by Bobby Akart
He tried yelling again but was unable to hear himself. His throat felt as if someone had rammed a twig into his lungs only to repeatedly jerk it out with a sadistic twist.
He had to make a decision, so Peter internally processed what he knew. Jimmy has to be close by, right? I mean, how far could he drift from the WaveRunner?
He was straddling his own WaveRunner while bending over to hold Jimmy’s handlebar. The waves continued to roll past him, causing him to lose his grip at times. Peter realized this was unsustainable, so he dropped into the water and got a firm grip on the grab handles affixed to the back of the seating area. His arms were stretched from time to time, but he was able to hold them together.
Peter thought by allowing his machine to idle, it put out sufficient noise for Jimmy to follow if he heard it. Also, the two WaveRunners, together with his outstretched arms, made a larger footprint on the water compared to him sitting atop his watercraft. With a little luck, they’d collide with one another just as Peter had unexpectedly come across Jimmy’s WaveRunner.
Peter tightened his grip, closed his eyes, and prayed.
The first thing Jimmy did was kick his shoes off. It was infinitely easier to tread water and swim without any shoes.
The shock of suddenly being thrown from his WaveRunner with little hope of finding it in the dark caused his survival instincts to kick in. He was an excellent swimmer and considered swimming to shore. Even if he used the waves from the hurricane-force winds, he could find his way to some part of Blackwater Sound to wait until daylight.
He continued to tread water, hoping the WaveRunner would somehow float back toward him. He knew it was a long shot, but treading water was something he’d practiced since he was old enough to walk. In calm waters, Jimmy had learned to float on his back, allowing the natural buoyancy of his body to do the work. The only tension he’d have to exert in calm waters was holding his head above the waterline.
Rough water floating was more dangerous. Jimmy routinely practiced lying facedown in the water, allowing his body to float. That was how he’d taught his body to hold air in his lungs for more than ten minutes. For years, he’d learned to float this way, stretching his need for air until the last minute, when he’d lift his head above water long enough to take a deep breath.
He’d exhale underwater as necessary and eventually learned he could use this technique to float for an hour, only coming up half a dozen times during that period of time. Rough water front floating, as it was called, was a means to survive in the open water without any form of floatation device.
Jimmy didn’t know how long he’d waited for his WaveRunner to miraculously find him, but he eventually gave up on the notion. At last count, he’d come up for air twelve times from front floating. He might have been at it for two hours, more or less. He wasn’t sure, but he’d made up his mind it was time to try something different.
He decided to swim to shore. Any shore. Whichever way the current and the hurricane-generated waves would take him. So he began swimming.
At first, he tried the traditional long crawl method of swimming. He stretched his body flat and horizontal atop the water and took long, consistent strokes with his arms to propel him forward. Despite the assistance from the waves, he quickly began to tire. His body was spent from the mental and physical trauma it had been through.
Jimmy treaded water for a while, and then he started swimming again, this time using the breaststroke. Swimming like a frog, as he used to say as a kid, he used a combination of leg kicks and outward arm strokes to propel himself forward. He focused on timing his strokes with riding the crest of a wave. He eventually found a rhythm that allowed him to pick up speed without exerting extraordinary effort.
Jimmy was beginning to make progress although he was not sure where he was headed. He didn’t care as long as he found something to hold onto. His limbs were tiring. His muscles were screaming. His lungs were beginning to burn. And his bloody, swollen face was becoming numb.
Then the winds picked up again. A roaring sound filled his ears that was so loud, he stopped swimming and turned in all directions, believing a large vessel was headed toward him. He began to tread water in part to ease the soreness that had come over his shoulders, and to confirm he wasn’t in the path of a boat.
After looking in all directions and twisting his body to confirm he was safe, he became slightly disoriented. He sensed that the wind had shifted, but he had no point of reference to confirm it. He’d been through many hurricanes in his life. Rarely did they stay in one place, hovering over land or sea as it pounded everything around its eye. Jimmy expected the storm was on the move, which meant he might have entered it at one quadrant, but the passage of time had placed him another.
That meant only one thing. He could’ve been swimming in circles if he was relying too much on wind and wave direction. Or he might have been close to making landfall only to change his course as the wind shifted.
Frustrated, he simply stopped swimming. He continued to tread water, hoping to make it until the sun rose. He and Peter had been out in the open water for hours. Surely, daylight would make an appearance soon. He could make it until then. He was sure of it.
Comforted in knowing the storm would pass and the sun would rise in the east as always, Jimmy rolled onto his back and allowed the waves to lift him upward before dropping him again. He closed his eyes and thought about his parents. He relaxed his body and allowed his mind to drift to a happier place.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Friday, November 8
Tarpon Springs, Florida
That night, Lacey, despite being exhausted, slept in fits and starts. Her imagination ran wild as she envisioned the two of them battling a hurricane alone. She considered paying Andino or someone to accompany them to the Keys. She even thought about promising them the boat together with topping off the two one-thousand-gallon tanks with diesel.
