by Bobby Akart
With a deep breath and a verbal promise to Jimmy that he’d return the next day with help, Peter pressed down on the throttle as nightfall was fast approaching. He hoped to find his way to the shoreline, pick out a point of interest that was familiar to him, and ease down to Driftwood Key, which stuck out from Marathon.
He ended up nearly running aground at Shell Key off the coast of Islamorada. After he turned toward the shore, he ran out of fuel. The engine seized, immediately shut down, and left Peter adrift in the middle of Little Basin near Bass Pro Shops on Overseas Highway. After a swim that zapped nearly all of his energy, he walked onshore at the private beach of a local bar.
Peter had no idea what time it was other than the fact it was late in the day. That wasn’t surprising, as every day bore the same characteristics regardless of where he’d been during his twelve-hundred-mile journey.
After getting his bearings straight, he began walking down U.S. 1 toward Marathon. He came upon Mile Marker 80, which meant he was about to pass over the Teatable Channel Bridge. He was thirty-two miles from home.
Peter picked up the pace. His feet hurt. He was dehydrated from the lack of water and especially after he’d continuously gargled salt water to relieve the pain in his throat. But he pressed forward. With each mile marker, he mentally ticked off twenty less minutes until he was home.
As he approached Mile Marker 61, he considered approaching Hawk’s Cay Resort on Duck Key. The resort had once been owned by a longtime friend of the Albrights until he’d sold out to an investment group for nearly one hundred fifty million dollars. There were many times thereafter that Peter and Lacey had urged their parents to sell the inn and retire to a life of luxury.
Hank’s response had been where would we live? His mom had been concerned with Hank driving her nuts because he had nothing to do all day. When his mom got sick and eventually passed away, his dad had thrown himself into managing the inn’s operations. Driftwood Key had been more than a business. It had been their family’s home for generations. To the Albrights, it was priceless.
He gave up on the notion of stopping at Hawk’s Cay and continued walking until he came upon a gift from heaven, as he saw it. Actually, it caused him to laugh uproariously until his throat hurt again. Peter had gone full circle.
A bicycle had been thrown off the side of the highway near the Dolphin Research Center. He glanced around for a moment and didn’t see anyone. Knowing the area, he couldn’t imagine where the owner might have gone, as there was nothing there except the research facility. He smiled as he settled onto the seat. This would certainly make the final fifteen miles of his journey a little easier and faster.
He was pedaling with ease as U.S. 1, the Overseas Highway, officially turned into famed Florida State Road A1A near the Marathon airport. Peter sped up, fast enough to create a steady breeze in his face that blew his long hair. When he’d left his home the night of the attacks, he had been in need of a haircut. Now, several weeks later, he was almost unrecognizable as a result of his shaggy beard and matching hair. In fact, he could’ve been cast as Shaggy in a Scooby-Doo movie.
He pedaled faster, thrilled with the sight of Marathon Community Park on his left. He actually saw people milling about the parking area in front of the Marathon Fire and Rescue Station. He waved his arm back and forth as he shouted hello. He was in great spirits until he wandered off the highway ever so slightly during his exuberance. The front wheel caught a pothole created by the heavy rains during the hurricane.
The sudden stop caused the front wheel to sink into the hole and threw the back wheel upward until for a brief moment, Peter was suspended above the ground. And then, like a bucking horse at the rodeo, the stubborn bicycle threw its rider head over heels onto the pavement and coquina shells making up the shoulder of the road.
Peter rolled over and over again. He had the presence of mind to tuck his body to prevent breaking any limbs, but the hard landing took its toll on his skin. His hands and arms were ripped open, as was his chin. Blood poured out of his wounds, covering his clothes.
He was less than a mile from home.
Peter lay flat on his back for nearly five minutes, trying to catch his breath. He closed his eyes in an effort to mentally shake off the million bees that were stinging his hands and arms. After he shook his head in disbelief, he rolled over on his stomach and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. The pain was excruciating.
