by Bobby Akart
“We’re gonna have to find real food, Dad. This stuff sucks. Plus, we only have one more for each of us.”
“We can check out these cars in the morning,” said Owen.
“I already looked,” said Lacey. “I wandered around to make sure nobody was hiding. Most are locked, not that I saw anything in plain view anyway.”
“That sucks,” said Tucker with a moan.
Owen tried to be realistic. “We’ll just have to pick and choose our opportunities to eat. Tonight, after we drain our water, let’s pack the empty bottles with snow and bring them inside to thaw. We can fill up our containers before we leave and filter out the ash and soot later.”
“Which way should we go?” asked Lacey.
“I was looking at the map,” Owen began to reply. “The problem with all of these back roads is they’re curvy and mountainous. I was looking at Highway 50, which we took to this point from Placerville. It stretches all the way into Colorado and beyond. Because it’s a U.S. highway and not a state or local road, they probably went through the trouble to blast out mountains to keep the road grade kinda flat and the direction straight. I vote we take it across Nevada, Utah, and Colorado until we reach Kansas. At that point, we’re on flatlands, and taking a back-roads route will be much easier.”
Lacey shrugged and finished off her MRE bar. “Works for me.”
“I don’t care. Y’all are doin’ the driving. Maybe in Kansas I can practice driving?” Tucker used his best I’m-a-responsible-teenager tone of voice.
Owen chuckled. “Okay, maybe. Son, why don’t you take the first watch?”
“Cool,” said Tucker. He stretched out his arm toward his mother. “Mom?”
Tucker expected her to hand over the pistol. Instead, he got an empty MRE wrapper.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Monday, October 28
Driftwood Key
“I missed these evenings,” said Jessica as she peeled off her sneakers and sport socks. She and Mike had spent the day herding nonresidents off the Keys, a task that was met with loads of open hostility but, fortunately, no violence.
Phoebe had noticed the stress the Albrights were under. Between the two law enforcement officers acting to keep the peace in the Keys and Hank, who, despite his statements to the contrary, had become increasingly worried about the welfare of Peter and Lacey, together with her family, the family remained on edge.
Phoebe had managed their provisions well and had learned to take advantage of the few hours a day when the electricity was still on. The rolling blackouts had become more frequent and came without warning. When the power was restored, albeit temporarily, she summoned everyone to help her cook, do laundry, and prepare meals to be frozen.
Tonight, she wanted to give the trio a chance to relax like they had before the attacks. She made a pitcher of the inn’s signature mojitos to be shared by Hank and Jessica. Mike was provided a fifth of Jack Daniel’s with a glass and a bottle of water. Ice was available but was dispensed sparingly. The Manitowoc commercial ice makers couldn’t generate enough ice during the brownouts to keep up with their needs. For tonight, they were given a bucketful stored in an Igloo cooler.
Hank nodded as he raised his glass to toast with the others. They clinked their glasses and took a generous first sip to start the evening.
He was appreciative of Phoebe’s thoughtfulness and thanked her several times before she finally told him to hush. After she left, he expanded on Jessica’s comment.
“Even though we operated a fairly quiet hotel, you could always feel the energy of the guests around us. They were here for a good time, and we never had to pull them back by the reins. I don’t think there was a single instance since I took over that we’ve had to ask someone to leave due to bad behavior.”
Mike laughed. “I remember when Mom and Dad were running things. There was this rock-star guy who wanted to book the entire property for his entourage. They moved other reservations around and made him pay in advance. Do you remember what happened?”
Hank threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. “Yeah. The kid was swimming in money, I guess. It makes me think I missed my calling.”
“Being a rock star?” asked Jessica.
“No, country. But the same thing.”
Mike laughed so hard he snorted. “Hank, there’s a big difference between having star power and singing karaoke down at Bobby’s Monkey Bar.” A local haunt frequented by locals, inside Bobby’s Monkey Bar one would find dozens of Velcro-handed monkeys dangling from chandeliers and rafters while others were perched on virtually any flat surface, smiles plastered on their faces and multicolored lights reflecting off their plastic eyes.
