

THE PEACEFUL NIGHT

by

Harry F. Smith

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

The Peaceful Night

Copyright © 2010 by Harry F. Smith

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Chapter One - The Calm

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven - The Storm

Chapter Twenty-Eight - The Struggle

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

About The Author

Other Titles By Harry F. Smith
Chapter One - The Calm

Orlando, Florida - Wednesday Evening

JAKE HELD THE PLASTIC garbage bag at arm's length as he moved quickly down the hallway, his slippers making a muted flip-flop noise on the floor. Judging from the acrid smell of chicken bones left over from a dinner enjoyed three nights prior, he knew quite well that the small drops of whatever the hell was leaking from the bag was going to stain the newly installed carpet. Just like the theory that running in the rain gets you less wet than walking, he fervently hoped that his haste would diminish any harm done to the rug.

Opening the door to the large three-car garage, Jake could feel the difference in the temperature even though the space was well insulated. In an effort to keep the cool air inside the house, he quickly closed the door behind him, gratefully leaving behind the irritating _thump thump_ noise his son called music. Even now, the vibrations were emanating from behind a closed bedroom door, the loud bass tones shaking the walls. Throwing the bag into an already full garbage can, he leaned heavily on the lid, letting his weight compact the trash as the plastic lid shut closed with a snap.

He had yelled at Paul to take out the garbage two days ago and then once again this morning, but being the average American teenager, his son's attention span was severely diminished by an alien disease that made his brain cells unable to communicate with each other properly whenever there was input from a parental figure. The huge amounts of marijuana that he smoked before, during and after his community college classes didn't help either. At this point in his young life, the only things his neurons could process correctly were the most primitive of basic teen skills such as memorizing the lyrics to every rap song ever produced. Judging from the way that Paul wore his pants sagging over his skinny ass and spoke in the latest gangster ghetto slang, he was one bong hit away from being classified as a drooling idiot.

Jake braced himself as he reached over to the garage door opener. One of the gear teeth in the drive chain had broken off and under the right conditions, the electric motor got stuck, producing a grotesque noise that sounded like two large dinosaurs having sex without the aid of a good lubricant. Since the repairman was booked solid and could not possibly squeeze him in before Labor Day, Jake had learned to stand by the door, ready to assist with a push less his neighbors suffer through another episode of the earsplitting sound indicating that the transport was suffering its mechanical rendition of a stroke. Fortunately for Jake, the door decided to cooperate tonight. It opened slowly, creaking noisily on bearings that hadn't been greased in months.

He felt the dampness of the outside air rushing in to greet him as the door reached its full height on the track. Even though it was eight thirty in the evening and the summer sun was just beginning to set, the heat hadn't yielded its chokehold on the day. The air was so steamy that Jake imagined that he could extend his arms forward and wring the humidity out of the atmosphere like a wet sponge, the water drops hitting the hot concrete garage floor with a loud _sizzle_. Since he had spent his formative years growing up on a farm in northern Michigan, Jake quickly discovered that he had little tolerance for humid weather. For some strange reason, he thought back to all of the glossy literature he read before making the fateful decision to move to Florida in the summer time. To the best of his recollection, none of the colorful travel brochures mentioned anything about year-round, swamp-like weather conditions.

As he wheeled the garbage can down the driveway to the curb, Jake spotted his neighbor in the distance. Tall and thin, Leo Morgenstern was jumping rope on the grass in his front yard.

Leo stared straight ahead in his own little world as if in a trance, the sweat pouring off his body in buckets. His red and yellow United States Marine Corps tee shirt and matching shorts were thoroughly soaked and hugged his skinny body in an almost obscene manner. Strangely, he didn't jump like a boxer in training for a title fight would, using the balls of both feet to launch his body just high enough for the rope to pass under. Instead, he skipped school girl-style, one knee comically lifting much higher than necessary, the other leg following suit right after in precise, military precision. He had once explained to Jake, in more detail than Jake cared to know, that he got a better aerobic workout this way. Jake thought that Leo looked like a gangly dork.

Just watching his neighbor exercise in the summer heat made Jake sweat even more. He felt his clothes beginning to cling in places he did not want fabric to stick to as he parked the trash canister by the curb. With task in hand completed, Jake hoped he could turn around and get back inside the house to the sweet cool relief of the air conditioner without having to engage his neighbor in any empty-headed conversation. Unsure if Leo was even aware of him, Jake gave him the obligatory 'Good evening' suburban head nod. Firm, short and to the point, the crisp motion seemed to suffice as Leo kept up his perfect, girlie-like cadence. Feeling victory in his grasp, Jake was confident that in a few moments he would be sitting in his recliner, finishing the first of a few beers before bedtime while watching the Minnesota Twins lose to the Yankees once again.

"Jake! Got a minute?"

He flinched as he heard his name being called out. Leo had stopped jumping and was now looking directly at him. He waved his hand, still holding the plastic jump rope handles.

Jake forced what he hoped would be a convincing smile on his face as he walked over to the thick hibiscus bush that divided their properties. Attesting to the different gardening styles of the two men, the shrubbery on Leo's side was perfectly shaped and manicured, while Jake's side was scraggly and looked more like the entrance to an impenetrable forest. Unlike Jake, Leo was fanatical about his lawn to the extent that he would inspect closely behind the work of the Puerto Rican groundskeepers that he hired, pointing out stray tufts of grass that they had missed. Privately, the workers laughed and called him a _pendejo_ behind his back.

"Hi, Leo. Getting your exercise in? It's awful hot to be skipping rope." He managed to suppress the ending phrase, 'Like a girlie man.'

"Yes, I've been putting in a bit of overtime on a project at work, so I either have to sneak in my PT now or at 0500," he said in a husky voice. Leo liked to use military terminology in all his daily conversations to remind people that he was once and always would be a Marine. "You know what I always say, Jake. Sound mind, sound body."

"Sure thing," Jake managed to mumble as he wiped at a drop of sweat forming on his upper lip. "What's on your mind?"

"Well, I hate to be a nag, but it's about your son again." Leo could hear the deliberate emphasis on 'your son.'

"Oh? What's he done this time?" he answered back, his own strong inflection on 'this time.'

"The same as when we last spoke. I thought you were going to talk to him about that music."

Being an ex-Marine, Leo demanded complete control of his environment, so it was no small wonder that he got royally pissed when Paul came home late at night, rocking out the neighborhood with his car's stereo turned up to a volume that could shatter concrete.

"I did speak to him Leo and I'm sorry that he disturbed you again, but you know teenagers and their music."

"Actually Jake, I wouldn't know about that. My daughter manages to come home late at night from her Bible study class twice a week without waking up the whole neighborhood." He took a step closer to his side of the bush. "You know, there's a reason why this subdivision is named La Noche Pacífica."

La Noche Pacífica, _The Peaceful Night_ , was the most exclusive gated community located in one of the more desirable areas in Central Florida. Just south of Orlando, it was far enough out of the big city limits and away from the tourist attractions so that it could be considered country living. The entire section was isolated from the outside world by numerous lakes and conservation areas, which really was a fancy name for swampland that the greedy community developers had not bothered to drain. The native wildlife that lived in the surrounding wetlands only added to the rustic charm of the community, but the prudent homeowner was always on guard for wayward snakes that ventured out of their assigned habitat in search of food. At least once a year, the newspapers picked up a story about an aggressive male alligator making its way into someone's backyard during the early mating season in search of the elusive reptilian quickie. The end result was usually a frantic call to the animal control department, followed by a prompt capture of the horny creature and an even faster transformation into a pair of shoes and matching handbag.

The only safe way in or out of La Noche Pacífica was through the main gate, which was serviced by a twenty-four hour security patrol. Standing ever vigilant, the friendly guards would check each vehicle and only admit those with a valid reason. If you were a close friend of a resident, you could be added to the privileged Master List which granted you admission without the hassles of the guard calling the tenant to confirm your entry authorization. Residents, however, need not worry about all those mundane details. A small decal with a bar code located on the front bumper was read by a laser as they entered via a separate lane. This activated the mechanism that opened wide the wrought iron gates and let them in, bypassing the usually long lines of pizza delivery vehicles, realtors and La Noche Pacífica wanabees.

The median family income necessary to live in a golf course community like La Noche Pacífica was well in the six-figure range. The ninety-six homes inside varied from a mere $550K starter house to the more luxurious $2.5 million mini-mansion. Included in the buy-in price was such amenities as a championship golf course, a private park, running paths, basketball and volleyball courts, a soccer field for the budding youngsters of the privileged and a fitness center complete with swimming pool, cabana and indoor game room.

Jake and his son moved in two months ago after the software company he worked for offered him both a promotion and a chance to head up a new and exciting military computer simulation project. Moving down to Florida from Hartford, Connecticut, they were cramped in adjoining hotel rooms for a week and a half until the real estate agent the company kept on retainer informed them about a house that suddenly appeared on the market. The asking price was at the absolute limit of what Jake could afford since he was still making payments on a truck, a house full of expensive furniture and an even more expensive ex-wife, but the main attraction of the property was that it was located close to work and a community college that would admit Paul with his crappy grades. Secretly, he hoped that the change in locale would help boost his son's attitude about school, but by the way Paul constantly told him "Don't be buggin' me, Pops," there was very little chance of that happening.

Since La Noche Pacífica was considered the in-place to live among the local yuppies, home values increased by a healthy percentage every year, contrary to the current housing slump. For Jake, that fact helped balance out the endless rules and snobby people who inhabited the neighborhood. He quickly learned that life was good in La Noche Pacífica if you toed the line and followed the regulations. All residents were governed by a homeowner's association, which used strict covenants to protect the clean look and orderly feel of the community. Tenants were expected to keep their lawns mowed and were not allowed to park boats or RVs in the driveway. The outside appearance of the house had to be kept up within prescribed bounds with everything from exterior paint colors to approved lawn furniture spelled out in a huge two hundred-page manual issued to all new Noche Pacíficans. Any deviation of the rules was immediately reported to the proper association committee. The offending household was first issued a friendly warning in the mail, followed by a sterner letter of non-compliance shortly thereafter. Heavy fines could be issued, but the problem was usually resolved way before any legal action occurred.

Anal-retentive people like Leo thrived in La Noche Pacífica. One of the original move-in tenants, he volunteered to serve on various committees and was currently the head of the association's board of directors. Since his neighbor wielded such extreme executive power, Jake was forced to listen to his complaints about Paul's rap music with a grain of salt.

"Yes, Leo, I'm aware of the meaning of La Noche Pacífica," he answered back. "But I'll speak to him once again." He tried his best to convey a look of parental helplessness on his face.

"Well, I appreciate that Jake," he said with a smug attitude. "And I'm sure that the rest of the block does too."

Having properly dressed down his neighbor, Leo spun around with military precision, took a few steps back and resumed his exercising.

Jake just stood there, unsure of what to do next. As a glob of sweat slowly rolled down his back towards his butt crack, he decided to break away just as quickly as Leo had done. Not having any military training, Jake tried to mimic his rapid turn but ended up stumbling over his own two feet.

"And your grass is getting a little long in the tooth, neighbor," Leo added without missing a beat.

_Pendejo!_ Jake thought as he hurried back inside the house to the comfort of the air conditioner.
Chapter Two

Monterey, California - Wednesday Evening

FROM HIGH ON TOP of her raised command center, Lieutenant Junior Grade Samantha Knudson leaned over the front of a wide computer console, her clenched fists resting hard on the polished wood edging. Dressed in a crisply starched khaki uniform, her head remained steady as she watched the normal flow of the night's activities. Like an eagle looking out over the plains of her native South Dakota, her dark blue eyes slowly scanned the immense sterile looking room.

Although only twenty-five years old, Samantha took her job seriously and wielded supreme executive power over her domain. Tonight she had the privilege of being the duty officer in charge at the Fleet Numerical Meteorology and Oceanography Center, the Navy's premier supercomputing center. Known simply as Fleet Numerical, the small complex occupied approximately ten acres of prime real estate in Monterey, California. Partnered with the National Weather Service, the center was tasked with providing all of the weather prediction and satellite imagery products for the United States military and coalition forces around the globe. From deep inside the plain looking brick building, massive amounts of data collected from satellites, weather buoys and aircraft were churned into highly complex meteorological and oceanographic models by a world-class suite of high performance supercomputers. With a combined peak processing power of thirty trillion floating-point operations per second, Fleet Numerical was ranked in the top five percent of supercomputer sites worldwide in terms of overall computing power.

During the midnight watch, she rode herd over approximately two hundred military and civilian personnel, some who were more than twice her age. Currently, the busy sailors under her command were performing their duties as normal, typing at keyboards or studying rows of glowing monitors recessed into long display cabinets. Instinctively, she tuned into the numerous subdued conversations, easily differentiating them from the incessant hum of background noise, searching for anything unusual. Satisfied for the moment that all was well, Samantha took yet another swig of strong coffee from her large stone mug.

The normally busy computer room was buzzing with extra activity tonight. In an effort to upgrade the center's already massive computing power, sixty-four brand new Cray X1E supercomputers had been shipped cross country from the company's development center at Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin and Samantha had been assigned the additional task of overseeing the installation. Each of the enormous, two ton cabinets had been carefully unpacked weeks ago by the company's technicians in record time with almost no disruption of Fleet Numerical's operational routine. Samantha could not have asked for a smoother transition.

But tonight, a crew of government public utility workers had invaded the complex to finish hooking up the electric power and liquid coolant piping to the last bank of newly installed supercomputer monoliths. This part of the work was way behind schedule and by previous experience with this particular group of morons, Samantha knew that they would require intense supervision. Last week, a main electric conduit was accidentally cut by one of the chuckleheads, knocking out power to the center's network right before the morning's weather reports had finished. Unlike personal desktop computers that you could reboot in just a minute or two, these monsters required hundreds of man-hours to get back on line. Since Fleet Numerical supported virtually every combat platform and weapons system operated by the U.S. Navy, the ass chewing had started from several pay grades higher than hers, straight down to the recently terminated GS level-5 butthead.

_That,_ Samantha swore to herself, _would not happen on her watch._

From her high vantage point, Samantha watched the workers discreetly. She had been on duty for only an hour and a half, yet she forced herself to check her temper for what seemed like the umpteenth time that evening. A sizable portion of the white floor panels had been removed to allow the men access to the underside of the computer cabinets. She shook her head as she noticed the top half of a beefy technician trying to feed a thick black cable through a plastic conduit that was obviously the wrong size. Her frustration turned to utter exasperation as she watched him jam a screwdriver into the neoprene coating of the thick zero gauge cable.

"Hey Joe!" he called out towards his unseen partner. "Pull harder, will ya?"

Even though the temperature in the center was maintained at a constant sixty-eight degrees, Samantha felt her face getting warm.

"Petty officer Parker!" she yelled over her shoulder. An enlisted man wearing a denim shirt and matching pants was at her side in an instant. She pointed in the general direction of the work site.

"Tell that moron over there that if he pokes a hole in the insulation of that power cable, I'll have the cost of a replacement taken out of his pay check!"

As the young sailor moved to relay the message, Samantha did a fast calculation to compute just how much money the inept man had stolen from the government during the last hour just by showing up for work this evening. She never could figure out why some people didn't enjoy their work as she did, but then again, this was her dream job.

Samantha grew up on a small family-owned dairy farm just outside the quaint little town of Centerville, South Dakota. Of Danish descent, she could trace her roots all the way back to one of the original families that settled the area in the late 1880's. Whether it was part of her Nordic heritage or just the simple fact that her parents had assigned her chores at an early age, everyone knew her to be a levelheaded and most trustworthy girl. People admired her for her fast wit and pleasant personality.

She had other gifts as well. Besides her wholesome good looks, Samantha had a lot on the ball. It soon became obvious to all concerned that the small child with an eager smile was smarter than most of her siblings.

Her father loved to tell the story about her abilities at all family meetings. As the family huddled around a corn burning stove on a sub zero winter night, the three year old had climbed up into her great grandfather's lap. Since his eyesight had started fading at the tender age of ninety, Samantha surprised them all by reading the local newspaper to him. Tracing her finger along the newspaper print, she read aloud to him, not missing a word. Nobody else in her extended family exhibited any sort of scholarly traits, but Samantha quickly outgrew the simple children's books that her father brought home for her. Moreover, as if being an early reader was not enough, she had been blessed with a natural knack for mathematics and the sciences.

When it was time for her to go to school, she attended kindergarten through high school in the same building that her parents and their parents before them did. With a small student-teacher ratio and an excellent curriculum, Samantha's talents were recognized early on and fostered by her teachers. She quickly devoured every book in the school's library. Later on, she helped the town's librarian set up a computer network and became the 'go to girl' whenever there was a problem, be it with the software or the computers themselves.

Some people complained about growing up in a community where everybody knew everybody else, but farm life for Samantha was predictable and measured. Lest she be thought of as a geek, she enjoyed and eagerly pursued all the activities of small town life. Whether it was cheerleading at a Friday night football game, scoring the winning run on the girl's softball team or working as a member of the Future Farmers of America, she found time for her chores while working on quadratic equations in her head.

