smallest recognized constellations, the Southern Cross was an important symbol to many ancient cultures. For sailors, it was a way to identify due south, as the longest bar of the cross-shaped star pattern points to the South Pole.
Peter didn’t have a sextant, and he realized as nightfall approached, he likely wouldn’t have any stars to navigate by for many years. The cloud of ash and soot resulting from the nuclear attacks blocked out the sky completely. Stars. Moon. Sun. They were all blacked out by the smoky haze.
Dismayed, he shook his head and closed his eyes momentarily. Navigation was just one of many things he’d learned from his dad and grandfather about survival. The conversations they’d had with Peter and his sister were never couched in those terms, but their intention was clear. Mostly, it had to do with getting stranded on the water, but the same principles applied.
It was so ingrained in Lacey that she made it a big part of her life between her business and her family’s activities together. For Peter, it seemed to give him a heightened sense of awareness and the ability to discern when trouble was near and how to react to it quickly. He’d been tested in Abu Dhabi and again in the CVS pharmacy. He’d proved he could kill to avoid being killed. He’d also learned to react to a dangerous situation, such as the mall takeover by the armed gang. He knew it was time to go, allowing him to avoid another life-threatening confrontation.
That night, as darkness set in and the temperatures unexpectedly dropped, Peter began to search for a place to make camp for the night. He hadn’t stopped pedaling all day and was near exhaustion when he came across a brick monument sign marking the entrance to Meadows Farms Golf Course, about ten miles due west of the famed Chancellorsville Battlefield from the time of the American Civil War. The sign proudly claimed that Meadows Farms was the home of the longest golf hole in the U.S., a par six that was eight hundred forty-one yards long. Peter didn’t know anything about golf, but a single hole half a mile long seemed pretty long to him.
He slowly pedaled up the paved entry road toward the farmhouse-style clubhouse with a shiny, red metal roof. The parking lot was empty, as the day of golfing had been long over when the bombs hit Washington, DC. The golf carts were parked in a row, waiting patiently for the golfers to arrive.
Peter eased up to the front entrance of the clubhouse and slowed to a halt. He eased his feet off the pedals and attempted to straddle the bike. His legs immediately tried to buckle, forcing him to hold his body up using the handlebars to keep from crushing his clackers against the frame.
He gingerly raised his left leg and swung it over the bike. He hadn’t stopped riding the entire day, and his body was cramped beyond belief. In that moment, he wasn’t certain he could walk to the white-framed entrance. He laid the bike against a golf cart and retrieved his handgun from the sling backpack. He chambered a round and walked slowly toward the entrance, much like a bowlegged cowboy in an old western movie.
He looked back and forth to check for any signs of life. Then he pressed his nose against the glass and cupped his hands around his eyes to block out the glare put off by the sun setting behind the smoky skies.
Peter expected the clubhouse to be empty. It was not. At the right side of the building was a dining area flanked by a bar on one side and a media wall on the other. A chair was tipped over, and a body lay on the carpeted floor next to it. Peter gripped his pistol a little harder and pressed his back against the taupe-colored stucco wall. His breathing grew more rapid, and his chest was heaving as the adrenaline kicked in.
He moved along the side of the clubhouse and swiftly ran past the dining area toward a small outbuilding that was built like a mini-me of the clubhouse. Its door was flung open, so Peter decided to clear it first.
He raced down the asphalt sidewalk shared with the electric golf carts, choosing speed over silence to catch anyone inside off guard. When he arrived, he looked inside. Even in the waning daylight, he could see it was empty and nothing more than a maintenance shed full of tools commonly found in an auto mechanic’s shop. He turned his attention back to the clubhouse.
The rear entrance to the dining area was pulled closed. He rushed across the grassy back of the building and pressed his back against the wall. With his left hand, he slowly turned the doorknob of the rear entry door. It was unlocked. Peter eased it open and then steadied his nerves. With his pistol leading the way, he stepped inside to the near dark interior of the clubhouse.
The first thing he noticed was the fact it was undisturbed. He’d witnessed stores and gas stations that had been looted throughout his travels out of Fairfax. This facility appeared to have been spared by thieves.
