Bobby Akart - Whiteout

Charles took over from there. “Most of them, like us, had small farms. They also had trucks big enough to take livestock to the stockyards over in Catawba, or if they had chickens, Tyson up the road would take all they had.”

Peter finished the apples and gave Anna a thumbs-up. She offered him more, but he declined. His stomach was truly full. He was concerned how the sudden influx of beans and apples might wage war on his digestive system. The excessive gas might cause the Spencers to throw him out in the cold.

Charles continued. “We all have farm diesel stored. Me and the missus topped off our tanks the day after the bombs hit. The day after that, the supplier ran dry. Others like us did the same. Now they’re finding a way to profit from it.”

“How’s that?” asked Peter.

Anna laughed. “Well, it ain’t no Uber, but it serves the same purpose. They’re takin’ folks west and south away from where the bombs dropped in DC and New York. Folks who weren’t ready for something like this are searching for seclusion or, like you, family.”

Peter’s eyes lit up. Greyhound bus or chicken truck, he didn’t care. How do I get south?

“Do you know how much? I mean, they must charge something.”

“We don’t know ’cause we don’t go down there,” replied Anna. “It’s getting more crowded every day as people have started walking along I-40 from Charlotte into the Smokies.” The Great Smoky Mountains were located at the southern end of the Appalachian Mountains along the North Carolina-Tennessee border.

Peter’s elation suddenly turned dour as he thought about the reality of paying someone to drive him to Florida. He didn’t have any money or bushels of apples to trade. He grimaced and sat back in his chair.

There had to be something, or some way, to make this work.

Saturday, November 2

Driftwood Key

Since Patrick’s arrival several nights ago, there hadn’t been any activity at the gate separating Driftwood Key from Marathon. Hank had begun to feel foolish for his constant nagging at his brother about keeping one of the family’s law enforcement officers at the inn at all times. Despite Hank’s vivid imagination that conjured up marauders at the gate, the only person attempting to enter Driftwood Key had been a harmless banker who’d been beaten to within an inch of his life.

It had just turned dark when Hank arrived at the gated entry to the inn, with an AR-15 slung over his shoulder. The rifle was equipped with a suppressor confiscated by the sheriff’s office during a drug bust. Mike had taken a few liberties with the evidence locker after the collapse sent everything into disarray.

Armed like a soldier, he hardly looked like one. His uniform consisted of Sperry Top-Sider deck shoes, khakis, and a Tommy Bahama half-zip sweatshirt. His appearance on patrol that night looked more like that guy Dale who drove the motor home in the early episodes of The Walking Dead than an armed sentry who should be reckoned with.

Mike had had to leave early to deal with a looting situation in Key West and wasn’t due back until midnight. Because it was just after dusk, Hank sent Sonny and Jimmy to join Jessica at the main house for dinner. He told them to get some rest, assuring them he could handle any wayward soul who ventured across the bridge connecting their key to Marathon.

A chill came over him as the slight breeze off the Gulf brought with it dropping temperatures. He cursed himself for not sending Jimmy or Sonny to Walmart to purchase cold-weather clothing, if it was even available. He’d tried to prepare based upon the warnings he’d received from Erin Bergmann and Peter. In the back of his mind, he’d doubted their cautionary advice to expect nuclear winter to live up to its name.

As he mindlessly wandered along the shoreline, he thought of Erin. He’d become smitten with her in a way he hadn’t felt since his wife was alive. Erin was attractive and intelligent. Their conversations ranged from serious, such as geopolitical affairs, to silly, as was the case on their last day together when they went fishing. She had been whisked away that day because of the impending doom that was about to be unleashed on America. They’d barely had time to say goodbye much less discuss whether they’d ever see one another again. He thought about her every day, and the fact that she was still on his mind was an indication of how deep his feelings were for her.

Hank glanced upward in search of the moon and the stars. As a lifelong resident of the Keys and an accomplished boater, he knew what day of the month the moon was supposed to be full just like landlubbers knew what day the mortgage was due. Prior to the attacks, on a night like this, he’d look up to an impeccable midnight blue sky with a bright white orb peeking between a few clouds passing by. The stars would appear to be dancing around it, a nighttime sailor’s delight, who relied upon them for navigation. Now the constant blanket of gray, sooty cloud cover blocked out everything the heavens had to offer and radiated nothing but misery inward.

“We need a hurricane,” he said aloud. Then he laughed. He’d heard a friend of his make that statement when Hank had had to travel to Georgia once. It had been the middle of August, and the sweltering summer heat coupled with near one hundred percent humidity was oppressive. His friend complained about the weather and was certain a hurricane brewing off the coast would suck all the moisture and heat out of Georgia to fuel its wrath.

Hank wasn’t one to get offended, as he prided himself on living his life without a chip on his shoulder. However, having lived through those devastating subtropical cyclones, he’d gladly live with the inconvenience of heat and humidity.

He continued to walk back and forth along the bank of the brackish water separating Driftwood Key and Marathon. His mind wandered from topic to topic, having conversations with himself. Most were lighthearted; others were analytical. He’d become lost in himself when he noticed headlights on the other side of the mangroves.

Vehicles were operating only sporadically through the Keys as gasoline became in short supply. Government vehicles seemed to be the most prevalent, and there were a few residents who elected to leave their homes to join relatives up north. Nobody was joyriding, and there certainly was no place to shop or eat out.

Hank held his position and studied the location of the vehicle, which was roughly a thousand yards across the water. There were several older homes nestled among the trees on the other side. Hank knew the families. Like him, they’d grown up on the Keys. One owned a charter boat operation, and another owned Barnacle Barney’s Tiki Bar, which was adjacent to his residence. Early on, he’d touched base with his distant neighbors, who indicated they’d be fine if the power outage didn’t last too long. He’d suspected that most longtime residents of the Florida Keys felt the same way.

Suddenly, another set of headlights flickered through the trees, barely noticeable unless Hank focused on one particular spot. There were now two vehicles parked across from the inn but not directly on Palm Island Avenue, which led to Driftwood Key’s private access bridge.

With a wary eye on the two vehicles, Hank moved quickly back toward the bridge. He was certain he’d locked it after Mike had left earlier, but he felt compelled to double-check. He felt his pants pocket for the air horn. When he remembered he’d left it on the granite block that held one of the gate’s posts, he walked even faster.

Then he began to run as he heard the vehicles’ tires spinning, throwing crushed shell and sand against their rear quarter panels in the otherwise deathly silent evening.