Devil Storm

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Saturday, November 9

Blackwater Sound

Near Key Largo

It wasn’t the kind of dawn of a new day that Peter was used to. Florida, the Sunshine State, rarely failed to live up to its name. Even when a storm passed, the bright blue skies coupled with a glorious sunrise could lift the spirits of even those in the direst of situations. However, in the throes of nuclear winter, pitch darkness simply gave way to a smoky, hazy shade of gray.

Nonetheless, Peter’s biological alarm clock woke him with a start. He was disoriented and confused as he tried to make sense of why he was floating. His arms ached beyond belief, as he’d managed to stuff his hands and wrists through the handles located at the rear of the WaveRunner seats.

At first, the nerves had been pinched for so long that his arms wouldn’t respond to his commands. Unlike during the night he’d endured when the hurricane-force winds had tossed him atop the sound like a fishing bobber that had broken loose from a line, the water was now smooth with barely a ripple.

Peter’s mind forced him awake. Everything that had happened the night before flooded through his consciousness, especially his recollection of losing Jimmy. He forgot about the searing pain in his shoulders and let go of one of the WaveRunners. He kicked his legs and used all the diminished strength he could muster to climb onto the saddle of the WaveRunner.

He lowered his eyes and cupped his hands over them to adjust to the glare created by the grayish clouds that hovered over the Keys. Then he tried his voice.

All he could manage was a whisper. He recalled his efforts to yell for Jimmy until his vocal cords became severely damaged. Without any way to call for his friend, Peter fired up the WaveRunner. He was going to resume the search, but first, he tried to get his bearings.

He was astonished to see that he was only half a mile from shore. The waterfront homes at Stellrecht Point jutted out into the sound to his left. To his right, the mid-rise buildings of the Key Largo Bay Marriott marked the beginning of the hammocks that stretched around Blackwater Sound to his rear.

Remarkably, Peter started to laugh, hoarse as he was. They’d been so close when he’d lost track of his friend. Had Jimmy not fallen off his WaveRunner, within minutes, they would’ve been pulling onto the small beach at the Marriott or nearby at Rowell’s Waterfront Park, which was the favorite playground of dog owners in Key Largo.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t assume that Jimmy had swum to shore. Once again, he cupped his eyes and looked in all directions. There were no boats on the water, and the typical flotsam prevalent following a hurricane surrounded him.

Even under normal conditions in which residents and businesses had ample warning of a coming storm, invariably many failed to secure items that could be picked up by the wind. Patio furniture, canoes, surfboards, umbrellas, and portable signage was oftentimes found floating just offshore following a hurricane.

Peter cursed aloud as he tried to differentiate between an overturned canoe and a body floating in the water. But he had to check everything out in case Jimmy had latched onto a piece of debris to survive the night, much as he’d used the WaveRunners to keep him afloat.

So he took off to inspect the debris nearest to his position. Unlike during the night and the worst of the storm’s passing over him, he could now keep up with his position because visibility was somewhat better than what he remembered from the day before. It was if the hurricane and its strong winds had acted like a vacuum cleaner to suck up the sooty fallout and carry it northward as it terrorized the rest of Florida.

For more than an hour, as dawn turned to morning, Peter searched for Jimmy but was unsuccessful. Finally, he decided to go ashore and enlist help from the sheriff’s department. He hoped he could get in touch with his father or at least Mike and Jessica. He was certain they’d drop everything to help search for Jimmy.

The fire department had locations near the destroyed bridges and farther down U.S. 1 from Blackwater Sound. There wasn’t a police substation near his location that he could recall. His best option was the Marriott resort. They were the most prominent buildings that he could see from the middle of the sound, and he believed Jimmy would notice them first if he’d swum to shore.

As he entered the man-made inlet created in the middle of the resort to accommodate visiting yachts, he was able to observe the destruction wrought by the hurricane. Although the resort had been closed, anything not adequately secured had been blown around the property. Even some windows were broken out, which was an indicator of how strong this hurricane had been.

Most of the commercial buildings in the Keys had been retrofitted with windows to withstand a Category 5 hurricane. A Cat 5 would feature winds greater than 155 miles per hour and, depending on circumstances, could be accompanied by storm surge over eighteen feet. Peter saw evidence of this in the smaller buildings flanking the Marriott.

Roofs had blown off or collapsed. Many shrubs, trees, and signs were twisted, shredded relics of their former selves. Several small boats from the boat dealer across the highway from the Marriott had found their way into the parking lot. Even a red KIA had landed nose down in the middle of Breezer’s Tiki Bar, a place Peter had frequented often during his years of commuting to college.

Peter was relieved when he saw two uniformed private security guards rushing toward him as he rode under a covered walkway that stretched over the water. Not surprisingly, as had often been the case during his travels from Virginia, the men approached him with weapons drawn.

“Hey! This is private property. You need to turn it around.”

Peter was exhausted and in no mood for a fight. He needed to find Jimmy. Peter, whose throat was parched and still somewhat hoarse, tried to speak as loud as he could.

“I got stuck on the sound during the storm last night. My friend fell off his WaveRunner, and I can’t find him.”

“Well, he’s not here,” said the second man as they towered over Peter from the floating dock that lined the resort’s marina facilities.

“Do you know that for certain?” asked Peter sarcastically, gulping hard as he realized he’d tried to speak too loudly. He softened his tone. “His life may be in danger, and he needs help.”

“There are a lot of folks who need help after last night,” the first man shot back. He waved his arm around the hotel. “Look at this mess.”

Peter was incensed. He whispered loud enough for the security guards to pick up on his outrage. “I’m talking about a man’s life, not your precious palm trees and patio furniture!”

This angered both men, who raised their weapons at Peter. “That’s enough. You’ve been warned. Martial law has been declared, and we can shoot you if necessary.”

Peter stood on his WaveRunner. He wanted so badly to climb onto the dock and pummel these two rent-a-cops, but that wouldn’t help Jimmy. Without saying another word, he gunned the throttle and did a quick one-eighty to leave the Marriott’s territorial waters. As he straightened the handlebars to direct him toward the sound once again, he lifted his middle finger to the two security guards. It was a gesture that conveyed a clear and unequivocal message that didn’t require him to strain his voice.

He was going nearly forty miles per hour when he turned the WaveRunner to the right in search of a place to tie it off. The Caribbean Club, another of Key Largo’s favorite watering holes, was just ahead. They had a T-shaped dock protruding into the water as well as a boat ramp that he could beach the WaveRunner on if necessary. When he arrived there minutes later, he was relieved to see he wasn’t greeted by men with guns.

Which reminded him. He felt his holster and realized that his weapon was miraculously secured in its holster. Then he looked at the National Guard uniform he’d stolen at the speedway. He began to wonder if this might get him shot by some overzealous local who’d bought into the whole Conch Republic secession thing.

Peter pulled the WaveRunner up to the dock and quickly disembarked. He tied it to a cleat and didn’t bother with the bumpers. He wasn’t sure he’d ever use it again anyway. Then he took off his shirt, leaving nothing on but a green tee shirt and the light green digital camo pants that were still soaking wet. He ditched the holster and tucked the firearm into the waistband of his pants. Then he covered the handle with the tee shirt.

With a deep breath and a quick look at his surroundings, he moseyed over to a boat that had been lifted ashore during the storm surge. Several bottles of water were strewn about the ground next to it. Without a second thought, Peter quickly gulped one down and then opened another, which he sipped. It provided him an instant lift and gave his throat some much-needed relief. Next, he made his way across the sandy parking lot of the Caribbean Club to the highway in search of anyone associated with law enforcement.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Saturday, November 9

Blackwater Sound

Near Key Largo

Peter walked south along the highway toward the more populated part of Key Largo. He was concerned that if he walked all the way to the fire station at Lake Surprise, he might be mistaken for a National Guardsman, a sworn enemy of the Keys, he presumed. He’d just have more guns pointed at him.

Two women rode past him on bicycles, so he waved his arms to flag them down. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Hey! I need a cop. Do they have a station up here?”

“Nah, man,” one of the women said as she barely slowed long enough to make eye contact with Peter. “They’s all up at the roadblock.”

“You mean where it once was,” said the other woman. “They blowed up the bridge.”

Peter smirked and shook his head. I know. I was there.

He had to shout his questions as the women kept riding down the highway. “They don’t have another station down here? Maybe a place where they gather?”

“Try the fire station. This way about four miles!”

Frustrated, Peter mustered the energy to jog down the highway on the wrong side of the road. He expected some kind of shift change if they were still maintaining a contingent of deputies near the destroyed bridge. He’d stop every car coming his way, using his gun, if necessary, until he found help.

He’d jogged a mile or so before an MCSO deputy sheriff’s car approached from the south. Peter stood in the middle of the road and began waving his arms overhead so they would stop. The deputy slowed and tried to pull around him, but Peter quickly moved in front of his bumper. After honking and failing to move Peter out of the way, the deputy pushed the driver’s side door open and stomped out of the car.

“Get the hell out of—!” the deputy began to yell before Peter cut him off.