First, he turned to the left to locate the body he’d observed from the front door. The clubhouse had a small grill and bar, the proverbial nineteenth hole, built to serve the golfers after a long day on the links. A couple of dozen square tables surrounded by bent-back chairs were packed into the space, each set up with napkin holders, salt and pepper shakers, and beer coasters. Only one had any sign of use.
Peter slowly approached the body on the floor. His table was stacked with one empty and one half-full bottle of Jim Beam whiskey. Several empty bags of chips were lying on the floor near him. Peter kept his pistol trained on the man’s torso as he kicked his feet to nudge him awake.
“Hey, buddy! Wake up!” he said in a loud whisper.
He nervously glanced around the dining area to see if he’d garnered anyone’s attention. Satisfied nobody else was around, Peter got a closer look at the man, and that was when the stench of his corpse reached his nostrils. He was flat on his back with both hands clutching his chest. The older man might have died of a heart attack, Peter surmised.
He pulled his gaiter over his nose and mouth again as he backed away from the corpse. “What were you doin’ in here, old man?” Peter asked aloud.
He looked around the room to see if anyone else appeared to answer on the dead man’s behalf. When he didn’t get a response, he quickly moved through the entire building to make sure nobody was lying in wait. He was far too exhausted for a shoot-out like the night in the pharmacy.
Satisfied he was alone, he made his way to the front entry doors, unlocked them, and wheeled his bicycle into the clubhouse foyer. After taking a deep breath and exhaling to relieve some tension, he rummaged through the kitchen, looking for anything edible. As he did, he even allowed himself a warm rum and Coke. The ice had melted, and the contents of the freezer reeked worse than the dead man, so he was satisfied with the drink without ice.
Finally, exhaustion set in. He barricaded the doors and windows with dining tables and other pieces of furniture. Then he gathered sweaters from the clubhouse shop to use as bedding. There was an upstairs loft overlooking the nineteenth hole that contained a couple of pool tables and several video poker machines. He created a bed behind the pool tables so he’d have some protection in case he was surprised by intruders in the middle of the night.
Then Peter slept hard. For almost ten hours, his mentally and physically exhausted body got the rest it needed.
Tuesday, October 29
U.S. Route 50
Nevada
“Your kid’s snoring,” said Owen with a chuckle. He kept his eyes forward although he fully expected a response from his wife.
“Just like his father except not as loud,” she said dryly.
“Skinny people don’t snore,” he continued.
“Exactly. You’ve developed a pooch.”
Owen sat a little taller in the driver’s seat of the Bronco. He sucked in his gut for a moment, but as soon as he exhaled, it returned to its normal, relaxed pooch position.
“No,” he said defiantly.
“Yes.” Lacey laughed as she glanced back at her son, who was sleeping soundly after pulling an all-nighter watching over their temporary camp at Echo Lake. “Since you’ve become a Yahoo! big shot, wining and dining and rubbing elbows and such, those rock-solid abs from college turned into a high-paid executive’s pooch.”
Now Owen was laughing. He tried to hold in his stomach to lend the appearance of the solid midsection of his younger years but failed.
“I can get ’em back anytime I want.”
Lacey stared out the passenger-side window and rested her chin on her fist. She’d suddenly grown morose and stopped the playful back and forth. Owen reached across the console and took her hand in his. She forced a smile and made eye contact with him.
“Owen, we were on a roll. You know, as a family. Listen, I get it. I feel like a jerk being upset about losing our comfortable life in Hayward. I loved running Jefferson Outfitters. I was proud of it, you know? And look at what you accomplished.”
Owen nodded. He didn’t say it aloud, but he had been a couple of rungs of the ladder away from senior management at the second-largest web services provider in the world.
“We’re alive,” Owen said softly.
His words summed it up. People had died horrific deaths as a result of the nuclear detonations. Those in close proximity to ground zero who weren’t incinerated had succumbed to radiation poisoning or had been consumed by out-of-control fires that raged across the landscape.
They’d slept well the night before. Tucker had patrolled the area surrounding Echo Lake’s SNO-PARK to protect his parents and, eventually, out of boredom and without his parents’ approval, began to break into the locked vehicles parked there. He’d amassed a treasure trove of useful items ranging from survival supplies to tools to clothing.
