Whiteout

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Tuesday, November 5

Overseas Highway at Cross Key

Florida Keys

It was the middle of the night when Peter entered the stretch of Overseas Highway that connected the Mainland to the Upper Keys. The tiny islands upon which the two-lane divided highway was built were mostly uninhabitable except for the Manatee Bay Club approximately five miles from the point where the boys said the roadblock was set up.

Peter knew the location well. An access road had been built on both sides of U.S. 1 leading to Gilbert’s Resort, a small hotel and tiki bar known for being home to a number of racing catamarans. The access road looped under the highway, so any cars denied access could be directed back toward Homestead.

At this hour, he assumed the road would be desolate. He was wrong. In addition to abandoned vehicles, there were pedestrians walking in both directions. Occasionally, a vehicle would force its way through the throngs of people.

Conversations were had across the concrete divider as those who wanted access to the Keys quizzed those leaving about the requirements to get in. Many tried to develop stories to con their way past the many armed guards who stood vigil at the entrance.

Friend of a friend. Long-lost family member. Dual residency. Been off to college. Lost my license. Identity theft.

The list of excuses for not being able to show photo identification was long. Peter wasn’t sure how he was going to overcome the deficiency. He simply hoped a familiar face would be present. Or, at the very least, someone who knew the Albright family well enough to confirm his story.

He joined a pack of refugees shuffling past the aqueduct’s pump station. Fresh water was pumped to the Florida Keys through a series of aqueducts connected to a one-hundred-thirty-mile-long water main. It was the only source of fresh water and was used by the Albright family to fill its own water tower on Driftwood Key. Now, with the power grid down, the pump station wasn’t working, causing survival in the Keys to be even more improbable for most people.

He walked another thousand feet until Barnes Sound was on his left. Because of the darkness, he couldn’t see across the fairly large body of water toward the toll bridge. As the people in front of him began to bunch together, waiting their turn to enter the Keys, he realized he was more than a mile away. He shook his head in disbelief and prepared himself to wait hours for the opportunity to enter.

As he shuffled along with the others, he continued to eavesdrop on conversations. He was amazed at the quest for information. For many, it appeared to be more important than food and water. Misinformation seemed to run rampant as well.

Rumors of more nuclear missile strikes on U.S. soil were common. Confirmation of Mexico shutting out American refugees was confirmed by a number of people. Texas had closed off their borders to outsiders. It was believed they were still operating their power grid without a single blackout episode.

None of them seemed to be aware of the National Guard presence at the speedway. He didn’t dare ask, as he preferred not to draw attention to himself. However, when nobody made reference to it, he began to question the veracity of the teenage boys he’d spoken with.

Having witnessed the number of stalled cars on the Overseas Highway coupled with the throngs of people making their way in both directions in the middle of the night made him wonder how they’d cross the sound to begin with. And if the barricades were in place as the teens said, that bridge would be impassable without a significant amount of work by some heavy-duty Caterpillar front-end loaders.

The wave of refugees came to an abrupt halt, and they began to bunch together. Some eased down the embankment and fought along the mangrove trees to cut ahead of the others. This drew the ire of some, and hostile words were exchanged.

Peter noticed the number of refugees heading off the Keys was less, so he sat on the concrete barrier and swung a leg over to the other side, followed by the other. To avoid walking against the flow of pedestrian traffic, he opted to shuffle along the silt fence separating the soft, sandy shoulder and the riprap that prevented it from washing into the water. He was moving much faster than the other side of the road, and soon others joined him.

Pushing and shoving broke out as those who felt people like Peter were cutting in line tried to stop them. Shouts filled the air, and a couple of fistfights resulted in a near brawl next to a stranded DHL delivery van.

As daylight came, Peter pressed forward despite being shoved ever closer toward the water’s edge. He gripped his pistol and contemplated pulling it so he could defend himself. The melee, however, was on the other side of the barrier as people began to push forward, crushing those ahead of them into those standing in line.

Raised voices broke the relative silence he’d enjoyed until this point. People were scared and agitated. The shouting and fighting rose to a crescendo until a single sound quietened everyone, stifling their voices.

An explosion rocked the waters of Barnes Sound. A massive blast sent a fireball high into the air from the direction of the Monroe County Toll Bridge. The sound of concrete crumbling and the extremely heavy concrete barriers falling into the water roared across the glass-like water.

Then the hundreds of people surrounding Peter reacted. As if on cue, in unison, they screamed at the top of their lungs. Voices shouted out warnings.

“They’re bombing us!”

“It’s the Air Force!”

“There’s gonna be a tidal wave!”

“Run!”

A panicked stampede was headed Peter’s way. Some people from the right side of the road jumped the barrier and began to flee the Keys. Those who were already shuffling their way to the mainland ran for their lives.

He was at risk of being trampled, so he stepped over the silt fencing and found a gap in a guardrail that marked the last thousand feet before the access road entrance came into view.

Peter didn’t know what had happened, and he doubted anybody’s air force had bombed the bridge or the pedestrians on it. He did see an opportunity to use the chaos as a way of getting to the front of the line. He considered it to be his best opportunity to get onto Key Largo.

Or die trying.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Tuesday, November 5

Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

Northern Virginia

It was during the predawn hours of November 5 when the president assembled his military leaders. His day was filled with meetings and included his first encounter with the outside world since the nuclear attacks. Marine One, the presidential helicopter, was going to take him on a tour of Washington, DC, followed by a flyover of Philadelphia. He wanted to end his day on a positive note.

The president’s first meeting was with Chandler and his military leaders about the progress they were making toward his goal of establishing a new center of government in Pennsylvania. In order to secure the necessary facilities to house Congress and other government agencies, residents and businesses in downtown Philadelphia had to be displaced. This resulted in pushback in the form of violent protests that distracted the military from fulfilling the president’s directives. Many lives had been lost on both sides during the unrest, creating a boondoggle for President Helton.

During their briefing, the subject matter turned to the Florida Keys. The governor of Florida was no longer responding to the Helton administration’s attempts to intervene. Even direct communication attempts with Monroe County leaders failed.

“They’re calling themselves the Conch Republic, Mr. President,” said the chief of staff of the Army.

“You can’t be serious,” said the president sarcastically. “Are they actually claiming to secede from the Union?”

The general rolled his eyes and smiled. “Sir, they claim they already did many decades ago. Now they’re simply formalizing their declaration. Their words, not mine, sir.”

“Well, our nation, and this administration, will not be insulted by their insolent declarations of independence, or whatever’s on their minds. It’s insurrection against our government, and I want it quashed by whatever means necessary. I can’t allow this concept of a Conch Republic, or banana republic, to take hold. Texas is a difficult enough situation to deal with. Counties or geographic areas trying to assert their separation from our nation need to be dealt with harshly.”

The general continued. “Sir, as we speak, our troops are pulling out of the rally point in Homestead, halfway between Miami-Dade and the two bridges being held by the locals. We will use Army logistics bulldozers to force the concrete barriers off the bridges. Our troops, led by armored personnel carriers, will enter Key Largo. We suspect the locals will lay down their arms or run screaming into the night.”

The general had just finished his sentence and laughed along with the other military personnel in the briefing. Suddenly, one of his aides entered the conference room and interrupted their playful banter at the expense of the Florida Keys. He read the note and then nodded to his aide, who scurried out of the conference room.