“I could’ve been good,” said Hank somewhat seriously. He was a beach crooner, but so were thousands of other people in the Florida Keys.
Mike continued the story. “Well, anyway, mister rock-n-roller parties with his bros and hos in the W hotel in Miami and tore the place up. They had to send the SWAT team to empty the suites he rented. He was taken to jail, held for several days without bond on some drug-related charge, and never made it to Driftwood Key.”
“I remember,” said Hank. “Mom decided not to book the rooms since they were paid for times two, right?”
“Yep,” answered Mike. He took a sip of his drink. “It was the one and only time we went to Disney World as kids.”
Hank sighed. His parents had been married to the inn. There was never a time that the two of them could be away together for more than a day. Hank and Mike had accepted that. They’d made the islands their playground.
The sun set over the Gulf of Mexico. The normally turquoise and orange hues were displaced by gray, drab clouds with a hint of burnt orange. The operative word being burnt.
Being situated directly between two bodies of water, the Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico, was a benefit, as the winds blew continuously. The soot-filled air was present but less noticeable. Thus far, none of them had experienced the coughing fits taking place around other parts of the country.
“Did you guys learn anything new today?” asked Hank.
“Yeah, people hate cops,” said Jessica with a hint of snark.
“Nah,” said Mike. “They hate us right now because we’re making them leave. When they need us, they can’t wait to call and yell for help.”
“You know, at times it feels like a thankless job,” said Jess. “Then you make a rescue at sea. Or Mike solves a case. A life is saved or, at the very least, not ruined by some criminal. You become heroes again.”
Hank realized Mike hadn’t spoken about his serial murderer case since the bombs struck the mainland. “What about the killer? Do you think he left with the others?”
“My gut tells me no,” replied Mike. “Here’s the thing. Many of the facts point to a local, as hard as that is to believe. This guy knows the Keys. He’s dumped bodies where they can’t be found until decomposition has set in. His victims have been carefully selected, indicating he meets them in a setting that allows them to become intimate with one another.”
“Intimate?” asked Hank. “The victims have all been male. Is the killer gay?”
“That thought has crossed my mind,” replied Mike. “We do have a lead up in Key Largo that actually relates back to Miami. That vic was taken out of a bar by a well-dressed, supposedly attractive woman.”
Jessica joined in. “I told Mike it might be a cross-dresser. Or a transvestite.”
“There’s a difference?” asked Hank.
Jessica sipped her mojito and shrugged.
“Not really,” replied Mike. “Honestly, we don’t have enough to go on. It could be a guy who’s working with an accomplice. Maybe the two get their jollies killing?”
“Sick puppies,” quipped Jessica.
“No doubt,” said Mike. “In any event, at least so far, knock on wood, no other bodies have turned up. Also, we don’t have any new missing person reports for locals other than people wanting to find their loved ones on the
mainland.”
“I know that feeling,” said Hank. “Are you still able to monitor the civil defense communications through Homeland Security?”
“They are at the main station,” replied Mike. “Jess and I are getting information secondhand through conversation with the deputies. The northeast is a hot mess. The west from the Rockies to the coast is on fire. There are parts that haven’t been affected yet, like Northern Nevada, Utah, and Southern Colorado. The rest … It’s pretty bad from what I’m hearing.”
Hank was sorry he asked, and Mike was sorry he answered. The topic put a damper on the evening, and minutes later, Hank poured himself another drink and told them he was going to turn in for the night even though it was barely nine o’clock.
For nearly thirty minutes, Mike and Jessica sat in silence. It was becoming colder, and Mike dug out a firepit with his feet. He approached the tiki bar that was normally surrounded by guests at that time of the evening. He pulled out a Duraflame fire log and a Bic stick lighter.