After tossing and turning a few more times, she’d chastise herself for worrying needlessly. It was the middle of November in a world in which temperatures had dropped to levels well below record seasonal lows. Hurricanes were not only implausible, they were most likely impossible.
Yet the thought nagged at her as she awoke early that morning. She lay in bed and ran all the possibilities through her head. She’d make a point to speak with Tucker alone before making the offer to Andino to either accompany them to the Keys or allow them to stay a few days until the inclement weather, or hurricane, as the case may be, passed.
It was before dawn when someone began banging on the Andinos’ front door. She could hear excited voices outside her window, which faced the street. Lacey scrambled out of bed and rushed to the window. Pulling the sheer curtains open, she pressed her face against the glass to see who was at the door.
The teen boys who’d helped dock their boat yesterday were milling about near the stoop, the illumination of their flashlights darting about or shaking as a result of their excited state of mind.
The front door opened, and Andino addressed the boys. The next thing Lacey knew, the boys had taken off through the gate into the street, and she could see Andino rush after them, wearing jeans, sneakers, and no shirt. He was also carrying a shotgun. At the gate, like the teens, he appeared to turn left in the direction of their boathouse.
Tucker gently knocked on her door and then respectfully cracked it open. “Mom! There’s something going on.”
“I heard. They ran toward the boats. We should help.”
“On my way,” said Tucker, who immediately turned toward the stairs.
“Together, Tucker! Wait up!”
The two of them rumbled down the oak treads without regard for anyone who might’ve been sleeping. The teens’ banging on the door had most likely woken up the entire household already.
Seconds later, Tucker led them outside into the cool, dawn air and picked up speed as they turned the corner past the gate down the street. They were running as fast as they could when they slowed at the
entrance to the boathouse. The beams from several flashlights could be seen dancing around the walls and ceiling of the structure as well as across their boat.
Their chests heaved, begging for fresh air. Lacey and Tucker slowed their pace to a fast walk as they made their way through the chain-link gate. Sandros greeted them as they entered the boathouse.
“We got lucky this time,” he said ominously.
“What happened?” asked Lacey.
“In recent days, many of us have noticed an influx of strangers making their way into Tarpon Springs by water. One of the town’s larger operations, located at Port Tarpon, was hit last week by fuel thieves. They snuck into Anclote River in the middle of the night, siphoned diesel into their containers, and then snuck out into the Gulf.
“They managed to steal twenty to thirty gallons at a time. You know, it’s a cost of doing business that we accept, but things are different now. Diesel is like liquid gold.”
“Was somebody trying to steal our diesel?” asked Tucker as he looked over the shorter man’s shoulder.
“Yes, and we caught them. Since this started, we’ve all joined together to take overnight shifts. We patrol one another’s docks and then administer justice to the thieves.” He turned around and glanced toward the dark boathouse.
“Justice?” asked Lacey.
Sandros spread his arms wide and moved forward in an attempt to herd them away from the boathouse. “Let’s go back to the house and get some coffee. Would you like that?” He was trying to shield them from what was about to happen next.
Lacey held her ground. “Okay, but, Sandros, what’s going to happen to the thieves?”
“The boy will be given a stern warning. His father will receive a harsher punishment in front of his son. Lessons will be learned by both of them.”
“But they’re just trying to survive, right?” she asked.
Sandros dropped his chin and stared at his feet for a moment. “They weren’t trying to steal food or even fresh water. Do you understand where I’m coming from? If these two had come to us and asked for a meal, we would’ve gladly helped, just like we opened our homes to you. They took the cowardly way out by stealing.”
“What will they do to him?”
“My brother is taking care of it. Do not concern yourselves. Now, please. Let’s go.”
Lacey’s eyes darted from Sandros to their boat. She was seeing a different side of the Andino family, which was surprising based upon their prior interaction and was completely unexpected. They seemed like a fun-loving, generous group. Yet there were lines that couldn’t be crossed, and they didn’t hesitate to punish those who crossed them.
Despite all of her mental machinations and internal debates from the night before, Lacey had made up her mind. It was time to go home.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Friday, November 8
Lower Keys Medical Center
Key West
It had been a long, boring and uneventful day for Mike Albright, who was already plotting his escape from the evil clutches of the medical staff at the Lower Keys Medical Center. He was a well-known figure around the Keys, and the staff there were working overtime to give him the best possible care. It wasn’t their fault he was a stubborn mule of a patient.
As the hurricane winds picked up, Mike noticed the flurry of activity outside his door. He was still dressed in a hospital gown. You know, the kind that allows your butt to catch a draft if you got out of bed. When he was finally allowed to go to the bathroom without an escort or the use of a walker, he vowed to find something else to wear that might be hospital approved. They forbade him from putting on his regular clothes, which Hank had dropped off earlier.