“Mr. President, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me,” the general said as he rose from the table. “We have reports that the locals have detonated explosives under the supports of one of the bridges. A two-hundred-foot span has collapsed into the water.”

“Explosives? Collapsed? Were any of our people hurt?”

“Unknown at this time, sir.” He turned his body toward the door.

“Wait. Did you say there was a second bridge?”

The general nodded.

“Protect it, dammit! Use air support. The Coast Guard. Whatever it takes. Do not allow them to cut themselves off!”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Tuesday, November 5

Overseas Highway at Cross Key

Florida Keys

Eventually the lane leading off the Keys contained only a handful of elderly people and families who walked away from the checkpoint. Around the bend, floodlights washed the highway as more concrete barriers blocked both sides of the road in a staggered fashion. This was apparently designed to let vehicles through one car at a time. On the other side of the highway, the grassy shoulder was littered with stalled cars that had been pushed off the pavement to make way for others.

Voices were raised as he approached the checkpoint, where armed guards threatened to shoot the refugees despite the fact some of those who were trying to gain access claimed to have proof of residency. A scrum of several dozen people was occurring around the folding tables where men and women in plain clothes processed the refugees.

Peter had to take a second look when he saw the blue flags of the Conch Republic flying in the breeze behind the intake tables. At first, he rolled his eyes at the lunacy. You can’t secede from the United States. Then he thought, Or could you?

Regardless, he needed to get through the checkpoint because the only other option was to hop over the barrier and wade through the mangroves. That was a surefire way to get snakebit or lose a limb to an alligator.

One of the gatekeepers shouted to his personnel, “We’ve got to move it along, people! I’ve got orders to shut it down.”

The crowd of refugees immediately responded.

“Shut what down? You can’t!”

“Let us in first!”

“Please, we came all this way!”

“We’re so close. You gotta let us in.”

Peter sensed what was about to happen. Whoever had dreamed up this secession thing must be aware of the troops amassing in Homestead. Out of fear, they planned to isolate themselves from the rest of the country. Blowing up the toll bridge was just the first step. They might destroy the short span over Jewfish Creek at Anchorage Resort or the longer stretch that crossed Lake Surprise. Either way, his access to home would be taken away.

He furrowed his brow and set his jaw. Being polite wasn’t gonna get him anywhere. He shoved his way past several people, who became agitated. Peter didn’t care. He needed to get someone’s attention before they pulled the entire operation to the other side of those two bridges.

He elbowed his way past several men, who grabbed at his backpack in an attempt to sling him to the ground. Peter angrily swung around and pulled his pistol on them.

“Gun!”

“He’s got a gun!”

“It’s the man in camo!”

The supervisor of the intake process had had enough. “That’s it, people. We’re outta here.”

“You heard the man, soldiers! Weapons hot!”

Peter stopped in his tracks. He knew enough about military parlance to realize there were soldiers of some nature standing on the other side of those barriers with what could be automatic weapons. They’d cut him and everyone around him to ribbons if he forced the issue.

“Please! Let us in, mister!”

“Yeah, we have a condo in Islamorada. I have our deed with me!”

Peter was unsure of what to do. He had no identification that showed residency. He didn’t have a deed to a condo. He didn’t have a library card. All he had was his name.

He used the same ploy that had worked when he walked out of the conference center in Abu Dhabi. It had worked when he approached the old couple in North Carolina, who’d proven so helpful. He holstered his weapon and raised his hands as he pushed his way to the front.

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

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Tuesday, November 5

Nashville, Arkansas

That night, after hours upon hours of traversing the back roads of four states, they found a secluded place to sleep in the back of a cemetery just west of Nashville, Arkansas. While they both found it creepy sleeping among the dead, they also felt they were less likely to encounter other people in the offbeat location.

The farther they drove south and east, the more traffic they encountered. Gas stations were closed and mostly looted. The types of vehicles varied, but they were few and far between. Lacey surmised gasoline would be even more difficult to find now. In the several-hundred-mile radius surrounding the Denver metropolitan area where the electromagnetic pulse had the greatest impact, new vehicles were disabled. Owners of vintage trucks like the McDowells’ and the Otero County Sheriff’s Department were the few who truly needed gasoline for transportation purposes.

They decided to renew their search for sources to replenish their spent gas cans during the daytime. As Tucker recognized, at night, the farms or businesses they approached would hear and see them coming before they began their search. It would make them ripe for an ambush.

During their travels, they talked about Owen. They cried. They laughed. They reminisced. They patted each other on the back for their determination to get home to Driftwood Key.

They also recalled the conversations they’d had with Owen before their debacle east of Pueblo. They’d dreamed up as many scenarios as their creative minds could imagine that would result in trouble along the way. Every one of their concerns revolved around conflict with their fellow man.

After a decent night’s rest, during which Lacey stretched out in the back seat and Tucker curled up in the front, they awoke before dawn and hit the road. A light dusting of snow had coated their truck, and the roads were somewhat slick as they made their way toward Interstate 20, an east-west route that would take them across the Mississippi River near Vicksburg.

They were about to turn up the on-ramp in Cheniere, Arkansas, when Tucker slapped the dashboard and pointed ahead.

“Mom, the entrance is blocked by those military Humvees. Keep going straight.”

“But we need to cross the river at Vicksburg,” she argued and kept going. She drove up to the National Guardsmen, who approached their vehicle with their weapons at low ready. They were studying Lacey and Tucker through the windshield as they approached.

Lacey rolled her window down and spoke to them before they arrived. “We need to get to Vicksburg.”

“Not this way, ma’am,” the man gruffly replied. “All lanes are closed to civilian traffic.”

Lacey looked ahead and then to her left to observe the highway. “I don’t see any traffic at all.”

“It’s coming, ma’am. Now, back down the ramp and move along.”

“Well, when can we cross the bridge?”

The soldier shook his head and glanced over at his partner. He was wearing a shemagh around his mouth and nose, so Lacey could only see his eyes.

“Move back, lady!” the other soldier shouted, growing impatient with Lacey’s questioning. “We have the authority to confiscate this vehicle and everything within it per the president’s martial law declaration. We’ve got better things to do, but if you insist…” He purposefully let his last few words dangle in the air as he raised his automatic weapon in Tucker’s direction.

“Mom, we should go.”

Lacey didn’t bother to roll up her window. She glanced in her side mirrors to ensure nobody was parked behind her before slowly easing down the ramp. Tucker never took his eyes off the soldiers. He was still gripping the pistol he’d retrieved from the glove box as the men first approached the truck.

Lacey continued south through the country roads that ran parallel to the Mississippi River. The next available crossing was U.S. Highway 425 at Natchez, Mississippi. This was not a route they’d mapped out that morning, and the first comment Tucker made related to the waste of gasoline.

Lacey drove slower than she had prior to this point in an effort to conserve fuel and to watch for opportunities to obtain more. While they thought they might have enough to get into Central Florida, if not farther, they were constantly on the lookout. This unexpected detour gave them a greater sense of urgency to fill up.

U.S. Highway 84 turned into Route 425, where it began to run along the banks of the Mississippi. It also took them through a series of small communities as they approached Vidalia, Louisiana. There was more traffic and quite a few people milling about on the side of the road. Lacey was beginning to feel uneasy, as those without transportation had the distinct look of envy on their faces as they scowled at the moving vehicles.

