Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

While Tucker was away, Lacey got her bearings. They were approximately fifty-five miles off the coast of Sarasota. She couldn’t see the barrier islands of Longboat Key or Siesta Key as they motored past. The ever-present haze of soot seemed to blend in with the water, resulting in a feeling that they were completely alone in a sea of fog.

Tucker returned with a sixteen-ounce can of Monster energy drink. The fact that he was guzzling it down told Lacey all she needed about her son’s plans for the rest of the trip. He was going to remain jacked up on B vitamins and caffeine until he crashed on the dock below the Conch Republic flag at Driftwood Key.

They talked for a while, alternating between reminiscing about boat trips she and Owen had taken Tucker on when he was young and speculation about how the Keys had fared following the nuclear attacks.

They shared their recollection of how Hank operated the Driftwood Key Inn and the role everyone played. The McDowells were healthy eaters, so they were looking forward to eating the organic-grown vegetables from Sonny’s greenhouses and eating the fresh fish that Jimmy was so adept at catching.

The conversation turned to Mike and Jessica. Lacey and Mike were always close. He was more of a big brother to her than an uncle. When he married Jessica, who was slightly younger than he, Lacey had immediately found a sister to commiserate with following the death of Lacey’s mom. The trio had become tight, and Lacey looked forward to seeing them both.

1001 millibars.

Their conversation bounced around as they continued heading south-southeast along the coast. Their course took them along Captiva and Sanibel Islands off the coast of Fort Myers. After they’d gotten married, Lacey and Owen had honeymooned by going camping in several of Florida’s state parks, including Cayo Costa, a sand-filled barrier island accessible by a small boat or kayak. It was one of the largest barrier islands and had afforded the newlyweds plenty of privacy.

As daylight turned to dusk, Lacey began to develop a slight headache. She asked Tucker to bring her one of the Monster drinks. It would never be her beverage of choice under any circumstances, especially since it was not chilled. But his inability to find any pain relievers or analgesics on board necessitated the alternative method of using caffeine to narrow the blood vessels leading to the brain, which restricted blood flow and alleviated the pain.

The wind had begun to pick up occasionally. As pitch darkness overtook them, the occasional breeze turned to unexpected gusts that were strong enough to rock the fishing boat from side to side. They’d pass without Lacey or Tucker giving them a second thought.

The two had grown complacent and comfortable during the uneventful trip. They were more than halfway to Driftwood Key when they sailed past Marco Island. However, everything suddenly changed.

Lacey’s head was pounding from an incessant headache. The wind gusts had become more frequent. The sea spray turned to rain. The previously uneventful trip was about to become far more interesting.

998 millibars.

Friday, November 8

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

995 millibars.

In Greek mythology, Cymopoleia , daughter of the sea god Poseidon, was the Greek goddess of violent seas and storms. The boat had been renamed by its original owner several years ago to pay homage to the thirteen people who’d died when their commercial liftboat capsized during a hurricane in the Gulf. The death of anyone on the Gulf waters tugged at the heartstrings of commercial fishermen who made a living there.

The fishing boat had a padded captain’s chair designed for comfort. However, it was positioned far enough from the helm so the captain of the vessel didn’t, as they say, fall asleep at the wheel. The wheel of their fishing boat was the size of a bicycle tire with stainless-steel spokes. It had signs of wear and tear from the many hands that had gripped it, fighting the waves and navigating to the most-fertile fishing waters.

The wheel was mounted waist high. Behind it, a number of essential devices were mounted at the helm, including radar, the LORAN, and a control panel dedicated to navigation. Embedded amongst all the dials and switches and displays was the boat’s barometer. Ironically, it was located near the marine radio, which would ordinarily have been set to monitor the weather in the region. Now it was turned off, as static was the only thing being broadcast.

The barometer had dropped precipitously, but Tucker, who’d cozied up in the captain’s chair as they sailed just off the coast, had stopped monitoring it early on when it had shown no evidence of dropping as the Andinos had suggested it might.

Yet it had. Tucker wasn’t a seasoned boater. Every once in a while, he’d look down toward the helm to see if any warning lights were flashing. Mainly, he’d glanced at the GPS to determine where they were in relation to landmarks on the coast. Like a passenger on a long road trip, he’d become more interested in his surroundings and calculating the answer to the question are we there yet?

Nonetheless, Tucker considered himself a seasoned boater by this point. He’d spent hours under the tutelage of Andino together with hands-on experience as they’d crossed the Gulf from Bay St. Louis to Tarpon Springs. His familiarity with the controls caused him to become overconfident and lackadaisical. Like on a highway, things can go wrong when on the open seas.

The Gulf waters had become tedious to look at. Waves rolled past as the bow of the commercial fishing boat crashed through them. The conditions created by the fallout of nuclear winter resulted in the water and the sky visually merging into one.

Dull. A shade of gray without form except for the hints of darkness both above and below the whitecaps, which were becoming more frequent.

They say a good sailor knows when to stay in port, but that axiom was based on the ship’s captain knowing the weather conditions around him. Lacey and Tucker were sailing blind into a storm that had a full head of steam as it roared across the Florida Keys. An experienced boater might hear their story and say, “Well, I’ve never been caught in bad weather.” They’d either be lying, or it just hadn’t happened to them yet.

As the first feeder band washed over their boat, forcing the bow to suddenly push toward the west, Lacey and Tucker realized they were headed for trouble. They began to question their present course. Together, they studied the GPS and the nautical charts. If they changed direction toward land, where could they dock, and how long would it take to get there? Would they be met with friendly, helpful people like the Andino family, or modern-day pirates who’d steal their fuel or their vessel or worse?

The longer they waited to make a decision, the more severe the storm became. The gusts turned to a steady moisture-filled wind. The conditions had turned raw. Harsh. More than they thought they could handle. Despite their fears of the unknown, Lacey and Tucker had become hardened to the threats they faced.

Suddenly, the bow rose out of the water and dropped hard, throwing Lacey to the deck of the wheelhouse. She scrambled to find her footing, and just as she did, the stern lifted and the bow dropped, creating a surfing effect as the boat dipped its nose into the canyon created between the waves.

At the bottom of the sudden drop, the crest of a breaking wave crashed into the boat, driving into them like an out-of-control Mack truck. It had all changed with lightning-fast speed.

Lacey flew across the wheelhouse again, as she couldn’t find something to latch on to.