While they slept, he repacked the vintage Ford and organized the gear to provide more room in the back seat to sleep. By the time his parents woke up that morning, he’d cleared the ashen snow off the windows, topped off the gas tank with the fuel cans they’d discovered at the car pileup, and cleared two tracks for their wheels to pass through the overnight snowfall.
All of his efforts during the night resulted in his passing out in the back seat within minutes of Owen pulling out of the park.
Lacey studied the map as they left. She’d navigated them through county roads and highways to the south of Lake Tahoe to avoid what was likely a large number of stranded tourists at the casino hotels. Thus far, they’d seen no evidence of another operating vehicle, and they’d begun to appreciate how valuable Black & Blue was. They eventually reconnected with U.S. Highway 50 and began their west-to-east course across the central part of the Rockies.
As they traveled through Nevada, they quickly learned why it had been dubbed The Loneliest Road in America by Life magazine in the mid-eighties. U.S. 50 was the backbone of the highway system, running coast-to-coast through the heart of America for thirty-two hundred miles. It traversed the nation’s most unforgiving landscapes, like the Sierra Nevadas and the Appalachian Mountains as well as large desert valleys separated by the majestic mountain ranges of the Rockies.
The highway’s history dated back to the pioneers who blazed a trail across the western frontier. Men like Daniel Boone and his brother Squire carved out a wilderness trail that was later utilized by the pioneers during the westward expansion.
However, despite its historic background and familiarity as it passed through hundreds of timeworn small towns across America, it was rarely used thanks to the massive interstate highway system.
Owen and Lacey knew this. With the memory of the wreckage and dead bodies resulting from the shoot-out fresh in their mind, they considered U.S. 50 an ideal route to take for the first half of their journey to Driftwood Key because it was less traveled than the interstates.
However, as they learned as the day wore on, what compelled many to take the Loneliest Road in America during normal times because of mountain vistas, Old West sagebrush, and pristine blue skies presented problems for the McDowell family. There were no opportunities to find fuel.
Mile after mile of desolate terrain through Nevada began to concern Owen as soon as the gauge on the Bronco dropped below half. When the tank hit a quarter, he stopped to stretch his legs and drain the last of the gasoline into the tank. He continued driving while Lacey studied the map to assess their options.
“Eureka’s a couple of miles ahead. It doesn’t look like much, but there might be gas.”
“I really don’t want to stop in any town, regardless of size. People are gonna want our truck. I’m afraid it could get ugly.”
Lacey laid the map in her lap and stared forward. “I know, Owen. I just don’t see any other—.”
She cut herself off and perked up in her seat. She pointed toward the right side of the road. Towering above the barren horizon were large steel structures resembling conveyer belts coupled with buckets.
“I see them,” said Owen, who began to slow the truck. “Find the binoculars.”
“Here ya go.” Tucker’s sleepy voice spoke from the back seat. He handed the binoculars to his mother.
“It’s some kind of mining operation,” she observed as he pulled to a complete stop. “There appears to be a mountain of sand and those giant earth-moving dump trucks. I also see two large water towers erected on steel supports.” She lowered the binoculars and shrugged.
“Let’s find a way in. Hopefully, nobody’s there.”
Owen eased forward and drove another mile around a long curve until he reached the intersection of State Road 278. A simple wooden sign was affixed to wooden poles in the dirt. Lacey read it aloud.
“Ruby Hill Mine. Private property.”
“I say we go for it,” said Tucker. He leaned forward in the seat, holding one of the handguns they’d found. The other one was in the Bronco’s glove box. Lacey noticed he was holding it loosely in his right hand.
“Put that thing down,” she ordered her son.
“Mom, we might need it. I carried it all night, remember?”
“Yes. Still, put it down until we get there.”
Lacey was still uncomfortable around the guns, mainly because neither her son nor her husband had trained with them. She could handle a weapon thanks to the excellent training from her uncle Mike. She just wasn’t sure if she could take someone’s life with one. What concerned her more was Tucker’s cavalier attitude toward guns and his apparent insensitivity toward the two men who’d been killed by them on that bridge.