“I’m Peter Albright. Mike’s nephew. I need help.”

“Detective Mike Albright?”

“Yes. My dad is Hank over at Driftwood Key.”

The deputy looked around and sighed. He walked toward Peter and pointed toward his chest. Before he was able to ask, Peter explained.

“I was trying to get home, and then they blew the bridge. My friend who works for my dad was working as a deputy at the checkpoint. He tried to help me, and we got stuck on the wrong side of the bridge. Anyway, we were arrested by the National Guard. They beat Jimmy and, um, well, we had to steal a guy’s uniform to get away. Listen, none of that matters. Jimmy and I got caught on WaveRunners last night on Blackwater Sound. He fell overboard, and I can’t find him. I need a team to help search for him.”

“Peter. Right?” asked the deputy.

“Yeah.”

“Listen, I’ve got some bad news about your uncle. He was attacked the other night by someone staying at the inn. He was stabbed and is in pretty rough shape.”

“What? You can’t be serious!”

“Afraid so. He’s at Lower Keys Medical in Key West. I heard he’s in stable condition, but I’m really not certain because—”

Peter slapped the sides of his head with both hands and grabbed fistfuls of hair. He wandered in circles, alternating looking back toward Blackwater Sound and then in the direction of Key West. Conflicted, he paced for several seconds before he made a decision. Mike had medical care. Jimmy didn’t.

He plead with the deputy. “Okay. Okay. I’ve gotta find Jimmy. He’s out there floating somewhere. Can we get the WET team on the water to search for him?”

The deputy chuckled although it was more of a reaction to the request rather an attempt at being disrespectful. “Here’s the thing. Nobody knew about this hurricane coming. Sure, some of the old-timers who had those weather-glass things on their kitchen table might’ve called it. However, the rest of us were blindsided, as I gather you were. It’s all hands on deck right now to stop looters and rescue people.”

“Jimmy needs to be rescued,” said Peter dryly. “Can you call my aunt, Jessica Albright. She’s on the WET team.”

“Yeah, I know her. Gimme a sec.”

The deputy returned to his patrol car and slid into the front seat. He spent more than a minute on the radio, trying to raise Jessica on her two-way. Their coverage area had been greatly diminished following the collapse of the grid, and the repeater towers weren’t always functioning.

Peter approached the driver’s side door. “What did you find out?”

“Deputy Albright didn’t respond to my call on the open frequencies. I contacted dispatch, and she hasn’t reported in since leaving the hospital yesterday.”

“What about a search party?” asked Peter.

“I’m gonna be honest. We’re disorganized as hell. The mayor had us focused on kicking people off the Keys, and then she shifted gears to blowing up the bridges. Now, with the storm, I don’t think I could organize a one-man fishing tournament much less send a flotilla out to find your friend.”

“I’ve gotta do something,” lamented Peter.

The deputy furrowed his brow and looked up the highway. “Blackwater Sound, you say?”

“Yeah. I think we were close to the Marriott, but it was so dark, and the wind was howling…” Peter’s voice trailed off as he became emotional.

The deputy noticed his change in demeanor. “You know what? Get in. I have an idea. No promises, though.”

Peter nodded and turned away to wipe a few tears from his cheeks. He hustled around the back of the car and jumped into the passenger’s seat after the deputy set aside his rain gear.

“Thanks for helping,” began Peter as he settled into the seat. The deputy immediately turned on his emergency lights and roared up the road, drawing the attention of several residents who were cleaning up debris.

“No promises, remember. I have some folks at Captain Jax who owe me a favor. They’re not much, but they have boats, and I think I can get ’em to give you an hour or two.”

Peter sighed. He’d take anything at this point. A minute later, the deputy slowed at the entrance to Captain Jax Mobile Home Park. He stopped short of the open entry gates, not because they were guarded but because a travel trailer had been picked up and dropped on its side just beyond the entry.

“Jesus,” muttered the deputy. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “It’s like this all up and down the Keys. Nobody’s been spared.”

Peter grew frustrated again. “This is a waste of time. These people will be digging out for days.”

“Maybe. Do you wanna give it a try? I’ll make the introductions, but dispatch needs me at the bridge.”

“Sure. Thanks.” Peter exited the patrol car. His tee shirt rose on his back, revealing the pistol grip protruding above his waistband.

“You armed?” asked the deputy.

Peter’s face turned pale, and he closed his eyes momentarily. He’d completely forgotten about the weapon. “Yes. I should’ve told you. I’m so preoccupied with finding Jimmy that I—”

“Don’t sweat it, bud. Let’s go.”

The deputy led Peter through the debris. Several of the mobile homes had been tipped over while others had been torn open like a sardine can. Many of the owners were wandering around aimlessly, some of whom were bloodied and injured.

The deputy confronted a group of residents. “Hey! Where’s Jax?”

They all pointed toward the office adjacent to the boat slips.

The two men stepped over a fallen power pole. Its transformers lay partially covered in a heap of sand while the power lines were twisted on the ground at its base. The irony wasn’t lost on Peter. The evidence of America’s beating electrical heart was just as dead as it had been before the hurricane. At least now it could be given a proper burial.

“Wait here,” instructed the deputy. “He owes me the mother of all favors. I’ll call in the chit just to get you some help.”

Peter grimaced and nodded. After several minutes, the deputy returned with Captain Jax and a handful of others.

“Okay, Peter. Here’s what you’ve got. Jax and these folks can give you a couple of hours. They’re gonna need to be reimbursed for their fuel. Do you think your dad’s willing to do that?”

Peter scowled. He was grateful for the help and not all that surprised they’d requested their tanks to be refilled.

“Deal.”

“And they said you can have a boat for yourself,” the deputy continued as he threw Peter a key attached to an orange floating key ring. He fumbled the catch, and the keys hit the sand. He knelt down to grab it and nodded his appreciation to the deputy at the same time.

Captain Jax addressed Peter. “You can have the boat. The owner died last night, and we got more boats around here than you can shake a stick at. Besides, it’s full of empty fuel cans. Fill them up when you get back to your place and return ’em full. Are we straight?”

“Yep. Thanks for helping.”

“All right, let’s get to it. Two hours. That’s it. Understand?”

Peter nodded again and followed Captain Jax with his rescue contingent to the marina, where the first order of business was to clear a path to get the boats out.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Saturday, November 9

Blackwater Sound

Near Key Largo, Florida

Peter and the other boaters spent more than two hours looking for Jimmy. He didn’t like the conclusion Captain Jax had reached at the end, but it was inarguable. Jimmy was no longer in the water. Well, on top of it anyway.

Peter raised the issue that Jimmy might have swum to shore. He explained to the disbelieving residents of the mobile home park that his friend was a helluva diver and swimmer. They didn’t try to dissuade Peter, and they encouraged him to keep the faith, but the search was done as far as they were concerned.

Peter cut the engine for a moment and floated adrift just beyond the entrance to Dusenbury Creek near Bush Point at the southernmost end of Blackwater Sound. He checked his fuel levels and then did some calculations.

He felt he had more than enough fuel to make it to Driftwood Key, roughly fifty miles to his southwest. Then he had a thought. He stood on the aft deck of the center-console fishing boat and looked around Blackwater Sound. He guessed there was ten to fifteen miles of shoreline to cover around the perimeter.

He returned to the center console and searched for the horn. A silver button was positioned to the left of the steering column, and he gave it a try. It wasn’t a loud air horn; however, it was good enough to get someone’s attention.

Logically assuming Jimmy was able to receive some help if he’d made it to Key Largo, Peter turned the boat and began ambling along the shoreline of the hammocks, such as they were. The semicircle of land that encompassed much of Blackwater Sound was nothing more than scraggly plant material protruding up through the shallow water. If Jimmy did make it to the hammocks, he’d likely be hugging a tree.

At first, he tried to holler for his friend as well as honk the boat’s horn. As his vocal cords became strained, it was too painful to yell, so he repeatedly pressed the horn’s button.

On the far west side of the sound, he reached the Boggies, a stretch of the hammocks that was more sandbar than plant material. The trees that protected the beach from eroding had been uprooted by the storm, and many floated in the water. Peter was uncertain where Blackwater Sound ended and Florida Bay, which led to the Gulf of Mexico, began.

He stopped for a moment and studied the landscape in front of him. He thought of how high the waves had grown during the worst part of the hurricane. He looked across the opening that had been created by the surge of water that had swept over it for hours.

Suddenly, a sick feeling came over him, and he became physically ill. Without warning, his stomach retched, and he hung his head over the side of the boat to vomit.

What if Jimmy had been swept out of Blackwater Sound?

Peter continued around the perimeter of Blackwater Sound. He slowly drove past Gilbert’s Resort and looked up at the void where the bridge had once stood. The place where it had all started. As he thought about the events of the last couple of days, like so many others would do once he brought the news of Jimmy’s disappearance to Driftwood Key, resentment began to build inside him.

Peter didn’t know all the circumstances of why Jimmy had been forced into manning the checkpoint in furtherance of Lindsey’s ill-conceived plan. Regardless, she was directly responsible for Jimmy being placed in that position to begin with, and therefore she should pay a price.

