Bobby Akart - Whiteout

“To the racetrack?” asked Peter.

So far, only one of the boys had engaged in conversation with Peter. “Yeah. There have been military trucks passing through town all afternoon. They’ve been coming from Miami, mostly.”

“Why here?” asked Peter.

The other boy laughed. “Ain’t you heard? On account of the Keys.”

Peter stood a little taller as fear overcame him. He couldn’t imagine why another country would want to drop a nuclear warhead on the Florida Keys. His first thought was a wayward missile fell off course or maybe was shot down, resulting in radioactive fallout.

“Did they get hit with a nuke?”

“Nah, man,” said the first boy. “They’ve lost their dang minds.”

Peter sighed. He was tired of talking in riddles.

“What exactly happened, and why would the government send the National Guard down here?”

The talkative teen took one last drag off the cigarette and flicked the butt end over end until it rolled under one of the other wrecked vehicles. He slid off the tailgate and rolled his neck around his shoulders.

“After the bombs hit, they started kicking people out. You know. Tourists. Bums. Anybody who didn’t actually live down there.”

“Yeah, and the poor bastards all came here,” said the other teen.

“Okay,” said Peter, drawing out the word, as he was still unsure what that had to do with the National Guard presence. If anything, in his mind, it would be prudent to move anyone out who didn’t belong there. His father had done the same thing at the inn for the guests’ own good.

The boy continued. “Well, I guess that was only half of what they did. When it started getting colder everywhere, people started looking to head south. They figured the Keys was their best bet.”

“Or Mexico,” said the other boy before adding, “But we heard they locked down their borders, too.”

“What do you mean by too ?” asked Peter.

“That’s what Monroe County did,” said the talkative teen. “They threw as many people out as they could, and then they blocked access to the Keys. They piled about a hundred of them concrete barriers like these ones in the middle of the toll bridge.” He pointed at the concrete road construction barriers that lined the median on the east side of the intersection.

“They even have armed deputies manning the bridge,” said the other teen.

“They ain’t real, though. Hell, down there, if you own a gun, you can be a deputy.”

Peter scowled and slowly walked toward the barriers and then stared down the boulevard toward the speedway. There must be more to the story.

“What about U.S. 1? Is it barricaded, too?”

“They blocked it off with dump trucks just this side of Jewfish Creek. Anybody approaching by car is turned around unless you’re a resident. Same if you’re on foot. You have to show proof of residency to get in.”

“Are you guys serious?”

“As a heart attack. You live down there?”

“Yeah, sort of. I live, um, lived near DC now. My family lives near Marathon.”

“You got photo ID?”

“Yeah, but it’s…” Peter’s voice trailed off before he added the word Virginia. He realized the problem he was facing. His Virginia driver’s license wasn’t going to gain him access into the Keys. He’d have to use his father’s name and address. But the two boys indicated they’d deputized all kinds of Keys’ residents. Unless he got lucky and his uncle Mike or aunt Jess were present, he might not be able to get through.

“Are you gonna go for it?” the talkative young man asked.

Peter looked at him and then over toward the speedway again. He pointed as he spoke. “And you think they’re here because of these roadblocks?”

“I know they are. They told everyone in town to stay away from the Overseas Highway and Card Sound Road. I think they’re gonna invade.”

Peter laughed at the thought, and when he noticed the boys weren’t laughing, he became suddenly serious. He took a deep breath, thanked them, and began jogging down the highway toward Key Largo.

Monday, November 4

Otero County Sheriff’s Department

La Junta, Colorado

By the time arrangements could be made for Owen’s body and the truck could be readied for their lengthy road trip to Driftwood Key, it was near dark. Lacey and Tucker decided it was safer to stay in La Junta that night and to get a fresh start in the morning. Plus, Lacey admitted to herself, she could use one more night to regain her strength.

They said their goodbyes to Dr. Brady, Dr. Forrest and virtually everyone who worked in the hospital. Dr. Brady provided them both plenty of medications to fight infection and to relieve pain. He also provided them the proper dosage of potassium iodide in case they encountered a site with nuclear fallout. Communications between cities was minimal other than ham radio chatter. The locations of where the warheads had actually been detonated were still uncertain.

Deputy Ochoa picked them up at the hospital and drove them to the sheriff’s department, where Deputy Hostetler had just arrived with their Bronco. Lacey gasped and covered her mouth when she soaked in the transformation.

“That’s badass!” said Tucker. “Very Mad Max.”

Lacey sighed at her teenage son’s excitement over the defiling of Owen’s prized toy. It was hard to approve the paint job. However, she trusted Sheriff Mobley’s judgment, and the man had proven his ability to prepare for a catastrophic event like this one.

They were escorted inside after their belongings were secured in the back of the Bronco. Everything was neatly arranged, and Tucker was the first to notice several additions to their gear. A green and brown leather rifle case was lying on the floorboard of the back seat. Stuffed behind each of the Bronco’s bucket seats were several green ammo cans. Finally, a few picnic baskets full of baked goods and Mason jars full of canned foods gave them more than a week’s worth of food.

Lacey greeted Sheriff Mobley as they walked in. He extended his hand to shake, but she wrapped her arms around him instead. The hug was well deserved.

“We can’t thank you enough for saving our lives,” she began. She made eye contact with all of the deputies, who were gathered around the front entrance to the sheriff’s department. “Had it not been for you, Owen would’ve never had a chance, and we…” Her voice trailed off as she reached out to squeeze Tucker’s hand.

“This is what we do, ma’am,” said Sheriff Mobley as he smiled and nodded at his team. “I regret that we couldn’t do more for your husband.”

Tucker stuck his hand out, and the sheriff shook it. “We’ll never forget you guys. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” said Sheriff Mobley. He took a deep breath. “Okay. You’ve decided to leave, and I understand you’re anxious. I’ll offer our hospitality one more time, just in case.”

Lacey smiled but shook her head side to side. “No, thanks. We’re ready.”

“I figured as much. We’ve added a few things to your supplies. All of your fuel tanks are topped off. My mechanic performed some calculations based upon fuel mileage for this model Bronco. With your extra gas cans, you should be able to make it twelve hundred miles before you run out completely.”

“I studied the map last night,” interjected Tucker. “That’s more than halfway. We can make it to Mississippi or possibly Alabama.”

“About that, let me show you something,” said Sheriff Mobley. He led the McDowells into the department’s communications room, where they were introduced to the 9-1-1 operator who now monitored the ham radio base set. He had a large map of the United States hung on the wall next to a map of Otero County. There were strips of Post-it notes taped at various points along a route toward Florida. Once he had their attention, he explained.