Peter began to drag his feet down the shoulder of the highway until he reached the side road leading to Driftwood Key. The skies had turned from black to a smoky gray as he trudged toward the bridge crossing over to his home.
He chuckled to himself as he imagined what he looked like as he dragged his right leg behind him as he walked. The cartoonish Hunchback of Notre Dame came to mind. He was having difficulty breathing, and his left leg had buckled as he stepped onto the bridge. Thinking that he should hurry before his lower body gave out completely, he walked a little faster.
As he reached the center of the bridge, he noticed that the gates were pulled closed. Not surprising, he thought. Then the silhouettes of two figures appeared on the other side of the gate. They were holding rifles. Peter hesitated and lowered his eyes to make out who the armed guards were. He slowed his pace and focused on the gate.
Then he tripped over a piece of metal lying in the middle of the bridge. He dropped hard to one knee and tried to brace his fall with his hands, but his weak arms couldn’t support his weight.
The momentum of Peter’s body caused him to land on his side in the fetal position within feet of where another man in search of help named Patrick had fallen ten days ago.
Chapter Forty-Six
Saturday, November 9
Driftwood Key
Hank and Sonny had agreed to patrol the grounds together that evening although it meant they’d both have to pull a double shift that day. It was agreed that Jessica was capable of guarding the gate and the key’s perimeter alone because of her weapons training. She’d sleep first and then relieve the guys for a twelve-hour shift.
The men had been chatting about Mike’s condition when Sonny noticed the shadowy figure approaching the bridge. At first, they kept behind the posts until they determined what they were dealing with.
The scene was all too familiar to Sonny. He remembered vividly what Patrick had looked like that evening as he approached the gate. How pathetic his battered body had appeared. Sonny wasn’t heartless, but he certainly understood the circumstances under which they now lived. He wouldn’t have allowed Patrick onto Driftwood Key although he’d never throw that in Hank’s face. His old friend beat himself up over it every day.
“Another straggler,” he whispered to Hank as the two men strolled to the middle of the gate with their rifles raised and their eyes trained on the newcomer.
The barely discernible figure slowly approached, dragging a gimp leg behind him. Then, like an old drunk might, he stumbled and fell to one knee on the bridge before toppling over.
As if Hank could read Sonny’s mind, he said, “I promise you. No more Patrick situations. Let’s just let him lie there and die if we have to. We’ll just roll him over into the water to feed whatever’s down there today.”
“Works for me,” said Sonny, who slowly lowered his gun.
For nearly ten minutes, Hank and Sonny studied the figure curled up in a ball on the bridge. Finally, Hank leaned over to Sonny.
“Do you think he’s dead? I mean, the guy hasn’t moved since he hit the road.”
“Hell, I guess we could go take a look,” replied Sonny.
“What if it’s a trap? This guy may have an army hidden on the other side of the bridge. Even with the low light, we’d be sittin’ ducks out there.”
Sonny shrugged. “There’s no rule that says we have to help him, right?”
“Nope.”
Hank sighed and lowered his rifle. He and Sonny stood still, studying the body that lay in a heap on the bridge. They waited for any slight movemen
t to give them an indication of whether the intruder was dead or alive.
Another couple of minutes passed, and Hank whispered to Sonny, “What if this guy is a diversion? While we’re waiting on him to do something, they could approach us by water.”
Sonny turned to look in that direction and then returned his gaze to the lifeless body on the bridge. “Could be. Let’s bring this thing to a head, you wanna?”
Hank shrugged. “Sure, why not? It’s kinda weird, and I trust no one, you know. Whadya have in mind?”
“I could shoot him in the leg,” replied Sonny. “If he screams, then he’s alive. If he doesn’t, then we have our answer.”
Hank looked over at Sonny’s face. His amiable, kindhearted friend had hardened through all of this, especially after what Patrick had done to Phoebe and Mike. Hank looked around in all directions and wiped the perspiration that had developed on his brow, his natural reaction to being under stress.