They entered the small town of Vidalia, perched on the west side of the Mississippi. The closer they got to the bridge, the more traffic built up in front of them.

Tucker rolled down his window and tried to see ahead. The hazy conditions restricted visibility to less than a mile. All he could see was a single lane of taillights.

Tucker was surprised at what he saw. “A traffic jam? Seriously?”

“Nobody is coming off the bridge in our direction. Are they all headed east?” Lacey asked.

Tucker looked around, and then he suddenly opened his door. “I’ll be right back.”

Before Lacey could ask where he was going, he’d exited the vehicle and bounded across the parking lot to the overhang of the Craws, Claws & Tails patio restaurant. He spoke with a group of teenagers and a couple of older men sitting in rocking chairs underneath the sloped roof overhang. He looked back at their truck several times to see if Lacey had advanced any. She had not. Tucker bumped fists with the young men, and he ran back to the truck.

After he was back in the truck, he pointed to his right at a small residential street that ran next to the restaurant. “Mom, take a right here. We can’t cross the bridge.”

“Why not?”

“They’re confiscating gasoline and weapons on the other side. The Mississippi governor, acting on the president’s orders, is searching every vehicle that enters. The martial law declaration allows them to take our guns, ammo, and stored gasoline, leaving us only what’s in the tanks.”

“That’s ridiculous!” shouted Lacey in disbelief. She wheeled the Bronco across the parking lot, where Tucker waved to the group, who gave him a thumbs-up.

“Take a left up ahead and then an immediate right. These county roads drive along the river and will take us to a small town called New Roads. Supposedly the highway is open to cross there since both sides of the river are in Louisiana.”

“It still leads us into Mississippi, right?” asked Lacey although she knew the answer to her question. “We’re just gonna run into the same problem.”

“Eventually, yes. According to those guys, the bridge is open. The next crossings are in Baton Rouge and New Orleans, which are unsafe. They said New Orleans is on fire.”

“Whadya mean?”

Tucker raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. “I mean they said the city is on fire. People are killing each other in the streets. One of the old men said the cops and National Guard won’t even go in there.”

Lacey shook her head. This meant they had one shot to get across the Mississippi without giving up everything they needed to get to the Keys. She was growing weary of the constant threats and uncertainty. She took a deep breath. Then she got a firm grip on the wheel as well as herself.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Tuesday, November 5

Driftwood Key

Dress for success were the words Patrick Hollister’s father had ingrained in him growing up. When he entered the banking world, he was always impeccably dressed in custom-tailored suits and Italian shoes. While most of the professional world in the Florida Keys adopted a laid-back appearance, Patrick’s pride in himself prevented him from lowering the standards his father had taught him.

He studied himself in the mirror, and the person who stared back was hardly recognizable. He hadn’t shaved in more than a week, resulting in a shaggy beard that certainly hadn’t adorned his face since the day he was born. Likewise, his hair was long and unkept.

The clothing had been given to him by Hank out of his musty closet. Hank was the type of man to keep those unworn size thirty-six jeans he’d bought online many years ago for when he lost a few pounds. Of course, that never happened, and the size forty waistline meant the jeans remained new-with-tag, as they say on eBay.

The long-sleeve sweatshirt with the Driftwood Key Inn logo was ironic. Patrick had every intention of becoming a part of the operation here. In fact, the title of sole proprietor seemed to suit him just fine.

So, with a final adjustment of his sweatshirt and a half-hearted attempt to straighten his hair, Patrick emerged from bungalow three to take a little tour of the grounds.

He was somewhat familiar with the twenty-nine acres that made up Driftwood Key from his prior visits to Hank years ago. When he’d first solicited the Albrights’ business, he did his homework. He studied the property assessor’s records online and then viewed images posted on Google by guests or the hotel staff. As a banker, when he set his sights on a prospective business client, he made the extra effort to learn all he could about their operation in order to impress them in some small way.

He didn’t earn Hank Albright’s business on that day, but it certainly benefitted him on the day he planned on taking it away from him.

Patrick stepped onto the sugary white sand of Driftwood Key. It was cold. Until now, he’d played up his recovery by remaining inside the bungalow or on the porch. He moaned and groaned when he moved in their presence. He’d winced so many times he wondered if he’d need Botox after this was over. If Botox was still a thing someday.

However, Patrick saw the handwriting on the wall. They were ready for him to leave. He’d worn out his welcome to the point they were getting suspicious. Truth be told, he was ready to live again. He was tired of the bedridden days and nights filled with an insatiable hunger to kill.

It was time.

Throughout his time in the bungalow, he tried to watch everyone’s movements through the windows. He had a clear view of the drive connecting the front gate and the main house. He eavesdropped on their conversations when he sat on the front porch. He engaged in casual conversation with Jessica and Phoebe, especially, when they came to tend to his wounds or feed him.

For the last several days in particular, they all used a sneaky ploy that didn’t work with the man who’d mastered deception. Small talk was generally followed by pointed questions as to how Patrick had suffered his injuries. Patrick was interested in small talk, so he did everything he could to extend the casual discussions. He was gathering information while his adversaries were setting him up to extract theirs. It was a game of mental chess that he was winning easily.

Their routine had changed in the last day or so. He’d overheard that Jimmy, his favorite, had been pulled away to work for the sheriff’s department. The poor boy must be exhausted, Patrick had thought to himself the night before as he fell asleep. Eight hours away. Eight hours doing chores and fishing. More hours on patrol with a few hours of sleep a day.

Then there was Jessica. She was pulling double duty outside Driftwood Key. She was gone most of the afternoon and didn’t return until close to midnight. On more than one occasion, her truck pulled in as Detective Mikey’s pulled out.

Sonny spent his days in his precious greenhouses, doting over their vegetables after a long night of patrolling the grounds and manning the gate. He’d disappear to sleep, presumably from late afternoon through the early evening until around eleven. Phoebe was tethered to the kitchen. When she wasn’t planning and preparing meals for everyone, she was constantly checking their supply inventory. The woman was borderline obsessive-compulsive about all of that stuff. However, Patrick thought, she’d be his first hire if he were staffing the inn. Unfortunately, on this day, she’d be the first fire.

Patrick turned his attention toward the soon-to-be-former-sole-proprietor of Driftwood Key, Mr. Hank. Even in Patrick’s mind, he managed to say the words sarcastically. He found it so annoying that the Frees referred to him as Mr. Hank. C’mon, people! It’s Hank. Or Mr. Albright. Or boss. Or sir. Or something other than some plantation-speak like Mr. Hank.

Regardless, good old Hank had to go; otherwise a new sole proprietor couldn’t be anointed.

So Patrick began to wander the grounds of Driftwood Key. He came across one or two of them throughout the day, and they were cordial while keeping their distance. He knew what they wanted—a healthy enough patient capable of hitting the road and going home. He was going to raise their hopes while laying the groundwork to have one helluva party that night.

For hours, with only an occasional stop to take a rest, Patrick took mental inventory of the main buildings and their locations. He began to lay out a time frame to make his move.

Phoebe fed him like clockwork around six every evening. She tended to stick to the house after dark, she’d told him. Sonny ate early and went to bed to get some sleep before the graveyard shift. Then she fed Patrick.

