Whiteout

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Sunday, November 3

Hickory, North Carolina

The next day, Peter woke up to the smell of bacon sizzling in a cast-iron skillet. The warmth from the wood-burning stove heated the Spencers’ home while the top burners provided a cooktop to prepare warm meals. Peter said good morning to Anna and Charles before scampering outside to an outhouse that hadn’t been used by the family for nearly eighty years. It had been placed back into service when the power went out permanently.

It was colder than the day before, and Peter shivered as he tried to urinate. He was anxious to get into town to learn more about these Uber trips, as Charles called them. He wasn’t sure what he could trade, but he would try to gain a seat on one of the trucks heading south.

During their breakfast together, Peter was elated to learn that Charles was going to drive him into town and introduce him to a fellow truck driver he was loosely acquainted with. He thought an introduction would go a long way to gaining a ride.

The two men went alone so Anna could keep an eye on the house. She and Peter shed a few tears as they said their goodbyes. He was in awe at the woman’s fortitude and ability to keep her spirits up. Her husband had serious lung issues that required medical attention that was no longer available. His eventual death would likely be slow and painful.

They entered the Hickory Farmers Market, which was normally held at Union Square on Saturdays. Prior to the attacks, it had been so popular that the organizers had maintained a website complete with a calendar letting attendees know what vegetables they could expect to buy during what period of the year.

The town square was filled with pop-up shops, built in the morning and removed at night. Before the bombs fell, this had been a bustling public market filled with playing children, colorful flags and balloons, and customers who drove up from Charlotte to enjoy the ambience.

The mood was far different that morning. A single entrance forced people to file past the leery eyes of the market’s organizers. To enter, you had to show residency or be accompanied by a resident. Peter would’ve never been granted access without Charles alongside. There were no children present. In the early days after the market began operating again, hungry kids would steal a handful of produce from the farmers. Rather than punish them, the organizers forbade them from being there.

Once inside, Peter began to study the faces of the attendees. They were lifeless. There was no laughter. No chatter. No greetings between old acquaintances. The shoppers wandered past the vendors’ booths, gripping their barter item as if it were a bar of gold from Fort Knox. Only it wasn’t nearly that valuable. Some held their wedding bands in their nervous, sweaty palms. Others carried a grocery tote bag of canned goods. And then there were those who offered themselves up in trade. Strong young men who offered to work the fields or act as security to the vendors. Women who offered up anything the vendors asked in exchange for food.

It was desperate and depressing. Peter couldn’t believe America had been reduced to this. A nation that was once the greatest country on Earth was now something straight out of a dystopian movie. He took a deep breath and tried to put the despair out of his mind. He began to study the vendors as he searched for the truck drivers Charles had mentioned.

In that part of North Carolina, for early November, apples, leafy greens and broccoli were most prevalent. Throughout the year, there were plenty of peanuts and sweet potatoes. Today, the vendors sold more than locally harvested crops. There were tables with guns, ammunition, knives, and even swords. One man was selling gallons of gasoline while another offered a variety of pharmaceuticals.

Barter was the name of the game, and the most sought-after form of currency was precious metals like gold and silver. Many people toted drawstring bags full of pre-1964 U.S.-minted coins because they consisted of ninety percent silver. A few of the larger booths included jewelers with their magnifying equipment and jewelry tools. Some jewelers charged a fee to issue a letter of authenticity for a bracelet or ring. The customer would take the piece with the letter to another booth and make their purchase.

Credit cards were worthless, and most vendors considered U.S. paper currency to be a joke. Peter was fascinated by the dickering back and forth between the buyers and sellers. As he followed Charles through the crowd, he gripped his AR-15 a little tighter as many of the attendees eyed the powerful rifle. He wanted to loiter around the gun traders to determine what it was worth, but Charles, who was toting his oxygen tank on a wheeled cart, was on a mission to find a truck driver he recognized.

“There they are,” said Charles as he turned his body slightly to address Peter. Peter was watching a transaction between an ammunition maker and a customer. It reminded him that bullets came at a premium as he heard the prices the ammo seller was demanding.

Peter turned his attention to Charles and followed him as the old man picked up the pace through the crowd. Just ahead was a man in his late sixties standing behind a folding table full of a variety of guns. Hunting rifles, shotguns, and several types of pistols. He unconsciously slid his AR-15 behind his back in a weak attempt to hide it from the prying eyes of the man and his two husky sidekicks, who turned out to be his children. Each of the boys held a shotgun at low ready as they stood guard over the truck-driver-turned-arms-dealer-turned-Uber-driver.

“Mornin’,” the man mumbled to Charles as he sized up his customers. He exchanged a glance with one of his sons, who provided him an imperceptible nod. From that point, the young man never took his eyes off Peter’s. “What can we do ya fer?” He had a heavy country accent that was all the more difficult to understand because he rolled a protruding toothpick around his mouth.

Charles furrowed his brow. “Aren’t you Harvey Lawson’s nephew? I used to drive trucks with him.”

“I am. Who are you?” The man’s response and demeanor were brusque.

“Charles Spencer and this here is Peter Albright. He’s looking for a ride to Florida.”

The man glanced at his other son and then looked around Charles to get a better look at Peter. He rose from the folding chair where he’d been seated.

“Well, this is your lucky day, Petey,” the man began sarcastically. “We’re pulling out for the Sunshine State this afternoon.” His sons began to laugh at the reference to Florida as the Sunshine State. Apparently, the sun was no longer shining there, either.

“Okay,” said Peter hesitantly. “I’d like a ride. Where in Florida are you headed?”

The sons laughed again. “We thought we’d see Mickey freakin’ Mouse. Sound good to you, slim?” The bulky belly of one of the young men shook as he laughed.

“What you got to trade? That AR?” the father asked.

Peter sighed. He hadn’t used the weapon yet, but it would be a great source of protection in a shoot-out. However, if he had a ride, the prospect of getting into a gun battle with a bunch of bad people was less likely. He began to remove the gun from his shoulder when Charles reached his hand over to stop him.

“Something better,” began Charles in response. “How about I fill your tanks with diesel when you return?”

“They’s seventy gallons in there.” One of the sons spoke up, drawing a scowl from his father.

“Deal,” the man responded before Charles could change his mind. The man asked to confirm that Charles actually had it, and it was agreed that the nephew of the former truck driving acquaintance could come over at lunch time to see for himself. After a handshake and a somewhat toothless smile from the truck’s owner, Peter was told to return at two o’clock.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Sunday, November 3

Hickory, North Carolina

Peter returned at one, an hour sooner than he’d been instructed to by the man he began to refer to in his mind as Mr. Uber and his sons, Greyhound and Mack. The slighter thinner, taller son was Greyhound, as in the bus line. The shorter, chubbier son was Mack, as in the dump truck. The men had never offered their real names, and Peter didn’t really care. He just wanted to get to Florida without a hassle.

Unfortunately, the hassle started before they left Union Square. Peter had wheeled in his bicycle with his tote bags after Charles gained him reentry into the market. The first order of business was to trade his bike for food. The best he could do was a box of twelve Clif bars, a nutritious energy snack used by hikers and runners.

He contemplated trading his duffel full of winter-weight hunting apparel but then thought better of it. It was colder everywhere, including Florida, he’d heard by eavesdropping on conversations in the market. He was pretty sure his dad hadn’t been storing away fleece-lined cargo pants or woolen socks.

He was making his way toward Mr. Uber when suddenly a fistfight broke out in the center of the market. Two men were walloping on one another over a transaction, and then a third man jumped in. Soon, there were four or five guys pummeling one another, causing the stress levels of everyone in Union Square to rise. Including Mr. Uber.

