Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

Hank ran his fingers through his hair and wiped the sweat off his face. “It sounds awful.”

Remarkably, Jessica chuckled. “It does, but in actuality, it’s the sound of not dying. Right, Mike?” She bent over and kissed her husband on the forehead. Their eyes locked, speaking to one another as only a loving husband and wife could.

“Comin’!” Sonny shouted from the direction of the main house. Seconds later he was by their side with the Saran Wrap and duct tape in his left hand. He had a gallon of spring water and the first aid kit Phoebe kept in the kitchen in the other.

“Good thinking, Sonny. I need your shirt, too.”

Sonny pulled his sweatshirt over his head and turned it inside out so the fleece side was exposed.

“Okay,” he muttered.

“Pour some of the water on it so I can clean the dirt and debris from around the wound and chest. It’s hard to get tape or even a chest seal to stay in place when the patient’s skin is bloody, sweaty, or dirty.”

Mike coughed again, and his breathing became shallower. Jessica smiled and rubbed her fingers through his hair.

“Hang on, Mike,” she said encouragingly as she pulled a square of the Saran Wrap out of the box. She tore it until she’d created a four-inch-square piece. She placed it over the knife wound and held it firmly with both hands.

She looked to Hank to give him instructions. “Rip off three pieces of the duct tape about eight inches long.”

“Just three?” he asked as he stretched out the first strip and used his front teeth to create a slight tear in the side.

“Yeah. It’s called a three-sided occlusive dressing. I’ll show you.”

Hank quickly created the strips, and Jessica expertly taped the Saran Wrap over the wound, leaving one side open. As she worked, she explained the method.

“Every time Mike breathes in, air gets through the wound. It gets caught in his chest, pressing on his lungs. This acts as a one-way valve. It seals the wound as he inhales and lets out air through the fourth side when he exhales.”

Sonny held the flashlight in his shaking hands but managed to provide Jessica sufficient light to work. When she was finished, she paused for a moment before pulling her hands away from the chest seal.

Mike’s breathing slowed and became more rhythmic. As he took a deep breath, the Saran Wrap pulled into his chest as if it had become a second skin. When he exhaled, the opening created a gap, and air mixed with a few droplets of blood escaped.

“There you go, babe. Just relax and breathe.”

Mike tried to raise his arm, but he was too weak. He mouthed the words thank you to Hank and Sonny. Then tears flowed out of his eyes to mix with the blood on both cheeks. He turned to the paramedic, his wife, who’d just taken the first step toward saving his life.

“I love you,” he whispered as the loss of blood caused him to lose consciousness.

Wednesday, November 6

Gulf of Mexico

Near Pass Christian, Mississippi

No one was chasing them. There wasn’t anybody left alive on the dock except for the other would-be passengers who’d jumped over the side to save themselves from the barrage of bullets. Yet every fiber of Lacey McDowell’s being wanted to rush the forty-five-foot trawler into the Gulf of Mexico as far away from the bloodbath that had occurred at Bay St. Louis as she could.

After her pulse slowed and the epinephrine coursing through her veins found its way back into her adrenal glands to be used another day, Lacey became a little more comfortable with the modified Grand Banks trawler powered by the big 855 Cummins diesel engine and the six hundred horsepower it generated. Her overzealous escape from the mayhem had resulted in her tearing out of the harbor at full throttle. The Cymopoleia , as the trawler was named, began to shudder as she reached her top speed of nearly twenty knots. The high-pitched roar and the gauges screamed at Lacey to slow down to an ideal cruising speed of fourteen knots. Yet she was intent upon leaving the visions of bloodied, bullet-riddled bodies behind in Bay St. Louis.

Finally, it was a man’s voice that startled her, bringing her back into the present.

“Ma’am!” He spoke loudly. “You’ll run us out of diesel before we hit the Alabama state line. And, about that, you might wanna turn her to the left; otherwise we’ll be out there with the oil rigs.”

Lacey and Tucker both spun around. Frightened, Tucker pointed his weapon at the man while Lacey fumbled to find the gun she’d set to the side.

During their panic, the man raised his hands and continued. “Easy, everyone. We’re not with them. Remember? That’s my wife and daughter back there.” He turned slightly and pointed to the aft deck seating. They were sitting in the darkness, but their silhouettes could be made out against the boat’s running lights.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” said Lacey. She’d forgotten about the man and his family who were waiting on board when the melee began. She gave up searching for her weapon and placed her hand on the shotgun Tucker was holding. It had belonged to the captain, who had been killed with a single bullet to the heart fired by one of their attackers. Lacey gulped and asked, “Are you all okay?”

“Yes, we are. My name’s Erick Andino, and that’s my wife, Anna, and our daughter, Katerina,” he said in response as he half-turned toward his family. The short, stocky man with jet-black hair and a bushy mustache continually watched Lacey’s and Tucker’s body language as he spoke. “We live in Tarpon Springs. Do you know of it?”

Lacey turned to the console and ran her fingers across the many switches. She flipped on the interior lights of the wheelhouse so they could see one another better. Then she waved to Andino’s family and urged them to come into the enclosure.

“I’ve heard of it but never visited. It’s the place with all the sponges, right?”

“Very good. That’s correct. Where are you from?”

Lacey introduced herself and Tucker before explaining how they had traveled from San Francisco with the goal of returning to where she’d grown up in the Florida Keys.

Tucker left for a moment to rummage through the galley, where he found some snacks and drinks for everyone. Andino told his family’s story as they sailed along the Mississippi coastline in the dark. The boat’s navigational equipment was working properly, so she was able to ease along parallel to the shore without fear of running aground or dragging the hull along a sandbar. It would be some time before they’d have to adjust course to follow the bend of the Gulf Coast.

“My ancestors were born and raised in the Greek seaside villages before immigrating to the United States. They entered through Ellis Island like so many others following the Second World War but immediately made their way to Florida because jobs were available that suited them.

“Before long, they heard about Tarpon Springs, and every member of the Andino family flocked to the coastal village. Along with others, my grandparents became a part of this incredible Greek coastal town located in America.”

His wife, Katerina, added, “It’s the largest concentration of Greek-Americans in the nation. If you didn’t know better, you’d think you were in the old country.” Unlike her husband, she didn’t have a hint of an accent although her facial features and black hair befitted her Greek ancestry.

“Why were you in Mississippi?” asked Tucker.

“New Orleans, actually,” replied Andino. “My company, um, our family’s company operates sponge boats. We are part of the so-called sponge capital of the world in Tarpon Springs. We Andinos come from a long line of sponge divers.