Whiteout

CHAPTER ONE

Thursday, October 31

Munford Residence

Near Amelia Court House, Virginia

Peter Albright was puzzled by what he found in the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse in rural Central Virginia. The home appeared occupied, yet it wasn’t. Upstairs, the beds had been slept in. Covers were pulled back, and the sheets were wrinkled. However, all of the pillows were missing. The closets had been rummaged through. Hangers had been emptied, and some had even fallen to the floor as if the residents had been in a hurry.

As he continued to shine his light on the family photos located throughout the home’s expansive foyer, he became more certain the family had bugged out when the bombs fell. Most likely, he surmised, they’d gathered the clothes necessary for an extended stay in a bomb shelter nearby. They’d packaged up the food in their cupboards to tide them over until relief supplies came in.

But Peter had an uneasy feeling. Perhaps it was the cold gust of wind that just broadsided the two-story farmhouse. Maybe it was the passing by of a ghost roaming the halls from the home’s past.

Nonetheless, he noticeably shivered. He was overcome by a mixture of wide-ranging emotions, exhaustion and the physiological rush of being in someone else’s home under eerie circumstances. In the moment, he’d become hyperaware of his surroundings as if life were moving in slow motion, one frame at a time.

The multiple clicks of the rifles’ hammers being cocked occurred within milliseconds of one another. Peter’s reaction happened equally as fast.

He leapt backwards, recoiling away from the walls depicting the ancestors of the Munford family. As his body flew toward the front door, bullets pierced the wood floor, sending splinters and centuries-old dust into the air. The first two rounds obliterated the dusty footprints Peter had left before his leap to safety.

He crashed into the door hard. His lower back hit the doorknob, causing him to cry out in pain. Stunned, his body slid to the floor in a heap.

The unmistakable blast of the shotgun made his ears ring as the double-aught buckshot blasted a hole in the floor where he stood. This was immediately followed by the shooters loading another round by cocking the lever actions on their Henry rifles.

Peter twisted around onto his knees and tried to turn the door handle. It was locked. In the darkness, he ran his hands all over the mortise lock, an antique door hardware system in which the lock mechanism was combined with a door pull.

“Dammit,” Peter mumbled as his fingers found the hole where the bit key was inserted to unlock it.

BOOM!

Another shotgun blast tore through the floor near his feet. Peter abandoned his attempt to flee through the front door and began to scramble on all fours into the parlor. He crossed the threshold separating the two rooms when more bullets flew past his side, striking the ceiling, which resulted in plaster raining down onto his head.

Peter begged his attackers to stop. “Please! Stop shooting! I just need a place to sleep!”

He tried to regain his footing. The rifles fired in unison, blasting through the plank flooring again, ripping into a side table, causing a ceramic table lamp to shatter.

Peter covered his face from the flying bits of shiny porcelain as he stumbled forward toward the wall. He tried to get his bearings. He frantically searched his pockets for his flashlight before he realized he’d dropped it in the foyer.

He had to keep moving. He moved quickly through the parlor toward the large entryway, using the outer walls to guide him. Once in the foyer, he accidentally knocked a painting off the wall and tripped over it. The portrait of a long-deceased Munford landed with a thud on the splinter-covered floor. Peter’s body twisted as he fell. He tried to brace himself, but his right arm rammed through the hole the shotgun had made moments earlier.

He was stuck.

He pulled and tugged to free his torn jacket from the shredded flooring. Then, as if he were immersed in a horror movie, someone beneath the floor grabbed his hand.

Peter’s mouth opened to scream, but nothing came out. His primal fear prevented him from letting out the blood-curdling shriek his mind wanted to release.

With all his strength, he tore his arm back through the floor and scrambled into the living room, which was combined with the dining area. He clumsily regained his footing and ran several steps in the darkness before stumbling over the rolled arm of the sofa, where he landed facedown on the musty cushions.

BOOM!

Another shotgun blast from below. The buckshot tore a hole in the floor beneath the sofa, rattled off the springs, and ripped through the cushions.

Peter heard the unmistakable sound of the shooter racking another shell into the shotgun. He couldn’t react in time.

BOOM!

The pellets from the second shot came through the same opening as the first. This time, there was very little in their way to protect him from the impact. Half a dozen found their way into Peter’s midsection and chest. He screamed in agony as he rolled off the sofa onto the rug.

At that point, Peter’s anger kicked in to join his adrenaline-fueled fight to survive. He found his way onto his feet and started running toward where he remembered the kitchen entry was located. He pulled his gun from his paddle holster and fired without aiming into the floor in an attempt to frighten off his attackers. The momentary attempt to multitask almost proved fatal.

The loose area rug slid under his feet, and he fell hard to the floor. Two more rifle shots rang out and pierced the floor in front of him. His loss of balance likely saved his life.

He quickly regained his focus and crawled again toward the kitchen before clumsily crashing into a dining chair with the crown of his head. He was immediately rewarded with a goose egg, a hematoma, that began to swell from the trauma. Nonetheless, he was undeterred.

Peter felt the cool air coming through the kitchen and the hallway that led to the back door. It gave him hope and the feeling that he would survive the onslaught. He changed his course and scrambled forward. His hands reached the part of the kitchen where the direction of the floorboards changed.

He picked up the pace, and then he used the kitchen countertop to pull his battered body upright. Recalling how he’d entered the home, Peter stumbled blindly into the back hallway leading to the outside as he tried to find his way out.

In a frantic rush, he pushed himself toward the Dutch door he’d breached earlier. He flung it open and raced into the cold, dewy air. Relieved, he gasped for air, but in his fight to survive, he’d forgotten about the amount of ash and soot that had permeated the atmosphere. He immediately began a coughing fit as he fell onto his knees in the backyard.

The pain. The inability to breathe. His heart pumping out of his chest. None of that mattered to Peter. He was safe.

Or so he thought.

CHAPTER TWO

Thursday, October 31

Munford Residence

Near Amelia Court House, Virginia

Peter stuck his hand into his jacket and felt the warm moisture oozing out of his upper body. The blood from the shotgun wound had soaked all the clothing layers he’d worn to keep warm. He resisted the urge to pull off the wet clothing. He needed to get to his bicycle and get the hell out of Dodge, as they say.

He pulled his shirt over his mouth and nose to avoid inhaling the sooty air. The rusty, metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils, but it was preferable to the smoky air that had circumnavigated the planet. Peter began to walk quickly through the backyard.

BOOM!

The shotgun roared as it sent another round through an opening under the porch. The sound of pellets embedding in the broad side of the barn forced Peter to the ground. Still holding his pistol, he fired twice in the direction of the house. Glass shattered as the rounds entered the kitchen through the windows.