Blossoming into young adulthood, Samantha had grown tall and strong. Pleasantly proportional in stature, she had the broad shoulders, blonde hair and chiseled good looks that went along with her ancestry. Her brothers had kidded her more than once about how she had 'child bearing' hips, but all that nonsense quickly ended when she grabbed the oldest in a headlock and forced him to cry uncle.

It was only natural that after graduating from high school with honors, Samantha received an academic scholarship to the University of South Dakota at Vermillion, a small college town located twenty-five miles away from her home. Here she majored in mathematics, but decided at the last minute to declare a meteorology minor since she could apply her studies of differential equations to fluid dynamics. With the blessing of her guidance counselors, she snuck in oceanography courses along with the required meteorology classes.

Being sociable and easy going, she made many friends in college. Early in her freshman year, she was persuaded by a classmate to attend a sorority welcoming function. Turned off by the bubble-headed girls' attitude towards hard sciences, she declined an invitation to pledge the group. She could not understand how someone could bother studying dull subjects like business or philosophy when the wonders of mathematics were right there in front of them. All throughout college, Samantha excelled in her studies and never failed to make the Dean's list all four years.

During her last semester, with the dour prospect of looking for a job in a slow economy looming before her, she attended a university-sponsored job fair. Samantha walked up and down the aisles of the auditorium, collecting enough shiny pamphlets, information packets, pens and tee shirts to fill a small shopping bag. She passed around copies of her résumé along with her grades to businesses both big and small.

Samantha listened politely as representatives from the larger defense corporations recited their spiel about why she should come work for them. They were on the hunt for science and engineering majors and were quite impressed by her credentials, but if truth be told, they had arrived with a certain quota of minorities, women and veterans to recruit. Difficult as this was, the hiring company received a handsome bonus for each qualified person they could find that fit the criteria since they gained valuable points when bidding on federal projects. Being an excellent judge of character, she could sense the insincerity in their voices hidden behind wide, phony smiles.

It was just then that she saw the Navy recruiter tucked away in a small corner of the building. Being a small town girl, she was mesmerized by his starchy white uniform and his crisp, military manner. It didn't hurt that he was a tall, handsome man either. With the wide-eyed naiveté of a young country girl, she listened carefully as he talked to her about Officer Candidate School and a career as a naval officer. He filled her head with the promise of thirty paid vacation days a year, coupled with plenty of travel to far away, exotic places. The farthest that Samantha had ever been from home in her life was the Iowa state fair in Des Moines where she had seen a two headed snake and a potato that looked like Richard Nixon. But the kicker was when he mentioned all of the Navy's various programs for repayment of student loans. The scholarship she had received did not pay for everything during her four years at the University of South Dakota, so like the majority of college students, she was saddled with a sizable amount of student loans. Even though they carried a low interest rate, the total principal was comparable to a mini-mortgage. Samantha eagerly snatched up the shiny brochure and took his business card.

Telling her dad that she was going into the military was difficult. Like everyone else in town, he watched the news as both the war in the Middle East and the body count dragged on. Reluctantly caving in under his favorite daughter's relentless pressure, he finally gave his blessing for her to join the Navy.

After graduating college with honors, the swearing-in ceremony was held on the Knudson farm and conducted by a representative of the South Dakota state senate with a considerable portion of the extended family in attendance. At the large party afterwards, she received congratulations from many family members in-between bites of lutefisk.

One of the most horrifyingly atrocious foods known to mankind, lutefisk is a dried cod fish soaked in a lye solution before boiling, giving it a gelatinous consistency resembling either clear Jell-O, or as some said, human snot. Having enjoyed the delicacy all of her life, Samantha snarfed up a sizable portion before her hungry brothers could get at it, even though it gave her a wicked case of the runs.

A week later, she was off to Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island for twelve weeks of indoctrination in history, shipboard management and other fundamentals that the budding young naval officer would need to know. This was the first time she had ever flown and cried openly as she waved goodbye to her family through the small Plexiglas window. She recovered her composure before landing and was soon mesmerized by the campus like atmosphere at OCS.

Being a farm girl, she readily handled the rigorous physical fitness training with ease. As with everything else she set her mind to, she breezed through the rugged curriculum. Samantha became the OCS class leader and helped mentor some of the other students after hours. Decked out in her white dress uniform at the graduation ceremony three months later, nobody was prouder then her dad who flew out to watch her receive her commission as an Ensign in the United States Navy.

Meteorology officers receive specialized training prior to their first duty station, so after a week of leave back home in South Dakota, she attended Basic Oceanography Accession Training in Gulfport, Mississippi. This was her first trip down south of the Mason-Dixon Line and she did not like it at all. Hot and humid with bugs the size of toaster ovens, she could set her watch by the arrival of the afternoon thunderstorms. Here she went through advanced training that included methods of analyzing weather conditions, identification of common weather patterns and techniques of forecasting. Luck smiled on Samantha once again as her supervisors recognized that she was a top talent in her field and recommended that she be assigned to the Fleet Numerical Meteorology and Oceanography Center.

Samantha immediately fell in love with the place. _What else could a girl want in life,_ she thought to herself. The bay leading out to the Pacific Ocean was only a few blocks from the base and she could smell the salt air from her small but expensive apartment. When she wasn't busy with work, weekends were usually reserved with tourist type activities or cookouts on the beach with friends. And after all, the Navy gave her three square meals a day, more money and benefits then she had ever earned in her life and they let her play with great big computers.

And now, from high on top her vantage point, Samantha watched out of the corner of her eye as the petty officer stood over the inept public utility worker, delivering the message about the cable. With growing dissatisfaction, she could see the two men arguing. Finally, the sailor walked away, gesturing in her general direction. As the worker readied himself to get out of the recessed flooring, a flash of anger from Samantha froze him in his tracks. Sheepishly, he put his screwdriver back into a toolbox and disappeared back down into the hole.

_This is a hell of a lot better than milking cows,_ Samantha thought as she turned her attention elsewhere.
Chapter Three

West of Orlando, Florida - Wednesday Evening

FROM THE WAY JENNY drove her late model Acura along Route 50 at fifteen miles over the posted limit, it was quite apparent that she was a woman on a mission. Here on the west side of Orlando, the road was three lanes wide and she used each and every one to her advantage. Weaving her way through slower traffic like she was driving at the Daytona Speedway, she expertly cut off blue hair retirees and businessman alike, ignoring the occasional middle finger salute thrown her way. She adjusted the air conditioning vent with one hand as she narrowly missed a repair crew that was tearing up gravel behind an orange striped barricade.

Unconcerned about the carnage she had almost caused, Jenny pressed down on the gas pedal a bit harder. If she hurried, she would have just enough time to make her purchase and then hit the market to pick up stuff for a late dinner, fighting cross-town traffic all the way. Her husband Bob was a professor at the University of Central Florida and Wednesday was the night that he taught an evening class. He would be hungry when he came home and expected dinner to be ready for him on the table.

She slowed down enough to make the turn into the mall parking lot without screeching the tires too loudly. Even though it was almost sunset, there were plenty of spaces in front of the large department store that had anchored the mall for years. Picking out the closest spot, she slid the Acura in between the painted lines. Luckily, there would be no need for her to trek across the hot, black asphalt.

With the motor still running, she reached up and twisted the rear view mirror. The car's powerful air conditioner had blown a few strands of her long blonde hair out of place. On a normal day, this would have been unacceptable to Jenny since she was fastidious about her looks, but today of all days, it just absolutely would not do. She opened her pocketbook and took out a hairbrush. Carefully, she brushed the errant strands back into place. A fast check of her makeup made her sigh. It was the best that she could do with her dwindling supply, but that was what she was here for, wasn't it?

_Let's get this over with so I can get the hell out of here,_ Jenny thought to herself. She set her jaw for the difficult task at hand as she shut off the car and stepped out into the dimming light of the evening sun.

Jenny walked quickly across the lot and into the cool air of the department store without pausing for the automatic doors. Normally she would have taken her time and browsed the aisles for the ever-present bargains the stores always seem to have, but a fast glance at her watch told her she was running late. She almost hesitated as she passed her weakness, a pile of neatly folded blouses underneath a large sign proclaiming thirty-five percent off the retail price. With a determined stride, she hurried towards her objective.

Up ahead, she could not help but spot the makeup counter. The bright artificial lights reflected harshly off the long, highly polished glass counter. Glossy commercial posters of flawlessly skinned models adorned every conceivable surface. As she got closer, Jenny could smell a sweet mixture of the many different perfumes and lotions that saturated the air.

She sat down on a stainless steel swivel chair directly in front of an attractive blonde-haired woman who didn't appear busy. Putting on her best happy face, Jenny said, "Hi. I'm looking for a good concealer. Can you recommend one?"

The store clerk, a shapely thirty-something woman named Nora, studied Jenny with a professional eye. An excellent judge of character, she had seen her type many times before. The matching khaki cargo shorts, dark blue short-sleeved Polo shirt and very expensive running shoes practically screamed, 'I'm a bored suburban housewife left alone with my husband's credit cards and they're burning a hole through my panties.'

"Here are some of our more popular foundation bases," she said, smiling back sweetly. Reaching under the glass counter, Nora pulled out a tray of tiny jars as she calculated the hefty commission she was about to wring out of this suburbanite. She opened one and dabbed at it with a camel hairbrush. "Why don't we see how this one works?"

"Well, I was hoping to just get it and go. I'm kind of in a hurry."

This sentence struck Nora as extremely odd. Almost all of the snooty rich women that came in here usually demanded absolute perfection in their ornamental requirements. Sometimes she would work on a single fat face for hours at a time, matching and blending every imaginable color in the quest for eternal cosmetic Nirvana. For Nora, that was a long time to feign interest and she usually got bored after the second or third re-incarnation.

"You mean you don't want to try it on?" Nora asked incredulously. "You have a very light skin tone. It might be difficult to match properly."

Using her most imaginative lie, Jenny said, "Actually, the makeup is for my daughter. She's on her school softball team and took a fast ball to the face last week."

"Oh no! That's terrible! She wasn't hurt, was she?" Nora asked, actually concerned for the imaginary girl.

"There was no permanent damage, thank goodness, but it left her with a decent-sized knot on her noggin and a black eye. To top it off, she has a date this weekend." Jenny smiled convincingly as she shrugged her shoulders. "You know how teenagers can be so vain about their looks."

"Yes I do." Nora agreed with a chuckle. "But aren't we all?"

Jenny saw her opening. "Why don't we go with a small jar of this kind?" She pointed to a neutral looking shade in the glass case.

"Ah! A very good choice. That one's from the Pretty Woman line of cosmetics."

Jenny's selection, Pretty Woman's Miss Glamorous #2 concealer, was an excellent choice indeed. Made from a vitamin-enriched formula and rated SPF 35 for maximum protection from the harsh Florida sun, it was touted as the best cosmetic around for almost any difficult skin problem including blemishes, scars and under eye circles. Deeply moisturized to enable layering and mixing with other facial products, it was also the most expensive brand that the store carried.

Something just did not feel right with Nora as she reached under the counter and pulled out a sample jar of the makeup. From years of working the cosmetic department at Orlando's swankiest mall, she knew that Pretty Woman's Miss Glamorous #2 concealer had another dark claim to fame. Since it was well known that its greatest strength was its ability to provide total camouflage for bruises, it was also the de facto makeup of choice for battered women.

Nora examined Jenny as carefully as she dared. _Could this obviously rich lady sitting in front of her be one of those kinds of women? Was she a doormat for an abusive husband who got his jollies smacking the weaker sex around?_ Even though Nora stood a chance of blowing her fat commission, curiosity got the better of her. She just had to find out.

"You know, I bet your daughter's complexion is just like yours. I'd feel more comfortable if we did a fast skin tone test," Nora said.

Moving quickly over Jenny's objection, she drew the loaded brush across her cheek, giving her the opportunity to closely scrutinize the woman's face. Jenny's makeup had been expertly applied and on first glance appeared normal. Suddenly, Nora noticed something unusual under her right eye, high on the cheekbone. It might have been the humidity or the way her hair rubbed against her cheek, but some of the makeup had begun to wear thin. That's when Nora clearly saw the slightly purplish, bruised skin. It had initially been hidden by her blonde hair, but was now exposed for the entire world to see.

"This will do fine," Jenny said in a slightly anxious tone. She opened her purse and pulled out her special credit card. Attached to an account secretly opened years ago and paid for with diverted household money, the billing statement went directly to her friend's apartment in town. If it were ever delivered to her house in La Noche Pacífica, her abusive husband Bob would blow a gasket.

_As if I needed another reason for that asshole to hit me,_ Jenny thought sullenly.

Nora read the card as she picked it up. "Hmm... Genevieve. That's a very pretty first name, Mrs. Reid."

"Thanks," she answered back, glad that things were moving along and the noisy makeup girl was no longer examining her face. "My dad read 'The Adventures of Robin Hood' when he was young and he became infatuated with the name. But please, call me Jenny."

"You know, it's kind of funny," Nora said, still holding the card tightly between two well-manicured fingers. "We don't get much call for this brand of concealer. Nope. Not at all."

She gazed directly at Jenny, her laser-like stare communicating all that needed to be said. "It takes a particular kind of woman to wear this makeup. Are you sure you wouldn't like to purchase a larger amount, Jenny? You know, for any other emergencies that your daughter might have?"

Nora somehow magically retrieved a humongous sixty-four ounce container of Pretty Woman's Miss Glamorous #2 concealer and plopped it on the counter with a bang that threatened to shatter the glass top. The price tag on this large jar was so expensive, there were some third world countries that couldn't afford it.

Jenny felt her face grow warm with shame as she realized that her secret had been exposed. Lowering her gaze, all she could do was shake her head yes.

Nora quickly swiped the credit card through for authorization. In a second, she handed it back along with the receipt for Jenny's signature. After the purchase was complete, she placed the jar into a trendy miniature shopping bag that proudly displayed the store's name and colorful logo. With a smile, she handed over the magic concealer to Genevieve.

Wordlessly, Jenny turned and hurried out of the store, her face as hot and red as the setting sun, all the while making a mental note never to use this store's cosmetic section again.
Chapter Four

Monterey, California - Wednesday Evening

ALL WAS WELL AT Fleet Numerical. The huge amount of the day's data collected from instruments around the world had been chewed up by the center's massive computers and stored safely away on huge RAID disc drives for further analysis and distribution. An acronym for Redundant Array of Independent Disks, the technical term was used to describe a complex computer storage scheme that increased data reliability by dividing and replicating the information among multiple hard disk drives. A large part of the Center's total computer network, this precautionary measure was necessary to protect the terabytes of data that Fleet Numerical processed daily.

A hurricane that was churning away in the Gulf of Mexico for the past few days deserved special attention and was being watched carefully by a dedicated team of scientists and technicians. Various weather prediction models were being applied to the carefully collected storm data in order to further refine its path.

More importantly for Samantha and her fledgling career, a successful run and distribution of the next day's weather reports had been done without incident and on schedule. The public utilities workers had left for the night, but not before Samantha had to admonish them once again for leaving tools scattered about and not properly replacing a floor panel in a main aisle way.

_Idiots could have caused somebody to fall through and get seriously hurt,_ she thought. _And all because they were lazy and in a damn hurry to leave!_

Samantha was leaning over the shoulder of a civilian worker. He had called her over to point out a small anomaly with one of the gauges monitoring a computer's core temperature. After a half an hour's inspection, the pair determined that it was a problem with one of the hardware sensors and not a show-stopping event.

With an order to keep an eye on the gauge in case the condition worsened, Samantha went back to her desk. Opening up a large green cloth-covered logbook, she entered the time and a description of the trouble. As a matter of procedure, the highly trained technician who first noticed the problem would enter an on-line report with a complete description of the event but the Navy dictated that the officer in charge keep a written log of all abnormalities during the long night watch.

_There's nothing like being in charge of a highly technical computer center,_ Samantha thought once again as she finished dashing off a depiction of the issue.

Her concentration was broken by a subtle _beep_. Samantha turned to face the wide bank of monitors at her side. Swiveling in her chair, she focused on the left most screen where a spot on the graphic display was blinking, demanding her attention.

_Good old Betsy,_ she thought. _Right on time_.

Betsy was a Cray-1 supercomputer and Samantha's favorite of all the machines. Outmoded and considered an antique by today's standards, the computer had been relegated to the basement a year ago, unused and slated to be removed to the scrap heap until she learned about it by accident.

Once again, she marveled at the Cray-1's architecture. The original designers had used revolutionary ideas to bridge difficult technical hurdles. Since electricity flows through copper wires at the relatively slow rate of three-tenths the speed of light, no wire in the machine was more than four feet long. The core of the huge machine formed a unique C shape, which enabled the computer's integrated circuits to be located closer together in order to increase efficiency. An innovative refrigeration system using Freon handled the intense heat generated by the computer. Now widely banned because it caused ozone depletion in the atmosphere, it was this cooling method that led to Betsy's early retirement.

