by Bobby Akart
Day after day, these inmates were given street clothes and a kick in the pants as the prison doors were opened. They were reminded that they were not truly free, as they were expected to report back to their designated prison facility once the crisis was over. Most of the inmates were unable to hide the smirks on their faces when given this instruction. In their minds, once they left, they were free.
However, they had no place to go and no way to contact friends and family. At FCI Jesup, two thousand federal prisoners walked through Wayne County, Georgia, aimlessly, most without a plan as to what to do next.
That morning, the final group of eight inmates was released from the medium-security facility. They were the snitches, informants who’d cooperated with authorities to help convict others like them. They were eight men who’d committed crimes of murder in various degrees, but because of their cooperation with the DOJ, they were given more relaxed, bucolic accommodations than the concrete and steel environs of the federal penitentiary in Atlanta.
Chris Stengel and his cellmate, Benjie Reyes, had spent eight years at the Jesup prison. They’d both committed gang-related murders in Atlanta before rolling on their brethren. At Jesup, they’d managed to avoid the scrutiny of correctional officers as they ran their hustles ranging from bringing in contraband cell phones to drugs in exchange for commissary and other favors.
That afternoon, they walked out together and immediately contemplated a variety of criminal acts to make their lives better. Booze. Drugs. Stolen vehicle. Women. Their laundry list was not imaginative. They were like wild animals released from captivity.
Both men had family in Savannah, and they’d always daydreamed about living on the ocean. As far as they were concerned, the real estate market was wide open for them. They’d find a nice McMansion on the sea. Kill the owners. And get settled into a beach chair with their toes buried in the sand.
As they walked up the highway, they tried to recall the distance to Savannah. Stengel thought it was about sixty miles or so. The two men had remained fit by walking the track around the outer perimeter of the medium-security facility. Exercising made up the vast majority of their day when they weren’t working their jobs in the kitchen at eighteen cents per hour. A five-hour walk at a steady pace would yield fifteen to twenty miles of exercise. With their adrenaline levels, they’d committed to doubling that pace, which meant they could roll into Savannah sometime the next evening.
They walked northbound on U.S. 301 after grabbing some snacks and a couple of bottles of tequila from a liquor store in the process of being looted. Reyes found a tire iron lying outside the motorcycle repair shop nearby, a favorite tool utilized by burglars of commercial buildings.
It came in handy when they approached Babs’s insurance. They didn’t expect to find anything of value in the small office building, but the place hadn’t been looted yet, so the two decided to take a look. Twenty minutes later, they emerged with a backpack full of snacks and bottled water, together with some clothing found in a coat closet. Most importantly, for Stengel anyway, he scored an aluminum softball bat. Before they left, he even got in a few practice swings.
The famed New York Yankees manager, Casey Stengel, would’ve been impressed by his very distant relative’s swing. Former inmate Stengel bashed to smithereens virtually everything in the office that was breakable. There was no particular reason to do so other than the fact he had more than a decade of pent-up violent tendencies to satisfy.
However, the smashing of the insurance agency wasn’t enough. He had other urges, too. And as Stengel and Reyes walked up the highway, high on tequila and their newfound freedom, opportunity crossed their path at the Motel Jesup.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sunday, November 3
Motel Jesup
Jesup, Georgia
Peter entered the motel room at the far end of the complex from where Mr. Uber and Greyhound took up residency for the night. As he suspected, the mother and daughter must’ve agreed to trade their bodies for a ride to Florida. Through gritted teeth, Peter watched the two men paw all over the women as they led them to their respective rooms. It was obvious they were being forced into having sex with the men, as the daughter began to cry after Mr. Uber and her mother shut the door behind them.
Peter considered his options as his blood boiled inside him. He paced the floor of his room, trying to put the visual of what was about to happen to the women out of his mind. He retrieved both of his handguns from his sling backpack and confirmed the magazines were full of bullets. He shoved one into the waistband of his pants, and he held the other inside his coat pocket. With firm resolve, he marched back outside and began to walk on the covered sidewalk toward the other side of the motel.
Suddenly, Mr. Uber emerged from his room and began pounding on his son’s door. The still-dressed degenerate appeared, angry at the interruption. The two men exchanged words, and after hurling threats at the two women, warning them to stay in their room, they marched off with purpose toward the cargo truck. Seconds later, they were pulling out and heading north on the highway in the direction they’d just come from.
Peter was confused by the activity, but he used their absence to make his move. He hustled along the walkway, narrowly avoiding a collision with several of the refugees, who’d exited their rooms at the sound of the loud diesel truck leaving the motel.
“What’s going on?”
“Are they leaving us?”
Peter ignored their questions because he didn’t have any answers. He supposed they were stranded or, he thought, they might have a rendezvous nearby to refuel. Mr. Uber seemed to know the area well enough to have the Motel Jesup as his planned stop for the evening. He must have someone nearby providing him diesel fuel for the large-capacity tank.
By the time he reached the two end units near the motel’s office, everyone was commiserating in the parking lot except for the mother and daughter. Peter approached the mother’s room first. He knocked brusquely on the door.