His dinners were delivered on a bamboo tray complete with plastic utensils, of course, befitting any inmate. You must feed your prisoners, but you certainly don’t give them a knife and fork, right? Patrick laughed when he analyzed this part of his daily routine. Clearly, someone at Driftwood Key had watched Silence of the Lambs.

After the meals were served, Hank, Jessica, and Mike would gather by a bonfire next to the water’s edge. Sometimes they’d drink, and their conversations varied. In the dead calm of the post-apocalyptic world, oceanfront edition, their voices carried, and Patrick made a point to settle in on the bungalow’s porch to listen. Jessica didn’t always join the guys because she was still working. With a little luck, she’d be off saving lives while Patrick was drumming up some business for her back at home.

Jimmy hadn’t been home at the evening hour for days, so he wasn’t likely to get in the way. With a little luck in terms of timing, Patrick could dispose of the others and Jessica, upon her return, leaving Jimmy all alone.

As Patrick wandered, so did his mind. He thought of all the ways he’d killed in the past. He considered himself a versatile and imaginative serial killer. Guns would be easy. He laughed at this as he saw Hank walking along the water’s edge with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Everyone wanted to do away with guns. Gimme a knife and I’ll show you how to kill. Better yet, I wonder if Sonny has a cordless Sawzall he’d be willing to loan me for a few hours.

He tried to enter the toolshed and found that the paranoid Sonny had double padlocked it. Patrick grabbed the chain and gave it an angry shake before moving on to the greenhouses. He walked through, stopping periodically to examine a hand trowel or a three-pronged weeder. He took the weeder and raised it over his head, slamming it downward into the two-by-four surround of a planting bed.

“Dull,” he muttered as he tossed it into the tomato plants. “Don’t you people have a hatchet? How do you split open your coconuts?”

Frustrated, Patrick continued to roam the grounds in search of a weapon. Anything that was capable of piercing skin or crushing a skull would do. After a few hours, he became concerned he was drawing suspicion, so he made his way back to his bungalow without a killing tool. He’d have to come up with a plan B. Or, better yet, fall back on his instincts that had served him well those many nights sitting on a bar stool, waiting for his next victim.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Tuesday, November 5

New Roads, Louisiana

Lacey and Tucker rode mostly in silence as they mindlessly traveled south along the side of the Mississippi River lowlands. They’d begun to lose their focus and were tiring of the trip although they still had over nine hundred miles to travel. Tucker had tried to cheerily look on the bright side that they were more than halfway to Driftwood Key, but both of them recognized the challenges were becoming more frequent.

They passed through the small riverfront town of New Roads, Louisiana, without incident. The old Bronco chugged up the John James Audubon Bridge, a two-mile-long crossing that rose to five hundred feet above the Mississippi River.

As they drove up the fairly steep slope, more of their surroundings came into view. To their left sat the Big Cajun 2 Power Plant, a fifteen-hundred-megawatt gas and coal-fired power plant along the Mississippi. Louisiana’s first coal-fired station, it now appeared to be nothing more than skeletal remains as it sat dormant below them. The power station relied upon power to generate more electricity for the region. In order to function, computers were required to monitor and control the process. When the cascading failure of the Eastern and Western Interconnection occurred, it took Big Cajun 2 down with it. It would sit empty and useless for nearly a decade as it waited for replacement parts necessary for its operation.

At the top of the bridge span, Lacey slowed their progress to take in the view. They were shocked as they realized they were barely able to see the river. At five hundred feet above ground, they were immersed in the gray, ashen clouds of soot that hung over the earth. It prevented them from seeing into the distance, which meant they’d be driving blind into the lowlands on the other side of the river. If there were roadblocks ahead, they wouldn’t know until they were on top of them.

“We’re committed now,” said Lacey as she caught Tucker’s look of apprehension. He obviously shared her concerns by the way he gripped the rifle he’d pulled out of the back seat before entering New Roads.

“I know, Mom. We’re stuck on this road for a few miles, and then we pick up Highway 61. We’ll be changing roads a lot until we get to Florida unless you wanna chance getting on I-10.”

“Too much traffic. We’ve only got a few hours of daylight left, so let’s keep rolling.”

“I can drive,” Tucker offered.

“Let’s wait until dark. Your eyesight is better than mine right now. My vision has been getting blurry at the end of the day since I woke up.”

Tucker understood. His mom had been injured more by the flash freeze than he was. He was amazed that she hadn’t experienced more issues during the two long days of traveling.

Their drive through the back country of Eastern Louisiana was relaxing. They both began to feel better about their prospects of getting to the Keys by the next evening. Tucker vowed to drive late into the night. By his calculations, they could make it to beyond Tallahassee by midnight, maybe even to Lake City in north-central Florida.

They were able to enter Mississippi at Bogalusa before turning south. They ran into a large group of refugees walking in the middle of the road toward the coast. Tucker was driving now, but he still laid a handgun in his lap as he approached the group. His mother did the same. The two of them had discussed the use of firearms after Lacey broached the subject of Tucker shooting at the vehicle in Arkansas. They’d agreed he’d exercise restraint and only use his gun in self-defense.

Initially, the group of people politely stepped to the shoulders on both side of the two-lane road as Tucker drove past them. Their faces were haggard, and their eyes were sunken into their sockets. Each of them appeared exhausted, hungry and defeated.

Lacey was curious about where they were headed because they didn’t seem to be part of a cohesive group. Rather, they seemed to have banded together for protection, not unlike animals who stick together in herds or flocks.

“Where are you going?” she asked after rolling down her window.

“We’re headed to a FEMA camp in Slidell. It’s been there for years following the hurricanes.”

“We’re headed to the marina at Bay St. Louis,” said another woman, who was holding the hands of two young children who barely kept up. “We heard boats are leaving for South Florida, where it’s still warm.”

“Hey, that’s what I like to hear,” whispered Tucker.

Another woman joined in with her opinion. “Supposedly the weather’s decent and doesn’t have all these clouds. Something about the way the wind blows.”

A man caught up to the group and said, “Those boats aren’t cruise ships or anything. They’re just fishing charters trying to make a buck. And they’re really expensive.”

Lacey became genuinely curious. “Like what?” she asked as Tucker continued to roll along slowly, matching the pace of the refugees. As his mom asked questions, he watched his mirrors and all sides of the truck in case somebody decided to move on them.

“Like, trade your truck for two seats. Crazy expensive.”

“Say, lady,” said one of the men, “let me ride by standing on your bumper. I can hold on to the roof rack if you won’t go too fast.”

The suggestion urged others around the Bronco to make similar offers. They began to draw closer to the truck, making Tucker nervous.

“I’ll do that if you’ll let my little girls ride in the back seat,” said one of the women. “They don’t take up much room.”

“No! Me! I can pay, too!”

“Tucker?” questioned Lacey apprehensively.

“I know, Mom. I know.”

Tucker pressed on the gas pedal and tried to move the refugees out of the way who’d tried to surround the truck. They were becoming belligerent. Several tried to slam on the hood in an attempt to get him to stop. One attempted to open Lacey’s passenger door.

“Dammit, they asked for this,” said Tucker. He furrowed his brow, set his jaw, and began to push through them without regard to whether they might get hurt. In his mind, they were on a street made for vehicles, not pedestrians. It was a risk they chose to take.

