Bobby Akart - Whiteout

Lacey continued south through the country roads that ran parallel to the Mississippi River. The next available crossing was U.S. Highway 425 at Natchez, Mississippi. This was not a route they’d mapped out that morning, and the first comment Tucker made related to the waste of gasoline.

Lacey drove slower than she had prior to this point in an effort to conserve fuel and to watch for opportunities to obtain more. While they thought they might have enough to get into Central Florida, if not farther, they were constantly on the lookout. This unexpected detour gave them a greater sense of urgency to fill up.

U.S. Highway 84 turned into Route 425, where it began to run along the banks of the Mississippi. It also took them through a series of small communities as they approached Vidalia, Louisiana. There was more traffic and quite a few people milling about on the side of the road. Lacey was beginning to feel uneasy, as those without transportation had the distinct look of envy on their faces as they scowled at the moving vehicles.

They entered the small town of Vidalia, perched on the west side of the Mississippi. The closer they got to the bridge, the more traffic built up in front of them.

Tucker rolled down his window and tried to see ahead. The hazy conditions restricted visibility to less than a mile. All he could see was a single lane of taillights.

Tucker was surprised at what he saw. “A traffic jam? Seriously?”

“Nobody is coming off the bridge in our direction. Are they all headed east?” Lacey asked.

Tucker looked around, and then he suddenly opened his door. “I’ll be right back.”

Before Lacey could ask where he was going, he’d exited the vehicle and bounded across the parking lot to the overhang of the Craws, Claws & Tails patio restaurant. He spoke with a group of teenagers and a couple of older men sitting in rocking chairs underneath the sloped roof overhang. He looked back at their truck several times to see if Lacey had advanced any. She had not. Tucker bumped fists with the young men, and he ran back to the truck.

After he was back in the truck, he pointed to his right at a small residential street that ran next to the restaurant. “Mom, take a right here. We can’t cross the bridge.”

“Why not?”

“They’re confiscating gasoline and weapons on the other side. The Mississippi governor, acting on the president’s orders, is searching every vehicle that enters. The martial law declaration allows them to take our guns, ammo, and stored gasoline, leaving us only what’s in the tanks.”

“That’s ridiculous!” shouted Lacey in disbelief. She wheeled the Bronco across the parking lot, where Tucker waved to the group, who gave him a thumbs-up.

“Take a left up ahead and then an immediate right. These county roads drive along the river and will take us to a small town called New Roads. Supposedly the highway is open to cross there since both sides of the river are in Louisiana.”

“It still leads us into Mississippi, right?” asked Lacey although she knew the answer to her question. “We’re just gonna run into the same problem.”

“Eventually, yes. According to those guys, the bridge is open. The next crossings are in Baton Rouge and New Orleans, which are unsafe. They said New Orleans is on fire.”

“Whadya mean?”

Tucker raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. “I mean they said the city is on fire. People are killing each other in the streets. One of the old men said the cops and National Guard won’t even go in there.”

Lacey shook her head. This meant they had one shot to get across the Mississippi without giving up everything they needed to get to the Keys. She was growing weary of the constant threats and uncertainty. She took a deep breath. Then she got a firm grip on the wheel as well as herself.

Tuesday, November 5

Driftwood Key

Dress for success were the words Patrick Hollister’s father had ingrained in him growing up. When he entered the banking world, he was always impeccably dressed in custom-tailored suits and Italian shoes. While most of the professional world in the Florida Keys adopted a laid-back appearance, Patrick’s pride in himself prevented him from lowering the standards his father had taught him.

He studied himself in the mirror, and the person who stared back was hardly recognizable. He hadn’t shaved in more than a week, resulting in a shaggy beard that certainly hadn’t adorned his face since the day he was born. Likewise, his hair was long and unkept.

The clothing had been given to him by Hank out of his musty closet. Hank was the type of man to keep those unworn size thirty-six jeans he’d bought online many years ago for when he lost a few pounds. Of course, that never happened, and the size forty waistline meant the jeans remained new-with-tag, as they say on eBay.

The long-sleeve sweatshirt with the Driftwood Key Inn logo was ironic. Patrick had every intention of becoming a part of the operation here. In fact, the title of sole proprietor seemed to suit him just fine.

So, with a final adjustment of his sweatshirt and a half-hearted attempt to straighten his hair, Patrick emerged from bungalow three to take a little tour of the grounds.

He was somewhat familiar with the twenty-nine acres that made up Driftwood Key from his prior visits to Hank years ago. When he’d first solicited the Albrights’ business, he did his homework. He studied the property assessor’s records online and then viewed images posted on Google by guests or the hotel staff. As a banker, when he set his sights on a prospective business client, he made the extra effort to learn all he could about their operation in order to impress them in some small way.

He didn’t earn Hank Albright’s business on that day, but it certainly benefitted him on the day he planned on taking it away from him.

Patrick stepped onto the sugary white sand of Driftwood Key. It was cold. Until now, he’d played up his recovery by remaining inside the bungalow or on the porch. He moaned and groaned when he moved in their presence. He’d winced so many times he wondered if he’d need Botox after this was over. If Botox was still a thing someday.

However, Patrick saw the handwriting on the wall. They were ready for him to leave. He’d worn out his welcome to the point they were getting suspicious. Truth be told, he was ready to live again. He was tired of the bedridden days and nights filled with an insatiable hunger to kill.

It was time.

Throughout his time in the bungalow, he tried to watch everyone’s movements through the windows. He had a clear view of the drive connecting the front gate and the main house. He eavesdropped on their conversations when he sat on the front porch. He engaged in casual conversation with Jessica and Phoebe, especially, when they came to tend to his wounds or feed him.

For the last several days in particular, they all used a sneaky ploy that didn’t work with the man who’d mastered deception. Small talk was generally followed by pointed questions as to how Patrick had suffered his injuries. Patrick was interested in small talk, so he did everything he could to extend the casual discussions. He was gathering information while his adversaries were setting him up to extract theirs. It was a game of mental chess that he was winning easily.

Their routine had changed in the last day or so. He’d overheard that Jimmy, his favorite, had been pulled away to work for the sheriff’s department. The poor boy must be exhausted, Patrick had thought to himself the night before as he fell asleep. Eight hours away. Eight hours doing chores and fishing. More hours on patrol with a few hours of sleep a day.