“Stop! I’m leaving!” What’s wrong with these people?

His attackers never responded, verbally, anyway. Two more gunshots rang out. The bullets whizzed over his head. Close enough to be felt by Peter, which caused the hair to stand up on the back of his neck.

He looked all around him. The ton bales would require him to backtrack, and the barn was too far away to run to. He stuck to the plan. Peter rose to a low crouch and hustled across the yard toward the side of the house. As he did, he held his gun sideways and fired toward the open space under the porch. His first round hit the ground with a thud, so he raised his aim. The second round struck the side of the house.

He became more confident and stood to run toward the driveway where he’d ditched the bicycle. He was rewarded for his efforts by slipping on the moist grass, and he almost fell.

BOOM!

Another shotgun blast with the bellow of a cannon shattered the silence.

Peter screamed over his shoulder, “Leave me alone!” He fired wildly toward the house.

He could hear the muffled voices shouting instructions. The sound of a window rising caught his attention. He fired toward the house again, the bullet embedding in the wood clapboard siding.

His attackers’ response was more gunfire, which startled Peter and caused him to fall forward. He regained his balance once again and began running across the yard in a zigzag pattern. The shots followed his path, tearing into the tall grasses all around him.

Then his right leg caught a farm hydrant protruding from the ground. Often used on farms, the hydrant consisted of a steel standpipe attached to an underground water source that utilized a cast-iron lever and plunger handle. Designed to be freezeproof by avoiding plastic, the all-steel device was an immovable object that caused Peter to spin around before landing hard on his back.

The impact knocked the wind out of him, and for a moment, his vision became blurred. His shirt had fallen down from his face, and he once again sucked soot-filled oxygen into his lungs. The incessant coughing began again and gave away his position to his attackers, who immediately unloaded a barrage of gunfire.

Peter had to move. He was on the downslope of the yard now. He winced in pain as he turned his body. Then he forced his prone torso into a roll. Like a kid playing in a sloped backyard, he turned over and over again as he rolled through the tall grass toward the bottom of the hill where the driveway cut through the trees. His body was stabbed with sticks and the sharp edges of rocks protruding from the ground. It seemed like each time, they sadistically found a bruise or an embedded shotgun pellet.

Then, mercifully, the gunfire stopped.

Nonetheless, he kept an eye on the house until it disappeared from sight. In a fluid motion, he made one final roll and bounded to his feet. He rushed through the grass until he found the limestone rock and packed-dirt driveway.

Peter glanced over his shoulder one last time to see if anyone had emerged from the house to pursue him. He pointed his gun up the hill, searching the hazy surroundings that were now slightly illuminated by the rising sun at predawn. His eyes were wild with fear, and his mind raced as he tried to recall how many shots he’d fired.

Then, without any sign of the shooters, he carefully backed down the hill toward the location where he’d stashed his bicycle. With a deep breath of musty air and the odor of his own blood, he swiftly pushed the bike down the hill toward the road, leaving the Munford home behind him.

CHAPTER THREE

Thursday, October 31

Driftwood Key

Florida Keys, USA

Hank Albright wasn’t the type to take in every stray dog that came a-knockin’. The Florida Keys was every American’s dream of an island paradise. Pristine waters. Island living. Free spirits enjoying life the way they pleased. But, eventually, those who came to the Keys for fun had to pay the bills. Prior to the collapse, there had been a never-ending stream of newcomers seeking a job. They all professed to have extraordinary talents that the Driftwood Key Inn should take advantage of. However, in the end, the resort was a family-run operation with only a handful of longtime employees.

This situation was different. Hank had met Patrick Hollister on occasion. When he first began working for Island State Bank, Patrick had called upon Hank and solicited his business. He didn’t expect Hank to completely abandon his existing banking relationship. Maybe a loan to expand his solar array or to upgrade to a newer model boat. Perhaps a small investment account for Patrick to prove his money-management skills.

Hank never switched banks, but he remained cordial with Patrick, seeing him from time to time at business gatherings in the Keys. He certainly knew nothing of Patrick’s proclivities and the secret life he led as Patricia, serial killer.

Hank and his right-hand man, Sonny Free, approached Patrick to help him to his feet. The injured daytime banker, nighttime murderer, had risen to his knees, with both hands cupping the sides of his head. Blood was trickling out from between his fingers.

Hank spoke over his shoulder to Jimmy, Sonny’s son.

“Let your mom know what’s going on. Tell her to get her first aid supplies and meet us at bungalow three. Then get back to the gate and keep an eye out.”

Jimmy turned and began running toward the trail, the beam of his flashlight dancing wildly among the palm trees. He stumbled momentarily and then regained his footing as he hustled into the canopy of palm fronds.

Hank and Sonny lifted the battered man off the crushed-shell bridge connecting the inn to Marathon. “Stay with us, Patrick. We’re gonna get you some help.”

“He needs a hospital, Mr. Hank,” insisted Sonny. “He’s bleeding everywhere.”

“I know, Sonny, but we gotta get him stabilized first. When Jessica returns with Mike, we’ll figure out where to take him.”

Patrick lifted his head as the mention of Detective Mike Albright’s name registered with him in his semi-coherent state of mind. He could feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness as the two men dragged him along the trail. He was fading fast, and his empty stomach began to retch at the taste of blood in his mouth.

Hank and Sonny stopped to allow Patrick to drop to his knees and vomit. Instead, his stomach twisted and flexed because it was empty. All that Patrick managed to do was spit out the blood that had accumulated in his mouth.

“Come on.” Hank encouraged Patrick to stand again. Jimmy’s flashlight was seen darting toward them along the trail. When he arrived, he was short of breath but relayed a message from Phoebe.

“Mom’s getting everything ready. She really needs Jessica’s help, though. I don’t think she—”

Hank cut the young man off. “She’ll do fine. Now, Jimmy, hurry back and lock down the gate. Then I want you to go to the main house and try to raise Mike and Jess on the radio. Tell them to get back here. Hurry!”

Jimmy took off toward the gate, and the guys continued to help Patrick down the trail toward the beachfront guest bungalows. As they got closer, they could hear the low rumble of the portable generator that was dedicated to this particular bungalow.

During mandatory hurricane evacuations, this was one of six freestanding bungalows that could operate on a generator in the event of a power loss. The others drew from the solar array that had been having difficulty charging the batteries necessary for the hydroponic systems and greenhouses. The day prior, Hank and Phoebe had given up on trying to keep the inn’s freezers operating.

Phoebe rushed off the small covered porch of the bungalow and met them as they emerged from the trail. The porch lights allowed her to recognize the injured man.

“Patrick? Is that you?”