He blared on the horn, which only served to make the mob angrier. He slammed on the brakes as one man tried to jump on the hood. He slid all the way across and landed hard on the pavement. Tucker slammed his foot down on the gas, causing the Bronco to surge forward into a slight gap in the crowd. It was all the opening he needed, and he never looked back. Several people tried to chase them, and one managed to get a foot on the nerf bar before being knocked sideways and spinning to the ground. He sped off, hitting sixty-five miles an hour, the loaded-down Bronco’s top speed, before finally responding to his mother’s pleas to let off the gas.

“Tucker, this is getting old.”

“I agree, Mom. But what choice do we have? I mean, we’re almost to Florida.”

“Yeah, think about that for a minute. If the word is spreading around that Florida is still the Sunshine State, we’re gonna run into more and more groups like this one. Only, the next bunch might have guns pointed at us.”

Tucker took a deep breath and thought for a moment. They had the ham radio, and they could try to use it to monitor things like traffic and mobs of people walking down the road. However, he doubted they could trust something like that. This group they’d just encountered had come out of nowhere.

“What about the boats?” he asked.

“Bay St. Louis?” Lacey had given it some thought as well.

“Obviously, we may not be able to trust what those people said, but it was more than one who seemed to know about it.”

Lacey stared out the window and then up at the sky. “We have to drive past there anyway, right?”

“Well,” began Tucker in response, stretching the word out as he spoke, “sort of. If we take I-10, absolutely. If we cut across Mississippi and Alabama just above the interstate like we planned, it would be about twenty miles out of our way.”

“Is it worth looking into?” she asked. “We could avoid another thousand miles of this type of stuff. No more hunting for gasoline or sleeping in cemeteries.”

“Mom, you heard that guy. We’d have to give up Dad’s truck.”

Lacey nodded and fought back tears. She’d be letting yet another part of Owen get away from her. Then she glanced over at her son. He was a part of both Owen and her. The most important part. Trucks can be replaced. Kids can’t. She made a decision.

“Let’s check it out. If it doesn’t pan out, we’ll keep going the best we can.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Tuesday, November 5

Driftwood Key

Phoebe settled in for the evening. The generator was turned off after dinnertime, so she was following her early evening kitchen routine by candlelight. Having a structured day had helped her cope with this sudden change in their way of life. She once thrived on working full days that began at dawn and lasted well into the evening, seven days a week. She didn’t complain. She had a work ethic instilled in her by her parents and the genetics of their parents before them.

Hank had commended her repeatedly throughout the collapse. She was indispensable and she knew it. But she didn’t look at her value to the inn through the prism of an employee seeking higher compensation. They were family. Sonny, Jimmy and all the Albrights were all blood relatives in her mind.

She lit the last candle next to the small work desk nearest the entrance to the kitchen. As had been her practice, she retrieved the handgun from the desk drawer and set it on top of the journal she used to record their daily usage of supplies. She flipped through the pages to the menu she had planned for the next day, and since Sonny had gone to bed more than thirty minutes ago, Phoebe thought she’d do a little advance meal prep.

She set up her workstation next to the kitchen sink. A well-worn cutting board was pulled down from a shelf attached to a wall cabinet, and she pulled a serrated butcher knife out of the teak block on the counter. Finally, a peeler was retrieved from the drawer.

Phoebe chuckled as she surveyed all the tools it took to peel and slice up a carrot bunch.

She was a smart cook, not a gourmet chef. Sure, she was capable of producing a plate worthy of some Food Network program, but that was not her passion. Practical cooking was, and that certainly suited the times they lived in.

For example, many cooks don’t bother cleaning up a carrot bunch. They buy prepackaged sliced, shredded, or cut carrots at the grocery store and prepare a dish. Not Phoebe. She used the entire bunch, including the tops, the leafy green part of the carrot that grew above ground. She set some aside to regrow and cooked a few as well. While bitter, they could be prepared with olive oil, garlic and other greens to provide bulk to a meal. Not to mention, she thought as she began cutting the tops off, they help you poop.

Phoebe was mindlessly chopping away when suddenly the back door opened, causing her to nick the end of her finger. Blood spurted out onto part of the carrots, drawing a few choice curse words in her mind. Phoebe dropped the knife and spun around to see who had rudely interrupted her.

“You startled me!” exclaimed Phoebe as she angrily turned on the water tap and ran cold water over her finger. “Patrick?”

“I’m sorry, Phoebe. That wasn’t my intention. I thought I was doing a good thing by returning my tray to save you a trip in the morning.”

Phoebe took a deep breath and exhaled, almost blowing out the candle next to her cutting board. Admittedly, she’d been a little jumpy, so the self-inflicted cut was as much her fault as it was Patrick’s.

“No problem, Patrick. That’s very kind of you. Would you mind setting it in the sink over here while I rinse this out?” She turned back to the sink and continued to run water over the gash on top of her knuckle. It was in one of those locations that would take forever to heal because the finger was constantly bending.

Patrick walked slowly toward her, his eyes darting around the room to assess his options. Everything was perfect to start his big night. As predicted, Jimmy and Jessica were off Driftwood Key, performing their duties for the sheriff’s department. He’d hidden among the palm trees as Sonny turned off the generator. He’d followed him through the trails as he went to the caretaker’s house located behind the greenhouses to catch several hours of sleep before he relieved Hank at the gate. Patrick sighed as he thought of how easy it would’ve been to kill Sonny along the path. If only he’d had a knife.

Hank, along with Mike, was manning the entrance to Driftwood Key. With both Jimmy and Jessica off-island, they weren’t able to have their usual fireside chat on the beach.

As he got closer to the sink and the countertop where she was cutting the carrots, his eyes adjusted to the candlelit room. He saw the butcher block with the cutting utensils protruding out, handle first. Scissors. Steak knives. Several butcher knives. Even a sharpener. It was a serial killer’s dream.

Patrick’s heart raced as Phoebe droned on about something or another. She spewed meaningless words like anyone who was nervous in a tense situation. His adrenaline had reached a level he hadn’t experienced since he’d fought off his attackers that night. Unfortunately, he had been outnumbered by three drug-fueled maniacs who got the better of him.

He gently set the tray on the kitchen island behind Phoebe and eased up behind her. She turned off the water faucet and reached for a kitchen towel to her right. Patrick made his move.

He rushed forward and reached for the butcher knife. It slipped out of his hands, so he lunged again, pressing his body against Phoebe’s.

She was pinned against the kitchen counter.

“What are you doin’?” she shouted as she tried to twist away.

Her eyes caught a glimpse of Patrick reaching for the knife that had slid off the cutting board. She writhed and squirmed to get away, but couldn’t.

Patrick grasped the knife and made a clumsy attempt to pull the knife toward Phoebe’s chest. The blade tore through her shirt and sliced open her right shoulder blade.

“Arrggh! Help!” she shouted as loud as her surprised mind would allow.

Phoebe dropped to her knees and grasped her shoulder to stem the flow of blood pouring through her fingers. No longer pinned down, she tried to scramble away from Patrick.

He, too, dropped to his knees and grabbed one of her ankles. He tugged at her but only managed to pull off her sock and sneaker.

“Help! Anyone! Help me!” Primal fear had overtaken Phoebe as she begged for someone to help her. She continued to pull herself along the floor with one arm, but Patrick grabbed her other ankle, arresting her advance.

He raised the knife high over his head and thrust it downward to stab her again. He nicked her calf but just barely.

