Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

His heart rate soared. He was immediately concerned that his brother had taken a turn for the worse. He ran down toward Jessica, who held the door open until he was inside. Much to his relief, Mike was sitting upright in the bed and was apparently fine.

“Did you have any luck?” Mike asked without a hint of the respiratory issues that had beset him as a result of the knife wound.

“No. Stonewalled at every turn. The sheriff’s a coward, and Lindsey’s a… well, no help.”

Jessica offered Hank a bottle of water. After the four-mile trek from downtown Key West, he was both winded and sweaty. He took a deep breath and then several long gulps of the spring water. As he did, Jessica reported what she’d learned.

“I went to the sheriff’s department to look for you, but I guess you’d already left. Hank, they tell me a hurricane’s coming. A big one, actually. They wanted me to stay to help, but I danced around the issue.”

“Actually, tell Hank how you lied,” said Mike.

Jessica rolled her eyes. “Okay, I lied. I told them I was gonna check on Mike, and then I’d report for the graveyard shift. Hank, I’m not going in.”

“Won’t you get fired?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter. Mike and I talked about it. It’s time for us to take care of our family and Driftwood Key.”

Hank looked toward Mike, who continued to stare at him, presumably to gauge his reaction to the news. Hank turned to Jessica and asked, “Did you hear anything about the storm’s timing? I learned about it while in Lindsey’s office, but she didn’t exactly offer any details.”

“Within the next couple of hours,” she replied. “We need to hurry.”

“What about Mike?”

“I’ll be fine,” Mike answered in a tone of voice that brought the issue to a close. “You guys hit the road, or the water. Jess, it’ll be your call. You know how to access the vehicle pool, right?”

She laughed as she replied, “It would be grand theft auto at this point.”

“No, not necessarily. You’re still a county employee until terminated. Same for me.”

Jessica leaned over his bed and planted a kiss on his forehead. “I love you. Follow your doctor’s orders for a change, okay?”

“Aye-aye, cap’n,” he said with a weak attempt at a snappy salute. Mike was still sore all over.

He and Hank exchanged a half-hug as they said their goodbyes. Mike promised he’d join them at Driftwood Key soon and not to worry about picking him up. Jessica tried to argue, but he insisted before shooing them both out of his room.

Once they made their way outside the front of the hospital, they began briskly walking toward Sunset Marina. The winds had picked up and were now sustained in the forty-to-fifty-mile-per-hour range. They were much stronger than just an hour ago when he’d left the mayor’s office.

Hank sensed a hurricane was barreling down on the Keys, and he hesitated to take the boat back home. However, Jessica successfully argued that the roads were still clogged, and it would take some time for her to secure a vehicle. They were out of time and had no choice.

She was right.

Friday, November 8

Blackwater Sound

Florida Bay

Personal watercraft were made for frolicking upon, not navigating the open seas. Those who enjoyed the water jumped waves, raced friends, and drove in circles as the exhilarating experience coursed through their veins. PWCs were the water enthusiast’s version of the motorcycle.

They certainly were not meant for use during a hurricane.

Unlike boats with sophisticated electronics guiding the user through darkness and inclement weather, the riders of PWCs had to rely upon visual, line-of-sight navigation. There was no map or compass. GPS wasn’t a standard feature on a Yamaha WaveRunner. Celestial navigation using the stars was out of the question during a storm.

In a hurricane, and under the conditions created by nuclear winter, if the rider was more than a thousand feet from the shoreline, they had to rely on gut and instinct. If their mind was cluttered, or they lost focus, even an experienced rider could easily get confused, turned around, or lost altogether.

Still concerned with being caught by the National Guard, Peter opened up the throttle and rushed into Blackwater Sound. Jimmy was close behind him, riding his WaveRunner just outside Peter’s wake.

Because the pursuit was still fresh in their minds, they moved faster and faster toward Florida Bay, the body of water that was located between South Florida and the Keys. It was akin to the driver of a car who’d been flying along the interstate for several hundred miles at seventy-five miles an hour only to forget he needed to slow down as he entered the exit ramp. Peter and Jimmy were in the clear. They’d escaped their pursuers. They were less than a mile from Key Largo and a long walk home. Yet their fear-filled minds dictated otherwise.

The square-shaped Blackwater Sound was almost three miles across. It was surrounded by an almost impenetrable barrier of mangrove-covered sandbars forming a semicircle from the north at the Overseas Highway, into Florida Bay and down to the south at Dusenbury Creek, where the police had discovered one of Patrick’s victims near Key Largo.

On a typical Florida-sunshine day, the guys would’ve been able to easily see the shoreline at Key Largo as well as the Boggies , the small main channel that cuts through the mangroves, leading to the open water.

The feeder bands of the hurricane had become fiercer. Peter tried to gauge the direction the storm was traveling, but without knowing its origin, whether it was formed in the Atlantic or the Gulf, he was simply guessing.

He and Jimmy were both experienced WaveRunner riders although they knew better than to get caught out in a storm, especially at night. Residents of the Florida Keys always kept one eye on the weather. It was ingrained in every native of the island chain.

Growing up, there had been times before a hurricane was about to hit that the guys would take their WaveRunners out into the open waters for a quick joyride. They understood there was a difference between choppy water and rough water.

Choppy water referred to one-to-two-foot swells that could be caused by high winds or even a large boat passing. WaveRunner enthusiasts loved trailing a motor yacht motoring along near Driftwood Key. Their adrenaline would surge as they jumped the waves, oftentimes alongside a pod of dolphins.

Rough water was considered dangerous, as the waves were typically above three feet. Hurricane-force winds generated that kind of wave activity, and even the most daring, fearless teen knew better than to challenge a wave crest that rose taller than their PWC.

To attack waves of that size, the most important thing Peter had learned was to stand up from the saddle. Riding in a crouched or even standing position let him use his legs like shock absorbers. It also enabled him to see his surroundings better amidst the high swells of water.

Peter slowed his pace, finally recalling the best way to ride in harsh weather was to keep his speed slow and consistent. Now was not the time for fast runs or aggressive accelerations. Wave jumping could be fun, but not in the midst of a hurricane under pitch-black conditions.

As he slowed, he glanced over his shoulder to confirm Jimmy was still behind him. His friend was hunched over the handlebars like a Jedi Knight hunched over a speeder bike. The strong wind coupled with the tall waves pelted both of them but was especially painful to someone whose face was covered with open wounds, and their eyes weren’t covered with protective goggles.