With the anger welling up inside, he completed his circular search grid and returned to the mouth of Dusenbury Creek. He stared at the hundred-foot-wide opening. It was the most direct route to Driftwood Key and would require the least amount of fuel. Then he turned his attention toward the western end of the sound. That nagging sensation that Jimmy might have been swept away with the storm surge bothered him. It was even possible that he’d grasped onto something floating atop the water that took him outside the confines of Blackwater Sound during the storm.

Peter turned the boat toward the Boggies and pressed down the throttle. He was going out into the bay to search for a while, and then he was going home to get help. No matter what, he wasn’t giving up until he knew what had happened to his friend.

For Peter, not knowing meant it was possible that Jimmy was still alive.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Saturday, November 9

Blackwater Sound

Dejected and exhausted, Peter lost track of time as he wandered around Florida Bay just outside the barrier sandbars and hammocks protecting Blackwater Sound. He repeatedly tried to call out for his friend but once again strained his vocal cords so bad that he began gargling with salt water to help heal the irritated tissue in his throat.

After hours of circling in an ever-widening arc, Peter became aware of his fuel levels. He was not an experienced boater. Growing up before he left for college, he’d rarely taken the Hatteras into the Gulf on his own. He almost always had his dad or Jimmy with him, the two people on Driftwood Key who seemed to enjoy being on the water more than on land.

That wasn’t to say Peter disliked boating. But with Jimmy and Hank around, the opportunities to go it alone were few. He wasn’t sure how far away he was from Driftwood Key when he noticed the fuel gauge drop off precipitously. He didn’t want to stop looking, but it was a fruitless exercise under the circumstances. An occasional dry gust of wind swept over him, a reminder that the storm was not that far away.

He’d seen hurricanes stall and even wander back toward the Keys when a strong high-pressure system collided with it in the Gulf. He didn’t have sufficient fuel to risk running out that far away from the Keys.

As it turned out, he didn’t have enough fuel to make it home, either.

Unlike the rest of his family, Peter wasn’t completely familiar with the shorelines and all the landmarks that helped identify the Keys. Not that it mattered because the constant haze that smothered the area reduced visibility to a minimum like a dense fog would obscure London from approaching ships.

But there wasn’t a glimpse of light to help with his navigation, and the boat he had been given at the marina didn’t have the usual navigation devices. It was stripped to its bare minimum with only a compass to work with.

Peter tried to calculate his location based upon where he’d exited the Boggies and how far out his circular search pattern took him. Since he’d never run into the Everglades at the southern tip of the mainland, he presumed he was safe to sail due south. Southwest might have been a more accurate option, but it also meant he might miss the Keys entirely if he miscalculated.

With a deep breath and a verbal promise to Jimmy that he’d return the next day with help, Peter pressed down on the throttle as nightfall was fast approaching. He hoped to find his way to the shoreline, pick out a point of interest that was familiar to him, and ease down to Driftwood Key, which stuck out from Marathon.

He ended up nearly running aground at Shell Key off the coast of Islamorada. After he turned toward the shore, he ran out of fuel. The engine seized, immediately shut down, and left Peter adrift in the middle of Little Basin near Bass Pro Shops on Overseas Highway. After a swim that zapped nearly all of his energy, he walked onshore at the private beach of a local bar.

Peter had no idea what time it was other than the fact it was late in the day. That wasn’t surprising, as every day bore the same characteristics regardless of where he’d been during his twelve-hundred-mile journey.

After getting his bearings straight, he began walking down U.S. 1 toward Marathon. He came upon Mile Marker 80, which meant he was about to pass over the Teatable Channel Bridge. He was thirty-two miles from home.

Peter picked up the pace. His feet hurt. He was dehydrated from the lack of water and especially after he’d continuously gargled salt water to relieve the pain in his throat. But he pressed forward. With each mile marker, he mentally ticked off twenty less minutes until he was home.

As he approached Mile Marker 61, he considered approaching Hawk’s Cay Resort on Duck Key. The resort had once been owned by a longtime friend of the Albrights until he’d sold out to an investment group for nearly one hundred fifty million dollars. There were many times thereafter that Peter and Lacey had urged their parents to sell the inn and retire to a life of luxury.

Hank’s response had been where would we live? His mom had been concerned with Hank driving her nuts because he had nothing to do all day. When his mom got sick and eventually passed away, his dad had thrown himself into managing the inn’s operations. Driftwood Key had been more than a business. It had been their family’s home for generations. To the Albrights, it was priceless.

He gave up on the notion of stopping at Hawk’s Cay and continued walking until he came upon a gift from heaven, as he saw it. Actually, it caused him to laugh uproariously until his throat hurt again. Peter had gone full circle.

A bicycle had been thrown off the side of the highway near the Dolphin Research Center. He glanced around for a moment and didn’t see anyone. Knowing the area, he couldn’t imagine where the owner might have gone, as there was nothing there except the research facility. He smiled as he settled onto the seat. This would certainly make the final fifteen miles of his journey a little easier and faster.

He was pedaling with ease as U.S. 1, the Overseas Highway, officially turned into famed Florida State Road A1A near the Marathon airport. Peter sped up, fast enough to create a steady breeze in his face that blew his long hair. When he’d left his home the night of the attacks, he had been in need of a haircut. Now, several weeks later, he was almost unrecognizable as a result of his shaggy beard and matching hair. In fact, he could’ve been cast as Shaggy in a Scooby-Doo movie.

He pedaled faster, thrilled with the sight of Marathon Community Park on his left. He actually saw people milling about the parking area in front of the Marathon Fire and Rescue Station. He waved his arm back and forth as he shouted hello. He was in great spirits until he wandered off the highway ever so slightly during his exuberance. The front wheel caught a pothole created by the heavy rains during the hurricane.

The sudden stop caused the front wheel to sink into the hole and threw the back wheel upward until for a brief moment, Peter was suspended above the ground. And then, like a bucking horse at the rodeo, the stubborn bicycle threw its rider head over heels onto the pavement and coquina shells making up the shoulder of the road.

Peter rolled over and over again. He had the presence of mind to tuck his body to prevent breaking any limbs, but the hard landing took its toll on his skin. His hands and arms were ripped open, as was his chin. Blood poured out of his wounds, covering his clothes.

He was less than a mile from home.

Peter lay flat on his back for nearly five minutes, trying to catch his breath. He closed his eyes in an effort to mentally shake off the million bees that were stinging his hands and arms. After he shook his head in disbelief, he rolled over on his stomach and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. The pain was excruciating.

Peter began to drag his feet down the shoulder of the highway until he reached the side road leading to Driftwood Key. The skies had turned from black to a smoky gray as he trudged toward the bridge crossing over to his home.

He chuckled to himself as he imagined what he looked like as he dragged his right leg behind him as he walked. The cartoonish Hunchback of Notre Dame came to mind. He was having difficulty breathing, and his left leg had buckled as he stepped onto the bridge. Thinking that he should hurry before his lower body gave out completely, he walked a little faster.

As he reached the center of the bridge, he noticed that the gates were pulled closed. Not surprising, he thought. Then the silhouettes of two figures appeared on the other side of the gate. They were holding rifles. Peter hesitated and lowered his eyes to make out who the armed guards were. He slowed his pace and focused on the gate.

Then he tripped over a piece of metal lying in the middle of the bridge. He dropped hard to one knee and tried to brace his fall with his hands, but his weak arms couldn’t support his weight.

The momentum of Peter’s body caused him to land on his side in the fetal position within feet of where another man in search of help named Patrick had fallen ten days ago.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Saturday, November 9

Driftwood Key

Hank and Sonny had agreed to patrol the grounds together that evening although it meant they’d both have to pull a double shift that day. It was agreed that Jessica was capable of guarding the gate and the key’s perimeter alone because of her weapons training. She’d sleep first and then relieve the guys for a twelve-hour shift.

The men had been chatting about Mike’s condition when Sonny noticed the shadowy figure approaching the bridge. At first, they kept behind the posts until they determined what they were dealing with.

The scene was all too familiar to Sonny. He remembered vividly what Patrick had looked like that evening as he approached the gate. How pathetic his battered body had appeared. Sonny wasn’t heartless, but he certainly understood the circumstances under which they now lived. He wouldn’t have allowed Patrick onto Driftwood Key although he’d never throw that in Hank’s face. His old friend beat himself up over it every day.

“Another straggler,” he whispered to Hank as the two men strolled to the middle of the gate with their rifles raised and their eyes trained on the newcomer.

The barely discernible figure slowly approached, dragging a gimp leg behind him. Then, like an old drunk might, he stumbled and fell to one knee on the bridge before toppling over.

As if Hank could read Sonny’s mind, he said, “I promise you. No more Patrick situations. Let’s just let him lie there and die if we have to. We’ll just roll him over into the water to feed whatever’s down there today.”

“Works for me,” said Sonny, who slowly lowered his gun.

For nearly ten minutes, Hank and Sonny studied the figure curled up in a ball on the bridge. Finally, Hank leaned over to Sonny.

