by Bobby Akart
They were able to enter Mississippi at Bogalusa before turning south. They ran into a large group of refugees walking in the middle of the road toward the coast. Tucker was driving now, but he still laid a handgun in his lap as he approached the group. His mother did the same. The two of them had discussed the use of firearms after Lacey broached the subject of Tucker shooting at the vehicle in Arkansas. They’d agreed he’d exercise restraint and only use his gun in self-defense.
Initially, the group of people politely stepped to the shoulders on both side of the two-lane road as Tucker drove past them. Their faces were haggard, and their eyes were sunken into their sockets. Each of them appeared exhausted, hungry and defeated.
Lacey was curious about where they were headed because they didn’t seem to be part of a cohesive group. Rather, they seemed to have banded together for protection, not unlike animals who stick together in herds or flocks.
“Where are you going?” she asked after rolling down her window.
“We’re headed to a FEMA camp in Slidell. It’s been there for years following the hurricanes.”
“We’re headed to the marina at Bay St. Louis,” said another woman, who was holding the hands of two young children who barely kept up. “We heard boats are leaving for South Florida, where it’s still warm.”
“Hey, that’s what I like to hear,” whispered Tucker.
Another woman joined in with her opinion. “Supposedly the weather’s decent and doesn’t have all these clouds. Something about the way the wind blows.”
A man caught up to the group and said, “Those boats aren’t cruise ships or anything. They’re just fishing charters trying to make a buck. And they’re really expensive.”
Lacey became genuinely curious. “Like what?” she asked as Tucker continued to roll along slowly, matching the pace of the refugees. As his mom asked questions, he watched his mirrors and all sides of the truck in case somebody decided to move on them.
“Like, trade your truck for two seats. Crazy expensive.”
“Say, lady,” said one of the men, “let me ride by standing on your bumper. I can hold on to the roof rack if you won’t go too fast.”
The suggestion urged others around the Bronco to make similar offers. They began to draw closer to the truck, making Tucker nervous.
“I’ll do that if you’ll let my little girls ride in the back seat,” said one of the women. “They don’t take up much room.”
“No! Me! I can pay, too!”
“Tucker?” questioned Lacey apprehensively.
“I know, Mom. I know.”
Tucker pressed on the gas pedal and tried to move the refugees out of the way who’d tried to surround the truck. They were becoming belligerent. Several tried to slam on the hood in an attempt to get him to stop. One attempted to open Lacey’s passenger door.
“Dammit, they asked for this,” said Tucker. He furrowed his brow, set his jaw, and began to push through them without regard to whether they might get hurt. In his mind, they were on a street made for vehicles, not pedestrians. It was a risk they chose to take.
He blared on the horn, which only served to make the mob angrier. He slammed on the brakes as one man tried to jump on the hood. He slid all the way across and landed hard on the pavement. Tucker slammed his foot down on the gas, causing the Bronco to surge forward into a slight gap in the crowd. It was all the opening he needed, and he never looked back. Several people tried to chase them, and one managed to get a foot on the nerf bar before being knocked sideways and spinning to the ground. He sped off, hitting sixty-five miles an hour, the loaded-down Bronco’s top speed, before finally responding to his mother’s pleas to let off the gas.
“Tucker, this is getting old.”
“I agree, Mom. But what choice do we have? I mean, we’re almost to Florida.”
“Yeah, think about that for a minute. If the word is spreading around that Florida is still the Sunshine State, we’re gonna run into more and more groups like this one. Only, the next bunch might have guns pointed at us.”
Tucker took a deep breath and thought for a moment. They had the ham radio, and they could try to use it to monitor things like traffic and mobs of people walking down the road. However, he doubted they could trust something like that. This group they’d just encountered had come out of nowhere.
“What about the boats?” he asked.
“Bay St. Louis?” Lacey had given it some thought as well.
“Obviously, we may not be able to trust what those people said, but it was more than one who seemed to know about it.”
