Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

The deputy confronted a group of residents. “Hey! Where’s Jax?”

They all pointed toward the office adjacent to the boat slips.

The two men stepped over a fallen power pole. Its transformers lay partially covered in a heap of sand while the power lines were twisted on the ground at its base. The irony wasn’t lost on Peter. The evidence of America’s beating electrical heart was just as dead as it had been before the hurricane. At least now it could be given a proper burial.

“Wait here,” instructed the deputy. “He owes me the mother of all favors. I’ll call in the chit just to get you some help.”

Peter grimaced and nodded. After several minutes, the deputy returned with Captain Jax and a handful of others.

“Okay, Peter. Here’s what you’ve got. Jax and these folks can give you a couple of hours. They’re gonna need to be reimbursed for their fuel. Do you think your dad’s willing to do that?”

Peter scowled. He was grateful for the help and not all that surprised they’d requested their tanks to be refilled.

“Deal.”

“And they said you can have a boat for yourself,” the deputy continued as he threw Peter a key attached to an orange floating key ring. He fumbled the catch, and the keys hit the sand. He knelt down to grab it and nodded his appreciation to the deputy at the same time.

Captain Jax addressed Peter. “You can have the boat. The owner died last night, and we got more boats around here than you can shake a stick at. Besides, it’s full of empty fuel cans. Fill them up when you get back to your place and return ’em full. Are we straight?”

“Yep. Thanks for helping.”

“All right, let’s get to it. Two hours. That’s it. Understand?”

Peter nodded again and followed Captain Jax with his rescue contingent to the marina, where the first order of business was to clear a path to get the boats out.

Saturday, November 9

Blackwater Sound

Near Key Largo, Florida

Peter and the other boaters spent more than two hours looking for Jimmy. He didn’t like the conclusion Captain Jax had reached at the end, but it was inarguable. Jimmy was no longer in the water. Well, on top of it anyway.

Peter raised the issue that Jimmy might have swum to shore. He explained to the disbelieving residents of the mobile home park that his friend was a helluva diver and swimmer. They didn’t try to dissuade Peter, and they encouraged him to keep the faith, but the search was done as far as they were concerned.

Peter cut the engine for a moment and floated adrift just beyond the entrance to Dusenbury Creek near Bush Point at the southernmost end of Blackwater Sound. He checked his fuel levels and then did some calculations.

He felt he had more than enough fuel to make it to Driftwood Key, roughly fifty miles to his southwest. Then he had a thought. He stood on the aft deck of the center-console fishing boat and looked around Blackwater Sound. He guessed there was ten to fifteen miles of shoreline to cover around the perimeter.

He returned to the center console and searched for the horn. A silver button was positioned to the left of the steering column, and he gave it a try. It wasn’t a loud air horn; however, it was good enough to get someone’s attention.

Logically assuming Jimmy was able to receive some help if he’d made it to Key Largo, Peter turned the boat and began ambling along the shoreline of the hammocks, such as they were. The semicircle of land that encompassed much of Blackwater Sound was nothing more than scraggly plant material protruding up through the shallow water. If Jimmy did make it to the hammocks, he’d likely be hugging a tree.

At first, he tried to holler for his friend as well as honk the boat’s horn. As his vocal cords became strained, it was too painful to yell, so he repeatedly pressed the horn’s button.

On the far west side of the sound, he reached the Boggies, a stretch of the hammocks that was more sandbar than plant material. The trees that protected the beach from eroding had been uprooted by the storm, and many floated in the water. Peter was uncertain where Blackwater Sound ended and Florida Bay, which led to the Gulf of Mexico, began.

He stopped for a moment and studied the landscape in front of him. He thought of how high the waves had grown during the worst part of the hurricane. He looked across the opening that had been created by the surge of water that had swept over it for hours.

Suddenly, a sick feeling came over him, and he became physically ill. Without warning, his stomach retched, and he hung his head over the side of the boat to vomit.

What if Jimmy had been swept out of Blackwater Sound?

Peter continued around the perimeter of Blackwater Sound. He slowly drove past Gilbert’s Resort and looked up at the void where the bridge had once stood. The place where it had all started. As he thought about the events of the last couple of days, like so many others would do once he brought the news of Jimmy’s disappearance to Driftwood Key, resentment began to build inside him.

Peter didn’t know all the circumstances of why Jimmy had been forced into manning the checkpoint in furtherance of Lindsey’s ill-conceived plan. Regardless, she was directly responsible for Jimmy being placed in that position to begin with, and therefore she should pay a price.

With the anger welling up inside, he completed his circular search grid and returned to the mouth of Dusenbury Creek. He stared at the hundred-foot-wide opening. It was the most direct route to Driftwood Key and would require the least amount of fuel. Then he turned his attention toward the western end of the sound. That nagging sensation that Jimmy might have been swept away with the storm surge bothered him. It was even possible that he’d grasped onto something floating atop the water that took him outside the confines of Blackwater Sound during the storm.

Peter turned the boat toward the Boggies and pressed down the throttle. He was going out into the bay to search for a while, and then he was going home to get help. No matter what, he wasn’t giving up until he knew what had happened to his friend.

For Peter, not knowing meant it was possible that Jimmy was still alive.

Saturday, November 9

Blackwater Sound

Dejected and exhausted, Peter lost track of time as he wandered around Florida Bay just outside the barrier sandbars and hammocks protecting Blackwater Sound. He repeatedly tried to call out for his friend but once again strained his vocal cords so bad that he began gargling with salt water to help heal the irritated tissue in his throat.

After hours of circling in an ever-widening arc, Peter became aware of his fuel levels. He was not an experienced boater. Growing up before he left for college, he’d rarely taken the Hatteras into the Gulf on his own. He almost always had his dad or Jimmy with him, the two people on Driftwood Key who seemed to enjoy being on the water more than on land.

That wasn’t to say Peter disliked boating. But with Jimmy and Hank around, the opportunities to go it alone were few. He wasn’t sure how far away he was from Driftwood Key when he noticed the fuel gauge drop off precipitously. He didn’t want to stop looking, but it was a fruitless exercise under the circumstances. An occasional dry gust of wind swept over him, a reminder that the storm was not that far away.

He’d seen hurricanes stall and even wander back toward the Keys when a strong high-pressure system collided with it in the Gulf. He didn’t have sufficient fuel to risk running out that far away from the Keys.

As it turned out, he didn’t have enough fuel to make it home, either.