“Do you think he’s dead? I mean, the guy hasn’t moved since he hit the road.”

“Hell, I guess we could go take a look,” replied Sonny.

“What if it’s a trap? This guy may have an army hidden on the other side of the bridge. Even with the low light, we’d be sittin’ ducks out there.”

Sonny shrugged. “There’s no rule that says we have to help him, right?”

“Nope.”

Hank sighed and lowered his rifle. He and Sonny stood still, studying the body that lay in a heap on the bridge. They waited for any slight movement to give them an indication of whether the intruder was dead or alive.

Another couple of minutes passed, and Hank whispered to Sonny, “What if this guy is a diversion? While we’re waiting on him to do something, they could approach us by water.”

Sonny turned to look in that direction and then returned his gaze to the lifeless body on the bridge. “Could be. Let’s bring this thing to a head, you wanna?”

Hank shrugged. “Sure, why not? It’s kinda weird, and I trust no one, you know. Whadya have in mind?”

“I could shoot him in the leg,” replied Sonny. “If he screams, then he’s alive. If he doesn’t, then we have our answer.”

Hank looked over at Sonny’s face. His amiable, kindhearted friend had hardened through all of this, especially after what Patrick had done to Phoebe and Mike. Hank looked around in all directions and wiped the perspiration that had developed on his brow, his natural reaction to being under stress.

“Unlock the gate,” began Hank. “I’ll go out there and see what the deal is. You stay here so we don’t both get caught outside the gate. If I get jumped, you lock up. Got it?”

“Hank, let me do it,” insisted Sonny. “You’re too import—”

Hank cut him off. “Bullshit, Sonny. You’ve got a wife and a kid.” He caught himself at the last moment. The Frees were distraught over their missing son, and they coped with it by not discussing it until they could send out a search party. It was agreed that once Mike recuperated, they’d conduct a thorough search of the Upper Keys, using Mike and Jessica’s friends in the sheriff’s department to assist.

Sonny wanted to argue the point, but Hank was firm in his resolve. He pointed to the lock and readied his rifle. Sonny pulled the gate open to let Hank out and then closed it without locking it just in case his friend needed to beat a hasty retreat.

Hank approached the body cautiously, pointing the barrel of his rifle toward the man’s back. He was a soldier of some kind. Very odd, Hank thought.

He watched for any movement but paid particular attention to the man’s hands, which were tucked under his stomach. His face was turned away from Hank, not that it mattered because his long hair would’ve covered it anyway. Puzzled, Hank suddenly stopped. He tilted his head sideways and scowled. There was something about this guy.

Suddenly, Peter groaned and turned his face toward his father. He mouthed the word, but his vocal cords refused to let him speak.

Dad.

“Peter?” Hank set his rifle down and began to run toward his son. “Peter! Son! I’m here.”

Hank rushed to his son’s side and fell to his knees. He was sobbing as he frantically tried to wipe the long stringy hair off his face. He turned slightly to Sonny so he could be heard.

“Sonny! It’s Peter! Get Jess! Hurry!”

All he heard in response was some kind of hoot and holler and shouting directed toward the main house. He turned his attention back to his son.

“Here. Sit up. Are you hurt?”

Peter managed to sit up and then laughed. It was a simple act that felt good and painful at the same time. Peter whispered to his dad, who’d wrapped his arms around him, “I’ll be good as long as you don’t squeeze out my insides.”

Hank started crying again, coughing and choking as the tears flowed. “Thank you, God. Thank you for bringing home my son!”

“Hank! We’re coming!” Jessica shouted from a distance.

“Hang in there, Pete. We’ll get you fixed up. You have no idea how much I’ve worried about you.”

Peter managed a smile. “I know. I should’ve called.” Then he began choking as he caused himself to chuckle.

Hank hugged him hard again, and Peter feigned losing his breath before he forced his body to go limp. This caused his dad to panic, thinking he had in fact squeezed the life out of his boy. He released his bear hug.

“No! Peter, are you with me?”

“Yeah, Dad,” he whispered with his hoarse voice. “Just kiddin’.”

Hank touched Peter’s bearded face. “You’re a rotten kid.”

“I know,” Peter said as the tears found their way out of his dehydrated body.

Seconds later, Jessica led Sonny and Phoebe across the bridge, where another tearful reunion began. They hugged and cried before helping Peter to his feet. Phoebe promised him all kinds of hearty foods to eat; he simply needed to make his choice. Sonny raced off with her to get Peter’s room ready. After an initial assessment, Jessica was comfortable Peter would live, but he needed to be bandaged up. She rushed off to her boat to get her full first aid kit after confirming that Peter could make his way to the house, using his dad for support.

Once father and son were left alone again, Peter waited while Hank locked the gate. He ran his arm through the sling of his rifle and stood next to Peter, who draped his arm over Hank’s shoulder. They walked twenty feet or so before Peter stopped.

After gulping two bottles of water, his voice had recovered somewhat. He was capable of whispering louder without pain.

“Dad, I’ve got to tell you something.”

“What is it? Is it about Lacey?”

“Lacey’s not here?” Peter asked, his tone reflecting his surprise.

“No, son. I haven’t heard from her at all.”

Peter sighed and dropped his chin to his chest. He thought Lacey would’ve come home before the attack, as he’d suggested to her. He’d broach the subject after he had some rest.

He continued. “Dad, I was with Jimmy. It’s a long story, but he and I were trapped on the other side of U.S. 1 when they blew up the bridge. Anyway, we made our way into Blackwater Sound when we got caught in the middle of the hurricane.”

Hank welled up in tears again. “Is he, um? Son, is Jimmy…?” Hank’s voice trailed off because he couldn’t bring himself to say the word dead.

“I don’t know. We got separated. I found his WaveRunner, but he was missing. I’ve looked all day trying to find him. Nothing.”

Hank took a deep breath and glanced toward the main house. “Let’s get you cleaned up and fed. Then we’re gonna have to tell his parents. This is not good.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Saturday, November 9

Lower Keys Medical Center

Key West

If the world wasn’t in the midst of the apocalypse, Mike would’ve thought he was arriving at the scene of any other crime. Uniformed deputies milled about, hyped up by the events they didn’t witness but could only talk about. Civilians huddled in corners, comforting one another even though they were on the second or third floors far away from the drama.

He’d been called hero more times than he could count as one person after another filed by the trauma recovery room, where he awaited a doctor’s final clearance to leave. His sutures had been torn open and continuously oozed blood throughout the ordeal. However, he was easily stitched up by one of the less frenzied nurses with a steady hand. He was thankful for that.

There was pain, but not the sharp, stinging pain he’d been warned about as a sign of trouble. After he’d been left alone, he did a self-assessment to determine if there was internal bleeding.

Weakness or numbness on the wounded side of his body? Nope.

Tingling in his extremities? Nope.

Headaches, impaired vision, or hearing? Nope, nope, and nope.

As far as Mike was concerned, he was good to go, and if he wasn’t released, he’d simply slip out the door in his street clothes.

After the shooting was over and the hospital erupted with activity, he had some time to clear his head in between visits by congratulating well-wishers. The world had gone to shit and would only get worse for years. The decision he’d reached with Jessica was confirmed by what had happened at the hospital. It was time to protect his family and Driftwood Key.

Mike came up with a plan, one that involved taking advantage of the chaos following the hurricane as well as the distraction of the MCSO at the moment. In addition, for his plan, he had another advantage. Political capital. Heroes garnered lots of political capital.

The moment he walked out the doors of the hospital, he was going straight to the sheriff’s office. He’d adopt an Action Jackson superhero crime fighter type of attitude when he arrived. He’d play the part of hero if that was what they wanted. He’d put on the cape and mask in order to do one thing.

Prepare to defend their home.

“Mr. Albright,” the emergency room physician announced, snapping Mike out of his daydream, “under any other circumstances, I would never consider letting you out of my sight, much less this hospital. That said, you have two things going for you. One, you proved that you can be mobile. That goes without saying. Two, we’ve got a flood of patients inbound from throughout the Keys who’ve been seriously injured by this devil of a storm that passed over us. Actually, you can thank the hurricane for me signing this.”

The doctor handed Mike a number of pages that included aftercare procedures. He only had to see the front page of the stapled packet to manage a smile. He’d been discharged.

Mike tried to control his exuberance. He had work to do. “Thank you, Doc. I appreciate you guys fixin’ me up.”

The physician looked down and studied the floor covered in crusty drops of Mike’s blood. He seemed to get emotional before he spoke. He slicked back his thinning hair and let Mike know what was on his mind.

“You know, in the heat of the moment and under harried conditions, one might not have the opportunity to study those around them. Mr. Albright, I was the physician standing over the GSW patient. I was wearing a surgical mask, and the lighting was not optimal. And you probably never saw my face. Nonetheless, I firmly believe you saved my life earlier.”

Now Mike understood his demeanor. “Doc, I was just doing my job.”

The doctor looked his patient in the eyes. His eyes were red and swollen, as well as filled with teary moisture. “Maybe. You could’ve been justified in sitting it out, too. There are a lot of appreciative people around here who’ll never forget your bravery.”

