Whiteout

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Monday, November 4

North Florida

That night, Peter and Rafael dragged the bodies behind the motel and covered them with a tarp they found. The two men piled cinder blocks on top to provide them some protection from wild critters that roamed the woods behind the buildings. The two men didn’t think the four deserved a proper burial. They were the worst kind of criminal opportunists, who preyed on the innocents, and therefore, they got what they deserved.

The rest of the group helped clean up the truck and later thanked the guys for their bravery. None of them questioned their motives, especially after they learned of Mr. Uber and Greyhound’s plans for the two women. After a cold night in which Peter and Rafael took turns standing watch, they piled into the military-surplus cargo truck and began their ride south along U.S. 301 that would take them through the heart of Old Florida toward the Tampa Bay area.

It was agreed that Rafael and his family would keep the truck. They promised to deliver everyone to their destinations if their fuel supply allowed.

Early that morning, with everyone else, including Peter, bundled up in the cargo bed, they made their way through Jesup and then into rural southern Georgia. They crossed the Florida state line, expecting warmer temperatures to greet them. They were disappointed, but not surprised. Even the palm trees had a dusting of white snow mixed with grayish soot.

Along the way, they encountered more refugees on foot. Stalled cars had been abandoned. Some had been broken into while others had their doors left open, hoping to come back to them intact someday. The carcasses of vehicles blocked the roads at times, causing Rafael to use his knowledge of the military truck to drive off road.

They encountered dead bodies more frequently. People were dying of thirst. Many people had stretched their bodies to their limits by not drinking seemingly polluted water for three days. Then, out of desperation, they’d thirstily slurp up any water source they came across. The brackish ponds and streams filling the St. Mary’s River looked drinkable, but the combination of fallout and bacteria caused many refugees to contract dysentery.

This exacerbated their dehydrated condition. The bacteria swirled through their bodies, causing bloody diarrhea, abdominal pain, and fever. Unknowing travelers tried to combat the aches, pains, and fever by drinking more fluids. They died within days. Corpses were lying in ditches or leaned up against trees, lifeless eyes staring into space.

Soon, the passengers heading south stopped looking. The dead were no longer a spectacle to be gawked at. They were another part of the landscape they traversed in their effort to get home or to a place of safety.

Rafael was careful to avoid slowing down near large packs of pedestrian travelers. On several occasions, they were surrounded by people who wanted to climb in the back of the truck, further cramping the paid travelers. It was difficult to pass up the hopeless and anguished. However, it was a decision Peter forced them to make before they left the Motel Jesup. The time to make an emotional, heart-wrenching decision was not when the sad eyes were looking into yours, he’d told everyone. The agreement not to take on any new passengers had been unanimous at the time although with each encounter, it was increasingly difficult to say no.

The first couple was dropped off about fifteen miles west of Jacksonville. They lived in a beachside community, but Rafael explained it was too dangerous for him to take the truck that close to the city.

The same was true for the mother and daughter, who asked to be dropped off in Gainesville. Her ex-husband still lived there, and the daughter was a sophomore at the University of Florida. They were dropped off along U.S. 301 in Waldo, just to the east of the college town.

The goodbyes exchanged with the two women were the most difficult for Peter. Their tears flowed as they expressed their appreciation for what he’d done to protect them. There were offers for him to come stay at the ex-husband’s horse farm near the Gainesville airport. The mom even offered up one of the man’s farm pickups for Peter to drive to the Keys.

He declined and said he planned on riding with Rafael as far as the fuel tank would carry them. He gave them one of Mr. Uber’s handguns along with a quick tutorial on how to use it. The mother and daughter had been opposed to guns prior to the night before. Now they understood how they could be used to defend themselves.

It turned out two of the older couples lived in The Villages north of Orlando. They shared stories and learned they had several mutual acquaintances. Then they both gloated how their golf carts were solar operated. The battery banks were powered by solar panels on the roofs of the golf carts, a primary method of transportation around the large retirement community. They were in high spirits when Rafael eased into the Wawa parking lot, a convenience store chain that operated up and down the Atlantic Seaboard. They also heaped thanks on the two men and promised to pray for them as they continued their trip.

Peter wasn’t ordinarily religious, but in the throes of a post-apocalyptic world, he found himself looking to God for guidance. He also found himself begging for forgiveness. At one point, he swore he wouldn’t fire his weapon at anyone again. He promised not to take another man’s life.

Eventually, that would change.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Monday, November 4

Driftwood Key

Patrick had become attuned to his surroundings and the people who surrounded him. Like many serial killers who oftentimes functioned on a highly intellectual level that allowed them to evade capture, Patrick was the consummate con man. He knew what button to push on some people and what conversations to avoid with others. It was all designed to achieve a goal—remain at Driftwood Key for as long as possible, if not forever.

