everywhere? Was the war lost? If it was still being fought who was winning?
On River Road he passed a dozen convicts, white men, clad in their blue denim with the white stripe down the trouser leg. They were straggling toward Fort Repose. Two of the convicts carried shotguns. Another had a pistol strapped to his waist. This was wrong. Road gang guards, not convicts, should be carrying the weapons. But the guards were missing. It wasn’t difficult to guess what had happened. The guards, some of them, were dour and sadistic men, skilled in unusual and degrading punishments. It was likely that any breakdown in government and authority would begin with a revolt of prisoners against road gang guards. There was a convict camp between Fort Repose and Pasco Creek. Randy guessed that these prisoners were being transported, by truck, to their work area, when the nuclear attack came. With realization, rebellion, and perhaps murder of the guards, had been almost instantaneous.
He passed the wrecked car. The woman’s body still lay on the roadside. The luggage had been looted. Dresses, shoes, and lingerie littered the grassy shoulder. A pink-silk pajama top fluttered from a palmetto, a forlorn flag to mark the end of a vacation.
As Randy reached his home, Florence Wechek’s Chevy bounced out of her driveway. He yelled, “Hey, Florence!” Florence stopped. Alice Cooksey was in the car with her. “Where are you going?” Randy asked.
“To work,” Florence said. “I’m late.” “Don’t you know what’s happened?”
“Certainly I know. That’s why it’s very important I open up the office. People will have all sorts of messages. This is an emergency, Randy.”
“It sure is,” Randy said. “On the way to town you’ll see some convicts. They’re armed. Don’t stop.”
Florence said, “I’ll be careful.” Alice smiled and waved. They drove on.
On Friday night, Florence and Alice had split a bottle of sherry, an unaccustomed dissipation, and stayed up long past midnight, exchanging confidences, opinions, and gossip. As a result, Florence had neglected to set her alarm, and they had overslept. The explosions far to the south had shaken them awake, but it was not until some time later, when they had seen the glow in the sky, that Alice had thought to turn on the radio, and they first realized what was happening.
Immediately, Florence wanted to start for the office. Having no close relatives, and approaching an age beyond which she could not reasonably hope for a proposal of marriage, and when even speculative second looks from rakish or lonely widowers had grown rare, her whole life centered in the office. Western Union didn’t expect her to open the wire until eight, but she was usually a bit early. Afternoons, she dreaded the relentless downsweep of the hour hand, which at five guillotined her day. After five, nothing awaited her except lovebirds, tropical fish, and vicarious journeys back to more romantic centuries via historical novels. In the office she was part of a busy and exciting world, a necessary communicating link in affairs of great importance to others. On this day of crisis, she could be the most important person in Fort Repose.
Yet she allowed Alice to persuade her not to start at once. For such a wisp of a woman, Alice seemed remarkably brave and cool. Alice pointed out that Florence had better eat breakfast, because she’d need her strength and it might be many hours before she’d have an opportunity to eat again. And Alice had volunteered to go to town with her, although Florence had insisted it wasn’t necessary. “Who’s going to do any reading today?” she asked. “Why bother with the library?”
“Maybe a good many people will be reading,” Alice said, “once they find out that Civil Defense pamphlets are stocked in the library. Not that it’s likely to be much help to them now, but perhaps it’ll help some. Bubba Offenhaus claimed they were taking up too much space in his office. So I offered to store them.” “You were farsighted.”
“Do you think so? When two ships are on a collision course, and the men at the wheel inflexibly hold to that course, there is going to be a collision. You don’t have to be farsighted to see that.”
And Alice had suggested that it would be wise for them to use their time and resources to buy provisions while they were in town. “Canned goods would be best, I think,” she said, “because if the lights go out, refrigeration goes too.”
“Why should the lights go out?” Florence asked. “Because Fort Repose’s power comes from Orlando.” Florence didn’t quite understand this reasoning.
Nevertheless, she followed Alice’s advice, listing certain essentials they would need and filling pails and bathtub with water before they left.
