Whiteout

CHAPTER TWENTY

Saturday, November 2

Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

Northern Virginia

President Helton was about to learn not all EMPs were alike. The electromagnetic pulse generated by the nuclear warheads had a differing effect on the U.S. depending upon whether it was an impact explosion or if the warhead detonated above the Earth’s surface.

Homeland Security and its experts were called in to brief the president on the impact the EMPs had on critical infrastructure and anything dependent on the use of electricity. While trying to help those in need, he was constantly looking forward to the rebuilding effort.

“Mr. President,” began the DHS director, “since the nineties, an argument raged in Washington as to whether the EMP threat was overhyped or a grievously overlooked existential threat to the nation. Generally, the debate centered around the funding of the various means to insulate our critical infrastructure from the effects of an electromagnetic pulse.

“These EMPs, whether naturally created by the sun in the form of a coronal mass ejection of solar matter or manmade as delivered by a high-yield nuclear warhead, impact us in similar ways. When a nuclear device explodes at high altitude, say between twenty-five and two hundred fifty miles above the Earth, it produces powerful gamma rays that radiate outward.

“As the gamma rays collide with molecules in the Earth’s atmosphere, they are directed toward the planet surface in the form of a powerful electromagnetic energy field. The EMP does not directly cause human injuries, but it does destroy most electrical equipment and computerized devices as a surge of high-voltage current seeks out wiring or cables that act like antennas.”

The president raised his hand slightly to stop the director’s presentation. “Before you continue with what has been affected, let’s talk about the range these detonations had. They’re all different, correct?”

“Yes, Mr. President. For one, we’re dealing with several different types of detonations. This may seem illogical, but the higher the altitude of the burst, the farther the pulse of energy travels. The gamma rays spread outward from the detonation site. At twenty-five miles above the surface, they enter the atmosphere where ionization occurs and produce an electromagnetic wave. This wave travels unimpeded, and it radiates everything below it.

“The only example of this type of high-altitude EMP detonation occurred near Denver at an altitude of around twenty miles. Our analysis leads us to believe that this warhead was destined for Cheyenne Mountain, but our ballistic missile interceptors took it down near Boulder. The gamma rays radiated outward in a radius several hundred miles across the U.S.

“Now, contrast this with the ground burst in Washington, which radiated out a much shorter distance. The line of sight from ground zero was much shorter than the Colorado air detonation.”

“Okay, I understand,” said the president. “Now, is it possible for you to identify, either by your modeling or actual in-the-field research, what parts of the country were directly affected by the EMP effect?”

“We’ve begun that process through modeling, Mr. President. Next, with your permission, we’d like to utilize the military to assess the range of each nuclear detonation. Those parts of the nation that are outside the reach of the gamma rays will be able to achieve some sort of normalcy first. Assuming, of course, that the power grid can be restored.”

“Normalcy?” asked the president.

“Sir, I suppose that was a poor choice of words. Nothing will be normal for years to come, as Secretary Bergmann indicated in yesterday’s briefing. By normal, I mean vehicles and computers could still operate. Audio-visual equipment, for example, would work, enabling Americans to both receive and transmit information to satellites for further dissemination.”

“Hospitals, too, I presume.”

“Yes, sir. Most hospitals outside the EMP blast radius would have operating medical devices once electricity is restored. For a while, as we’ve discussed, they can operate using their generators, many of which are hardened against electromagnetic pulse energy already. However, they need fuel to function. Without the power grid, they have to rely upon propane, natural gas, or gasoline. All of which require their own power sources to be extracted and then delivered.”

The president sighed. The nation’s ability to function wasn’t totally destroyed. It simply meant he’d have to marshal the unaffected assets wisely. However, he thought to himself, without a functioning power grid, the task of recovery was near impossible.

“Our managed blackouts didn’t work to prevent the complete collapse of the grid, did they?”

The director grimaced and shook his head. “Sir, it was the only option we had, but you’re correct, the rolling blackouts simply prolonged the agony. It didn’t give us time to prevent the cascading failure.”

“What steps do we need to take to restore the grid? At least in the areas where the EMP blast didn’t have an effect.”

“Sir, prior studies have pointed to as many as fourteen bulk-power transformers that are especially vulnerable to the thermal damage resulting from an EMP event. These massive transformers, all made in China, I might add, convert high-voltage electricity from one transmission location to another, enabling it to move from the source of generation to the end user.

“Their proximity to the EMP blast determines whether it is ruined or simply rendered inoperable. Further analysis is needed to understand the extent of damage using site-specific data, including the overall condition of the transformer. That said, the cascading failure will necessarily result in the removal and replacement of the computer systems for each transformer. These are unique to the transformer and must be rebuilt to those exact specifications.”

“How long would it take to replace a transformer and its computer system?” asked the president.

The director shook his head side to side as he contemplated his answer. “Years, under normal circumstances. Because Japan was hit by the DPRK’s nukes, China is our only source for replacement components. We’re totally reliant upon them at this point.”

The president slumped in his chair, allowing the director’s final words to hang in the air.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Saturday, November 2

Central North Carolina

A dog barking incessantly in the distance awoke Peter that morning. He’d passed out sitting up, and eventually during his sleep, he’d slid over on his side, sleeping in a fetal position to ward off the cold. The barking dog might have been his new friend, but when several others joined in, a cacophony of breeds awoke the rural neighborhood just like a rooster might on a farm.

Peter gripped his rifle and forced his sore body to stand. He rolled his eyes as he questioned if it would ever recover. He unstrapped the bungee cords from his bicycle and eased the door open. It was daylight. Well, as much as daylight was allowed to appear during nuclear winter.

The sounds of the dogs barking in the distance were louder now but sufficiently far enough away not to concern him. After he relieved his bladder, he slipped back into the storage building and plotted out his day.

He was beginning to establish a routine after only a few days on the road. He checked his wounds and took his medications. He repacked his duffels and backpacks, reassessing his ammunition supply as he did. Thus far, he’d only expended nine-millimeter rounds from his handgun. He was certain it wouldn’t be the last time.