When Peter arrived at the truck, the father and his sons were packing up their belongings. Mr. Uber’s father was there to load up the table and weapons.

Peter stood at the back of the line of refugees waiting to climb aboard the military-surplus truck. A Hispanic man stood in front of him with his wife and son. He turned to Peter and offered his hand to shake.

“I’m Rafael Sosa.”

“Peter Albright. Nice to meet you.”

“This is my wife, Maria, and my son, Javier. We hope to get to Miami. How about you?”

“I live in the Keys,” Peter responded. He nodded toward the truck. Several people were being assisted into the rear, open-air cargo box. “I thought they might cover it for us.”

Rafael shrugged. The “M923A1s came with a cover kit as standard issue. This one is so old, it probably tore away over the years.”

Peter furrowed his brow. “M what?”

“M923A1. A five-ton six-by-six. We used to call it Big Foot on account of the wheels and tires being so large compared to the frame. It has twice as much cargo capacity as its cousin the M35 deuce-and-a-half.”

“We, as in military?” asked Peter.

“Former Army,” Rafael replied. “Stationed at Camp Mackall over towards Fayetteville. My family and I were traveling home from vacation at Dollywood. After the nukes hit DC, we decided to head to her family’s place in Miami. We ran out of gas and got stuck here. This is the only option as far as we can tell.”

“Come on. Hurry up!” Greyhound barked at Rafael’s wife and son. Rafael snapped his head around and cast a dirty look at Greyhound, who sneered in return.

Peter glanced over his shoulder and saw there were a few stragglers waiting behind him. They didn’t appear to be together as they nervously kicked at the ground and studied their surroundings.

“Come on, Petey,” Greyhound said condescendingly.

Peter adjusted his load and inched toward the back of the military truck, assessing how he was going to hoist everything in the cargo bed.

Mr. Uber rounded the side of the truck. “Hold up! What the hell is all of this?”

Peter was confused, so he didn’t respond.

“Come on, Petey,” said the man’s son. “Ya gotta an explanation?”

“For what?” Peter responded with a question of his own.

Mr. Uber got in Peter’s face. “The old man paid for your transportation, pal. Not your worldly belongings. This stuff has to stay behind ’cause there ain’t no room for your wardrobe.”

“But I can rest them in my—”

“No exceptions, Petey,” Greyhound said forcefully. He pointed his finger in Peter’s chest.

Peter’s blood boiled when the jerk touched him. He slapped his hand away and said with a snarl, “Peter. My name’s Peter.” He stepped closer toward the man, but Mr. Uber put his hand between them.

“Hey. Hey, now. We can work this out, right? Money solves everything. Here’s the thing, Peter. If you look around, everyone has one bag. They’re not greedy and entitled like you. You get one bag and a carry-on just like on a freakin’ airplane. Wanna tote a duffel bag and a backpack? Fine. Everything else stays behind.”

“You guys never told us that,” complained Peter. “If I had known, then—”

Mr. Uber cut him off. He got right in front of Peter, and his son inched closer too. “You see these nice people behind you? They want your seat. They’d love for you to get the hell out of their way. Now, do you wanna ride or not?”

Peter glanced back at the anxious faces. They all had a single bag to carry.

“Yes, I wanna ride,” Peter responded with gritted teeth, cracking his neck as he finished his sentence.

“Good,” said Mr. Uber, stepping back a pace or two. He raised his right hand and waved his fingers toward him. “Gimme the AR.”

“What?” Peter was incensed. “We had a deal!”

“Deal’s changed, Petey!” yelled Greyhound.

“New deal,” said Mr. Uber. “You can carry all this other shit in your lap, but the price of extra baggage is the rifle. Take it or leave it.”

Peter sighed and ran his hand down his face. He’d already given up his bicycle, and there were no guarantees the other truck drivers were traveling south or would be any more reasonable than these assholes. He’d already given away the hunting rifle to Charles as a thank-you for his help.

He reluctantly removed the AR-15 from his shoulder and handed it to Mr. Uber. The man smiled and winked at Peter.

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya,” he said and then glanced over his shoulder at the three disappointed refugees. “Folks, we’ll be back in five days to rustle up another load. We’ll see ya then.”

It was wishful thinking by Mr. Uber.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Sunday, November 3

Driftwood Key

Hank and Sonny waited nervously on the front porch of the main house for the first invited guest to Driftwood Key since the collapse. Well, invited was a term that simply differentiated Sonny’s ex-sister-in-law, Monroe County Mayor Lindsey Free, from the armed attackers of the day before.

Word had spread quickly throughout Marathon of the nighttime gun battle. By the next morning, it was the topic of conversation at the daily briefing held by the Board of County Commissioners in Key West. Mayor Free, who’d been elected to represent District 2 encompassing Big Pine Key, had been elected mayor as well just over four years ago. Previously, she’d sat on the Marathon City Council and had been elected mayor of Marathon prior to that. Her relationship to the Albrights went back to childhood, as she was only a few years younger than Mike. Mayor Free’s ex-husband was also the youngest of Sonny’s five siblings.

Hank had been told in advance by Mike to expect something other than a social visit. It was going to be more of a courtesy call than anything. The sheriff, in light of the attack on Driftwood Key, felt compelled to give Mike a heads-up. In an unrelated decision reached by the Board of Commissioners, Mayor Free was prepared to take a tighter grip on her constituents.

“Sonny, you really shouldn’t be here for this,” said Hank as he finished a protein shake. He set it on the table next to his old friend’s partially empty bowl of watered-down Frosted Flakes. They had powdered milk in their storage pantry, but Sonny thought it would be wasted on cereal.

“Let me at least say hello. Otherwise, she might think I’m hiding from her. Lindsey’s a viper, Hank. If she smells weakness, you’re a goner. Ask my brother.”

“I heard. No wonder she’s a politician. It suits her.”

“So what does she want?” asked Sonny.

“I don’t know for sure, but we’re about to find out,” replied Hank as he stood and pointed toward the driveway. A deputy sheriff driving a marked SUV slowly pulled toward the parking area joined to the bromeliad-lined walkway in front of the main house. The tropical plant bloomed once in its lifetime although the flowers usually lasted for a fairly long period of time. It was one of the features Hank’s wife had introduced to greet guests with a lovely first impression when they walked to the front porch. Each day since nuclear winter began to take its toll, the beautiful tropical flowers withered and died.

Sonny walked down the steps to greet his former sister-in-law. “Hi, Lindsey. Well, I mean, Madam Mayor. This is official business, right?”

Hank chuckled to himself. Nice touch, wingman.

Lindsey leaned in to accept a peck on the cheek from Sonny before she responded, “Oh, not really. I heard this morning what happened to you folks last night. I’ve always held the Albrights in high esteem, and I simply worried about them, and you, of course.”

Hank managed a smile. She was every bit the snake as she was growing up when she pitted boys against one another for the chance to kiss that picture-perfect smile while gazing into her enchanting hazel eyes. Many a man had been caught off guard by Lindsey’s wily ways. He took a deep breath and was inwardly thankful he’d engaged in the gun battle last night. It better prepared him for what was coming.

“Good morning, Mayor,” said Hank nonchalantly as he eased his hands into the pockets of his linen slacks. It was a little cool that morning, but he didn’t have much else to wear. He’d bloodied his khakis moving dead bodies out of the way so a county flatbed wrecker could get the disabled pickup truck removed.