The tip of the bloodied knife embedded in the wood floor, and Phoebe jerked her leg from the sharp, serrated edge. Shocked by the pain soaring through her body, she began crawling again until she reached the work desk where her journal was laid open. She reached up with her left hand and felt around the tabletop until she found what she was looking for.

Phoebe swung around and fired blindly in Patrick’s direction. Bullets flew around the kitchen, obliterating glassware and penetrating the cabinets.

Patrick was still coming.

Phoebe’s hand shook as she tried to steady her aim. He growled, emitting a guttural snarl that frightened her into shooting again. She found her target.

The bullet struck Patrick in the side, striking just below the rib cage near the liver. Having missed anything solid other than layers of fat and connective tissue, it went through him before plugging the front of the refrigerator.

Patrick’s body spun around, and he fell backwards from the force of the impact. Phoebe fired again, striking his left hand, shattering the bones and severing the ulnar artery.

“Dammit!” shouted Patrick in pain and frustration. He crawled behind the kitchen island and managed to stand to rush out the door. This was going horribly wrong, and now he had to find a way to escape.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Tuesday, November 5

Driftwood Key

Still clutching the knife in his right hand while his fractured left hand tried to stem the bleeding from his side, Patrick stumbled out of the main house into the darkness. The confidence and mental acuity he’d possessed when he began his attack on Phoebe was lost. Now he was wounded, frightened, and on the run, in search of a way off Driftwood Key.

He’d lost track of where he was. The loss of blood and excruciating pain resulted in a sort of brain fog that clouded his thinking. His mind raced as he tried to recall all his options. A debate raged within him.

Do I run across the bridge, retracing the steps I took that night to get here? Wait, Mike and Hank might be there. No, they always drink down by the water after dinner. Not tonight, Patrick. They’re manning the front gate. You can’t go that way. Steal a boat. They’ll never find you in the dark. What if I run down the dock and the keys aren’t there? I’ll be trapped.

His mind finally screamed at him as the voices of Mike, Hank and Sonny shouting filled the air. Just hide!

He raced behind the main house to the densely vegetated part of the key. He stumbled along a path, lowering his head to avoid the palms that seemed to defy gravity by growing sideways. He was sweating profusely and made the mistake of wiping his brow with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Patrick wasn’t sure if the blood was his or Phoebe’s. Regardless, it smeared across his face and into his eyes, causing them to burn.

Then he ran head-on into Sonny. The two men collided and knocked one another backwards. Patrick dropped the knife and reached around the ground in search of it.

“Arrrgghhh!” shouted Sonny as he pounced on top of Patrick’s legs.

Sonny threw a punch that hit his already bruised kidneys, causing Patrick to yell in pain. As Patrick struggled to get out from under Sonny’s weight, he found the knife’s handle. He swung his arm around with a slicing motion in an attempt to cut into Sonny’s arm. He was holding the knife backwards, so the sharp edge missed its target.

Phoebe shouted, “Sonny! Help me!”

Sonny became distracted, giving Patrick an opening. He thrust his hips upward and threw Sonny off to the side. Patrick rolled away, found his footing, and continued running down the path. He could hear Phoebe call her husband’s name again, and Sonny responded. His heavy footsteps pounded the crushed shell mixed with sand as he rushed to the kitchen’s back door.

Patrick’s heart was pounding in his chest, and the sweat continued to pour out of him despite the cold temperatures. He ran into a thick cluster of palm trees and leaned his back against one of them as he tried to regroup.

“Think. Think, dammit. Where are you?”

He turned slightly to get oriented. A slight breeze washed over him off the Gulf. He turned his back to it and pointed toward Marathon with his knife.

“That way.”

He started moving deliberately and quietly through the trails that led past the Frees’ home and toward the brackish water separating the two keys. From there, he’d be able to walk through the mix of mangroves and tropical plants until he found the gate. It was his only hope.

Hank and Mike arrived at the main house just as Sonny emerged from the trail. All three men rushed into the kitchen and found Phoebe leaning against the kitchen island, favoring her wounded leg. She was shaking, pointing the gun at the door as the men entered, her hand wavering with her nervous finger on the trigger.

“Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

Sonny responded quickly to reassure her. “Phoebe, it’s okay. It’s just us.”

Phoebe began to sob. Until that moment, she’d mustered all the strength and courage within her to survive. The knife wounds were sending searing pain through her body, but it was her nerves that caused her to break down in tears.

Sonny gently held her as Mike peppered her with questions.

“Who did this?”

“Patrick,” she and Sonny responded in unison.

“Son of a—” started Hank, but Mike interrupted him.

He looked to Sonny in the dim, candlelit space. “How did you know?”

“I ran into him on the path leading to our place. He tried to stab me, but I got lucky.”

“I shot him,” interjected Phoebe. “Twice. Once in the side and once in the hand. Left, I think. It all happened so fast.”

Mike looked at Hank. “The gate.”

Hank didn’t hesitate. He cradled the AR-15 in his right arm and bolted through the open kitchen door.

Mike turned to Sonny. “Did you see him?”

“Yeah, on the trail to our house.”

“Take care of her and lock the door.”

Sonny nodded, and then Mike took off down the trail in search of Patrick.

While Hank took the more direct route toward the driveway gate, Mike followed the trail, using his flashlight to follow the trail of blood left by Patrick. He illuminated the path, and then he realized Patrick only had one option. With his gun drawn in his right hand and crossed over his left wrist, Mike picked up the pace, running toward the water and the narrow path that snaked its way through the mangrove hammocks clustered along the water’s edge.

“Give it up, Patrick,” he shouted as he spotted another glimpse of blood. “You’ll never get off the key alive if you don’t stop now. I will kill you!”

Mike meant it. There were no investigations associated with officer-involved shootings. Deadly force didn’t have to be justified. He wouldn’t be restricted to desk duty for weeks while internal affairs found a way to crucify him. In his mind, it was open season on would-be killers. The only thing that confused him was why did Patrick find it necessary to attack Phoebe? He could’ve left anytime he wanted with everyone’s blessing and a picnic basket full of food as a parting gift.

Mike ducked below the fronds of a low-slung palm tree and then twisted his body sideways to slip between the trunks of two more. That was when the six-inch carbon-steel butcher knife was thrust into his chest.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Tuesday, November 5

Bay St. Louis, Mississippi

Lacey had grown up on the water, and during her childhood, she’d spent a lot of her time around marinas. After parking their truck near the restrooms of the Bay St. Louis Harbor and Pier, they stepped into a moribund version of the vibrant and active marinas of the Florida Keys.

Her eyes surveilled their surroundings. There were no gulls wheeling and diving for bait fish that would normally be seen splashing around the docked boats, scooting away from predators above and below them. There weren’t would-be sailors toting their dock carts from ship to shore and vice versa. Only the bell-like clanging of steel cables on aluminum masts reminded her of home.

A misty haze hung over the warm water. Earth’s atmosphere and its environs struggled with a form of bipolar disorder. Parts of the planet, at the surface and below, behaved normally. The Gulf waters still managed to remain seasonally warm. However, the air temperatures shattered records around the globe. As the cloud cover increased, and temperatures continued to steadily fall, it was a matter of time before the great oceans of the world would lose the battle and become colder.