“Unlock the gate,” began Hank. “I’ll go out there and see what the deal is. You stay here so we don’t both get caught outside the gate. If I get jumped, you lock up. Got it?”
“Hank, let me do it,” insisted Sonny. “You’re too import—”
Hank cut him off. “Bullshit, Sonny. You’ve got a wife and a kid.” He caught himself at the last moment. The Frees were distraught over their missing son, and they coped with it by not discussing it until they could send out a search party. It was agreed that once Mike recuperated, they’d conduct a thorough search of the Upper Keys, using Mike and Jessica’s friends in the sheriff’s department to assist.
Sonny wanted to argue the point, but Hank was firm in his resolve. He pointed to the lock and readied his rifle. Sonny pulled the gate open to let Hank out and then closed it without locking it just in case his friend needed to beat a hasty retreat.
Hank approached the body cautiously, pointing the barrel of his rifle toward the man’s back. He was a soldier of some kind. Very odd, Hank thought.
He watched for any movement but paid particular attention to the man’s hands, which were tucked under his stomach. His face was turned away from Hank, not that it mattered because his long hair would’ve covered it anyway. Puzzled, Hank suddenly stopped. He tilted his head sideways and scowled. There was something about this guy.
Suddenly, Peter groaned and turned his face toward his father. He mouthed the word, but his vocal cords refused to let him speak.
Dad.
“Peter?” Hank set his rifle down and began to run toward his son. “Peter! Son! I’m here.”
Hank rushed to his son’s side and fell to his knees. He was sobbing as he frantically tried to wipe the long stringy hair off his face. He turned slightly to Sonny so he could be heard.
“Sonny! It’s Peter! Get Jess! Hurry!”
All he heard in response was some kind of hoot and holler and shouting directed toward the main house. He turned his attention back to his son.
“Here. Sit up. Are you hurt?”
Peter managed to sit up and then laughed. It was a simple act that felt good and painful at the same time. Peter whispered to his dad, who’d wrapped his arms around him, “I’ll be good as long as you don’t squeeze out my insides.”
Hank started crying again, coughing and choking as the tears flowed. “Thank you, God. Thank you for bringing home my son!”
“Hank! We’re coming!” Jessica shouted from a distance.
“Hang in there, Pete. We’ll get you fixed up. You have no idea how much I’ve worried about you.”
Peter managed a smile. “I know. I should’ve called.” Then he began choking as he caused himself to chuckle.
Hank hugged him hard again, and Peter feigned losing his breath before he forced his body to go limp. This caused his dad to panic, thinking he had in fact squeezed the life out of his boy. He released his bear hug.
“No! Peter, are you with me?”
“Yeah, Dad,” he whispered with his hoarse voice. “Just kiddin’.”
Hank touched Peter’s bearded face. “You’re a rotten kid.”
“I know,” Peter said as the tears found their way out of his dehydrated body.
Seconds later, Jessica led Sonny and Phoebe across the bridge, where another tearful reunion began. They hugged and cried before helping Peter to his feet. Phoebe promised him all kinds of hearty foods to eat; he simply needed to make his choice. Sonny raced off with her to get Peter’s room ready. After an initial assessment, Jessica was comfortable Peter would live, but he needed to be bandaged up. She rushed off to her boat to get her full first aid kit after confirming that Peter could make his way to the house, using his dad for support.
Once father and son were left alone again, Peter waited while Hank locked the gate. He ran his arm through the sling of his rifle and stood next to Peter, who draped his arm over Hank’s shoulder. They walked twenty feet or so before Peter stopped.
After gulping two bottles of water, his voice had recovered somewhat. He was capable of whispering louder without pain.
“Dad, I’ve got to tell you something.”
“What is it? Is it about Lacey?”
“Lacey’s not here?” Peter asked, his tone reflecting his surprise.
“No, son. I haven’t heard from her at all.”
Peter sighed and dropped his chin to his chest. He thought Lacey would’ve come home before the attack, as he’d suggested to her. He’d broach the subject after he had some rest.