He also decided to keep extra magazines in his cargo pants pockets for his handgun and the AR-15 rifle he’d taken from the men on the bridge. He would be traveling near a major metropolitan area as he swung to the west of Winston-Salem. The historic city of a quarter million, built during the infancy of America’s tobacco industry, would present challenges if someone approached him.

He’d have to tread lightly and be pleasant to everyone he encountered. He’d also have to be prepared to shoot them just like he’d shot the men on the bridge. His mind was prepared to travel through a kill-or-be-killed environment. It was wholly out of character for him but a necessary consequence of the changing world.

The circuitous route he would have to take to avoid the city would take him to the town of Wilkesboro, sixty-five miles northwest of Charlotte. From that point, Peter believed, after studying the map, he could travel due south through the Carolinas, into Georgia, before entering North Florida. All of the major cities along the way could be avoided.

Peter was a beast that day. Perhaps it was the fact he’d rested his weary body. Maybe it was the fact he began to see more signs of life. Several times along the route, he was passed by vehicles traveling in both directions as he approached Wilkesboro. Only one car slowed down as they approached Peter, and it appeared to be out of courtesy, as they didn’t want to startle him on a sharp curve.

The combination of all the positive things he’d experienced as he rode gave him a second wind. By his prior calculations, he was able to easily ride eighty-plus miles in seven hours. He approached Wilkesboro with several hours of daylight remaining, so he continued on his southerly track.

As he rode closer toward I-40, the number of homes with people appearing outside increased. There was one property near the road frontage that caught his eye. A man and a woman sat in white rocking chairs, slowly easing back and forth with surgical masks over their faces. The older man had an oxygen tank with a breathing mask dangling from the valve by his side. The portable oxygen device must’ve been used by him for a respiratory ailment. Now, despite the horrendous air quality conditions, he was sitting outside.

Peter decided to take a chance. He was starving for information, probably more than he was hungry for food. He turned his bike toward the house and dismounted near their mailbox. He slowly walked it up the sidewalk, which had a dusting of ashy snow.

He stopped short of the porch when he saw an old double-barrel shotgun lying across the lap of the woman, who continued to rock back and forth while maintaining a watchful eye on Peter. He held up his hands to show he hadn’t planned on drawing his weapons on them.

“Hi! I’m Peter Albright. I don’t want to bother you, but I just wondered if you could help me with some information.”

The older man cupped his hand to his ear and looked over at his wife. “What did he say?”

“He has questions.” She shouted her answer to him.

“About what?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Charles. He ain’t asked ’em yet.” She raised her voice so he could hear.

If Peter wasn’t apprehensive, he would’ve found the scene comical. He inched his bike forward until he was just a few feet away from the covered stoop. Neither of the rockers seemed to be concerned with his approach.

“Whatcha wanna know?” she asked, pulling down her mask as she spoke.

Peter kept his face covered. “Hi. Well, ma’am, I was—”

The old man interrupted him, waggling his finger at Peter as he spoke. “You gotta pull that thing down, or I can’t hear ya. Go ahead now. Pull it down.”

Peter glanced around and then pulled down his gaiter. “I was wondering if you could tell me if the power is out around here.”

“Yup, just a couple of days ago,” the old woman replied. “It was on and off for a bit after the bombs dropped. Then it just never came back on.”

Peter decided to tell his story to gain their trust. He hit the high points of where he had been located at the moment of the blast and how he’d managed to survive since. He left out the parts about the gunfights, naturally.

She told him what they’d heard on the radio following the nuclear attacks. Tears poured out of his eyes when he heard about San Francisco. They both noticed that he’d become emotional and exchanged looks. Without saying a word, the old man nodded, and his wife stood up.

“Young man, why don’t you come inside and take a load off your feet. I’m gonna fix up some beans and cornbread. I’ve got some pepper relish to put on top if you like it.”

Peter’s eyes grew wide, and his stomach immediately began to growl. “How? Um, how are you cooking it?”

The woman laughed as she helped her husband out of his rocking chair. “We’re country folk,” she said with a chuckle and then waved her arm around. “This ain’t nothin’ for us.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Saturday, November 2

Bethlehem, North Carolina

Their names were Charles and Anna Spencer. Both were in their early eighties, having resided in the small community just north of Hickory all their lives. Anna had taught school at nearby Bethlehem Elementary, and Charles had been a trucker working for Freight Concepts just down the road from their home. The company specialized in hauling furniture manufactured by companies in Hickory to warehouse destinations across America. He’d developed respiratory issues from years of smoking cigarettes while on the road.

“Ma’am, I can’t tell you how much this means to me,” said Peter as he wiped his mouth with the paper napkins she provided. Anna had encouraged him to eat all he wanted. There was plenty, she assured him, although he couldn’t imagine where she stored it. The house was full of furniture, but it appeared they only had a limited amount of food. Perhaps that was by design, Peter thought to himself as he offered to clear the dishes.

“Not on your life, young man,” admonished Anna as she raised her hands. “You’re a guest in our home.” She pushed her chair back and immediately grabbed his bowl.

“Young man, have you heard about the farmers’ market tomorrow?” asked Charles.

Peter politely raised his voice so his host could hear him. “Farmers’ market? As in selling their harvest?”

Charles laughed. “Well, it’s something like that. People have been gathering each morning to trade with one another. One man’s bushel of apples is worth another man’s bottle of bleach.”

“Barter?” asked Peter.

“That’s right,” Anna replied as she set a small plate in front of him, full of sliced apples. Peter wiped a tear from his eyes. In his lifetime, no one had shown him this much kindness in a time of need other than his family.

Charles reached over and squeezed his wife’s hand. He smiled as he spoke. “It’s more than that. You are determined to get to your family, and there is a way that might become easier for you.”

Peter slowly munched on an apple, savoring the flavor. “I have my credit cards. Do you think I could buy a car?”

The trio laughed, and after several jokes about how the banking system had probably collapsed just like the Spencers’ grandparents had warned them it would someday, Anna explained, “My husband is referring to the truckers. You see, like Charles, most of the drivers who work for Freight Concepts live nearby. This is their only terminal, and all deliveries start right here. When they’re done with their trip, they come back to Bethlehem empty.”

