by Bobby Akart
The man with the tire iron did the most damage. He embedded the hooked end into the back of Mr. Uber, who immediately crashed to the asphalt pavement. Greyhound tried to shield his body from the vicious swing taken by the man with the aluminum baseball bat. From inside the motel room, Peter could hear the bones in his forearm shatter over the cries of pain.
The other man slammed a foot on Mr. Uber’s back and tried to wrestle the tire iron free. He pushed it forward and back, then side to side until it came loose along with bone, tissue and blood. He released an evil laugh and reached back for another blow. Only one was necessary, but multiple were dealt. Like a deranged lunatic, the man pummeled Mr. Uber’s neck and the back of his head until it was unrecognizable. It was a gruesome, gory display of anger and horror.
Inspired by his accomplice’s acts, the second man took another swing at Greyhound with the aluminum bat, striking the defenseless man’s ribs. The audible crack caused chills to run through Peter’s body. Chills that forced him into action.
He’d been frozen in place by the display of murderous brutality. Somehow, the beatdown administered by the two men was barbaric compared to the more humane method of a bullet to the skull that Peter had planned for them. Nonetheless, he had to act as he observed the tire-iron killer retrieve the cargo truck’s keys from Mr. Uber’s pockets. Now he had to defend his group’s greatest asset, the truck.
Peter ran out of the motel room with his gun pointed at the men, who were now rushing toward the cargo truck. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”
It was a phrase that came to mind, and one he immediately regretted saying. It only served to warn the men, who rushed around the back side of the truck for safety. The sound of the driver’s side door creaking gave Peter a new sense of urgency.
Rafael emerged from his room, and he ran toward the truck with his weapon drawn. He was forty feet away when shots rang out. Bullets skipped along the pavement, splitting the distance between Peter and Rafael. One of the men had retrieved a weapon from inside the truck and was now firing bullets toward them from underneath.
Rafael peeled off to the left to encircle the back of the truck. Peter didn’t know what to do, so he moved to the right and then immediately back to the left to avoid being a stationary target. He fired a couple of rounds under the truck chassis in an attempt to distract the shooter or at least provide Rafael some cover.
Then a barrage of gunfire filled the air. Rafael had reached the back of the cargo truck and was firing at the shooter. Peter added a couple of rounds of his own, which ripped up the asphalt underneath the truck.
Without warning, the passenger-side door flung open, and Peter suddenly found himself exposed. Several shots were fired by the second gunman, which ricocheted off the pavement at Peter’s feet. He danced to the left and fired two rounds into the door, which easily repelled them.
Rafael fired again and hit his target. The man groaned in pain, and Peter saw his body hit the ground at the truck’s left front fender. A single gunshot rang out as Rafael confirmed the kill.
The truck’s engine started, blowing a thick puff of black smoke out of the exhaust.
“Hell no!” shouted Peter as he ran toward the passenger side.
The truck lurched forward as the driver popped the clutch too quickly. Peter closed the gap and was about to grab the door handle when another shot was fired. Blood and brain matter sprayed throughout the cab, coating the passenger window.
Peter was startled by the sudden appearance of the attacker’s brain matter on the glass and fell backwards onto the asphalt. He groaned as his tailbone struck the parking lot.
“You okay?” Rafael shouted his question.
Peter sat upright and rested his elbows on his knees as he caught his breath. His handgun lay on the ground in front of him. “Um, yeah! Are they dead?”
“Two KIA,” he replied as he shut off the motor.
Seconds later, the second attacker fell to the pavement with a thud, joining his partner’s dead body. Peter stared at the two bloodied corpses for a moment before turning his attention to the battered bodies of Mr. Uber and his son. He tried to recall the massacre he’d experienced in Abu Dhabi. He closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. It was all so senseless. But then, so was everything that had happened since Tehran nuked Israel. That had triggered a series of events that led him to committing murder. He looked to the sky and then glanced toward the south. He wondered what he’d encounter between there and home.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sunday, November 3
La Junta, Colorado
The night before, Lacey had been given a sedative to force her to rest. She was terribly distraught over losing the love of her life. She and Tucker comforted one another, and eventually the medical staff tried to step in to get Lacey to rest. The thought of being apart agitated them both, something Dr. Brady was trying to avoid. After Lacey had been returned to her room, a leather recliner used by many a father-to-be in the birthing suites of the ob-gyn department was brought in for Tucker.
He’d rejected the offer of medications to relieve his anxiety and help him rest. That night he fought sleep out of fear that he’d never awaken. Eventually, his mental exhaustion won the battle, and he slept soundly next to his mother’s bed until morning, when the ICU nurses began to make their rounds.
Lacey was the first to wake. She quietly eased out of bed and made her way to the bathroom without the assistance of the wheelchair or the walker the nurses had provided her. As she sat on the toilet, emptying her bladder, she buried her face in her hands as the realization of Owen’s death continued to soak into her.
The world had gone to shit. Their life filled with love and happiness and successes had been replaced with a home likely destroyed by a nuclear warhead and a husband who’d been taken away by a fluke weather event. As she finished, she implored herself to hike up her big-girl panties and be the rock her teenage son needed to cope with the loss of his father. However, if she couldn’t deal with Owen’s death, how could she expect Tucker to do so?