Patrick sensed they were ready for him to leave. There was a level of wariness from Jimmy. Hank seemed to be more questioning about what had happened to him as each day passed. Sonny and Phoebe were no match for his wits although they both seemed to be more withdrawn around him.

And then there were the cops: Nurse Jessie, as he thought of Jessica, and Detective Mikey, the guy who was so full of himself that he didn’t realize Patrick was practically under the same roof. Detective Mikey was lucky Patrick hadn’t totally regained his strength. If he had, he’d declare himself to be King Kraken of the Key by murdering the whole lot of them.

He lay in bed, trying to put his finger on what had happened to raise their suspicions. He recalled every conversation he’d had with them. Did his story change? What about his demeanor? He acknowledged he hadn’t been a hundred percent lucid those first few days as he recovered from the beatdown. Maybe he’d let something slip?

Then his mind raced to the worst-case scenarios. Had Detective Mikey extracted his DNA and come up with a match to the murder victims? Had somebody identified Patricia and given a sketch artist all the details? Patrick had become adept at applying makeup after years of practice, but were they somehow able to study him against the composite sketch while he was sleeping?

All of this troubled him that day. And when they started taking him for limited walks and constantly badgered him about regaining his strength, warning lights flashed in his mind. They’re getting ready to vote me off the island just like they did everyone else in the Keys who didn’t belong as far as they were concerned.

Patrick weighed his options. He thought about who was the most vulnerable and open to manipulation. At first, he’d thought it would be Jimmy, but Patrick began to realize he was sending the young guy signals that he shouldn’t have. He’d changed his approach to Jimmy in the last day, but it might have been too late.

Then he thought about Phoebe. She was compassionate. Motherly. In a mother hen sort of way. He could tug on her heartstrings if necessary.

So, equipped with a plan, Patrick decided to give them what they wanted. A more mobile, rapidly recovering patient who should be ready to leave in a week at the most. Only, his leaving was gonna be on his timetable.

As in—never.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Monday, November 4

Central Florida

After their final passenger drop-off, Peter relieved Rafael behind the wheel. He and the family of three squeezed onto the bench seat, with Javier sitting in his dad’s lap against the passenger door. It was the young man who first caught a glimpse of the traffic on Interstate 75 near Thonotosassa, where they’d dropped off the last of their passengers.

“Look at all those Army trucks, Dad!” the young man exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement.

Peter had pulled into a funeral home’s circle drive and was making a wide turn through their memory gardens when the interstate came into view. One transport truck and troop carrier after another ambled along the highway toward Brandon, a bedroom community to the east of Tampa.

“That’s a heckuva convoy,” commented Peter as he slowed to view the Desert Storm–era, khaki-colored trucks. In addition to the transport trucks like the one they were driving, several Humvees were interspersed throughout the slow-moving vehicles.

“They’re mobilizing for something,” Rafael opined. “My first thought would’ve been MacDill Air Force Base just south of the city. But these guys are heading southbound.”

“The only other military base I can think of anywhere near the Gulf is at Homestead,” added Peter.

“The air reserve base?” asked Rafael. “Doesn’t make sense. These are guard units. Maybe…?” His voice trailed off.

“What, honey?” asked his wife.

Rafael tapped his knuckle on the passenger window and pointed toward Tampa and the lower end of St. Petersburg. Black smoke was rising into the sky from several locations on the horizon.

“Unrest?” said Peter inquisitively.

Rafael grimaced and nodded. “Yeah. Probably in Miami, too.”

“What’s that mean, Dad?” asked young Javier.

Rafael adjusted his son in his lap so he could rub his hand through the boy’s long locks. “It means some people got out of line, and the National Guard needs to straighten them out.”

“Do you still think it’s safe to go to your parents’?” asked Maria.

“Where do they live?” asked Peter.

“West of Kendall. The south part of Miami-Dade. This road will take us through a handful of small towns and eventually run into South Trail.”

“Tamiami Trail?” asked Peter. U.S. Highway 41 ran along Florida’s Gulf Coast through Sarasota, Fort Myers, and Naples before turning east toward Miami. Kendall was a residential area in the vicinity of where U.S. 41 ended.

“That’s right. I thought it would be easy to take this route to get you into the Keys.”

Rafael leaned closer to his wife to study the truck’s gauges. Peter picked up on his intentions and immediately looked to the fuel gauge. He noticed the look of concern on Rafael’s face and spoke first.

“You’ll never make it all the way to Driftwood Key and back to Miami. You’re gonna have to drop me off.”

Rafael and Maria exchanged looks. “We made a promise,” she said.

