Martial Law (9 page)

Drew immediately pulled his weapon. “Abbie, listen to me. Ready your weapon and follow close behind me. I want you to watch our backs. I’ve got the rest. If you see someone, slap me and we both go down to a crouch. Got it?”

“Yes.” Abbie unsnapped the holster and pulled her weapon. “Okay, go.”

The two made their way together toward the front porch. It was a quaint Florida farmhouse with white wood siding and a green metal roof. Baskets of ferns dangled between the columns and swung in the gusty winds. The empty white rocking chairs swayed from the squalls, or from the ghosts of past residents—including the dead elderly woman laying half in and half out of her front door.

“Abbie, you have to control yourself, okay?”

“What? Why?” Impulsively, she turned around to see what Drew was talking about. She gasped and began to shake. “Oh my god!”

The elderly woman, clad in a pink nightgown and light blue housecoat, had been beaten to death with a small sledgehammer. Her face was mangled, unrecognizable. The murderer had left the hammer embedded in her skull. Drew had seen death during his tours of duty in Afghanistan. What appeared before him was the most gruesome killing he had ever seen.

He turned to comfort Abbie, but she was vomiting over the white porch rail. She was crying hysterically as the emotions of the day and the convulsions of her retching overtook her. Drew took her gun and tucked it into his belt. He pulled her hair back behind her and wiped away her tears as she tried to regain her composure. After her stomach was emptied, her crying subsided, enabling her to speak.

“What is wrong with people? I mean, who could do this to an old lady?”

“I don’t know,” responded Drew. “We have to be careful, Abbie. I need you right now, okay?”

Abbie sniffled and nodded her head. She pulled her sleeves over her hands and wiped off her face and nose. She looked into Drew’s eyes and once again nodded affirmatively.

“Okay.”

“Abbie, here’s your gun. I want you to wait here while I check the house. I imagine the killer is long gone based on the condition of the body, but I have to make sure. You watch the front and call for me if you see something—but quietly.”

“Okay, hurry!”

Drew stepped over the body and quickly returned with a hand-knitted afghan he’d found folded on a sofa. He imagined she had used it to stay warm while watching her favorite television shows. It was difficult for him to keep his composure.
So senseless and unnecessary
.

Drew cleared the small two-bedroom, one-story home and found only evidence of looting. The bathroom medicine cabinet was torn off the wall, and the nightstand drawers were ransacked.
They were looking for drugs
.

Through the kitchen window, he saw a white sedan, maybe a Buick, parked under a carport roof. Fumbling through the kitchen using his UltraFire flashlight, he found the keys on a hook next to the pantry door. He returned to Abbie, who had stopped crying but was clearly very emotional.

“It’s clear inside, Abbie. I think the murderer was a looter or looking for drugs, based upon the way the place was torn apart. There’s a car out back, and I’ve got the keys. Here.” Drew handed her a bottle of water out of the pantry. Abbie hesitated to take it at first. Once she did, she looked at it and then towards the now covered dead body. Drew knew what she was thinking.
Are we looters too?

“Abbie, we have to make some tough choices now. The world has changed—at least our part of it. We have to survive. There is a difference between looting and murder—and
survival
.”

Abbie rolled the water through her hands. She looked at the body, then at the church burning across the road. The streets were still deserted. She looked up at Drew and opened the bottled water and took a drink.

“Let’s hope the car has enough gas to get us out of here,” said Abbie.

Chapter 18

September 4, 2016

5:10 a.m.

State Road 100

Lulu, Florida

Drew immediately looked at the fuel gauge and saw that it was full. The white Buick Enclave still had that new-car smell. Drew imagined that the family of the deceased woman insisted on her having reliable transportation. It also contained a Sirius XM radio with a navigation screen. He pulled out of the carport and turned right towards Lulu—
former population of one hundred forty-eight
.

As he turned south on Florida 100, he saw a group of men dressed in blue uniforms leaning against the front rails of the ransacked Lulu General Store. He slowed to get a better look, but when the men started running toward the car, Drew sped off toward the southeast. It was only ten miles to Lake Butler, but Drew had had enough of small-town Florida—during the apocalypse.

