Bobby Akart - Whiteout

“Look at all those Army trucks, Dad!” the young man exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement.

Peter had pulled into a funeral home’s circle drive and was making a wide turn through their memory gardens when the interstate came into view. One transport truck and troop carrier after another ambled along the highway toward Brandon, a bedroom community to the east of Tampa.

“That’s a heckuva convoy,” commented Peter as he slowed to view the Desert Storm–era, khaki-colored trucks. In addition to the transport trucks like the one they were driving, several Humvees were interspersed throughout the slow-moving vehicles.

“They’re mobilizing for something,” Rafael opined. “My first thought would’ve been MacDill Air Force Base just south of the city. But these guys are heading southbound.”

“The only other military base I can think of anywhere near the Gulf is at Homestead,” added Peter.

“The air reserve base?” asked Rafael. “Doesn’t make sense. These are guard units. Maybe…?” His voice trailed off.

“What, honey?” asked his wife.

Rafael tapped his knuckle on the passenger window and pointed toward Tampa and the lower end of St. Petersburg. Black smoke was rising into the sky from several locations on the horizon.

“Unrest?” said Peter inquisitively.

Rafael grimaced and nodded. “Yeah. Probably in Miami, too.”

“What’s that mean, Dad?” asked young Javier.

Rafael adjusted his son in his lap so he could rub his hand through the boy’s long locks. “It means some people got out of line, and the National Guard needs to straighten them out.”

“Do you still think it’s safe to go to your parents’?” asked Maria.

“Where do they live?” asked Peter.

“West of Kendall. The south part of Miami-Dade. This road will take us through a handful of small towns and eventually run into South Trail.”

“Tamiami Trail?” asked Peter. U.S. Highway 41 ran along Florida’s Gulf Coast through Sarasota, Fort Myers, and Naples before turning east toward Miami. Kendall was a residential area in the vicinity of where U.S. 41 ended.

“That’s right. I thought it would be easy to take this route to get you into the Keys.”

Rafael leaned closer to his wife to study the truck’s gauges. Peter picked up on his intentions and immediately looked to the fuel gauge. He noticed the look of concern on Rafael’s face and spoke first.

“You’ll never make it all the way to Driftwood Key and back to Miami. You’re gonna have to drop me off.”

Rafael and Maria exchanged looks. “We made a promise,” she said.

Peter smiled. He focused on the road but glanced in their direction as he spoke. “Guys, when the blast wave threw me off into the ditch, all I could hope for in that moment was staying alive. Then I reconciled myself to walking twelve hundred miles. After that, a man was kind enough to give me a bicycle. You know the rest of the story.”

“But…” Javier began to protest, but he knew Peter was right. They’d never make the round trip from Kendall to Marathon and back. Peter waved his hand to prevent him from picking up on his thought.

“Listen, we’re talking about fifty or sixty miles to the Upper Keys. From there, I can find a ride down U.S. 1. My uncle’s a cop. I’m sure I can hitch a ride with one of the deputies.”

Maria spontaneously leaned over to plant a kiss on Peter’s cheek. He blushed and looked down shyly. He’d bonded with the family through the ordeal and vowed to look them up when it was over. For a brief moment, he considered encouraging them to come to Driftwood Key. Maria and Javier would fit in well with his family and the Frees. Not to mention that Rafael would be nice to have around because of his military training. In the end, he decided not to bring it up, as their own family needed them more than Driftwood Key did.

As darkness approached that afternoon, Peter pulled over to the side of the road across the street from the Miccosukee Resort. The normally full hotel and casino complex stood vacant at the intersection. They nervously shuffled around the cargo box while Peter gathered his things.

He divided up the potassium iodide to provide the family enough dosage for another ten days. He wanted to do more, but he had to consider his own family’s needs. He allowed Rafael to keep the handgun and extra magazines. He was confident he could make this final stretch of his journey with the guns he’d taken from Mr. Uber and son.

The group exchanged hugs and tearful goodbyes. Peter stood and waved to the family as they continued on toward Miami. He strained his eyes as he tried to focus on the Miami skyline. However, the hazy, darkening skies made it difficult. What he expected to observe, but didn’t, were the plumes of black smoke dotting the landscape like in Tampa. In fact, there was no indication of structure fires whatsoever.

This puzzled Peter. If the National Guard was traveling this way, he figured the unrest must’ve been worse than Tampa-St. Pete. It didn’t make sense.

He shook off the thought and began the final trek toward the Keys, full of anticipation.

Monday, November 4

Homestead, Florida

It was pitch dark as Peter approached Homestead. He elected to take a residential side street to avoid walking through the heart of town. It was well known that Homestead had its issues with drugs and homelessness, problems certainly exacerbated by the power outage. The detour added about thirty minutes to his walk toward the Keys, but it was uneventful, something he needed at this point in the long journey south.

He was about thirty miles from the Blackwater Siren, a well-known bar and grill at the entrance to the Upper Keys. He’d stopped there many times to pick up fish tacos to munch on in the car when he traveled between his home and college.

Despite the late hour, he could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. The long day coupled with little sleep had taken its toll. However, his adrenaline-fueled body began to visualize sleeping in his old bedroom at the main house.

As he walked the deserted streets to come closer to U.S. 1, he began to hear the low rumble of trucks approaching from the north. His mind immediately recalled the large convoy of vehicles headed down the interstate near Tampa. He and Rafael had speculated whether they were headed to Homestead Air Reserve Base or Miami. As it turned out, they were both wrong.

Peter walked along the center median of Palm Drive when he noticed a glowing light in the distance. The dark surroundings made it stand out even more. That, coupled with the low ceiling of clouds and haze, caused the reflection to emanate for miles away from its source.

He reached U.S. 1 and stopped in the middle of the road amidst a trio of crashed cars. Two teenage boys were sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck, passing a cigarette back and forth. With his hand on the grip of his pistol, he cautiously approached them.

“How’s it goin’?” Peter asked casually.

“Not bad. You?” The young man was equally nonchalant.

Peter reached the side of the truck and stopped just short of exposing himself completely to the boys. He was able to see over the truck bed and felt satisfied that they were unarmed.

“I’ve been on the road trying to get home. I haven’t seen much in the way of lights anywhere. Are they racing tonight?” Peter knew Palm Drive ran past the Homestead-Miami Speedway, where NASCAR races were held.

The guys laughed, which served to relax both parties. Peter let go of his weapon and eased around the side of the truck.

“We were gonna check it out, but the military has a roadblock set up about a mile from here. They’ve got all the roads blocked, actually.”