Tracers Work Both Ways

By E. Nelson Stiles

Kurt Weinstock has it all. Hes had a secure job at the East Florida Shipyard for the past twenty-six years. His wife makes a good living as a real estate agent. His sons are headed off to college, and the mortgage is finally paid off . Its the perfect time for Kurt to think about retiring and relaxing in some Florida beach bungalow. But then, something happens and the world as Kurt knew it is gone.

A destructive cosmic event occurs, leaving few survivors in north Florida and possibly world-wide. Kurt has to follow his instincts to survive in this new primitive world, and somehow, his instincts make him into a mythic hero. People call him Captain Kurt, and they come from miles around, begging for his support and knowledge. What was once the life of an average Joe is now something quite different.

Its not only the helpless that have come to Kurt for help, though. Along with dodging angry Floridian beasts, he now hides from incoming factions of survivors who do not believe in peace. Instead, they hope to exert their dominance over whats left of humanity, with Captain Kurts help. Now, Kurt has much more to worry about than angry animals; apparently, humanity is no better than the beasts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462048632

E. Nelson Stiles

E. Nelson Stiles is the CEO and Senior Captain of Glass Bottom Boat Tours Inc., http://glass-bottom-boat.com a nonprofit charity organization that provides free glass-bottom boat rides and free lunches to anyone, primarily the underprivileged. All proceeds from Tracers Work Both Ways go toward funding for Glass Bottom Boat Tours Inc.

Book preview

Chapter 1

S o you’re really quitting? Kurt Weinstock asked without looking up from his desk. The 5:00 p.m. whistle had just blown at East Florida Shipyard, and men were filing past the trailer window, clocking out.

Hell yes, I am! The young foreman was clearly agitated. What would you do?

Kurt didn’t need to think about what he would do. I would clock out, enjoy the weekend—since we don’t get many weekends around here—and come back fresh on Monday.

I’m not taking that shit! I had three of my six guys lay out today, so when I couldn’t make production I get an ass-chewin’ from Pratz. Bullshit! Like it’s my fault.

Was anyone with Pratz? Kurt asked.

Yeah, the vessel owner.

Okay, Kurt replied. So consider the context.

I don’t have to take that! You know damn well I work my ass off on this yard!

Kurt looked up from his time sheets. The young foreman’s face was red, veins bulging. Kurt listened to the men outside his trailer office window joking and laughing in the clock-out line. He eyed the prison tattoos on the young man’s forearms. It was a Friday payday with weekend yard activity suspended due to lack of work.

We’ve laid off a lot of men so far this year. Work is drying up. It won’t be easy to find another shipyard job. Look, man—Kurt stared into the foreman’s eyes—I’m not your daddy, and you’re acting like a kid. You were in Iraq, right?

Twice, the man said as he looked at the floor and shuffled his feet.

Well, you can look at it this way: that guy is using tracers. He can see where he’s going with what he’s trying to do. You just need to see where he’s coming from. Quit, or don’t. Just hit the clock. It’s your call. Carry your ass. Kurt stated this matter-of-factly, as he did with everything he said. The young foreman exited the trailer office. Kurt was surprised that he didn’t slam the much-slammed door.

Kurt’s UHF radio squawked. Kurt!

Come on.

Did pussy-boy quit or did ya run ‘im off?

Kurt could hear laughter in the background. Don’t know. Guess we’ll find out Monday.

That’s a baby right there. Bet a pitcher he drags up, c’mon.

Roger, shutting it down. Kurt switched the radio off and dropped it in the charger. Then he spun around to his computer and began entering time and costs into a spreadsheet.

He was done in an hour and was locking up his trailer when Pratz showed up.

That boy draggin’ up?

We’ll see if he clocks in Monday.

Got a replacement in mind?

Figured we chalk it up to attrition, Kurt said. One less man to lay off.

Like the way you do business, Kurt. Go for a cold one?

Not tonight, man. Maybe see you on the river tomorrow?

Maybe. If not, then the tailgate on Sunday for sure. I’m almost finished with that Neil Strauss book that you loaned me. Interesting stuff.

I don’t know. I just feel like some suburban survival tips could be useful.

I just hope we never have to use them.

Kurt and Pratz had worked for East Florida Shipyard for twenty-six years—unheard of in the nonunion world. Now after the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, even with oil over one hundred dollars per barrel, he could see the shipyard’s end. They had already laid off more than fifty percent of their workers over the past twelve months. Hope we get a few more years of work before it all folds up, Kurt thought.

Kurt climbed into his ’78 diesel F250 dually, cranked the engine, and listened to Tammy Wynette as he waited for the engine to warm up. He liked this truck because he could get free fuel most of the time from the yard, and he didn’t have to worry about paint overspray damaging the finish. Not to mention it pulled his boat really well.

He rolled past the stadium, location of Sunday’s football game, and headed toward the John T. Alsop Jr. Bridge. It was a cool November evening in Jacksonville, and the moon’s reflection was dancing happily in the St. Johns River. Christmas decorations already starting to go up. He veered onto 95 South and merged onto 295 West, crossing the St. Johns again on the Buckman Bridge.

At the end of the bridge, Kurt’s cell phone rang.

Hello.

Hey, honey! Are you leaving the yard soon? It was his wife, Linda.

I’m passing the naval air station right now.

Great! About time you get out of there at a reasonable hour.

Should be there in about thirty minutes.

Remember, I have Bunco after the game at Debbie’s house.

Cool. Love ya.

Love ya, bye.

What would we do without cell phones?

Bunco: some game with dice that the woman network played each month.