“Hi, Hank!” she said in a little too friendly manner. She’s up to something, Hank thought. His level of awareness had just reached its peak.

Sonny excused himself and opened the door for the visiting dignitary and Hank. Her bodyguard deputy took up a position outside on the porch while Sonny made himself scarce. Hank and the mayor made small talk until they were settled into his office with the door closed. Then Hank utilized a communication method that had unnerved his kids on those few occasions they’d gotten out of line.

He said nothing.

After a moment of awkward silence, the mayor, who obviously had an agenda, spoke up.

“Hank, the deeper we get into this crisis, the more difficult it has become for me to both protect and care for our neighbors. None of us asked for this, and we’re all trying to find a path forward that is both safe from the criminal element and sustainable by providing basic necessities to those who need it most.”

“I bet you never imagined something like this when you were elected mayor,” said Hank.

He was making a point that she may or may not have understood. Politicians need to be more than the people who spend tax dollars. They need to be visionaries of progress and collapse. To Hank, it’s easy to be a politician when a nation or community is at its best. It’s when the society begins to decline, and they all do, as history has proven, that the real leaders step up to shepherd their constituents through it.

“You’re right about that,” she replied before getting back to her agenda. “In any event, we’ve made great strides in removing nonresidents and preventing any newcomers from entering the Keys through our implementation of checkpoints. This has also enabled us to keep our law enforcement professionals like Jessica and Mike fully employed.”

“They’re very grateful for that. I imagine their paycheck will be pretty big when the county is able to actually deliver it.”

Hank wished he’d never made the statement. He resented his family having to leave Driftwood Key when armed gunmen were roaming around with nefarious intentions. That said, they’d both impressed upon him the importance of having access to the world beyond Driftwood Key to gather information and acquire necessary supplies.

The mayor bristled at the implication the county’s essential employees were working without pay despite the fact it was true. “I’m sure there will be a relief package coming out of Washington or Tallahassee when this is all over that compensates everyone. However, Hank, we have to get to the point where we turn the corner. That’s why I’m here.”

“How can I help?” he asked and then gulped. Dammit, Hank. Two unforced errors. Get in the game!

“Well, I’m glad you asked. I’m calling on everyone, business owners and local residents alike, to pitch in to help their neighbors. I refer to it as shared sacrifice. During these unprecedented times, we need those who have a little extra to assist those who are barely scraping by or who are without.”

“Okay,” said Hank, stretching the word out as he prepared for the big reveal.

“How are you folks making out here on Driftwood Key?” She glanced around Hank’s office and through the windows. If one didn’t know better, nothing appeared out of the ordinary except for the perpetually soot-filled cloudy skies and the lack of resort guests.

“We’re, um, okay. Thanks.”

The mayor leaned forward to the edge of the chair to look Hank in the eye. “I wasn’t referring to how you were doing, Hank. I’m referring to what you can contribute to help sustain your neighbors and the community which you’re a part of.”

“What exactly are you asking for, Lindsey?” She was no longer the mayor in Hank’s mind but, rather, Sonny’s ex-sister-in-law.

“For one, we need more deputies to protect the community, as you well know.”

Her tone of voice indicated to Hank that the conversation was now adversarial. He tried not to bare fangs.

“We gave at the office. Mike. Jessica. Remember them?”

The mayor wasn’t satisfied with those already in her employ. “You, Phoebe, and Sonny are too old for the tasks we have in mind. Jimmy, however, would be a great addition to our border guards.”

“We can’t spare him. Jimmy’s fishing abilities feed my family.”

“I’ll assign him a night shift so he can continue to do the fishing chores for you. Besides, did you forget how to fish since all this started?”

Dammit! Hank was cornered. He looked for an out. “I’ll have to speak to his mom and dad.” He tried to remind Lindsey that Jimmy had loved ones, and he wasn’t just a tool he could loan out.

“Do that, and let Mike know so the sheriff can work him into the schedule. Now, let’s talk about your hydroponics and greenhouses. How are they producing?”

“Not enough to feed the Florida Keys,” replied Hank angrily. She’d already collected one scalp—Jimmy’s. Now she wanted Hank to feed the Keys?

The mayor leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. She studied Hank for a moment. It was time to play hardball.

“Listen, are you aware of the president’s declaration of martial law?”

“No. Well, vaguely. Haven’t had a chance to mosey down to the post office to read it.”

“Well, let me give you the CliffsNotes, okay?” She stretched her hands away from her body with her palms face up to create an imaginary scale. One was much higher than the other.

She continued. “Here’s how shared sacrifice works. Up here. In this hand, is Hank with his Driftwood Key Inn. Now, it’s producing enough food out back to feed the Albrights, the Frees, and the many guests who normally fill your fancy bungalows.

“In this hand are a dozen or so families, your neighbors, who can’t grow their own food or who couldn’t afford to empty the store shelves before the wealthy did. Now they’re hungry and they’re desperate, and some are even dying of starvation. If we don’t do something to help them, they’re gonna be at your gate again tonight out of desperation.

“You might be able to kill them or turn them away. But tomorrow night, there’ll be another group and then another and then another.” She paused to catch her breath and allow the scales of shared sacrifice to even out.

“This is where shared sacrifice comes in. Driftwood Key contributes the food it would ordinarily feed to its guests. Otherwise, it might just go to waste, right? Meanwhile, that food goes to all of these families, which keeps them alive and, more importantly, content, so they don’t do something rash like attack your precious inn.”

She allowed her arms to wave up and down until they eventually balanced out. She adjusted herself in the chair and then gently folded her hands in her lap.

“Are you getting the picture, Hank?” she said with a toothy, disingenuous grin. “And let me make it just a little clearer for you. The president’s declaration gives me the absolute authority to make it happen by whatever means necessary.”

The conversation was over.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Sunday, November 3

Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

Northern Virginia

As predicted by some in the Helton administration, China invaded North Korea. Following the near total destruction of Pyongyang and strategic DPRK military bases by U.S. nuclear missile strikes, the Beijing government ordered troops to the North Korean border. With South Korea in disarray as it tried to recover from the North Korean attack on Seoul, China saw an opening.

From a geopolitical perspective, China could never allow the U.S. to hold influence over the North, whether it be through improved relations with Pyongyang or the takeover of the Korean peninsula by Seoul.

The Chinese military incursion into North Korea occurred with remarkable swiftness. There was little left of the North Korean military, so they were unable to mount a defense. After the Chinese tanks crossed the Yalu River and their Chengdu J-20 fighter jets strafed the countryside to eliminate any pockets of resistance, they were welcomed by the North Korean people with open arms.

Chief of Staff Chandler had been a constant fixture by the president’s side since those first few hours at Mount Weather. Now he was surrounded by a steady stream of aides who relayed messages to the president from world leaders. The two men cleared the president’s office to speak privately.

“They’ve got to be out of their minds,” the president lamented as he read the communiqués from world leaders. They want us to order the Chinese to stand down. I’m forced to beg them for parts to fix the damn power grid! I’m in no position to move on them militarily. And for what purpose? Defend North Korea?”

Chandler dropped the rest of the messages on the president’s desk in front of him. The president swiped them to the side and began wringing his hands.

“Carter,” began Chandler, who remained on a first-name basis with his friend when out of earshot of others, “in case nobody’s noticed, we’re screwed on our own. I don’t see any of these nations shipping humanitarian aid or relief workers to the U.S. Where’s the UN? Nobody is stepping in to bail us out. They always take from us, but now we need them to return the favor, and it’s crickets on the other end of the line.”