Tucker grumbled but obliged as Owen drove the Bronco deeper into the mining operation. The Ruby Hill mine was located west of the small Nevada town of Eureka. Part of the Battle Mountain seam of gold, it had been producing millions of dollars’ worth of gold for decades. Today, much to the relief of Owen as he eased toward the administration buildings, it appeared to be deserted.
“It looks like a roller coaster,” observed Tucker as he pointed to the two sets of conveyor belts that stretched from one side of the mining operation to the other.
At one end of the roller coaster, as Tucker called it, was a dredging machine deep underground in the middle of a gold seam. Formed in an earthquake-powered flash, when rocks were pulled apart deep below the Earth’s surface, the high-pressure fluids they contained instantly vaporized, leaving behind residues rich in minerals, including gold.
This gold-infused rock and soil was pulled up from the mine through an excavation process. Then, using steel buckets, the material was run through an extraction process known as a bucketline that ran in a continuous circular motion in which everything but the gold was eliminated.
For the McDowells’ purposes, while a bucketful of gold would be nice, gasoline would be a nice alternative in terms of value. They drove along the packed dirt road, winding their way around the dredging machinery and past the simple block administration building. Eventually they struck paydirt.
A rectangular, corrugated steel building stood off to the side near several parked pickup trucks. Fifty-five-gallon drums marked oil were stacked along the side of the building. There were also dozens of truck tires for equipment much larger than the pickups parked next to them.
“Let’s try there first,” said Owen as he pulled in front of the building’s double doors. Lacey was the first to notice a potential obstacle.
“It’s padlocked and chained. Let’s see if there’s a side entrance.”
“No worries, Mom. I’ve got this.”
Tucker turned in his seat and began to move duffel bags and clothing out of the way as he dug through the contents of the Bronco’s rear storage compartment. Seconds later, he found what he was looking for.
“Yeet!” He pulled his arm back and revealed a set of long-handled bolt cutters. “Check these out. I found them in one of the trucks last night. A burglar’s dream, right?”
Lacey studied her son disapprovingly. He seemed to be embracing this whole apocalypse thing a little too exuberantly.
Owen shut off the truck, and the three exited the vehicle. Lacey glanced at the glove box and debated whether to bring her gun. She looked around at the open space surrounding them. It was midday, and she was certain they would’ve been approached if a guard was present. She opened the glove box and immediately shut it, leaving the gun behind.
Tucker was the first to make it to the door and quickly got to work on the heavy-duty padlock. He used all his effort to cut through the shackle of the lock but had no success. He turned his attention to the chain. Within seconds, he’d cut open one side of a link. He tried to twist it free of the rest of the chain but couldn’t, so he cut open the other side of the link. The chain fell against the corrugated steel door with a crash, causing all three of them to nervously look around to determine if it had raised anyone’s attention.
“Good job, Tuck,” said Owen as he patted his son the rookie burglar on the back. Owen had accepted the fact that in the apocalypse, the normal rules of fatherly guidance didn’t apply. “Let’s see what we can find.”
He and Tucker pulled the heavy doors open and revealed a mechanic’s paradise that would put Harbor Freight Tools to shame.
Unlike the exterior of the building, which was surrounded by dust, dirt, and debris, the interior of the storage building was in pristine condition. Whoever was in charge of the mine’s operations ran a tight ship. Every tool had a place on a pegboard and was outlined with white paint as if it had been a victim in a homicide. Next to every tool was a chit, a round piece of cardboard with a number on it as well as the name of the tool. When an employee needed a tool, they exchanged one of their employee-identifying chits for the tool chit. Chit for chit, which allowed the person responsible for maintaining the storage building to keep the tools from walking off the property at the end of the day.
“This is amazing,” mumbled Lacey as she looked around. She recalled her father’s maintenance shed at home. You’d be lucky to find a place to stand much less a chit system to borrow a tool for the day.
“Back here, guys!” shouted Tucker from the darkest side of the building. “I’m talking mother lode!” An ironic use of the term meaning the discovery of a vein of a precious mineral like gold.
Owen and Lacey jogged into the building to join him. On a steel rack near a back door sat a dozen gas cans made by Midwest. Owen pulled his flashlight out of his pocket and studied the hard plastic containers.
“These are six gallons each. Not five. I’ve never seen that before.”
“Works for me!” Lacey exclaimed cheerily. “Let’s take them all.”