Peter smiled. He focused on the road but glanced in their direction as he spoke. “Guys, when the blast wave threw me off into the ditch, all I could hope for in that moment was staying alive. Then I reconciled myself to walking twelve hundred miles. After that, a man was kind enough to give me a bicycle. You know the rest of the story.”

“But…” Javier began to protest, but he knew Peter was right. They’d never make the round trip from Kendall to Marathon and back. Peter waved his hand to prevent him from picking up on his thought.

“Listen, we’re talking about fifty or sixty miles to the Upper Keys. From there, I can find a ride down U.S. 1. My uncle’s a cop. I’m sure I can hitch a ride with one of the deputies.”

Maria spontaneously leaned over to plant a kiss on Peter’s cheek. He blushed and looked down shyly. He’d bonded with the family through the ordeal and vowed to look them up when it was over. For a brief moment, he considered encouraging them to come to Driftwood Key. Maria and Javier would fit in well with his family and the Frees. Not to mention that Rafael would be nice to have around because of his military training. In the end, he decided not to bring it up, as their own family needed them more than Driftwood Key did.

As darkness approached that afternoon, Peter pulled over to the side of the road across the street from the Miccosukee Resort. The normally full hotel and casino complex stood vacant at the intersection. They nervously shuffled around the cargo box while Peter gathered his things.

He divided up the potassium iodide to provide the family enough dosage for another ten days. He wanted to do more, but he had to consider his own family’s needs. He allowed Rafael to keep the handgun and extra magazines. He was confident he could make this final stretch of his journey with the guns he’d taken from Mr. Uber and son.

The group exchanged hugs and tearful goodbyes. Peter stood and waved to the family as they continued on toward Miami. He strained his eyes as he tried to focus on the Miami skyline. However, the hazy, darkening skies made it difficult. What he expected to observe, but didn’t, were the plumes of black smoke dotting the landscape like in Tampa. In fact, there was no indication of structure fires whatsoever.

This puzzled Peter. If the National Guard was traveling this way, he figured the unrest must’ve been worse than Tampa-St. Pete. It didn’t make sense.

He shook off the thought and began the final trek toward the Keys, full of anticipation.

CHAPTER FORTY

Monday, November 4

Homestead, Florida

It was pitch dark as Peter approached Homestead. He elected to take a residential side street to avoid walking through the heart of town. It was well known that Homestead had its issues with drugs and homelessness, problems certainly exacerbated by the power outage. The detour added about thirty minutes to his walk toward the Keys, but it was uneventful, something he needed at this point in the long journey south.

He was about thirty miles from the Blackwater Siren, a well-known bar and grill at the entrance to the Upper Keys. He’d stopped there many times to pick up fish tacos to munch on in the car when he traveled between his home and college.

Despite the late hour, he could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. The long day coupled with little sleep had taken its toll. However, his adrenaline-fueled body began to visualize sleeping in his old bedroom at the main house.

As he walked the deserted streets to come closer to U.S. 1, he began to hear the low rumble of trucks approaching from the north. His mind immediately recalled the large convoy of vehicles headed down the interstate near Tampa. He and Rafael had speculated whether they were headed to Homestead Air Reserve Base or Miami. As it turned out, they were both wrong.

Peter walked along the center median of Palm Drive when he noticed a glowing light in the distance. The dark surroundings made it stand out even more. That, coupled with the low ceiling of clouds and haze, caused the reflection to emanate for miles away from its source.

He reached U.S. 1 and stopped in the middle of the road amidst a trio of crashed cars. Two teenage boys were sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck, passing a cigarette back and forth. With his hand on the grip of his pistol, he cautiously approached them.

“How’s it goin’?” Peter asked casually.

“Not bad. You?” The young man was equally nonchalant.

Peter reached the side of the truck and stopped just short of exposing himself completely to the boys. He was able to see over the truck bed and felt satisfied that they were unarmed.

“I’ve been on the road trying to get home. I haven’t seen much in the way of lights anywhere. Are they racing tonight?” Peter knew Palm Drive ran past the Homestead-Miami Speedway, where NASCAR races were held.

The guys laughed, which served to relax both parties. Peter let go of his weapon and eased around the side of the truck.

“We were gonna check it out, but the military has a roadblock set up about a mile from here. They’ve got all the roads blocked, actually.”

“To the racetrack?” asked Peter.

So far, only one of the boys had engaged in conversation with Peter. “Yeah. There have been military trucks passing through town all afternoon. They’ve been coming from Miami, mostly.”

“Why here?” asked Peter.

The other boy laughed. “Ain’t you heard? On account of the Keys.”

Peter stood a little taller as fear overcame him. He couldn’t imagine why another country would want to drop a nuclear warhead on the Florida Keys. His first thought was a wayward missile fell off course or maybe was shot down, resulting in radioactive fallout.

“Did they get hit with a nuke?”