Kurt’s sons, Brad and Steve, were both on the varsity football team at Jacksonville Southern High School. Tonight they would start together. Brad, seventeen years old, was playing as left guard. Steve, sixteen, was defensive end. They were great guys and did well in school. Did well with the girls. They were everything Kurt had never been, and he was deeply proud of them. He was headed to the game now.

Kurt motored around the high school ball field parking area in search of an empty space, finally finding one a few hundred yards from the gate. He remembered to remove his hard hat and rummaged around the crew cab for a ball cap to cover his bald head. A Jaguars hat. He thought he had a Jacksonville Southern Knights hat in the truck, but there was no time to look; the game was already well into the first quarter. As he started walking toward the field, he wished he had thought about a jacket or sweatshirt. So much for being prepared.

He made his way to the field and found Linda and the in-laws in the usual spot. Hey, Sweetie, he said, kissing Linda on the cheek. Hey, Bob; hey, Fran, he said to the in-laws. They smiled in return. Just then Steve took down a running back in a classic open-field tackle. As the home team crowd went wild, Linda had her hands on her cheeks, hoping Steve wasn’t hurt. She jumped up and cheered when Steve sprang to his feet and nimbly jogged back for another play. Kurt wondered how many other players’ mothers were in the three-thousand-plus crowd.

The Knights won the game forty-eight to three, and the boys racked up some great stats. The families went to the sideline at the final gun to meet their sons. To say the players were jubilant would be an understatement. Kurt’s boys hugged him and almost brought him to the ground with their enthusiastic embraces.

We having supper? he had to scream over the band music.

Gotta go to the dance after we shower! There’s a barbecue buffet there! Brad screamed back.

Wanna go on the river in the morning? Kurt asked.

We’re doing paintball in Ocala! Steve yelled in his dad’s ear.

Ocala is a little far for paintball, isn’t it? It was at least a ninety-minute drive.

It’s a Dwayne’s World tournament, Dad! The big time! We’re camping overnight at the paintball field, but we’ll hook up at the tailgate Sunday morning!

I’m proud of you guys! He was grinning so hard it hurt his face.

We love you, Dad! his sons shouted.

Linda reined the boys in and gave them their safety briefing followed by kisses, hugs, and tears. Then a brief encounter with the grandparents with more of the same. Brad and Steve took off for the gym at an easy lope with a dozen fellow students scrambling to catch up.

Then something unthinkable happened.

Pistol shots: one, two… and then three, four, five in rapid succession. The shots were being fired in the parking area, the muzzle flashes clearly visible. I should have gotten that concealed carry permit last year, Kurt thought as he grabbed his wife and in-laws, trying to bring them to the ground quickly and gently. At the same time, Kurt strained to see where his boys had gone. Hopefully they sprinted into the gym.

Within seconds there were loud sirens from at least three police cars posted at the game. Calm radio chatter was clearly audible, and piercing blue and red strobe lights were everywhere. The crowd was motionless. Is everybody okay? Kurt asked his family. Heads nodded. They were clearly afraid. Kurt wasn’t afraid. He tried to remember if he had ever been afraid in his life. No? That doesn’t seem normal.

After a few minutes, the game’s announcer instructed the crowd to begin leaving in an orderly manner. The shots were from some drunken kids whom the police had in custody. Another squad car was arriving every thirty seconds. Let’s go find the boys, Linda instructed. The crowd was reluctantly returning to their feet as Kurt, Linda, and the in-laws jogged toward the gym.

Inside the gymnasium, on the basketball court, stood the half-dressed Jacksonville Southern High School Knights football team. Brad and Steve Weinstock were near the doors. Coach said y’all would be here any minute. What’s going on? Brad asked. Linda and the grandparents hugged the boys as they looked curiously at Kurt. At six foot two, the boys both towered over their family.

Just some drunk kids in the parking lot. They let off a few shots. Cops got ’em, said Kurt.

Linda was in tears. I’m so glad you are all right.

Cool. We didn’t hear anything but the police sirens. Coach lined us up in here and took a head count. Brad was excited.

The man sure is cool under pressure. He has a plan for everything, said Steve matter-of-factly, just like his father.

Yeah, he’s sharp, Brad agreed.

Kurt looked around for the coach. He was near the door with a team roster on a clipboard. He was placing a check mark by the players’ names as their parents entered the gym. In a drill sergeant’s voice he announced, As soon as your parents are done with you, shower up and be on your way. Hope to see you at the tailgate on Sunday. Safety first!

Go Knights! the team responded in loud, crisp unison. Very impressive. Like they are men in an elite unit.

Kurt approached the coach, extending his hand in greeting. Kurt Weinstock. Brad and Steve said you handled this situation well. The coach gripped Kurt’s hand firmly. He made direct ocean-blue eye contact with Kurt and flashed a bright smile. No bullshit here.

I’ll bet Steve said that and Brad agreed. Dave Barnett. Glad to meet you, Mr. Weinstock. Stay ready so you don’t waste time getting ready. That’s all there is to it.

That’s good advice. You know my boys better than I do.

I see them as young men in need of guidance and discipline. You see them as your little boys. It’s natural and good. A glance toward the doors and two more check marks. I’m glad to be part of the process. I just retired from the Corps in January, so I apologize for being so direct. I’m working on it.

You just started and you are already the football team coach? Were you a ball player in school? Kurt was surprised.

I was a pot-smoking, video-gaming skateboard rat in high school. No dad. After I put in for retirement from the Corps I got a teaching certification. I’m going to school at night. Should have my degree in two years. He handed Kurt his business card. Another door glance, another check mark. For me, coaching high school football is fundamentally the same as being a platoon sergeant in the field. Kinda comes natural anymore.