He didn’t respond, as he couldn’t remember that he’d met her a few times at his bank branch. The Frees’ checking and savings accounts had been with the Island State Bank for years. They never had a need to borrow money, so as depositors, their only contact with the branch manager was a friendly hello now and then.

Phoebe had a small flashlight that she used to walk around Driftwood Key after dark. The inn tried to keep its exterior lighting to a minimum, as it tended to draw turtles toward the main house at night. Sea turtles nest from early May through the end of October in Florida. State and local laws were enacted to ensure all indoor and outdoor lights visible from the beach were shielded so as not to confuse hatchlings. After they were hatched, lights might draw them away from the task at hand—crawling toward the Gulf to start their new lives.

She swept her flashlight across Patrick’s face to examine the damage. She then illuminated his body with the beam of light. She shook her head in disbelief. Every part of his clothing was soaked in blood. His face was battered, and his eyes were nearly swollen shut.

While she waited for Hank and Sonny to bring Patrick to the bungalow, she’d prepared the room by spreading an extra coverlet on top of the bed. From Jimmy’s description of the beaten man, she suspected they’d be cutting the clothes off him so she could assess his condition, so she had laid out a complimentary bathrobe provided for their guests.

Phoebe didn’t have any medical training, but she’d learned enough about basic first aid over the years from Hank and his family. She applied common sense to her decisions as she got to work.

The three of them helped Patrick lie comfortably on the bed. Phoebe turned to Sonny. “There are some blankets stacked in the laundry building. I’m gonna have to undress him, and we need to keep him warm. This robe won’t be enough.”

“On my way,” he said as he exited the bungalow quickly.

Hank had already started removing Patrick’s clothing, which consisted of sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee shirt. The dress he’d been wearing when he met his assailants had been torn off in the first brutal attack.

“Sorry, Patrick. Now isn’t the time to worry about our dignity.” He pulled the sweatpants off and immediately saw his bruised legs. Phoebe hurriedly covered his lower body with a thick blanket that was rarely used in the normally warm climate.

“Help me with his shirt,” Phoebe politely instructed her boss. The two worked together to raise Patrick’s arms and pull the tee shirt over his head. More bruising was evident as well as cuts and abrasions. Patrick groaned in pain as his arms stretched his rib muscles.

Phoebe wasted no time in cleaning the blood off his body. She used warm water and clean washcloths to wipe him clean but used sterile gauze near any lacerations. She focused on his upper body first, making mental notes of any contusions or open wounds. She then made her way to his lower body, using a hand towel from the bathroom to cover his genitals. As she cleaned him, he began to lose consciousness.

“We’ve gotta keep him awake, Mr. Hank. We need to keep him hydrated, and I don’t know whether Jessica has those IV bags. Will you wipe his forehead with a cool, damp cloth and see if you can get him to sip water out of a straw?”

She pointed to the nightstand, where she’d already set up a shallow bowl full of water and two washcloths. There was also a child’s cup that was provided to guests with children who stayed at the inn on rare occasion.

Hank eagerly helped out, following Phoebe’s instructions and talking softly to Patrick to calm his nerves. At first, he’d looked confused as his eyes darted around the bungalow, trying to make sense of where he was. He had been more coherent on the bridge when he was discovered than he was now, a direct result of his continued blood loss.

Phoebe set about bandaging his wounds to stop the bleeding. Sonny returned with the blankets and helped her keep pressure on the worst bleeders. Patrick took a couple of sips of water, but he was fading in and out of consciousness, partly from the loss of blood and partly due to exhaustion. He had been allowed very little sleep by his captors, who had abused him mentally and physically until they were finally done with him.

Phoebe checked his pulse and blood pressure. All of Patrick’s readings were low but not life-threatening. Satisfied she’d done all she could without Jessica’s expertise, Phoebe washed Patrick’s blood off her arms and hands.

Drained from the flurry of activity, she sent Sonny to bring her a change of clothes, and then she dutifully took up a chair next to her patient.

CHAPTER FOUR

Thursday, October 31

Near Amelia Court House, Virginia

Peter rode away from the nightmarish encounter as fast as his battered and buckshot-riddled body would take him. He’d lost track of how long he’d been riding, but the pain in his chest and stomach reminded him that he needed to tend to his wounds.

He drove off the two-lane highway onto a country road that led to the banks of the Appomattox River. This stretch of the river was not much more than a creek, but the water was fairly clear and only contained a small amount of silt.

Peter was extremely thirsty, and he needed water to clean his wounds. He stopped at the shoulder of the road and stepped off the bike onto the gravel bordering the asphalt. Each time his feet planted on the rocks, a jolt was sent through his body that seemed to punch every bruise and squeeze every gaping hole oozing blood.

Despite the falling temperatures, Peter didn’t hesitate to remove the three layers of clothing he wore above the waist. They were soaked in blood, and ordinarily, he’d just toss them aside. Under the circumstances, however, he considered rinsing them out and hanging them to dry.

He took a moment to glance down at his chest and midsection. Five of the shotgun pellets had punctured his skin. Two were embedded in his chest, and three holes oozed blood out of his belly. Peter gingerly felt the wounds with his fingertips. Three of the five were superficial. The skin had been broken, causing him to bleed, but the pellets apparently had been deflected or slowed enough to prevent them from going deeper.

The other two wounds obviously contained two pellets from the buckshot. He pressed on the puncture holes and could feel something round beneath his skin. The pain took his breath away, and Peter immediately contemplated leaving them there for fear he might pass out if he tried to remove the shot. Then he recalled virtually every television show or movie he’d ever seen that emphasized removing foreign objects to prevent infection. He decided he’d have to play doctor.

First, he needed to hydrate himself. He rummaged through his duffel bags to locate one of the LifeStraws he’d procured at Dick’s Sporting Goods the night Washington, DC, was bombed. He also pulled out his military-style canteen and cup combo.

Peter used the LifeStraw to extract water out of the river. To the naked eye, the river water appeared clear and drinkable, but he wasn’t sure how the fallout was affecting it. Out of an abundance of caution, he filtered it through the straw and drank until he was satisfied. Then he repeated the process, slowly filling the cup until he had enough to wash his wounds.

He located the first aid supplies he’d taken from Dick’s and the CVS drugstore. He dipped the gauze in the water and gently wiped the wounds off to remove the blood. Some was dried already, but all five holes continued to allow blood to seep out.

Satisfied that three of the holes were simply puncture wounds and didn’t contain a shotgun pellet, he cleansed them with Betadine antiseptic. After applying Neosporin triple antibiotic ointment, he used large Band-Aids to protect the wounds from dirt and bacteria. Then he turned his attention to the more complicated process of removing the pellets.