Samantha thought that this was a shameful death for such a groundbreaking machine, so calling in some favors, she had the computer resurrected. Betsy took a lot of work to rejuvenate but for Samantha, it was well worth it. Instead of having to queue up for computer time with the rest of the Center's scientists, she now had her own personal supercomputer to play with. When it came time to give the machine a designation so that it could be recognized by the network, she decided to name it after one of her cows back home on the farm. Like her favorite bovine back in South Dakota, Betsy was old but not yet ready to be put out to pasture.

Scooting her chair across the hard tile floor, she typed at the keyboard in front of Betsy's terminal. A weather simulation she had started a few hours ago had just finished running. This was the latest in a series that Samantha was working on and the results were not corresponding to the predicted outcome. She let out a sigh as she gave a cursory examination of the data displayed in three huge columns. With a push of a button, she copied the machine's work to an unused part of her allocated space on the center's network, safely tucking it away for further analysis tomorrow.

Quickly scanning the huge computer center once again, Samantha noticed that the activity of the room was winding down. With a change of watch coming up, she took the liberty to check her email. On top of the long list, she saw a message that she had been expecting. Clicking on the link, she read the short email.

14) P-QR3 Take that, Sammy!

Samantha groaned out loud. Quite adept at multitasking, she played chess via email to help pass the long hours of watch. Tonight she was playing with a friend who was a ranked Class A player and she was losing badly. With this last move, her fragile position on the board had been weakened severely. Playing with him was always a good experience since she went away learning a new chess position or strategy, but her friend was an immature little weasel who liked to gloat incessantly. She could envision the torrent of email he would heap upon her if she lost to him once again. Samantha was fiercely competitive and hated to lose at anything.

_Let's see if Betsy can suggest something,_ she thought to herself.

When Samantha had resurrected Betsy from the bowels of computer purgatory, one of her first tasks was to test it for proper operation. To accomplish this, she had adapted an open source chess program to run on the machine. Working on complicated chess positions was an acceptable benchmark to judge the machine's health. Each successive tweak of the computer's many parameters helped fine tune Betsy back into fighting shape.

As usual, Samantha had been recording the current game's moves for further study. Feeling sneaky and just a bit naughty, she fed the data to Betsy with a touch of a button. Now up to date with the game's position, Samantha let Betsy loose on the problem.

She did not have to wait very long for an answer. The screen's display flickered as it took Betsy all of six one-thousandths of a second to figure out the next best chess move. In the time it took Samantha to read the suggestion, Betsy had forged ahead and computed a dozen variations to her friend's possible answer along with the corresponding counter moves. Thirteen lines down the list, the game ended in a draw. Analyzing Betsy's suggestion, Samantha grinned as she relayed the reply back to her friend.

"Take that, asshole," she said to no one in particular as she typed the email, grinning from ear to ear.
Chapter Five

Orlando, Florida - Thursday Morning

THE SUN WAS UP and in full force at seven-thirty in the morning as Vito opened the front door of his house. Following years of habit, the old, grey-haired man lit up the first of his many daily cigars as he slowly surveyed his surroundings, checking for anything strange. A sly glance up and down the block showed nothing out of the ordinary. In the distance, he watched one of his neighbors driving away to work in a shiny black Mercedes. After a fifteen second pause in the doorway to further scrutinize the empty street, he was satisfied that it was safe to venture out into the morning heat.

Wearing a baggy tee shirt and a pair of extremely ugly plaid shorts, he slowly walked out of his house to fetch the morning paper. Not seeing it on the lawn, he swore under his breath in Italian. Despite having being warned, the paperboy had once again tossed the newspaper deep into the bushes. As quickly as his sixty-five year old body would allow him, Vito reached deep into the shrubbery and retrieved the paper, but not before he scratched his forearm on the sharp pointy leaves. This brought out another round of curses, this time in both English and Italian.

As he wiped at the thin red line on his arm, Vito had a sudden feeling that something was amiss. All of his senses instantly snapped to high alert. He had learned long ago that trusting his animal instincts could mean the difference between life and death. The adrenaline that was now flowing through his system made every muscle in his powerful body tighten. Quickly, he noticed what was wrong with his environment. The trash receptacle at the curbside had been tipped over and the garbage bags had popped out.

_Why didn't I see that before I left the house?_ he asked himself. _All of this easy living must be dulling my thinking._

Vito went over to the mess in front of his house, his eyes darting back and forth. Carefully poking at a white plastic bag with his foot, he observed that none of them had been ripped open. He remembered that the weekly information bulletin that the association threw on his front steps had said that there was a family of raccoons spotted in the area, with traps and poison set to rid the community of the problem.

_Surely, a hungry raccoon would have torn right through the garbage bag,_ the old man thought to himself. Using the same logic that served him well his long life, he quickly ruled out animals as the cause of the trouble.

A muted thud from up the block gave him his answer. Off from school for summer vacation, some of the neighborhood kids were riding their bikes up and down the street in the relative coolness of the morning. One kid, tired of jumping curbs, was showing off for his friends by wheeling his BMX style bicycle close to the sidewalk and at the last moment, lashed out with his foot to kick over a trashcan to the loud applause of the other brats. Looking down at his own black plastic container, Vito saw the dirty imprint of a child's size seven sneaker.

He felt the heat rise up within him as he chomped down hard on his cigar. Slowly, Vito counted to ten in Italian. From past experiences, he learned that this delaying tactic prevented a few things from occurring. Since he continued to eat salty meats like prosciutto and salami against his doctor's orders, it stopped his blood pressure from rising too high and possibly bursting a vessel in his head. More importantly, it gave the distinguished-looking man time to reconsider the idea of walking into the garage, fetching a baseball bat from the corner and smashing the youngster's brains out.

Vito Capputo learned at an early age to take personal insults seriously. Born in a fifth floor tenement slum in New York City, his illiterate Sicilian parents, not great believers in a formal education, thrust him out on the mean streets of Brooklyn as a child to help obtain much needed income for his poor family.

Finding companions in likewise cast aside youngsters, he quickly worked his way up from swiping fruit from a horse drawn cart to running an illegal numbers racket at the corner grocery store. Before long, he caught the eye of the local gangsters who were always on the lookout for fresh talent.

Now elevated to street thug level, Vito was allowed to participate in other criminal pastimes like collecting owed gambling debts from deadbeats. This opportunity brought bigger paydays and being a good son, he never forgot to send home a portion of his ill-gotten money to his parents.

Vito ascended through the ranks in record time. He accomplished this remarkable feat by utilizing his native intelligence for business and a burning desire to excel. His success was also attributed to his sheer ruthlessness. Lacking early parental affection and guidance, he was completely devoid of anything that resembled human compassion. In time, he married a sweet, dark haired neighborhood girl by the name of Angelina and proceeded to start a family.

Short in stature but possessing a muscular build, Vito was soon proficient in maiming and killing people the traditional way with knife and gun, but if truth be known, he preferred a baseball bat as the weapon of choice. This was a bit unusual since Vito did not really care for baseball or sports in general, if you didn't consider taking a bet on a game or two, but he possessed a natural swing that Joe DiMaggio would have been proud of. With both of his strong hands gripping the wooden handle, the thick barrel of the Louisville Slugger made a sharp _crack_ sound as it contacted the skull of his many victims. He briefly experimented with an aluminum bat that the college leagues were now mandated to use, but being a traditionalist, he soon returned to the denser northern white ash. There was just something about the dull _ping_ sound of a metal bat that did not sit well with him.

Word quickly spread through the underground about his love for the national pastime. When the books were opened and it came time for Vito to be initiated to the inner ring of La Cosa Nostra, he needed to receive a nickname as all good Sicilian Mafioso did. A low-level wise guy from a competing gang by the name of Two-Fingered Tony jokingly suggested 'Bats.' This moniker never really did take hold since Vito thought it made him sound crazy, as in the phrase 'Bats in the Belfry.' Another reason why it never stuck was that Two-Fingered Tony was found dead later the next day, stuffed into a large dumpster with the left side of his head caved in. A postmortem examination showed wood splinters imbedded deep in the wound. The fact that the trash container was in the parking lot of Yankee Stadium only added to the irony.

Vito carefully maintained his reputation as a good earner for his bosses. After a few more years of faithful employment, he was made a captain, complete with his own crew of criminal underlings. Always observant, Vito noticed with some dissatisfaction that true power rested at the upper echelons of the organization. Paradoxically, any stagnation in advancement through the ranks was looked upon as a weakness and therefore, certain death from any one of his many associates.

In time, he rose further up in his chosen occupation to the rank of under boss. He was now second in command to a man named Nicolas Abandado, known affectionately to his friends as Nicky the Scumbag. Though Vito and Nicolas had grown up together on the streets as children, their relationship as adults was one of carefully guarded and mutual distrust. In a group that respected violence and money, all tributes from ill-gotten gains moved up the chain of command, not down. Vito now had to kick up tributes only one level to his boss but being greedy, he thought that this was one level too much and decided early on that his longtime friend had to be eliminated at the first convenient opportunity.

One night, Nicky the Scumbag decided to attend his daughter's college graduation. As his Cadillac Seville pulled into the school lot, he and his bodyguard were greeted with gunfire from six different shooters, all dressed as parking lot attendants. Since the hit men were all expert shots, Nicky died instantly in a bloody mess that stunned even the normally stoic New York press. Although no one was ever charged with the crime, everyone who was anyone knew that Vito had masterminded the coup d'état.

Now assuming the defacto role of _capo de tutti capo,_ Vito grew even more cautious. Well aware that there was always someone looking to take over his hard earned position as he himself had done, Vito made sure that his hand-picked and highly paid bodyguards were always at his side. Keeping an eye out for the ambitious young underling, he quickly and ruthlessly dispatched his enemies.

Great rewards came with the dangers of his chosen profession. Vito now controlled both the cargo that crossed the Brooklyn docks and the prostitutes that uncrossed their legs in the fancy brothels on the upper eastside of Manhattan. Every bolt of cloth that rolled down Seventh Avenue added to his wealth and as his riches grew, his influence increased. Judges, assembly members and all pundits of the political machine lined up to receive his considerable favors. His range of illegal enterprises was all-embracing.

Despite his lack of a formal education, Vito had a flair for managing his finances. The average mobster usually pissed away his illegal earnings as quickly as it came in on women, drinking and gambling, but being a family man, Vito preferred to stay at home and watch his bambinos grow up. Like any good businessman, he diversified his holdings. With the help of excellent lawyers and even better financiers, he laundered the dirty money by investing wisely in legal businesses and real estate. Trust funds for his children, and then later on his grandchildren, were set up and vigorously maintained. Life was good for Vito.

But one day, his life came crashing down around him as his wife of thirty-five years died unexpectedly of a brain aneurysm as she prepared her traditional Sunday dinner of meatballs and spaghetti. Hearing his beloved Angelina fall to the kitchen floor, he hurried in from the study and held her in his strong arms as she stared back at him behind now vacant eyes. Unashamed, he wept openly as he pushed away his bodyguards and carried her to the sofa where he stayed with her until the ambulance arrived.

The funeral was the most lavish seen in the New York area in decades with dignitaries of both the legal and illegal worlds attending. Since all of his children were now grown and had families of their own, Vito found himself alone in his large house on Long Island for the first time in many years. Contemplating the meaning of life beyond the mere monetary, he decided that it was time to step down and spend the rest of his life spoiling his grandchildren. Finding himself in a most unusual situation, Vito requested a hearing before the Commission.

Made up of select members of the other crime families, this self-regulating board monitored all illegal activities in the tri-state area. Vito's request to retire was viewed with skepticism since gangsters normally left the organization feet first via unfortunate accidents, like Billy 'No Nose' Sorentino, who had the bad luck of being chopped up into itty-bitty parts in the back of a dirty garage somewhere in Bayonne, New Jersey.

The negotiations went on for days. Vito pleaded his case with well thought out precision. If the Commission agreed, he would relinquish control of all of his New York holdings with the lion's share to be distributed among the members. Conversely, if they denied his request, Vito promised to start a mob war that would bring unwanted attention and dry up revenues for all parties concerned.

This request from Vito posed a sticky dilemma for the committee members. A Mafia Godfather who wanted to retire via natural causes was a most unusual situation, but the Commission was made up of very greedy men who practically drooled at the thought of acquiring all those riches. They were also highly suspicious of Vito's actions. This might just be an elaborate attempt at taking over the entire area for himself and nobody wanted the carnage that fighting among the families would bring.

After much deliberation, Vito was allowed to retire with some unusual caveats. First and foremost, he had to agree to be available for advice and if necessary, exert his considerable influence in whatever matter the Commission wanted. By keeping Vito on retainer as a consultant, the other family members reasoned that they could monitor this very powerful and clever man while still maintaining the ability to tap into the huge collection of politicians he had influence upon. Vito agreed to this stipulation since he would be paid handsomely for very little work.

The second condition surprised Vito when he heard it. The Commission wanted him to leave the New York area and promise never to return. It was suggested that he retire to the good life in sunny Florida. After some careful thought, this was readily agreed upon. After all, it was Vito's money that had been originally used to finance new developments up and down the Sunshine State and he could readily afford to live out his life in a number of places.

Vito pictured himself taking his many grandchildren to all of the tourist attractions that Florida had to offer. Having him move away from New York was icing on the cake for the Commission, therefore it was considered a win-win situation by all involved. A telephone call to the controlling family in Florida cleared the way for Vito's move.

So, without fanfare, Vito Capputo divided up his huge empire, bought a four-bedroom house in La Noche Pacífica and retired to sunny Florida. On the legal advice of his lawyers, he adopted the role of a retired construction union representative by the name of Mr. Vito Jones. Living alone for the first time in his life, he arranged to have a nice Cuban woman by the name of Isadora come in twice a week to do his laundry and clean his house. Although he decided that a live-in bodyguard would be too conspicuous, he did have contractors secretly alter a closet in the master bedroom. The extra space and shelving was filled with all sorts of weapons of mass destruction, just in case the Commission changed their minds about his retirement. And of course, he kept a baseball bat in the garage so that he could help his grandsons practice their swing when they came to visit.

And now, this dangerous old man stood on his front lawn in his very ugly plaid shorts and watched silently as he contemplated his reaction to the disrespect shown to him by the young boy on the bicycle.

"Brian!" he heard someone call. Vito turned to see the showoff peel away from the pack and pedal down to his father, stopping short in front of him, a huge divot of grass flying in the air. Still counting in Italian, Vito walked over to them.

"I'm getting ready to go to work, Brian. I want you to clean up that mess you and your friends made in the back yard."

"What mess, Pop?" the kid answered, attitude seeping out of every pore.

"I told you a dozen times that the wooden ramp has got to come down. Someone's going to get hurt."

Without permission, the kids had fashioned a crude jumping ramp which they used to perform acrobatic tricks, mimicking their extreme sports heroes. The noise from Brian and his friends as they launched skateboards and bicycles into the air at all hours of the day and night royally pissed off the neighbors. One of the older biddies who lived nearby complained to Leo, who took it upon himself to oversee the matter. The second warning letter from the association had arrived in yesterday's mail.

"Nobody's going to get hurt, Pop. We know what we're doing."

"Dammit, Brian! Just once do as I say and don't argue with me!"

The father looked up and noticed Vito glaring at them. He had been so busy yelling at his son that he hadn't heard the old man approach.

"Um, hello."

"This your kid?" He pointed to Brian.

"Yes, unfortunately he is," he joked. "You're Mr. Jones aren't you? From that two story ranch style up the block? I've been meaning to come over and introduce myself. I'm Gunter Bayer and this is Brian." He stuck out his hand.

"Your kid has been kicking trash cans over," Vito said, ignoring the outstretched hand. He took a step closer. "He knocked over mine."

Gunter quickly looked over the powerfully built man. Instinctively, he could see the hardness in his demeanor and subconsciously sensed a danger that was conveyed by the look in his dark eyes. Sheepishly, he said, "I'm sure it wasn't Brian that did that. It must have been some of the other kids that he hangs out with."

Brian, having no real world experience outside of his small circle of friends and relatives, did not sense the immediate problem. Since birth, his every whim had been catered to by parents who substituted material things for love. Spoiled beyond belief, he was the typical, self-centered American kid whose only concern was his own well-being. Now, in the presence of his father, Brian decided that he could afford to act tough in front of the strange old man.

"No way, Pops!" the young boy blurted out. "I didn't do nuthin' like that." Totally bored, Brian turned around, leaving his bicycle on the grass. "Later for this shit," he threw over his shoulder.

Vito watched the young boy walk away. "You should teach your kid more respect, Gunter."

"I'm sorry about that. He's really a good boy. He's just unruly since his mother left us." His voice trailed on. "But I'll see to it that your trash gets picked up." With that, Gunter turned and left in the same direction as his son, glad to get away from the very strange and menacing man.

Vito had left the house without a hat and now he could feel the hot sun pounding on his head, beating in time with the vein in his neck. Deciding to shelve the problem for the time being, he slowly turned to go back up the street and put these uncouth people behind him.

_No wonder the kid's an asshole,_ he thought. The father is a real _cafone_!