When she came out of the bathroom, she found the lights in her room dimmed and Tucker gone. Her door was cracked slightly, so she presumed he’d slipped out quietly without telling her. She looked around the room and noticed one of her duffel bags sitting on a small table in the corner.
With her strength rapidly coming back to her, she decided it was time to clean up a little bit, hoping the change of appearance and clothing might drag her out of this melancholy state of mind.
She ran her hands down the flannel pajamas given to her by one of the local residents. She assumed they were hers to keep, but just in case, she folded them neatly on a chair after she took them off. She quickly slipped on her favorite hiking pants, a thermal undershirt, and a hooded, camouflage sweatshirt. She looked like she was going hunting, but in reality, she planned on leaving the hospital that day although she presumed the doctors would insist she was putting herself at risk.
Lacey needed to deal with Owen’s burial, but moreover, she needed to get away from the place where he died. She didn’t fault the medical team at Arkansas Valley in the least. They’d done an admirable job in treating her entire family under the circumstances. But for Lacey, it was part of the healing process to leave the place where her husband had died less than a day before.
She’d just finished dressing and turned her lights up when Tucker reappeared, followed by Sheriff Mobley.
“Mom, there’s somebody I’d like you to meet.”
Lacey stood next to her bed and casually rested her left hand on the mattress. She didn’t want anyone to notice that she was still unsteady on her feet.
“Hi, Mrs. McDowell, I’m Sheriff Shawn Mobley. Please, um, please know that our entire community is grieving with you and Tucker. Our hearts ache for you, and I want you to know that Owen’s memory will live on in Otero County for many years.”
Lacey smiled and then wiped away a few tears. Throughout the ordeal, she’d appreciated the kindness
and love everyone had shown them.
“Thank you, Sheriff. I wish you could’ve known Owen. He was perfect in so many ways.”
Tucker walked toward his mother and provided her a cup of coffee. He’d added just the right amount of cream and sugar. She took a sip and smiled at her son as she mouthed the words thank you.
“Some ladies made you a few pastries. You know, if Dr. Brady approves.”
The door opened wider, and Dr. Brady suddenly appeared with a clipboard, a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and a disapproving look.
“Lacey, just where do you think you’re going?” he asked as he looked her up and down.
“Good morning, Doctor. I’m feeling much better, and there are some things I need to deal with.”
“More important than your health?” he asked, confirming he wasn’t happy with her actions.
“It’s just. Well, I need to breathe. I mean, I need to get out—”
Tucker noticed his mom getting emotional, so he rushed to her side. He hugged her and then helped her sit down.
Dr. Brady set the clipboard on the bed and handed his coffee to Sheriff Mobley, who continued to watch with a concerned look on his face. Dr. Brady approached Lacey and crouched in front of her.
“Lacey, I get it. You wanna run as fast as you can and as far away from here as you can. I don’t blame you. But you’re not a hundred percent yet. I’m talking about mentally and physically.”
Lacey was sobbing. She choked up as she spit out the words. “I feel better. I even dressed myself. I’m fine.”
“You’re still recovering from a dangerous, traumatic injury. Coupled with your loss, it’s premature to be galivanting around. Please consider staying in the hospital one more day.”
“Are you not gonna discharge me?” she asked, wiping away the tears.
He chuckled. “We’re a little short on formalities nowadays. Of course you’re free to go. I’m just concerned for you.”
She began to reel off a litany of things she needed to do, from getting their truck fixed to finding gasoline. Sheriff Mobley stepped in to reassure her.
“Mrs. McDowell—” he began before she interrupted him.
“Lacey.”
“Okay, Lacey. We have your truck right down the street, and it’s repaired. We’ve filled up your fuel cans. The only thing left to do was a suggestion I made to Tucker.”
“What was it?”
“Black & Blue stands out too much for a long trip, Mom. We need to make it look busted up.”
“You want to bust up Owen’s truck?” she asked, causing a few more tears to flow.
Sheriff Mobley quickly replied, “No. No. Not at all. Just a unique paint job to make it less noticeable, that’s all. You can fix it back later.”
She furrowed her brow and then thought for a moment. “I have to bury my husband.”
Dr. Brady and Sheriff Mobley exchanged glances. “Lacey, the ground is frozen solid now. I took the liberty to speak with Curtis Peacock at the funeral home down the street. He has a crematory at their place. It’ll take some creative work with our portable generators, but he said he can help.”
The cremation process requires superheating the retort, or the cremation chamber, to a temperature ranging between fourteen and eighteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The device needed a combination of electricity and propane gas to operate.
“That would be okay,” mumbled Lacey. “May I take his ashes with us? If he has something …” Lacey’s voice trailed off as she began to cry again. Tucker welled up in tears in despair over his mother’s sadness. He tried to calm her down.
Dr. Brady saw the grief they continued to experience and tried to convince them to stay in the hospital. He offered them a vacant room on the top floor, far away from any activity, where they could be alone.
