by Bobby Akart
Patrick sensed they were ready for him to leave. There was a level of wariness from Jimmy. Hank seemed to be more questioning about what had happened to him as each day passed. Sonny and Phoebe were no match for his wits although they both seemed to be more withdrawn around him.
And then there were the cops: Nurse Jessie, as he thought of Jessica, and Detective Mikey, the guy who was so full of himself that he didn’t realize Patrick was practically under the same roof. Detective Mikey was lucky Patrick hadn’t totally regained his strength. If he had, he’d declare himself to be King Kraken of the Key by murdering the whole lot of them.
He lay in bed, trying to put his finger on what had happened to raise their suspicions. He recalled every conversation he’d had with them. Did his story change? What about his demeanor? He acknowledged he hadn’t been a hundred percent lucid those first few days as he recovered from the beatdown. Maybe he’d let something slip?
Then his mind raced to the worst-case scenarios. Had Detective Mikey extracted his DNA and come up with a match to the murder victims? Had somebody identified Patricia and given a sketch artist all the details? Patrick had become adept at applying makeup after years of practice, but were they somehow able to study him against the composite sketch while he was sleeping?
All of this troubled him that day. And when they started taking him for limited walks and constantly badgered him about regaining his strength, warning lights flashed in his mind. They’re getting ready to vote me off the island just like they did everyone else in the Keys who didn’t belong as far as they were concerned.
Patrick weighed his options. He thought about who was the most vulnerable and open to manipulation. At first, he’d thought it would be Jimmy, but Patrick began to realize he was sending the young guy signals that he shouldn’t have. He’d changed his approach to Jimmy in the last day, but it might have been too late.
Then he thought about Phoebe. She was compassionate. Motherly. In a mother hen sort of way. He could tug on her heartstrings if necessary.
So, equipped with a plan, Patrick decided to give them what they wanted. A more mobile, rapidly recovering patient who should be ready to leave in a week at the most. Only, his leaving was gonna be on his timetable.
As in—never.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Monday, November 4
Central Florida
After their final passenger drop-off, Peter relieved Rafael behind the wheel. He and the family of three squeezed onto the bench seat, with Javier sitting in his dad’s lap against the passenger door. It was the young man who first caught a glimpse of the traffic on Interstate 75 near Thonotosassa, where they’d dropped off the last of their passengers.
“Look at all those Army trucks, Dad!” the young man exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement.
Peter had pulled into a funeral home’s circle drive and was making a wide turn through their memory gardens when the interstate came into view. One transport truck and troop carrier after another ambled along the highway toward Brandon, a bedroom community to the east of Tampa.
“That’s a heckuva convoy,” commented Peter as he slowed to view the Desert Storm–era, khaki-colored trucks. In addition to the transport trucks like the one they were driving, several Humvees were interspersed throughout the slow-moving vehicles.
“They’re mobilizing for something,” Rafael opined. “My first thought would’ve been MacDill Air Force Base just south of the city. But these guys are heading southbound.”
“The only other military base I can think of anywhere near the Gulf is at Homestead,” added Peter.
“The air reserve base?” asked Rafael. “Doesn’t make sense. These are guard units. Maybe …?” His voice trailed off.
“What, honey?” asked his wife.
Rafael tapped his knuckle on the passenger window and pointed toward Tampa and the lower end of St. Petersburg. Black smoke was rising into the sky from several locations on the horizon.
“Unrest?” said Peter inquisitively.
Rafael grimaced and nodded. “Yeah. Probably in Miami, too.”
“What’s that mean, Dad?” asked young Javier.
Rafael adjusted his son in his lap so he could rub his hand through the boy’s long locks. “It means some people got out of line, and the National Guard needs to straighten them out.”
“Do you still think it’s safe to go to your parents’?” asked Maria.
“Where do they live?” asked Peter.
“West of Kendall. The south part of Miami-Dade. This road will take us through a handful of small towns and eventually run into South Trail.”
“Tamiami Trail?” asked Peter. U.S. Highway 41 ran along Florida’s Gulf Coast through Sarasota, Fort Myers, and Naples before turning east toward Miami. Kendall was a residential area in the vicinity of where U.S. 41 ended.
“That’s right. I thought it would be easy to take this route to get you into the Keys.”
Rafael leaned closer to his wife to study the truck’s gauges. Peter picked up on his intentions and immediately looked to the fuel gauge. He noticed the look of concern on Rafael’s face and spoke first.
“You’ll never make it all the way to Driftwood Key and back to Miami. You’re gonna have to drop me off.”
Rafael and Maria exchanged looks. “We made a promise,” she said.
Peter smiled. He focused on the road but glanced in their direction as he spoke. “Guys, when the blast wave threw me off into the ditch, all I could hope for in that moment was staying alive. Then I reconciled myself to walking twelve hundred miles. After that, a man was kind enough to give me a bicycle. You know the rest of the story.”
“But …” Javier began to protest, but he knew Peter was right. They’d never make the round trip from Kendall to Marathon and back. Peter waved his hand to prevent him from picking up on his thought.