A gust of wind caused the sailboats to wobble in their slips, and their rigging became agitated as a result. The clanking sound rose to a crescendo, and then, in a blink of an eye, the wind stopped blowing, allowing the vacant boats to rest.

“C’mon, Tucker. Let’s see if the rumors are true.”

Lacey led the way toward the marina office near the start of Rutherford Pier. At the end of the eleven-hundred-foot fishing pier, several anglers were trying their luck. Lacey thought about her dad and Jimmy. One of their daily duties on Driftwood Key was to feed the inn’s guests, as well as themselves. She imagined fishing took on a whole new level of importance, as it probably did for these people on the pier.

“Hey, Mom. Look over there. It’s the, um, third pier out. There’s a man talking with a group of people.”

They picked up the pace and rushed along the waterfront until soon they were jogging toward Pier 4. The chain-link gate to the last pier of the marina had been held open by a bait bucket with several dead fish inside. The smell forced Tucker to cover his nose. Lacey, however, found it somewhat familiar and comforting.

They turned down the pier, where they were met by an older man walking briskly toward them. Lacey tried to appear cordial, making her best effort to hide her apprehensiveness.

“Excuse me,” she began. “We were told there might be charters heading toward Florida. Is that true?” She looked past the crusty old fisherman as she spoke.

“Depends,” said the old man.

“On what?” asked Tucker, slightly annoyed that the man was playing games with them. He was concerned about leaving the truck unattended and continuously glanced in the direction of the parking lot as they spoke.

“My boy and me are running some folks to Florida. There’s room for two more. The last two seats are pricey.”

“We don’t have any—” Tucker began before Lacey interrupted him.

“How pricey? We have things to trade.”

The man took a deep breath and sighed. “Lady, tell me what you’ve got, and I’ll let you know when it’s enough.”

“We have gasoline.”

“Good start. How much?”

“Maybe thirty gallons, give or take. Plus what’s in the truck.”

“Can’t siphon from these new vehicles,” he muttered. He began to walk away from the negotiations.

“It’s an older truck. Ford Bronco.”

The boat captain’s interest was suddenly piqued. “What year?”

“Mom, let’s go,” said Tucker, reaching for Lacey’s hand. He could tell where the conversation was headed.

“Sixty-seven. Pristine condition. Drove it here from California.”

“Deal. Truck and fuel for two seats.”

“No way! Mom, we can’t do this. That’s Dad’s truck.”

The captain laughed. “I’m sure he’ll understand. You wanna get—”

“Shut up, asshole!” Tucker was incensed. He walked up to the captain with his fists balled up, ready to fight. “He just died!”

Lacey forcefully grabbed her son by the arm and pulled him back toward her. “Tucker, stop it. He didn’t know.”

“Hey, listen. I’m sorry. I just have to get a fair deal and—”

“How is taking our truck for a couple of seats on a fishing boat a fair deal?” Tucker demanded.

“It is what it is, kid. Do you two wanna go to Florida or not?”

“Mom, let’s go. Okay?” Tucker was morose and sincerely wanted to take his chances on the road rather than give up his dad’s truck.

Lacey touched her son’s face and smiled. “It’s okay, son. Dad would want us to be safe.” She turned to the captain.

“Truck and fuel for two seats. And you have to take us to the Keys.”

“No way! That requires an extra fuel stop.”

Lacey held her hands up, urging him to reconsider. “Before you answer, see what we’ve got to trade. The other thing, our gear comes with us. It’s all we own.”

“Show me,” he said with a gruff.

The man whistled for his son to join them, and ten minutes later, the deal was struck. Tucker and Lacey carried their belongings toward the end of the pier with the assistance of the boat captain. As they got closer, music could be heard wafting from the old trawler as if they were preparing for a booze cruise.

Half a dozen people milled about on the dock, sizing up Lacey and Tucker as they approached. Between the duffel bags, ammo cans, and their weapons, they made quite an impression on the group. Most of them stood at the edge of the dock as far away from Lacey and Tucker as they could get.

Their fellow passengers came from all walks of life, refugees returning home or seeking a warmer climate. After the passengers realized mother and son weren’t a threat, they exchanged pleasantries to break the ice. The newcomers were assisted on board by a man and his wife who had taken up seats on the stern’s bench seating alongside their young daughter.

The forty-five-foot fiberglass fishing boat had been used by the captain and his son for years along the coastal waters. Their commercial fishing operation targeted cobia and amberjack for sale to fisheries that package seafood for grocery stores.

The captain instructed them on where to stow their gear, and he showed them the sleeping quarters with bunks for eight people. As they shoved their duffels, weapons, and ammo cans under two of the bunks, Lacey mentally performed a quick head count. There would be ten adults, three children, and the two boat owners on board, requiring them to sleep in shifts. Not that it mattered. Traveling by water would relieve the stresses and danger of the final leg of their journey. Giving up Owen’s truck in exchange for their safety was sad, but necessary.

Without warning, the captain started the 855 Cummins diesel engine. The Big Cam, as it was known, produced six hundred horsepower, allowing the vessel to cruise at fourteen knots, or about sixteen miles per hour.

“Looks like we’re about to get under way,” said Lacey with a hint of excitement. So many memories flooded through her mind of growing up. As a child, she’d loved going fishing with Hank and her uncle Mike. She had been thrilled when he told her, at age twelve, it was time she learned to drive his Hatteras. Lacey had absorbed every detail of traveling on the ocean from her dad. It had been years since she’d taken a boat out on the water. Although this vessel stank of fish and diesel, it was comfortingly familiar.

Tucker, however, was still dejected over the decision to give up Black & Blue. “It sounds like it.” His voice trailed off.

Lacey noticed her son was unable to make eye contact with her. “Honey, all of this sucks. All of it. Let’s get to Driftwood Key and regroup. Okay?”

Tucker reluctantly nodded. Lacey felt horrible for her son, who was forced to become a man. She didn’t want to give up one of the last tangible memories of Owen that they possessed. However, she felt in her gut it was the right thing to do.

And then, as if to reinforce her decision, shouts were heard over the steady rumble of the diesel engine. Tucker scrambled out of the sleeping quarters first, followed close behind by Lacey. They emerged onto the aft deck, where they froze.

The family of three was huddled at the back of the boat, looking toward the pier. A large man led a trio walking briskly toward the boat. His deep voice bellowed, clearly and succinctly heard over the low rumble of Big Cam.

“Get off the boat! Now!”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Tuesday, November 5

Driftwood Key

The knife plunged into Mike’s chest. It pierced the skin just below his left nipple and sank to a point where it almost pierced his diaphragm near his lungs. The force of impact immediately knocked the air out of him as he spun to the ground. With the knife sticking out of Mike’s chest, Patrick pounced at the opportunity to finish him off.

“You’re done, Detective Mikey!” he shouted as he tried to grasp the handle of the knife and twist it.

Only, Mike wasn’t done. He’d held onto his sidearm despite falling hard to the ground. He raised his knee to block Patrick’s attack and then fired a shot into the murderer’s already wounded shoulder.

Patrick screamed in agony as the hollow-point round exploded inside his body, tearing tendons away from bones and shattering everything in its path as it tumbled around. Now Mike had the upper hand.

He sat up and groaned. He grasped the knife handle and slowly pulled it away from his body. His adrenaline-amped ears picked up the tearing sound as the serrated edge further damaged his chest cavity. He knew immediately that he might have cut his lung.

