The loose area rug slid under his feet, and he fell hard to the floor. Two more rifle shots rang out and pierced the floor in front of him. His loss of balance likely saved his life.
He quickly regained his focus and crawled again toward the kitchen before clumsily crashing into a dining chair with the crown of his head. He was immediately rewarded with a goose egg, a hematoma, that began to swell from the trauma. Nonetheless, he was undeterred.
Peter felt the cool air coming through the kitchen and the hallway that led to the back door. It gave him hope and the feeling that he would survive the onslaught. He changed his course and scrambled forward. His hands reached the part of the kitchen where the direction of the floorboards changed.
He picked up the pace, and then he used the kitchen countertop to pull his battered body upright. Recalling how he’d entered the home, Peter stumbled blindly into the back hallway leading to the outside as he tried to find his way out.
In a frantic rush, he pushed himself toward the Dutch door he’d breached earlier. He flung it open and raced into the cold, dewy air. Relieved, he gasped for air, but in his fight to survive, he’d forgotten about the amount of ash and soot that had permeated the atmosphere. He immediately began a coughing fit as he fell onto his knees in the backyard.
The pain. The inability to breathe. His heart pumping out of his chest. None of that mattered to Peter. He was safe.
Or so he thought.
CHAPTER TWO
Thursday, October 31
Munford Residence
Near Amelia Court House, Virginia
Peter stuck his hand into his jacket and felt the warm moisture oozing out of his upper body. The blood from the shotgun wound had soaked all the clothing layers he’d worn to keep warm. He resisted the urge to pull off the wet clothing. He needed to get to his bicycle and get the hell out of Dodge, as they say.
He pulled his shirt over his mouth and nose to avoid inhaling the sooty air. The rusty, metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils, but it was preferable to the smoky air that had circumnavigated the planet. Peter began to walk quickly through the backyard.
BOOM!
The shotgun roared as it sent another round through an opening under the porch. The sound of pellets embedding in the broad side of the barn forced Peter to the ground. Still holding his pistol, he fired twice in the direction of the house. Glass shattered as the rounds entered the kitchen through the windows.
“Stop! I’m leaving!” What’s wrong with these people?
His attackers never responded, verbally, anyway. Two more gunshots rang out. The bullets whizzed over his head. Close enough to be felt by Peter, which caused the hair to stand up on the back of his neck.
He looked all around him. The ton bales would require him to backtrack, and the barn was too far away to run to. He stuck to the plan. Peter rose to a low crouch and hustled across the yard toward the side of the house. As he did, he held his gun sideways and fired toward the open space under the porch. His first round hit the ground with a thud, so he raised his aim. The second round struck the side of the house.
He became more confident and stood to run toward the driveway where he’d ditched the bicycle. He was rewarded for his efforts by slipping on the moist grass, and he almost fell.
BOOM!
Another shotgun blast with the bellow of a cannon shattered the silence.
Peter screamed over his shoulder, “Leave me alone!” He fired wildly toward the house.
He could hear the muffled voices shouting instructions. The sound of a window rising caught his attention. He fired toward the house again, the bullet embedding in the wood clapboard siding.
His attackers’ response was more gunfire, which startled Peter and caused him to fall forward. He regained his balance once again and began running across the yard in a zigzag pattern. The shots followed his path, tearing into the tall grasses all around him.
Then his right leg caught a farm hydrant protruding from the ground. Often used on farms, the hydrant consisted of a steel standpipe attached to an underground water source that utilized a cast-iron lever and plunger handle. Designed to be freezeproof by avoiding plastic, the all-steel device was an immovable object that caused Peter to spin around before landing hard on his back.
The impact knocked the wind out of him, and for a moment, his vision became blurred. His shirt had fallen down from his face, and he once again sucked soot-filled oxygen into his lungs. The incessant coughing began again and gave away his position to his attackers, who immediately unloaded a barrage of gunfire.
Peter had to move. He was on the downslope of the yard now. He winced in pain as he turned his body. Then he forced his prone torso into a roll. Like a kid playing in a sloped backyard, he turned over and over again as he rolled through the tall grass toward the bottom of the hill where the driveway cut through the trees. His body was stabbed with sticks and the sharp edges of rocks protruding from the ground. It seemed like each time, they sadistically found a bruise or an embedded shotgun pellet.
Then, mercifully, the gunfire stopped.
Nonetheless, he kept an eye on the house until it disappeared from sight. In a fluid motion, he made one final roll and bounded to his feet. He rushed through the grass until he found the limestone rock and packed-dirt driveway.
Peter glanced over his shoulder one last time to see if anyone had emerged from the house to pursue him. He pointed his gun up the hill, searching the hazy surroundings that were now slightly illuminated by the rising sun at predawn. His eyes were wild with fear, and his mind raced as he tried to recall how many shots he’d fired.
Then, without any sign of the shooters, he carefully backed down the hill toward the location where he’d stashed his bicycle. With a deep breath of musty air and the odor of his own blood, he swiftly pushed the bike down the hill toward the road, leaving the Munford home behind him.
CHAPTER THREE
Thursday, October 31
Driftwood Key
Florida Keys, USA
Hank Albright wasn’t the type to take in every stray dog that came a-knockin’. The Florida Keys was every American’s dream of an island paradise. Pristine waters. Island living. Free spirits enjoying life the way they pleased. But, eventually, those who came to the Keys for fun had to pay the bills. Prior to the collapse, there had been a never-ending stream of newcomers seeking a job. They all professed to have extraordinary talents that the Driftwood Key Inn should take advantage of. However, in the end, the resort was a family-run operation with only a handful of longtime employees.
This situation was different. Hank had met Patrick Hollister on occasion. When he first began working for Island State Bank, Patrick had called upon Hank and solicited his business. He didn’t expect Hank to completely abandon his existing banking relationship. Maybe a loan to expand his solar array or to upgrade to a newer model boat. Perhaps a small investment account for Patrick to prove his money-management skills.
Hank never switched banks, but he remained cordial with Patrick, seeing him from time to time at business gatherings in the Keys. He certainly knew nothing of Patrick’s proclivities and the secret life he led as Patricia, serial killer.
Hank and his right-hand man, Sonny Free, approached Patrick to help him to his feet. The injured daytime banker, nighttime murderer, had risen to his knees, with both hands cupping the sides of his head. Blood was trickling out from between his fingers.