So, during a shift change earlier in the day, he’d snuck into the hallway and entered a storage closet, where he’d secured a set of all-white scrubs. He wasn’t sure what the color designation meant because the nurses and doctors wore some shade of blue or green. Hopefully it didn’t mean he was designated as a psych patient.
In any event, as the nurse visits to his room became less frequent, he dressed himself and then kept the blankets pulled up to his neck whenever someone looked in on him. The last several visits by the nursing staff involved nothing more than a glance at the monitors and a question that was some variation of how’re ya doin’? His answer was always twofold. Fine and can I leave now? Their response was always the same. Good and not yet.
Truthfully, Mike was feeling much better although it still hurt to take a deep breath. He imagined he could make his way to the sofa in their room at the inn or even wander around the main house to get a little exercise. Cocktails were a possibility, but his beloved cigars would have to wait a while. He’d never forget the disapproving look he had been given after he regained consciousness and the doctor had asked him if he was a smoker.
Only cigars.
He was read the riot act about how cigars caused cancer of the mouth and throat even if he didn’t inhale. The doc droned on and on about how cigars were not a safe alternative to cigarettes. Cigars have twenty times the amount of nicotine as a cigarette.
Blah-blah-blah.
If Mike didn’t need the medical team to keep him alive, he would’ve correctly pointed out that it was a homicidal maniac with a knife who had landed him in the hospital with a hole in his chest. Not his occasional Macanudo.
Mike was no longer hooked up to the monitors. His blood pressure was checked periodically, and he was required to show the nurses that he’d been staying hydrated. He was always thirsty, so that wasn’t a problem.
He was also told to use a volumetric exerciser on a regular basis. The handheld device was frequently required for patients who were recovering from surgery or lung illnesses. The spirometer device helped keep the lungs free of fluid. Mike did it because he was incredibly bored, and the process became like a game to him. It also enabled him to perform a self-assessment as to his eligibility to be discharged.
He’d been given a pen and notepad. Using the battery-operated clock on the wall, he recorded the time and the volume of air, and using a few dots that wouldn’t make any sense to the medical staff, he recorded his pain level. As his stay in the hospital wore on, Mike found his ability to take deep breaths increased, and the pain associated with the ordinarily simple bodily function decreased.
As far as he was concerned, he was ready to be released despite the hospital’s anticipated refusal to sign off. It would be the sound of gunshots that hastened his exit.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Friday, November 8
Lower Keys Medical Center
Key West
The report of a large-caliber handgun was unmistakable. Mike’s trained ear could make out the sound of a .45-caliber bullet being discharged from its weapon despite the echoing effect of the hospital corridor.
Just moments ago, the halls had been filled with hospital personnel trying to take care of people suffering from out-of-the-ordinary illnesses like dysentery and complications resulting from malnutrition. It had been over three weeks since the nuclear attacks and about that same length of time since nuclear winter with its sooty fallout had overtaken the keys. Residents were not faring well due to the lack of water, food, and clean air.
Now they faced a threat that could end their misery unexpectedly—a gunman. Mike jumped out of bed and rushed to the door. He knelt down to keep his body low and poked his head into the corridor to get a look toward the nurses’ station.
Several hospital personnel had crowded behind the counter and workspaces. Another was crouched behind a rolling cart full of medications due to be delivered to patients. Half a dozen or more raced past his room to the far end of the hallway in an effort to get farther away from the ER entrance.
Mike pulled back into the room and considered his attire. It was purely speculation as to what the gunman’s motives might be. He could be looking for a particular target, or perhaps he was frustrated that a loved one had died while in the care of the medical center. He
felt he’d have a better chance of survival should he come in contact with the shooter if he was dressed in his own clothing.
Without regard to the pain that seemed to worsen as his adrenaline kicked in, Mike quickly changed into blue jeans, sneakers and a turquoise blue sweatshirt with the words I heart Key West emblazoned across the front. The word heart was actually the symbol, not that it mattered. He didn’t particularly heart Key West, anyway.
Satisfied he didn’t look like any of his presumed targets, Mike Albright did what every dedicated first responder did in the face of danger. He ran toward it rather than away from it.
At first, he raced thirty or forty feet until he reached the nurses’ station, where he crouched behind the counter alongside a large contingent of staff members. Several of them shot him a puzzled look of recognition. They’d attended to Mike on and off throughout the day, but with him dressed in street clothes instead of a drafty gown, they couldn’t quite place him. Mike managed a smile as he wondered if he should pull down the backside of his jeans and shoot them a moon. Perhaps they’d recognize him then.
More gunshots rang out, but this time, deep concern entered Mike’s mind. They had been fired in rapid succession and appeared to come from two different weapons. Multiple shooters.
He sighed and closed his eyes as he grimaced. He turned to the frightened nurses and doctors. “Do you have armed security on this floor?”
Nobody answered at first, and then the charge nurse rose from her crouch to join Mike’s side. “One per floor but they’re unarmed. The hospital never thought guns were necessary since the sheriff’s office is down the street.”