“Yeah, well, you’re right, and the world will soon see what I think about fighting everyone else’s battles,” added the president. “Have you confirmed that the secretary of defense has recalled all of our military personnel except for the bare minimum necessary to defend our assets abroad?”

“They will be returning home within days. Now, are you okay without making a formal announcement? Normally, these things require press releases at a minimum.”

“Screw ’em,” said the president as he pulled the messages into a pile and dropped them into the trash can next to his desk. “Transparency is overrated. Let’s talk about Texas.”

Chandler plopped into the chair in front of the president’s desk. He loosened his tie and glanced over toward the bar. This conversation required a drink. He glanced at his watch and thought, It’s five o’clock somewhere. It was a phrase referencing happy hour, although it was used to justify having a cocktail prior to five in the afternoon. He got up from the chair, removed his jacket, and poured them both a scotch whisky, neat.

“Texas?” the president repeated as he stared at his old friend over the rim of his glass.

“Texas has taken the bold step of closing its entire state line, or border, if you will, to Americans traveling south.”

“Harrison, yesterday that was rumor. Today, it’s fact?”

“I’m afraid it’s been confirmed. Their grid survived the cascading failure, and the EMP generated over Colorado barely reached the Panhandle. After Mexico closed its border with the U.S. to prevent an influx of our refugees, Texas stopped the flow of people crossing the state en route to Central America and even South America.”

The president took another swig of his drink and winced. He remained calm as he spoke. “They can’t do that. Do I need to personally call the governor and straighten her out?”

“Yes, I believe you should try. You know Texans. They’re fiercely independent. They’ve managed to keep their power grid separate from the Eastern and Western Interconnection. As a result, they’re positioned to recover from all of this faster than the rest of the nation.”

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t give them the right to reject American citizens in need. You can bet your ass they’d have their hand out if Dallas took a direct hit. They’d be begging for FEMA to send MREs and build tent cities.”

Carter stood and refilled their glasses as he relayed more information to the president. “Apparently, this independent streak is contagious.”

“Oh?” said the president in a tone reflective of his curiosity. “Is Hawaii threatening to secede?”

“No,” Chandler replied as he got settled into his chair once again. “Monroe County, Florida.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“The Florida Keys, mostly. Parts of the county extend on to the mainland, but it’s the Keys that have pulled another one of these closed-borders stunts.”

“How?”

“They’ve sent armed personnel to block the two bridges that connect the Keys to South Florida. First, they evicted any nonresidents. Then they established roadblocks to prevent any refugees who couldn’t prove residency from entering. As a result, Miami has been inundated with homeless and stranded travelers, and the mayor is having a hissy fit.”

“What’s the Florida governor say?”

“He’s just like his counterpart in Texas, complaining that he has a duty to protect the lives and property of his residents. He’s considering similar measures at his state line at Georgia and Alabama.”

“Geez,” said the president, who shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll reach out to him as well. He needs to be reminded the federal government and his fellow Americans are there for Floridians during hurricane season. He needs to be open to accept Americans who are trying to survive. And he’d better straighten out those people in the Keys, or I will.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Sunday, November 3

Central North Carolina

“Let’s do this!” shouted Greyhound as he exchanged high fives with his portly brother. The younger man drove off with his grandfather, leaving Greyhound to drive the military cargo truck and his dad to navigate. The father and son had made this trip once before, attempting to use the interstate to travel. It had been a frustrating drive as they dodged gas-thirsty, stalled cars and people running along trying to climb into the cargo box. This trip, they’d take back roads.

Once they were on their way that afternoon, the paid passengers breathed a collective sigh of relief. The group was packed together on wooden bench seats with slat rails for backs. Their feet were buried under luggage. They huddled within themselves, partly out of apprehension surrounding the treatment by their escorts but mostly because of a chilling wind that began to blow from the north.

Peter sat next to Rafael and his family at the rear of the cargo box. There were a dozen others on board, including a family, several couples, and some single riders. They were a hodgepodge of refugees across the demographic spectrum. After twenty minutes of exchanging names and destinations, they began to tell their stories. Most were seeking warmer climates and rumors of fully functioning electricity. Others, like Peter, were hoping to reunite with family.

Only one person, Peter, had witnessed one of the warheads detonating in Washington. Everyone wanted to hear about it. Yet they didn’t. Peter could see it in their eyes and changed demeanor as he continued. An overwhelming sadness seemed to come over the group as the realization of what had happened to America soaked in.

The cargo truck rumbled along through the small community of Hildebran before approaching the underpass at Interstate 40 west of Charlotte. The group was silent as they watched thousands of people walking toward the mountains. Some pushed shopping carts while others pulled luggage on wheels. They were all seeking refuge away from the cities.

The truck chugged along down Henry River Road when it suddenly slowed. The passengers became nervous, and Peter eased his hand into his backpack to get a grip on his pistol. He was relieved that Mr. Uber and his dimwit son hadn’t confiscated all of his weapons.

On the left side of the truck, a tall wooden fence appeared along the roadway. Through the heavily wooded forest, a smattering of buildings could be seen. Then a gated entry came into view with several armed guards patrolling behind it. A long gravel driveway led up a hill through a canopy of oak trees.

“What’s this place?” asked one of the passengers.

“That’s where they filmed the Hunger Games movies,” replied an older man.

“Really?” asked a child who was sitting next to him.

The old man explained, “This was once Henry River Mills Village, an old ghost town that used to be a yarn factory. This part of Carolina was booming back then, and little communities like this sprang up everywhere. When the big factories moved into Charlotte, the people left the village for the city.”

“You said something about the Hunger Games movie,” interrupted the child’s mother.

“Yeah, right. Anyway, the place was abandoned, and the folks who bought it years ago allowed it to be used as a movie set. This was used as the setting for District 12 where the start of the movie took place.”

“It doesn’t look like a movie set now,” mumbled Peter.

“Those guys were ex-military,” whispered Rafael as he leaned into Peter. “They were disciplined and carried themselves like they were well-trained operatives.”

The older man continued. “Anyway, recently, the place was bought by a couple out of Florida. Supposedly won the lottery. They fenced the entire place like a fortress or some such.”

The truck slowly rumbled across a bridge high above the Henry River. Two more armed guards were positioned on the other side behind concrete barriers. They never blinked as their eyes scanned the cargo truck and its passengers. They held their weapons at low ready, just in case.

Peter craned his neck to study the compound from the south side of the river as they continued up a hill. Eventually, the former movie set turned haven, for some, disappeared from sight. He got settled in with the others as the monotonous drone of the diesel engines began to put nearly everyone to sleep.

Their trip took them through the heart of the Old South. Towns like Gaffney, Saluda, and Barnwell in South Carolina were encountered without incident. Once in Georgia, they drove through Statesboro toward Jesup.

They’d been on the road for nearly eight hours, and the passengers were getting antsy. Mr. Uber had only afforded them one pit stop, as he called it, to stretch their legs and relieve their bladders in a looted Huddle House. He and his son swapped driving duties, during which time a passenger overheard them say they planned on stopping near Jesup, Georgia, to refuel and sleep.

During the ride, Peter struck up conversations with every one of his fellow passengers. Some were more open than others about their destination and the price they’d paid for inclusion on the trip. Most had traded guns or silver coins. The elderly couple had given up their wedding bands. One family had turned over the keys to their vacation home outside Asheville, North Carolina.

The two people he was most concerned about were a mother in her late thirties and her daughter, who appeared to be college age. They were closed off about where they were headed and why. Plus, they shut Peter down when he asked what they’d had to barter to get a ride on the truck. The daughter closed her eyes and hung her head low. Her mother shed a tear and looked away as she wiped her face with her sweater sleeve.