Mike smiled. He didn’t receive words of appreciation very often.

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the corridor. The doctor turned to take a look. It was a few of Mike’s fellow detectives. They’d come to check on him and heap praise of their own.

The doctor slipped out of the way, and the detectives joined Mike in the cramped trauma recovery room. He rolled up his discharge paperwork and used it as a club to playfully swat at the detectives as they entered. After some ribbing, they escorted Mike out of the hospital and to the sheriff’s office. He was told Sheriff Jock wanted to personally thank him for his valor.

Mike couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity to implement his plan. When he entered the MCSO facility, he was applauded like a rock star. He had to warn his fellow law enforcement officers that hugs and backslaps were off-limits. He didn’t need his sutures torn open again. The appreciative doctor might not let him leave the next time.

“Hey, Mike!” shouted one of the captains on the force. “Sheriff Jock would like to see you. But a heads-up. He’s knee-deep in the shit, if you know what I mean. He does wanna throw some kudos in your direction.”

Mike thanked the captain and made his way to the sheriff’s office. As he did, he formulated his pitch. He’d have only one shot at this, and he’d better make it a good one.

He waited outside Sheriff Jock’s office. Mike had a decent rapport with the rarely amiable sheriff. He’d learned early on after Sheriff Jock was elected that the man wished he worked for the FBI. Nobody knew why the sheriff didn’t pursue his dream of a career at Quantico or one of the many field offices staffed by FBI agents around the country.

He was certainly not a politician capable of slapping backs, shaking hands, or kissing babies. In his three elections thus far, he’d let voters in Monroe County know where he stood on certain issues, and they could take it or leave it. In a way, Mike thought, that had been refreshing. Full transparency should be a requirement of all politicians with no false promises.

When Mike was finally called into the sheriff’s office, he immediately noticed a change in the man’s demeanor. He usually remained stoic in a crisis. Sheriff Jock was the kind of field general who could lead his department through the worst of hurricanes or the rowdiest of Key West gatherings. He’d even provided Mike and the other detectives the support they needed while they pursued their serial killer.

Today, the sheriff seemed harried. Almost nervous. He was being hit from all sides with questions and demands from his staff. His secretary, the undersheriff, and two office personnel stood in a semicircle around his office, awaiting instructions. They parted slightly to allow Mike a path to approach the sheriff’s desk.

With a deep breath, Mike put on his politician’s hat and mentally put up his guard. Let the chess match begin.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Saturday, November 9

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

The nightmare had mercifully ended. At least this chapter in the story. The Cymopoleia gently rocked back and forth as the remnants of the hurricane gradually moved toward the north, taking the energy of the atmosphere with it. It wasn’t the lack of turbulent air or thrashing water that struck Lacey as odd. It was the glimpse of sunshine.

She’d sent Tucker below deck into the forward cabin to sleep. Ordered was more like it. He’d fought the storm all night and managed to rescue her from certain death. As daybreak came, Lacey expected to see what had become the norm—a thick layer of grayish, sooty clouds blocking out the sky. This morning was different.

“Tucker! Tucker! We have sun. I see it!”

Lacey pulled back on the throttle and allowed the bow to dip down toward the water. She called out his name again before racing out of the wheelhouse onto the aft deck. The brightness of the orb hiding behind the thinning clouds forced her to shade her eyes with her right hand.

Tucker rushed up the steps into the wheelhouse and out the back to join his mother. He squinted, partly because he had been sleeping in the dark cabin and due to the unusual brightness of the sky.

“Mom, do you think it’s over?”

Lacey closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the sun to allow her skin to soak in its muted radiance. It was warmer than normal, a welcome change from the conditions brought on by nuclear winter.

“I don’t know, son. It may just be temporary.”

“’Cause of the hurricane?”

“That was one heckuva storm,” she replied. “I’ve been through some bad ones before but never, of course, on the water. That storm was powerful, though. It could be that whatever this crap is that’s mixed into the atmosphere got pulled up the coast with the hurricane.”

Tucker’s shoulders drooped. His body language immediately reflected the conclusion he’d reached. “It’s just gonna come back.”

Lacey grimaced and wrapped her arm around her son’s shoulder. “Yeah, probably. But it does prove this smog isn’t invincible. Eventually, it seems like hurricanes and upper-level winds will cause it to dissipate.”

Tucker shielded his eyes and took in the moment before the opportunity was lost. “Who knows how long it will take. Eventually, there’ll be enough hurricanes and storms to push the bad air off to wherever pollution goes, right?”

Lacey could only guess what the answer was, but she had no problem giving her son some semblance of hope. “Right, skipper!” she said as she hugged her son.

At this moment, they were alive, and nothing stood in the way of their trip home. Riding out the storm had resulted in them being pushed way off course. She’d already done some mental calculations and determined they had just enough fuel to make it to the Keys. She understood how race teams felt when they did their calculations. Many pit bosses were gamblers by nature and would rather go for the win than refuel only to finish a couple of laps down. The closest point of land to their position was to backtrack toward Everglades City or even Naples. As far as she was concerned, that wasn’t an option.

She turned the helm over to Tucker with instructions to sail directly toward Driftwood Key. She was gonna go below, redress her bandages from the beating she’d taken when she flew overboard, and fix them something to eat. They would calculate their fuel levels in an hour and adjust their course for a closer point in the Keys if necessary.

As far as Lacey was concerned, if the Cymopoleia quit on them near the finish line, they’d gladly swim to shore. It was a gamble worth taking.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Saturday, November 9

Key West

“Mike Albright, come over here,” the sheriff instructed as Mike approached. “You need to be congratulated for a couple of reasons.”

Mike was surprised by the sheriff’s friendliness. His tone of voice was far from what Mike had expected considering the chaotic nature of the meeting with his staff. He was also confused as to why he’d made reference to a couple of reasons.

“Just doin’ my job, Sheriff,” he said, a phrase he’d repeated many times since he’d killed the two gunmen.

Sheriff Jock leaned onto his desk and extended his right hand to Mike, who gladly took it. The handshake seemed heartfelt.

“Detective, you saved a lot of lives in that hospital. Those drug runners have a rap sheet a mile long and were on the FBI’s most wanted. Apparently, they’d been holing up in a vacation rental house near Hemingway’s. The homeowner had returned from Georgia and confronted the three. There was a shoot-out resulting in the owner’s death. The leader of the trio, the guy on the table full of holes, decided it was a good idea to storm the hospital to get treatment. You showed him otherwise. Well done.”

An aide had entered the sheriff’s office and handed him a clipboard full of documents. He signed multiple pages without reading them. Apparently, despite the collapse of normalcy, the government hadn’t lost its love of a paper trail. This might make his job more complicated.

“Thanks, Sheriff. Um, I take it the ringleader of the bunch survived.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s the downside. I don’t want the scumbag in my jail. Hopefully, he won’t need any medical attention while he’s locked up. I’m sure the hospital will be a little slow to respond, if you know what I mean.”

Mike glanced around the room at the disinterested aides. None of them had left, so he assumed his time with the sheriff was drawing short.

“Well, there is something I’d like to—”

The sheriff cut him off. “Also, Detective, there’s something that just came in that only a handful of detectives are privy to. The guy who stabbed you, Patrick Hollister, is your serial killer.”

“What did you learn?”

“I picked a couple of guys who were available to toss his home and the bank branches where he worked. You have no idea what we found at their location on Simonton. He’s a demented jackass who needed to fry in Old Sparky at Starke.”

For seventy-five years, the electric chair had been the sole means of execution in Florida until the Florida State Legislature signed lethal injection into law. After 2000, prisoners awaiting execution had the choice of lethal injection or the electric chair. None of them had chosen Old Sparky, the nickname for the device located at the Florida State Prison outside Starke in Northeast Florida.

“I saved the state a lot of money,” quipped Mike.

“And burial expense,” added the sheriff. “I understand your family threw him into the water. The nasty SOB is fish chum. It’s better than he deserves.”

Mike saw an opening. “Sheriff, we have the potential for more of this type of lawlessness. All of a sudden, the Florida Keys looks very long and spread out. Whadya think about letting me set up a substation of sorts in Marathon? Jessica and I could cover everything from the Seven Mile Bridge up to Lower Matecumbe Key. That would free up your deputies to focus on high-population areas like Key West and Key Largo.”

The sheriff thought for a moment and then turned to his undersheriff. “You and I have talked about something similar. Until we can get the roads cleared of stranded vehicles, first responders can’t make it past Big Pine Key without delays. We could do something similar in Islamorada. Right?”

“Absolutely, Sheriff,” he replied. “We don’t have a facility up that way, but I understand the mayor has plans to confis—”

The sheriff quickly cut him off before he could finish his sentence. “All of that’s on hold for now and can be discussed later.” He turned to Mike, who quickly offered a solution.

“Sheriff, Jess and I could work out of Driftwood Key and respond to calls. There’s no need to create some formal substation. We only need to gear up so we can have the tools necessary to respond.”

“What would you do with anyone you arrest?” asked the undersheriff.

