by Bobby Akart
He took a deep breath and asked, inwardly knowing what was coming next, “What are you saying?”
Dr. Brady furrowed his brow. He’d learned throughout his medical career that one of the most difficult tasks he faced in addition to saving lives was informing the family of a loved one’s death. Explaining to a son that his father was about to lose half his legs ranked right up there.
“The best treatment for fourth-degree frostbite is hyperbaric oxygen therapy, a process involving breathing pure oxygen in a pressurized room. We don’t have that kind of facility here, and it’s doubtful any of the major hospitals in Denver or Colorado Springs have one that is functioning due to the EMP. Even if they did, there aren’t any helicopters that survived the EMP either.”
“Isn’t there something else you can do?” asked Tucker.
“Tucker, I’m gonna have to shoot straight with you, okay? We’ve waited as long as we can to make a decision.”
For the next several minutes, Dr. Brady explained the options to Tucker. He soaked in the information and then asked to have some time alone with his father. He sat there, crying, asking God why this had to happen to his family. Then he asked for guidance to help him make the most difficult decision of his life.
Chapter Sixteen
Friday, November 1
Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center
La Junta, Colorado
“How are our patients doing?” Sheriff Mobley asked the ICU nurses as he took another sip of coffee. He’d spent the day defusing a domestic dispute between a local couple who were considered by the community as head over heels in love. He chalked up the heated argument to temporary insanity from being locked down during the adverse conditions.
Dr. Brady appeared from another patient’s room and responded to the sheriff. “Mom is stable but still out. Dad’s slipping. We can’t make any progress because of his lower limbs. A decision has to be made, Shawn.”
“What about Tucker?”
“He’s doing as well as can be expected, physically. Mentally, I took him to visit his mother, and although he seemed distraught at the shock of seeing her that way, he handled it like the strong young man that he is.”
“I can feel a but coming,” said the sheriff. He finished his coffee and handed the Styrofoam cup to the desk nurse, who graciously threw it away for him.
“Shawn, I had to lay out his father’s condition and treatment options for him. We’re out of time, I’m afraid.”
Sheriff Mobley looked up and down the corridor, which was empty. “Is he in his room? May I talk to him?”
Dr. Brady pointed towards Owen’s closed door. “He asked to be left alone. That was half an hour ago.”
Sheriff Mobley gently rapped his knuckles on the counter and winked at his old friend. “Give me a little time. Maybe he needs a sounding board.”
He walked to Owen’s room and stared through the small glass window in the door. Tucker was sitting in the wheelchair, staring at his father’s face. Sheriff Mobley slowly turned the knob and cracked the door enough for his head to fit through.
“Hey, Tucker. Can I come in?”
Tucker sat up in the wheelchair and took a deep breath before exhaling. “Yeah, sure.”
First, Sheriff Mobley asked Tucker how he was feeling. He complimented him on how much better he looked since they’d met when Tucker woke up for the first time. Then he walked around to the opposite side of the hospital bed and studied Owen’s face. He grimaced and then allowed a slight smile.
“Your dad’s a helluva fighter. What he did to protect himself saved his life.”
“Yeah,” mumbled Tucker, whose attention turned to Owen’s feet. “My mom’s still out, and the doctor said it’s too dangerous to wake her up right now.”
Sheriff Mobley came around the bed and sat in the chair vacated by Dr. Brady earlier. “That’s what I hear. She’s gonna pull through, Tucker, if her body is allowed to heal itself.”
Tucker sighed and rolled his head around his shoulders to relieve some tension. “This really sucks, you know.”
The sheriff nodded. He gently patted Tucker on the back. “Ya wanna talk about it?”
Tucker shrugged. “I guess. Might as well. I mean …” His voice trailed off as he pushed himself up and grasped his father’s bed rails.
“Shouldn’t you be sitting—?”
Tucker ignored the question and allowed his thoughts to pour out of him. “I’ve got some really crappy options,” he began. He rubbed his hands along the rail, gripping it for comfort and strength as he spoke.
“Tell me what you’re thinkin’,” interrupted Sheriff Mobley, giving Tucker a moment to gather his thoughts.
“Okay, well. My mom’s in this sort of long sleep, coma thing that I’m told isn’t serious. However, it’s necessary for her recovery, so they aren’t comfortable waking her because of brain damage.
“Dad’s legs were left exposed to the flash freeze. Dr. Brady said he has the worst kind of frostbite from his calves to his toes. Basically, everything from the bottom of the knees down is dead.
“The problem is his legs need to be amputated because his body is spending too much effort to save the legs and not enough to heal the rest of his organs. Their solution is to amputate and focus on saving his life.”
“That’s what I’ve been told,” added the sheriff, allowing Tucker to catch his breath.
“Well, Mom can’t make the decision, and they want me to.” He turned to Sheriff Mobley. “Do you hear what I’m saying? They want me to approve cutting off my father’s legs.”
Tucker closed his eyes and began shaking his head side to side. Tears flowed out of his eyes as he imagined being responsible for his father’s inability to walk.