Lacey recovered and thanked him but declined. She was adamant and finally gained his acquiescence. The doctor made her agree to one more physical examination and to promise to dutifully take the medications he would obtain for her.
She agreed by providing him a simple nod. She suddenly found herself unable to speak again.
Part V
Day eighteen, Monday, November 4
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Monday, November 4
North Florida
That night, Peter and Rafael dragged the bodies behind the motel and covered them with a tarp they found. The two men piled cinder blocks on top to provide them some protection from wild critters that roamed the woods behind the buildings. The two men didn’t think the four deserved a proper burial. They were the worst kind of criminal opportunists, who preyed on the innocents, and therefore, they got what they deserved.
The rest of the group helped clean up the truck and later thanked the guys for their bravery. None of them questioned their motives, especially after they learned of Mr. Uber and Greyhound’s plans for the two women. After a cold night in which Peter and Rafael took turns standing watch, they piled into the military-surplus cargo truck and began their ride south along U.S. 301 that would take them through the heart of Old Florida toward the Tampa Bay area.
It was agreed that Rafael and his family would keep the truck. They promised to deliver everyone to their destinations if their fuel supply allowed.
Early that morning, with everyone else, including Peter, bundled up in the cargo bed, they made their way through Jesup and then into rural southern Georgia. They crossed the Florida state line, expecting warmer temperatures to greet them. They were disappointed, but not surprised. Even the palm trees had a dusting of white snow mixed with grayish soot.
Along the way, they encountered more refugees on foot. Stalled cars had been abandoned. Some had been broken into while others had their doors left open, hoping to come back to them intact someday. The carcasses of vehicles blocked the roads at times, causing Rafael to use his knowledge of the military truck to drive off road.
They encountered dead bodies more frequently. People were dying of thirst. Many people had stretched their bodies to their limits by not drinking seemingly polluted water for three days. Then, out of desperation, they’d thirstily slurp up any water source they came across. The brackish ponds and streams filling the St. Mary’s River looked drinkable, but the combination of fallout and bacteria caused many refugees to contract dysentery.
This exacerbated their dehydrated condition. The bacteria swirled through their bodies, causing bloody diarrhea, abdominal pain, and fever. Unknowing travelers tried to combat the aches, pains, and fever by drinking more fluids. They died within days. Corpses were lying in ditches or leaned up against trees, lifeless eyes staring into space.
Soon, the passengers heading south stopped looking. The dead were no longer a spectacle to be gawked at. They were another part of the landscape they traversed in their effort to get home or to a place of safety.
Rafael was careful to avoid slowing down near large packs of pedestrian travelers. On several occasions, they were surrounded by people who wanted to climb in the back of the truck, further cramping the paid travelers. It was difficult to pass up the hopeless and anguished. However, it was a decision Peter forced them to make before they left the Motel Jesup. The time to make an emotional, heart-wrenching decision was not when the sad eyes were looking into yours, he’d told everyone. The agreement not to take on any new passengers had been unanimous at the time although with each encounter, it was increasingly difficult to say no.
The first couple was dropped off about fifteen miles west of Jacksonville. They lived in a beachside community, but Rafael explained it was too dangerous for him to take the truck that close to the city.
The same was true for the mother and daughter, who asked to be dropped off in Gainesville. Her ex-husband still lived there, and the daughter was a sophomore at the University of Florida. They were dropped off along U.S. 301 in Waldo, just to the east of the college town.
The goodbyes exchanged with the two women were the most difficult for Peter. Their tears flowed as they expresse
d their appreciation for what he’d done to protect them. There were offers for him to come stay at the ex-husband’s horse farm near the Gainesville airport. The mom even offered up one of the man’s farm pickups for Peter to drive to the Keys.
He declined and said he planned on riding with Rafael as far as the fuel tank would carry them. He gave them one of Mr. Uber’s handguns along with a quick tutorial on how to use it. The mother and daughter had been opposed to guns prior to the night before. Now they understood how they could be used to defend themselves.
It turned out two of the older couples lived in The Villages north of Orlando. They shared stories and learned they had several mutual acquaintances. Then they both gloated how their golf carts were solar operated. The battery banks were powered by solar panels on the roofs of the golf carts, a primary method of transportation around the large retirement community. They were in high spirits when Rafael eased into the Wawa parking lot, a convenience store chain that operated up and down the Atlantic Seaboard. They also heaped thanks on the two men and promised to pray for them as they continued their trip.
Peter wasn’t ordinarily religious, but in the throes of a post-apocalyptic world, he found himself looking to God for guidance. He also found himself begging for forgiveness. At one point, he swore he wouldn’t fire his weapon at anyone again. He promised not to take another man’s life.
Eventually, that would change.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Monday, November 4
Driftwood Key
Patrick had become attuned to his surroundings and the people who surrounded him. Like many serial killers who oftentimes functioned on a highly intellectual level that allowed them to evade capture, Patrick was the consummate con man. He knew what button to push on some people and what conversations to avoid with others. It was all designed to achieve a goal—remain at Driftwood Key for as long as possible, if not forever.