by EE Isherwood
“Yeah, it’s nice, but my choices had nothing to do with scenery. You’ll find this funny, I’m sure, but my main hang-up was that I didn’t think the trailer was safe for her.”
Obviously, she’d changed her mind about that.
We passed four empty lots, two on each side, before getting to the new construction.
“Looks like we’ll have more neighbors, soon,” I said to switch from a topic she seemed to find uncomfortable. “More big houses.”
A two-story mansion was on the right side, though the windows were boarded up and the tile roof was less than halfway installed. There was a ranch model directly across the street from it, completed in most respects except for the garage. Several pieces of construction equipment had been shoved in there as if to keep it out of the rain.
“To be honest, I wish we would have bought a smaller house,” Penny declared. “Everything on this street is a bit much for me.”
“I would have gone bigger if I could. I’ve lived in shitty apartments my whole life, so I’d give anything to have more walls between my bed and some asshole playing rap at 3 a.m..”
“Then why are you living in a home with only one floor?”
“I had to make concessions. I wanted a big house, but I also needed to be on the cul-de-sac, so I wouldn’t have cars whizzing by at all hours. When I finally retired, the only lot available on the circle was designated for a ranch-style home. I sacrificed the bigger house to secure my quiet spot at the end of the road.”
“You got lucky then,” she said.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“No matter what else happens, I promise I’ll never play rap at three in the morning.”
We laughed together.
The last pair of construction sites were mostly framed out, with plywood sheets already prepared for a proper roof, but they still had a long way to go. I’d seen a few guys poking around on ladders when I’d gone to the library, but they must have left before I came home because their trucks weren’t there now.
Once we got beyond those four properties, the last two hundred yards of the street was bare grass and a long line of electrical poles leading back to our houses. The openness made it easy to see the homes on Barracuda Bay across the canal, and slivers of Albacore Anchorage beyond.
We traveled in silence to the end of our road and curved right onto Poseidon Pier, the street that would take us to the exit of the subdivision. We immediately crossed a short bridge over the canal and made it to Barracuda Bay.
There were about twenty finished houses on Barracuda, grouped toward the far end, and it looked as if residents were standing around talking. I would have loved to get down there and see if they knew anything, but that would have to come later.
Ahead, there were a few people already traveling by foot, so I had to keep my attention there. “Stay in the middle of the street,” I advised.
A pair of older men walked in our direction, dressed in colorful polo shirts. They carried golf bags over their shoulders, and both waved happily when we passed, as if they were on a leisurely stroll to the 19th hole.
A second pair of pedestrians, a young mother and a pre-teen girl, each wearing regular street clothes, jogged past us without a word. When I looked back, they’d already turned into Barracuda.
There was also a guy loitering on the other side of the canal to our left. He stood at the shore as if he’d come out of the woods and was looking for a way to get to Poseidon Pier. He’d either have to walk back to the far side of Clownfish Cove or go to the main highway in order to avoid the water.
As I passed, I happened to notice what the man was watching. A huge alligator swam in the middle of the canal, heading the same direction as us. Those animals were another piece of the charm in America’s basement, though in my pre-retirement research I’d made sure attacks against people were very rare.
Once he noticed us beyond the gator, he gave a brief wave.
I waved back.
We finally passed the third, and last, street in our subdivision. Since it was the one with the most houses, it didn’t surprise me to see a lot of people standing around, as if a block party was in progress. There seemed to be more residents, relative to the thirty or forty homes, so I assumed they were mostly retirees.
Penny’s brakes squealed as she halted at the north-south highway also known as Bayside Road. The huge orange clownfish on the billboard greeted our arrival, as did the clean, highly-visible stop sign. Back where I lived in Chicago, stop signs were usually covered in graffiti, so the fresh red paint was a nice reminder of how much better it was in Fort Myers.
“How do you feel?” I asked, impressed she was barely breathing hard from the exertion. Her bulging calves and well-toned thigh muscles suggested she was in much better shape than she let on.
“I’m doing good,” she replied.
As she looked up and faced the sun, I noticed a light sheen of perspiration from the effort, so at least I knew she wasn’t superhuman.
“We’ve gone three-quarters of a mile already.”
“We’ve got about four to go,” I remarked. “Ready to head into suburbia?”
“I’ve never been more ready,” she said and then took a few quick breaths to get herself pumped up.
There were no vehicles moving on the dual-lane highway, though there were a small number parked on the shoulder or stopped in the lanes. This part of Florida was pancake flat, and the highway looked like it had been drawn along the edge of a ten mile long ruler, so we had a clear view of the disabled vehicles in both directions. There were more stopped cars and roving pedestrians to the south, and I assumed because it was closer to downtown Fort Myers. Fortunately, we had to go north, and there were fewer people out on the road in that direction.
“After you,” I motioned. I planned to ride next to her, since there was no traffic, but I wanted her to set the pace. Whatever she could do for speed, I’d keep up.