Sheriff Mobley looked away briefly as he tried to avoid crying along with Tucker. He felt a deep sadness for the teen, who was faced with such an important decision alone. He gathered himself and joined Tucker’s side. The father of four placed his arm around Tucker and spoke in a softer tone. “Sometimes, life throws us a curveball. It’s not fair, and we’re left to deal with it regardless of how old we are.”
Tucker nodded. “Dr. Brady says that if we amputate, Dad has a better chance to live. If they don’t, we could lose him soon. Maybe even today.”
Sheriff Mobley let out an audible gasp. He hadn’t heard that from Dr. Brady. But then again, this decision had been looming over the medical team for more than a day.
Tucker continued. “He says that even if we don’t amputate, the potential gangrene or infection could take his entire leg, basically confining him to a wheelchair forever. At least with the lower legs only being removed, they can fit him with prosthetics that will allow him to walk. Maybe even hike and stuff.”
The two of them continued to stare at Owen. “And a better chance of recovery, right?”
Tucker chuckled and nodded. Finally, somebody had associated the word recovery with his dad’s condition.
“No guarantees, of course. He was pretty definite about what would happen if Dr. Forrest doesn’t amputate.”
Sheriff Mobley stepped away from Tucker slightly so he could gauge his reaction. “What would your father do if the roles were reversed?”
Tucker laughed. “He’d Google it. Well, I mean, he’d Yahoo it since that’s where he works. Somehow, Yahooing something never caught on like Googling did. Anyway, he’d weigh the options and then make a decision.”
“And what do you think it would be?”
Tucker jutted out his chin and smiled at his father. “He’d rather have three-quarters of me than none at all.”
Chapter Seventeen
Friday, November 1
Driftwood Key
Jessica and Mike were like two ships passing in the night. She returned from her shift driving one of the county’s surplus Ford F-250 pickups. The vehicle wasn’t recognized by Jimmy as it eased across the bridge toward the front gate, so Jessica stopped well short of the entry and turned off the headlights. She shouted at
Jimmy to stand down. Mike, who was preparing to exit the key for work, immediately recognized her voice.
She pulled through the gate onto the key, and the married couple spent a few moments together before Mike left. He already expected a long night, as he’d volunteered to work the blockades at the toll bridge. He wanted to see for himself whether they were secure and what kind of crowds had amassed on the Homestead side of the bridge.
“The sheriff and the mayor spent most of the afternoon and evening huddled up in the Islamorada office,” said Jessica after the two broke their embrace. “It was a hot topic among any governmental personnel she encountered, and the coconut telegraph was all abuzz.” The phrase was an oft-used term paying homage to a song performed by Jimmy Buffett, “Coconut Telegraph,” referring to a rumor mill in the islands.
“I can only imagine,” said Mike as he shook his head. He held his wife’s hand as they leaned against the truck and enjoyed the silence of the evening except for the random ticking sound coming from the Ford’s hot engine. “Any idea what they’re up to?”
Jessica sighed. “Supposedly the mayor wants more cops on the street. Residents are complaining about the huge uptick in home invasions each day. The sheriff says his manpower is stretched thin because of the checkpoints at the bridges.”
“I feel a demand for working longer hours coming.”
Jessica nodded. “That’s part of the solution. The other suggestion by the mayor was to deputize a bunch of people. She wants warm bodies.”
“Armed, too?” asked Mike.
“I assume. You and I both know that the investigation of these types of crimes will never happen. Heck, you can’t even spend time tracking down the only serial killer in Florida Keys history.”
“No shit. Listen, I understand we all have competing interests here. The mayor wants people to feel safe in their homes, and the sheriff is trying to minimize the number of potential criminals on our streets by eliminating the nonresidents. The unknowns, as he calls them.”
Jessica walked away from the truck and shrugged. “Well, I hope he deputizes the knowns because, otherwise, we could find ourselves working alongside someone with a gun who doesn’t know how the damn thing works.”
Mike rolled his eyes and laughed. “Anything else exciting?”
Jessica smiled and walked back into his arms. “Yeah. Your partner wanted me to let you know he might have a lead on the killing that took place near Islamorada. He said it came as the result of a random conversation he had with a bartender up there.”
“Hey, there’s some good news,” said Mike cheerily. If he had his way, he’d be chasing every lead to find the serial killer regardless of the apocalypse.
“The other good news is the fact that there haven’t been any more bodies turn up since they found the one in the dumpster several days ago,” added Jessica before asking, “Do you think he’s moved on?”
Mike stuck his chin out and stared in the direction of Marathon. “I want to believe so. Maybe. Somehow his MO may have been thrown off by the power outage. It’s possible he remained in Key West after the last murder and saw how quickly we descended upon the crime scene. It’s all speculation, but I do know he’s taken a breather.”
“Stopped the bleeding, right?” asked Jessica with a chuckle.
“Yeah,” agreed Mike, with the insensitive choice of words. He glanced at his watch, but he wanted to give Jessica a heads-up on their patient. “Speaking of stopping the bleeding, apparently Patrick is recuperating nicely. He’s sitting up in bed on his own and making it to the bathroom without assistance.”
“Good for him.”