“Ma’am, this is Peter. They’ve left for now. Will you please open up?”
He could hear her shuffling around the room. A shadow appeared by the curtains, and then the door slowly opened. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and her nose continued to run. She nervously wiped the mucus onto her sleeve.
“Did they leave?” she said in a loud whisper, her eyes darting around in fear.
“Yes, but I don’t know why,” replied Peter.
“I do,” said a sheepish voice to his right. It was the daughter.
The two women ran into each other’s arms and began to cry uncontrollably. After a moment, they broke their embrace, and the mother searched her daughter’s eyes for answers to the obvious question.
Peter had watched similar scenes unfold on television programs, but nothing compared to the real-life angst shared by two women who dreaded the inevitable assault they would be forced to endure. In that moment, he knew what had to be done, and he would carry out the task without remorse or compunction.
He averted his eyes to scan the parking lot. With no electricity and, thus far, no other traffic, the rumbling of the Cummings diesel engine would provide him some warning of the men’s return. However, he needed to come up with a plan.
“Ladies, um, I’m sorry. Um, you said you know why they left.”
“Yes,” replied the daughter. “They have a friend who works at the paper mill we passed. He’s going to let them fill up their truck.”
Peter’s suspicions were confirmed. Now for the hard part. He addressed the mother.
“Listen. We don’t have much time. Are they going to …?” His voice trailed off. He didn’t have the courage to say the word rape out loud. Not that it mattered. The mother knew exactly what he wanted to ask. She simply nodded rapidly and began to cry. The women held each other again, shaking as the tears rolled down their faces. Peter imagined the deal with Mr. Uber and son had been struck with trepidation back at Hickory. However, reality had hit them, and they clearly we
re unable to go through with it. Nor should they.
Rafael approached them. “What’s going on?”
Peter motioned for him to step a few paces away from the women. “Those assholes went back up the highway to refuel. Rafael, we don’t have much time. They’re gonna rape these two. Plain and simple. And I’m not gonna let it happen.”
Rafael studied Peter’s eyes and glanced over at the mother and daughter, who continued to cry, before looking toward the highway. Then he said something Peter hadn’t asked for, much less expected.
“I’ll help you.”
“Wait, you can’t. Your family might be—”
Rafael cut him off by calling for his wife. “Maria! Please. Come!”
Maria walked briskly across the parking lot, and Rafael met her halfway. After a brief exchange, they approached the two women. Peter joined them.
“This is my wife, Maria,” Rafael began as the two women focused their attention toward her. “Please go with her to our room and stay for a while.”
“But he said he would—” The daughter tried to relay the threat she’d received before Maria interrupted.
“No, honey. None of that is going to happen. You must hurry. Come with me.”
The mother turned to Peter with sullen, but hopeful eyes. “Are you sure? They have guns.”
“We’re sure. Go.”
Rafael gently placed his arm behind their backs and urged them to follow his wife. Then he issued instructions to the rest of the passengers.
“Everyone! Listen to me. Go back to your rooms and barricade the doors. Stay away from the windows and don’t come out until we say so. Do you understand?”
“Why?”
“What’s happening?”
“Why did they leave us?”
Off in the distance, the roar of the cargo truck’s engine could be heard as the driver shifted gears. Peter ran to Rafael’s side. He pulled the weapon from his waistband and handed it to Rafael grip first.
“They’re coming back.”
Rafael shouted at the others, “Hurry. Get in your rooms. Now!”
At the sight of the two men brandishing their weapons, the other passengers became frightened and scampered back to their rooms. Peter and Rafael eased back under the canopy and prepared to fight.
“What are you thinking?” asked Peter.
“We wait in the rooms for them. They’re expecting the women to be there. They’ll find us instead.”
“Take ’em out?” asked Peter, wanting to confirm Rafael was prepared to kill the men, just as he was.
“Without hesitation,” came the response.
Peter made a fist and presented it to Rafael, who immediately bumped it in return. They moved quickly to get into position.
Barely a minute later, the truck slowed and eased into the parking lot of the motel. Peter’s heart raced as he assumed the role of assassin. He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead that began to drip toward his eyebrows despite the chilly temperatures. The truck shut off, and the sound of the heavy steel doors slamming indicated the men were heading his way. Using the barrel of his gun, he nudged the musty nylon curtain aside to watch for Mr. Uber’s approach. Then his eyes grew wide.
“What the hell?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sunday, November 3
Driftwood Key
One would think during the apocalypse that people would have all kinds of free time on their hands. No jobs. No television. No extracurricular activities. Wrong. Every moment of every day was dedicated to sustaining themselves through growing food or fishing. Plus, as external threats grew, security became tantamount. If you can’t defend it, it isn’t yours.
It took a day and a half after the mayor’s contentious visit for Hank to meet with Sonny, Phoebe and Jimmy. This was followed by a serious conversation with Mike and Jessica around the bonfire on the beach. For the first time that Hank could remember, the group discussed the fate of Driftwood Key without passing out adult beverages.
“What did you think of the martial law declaration?” Hank asked his brother.