Peter had heard rumors of women being forced to trade sex for food, gasoline, and, apparently, a lift to Florida. It angered him that the two men sitting in the heated cab, laughing and swapping a bottle of whiskey, had enticed these two women with a ride by demanding them to humiliate themselves that way.

At one point toward the end of the ride, murderous thoughts crept into his head. He replayed the events in the CVS pharmacy that night. Was that murder or self-defense? Or was his shooting of the four men in rapid succession a preemptive first strike? A kill-or-be-killed scenario that required him to murder others to protect himself.

Then he took his analysis further. Did he have the right to take the lives of Mr. Uber and his ingrate son because they’d asked for, and received, sexual favors in exchange for an uncomfortable seat on this truck? Had America descended into a level of lawlessness where killing could be justified on moral grounds?

Peter grappled with these issues for miles, and as a result, the time flew by as Greyhound slowed the cargo truck at the entrance of the aptly named Motel Jesup. The twenty-two bungalow-style units were arranged in an L-shaped structure connected by covered walkways. The affordable accommodations were the epitome of the quintessential, roadside motor court of days gone by. Before the nation’s interstate system provided travelers the opportunity to zip from one point to another at seventy-plus miles an hour, state and federal highways had connected small towns together. Within each small town, there were motor courts.

Many had been built in the late forties as soldiers returned from war and families reconnected by taking long driving trips. The freestanding buildings were quaint and modestly furnished in order to keep the nightly room rate low. Most had a bed and foldout sofa.

The Motel Jesup had plenty of vacancies that night. As in, all of the rooms were empty. Looters had broken into them to take the bedding. They’d stolen the remaining complimentary bottled water and Lance crackers. The toilet paper and towels had been removed, as were the trial-size toiletries. All that remained were the mattresses and perhaps a few pillows.

The cargo truck rumbled to a stop, and Mr. Uber stumbled out of the cab. He reeked of liquor as he waddled to the back gate.

“All right, people, this is where we’ll hole up for the night.” His words came out slowly and slurred.

His son, Greyhound, was less inebriated and began to order everyone out of the truck. “You heard him. Let’s go! It’ll be dark soon. And cold, too.”

Peter had been the last to be loaded into the cargo compartment, so he was the first to be removed. He tossed his duffel bags out first and began to climb out of the back when Greyhound interfered.

“Hey, let me give you a hand.”

Instead of helping Peter, he tugged on his pants leg, causing his foot to slide off the steel bumper. Peter slipped and lost his grip on the back gate. He struck his chin hard on the metal and landed flat on his back with a thud, reinjuring the bruises he’d received days before.

Had he not lost his breath momentarily, matters might have escalated. That, and Rafael’s quick actions saved a life—either Peter’s or Greyhound’s. He jumped out of the truck and helped Peter sit up. He turned and faced Greyhound.

“We’ve got this,” he snarled.

“Good for you, beaner,” hissed Greyhound, using a derogatory slur often associated with people of Mexican descent.

Rafael was undeterred. “I’m Cuban,” he fired back although he didn’t expect the racist to understand why the beaner reference was misdirected.

Greyhound sneered at Rafael and said, “No matter. My precious cargo is the last to unload. Move it!”

The rest of the group made their way out of the cargo hold. Peter lagged behind while everyone else chose a cabin. He watched as the mother and daughter hesitantly exited the truck. They knew what was in store for them, as did Peter. The question was what, if anything, would he do about it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Sunday, November 3

Jesup, Georgia

The Federal Correctional Institution located just south of Jesup was a medium-security prison that housed male inmates primarily incarcerated for drug and white-collar crimes. During the rolling blackouts that swept the southeast, state and federal prison officials were faced with a significant challenge. They were responsible for tens of thousands of inmates who’d been incarcerated for a wide range of crimes from petty offenses to capital murder. As the grid failed, they found themselves unable to perform the basic functions required to house the inmates. So they turned to the courts for guidance.

Like most governmental agencies, the United States court system was in disarray following the nuclear attacks. All hearings were cancelled. Judges and their staffs remained home as the blackouts began to occur. The Department of Justice offered little in the way of guidance as the entire federal government adopted a wait-and-see approach.

Then the temporary rolling blackouts became permanent. As a result, prison administrators began to make judgment calls. With their correctional staff operating at a bare minimum, they were unable to control, much less feed, their entire populations. Their solution was to review the case files of the inmates and release them from prison based upon their level of offense. Short-termers and nonviolent offenders were sent out in the first wave. The medical inmates with harsher sentences were next. Then on day eight following the nuclear attack on the U.S., the floodgates were opened.

Day after day, these inmates were given street clothes and a kick in the pants as the prison doors were opened. They were reminded that they were not truly free, as they were expected to report back to their designated prison facility once the crisis was over. Most of the inmates were unable to hide the smirks on their faces when given this instruction. In their minds, once they left, they were free.

However, they had no place to go and no way to contact friends and family. At FCI Jesup, two thousand federal prisoners walked through Wayne County, Georgia, aimlessly, most without a plan as to what to do next.

That morning, the final group of eight inmates was released from the medium-security facility. They were the snitches, informants who’d cooperated with authorities to help convict others like them. They were eight men who’d committed crimes of murder in various degrees, but because of their cooperation with the DOJ, they were given more relaxed, bucolic accommodations than the concrete and steel environs of the federal penitentiary in Atlanta.

Chris Stengel and his cellmate, Benjie Reyes, had spent eight years at the Jesup prison. They’d both committed gang-related murders in Atlanta before rolling on their brethren. At Jesup, they’d managed to avoid the scrutiny of correctional officers as they ran their hustles ranging from bringing in contraband cell phones to drugs in exchange for commissary and other favors.

That afternoon, they walked out together and immediately contemplated a variety of criminal acts to make their lives better. Booze. Drugs. Stolen vehicle. Women. Their laundry list was not imaginative. They were like wild animals released from captivity.

Both men had family in Savannah, and they’d always daydreamed about living on the ocean. As far as they were concerned, the real estate market was wide open for them. They’d find a nice McMansion on the sea. Kill the owners. And get settled into a beach chair with their toes buried in the sand.

As they walked up the highway, they tried to recall the distance to Savannah. Stengel thought it was about sixty miles or so. The two men had remained fit by walking the track around the outer perimeter of the medium-security facility. Exercising made up the vast majority of their day when they weren’t working their jobs in the kitchen at eighteen cents per hour. A five-hour walk at a steady pace would yield fifteen to twenty miles of exercise. With their adrenaline levels, they’d committed to doubling that pace, which meant they could roll into Savannah sometime the next evening.

They walked northbound on U.S. 301 after grabbing some snacks and a couple of bottles of tequila from a liquor store in the process of being looted. Reyes found a tire iron lying outside the motorcycle repair shop nearby, a favorite tool utilized by burglars of commercial buildings.

It came in handy when they approached Babs’s insurance. They didn’t expect to find anything of value in the small office building, but the place hadn’t been looted yet, so the two decided to take a look. Twenty minutes later, they emerged with a backpack full of snacks and bottled water, together with some clothing found in a coat closet. Most importantly, for Stengel anyway, he scored an aluminum softball bat. Before they left, he even got in a few practice swings.

The famed New York Yankees manager, Casey Stengel, would’ve been impressed by his very distant relative’s swing. Former inmate Stengel bashed to smithereens virtually everything in the office that was breakable. There was no particular reason to do so other than the fact he had more than a decade of pent-up violent tendencies to satisfy.