Peter steeled his nerves as he ran his fingers around the pellet holes again. The wounds were circular and somewhat seared. He’d likely been saved by the floor, sofa and layers of clothing that the pellets had had to travel through before reaching his body. He also assumed parts of all of those things had traveled with the pellets as they entered his chest.

The edges of the wounds were raw and flaring out somewhat, different from the other puncture wounds. This had been Peter’s first indication that the pellets were embedded. He took a deep breath and went to work on the chest wound first, which seemed to be producing the most blood. He considered taking a finger from both hands and mashing the wound like he was a teenager popping a zit. Then he wondered if he might end up pushing the pellet deeper inside.

He opted instead to use the tweezers that came with the first aid kit he’d found at the sporting goods store. He looked up for strength, and then he gritted his teeth. This was gonna hurt.

Peter slowly pried open the wound, an action that almost caused him to scream in agony. He knew he couldn’t because he had to keep his wits about him during the entire process, and he wasn’t certain he was completely alone. With the wound slightly agape, he gently pressed on the sides of his skin to urge the pellet to pop out. His eyes grew wide as he fought to keep his hands steady. If his grip on the tweezers slipped, the silver steel ball might be forced farther into his body, and the wound could be expanded.

With a final gentle nudge, the pellet popped out of his chest and rolled down his stomach until it fell to the ground. Peter quickly retrieved the gauze pad and began to clean the wound. Having practiced on the first three, he was able to cleanse and bandage the hole quickly.

Then he turned his attention to the second pellet. The process was similar to his first effort, and having done it once, his confidence grew. Again, in less than a minute, he’d extracted the pellet, which managed to roll into his belly button. Peter spontaneously laughed, causing him more pain than the removal of the bullet.

“I couldn’t do that again in a million years,” he mumbled to himself with a smile.

He pulled the pellet out of his navel and shoved it into his pocket. This was a story he’d tell his dad and uncle when he got to Driftwood Key.

Peter cleaned himself up, drank some more water, and then dressed in the hunting gear he’d found at the mall. He now wished he’d kept the camping equipment he’d had to leave behind in order to lighten his load. The multiple layers of cold-weather hunting clothes might not be enough to keep him warm out in the open.

For a moment, he thought about looking for a place to sleep. He lay in the grass, surrounded by his belongings and the bloody reminders of what he’d been through the night before. He contemplated what was ahead of him. The length of the trip. The threats he’d face. The challenges of riding a bicycle with his body beat all to hell. His mind wandered, and then it shut down as he fell into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER FIVE

Thursday, October 31

La Junta, Otero County, Colorado

Sheriff Shawn Mobley exited the communications room at the Otero County Sheriff’s Office with a disconcerting look on his face. The normally amiable sheriff had shepherded his community through the aftermath of the devastating electromagnetic pulse that had destroyed the power grid for several hundred miles around its point of detonation outside Boulder. The effect was immediate, and all electronics and vehicles that weren’t hardened against the powerful pulse of energy ceased to function.

Sheriff Mobley had prepared his department and his community for this eventuality. An Army veteran who was also a proud father of four, as well as a grandfather, he’d studied the threats posed by a massive power outage. He’d researched the consequences of massive solar flares as well as the potential of a nuclear-delivered warhead triggering an EMP.

What he never imagined was being subjected to the devastating climatic impact of nuclear winter. Weather anomalies were beginning to appear, and he’d just received contact via his ham radio network that a flash freeze had engulfed the west part of Otero County toward Pueblo.

He was told a handful of livestock had been frozen even though they were sheltered within barns. However, those fighting the freezing conditions in the fields never had a chance. The reports of a sudden temperature drop to below zero coupled with high winds immediately raised concern for the residents around Fowler located on U.S. Highway 50.

His deputies had really stepped up during the crisis. They’d spent countless hours away from their own families to check on the elderly residents of the county and to assist ranchers in protecting their cattle. The community was close knit, and they came together to soldier through the greatest catastrophe to strike America in her history.

He entered the break room at the sheriff’s department without a word. It was five in the morning, and the overnight shift was winding up their workday. His deputies had settled in for a few hands of shotgun poker.

At the sheriff’s office, gambling for money was forbidden, so the deputies improvised. The currency of choice was ammunition. Red twelve-gauge shotgun shells were the lowest value. Next came the nine-millimeter rounds used in the Smith & Wessons that had been the department’s service weapon for years. Tonight, the guys had raided the ammunition lockers for a couple of boxes of Speer Gold Dot hollow points.

Sheriff Mobley had just received an order of several Glock 17 Gen 5s for his patrol deputies, which were outfitted with Trijicon suppressor night sights. Otero County was generally crime-free, as it enjoyed a low unemployment rate and a stable economy. However, U.S. Highway 50 was often traveled by transients across Colorado, requiring his deputies to be well equipped for every eventuality.

“Can we deal you in, Sheriff?” one of the deputies offered as he reached behind him and slid a chair up to the wood-grained table. Another deputy slid her chair back to the refrigerator and grabbed her boss a V8 Sparkling Energy drink. Sheriff Mobley had been pulling long shifts and enjoyed the boost to keep his wits about him.

“Nah, and I hate to tell you, but I need you to do something for me even though your shift is ending,” he replied.

“Sure, Sheriff. Name it.”

“Okay. We’ve had a call from Polly out at the Collins Ranch. There was some kind of weather deal overnight. She said she’d never seen anything like it. The temperature dropped fifty or sixty degrees in just minutes.”

“Dang, Sheriff. Did she lose any of their herd?”

“Some, but I’m worried about more than the livestock. A lot of folks don’t have the heat sources to withstand that kinda shock to their surroundings. Y’all take the Jeeps and head up fifty. Stop in and check on people. I’ll cover the overtime.”

The group of four deputies didn’t hesitate. They pushed away from their chairs and cleaned up the poker game. After grabbing their gear from their lockers, they retrieved the keys to the department-owned Jeeps from their peg hooks.

Sheriff Mobley was a Jeeper, a term used for aficionados of the classic American utility vehicle that dated back to World War II. He personally owned two vintage Jeeps, both CJ5 models. They were made for going off-road, but most importantly, as it turned out, the pre-1972 models’ lack of electronics provided him transportation that was immune to the debilitating effects of an EMP.

During his term as sheriff, he’d begun to search the region for similar Jeeps from the sixties and early seventies. Some were wrecks, and others were in need of parts. It became a labor of love to purchase project cars and restore them. The results of his efforts paid off. The department had a fleet of four fully restored Jeep CJ5s that still operated despite the EMP. Coupled with his two personal vehicles, his deputies were able to travel throughout the county, helping their neighbors and providing the safety of law enforcement during a time when looting was rampant around the nation.

He made sure the deputies took fully charged Bao Feng ham radios with them to communicate with the base unit at the sheriff’s department. He’d been diligent about protecting electronics from the pulse of energy as well.