He was having difficulty breathing that was made even more difficult as Patrick rose and punched him in the side of his rib cage. The blow caused Mike to lose control of his gun, which flew into a twisted mess of mangrove roots.

Now neither man had a weapon except their fists.

Mike regained his breathing and ignored the incredible pain burning in his chest. He climbed on top of Patrick and began to mercilessly pummel the man in the face, upper body and shoulder where his wounds were the worst.

“Let it all out, Detective Mikey!” Patrick emitted a wicked cackle that caused blood to fly out of his mouth.

Patrick swung back with his right arm, slamming his fist into Mike’s rib cage. Mike temporarily lost his balance before rearing back and slamming his fist into Patrick’s jaw.

“Why, asshole? Why did you do this?”

“I shouldn’t tell you!” Patrick shouted back before having a coughing fit.

Mike stopped slugging him and jammed his fist into the gaping wound where Patrick’s left shoulder used to be.

“Arrrgggh!” Patrick screamed again. Then, inexplicably, he began laughing. It was menacing. Evil. Insane.

Mike grabbed him by the neck and started to choke him, causing Patrick to spit blood all over his face.

“Talk!” Mike demanded, releasing the death grip he had on Patrick’s larynx.

Patrick began to cough up more blood. He’d lost a lot of blood, and his organs were beginning to shut down. He was on the verge of going into hypovolemic shock. Somehow, he managed enough strength to allow his demented mind to taunt his pursuer.

“You would’ve never caught me.” The words came out in a gurgle.

Mike winced and grimaced as pain shot through his body. Blood was pouring out of his chest, soaking through his sweatshirt. He slugged Patrick again.

“Tell me, dammit!”

“Too easy,” Patrick hissed through his blood-covered teeth.

He started to choke and cough violently. Mike tried to maneuver his head to clear his airway. He didn’t care if the guy died. He just needed to know why he’d attacked Phoebe, first.

Then, with one last effort coupled with a hideous laugh, Patrick spoke again. “I’m Patricia.” He smiled, and blood poured out of both sides of his mouth until he died with his eyes staring into Mike’s.

Mike shook Patrick by the arms in an attempt to revive him. He pounded the man’s chest to restart his heart.

“What do you mean?” he shouted his question, and then his body convulsed. He suddenly felt like someone had wrapped a belt around his neck and pulled it tight, cutting off his ability to breathe. His eyes grew wide, he gasped for air, and then everything went black.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Tuesday, November 5

Bay St. Louis, Mississippi

The men slowed their pace and walked steadily toward the frightened passengers waiting on the dock to board. A few of them had just stepped onto the boat. At the man’s instructions, they panicked and scrambled off the fishing vessel, falling hard onto the wood dock before crawling away.

Lacey glanced at the wheelhouse to gauge the captain’s reaction. He’d disappeared. She turned her attention back to the men and saw that they all had their guns drawn, pointing them wildly at the trembling passengers on the dock as well as in the direction of the boat.

Unexpectedly, three shots were fired a hundred feet away from down the pier. The son had returned and immediately opened fire on the men. He struck one of the assailants in the back of the head, throwing blood and flesh onto the dockside passengers. They screamed and then jumped into the harbor in fear for their lives.

The remaining men turned on the captain’s son and began firing. Each shot several times in the young man’s direction, but they all missed. In a gun battle, especially between shooters who are untrained, it’s not unusual for over ninety percent of the rounds to miss their marks. However, it just took one to kill.

Lacey jumped at first and then dropped to her knees when the thunderous boom of a shotgun blast occurred from just over her shoulder, immediately followed by another. The captain had emerged with his marine shotgun and wasted no time firing upon the attackers.

They spun around to shoot back, catching Lacey and Tucker in the crossfire. They fell to the deck and scrambled for cover, although the fiberglass sides wouldn’t necessarily protect them.

Bullets and shotgun pellets were flying in all directions. Lacey had managed to crawl up the slight slope toward the bow and out of the line of fire. She eased her head over the railing to watch.

There were two dead bodies lying on the dock, surrounded by blood. Both of them had been shot in the head. One of the shooters had dropped to a knee. Bleeding from his chest, he continued to fire at the captain’s son until he finally found his target. The young man was struck in the shoulder, spun around, and then fell off the dock but not before striking his head on the transom of a boat as he hit the water.

His father, the boat captain, saw this and unloaded a barrage of shotgun fire. He’d squeeze the trigger, rack another round, and then fire again. He stood strong against the last man standing on the dock, the leader who had demanded everyone get off the boat. Brutally wounded himself, he finished the battle with a kill shot, nailing the captain in the heart, who instantly fell to the deck.

Exhausted, the killer dropped to his knees and began waving his gun around. He tried to shout, but blood gurgled from his throat and into his mouth. His eyes were wild as he became increasingly incoherent.

“Off… my… boat!” he tried to yell, but it was barely audible as he began to lose his breath.

“Mom!” shouted Tucker as he tried to gain his footing only to slip and fall in the captain’s blood.

“I’m okay.”

“Off!” the man yelled as he spit out more blood. He raised his weapon and tried to shoot in their direction. All that resulted was several clicks barely heard over the still-running diesel engine.

Tucker regained his footing and held onto the rail to greet his mother as she made her way past the wheelhouse. She was incredibly calm under the circumstances.

“Quick, untie the dock lines.”

“What?”

“We’re leaving,” she said as she pushed past him. She pointed toward the bow and carefully made her way past the dead captain. When she reached the entrance to the wheelhouse, she pointed at the man who’d wrapped his arms around his wife and daughter.

“You. Untie that line.”

“But…” He was uncertain if he should follow Lacey’s instructions.

“Now! We’ve gotta go.”

The man jumped at her stern tone and nervously began to untie the line. Lacey entered the wheelhouse. The enclosed space included an eating area, a small galley, and a traditional wooden six-spoke ship’s wheel.

“We’re clear, Mom!”

Lacey turned the wheel and nervously grasped the throttle. This boat was much older than her Dad’s, but the basics were all there, including console-mounted electronics. At first, she gave it too much throttle, and the boat rushed forward. Tucker and the family were thrown to the deck.

“Sorry about that!” Lacey shouted.

Tucker responded with a question. “Whadya want me to do with the body?”

Lacey didn’t have to think about her answer. “Throw it overboard.”

She glanced over her shoulder through the windows above the galley. Tucker and the father slowly hoisted the man onto the side of the boat and dropped him into the harbor. Seconds later, Tucker was by his mom’s side, wiping off his bloody hands on a dish towel.

“Are you okay?” she asked, glancing at him while navigating between the jetty and the Rutherford Pier.

“Yeah. You?”

Lacey nodded and then pointed through the front windows. “The sunset looks different than what I remember.”

“Weird.” Tucker seemed to be recovering from the hectic moments when six men had lost their lives during the gun battle. The two were remarkably calm.

Tucker took a deep breath and reached into his pocket. He dangled a set of keys for his mother to see.

“Are those…?”

“Yep. The keys to Black & Blue. It’s the extra set we have. I was supposed to give them to the captain. Um, I kinda got distracted and forgot.”

Lacey smiled and reached her arm around her son to pull him close to her.

“Are you up for an adventure?”

Tucker sighed and smiled. “Grandpa once told me that a rough day at sea is better than any day at work.”

Lacey laughed. One can only hope.