“Nah, man,” said the first boy. “They’ve lost their dang minds.”

Peter sighed. He was tired of talking in riddles.

“What exactly happened, and why would the government send the National Guard down here?”

The talkative teen took one last drag off the cigarette and flicked the butt end over end until it rolled under one of the other wrecked vehicles. He slid off the tailgate and rolled his neck around his shoulders.

“After the bombs hit, they started kicking people out. You know. Tourists. Bums. Anybody who didn’t actually live down there.”

“Yeah, and the poor bastards all came here,” said the other teen.

“Okay,” said Peter, drawing out the word, as he was still unsure what that had to do with the National Guard presence. If anything, in his mind, it would be prudent to move anyone out who didn’t belong there. His father had done the same thing at the inn for the guests’ own good.

The boy continued. “Well, I guess that was only half of what they did. When it started getting colder everywhere, people started looking to head south. They figured the Keys was their best bet.”

“Or Mexico,” said the other boy before adding, “But we heard they locked down their borders, too.”

“What do you mean by too?” asked Peter.

“That’s what Monroe County did,” said the talkative teen. “They threw as many people out as they could, and then they blocked access to the Keys. They piled about a hundred of them concrete barriers like these ones in the middle of the toll bridge.” He pointed at the concrete road construction barriers that lined the median on the east side of the intersection.

“They even have armed deputies manning the bridge,” said the other teen.

“They ain’t real, though. Hell, down there, if you own a gun, you can be a deputy.”

Peter scowled and slowly walked toward the barriers and then stared down the boulevard toward the speedway. There must be more to the story.

“What about U.S. 1? Is it barricaded, too?”

“They blocked it off with dump trucks just this side of Jewfish Creek. Anybody approaching by car is turned around unless you’re a resident. Same if you’re on foot. You have to show proof of residency to get in.”

“Are you guys serious?”

“As a heart attack. You live down there?”

“Yeah, sort of. I live, um, lived near DC now. My family lives near Marathon.”

“You got photo ID?”

“Yeah, but it’s…” Peter’s voice trailed off before he added the word Virginia. He realized the problem he was facing. His Virginia driver’s license wasn’t going to gain him access into the Keys. He’d have to use his father’s name and address. But the two boys indicated they’d deputized all kinds of Keys’ residents. Unless he got lucky and his uncle Mike or aunt Jess were present, he might not be able to get through.

“Are you gonna go for it?” the talkative young man asked.

Peter looked at him and then over toward the speedway again. He pointed as he spoke. “And you think they’re here because of these roadblocks?”

“I know they are. They told everyone in town to stay away from the Overseas Highway and Card Sound Road. I think they’re gonna invade.”

Peter laughed at the thought, and when he noticed the boys weren’t laughing, he became suddenly serious. He took a deep breath, thanked them, and began jogging down the highway toward Key Largo.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Monday, November 4

Otero County Sheriff’s Department

La Junta, Colorado

By the time arrangements could be made for Owen’s body and the truck could be readied for their lengthy road trip to Driftwood Key, it was near dark. Lacey and Tucker decided it was safer to stay in La Junta that night and to get a fresh start in the morning. Plus, Lacey admitted to herself, she could use one more night to regain her strength.

They said their goodbyes to Dr. Brady, Dr. Forrest and virtually everyone who worked in the hospital. Dr. Brady provided them both plenty of medications to fight infection and to relieve pain. He also provided them the proper dosage of potassium iodide in case they encountered a site with nuclear fallout. Communications between cities was minimal other than ham radio chatter. The locations of where the warheads had actually been detonated were still uncertain.

Deputy Ochoa picked them up at the hospital and drove them to the sheriff’s department, where Deputy Hostetler had just arrived with their Bronco. Lacey gasped and covered her mouth when she soaked in the transformation.

“That’s badass!” said Tucker. “Very Mad Max.”

Lacey sighed at her teenage son’s excitement over the defiling of Owen’s prized toy. It was hard to approve the paint job. However, she trusted Sheriff Mobley’s judgment, and the man had proven his ability to prepare for a catastrophic event like this one.

They were escorted inside after their belongings were secured in the back of the Bronco. Everything was neatly arranged, and Tucker was the first to notice several additions to their gear. A green and brown leather rifle case was lying on the floorboard of the back seat. Stuffed behind each of the Bronco’s bucket seats were several green ammo cans. Finally, a few picnic baskets full of baked goods and Mason jars full of canned foods gave them more than a week’s worth of food.

Lacey greeted Sheriff Mobley as they walked in. He extended his hand to shake, but she wrapped her arms around him instead. The hug was well deserved.