In a vacant lot across the alley from the sheriff’s office, six semitrailers had been parked side by side. These were used by the City of La Junta to store supplies, and one of the trailers had been assigned to his department. As part of his preparation for a catastrophic event like this one, Sheriff Mobley had purchased six large and a dozen small galvanized trash cans to create Faraday cages.

A Faraday cage, an invention developed by a nineteenth-century scientist, was an enclosure formed by a conductive material like steel or steel mesh used to block the damaging electrons dispersed when an EMP detonation occurs. When electronic devices are placed within the protective shield, the massive burst of energy that was ordinarily too strong for the delicate wiring of modern electronic devices was spread around the container, and none passed into it.

The sheriff had placed a backup of every electronic device used by his department inside one of the galvanized steel trash cans. He’d wrapped each item in heavy-duty aluminum foil and then cushioned it inside the trash cans with two-inch-thick padding like that used in chair cushions. Finally, he’d sealed the lids in place with aluminum tape used by heating and air-conditioning contractors.

When the EMP hit near Boulder, the electromagnetic pulse didn’t penetrate the makeshift Faraday cages. As a result, Sheriff Mobley had the ability to communicate with his deputies when on patrol. He was also able to replace the solar charge controllers and other electronic equipment associated with the department’s rooftop solar array.

He’d even secured various types of medical equipment donated by the Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center in town. As they replaced older, still-operating equipment with newer models, Sheriff Mobley asked to keep the discarded devices. He had also protected this equipment in the larger trash cans. When the EMP destroyed most of the life-saving equipment at the small medical center, he was able to provide them something to work with.

Soon, Sheriff Mobley would learn whether his efforts could help save the lives of a group of strangers who just happened to be passing through his county.

CHAPTER SIX

Thursday, October 31

U.S. Highway 50

Near Fowler, Colorado

Otero County deputies Susan Ochoa and Adam Hostetler followed each other to the westernmost part of the county into the town of Fowler just as the sun was beginning to beg its way through the ash-filled skies. They split up as they drove the residential streets, using the external loudspeakers affixed to their Jeeps to let people know they were in the neighborhood. They asked them to check on their neighbors when the conditions permitted.

The feel of death surrounded them. There were very few birds that inhabited the area, and those were frozen, their carcasses strewn about, lifeless eyes staring toward the sky. Sadly, cats and dogs had fallen victim to the flash freeze as well. Owners, unable to feed their animals, had sent the domesticated creatures out of the house to fend for themselves. Cats were better adapted to the inclement weather, as they squeezed themselves under home foundations or deep into barns. Dogs were another matter. Loyal to their owners, they waited on the porch next to front doors, knowing they’d be let inside eventually. They weren’t.

Ochoa and Hostetler made their way west on U.S. Highway 50 toward Pueblo. They slowed at the entrance to the stockyards to see how the cattle had fared. Hostetler pulled in first. However, as he did, Ochoa had another thought and raised him on the radio.

“Adam, I’m gonna make a quick ride out to the Pueblo County line. There are a couple of farms on County Road 1 that I’d like to check on.”

“10-4. This won’t take long. Let’s meet up here when we’re finished.”

Ochoa continued down the snow-covered highway, which had been partially cleared by the gusty headwinds she faced. A half-mile-long freight train had stalled at the moment of the EMP detonation. Its cars had been filled with cattle heading from Pueblo to the Texas Panhandle. It had been a herculean effort by local ranchers to off-load the railcars and drive the cattle into the Nepesta Valley Stockyards owned by the Lucero family for safekeeping. She wondered if the bone-chilling conditions that had struck the west part of the county killed them all.

Ochoa slowed as she came upon a pickup truck stalled in the middle of the road, heading eastbound. She’d checked it out on a previous patrol to the northwest part of the county, but this time something seemed amiss. Hay was thrown on the asphalt pavement both to the side and rear bumper of the truck. However, there was something else she couldn’t quite reconcile.

She eased up to the front bumper and exited her Jeep. Despite her familiarity with the stalled truck, her instincts encouraged her to keep her gloved hand on her service weapon. She made a fist with her left hand and attempted to wipe the ice crystals off the driver’s side window. When she was unsuccessful, she removed her cuffs from her utility belt and used the steel double strand to remove enough ice for her to see inside. The interior was empty.

She slowly walked to the side of the pickup, kicking at the frozen hay at her feet. Still wary that an animal might have found its way into the truck bed, she kept her hand on her service weapon. Otero County had battled plague-infested prairie dogs and rodents the summer before. The plague had jumped from animal to animal through flea infestations, infecting the wild dogs that roamed the fields around the county line. These animals were not only infectious, they were considered dangerous.

Ochoa stopped and looked around. Nothing moved, and she began to think her hunch had failed her. She took a few steps toward the west and then turned back toward the pickup. She shrugged and shook her head slightly as she started back to her Jeep.

Then something caught her eye in the back of the truck. Her pulse quickened, and her adrenaline kicked in. She drew her weapon.

“Shit! Are you kidding me? Shit!”

Ochoa rushed to the back of the truck and used one arm to hoist herself onto the bumper. She leaned over the tailgate and rustled through the loose hay to reveal the legs of a man extending from under half a dozen bales piled on top of him. With her weapon trained on the man, she grabbed one of his ankles and shook it.

“Hey, mister! Are you okay?”

No response.

She grabbed both ankles and shook hard. She shouted her question. “Hey! Wake up!”

Again, no response.

Ochoa stood on the bumper, holstered her weapon, and pulled her handheld ham radio from her utility belt. Abandoning all protocol, she called for backup.

“Adam! This is Susan. Need you now! Middle of Highway 50, just east of CR 1. Possible dead body.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Thursday, October 31

Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center

La Junta, Colorado

Sheriff Mobley was about to leave the department when a member of his communications team rushed to stop him. He was told about Deputy Ochoa’s discovery of a body in the back of the pickup truck on Route 50. Amazingly, the man they found was not dead. Both Ochoa and Hostetler confirmed the man was hanging on by a thread. He was suffering from exposure to the extreme temperature drop that had been reported to the sheriff’s office.

He took a seat in the chair of the communications deputy and pressed the talk button on the microphone attached to the ham base unit.

“Is he conscious?”

“Negative.”

“Both of you need to carry him into a Jeep. Be gentle. Remove his wet outer layers of clothing.”

Hostetler responded, “Negative, Sheriff. His clothes are frozen solid. I’ve never seen anything like it. He looks like that guy on The Shining.”

