Bobby Akart - Armageddon

Owen made another turn and then eased up to the front of the church. There weren’t any cars on the street in front and only a few parked on the wide streets nearby. They hadn’t seen anyone on the sidewalks or porches of the homes in town. Undoubtedly, they were staying out of the inclement weather.

Owen parked the truck. “Tucker, will you stay here and keep an eye out. Your mom and I will see if anybody’s around.”

He opened his door first, and the full brunt of the north wind filled the warm interior. “Whoa!” exclaimed Tucker as he fell back in his seat and started searching for his jacket, which had been used as bedding.

Owen pulled the door closed again. “Guys, it feels like it’s dropped at least twenty degrees since we stopped at the gold mine. I know it’s getting later in the day, but this is nuts.”

“Here ya go,” said Tucker as he passed their North Face jackets forward. “Do you want me to find toboggans in our bags?” Tucker had learned the Southern term for wool knit hats from his mother.

Lacey slipped on her coat and replied, “No. We may not be long.”

Owen did the same and turned to Tucker. “Eyes wide open, son. Take nothing for granted, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” said the teen, who snapped a salute as well. During their drive that day, without unduly creating a mental state of paranoia, they’d discussed the various threats they’d face on the road to the Keys. They all circled around to the most unpredictable of them all. Their fellow man.

Lacey and Owen walked hand in hand through the soot-filled snow that had accumulated on the sidewalk leading to the entrance. They’d barely arrived under the cathedral-slanted roof when one of the double doors opened inward. A man and a woman greeted them.

“Welcome. I’m Bishop Gates, and this is my wife, Anna.”

Lacey allowed her husband to take the lead. “Hello, Bishop Gates, and thanks for letting us in. I’m Owen McDowell from San Francisco. This is my wife, Lacey, and my son, Tucker, is outside in our truck.”

“Oh, you must fetch him,” insisted Anna. “This unexpected cold air could be deadly if he’s exposed too long.”

Owen looked at Lacey and through the glass panes next to the doors. “Um, well, everything we own is out there. We, um, don’t want anything to—” Owen felt guilty for disparaging their town by implying thieves might steal their belongings.

Bishop Gates picked up on his hesitancy. “Mr. McDowell, do you and your family need sanctuary for the evening? If so, you’re welcome to stay here, and we have a garage in back to secure your vehicle.”

“And we have hot stew in the crock left over from tonight’s supper,” added Anna.

“You do?” asked Lacey. “Hot?”

Anna smiled and nodded. Her eyes were kind. “Why don’t you stay with us, dearie? A warm meal and some fellowship would do your bodies good. Maybe this foul weather will find its way elsewhere by morning.”

Owen and Lacey looked at one another. A few tears streamed down Lacey’s face. He immediately hugged his wife and looked over her shoulder to Bishop Gates.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asked.

“God has placed us on this Earth to help in times like these,” he replied as he held his arms wide. “Let us give you a night of respite before you continue your journey.”

Wednesday, October 30

Key West, Florida

In folklore, the time of night between midnight and four a.m. was known as the witching hour. It was the point of the evening when the powers of a witch or a magician were considered to be at their strongest. It was Patrick’s, as Patricia, favorite time to find his next victim. His targets were inebriated and looking for companionship. They were easy marks. Only one had put up a fight, and he had been easily disposed of in the mangroves.

The lack of power in the Florida Keys changed the way Patricia conducted the business of killing. The bars, never to miss an opportunity to serve drinks, fired up their generators and poured their whiskey. Frozen drinks cost an inordinate premium, as did any cocktail requiring ice. Lukewarm beer was embraced by the patrons without complaint. Music blaring from a boombox was more than enough to set the tone for the partiers trying to cope with TEOTWAWKI—the end of the world as they knew it.

Tonight, Patricia had to get an earlier than usual start because the governor had declared martial law. The local authorities agreed to look the other way so the bars could allow people to blow off some steam, but they let it be known that midnight was closing time. No exceptions.

During the day, Patrick contemplated his life as Patricia. He was beginning to see a time when killing opportunities would be fewer and far between. He only knew how to use the cover of bars and an inebriated mark to find his next victim. He’d thought about life after the bars closed permanently, but until that happened, he’d look for a new companion every night.

Besides, now he didn’t have to take them very far. There were a dozen bars within a couple of blocks of the Island State Bank building where he’d set up his vault of torture. The law had their hands full, and therefore Patrick could get his hands bloodied more often.

Patricia casually strolled up Whitehead Street on the sidewalk in front of the post office. She considered taking another side street to make her way over to the Roost, a local bar that was the location where she’d met her second kill. Like her last kill, where she met the victim at the Green Parrot, coaxing a drunk man a couple of blocks was not that great a task.

Patrick was drawn to the post office because of the police activity. It had taken him several trips to tote the trash bags on the gray Rubbermaid cart he’d stolen from the back of Margaritaville. During the early morning hours, he didn’t draw anyone’s attention. He was surprised later that afternoon after he woke up to hear the sirens and discovered the dumpsters hadn’t been emptied like normal. It was purely bad luck that those same dumpsters had become a buffet line for the homeless.

Not that it mattered, because he was being extremely careful as he honed his craft. He was meticulous about not leaving fingerprints or hair fibers not that the sheriff’s department had the means to analyze anything. Without power, all they could manage to do was rudely evict people from the Keys who had no place else to go.

As Patricia made her way around the post office and back onto Fleming Street, she noticed Homicide Detective Mike Fleming wandering the grounds with his flashlight, searching for clues. She wanted to wave her fingers at Mike. Give him a little toodle-oo as she walked less than twenty feet away. I see you, Mikey, but you don’t see me .

A grin broke out across her face. This was going to be fun. She’d pick out her next target and march him right past Mikey and his buddies. They’d never be the wiser.

As planned, Patricia found a seat at the bar of the Roost and sipped a glass of red wine. The place was hopping with activity. She waited to be noticed by the right guy, and if she wasn’t, then she’d become a little more aggressive and choose one.

Midnight was approaching, and she started to feel the pressure of picking out a partner to play with for the night. She made her move on a couple of late-night drinkers, but she was unsuccessful. Had she lost her touch? Did she not dress sexy enough? She didn’t want to overdo it under the circumstances. Most people wore the same clothes day after day. They were unkept and were beginning to smell. Patricia had planned ahead for that by filling the bathtub with water and being judicious about bathing. If anything, she was clean.