Charles took over from there. “Most of them, like us, had small farms. They also had trucks big enough to take livestock to the stockyards over in Catawba, or if they had chickens, Tyson up the road would take all they had.”

Peter finished the apples and gave Anna a thumbs-up. She offered him more, but he declined. His stomach was truly full. He was concerned how the sudden influx of beans and apples might wage war on his digestive system. The excessive gas might cause the Spencers to throw him out in the cold.

Charles continued. “We all have farm diesel stored. Me and the missus topped off our tanks the day after the bombs hit. The day after that, the supplier ran dry. Others like us did the same. Now they’re finding a way to profit from it.”

“How’s that?” asked Peter.

Anna laughed. “Well, it ain’t no Uber, but it serves the same purpose. They’re takin’ folks west and south away from where the bombs dropped in DC and New York. Folks who weren’t ready for something like this are searching for seclusion or, like you, family.”

Peter’s eyes lit up. Greyhound bus or chicken truck, he didn’t care. How do I get south?

“Do you know how much? I mean, they must charge something.”

“We don’t know ’cause we don’t go down there,” replied Anna. “It’s getting more crowded every day as people have started walking along I-40 from Charlotte into the Smokies.” The Great Smoky Mountains were located at the southern end of the Appalachian Mountains along the North Carolina-Tennessee border.

Peter’s elation suddenly turned dour as he thought about the reality of paying someone to drive him to Florida. He didn’t have any money or bushels of apples to trade. He grimaced and sat back in his chair.

There had to be something, or some way, to make this work.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Saturday, November 2

Driftwood Key

Since Patrick’s arrival several nights ago, there hadn’t been any activity at the gate separating Driftwood Key from Marathon. Hank had begun to feel foolish for his constant nagging at his brother about keeping one of the family’s law enforcement officers at the inn at all times. Despite Hank’s vivid imagination that conjured up marauders at the gate, the only person attempting to enter Driftwood Key had been a harmless banker who’d been beaten to within an inch of his life.

It had just turned dark when Hank arrived at the gated entry to the inn, with an AR-15 slung over his shoulder. The rifle was equipped with a suppressor confiscated by the sheriff’s office during a drug bust. Mike had taken a few liberties with the evidence locker after the collapse sent everything into disarray.

Armed like a soldier, he hardly looked like one. His uniform consisted of Sperry Top-Sider deck shoes, khakis, and a Tommy Bahama half-zip sweatshirt. His appearance on patrol that night looked more like that guy Dale who drove the motor home in the early episodes of The Walking Dead than an armed sentry who should be reckoned with.

Mike had had to leave early to deal with a looting situation in Key West and wasn’t due back until midnight. Because it was just after dusk, Hank sent Sonny and Jimmy to join Jessica at the main house for dinner. He told them to get some rest, assuring them he could handle any wayward soul who ventured across the bridge connecting their key to Marathon.

A chill came over him as the slight breeze off the Gulf brought with it dropping temperatures. He cursed himself for not sending Jimmy or Sonny to Walmart to purchase cold-weather clothing, if it was even available. He’d tried to prepare based upon the warnings he’d received from Erin Bergmann and Peter. In the back of his mind, he’d doubted their cautionary advice to expect nuclear winter to live up to its name.

As he mindlessly wandered along the shoreline, he thought of Erin. He’d become smitten with her in a way he hadn’t felt since his wife was alive. Erin was attractive and intelligent. Their conversations ranged from serious, such as geopolitical affairs, to silly, as was the case on their last day together when they went fishing. She had been whisked away that day because of the impending doom that was about to be unleashed on America. They’d barely had time to say goodbye much less discuss whether they’d ever see one another again. He thought about her every day, and the fact that she was still on his mind was an indication of how deep his feelings were for her.

Hank glanced upward in search of the moon and the stars. As a lifelong resident of the Keys and an accomplished boater, he knew what day of the month the moon was supposed to be full just like landlubbers knew what day the mortgage was due. Prior to the attacks, on a night like this, he’d look up to an impeccable midnight blue sky with a bright white orb peeking between a few clouds passing by. The stars would appear to be dancing around it, a nighttime sailor’s delight, who relied upon them for navigation. Now the constant blanket of gray, sooty cloud cover blocked out everything the heavens had to offer and radiated nothing but misery inward.

“We need a hurricane,” he said aloud. Then he laughed. He’d heard a friend of his make that statement when Hank had had to travel to Georgia once. It had been the middle of August, and the sweltering summer heat coupled with near one hundred percent humidity was oppressive. His friend complained about the weather and was certain a hurricane brewing off the coast would suck all the moisture and heat out of Georgia to fuel its wrath.

Hank wasn’t one to get offended, as he prided himself on living his life without a chip on his shoulder. However, having lived through those devastating subtropical cyclones, he’d gladly live with the inconvenience of heat and humidity.

He continued to walk back and forth along the bank of the brackish water separating Driftwood Key and Marathon. His mind wandered from topic to topic, having conversations with himself. Most were lighthearted; others were analytical. He’d become lost in himself when he noticed headlights on the other side of the mangroves.

Vehicles were operating only sporadically through the Keys as gasoline became in short supply. Government vehicles seemed to be the most prevalent, and there were a few residents who elected to leave their homes to join relatives up north. Nobody was joyriding, and there certainly was no place to shop or eat out.

Hank held his position and studied the location of the vehicle, which was roughly a thousand yards across the water. There were several older homes nestled among the trees on the other side. Hank knew the families. Like him, they’d grown up on the Keys. One owned a charter boat operation, and another owned Barnacle Barney’s Tiki Bar, which was adjacent to his residence. Early on, he’d touched base with his distant neighbors, who indicated they’d be fine if the power outage didn’t last too long. He’d suspected that most longtime residents of the Florida Keys felt the same way.

Suddenly, another set of headlights flickered through the trees, barely noticeable unless Hank focused on one particular spot. There were now two vehicles parked across from the inn but not directly on Palm Island Avenue, which led to Driftwood Key’s private access bridge.