At just that moment, Brian came bouncing out of the house. Wanting to get away from his father and his constant nagging about the wooden ramp, he had grabbed his iPod and dialed in his favorite song. He jammed the small buds deep into his ear canals and turned it up to maximum volume. The almost unintelligible tunes of _Dissin' Me_ , the latest hit from the quasi rap-punk-rock group 'Sucking Chest Wounds' drowned out his dad's whining while simultaneously destroying yet another percentage of his rapidly diminished hearing.

Dissin' me, dissin' me,

Why you keep on dissin' me?

Baby, baby, don't cha know

Just who it is that I be?

Brian walked over to where his bike lay. He noticed that the old grey haired man he had messed with earlier was now walking away from him, his back turned in an obvious sign of disrespect.

_Why is this old dude dissin' me?_ the young boy thought as he listened to the lyrics filing his head. _Doesn't he know just who it is that I be?_

Spurned on by the song pounding in his ears and feeling full of the confidence of youth, he decided to have some more fun with the old geezer and to show him just who was boss.

"Hey grandpa!" he shouted over the static of the iPod. "Where did you get them ugly looking shorts at?"

Vito stopped in mid-stride. Slowly he looked over his shoulder at the little kid who was staring back at him, hands on both hips in a defiant manner. His first-born daughter had given him the shorts as a joke when she learned that he was going to retire to Florida. Not smart enough to leave well enough alone, this brat had gone way too far by disrespecting his family. No amount of counting in any language was going to save him now, Vito quickly decided as he bit down hard on his cigar.

Dissin' me, dissin' me,

Why you keep on dissin' me?

When I strutz my stuff on down the street

You better turn around and flee.

Brian saw the man's eyes grow dark as coal, but was not smart enough to judge the dire threat he now faced. _I can outrun this guy any day of the week if he tries anything,_ he thought smugly.

"Yeah, that's right! You heard me. You look stupid in them shorts!"

Vito surprised Brian with a wide, toothy smile, yellowed from years of tobacco use. Strangely contrary to the glare in his eyes, this effect had been perfected by Vito years before Brian was born. Calculated to throw his enemy off balance, it was the kind of expression that a hawk shows to the rabbit right before he grabs him by the ears and flies high up in the air, only to be dashed upon a rock to certain death.

Dissin' me, dissin' me,

Why you keep on dissin' me?

If you cross this homie's path

I'll cut you bad, don't ya see?

_What a senile old jerk off,_ Brian thought. _Look at that stupid grin._

Brian decided to press on with his verbal attack. After all, it wasn't any fun if he couldn't get the old guy upset.

He took a step closer to Vito. "What are you, retarded? Don't you even know when you're being made fun of?"

Vito continued to smile as he cocked his head to the side. He put his hand up to his ear and put a quizzical expression on his face.

Brian rolled his eyes and looked disgusted with the whole affair. With a pop, he pulled out the ear buds from his head. The crackling rap music was much louder now and filled the short distance between them.

"I'm sorry son," Vito said as he leaned over towards the boy. "What did you say? I don't hear so good anymore now that I'm old."

Stepping even closer, Brian shouted in exasperation, "I said, what the hell do you... _Acckkkk!_ "

That was Brian's first, and quite possibly, his last mistake. Now easily within Vito's grasp, the old man grabbed at the headphones as his comical smile was quickly replaced with a vicious sneer. With amazing speed, he looped it twice around the boy's throat and yanked hard. Now transformed into a garrote, a red line of blood formed where the thin white wire cut through his tender skin. Unable to draw a breath, Brian's eyes started to bulge out as his face turned blue. Bending down further so that he was face to face with the youngster, Vito blew a large grey cloud of cigar smoke in his face.

"Now listen to me, kid," Vito said, the hot ash inches away from Brian's nose. "I'm gonna ask you some questions and you're gonna answer them. I want you to grunt once for yes and twice for no. You understand me?"

With his airway closed off and in an immense amount of pain, Brain responded with a loud " _Acckkkk!_ "

"Don't you know that you upset me when you talk to me like that? You need to show your elders some respect."

Brian flailed his fists uselessly at Vito. All he got for his trouble was a small amount of bitter tobacco spittle splashed on his face that burned his eyes and added to his growing suffering.

This time Vito's smile was more natural as he repeated, "What did you say? I don't hear so good anymore now that I'm old."

" _Acckkkk!_ "

As if from far away, Brian heard the chorus of his favorite song.

Dissin' me, dissin' me,

Why you keep on dissin' me?

Dissin' me, dissin' me,

Why you keep on dissin' me?

"Good. Now I want you to walk up to my house and pick up the garbage that you knocked over. You _capiche_ , asshole?"

" _Acckkkk!_ "

"Now before I let you go, tell me. Are you going to do anything like this again?"

" _Acckkkk!_ "

Fire raged in Vito's eyes as he tightened the wire another notch around the small boy's throat.

"What did you say, you little fuck?"

" _Acckkkk! Acckkkk!_ "

Frantically, Brian signaled no. The expression of fear was accompanied by a dark stain on the front of his shorts where the young boy had just wet himself.

With a cloud of cigar smoke aimed squarely at Brian's face, Vito released his grip and threw the boy to the ground. Brian sucked in a lungful of air and coughed hard. Slowly, the color returned to his face.

Staring down at the expensive bicycle, Vito quickly decided what else needed to be done. He placed the heel of his left foot on the back wheel. Shifting his weight, he pushed down hard and snapped the thin wire spokes. Again and again, he stepped on the tire, rendering it useless. With Brian's main mode of transportation taken care of, he turned around and walked back to his house, laughing at the boy's stupidity.

_Now let's see if we can't improve that paperboy's aim,_ he thought as he flicked off the ash from his cigar.
Chapter Six

Monterey, California - Thursday Afternoon

SAMANTHA SHIFTED FORWARD in her high backed leather chair and somehow narrowly avoided knocking over a ream of computer paper that was piled high on the floor next to her desk. With space at a premium, the office that she had been assigned at Fleet Numerical was tiny, befitting her junior rank.

_I guess it's time I put in some more shelves,_ she thought to herself as she eyed a bare spot on a far wall.

Using ingenuity to overcome adversity, Samantha had tricked out her office into a uniquely personalized workspace. After learning that it would take pounds of paperwork to requisition the necessary fifteen minutes of labor to install some shelves, she surprised her fellow co-workers when she arrived one day with a toolbox and pre-cut wood planks. In a show of her usual 'get it done' attitude and with her favorite music playing softly in the background, Samantha had personally installed a set of wooden shelves on the far wall and finished the job before all the morning's doughnuts had magically disappeared in the center's cafeteria.

The next item in the office's transformation was to take care of a wooden chair that wobbled dangerously when anyone sat in it. The chair had accompanied the small space through countless occupants, but after the first near accident, it had been placed in the hallway with a small handwritten sign on it that said simply, "Fix me or use me for firewood." Since the chair had disappeared shortly after that, Samantha assumed that it was now kindling.

Her friend and mentor Dr. Rasha Gupta was close by her side. With barely enough room for a desk and a book case, any discussions with two or more people were usually held in the large conference room down the hall, but for today's work they needed to sit in front of a computer screen. Having worked with Samantha for the better part of a year, Dr. Gupta had learned to bring his chair when he came to visit if he wanted a seat. It was a comical sight in the hallways to see him pushing his own office chair down the long hall, usually filled with huge binders and textbooks.

They both stared intently at a large, flat monitor that occupied a prominent part of valuable desk real estate. On screen, a computer graphic video looped for twenty seconds, then reset itself to repeat over and over. Smack dab in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, a small comma shaped hurricane symbol lurched back and forth like a drunken sailor. Driven by low-pressure weather systems hundreds of miles away, at first it headed westward towards the coast of Mexico, but abruptly changed color from red to black and stopped. Reversing its track, the icon moved quickly towards Florida, slicing into Tampa Bay. For a brief moment in the speeded up computer simulation, it stalled right on top of the greater part of Central Florida where it hung motionless. Finally, after an eon of computer time, the icon wobbled and quickly exited into the Atlantic through Cape Canaveral, disappearing off the edge of the map.

"Did you see that? It happens right here."

Samantha put down the large bran muffin she was picking at and slapped the space bar on the keyboard, freezing the video at the point the hurricane symbol changed color. She pointed to a column of numbers underneath a time counter to the left of the screen.

"Something is terribly wrong here, little one. What we are seeing cannot be true. We must look at the calculations again."

"We've looked at the equations a hundred times and nothing has changed since the first time we ran the simulation," she continued unabated. "The barometric head pressure at the western outer wall builds up to the tipping point that we computed last week. That's the moment when everything goes to hell in a hand basket."

Samantha tapped at a key repeatedly. With each press, the video advanced a frame, the data number column changing in lockstep.

The painfully thin man leaned closer towards the screen. After a moment of intense scrutiny, he slowly nodded his head in agreement.

"You know what this means, Professor," Samantha said. "We have to tell somebody."

"This is an untested algorithm run on incomplete data," the dark skinned man said in a thick accent. His high-pitched voice never quite softened at the end of a sentence, so it was difficult to tell if he was making a statement or asking a question. "If we're wrong, it could spell the end of your career."

Samantha pointed to the silver bar on her khaki shirt collar. "I'm just a JG, Professor. I don't have a career yet."

He turned to look at her as a sad smile crossed his face. "I used to have one. It's not all it's cracked up to be."

After working closely with the scientist for almost a year, Samantha learned to just nod and grin when he carried on nostalgically.

"Just to be sure, I'll run another set of simulations on the mid-watch, but I don't think it's a mistake on our part, Professor."

She settled back in her chair. From the corner of her eye, she discreetly watched him to gauge his reaction to her last statement. Unconsciously, she reached out and gave him a pat on the back, being careful not to press too hard.

Samantha's military duties included standing watch at the main center, but to foster and gain a reputation in the scientific world, the young neophyte needed to attach herself to an older, established professor for mentoring. This presented a problem for her. There were many bright civilian PhD's at the center that she could align herself with for career advancement, but none of their work was of particular interest to her. Her immediate decision was whether to join with someone whose work was politically sanitized or risk alienation by studying something she enjoyed that could possibly be outside of the acceptable mainstream.

She saw Dr. Gupta one day by chance as they entered the building together. Signing in at the main security desk, she smiled politely and said hello to him. He replied by calling her 'little one.' Meant as a term of respect, she found this amusing since she was at least a head and a half taller than the frailly built man. When she asked the chief petty officer behind the desk about him, he replied that Dr. Gupta was one of the academic riff raff that they kept around to pad the amount of doctorates deemed necessary to operate a world-class meteorological center.

Samantha looked up his name and credentials in the organization's manual when she got back to her office. Impressed by the immense amount of scientific papers he had published, she made a side trip to the center's technical library and checked out a few of his journals, adding the thick books to her reading material pile. As she read through the scholarly papers, Samantha found herself fascinated with his groundbreaking work on applying chaotic equations to help refine the movements of weather disturbances. The very next day, she scheduled some time with him to talk about his work. After he took the time to explain the complex mathematical equations to her in greater detail, Samantha was intrigued by the brilliance of the concept. They started collaborating informally on a new project that they hoped would model steering wind patterns in finer detail and with a much greater accuracy.

Dr. Gupta and Samantha spent many hours working together. Since all of the scientists at Fleet Numeric queued up for precious supercomputer time that was in short supply, Samantha eventually put Betsy back to work. Forced out of a well-deserved early retirement, the huge machine churned day and night through immense amounts of collected weather data, applying the new computer algorithms devised by Dr. Gupta and written by Samantha. Even though Betsy was considered an antiquated relic next to the more powerful and shiny computing devices at the Center, having their very own personal supercomputer on hand aided the pair's academic investigations immensely.

Forecasting the movement of hurricanes was a difficult process. A hurricane cannot move by itself and depended upon global winds to steer it. There were hundreds of different existing algorithms, each emphasizing the many contrasting initial conditions that could affect storm drift. Slight changes in air humidity at certain altitudes or the salinity content in the ocean water below the air mass could cause simulation models to diverge wildly from each other.

The preliminary results of the study were strange. Hurricanes are rated according to their wind speed on the Saffir-Simpson scale from one to five, with five being the most devastating. The computer simulations that they ran showed unusual movement and erratic behavior time and time again when applied to these powerful storms. Their groundbreaking research showed that when a storm reached category five force, a wall of heated air built up before it that tended to counteract the forward movement. It was this air wall that formed at just the proper temperature and barometric pressure that gave the hurricane a slight nudge backwards, like a child's finger disrupting the spinning of a top. Under the right set of circumstances, the simulated storms always veered wildly from their normal, predictable paths.

The next step was to find out if the algorithms worked in real life situations. Luck smiled upon them since there was currently a powerful category five storm spinning in the Gulf of Mexico with which to test their theories.

Hurricane Jesse had started life out as a tropical wave generated off the west coast of Africa. It moved slowly across the Atlantic towards the Americas, feeding off the ocean's energy, gaining strength hourly. By the time Jesse reached the eastern shore of Cuba, it had obtained category three strength. After laying havoc to the island for the better part of a day and a half, the storm entered the Gulf of Mexico, noticeably spent and its forward progress much slower. Predicted by all the other models to continue increasing in strength to a category five in the warm fertile waters of the Gulf, Jesse's anticipated path was westward towards the lower Texas-Mexico border, where it would eventually cross over the Sierra Madre Occidental mountain range and die a most dishonorable death in the cooler Pacific waters.

Samantha and Dr. Gupta carefully fed all of Jesse's data into Betsy and were initially quite elated to find out that they had accurately replicated the storm's movement from its early formation to its current position in the Gulf of Mexico. However, a slight problem occurred. When called upon to predict Jesse's future movements, Betsy disagreed with the general consensus of her fellow computers. Exhibiting uncharacteristic hurricane traits, the new path diverged wildly from the more established models and was predicted to reverse course and slam into Florida.

"Let me check something, professor." Samantha grabbed the morning newspaper and scanned through the pages.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

"This." She pointed to a small article buried on page five. The headline read 'Shuttle Prepares For Rollout.'

She continued reading. "Cape Canaveral, Florida. Preparations were finalized today for the Space Shuttle Discovery's launch in two weeks. With good weather predicted and the threat of Hurricane Jesse gone, the shuttle will begin its roll out of the Vehicle Assembly Building towards its slow three and a half mile travel to launch pad thirty-nine..."

The Vehicle Assembly Building mentioned in the article was a 525-foot tall building where the shuttle orbiter was mated with the solid rocket boosters and external fuel tank. Since it was located in Florida, the building had originally been constructed to withstand tropical storms and provide protection for the shuttle. The most extensive damage to the structure occurred during the storm season of 2004, when Hurricane Frances blew off eight hundred and fifty aluminum panels from the building. These segments were engineered to detach from the VAB on purpose to allow for pressure equalization and help protect the structural integrity during rapid changes in pressure. Twenty-five additional panels were blown off the east side by the winds from Hurricane Jeanne just three weeks later.

However, when the shuttle was loaded onto the Mobile Launcher Platform, it was vulnerable and open to the weather. Traveling at just under one mile per hour, a one way trip took five hours with even more time needed for hookup to the launch pad. If NASA, like everyone else thought that the hurricane threat had passed, the billion-dollar space vehicle was at serious risk.

Samantha put down the newspaper as the two scientists looked at each other silently for a long moment.

"Professor, we're going to have to tell somebody," Samantha repeated.
Chapter Seven

Orlando, Florida - Friday Morning

JAKE WAS RUNNING LATE for work. Since his son had partied all night at a friend's house, prodding him out of bed had been especially hard this morning. When he questioned Paul about why he arrived home at three in the morning on a school night, the young boy had insisted on using ghetto-speak to answer his dad.

"Don't be buggin' me, Pops. I just be rollin' with my posse," he shot back from under the covers.

_Posse? What is he now, a friggin' cowboy?_ Jake thought as he picked up his briefcase. It seemed that the verbal tongue-lashings Jake gave his lazy son did absolutely no good. More and more, it was getting difficult, if not downright impossible to discipline the kid. As he slammed the garage door behind him, he was quite sure that Paul was going to go back to sleep and miss yet another day's worth of classes. He thought about the other night's talk with Leo concerning the loud music.

Maybe I can get him in the Marines...

He could tell that it was going to be another steamy Florida summer day even before he left the relative comfort of his garage. Exactly as promised by last night's weather report, the temperature and humidity hovered in the barely endurable range on the discomfort scale. Quickly, Jake walked over to his truck, threw in his briefcase and climbed inside. It was a short drive to the huge industrial complex where he worked, but having missed his window of opportunity to get a space close to his building entrance because of Paul, he was condemned to the far nether regions of the parking lot with a guarantee of at least a ten-minute trudge across acres of steamy hot asphalt.

Living in Florida these past few weeks taught him that the first thing he should do when he started the truck in the morning was to immediately turn on the air conditioner. With the AC cranking full blast, he might stand a good chance of sucking up enough cool air so that he could cross the sticky parking lot and reach his desk without appearing as if he just stepped out of the shower.

Pulling down the sun visor, he stabbed at the garage door opener. The drive mechanism responded noisily as Jake put the huge Ford F-150 truck into reverse. When he cleared the threshold, he pushed the button again. This time, the door moved down a total of six inches, then stopped abruptly.

Bahwwwwaahhhhh!

