Peter knew nothing about traversing a dystopian landscape other than what he’d watched on The Walking Dead or imagined on his own when he was a teen. One of the things that concerned him the most was crossing a bridge, especially if it was over water. This had always been the case for Peter, as he routinely drove up and down U.S. 1 in the Florida Keys. The Seven Mile Bridge, not far from Driftwood Key, was an example he often gave when expressing his safety concerns.
Bridges leave no place to bail out to, he’d explained. If you suddenly approach an accident on most roads, you could drive off into a ditch and run into the woods or a field to avoid trouble. What do you do on a bridge? Jump in the water fifty or sixty feet to your possible death?
All of these things were going through his head as he rode up to the Belmont Road bridge over Lake Anna. There were several men walking south toward the other side on the two-lane county road. As was typical for back roads, there was no shoulder, and the concrete barriers seemed to squeeze any traffic toward the middle.
The wind was blowing that morning from the north, causing temperatures to drop lower than the day before. The men were hunched over with camouflage hunting jackets wrapped around them. From that distance, Peter couldn’t make out any weapons, but as a precaution, he retrieved his pistol and gripped it with his right hand as he approached them.
Peter hoped the windy conditions would mask the near-quiet sound of his pedaling. His bike made very little noise as it rolled along the concrete pavement. Unlike many bicycles that produced a slight clicking sound when the rider coasted, this Schwinn model did not.
As he got closer, he saw that one of the men was carrying a rifle in his right hand. Then suddenly one of the men turned toward Peter just as he approached the trio. He, too, had a rifle and was beginning to raise it in Peter’s direction.
Peter drew faster. “Don’t move! I mean it! Do not raise that rifle!”
His demands caused the other men to turn. One of the men raised his rifle toward Peter anyway. He had no choice.
As he continued to speed up on them, Peter opened fire. His first shot struck the man who threatened him directly in the chest. The second missed badly. However, the man spun like a top and fell to the pavement in a heap.
Peter kept pedaling, charging toward them as if he were on a horse. The second man hastily raised his rifle and began firing as he did. The AR-15 sent bullets skipping along the concrete just past Peter’s bicycle.
Peter fired back three times. The first two missed, but the third struck the man in the right arm, causing him to lose his grip on the rifle. He screamed in pain as he dropped to his knees and used his left arm to halt the blood from gushing out of the brachial artery in his upper arm.
The third man, an older teen, actually reached down to pick up the first man’s hunting rifle. Peter was on top of them at that point. He skidded to a stop and quickly dismounted from the bike. He walked toward the teen with the gun pointed at his head.
“Don’t do it!” Peter growled.
The boy’s eyes were wide with fear. He hesitated, and then he continued to reach for the rifle.
“Don’t, dammit! I will kill you!” Peter’s voice was menacing and convincing. The teen raised his hands sheepishly and backed away from the dead man.
Meanwhile, the wounded shooter reached toward his AR-15. This caught Peter off guard, and he spontaneously reacted by shooting the man in his left arm. The man rolled over and over away from Peter, writhing in pain and crying out, imploring Peter to stop.
Peter swung around to determine if anyone else was coming toward him after the gunfire filled the otherwise quiet morning. There was no one, so he turned back toward the group. He waved his gun toward the young man, who’d apparently peed his pants. He was leaning against the guardrail, nervously looking back over his shoulder as if he was contemplating jumping.
“Don’t jump, kid. I’m not gonna shoot you,” said Peter before explaining his intentions. “None of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t raised his gun toward me.” He nodded toward the dead man.
“People on bikes shot his sister two days ago. She died last night.” The teenager began to cry.
“I’m sorry about that. He shouldn’t have—”
“Arrrggghhh! Help me!” The wounded man was bleeding profusely.
Peter turned around to check his back and then looked forward down the road. There were a few small houses around, but there were no signs of movement despite the exchange of gunfire. He was about to order the teenager to help his friend when he heard a splash. Peter swung around, and the boy was gone. He’d jumped over the rail into the icy water of Lake Anna.
“Shit!” he exclaimed. He set his jaw and shook his head in disbelief. He turned to the wounded man and shouted his questions. “Do you have any more weapons?”
“No. No. He’s got a Glock in his coat pocket. I don’t have anything, I swear.”
Peter moved slowly toward the dead man with a watchful eye and the barrel of his pistol on the wounded man. He felt around in the man’s coat pockets and retrieved the Glock nine-millimeter pistol together with a box of ammunition. He set them next to his bike, and then he turned his attention to the other weapons. He gathered up the two rifles and brought them back to his bicycle as well.
“Do you have ammo?” he asked the bleeding man.
His left arm was less wounded than his right. He winced as he patted the side of his jacket and began to pull the ammunition out.
“Slowly!” shouted Peter. He carefully