Sheriff Mobley scowled. His voice reflected his sense of urgency. “Come on, Adam. Respect, please. Get him in the Jeep and fire up the heat. As his clothes thaw, remove anything wet and cover him with blankets. Susan, ride in the back seat while Adam brings him to the medical center. Monitor his breathing.”

“I have a thermos of hot coffee,” she added.

“Good. If he comes to, and if he’s coherent enough to drink, let him have some but just a little. I mean, don’t let him gulp it down.”

“10-4,” she replied. There was radio silence for a moment until Ochoa returned to report their progress. “We’re coming in. ETA is gonna be half an hour, Sheriff. We’re as far away as far away can be.”

“Understood. Out.” Sheriff Mobley flung himself back in his chair and ran his hands through his thin, sandy blond hair. Throughout the crisis, he’d prided himself and his department on their ability to save the lives of his residents and travelers. Throughout the conversation, as he’d focused on instructing his deputies through the process of bringing the man to the medical center, something nagged at him.

Where did he come from? It was a question he hoped to get answers to because that meant the man would be alive to tell about it. With a sigh, he hustled over to the medical center to alert the emergency room.

Otero County, with its small population of just over ten thousand residents, was fortunate to have its own hospital. Small in comparison to the massive medical centers found in large cities, its history dated back to the early 1900s when it was founded. In the 1920s, its management and operations were turned over to the Mennonite Board with the agreement to expand its facilities. Over the years, it grew before ownership was turned back over to the city of La Junta. Now, the community-owned medical center provided all manner of treatment from birthing babies to treating patients in its intensive care unit.

Sheriff Mobley walked to the hospital to give himself an opportunity to process the weather anomaly that had swept across his county overnight. He’d had several conversations with other ham radio operators in the region about what they’d experienced.

Some explanations were more dramatic than others. Reports of everything freezing instantaneously. Comparisons to space travelers in a cryogenic state. Descriptions of animals instantly frozen, still standing on their legs as if they were an animatronic creation at an amusement park.

There were also the descriptions of the weather event itself. Godly people described it as the Grim Reaper flowing across their fields in the form of a black, shadowy cloud of death. The collector of souls was accompanied by a frigid wind unlike any other they’d ever experienced. During any winter, Otero County was susceptible to icy, subzero temperatures as Canadian air swept down the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, but longtime residents said nothing they’d seen in their lifetimes compared to this.

The sheriff entered the hospital through the emergency room entrance and was not all that surprised to find it bustling with activity. Although most people had been inside during the flash freeze, some had been caught outside checking on their animals or retrieving firewood for their woodstoves.

It was all hands on deck as medical personnel from all parts of the hospital were in the emergency room, treating people for breathing difficulties resulting from taking in the frigid air. Others had suffered frostbite and severe burns to their exposed skin.

One man was suffering a mental breakdown. He’d heard his beloved horse become agitated as his barn was struck with an enormous gust of wind. He ran out to the stable in his nightclothes without a jacket. Within a minute, he realized he was in trouble, and when his horse fell over dead, he did the only thing he could do to survive.

He grabbed a razor-sharp sickle hanging from a support post. He cut open the belly of his horse and removed her intestines. The small-framed man forced himself into his horse’s body cavity and then pulled straw up against himself. He’d lain there for hours, sobbing, but somewhat warm. At least enough not to freeze. He survived physically. Mentally, he’d never be the same.

Sheriff Mobley convinced the emergency room staff to have a treatment room reserved for the incoming patient. They shuffled some of the already-treated patients to other parts of the hospital after he convinced them there might be more exposure victims inbound that morning.

When Hostetler’s Jeep roared into the covered entrance to the ER, Sheriff Mobley rushed outside with the nurses pushing the gurney. He wanted to do all he could to keep anyone in his county from dying on his watch.

The medical team quickly moved the man into the ER treatment room. They began their work on the patient but not before they had to encourage remove Sheriff Mobley and his two deputies to leave the room. The three law enforcement officers looked upon the man they knew nothing about with concern and sadness. None of them expected the man to live.

A nurse handed Ochoa two bags containing the man’s belongings as she closed the curtain to block their view. The three law enforcement officers walked outside with the bags and laid them on the hood of the idling Jeep.

“We need to go back and fetch Ochoa’s Jeep,” said Hostetler in a somber tone of voice.

“Let me get the rest of the victim’s things,” she added as she opened the passenger door and reached into the back seat of the Jeep. She returned with the man’s thawed jacket and pants. She was also holding something that puzzled Sheriff Mobley.

“What’s with the car parts?” he asked.

“Strange, right?” replied Ochoa. She held them up for Sheriff Mobley and Hostetler to examine. “The vic had the radiator hose stuffed inside his jacket, and his arm was wrapped through the air filter.”

“Broken-down car?” asked the sheriff.

“Not that I recall seeing,” replied Ochoa. “You know, vis is limited. Plus, once I found the body, I focused on getting him here.”

Sheriff Mobley took the parts from her and set them on the still-warm hood of Hostetler’s Jeep. He dumped the contents of the man’s property bag on the hood and spread everything out.

“Let’s look for some sort of identification.”

The three of them rustled through the pockets of his clothing until Ochoa found something. “Hey, it’s a business card. I don’t know if this is the guy or not, but it makes sense.” She handed it to Sheriff Mobley, who studied it.

“Owen McDowell. Senior VP with Yahoo in Sunnyvale.”

“Should we let the docs know?” asked Hostetler.

Sheriff Mobley handed the card to him and nodded. “Take his things and tell them what you know. Ochoa, you’re with me. Let’s head up the highway and find this gentleman’s car.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Thursday, October 31

U.S. Highway 50

Near Fowler, Colorado

“Sheriff, um, that was County Road 1,” said Deputy Ochoa hesitantly. “We’re in Pueblo’s jurisdiction now.” She kept her eyes forward, mostly, with only the occasional side glance at her boss as he continued up Highway 50.

“I’m sure they won’t mind. I wanna see where this McDowell fella came from.”

Sheriff Mobley relaxed his death grip on the Jeep’s steering wheel momentarily and adjusted his stout frame in the seat. He set his jaw and leaned forward, unconsciously causing him to propel the vehicle a little faster on the slick, snow-covered highway.

Despite the darkened daytime conditions, he wore his sunglasses to shield the glare produced by the white cloud cover. What little sunlight found its way to Earth’s surface reflected in all directions off the snow and the grayish atmosphere.

“Sheriff, up ahead. Bright blue. Looks like a classic Bronco or Blazer.”

“I see it!” he exclaimed as he began to decelerate. He’d already noticed patches of ice under the blanket of snow, and he didn’t want to make a bad day worse by plowing into the stranded truck in the middle of the highway. He slowed to a stop, and the two quickly exited the Jeep to approach the stalled Ford Bronco.