Tuesday, October 29
Driftwood Key
It was late afternoon, and for the first time since the nuclear warheads struck the U.S., the power in the Florida Keys appeared to be out permanently due to a cascading failure of the nation’s electrical grid. Hank was beginning to understand why the aftermath of a nuclear war had troubled Secretary Erin Bergman so much. Certainly, those lives lost instantaneously from the blasts were tragic. However, for the rest of America, who had to find a way to survive in a powerless world, the struggle was more than they’d ever imagined.
Many things had changed on that Tuesday for Hank and the rest of his extended family on Driftwood Key. Last night’s gun battle with a group of men who had intentions of stealing the fuel of Hank’s boat had resulted in three dead bodies and a heightened level of anxiety for everyone. Now, in addition to managing their food and fuel resources, they would have to patrol their twenty-eight-acre island at all times.
Mike and Jessica formulated a plan in which two-man shifts could patrol the shoreline and the only bridge onto the key. Hank opened up the gun closet, and everyone was assigned a pistol. The rifles were taken when on patrol, and some were strategically placed within the main house in the event a large number of intruders approached.
Even Phoebe was required to keep a weapon with her at all times. Although she mostly stayed around the main house, she did have occasion to go the greenhouses and hydroponic facilities alone. She hadn’t been formally trained, but Jessica ran her through some dry-firing exercises so she could defend herself if surprised. Most importantly, she assured Mike and Jessica that she was not afraid to pull the trigger if threatened. As they told her, don’t point a gun at someone unless you’re prepared to use it.
Jimmy was the island’s workhorse, only sleeping a few hours a day. He volunteered to handle the night shift, which he shared with his dad and Hank, who was a notorious early riser. During the day, he fished off the dock or shore, in addition to harvesting the Caribbean lobsters found in the waters off Driftwood Key.
Hank emerged onto the porch and pulled his bandana up over his face. He and Phoebe seemed to be affected the most by the smoky air that had descended upon the Keys. He subconsciously felt for the handle of his pistol that rested on his hip. It was something he did multiple times a day as he worked around the inn. Not only was it something new and unexpected as part of his daily attire, but it was also a comfort blanket of sorts. The gunshots of the night before had shocked him to his core. The collapse of America had barely begun following the nuclear attack, and armed bandits were already coming after Driftwood Key’s resources.
“Mr. Hank! Mr. Hank!” Jimmy shouted as he ran through the sand. Both hands were full of baskets containing spiny lobsters. The ever-darkening conditions had tricked the lobsters into feeding throughout the day, much to Jimmy’s delight. They were easy prey for an advanced skin diver such as himself.
Hank bounded down the front steps of the porch to greet him. His apprehension shot up a few notches. “Is everything okay?”
“There’s a boat approaching from the north. Pretty fast, too.”
Hank didn’t hesitate. He ran back inside and grabbed a hunting rifle that remained propped near the entry door.
“Phoebe! We have a boat coming this way. Keep an eye on the house.”
Jimmy met him at the top step as Hank emerged. “Do you want me to get my dad?” Daytime was the only exception to the two-man patrol arrangement. And that was only on the rare occasion when either Hank or Jimmy was unable to assist.
“No,” replied Hank as he began to descend the steps. “Stay close to the house. Let me see what the deal is, and I’ll yell for you.”
Hank walked briskly and with purpose toward the dock. After cleaning up the dead bodies and discovering they had no identification, Mike and Jessica had towed them out a mile into the Gulf and then cut them loose. Shark attacks in the Florida Keys had been nonexistent until this week. The diminished sunlight had taken away some of the sharks’ natural feeding opportunities. It was likely the three men would be nibbled at until they were unrecognizable.
As law enforcement officers, Mike and Jessica understood they’d broken numerous laws after the shooting took place. However, as they’d come to realize, the rule of law was breaking down daily. This was part of the reason the sheriff’s department had moved quickly to evacuate the island and set up the roadblocks. Soon, people would no longer obey their commands.
The sun was in his eyes, so he was unable to determine the make of the boat. He took up a position behind some sandbags Mike had filled and piled along the end of the dock closest to the Hatteras. He’d told Hank the sandbags would provide them ballistic protection the next time anyone thought about trying to steal from them.