Lacey stared out the window and then up at the sky. “We have to drive past there anyway, right?”
“Well,” began Tucker in response, stretching the word out as he spoke, “sort of. If we take I-10, absolutely. If we cut across Mississippi and Alabama just above the interstate like we planned, it would be about twenty miles out of our way.”
“Is it worth looking into?” she asked. “We could avoid another thousand miles of this type of stuff. No more hunting for gasoline or sleeping in cemeteries.”
“Mom, you heard that guy. We’d have to give up Dad’s truck.”
Lacey nodded and fought back tears. She’d be letting yet another part of Owen get away from her. Then she glanced over at her son. He was a part of both Owen and her. The most important part. Trucks can be replaced. Kids can’t. She made a decision.
“Let’s check it out. If it doesn’t pan out, we’ll keep going the best we can.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Tuesday, November 5
Driftwood Key
Phoebe settled in for the evening. The generator was turned off after dinnertime, so she was following her early evening kitchen routine by candlelight. Having a structured day had helped her cope with this sudden change in their way of life. She once thrived on working full days that began at dawn and lasted well into the evening, seven days a week. She didn’t complain. She had a work ethic instilled in her by her parents and the genetics of their parents before them.
Hank had commended her repeatedly throughout the collapse. She was indispensable and she knew it. But she didn’t look at her value to the inn through the prism of an employee seeking higher compensation. They were family. Sonny, Jimmy and all the Albrights were all blood relatives in her mind.
She lit the last candle next to the small work desk nearest the entrance to the kitchen. As had been her practice, she retrieved the handgun from the desk drawer and set it on top of the journal she used to record their daily usage of supplies. She flipped through the pages to the menu she had planned for the next day, and since Sonny had gone to bed more than thirty minutes ago, Phoebe thought she’d do a little advance meal prep.
She set up her workstation next to the kitchen sink. A well-worn cutting board was pulled down from a shelf attached to a wall cabinet, and she pulled a serrated butcher knife out of the teak block on the counter. Finally, a peeler was retrieved from the drawer.
Phoebe chuckled as she surveyed all the tools it took to peel and slice up a carrot bunch.
She was a smart cook, not a gourmet chef. Sure, she was capable of producing a plate worthy of some Food Network program, but that was not her passion. Practical cooking was, and that certainly suited the times they lived in.
For example, many cooks don’t bother cleaning up a carrot bunch. They buy prepackaged sliced, shredded, or cut carrots at the grocery store and prepare a dish. Not Phoebe. She used the entire bunch, including the tops, the leafy green part of the carrot that grew above ground. She set some aside to regrow and cooked a few as well. While bitter, they could be prepared with olive oil, garlic and other greens to provide bulk to a meal. Not to mention, she thought as she began cutting the tops off, they help you poop.
Phoebe was mindlessly chopping away when suddenly the back door opened, causing her to nick the end of her finger. Blood spurted out onto part of the carrots, drawing a few choice curse words in her mind. Phoebe dropped the knife and spun
around to see who had rudely interrupted her.
“You startled me!” exclaimed Phoebe as she angrily turned on the water tap and ran cold water over her finger. “Patrick?”
“I’m sorry, Phoebe. That wasn’t my intention. I thought I was doing a good thing by returning my tray to save you a trip in the morning.”
Phoebe took a deep breath and exhaled, almost blowing out the candle next to her cutting board. Admittedly, she’d been a little jumpy, so the self-inflicted cut was as much her fault as it was Patrick’s.
“No problem, Patrick. That’s very kind of you. Would you mind setting it in the sink over here while I rinse this out?” She turned back to the sink and continued to run water over the gash on top of her knuckle. It was in one of those locations that would take forever to heal because the finger was constantly bending.
Patrick walked slowly toward her, his eyes darting around the room to assess his options. Everything was perfect to start his big night. As predicted, Jimmy and Jessica were off Driftwood Key, performing their duties for the sheriff’s department. He’d hidden among the palm trees as Sonny turned off the generator. He’d followed him through the trails as he went to the caretaker’s house located behind the greenhouses to catch several hours of sleep before he relieved Hank at the gate. Patrick sighed as he thought of how easy it would’ve been to kill Sonny along the path. If only he’d had a knife.