“I’m avoiding the town. After what I saw back there, give me some country back roads. Abbie, it will be daylight soon. I’d prefer to be moving under cover of darkness. I can go straight through the center of these towns to the camp’s main gates, or we can work our way through back roads, which may help us avoid detection as we enter this Florida National Guard facility.”

“I understand,” she replied. “Let’s try through town first. Do we have any southern bailout options?” Drew was glad to see Abbie was getting back to normal. She was a seasoned politician but also a valued member of the Senate Intelligence Committee. Her security clearance was just below that of the President. Her position required an analytical mind. He was glad she was able to help him think through their options.

“A few. We’ll get our first view of the main drag in just a moment,” replied Drew. The headlights illuminated the railroad tracks that ran parallel to the highway. Groups of men wandered along the tracks. Some wore coats to shield themselves from the rain.

“What are they doing out in the storm?”

“I don’t know, but there’s something else I find odd. Did you notice they’re all similarly dressed to the guys in Lulu who chased the car?’

“Yeah. Maybe they’re road or utility maintenance workers?” Drew wasn’t sure, but he didn’t intend to stop and ask.

He slowed the Buick as they began to see businesses on the outskirts of Lake Butler. On their left, at the S&S Food Store, people were streaming out of the building, carrying armfuls of beer and cigarettes. Up ahead, Drew spotted a car on fire in the middle of the road. There was no sign of first responders.

“I’ve seen enough.” He stopped and threw it in reverse. Turning south down County Road 231, more looting was taking place. Another group of men was filling the back of an Aramark Uniform van with groceries from the IGA. The van’s headlights exposed a body that lay lifeless in the parking lot nearby.

“They’re all wearing the same type of blue uniforms,” said Abbie. “I don’t get it.” A car sped past them in the other direction. Across the way, two pickup trucks were being loaded with building materials and lumber from Jackson Building Supply. The American flag was torn off the front entrance and lay under the tires of one of the trucks.
I guess that’s how it is now
.

Drew hustled them out of town and started traversing the roads south of Lake Butler. He decided to avoid the northerly route through Raiford and Lawtey, opting instead to go on the other side of Starke.

“Based upon the navigation panel, Camp Blanding has several entrances. It appears the bulk of the base operations are located on the other side of this large round lake.”

“Kingsley Lake,” interjected Abbie.

“Right. We’ll work our way up from the south, avoiding Starke. Once we get back on County Road 230, we should be able to find a checkpoint. I’ll show the guards my Secret Service ID. Do you have any identification?”

“No, I never need it. Surely they’ll recognize me.” She laughed. “Maybe we should look for a campaign poster?”

“Very funny. We’ll deal with it when we get there.” Drew stopped and turned onto the highway. He approached an entry gate to the base and immediately saw it was not occupied by soldiers or military vehicles. Several men stood in front of the chain-link gate, smoking and talking. They hadn’t noticed Drew’s approach. The now howling wind and increased rainfall distracted them.

“These guys aren’t military,” said Abbie. “They look like they’re waiting for something. And notice the uniforms again.”

Drew cut the lights and slowly backed down the crushed-shell service road. Once back on the highway, he worked his way northward until they came upon another gated entrance.

“More of the same.” Drew sighed. “Abbie, we’ve got to keep going, but we’re also running out of darkness. I don’t want to shoot our way through a situation. It’s too dangerous.”

“Keep going, Drew,” said Abbie, running her finger across the GPS panel. “Try Lake Drive. It runs right into Kingsley Lake. Maybe we can walk to the base.” The rain and wind picked up considerably courtesy of the approaching Danni—
the never-ending hurricane
.

They hit a dead end on the south side of Kingsley Lake at a small cluster of homes. It was dark enough for Drew and Abbie to make their way along the shore—if it was passable. Based upon the map, they were only a few thousand feet away from the base housing and another couple of thousand feet to a large open area that might be the airfield.

They donned ponchos and started through the yards. As they were passing in between the final two homes, they were blinded by a flashlight.