With a wary eye on the two vehicles, Hank moved quickly back toward the bridge. He was certain he’d locked it after Mike had left earlier, but he felt compelled to double-check. He felt his pants pocket for the air horn. When he remembered he’d left it on the granite block that held one of the gate’s posts, he walked even faster.

Then he began to run as he heard the vehicles’ tires spinning, throwing crushed shell and sand against their rear quarter panels in the otherwise deathly silent evening.

“They’re coming!” he shouted spontaneously.

Hank couldn’t see their headlights, but he sensed the vehicles maneuvering across the way to make a run at the gate. He pulled the rifle off his shoulder and pulled the charging handle as Mike had taught him. In the darkness, he struggled to see the safety so he could flick it off.

Sweat poured off Hank’s brow as apprehension and fear swept over him. He’d been caught unprepared for what was coming. He reached the gate and crouched behind the granite block. He felt exposed. And alone.

He nervously searched the granite block with his left hand to find the air horn so he could issue a warning to the others. His awkwardness, fueled by anxiety, caused him to hit the canister with his knuckles, sending it flying off the granite block and tumbling down a slope until it wedged in the riprap.

“Dammit!”

He tried to gather his wits about him by holding his breath. He heard the slight crunching of tires on the crushed shell. Hank squinted, trying to block out any movement or distraction as he tried in vain to see the other side of the water in the pitch-dark night.

He steadied his rifle on the block and trained his sights on the center of the road. He listened for a few moments, hearing a snap in the distance, followed by the slow-moving tires crushing the shells beneath them.

Hank lifted his head from behind his rifle and peered around the gate post. At first glance, the bridge entering Driftwood Key looked like it always did since nuclear winter set in—a shadowy, multihued fog of grays and whites with the occasional mangrove tree making an appearance on the other end.

A few more seconds of hyperawareness and laser focus enabled Hank to see what he was facing. A truck, flanked by darkened figures, slowly approached along the bridge. They were being invaded.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Saturday, November 2

Driftwood Key

As quickly as this threat arose and Hank began to sweat, he now seemed to get a grip on himself. He was alone and unable to issue a warning to the others without giving away his position to the people who approached. Hank closed his left eye and looked through the gun’s sights. He studied the column slowly making its way across the concrete surface of the bridge. The pickup was flanked by two men, who each carried a hunting rifle. When the driver gently tapped the brakes for a brief second, Hank was able to make out a second truck with two more men flanking its front fenders.

They couldn’t be more than a hundred feet away from the gate and in the center of the bridge when Hank slid his finger onto the trigger. The group was disciplined, resisting the temptation to storm the gates and crash through them with the front bumper of the pickup.

He steadied his aim but stopped short of pulling the trigger. Did it make sense to fire on the guys on foot when the truck was likely to accelerate toward the gate and breach their security? The suppressor might keep his position concealed long enough to take additional shots at the truck as it passed. Eliminating the men with guns was a tempting thought, but the greater risk to the rest of the compound was the speeding pickup barreling past him toward the main house.

He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see his backup emerge from the trail. When they didn’t, he realized he was on his own. He’d only get one or two shots before he’d come under return fire. If the sound of the air horn couldn’t bring the cavalry, gunfire certainly would.

Hank adjusted his aim toward the driver and steadied his nerves. The magazine had thirty rounds, and he’d need them all. He quickly squeezed off two shots; the spitting sound emitted by the suppressor allowed the bullets to reach the windshield at supersonic speed. They both found their mark, obliterating the windshield and embedding in the upper body of the driver.

The truck swung wildly to the right and crashed into the concrete guardrail before stopping. The man on the truck’s left flank was pinned against the concrete and screamed in agony as he attempted to free his leg from the bumper, which continued to push forward as it idled.

Then the night exploded in a hail of gunfire. One round after another careened off the steel gates and the concrete underneath them. One round sailed well over Hank’s head, but it was a reminder that there was a lot of work to be done.

“Move the truck!” a voice ordered from behind the bed.

“I’m on it!” a man responded.

Hank fired again, sending two more rounds toward the back of the pickup in an attempt to shut down the men who were firing upon him. They’d all scrambled for cover after Hank took away their battering ram. For now, at least.

“Hank! Hank!” shouted Jessica.

“Are you all right?” asked Sonny as they could be heard rushing along the trail leading to the main house.

Their questions were answered with gunfire from the attackers. The bullets ripped through the palm fronds and embedded in the trunks.

“Stay low and take cover!” Hank yelled instructions to them.

The tires of the pickup truck began to squeal as the driver forced it into reverse. The man it pinned groaned over the racket as he was released from the front fender’s grip. The smell of burnt rubber filled the air and reached Hank’s nostrils, giving him an idea.

“Shoot out the tires. Now!”

Jessica and Sonny joined him in immersing the pickup in a variety of bullets ranging from Sonny’s shotgun pellets to Jessica’s .45-caliber hollow points from her Kimber 1911. The truck was being pelted by the shotgun blasts, but it was the expert shooting of Jessica that took out the front two tires. Each time a bullet penetrated the outer wall, the tires exploded from the sudden release of air pressure. Now it sat in the middle of the bridge, a disabled hunk of steel unable to breach the gate but providing excellent cover for the attackers.

A gun battle ensued that could be heard for miles, as the unusually quiet conditions coupled with the low cloud ceiling kept the sound confined near the ground.

Hank and Sonny took up positions behind the granite blocks holding the gate in place. Jessica crouched to keep a low profile and rushed to Hank’s side. She patted him on the back.

“Trade guns with me,” she whispered with an urgent tone in her voice. Hank didn’t hesitate as he took her handgun, a weapon he was far more familiar with. “How many rounds have you fired?”

“Ten or twelve, I think.”

She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and handed him a full magazine. “Don’t waste these. I need you to give me some cover. Try to skip the bullets under the bed of the pickup truck. This will distract them and maybe even find a leg or two. With a little luck, you’ll breach the gas tank.”

Hank muttered, “Okay.” He raised the weapon and rested it on the granite block to keep his aim steady. “Ready.”

Jessica tapped him on the back and whispered, “Now.”

Hank fired. She raced off to his left as the .45-caliber rounds careened off the pavement, creating sparks underneath the truck. A man screamed in agony as one of the bullets found his shinbone, shattering it as the hollow-point bullet expanded.