However, the smashing of the insurance agency wasn’t enough. He had other urges, too. And as Stengel and Reyes walked up the highway, high on tequila and their newfound freedom, opportunity crossed their path at the Motel Jesup.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Sunday, November 3

Motel Jesup

Jesup, Georgia

Peter entered the motel room at the far end of the complex from where Mr. Uber and Greyhound took up residency for the night. As he suspected, the mother and daughter must’ve agreed to trade their bodies for a ride to Florida. Through gritted teeth, Peter watched the two men paw all over the women as they led them to their respective rooms. It was obvious they were being forced into having sex with the men, as the daughter began to cry after Mr. Uber and her mother shut the door behind them.

Peter considered his options as his blood boiled inside him. He paced the floor of his room, trying to put the visual of what was about to happen to the women out of his mind. He retrieved both of his handguns from his sling backpack and confirmed the magazines were full of bullets. He shoved one into the waistband of his pants, and he held the other inside his coat pocket. With firm resolve, he marched back outside and began to walk on the covered sidewalk toward the other side of the motel.

Suddenly, Mr. Uber emerged from his room and began pounding on his son’s door. The still-dressed degenerate appeared, angry at the interruption. The two men exchanged words, and after hurling threats at the two women, warning them to stay in their room, they marched off with purpose toward the cargo truck. Seconds later, they were pulling out and heading north on the highway in the direction they’d just come from.

Peter was confused by the activity, but he used their absence to make his move. He hustled along the walkway, narrowly avoiding a collision with several of the refugees, who’d exited their rooms at the sound of the loud diesel truck leaving the motel.

“What’s going on?”

“Are they leaving us?”

Peter ignored their questions because he didn’t have any answers. He supposed they were stranded or, he thought, they might have a rendezvous nearby to refuel. Mr. Uber seemed to know the area well enough to have the Motel Jesup as his planned stop for the evening. He must have someone nearby providing him diesel fuel for the large-capacity tank.

By the time he reached the two end units near the motel’s office, everyone was commiserating in the parking lot except for the mother and daughter. Peter approached the mother’s room first. He knocked brusquely on the door.

“Ma’am, this is Peter. They’ve left for now. Will you please open up?”

He could hear her shuffling around the room. A shadow appeared by the curtains, and then the door slowly opened. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and her nose continued to run. She nervously wiped the mucus onto her sleeve.

“Did they leave?” she said in a loud whisper, her eyes darting around in fear.

“Yes, but I don’t know why,” replied Peter.

“I do,” said a sheepish voice to his right. It was the daughter.

The two women ran into each other’s arms and began to cry uncontrollably. After a moment, they broke their embrace, and the mother searched her daughter’s eyes for answers to the obvious question.

Peter had watched similar scenes unfold on television programs, but nothing compared to the real-life angst shared by two women who dreaded the inevitable assault they would be forced to endure. In that moment, he knew what had to be done, and he would carry out the task without remorse or compunction.

He averted his eyes to scan the parking lot. With no electricity and, thus far, no other traffic, the rumbling of the Cummings diesel engine would provide him some warning of the men’s return. However, he needed to come up with a plan.

“Ladies, um, I’m sorry. Um, you said you know why they left.”

“Yes,” replied the daughter. “They have a friend who works at the paper mill we passed. He’s going to let them fill up their truck.”

Peter’s suspicions were confirmed. Now for the hard part. He addressed the mother.

“Listen. We don’t have much time. Are they going to…?” His voice trailed off. He didn’t have the courage to say the word rape out loud. Not that it mattered. The mother knew exactly what he wanted to ask. She simply nodded rapidly and began to cry. The women held each other again, shaking as the tears rolled down their faces. Peter imagined the deal with Mr. Uber and son had been struck with trepidation back at Hickory. However, reality had hit them, and they clearly were unable to go through with it. Nor should they.

Rafael approached them. “What’s going on?”

Peter motioned for him to step a few paces away from the women. “Those assholes went back up the highway to refuel. Rafael, we don’t have much time. They’re gonna rape these two. Plain and simple. And I’m not gonna let it happen.”

Rafael studied Peter’s eyes and glanced over at the mother and daughter, who continued to cry, before looking toward the highway. Then he said something Peter hadn’t asked for, much less expected.

“I’ll help you.”

“Wait, you can’t. Your family might be—”

Rafael cut him off by calling for his wife. “Maria! Please. Come!”

Maria walked briskly across the parking lot, and Rafael met her halfway. After a brief exchange, they approached the two women. Peter joined them.

“This is my wife, Maria,” Rafael began as the two women focused their attention toward her. “Please go with her to our room and stay for a while.”

“But he said he would—” The daughter tried to relay the threat she’d received before Maria interrupted.

“No, honey. None of that is going to happen. You must hurry. Come with me.”

The mother turned to Peter with sullen, but hopeful eyes. “Are you sure? They have guns.”

“We’re sure. Go.”

Rafael gently placed his arm behind their backs and urged them to follow his wife. Then he issued instructions to the rest of the passengers.

“Everyone! Listen to me. Go back to your rooms and barricade the doors. Stay away from the windows and don’t come out until we say so. Do you understand?”

“Why?”

“What’s happening?”

“Why did they leave us?”

Off in the distance, the roar of the cargo truck’s engine could be heard as the driver shifted gears. Peter ran to Rafael’s side. He pulled the weapon from his waistband and handed it to Rafael grip first.

“They’re coming back.”

Rafael shouted at the others, “Hurry. Get in your rooms. Now!”

At the sight of the two men brandishing their weapons, the other passengers became frightened and scampered back to their rooms. Peter and Rafael eased back under the canopy and prepared to fight.

“What are you thinking?” asked Peter.

“We wait in the rooms for them. They’re expecting the women to be there. They’ll find us instead.”

“Take ’em out?” asked Peter, wanting to confirm Rafael was prepared to kill the men, just as he was.

“Without hesitation,” came the response.

Peter made a fist and presented it to Rafael, who immediately bumped it in return. They moved quickly to get into position.

Barely a minute later, the truck slowed and eased into the parking lot of the motel. Peter’s heart raced as he assumed the role of assassin. He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead that began to drip toward his eyebrows despite the chilly temperatures. The truck shut off, and the sound of the heavy steel doors slamming indicated the men were heading his way. Using the barrel of his gun, he nudged the musty nylon curtain aside to watch for Mr. Uber’s approach. Then his eyes grew wide.

“What the hell?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Sunday, November 3

Driftwood Key

One would think during the apocalypse that people would have all kinds of free time on their hands. No jobs. No television. No extracurricular activities. Wrong. Every moment of every day was dedicated to sustaining themselves through growing food or fishing. Plus, as external threats grew, security became tantamount. If you can’t defend it, it isn’t yours.

It took a day and a half after the mayor’s contentious visit for Hank to meet with Sonny, Phoebe and Jimmy. This was followed by a serious conversation with Mike and Jessica around the bonfire on the beach. For the first time that Hank could remember, the group discussed the fate of Driftwood Key without passing out adult beverages.

“What did you think of the martial law declaration?” Hank asked his brother.

Mike paced through the sand, periodically stopping to mindlessly flatten out a mound only to build it up again with his feet. “It’s pretty simple. The only people around here who are free happen to have that word as their last name. The president has taken over every aspect of our country while eviscerating the Bill of Rights. Lindsey’s threats are real and could be backed up by force if necessary.”