We sure do appreciate you, Dave. Guess we’ll see you at the tailgate Sunday. Note to self: talk with the boys about this character.

Kurt moved to where his family was standing to find his wife hugging a skinny black kid wearing number thirty-two.

He’s our running back, Dad. His mom doesn’t come to games. We call him Scooter, Steve said. Scooter was visibly concerned about the gunfire. His eyes darted around like an alert deer’s: wide and focusing on movement. If y’all are okay we need to get going…

Sure you guys are okay? We don’t just want to leave.

No sweat, Mom. We’re good if you are. We’ll be home by one, Steve said. Pretty slick.

Twelve, Linda sternly replied, looking up to Kurt for support.

Kurt shrugged with a what-can-I-do expression. The boys grinned and waved, heading toward the locker room. Scooter stood there, awkward and nervous, stealing glances of Kurt. I’m Kurt. Want to go fishing in the morning? He said this while shaking Scooter’s hand and patting him on the shoulder pad with his left.

Yeah, was Scooter’s reply.

Be at the Twelfth Avenue boat ramp at six sharp. Bring a jacket. It might get chilly.

Thanks, Mr. Kurt! See you there! Normal alertness returned to Scooter’s eyes and he produced an award-winning smile. He took off for the locker room, looking back at Kurt twice before going inside.

What’s that about? Linda smiled admiringly at Kurt as the group left the gym and walked through the parking area.

Just wanted some company on the river.

"I have a closing in the morning―cha-ching. A young navy officer taking advantage of the first-time buyer’s tax deduction. We should have the afternoon to ourselves then," Linda said confidently.

Fran and Linda exchanged kisses and farewells with their husbands and rode away in Linda’s Lexus.

With the girls going to Bunco, do you want to do something, Bob? Kurt asked.

I want to, but we have a VFW meeting. Setting up for the holiday drives. The good thing is all the new members over the past few years. They have great new ideas, and I think we will make more of a difference than ever.

How’s the old heap running? Steve was referring to Bob’s 1970 Plymouth Fury III.

I keep it running fine. Gives me something to do. It will still pass anything but a gas pump. Bob laughed as he slid into the old cop car. Kurt helped Bob rebuild the 440 Magnum cylinder heads last year. He had the shipyard pipe shop fabricate a custom dual straight-pipe exhaust to bolt to the Hooker headers. The rumbling noise was inspiring as Bob cranked up the ancient big-block engine. Bob smiled and waved to Kurt as he guided the Plymouth, merging with the departing vehicle line.

Kurt made his way past the police cars, their extremely irritating red and blue strobe lights hammering his eyes. He noticed an ambulance inside the yellow-taped police line. The ambulance’s emergency lights were off. He saw two EMTs loading a gurney into the vehicle. On the gurney was a covered corpse. Guess it was worse than they said. Good thing they kept it quiet.

As Kurt approached his truck, he saw that one end of the yellow police line ribbon was tied to his trailer hitch. He looked in the truck bed to find something to stick in the ground so he could remove the tape from his hitch but leave their line where it was. He always had scrap metal bouncing around back there. He found a two-foot-long piece of one-inch angle iron, shoved it into the sandy ground near his hitch, and began to move the tape.

Hold it! Don’t mess with that tape. A uniformed Duval County sheriff’s deputy was walking toward him at a relaxed pace.

I was just getting it off my trailer hitch so I could leave.

Yes, sir. I put it on your hitch so I could talk to you. One of the shots went through your tailgate and into your toolbox. If you could unlock your toolbox we can recover the bullet and give you a report for your insurance. Then you can leave.

No problem. Kurt took his keys off his belt and unlocked the aluminum toolbox that was bolted to his truck’s bed.

The officer hopped into the truck bed and shined his flashlight into the box. Using a yard-long wooden rod, he poked around a bit. He then hopped down and took a digital photo of the tailgate and license plate and snapped another one of the hole in the toolbox. He vaulted into the truck bed again and took a shot of the toolbox interior. Then he reached into the box, retrieved the bullet, and dropped it into a clear plastic bottle. Doesn’t look like it hurt anything inside. Come with me, sir, he said to Kurt.

Kurt followed the officer to a police car. The officer pointed. Sit in front, sir. Kurt had never been inside a police car before and was quite impressed with all the equipment it contained. The camera was plugged into the on-board computer. As the officer clicked around with the touch-pad, he said, Driver’s license please. Kurt handed over the card, which was inserted into a slot in the computer. He saw his face on the screen and watched as a database search was initiated. A printer that was built into the dash in front of Kurt sent out a paper. Give me that, please. Kurt handed the paper to the officer, who signed it and gave it back. That’s for your insurance claim, sir. Sign the signature pad on the dash there, please. Kurt electronically signed his name. Here’s your license. Let’s go. The whole process took less than ten minutes.

So somebody was hurt? Kurt asked as they walked toward his truck. Kurt then made very uncomfortable eye contact with a large young man in the backseat of a squad car. He figured the guy was handcuffed by the way he was sitting. The scraggly dark-bearded face contrasted his long pony-tailed blond hair and bright white smile. The smile was focused directly on Kurt.

Somebody got killed, and somebody else got hurt and fled. Small-time drug deal. It will be in the paper and on tonight’s news. We kept it quiet for crowd control reasons.

Good thinking.

