by Bobby Akart
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-S
ider 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.