Bobby Akart - Desolation

Tucker was especially attuned to Mike’s instructions. Both Lacey and Peter had been weapons trained by their law-enforcement uncle while growing up, but Tucker had never been exposed to guns until the apocalypse. He soaked in the information that Mike imparted on the group and, at times, asked poignant questions that caught the seasoned LEO off guard.

“Do you carry your sidearm with a bullet in the chamber? Couldn’t that second it takes to rack a round make all the difference between living or dying?”

Mike glanced at the adults and smiled. In his mind, he was telling them— “Don’t worry about the kid. He gets it.”

“That’s a great question, Tucker. For me, I keep a round chambered. Here’s the way I look at it. What are the chances that the second it takes to rack it will get you killed or hurt versus the likelihood of an accident because you’re carrying a chambered round in the weapon strapped to your hip?

“Here’s another way of putting it. If you’re in a situation where you don’t even have an extra second to move your hand, you’re probably in real trouble anyway. Most self-defense scenarios don’t play out that way, especially if you have good situational awareness.

“So, to answer your questions, I do keep a round chambered, but I’ve trained with weapons my entire adult life. For you, I don’t think you should carry a weapon that is locked and loaded. What you need to focus on is your situational awareness.”

Peter chimed in, “I think I’ll follow that advice, too. As for situational awareness, it saved my ass more than once since my experience in Abu Dhabi. I learned constantly being aware of my surroundings was important for my personal security, especially now.”

“Peter’s right,” said Mike. “Since this all went down, I keep reminding myself of a quote from that famous general Jim Mad Dog Mattis. He advised his Marines who were in Iraq at the time to be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everybody you meet. I’ve adopted that as my motto for when I have to deal with suspects in my job. I wish I’d applied it to Patrick Hollister. I’d be able to run more than twenty yards without getting winded.”

Tucker was about to ask another question when Mike’s two-way radio squawked to life.

“Sanchez for Albright. Over.” Mike and the deputies assigned to his substation had agreed to dispense with the formalities on their radio calls. He was recognized as their supervisor, but none of them used their ranks when interacting with one another.

“Go ahead, Sanchez.”

“A woman came into the substation claiming to have seen several pickup trucks approach the loading docks at the high school. She thought one of them, a teenager, was climbing on top of a backhoe parked near the building.”

“Roger that,” said Mike. He’d laid down a single law with his deputies when he gathered them together for the first time. The buddy system was always in effect. “I’m 10-53.” He was en route to the station.

“Do you think they’re breaking in?” asked Peter.

“Probably gonna try. I went by the high school the other day, and the buildings looked secure. But you know kids.” Mike laughed as he mussed Tucker’s uncharacteristically long hair.

Don Wallace was the group’s field general. Everyone looked up to him, and he relished the opportunity to feel important once again. In his prior career, he’d operated a large road-construction business. During its heyday, he’d had multiple contracts with the state of Ohio, building new highways and resurfacing old ones. Then a period of hyperinflation hit America, causing building material prices to skyrocket. At the same time, the labor market became tight, and he was having difficulty keeping employees, much less hiring new ones. After making several large draws that included work that was yet to be completed, Wallace’s house of cards collapsed. He allowed the business to close its doors. He liquidated his equipment and kept the advance payments he’d received from the state. Before he could be investigated and prosecuted, he and his wife slipped away and landed in the Florida Keys.

The glass breakage was sure to draw attention, but it was necessary. The young man who had volunteered to climb the boom of the backhoe and jump over to the suspended roof covering the loading dock did so with ease. Seconds after breaking through, he dove in head-first, his legs languishing half in and half out for a brief moment as if he were diving into a swimming pool.

“You two, cover that entrance. I need two more on the other side. If anyone from the neighborhood approaches, make sure they see your rifles. Don’t get into conversations with them. The idea is to scare ’em off. Got it?”

With a quick nod, the four took off to man their posts. Wallace had plenty of people with him to locate the food storage within the high school and to load the trucks. What he didn’t need was an audience.

“The rest of you, come with me. Let’s move quickly through the building and locate what we need. Don’t waste time unnecessarily searching through cabinets and desk drawers. This is a high school, not a jewelry store. Understand?”

The men and women agreed. A minute later, they were pacing in front of the roll-up doors, waiting for one of them to open. Wallace was growing frustrated. All the man had to do was come directly to the floor below him. How could he get lost?

“Hey, are you guys out there?” the man shouted from the center door.

Wallace rolled his eyes. Yes, moron . “Yeah, what’s the problem?”

“The doors are run by a motor. There’s no power. I’ve tried all the switches.”

Wallace shook his head in disbelief. He should’ve sent in a second man with this guy. He nervously looked around. Standing on the platform of the loading dock exposed them to onlookers from the adjacent neighborhood.

“Disengage the locking mechanism,” ordered Wallace. “Think of how you manually open your garage door. There won’t be a rip cord, but somewhere near the motor or the guides, you’ll find a locking bar.”

After a minute, Wallace was about to ask the guy if he was doing anything when a series of loud metallic bangs could be heard. The door shook and rattled, startling the group who were waiting to enter. Then a slight gap appeared at the bottom. The man’s fingers protruded from underneath.

“Hey, can you guys gimme a hand?”

The twenty-foot-tall steel panel door was heavy and required five men to lift it. Once it created an opening of four feet, a pallet was retrieved from near a dumpster to wedge under the door.

“All right, people. Let’s split into two groups. Food service is most likely on the main level. Half of you head to the right, and we’ll take the left side. Let’s go!”

They broke off from one another, flashlights dancing around the hallways, entering the building as they searched for the storerooms. It took a couple of minutes to find what they were looking for.

“Bingo!” Wallace shouted. He thought he was a winner.

Tuesday, November 12

Marathon

Hank and Erin left Mrs. Morton’s home encouraged by the support shown by the three county commissioners but wary of whether the group could pull off what amounted to a coup d’état. Lindsey had allies throughout the county, some of whom were likely being compensated through her confiscation program.

The additional complicating factor was Lindsey’s relationship to the sheriff. Jock’s actions indicated he was in lockstep with her plans, and that didn’t bode well. When a state’s national guard was preoccupied with societal unrest in major cities like Miami and Tampa-St. Petersburg, a county sheriff’s department was tantamount to an army.