Mike shrugged. “Tie ’em to a tree, I guess.” His quip caused the people in the office to roar with laughter, especially the sheriff. It helped seal the deal.

Sheriff Jock raised his right hand and pointed at one of his aides. “Take Detective Albright to get whatever he needs. This man is one of our finest, and I have no doubt he can handle Marathon and the surrounding Keys.”

“Yes, Sheriff,” the aide responded. “Detective, if you’ll follow me…” Her voice trailed off, as she was uncertain whether the meeting was over.

“Okay, Mike. Well done on all counts. And you’re right. It’s gonna get worse around here before it gets better. It’ll take some time, but we’ll shepherd Monroe County through this storm.”

Mike said his goodbyes and hustled out of the office before anyone could change their minds. He followed the woman to her office, where she started rummaging through her desk in search of requisition forms.

Finally, out of frustration, she muttered a profanity under her breath. She whispered to Mike, “You know what, Detective, this whole paper trail thing is a waste of time. Only half of us fill it out, and then who the hell knows whether it’s getting logged in. Do you have an idea of what you want?”

“Yeah.”

“Where do you wanna start?”

“Communications and then the armory. Also, I’ll need a set of wheels together with a few things from the motor pool. It doesn’t have to necessarily be our equipment. Seizures will work.”

The woman nodded. “Let’s get started. I could use the fresh air, if we can manage to find any.”

Pleased with himself, Mike followed the young woman down the corridor into the bowels of the sheriff’s department’s complex of buildings. The stars had aligned for him to take whatever he needed, assuming he didn’t go nuts and unduly garner someone’s attention.

A quick hour later, Mike pulled out of the MCSO complex with a black, four-door Suburban that had been seized in a drug bust together with a six-by-twelve enclosed trailer from a cabinet maker who’d skipped town after taking his customer’s deposit checks. Both the Suburban and the trailer were full of weapons, ammunition, and a myriad of supplies Mike considered to be essential to his family’s survival. The six five-gallon gas cans strapped to the roof of the Suburban served as the icing on the cake of his retirement present. The only thing he forgot to do on the way out was give notice of his retirement, by design, of course.

After he drove past Stock Island, it took Mike over two hours to reach Seven Mile Bridge. Stranded cars and pedestrians constituted the biggest impediment to traveling across the long span of A1A. Prior to that, fallen trees and parts of buildings still covered the highway following the hurricane.

Big Pine Key had been hit hard. There, A1A made an S curve through the retail district along a stretch where the highway ran through the hammocks that were barely a few feet above water. Sand, vegetation, and the metal fencing that acted as guardrails had become melded together. The tangled mess swept across the road, making it difficult to differentiate between the highway and the rest of its surroundings.

Apparently, clearing the road of debris was very low on Mayor Lindsey’s list of priorities. That was fine with Mike. The undersheriff’s near slipup had confirmed what Mike suspected would be happening throughout the Keys very soon. Lindsey planned on tightening her grip on the county’s residents and businesses. Mike had two options. One, which he’d set into motion today, was to appear to join them or be a loyal participant when she consolidated her power. The other was to show his cards only if forced to. It would be a dangerous game that required a clear mind.

Standing up to an angry mayor and her puppet sheriff was a deadly proposition Mike didn’t want to contemplate. He leaned back in the seat of the Suburban and relaxed once he exited the bridge and arrived in Marathon. When Hank and Jessica left, he’d told them to stay away until the storm had cleared and they’d taken care of Driftwood Key first. From what he’d observed on the drive up, he suspected they had their hands full.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Saturday, November 9

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

As expected, the brief glimpse of the sun peeking through the clouds was soon lost, and the depressing hazy skies returned. That didn’t dampen the spirits of Lacey and Tucker. For the first time since they’d left Tarpon Springs, they could make out land in the distance. More than land. It was home.

They were moving at a steady pace and expected to make landfall within hours. That was when they encountered something unexpected. The United States Coast Guard.

It was not just a single patrol vessel. It was an armada that stretched as far as the eyes could see to the north. Tucker found the binoculars and counted the ships, although he was unfamiliar with their nomenclature. He described them as one large boat with a helicopter pad on the rear; then there were four or five short boats with orange railings that looked like rubber. Two grayish boats with their drivers on top flanked the group. Bringing up the rear was a boat the size of a cruise ship. Tucker described it as being five or six times larger than their fishing boat.

He returned to the open window of the wheelhouse next to the helm and described what he’d observed. “Mom, there aren’t any to our right. I think if we hurry, we can cut across their path before we get stuck. I’d hate to run out of diesel waiting on these guys to pass us.”

“Agreed. Come back in and let’s open her up until we’re clear.” She glanced down at the fuel gauge. There was no time for calculations. Let the chips fall as they may.

Lacey’s decision to take the Cymopoleia at full throttle to avoid contact with the Coast Guard was a wise one. The contingent had been dispatched on the president’s orders. Like its counterpart on the Atlantic side of the Keys, it was moving at a steady pace with one ship at a time dropping back and settling into a fixed position. By late that afternoon, the Coast Guard would have created a blockade that included orders to board and search every vessel coming in or out of the Keys.

After the encounter with the Coast Guard was behind them, Lacey and Tucker became more excited as they approached. Their eyes darted between the boat’s fuel gauge and what lay beyond the bow. The chain of limestone islands extending from Key Largo to Key West and geographically all the way to the Dry Tortugas were beginning to reveal themselves through the haze.

The calm seas and very little in the way of surf made their final leg of the journey uneventful. That didn’t stop their pulses from racing in nervous anticipation. Lacey turned giddy as the largest cluster of islands making up the Lower Keys could be seen off the stern. The large gap between the islands was clearly Seven Mile Bridge. As they got closer, she pointed out the various keys by name. Big Coppitt. Cudjoe. Big Pine.

And then Marathon.

Lacey began to cry tears of relief and joy. Somehow, in the back of her mind, there was still doubt whether the Florida Keys still existed. Her home in Hayward had likely been destroyed. She certainly expected Peter’s had been as well, or at least was uninhabitable. Would the devilish people who’d ordered the release of the nuclear weapons set their sights on a place like Miami as well? Maybe. And if so, had the Keys been spared?

Trepidation turned to elation as the dock came into view right where it should be. Her dad’s boat along with Jessica’s WET team vessel were tied off to the cleats.

“We did it, Mom! I knew we could!”

Lacey got emotional as she approached Driftwood Key. Thoughts of Owen filled her head. They should’ve made it together as a family. A freak winter storm event had taken his life, just as a devilish hurricane had tried to take theirs. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, speaking to her husband as if he were by her side. She told him how much she loved him and how much he would be missed.

She thought of his cremated remains secured in a thick, tightly sealed equivalent of a Ziploc baggie. During the shooting at the dock in Bay St. Louis, Lacey had made sure her small duffel with his remains made it on board the boat. She was glad she’d had the forethought to secure it away in the galley so Owen’s remains wouldn’t be disturbed. She’d find a special place to bury him on Driftwood Key, a place Owen had loved as much as he’d loved her family.

“Mom! Is that Sonny?”

“It is!” Lacey began to press the button on the helm to sound the air horn. She pressed it several times so that long, drawn-out blasts filled the quiet, still morning.

Tucker rushed out of the wheelhouse and made his way to the bow. He gripped the railing and waved his arm back and forth in a long arc. He and Sonny had always gotten along when the McDowell family came to visit. Growing up, Tucker had enjoyed learning about the greenhouses and the hydroponics operation in addition to the nonstop frolicking on the beach.

“Mr. Hank! Mr. Hank!” Sonny turned away from the shore and began running in the direction of the bungalows.

Lacey had slowed to an idle, and her wake began to push her towards the shoreline. She glanced over at the dock to check the waterline. It gave her an idea of whether the tide was low or high. Based upon her recollection of the shallow nature of the waters around Driftwood Key, she figured she was close enough to shore since it appeared to be low tide.

“Stand clear, Tucker!” she shouted through the side window of the wheelhouse. “I’m dropping anchor!”

Tucker stood back but remained on the foredeck, staring toward the shore. He waited to see his grandfather arrive to greet them. For an eternity, nobody else appeared on shore.

Mike eased across the bridge, eventually pulling the Suburban just short of the center point. He could make out traces of blood on the bridge, which immediately set off alarms in his mind. He reached for the holster sitting on the passenger seat and removed the .40-caliber Smith & Wesson handgun.

With the weapon swinging back and forth in search of a target, Mike slowly walked to the spot on the bridge where he’d noticed the blood. He dropped to a knee and felt the moist, sticky substance, which had begun to soak into the crushed shells.

He dared not call out for fear he might alert gunmen on Driftwood Key. The moist blood coupled with the unmanned gate concerned him. For whatever reason, they’d abandoned the only point of entry from land. Had a boat approached from the Gulf, forcing them to defend the dock? Then what about the blood? Whom did it belong to?

Mike didn’t waste any more time. He ran back to the Suburban and gently closed the driver’s door after retrieving the keys from the ignition. Then he locked it so that no one could steal the weapons or many thousands of rounds of ammunition he’d procured from the armory and the seizure lockers.