He rose from behind the bar, and a flash of light on the water caught his eye. He gently set everything on the bar top and listened. The faint sound of a boat engine idling close offshore captured his attention. He closed his eyes to block out the sound of the palm fronds rustling in the wind so he could focus.
He was certain now, as the inboard engines put off a distinctive sound when idling. He stood and cupped his eyes to prevent any ambient light from behind him interfering with his field of vision. The sound of a boat was confirmed. But there were no running lights to be seen. This meant only one thing to Mike.
Somebody was sneaking up on Driftwood Key.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Monday, October 28
Driftwood Key
Mike eased from behind the bar and walked in a low crouch back toward Jessica. He felt his right hip for his weapon, knowing full well he’d left it on the bed along with his clothes when he’d returned home. He stealthily approached his wife and whispered to her, “Do you have your sidearm?”
“Yeah. Strappin’, too. Why?” Jessica had made the decision to carry her service weapon on her hip as well as a smaller, concealed weapon strapped to her ankle under khaki pants. She’d been concerned about the reactions of the nonresidents to being removed from the Keys. She’d compared every encounter to walking into the middle of a domestic dispute.
“There’s a boat pretty close offshore. They’re idling, and they’ve turned off their running lights. It’s almost like they’re sizin’ us up.”
Jessica stood and pulled her service weapon. She handed it to her husband and then retrieved the Sig Sauer P365 from her ankle holster near her bare feet. With dimensions and weight almost identical to a subcompact, the Sig P365 had a ten-plus-one capacity that gave her added protection in a potential shoot-out.
“Whadya wanna do? Warn them off?” she asked.
“I’d rather deal with them head-on; otherwise, they’ll just try to come back another time,” replied Mike as he walked slowly toward the dock.
“I’ve got your back, Detective,” she said jokingly. When on duty, the two routinely referred to one another by their rank within the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department.
The two hustled toward the dock and quietly walked along the high-dollar Trex composite decking that had replaced the deteriorating pressure-treated lumber years ago. It took a minute to walk in a low crouch to the end of the dock where the covered part of the decking was located.
Hank had secured the Hatteras with a tarp-like material just as he would’ve when a hurricane was approaching. After speaking to Peter and Erin, he was concerned about the boat’s electronics being exposed to the ash cloud spreading across the planet in the form of nuclear fallout.
Mike entered the covered area first, with his gun raised. Jessica waited, crouched several paces behind her husband, watching both sides of the dock. The couple was unsure of what they were facing, and they didn’t want to get caught bunched together in case the stalkers decided to open fire.
Mike focused on the boat. Its engines had been cut, but he could hear it drifting just on the other side of the Hatteras. Suddenly, he heard a faint click. Barely noticeable to most, but to Mike’s adrenaline-amped ears, it sounded like a symbol had been crashed together to end Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture.
The cocking of a pistol’s hammer was unmistakable. Mike dropped to a knee and whispered to Jessica, “Gun!” He’d lowered his body just in time.
A spattering of gunfire sailed by where he’d been standing only a split second before. The bullets embedded in the thatched hut’s supports or flew toward the beach. Mike glanced toward Jessica, who was crouched and ready to move. With hand signals, he directed her to go left toward the bow of their Hatteras, and he tapped his chest and pointed right. The center flybridge of the yacht would serve to split their target.
Jessica moved swiftly and crouched behind a white icebox used to preserve the catch of the day. It was empty and would provide little ballistic protection, but at least she could obscure herself from view. Mike went to the opposite end of the covered dock and crouched next to one of the telephone-pole-sized dock supports that had been driven into the ocean floor. He was exposed slightly, but it enabled him to get a clean shot if the assailants broke cover.
Their boat was a simple runabout made by Wellcraft. Roughly twenty-three feet long, the inboard was more for pleasure boating than anything. It was worthless for fishing other than around the dock with light tackle.
“Donde estan ellos?” one of the men asked in Spanish. Where are they?