We pushed off and shifted gears until we were flying along. I felt my shirt billowing behind me, leading me to wonder if my Springfield pistol was visible. I made a mental note to bring a backpack the next time I went traveling since it would keep my shirt cinched to my side, hide my weapon, and would also allow me to take more gear.
There wasn’t much of scenic interest along the highway. The right side was mostly forest, save for some stand-alone houses and a couple tiny subdivisions like mine. By contrast, every square inch of land on the left side had been clogged with mega-subdivisions full of monotonous homes, look-alike streets, and the usual canals. It was about two miles to the coast, and you could probably jump from rooftop to rooftop the whole way.
I figured we’d gone about two miles before I wanted to fill the silence with conversation. “You said you lived in Denver before. What brought you to Fort Myers?”
She rode for a few seconds before answering.
“Short answer? My husband works in finance for B of A. They were supposed to give him his own branch in Fort Myers, but there’s been delays. Instead of being together in our new house, he spends most of his time in Tampa, which is the next-closest branch. I only get to see him on the weekends. Usually.”
“Long-distance relationships suck,” I replied. “Believe me when I say how well I know that.”
“Oh?”
Where would I begin? I’d dated stay-at-home women back when I was an over-the-road truck driver. I’d also gone out with a few traveling lady drivers while I ran the company. Somehow, long-distance relationships had become the norm for me, though it was an issue I’d intended to correct during retirement.
“A lot of someones, actually,” I answered after a brief pause. “I’ve spent my whole life in the trucking industry, and it was a job I loved, but as far as relationships went, I wouldn’t wish the traveling lifestyle on my worst enemy.”
“Me, either,” she replied.
“Well, I hope it works out for you soon,” I said to try my best to cheer her up.
We coasted for a littl
e while and then we both resumed pedaling, but at a more comfortable riding pace.
“So, Frank, how did you end up as my neighbor? What was it about our street which made you plunk down the money for one of those insanely big houses?”
“Would you believe me if I said it was a random chance?”
“Nope,” she deadpanned.
I had to chuckle since I already knew the end of the story.
“So, I dealt with maps a lot. With a trucking company, it helps to know the towns where you’re sending people. About ten years ago, I decided I wanted to get the hell out of Chicago when I retired. I knew it was going to be a warm place like Florida, and I didn’t even care what city. I pulled out a state map, pinned it on the wall, then made a blind stab at where to live.”
“And you pointed here?” she asked.
“Yep. Fort Myers. I did a lot of research on streets in this area, but I’ve known almost since the beginning it was going to be close to the forest.”
“And Clownfish Cove was the winner?”
“It beats the hell out of living deep inside one of those monstrosities.” I motioned to our left, toward another of the endless line of subdivision entrances. The streets and canals all linked together, with little or no trees to shield one street from the next. “I prefer not having houses everywhere I look, don’t you?”
“Hmm,” she remarked. “It’s okay, I guess. I’m not a huge fan of raccoons getting into my trash cans, so it has its downsides, too.”
I felt as much as heard the thumping helicopter rotors in my lungs.
“Hold up,” I declared and mashed my brakes to come to a stop.
She slowed next to me, and her left shoe dragged on the street as she stopped.
“What is it?” she asked, and her eyebrows pinched together.
The sound lingered, as if not getting any nearer.
“Do you hear them? Helicopters.”
She strained to listen and held a few loose locks of hair away from her ear. “I do.”
The chopper noise finally grew louder, and I saw them appear to the north. They had to be a few miles ahead since they looked like small flies from so far away. However, their dangerously low altitude reminded me of the ones I’d seen earlier. The ‘whump-whump’ rotor beats droned on the wind.
“I thought the EMP took out everything with technology.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. “Why are they still in the air?”
I’d read about stuff like this a bunch, so I had a few guesses.
“The military builds their equipment with EMP shielding to prevent them from falling out of the sky. It’s a good thing, too, since they’ll be the ones riding to our rescue. Nobody does humanitarian work better than the US of A.”
“I see,” she continued. “That’s good, I guess.”
“I wish we could talk to them. If anyone knows what’s going on, they do.”
“Do you think they’re close to Daisy?”
I was trying to be positive about the possibility of getting news from them, but it was clear all she cared about was her daughter, and I didn’t blame her at all.
“No, they’re even farther away than North Pointe. It looks like they’re moving out, see?” I pointed to show how the helicopters were flying to the west, hopefully well away from the business district, which was now maybe a mile up the road.
“Yeah,” she allowed.
“But let’s keep going, alright? This time I’ll lead.” I wiped sweat from my brow, knowing what I was signing up for. It had been nice to talk and distract ourselves from the manual labor, but she wouldn’t stop thinking about her daughter until we reached her, so it was best to make it quick.
I kept us at a pace at the edge of my ability. The combination of tennis shoes, a shirt which acted like a parachute, and my historical avoidance of cardio made it so I had to suck it up and spin those cranks, like Luke had said. I was able to maintain the speed for most of that last section and got us all the way to the edge of the North Pointe business district.
