Bobby Akart - Whiteout

“Explosives? Collapsed? Were any of our people hurt?”

“Unknown at this time, sir.” He turned his body toward the door.

“Wait. Did you say there was a second bridge?”

The general nodded.

“Protect it, dammit! Use air support. The Coast Guard. Whatever it takes. Do not allow them to cut themselves off!”

Tuesday, November 5

Overseas Highway at Cross Key

Florida Keys

Eventually the lane leading off the Keys contained only a handful of elderly people and families who walked away from the checkpoint. Around the bend, floodlights washed the highway as more concrete barriers blocked both sides of the road in a staggered fashion. This was apparently designed to let vehicles through one car at a time. On the other side of the highway, the grassy shoulder was littered with stalled cars that had been pushed off the pavement to make way for others.

Voices were raised as he approached the checkpoint, where armed guards threatened to shoot the refugees despite the fact some of those who were trying to gain access claimed to have proof of residency. A scrum of several dozen people was occurring around the folding tables where men and women in plain clothes processed the refugees.

Peter had to take a second look when he saw the blue flags of the Conch Republic flying in the breeze behind the intake tables. At first, he rolled his eyes at the lunacy. You can’t secede from the United States. Then he thought, Or could you?

Regardless, he needed to get through the checkpoint because the only other option was to hop over the barrier and wade through the mangroves. That was a surefire way to get snakebit or lose a limb to an alligator.

One of the gatekeepers shouted to his personnel, “We’ve got to move it along, people! I’ve got orders to shut it down.”

The crowd of refugees immediately responded.

“Shut what down? You can’t!”

“Let us in first!”

“Please, we came all this way!”

“We’re so close. You gotta let us in.”

Peter sensed what was about to happen. Whoever had dreamed up this secession thing must be aware of the troops amassing in Homestead. Out of fear, they planned to isolate themselves from the rest of the country. Blowing up the toll bridge was just the first step. They might destroy the short span over Jewfish Creek at Anchorage Resort or the longer stretch that crossed Lake Surprise. Either way, his access to home would be taken away.

He furrowed his brow and set his jaw. Being polite wasn’t gonna get him anywhere. He shoved his way past several people, who became agitated. Peter didn’t care. He needed to get someone’s attention before they pulled the entire operation to the other side of those two bridges.

He elbowed his way past several men, who grabbed at his backpack in an attempt to sling him to the ground. Peter angrily swung around and pulled his pistol on them.

“Gun!”

“He’s got a gun!”

“It’s the man in camo!”

The supervisor of the intake process had had enough. “That’s it, people. We’re outta here.”

“You heard the man, soldiers! Weapons hot!”

Peter stopped in his tracks. He knew enough about military parlance to realize there were soldiers of some nature standing on the other side of those barriers with what could be automatic weapons. They’d cut him and everyone around him to ribbons if he forced the issue.

“Please! Let us in, mister!”

“Yeah, we have a condo in Islamorada. I have our deed with me!”

Peter was unsure of what to do. He had no identification that showed residency. He didn’t have a deed to a condo. He didn’t have a library card. All he had was his name.

He used the same ploy that had worked when he walked out of the conference center in Abu Dhabi. It had worked when he approached the old couple in North Carolina, who’d proven so helpful. He holstered his weapon and raised his hands as he pushed his way to the front.

“Hey! I’m Peter Albright. Does anybody know me?”

Tuesday, November 5

Nashville, Arkansas

That night, after hours upon hours of traversing the back roads of four states, they found a secluded place to sleep in the back of a cemetery just west of Nashville, Arkansas. While they both found it creepy sleeping among the dead, they also felt they were less likely to encounter other people in the offbeat location.

The farther they drove south and east, the more traffic they encountered. Gas stations were closed and mostly looted. The types of vehicles varied, but they were few and far between. Lacey surmised gasoline would be even more difficult to find now. In the several-hundred-mile radius surrounding the Denver metropolitan area where the electromagnetic pulse had the greatest impact, new vehicles were disabled. Owners of vintage trucks like the McDowells’ and the Otero County Sheriff’s Department were the few who truly needed gasoline for transportation purposes.

They decided to renew their search for sources to replenish their spent gas cans during the daytime. As Tucker recognized, at night, the farms or businesses they approached would hear and see them coming before they began their search. It would make them ripe for an ambush.

During their travels, they talked about Owen. They cried. They laughed. They reminisced. They patted each other on the back for their determination to get home to Driftwood Key.

They also recalled the conversations they’d had with Owen before their debacle east of Pueblo. They’d dreamed up as many scenarios as their creative minds could imagine that would result in trouble along the way. Every one of their concerns revolved around conflict with their fellow man.

After a decent night’s rest, during which Lacey stretched out in the back seat and Tucker curled up in the front, they awoke before dawn and hit the road. A light dusting of snow had coated their truck, and the roads were somewhat slick as they made their way toward Interstate 20, an east-west route that would take them across the Mississippi River near Vicksburg.

They were about to turn up the on-ramp in Cheniere, Arkansas, when Tucker slapped the dashboard and pointed ahead.

“Mom, the entrance is blocked by those military Humvees. Keep going straight.”

“But we need to cross the river at Vicksburg,” she argued and kept going. She drove up to the National Guardsmen, who approached their vehicle with their weapons at low ready. They were studying Lacey and Tucker through the windshield as they approached.

Lacey rolled her window down and spoke to them before they arrived. “We need to get to Vicksburg.”

“Not this way, ma’am,” the man gruffly replied. “All lanes are closed to civilian traffic.”

Lacey looked ahead and then to her left to observe the highway. “I don’t see any traffic at all.”

“It’s coming, ma’am. Now, back down the ramp and move along.”

“Well, when can we cross the bridge?”

The soldier shook his head and glanced over at his partner. He was wearing a shemagh around his mouth and nose, so Lacey could only see his eyes.

“Move back, lady!” the other soldier shouted, growing impatient with Lacey’s questioning. “We have the authority to confiscate this vehicle and everything within it per the president’s martial law declaration. We’ve got better things to do, but if you insist…” He purposefully let his last few words dangle in the air as he raised his automatic weapon in Tucker’s direction.

“Mom, we should go.”

Lacey didn’t bother to roll up her window. She glanced in her side mirrors to ensure nobody was parked behind her before slowly easing down the ramp. Tucker never took his eyes off the soldiers. He was still gripping the pistol he’d retrieved from the glove box as the men first approached the truck.