“We can’t thank you enough for saving our lives,” she began. She made eye contact with all of the deputies, who were gathered around the front entrance to the sheriff’s department. “Had it not been for you, Owen would’ve never had a chance, and we…” Her voice trailed off as she reached out to squeeze Tucker’s hand.

“This is what we do, ma’am,” said Sheriff Mobley as he smiled and nodded at his team. “I regret that we couldn’t do more for your husband.”

Tucker stuck his hand out, and the sheriff shook it. “We’ll never forget you guys. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” said Sheriff Mobley. He took a deep breath. “Okay. You’ve decided to leave, and I understand you’re anxious. I’ll offer our hospitality one more time, just in case.”

Lacey smiled but shook her head side to side. “No, thanks. We’re ready.”

“I figured as much. We’ve added a few things to your supplies. All of your fuel tanks are topped off. My mechanic performed some calculations based upon fuel mileage for this model Bronco. With your extra gas cans, you should be able to make it twelve hundred miles before you run out completely.”

“I studied the map last night,” interjected Tucker. “That’s more than halfway. We can make it to Mississippi or possibly Alabama.”

“About that, let me show you something,” said Sheriff Mobley. He led the McDowells into the department’s communications room, where they were introduced to the 9-1-1 operator who now monitored the ham radio base set. He had a large map of the United States hung on the wall next to a map of Otero County. There were strips of Post-it notes taped at various points along a route toward Florida. Once he had their attention, he explained.

“We have reliable information to the effect that Texas has closed their borders to all outsiders,” he said.

“What? Can they do that?” asked Lacey.

“It’s hard to tell what’s truth and what’s fiction right now. Accurate information is a precious commodity. Speculation and conjecture are plentiful. I do know this, though. The Texas electrical grid, operated by ERCOT, their utility, is separate from the rest of America’s. Here in Colorado, we’re part of the Western Interconnection, and those utilities east of the Mississippi River are part of the Eastern Interconnection.

“The nukes caused blackouts around the country. Eventually, the entire grid failed as the system got overloaded. Texas wasn’t affected because their grid isn’t connected to the Western and Eastern.”

“So they have power, and nobody else does?” asked Tucker.

“Well, that’s the rumor via our ham radio network. There are parts of the Texas Panhandle, you know, near Amarillo and Lubbock, that were affected by the same EMP that hit us. Otherwise, the state’s power wasn’t shut down.”

“Who closed their border? The president?”

Sheriff Mobley sighed as he hitched up his utility belt. “Supposedly, the Texas governor did it. They convened an emergency session of the legislature and declared a statewide crisis to be in effect. They’re not letting any nonresidents in.”

“Wow, that’s so trash,” said Tucker as he traced his fingers along the thirty-eight hundred miles making up Texas’s perimeter. “But think about it. Everybody would want to move to Texas if they didn’t close their borders. Right?”

None of the adults in the room could argue with the teen’s logic.

“You can see the tabs I’ve placed on the map,” continued the sheriff as he directed their attention back to the wall map. “There really isn’t a need to try to cross into Texas although their wide-open country roads would make for a safer trip. If you follow U.S. 50 over to Dodge City in Kansas—”

Lacey interrupted him. “That was part of our original plan. Then we were gonna make our way toward the Florida Panhandle, avoiding any populated cities if we could.”

“Very smart,” said the sheriff. He reached onto the table and retrieved a foldable paper map from AAA. He opened it up to show them. “I’m not telling you what to do, but this is the route I would take.” He pointed out an erratic line drawn by a black marker on the map. The route went through Oklahoma, Arkansas, Louisiana, and across the Mississippi River.

Lacey took a look for a moment and then folded it up. “Thank you for this. And, um, Tucker noticed a few extra things in the back seat, like picnic baskets and, um…” She hesitated to continue since there were others in the room.

Sheriff Mobley smiled. “From time to time, in the course of our duties, we have to confiscate weapons and ammunition from criminals. We have a few that are on the destroy list, but we’ve been a little busy to do it. I thought you might be able to take them with you and discard them when you arrive in the Keys.”

Lacey smiled. “Glad to help out, Sheriff.”

“Lastly, take this with you.” He gave her a small, cloth zippered pouch. She opened it and viewed the contents.

“A two-way?”

“It’s a portable ham radio with a cigarette lighter charger and instructions. It also has our call signs and frequently monitored channels preprogrammed. You’ll have a way to communicate with others and listen for information on the emergency channels, too.”

Lacey teared up again at the sheriff’s generosity. She gave him another hug and thanked him. After a few more words of sage advice, Lacey and Tucker left the building and stood behind their truck.

“It’s so different,” said Lacey. “They did a good job of ruining it, if you know what I mean.”

“Badass,” muttered Tucker. He stepped past his mom. Ignoring her disapproving look, he headed for the passenger door.

“Wait. Where are you going?” she asked.