“Listen, we’re talking about fifty or sixty miles to the Upper Keys. From there, I can find a ride down U.S. 1. My uncle’s a cop. I’m sure I can hitch a ride with one of the deputies.”
Maria spontaneously leaned over to plant a kiss on Peter’s cheek. He blushed and looked down shyly. He’d bonded with the family through the ordeal and vowed to look them up when it was over. For a brief moment, he considered encouraging them to come to Driftwood Key. Maria and Javier would fit in well with his family and the Frees. Not to mention that Rafael would be nice to have around because of his military training. In the end, he decided not to bring it up, as their own family needed them more than Driftwood Key did.
As darkness approached that afternoon, Peter pulled over to the side of the road across the street from the Miccosukee Resort. The normally full hotel and casino complex stood vacant at the intersection. They nervously shuffled around the cargo box while Peter gathered his things.
He divided up the potassium iodide to provide the family enough dosage for another ten days. He wanted to do more, but he had to consider his own family’s needs. He allowed Rafael to keep the handgun and extra magazines. He was confident he could make this final stretch of his journey with the guns he’d taken from Mr. Uber and son.
The group exchanged hugs and tearful goodbyes. Peter stood and waved to the family as they continued on toward Miami. He strained his eyes as he tried to focus on the Miami skyline. However, the hazy, darkening skies made it difficult. What he expected to observe, but didn’t, were the plumes of black smoke dotting the landscape like in Tampa. In fact, there was no indication of structure fires whatsoever.
This puzzled Peter. If the National Guard was traveling this way, he figured the unrest must’ve been worse than Tampa-St. Pete. It didn’t make sense.
He shook off the thought and began the final trek toward the Keys, full of anticipation.
Chapter Forty
Monday, November 4
Homestead, Florida
It was pitch dark as Peter approached Homestead. He elected to take a residential side street to avoid walking through the heart of town. It was well k
nown that Homestead had its issues with drugs and homelessness, problems certainly exacerbated by the power outage. The detour added about thirty minutes to his walk toward the Keys, but it was uneventful, something he needed at this point in the long journey south.
He was about thirty miles from the Blackwater Siren, a well-known bar and grill at the entrance to the Upper Keys. He’d stopped there many times to pick up fish tacos to munch on in the car when he traveled between his home and college.
Despite the late hour, he could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. The long day coupled with little sleep had taken its toll. However, his adrenaline-fueled body began to visualize sleeping in his old bedroom at the main house.
As he walked the deserted streets to come closer to U.S. 1, he began to hear the low rumble of trucks approaching from the north. His mind immediately recalled the large convoy of vehicles headed down the interstate near Tampa. He and Rafael had speculated whether they were headed to Homestead Air Reserve Base or Miami. As it turned out, they were both wrong.
Peter walked along the center median of Palm Drive when he noticed a glowing light in the distance. The dark surroundings made it stand out even more. That, coupled with the low ceiling of clouds and haze, caused the reflection to emanate for miles away from its source.
He reached U.S. 1 and stopped in the middle of the road amidst a trio of crashed cars. Two teenage boys were sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck, passing a cigarette back and forth. With his hand on the grip of his pistol, he cautiously approached them.
“How’s it goin’?” Peter asked casually.
“Not bad. You?” The young man was equally nonchalant.
Peter reached the side of the truck and stopped just short of exposing himself completely to the boys. He was able to see over the truck bed and felt satisfied that they were unarmed.
“I’ve been on the road trying to get home. I haven’t seen much in the way of lights anywhere. Are they racing tonight?” Peter knew Palm Drive ran past the Homestead-Miami Speedway, where NASCAR races were held.
The guys laughed, which served to relax both parties. Peter let go of his weapon and eased around the side of the truck.
“We were gonna check it out, but the military has a roadblock set up about a mile from here. They’ve got all the roads blocked, actually.”
“To the racetrack?” asked Peter.
So far, only one of the boys had engaged in conversation with Peter. “Yeah. There have been military trucks passing through town all afternoon. They’ve been coming from Miami, mostly.”
“Why here?” asked Peter.
The other boy laughed. “Ain’t you heard? On account of the Keys.”
Peter stood a little taller as fear overcame him. He couldn’t imagine why another country would want to drop a nuclear warhead on the Florida Keys. His first thought was a wayward missile fell off course or maybe was shot down, resulting in radioactive fallout.
“Did they get hit with a nuke?”
“Nah, man,” said the first boy. “They’ve lost their dang minds.”
Peter sighed. He was tired of talking in riddles.
“What exactly happened, and why would the government send the National Guard down here?”
The talkative teen took one last drag off the cigarette and flicked the butt end over end until it rolled under one of the other wrecked vehicles. He slid off the tailgate and rolled his neck around his shoulders.
“After the bombs hit, they started kicking people out. You know. Tourists. Bums. Anybody who didn’t actually live down there.”
“Yeah, and the poor bastards all came here,” said the other teen.
“Okay,” said Peter, drawing out the word, as he was still unsure what that had to do with the National Guard presence. If anything, in his mind, it would be prudent to move anyone out who didn’t belong there. His father had done the same thing at the inn for the guests’ own good.