“Los cobardes,” the other man responded with a chuckle. Cowards.
“Si. Rapido!” a third man ordered, telling the others to move quickly.
One of the men leapt from the rear engine cover of the Wellcraft onto the aft deck of the Hatteras. Mike didn’t hesitate to show them he wasn’t a coward.
He fired two rounds toward the shadowy target. He was unable to get a better view of the man, but at fifteen feet away, Mike was a deadly shot even in the pitch-black conditions.
“Vamos! Vamos!” shouted one of the men into the dark. The inboard engine of the Wellcraft fired, and the rumble of the exhaust caused the waters to churn.
Jessica took the offensive. She jumped onto the dock’s storage box and over the yacht’s railing. She slid across the deck on her knees until she reached the other side of the boat. She fired several rounds toward the steering console of the Wellcraft. A man screamed in pain and fell over the side of the runabout into the water.
The third man returned fire in Jessica’s direction. He never had a chance. Mike had climbed aboard the Hatteras and found the silhouette of his target in front of the Wellcraft’s dash. He fired three rounds in rapid succession, two to the body and one near the man’s head. Then, with a cool demeanor, he fired subsequent rounds into the heads of each of the would-be killers to ensure the battle was over.
“Three dead!” he shouted to Jessica as he scanned the interior of the boat.
“What the hell, Mike?” Jessica was astonished the men would fire upon them without compunction.
“Hey, is everybody okay?” Hank hollered from the end of the dock. Lights from several flashlights were dancing along the beach and trying to illuminate the end of the dock.
“Yeah! Clear!” replied Mike. Then he turned to Jessica. “I guess they planned to steal the boat or strip it for parts.”
The Wellcraft was still idling, but the waves from offshore had pushed it toward the Hatteras. This allowed Jessica to get a look inside.
“Gas cans and siphon hoses,” she said calmly. “They must not have seen us on the beach. They were gonna drain our tanks.”
Mike reached for the side rail of the Wellcraft and pulled it closer to him. He jumped on board and stepped over the dead body, careful not to slip on the blood covering the once white deck. He located the keys and cut the engine.
“Jimmy, tie them off,” Hank ordered as he arrived with the Frees. Eve
ryone on Driftwood Key began to clean up the mess left by the shoot-out. Hank turned to Mike and shined the light in his face. “Don’t criminals give it a rest, even in the apocalypse?”
Mike took a deep breath and exhaled. “Apparently not.”
Chapter Thirty
Tuesday, October 29
Key West, Florida
Serial killers were like functioning alcoholics. Their hunger for killing was every bit as strong as the drunk’s thirst for booze. The apocalypse didn’t change the insatiable needs of either the drunks or the demented.
If the Washington Post wrote an article about the most prolific serial killer in the history of the Florida Keys, they’d write that Patrick Hollister was a mild-mannered man who had a normal childhood.
His parents never divorced. Normal.
He grew up in a modest neighborhood. Normal.
He wasn’t a troublemaker in school and received good grades in all his studies. Normal.
He dated and eventually lived with a woman for a time. Normal.
He got a job as a banker and eventually became a branch manager. Normal.
Normal, normal, normal.
Only, Patrick Hollister was anything but. He’d learned he was gay when he attended the University of Florida in Gainesville. He tried to assimilate into the party scene there. College sports ruled supreme, and therefore drunken gatherings were the norm. He was a good-looking young man who seemed to attract interest from college girls, who often inquired about dating him. But he turned them down, claiming to be in a relationship with a girl back home.
Then, during one night of cocaine and excessive drinking, Patrick found himself in the dorm room of a buddy of his. The young man claimed to be bisexual, and he encouraged Patrick to explore his sexuality, which he did.
And he liked it. Yet, he didn’t. Even for the time, many in the LGBTQ community felt compelled to remain withdrawn from some aspects of society. “You can’t be an openly gay doctor or lawyer or accountant,” they told themselves.