Sheriff Mobley noticed the hood wasn’t completely closed, and knew he had the right truck. He pulled his tactical flashlight from his utility belt and illuminated it. Despite it being midmorning, the interior of the truck was dark. Ochoa, as she’d done before, tried the door handles first, and then she scraped the ice off the driver’s window with her handcuffs.

The sheriff shined the light through the hole in the icy exterior and peered inside. “Looks empty,” he muttered.

Ochoa began to scrape away the ice from the rear windows of the two-door classic Bronco. Without saying a word, she began to do so more frantically. She rubbed the window with her gloved hands.

“I see a body! Wait, no. There are two!”

Simultaneously, Sheriff Mobley began pounding on the hood of the truck while Ochoa smacked the window.

“Hey! Are you guys okay?” she shouted.

“Sheriff’s department. Open up!” ordered Sheriff Mobley.

“I’ve got movement, Sheriff! I swear one of them moved.”

“Stand aside,” he instructed his deputy. He pulled his new service weapon and turned it around to be used like a hammer. He struck the driver’s side window with the pistol grip until it cracked. Then he turned sideways and drove his elbow into the breach, causing the glass to break before falling inside. He didn’t hesitate to pull up the door lock.

“Are you okay?” Ochoa shouted her question again.

Nobody responded.

Sheriff Mobley struggled to open the driver’s side door, which had frozen shut. He placed his boot on the truck’s nerf bar, the shiny steel tubular bars that served the purpose of a running board on older trucks. He grunted as he pulled on the door handle. It flew open, causing him to lose his balance temporarily. The sheriff caught himself before falling, and Ochoa quickly moved in to pull the driver’s seat forward. She raised the seat back to give her access to the rear passengers.

Despite her hyperactive state of mind, she slowed her approach to the two people curled up together in the back seat. If they were armed, she didn’t want to startle them into shooting her. She found a teenage boy on the edge of the seat, bundled up in winter gear. His face was barely visible through the hood of his jacket, which was secured around him with a drawstring.

She leaned in further and placed her ear next to his mouth. She managed a smile as she crawled backwards out of the truck. She made eye contact with Sheriff Mobley.

“He’s alive. There’s another person crammed in the seat under a pile of clothing and blankets. We gotta pull the boy out first.”

“I’ll get the Jeep and call it in.”

While Sheriff Mobley pulled the Jeep closer, Ochoa tried to revive the young man. For a brief moment he regained consciousness.

“Hey, buddy,” she began. “Take it easy, okay? We’re gonna get you some help.”

The young man tried to speak to her, but his mouth barely moved. Air exited his mouth; however, his words were stifled by his weakened condition.

“That’s okay. You don’t need to talk. Let me help you out.”

“Dad,” he said, the word barely audible but discernible by Ochoa.

“Your dad? Is that your father behind you?” She tried to reach under his arms to pull him out, but she couldn’t leverage his weight. Sheriff Mobley joined her side to assist.

The young man mouthed the words and spoke whisper soft. “My mom. Dad went for…” His voice trailed off.

Sheriff Mobley gently nudged Ochoa out of the way and asked, “Is his name Owen?”

Tucker McDowell nodded and then passed out.

The Otero County sheriff’s department sprang into action. While Sheriff Mobley and Deputy Ochoa raced back to the medical center with Tucker and Lacey, the other deputies gathered up the parked Jeep. Then they worked together to tow the abandoned McDowells’ vintage Ford Bronco to the sheriff’s department. Once it had arrived, they were able to confirm the family’s identity and provided the information to the medical staff.

As the day progressed, the McDowell family occupied three spots in the small hospital’s intensive care unit. Despite being exhausted, Sheriff Mobley remained in the lobby to keep tabs on the California family he and his deputies had rescued. They’d given the young family a chance to live, and he wanted to see their care through to the end.

The attending physician, an acquaintance of the sheriff’s, had just completed his rounds and approached to provide an update.

“Shawn, you really oughta go home and get some rest. These folks are in good hands.”

“What’s the prognosis?” asked the sheriff without addressing the doctor’s concerns for his well-being.

The doctor sighed and sat on a chair across from the sheriff. He loosened his tie, one of the few physicians who continued to maintain a higher standard of dress during the apocalypse. His white physician’s jacket, however, was soiled from inadequate washing. His shirt was no longer pressed. But he still donned a tie out of respect for those he treated. They deserved professionalism, he’d told his wife the first day after the EMP destroyed the power grid. He’d worked countless hours daily ever since.

“Not good for the father and only slightly better for the other two. Shawn, they’re suffering from the worst cases of hypothermia I’ve ever seen. You know how it is around here; we get cases every winter. You warn people on Facebook and do the PSA radio spots, but they don’t listen. They think they can endure what mother nature has to offer.”

“This was some kind of freak storm, Doc,” interrupted Sheriff Mobley. “The western part of the county got the worst of it. We’re lucky your hospital isn’t wall-to-wall with these patients.”

“It’s a good thing, too,” said the doctor. “We don’t have the necessary equipment to give these people the treatment they deserve. If it weren’t for you storing the old stuff in those trailers, we’d have no way to monitor their vitals.” He sighed and shook his head before continuing.

“The dad’s body temp was just at seventy degrees. I can’t stress enough that he’s suffering from a profound, potentially life-threatening level of hypothermia. By all rights, he should be dead right now except for the grace of God.”

Sheriff Mobley grimaced. “What about the mom and their son? They were pretty bundled up in the back of the truck. Why aren’t they waking up?”

“We could wake them, but their bodies need to rest and recover. We’re keeping them hydrated and warm. Both of their bodies’ temperatures recorded in the low eighties when you brought them in. I suspect they dropped to the mid-seventies overnight.”

“And the dad hit seventy?” asked Sheriff McDowell.

The doctor nodded. “You can do the math, Shawn. That means he likely hit the mid-sixties by the time your deputies found him. His vital organs were beginning to shut down, and his brain function suffered. I can’t guarantee we can save him, and even if we do, he may have suffered severe brain damage as a result of the exposure.”

“Damn,” muttered the sheriff as he sat back in his chair and rubbed his temples.

“There’s one more thing regarding the dad,” began the doctor. “Hostetler relayed to me what Ochoa observed when she found him in the back of the pickup. She said his lower legs had been exposed. That accounts for the severe frostbite we’ve diagnosed. I’m afraid it caused permanent damage to his calves, ankles, and feet.”

“What does that mean?” asked the sheriff.

“We may have to perform an amputation of both legs below the knees.”

CHAPTER NINE

Thursday, October 31

Driftwood Key

By dawn that morning, Jessica and Mike had arrived to help with Patrick. Jessica Albright, Mike’s wife, was a trained paramedic and a member of the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department Water Emergency Team, aptly known as WET. She was capable of providing advanced emergency medical care for injured patients. Her primary role was to stabilize people with life-threatening injuries so they could be transferred to a higher level of care such as a nearby emergency room.