Florence and Alice passed the dead woman and pillaged wreck on the way to town. It frightened them. But, when far ahead Florence saw the procession of convicts, and two of them, one armed, stepped into the middle of the road to wave her down, she stamped on the accelerator. The car quivered at a speed she never in her life had dared before. At the last second the two men jumped to safety and the others shook their fists, their mouths working but their curses unheard. Florence didn’t slow until she reached Marines Park. She dropped Alice at the library. She parked behind Western Union, which occupied a twenty-foot frontage in a one-story block of stores on Yulee Street. Her fingers were trembling and her legs felt numb. It was several seconds before her heart stopped jumping, and she found sufficient courage to enter her office. Fourteen or fifteen men and women, some of them strangers, swarmed in behind her. “Just a minute! Just a minute!” Florence said, and barricaded herself behind the protection of the counter.
This was the first morning in years that she had been late, and so, on this of all mornings, waiting at the door would be more customers than she might customarily expect in a whole day. In addition, on Saturdays, Gaylord, her Negro messenger boy, was off His bicycle stood in the back of the office. “Now you will all have to wait,” she said, “while I open the circuit.”
Fort Repose was one of a dozen small towns on a local circuit originating in Jacksonville and terminating in Tampa. Florence switched on her teleprinter and announced: “THIS IS FR RETURNING TO SERVICE.”
Instantly the machine chattered back at her from JX, which was Jacksonville: “YOU ARE LIMITED TO ACCEPTING AND TRANSMTTTING OFFICIAL DEFENSE EMERGENCY MESSAGES ONLY UNTIL FUR THER NOTICE. NO MESSAGES ACCEPTED FOR POINTS NORTH OF JACKSONVILLE.”
Florence acknowledged and inquired of Jacksonville: “ANY INCOMERS?”
JX Said Curtly: “NO. FYI TAMPA IS OUT. JX EVACUATION ORDERED BUT WE STICKING UNTIL CIVIL DEFENSE FOLDS UP HERE.”
Florence turned to her customers behind the counter, started to speak, and was battered by demands: “I was expecting a money order from Chattanooga this morning. Where is it? . . . I want you to get this off for New York right away. . . . Can I send a cable from here? My husband is in London and thinks I’m in Miami and I’m not in Miami at all. What is the name of this place? . . . This is a very important message. I tried to phone my broker but all the lines are tied up. It’s a sell order and I want you to get it right out. I’ll make it worth your while. . . . I can’t even telephone Mount Dora. Can I send a telegram to Mount Dora from here? . . . If I wire Chicago for money, how soon do you think before I’ll get an answer? . . .”
Florence raised her hands. “Please be quiet—That’s better. I’m sorry, but I can’t take anything except official defense emergency messages. Anyway, nothing is going through north of Jacksonville.”
She watched the transformation in their faces. They had been grim, determined, irritated. Suddenly, they were only frightened. The woman whose husband was in London murmured, “Nothing north of Jacksonville? Why, that’s awful. Do you think . . .”
“I’ve just told you all I know,” Florence said. “I’m sorry. I can’t take any messages. And nothing has come in, nothing for anybody.” She pitied them. “Come back in a few hours. Maybe things will be better.”
At a quarter to nine Edgar Quisenberry, the president of the bank, stepped into the Western Union office. His face was pink and shaven, he was dressed in a new blue suit, white handkerchief peeping from the breast pocket, and he wore, a correct dark blue tie. His manner was brisk, confident, and businesslike, which was the way a banker should behave in time of crisis. In his hand he carried a telegram, already typed up at the bank. “Good morning, Miss Wechek,” he said, and smiled.
Florence was surprised. The bank was her best customer, and yet she rarely saw Edgar Quisenberry, in person, and she never before had seen him smile. “Good morning, Mr. Quisenberry,” she said.
“Really can’t say there’s anything good about it,” Edgar said. “Reminds me of Pearl Harbor Day. That bunch in Washington have been caught napping again. I’d like you to send this message for me-” he slid it across the counter-”the telephone seems to be out of order, temporarily, or I would have called.”
She picked up the telegram. It was addressed to the Atlanta branch of the Federal Reserve Bank, and it read: “URGENTLY NEED DIRECTIVE ON HOW TO HANDLE CURRENT SITUATION.” Florence said, “I’ve just received orders