An earsplitting noise from the drive mechanism shattered the quiet of the morning. Jake rushed outside to silence the noisy monster, leaving behind the cool cab interior. With both hands, he yanked on the bottom of the aluminum garage door and pulled with all his might.

Bahwwwwaahhhhh!

The growling sound shifted higher in frequency and was now as loud as the feedback of an electronic guitar at a rock concert. In the back of his mind, Jake could envision the dirty looks and snide comments of his neighbors as he tried pulling down on the door once again. This time, the added effort coaxed the mechanism back into alignment. Now subdued, the door made it way down the track with a contented _chuga-chuga_ sound.

Jake cursed as he tried to rub the dirt and oil from his hands, being careful not to smudge his clean work clothes. Back at the truck, he reached inside the glove compartment for a tiny pre-moistened towelette that he kept handy for just such an emergency. Wrapped in a paper packet like a condom, his greasy fingers struggled with the wrapper.

"Garage door acting up again?"

He turned in the direction of the voice and saw Barbara Morgenstern just as she was locking her front door. Like all the other males in the neighborhood, Jake was always happy to get a glimpse of Leo's wife. Tall and statuesque, she wore her dark shoulder-length hair this morning pulled up in a very attractive business-type bun. Dressed in an expertly tailored three-piece outfit that accented every single curve on her body, she walked gracefully to her Lexus that was parked in the driveway.

Jake tried his best not to be too obvious as he analyzed her every single move. He had first spied Barbara one Saturday morning shortly after moving into La Noche Pacífica. Wearing nothing but a pair of tight cutoffs and tee shirt in the warm Florida sun, she was on her hands and knees in her garden, pruning roses. For the longest time, he watched his neighbor as she dug in the soil. Even covered in dirt and fertilizer, Jake thought that Barbara was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

After that first lecherous episode, he had kept a watchful eye out for his attractive next-door neighbor from his bedroom window. A week ago, he struck pay dirt as Barbara, in the smallest bikini ever designed by mankind, was lounging in her backyard. Stretched out face down on a rubber raft in the middle of the pool like a bronze goddess, he followed her every movement as her skin glistened from rich cocoa butter in the strong sun. To his delight, she reached behind her neck and undid the knot that held her top together. With his imagination running wild, he watched the small drops of sweat slide gracefully down her shoulders and arms to the side of her breasts.

Since then, Jake strained his brain to find any opportunity to talk to her. To his pleasant surprise, she turned out to be a very friendly person with a quick smile that warmed his heart. They had chatted occasionally in their front yards, exchanging neighborly banalities about the weather. Each time was a sheer delight for Jake.

With work pushed far back into the corner of his mind, Jake sucked in his gut and walked over to the dividing bushes for a better look.

"Sorry about that, Barbara. I hope the noise didn't bother you too much. I'm on the mechanic's short list, but it'll be a while before he can make it out this way."

Barbara smiled sweetly at him. "No problem, Jake. You're never a bother."

With the car's door still open, Jake could see her long legs stretched out in front of her towards the pedals. Nonchalantly, his eyes traveled upwards and lingered on her narrow waist, accented by a starched white blouse with the top two buttons opened. Jake thought that she looked exactly like a high-ranking lawyer should. Professional and conservative, yet drop dead sexy.

"Please tell Leo I'm working on getting somebody out here to fix the door." He gave her a sheepish look. "I can't afford the association's fines."

Barbara tilted her head back and let out a hardy, infectious laugh.

"That's funny!" she said, her eyes twinkling in the sunlight. "I'll put in a good word for you." To his surprise, she lowered her glance and added in a very deep, sexy voice, "And you know what? He usually does what I ask him to."

The overall effect on Jake was immediate. With his heart in his throat and a lump in his trousers, he tried to hide both his facial expression and his growing excitement as best he could, but only managed to stammer out, "I bet he does."

She flashed her patented smile once again for his pleasure.

"Don't you worry about Leo. He really is harmless."

"Well, thanks Barbara. I really appreciate that. I'll have to invite the two of you over for drinks sometime."

"Why, isn't that nice of you! I'll check on our schedules and get back to you."

"It's a deal," Jake said as he smiled back at the gorgeous woman in front of him.

"Well, I need to get to work." She gave Jake one last look that could stop traffic before she shifted the expensive car into drive. "Have a nice day, Jake." With that, she was quickly down the driveway and into the street.

Jake watched the Lexus as it moved away, the taillights receding in the distance. Somehow, two minutes with this gorgeous woman made the bird's songs sweeter and his morning brighter. He tried once again to figure out what she saw in her husband. Maybe it was the difference in personalities that clicked for them. Leo was so stern and meticulous while Barbara was soft and amiable. With his imagination in overdrive as he walked back to the truck, Jake wondered for the hundredth time what she would be like in bed. His mind ran wild as he envisioned her lying seductively on a fluffy white pillow, all subservient and demur, ready to perform his every wish.

His morning daydream was shattered when he saw the neighborhood gossip, an old crony he called The Dog Lady walking down the block towards him. Her real name was Mrs. Marcy McDonald, but Jake much preferred the nickname. She was wearing a white tank top that was three sizes too small for her larger than average frame. Her breasts jiggled comically as she waddled down the street in his direction. Barely contained by the cut off denim shorts that she wore, her huge thighs rubbed together in a loud swishing noise that could be heard yards away. Remembering his parting view of Barbara, Jake wondered how these two different people could both be classified as women.

On the end of a long reel-controlled leash, The Dog Lady was walking Peepers. Half poodle, half cockroach, Peepers was a hairy miniature something or other.

Jake hated Peepers. Since their respective properties were catty-corner to each other and separated only by a six-foot plastic fence, he could hear the dog yip yapping as he ran loose for hours on end in the hot sun. Peepers didn't bark like other dogs, but instead yelped in a loud, high register that drove Jake crazy. Talking to The Dog Lady about her pet's bad behavior did no good. She just laughed insanely even when Jake semi-threatened to go to the all-powerful association.

Another reason why Jake hated the mutt was that Peepers, brain damaged after either playing in the hot afternoon sun or many generations of doggie inbreeding, was always trying to hump his leg.

"Hello, Jake," the fat woman said happily. "That your garage door again?"

"Hello, Mrs. McDonald." Jake used her formal name in the hopes of not becoming too friendly. "Yes, that was my garage door." Unlike Barbara, Jake did not give a damn about this ditzy woman's feelings.

"I thought you were going to get it fixed," she said through plump lips. "It scared poor little Peepers." Jake looked down at the ball of fur who even now was straining at the leash. "Peepers! Go say hello to your friend."

With a push of her pudgy thumb, The Dog Lady released the catch on the mechanism, giving Peepers his chance to once again prove his love for Jake. In a second, Peepers had mounted Jake's right leg and was proceeding to grind away for all he was worth with a wide grin that stretched clear across his little doggy face.

"Geez! Get off me!" Jake bent down and swatted at Peepers, but the amorous pooch could not be deterred.

Oblivious to Jake's discomfort, The Dog Lady made no move to rein in the leash.

"You see that? Peepers likes you, Jake."

Jake, now standing on one leg while flailing the other wildly in the air, desperately tried to detach the animal. With one last mighty kick, Peepers went flying across the lawn like a last minute winning field goal, a contented smile of doggy ecstasy still on his face.

"Speaking of fixing things, why don't you start with that mutt?" He pointed at Peepers who had touched down ten feet away in a perfect five-point landing.

"You're funny!" the fat woman squealed as she reeled in both the leash and Peepers libido. Quickly changing topics, she said, "Aren't you glad the hurricane is passing us by?"

"Um, yes," Jake said as he smoothed down his paints leg and checked for any remnants of Peepers' love. "Hurricanes are bad things."

She droned on to Jake's discomfort. "But, you know, if it does come, we're ready for it. My husband bought metal shutters to cover the doors and windows after last year's storms. You weren't here then, but we had a terrible summer. There was lots of damage everywhere. Trees blown down, some windows broken. Just terrible. Did I tell you my husband's a county official?"

"Yes, you did," Jake said, being overly polite. In fact, she mentioned that fact every time they talked and Jake was getting sick of it. He struggled for a segue.

"Well, it's getting late and I need to get to work. Have a nice day, Mrs. McDonald." He turned toward the safety and comfort of his truck.

"Didn't you forget something Jake?" he heard her say.

"Um, no, I don't think so," he shot back over his shoulder.

She grinned widely. "You forgot to say goodbye to Peepers."

Jake held his temper as he slowly said, "Goodbye, Peepers."

Upon hearing his name being called out by his main love interest, Peepers looked up from the anthill he had been licking and turned his full attention towards Jake. With lust once again filling his doggie loins, Peepers charged towards Jake's warm leg. Jake quickly back peddled out of the reach of the animal and moved up the driveway to his truck, the maniacal laughter of the crazy fat woman pounding in his ears.
Chapter Eight

Downtown Orlando, Florida - Friday Morning

A LONG NIGHT of drinking and drugs made Juanita's head pound like a jackhammer, but since today was a workday, she forced herself to shuffle across the greasy kitchen floor towards the pantry. She reached into the dirty cupboard, upsetting the family of roaches that had recently taken up residence there. Pouring out a bowl of generic brand cereal, she shouted to her son for the third time.

" _Vamos,_ Manny! Get up! I got breakfast ready."

Angrily, she slammed the bowl down on the second hand kitchen table for effect. This only made her head hurt more.

She briefly thought about calling in sick, but decided against it because she had done so twice this month. The last time, her fat employer had bitched and moaned about how unreliable she was and threatened to call the social worker who was handling her case. Juanita could not have any of that since the court had mandated that she perform satisfactorily as part of her suspended sentence. She needed this crappy job badly.

Still rubbing sleep from his eyes, her son Manuel shuffled his way into the kitchen as only a tired thirteen year old could. He poured himself a cup of coffee before plopping down on a squeaky wooden chair. Eight o'clock in the morning was an unusually early start for him since he normally roamed the city streets until late at night.

"Can't we get something else besides this no name shit?" the boy asked as he splashed milk into the bowl. Manny quickly shoveled a spoonful into his mouth.

Juanita hated having conversations about money with her young son, especially first thing in the morning when she was hung over.

"This is going to have to make do until the welfare check comes," Juanita yelled as she glared at him.

"Welfare check? Shit, I make more than that in one night working for the guys down the block."

"Well then, Senior Big Bucks, why don't you start kicking in a little more for your share?"

The people Manny was referring to were the local neighborhood drug dealers who recently had offered him gainful employment. Not wanting to take the chance of being busted with dope, they preferred to use small, agile kids like Manny as a lookout for the cops. Each young kid was assigned a small territory to work, usually in his own neighborhood. Standing innocently on the corner, they would run up to the window of slowly approaching cars and offer the driver a choice selection of pharmaceuticals, both legal and illegal. His best customers were white people in fancy cars from the suburbs who usually preferred to venture into the slums under cover of darkness. On a good weekend, Manny usually pulled in two hundred bucks for very little work.

It had been a constant battle for Juanita Perez to protect her only son from the influence of drug dealers but being a lazy, uncaring parent, she had given up long ago. As proof that the apple did not fall far from the tree, the once pretty girl was herself a product of the streets. Young and rebellious, she had been in and out of the legal system since she quit school at fourteen to run with her gang, the 42nd Street Bonitas. Made up of neighborhood Puerto Rican girls, they wore garish black eye makeup, tight Levis and teased their hair to unimaginable heights.

Since they affiliated themselves with the male gangs for drugs and sex, it wasn't long until Juanita was pregnant with Manual at the tender age of fifteen. The father, a no-good gang banger named Loco, was killed in a drive-by shooting shortly after he got Juanita pregnant. His death, largely unnoticed outside of the neighborhood, was no great loss to society since Loco had absolutely zero intention of being a father or a husband to her or the three other young girls he knocked up that long, hot summer.

Ostracized from her very religious family and branded as a common _puta_ , Juanita took care of Manny as best she could. The two-bedroom apartment that mother and son occupied in the crappiest part of downtown Orlando came complete with hot and cold running roaches. A home of sorts, at night she could hear rats scurrying in the walls. Just west of Orange Blossom Trail, the neighborhood was filled with all the trimmings of urban decay. Gangs carved out sections of turf and at night, the chatter of gunfire was all too common. Junk cars filled the front yards of the abandoned buildings that lined the dirty streets. Parents learned to lay their babies down to sleep in bathtubs lined with blankets so that the cast iron would provide extra protection against the occasional stray bullet that burst through the walls uninvited.

Playing the legal system to the fullest, Juanita carefully shielded her meager income obtained from her court-mandated job as a house cleaner. Living on government assistance, the family existed on welfare and food stamps, which she sold on the black market for drugs and alcohol. Her only real concern was the occasional prying state official that made the unpredictable surprise visit, but with the huge amount of people receiving government assistance, it was nearly impossible to catch welfare cheats.

Manny finished his cereal and threw the bowl into the sink with the other dirty dishes. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

"Manny," she looked at him across the kitchen. She noted the beginnings of facial hair on her son, half little boy, half little man. "Remember, you got to sign into school today."

The public high school he sometimes frequented when he was hiding from the cops was falling apart. Once a shining example of a quality public education, the building had become as run down as the neighborhood it served. Asbestos fell from the leaky water pipes in the ceiling while armed security guards with metal detectors checked the students as they entered. These increased security measures were brought about when the teacher's union demanded them in their latest contract negotiations. Since Manny was now concentrating fully on his illegal line of work, he had stopped attending school regularly. His third truancy note had arrived in the mail yesterday. It suggested rather strongly that Juanita and Manny should come in for some friendly counseling before the matter got elevated to the level of Children's Services.

"Yeah, Mom. I'm going to school." He gave her a look that said it all. "Here's my homework." He pulled out a fat ganja joint from his pocket and lit it up.

"Let me check your work."

She reached over the table for the joint and took a long, deep hit. Handing it back to Manny, he walked out of the apartment into the dirty boulevard below.

With her parental duties done, she needed to finish getting dressed. Going into the bedroom, she yelled out, "Poco! Are you getting up? You have to drive me to work today."

From under the sheets, her current boyfriend, a lazy drifter by the name of Poco opened his one good eye.

"Drive yourself to work, bitch" he managed to say through his hangover.

Juanita slipped into her plain, light blue uniform that her rich employer insisted she wear and smoothed out the front. She quickly zipped up the back, the nylon fastener catching halfway up her back. Her struggles with the short uniform reminded her how much she hated wearing it. The thin material was difficult to clean and was semi-transparent. Since the weather was always so warm, she didn't like to wear a slip underneath. This made her underwear visible to the amusement of the male Hispanic gardeners who labored at La Noche Pacífica. She could hear their catcalls in Spanish ringing in her ears as she worked outside her employer's house. Luckily, most of her chores kept her inside the house so that she didn't have to parade around in the gaudy uniform.

Locating her white sneakers from underneath a pile of dirty laundry, she said, "Poco! You know my car's broken down, _vato_. Get up and drive me to work. If I have to take the bus, I'll be late and that old bitch said that she's gonna fire me."

Poco rolled over and stretched out his arm. He grabbed Juanita's leg behind the knee and pulled her towards the bed.

"To hell with that _brunhilda_. Come back to bed with me, baby." His hand slowly traveled up her leg to mid-thigh.

Juanita thought about how nice it would be to stay here with Poco, get more stoned and spend the rest of the day in bed instead of scrubbing someone else's dirty toilet, but quickly thought better of it.

" _Bastos!_ " she slapped at his hand. "Get up, you lazy thing! If I lose this job, who's going to pay the rent and buy the food?" She didn't have to add, "Where's your liquor money going to come from? Your profitable drug selling career?"

She brushed her hair in the mirror and yelled out in Spanish, "Five minutes, Poco!"
Chapter Nine

Monterey, California - Friday Morning

THE SUN HAD BEEN up for almost two hours as Samantha stepped outside of the computer center into another beautiful Monterey morning. The light reflected brightly off the dew that covered the well-manicured grass of Fleet Numerical. She had just spent another watch period inside the bowels of the concrete building riding herd on a bunch of supercomputers and the sun felt good on her face. Its warming rays spread over the sidewalks as well as the aluminum coverings of the building's windows that surrounded her. She reached into her shirt pocket and flipped open her sunglasses, then crisply returned the salute of a petty office as he entered the building from the other direction.

Across the way, she heard a whistle. Since Fleet Numerical was a United States naval installation, morning colors were held precisely at 0800 with the enlisted duty section raising the flag in precise military tradition. Samantha stopped, faced the parade grounds and saluted once again.

She watched as a slight offshore breeze blew the flag as it slowly ascended. The flag post at Fleet Numerical was fashioned like an old time sailing mast, painted white and complete with yardarms and lanyards, only instead of oak, it was constructed of aluminum. According to naval custom, during morning colors all persons in uniform faced in the general direction of the flag and rendered the hand salute. After the flag reached the top, three additional blasts were given on the whistle, signaling that the ceremony was over.

It was just a short walk to the administration building. The farthest points on the small base were only a ten-minute walking distance, which made it very convenient to traverse from the parking lot to her office on a chilly Monterey morning.