It’s what we do, the officer said as he pushed the wooden rod into the ground and looped the police line tape over it. He pulled the angle iron out of the ground and tossed it into Kurt’s truck bed. That would cut a tire, sure. Have a good night, sir, the officer said without looking at Kurt while walking back to his car.

Hey honey! I’m fifty years old and finally saw the inside of a police car! Maybe not a good idea.

When Kurt arrived home he backed his truck in to connect the boat trailer. One less thing to do in the morning. He connected the wires and tested the trailer lights. Good. Then he made sandwiches, put some potato salad in Tupperware, and separated some orange sodas to take on the boat in the morning. He ordered a pizza, cracked a beer, and turned on the TV to a local channel in order to see if the school shooting incident had made the news yet.

Some crappy sitcom was playing so he grabbed his fishing knives and a whetstone. The pizza arrived. Kurt set up in his living room on the coffee table. Alone on a Friday night. Eating pizza, drinking beer, sharpening my knife, and waiting for tragedy on the news. God Bless America!

Chapter 2

Kurt was awake before his cell-phone alarm clock was scheduled to play a rooster crow at 5:00. Linda was sound asleep beside him. He could see that her alarm was set to 5:30 so he got up to get the newspaper. He started the coffee and looked for the shooting incident in the paper, since there was nothing about it on the news last night. He found it on page six.

J. S. Knights Homecoming Interrupted by Gunfire

Football fans and team family members were stunned last night when shots rang out in the open field that is used as a parking area adjacent to the Jacksonville Southern High School. The shots were fired minutes after the game. One person was killed, and one was wounded but fled the scene. No students were involved in the incident according to Sheriff Department spokesperson Matt Barthel. The slain victim’s name is being withheld pending positive identification. Two men are in custody in connection to the shooting, which Barthel indicated was over a drug deal. Their names will be released pending further investigation.

JSHS superintendent Ron Stevens says that nothing like this has happened in the school’s history and that three police units patrol the school grounds during every sports event that is open to the public. School board supervisor Lisa Hudnell assured interviewers that a full school safety policy review will be conducted after the Sheriff Department investigation is complete.

Kurt was checking the weather when Linda entered the kitchen.

Good morning. Linda kissed Kurt’s cheek.

You’re up early. I didn’t hear you come in last night, Kurt said.

I got home around midnight. Brad’s truck was already here.

We’re lucky to have good sons.

Want some breakfast?

I’ll get something at the bait shop on the way, Kurt said as he filled a thermos with coffee. When do you think you’ll be home?

Probably around two or three. We have the house to ourselves tonight, she said in a playful tone.

Yes, Ma’am, Kurt replied as they embraced.

Kurt started his truck and pulled the cover off his twenty-six-foot Sea Ray. He checked the tie-down straps and tires before pulling out onto the street. The temperature was in the midfifties and heavy dew was everywhere, making the road surface damp. He rolled into the bait shop parking lot in the darkness and left his truck engine idling as he went inside.

Morning. Getting an early start, announced the shop attendant.

Want to catch the sunrise. Two dozen shiners and two egg and cheese biscuits, please. Kurt was looking at the pocketknives on display.

Sunrise is one hour and forty-five minutes away. Stripers and channel bass should jump in your boat this morning.

Let me get that yellow-handled pocketknife right there too, Kurt told the clerk.

Okay. That’ll be $48.50. Sure wish I was going with you.

Kurt handed over a fifty. There’s always next weekend.

That’s what they say. Have a good one.

Kurt poured the shiners into the boat’s live well and turned on the aerator. He then drove to the boat ramp to wait for Scooter. Kurt parked at the ramp, poured some coffee, and started on a biscuit. Waylon Jennings was crooning on the radio.

Suddenly there was a sharp rapping on the passenger side door. The interior dome light was on, and Kurt couldn’t see out into the darkness. Hey, Mr. Kurt! It’s me, Scooter!

Hop in. You gave me a start. I didn’t expect you so early.

I didn’t expect you at all, Scooter said.

How did you get here? There were no vehicles at the ramp.

I rode my bike, Scooter said, springing into the cab.

Where is it? Here’s a biscuit.

I hid it in the weeds. We gonna ride this big old boat?

That’s the idea. Maybe catch a fish or two as well.

I better not eat that then. You never know.

You get seasick?

Don’t know. Never been on a boat this big. I don’t swim too good neither.

I have some cool safety gear. Floatation devices. We’ll be fine. What do you say we get started?

They removed the boat’s tie-down straps, and Kurt backed the trailer to the water’s edge. Kurt got out of the truck and climbed into the boat. Okay, Scooter. Back her on in and stop when I honk the horn.

Drive your truck? Scooter’s eyes grew to the size of silver dollars.

Of course.

I ain’t never drove a big old dually before.

You’ve driven a car, right?

Couple times.

Same thing, just bigger. Once I’m floating just park the truck over there and lock it up. I’ll have the boat against that dock. Let’s go. This could become a mess.

Scooter backed the trailer into the water and stomped the brake when Kurt sounded his horn. The boat floated off nicely, and Kurt started the Volvo diesel engine. He watched Scooter park the truck and trailer rig as he nosed-up to the dock.

That was cool! Here’s your keys, Mr. Kurt. Scooter was smiling broadly.

Hop on. Put this belt and suspenders thing on. If you fall over the side, pull this string and the thing will inflate. People that fall over the side all have something in common. Scooter looked genuinely concerned. They all were either not sitting down or not holding on.

Scooter immediately sat in the copilot’s chair and grabbed the rail with both hands.

Hey, take it easy. We’re not getting crazy here. Enjoy, Kurt said as they headed down river, north toward the city, on the St. Johns.

