Amidst the rumble of the motors and the shouts emanating from both sides of the checkpoint, Peter could hear the sound of scraping metal along the pavement.
“All personnel, move back to the Jewfish checkpoint!” a man bellowed on a megaphone. Jewfish Creek was one of the small bodies of water that separated Key Largo from the mainland.
“They’re gonna blow the other bridge!” shouted a man to Peter’s left.
“I’m a resident! Let me in!” hollered another.
“Let’s go for it!” a third man bellowed in a deep voice.
Peter was spun sideways as several people charged ahead, crashing through the folding tables that had once been used for processing the refugees. The temporary intake center was no match for the people racing toward the concrete barriers and whatever lay beyond the massive halogen lamps that blinded them.
“Stop! We will shoot you!” warned the man with the bullhorn.
He failed to dissuade the crowd, who quickened their pace toward the row of generator-operated lighting. The first of the men leading the pack had approached the lights when the commanding officer of the blockade gave the order.
“Fire!”
Quick, staccato bursts of gunfire rang out. Peter could hear the bullets whiz over his head just before the crowd erupted in panic. The mass of people forcing their way through the barricades suddenly stopped and reversed course. Peter was caught between those fleeing and the momentum of the others who continued to push forward.
“Don’t run! They’re just warning shots!” yelled one of the men who’d encouraged the group to charge the checkpoint.
“He’s right. They’re not gonna shoot us!”
Peter had learned on the road that the old adage shoot first and ask questions later was rule number one of survival in a post-apocalyptic world. He wasn’t so sure the second round of gunfire would miss its mark.
The baggage tractors were shut off, reducing the noise level at the checkpoint. Peter, following two large men who cautiously approached the halogen lights, covered his eyes in an attempt to see beyond the temporary lighting equipment. He shouted for his friend again.
“Jimmy! What do I do?”
He didn’t respond.
“Fire!” the man with the bullhorn ordered his men. The automatic weapons sent another short burst of bullets whizzing by, causing everyone at the front of the advance to drop to the ground. Shrieks and screams filled the air as those refugees behind Peter ducked for cover or began running the other way. Then another order was given. “Fall back!”
Jimmy took advantage of the momentary cessation of order-giving. “Peter! Now! You have to hurry!”
Peter, along with a dozen others, began to run toward the halogen lights. They were blinded by the multiple sixteen-hundred-watt portable light towers as they straddled the concrete barriers. Without regard to the flash blindness that overwhelmed their retinas, they pushed forward, and once in the open, they sprinted toward the darkness on the other side.
He allowed the others to lead the way, as he was still concerned about being shot. He kept his pistol in its holster, as he knew he was no match for the weaponry used by the guards.
The mob broke through the sawhorse barriers stretched between the portable lighting. Peter’s hopes were lifted when he didn’t hear any more gunfire. Maybe he could make it across the bridge before it was destroyed like the one north of him at Card Sound Road.
And then the most painful, bloodcurdling screams he’d ever heard filled the air in front of him.
CHAPTER TWO
Wednesday, November 6
Overseas Highway at Cross Key
Florida Keys
One by one, those charging to the front were greeted with two rolls of concertina wire strung across the Overseas Highway. Similar to barbed wire, which features pointed barbs along a strand of wire, concertina wire was used by the military and prisons to control people. However, rather than having pointed barbs, concertina wire was made with sharp blades, which can slice deep into flesh and are oftentimes fatal to the unsuspecting person who tries to climb over it.
The spiral, coiled wire made of razor-sharp stainless steel had been stretched across the road by two baggage-towing machines on loan from the Marathon airport. They were used by the checkpoint guards as the last line of defense before the Overseas Highway crossed the water at the Jewfish Creek Bridge.
The first wave of people in front of Peter never saw the two rolls of wire stretched across the road in front of them. The dark conditions coupled with their panicked state of mind had prevented them from registering what was about to happen to their bodies until it was too late.
It was a brutal, arguably illegal way of securing any border. The results of the first group of people who encountered it in those early morning hours proved why it was often used to secure a perimeter.
Cries of agony filled the air as limbs were severed and faces were sliced open. The men who ran into the wire first were then crushed by those behind them, who fell on top of their bodies. As they squirmed and wiggled to get free, they only became more entangled as the concertina wire dug into their flesh.
Peter reached the wire and slipped on a pool of blood just before he was cut by the sharp blades. He pushed himself away from the carnage just as another wave of refugees ran past him and ran into the wire.
“Peter! You have to hurry!” shouted Jimmy, who was standing on the other side of the double strands of wire. “We’re running out of time.”
“Last chance, Free! Let’s go!” shouted one of Jimmy’s fellow guards.
Jimmy looked back and forth, deciding what to do.
“Go! I’ll find another way,” said Peter amidst the pleas for help from the wounded. Despite the gruesome scene along the wire barriers, others continued their attempts to cross it or even crawl under it. It didn’t end well for them.
“I’m not leaving you!” Jimmy yelled back.
“Retreat, Free! Now!”
Jimmy ignored the order. He moved closer to the concertina wire to get a closer look. He found an option, albeit a brutal one.
“Peter! Over here. Climb over.”
“What?” Peter was confused, but he followed the sound of Jimmy’s voice about forty feet to his left. When he arrived, he discovered what Jimmy had in mind.
A pile of bodies lay across the rolls of wire. The initial push of refugees attempting to cross had forced the two rolls together. However, the wounds they’d encountered when their legs and arms became snarled with the razor-sharp wire had halted their progress. Peter suspected the people at the bottom of the pile were dead. Those on top were bleeding profusely and would succumb within minutes.
He shook his head in disgust. In that moment of adrenaline-fueled desire to join his friend and return home, visions of the despair he’d witnessed along the borders of Serbia and Croatia filled his head. Anger built up within him at the thought of someone in the Florida Keys, quite possibly Jimmy’s aunt, Mayor Lindsey Free, ordering the barbaric concertina wire to be put into place. Then again, somebody had made the foolish decision to blow up the bridges entering the Keys.
“Peter!” Jimmy’s shout brought him back into the present.
Peter had always been athletic as a kid and still enjoyed running for exercise. In high school, he had been on the track team and competed in the high hurdle events. The hurdles measured forty-two inches, somewhat taller than the concertina wire. However, unlike a hurdle used in a track and field event, the doubled-up rolls of wire measured nearly six feet deep.