Jessica moved away from the gate to get a different angle at their attackers. As Hank’s bullet hit the man’s leg, she was able to get her bearings. Then she got some help.

There was a reason criminal conspiracy laws had become so effective in taking down any form of crooked enterprise. Most criminals will roll over and snitch on the others to reduce their own punishment. Or, as they say, there’s no honor among thieves.

On the bridge, the attackers in the second pickup truck decided to cut their losses and flee. Jessica heard the truck’s doors slam. A second later, the driver threw the truck in reverse and turned on his headlights so he could have a better view as he drove off the bridge. As a result, he left his partners in crime lit up and dumbfounded.

Jessica didn’t hesitate; she took aim and unleashed a salvo toward two men who’d broken their cover. She didn’t miss. The men were riddled with bullets and thrown to the pavement. She gritted her teeth in anger and stood. With the barrel of her rifle seeking any movement from the men still alive, she patiently waited.

Then she got her chance. The man Hank shot in the leg tried to run-hobble away. He turned his body sideways and continued to fire wildly toward the gate, missing his targets. Jessica, however, did not. Her first shot struck him in the good leg, and the second ripped through his neck, killing him instantly.

She ran toward the gate, where both Sonny and Hank were standing. Her eyes grew wide as she darted between the two men toward the disabled pickup.

“Get back down,” she growled at them. “This may not be over.”

Both men rushed back to their protective cover. Switching the rifle to her left hand, Jessica jumped on top of Hank’s granite block, swung her right arm through the post, and hurled her body around until she landed at the front side of the gate just feet from the water’s edge.

Using the concrete railing for cover, she caught her breath and readied her rifle. She crouched as low as she could and began to ease around the barrier, focusing her eyes on the concrete surface of the bridge.

Although she’d arrived late to the party, she believed there was still one attacker unaccounted for. If the driver of the truck was dead, then the only attacker left was the man pinned against the guardrail, who might still be alive. A wounded animal was a dangerous animal with nothing to lose, she thought as she walked heel to toe, studying the undercarriage of the pickup for movement.

She took several steps closer until the large rear tires provided some clearance to see the other side. She could discern the shape of a man’s legs spread apart as if he was leaning against the guardrail. She squinted her eyes to search for any movement. She had to be sure he was dead, and there was only one way to do it without exposing herself.

Jessica lowered her body to a prone position on the bridge. She aimed at the man’s foot and gently squeezed the trigger. The powerful NATO 5.56 round entered the sole of the man’s shoe and tore a hole through his foot.

No scream. Not even a twitch of his already dead body.

She jumped to her feet and raced for the back of the pickup, swinging her rifle’s barrel from side to side as she swept the bridge in search of targets. There were only two, and they’d already been eliminated.

After a long moment during which she stared at the darkness on the other end of the bridge, serenity had returned to Driftwood Key as Jessica gave the all clear.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Saturday, November 2

Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center

La Junta, Colorado

Lacey’s mind had taken a respite, an unconscious sleepy slumber, during which time she had minimal brain activity and showed no signs of awareness of her surroundings. Her eyes had been closed, but not clenched shut. No sound, no pain, no external stimulus triggered any form of response from her. Even basic reflexes such as coughing and swallowing were greatly reduced.

A coma was the body’s way of healing itself following a traumatic injury. It had been two days, and it was time to wake up. Slowly, at first. Lacey began to hear things around her. Shuffling of feet. Whispered conversations. The occasional words of encouragement from what she thought was an angel, but it was actually one of the ICU nurses.

Then she heard Tucker’s voice. Oddly, he was retelling her stories of family outings. Backpacking through the Redwood National Forest. Camping at Wild Willy Hot Springs. Hiking to Burney Falls. Standing atop the Cone Peak at Big Sur.

His voice was comforting. Familiar. Yet something was wrong. Owen was missing from the storytelling sessions. Tucker mentioned his dad as he spoke, but Owen wasn’t present. His smell. His touch. His loving voice whispering in her ear.

Inside, Lacey was becoming agitated and apprehensive. Where was her husband? Why couldn’t she hear him joining in the conversation reminiscent of their evenings around the dinner table at night? It was all so confusing.

Then, in an instant, as if a thousand roosters had crowed at once, Lacey awoke with a start. Her body lurched as if it had been shocked with an overcharged defibrillator. She took in a deep exhale, filling her lungs through her mouth, but seemingly unable to expel it. Lacey McDowell was awake, and she choked out a scream to let the world know it.

Tucker rushed out of the room to the nurse’s station to let them know his mom was waking up.

“Find Dr. Brady! Stat!” a nurse shouted from just outside her room. She turned to Tucker who was headed back into the room. She firmly grasped his arm. “Young man. Please wait here until the doctor examines your mom.”

Within seconds, three nurses had rushed to Lacey’s side, checking the machinery around her and feeling her neck and wrist. Her eyes were forced wide open and wild with perplexity as she tried to process her surroundings.

“Mrs. McDowell, my name is Donna Ruiz. Everything’s okay. Please calm down while we check you over.”

“Where?” Lacey tried to ask, but it came out as a whispered breath of air. Her intubation tube had stolen her ability to speak.

Nurse Ruiz seemed to sense what she was saying. The long-term ICU and emergency room nurse had seen people come back from the brink of death before.

“Honey, you’re fine. You’re at the hospital. The doctor will be here in a—”

As if on cue, Dr. Brady rushed into the room, penlight in hand. “Did she just come out?”

“Yes, Doctor,” replied Ruiz. “Her vitals went through the roof, but she’s calming quickly. Only her pulse is elevated.”

“Good, very good,” said Dr. Brady, who leaned over Lacey and performed his own examination. He tested her eye, motor and verbal response. He studied her arms and legs for evidence of unusual spasms.

He flashed his penlight across the front of her face. “Follow my light with your eyes.” She did.

Then he removed her covers and grasped her hand. “Squeeze my hand, please.” She gave him a firm grip.