Jessica wasn’t so sure. “Come on, guys. How far would she go?”

“I don’t know, Jess,” replied Mike. “But the way that thing reads, what’s ours is theirs. Hell, they could strip it all away if they want. Food. Guns. Boats. The damn deed to the property!”

“I just can’t believe it would go that far,” said Jessica. “People would never stand for it.”

“Some might,” mumbled Hank.

“Whadya mean?” she asked.

“Think about it. How many residents or businesses have an operation close to what we have here? Very few, if any. Right? So who’s gonna stand up to Lindsey and whatever kind of force she employs to take what we have? Us and a handful of others. The majority of the rest might welcome her actions.”

Jessica grimaced. She still couldn’t believe these types of drastic measures were being contemplated. “But, Hank, the mayor has to know if they took everything we have and kicked us off the Keys, there wouldn’t be enough to feed all the mouths who weren’t ready for this.”

“Jessica, if you saw the look in her eyes yesterday, you’d know that she meant business. We’ve known Lindsey for a long time. She’s conniving, but once she has the power, she doesn’t bluff.”

Mike finally sat down. “What’s the plan?”

Hank took a deep breath and relayed his thoughts. “We give them something. Just a little bit at a time.”

“Like what?” asked Jessica.

“For starters, Jimmy has volunteered to be deputized.”

“Jesus!” said Mike, who leapt out of his chair and began pacing again. “Do you know what they’re doing with these deputies? They’re sending them with a rifle to the checkpoints to process people who want in. People demanding entry pull weapons at the border checkpoint all the time.”

“Shhh.” Jessica admonished her husband to keep his voice down. “Don’t tell Phoebe and Sonny. They’ll freak out.”

Hank asked, “Can you work with the sheriff to keep him off the checkpoints?”

“I can try, but Lindsey has him wrapped around her finger. The whole department is talking about the change he’s undergone. Prior to the last several days, there was never any love lost between them. Now they’re thick as thieves.”

Hank laughed. “Maybe that’s it. To the victors go the spoils.”

“Whadya mean?” asked Jessica.

“What I mean is this happens all the time when political leaders get too much power. They make sure they get theirs and their families are taken care of. The rest of us have to go along with this shared sacrifice notion, but the same rules don’t apply to them.”

Mike stopped pacing. “Rules for thee but not for me.”

“Pretty much,” mumbled Hank.

Jessica asked, “After we send them Jimmy, weakening our own defenses, then what? They want food, too?”

“Yes, but I don’t plan on giving it to them,” replied Hank. “I’ve gotta talk with Sonny and Phoebe about cutting back our production to feed just us.”

“Patrick, too?” asked Jessica.

“Squirrely scumbag,” said Mike, who was in a testy mood. “The more I interact with that guy, the more I’m ready to send him packin’.”

“I can’t disagree, Mike,” said Hank. “I’m still not sure why he wasn’t ready to go to the hospital after he was up and moving around. And his story seems to be changing.”

“I’m getting the same vibe,” said Jessica. “He tells me one thing about his recollection of that night, but it’s different than what he’s told Sonny or Phoebe.”

“He doesn’t tell me anything,” said Mike.

“Sit down, Mike. Please,” said Hank, urging his brother to stop pacing. The detective slid into his Adirondack chair and listened as Hank relayed his thoughts. “He seems capable of speaking freely with everyone but you and me. He won’t respond to you at all, feigning amnesia or some such. When he talks to me and the subject comes up, he acts like he’s on his last dying breath and needs rest. Yet Jimmy tells me that Patrick turns into some kind of Chatty Cathy when he’s around.”

“Like I said, squirrely,” said Mike.

“What do we do?” asked Jessica.

“Let’s work on easing him out,” replied Hank. “He’s become more mobile, even finding his way onto the porch of his bungalow. I’m gonna get Sonny and Phoebe on board with helping him build up his strength with the ultimate goal of sending him to his own house.”

Mike added, “I don’t like the thought of him wandering around the inn. Nobody has seen our resources.”

Hank added, “Even Lindsey, whose view was obscured by palm trees and plants.”

“We’ll keep tabs on Patrick,” said Jessica.

Hank closed out the Patrick topic. “The other thing that concerns me about him being here is if word gets back to Lindsey. She’ll counter my refusal to feed all of Marathon with an alternative.”

“Like what?” asked Jessica.

Hank frowned as he made eye contact with the others. “Like moving the displaced and homeless into the inn.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Sunday, November 3

Motel Jesup

Jesup, Georgia

Out of nowhere, two men came racing from behind the motel’s office, screaming like banshees. One was waving a tire iron over his head while the other pointed toward Greyhound with an aluminum baseball bat. The attack caught Mr. Uber and his son off guard. The two men closed on them in a matter of seconds, and the initial blows sustained were near fatal.

The man with the tire iron did the most damage. He embedded the hooked end into the back of Mr. Uber, who immediately crashed to the asphalt pavement. Greyhound tried to shield his body from the vicious swing taken by the man with the aluminum baseball bat. From inside the motel room, Peter could hear the bones in his forearm shatter over the cries of pain.

The other man slammed a foot on Mr. Uber’s back and tried to wrestle the tire iron free. He pushed it forward and back, then side to side until it came loose along with bone, tissue and blood. He released an evil laugh and reached back for another blow. Only one was necessary, but multiple were dealt. Like a deranged lunatic, the man pummeled Mr. Uber’s neck and the back of his head until it was unrecognizable. It was a gruesome, gory display of anger and horror.

Inspired by his accomplice’s acts, the second man took another swing at Greyhound with the aluminum bat, striking the defenseless man’s ribs. The audible crack caused chills to run through Peter’s body. Chills that forced him into action.

He’d been frozen in place by the display of murderous brutality. Somehow, the beatdown administered by the two men was barbaric compared to the more humane method of a bullet to the skull that Peter had planned for them. Nonetheless, he had to act as he observed the tire-iron killer retrieve the cargo truck’s keys from Mr. Uber’s pockets. Now he had to defend his group’s greatest asset, the truck.

Peter ran out of the motel room with his gun pointed at the men, who were now rushing toward the cargo truck. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

It was a phrase that came to mind, and one he immediately regretted saying. It only served to warn the men, who rushed around the back side of the truck for safety. The sound of the driver’s side door creaking gave Peter a new sense of urgency.

Rafael emerged from his room, and he ran toward the truck with his weapon drawn. He was forty feet away when shots rang out. Bullets skipped along the pavement, splitting the distance between Peter and Rafael. One of the men had retrieved a weapon from inside the truck and was now firing bullets toward them from underneath.

Rafael peeled off to the left to encircle the back of the truck. Peter didn’t know what to do, so he moved to the right and then immediately back to the left to avoid being a stationary target. He fired a couple of rounds under the truck chassis in an attempt to distract the shooter or at least provide Rafael some cover.

Then a barrage of gunfire filled the air. Rafael had reached the back of the cargo truck and was firing at the shooter. Peter added a couple of rounds of his own, which ripped up the asphalt underneath the truck.

Without warning, the passenger-side door flung open, and Peter suddenly found himself exposed. Several shots were fired by the second gunman, which ricocheted off the pavement at Peter’s feet. He danced to the left and fired two rounds into the door, which easily repelled them.

Rafael fired again and hit his target. The man groaned in pain, and Peter saw his body hit the ground at the truck’s left front fender. A single gunshot rang out as Rafael confirmed the kill.

The truck’s engine started, blowing a thick puff of black smoke out of the exhaust.

“Hell no!” shouted Peter as he ran toward the passenger side.