“I thought we were leaving?”

“We are. But you get the first shift.” She tossed the keys into the air until they struck Tucker in the chest. He fumbled to catch them before they hit the ground.

“Really?”

She nodded and smiled at her young man, who’d grown up so fast since they left Hayward.

“Yeet!” he shouted as he opened the passenger door for his mom like a gentleman. “Here you are, madam. Don’t forget to buckle up.”

“Trust me. I wish there were two buckles.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Monday, November 4

Key Largo Checkpoint

Florida Keys

“Okay, people. Listen up!” Sergeant Franklin of the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department was used to bellowing at his charges. He’d supervised many watch shifts during his career although he’d never had to deal with an undisciplined bunch of newly deputized civilians with no training. It was midmorning, and he gathered up the new deputies while his experienced crew stopped processing refugees trying to travel down Overseas Highway. The sergeant waited for everyone to calm down and give him their complete attention. Satisfied, he began.

“I’m looking for experienced divers. Anybody here fit that bill?”

Reflexively, Jimmy almost raised his hand and then caught himself. He’d been warned by everyone, especially Mike, not to engage in conversation with the deputies unless forced to. They were not his friends, Mike had warned him. They were only going to use him for things they didn’t want to do themselves.

Several of the young guys eagerly raised their arms under the assumption they’d be pulled off the ungrateful checkpoint duties, where they were verbally abused and threatened all day. As it turned out, they were right, but what they’d volunteered for was wholly unexpected.

Sergeant Franklin pulled them out of the crowd and turned them over to Jessica’s boss on the Water Emergency Team. They piled into several sheriff’s department vans that appeared to be full of SCUBA gear before traveling back toward Jewfish Creek, using the ramp leading to the water’s edge.

Jimmy regretted his decision to remain silent. He was not an adversarial person by nature and truly hated conflict of any kind. The loss of manpower at the checkpoint meant he’d have to shoulder a greater part of the load and possibly work a much longer shift that day.

In addition to the hostilities he encountered while working the checkpoint, his heart was broken by the desperation exhibited by those who were being removed from the Keys and those who were trying every ploy to get in.

On the one hand, the Keys offered the new arrivals hope of living in a more hospitable climate with the opportunities to survive through fishing or growing crops. There were many people who tried to sell themselves to the gatekeepers with offers of heirloom seeds and farming expertise.

Then there were the evictees. Travelers who came to Key West, mostly, to let their hair down and enjoy the mirage that was Margaritaville. The power grid collapsed. The hotels threw them out. Their cars ran out of gas. And now, with the entirety of their earthly belongings consisting of swimsuits, shorts, tee shirts, and flip-flops, they shivered as they were escorted out of the Keys to become someone else’s problem.

It was a display of humanity that he only thought he’d see in the movies. It disgusted him and broke his heart at the same time. However, it also reminded him how lucky he was to be a part of Driftwood Key. At first, he didn’t want anything to do with becoming a quasi-deputy. It was his father who convinced him it would be a short-term sacrifice to protect his family and their home until Hank could come up with a solution to his aunt’s demands.

He watched another group of the poor and downtrodden who were being removed from the Keys. He shook his head in disappointment at the decision made by his aunt Lindsey, the mayor of the Conch Republic, as many of his newly deputized associates called her.

Jimmy, who wasn’t much for deep reflection or an analysis of the world around him, did realize his ex-aunt would be judged by her actions one day. Perhaps harshly. For him, family came first, at all costs. Not just his parents, but the Albrights, too.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Monday, November 4

Near Cushing, Oklahoma

They’d made great time on the road. Sticking to the route suggested by Sheriff Mobley, they rode through Kansas without incident, stopping once to swap drivers and top off the gas tanks with fuel. He’d suggested to them that they keep the truck’s fuel tank as close to full as possible in the event someone stole their gas cans. At least their truck could travel on.

It was approaching five o’clock when they stopped next to Cushing Lake, just west of the small town located equidistant between Tulsa and Oklahoma City. They’d come upon an Oklahoma Department of Transportation facility, where salt and sand trucks were ready to clear the roads as winter set in. However, the place was locked up and lacking any activity. Even the United States and Oklahoma state flags had been lowered and stored away.

Tucker took a chance and used the bolt cutters he’d found to open the chain that padlocked the fenced entry. Lacey drove into the maintenance yard and found a place at the back to park their truck. They topped up the fuel tank, had a snack, and relieved their bladders. Then they set about looking for more gasoline.

Lacey was the first to spy the two zero-turn riding lawn mowers tucked away in the back of the open maintenance shed. She shouted for Tucker, who came running. He easily broke open the small padlocks with the heavy-duty bolt cutters and found four five-gallon cans. Three were full, and one was half full.