As he checked her heart and lungs, he spoke to her in a casual tone. He took a personal approach to keep her calm. “Lacey, welcome back. As you can see, we have you in the hospital. There’s a lot to discuss, but I need you to remain calm. Your heart rate is slightly elevated, and we’re gonna give you some medicine to slow it down. You’re breathing remarkably well. I’m gonna have Nurse Ruiz remove your breathing tube so you can speak with us. How does that sound?”

Lacey stared at Dr. Brady’s face and nodded. She had a thousand questions she wanted to ask, the first of which was simple—where’s my family?

Ruiz leaned over Lacey and gently removed the tube. “Lacey, you’re gonna feel a little discomfort.” She expertly slid it out, which immediately opened Lacey’s throat.

She began coughing violently, so Ruiz lovingly touched her face to comfort her. Seconds later, the nurses adjusted Lacey in her bed, propping her up slightly so she could get a better view of her surroundings.

Lacey conducted her own self-assessment, carefully testing her limbs to see if they functioned. She wiggled her toes and fingers. She tensed her muscles in her legs and arms. She slowly turned her head side to side. Other than the normal stiffness associated with lying perfectly still for days, she felt fine.

“Doctor,” Nurse Ruiz whispered into his ear. “Her son is very anxious to see his mom. Can we let him in?”

Dr. Brady furrowed his brow. “Give me a moment to test her mental acuity.”

He turned to Lacey. “Do you feel like you can talk? I know your throat is sore. We’ll fix that in a moment.”

She nodded and whispered yes. This resulted in another coughing fit, from which she quickly recovered. Nurse Ruiz allowed her a brief sip of water.

“Okay. Do you know what state you’re in?”

“Colorado,” she whispered.

“Good. And what year is it?”

Lacey scowled, which caused Dr. Brady some concern. He thought she was struggling to find an answer.

“Lacey?”

“It depends. How long have I been out?”

Dr. Brady stepped back from her bed and stuffed the penlight into his pocket with a smile. “I’d have to research where sense of humor falls on the Glasgow Coma Scale, but I think that means you’re fine.”

The Glasgow Coma Scale was a clinical tool used to measure a patient’s level of consciousness after a brain injury. Physicians focus on eye opening response, verbal interaction, and motor skills.

Nonetheless, he wanted to go through the rest of the procedures.

Lacey forced a smile and looked toward the door. “Owen? Tucker?”

Dr. Brady raised his index finger in the air. “Just a moment.” He left her room and spoke briefly with Tucker before letting him in.

“Can I see her now?” Tucker asked before Dr. Brady was able to close the door behind him.

“She is doing very well, young man, but it’s important that we not allow her to become agitated. Her brain is still recovering from a very traumatic event, just like yours did. She needs some time to process what is happening before she takes in any unsettling news.”

Tucker sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “How do I hide Dad’s surgery from her?”

Overnight, Dr. Forrest had performed the transtibial amputation on Owen’s lower legs. It was one of the most frequent forms of amputation due to the rate of diabetes in America. Dr. Forrest was successful in leaving Owen with two well-padded residual limbs that could easily tolerate prosthetic replacements. He was still in recovery and remained in a coma of his own.

“I’ll be with you the entire time,” Dr. Brady responded. “Let’s just stay positive and tell her that your dad is still fighting the good fight. Okay?”

Tucker forced a smile and nodded. He was fully dressed now. Sheriff Mobley had retrieved the family’s Bronco and pulled it into the local auto repair garage across the street from the sheriff’s office. He’d secured the McDowells’ belongings at the station and delivered clothing for Tucker early that morning. His appearance would never suggest to his mother that he had been in the same medical condition she was just a day ago.

He eased into the room first, and his face beamed with the broadest smile of his life. “Hi, Mom.”

Tucker tried to remain calm as the doctor had suggested, but he couldn’t control his emotions. Tears flowed out of his eyes, and he rushed to her side. Lacey gingerly raised her arms to accept his embrace, allowing his warm salty tears to pour off his cheeks and join hers. For a minute, the two held one another without speaking, not that words were necessary.

When they finally let go of one another, Lacey’s piercing eyes looked into Tucker’s soul as only a mother could. Tucker felt it immediately and tried to look away, seeking Dr. Brady for moral support. His mom suddenly found her strength and squeezed her son’s hand before he could bolt out of the room. He’d never been able to lie to his mom, and now was no different.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Saturday, November 2

Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center

La Junta, Colorado

Lacey and Tucker spent the next hour talking with Dr. Brady. The family’s attending physician was also no match for the strong-willed Lacey McDowell. Her reaction to the news was expected, but her sadness extended to both her husband and Tucker. She felt guilty for not being there to help her teenage son make such a difficult decision. She assured him that she would’ve supported his choice, and she meant it. After the shock of what had been required to provide Owen a chance at living was over, she swelled with pride as she realized her son had become a man.

She’d first become impressed with Tucker’s survival instincts when they sought shelter as the threat of the nuclear attacks materialized. Under the high-pressure conditions inside the fallout shelter, Tucker had kept a cool head and did everything to help his parents stay safe. Then, after they began their trek east, he had been so nonchalant with dealing with the dead bodies on the highway overpass that she became concerned. His acceptance of death, especially at the hands of two gunmen, had shocked her at first.

It was during those few minutes alone in the Bronco before the flash freeze overtook him that Tucker had assuaged her fears. He’d explained to her that he was never one to stir up drama, much less fabricate it, as many of his teenage friends did. In a very adult way, he’d stated there were enough challenges growing up without making up any.

He’d talked about drug use by his friends. Teenage pregnancies that parents were unaware of. Cheating on exams and term papers that went undiscovered. He’d been completely honest with her in those few minutes before they nearly froze to death.

As they talked in the hospital room alone, she realized Tucker had handled the freeze anomaly better than she had. It was her concern for Owen and the impulsive decision to charge out into the frigid air that had put them in peril. Tucker saved her, and now, with his ability to make a very heart-wrenching decision, he’d given Owen a better chance of survival as well.

On Dr. Brady’s orders, without objection from Lacey, she took some time to sleep. She was feeling much stronger and even took in some solid food, if you could call lime Jell-O and a cup of applesauce solid.

