Bobby Akart - Whiteout

Initially, the group of people politely stepped to the shoulders on both side of the two-lane road as Tucker drove past them. Their faces were haggard, and their eyes were sunken into their sockets. Each of them appeared exhausted, hungry and defeated.

Lacey was curious about where they were headed because they didn’t seem to be part of a cohesive group. Rather, they seemed to have banded together for protection, not unlike animals who stick together in herds or flocks.

“Where are you going?” she asked after rolling down her window.

“We’re headed to a FEMA camp in Slidell. It’s been there for years following the hurricanes.”

“We’re headed to the marina at Bay St. Louis,” said another woman, who was holding the hands of two young children who barely kept up. “We heard boats are leaving for South Florida, where it’s still warm.”

“Hey, that’s what I like to hear,” whispered Tucker.

Another woman joined in with her opinion. “Supposedly the weather’s decent and doesn’t have all these clouds. Something about the way the wind blows.”

A man caught up to the group and said, “Those boats aren’t cruise ships or anything. They’re just fishing charters trying to make a buck. And they’re really expensive.”

Lacey became genuinely curious. “Like what?” she asked as Tucker continued to roll along slowly, matching the pace of the refugees. As his mom asked questions, he watched his mirrors and all sides of the truck in case somebody decided to move on them.

“Like, trade your truck for two seats. Crazy expensive.”

“Say, lady,” said one of the men, “let me ride by standing on your bumper. I can hold on to the roof rack if you won’t go too fast.”

The suggestion urged others around the Bronco to make similar offers. They began to draw closer to the truck, making Tucker nervous.

“I’ll do that if you’ll let my little girls ride in the back seat,” said one of the women. “They don’t take up much room.”

“No! Me! I can pay, too!”

“Tucker?” questioned Lacey apprehensively.

“I know, Mom. I know.”

Tucker pressed on the gas pedal and tried to move the refugees out of the way who’d tried to surround the truck. They were becoming belligerent. Several tried to slam on the hood in an attempt to get him to stop. One attempted to open Lacey’s passenger door.

“Dammit, they asked for this,” said Tucker. He furrowed his brow, set his jaw, and began to push through them without regard to whether they might get hurt. In his mind, they were on a street made for vehicles, not pedestrians. It was a risk they chose to take.

He blared on the horn, which only served to make the mob angrier. He slammed on the brakes as one man tried to jump on the hood. He slid all the way across and landed hard on the pavement. Tucker slammed his foot down on the gas, causing the Bronco to surge forward into a slight gap in the crowd. It was all the opening he needed, and he never looked back. Several people tried to chase them, and one managed to get a foot on the nerf bar before being knocked sideways and spinning to the ground. He sped off, hitting sixty-five miles an hour, the loaded-down Bronco’s top speed, before finally responding to his mother’s pleas to let off the gas.

“Tucker, this is getting old.”

“I agree, Mom. But what choice do we have? I mean, we’re almost to Florida.”

“Yeah, think about that for a minute. If the word is spreading around that Florida is still the Sunshine State, we’re gonna run into more and more groups like this one. Only, the next bunch might have guns pointed at us.”

Tucker took a deep breath and thought for a moment. They had the ham radio, and they could try to use it to monitor things like traffic and mobs of people walking down the road. However, he doubted they could trust something like that. This group they’d just encountered had come out of nowhere.

“What about the boats?” he asked.

“Bay St. Louis?” Lacey had given it some thought as well.

“Obviously, we may not be able to trust what those people said, but it was more than one who seemed to know about it.”

Lacey stared out the window and then up at the sky. “We have to drive past there anyway, right?”

“Well,” began Tucker in response, stretching the word out as he spoke, “sort of. If we take I-10, absolutely. If we cut across Mississippi and Alabama just above the interstate like we planned, it would be about twenty miles out of our way.”

“Is it worth looking into?” she asked. “We could avoid another thousand miles of this type of stuff. No more hunting for gasoline or sleeping in cemeteries.”

“Mom, you heard that guy. We’d have to give up Dad’s truck.”

Lacey nodded and fought back tears. She’d be letting yet another part of Owen get away from her. Then she glanced over at her son. He was a part of both Owen and her. The most important part. Trucks can be replaced. Kids can’t. She made a decision.

“Let’s check it out. If it doesn’t pan out, we’ll keep going the best we can.”

Tuesday, November 5

Driftwood Key

Phoebe settled in for the evening. The generator was turned off after dinnertime, so she was following her early evening kitchen routine by candlelight. Having a structured day had helped her cope with this sudden change in their way of life. She once thrived on working full days that began at dawn and lasted well into the evening, seven days a week. She didn’t complain. She had a work ethic instilled in her by her parents and the genetics of their parents before them.

Hank had commended her repeatedly throughout the collapse. She was indispensable and she knew it. But she didn’t look at her value to the inn through the prism of an employee seeking higher compensation. They were family. Sonny, Jimmy and all the Albrights were all blood relatives in her mind.

She lit the last candle next to the small work desk nearest the entrance to the kitchen. As had been her practice, she retrieved the handgun from the desk drawer and set it on top of the journal she used to record their daily usage of supplies. She flipped through the pages to the menu she had planned for the next day, and since Sonny had gone to bed more than thirty minutes ago, Phoebe thought she’d do a little advance meal prep.

She set up her workstation next to the kitchen sink. A well-worn cutting board was pulled down from a shelf attached to a wall cabinet, and she pulled a serrated butcher knife out of the teak block on the counter. Finally, a peeler was retrieved from the drawer.

Phoebe chuckled as she surveyed all the tools it took to peel and slice up a carrot bunch.

She was a smart cook, not a gourmet chef. Sure, she was capable of producing a plate worthy of some Food Network program, but that was not her passion. Practical cooking was, and that certainly suited the times they lived in.

For example, many cooks don’t bother cleaning up a carrot bunch. They buy prepackaged sliced, shredded, or cut carrots at the grocery store and prepare a dish. Not Phoebe. She used the entire bunch, including the tops, the leafy green part of the carrot that grew above ground. She set some aside to regrow and cooked a few as well. While bitter, they could be prepared with olive oil, garlic and other greens to provide bulk to a meal. Not to mention , she thought as she began cutting the tops off, they help you poop.

Phoebe was mindlessly chopping away when suddenly the back door opened, causing her to nick the end of her finger. Blood spurted out onto part of the carrots, drawing a few choice curse words in her mind. Phoebe dropped the knife and spun around to see who had rudely interrupted her.