Then he found a water hose and cut it into a six-foot length using the bolt cutters. Although he’d never done it before, he figured out how to siphon the gasoline out of the mowers until the fourth can was full. Then he took the time to transfer the newly found gas into their own empty camouflage containers.

“Mom, this was a great score. We might be able to make it home on what we have now.”

Lacey wandered away from him and into the darkness that had overtaken Oklahoma. She turned her head sideways and squinted her eyes to focus.

“Do you hear that?”

Tucker, who was breathing heavily after hoisting the fuel cans back on top of the Bronco, joined her side. He tried to control his breathing so he could hear better.

“What? I can’t—”

The roar of an engine grew louder as it approached.

Lacey was on the move. “Something’s coming. We’ve got to get ready.”

“Crap!” he said as he fished the truck’s keys out of his pocket and rushed toward the driver’s door. Lacey followed him and swung open the passenger door. Before climbing in, she pulled the seat up and retrieved one of the handguns they’d been carrying.

The vehicle, which had appeared to be traveling at a high rate of speed as it came upon the maintenance facility, suddenly slowed at the gate. It skidded to a stop in the gravel.

Tucker had parked the Bronco behind the single-story metal building near a wood privacy fence surrounding a dumpster. They were unable to see the gated entry, but in the quiet, powerless world, any sound was amplified.

Both he and Lacey rolled down their windows to listen. Suddenly, the vehicle revved its engines and spun out, throwing gravel against the undercarriage. The headlights told the story as it washed the trees to their right and then the side of the building they were hiding behind.

They could hear voices as the vehicle raced through the gates. People were laughing, and the sound of a bottle crashing against the No Trespassing sign affixed to the fence could be heard.

Tucker leaned forward in his seat and nervously fiddled with the keys in the ignition. He glanced over his left shoulder to see if the headlights gave away the newcomers’ intentions. As best he could tell, they were stationary, shining on the front of the corrugated steel building he and Lacey were hiding behind.

“Maybe they’ll leave,” Lacey whispered to her son. She hadn’t blinked since the vehicle pulled through the gate.

A car door slammed. Followed by another. They were exiting the vehicle and talking loudly.

Tucker kept his fingers on the keys, ready to fire the ignition as soon as he felt he had a chance.

The sound of breaking glass startled them both. The new arrivals broke into the DOT offices and were clearing out the excess shards so they could climb through.

Tucker’s mind raced. He turned to his mom. “Gimme the gun.”

“Why?” she questioned.

“Because their truck is on my side. Trust me.”

Lacey hesitated but then handed it over to him. Tucker flipped off the safety and gripped it in his left hand. He turned to his mom in the darkness.

“Hold on tight, Mom.”

Lacey nodded and braced herself using the dashboard. Her eyes darted between her son and the chain-link fence a few hundred feet in front of them.

Tucker started the Bronco. The noisy motor immediately grabbed the attention of the newcomers, as their excited shouts from inside the building indicated. Tucker wasted no time in moving from behind the building. He whipped the wheel to the left, causing the top-heavy truck to sway to the side. He and Lacey were both thrown toward the passenger side before he corrected and drove around a Caterpillar backhoe.

He held the handgun in his left hand, allowing his arm to dangle out the window. He slowed slightly as he reached the corner of the building, where he came across their late-model, charcoal gray Mustang. It was pointed toward the front of the maintenance building.

Tucker took a deep breath, took aim at the left rear tire of the Mustang, and pulled the trigger. The first shot embedded in the car’s fender. However, the next shot found its mark, causing the tire to explode.

Tucker took off toward the gate, spinning gravel and kicking dust into the air. The newcomers ran through the parking lot toward them, but within seconds, Tucker had put plenty of distance between them. After handing the gun back to his mom, he swerved to the left, placing them back on the county road heading east.

His adrenaline was racing, and Lacey had gripped anything she could find to hold onto until her knuckles turned white. Tucker drove at a high rate of speed until Lacey finally convinced him to slow down.

“Whew!” an exhilarated Tucker shouted as he turned onto another county road headed south.

“What was that all about?” asked Lacey.

“I didn’t want them to follow us.”

“So you shot out their tire?”

“Good idea, right?”

Lacey wasn’t sure she agreed. “What if they had a gun and shot back? What if you missed and they did chase us down?”

“They didn’t,” Tucker argued.

Lacey rested her chin on her hand and looked out the passenger window. A farmhouse sat off the road a couple of hundred yards. Its downstairs windows were lit up with flickering candlelight. She decided not to get into an argument with her son, although she thought the risky maneuver should be addressed before something like that happened again.

She sighed and then unfolded the map. With a penlight provided by Dr. Brady, she studied their location. She wanted to make it into Arkansas before they stopped for the night. It meant traveling another five hours or so. Then something struck her as odd.