Mike paced through the sand, periodically stopping to mindlessly flatten out a mound only to build it up again with his feet. “It’s pretty simple. The only people around here who are free happen to have that word as their last name. The president has taken over every aspect of our country while eviscerating the Bill of Rights. Lindsey’s threats are real and could be backed up by force if necessary.”
Jessica wasn’t so sure. “Come on, guys. How far would she go?”
“I don’t know, Jess,” replied Mike. “But the way that thing reads, what’s ours is theirs. Hell, they could strip it all away if they want. Food. Guns. Boats. The damn deed to the property!”
“I just can’t believe it would go that far,” said Jessica. “People would never stand for it.”
“Some might,” mumbled Hank.
“Whadya mean?” she asked.
“Think about it. How many residents or businesses have an operation close to what we have here? Very few, if any. Right? So who’s gonna stand up to Lindsey and whatever kind of force she employs to take what we have? Us and a handful of others. The majority of the rest might welcome her actions.”
Jessica grimaced. She still couldn’t believe these types of drastic measures were being contemplated. “But, Hank, the mayor has to know if they took everything we have and kicked us off the Keys, there wouldn’t be enough to feed all the mouths who weren’t ready for this.”
“Jessica, if you saw the look in her eyes yesterday, you’d know that she meant business. We’ve known Lindsey for a long time. She’s conniving, but once she has the power, she doesn’t bluff.”
Mike finally sat down. “What’s the plan?”
Hank took a deep breath and relayed his thoughts. “We give them something. Just a little bit at a time.”
“Like what?” asked Jessica.
“For starters, Jimmy has volunteered to be deputized.”
“Jesus!” said Mike, who leapt out of his chair and began pacing again. “Do you know what they’re doing with these deputies? They’re sending them with a rifle to the checkpoints to process people who want in. People demanding entry pull weapons at the border checkpoint all the time.”
“Shhh.” Jessica admonished her husband to keep his voice down. “Don’t tell Phoebe and Sonny. They’ll freak out.”
Hank asked, “Can you work with the sheriff to keep him off the checkpoints?”
“I can try, but Lindsey has him wrapped around her finger. The whole department is talking about the change he’s undergone. Prior to the last several days, there was never any love lost between them. Now they’re thick as thieves.”
Hank laughed. “Maybe that’s it. To the victors go the spoils.”
“Whadya mean?” asked Jessica.
“What I mean is this happens all the time when political leaders get too much power. They make sure they get theirs and their families are taken care of. The rest of us have to go along with this shared sacrifice notion, but the same rules don’t apply to them.”
Mike stopped pacing. “Rules for thee but not for me.”
“Pretty much,” mumbled Hank.
Jessica asked, “After we send them Jimmy, weakening our own defenses, then what? They want food, too?”
“Yes, but I don’t plan on giving it to them,” replied Hank. “I’ve gotta talk with Sonny and Phoebe about cutting back our production to feed just us.”
“Patrick, too?” asked Jessica.
“Squirrely scumbag,” said Mike, who was in a testy mood. “The more I interact with that guy, the more I’m ready to send him packin’.”
“I can’t disagree, Mike,” said Hank. “I’m still not sure why he wasn’t ready to go to the hospital after he was up and moving around. And his story seems to be changing.”
“I’m getting the same vibe,” said Jessica. “He tells me one thing about his recollection of that night, but it’s different than what he’s
told Sonny or Phoebe.”
“He doesn’t tell me anything,” said Mike.
“Sit down, Mike. Please,” said Hank, urging his brother to stop pacing. The detective slid into his Adirondack chair and listened as Hank relayed his thoughts. “He seems capable of speaking freely with everyone but you and me. He won’t respond to you at all, feigning amnesia or some such. When he talks to me and the subject comes up, he acts like he’s on his last dying breath and needs rest. Yet Jimmy tells me that Patrick turns into some kind of Chatty Cathy when he’s around.”
“Like I said, squirrely,” said Mike.
“What do we do?” asked Jessica.
“Let’s work on easing him out,” replied Hank. “He’s become more mobile, even finding his way onto the porch of his bungalow. I’m gonna get Sonny and Phoebe on board with helping him build up his strength with the ultimate goal of sending him to his own house.”
Mike added, “I don’t like the thought of him wandering around the inn. Nobody has seen our resources.”
Hank added, “Even Lindsey, whose view was obscured by palm trees and plants.”
“We’ll keep tabs on Patrick,” said Jessica.
Hank closed out the Patrick topic. “The other thing that concerns me about him being here is if word gets back to Lindsey. She’ll counter my refusal to feed all of Marathon with an alternative.”
“Like what?” asked Jessica.
Hank frowned as he made eye contact with the others. “Like moving the displaced and homeless into the inn.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sunday, November 3
Motel Jesup
Jesup, Georgia
Out of nowhere, two men came racing from behind the motel’s office, screaming like banshees. One was waving a tire iron over his head while the other pointed toward Greyhound with an aluminum baseball bat. The attack caught Mr. Uber and his son off guard. The two men closed on them in a matter of seconds, and the initial blows sustained were near fatal.