Out of habit, Samantha looked up at the green street sign as she passed the corner. The Fleet Numerical Center was located on Grace Hopper Avenue. Not knowing who that was, Samantha had researched the awe-inspiring woman's life when she had first arrived at Fleet Numerical and quickly adopted her as a role model.

Rear Admiral Grace Murray Hopper was sometimes referred to as 'Amazing Grace' because of her many accomplishments. An early pioneer in the fledgling computer science field, she was involved in the development of the first computer compiler and influenced the design of several computer languages like FORTRAN and COBOL. Like Samantha, she was a no-nonsense, straightforward individual. When asked by members of Congress why satellite communications took so long, she used to hand out pieces of copper pieces of wire which were just under one foot long, the distance that light travels in one nanosecond. The famous quotation, "It's easier to ask forgiveness than it is to get permission" was often attributed to her. In her honor, the USS Hopper (DDG-70) was launched in 1996, one of the few United States military vessels named after a woman. At the Microsoft Software Corporation, women formed an employee group called 'Hoppers.' With over three thousand members worldwide, a yearly scholarship was established in her honor.

For the hundredth time that morning, Samantha wondered if she was doing the right thing. Just a lowly Lieutenant Junior Grade, she was getting ready to explain to her superiors that she had evidence of a major upheaval in the art of hurricane movement prediction. Dr. Gupta's words from the other day came ringing back in her head time and time again. "I used to have a career."

Well, at least it's a lovely day to muck up the rest of your life.

And it was not as if the unusual partnership of the young naval lieutenant and Dr. Rasha Gupta had gone unnoticed. It seemed that the slightly eccentric researcher's work was not looked upon favorably at Fleet Numerical. Her commanding officer, observing her many requests for increased computer time and storage space, had spoken to her once before. As she stood before him at full attention, he tried to persuade her from pursuing this peculiar line of work with Dr. Gupta, at first in a gentle, fatherly manner, then with more persistence. To her credit, Samantha had stood her ground before the four-striped captain as he did his best to dissuade her from this most unholy union. Finally dismissing her with the customary and slightly insulting 'Mister' address given to all junior naval officers, she left his office even more determined to succeed in her controversial research work.

Born just outside the city limit of Bangalore, India to poor parents, young Rasha Gupta was always thin and sickly. His father, an uneducated jitney driver, had publicly disavowed the boy since birth. The product of many generations of laborers, he believed the boy to be worthless since he could never survive the long, hot days of loading and hauling cargo.

Pigeonholed since birth by India's rigid caste system, Rasha's social class ranking dictated that he attend a state sponsored public school. Thrown into a large classroom with hundreds of similar young boys and girls, he realized early on that his only hope of escaping the grueling life of a laborer was to study as hard as he possibly could.

He did just that. Young Rasha applied himself to his schoolwork with a ferocity that surprised everyone. After the school day was ended, he worked behind the counter of a small neighborhood grocery shop with his mother. In between measuring out kilos of basmati rice and pungent spices that irritated his nose and made him sneeze, he would take every lull in the store's activity to study. At night, he would secretly continue to read after bedtime by the dim glow of a candle.

After finishing primary school with honors, Rasha learned that he was selected by the local school administration to try for a highly prized spot in an American school and the associated green card that came along with it. Rasha prepared the best he could in his shotgun shack before sitting for the six-hour examination. Months later, after learning that he was the winner of one of the few open positions available, all in his family celebrated except for his father, who was selfishly saddened by the loss of cheap labor.

Without much except the clothes on his back, a small ceramic statue of Shiva the Destroyer and a well-worn pair of sneakers, he boarded a plane for the first time in his life and flew across the Atlantic on the long flight to California. His ticket was paid for by a bank loan his loving and supportive mother obtained at an outrageous interest rate.

Rasha did his first two years of school at a local community college living with distant relatives who had consented to take him in. With a strong desire to exceed, he easily outperformed the spoiled American students who struggled to make it to class when they were hung over from a long weekend of boozing and partying. Graduating with honors once again, he received a full scholarship to the University of California at Berkeley where he excelled in the field of meteorology.

Once at the famous university, he became interested in a branch of mathematics eloquently named chaos theory. The technical use of the word chaos differed from the common usage, which suggested complete disorder. According to modern physics, chaos theory stated that the behavior of certain dynamic systems, such as water moving through a pipe or large air masses moving across a mountain range, appeared to be random but is actually deterministic and thus orderly in some sense. Extremely sensitive to initial conditions, their future dynamics were fully defined with no random elements involved. Later to be known as the Butterfly Effect, early groundbreaking work by researchers showed that meteorology could not at most reasonably predict weather beyond a week.

Dr. Gupta's main research interest tried to introduce these untested chaotic theories into normally stale equations, however the application of these controversial ideas did not sit well with his superiors. The prodigious amount of academic papers he produced while studying for his doctorate at Berkeley highlighted his talents for mathematics and the sciences, but the life of an academic was extremely political. Ruled by the prejudices and failings of human emotions, there was a certain reluctance for people to accept new ideas.

Whether it was his upbringing or just the fact that he was thrust into a strange culture, he quickly learned not to suffer the fool. He fostered the reputation as a difficult person to work with and became the 'nail that must be hammered down.'

Not surprisingly, funding for post doctorate projects he worked on mysteriously dried up. His proposals were summarily rejected out of hand. Dr. Gupta found himself being pushed farther out of the inner circle of academia. Finally, he was relegated to teaching duties. For a research professor, this was pure unadulterated hell.

Ostracized, he was banished to a small office and given grunt work. With the maxim of publish or perish foremost in his thoughts, he tried to avoid a certain professional death by accepting a position at Fleet Numerical, continuing to work on computer simulation algorithms. With lots of spare time on his hands, he developed easy to install modular software plug-ins that correctly predicted large-scale weather pattern behavior to keep busy. The other investigators at Fleet Numerical, aware of his persona non grata status at Berkeley, dared not acknowledge the fact that they secretly used some of Dr. Gupta's well tested algorithms to bench test their own research work.

Samantha debated her upcoming actions as she continued to her office. She felt her stomach growl, reminding her that she had not eaten since the night before. Samantha considered making a side trip down to the small first floor kitchen area that the center maintained. Since it was Friday, there would be muffins and other pastries for sale, the proceeds going to Navy Relief. She quickly nixed the idea.

Better to let the CO hear my stomach growl than to have crumbs on my uniform.

After signing in at the main desk, Samantha quickly headed up the stairs to her office. She had an 0830 appointment to see the commanding officer and it would not stand her cause if she were late. Sitting down at her desk, she quickly logged into her computer. Expertly, she printed out the latest data results that Betsy had provided during last night's watch. Pulling out a small hand mirror from a side drawer, she gave a quick check of her hair and uniform, scooped up an armful of binders and computer printouts and was out the door.

It only took a minute to reach the other side of the building. The offices here were for the civilian scientists and senior officers who worked at Fleet Numerical. Once again, she noticed that they seemed a little bigger and had nicer furniture than her cubbyhole.

_That's where the saying_ _'Rank has its privilege' comes from, I guess,_ she thought to herself.

The outer door of the commanding officer's office was open. Samantha stepped in and smiled at his secretary. A pleasant woman, Doris was a GS-9 and had worked at the center forever. Since her own son was a Marine lieutenant currently stationed in the Gulf, Doris was sympathetic to the plight of the junior officers and endeavored to watch over them, much as a mother hen protected her chicks.

"Morning, Doris," Samantha greeted her friend.

"Hello, Sam," the grey haired woman shot back without looking up from her typewriter. "Captain Pierce will be free in a moment."

"Thanks."

Samantha sat down on a chair, her arms overflowing with the technological evidence necessary to back up her findings.

After what seemed like an eternity to Samantha, a side door opened and Captain Jonathan Pierce stepped through carrying an empty coffee cup. Samantha immediately got to her feet and stood at attention as best she could with her arms full.

"Doris, can I steal some of your coffee? That last meeting drained my pot dry."

Without waiting for an answer, the tall, broad shouldered man helped himself to a coffee setup at a side desk, completely ignoring Samantha.

"I guess so, captain," Doris said. "While we're on it, do I need to order more supplies for the coffee mess?"

"Wouldn't hurt," he replied as he set down the pot.

"Okay. Sign this while you're out here, please."

Opening up a manila folder, Doris slid over a few sheets of papers.

"What am I signing?" he asked as he retrieved a pen from his shirt pocket.

"Leave papers for Ensign Denison and a requisition for toilet supplies."

The grey haired officer barely suppresses a snarl. "Ensign Denison and toilet supplies. Those two items always seem to go together." With nothing more than a curious glance, he signed at the appropriate places. Doris continued smiling as she was handed back the paperwork.

The knot in Samantha's stomach tightened a bit. Ensign Denison was not the sharpest tool in the shed and it was well known that he had gotten on the captain's shit list early on. It was not conducive to an officer's career to be placed in such high esteem, but Denison was a non-caring screw-up.

The life of a young junior naval officer is not an easy one. No matter what type of command they were serving at, be it a ship or shore facility, they were always under constant scrutiny by their superior officers and had to walk a thin tightrope.

A fitness report was done twice a year and a bad one could ruin a junior officer's day. These reports were usually brutally honest. Strangely enough, tradition allowed the person doing the review to use sarcasm in the reports. Scathing comments like, 'If brains were dynamite, this officer wouldn't have enough to blow his nose' or 'This young officer is a perfect illustration of a bad example' were common and usually conveyed the meaning across without any ambiguity.

Not following a rigid, timely schedule of advancement up through the ranks also meant certain career death. The worst thing that could happen was being passed over for promotion due to a poor fitness report. Being passed over twice meant an automatic dismissal after the service obligation was over.

Although this procedure seemed overly harsh, such close scrutiny was necessary. These young officers, sometimes fresh out of school like Samantha, were given huge responsibilities. They had to be confident in their abilities without seeming cocky. Valuable equipment worth millions of dollars was placed under their care. But more important than this, these fledgling officers controlled the lives of the people who worked under them in the defense of their country. They had to perform correctly in life-threatening situations, so it was necessary to weed out the slackers. Only the best would do.

Captain Pierce was a full four-stripe captain and the commanding officer of Fleet Numerical. The many rows of colorful service ribbons that adorned his khaki shirt pocket attested to a long, distinguished naval career. A graduate of Annapolis, he had joined the submarine service after attending officer's nuclear power propulsion school in Groton, Connecticut. Various successions of commands followed along with a bunch of advanced degrees. Now ready to retire at the ripe old age of fifty, Captain Pierce considered this assignment as a well-deserved jewel in his crown and he took his responsibilities very seriously. He had granted a small slice of his valuable time to this junior officer only because she showed much promise and talent.

As Captain Pierce headed back to his office, he barked, "Lieutenant. Come in." Samantha followed behind wordlessly, but not before glancing over at Doris.

"Good luck, kid," she offered in support before Samantha disappeared into the office.

Captain Pierce took his place behind his desk while Samantha stood at attention in front of him. Although she had been in here a few times before, she admired the decorations. Covered with a nice thick pile rug, she felt that the expression 'being called out on the carpet' was never truer than right now.

"You said that you have important information about the current hurricane's track, Lieutenant?" brought Samantha back to attention.

She cleared her throat. "Yes sir. I do."

The captain settled back in his leather chair and wordlessly drank from his stone coffee mug. This was her signal to proceed.

"Sir. As you know, I've been working with Dr. Gupta on some of the modeling equations..."

"I remember," he cut her off abruptly. "You were trying to model chaotic effects of outer wall barometric head pressure in large disturbances."

_This guy doesn't forget a thing,_ Samantha thought.

She continued. "Yes sir. Well, in the course of our investigation, we applied the new modeling modules to the empirical data collected for Hurricane Jesse currently in the Gulf of Mexico." Here came the hard part. "The results were... disturbing."

Captain Pierce raised one eyebrow. This minor physical event did not escape Samantha's attention. Seemingly insignificant, it was as if he was shouting from the rooftops.

"Disturbing in what way, Lieutenant?"

"Our results correlated well with Jesse's earliest progression from initial formation off Africa through its transition across the Atlantic, but our future movement predictions deviate significantly from the current models, particularly NOGAPS and COAMPS."

In one sentence, Samantha had just put her career and future in the Navy on the line. The Navy Operational Global Atmospheric Prediction System and Coupled Ocean Atmosphere Mesoscale Prediction System were two of the most extensive and complex software suites fielded by Fleet Numerical. These programs, along with other like the Primary Oceanographic Prediction System, had been developed by generations of scientists and were considered the gold standard of meteorological prediction. Saying that her computer models disagreed with these established systems was akin to telling the Pope that there were flaws in the Bible.

The captain put down his coffee mug and stared at Samantha. After what seemed an eternity, he asked simply, "How significantly?"

Since Samantha was already skating on thin ice, she went for broke, trying to sound as professionally and technically competent as possible.

"The progressive increase in barometric pressure disrupts the continuation of the storm's suggested forward progression. After a noticeable perturbation, a translation of the storm's main axis takes effect. After this, a wild chaotic deviation is predicted to take place. We believe that we have successfully extrapolated the new forward movement of the storm. It will reverse course, head eastward back across the Gulf and make landfall in thirty-six hours at Tampa Bay, Florida. It will traverse across Florida, stall out on the central part of the peninsula and finally exit into the Atlantic." She shifted slightly. "We haven't modeled anything after that."

"How did you manage to run these simulations, Lieutenant?" He consulted a sheet of paper in front of him. "You requested increased computer time on the main system awhile ago, but even the granted increase couldn't have contributed much to this... discovery."

Here we go.

"Well sir, I utilized some unused equipment."

"Unused equipment?" His facial expression conveyed all that needed to be said.

"Yes sir. I reactivated a Cray-1 that had been mothballed and scheduled for removal. I've been using this as my main research tool." Quickly she added. "And it was my doing alone sir, not Dr. Gupta's. He had no prior knowledge of the extra computer expenditure."

"So let me see if I understand you completely, Lieutenant. Against all regulations, you reactivated an obsolete computer, confiscated who knows how many hours of computer network time, developed a bunch of obscure algorithms that totally disagree with the standards, and now you tell me that a Category Five hurricane is going to reverse course and slam into a major metropolitan area?"

"Yes sir."

"And all this is going to be preceded by a 'noticeable perturbation?' "

"Yes sir. We've been calling it 'The Betsy Bounce.' " Cautiously, she added, "That's the Cray's network designation."

Samantha noticed a small fire in his eyes and did not like it one bit.

"I've brought some of the data with me sir," she continued. "I can show you our findings about..."

"Turn over all the data to Dr. Marino for his evaluation."

With that one sentence, the commanding officer had again said volumes. Captain Pierce had just brushed her and her new theories aside like so much unimportant chattel. The man that he spoke of was the chief civilian scientist in charge of the center and would not take kindly to a junior officer questioning tried and true scientific theories. He would thoroughly scrutinize and dissect the data, looking for any flaws in the computer code or underlying methods.

"That will be all, Lieutenant." Captain Pierce turned his attention away from Samantha towards a stack of papers.

Not knowing what to do, Samantha continued to stand at attention in front of her commanding officer.

"You're dismissed, Lieutenant Knudson." This time there was no confusion as to his meaning. That was Navy talk for, 'Get the hell out of my office.'

Properly dressed down once again and feeling like a fool, Samantha managed a meager, "Yes sir," and quickly beat a retreat out of the office. As she fought back the tears that were welling up in her eyes, she thought, _I wonder if Amazing Grace ever cried in uniform?_
Chapter Ten

Orlando, Florida - Friday Afternoon

STANLEY DRUDGE POUNDED BACK his fourth beer of the afternoon as he sat alone in the large kitchen. Letting out a loud belch that reverberated throughout the empty house, he smashed the empty aluminum can against the expensive granite counter top. Some of the beer foam splashed up, hitting him in the face. Instead of reaching over and tearing off a paper towel from the rack five feet in front of him, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and let out another, even louder burp.

Dressed in the same greasy tee shirt and shorts that he had worn for the last three days, he thought about going out and taking a refreshing dip in the pool, but since he hadn't cleaned it in weeks, a nice thin slime layer had formed on top making swimming extremely yucky. He had to let the pool guy go a while ago. It wasn't anything personal; he just could not afford to pay him anymore. That was right after he bid the lawn care service, water bottle delivery and even the paperboy good bye.

Damn, that bitch could sure spend my money.

It seems like many people were parting company with Stanley these days. His wife Marilyn finally left for good after he had knocked her down in a drunken rage, taking their teenage daughter and the cat to her mother's house in Alabama. She had warned him many times about his drinking, philandering and general all-around deviant behavior, but Stanley was too far gone to listen to her constant nagging. From the nasty messages she had left on the answering machine, he expected divorce papers to be served on him any day now.

Stanley wasn't an official sexual deviant like the kind who had to register with the cops, so there were no legal restrictions as to what neighborhood he could live in. If there were, he never would have been allowed into a fancy place like La Noche Pacífica. His name wasn't entered into any database that you could look up online, but that's only because he had never been caught.