The boy continued. “Well, I guess that was only half of what they did. When it started getting colder everywhere, people started looking to head south. They figured the Keys was their best bet.”
“Or Mexico,” said the other boy before adding, “But we heard they locked down their borders, too.”
“What do you mean by too?” asked Peter.
“That’s what Monroe County did,” said the talkative teen. “They threw as many people out as they could, and then they blocked access to the Keys. They piled about a hundred of them concrete barriers like these ones in the middle of the toll bridge.” He pointed at the concrete road construction barriers that lined the median on the east side of the intersection.
“They even have armed deputies manning the bridge,” said the other teen.
“They ain’t real, though. Hell, down there, if you own a gun, you can be a deputy.”
Peter scowled and slowly walked toward the barriers and then stared down the boulevard toward the speedway. There must be more to the story.
“What about U.S. 1? Is it barricaded, too?”
“They blocked it off with dump trucks just this side of Jewfish Creek. Anybody approaching by car is turned around unless you’re a resident. Same if you’re on foot. You have to show proof of residency to get in.”
“Are you guys serious?”
“As a heart attack. You live down there?”
“Yeah, sort of. I live, um, lived near DC now. My family lives near Marathon.”
“You got photo ID?”
“Yeah, but it’s …” Peter’s voice trailed off before he added the word Virginia. He realized the problem he was facing. His Virginia driver’s license wasn’t going to gain him access into the Keys. He’d have to use his father’s name and address. But the two boys indicated they’d deputized all kinds of Keys’ residents. Unless he got lucky and his uncle Mike or aunt Jess were present, he might not be able to get through.
“Are you gonna go for it?” the talkative young man asked.
Peter looked at him and then over toward the speedway again. He pointed as he spoke. “And you think they’re here because of these roadblocks?”
“I know they are. They told everyone in town to stay away from the Overseas Highway and Card Sound Road. I think they’re gonna invade.”
Peter laughed at the thought, and when he noticed the boys weren’t laughing, he became suddenly serious. He took a deep breath, thanked them, and began jogging down the highway toward Key Largo.
Chapter Forty-One
Monday, November 4
Otero County Sheriff’s Department
La Junta, Colorado
By the time arrangements could be made for Owen’s body and the truck could be readied for their lengthy road trip to Driftwood Key, it was near dark. Lacey and Tucker decided it was safer to stay in La Junta that night and to get a fresh start in the morning. Plus, Lacey admitted to herself, she could use one more night to regain her strength.
They said their goodbyes to Dr. Brady, Dr. Forrest and virtually everyone who worked in the hospital. Dr. Brady provided them both plenty of medications to fight infection and to relieve pain. He also provided them the proper dosage of potassium iodide in case they encountered a site with nuclear fallout. Communications between cities was minimal other than ham radio chatter. The locations of where the warheads had actually been detonated were still uncertain.
Deputy Ochoa picked them up at the hospital and drove them to the sheriff’s department, where Deputy Hostetler had just arrived with their Bronco. Lacey gasped and covered her mouth when she soaked in the transformation.
“That’s badass!” said Tucker. “Very Mad Max.”
Lacey sighed at her teenage son’s excitement over the defiling of Owen’s prized toy. It was hard to approve the paint job. However, she trusted Sheriff Mobley’s judgment, and the man had proven his ability to prepare for a catastrophic event like this one.
They were escorted inside after their belongings were secured in the back of the Bronco. Everything was neatly arranged
, and Tucker was the first to notice several additions to their gear. A green and brown leather rifle case was lying on the floorboard of the back seat. Stuffed behind each of the Bronco’s bucket seats were several green ammo cans. Finally, a few picnic baskets full of baked goods and Mason jars full of canned foods gave them more than a week’s worth of food.
Lacey greeted Sheriff Mobley as they walked in. He extended his hand to shake, but she wrapped her arms around him instead. The hug was well deserved.
“We can’t thank you enough for saving our lives,” she began. She made eye contact with all of the deputies, who were gathered around the front entrance to the sheriff’s department. “Had it not been for you, Owen would’ve never had a chance, and we …” Her voice trailed off as she reached out to squeeze Tucker’s hand.
“This is what we do, ma’am,” said Sheriff Mobley as he smiled and nodded at his team. “I regret that we couldn’t do more for your husband.”
Tucker stuck his hand out, and the sheriff shook it. “We’ll never forget you guys. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” said Sheriff Mobley. He took a deep breath. “Okay. You’ve decided to leave, and I understand you’re anxious. I’ll offer our hospitality one more time, just in case.”
Lacey smiled but shook her head side to side. “No, thanks. We’re ready.”
“I figured as much. We’ve added a few things to your supplies. All of your fuel tanks are topped off. My mechanic performed some calculations based upon fuel mileage for this model Bronco. With your extra gas cans, you should be able to make it twelve hundred miles before you run out completely.”
“I studied the map last night,” interjected Tucker. “That’s more than halfway. We can make it to Mississippi or possibly Alabama.”