While she napped, Tucker donned his jacket and took a fifteen minute walk down the street to speak with Sheriff Mobley. He hadn’t stopped by the hospital that morning, and Tucker wasn’t sure if he was aware of his mom waking up.

To his surprise, Tucker learned that Sheriff Mobley had spent the entire morning making arrangements on behalf of the McDowell family. He was aware of Lacey’s condition, but he chose to give Tucker time alone with his mom before he stopped by to introduce himself. In the meantime, he’d done several things to benefit their anticipated travels.

First, he encouraged Tucker to keep his family in La Junta for as long as they wanted. One of the locals offered up a fully furnished rental property down the street from the hospital to be used for as long as the McDowells wanted it. Families prepared foods for them. The city manager gathered up packaged MREs to feed them on their journey once they chose to leave. Sheriff Mobley filled their gas containers and topped off the tank to their truck. And, with the help of several townspeople, they found a radiator hose to repair Black & Blue.

Except, Sheriff Mobley had a conversation with Tucker about the pristine condition of the vintage Ford. As they traveled southeast toward Florida and out of the Rocky Mountain region, they’d eventually come into only slightly more hospitable weather conditions. Also, based on reports, the EMP effect dissipated near Texas. Nonetheless, an operating vehicle like the classic Bronco would be a prize possession of anyone with criminal intent.

His solution? Make it ugly. It needed to be painted to appear run-down. A primer-gray fender here and some poorly spray-painted camouflage there. Even the gas cans should be painted to blend in with the truck. Then, to top it off, a nondescript tarp was recommended to hide one of the most valuable assets in America, gasoline.

Tucker asked Sheriff Mobley to hold off on the extreme makeover for Black & Blue until he spoke with his dad. He hoped that the amputation surgery would enable him to come out of his coma.

As they were having this conversation, Owen did just that.

A young male orderly had rushed into the sheriff’s office after running the mile from the medical center. He had been told by Dr. Brady to find Tucker and the sheriff. They piled into Sheriff Mobley’s Jeep and rushed back to the ER. Before coming to a stop, Tucker had flung the door open and raced through the entry doors toward the ICU. He was met in the hallway by Donna Ruiz, the ever-present nurse.

With Tucker barreling down on her, Ruiz stood in the middle of the hallway with both hands raised like a third base coach giving a signal to a base runner to stop.

“Tucker, Tucker, slow down. The doctors are still with your dad.”

“Is he awake? Is he okay?” Tucker nervously looked past her toward his dad’s room. He then looked toward his mom’s. He wondered if she knew, or maybe she was with him already.

“They’re still examining him,” Ruiz replied. “Both doctors said your father’s situation is a little more complicated than your mom’s. They need you to give them a little time, and then they’ll explain.”

“Does Mom know?”

She nodded. “Yes. In fact, I’d like you to join her so the doctors can speak with you both as soon as they come out.”

Tucker nodded his head rapidly, and she gently took him by the arm. As she led him down the corridor, he craned his neck to look in the small glass window in the center of his father’s door. The doctors in their white coats and several nurses obstructed his view, resulting in a sigh of disappointment. It was all he could do to restrain himself from pulling away from the nurse and bursting in there.

He entered his mom’s room and was amazed to see her sitting in a wheelchair, dressed in pajamas provided by the hospital staff. Clothing had been donated by several families who were aware of the McDowells’ predicament. Lacey was wearing red and white striped flannel pj’s from Victoria’s Secret.

“Hi, honey,” she greeted him with a smile. She stretched her arm up to grasp Tucker’s hand. “Where’ve you been?”

“I walked down to the sheriff’s office,” he replied and then briefly explained what he’d learned, especially the part about the town rallying to help them.

“Have they told you anything about your dad?” she asked.

“Nothing, except I saw both of his doctors and a few nurses in there just now. Nurse Ruiz said they’d come see us here, and reminded me that dad’s condition was more complicated.”

Tucker looked down at his feet. He was unsure whether the term complicated was in reference to the amputation or his exposure to the bitter cold. He pulled a chair next to his mom and sat down; then he told her more about what Sheriff Mobley had done for them. They made small talk in an effort to pass the time until the doctors arrived.

The door opened slightly, and Dr. Brady was giving instructions to Ruiz about another patient in the ICU before finally entering the room. Tucker immediately stood to greet him, and Lacey tried before plopping back into the wheelchair. She’d need more rest and some nutrition before she could stand on her own.

Dr. Brady held the door open, and shortly thereafter, Dr. Forrest joined him. He allowed Dr. Brady, as Owen’s attending physician, to speak first. He addressed Lacey.

“Okay, as you know, your husband is awake and somewhat alert. There are a couple of things you need to know, so I’m gonna get right to it so you can see him before he nods off.

“We performed a series of tests on Owen just as we did for the both of you when you woke up. There are some positive signs. His eye response is fairly good. He responds to our verbal commands. When we asked him to perform certain physical functions on command, he was unable to do so. His inability to do this could be related to his drowsy state or general disjointedness. Time will tell. But the larger concern is related to his verbal responses.”

“Are you saying he can’t talk?” asked Tucker.

Dr. Brady scowled as he tried to find the words to explain Owen’s condition that could be understood by a layman.

“The brain is a very complicated part of the body, Tucker. The Glasgow analysis is designed to assess brain function without conducting more invasive tests. The verbal response test is designed to determine his higher cortical function. In other words, how does his brain allow him to communicate coherently, react, remember, and even react to pain.

“Unfortunately, Owen is having difficulty responding to us. He uttered incomprehensible sounds, and when he did manage to speak, the words were used inappropriately to the questions.”

“My god,” said Lacey, who began to cry.

“Now, let’s be clear,” said Dr. Forrest. “We are in the early stages of your husband’s recovery process. Traumatic brain injuries like his may take weeks or months to fully recover from. He’ll need to be seen by a neurosurgeon, probably at one of the hospitals in Colorado Springs, when he’s able to travel. After that, the normal course is physiotherapy and reoccurring psychological assessments.”

Dr. Brady stepped in. “The good news is that he’s alive.”

“Does he know about his legs?” asked Tucker.