He continued. “Dad, I was with Jimmy. It’s a long story, but he and I were trapped on the other side of U.S. 1 when they blew up the bridge. Anyway, we made our way into Blackwater Sound when we got caught in the middle of the hurricane.”
Hank welled up in tears again. “Is he, um? Son, is Jimmy …?” Hank’s voice trailed off because he couldn’t bring himself to say the word dead.
“I don’t know. We got separated. I found his WaveRunner, but he was missing. I’ve looked all day trying to find him. Nothing.”
Hank took a deep breath and glanced toward the main house. “Let’s get you cleaned up and fed. Then we’re gonna have to tell his parents. This is not good.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Saturday, November 9
Lower Keys Medical Center
Key West
If the world wasn’t in the midst of the apocalypse, Mike would’ve thought he was arriving at the scene of any other crime. Uniformed deputies milled about, hyped up by the events they didn’t witness but could only talk about. Civilians huddled in corners, comforting one another even though they were on the second or third floors far away from the drama.
He’d been called hero more times than he could count as one person after another filed by the trauma recovery room, where he awaited a doctor’s final clearance to leave. His sutures had been torn open and continuously oozed blood throughout the ordeal. However, he was easily stitched up by one of the less frenzied nurses with a steady hand. He was thankful for that.
There was pain, but not the sharp, stinging pain he’d been warned about as a sign of trouble. After he’d been left alone, he did a self-assessment to determine if there was internal bleeding.
Weakness or numbness on the wounded side of his body? Nope.
Tingling in his extremities? Nope.
Headaches, impaired vision, or hearing? Nope, nope, and nope.
As far as Mike was concerned, he was good to go, and if he wasn’t released, he’d simply slip out the door in his street clothes.
After the shooting was over and the hospital erupted with activity, he had some time to clear his head in between visits by congratulating well-wishers. The world had gone to shit and would only get worse for years. The decision he’d reached with Jessica was confirmed by what had happened at the hospital. It was time to protect his family and Driftwood Key.
Mike came up with a plan, one that involved taking advantage of the chaos following the hurricane as well as the distraction of the MCSO at the moment. In addition, for his plan, he had another a
dvantage. Political capital. Heroes garnered lots of political capital.
The moment he walked out the doors of the hospital, he was going straight to the sheriff’s office. He’d adopt an Action Jackson superhero crime fighter type of attitude when he arrived. He’d play the part of hero if that was what they wanted. He’d put on the cape and mask in order to do one thing.
Prepare to defend their home.
“Mr. Albright,” the emergency room physician announced, snapping Mike out of his daydream, “under any other circumstances, I would never consider letting you out of my sight, much less this hospital. That said, you have two things going for you. One, you proved that you can be mobile. That goes without saying. Two, we’ve got a flood of patients inbound from throughout the Keys who’ve been seriously injured by this devil of a storm that passed over us. Actually, you can thank the hurricane for me signing this.”
The doctor handed Mike a number of pages that included aftercare procedures. He only had to see the front page of the stapled packet to manage a smile. He’d been discharged.
Mike tried to control his exuberance. He had work to do. “Thank you, Doc. I appreciate you guys fixin’ me up.”
The physician looked down and studied the floor covered in crusty drops of Mike’s blood. He seemed to get emotional before he spoke. He slicked back his thinning hair and let Mike know what was on his mind.
“You know, in the heat of the moment and under harried conditions, one might not have the opportunity to study those around them. Mr. Albright, I was the physician standing over the GSW patient. I was wearing a surgical mask, and the lighting was not optimal. And you probably never saw my face. Nonetheless, I firmly believe you saved my life earlier.”
Now Mike understood his demeanor. “Doc, I was just doing my job.”
The doctor looked his patient in the eyes. His eyes were red and swollen, as well as filled with teary moisture. “Maybe. You could’ve been justified in sitting it out, too. There are a lot of appreciative people around here who’ll never forget your bravery.”