The truck lurched forward as the driver popped the clutch too quickly. Peter closed the gap and was about to grab the door handle when another shot was fired. Blood and brain matter sprayed throughout the cab, coating the passenger window.

Peter was startled by the sudden appearance of the attacker’s brain matter on the glass and fell backwards onto the asphalt. He groaned as his tailbone struck the parking lot.

“You okay?” Rafael shouted his question.

Peter sat upright and rested his elbows on his knees as he caught his breath. His handgun lay on the ground in front of him. “Um, yeah! Are they dead?”

“Two KIA,” he replied as he shut off the motor.

Seconds later, the second attacker fell to the pavement with a thud, joining his partner’s dead body. Peter stared at the two bloodied corpses for a moment before turning his attention to the battered bodies of Mr. Uber and his son. He tried to recall the massacre he’d experienced in Abu Dhabi. He closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. It was all so senseless. But then, so was everything that had happened since Tehran nuked Israel. That had triggered a series of events that led him to committing murder. He looked to the sky and then glanced toward the south. He wondered what he’d encounter between there and home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Sunday, November 3

La Junta, Colorado

The night before, Lacey had been given a sedative to force her to rest. She was terribly distraught over losing the love of her life. She and Tucker comforted one another, and eventually the medical staff tried to step in to get Lacey to rest. The thought of being apart agitated them both, something Dr. Brady was trying to avoid. After Lacey had been returned to her room, a leather recliner used by many a father-to-be in the birthing suites of the ob-gyn department was brought in for Tucker.

He’d rejected the offer of medications to relieve his anxiety and help him rest. That night he fought sleep out of fear that he’d never awaken. Eventually, his mental exhaustion won the battle, and he slept soundly next to his mother’s bed until morning, when the ICU nurses began to make their rounds.

Lacey was the first to wake. She quietly eased out of bed and made her way to the bathroom without the assistance of the wheelchair or the walker the nurses had provided her. As she sat on the toilet, emptying her bladder, she buried her face in her hands as the realization of Owen’s death continued to soak into her.

The world had gone to shit. Their life filled with love and happiness and successes had been replaced with a home likely destroyed by a nuclear warhead and a husband who’d been taken away by a fluke weather event. As she finished, she implored herself to hike up her big-girl panties and be the rock her teenage son needed to cope with the loss of his father. However, if she couldn’t deal with Owen’s death, how could she expect Tucker to do so?

When she came out of the bathroom, she found the lights in her room dimmed and Tucker gone. Her door was cracked slightly, so she presumed he’d slipped out quietly without telling her. She looked around the room and noticed one of her duffel bags sitting on a small table in the corner.

With her strength rapidly coming back to her, she decided it was time to clean up a little bit, hoping the change of appearance and clothing might drag her out of this melancholy state of mind.

She ran her hands down the flannel pajamas given to her by one of the local residents. She assumed they were hers to keep, but just in case, she folded them neatly on a chair after she took them off. She quickly slipped on her favorite hiking pants, a thermal undershirt, and a hooded, camouflage sweatshirt. She looked like she was going hunting, but in reality, she planned on leaving the hospital that day although she presumed the doctors would insist she was putting herself at risk.

Lacey needed to deal with Owen’s burial, but moreover, she needed to get away from the place where he died. She didn’t fault the medical team at Arkansas Valley in the least. They’d done an admirable job in treating her entire family under the circumstances. But for Lacey, it was part of the healing process to leave the place where her husband had died less than a day before.

She’d just finished dressing and turned her lights up when Tucker reappeared, followed by Sheriff Mobley.

“Mom, there’s somebody I’d like you to meet.”

Lacey stood next to her bed and casually rested her left hand on the mattress. She didn’t want anyone to notice that she was still unsteady on her feet.

“Hi, Mrs. McDowell, I’m Sheriff Shawn Mobley. Please, um, please know that our entire community is grieving with you and Tucker. Our hearts ache for you, and I want you to know that Owen’s memory will live on in Otero County for many years.”

Lacey smiled and then wiped away a few tears. Throughout the ordeal, she’d appreciated the kindness and love everyone had shown them.

“Thank you, Sheriff. I wish you could’ve known Owen. He was perfect in so many ways.”

Tucker walked toward his mother and provided her a cup of coffee. He’d added just the right amount of cream and sugar. She took a sip and smiled at her son as she mouthed the words thank you.

“Some ladies made you a few pastries. You know, if Dr. Brady approves.”

The door opened wider, and Dr. Brady suddenly appeared with a clipboard, a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and a disapproving look.

“Lacey, just where do you think you’re going?” he asked as he looked her up and down.

“Good morning, Doctor. I’m feeling much better, and there are some things I need to deal with.”

“More important than your health?” he asked, confirming he wasn’t happy with her actions.

“It’s just. Well, I need to breathe. I mean, I need to get out—”

Tucker noticed his mom getting emotional, so he rushed to her side. He hugged her and then helped her sit down.

Dr. Brady set the clipboard on the bed and handed his coffee to Sheriff Mobley, who continued to watch with a concerned look on his face. Dr. Brady approached Lacey and crouched in front of her.

“Lacey, I get it. You wanna run as fast as you can and as far away from here as you can. I don’t blame you. But you’re not a hundred percent yet. I’m talking about mentally and physically.”

Lacey was sobbing. She choked up as she spit out the words. “I feel better. I even dressed myself. I’m fine.”

“You’re still recovering from a dangerous, traumatic injury. Coupled with your loss, it’s premature to be galivanting around. Please consider staying in the hospital one more day.”

“Are you not gonna discharge me?” she asked, wiping away the tears.

He chuckled. “We’re a little short on formalities nowadays. Of course you’re free to go. I’m just concerned for you.”

She began to reel off a litany of things she needed to do, from getting their truck fixed to finding gasoline. Sheriff Mobley stepped in to reassure her.

“Mrs. McDowell—” he began before she interrupted him.

“Lacey.”

“Okay, Lacey. We have your truck right down the street, and it’s repaired. We’ve filled up your fuel cans. The only thing left to do was a suggestion I made to Tucker.”

“What was it?”

“Black & Blue stands out too much for a long trip, Mom. We need to make it look busted up.”

“You want to bust up Owen’s truck?” she asked, causing a few more tears to flow.

Sheriff Mobley quickly replied, “No. No. Not at all. Just a unique paint job to make it less noticeable, that’s all. You can fix it back later.”

She furrowed her brow and then thought for a moment. “I have to bury my husband.”

Dr. Brady and Sheriff Mobley exchanged glances. “Lacey, the ground is frozen solid now. I took the liberty to speak with Curtis Peacock at the funeral home down the street. He has a crematory at their place. It’ll take some creative work with our portable generators, but he said he can help.”

The cremation process requires superheating the retort, or the cremation chamber, to a temperature ranging between fourteen and eighteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The device needed a combination of electricity and propane gas to operate.

“That would be okay,” mumbled Lacey. “May I take his ashes with us? If he has something…” Lacey’s voice trailed off as she began to cry again. Tucker welled up in tears in despair over his mother’s sadness. He tried to calm her down.

Dr. Brady saw the grief they continued to experience and tried to convince them to stay in the hospital. He offered them a vacant room on the top floor, far away from any activity, where they could be alone.

Lacey recovered and thanked him but declined. She was adamant and finally gained his acquiescence. The doctor made her agree to one more physical examination and to promise to dutifully take the medications he would obtain for her.

She agreed by providing him a simple nod. She suddenly found herself unable to speak again.