Never been caught trying to fondle little kids in the park, but only because he dove back into the thick bushes when the little girl started crying. Never been caught masturbating in the men's restroom at work with sadomasochistic magazines, but only because he had been extremely careful about hiding the magazine inside the folds of the New York Times business section. Never been caught leering at the cute young things at the local college campus, but only because he wore dark sunglasses.

Never caught, thank God. And I need to keep it that way, too.

On the kitchen counter top next to the remnants of his last beer was the bank letter that had finally arrived. Great big red type stared back at him from the top of the letterhead informing him that he was four months in arrears on the mortgage and his house was going into foreclosure. Unlike the divorce papers, he had some advance warning with this one. Weeks of telephone calls had preceded the letter. Friendly at first, the sweet young thing at the other end usually finished the conversation by asking the same question.

When can we be expecting payment, Mr. Drudge?

Growing tired after constantly having to tell the person on the other end to piss off, he finally just let the machine pick up all his calls.

_Kiss my rosy red ass. That's when you can expect payment._ He threw the letter on the rapidly growing pile with the others. _Screw them all._

His current downfall was the result of an extremely slow march into alcoholism. Possessing the same set of genes of his father and his father before him, Stanley was predisposed to addiction of any sort. Anything that activated his brain's pleasure center reinforced the physical process and only served to increase his cravings. With the dice loaded from the start, every drink he took made him want another. For years, he had progressed from being a social drinker to having three martini lunches with clients. As the pressures of the job increased, Stanley drank more after dinner to the dismay of his friends and family. He was now a full-blown lush.

To make matters worse, he was a sloppy, angry drunk. Thinking that he was witty and clever, Stanley was usually the guy at the party who put the lampshade on his head or otherwise made a fool of himself. After that, fellow workers placed bets on who he would get into a fight with at the office Christmas party. He was almost guaranteed to take a swing at a stranger or a friend after an hour of pounding back whisky shots.

He had lost his job as a security system sales representative after showing up to work one morning very drunk. It hadn't been the first time it happened; hell, Stanley was pretty well looped most every day. People seemed to look the other way when you were the leading sales rep on the entire east coast, but all that changed when he had failed to meet his quota in months. All of this bad behavior was compounded when a woman at work had accused him of sexual harassment and threatened to sue him and the entire company.

Hell, all I did was grab her ass. After all, the friggin' bitch was asking for it. Wearing those short skirts into work everyday, shaking her butt in front of me. What's a guy supposed to do?

The sexual harassment charge was the last straw for his district manager. Not possessing a sense of humor, he fired Stanley on the spot in front of the entire office. The old man apparently did not have much of a chin either because Stanley cold-cocked him with one punch before steaming out of the office.

Another damn lawsuit to worry about.

All of that fond reminiscing put Stanley in a foul mood. He could feel the familiar feeling of dark anger growing deep down inside him once again.

"Fucking assholes," he said to no one in the large, empty house. "Who needs them?"

Being a pervert seemed to hit Stanley the hardest whenever he was drinking. He would think back to all the perceived injuries perpetrated by the females around him and it only caused him to grow angrier. In a weird sort of mental transference, watching women in pain always made him feel better. Even before he started drinking heavily, his sadomasochistic sexual practices got him into trouble countless times in his life. His wife, a small town country girl when they were first married, tolerated his peculiarities at first, but later on suggested psychiatric help. Years later, during a business trip to Toledo, he had been with a prostitute that frequented the hotel. After a few drinks, they went up to his room. During the lovemaking, he had snapped and started beating her. Catching her off guard, he hurt her badly, breaking her arm and giving her a concussion in the process. It took a lot of money and fast-talking to buy off the girl and her evil looking pimp.

Stanley decided to cheer himself up by watching something from his huge pornography collection.

_Time for another pick me up,_ he thought as he grabbed a cold beer from the refrigerator. Crossing over into the living room, he fumbled with the remote and finally managed to turn on the DVD player. In an instant, the wide screen high definition television snapped to life. A naked woman with long black hair was chained spread eagle, her back against the wall. Dark red marks criss-crossed her voluptuous body. Screams of agony emanated from the surround stereo system, her cries bouncing off the room's vaulted ceiling.

At home now, comfortable in his living room, it was easy for the pervert part of Stanley's brain to imagine it was him flogging the woman on screen.

_Take that, you stupid bitch,_ he thought to himself through his alcoholic haze.

In his mind, the naked woman on the screen had somehow been replaced with the secretary from work.

_Damn slut! Get me fired, will you?_ He could almost feel his arm draw back, moving back and forth in time with the crack of the whip on screen. Stanley was way too deep into his degenerate fantasy to notice that he had spilled beer all over his expensive leather couch.

With a depraved smile crossing his face, he now saw his dark-haired, soon to be ex-wife substituted for the actress. He imagined her crying out loudly for him to stop.

Stanley! Please don't beat me! You're the master!

Oblivious to her screams, he lashed out harder and harder as a feeling of ecstasy replaced his anger. Finally, Stanley had something to smile about as he turned up the volume to maximum level.
Chapter Eleven

Orlando, Florida - Friday Evening

THE ARCHITECTS THAT HAD originally designed La Noche Pacífica had done their best to cater to all economic levels of the elite and snobby. Divided into smaller subdivisions, there were the more common neighborhoods nearer the main gated entrance with the houses laid out in straight rows. In these plebeian sections, small one-story houses were mixed in with larger two-story ranch style homes. Similar in appearance, the only thing that differentiated these from row houses was the fact that they were placed thirty feet apart.

For those who demanded greater social exclusiveness in their living quarters, La Noche Pacífica sprinkled larger plots of land on the outer perimeter of the community. Located on wide parcels at the far end of a cul de sac, these houses were fanned out to allow its occupants maximum privacy from their fellow neighbors. The entrances of these mini-mansions faced the curved street and backed up to lush green land preserves. All of these expensive houses were two-story and had screened-in patios to protect the occupants against the mosquitoes that hungrily sought out victims to suck blood from when the sun went down.

In one of these elite subsections of La Noche Pacífica, Nancy Moody entered her backyard terrace, a plush white towel wrapped around her shapely torso. A warm summer's night breeze drifted softly across the yard, just strong enough to stir the leaves of the expensive miniature palmettos. The tree's redwood containers perfectly complemented the raised wooden deck surrounding a large matching hot tub. Music played from hidden speakers in the elegantly decorated yard, mixing in with the gurgling noise from the water jets as the setting sun cast red and purple stains against the stucco wall. At the far end of a larger than average swimming pool, a small waterfall added soothing splashing sounds.

For a moment, Nancy couldn't decide whether to jump in the pool to cool off or sit in the hot tub to help work the kinks out of her tense neck muscles. Her husband Doug was already seated chest deep in the bubbling water. With his Blackberry in one hand and an imported beer in the other, he was busy checking his stock portfolio. Looking up, he smiled at her through the steam rising up from the hot tub and set down both the organizer and the beer. A sly grin and a nod from her handsome husband helped her to quickly make up her mind.

With an easy motion, she walked towards the hot tub. Built to seat six people comfortably, the Jacuzzi, like everything else they owned, was top of the line. She slipped off her towel, letting it fall to the wooden deck to reveal her favorite black, one-piece spandex swimsuit. The shiny material hugged her tan athletic body like a glove. Gracefully, she stepped over the rim and settled into the water next to Doug.

"I decided not to wait since you were running late," he said with a smirk.

"Couldn't be helped, babe. My schedule changed almost hourly today. I had three cancellations, all in the afternoon, so I took two walk-ins at the last moment to make up for it."

"Well, here's another cancellation for you. Tom and Mary called. Their babysitter flaked out on them, so they can't make it until tomorrow night."

"That works for me," she sighed before stealing a sip of Doug's beer. "I could use some downtime after the shitty day I had. Turn up the music, would you?" the pretty little blonde asked.

He reached over and tweaked a knob on the control panel recessed in the rich wood paneling.

"How's that?" he asked as he rubbed her slender neck.

"Perfect," she purred through closed eyes. "Mmmm... This feels good."

"I can make it even better," Doug said as he pulled out a small plastic vial. "Want a pick me up?"

Nancy's eyes opened wide. "Sure, babe. Any time."

She waited impatiently as Doug measured out a small line of cocaine on the edge of the hot tub. Like a Hoover vacuum cleaner, Nancy snorted up the white powder with a loud sniff. Doug did likewise before he capped the vial and set it down. With the euphoric high quickly taking over, he reached out for his wife and cuddled next to her.

Between his job as a top executive and hers as a physical therapist, Nancy and Doug Moody lived a double income, no kids type lifestyle. On the weekends, they partied with their like-minded friends. Whether it was riding their matching Harley-Davidson Electric Glide Classic motorcycles up to Daytona or spending time on their thirty-foot cabin cruiser they kept moored off the Florida coast, the yuppie couple enjoyed life to the fullest.

They also liked snorting cocaine. They had started out with pot when they were first married ten years ago, but their taste in mind-altering substances evolved as their income grew. Lately however, the once on the weekend snort had quickly developed into an everyday hit. Doug found himself sniffing coke in the executive washroom before an important meeting while Nancy needed no excuse at all to get high. It didn't matter whether it was in the morning before her first client or late at night before bedtime. The small wake up line in the morning necessary to get through the day was followed by the after work hit to help relax from the day's stress.

They could afford their fine house in La Noche Pacífica and still have plenty of discretionary income to spend on toys and drugs although simultaneously keeping up their lavish professional lifestyle and increasing drug habit was proving to be difficult. Like a small but constant leak, their bank account balance was getting lower and lower. Recently it seemed that the ATM at the local grocery store could not print money fast enough for Doug and his dealer. Compounding the drain on their finances was that fact that Nancy had decided, against her accountant's wishes, to tap into her 401k to purchase the latest luxury car. Nevertheless, they partied with friends on the weekend, sometimes swapping spouses for a night, so life for the time being was good.

"Is that the last of the coke?" she asked, her eyes still closed.

"Yeah, but I'm going to see our special friend tomorrow to stock up for the weekend. He said he's got some Peruvian flake that's so good, it'll make the cheeks of your ass fall off. I figure an eight ball should see us through the weekend."

"Cool! He always gets us the best shit."

"He ought to. We pay him enough." Doug assured his wife. He slid his hand down her back towards her shapely butt. "Hmmm. Your cheeks are still there."

Nancy giggled as she adjusted a water jet to a more strategic position and locked lips with her husband.
Chapter Twelve

Orlando, Florida - Friday Evening

WILLIE JOHNSON WAS IN his backyard, struggling with the top of a large plastic barrel. The inside thread of the cover had become cross-threaded and was proving difficult to open. Finally, after five minutes of tugging and a few choice swear words, the lid came loose with a loud pop. He ran his thin fingers across the cover and was pleased to find that there was no slime building up on the vinyl. Setting aside the top, he peeked inside the barrel with a small flashlight and was delighted to see that there was no gunk forming on the water surface. More importantly, the water still smelled fresh and odor free.

It was much better and cheaper to use recaptured rainwater for his beloved garden than the nasty, highly mineralized tap water that the city provided. In order to do this, Willie had jury-rigged a long tube from a section of the house's gutter downspout. With this, he could fill any of the barrels through a strategically placed hole in the cover. A garden hose attached to a spigot on the bottom of the watering pots provided an easy method to irrigate his vegetable patch.

Willie had four of these barrels lined up next to each other and he checked them often to ensure he was not getting mold in his rainwater. If the water became stagnant, he would have to empty it out and clean out the barrel with bleach. This had happened once before and had proved to be a royal pain in the ass. It wasn't an easy task to disinfect the bottom of a fifty-five gallon drum when you had short arms like Willie did.

Assured that his water supply was adequate, Willie turned his attention back to his garden. It reminded him of the small farm he had grown up on in Mississippi, not far from where his great grandparents had worked in the cotton fields as slaves. Setting up the garden had taken quite a while, but he finally got the yard exactly as he wanted. It had been a labor of love to remove a fifty by sixty foot section of thick Bermuda grass from the backyard just outside his patio cage and replace it with a few tons of rich dark soil but all of his hard work had transformed the normal suburban backyard into a mini-farm.

His vegetables, although highly illegal in the eyes of the ever-powerful La Noche Pacífica association, were as good as or better than those grown locally and sold in roadside stands. Completely organic, this year he had raised a bumper crop of tomatoes, carrots and his specialty, red-hot jalapeño peppers.

Since he always had more than enough for his family, Willie shared his bounty with friends and neighbors. He found that giving away the excess vegetables helped lessen the sting of living next door to a guy who kept a compost pile for fertilizer. When the wind was coming from the right direction, it could really stink up the neighborhood so he was always careful to keep the smelly, rotting pile of decaying organics covered.

With a careful eye, he inspected each small section of land, looking for anything dangerous to his plants. He had successfully battled back an insect infestation a few weeks ago, but to his horror, he had noticed some rabbit tracks by the carrots the other night. That had Willie on his hands and knees for a few hours in the dark, installing wire mesh along the bottom of the fence.

Finding nothing out of the ordinary, Willie decided that the wild asparagus growing in the corner was finally ready to be harvested. As he gave them one last watering, he decided to leave the picking for early tomorrow morning when the weather would be cooler.

Puttering around in his garden relaxed Willie and helped with his ever-increasing work stress level. For the first weekend in a long time, he didn't have to spend his Saturday in the office. Since the second fiscal quarter had ended and many of his client's reports had been due, Willie had been putting in many long hours.

Mechanically moving the water hose back and forth over his prized turnip greens, Willie was feeling a bit nostalgic and thought back to the time when they first moved in. Had it really been fifteen years ago? Back then, Willie Jr. was just an infant in his arms.

_That kid grew up faster than these greens,_ he thought. Hell, his daughter Trisha wasn't even in the planning stages yet. _Just a mere twinkle in his eyes,_ as his dad used to say.

Being a frugal couple, he and his wife Thelma had saved their pennies and done without for many years in order to move up and buy a nice house. When the realtor first showed them this property, they had immediately fallen in love with the place. The pool inside the screened-in patio was perfect for them and at that early time in their life, it was just the right size for his small but growing family. But the main selling point for Willie was the backyard. Fenced in all the way around, he saw the potential for a vegetable garden right away, so after talking it over with his better half, they decided that La Noche Pacífica was the place for them.

But for all of its urban sophistication, Orlando, Florida was still part of the Deep South and rumors that the subdivision's first black family was taking up residence circulated quickly after the house closing papers were signed. Willie could still remember some of the strange looks they received when the moving van pulled up and three black people got out. There wasn't any overt racism or nasty remarks that he could put his finger on, but real or imagined, Willie was a bit anxious as the movers hauled in the furniture.

It was shortly after that when Willie had his first encounter with his neighbor, Stanley Drudge. Coming home from work late one evening, he parked in his driveway just as Stanley was walking out his front door. Too busy with his job to meet any of the neighbors, Willie tried his best to be friendly and waved a cheerful hello. All he got back in return for his efforts was an animal-like snarl and a middle finger salute.

That was a dark time for Willie. Just that one small slight by his neighbor brought back terrible memories of life as a child in the Deep South. Born of poverty-stricken sharecroppers, he was not allowed to play with the white kids, so he and his brothers would go fishing down at the creek by themselves. Growing up dirt poor, he hadn't owned his first pair of shoes until he was twelve and that had been bought for him by well-meaning religious white people so he did not have to attend church barefoot. Like the other black folk in town, the main entrance of the grocery store with its 'Whites Only' sign crudely scribbled on top was off limits to him and his family. Instead, they had to go around back in the alley and use the rear door next to the smelly garbage cans. Once inside, they were routinely mistreated and abused, with insults like "Hey, boy! What you want in here?" commonly thrown at them. He had been called every name in the book by those stupid, tobacco-chewing rednecks. His father, a proud man, explained to his crying son that, like everything else in the segregated south, this was the way things were now and had been for a long time, but it was up to him to be above all that and change things for the better.

Willie never forgot those words and always tried to live his life by the Golden Rule. He was a hospitable person and could not understand how somebody could be so mean without getting to know him. And although he hid the incident with Stanley from Thelma, she confessed to him late one night that she thought they had made a major mistake moving into an all white community.

However, a wonderful thing happened. It seemed that one of the neighbors had witnessed the nasty transaction between Stanley and Willie, so after a quick discussion with a few of the other people on the block, a dozen or so had called on the Johnsons for an impromptu welcome wagon. Willie was relieved that these nice people had made the effort to greet them into the neighborhood. After playing peak-a-boo with Willie Jr. on the floor for a half hour, one of the men confided to him that nobody really liked Stanley and it was he who had caused the property to take so long to sell in the first place. They also informed him in no uncertain terms that Stanley didn't dislike the Johnsons because they were black; Stanley Drudge was an equal opportunity degenerate asshole who hated people of all races, creeds and colors.

Since that first early episode, Willie and his family had adjusted well to suburban living in La Noche Pacífica. The accountancy practice had taken off and a year later, his daughter Trisha was born. As his children grew, Willie was glad to see them playing with the other neighborhood kids. Jim Crow had prevented him from associating with white kids when he was growing up and he did not want to see those same prejudices heaped upon his children. His wife enjoyed being a stay at home mom and after the kids started school, she busied herself with various social groups and volunteer events. They made many friends inside and outside of the neighborhood, except of course for Stanley, who still snapped at him on occasion.