The water was slick calm, and Kurt navigated through the darkness at low speed using a GPS chart plotter. No moon at all this time in the morning. In thirty minutes they were where Kurt wanted to anchor. They were in a cove on the west bank. Kurt tossed over the anchor and shut down the engine. The city glow was visible above the trees to their left with a quarter mile of river and the faint sunrise commencement directly ahead. Quiet and still, Kurt and Scooter observed the glorious November 11 sunrise.

The bathroom is down below in the cabin. Sandwiches and sodas are in that ice chest. Kurt said as he started breaking out the fishing gear.

Scooter went below to check it out. Dang, this is a yacht! You could live on this!

It gets pretty small after you live on it a few days. Go ahead, check things out. Kurt smiled as he rigged up a shiner.

Brad and Steve never told me you had a yacht. Scooter was exploring every compartment and instrument. He found the manual for the chart plotter and began reading it and testing functions on the touch screen. Cool. This has the whole world in it. There’s my trailer park.

If it could go on the Internet it would be the best gadget ever, Kurt said as he cast the shiner toward the lilies. After a few casts he hooked and reeled in a big black bass.

Nice fish, Scooter said.

Gotta throw him back. Wrong size.

Who’s gonna know?

We have game rules to promote breeding and prevent plunder. Get caught breaking the rules and it’s big trouble. Fish and wildlife officers could be watching us right now. There may very well be an officer on the dock when we get back.

For real?

Yep. You have a fishing license? Kurt said, releasing the fish.

No.

Any ID?

No.

Do you want to fish?

I don’t want to get in no trouble. Sure don’t want to get you in no trouble. Scooter looked serious.

Let’s just fish. As long as we don’t violate any game laws we’ll be okay.

They reeled in lots of fish as the morning wore on. Only a few were keepers. Traffic was picking up on the river and so was the temperature. The sky was clear, and in a few hours they were out of shiners. Let’s go for a boat ride, Kurt said. Want to pull up the anchor?

Scooter deftly scampered to the bow and hauled up the heavy hook. Kurt started the engine and eased the boat out into the river, heading north. After about twenty minutes Jacksonville was visible ahead.

That’s the city, Scooter stated.

Sure is.

I don’t like it. Can we go the other way?

Thought you might want to see it from the river. Sure is pretty.

They’s niggas in there. I don’t like it.

What?

Kurt reduced speed, wheeled the boat around and headed back upriver. Want to drive?

Yeah! Scooter took the helm and guided the boat at a safe speed while Kurt grabbed a sandwich and a soda.

Want anything?

Just a soda is good.

Kurt handed Scooter a soda and noted that the skinny five-foot-six-inch kid was very alert and smiling. He waved to everyone he saw.

So what’s your actual name? Kurt asked.

Darnell Johnson.

You like playing football?

It’s just what I’m good at—running away from big guys trying to get me. Been doing it all my life.

Coach is pretty cool?

Yeah. I was gonna leave school. Coach tried me out and said I could play if I stayed in school. This is my last year. School is hard. Coach is like some kind of weird preacher. He knows what he’s doin’, and all the guys trust him.

You said you live in a trailer park. Have a big family?

Just me and my mama. Sometimes my brother Darrien comes around. He’s a nigga. Takes drugs. Hangs out in the city.

What does your mother do?

She waits tables at Dixie Diner. She’s a ho sometimes too. That’s why I mostly stay in the woods.

What, like camping?

I just stay in the woods. I could stay there forever. Nobody else there most of the time. Worst things are gators and snakes, but they ain’t as bad as niggas.

What do you eat in the woods?

Just about everything. There’s only a few plants that you can’t eat. Birds, snakes, some bugs you can’t eat.

Wow, you eat bugs?

Scooter was amused. Some of them are pretty good.

What about mosquitoes?

They have their ways. Once you know their ways you can deal with them, Scooter said as he waved at another passing boat. The people on the other boat waved back.

River traffic was light, and a front was rolling in from the northwest. Kurt said, Slow down and head toward that marina. We’ll have lunch before we call it a day.

They tied the boat to the marina’s wooden dock and sat at a picnic table outside the restaurant under a tin awning. They ate hotdogs and fries. They could feel the temperature and barometric pressure dropping. As the clouds began to block out the sun, the boat traffic on the river disappeared. Heavy rain suddenly started. There was lightning and wind as well.

What do you do in the woods when it rains? Kurt asked.

When it rains like this you get wet. But I got a few hollow trees where I can hole up. Still get wet, but it’s the wind on you after you’re wet that’s bad.

Looks like we may get wet.

I think it’s gonna clear off. Scooter pointed toward the northwest. There was a clear break in the cloud line, and the sky beyond was a strange shade of blue.

Green?

The rain stopped as suddenly as it started. That’s a weird sky, remarked Kurt.

I don’t like it. We should go, Scooter insisted.

As they boarded the boat, the sun began shining on them again. The strange color of the sky tinted everything light green. What’s going on, Mr. Kurt? Scooter asked as Kurt started the boat’s engine.

Something’s not right. Untie us and we’ll get going. Kurt switched on the VHF radio and selected the weather forecast. Nothing. He switched to channel sixteen. Nothing. He checked the squelch to ensure that the radio speaker was working. Maybe the lightning damaged the antenna.

Looks like it got the GPS too, Scooter offered.

As they headed for the boat ramp, Kurt looked at the GPS. It was indicating that it was looking for satellites but didn’t see any. The sky was clear now so the satellites were not obstructed.