He knelt down behind the wall of sandbags and poked his head up just enough to see the approaching boat. The driver had just throttled down to slow their approach. Hank was perplexed by the sudden appearance of the vessel, but was feeling better about their intentions. Unless they’d brought half a dozen armed gunmen, they’d be largely unprotected on the open water in broad, albeit hazy, daylight.
He rose slightly with his rifle pointed in the direction of the boat. He squinted as it approached, and then he exhaled, allowing all of the stress and tension to leave his body. It was Jessica.
She idled toward the pier on the opposite side of the Wellcraft that had been used by the thieves the night before. Mike was supposed to check with the sheriff’s office to determine if it had been reported stolen. If not, they’d keep it there until the owner was located or in case they needed it.
“Hey, Hank! Throw me a line!”
Hank set his rifle down and waited for Jessica to pull parallel to the dock. She left the steering wheel and threw two bumpers over the side to buffer the hard rubber around the dock from her boat. Seconds later, she was tied off, and Hank extended his hand to pull her up onto the dock.
“Is everything all right?” he asked. It seemed to be the question he asked of all the inhabitants of Driftwood Key. Hank seemed to expect the answer to be no, everything is not all right. He’d become a glass half-empty kind of guy lately.
“Yeah, actually. The sheriff has pulled me off eviction duty. That’s the good news. The bad news is that we’ve had a rash of pirate activity, if you wanna call it that.”
Hank smirked and shook his head. “Pirates? As in boarding boats on the high seas?”
“Well, it’s an all-inclusive term, I guess. There were reports of gas and boat thefts from last night. Apparently, or at least the working theory is that the three men we encountered might be part of a larger group working the keys. The boatyards were the hardest hit. There was a report of another yacht being ransacked.”
“Unbelievable,” said Hank.
“A local fisherman from Stock Island and his wife were found dead. Their shrimp boat was missing, too. Hank, I gotta tell ya’, this is just the beginning. The amount of panic on the other side of that bridge is beyond comprehension.” She pointed toward the sole access point to the outside world from Driftwood Key.
“Are you saying on the mainland or here in the Keys?” Hank asked as he backed away from her to retrieve his rifle. He’d let his bandana drop to his chin while he talked with her, and his voice was beginning to feel raspy.
Jessica raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “Both, really. Although our immediate concern is here. We’ve secured the land-based access to the Keys. We’re still working diligently to ferret out who doesn’t live here and send them on their way. However, once word spread that the sheriff was removing nonresidents, they found a way to hide from us.”
They stepped off the dock and were greeted by Jimmy. “Hey, Jess. I think I heard Mike’s truck pulling onto the island.”
She looked back toward the setting sun. There was maybe an hour of daylight left.
“He’s earlier than I expected.”
The trio heard a car door slam, and Mike came lumbering through a path carved under a group of palm trees following years of use. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder and another one in his right hand. In his left hand, he carried a military-style, forest green ammunition can. The heavy weight caused his body to list to the left.
Hank noticed the effort Mike was using, so he patted Jimmy on the back and urged him to help Mike with the load. The two men spoke for a moment, and then Jimmy took the ammunition can together with the two rifles to the main house.
“New toys?” asked Jessica, who kissed her husband on the cheek.
“Yeah, military stuff, too. Full-auto M4 carbines. The governor has declared martial law in Florida.”
“That’s not surprising considering the power situation,” said Jessica. “That may be why the sheriff pulled me off traffic and onto pirate patrol.” She pointed with her thumb over her shoulder toward the dock.
Mike looked past her and nodded. “I heard. In hindsight, I wish we’d tied those three amigos to the dock pilings and reported it.”
“Why? Who’s gonna investigate it? You?”
“True,” said Mike. “Actually, since the power’s been out all day, I’ve been unable to charge my radio, so I couldn’t reach you. They found another body in Key West.”
“Dammit,” muttered Jessica. “Same MO?”
“I hope so,” replied Mike.
Hank was confused. He stood a little taller and asked, “What does it mean?”
“Well, from what I was told, this guy has really stepped up his game. He’s gone from bludgeoning and hacking to more precise dismemberment using power tools.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Jessica. “Power tools?”
