by Bobby Akart
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 t
ook 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 w
as 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.”