The GPS antenna must be out too. That sure is a weird sky, Kurt said as he looked upward. The sun had a circular rainbow around it. The green-tinted sky seemed to be darker around the sun and lighter toward the horizon. It would be pretty if it wasn’t so abnormal.

There was no wind at all, and the river returned to a slick calm state. Kurt could see that Scooter was worried. We’re two miles away from the dock. We’ll just take our time here. No hurry, Kurt said as he eased the throttle forward slightly.

Scooter went below into the cuddy cabin. The green hue was getting greener, and it seemed like fog but was more like all of the air was turning greener. His polarized sunglasses seemed to help. Then there was a flash—a long, sustained flash brighter than any welding arc. Instinctively, Kurt closed his eyes and moved the throttle to neutral. He buried his face in his arms and dropped to the deck to take cover. A nuclear weapon?

When the flash was over, Kurt braced himself for the blast wave. He was partially blinded but he could tell that it was temporary. Lucky there. Scooter came up from below. What was that? I was in the bathroom and everything lit up bright.

It may have been a nuclear weapon. It blinded me a little. We need to brace for the shock wave. Any second now. Don’t forget your flotation device if you get thrown into the water.

I ain’t waiting, Scooter said as he inflated his vest.

Good idea, said Kurt and inflated his own vest. There is an emergency kit under the console if you can find it.

Got it. Should we get into the cabin?

It may not matter.

You ain’t even scared?

No. Let’s just see what happens.

They waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. No blast. Kurt’s vision was returning. He checked his wrist watch: 11:10 a.m. Guess there will be no blast.

So what was it?

Don’t know, Scooter. Let’s see if we can get back to the truck.

The boat’s engine was stopped. Kurt switched the ignition off, then on again. Nothing. He lifted the engine cowling. Grab a screwdriver from the toolbox.

What kind? Scooter asked.

Any kind. I’m going to try to cross the starter solenoid with—oh, thanks.

Kurt put the screwdriver across the terminals of the engine starter solenoid switch, and the engine turned over but didn’t start.

What’re we gonna do? Scooter had fear in his voice.

We’ll just give it some fuel, Kurt said as he screwed in the fuel shutoff override valve. He crossed the solenoid again, and the engine started.

Take us to the dock, Scooter.

Aye, Captain! Scooter was smiling again.

Kurt moistened a towel with water from the ice chest and placed it on his face. His face felt like it was badly sunburned. He knew from being around welding most of his life that his retinas were burned and he was in for a few sleepless nights of pain. Is the air still green?

No, the green is gone. Feels weird though. Wow, look at all the fish! Scooter was practically jumping as he pointed.

Kurt saw that the water’s surface was covered with catfish and some eels. Pull it back to neutral.

Can we get them?

Let’s net a couple and check them out.

Scooter easily netted three eighteen-inch cats and tossed them onto the deck as Kurt put some drops in his eyes. The first-aid kit was ready. Kurt examined the fish as Scooter netted more. The catfish’s bellies were red but they were alive. He observed the fish on the water’s surface. They were alive. Their bellies were abnormally red, and they seemed to be disoriented. Scooter was netting catfish like a madman. That’s enough, buddy. No sense getting greedy.

They’re starting to swim away! Scooter stared, mouth agape, watching the fish and eels swim back to the river bottom. What made them do that?

Looks to me like they were stunned with electricity. Kurt had shocked for fish in his younger days, a highly illegal practice. He knew that to shock the entire river would require an enormous amount of power. There’s no limit on catfish. String up what you want to take home. I’ll take the rest. Kurt continued guiding the boat toward the dock as Scooter gutted the fish and ran a string through their gills.

When they arrived at the dock, Kurt checked his cell phone. Nothing. It’s been charging all morning here inside the truck. They put the boat on the trailer and tied it down. I’d like to see your camp sometime.

I don’t really have a camp. I just stay in an area that’s mostly swamp.

Your Mama should be happy with those fish.

Yeah. Scooter grinned. Thanks, Mr. Kurt! He pedaled his bicycle away, with twenty pounds of catfish dangling from the handlebars. This air is sure ’nuf strange!

Kurt noticed that the air was indeed strange. No wind. Like a Twilight Zone episode. Sound echoes and reverberation seemed muffled. He climbed into the truck cab and turned the FM radio knob. Nothing. He switched the band to AM. There was plenty of static but no stations. He switched on his CB radio. Nothing, yet the radio was clearly functional. He decided to stop at the bait shop to call Linda.

Chapter 3

Kevin Martin was in Norfolk, Virginia, and a member of the US Navy. He was a frogman, one commonly referred to as a SEAL. He had completed two missions in Afghanistan and three in Iraq. For his final successful mission in Iraq, he and two other team members were preparing to stand trial by court martial for handling a terrorist leader too roughly.

The three commandos snatched the cell leader in the middle of the night and brought him to an extraction point. The mission was covert and dangerous, exactly what the operatives lived for. When the terrorist murderer was questioned, he complained that he had been punched and kicked by US personnel.

Of course, under the new US regime this claim could not stand without a full inquiry. The three men were relieved from duty pending investigation and offered nonjudicial punishment, or captain’s mast. This they refused, and they proceeded to irritate their command by demanding trial by court martial.

Petty Officers Martin, Sloan, and Mellish were sent to Norfolk to await their fate.

That Hajji prick just took out three of us simply by sniveling, Mellish commented as they reported to the swimming pool. If we would have kicked his ass he wouldn’t have been able to talk for a month.

Yeah, well, stop talking about it before somebody hears and our case gets screwed up, Sloan chided. What’s your plan, Martin?