Hank, along with Mike, was manning the entrance to Driftwood Key. With both Jimmy and Jessica off-island, they weren’t able to have their usual fireside chat on the beach.
As he got closer to the sink and the countertop where she was cutting the carrots, his eyes adjusted to the candlelit room. He saw the butcher block with the cutting utensils protruding out, handle first. Scissors. Steak knives. Several butcher knives. Even a sharpener. It was a serial killer’s dream.
Patrick’s heart raced as Phoebe droned on about something or another. She spewed meaningless words like anyone who was nervous in a tense situation. His adrenaline had reached a level he hadn’t experienced since he’d fought off his attackers that night. Unfortunately, he had been outnumbered by three drug-fueled maniacs who got the better of him.
He gently set the tray on the kitchen island behind Phoebe and eased up behind her. She turned off the water faucet and reached for a kitchen towel to her right. Patrick made his move.
He rushed forward and reached for the butcher knife. It slipped out of his hands, so he lunged again, pressing his body against Phoebe’s.
She was pinned against the kitchen counter.
“What are you doin’?” she shouted as she tried to twist away.
Her eyes caught a glimpse of Patrick reaching for the knife that had slid off the cutting board. She writhed and squirmed to get away, but couldn’t.
Patrick grasped the knife and made a clumsy attempt to pull the knife toward Phoebe’s chest. The blade tore through her shirt and sliced open her right shoulder blade.
“Arrggh! Help!” she shouted as loud as her surprised mind would allow.
Phoebe dropped to her knees and grasped her shoulder to stem the flow of blood pouring through her fingers. No longer pinned down, she tried to scramble away from Patrick.
He, too, dropped to his knees and grabbed one of her ankles. He tugged at her but only managed to pull off her sock and sneaker.
“Help! Anyone! Help me!” Primal fear had overtaken Phoebe as she begged for someone to help her. She continued to pull herself along the floor with one arm, but Patrick grabbed her other ankle, arresting her advance.
He raised the knife high over his head and thrust it downward to stab her again. He nicked her calf but just barely.
The tip of the bloodied knife embedded in the wood floor, and Phoebe jerked her leg from the sharp, serrated edge. Shocked by the pain soaring through her body, she began crawling again until she reached the work desk where her journal was laid open. She reached up with her left hand and felt around the tabletop until she found what she was looking for.
Phoebe swung around and fired blindly in Patrick’s direction. Bullets flew around the kitchen, obliterating glassware and penetrating the cabinets.
Patrick was still coming.
Phoebe’s hand shook as she tried to steady her aim. He growled, emitting a guttural snarl that frightened her into shooting again. She found her target.
The bullet struck Patrick in the side, striking just below the rib cage near the liver. Having missed anything solid other than layers of fat and connective tissue, it went through him before plugging the front of the refrigerator.
Patrick’s body spun around, and he fell backwards from the force of the impact. Phoebe fired again, striking his left hand, shattering the bones and severing the ulnar artery.
“Dammit!” shouted Patrick in pain and frustration. He crawled behind the kitchen island and managed to stand to rush out the door. This was going horribly wrong, and now he had to find a way to escape.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Tuesday, November 5
Driftwood Key
Still clutching the knife in his right hand while his fractured left hand tried to stem the bleeding from his side, Patrick stumbled out of the main house into the darkness. The confidence and mental acuity he’d possessed when he began his attack on Phoebe was lost. Now he was wounded, frightened, and on the run, in search of a way off Driftwood Key.
He’d lost track of where he was. The loss of blood and excruciating pain resulted in a sort of brain fog that clouded his thinking. His mind raced as he tried to recall all his options. A debate raged within him.
