Devil Storm

CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday, November 6

Overseas Highway at Cross Key

Florida Keys, USA

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

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

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

“Peter! Peter! It’s Jimmy!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fire!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Jimmy! What do I do?”

He didn’t respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

Wednesday, November 6

Overseas Highway at Cross Key

Florida Keys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jimmy looked back and forth, deciding what to do.

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

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

“Retreat, Free! Now!”

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

“Peter! Over here. Climb over.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you okay?” Jimmy asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER THREE

Wednesday, November 6

Driftwood Key

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

Jess?

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

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

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

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

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

“Mike!”

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

“Over here!”

“Jessica! This way!”

More familiar voices. Here comes the cavalry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why? Is Phoebe okay?”

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

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

Mike managed a smile and slowly nodded once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FOUR

Wednesday, November 6

Gulf of Mexico

Near Pass Christian, Mississippi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why were you in Mississippi?” asked Tucker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you a sailor?” asked Andino.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FIVE

Wednesday, November 6

Overseas Highway at Jewfish Creek

Florida Keys

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

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

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

Jimmy was gone.

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

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

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

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

“Jimmy!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got it!” exclaimed Peter.

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

CHAPTER SIX

Wednesday, November 6

Overseas Highway at Jewfish Creek

Florida Keys

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

“You okay?” he asked.

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

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

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

“There ya go, Jimmy. Good work!”

“This piece is kinda loose,” he responded.

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

“Does it wiggle?” asked Peter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Then our dads ruined our dreams.”

“And whipped our asses, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Lindsey? What does she hope to achieve?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sarge, he’s got a weapon!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER SEVEN

Wednesday, November 6

Driftwood Key

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dead. GSW, among other things.”

Mike closed his eyes and nodded. “Good.”

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

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

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

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

Mike paused to take several deep breaths.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER EIGHT

Wednesday, November 6

Overseas Highway

South of Homestead, Florida

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In this case, the prisoners.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER NINE

Wednesday, November 6

Overseas Highway

South of Homestead, Florida

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about after you helped him?”

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

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

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

“Hmmm,” muttered Robinson.

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

CHAPTER TEN

Wednesday, November 6

Monroe County Administration Offices

Key West

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Wednesday, November 6

Gulf of Mexico

Near Dauphin Island, Alabama

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWELVE

Wednesday, November 6

National Guard Encampment

Homestead-Miami Speedway

Homestead, Florida

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

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

“Stand up and hold still,” he ordered.

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

“Thanks,” mumbled Peter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

Peter nodded. “Yes.”

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

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

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

Still nothing.

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

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