I’m done caring about it. I just want to go home to Florida. FTN.

A group of men were standing near the dive platform at the end of the pool: three civilians and a command master chief who said, Come on over, gents. We have some new gear for you to test.

The three approached and were briefed by a bearded civilian twidget type about a little rebreather SCUBA unit that was the size of a thermos bottle. Supposedly it provided three hours of air with no exhaust bubbles. The command master chief wanted to test the new units so into the pool the men went.

Swim across the bottom of the pool until you run out of air. We’ll time you, the chief said.

They submerged and began their laps. Petty Officer Martin decided to waste as much air as he could in order to sabotage the test. He signaled to the others to do the same.

Martin checked his watch regularly and, after an hour, some sort of long, sustained flash occurred. He covered his eyes and timed the flash. He noted that it lasted for twenty-eight seconds. When the flash ended, he and the other men surfaced to find the civilian men dead and the command master chief blinded.

The men rushed to the chief. What was that flash? Mellish asked.

EMP weapon. No blast. We can expect an air attack followed by a land invasion next. Somebody get me back to the detachment, the chief instructed.

Martin noticed that the civilian men all had cell phones in their hands. Their hands had burn marks where they were holding the phones, and the phones were partially melted. Where’s your cell phone, Chief? he asked.

I don’t carry one. Damn things are a pain in the ass. Let’s move out.

Sloan and Mellish guided the chief out of the gymnasium. Martin grabbed their gear and checked their cell phones. The phones were dead. When the men were outside they were amazed at what they saw.

Holy shit! Sloan exclaimed.

What? Tell me what you see, the chief demanded.

There were at least thirty dead and fifty blind service members in the immediate area. Martin noted that the dead all had been using iPods, PDAs, or cell phones. Vehicles on the streets were disabled. Some had collided with others.

A golf cart approached and stopped near the men. The driver was dressed in whites with an SP brassard on his arm. You’re the guys from team two? he asked.

That’s right, the chief responded.

Thank God you guys are okay. I donated to your legal defense fund. Look, I need to get some guys who can see on the gates, and I need to get weapons in their hands. All my guys are blind or dead. I can’t get in the weapons locker either. The computer lock is fried.

Take these three men to the detachment. They can get weapons. I’ll go to the ships and round up some hands. There should be plenty who were below decks and can still see. Once you get your gates secured, you’ll need to string some field phones between them. Get as many golf carts together as you can, Martin said.

Martin sprinted in the direction of the piers. He was only wearing his UDT shorts and sneakers. He was six feet four and two hundred fifty pounds so everyone who could see got out of his way.

He arrived at the gangway of an amphibious assault ship and began moving up the ramp to the ship. Stop right there! the quarterdeck watch shouted as he drew a pistol and pointed it at Martin.

Martin slowed to a walk. Get the duty officer. We need all available marines on the gates. They need to have weapons and ammo. He turned and ran down the gangway, onto the pier and the next ship.

After he notified a dozen vessels he found himself between two aircraft carriers. He went to the nearest gangway where a blue canvas awning was set up. Several blind victims were sitting on folding chairs with bandages over their eyes.

I need the duty officer, he announced.

I’m the quarterdeck officer. Who the hell are you? a young lieutenant asked.

Petty Officer Martin. SEAL Team Two. I’m running to the head-shed next. They’re going to want a preliminary status report.

The lieutenant looked Martin over and decided that there was no doubt that he was who he said he was. He motioned him away from the others. Once they were out of earshot he said, We’re still trying to get a muster completed. We know that two-thirds of the crew were on shore leave or extended liberty. A third of those onboard were blinded. Looks like half of the crew aboard were electrocuted.

Do you have a senior officer onboard? Martin asked.

The first engineer is in DC Central. Go ahead. I’m sure you know the way.

Martin jogged up the gangway and made his way to Damage Control. He passed dozens of dead sailors along the way. When he arrived, he explained himself to the CPO. Then he met the first engineer.

The first engineer was small, thin man in his late thirties. He was bald and wore thick glasses. He was a lieutenant commander, and his nametag read harper.

Sir, we need to know what happened and the extent of the damage.

Everyone below clearance level one needs to leave, the engineer announced. Half of the men in the room evacuated. Once they were gone, Harper said, The reactors are okay. I know that’s always the primary concern. The weapons are secure as well. My staff is down to ten percent. Every electrical system is severely damaged, including the aircraft. The thing is, we restored some radios right away but they don’t transmit or receive. There is some sort of interference. Have you noticed the strange acoustics?

I thought that might have been just me. It was an EMP weapon, right? My chief said we should expect follow-up attacks.

Harper lit a cigarette. Electromagnetic pulse weapons would do similar damage; however the duration of the detonation flash was very long.

Twenty-eight seconds. I timed it.

Thank you. Harper scribbled numbers and letters on a sheet of paper. No way that whatever it was is man-made. This would be an EMP weapon to the billionth magnitude, give or take a hundred million. I’m actually surprised that every last one of us weren’t electrocuted. As for an attack from enemy forces, I doubt that will occur, simply for the fact of the radio interference. Tell them that with the resources I have now, we can operate this ship in two weeks. The aircraft are still being evaluated.

I thought all our gear was shielded against EMP.

It was. Now run along and help the command structure get reestablished. We’re not even an hour into this mess yet.

Martin departed the ship and paused at the bottom of the gangway. The acoustics were indeed strange. Everything sounded like he was in a racquetball court, but somewhat muffled. The sun was now bright, and the temperature was in the midthirties. A stiff breeze began to blow off the Chesapeake Bay.