Do I run across the bridge, retracing the steps I took that night to get here? Wait, Mike and Hank might be there. No, they always drink down by the water after dinner. Not tonight, Patrick. They’re manning the front gate. You can’t go that way. Steal a boat. They’ll never find you in the dark. What if I run down the dock and the keys aren’t there? I’ll be trapped.
His mind finally screamed at him as the voices of Mike, Hank and Sonny shouting filled the air. Just hide!
He raced behind the main house to the densely vegetated part of the key. He stumbled along a path, lowering his head to avoid the palms that seemed to defy gravity by growing sideways. He was sweating profusely and made the mistake of wiping his brow with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Patrick wasn’t sure if the blood was his or Phoebe’s. Regardless, it smeared across his face and into his eyes, causing them to burn.
Then he ran head-on into Sonny. The two men collided and knocked one another backwards. Patrick dropped the knife and reached around the ground in search of it.
“Arrrgghhh!” shouted Sonny as he pounced on top of Patrick’s legs.
Sonny threw a punch that hit his already bruised kidneys, causing Patrick to yell in pain. As Patrick struggled to get out from under Sonny’s weight, he found the knife’s handle. He swung his arm around with a slicing motion in an attempt to cut into Sonny’s arm. He was holding the knife backwards, so the sharp edge missed its target.
Phoebe shouted, “Sonny! Help me!”
Sonny became distracted, giving Patrick an opening. He thrust his hips upward and threw Sonny off to the side. Patrick rolled away, found his footing, and continued running down the path. He could hear Phoebe call her husband’s name again, and Sonny responded. His heavy footsteps pounded the crushed shell mixed with sand as he rushed to the kitchen’s back door.
Patrick’s heart was pounding in his chest, and the sweat continued to pour out of him despite the cold temperatures. He ran into a thick cluster of palm trees and leaned his back against one of them as he tried to regroup.
“Think. Think, dammit. Where are you?”
He turned slightly to get oriented. A slight breeze washed over him off the Gulf. He turned his back to it and pointed toward Marathon with his knife.
“That way.”
He started moving deliberately and quietly through the trails that led past the Frees’ home and toward the brackish water separating
the two keys. From there, he’d be able to walk through the mix of mangroves and tropical plants until he found the gate. It was his only hope.
Hank and Mike arrived at the main house just as Sonny emerged from the trail. All three men rushed into the kitchen and found Phoebe leaning against the kitchen island, favoring her wounded leg. She was shaking, pointing the gun at the door as the men entered, her hand wavering with her nervous finger on the trigger.
“Stop, or I’ll shoot!”
Sonny responded quickly to reassure her. “Phoebe, it’s okay. It’s just us.”
Phoebe began to sob. Until that moment, she’d mustered all the strength and courage within her to survive. The knife wounds were sending searing pain through her body, but it was her nerves that caused her to break down in tears.
Sonny gently held her as Mike peppered her with questions.
“Who did this?”
“Patrick,” she and Sonny responded in unison.
“Son of a—” started Hank, but Mike interrupted him.
He looked to Sonny in the dim, candlelit space. “How did you know?”
“I ran into him on the path leading to our place. He tried to stab me, but I got lucky.”
“I shot him,” interjected Phoebe. “Twice. Once in the side and once in the hand. Left, I think. It all happened so fast.”
Mike looked at Hank. “The gate.”
Hank didn’t hesitate. He cradled the AR-15 in his right arm and bolted through the open kitchen door.
Mike turned to Sonny. “Did you see him?”
“Yeah, on the trail to our house.”
“Take care of her and lock the door.”
Sonny nodded, and then Mike took off down the trail in search of Patrick.
While Hank took the more direct route toward the driveway gate, Mike followed the trail, using his flashlight to follow the trail of blood left by Patrick. He illuminated the path, and then he realized Patrick only had one option. With his gun drawn in his right hand and crossed over his left wrist, Mike picked up the pace, running toward the water and the narrow path that snaked its way through the mangrove hammocks clustered along the water’s edge.