“Tucker, what kind of car was that?”

“One of those new Must—” he began before cutting himself off. “Mom, it was a new car. That means Sheriff Mobley was right. There are gonna be other cars now.”

Lacey sighed. Things were about to change, and she wasn’t certain they would be for the better.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Monday, November 4

Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

Northern Virginia

In the U.S., a law called the Posse Comitatus Act prohibited the domestic use of military for law enforcement purposes without specific congressional authorization. There was another law, the Insurrection Act, which provided the president authorization to use the military under certain circumstances. Throughout American history, the Insurrection Act of 1807 had been invoked on numerous occasions but generally to quell unrest in large urban environments. It’s considered an action of last resort to be used in the event state authorities were unable to give their citizens the protection of law enforcement.

Pursuant to the declaration of martial law, the president was able to invoke the provisions of the Insurrection Act without the input of the states’ governors. Both the governors of Florida and Texas refused to take action as he’d requested. Texas doubled down and ordered the Texas Army National Guard to assist law enforcement to create roadblocks at any road entering the state. Those roads they couldn’t patrol were blocked with concrete barriers and razor wire.

In Florida, the governor set up roadblocks at the state line to ask for proof of residency. He didn’t use the Florida National Guard, as it was occupied tamping down unrest in Miami, Orlando, and the Tampa Bay area. Likewise, the governor of Florida refused to intervene in the actions of the Monroe County government.

The Florida Keys represented a very small part of the state’s population, and their actions didn’t threaten any lives, although the evicted nonresidents argued to the contrary. Nonetheless, he refused to take action, and this angered the president every bit as much as the Texas border issue.

In response to the perceived insolence on the part of the two governors, the president elected to use a show of force to make them capitulate. He sent available troops from regional military bases toward Texas. They were instructed to amass at major highways entering the state as if they planned to invade. Whether that actually came to pass was yet to be determined. He hoped the Texas governor would back down from her quasi-secession attempt.

In Florida, he needed to make an example of the Florida Keys. Across the country, communities and towns were learning of these quasi-secessionist movements so were also following Texas’s lead. Federal highways that passed through towns were being blocked, and travelers, few that they were, had been denied entry. Pockets of rural communities across the southeastern states had armed citizens engaging in hostilities with refugees seeking help. If they weren’t residents, they were told to leave. If they didn’t leave of their own accord, they were forced to at gunpoint.

The president saw this type of activity as lawless, and it ran contrary to the spirit of cooperation he thought the nation needed to help one another through the crisis.

During the daily briefing that morning, Secretary of Agriculture Erin Bergmann was called upon by Chief of Staff Chandler to provide the president some insight into the mindset of these rural communities. She very succinctly equated it to the Helton administration’s position on assisting Israel and India during the outbreak of nuclear war. The president’s duty, similar to that of governors, county executives, and mayors, is to protect the citizens within his charge. Rural communities don’t get the kind of attention large cities do in times of unrest. They had to fend for themselves, she explained.

This honest assessment was the proverbial nail in Erin’s coffin. The president was interested in surrounding himself with yes-men, those who agreed with every one of his proposals. He wasn’t interested in contrarian points of view at the moment. Although Erin responded with her opinion when called upon, following the meeting, the president instructed Chandler to begin looking for her replacement. He hoped, by her forced resignation and expulsion from Mount Weather, other cabinet members who chose to challenge his approach to the governing of the U.S. would fall in line.

He instructed the chairman of the Joint Chiefs to assemble regional strike forces to move into the rural areas of America, where communities tried to isolate themselves from the rest of the nation. They were instructed to open highways, by force, if necessary. If a community failed to cooperate, a larger contingent would be ordered in to sweep the homes for weapons and hoarded food.

As for the Keys, he saw the importance of the southernmost point in the U.S. to the rebuilding effort. Their location in the southernmost latitudes of the country provided an opportunity to grow food and raise livestock. Of course, it would require a colossal effort to remove buildings and hard surfaces to make way for truckloads of topsoil. The Keys would be converted from a tourist mecca to America’s new breadbasket until the clouds of soot and smoke lifted. After that, it could become a national park for all he cared.

The president pulled Chandler into his office and gave the orders. He wanted U.S. military troops from outside of Florida to deal with the problems in the Keys. He’d already dealt with military leaders at Fort Hood and Fort Bliss, who refused to follow orders because their loyalties had shifted to their home state. He ordered the troop contingent to halt the insurrection in the Keys to be deployed from Fort Benning on the Alabama-Georgia border just outside Columbus.

Within hours, the eighty-eight-vehicle convoy of Humvees, troop carriers and logistics support vehicles were traveling down Interstate 75 toward the rally point at Homestead Motor Speedway.