He began to run toward his barracks. The cool air felt great on his body and in his lungs. He noticed the dead and blind everywhere. Some people were trying to help others as the blind groped around. Martin felt like he was above the fray. Superior and immune to the situation. It occurred to him that he didn’t care about his shipmates. He was beginning to see the catastrophe as an opportunity. He decided to exploit this opportunity like no other. After all, I’m obviously superior in every way.

Twenty minutes later Martin arrived at his barracks and moved past bodies and blind sailors. People were saying things to him but he ignored everyone and everything. He was truly purpose-driven at this point.

After he put on BDUs and boots he packed a rucksack and a seabag. He removed his Sig pistol from its hiding place in the ceiling. He wasn’t authorized to have weapons, and before this disaster he considered himself lucky that he wasn’t given pretrial confinement. I say what’s authorized or not from now on.

On his way out of his room, Sloan stood in front of him, impeding his progress. Sloan stood six feet and was equal in weight to Martin. As Martin sidestepped to move around the man, Sloan shifted to block his passage. They want us in the briefing room, Sloan said.

Without hesitation Martin struck Sloan with his palm. A snake-fast and devastating uppercut to the chin. Sloan’s head snapped back, and he collapsed to the floor. Martin simply continued down the hallway toward the building’s small galley, never breaking stride.

As Martin loaded canned goods and water into his seabag he was confronted by the senior petty officer who was in charge of the facility.

Is that you, Kevin? the cook asked.

Martin looked at the older, heavyset cook and saw that he was blind. That’s me, Chef. Just getting some supplies for my new mission. You figuring to run this galley blind?

I always said I could feed you boys with my eyes closed. He presented his hand. Good luck, Kevin. The Spirit is with you.

Take care, Chef, Martin said as they shook hands. Gotta go.

He loaded his goods into one of the golf carts that were beginning to congregate outside the detachment’s barracks and headed toward the base marina. He counted thirty-three sailboats at the docks and quickly selected a twenty-six-foot ketch. There were no people at the marina, something he expected this time of year, which made his boat theft smooth and easy.

It took him more than thirty minutes to get the boat’s outboard motor running and uncase the sails. He motored out into the bay and headed northeast before rigging the sails. The boat was quick on the stiff offshore breeze, and he was soon over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. He turned south and noticed that the boat’s compass didn’t seem accurate.

Martin set the boat on a southeasterly tack and began rummaging through all the items that were stored onboard. He found a sextant. What naval officer who owned a sailboat wouldn’t have a sextant onboard? Then he shot a sun line. Later he would shoot another sun line and calculate his speed.

To his dismay, there were no charts in the boat. He found an old laptop and guessed that there was navigation software installed with all the charts for the whole world. He found the laptop to be password protected so he turned the computer off to save the battery.

The boat was well outfitted, equipped, and provisioned. It even had a fully stocked bar. He made a pot of coffee on the gas stove, found some foul weather gear, and settled in at the helm station.

Cold saltwater spray slapped his face every few seconds. The sun was bright, and the wind was bitter cold. The little boat rode the sea well, and he could tell that he was making excellent speed.

When an hour had passed, he shot another sun line and calculated his speed to be near fifteen knots. Six days to Daytona, including the two stops I want to make: Charleston and Savannah.

He didn’t want to get out into the Gulf Stream but he didn’t want to run too close to the shore either. This could be tough with no charts. He looked through the boat’s paperwork and found the owner to be a lieutenant commander named Harper. He smiled and wondered if it was the same Harper that he spoke to earlier.

The boat’s name was Patricia Mar. No way! It can’t be that simple! He typed Patricia Mar into the laptop as the password. Bingo! There were several navigation suites installed. Martin randomly picked one and typed in his origin and destination. The software plotted a route complete with several waypoints. It even had instructions and photos for entering ports.

He sketched the route on paper and noted the courses and waypoints. When dusk arrived, he marked his position using the moon and the North Star. Later in the evening he marked his position using Venus and the North Star. According to his calculations, the magnetic compass was in error by seven degrees to the west. He adjusted the compass, set the auto pilot, and curled up for a night’s peace.

Forty hours later, Martin tied the Patricia Mar to a channel marker in the Charleston entrance. He could see smoke from several large fires in the city. He decided he would wait until dusk to swim to shore. His intent was to get to the naval base to locate some former team members.

As the daylight faded, he donned a wetsuit and prepared his equipment. When he was ready to enter the water, he noticed a flashing light on the north shore of the harbor entrance. Morse code!

H-E-L-P-U-S-R-U-H-E-R-E-2-H-E-L-P-U-S.

It was Morse code using text message abbreviations. Makes sense. Wonder if LOL will piss him off? He grabbed a flashlight and replied.

J-U-S-T-R-E-S-T-I-N-G-H-E-A-D-E-D-S-O-U-T-H.

D-O-N-T-E-N-T-E-R-D-A-N-G-E-R-H-E-R-E.

Martin signaled okay and jumped into the water with his gear. The water was fifty-two degrees but he calculated that he could make it to shore in less than thirty minutes. After twenty-eight minutes and thirty seconds he was wading through knee-deep mud.

He climbed the small bank and stared at the city of Charleston in flames. He could clearly hear small arms fire and grenades. The city had no electricity, and he heard no emergency vehicle sirens.

He stripped off his wetsuit and put on his BDUs and boots. The air temperature was in the lower sixties, and the sky was clear with a light but steady easterly breeze that carried acrid smoke from the city.

After he stashed his wetsuit,