He made his way along the gate, using the strength of his arms to assist in climbing around the outside until he was within the compound. His wounds screamed at him, but he put all of that out of his mind as he focused on protecting his family.

Mike started running toward the main house but skidded to a stop as he heard someone shout his brother’s name.

Just as the anchor dropped into the water and Lacey put the boat in reverse to set it in the sand, several more people began running toward the dock.

The entourage was led by Hank and Sonny rushing toward them from the driveway. Jessica and Phoebe came from a different angle near the main house. Finally, Peter ambled along, moving somewhat like a pegleg pirate but keeping pace as he brought up the rear.

After shutting off Big Cam, Lacey ran out of the wheelhouse to join Tucker. Tears of joy streamed down their faces as they stood on the bow, waving to their family. Everyone called out one another’s names until Hank, Sonny, and Jessica ran into the water and began wading as fast as possible toward the Cymopoleia.

Without saying a word, Lacey and Tucker looked at one another. They climbed over the railing at the bow, grabbed each other’s hands, and jumped together into the waters off Driftwood Key.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Saturday, November 9

Driftwood Key

Everyone was sobbing as they hugged one another. Tears mixed with salt water soaked their bodies. Even Peter dragged his battered body into the water to hold his sister in an embrace they’d never shared with this level of emotional intensity. He’d been on the road like she had. He assumed she’d seen the devastation and depraved acts man could inflict upon his fellow man. He knew in his gut that something had happened to Owen and that she would bring herself to say it when she could gather the strength to do so.

The excitement of their reunion was muted by the absence of Owen and Jimmy. Lacey sobbed as she explained to everyone how Owen had died. She had difficulty catching her breath at times, so Tucker tried to explain in more detail. So much had happened to them en route from California. Lacey and Tucker weren’t sure they could remember it all.

Peter explained to his sister about Jimmy’s disappearance. The group had planned on starting a search for Jimmy, when Sonny had heard the boat arrive. Lacey immediately moved to comfort Phoebe, who broke down. For all of the joy surrounding the Albright family reuniting, in part, there was still the despair and uncertainty regarding Jimmy’s fate.

Searching for Jimmy became something they could all rally behind. Lacey and Tucker swore they had no need to sleep. Jimmy should be their priority. Peter, busted up as he was, agreed wholeheartedly. They all began walking on shore when Mike appeared at the driveway.

Lacey noticed him first. “Uncle Mike!”

The two had always been close. Mike never had children, and when Lacey was growing up, she was the little girl he’d always wanted. The two had been inseparable until Mike’s duties took him away from Driftwood Key and he married Jessica. Lacey had grown up, gone to college, and started a family. However, they still talked on the phone often and texted frequently, something Mike wasn’t a fan of but did in order to stay in contact with his niece.

It was a race up the beach, as Lacey got a head start, but the speedy Jessica quickly caught up. The two women joked as they playfully swatted at one another in their efforts to reach Mike first.

“He’s my favorite uncle!” shouted Lacey in a childlike manner.

“He’s your only uncle. He’s my husband!”

“Big deal! I’ve known him longer.” Lacey argued.

The two of them arrived at the same time. Mike had shoved his weapon into the waistband of his jeans and held up his arms to slow down the two charging women.

“Hold up, you two! Don’t forget. Knife wound.” He took a step back and gently tapped his heart with the palm of his hand.

Lacey stopped abruptly and scowled. “Knife wound? Jess said you were in the hospital. She didn’t say anything about a knife wound.”

“Long story,” said Mike with a smile. Now that the two were not moving at a pace capable of knocking him over, he opened his arms wide to hug the two most important women in his life.

“They released you early,” said Jessica as she buried her face between his neck and his shoulder.

“Yeah, long story. Speaking of long story, look at you, Lacey. You guys made it. That’s amazing.” Mike had more to say, but he stopped as he looked past the women toward the group walking toward them. He craned his neck and searched the rest of the beach. “Um, where’s Owen?”

Lacey looked into her uncle’s eyes and broke down crying again. All she could do was shake her head and bury her face against Mike’s chest. He gave them both a bear hug without speaking. There would be plenty of time to get caught up later.

Tucker joined the hugfest, and Mike pulled him close to his mom. The two locked eyes. Mike studied the young man. It had been more than a year since he’d seen Tucker. He was no longer a girl-crazy teenager who was more beach boy than young adult. That had changed. Mike could see it in his eyes. Tucker was hardened. Older than his years. And somewhat empty inside. He hadn’t given up on life. But it did appear he’d seen things that Mike felt sure he needed to talk about. He vowed to be Tucker’s sounding board when the time came.

“Let’s all go inside,” said Phoebe. “I know everyone is hungry, and I’m sure these two are tired of wearing the same clothes. Lacey, Tucker, I’ve had your rooms ready for you since this all started. And I can arrange for a hot shower for you. You have to make it quick, though.”

“Yeet!” shouted Tucker, one of the few times he’d been able to genuinely show his excitement. He rushed to his grandfather’s side, and the two of them walked with their arms wrapped around one another’s waist toward the main house. Tucker explained to Hank what he’d observed in the last hours of their trip home. The number of Coast Guard ships caught Hank’s attention, and he told Tucker to discuss this in more detail with Jessica.

Meanwhile, Jessica and Lacey tore themselves away from Mike and began marching toward the house arm in arm. “You’ve lost weight, girl,” said Jessica as she examined Lacey’s frame.

“Yeah, um, we didn’t always have much to eat. How are you guys doing? Can you still grow things in the greenhouses?”

“Yep. Hydroponics, too. Fish are still available although we have to go farther out. Jimmy knows all the best spots.”

“We gotta find him, Jess. I can see it in Phoebe’s eyes. She’s suppressing her feelings, and that’s not good.”

Jessica nodded. She leaned into Lacey and whispered, “Peter’s trying to remain positive, but I know those waters. It would be near impossible for him to tread water for this long. He’s a great swimmer, but I think we would’ve heard something by now. You know?”

Lacey sighed and rolled her neck around her shoulders. She was exhausted, but she didn’t want to be the reason the group didn’t start their search.

“Listen. A hot shower and some of Phoebe’s cooking and we’ll be good to go. But I guarantee we crash hard tonight.”

Jessica squeezed Lacey again. “I’m so glad you and Tucker made it. Owen is very proud of you. I promise.”

Lacey looked toward the sand and then up into the gray skies. “Yeah, I know.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Saturday, November 9

Driftwood Key

An hour later, the group had gathered in the dining room, where the chairs around the table were full except for Jimmy’s to the left of Sonny, and Owen’s, which was symbolically placed between Lacey and Tucker. They said a prayer before devouring a large stockpot of conch chowder doused with Cholula hot sauce and sprinkled with crushed saltine crackers. The group chatted away, allowing Lacey and Peter to alternate telling the stories of what they’d experienced along the way.

To their credit, the brother and sister avoided the details of their brushes with death. Peter managed to make lighthearted jokes about the father and son who’d fleeced so many people to give them a ride to Florida. He never detailed how they died, simply saying Mr. Uber had been put out of business.

Lacey talked about the positive aspects of their time in Otero County, Colorado, where Owen had met his demise. They were so appreciative of how Sheriff Mobley, his deputies, and everyone at the hospital had treated them. The sheriff had been representative of the town as a whole, who came together to make Lacey and Tucker feel welcome.

Hank, Mike and Jessica expressed their concerns that Lindsey’s approach to governance was completely opposite that of Sheriff Mobley. Rather than helping strangers in their time of need, she elected to kick them while they were down. Hank justified closing the inn well in advance of the attacks based upon Peter’s hunch that trouble was brewing. At least, Hank said, his guests were able to get to their homes before the bombs dropped on American soil.

While the others talked among themselves, Hank’s mind wandered to the day Erin Bergmann had left. Of all the guests of the Driftwood Key Inn during that period of uncertainty, she was the one person Hank wished had remained behind.

His mind wandered to recall their time together. He’d enjoyed walking along the beach with her in the morning, something he’d never done with another woman besides his wife before she died. It had been their serious conversation sitting on the trunk of a palm tree about the prospects of nuclear war and the aftermath, nuclear winter, that had led Hank to the difficult decision to empty the rooms at the inn. It had also prodded him to take so many steps to prepare for the climate disaster that had been unfolding for weeks.

In many ways, Erin had had a profound impact on his life. He’d learned he could find love again and that there was a partner out there who could provide him the strength to survive.

Hank rolled a piece of conch around in his soup bowl as he thought about that last day together. The fishing trip that had almost landed a trophy fish that would provide a lifetime of stories. The sudden appearance of the Coast Guard boat that had whisked her away to Washington.

Hank caught himself as his daydream of Erin became a little too real. He thought he could hear the steady beating of helicopter rotors offshore. He hadn’t seen or heard any kind of aircraft since the bombs dropped. He assumed there must’ve been some type of no-fly order in place around the country.