“There’s no indication that he does,” replied Dr. Forrest. “In fact, it’s not that unusual during a post-op recovery. Many amputees believe the limbs are still there until they observe the results of the surgery for themselves.”

“Can we see him?” asked Lacey.

Dr. Brady answered her. “Absolutely. In fact, we hope that your presence might help him become more alert and responsive to verbal stimuli. The key is to remain calm and speak words of encouragement. Owen needs to know he has your love and support.”

Tucker quickly moved behind his mother and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair. “Let’s go.”

“All right, but remember, let’s not overload him with information. Keeping him relaxed will be the best medicine right now.”

Dr. Brady led the way as Lacey and Tucker followed close behind. Tucker had already seen his dad after the surgery, so he wasn’t shocked by the sight of him without his lower legs. When Lacey saw him for the first time, she covered her mouth, and tears flowed down her cheeks. Her family’s life often revolved around outside activities. Owen would be crushed when he learned of the amputation.

For now, however, she rejoiced in his being alive and awake. Tucker pushed her wheelchair until she was at Owen’s side. Then, like her son had done before her, she disregarded her doctor’s orders and pushed herself out of her chair to grasp the bed rails. She needed to be as close to Owen as possible. Tucker wrapped his arm around her waist and supported her so she could lean closer.

She wiped away the first flood of tears and regained her composure after a few sniffles. She lovingly touched his face and said, “Honey, I’m here for you. I love you so much.”

Owen’s eyelids fluttered and opened slightly, staring directly upward. Both Dr. Brady and Dr. Forrest stepped a little closer to the bed.

“Recognition,” whispered Dr. Brady. “A great sign.”

Lacey continued. “Tucker’s here with me. Our son is a very brave young man. You’ll be so proud of him.”

Owen’s eyes shifted from left to right. Then up and down. Tucker picked up on his eye movements and presumed his dad was searching for him. He continued to hold his mother and leaned over the bed.

“I’m right here, Dad. We’re all together again.”

Then Owen did something that sent elation through the minds of everyone in the room. He blinked rapidly, and a slight smile came over his face. Lacey began to cry again.

“That’s right, Owen. We’re all here. All three of us are together again, and we’re gonna make it through this. You’ll see. We love you so much. Just hang in and get—”

Lacey stopped mid-sentence as Owen’s body convulsed, and then his chest heaved, lifting him off the bed. Alarms started going off, and lights flashed on the monitoring equipment on both sides of the bed.

Nurse Ruiz rushed around the back of Lacey and Tucker. She shouted to the doctors, “He’s in V-fib!”

Ventricular fibrillation was a dangerous level of arrhythmia, or irregular heartbeat. Owen’s heart rate elevated rapidly, and the cardiac monitor indicated rapid, erratic electrical impulses.

“What’s happening?” asked Lacey in a loud voice.

“What’s wrong with my dad?”

Dr. Brady approached Owen from the other side of the bed. Just as he arrived, Owen went into cardiac arrest and flatlined. A solid, horizontal line appeared on the electrocardiogram monitor affixed to Owen. It meant all electrical activity had ceased in the brain.

“Please move back,” ordered Dr. Forrest. Ruiz assisted Lacey back into her wheelchair and brusquely pulled her against the wall. Another nurse was forceful with Tucker as well. They needed to save Owen’s life, and now was not the time for politeness.

“No pulse!” shouted Dr. Forrest, who pressed two fingers to Owen’s carotid artery.

Dr. Brady was pumping on Owen’s chest in an effort to restart his heart. He shouted instructions as he did.

“Bag him!” A reference to the use of a large, balloon-like manual resuscitator that forces air into a patient’s lungs.

“Push epi!” he ordered next, looking directly at the monitor and Ruiz. She immediately injected epinephrine into Owen’s saline drip. Epinephrine increased the arterial blood pressure in an effort to reverse cardiac arrest.

“It’s not working!” shouted Dr. Brady, who ferociously pumped his hands on Owen as he attempted CPR.

“Charge the paddles!” shouted Dr. Forrest. Dr. Brady stopped pumping Owen’s chest and quickly peeled back his blankets to open up his hospital gown. His chest had been shaved, and strategically placed electrodes affixed to the electrocardiogram device were visible.

Ruiz handed the paddles to Dr. Forrest and then yelled, “Charged, two hundred!”

“Clear!” said Dr. Forrest, and the medical team immediately reacted by standing away from Owen. He placed the paddles and deployed the device.

Owen’s body lurched upward as the strong electrical current passed through his heart’s muscle cells, momentarily stopping the abnormal electrical energy and encouraging the normal heart beat to resume.

Everyone held their breath and studied the heart rate monitor. The horizontal line remained unchanged following the first attempt.

Dr. Forrest was not giving up. “Charge again!”

“Charged!”

“Clear!”

He tried again. Once again, the jolt of electric current forced Owen upwards, but as before, the monitor told the story. There was no response.

Dr. Brady frantically resumed chest compressions while Ruiz continued to manually force air into Owen’s lungs. It had been almost six minutes. Generally, at least fifty to sixty percent of sudden cardiac arrest patients survive if defibrillation procedures take place within five minutes. On this day, the odds were not in Owen’s favor.

Dr. Brady and Ruiz continued to fight for a miracle. He pushed on Owen’s chest, his eyes darting to Lacey, who was wailing in grief over her husband, his patient that he tried to do everything to save.

“Push epi! Again!” His voice begged as he gave the directive. In his mind, he knew it was hopeless.

“Frank,” said Dr. Forrest, who made eye contact with his colleague. All he had to do was slowly shake his head side to side. It was over.

Dr. Brady stepped back from Owen’s bed and angrily ripped his gloves off and slammed them to the floor. “Time of death, 9:34.”

The entire medical team looked down at Owen’s dead body, tears rolling down their cheeks. One by one, they stopped to offer their condolences to Lacey and Tucker, who held each other as they wailed in agony. Finally, Dr. Brady apologized for not saving Owen and left them alone. For nearly an hour, they sobbed at his bedside. Hugging him. Squeezing his hand. Imploring God to make this nightmare end. Begging Him to bring back a loving husband and father who didn’t deserve to die.