“We’re close,” I exhaled. “I think we’ve earned a quick rest stop.”
We again hit the brakes.
“Take a drink,” I said and then grabbed the water bottle Luke had prepared for me. I’d been thinking about taking a swig for a while, but I didn’t want to attempt it while the bike was in motion. Now, with feet firmly planted, I squeezed water into my mouth between heavy breaths.
“You should get a bike, Frank. You’re a natural.” She’d pulled out her water bottle and took a long drag, though she was barely sweating, even now.
“No, you’re killing it.” I wondered again if she was superhuman. “How the hell are you not winded?”
“I’m one of those people who can’t sit still for five minutes. I only work two days a week, so I have to keep busy the other five. When I’m not at home with Daisy, I spend a lot of time at the rec center. I do Pilates, swimming, and, I’ll admit, spin classes.”
“That explains it. Maybe I should take some spin classes, too. I could definitely use the exercise.”
“You don’t have to wear biker clothes,” she mused, “but it helps.”
“Oh, no, that’s never—” I cut myself off as soon as I noticed a lone man approaching. My heart rate instantly went beyond the effort on the bike. “Heads up, Penny.”
A guy on foot about fifty yards ahead of us was desperate for our attention. He wore a navy-blue business suit and waved his hands over his head, as if we were taxis and he was the fare in the big city. Penny and I both holstered our water bottles, which made it appear as if we were going to roll out.
“Hey! Don’t go! I need to ask you something.” He trotted toward us.
I figured the guy was harmless, but I treated him with the same caution I would have given any stranger on the side of the road. I let him walk to within about twenty feet before I held up my hand. “We can hear you from there.”
“Hey, guys, I’ve got five hundred dollars if you sell me one of those bikes.” He shook a wad of cash in one hand. “My car broke down, and I’ve got a big meeting in Port Charlotte this afternoon. It’s only about twenty miles, but I’ll never make it on foot. Think you could help me out?”
“Sorry, our bikes aren’t for sale. We’ve got our own meeting in that direction.” I gestured to the shops of North Pointe.
“Please, I really need to-” he pleaded.
“We think there’s been an EMP,” I interrupted. “It means whatever you’ve got going in Port Charlotte has probably been cancelled. All the power is out. The cars are dead. That’s why the vehicles on the streets are stopped.”
With a gentle tap on Penny’s arm, I showed her I was getting underway, and she matched my actions.
“Not all of them,” he pleaded as we biked past him. “I saw some Army Humvees come out of the woods about fifteen minutes ago. They went up this highway, then turned off somewhere in the town up ahead.”
Were the army men still in town? I had to get there and find out.
“Good luck,” I said to be sympathetic. He seemed harmless, but he sounded a bit desperate, so I never took my eyes off him as I rolled past him in the far lane.
“Alright, thanks anyway,” the guy replied as if I’d kicked hope right out of him.
Sixty seconds later, we crossed a canal and reached the flowery welcome sign for the town of North Pointe. It was like a shopping district had been plopped at the edge of the subdivisions to provide residents with food stores, restaurants, and a hundred different boutiques and shop fronts. The forest to the east of the highway was still there, but the boundary had been pushed back several blocks by the urban growth.
“Are we close to Daisy?” I asked.
“We make a right, then go through four lights.”
We passed a strip mall on our right side, which had about ten shops. A small number of people stood outside the doors; shopkeepers and shoppers watched us go by. Five or six women in yellow uniforms hung out in front of a nail salon, all of them seemed to hold
a cigarette. A couple of them even waved.
The little mall sat at the southeast corner of a four-way intersection. A bank was on the opposite side, the houses of one neighborhood butted up against it. A pair of dead gas stations were on the other two corners.
We made the right turn at the four-way stoplight. Several cars were parked under the dead bulbs, but we easily went around them using the empty lanes. The new street was more crowded with vehicles; the lanes on each side were for metered parking, and many cars had been there when the EMP knocked them out. The two lanes in the middle also had abandoned vehicles in our way, but there weren’t enough to block it completely.
Almost all the streets in this part of Florida were drawn on a grid, and North Pointe was no exception. At a glance, I placed us on the lower line of a square riding our way toward the bottom right corner. Between us and that turn, there were four cross streets heading north, deeper into the commercial district. The right side of the road was the edge of the town, with a row of shops and some empty lots. Behind the row, a tall fence and a canal separated the town from the woods.
“Four lights this way?” I asked.
“Yep,” she replied.
Drivers from the disabled vehicles stood wherever their cars had been parked or stopped. They were talking to each other and the people already at the local establishments. We went through the first intersection without dealing with them, but beyond the second set of lights a US postal van had been stopped halfway into the entrance of an upscale bank. A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk beside it.
“Look alive,” I said to Penny.
As we approached the group, a man stepped out next to the post office truck to flag us down. He was dressed in sandals, knee-length shorts, and an island print shirt; he was probably in his twenties.