He dropped his spoon and pushed away from the table, where the rest of his family continued to chat about the new arrivals’ experiences outside the Keys. He slowly walked toward the windows of the dining room, which overlooked the beach and the grassy lawn that was slowly turning brown.

“Everyone! There’s a chopper swooping toward the house.”

Jessica leapt out of her chair first and joined Hank’s side. She pressed her face against the glass and cupped her hands so she could see with less glare.

“Coast Guard.”

“Is it Jimmy?” asked a hopeful Phoebe.

“Maybe,” replied Hank.

“Tucker and I saw a whole fleet of Coast Guard ships heading down the Keys,” said Lacey.

“What do we do?” asked Tucker.

Jess turned to Mike. “Weapons?”

Mike grimaced and shook his head. “Jeez, we might win this battle but not the next one. We need to see what they want.”

“I’ll do it,” said Hank as he adjusted his clothes and stood a little taller. “Everyone, please stay inside.”

He walked with some hesitancy toward the front door and let himself out. He pulled the door shut behind him and walked onto the porch. He stood there for a moment with his hand shoved into his pants pockets not unlike any other day before the bombs dropped when he’d greeted arriving guests. Only this time, these guests were unwelcome and had arrived in a most unconventional way.

Hank remained on the porch as the chopper set down. The powerful rotors of the Airbus MH-65 whipped the grounds into a frenzy, sending fallen debris from the hurricane back in all directions while dislodging any palm fronds that had begun to die.

The side door of the helicopter opened, and nothing happened for nearly thirty seconds. Hank had seen too many movies, some of which had been shot on Seven Mile Bridge, like Mission Impossible III. He took a deep breath and steadied his nerves, fully expecting a gatling gun or a portable rocket launcher to emerge to put him out of business, using Peter’s way of describing the death of Mr. Uber.

Instead, a woman stepped out of the helicopter onto the sand with a large duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Seconds later, the door was pulled shut, and the pilot lifted the chopper into the air. It took off in a rush toward the Gulf, leaving the woman alone on the sand.

Hank glanced toward the dining room window, where several faces were pressed against the glass, watching the scene unfold. He made eye contact with Mike and shrugged. Confident the threat posed by the person on the beach was not as great as a rocket-propelled projectile fired at his chest, Hank went down the steps and began walking toward her.

Then there was that moment of recognition not unlike the second he’d recognized Peter’s lifeless body lying on the bridge. There was a familiarity with the person who slowly walked toward him.

Hank began running toward her. She dropped her bag and trudged up the wet sand toward him. Hank and Erin Bergmann collided midway in the center of the lawn. The feelings they shared from their brief time together never waned. There was something between them. It was love they’d never expressed for one another. And now, the impossible seemed to have happened. The two found each other once again.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Saturday, November 9

1800 Atlantic Condominiums

Key West

Their bodies were tangled in the covers, intertwined as lovers sometimes end up. However, the release of tension was only temporary. It was time for a celebratory cigarette and another drink, the two habits that had returned to Mayor Lindsey Free’s daily routine of self-medication as a coping mechanism.

Smoking. Drinking. Sex. Rinse and repeat.

She crawled out of her bed and searched in the darkness for her pack of smokes. She flicked her Bic, instantly illuminating the room so she could see the carnage wrought by their tryst. She grabbed the candle off her nightstand and lit it, allowing the orange glow emanating from the flame to fill the room.

Lindsey was still getting used to her temporary home. Her house at the Key West Golf Club on Stock Island was too long a commute to the Monroe County Administration building. Prior to the collapse, such a statement would seem absurd, as it was only six miles to her office. However, with the late hours and unsavory characters who had begun to roam the streets of Key West, it was safer as well as more convenient for her to take one of the vacation rentals at 1800 Atlantic, an upscale condominium building overlooking the Edward B. Knight Pier and the ocean.

Take being the operative word. Lindsey had completely embraced the tone and tenor of the president’s martial law declaration. So much so that one of the first orders of business was to have her legal department draft a similar measure to be adopted via executive order and applied to Monroe County.

She saw the concept of martial law for what it was. The ability for the executive branch of any level of government to wield unbridled power over all aspects of its citizenry and businesses. If Lindsey wanted a penthouse suite atop 1800 Atlantic, she issued an executive order to seize it for the greater good of Monroe County. If a business had closed because it no longer wanted to sell its supply of a product she deemed of vital importance to the greater good of Monroe County, she sent in the sheriff’s department armed with an executive order and the firepower necessary to seize the business.

Nothing was off-limits. She could close churches as being a threat due to the fact it was a large gathering. She could order curfews. She could demand residents wear certain types of identifying clothing to delineate where they lived within the Keys. She could prohibit the use of automobiles and even instruct people to turn over their gasoline stored in containers. The carrying of identification cards confirming they were Florida Keys’ residents was already in place.

All for the greater good.

Lindsey believed in fairness. To her, it wasn’t fair that some households had sufficient food and supplies to last many months while others within the Keys were suffering from dehydration and starvation. Who could argue with her when she asked those who had the means to take their neighbors into their homes following the devastation wrought by the hurricane? Of course we should help one another. To do otherwise was selfish and inhuman.

And if people didn’t see it her way, the right way, then she would exercise the same powers afforded the President of the United States to bring them into the fold. By force if necessary. Share and share alike, she thought to herself as she downed the scotch. It’s the new American way.

Her lover stirred in the bed. She poured herself another scotch and lit a second cigarette. She took a long drag on the smoke and tilted her head back as she exhaled. The wispy trails of gray floated into the air until they came into contact with the heat generated by the candle nearby. The two forces combined to create an odd dance above the candlelight.

Never let a good crisis go to waste.

Lindsey couldn’t recall who made the statement, but it certainly made sense. She’d always had a vision for the Keys that couldn’t be implemented due to the constraints of politics and silly things like the Constitution.

Nuclear winter certainly was the kind of crisis a politician could use to effectuate change on a major scale. Compounding the suffering with a devastating hurricane that came without warning provided the impetus to exercise control like she never imagined. She knew what was best for the Keys and its residents.

That was why she felt it was necessary to isolate the island chain from the rest of the country. The fewer people who were present in her newly created fiefdom, the easier it would be to control them.

Naturally, she expected to piss off the administration in Washington. Frankly, she was surprised when they’d reacted the way they did to her simple roadblocks. She’d heard rumors of those independent-minded Texans trying to close their borders off to refugees. That was an entire state giving Washington the middle finger. The president should be focusing his attention on those people.

Yet, when she’d learned he was sending a large contingent of National Guard troops from outside Florida, she assumed he had every intention of displacing her as the chief executive of Monroe County. The president didn’t understand her use of the checkpoints and roadblocks, nor did he appreciate the need to evict noncitizens.

Perhaps the last straw was during a phone call before the grid collapsed when she’d shouted at the president’s do-boy, Chief of Staff Harrison Chandler, “You do you, and we’ll do us. Stay in your own lane!” After that, Lindsey had stopped taking phone calls from Washington and got prepared to defend the Keys, and her job, from outsiders.

She stood naked in front of the window overlooking the pool and the beach. The soft glow of solar-powered landscape lighting found its way to the top floor of the building. She was surprised there was sufficient sunlight to power them. She took another sip of scotch and leaned against the glass door, which was cold on her hip. She desperately wanted to open the sliding glass doors to listen to the waves lapping on shore, but the air quality was poor.

Blowing up the bridges had not been completely her idea. It had been his. For years, she’d been attracted to the man who was sprawled out in her bed, blissfully sleeping after a hard evening’s work in bed.

Despite their longtime acquaintance, the opportunity had never presented itself, as he’d moved away for a time and she’d married a local man. After her divorce, dating wasn’t even on her radar, as she intended to climb the political ladder as far as it would take her. Men, she decided, would be a distraction, and the wrong man would be a political liability. Yet she still enjoyed a man’s touch from time to time.

Then he’d returned to the Keys. A chamber of commerce event followed by several drinks at Nine One Five on Duval Street had brought the two of them together. They’d become reacquainted as friends with benefits, as the saying goes. It was a mutually agreeable affair to be kept quiet and out of public view, as neither could afford the scrutiny of city leaders or the community.

In addition to their sexual encounters, they became sounding boards for one another. Rarely did she make an important decision regarding Monroe County without his input. They analyzed every aspect of her political actions, and she provided him similar advice when requested. They had a great relationship that worked best if it was kept undercover, so to speak.

Now, he’d helped her implement her plans of making the Keys a better place during the collapse and into the future. She would reward him with her loyalty as well as her love. It was a partnership that sprang out of too many shots of Goldschläger, but one that endured thanks to mutually beneficial interests.

“Hey, what time is it?” her lover asked with a raspy, sleepy voice.

“I don’t know, late. Or early. Depending on how you look at it.”

“Come back to bed,” he plead with her as he moved the covers to clear a spot.

“Why? Is there something you need from me?” she asked with a chuckle.

He laughed. “More of the same, please.” He rose onto his elbow and patted the bed again.

Lindsey put out her cigarette and swigged the last of her scotch. Without another word, she slid into bed next to Sheriff Jock Daly and picked up where they’d left off a couple of hours ago.