“How do you know this?” asked Hank.
“That’s why I’m here early,” began Mike in his response. “A few reasons, actually. I need to trade radios with you, Hank. Don’t you keep it charged in the kitchen?”
“Yeah. I haven’t used it although it’s turned on. Phoebe fires up the generator every four hours for forty-five minutes or so to keep the coolers’ temperatures where they belong. That also allows her to recharge the radio.”
“Yeah, it’s a rapid charger,” said Jess. She pulled her radio from her utility belt. “I charged mine on the boat. It’s good to go.”
The two traded radios, and then Mike continued. “It’s gonna be a late night for me. Here’s what I know.” He paused to take a deep breath and look around the beach. Then he explained, “Until today, the city was running their garbage pickups to try to maintain some semblance of sanitation around Key West. The bars are still opening at night despite the governor’s order to shut down. We don’t have the manpower to police it. Our priority has been to remove people from the Keys.
“Anyway, they didn’t pick up along Duval and Caroline Street this morning. Apparently, some transients were dumpster diving and opened up a few heavy-duty black trash bags. They found body parts.”
Jessica put her hands on her hips and walked in a circle, looking at the sky. “That’s the extent that this guy tried to cover his tracks? Trash bags in a dumpster?”
“Yep, apparently so,” replied Mike. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist. Despite the falling temperatures, his adrenaline was causing him to overheat. “But here’s what it tells me. He’s likely a local. He’s got a place downtown where he feels he can comfortably dismember a body with a power tool of some kind without being discovered. He knows our routines, including the garbage pickup schedule. He’s brazen enough to casually dump the body in a dumpster without fear of being caught by a very overworked police department.”
“He’ll make a mistake because he’s getting cocky,” opined Hank.
“Very astute observation, Detective Hank Albright,” said his younger brother with a chuckle. He patted Hank on the shoulder. “I’m gonna head to the coroner’s office to look at the remains and study the area where the body was found. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll have a chance to meet this asshole.”
Tuesday, October 29
Holden, Utah
After filling the tank with fuel, Owen and Tucker worked together to strap the remaining containers to the top of the Bronco using heavy-duty ratchet straps they discovered in the maintenance shed. They ran the straps through the handles, under the roof into the interior of the truck and out the other side. The configuration still allowed them to close the doors while the fuel cans were firmly attached to the roof. Even at sixty-five miles an hour, the gas cans didn’t move.
As they finished their travels across Nevada, U.S. 50 lived up to its name as the Loneliest Road in America. They crossed into Utah and found that nothing much changed other than the weather.
Throughout the day, it was if a massive cold front was moving into the Rockies from Canada. Temperatures began to drop, and the dirty snow began to accumulate. With no other traffic on the road, Owen struggled to keep from dipping two wheels off the shoulder. The asphalt pavement was rough underneath the blowing snow, and the accumulation was growing as it drifted against the rock canyon walls that were only ten feet from the highway.
They drove through a valley near Sevier Lake that caused Owen to fight the wheel as seventy-mile-an-hour gusts threatened to blow them into the rocky flatlands on the south side of the highway. The drive eastward that would’ve ordinarily been smooth and fast was anything but. By the time they approached Interstate 15 where U.S. 50 merged for a short time, Owen was physically and mentally exhausted.
“At Holden, we’ll take the interstate north for five or six miles,” said Lacey as she tried to take Owen’s mind off the struggle. “Then, after a short ride around a mountain, we’ll pick up I-70 for a couple of hundred miles to Grand Junction in Colorado. From there, we can start working our way south and east.”
Owen glanced at the fuel gauge. It would be time to refill the tank soon. Also, it was getting dark fast. He didn’t want to fight this wind and not be able to see the where the pavement ended and the prairie began. It would be a disaster.
“Okay. Let’s start looking for a place. Does Holden look like a large town?”
“Nah. Just like the others. One stoplight and a handful of streets.”
Tucker had pushed himself onto the edge of the back seat and rested his elbows on his parents’ seatbacks. He pointed ahead to a sign. “There’s one of those Rotary Club signs. Looks like there’s a church and a school.”
“LDS,” muttered Owen. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was often informally referred to as the LDS or Mormon church.