The closest medical center, Fishermen’s Community Hospital, had been closed two days prior after would-be thieves attempted to steal fuel stored for the facility’s backup generators.

On any given day, hospitals consume a lot of energy. Their lifesaving devices rely upon electricity to monitor and treat critical care patients. The level one emergency power supply systems dictated by the National Fire Protection Association could be operated using either natural gas or diesel fuel. At Fishermen’s, the diesel was stored in elevated tanks to prevent them from being damaged during hurricane conditions.

The thieves had attempted to drain the diesel into fifty-five-gallon drums mounted on the back of a flatbed delivery truck. In their effort to break the locking mechanism on an emergency drain valve, they’d breached the raised tank, and diesel poured onto the ground, emptying the tank within minutes. The sudden loss of fuel caused the diesel generators to seize and shut down. While the tank was able to be repaired, the Keys had no source of diesel fuel to replenish the tank.

This meant the next closest hospital was either in Islamorada or Key West, and they were only treating critical care patients. Patrick’s injuries, while brutal, fell just short of life-threatening, so Jessica made the call to keep him there.

She set up intravenous fluids and kept him hydrated. She complimented Phoebe on her excellent first aid skills. However, with her advanced trauma kit, she was able to do some things Phoebe couldn’t, including the use of medical staples, an alternative to traditional suturing.

While Patrick was sleeping, Jessica took the time to examine every inch of his body. She was the first to discover that the man had been sodomized. She’d shed a tear as she studied Patrick’s badly beaten face. His eyes were very swollen, and both of his lips were cut from repeated punches. There was even an abrasion on his right cheek that resembled the sole of a sneaker.

After a long day, she, Mike and Hank gathered around the fire for a drink. She provided the guys an update on Patrick’s condition before their discussion turned to other events of the day.

“Hank, last night’s incident with Patrick’s sudden arrival at the gate has me concerned,” began Mike as he stared off into the darkness.

The three of them were in a solemn, melancholy mood. Patrick’s beating reminded them of how depraved their fellow man could be. Depravity was an innate, moral corruption of the soul unique to the human species. No animal on the planet had the cognitive ability, or the penchant, for wickedness.

“Me too,” said Hank as he sipped his drink without looking in Mike’s direction. It had been a sore subject. He’d made his feelings known to Mike previously that he wished he and Jessica could stick around Driftwood Key. If anything, over the last several days, the opposite had occurred. The sheriff’s department had demanded more of their time than ever.

“I know your feelings on this, and trust me, Jess and I have wrestled with what to do,” Mike said. “You know, when you’re in law enforcement, you have the same sense of duty as those who are in the military. We were hired to do a job, which includes protecting our community.”

“And being traffic cops?” asked Hank, allowing his frustrations to pour out. “Seriously, Mike. Is the sheriff asking you to investigate crimes? Are you still pursuing the serial killer? All I hear you guys talk about is evicting nonresidents and leading them off the Keys like the freakin’ Pied Piper.”

“Listen, Hank,” said Mike as he sat up in his chair. “We gotta do what we gotta do. As soon as—”

“As soon as what?” Hank rudely cut him off. “As soon as Lindsey is satisfied that we’ve rid the Keys of vermin?” Lindsey Free, mayor of Monroe County’s government, was also Sonny’s former sister-in-law.

“Hank, it’s not like that,” interjected Jessica. “Mike can’t investigate crimes right now because he doesn’t have the resources. Also, until we stabilize the Keys by getting people settled in their homes, we’ll have crimes like burglaries and beatings.”

Hank sighed and gulped down the rest of his drink. He was in a foul mood, partly because he hadn’t slept since he’d briefly dozed off on the front porch the night before. The three sat in silence while Hank and Mike stewed about the overall situation.

“Hank, may I finish now?” asked Mike calmly. He respected his older brother and understood he was not used to having criminal activity that routinely took place outside the confines of Driftwood Key insert itself into his life. After he’d seen Patrick, Mike could only imagine what was going through Hank’s head with his son and daughter missing.

“Yeah, sorry,” Hank muttered. It was a half-ass apology, but Mike silently accepted it anyway.

“What I was about to say was, for starters, I’ve got the sheriff’s approval to stagger my shifts with Jessica. He’s been sending us off in different directions every night anyway, so we weren’t able to work with one another. I’m gonna work graveyard, and she’ll handle days or early evenings. Here, she’ll take the witching-hour patrols. You know, midnight to four or five.”

Jessica added, “That’ll give me plenty of time to sleep and help watch the key when we’re most vulnerable.”

“That sounds pretty good,” mumbled Hank, hoping that they’d give it all up to stay close to home.

He stretched his glass over to Jessica, who had strategically planted herself between the two brothers. Somehow, she sensed Hank had been waiting all day for an opportunity to bring the subject up. She refilled his glass and passed the bottle of Jack Daniel’s over to Mike, who topped off his glass as well. He had to leave for work in an hour but doubted the sheriff would be conducting random breathalyzer tests at the moment.

“Here’s the thing, Hank,” Mike tried to explain. “First off, we’re not getting paid, and everyone from the mayor to the sheriff have acknowledged that. So they do their best to pay us in kind. Sure, it’s not the same as money, but under these circumstances, it might be looked at as better than money.”

“That’s right,” added Jessica. “I’m given my choice of medical supplies and gear. Scuba related, too. There’s no accountability, and my boss is fully aware we’d use it on our families before a stranger if need be. Today was a wake-up call for me. You can bet during my shift tomorrow I’ll be giving myself a raise, if you know what I mean.”

The men laughed, so Mike explained how he paid himself. “I will continue to stock Driftwood Key with weapons, ammunition, and accessories. Please understand me, Hank. I know there’ll come a time when my contribution to law enforcement will be limited to this place.” He waved his arm around his head in a circle as he made reference to Driftwood Key.

“We don’t think the county is going to be able to maintain order for very long,” added Jessica. “Even with the expulsions and the processing of refugees at the bridges, the locals are becoming increasingly hostile with one another. At first, you had this sense of community. You know. Rah-rah, we’re all in this together bullshit. No, we’re not. This nuclear winter thing is gonna last a long, long time, and as people become desperate, then watch out.”

Mike leaned forward to the edge of his Adirondack chair so he could look his brother in the eyes. The flames of the bonfire grew, casting orangish light coupled with shadows across the brothers.

“Hank, I promise you. We’ll circle the wagons here long before it comes to that. But unless we act as your eyes and ears out there, we’ll never know what’s comin’.”