This puzzled Peter. If the National Guard was traveling this way, he figured the unrest must’ve been worse than Tampa-St. Pete. It didn’t make sense.
He shook off the thought and began the final trek toward the Keys, full of anticipation.
Chapter Forty
Monday, November 4
Homestead, Florida
It was pitch dark as Peter approached Homestead. He elected to take a residential side street to avoid walking through the heart of town. It was well known that Homestead had its issues with drugs and homelessness, problems certainly exacerbated by the power outage. The detour added about thirty minutes to his walk toward the Keys, but it was uneventful, something he needed at this point in the long journey south.
He was about thirty miles from the Blackwater Siren, a well-known bar and grill at the entrance to the Upper Keys. He’d stopped there many times to pick up fish tacos to munch on in the car when he traveled between his home and college.
Despite the late hour, he could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. The long day coupled with little sleep had taken its toll. However, his adrenaline-fueled body began to visualize sleeping in his old bedroom at the main house.
As he walked the deserted streets to come closer to U.S. 1, he began to hear the low rumble of trucks approaching from the north. His mind immediately recalled the large convoy of vehicles headed down the interstate near Tampa. He and Rafael had speculated whether they were headed to Homestead Air Reserve Base or Miami. As it turned out, they were both wrong.
Peter walked along the center median of Palm Drive when he noticed a glowing light in the distance. The dark surroundings made it stand out even more. That, coupled with the low ceiling of clouds and haze, caused the reflection to emanate for miles away from its source.
He reached U.S. 1 and stopped in the middle of the road amidst a trio of crashed cars. Two teenage boys were sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck, passing a cigarette back and forth. With his hand on the grip of his pistol, he cautiously approached them.
“How’s it goin’?” Peter asked casually.
“Not bad. You?” The young man was equally nonchalant.
Peter reached the side of the truck and stopped just short of exposing himself completely to the boys. He was able to see over the truck bed and felt satisfied that they were unarmed.
“I’ve been on the road trying to get home. I haven’t seen much in the way of lights anywhere. Are they racing tonight?” Peter knew Palm Drive ran past the Homestead-Miami Speedway, where NASCAR races were held.
The guys laughed, which served to relax both parties. Peter let go of his weapon and eased around the side of the truck.
“We were gonna check it out, but the military has a roadblock set up about a mile from here. They’ve got all the roads blocked, actually.”
“To the racetrack?” asked Peter.
So far, only one of the boys had engaged in conversation with Peter. “Yeah. There have been military trucks passing through town all afternoon. They’ve been coming from Miami, mostly.”
“Why here?” asked Peter.
The other boy laughed. “Ain’t you heard? On account of the Keys.”
Peter stood a little taller as fear overcame him. He couldn’t imagine why another country would want to drop a nuclear warhead on the Florida Keys. His first thought was a wayward missile fell off course or maybe was shot down, resulting in radioactive fallout.
“Did they get hit with a nuke?”
“Nah, man,” said the first boy. “They’ve lost their dang minds.”
Peter sighed. He was tired of talking in riddles.
“What exactly happened, and why would the government send the National Guard down here?”
The talkative teen took one last drag off the cigarette and flicked the butt end over end until it rolled under one of the other wrecked vehicles. He slid off the tailgate and rolled his neck around his shoulders.
“After the bombs hit, they started kicking people out. You know. Tourists. Bums. Anybody who didn’t actually live down there.”
“Yeah, and the poor bastards all came here,” said the other teen.
“Okay,” said Peter, drawing out the word, as he was still unsure what that had to do with the National Guard presence. If anything, in his mind, it would be prudent to move anyone out who didn’t belong there. His father had done the same thing at the inn for the guests’ own good.
The boy continued. “Well, I guess that was only half of what they did. When it started getting colder everywhere, people started looking to head south. They figured the Keys was their best bet.”
“Or Mexico,” said the other boy before adding, “But we heard they locked down their borders, too.”
“What do you mean by too?” asked Peter.
“That’s what Monroe County did,” said the talkative teen. “They threw as many people out as they could, and then they blocked access to the Keys. They piled about a hundred of them concrete barriers like these ones in the middle of the toll bridge.” He pointed at the concrete road construction barriers that lined the median on the east side of the intersection.
“They even have armed deputies manning the bridge,” said the other teen.
“They ain’t real, though. Hell, down there, if you own a gun, you can be a deputy.”
Peter scowled and slowly walked toward the barriers and then stared down the boulevard toward the speedway. There must be more to the story.
“What about U.S. 1? Is it barricaded, too?”
“They blocked it off with dump trucks just this side of Jewfish Creek. Anybody approaching by car is turned around unless you’re a resident. Same if you’re on foot. You have to show proof of residency to get in.”
“Are you guys serious?”
“As a heart attack. You live down there?”
“Yeah, sort of. I live, um, lived near DC now. My family lives near Marathon.”
“You got photo ID?”
“Yeah, but it’s …” Peter’s voice trailed off before he added the
