“Good,” added Hank. “I haven’t had time to see for myself. I wanted to get the town behind it first.”
The Marathon mayor agreed. “I think this has been a great start. Let’s see how we’re doing in a few hours when the convoy arrives. But I have to remind you that the county has plenty of road equipment capable of clearing this traffic jam your brother created. If they’re determined, we won’t be able to hold them off forever.”
Hank grimaced and nodded his head as Juan voiced the same concerns he had. “I have an idea. Do you guys have enough gas to drive up to Islamorada and back?”
“I think so. Why?”
Hank whispered to Mayor Ramirez, who eagerly took in his instructions. He kept glancing at his watch as Hank spoke but seemed ready to take on the task.
“Now, I take it?” the mayor asked as Hank finished.
“Yes, and you’ll need to hurry.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Friday, November 15
Seven Mile Bridge
Sergeant Jorge Rivera was exhausted. He’d spearheaded this operation on behalf of the mayor and his boss, Sheriff Jock Daly, from the beginning. He was known to be a micromanager. As a result, he insisted upon his tactical vehicle accompanying every major raid, and then, once the box trucks were loaded for delivery to the warehouses in Key West, he led the way back. He’d been operating on minimal sleep since the raids began, and his nerves had worn thin as the crowds surrounding the grocery stores became increasingly hostile.
It certainly didn’t help his already surly attitude for the sheriff to dress him down the night before because of the continued loss of life during the raids. He tried to convince the sheriff that he didn’t like his deputies being attacked and shot at either. However, since the beginning of the confiscation raids, word spread rapidly throughout the Lower Keys, and opposition was growing.
During their heated argument at the warehouse the evening before, Sergeant Rivera made the mistake of questioning the operation altogether. To make matters worse, he complained that Mayor Lindsey should have laid some groundwork prior to the raids so that the people knew their operation was designed to help them.
The sheriff hurled all kinds of vulgarities and threats at Sergeant Rivera. The tongue-lashing was the worst he’d ever witnessed, much less received. After he left the sheriff’s office to get a few hours of sleep, he wondered who was under more pressure. The sheriff or him.
The convoy got a slow start leaving Big Pine Key that morning. One of the Penske trucks stalled barely a quarter mile over the water on the way to West Summerland Key. It took a dozen men and the front bumper of another truck to move the twenty-six-footer out of the way before they could proceed.
Then on the next island, Bahia Honda Key, the sand that had washed ashore from the hurricane slowed their convoy as it became difficult for the box trucks to discern where the road ended and the soft, sandy shoulder began. One of the trucks dropped its right-side wheels into the sand and became stuck. Sergeant Rivera could ill afford to lose another box truck, as there were no other rental locations until they reached Islamorada, and he had not yet sent an advance team in that direction to determine if the trucks could be seized.
After another lengthy delay to free the truck from the soft sand, the convoy of tactical vehicles, patrol cars, and box trucks was under way. They rumbled along past the Sunshine Key RV Resort, drawing dozens of people out of their motor homes and trailers to view the spectacle.
Interestingly, unlike what they’d experienced the last several days, this group stood on the sidewalk between the chain-link fence and the highway, cheering them on. It was as if they were being treated to a parade. Sergeant Rivera’s spirits lifted when one of the armored tactical vehicles sounded their siren, causing the onlookers to jump up and down while exchanging high fives.
Feeling better, he radioed the sheriff’s department dispatch to advise them that his convoy had entered Seven Mile Bridge at Little Duck Key. He expected to arrive in Marathon in ten minutes.
He was wrong.
Throughout yesterday and today as they’d traveled up U.S. 1, they rarely met any kind of operating vehicles. Stalled vehicles were everywhere, but most had been pulled to the side of the road. When he first began to encounter the abandoned cars and trucks on Seven Mile Bridge, he wasn’t all that surprised.
Just like a traveler on a long stretch of interstate between exits, motorists often miscalculate the amount of fuel left in their vehicle and run out of gas. People don’t intend to run out of gas. It just happens when they push their luck. Sergeant Rivera believed every driver pushed their luck in the apocalypse.
They slowed their pace so all of the convoy could stay together in case of a breakdown. Backing up and turning around wasn’t an option on the two-lane bridge cluttered with broken-down vehicles.
Riding in the lead vehicle, he ordered his driver to slowly wind through the debris field of inoperable vehicles. His focus remained on each car in their path rather than what lay ahead. That was why it came as a shock to him when the convoy was forced to come to a complete stop halfway across the bridge.
“What the hell is this?” he asked of no one in particular. There were four deputies in the tactical vehicle with him, but none of them had an answer other than stating the obvious—a traffic jam.
Sergeant Rivera bounded out of the truck and held his right fist in the air, indicating all vehicles should stop. The three deputies in the back seat piled out, and the driver remained in his seat as he’d been instructed. Rivera turned to the second tactical vehicle and used hand signals to those members of the SWAT team to disembark. These two lead trucks had remained with him throughout the raids. They were his best people—team A.
He glanced in all directions, pausing briefly at the sight of Fred the Tree, which he’d never given a second thought to when he’d passed it before the collapse. He thought for a moment and issued his orders.
“You three, make your way up the highway and see how far this goes. Do you see these skid marks? Somebody went through a lot of effort to block this highway. I wanna know how far it stretches. Go!”
The men immediately took off in a steady jog, looking for gaps between the parked vehicles and maintaining their weapons at low ready in the event of an ambush. When they were out of sight, Sergeant Rivera retrieved field glasses out of his vehicle and climbed onto the hood.
After getting his balance, he focused on the men as they made their way up the road. Then he adjusted his vision and looked toward Marathon. He shook his head in disbelief. He pulled the binoculars away from his face and rubbed his eyes. He looked again and dropped several F-bombs.
“I don’t need to wait for those guys to return. Get me the sheriff on the radio!”
“Yes, sir!” his driver shouted back.
It took several minutes for Sheriff Jock to respond to the radio call. By the time Sergeant Rivera had explained what he’d observed, the three members of team A had already returned. Their chests were heaving for air after jogging in the dense, sooty air. Sergeant Rivera asked the sheriff to stand by while he got the report from his men.
He retook his seat in the tactical vehicle and closed the door behind him. Then he instructed his driver to get out. After taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he reached out to Sheriff Jock again.
“Sheriff, these cars are blocking the road all the way to Marathon. My men tell me there are hundreds of vehicles parked bumper to bumper, sideways across the road. It’s impossible for us to pass.”