“STAND DOWN!” Martinez was yelling.
The one cop who had already drawn his weapon was now pointing it directly at Martinez. His partner had his hands in the air. The other two policemen, the new arrivals, were edging back toward their patrol car.
“Drop your weapon!” said the cop with the revolver. “I will fire. Drop it now. Who the fuck are you?”
Henry put his sights on the sheriff on the near side of the cruiser. The man was moving sideways with his arms at his sides like he was pretending to fly.
The cop with the nickel-plated revolver was young. Early twenties. He was clearly afraid and uncertain, and this made him deadly.
“Don’t do it, son,” one of the other cops said. His voice was barely a whisper, but Henry heard him. Or maybe he just wanted the older cop to say that, a brief vision of Operation Snowshoe flashing through his mind.
Henry focused on the other cops because Martinez and Carlos would be targeting the immediate armed threat. Don’t make me do it. Lord, forgive me. I don’t want to shoot a cop. Finger on the trigger.
“We’re soldiers,” Martinez said. “We’re on your side. These guys are helping us get home, that’s all.”
“You have drawn a firearm on an officer of the law,” the young cop yelled. “Put your gun down. You’re under arrest.”
“Look,” Martinez said. “That’s not happening. You’re outnumbered. No one needs to die here today, but you most definitely will unless you put down that fucking popgun. Wilkins?”
Henry peppered the cruiser door with a burst from the HK. The cop with the revolver jumped at the crack of the shots and the slap of the rounds into the metal car door. The other officers dove for the ground.
Martinez closed on the young cop while Carlos remained twenty feet away in a shooter’s stance. The cop handed his revolver over.
Henry stepped from the shadows, and then helped Martinez and Carlos disarm the cops.
“I don’t know what to do with them,” Martinez said, giving the policemen a hard look. The cops, wearing dark brown uniforms under bulky black leather coats, remained silent. The oldest of the four stepped forward and offered his hand to Martinez.
“I’m Sheriff Bradshaw,” the man said. He sported a thick beard with more than a little gray in it and his eyes were not unkind. “I know things are crazy right now. We’ll let you boys pass. Never saw you, if you catch my meaning.”
“But—!” the young cop who had waved around the revolver said.
“Shut up, Josh,” Sheriff Bradshaw interjected. “These guys are military. Special Forces, I’m guessing?” He raised his eyebrows at the question. “Ah, well, you won’t tell me anyway.” Bradshaw raised the sleeve on his coat and shirt, revealing a tattoo on his inner forearm of a skull and the words “Semper Fi.”
Martinez grinned at the sheriff. “A jarhead. Well, all right then.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sheriff Bradshaw. “Marine Recon. Two tours in Iraq. Home to this sleepy little shithole.”
“You give your word you won’t pick up a radio?”
“No reason to do that. Haven’t seen a damn thing but truckers and moose.”
“Good enough for me,” Martinez said.
“You mind telling us what is going on?” Bradshaw asked.
“You probably know a lot more than we do,” Martinez said.
“I doubt that. Steer clear of the interstate if you’re trying to get far away from here, and I’m sure you are, because there’s nothing happening here. Don’t go near major cities. From what I understand, it’s gotten ugly quick-like.”
Henry, Carlos, and Martinez said good-bye to Bradshaw and the truck stop and piled into Bubba Red’s Peterbilt truck. The interior was more spacious than the last truck. Henry sat up front on a bench seat with Carlos while Martinez got some sleep in the rear.
Bubba Red regaled them with stories of the open highway and drove nonstop through the night over back roads and state highways. Progress was slow because the roads had not been plowed since the last snowfall. Bubba Red’s truck contained two computer screens, one for media and one for navigation. The GPS system was down, but maps on the hard drive proved accurate and up to date. From time to time, Bubba chatted with other truckers over the CB radio in a jargon incomprehensible to Henry. About all Henry was able to discern was that truckers did not care for police, and there were a whole lot of “bears” out and about.
Henry entered what the men called “field sleep,” and allowed his body and mind to rest while staying in a state of semi-alertness. He had long since learned to sleep when he could, storing up on moments of repose like a bear stocking up on body fat before a long winter, because he knew there would be times when he wouldn’t be able to rest for days at a time.
Colorado lurked in the darkness over the horizon.
CHAPTER NINE
Bad Neighbors
KEY WEST, FLORIDA
Suzanne finished loading her convertible Mercedes, wishing at that moment she’d chosen a more practical vehicle. There wasn’t enough space. The trunk was loaded down with yellow five-gallon water jugs, canned food, and boxes of Little Debbie snacks, which had a shelf life of about a thousand years. The shelves at the stores were picked clean. She was lucky to get what she had. The front seat was crammed with bags of dog food for Beowulf and as much medicine as she could get from the local Walgreens pharmacy. She had antibiotics, painkillers, dressings, and a variety of topical ointments. She felt grossly underprepared.
She pulled onto US 1, waiting for the US Navy sailor who was directing traffic to give her the go-ahead. Sailors and marines had emerged from the base, armed with assault rifles and wearing body armor, to provide security for Key West. There were soldiers and police officers at the stores to stop looters and try to prevent price gouging.
Suzanne turned on the radio, hoping to catch some news, but instead “Born in the USA” came on, and that was all right with her. It took her more than an hour to make it home, and by the time she pulled into the crushed coral driveway, the sun had gone down. She saw that Bart had been busy. The metal hurricane shutters were bolted over the windows on the front of the house.
Mary, Bart, Ginnie, and old Bobby Ray helped to unload the car.
“We’re in good shape for now,” Bart said. “We’ve got enough water to last us a couple of weeks, probably, if we’re careful. I’ve filled the boat with fuel, and I’ve got some extra tanks filled up. The house is fairly secure. I’m thinking we should stick together here, if that’s all right with you.”
“Sure, Bart. I was kind of assuming that.”
For one thing, Bart had old wooden hurricane shutters in his hundred-year-old home. And from Suzanne’s they could utilize the boat to catch fish or get away if they had to. Bart and Mary had purchased their historic home with the idea that Mary would run a bed and breakfast. That never happened.
They were all eating steaks hot off the grill at the dining room table when the power went out. Suzanne and Bart lit candles, and they resumed the communal meal.
“This is fun,” Taylor said. “It’s like a party.”
“Yeah,” Suzanne said. “A birthday party.”
They laughed and joked, but beneath the levity, Suzanne was afraid. No more running water, no more toilets that flushed. With the windows shut, the house became hot and the air was stale and sweaty before the night was over. They heard cracks outside that might have been fireworks or gunshots. They couldn’t be sure.
After dinner, Bart called for a group meeting.
“From here on out, we need to set watches,” Bart said. “Twenty-four seven. That’s how it’s got to be. We’ll rotate in four-hour shifts. No one goes anywhere alone. We’ll split the watches between Suzanne, Bobby, and me, for now. Ginnie, I’m going to teach you to shoot tomorrow so you can help.”