Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

“Peter!” Jimmy’s shout brought him back into the present.

Peter had always been athletic as a kid and still enjoyed running for exercise. In high school, he had been on the track team and competed in the high hurdle events. The hurdles measured forty-two inches, somewhat taller than the concertina wire. However, unlike a hurdle used in a track and field event, the doubled-up rolls of wire measured nearly six feet deep.

He took a deep breath and stepped several paces back from the pile of mangled bodies. Then he began to run toward them. He’d have to use the backs of the people as a springboard to push him up, over and past the coils of wire. Peter focused on his own survival and tried to force the uncivilized act out of his mind.

He took off toward the wire. He planted his left foot firmly on the pavement, and then his stride carried him upward until his right foot barely pushed off the back of a dead man. Peter’s body rose into the air, and he sailed past the second coil of razor wire until his forward momentum sent him tumbling along the highway on the other side.

It was crashing into Jimmy that prevented him from further injury other than the scrapes and bruises he received. Both men were on their knees when they came face-to-face.

“Are you okay?” Jimmy asked.

“Helluva an entrance, right?” Peter replied with humor. He shook his body and moved his arms and legs to confirm nothing was broken.

“We’ve gotta go,” said Jimmy as he hoisted his friend off the pavement.

Suddenly, three men rushed past them in the darkness toward the bridge. They were followed by two women and a child. Jimmy and Peter stood dumbfounded, wondering how they were able to pass so quickly.

“They followed your lead,” Jimmy surmised as he encouraged Peter to run toward the bridge.

Soon, a pack of a dozen people were racing along the road toward Key Largo. Peter fought through the pain of his knees and elbows, which had taken the brunt of the impact when he’d hit the pavement. Jimmy slowed to help him along, which allowed several more refugees to race past them into the darkness.

“We’ve gotta pick up the pace. They’re gonna take down the Jewfish Creek Bridge.”

“This is nuts, Jimmy,” said Peter as he willed his legs to move faster. They were running now although they were still being outpaced by several people on both sides of them.

“You have no idea,” Jimmy said under his breath but loud enough for Peter to hear.

Without warning, an explosion filled the air, accompanied by a bright light, which provided enough illumination for Peter to read the highway signs mounted to the concrete guardrail. The signs read All-American Road, Florida Scenic Highway at Mile Marker 108. Until they, along with the scenic highway, disappeared in front of them.

Wednesday, November 6

Driftwood Key

Mike Albright lay on the ground, staring up at the mangrove trees hovering over him like the Grim Reaper’s army. He struggled to breathe. With each desperate attempt to fill his lungs with air, he felt like he was drowning. In the distance, he could hear shouting. His mind, slipping in and out of consciousness, tried to identify the voices. Hank. Sonny.

Jess?

Mike turned his head in the direction of his wife’s voice. Where was she? The gate. The dock. Somewhere above him?

Was it over? Had he died, and Jessica was trying to find him to bring him back?

Mike went into another coughing fit. He couldn’t shake the feeling that blood was coming out of his nose, mouth, and chest. Chest?

He pulled his hand upward toward his heart. A warm, steady trickle of blood poured through his fingers. He pressed hard, moaning in pain as he did. He had to keep his blood inside him. He doubted Phoebe had an extra supply in her secret storage room.

Delirium had set in. He was on the cusp of death, at that point when his body made the decision that the battle had been lost. It was his turn to check out.

“Mike!”

His eyes popped open. There she was again. Closer now. He tried to call out, but it just caused him to have a coughing fit filled with bloody sputum.

“Over here!”

“Jessica! This way!”

More familiar voices. Here comes the cavalry.

“Oh, Jesus, Mike,” said Jessica as she fell to her knees on the ground next to him. She took his face in her hands and turned her head so she could listen to his breathing. She touched her fingers to his neck. “A pulse! He’s still alive!”

“We’re coming!” Hank Albright shouted as he followed the sound of her voice. He knew the trails of the hammocks along the brackish water separating Driftwood Key from Marathon. He’d carved most of them as a boy, and others kept them maintained. Seconds later, he was by their side along with Sonny Free. He crouched down next to his brother and tried to see in the dark. “How bad is it?”

Sonny helped by illuminating Mike’s body with his flashlight.

Jessica was remarkably calm as she spoke. “Sonny, keep the light focused on his chest.”

She gently lifted Mike’s hands from the knife wound, which was just below his left breast near his lungs. Blood spurted out as Mike’s chest heaved, begging for air, gurgling out of his chest with every gasp. A noticeable hissing, sucking sound could be heard as Mike fought for every breath.

Jessica immediately applied pressure to the hole in his chest and implored her husband to fight for his life. “Dammit, Mike! Don’t you quit on me!”

Sonny pulled the flashlight back so she could see her husband’s face. Mike was alert, but his eyes were darting wildly in all directions, looking toward his brother, toward the gnarly mangroves, and then back to Jessica. His mouth was agape with a trickle of blood dripping over his lips. Mike didn’t try to speak, allowing his eyes to plead for help.

“We gotta get him to the hospital,” said Hank.

Jessica took a deep breath and exhaled to steady her nerves. Mike didn’t need his emotional wife right now. He needed a trained paramedic. She looked at Sonny and Hank.

“He’s got a sucking chest wound. He needs a chest tube.” The knife had plunged into Mike’s chest cavity and punctured the lung.

“Do you have one on the boat?” asked Hank.

“No, but there’s a workaround,” she replied. She turned to Sonny. “I need Saran Wrap and duct tape. Hurry! Go!”

Without hesitation, Sonny disappeared into the mangroves, leaving the Albrights behind. Hank rose and walked over to Patrick’s body. He kicked the dead man in the ribs to confirm he was dead. Then he angrily kicked at his head although he missed in the darkness.

“He did this,” he muttered as he returned to Mike’s side. “First he attacked Phoebe and then this.”

“Why? Is Phoebe okay?”

“Phoebe will be fine, and we don’t really know what caused that asshole to snap.”

Mike began to cough again, so Jessica turned her attention back to her patient. “Mike, look at me. I know this hurts and you’re afraid. It’s gonna be all right. I love you, and I’m not lettin’ you off the hook this easy. Got it?”

Mike managed a smile and slowly nodded once.

“What are you gonna do, Jess?” asked Hank, his voice filled with trepidation and concern.

“The knife created a hole in his chest. As he breathes, air is being sucked into his thoracic cavity through his chest wall instead of into his lungs through his airways. When he tries to breathe, his chest cavity is expanding in order to inhale. The problem is air not only goes into his mouth and nose like normal, it’s getting pulled into the hole.”