“What are you thinking, honey?” asked Lacey.
Owen took a deep breath. “We were lucky at Echo Lake because the place was deserted. We’ve got a lot of nights on the road ahead of us, and each time we stop, we’re at risk. Somehow, I wanna believe a church might be a pretty safe place.”
“Mormons?” asked Tucker.
“Here’s the thing, Tuck,” Owen relayed his thoughts. “I grew up with members of the LDS church in my hometown. They were good people. Sure, they weren’t into the same types of things I was, and their families lived simple lives by comparison. That said, I remember them having an inner peace about them. They were a very close-knit group of people and lived a life of self-sufficiency. During the power outages caused by the fires, they still managed to stay in their homes, cook their meals, and tend to their farms.”
Lacey interrupted his thoughts. “There’s a sign that says we should turn up ahead.”
“Let’s try it, Dad.”
Owen smiled and nodded as he turned his blinker on out of habit. He laughed at himself and then turned it off again. They drove into town just as the sun was setting, at least the best they could tell. Darkness seemed to be the rule rather than the exception. That, coupled with the blowing snow, caused visibility to be poor and barely half a mile.
“There it is!” said Lacey excitedly. She was anxious for her husband to get some relief from the stress of driving. He refused to let anyone else take the wheel, and she respected that he wanted full responsibility for his family.
Owen made another turn and then eased up to the front of the church. There weren’t any cars on the street in front and only a few parked on the wide streets nearby. They hadn’t seen anyone on the sidewalks or porches of the homes in town. Undoubtedly, they were staying out of the inclement weather.
Owen parked the truck. “Tucker, will you stay here and keep an eye out. Your mom and I will see if anybody’s around.”
He opened his door first, and the full brunt of the north wind filled the warm interior. “Whoa!” exclaimed Tucker as he fell back in his seat and started searching for his jacket, which had been used as bedding.
Owen pulled the door closed again. “Guys, it feels like it’s dropped at least twenty degrees since we stopped at the gold mine. I know it’s getting later in the day, but this is nuts.”
“Here ya go,” said Tucker as he passed their North Face jackets forward. “Do you want me to find toboggans in our bags?” Tucker had learned the Southern term for wool knit hats from his mother.
Lacey slipped on her coat and replied, “No. We may not be long.”
Owen did the same and turned to Tucker. “Eyes wide open, son. Take nothing for granted, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” said the teen, who snapped a salute as well. During their drive that day, without unduly creating a mental state of paranoia, they’d discussed the various threats they’d face on the road to the Keys. They all circled around to the most unpredictable of them all. Their fellow man.
Lacey and Owen walked hand in hand through the soot-filled snow that had accumulated on the sidewalk leading to the entrance. They’d barely arrived under the cathedral-slanted roof when one of the double doors opened inward. A man and a woman greeted them.
“Welcome. I’m Bishop Gates, and this is my wife, Anna.”
Lacey allowed her husband to take the lead. “Hello, Bishop Gates, and thanks for letting us in. I’m Owen McDowell from San Francisco. This is my wife, Lacey, and my son, Tucker, is outside in our truck.”
“Oh, you must fetch him,” insisted Anna. “This unexpected cold air could be deadly if he’s exposed too long.”
Owen looked at Lacey and through the glass panes next to the doors. “Um, well, everything we own is out there. We, um, don’t want anything to—” Owen felt guilty for disparaging their town by implying thieves might steal their belongings.
Bishop Gates picked up on his hesitancy. “Mr. McDowell, do you and your family need sanctuary for the evening? If so, you’re welcome to stay here, and we have a garage in back to secure your vehicle.”
“And we have hot stew in the crock left over from tonight’s supper,” added Anna.
“You do?” asked Lacey. “Hot?”
Anna smiled and nodded. Her eyes were kind. “Why don’t you stay with us, dearie? A warm meal and some fellowship would do your bodies good. Maybe this foul weather will find its way elsewhere by morning.”
Owen and Lacey looked at one another. A few tears streamed down Lacey’s face. He immediately hugged his wife and looked over her shoulder to Bishop Gates.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asked.
“God has placed us on this Earth to help in times like these,” he replied as he held his arms wide. “Let us give you a night of respite before you continue your journey.”