“You know, Jess, I’ve dealt with victims of crimes my entire career. Including the families of murder victims. In every case, both victims and families are determined to find the perp. I mean, you know, I’ve shared this with you. They’re uber-helpful. Any little detail is sent my way. They watch a damn episode of Blue Bloods and call with some theory or another. I have to humor them sometimes, and I always respect them because I can’t imagine what they’re going through.”
“Where are you goin’ with this, Mike?”
He hesitated before responding, “I just don’t get that same feeling with Patrick.”
Jessica rubbed her husband’s shoulder. “Do you think it’s PTSD?” It was common for the victim of a brutal sexual assault and beating to want to block out the event as a coping mechanism.
“I don’t know,” he responded as he stared off into the distance.
Jessica had a suggestion. “Try spending some more time with him on a personal level. You know, not as Mike the detective but as a concerned member of the Albright family. Maybe he’ll open up?”
Mike glanced at his watch. He would be late, not that anyone would notice. He was most interested in catching up with his partner in Islamorada to see what he’d learned about the body they’d found in the hammocks.
“Yeah. We’ll see. Love you.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek and climbed into his truck. Jimmy quickly opened the gate to let Mike out. He drove off into the darkness with his mind focused on the serial killer who’d eluded him.
Chapter Eighteen
Friday, November 1
North of Winston-Salem, North Carolina
Before dawn that morning, Peter found a looted gas station near the Virginia-North Carolina border. It allowed him an opportunity to sleep for several hours, which was sufficient rest to ride well into North Carolina before stopping for the evening. He’d traveled an extraordinary number of miles early that Friday, and he’d be pleased to make it another sixty miles or so to the outskirts of Winston-Salem by nightfall. A good night’s sleep there would put him back on a daytime travel cycle.
Peter had been diligent about staying hydrated and checking on his wounds. Between the mall and his foray into CVS, he’d obtained a duffel bag full of first aid supplies and considered them to be more important than toting his sleeping gear.
Despite the long rides, his body was responding better than expected. His various pains were subsiding, and his excellent conditioning as a runner aided his stamina, which helped him avoid taking breaks. After crossing into North Carolina, the terrain became less forgiving. He started to experience more hills, which both challenged his energy levels but provided him a respite as he coasted downhill.
He stopped to drink from a roadside stream. He had a temporary lapse of judgment during which he cupped the water in his hands to slurp it down. He thought he was sufficiently far enough away from DC to avoid the radioactive fallout, but then he reminded himself that the nukes might have struck nearby. Charlotte was a major banking center. Raleigh-Durham was a high-tech corridor. There were also numerous strategic military bases in the region, including Fort Bragg and Seymour-Johnson Air Force Base.
He pulled out his LifeStraw and filled the stainless-steel cup that came with the canteen. He added his electrolyte supplement and drank it down. Peter had to remind himself that he could take nothing for granted when it came to the harmful effects of nuclear winter. The radiation was only one aspect. The soot and ash flowing through the atmosphere could also be harmful to his airways and digestive system.
He studied the map and identified a town close to Winston-Salem called Stokesdale. It appeared to be about ten miles north of the city and a logical place to head west for fifteen or twenty miles before finding a desolate road that would lead him due south.
Peter approached the town as the sun was setting and temperatures were dropping. It seemed to be getting slightly colder and darker each day, which was not unexpected. He was, however, surprised by how low the temperatures had dropped below what he considered to be normal for early November. Once again, he reminded himself he was in uncharted territory, and therefore, he should expect the unexpected.
Which was exactly what he got.
He navigated through a wooded area during his approach to the town. One winding turn after another minimized his visibility of the road ahead. He took a deep breath and ped
aled harder as he rose up a steady incline on the tree-lined road that obscured what little light remained that day.
His body was screaming now, the hill seemingly being the last straw his muscles could take as he pedaled to the top of the rise. He kept going, determined to make it to the point he’d identified on the map before turning west. His breathing was labored, but he kept pressing on.
Almost there. Peter encouraged himself to continue up the hill. He stood on the pedals and pushed downward to keep a steady pace. He was not going to quit, but, in his mind, he hoped the intersection would provide another vacant gas station or business to shelter him for the night.
Peter looked ahead and saw that the top of the hill was approaching. Like reaching the apex of a roller coaster, he arrived at the top and began to sail down the hill, building up speed to get to his destination sooner. Peter leaned back on the seat and arched his back to relieve some tension. He took a deep breath of the musty air inside the gaiter he’d been wearing from time to time.
He was coasting at a high rate of speed as he crossed through the intersection with several abandoned businesses in sight. As had been his practice, when the stop sign appeared, he ignored it. He hadn’t encountered any operating vehicles since his Mustang stopped running.
This time was different.
As he entered the intersection, a car appeared out of nowhere from the west. Peter struggled to slow the bicycle to stop. When he couldn’t, he chose to pedal faster to beat the approaching vehicle, which he did. Barely.
He abruptly applied the brakes and skidded to a clumsy halt, almost toppling his bike over as he lost control for a moment. He stepped off the pedals to straddle the frame. Peter furrowed his brow and physically wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. He looked in wonderment as the passing vehicle slowed at a curve and applied the brakes before speeding eastward.