“Stop right there!” shouted a younger man’s voice from behind a fishing boat on a trailer.

Drew dropped to one knee and pulled Abbie down with him. They were temporarily in the darkness again until another flashlight illuminated their position from the right. The first man shouted again.

“Stop right there and put your hands in the air where I can see ’em!”

Drew heard the distinctive sound of a shell being racked into a pump-action shotgun—a sound that would scare away the bravest of burglars.

“Don’t talk,” he whispered to Abbie. “This is just a scared homeowner.”

Drew stood with his hands in the air and Abbie followed his lead.

“Sir, we don’t mean you any harm. My name is Andrew Jackson, and I’m with the United States Secret Service. I have my identification if you will allow me to reach into my pocket.” Drew began to reach under his poncho but stopped suddenly when he heard the sound of another shotgun chambering a shell.

“That’s probably bullshit, Grandpa,” said a younger voice to their right. Then directing his attention at Drew and Abbie, the young man shouted, “You’re trespassing!”

“I’m sorry that we’ve come on your property. We need to get to Camp Blanding. We’ll just turn around and leave, okay?”

“Don’t move. Drop your ID on the ground and move away slowly. The police are on the way.”
No, they’re not, but somebody else is. I’m just not sure who
. Drew dropped his ID, and he pushed Abbie backward a few steps. He kept his body between her and the guns pointed at them.

He whispered to Abbie, “This will be fine.”

An older man walked around the fishing boat with the flashlight in Drew’s eyes. The younger man came from his right. They approached tentatively.
Please don’t make me have to kill you both today.

The man studied Drew’s identification and then compared the picture to his illuminated face. He seemed to relax as he tucked the ID inside his shirt pocket.

“Why are you sneaking around here during a hurricane? Why not drive up to Blanding’s front gate?” he asked.

“Something’s wrong,” Drew explained. “We approached two gates to the south of here, and both were surrounded by civilians dressed in blue uniforms. We’ve seen similarly dressed men between here and Lulu.”

“Who’s with you?” asked the young man, raising his rifle once again. Drew cringed as Abbie spoke up.

“My name is Senator Abigail Morgan.”

A woman’s voice came from behind them, and Drew spun around to see her armed silhouette standing in the rain.

“Abbie? Let me see.” She flashed the light in Abbie’s face and immediately lowered her rifle.

“For heaven’s sake, Brent, this is Abbie Morgan. She’s going to be the next Vice President. Put your guns down, boys.” The woman approached Abbie, but Drew moved to stand between them.

“It’s okay, Drew,” said Abbie, gently touching his right hand before he drew the weapon hidden in the small of his back. “Hello, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Abbie approached the woman and extended her hand to shake but was greeted with a hug instead.

“Oh my, this is so exciting,” exclaimed Angie McCoy. “Abbie Morgan right here in my yard. Honey, what are you doing out here in this fretful weather? Come inside and let’s get you dried off and see if I can find some dry clothes. You’re much smaller than I am, but I could hem something up for you.” As if greeting an old friend, she took Abbie by the arm and escorted her towards the front porch as she continued to babble. Abbie turned and smiled at Drew, who looked to the sky, not only for guidance but to assess the coming daylight.

Chapter 19

September 4, 2016

6:40 a.m.

Florida National Guard Base

Camp Blanding, Florida

“They sound like escaped inmates,” said Brent McCoy, grandfather and retired chief of Probation and Parole Field Services for the Florida Department of Corrections. He and his wife, Angie, lived a quiet life overlooking Kingsley Lake. “They must have broken out of confinement when the power went out. We’ve had no information whatsoever. My grandson and I decided to stay up and keep watch in case anyone tried to steal from us. When the sun came up, I planned to check on my neighbors.”

Abbie finished her glass of Tropicana Orange Juice and stood up in the family’s living room.

“Brent, these inmates are on a rampage,” said Drew. “I believe they may have murdered the entire town of Lulu. They are wreaking havoc in Lake Butler. Now, I think they’re preparing an assault on the base with a possible target being the National Guard Armory.”