Done with his gardening chores for the night, Willie thought about his free weekend. He and Thelma loved to entertain friends with a backyard barbeque almost as much as he loved gardening. Maybe he would invite some people over for a Saturday evening get together. They still had some steaks left over from the last party and he needed to use them up before they got freezer burned.

Willie replaced the stubborn rainwater cover and attached the filler hose as the thought of fresh grilled asparagus spears smothered in butter and garlic along with prime, inch thick T-bone steaks made his mouth water. With a little luck, he could probably sweet talk his lovely wife into making some of her world-class risotto.
Chapter Thirteen

Eleven Thousand Feet Over the Gulf of Mexico - Friday Evening

THE TALL MAN SHIFTED his butt checks in the upholstered leather chair for the umpteenth time that day. He was in the tenth hour of the long mission and although the pilot's seat was comfortable, sitting in one position for a long time took its toll on his backside. With his long legs stretched out in front of him as far as they would go, he leaned first to the left for a good stretch followed by one to the right. There were strict Air Force Reserve height qualifications for its pilots and at six foot five inches, he just squeaked in with a maximum sitting height of forty inches.

"Want to stand and stretch for a bit, Tex?"

"I'm okay for now," he answered, his eyes automatically sweeping across the heads up display in front of him.

In his normal life, Tex was a top selling realtor from Austin, Texas, but for two weeks every summer he was Aircraft Commander Major Sam 'Tex' Cutler. His friend and co-pilot, John Fonnera, a high school principal from Utah, was at his side. They were part of the 53rd Weather Reconnaissance Squadron, also known as the world famous Hurricane Hunters of the Air Force Reserve. Based out of Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi, they had the unenviable job of flying airplanes into dangerous storms on purpose.

Their airplane of choice was the Lockheed WC-130J Hercules. It was especially outfitted for the task with digital avionics, a complex navigation system and enough computing power to run a decent sized college campus, but strangely enough, the airframe wasn't reinforced in any special way to battle the hurricane force winds it had to endure.

They had left Keesler on a fix mission for Jesse. Directed by the on-board aerial reconnaissance weather officer to ascertain the true center of the storm, they flew a lazy pattern that criss-crossed the hurricane eye with star-shaped legs of up to one hundred nautical miles in length. In constant communication with the National Hurricane Center by a secure satellite hookup, weather data was continuously monitored and collected during the flight, which can last up to eleven hours or the time they go 'bingo' fuel, the pilot's term for low on gas. They monitored this condition closely since it was very difficult to be refueled by an aerial tanker in the middle of a hurricane. Currently, the Hercules had just enough fuel for another pass through the storm, and then they needed to turn back to base.

The loadmaster for this flight was a regular Air Force Senior Master Sergeant by the name of Sam 'Bubba' Turner. Serving double duty as the dropsonde system operator, he was getting ready to drop another 'sonde' into the eye of the storm. This small tube packed full of instruments would transmit maximum winds, temperature and barometric pressure back to the plane as it entered the eye wall at ten thousand feet, creating a vertical profile of the atmosphere above the storm.

"Ready to drop, Bubba?" Master Sergeant Tom Elwood, the flight's ARWO asked over the plane's communication. "We're hitting the wall in two minutes."

"Loaded and ready, Tom," he answered.

Major Cutler toggled the switch on his handset to talk. "Still getting those erroneous readings on the VDM's, ARWO?"

Master Sergeant Elwood scratched his head as he sat hunched in front of a large pallet located in the cargo department in the rear of the airplane.

"Yes sir. I just finished a full system check on Weatherbird, but outside of the SATCOM side channel being a little fuzzy, everything checks out."

The onboard Weatherbird was a state of the art computer system that collected, processed and stored all of the plane's atmospheric and aircraft flight data. Sampling the huge stream of flight level data six times a second, a signal conditioner averaged it into ten second chunks, which was then further processed into high-density observations. These ten-minute bits of information were sent off to the National Hurricane Center where they were stored and made available to hurricane forecasters worldwide.

The vortex data messages that the pilot asked about contained precise storm eye positioning that was created from information received from the dropsondes. The last set of VDMs showed a strange inconsistency that could not be accounted for. Normally accurate to within a few meters, the data collected forty-five minutes ago on the last pass put the storm's eye slightly out of the predicted position.

"You think that the Communication Navigation Identification Unit is out of whack?" the ARWO asked no one in particular over the intercom.

"Doubt it," the navigator chimed in. "We had the main unit upgraded and calibrated just before pre-flight. It's been right on the money at all our wayward points out of Keesler."

"One minute to wall," the ARWO announced. It was standard procedure to call out the time remaining when the plane entered the defining eye of the storm so that all personnel onboard could get ready, but in reality, it wasn't necessary. Gently turning into one hundred fifty knot winds using its powerful Rolls-Royce AE2100D3 turboprop engines, the Hercules would shake violently until it finally entered the eye wall. As if by magic, the bumping abruptly stopped when the wall was crossed and the flight smoothed out considerably. The dropsonde system operator usually launched the instrument package when the shaking stopped.

"Thirty seconds to wall," the call went out.

Master Sergeant Turner loaded the small oblong torpedo into a pneumatic tube and latched the lid shut. With his hand on a lever, he readied himself to launch the device. Approaching the eye wall in an easterly direction, they all listened as the ARWO called out the last seconds.

"Five, four, three, two, one... drop, drop, drop."

The predicted lull in the airplane's flight path did not come as expected. The plane continued to shake violently, indicating they had not crossed over into the eye wall of the storm.

"What the hell?" someone called out.

"Start the count up," the pilot ordered.

Mistakes in positioning had happened before, but these events became less common as the scientific instrumentation they used became more accurate. The normal, relaxed banter among the crew was instantly replaced with fast, crisp commands. Instinct and training took over as Master Sergeant Elwood counted up the time from the missed event on his wristwatch.

"Plus ten," he announced.

The navigator swiveled in his seat and checked the Global Positioning System receiver in front of his small station. This system determined their latitude, longitude and altitude by computing the time difference for signals from different satellites to reach the receiver and, if working properly, was extremely accurate. In fact, GPS positioning was so precise, a time delay had to be built into all earth bound receivers to account for the time-dilution effects predicted by Einstein's special theory of relativity.

"I've got a clean signal on GPS," he announced. "We're still pinging on four good birds."

"Plus twenty."

"Navigator to pilot. Verify speed and heading."

"Heading zero nine zero, three hundred forty-two knots at angels eleven-five."

"Verified."

"Plus thirty."

The highly trained group was running out of things to check. All of their scientific instruments indicated to them that they should have crossed through the hurricane's eye wall, but there was no discounting the fact that they had not. As if they were moving in slow motion, the crew hunkered down and waited for the shaking to stop.

"Plus forty."

In exasperation and totally out of character, Tex called out, "Hey guys, what the hell is going on here?"

"Plus fifty."

Then, suddenly, it was over. The airplane's flight instantly smoothed out. In the eye's calmer air, the roar of the engines replaced the rush of the wind. All aboard could feel the aircraft rise steadily as it was caught in the warm moist updraft.

"Drop, drop, drop."

"Bombs away," Master Sergeant Turner announced as he pulled the lever. A whoosh of compressed air forced the dropsonde out of the bottom of the airplane.

"Bubba, give me a reading on the sonde data as soon as Weatherbird figures it out," Tex called out. With the unexpected event over, the crew could use more informal communications.

"Roger, captain."

"Total time deviation, plus fifty-four seconds," the ARWO declared.

In his headset, Tex heard someone whistle in awe. In today's technological world where time was split up and measured in the millionths, fifty-four seconds was a huge, mind-boggling error.

"Umm, captain. I've got a preliminary readout from Weatherbird. It places the eye's forward progress at thirteen nautical miles eastward of its last reported position."

A pregnant pause hung in the air.

"Say again?"

"Jesse's eye has translated thirteen nautical miles eastward. It's reversed direction!"

"Bull shit. Navigator, can you confirm?"

"Wait one."

Upon hearing of the final declaration of a fifty-four second time difference between expected and actual positioning, the navigator had started a time-tested procedure to discover the cause of the gap. With a calculator in one hand and a grease pencil in the other, he scribbled on a clear plastic piece of film that overlaid a map. After a few minutes, he finished his calculations and reported his findings to the pilot.

"Captain, I concur. Jesse has shifted thirteen nautical miles eastward."

Tex and his co-pilot just looked at each other. There was no reason to report this strange shift in Jesse's direction to base. The National Weather Service would have noticed this immediately and even now would be contacting the 53rd Weather Reconnaissance Squadron. Another Hurricane Hunter would be prepped and launched as soon as possible to take their place and continue tracking this strange anomaly.

"Well, crap. This was a lot of fun. Let's go home guys."

_This is gonna get a bunch of people out of bed,_ Tex thought as he turned the Hercules into a northern heading towards Biloxi.
Chapter Fourteen

Downtown Monterey, California - Friday Evening

THE SMALL FOUR-PIECE band had just taken the stage for their second set of the night. Playing a combination of blues and jazz numbers that were surprisingly well done, the cover songs of Charles Mingus and Dave Brubeck matched the easy, laid-back mood of the evening's crowd in the bar. It was mostly locals packed in here tonight, although a few tourists had managed to find their way inside. Well-tanned from long hours under the summer sun, they were easy to spot with their gaudy, Hawaiian-type shirts, Docker cargo shorts and sandals newly purchased at the souvenir shops that lined both sides of the pier.

Samantha had discovered this gin joint one evening while she was bored and had decided to drive around town aimlessly. Tucked away in a less traveled section of Monterey, she liked the mellow atmosphere of the place. The bar catered mostly to local talent from the nearby university but sometimes managed to book more established jazz bands from the Bay area. Samantha had recently started listening to a local radio station that played jazz exclusively and discovered that she really enjoyed the interesting melodic phrases and complex tonal patterns.

Tonight, however, she was not having a good time. Sitting at a table in the far corner of the bar, she was hunched over her drink, eyes cast down in a glum mood. She stared down at the many names and witty slogans scratched into the wooden tabletop over the years. Her eyes focused on one particular set of words. 'Boozers are losers' the wag had written, most likely after consuming a lot of the tavern's good ale.

That's me, all right. What a loser.

"Hey Sammy. Cheer up, will ya? This is supposed to be a party."

Sitting next to her, smiling and sucking on an expensive, multi-colored drink with a little umbrella sticking out of the top was her good friend Linda. The two of them had come to the bar this evening to celebrate her recent promotion.

A marine biologist at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, Linda's current project involved the research of pacific predators and their effect on the Earth's ecosystem. A pilot program of the larger Census of Marine Life project, it offered an organism's view of the open ocean environment and Linda was now in charge of the small but valuable department that gathered scientific data.

The promotion was well deserved. Linda had distinguished herself from her fellow workers by a technique that was not often utilized these days; hard work and a dedication to her craft. She often went the extra distance, whether it was to help a junior researcher with a problem or to stay late to perform mundane tasks, such as cataloging mollusks or other soft unsegmented invertebrates. This commitment had not gone unnoticed by her managers and she had risen quickly through the ranks.

The two women lived in the same apartment complex right off of the beach and had quickly become friends. They both were fun loving people who shared a zest for life. Being a born and bred California girl, Linda's long blonde hair and deep blue eyes were matched with a figure that would stop traffic. One of her many jobs was to dive into the cold waters of Monterey Bay to retrieve daily aquatic samples and it was no coincidence that most of the male members of the aquarium would stop whatever they were doing to watch Linda slowly make her way down the beach wearing her skin tight neoprene wet suit.

Linda was a bit more outgoing than Samantha was, but the difference in their personalities complimented each other and blended well together. Samantha, with her more reserved demeanor, liked the fact that Linda had a scientific background but didn't act nerdy. Secretly, she greatly appreciated that her friend was helping her shed her own South Dakota country girl upbringing.

After returning home from the day's disastrous meeting with her commanding officer, Samantha had dumped on Linda. She recounted how she had probably jeopardized her career by telling her superiors about the storm. Linda listened quietly with a sympathetic ear since her job contained a political side and she also needed to maintain just the proper amount of butt kissing. After much persuasion, she finally convinced Samantha to forget her problems and go out to the bars to help her celebrate her promotion. But her friend wasn't joining in the fun.

"Hey Sam. I think someone is watching us." Linda motioned to two young guys leaning against the bar who were looking in their direction. One smiled and waved as the women glanced over at them.

"Probably students from the post grad school or maybe the language institute," she continued. "What do you think, Sam? Should Mabel invite them over?"

She was referring to a secret joke that they shared. A common complaint that they both had was about how men assumed that beautiful woman could not possibly be intelligent. It was as if God somehow decided that you either had brains or beauty, but not both. Since the two of them shattered that myth, they decided to have some fun with it. Whenever guys tried to hit on them and they were in a playful mood, the girls would sometimes both act dumb. Linda was especially good at the charade since she usually adopted the persona of a ditzy girl by the name of Mabel to Samantha's amusement.

Samantha looked at the men. They were both tall, dressed well and handsome. Maybe she should just talk to the guys and have a fling to forget the day's events. From the small wink that Linda gave her and the way she raised her eyebrows, she was certainly ready to have some fun.

"Sure, why not," she answered.

Samantha had worn a pair of jeans and a comfortable blouse to the bar, but Linda was dressed to the nines. A short leather skirt with a light blue silk blouse showed off her fabulous body.

Instantly transforming herself into Mabel, Linda looked back at the guys and flashed a welcoming smile. Thrusting her shoulders back to accent her figure, she ran a hand slowly through her long blonde hair with a long manicured finger, signaling to the men that Mabel and her friend were ready for action.

The two guys picked up their drinks and walked over to them.

"Hi. Mind if we sit down?" Stud #1 asked.

"Please do," Linda said as she sipped demurely on her drink.

Lying through clenched teeth, he said, "My name is Rex and this here is Joe."

"Well, hello Rex. I'm Mabel and this is my friend..."

"Kandi," Samantha offered, cutting her off. Linda's eyes widened as she realized that Samantha was playing along. "That's with a big 'K' and a little 'i.' "

"Kandi. Nice name," Stud #2 offered. "I bet your folks named you that because you're as sweet as candy."

Samantha smiled warmly at the lame come-on line. As discreetly as possible, she gave him the once over. Broad shoulders, pleasant breath and nice teeth.

Maybe she should had some fun tonight...

"So what do you girls do?" Stud #1 asked.

Linda said, "Well, I'm a hat check girl at the Sunshine Hotel down on the strip and Kandi is a professional lingerie model from up in the Bay area. But I do some modeling in my spare time too. Mostly bikini photos, although I'm not above posing nude if it's done tastefully."

Both guys smiled as they thought they hit the jackpot. Obviously, the blonde bimbo was a knockout and her friend was really cute too. They settled into their well-practiced routine.

"What a coincidence. I was telling Joe here that I knew you were a model as soon as I spotted you."

"You did?" Linda/Mabel said as she twirled a lock of her hair, trying her best to look dim. "Maybe you saw my photo spread in some magazine?"

"Weren't you in the August issue of Playboy?" he lied.

"That was me!" she squealed absent-mindedly. She crossed her long legs, threw her head back and laughed out loud.

"You know what else I told Joe?"

She giggled mindlessly. "Mmmm, what?"

"I told him that was a real nice outfit that you were wearing." He leaned in a little closer to her. "I bet it would look real good on my bedroom floor."

"Oh, you!" Linda/Mabel slapped playfully at the young man, who was now thoroughly convinced of a successful conquest.

Now it was Joe's turn to dish out the bullshit. He scooted his chair closer to Samantha and said, "Kandi, I bet that you were born in the south."

Samantha knew a line was coming, but she just couldn't resist.

"And why do you think that?" she asked.

"Because, out of all these other girls at the bar, you're the only ten I see."

It took all of Samantha's self-control not to roll her eyes and puke as she felt her small cell phone shaking in her pocket. She hated hearing cell phones go off in public places so she had turned off the ringer. Glad to be distracted from these morons, she quickly pulled it out.

"Hey Kandi! I didn't hear that phone ring. Maybe you had it set to vibrate?" he asked with a nod and a wink, clearly on a roll.

"Yes. I always do when I carry it in my front pants pocket," Kandi/Samantha played along. She lowered her eyes and tried to make her voice softer. "It's much more fun that way."

"Kandi's always doing that," Linda/Mabel said. "It gives her a tingle when she gets a call." She added quickly with a look that sent a chill down both men's trousers. "She's such a tease. I think that she calls herself sometimes just for the thrill."

Samantha wondered who was trying to reach her at this time on a Friday night. She always had to be in contact in case of a recall at the base so the call might have been from the watch officer informing her of some sort of emergency. Or perhaps it was from her parents or one of her brothers or sisters looking for an evening's chat. Flipping it open, she was surprised and a bit perplexed to see the caller ID inform her that Dr. Gupta had sent her a text message.

_That's odd,_ she thought. _I've never had a call from him._

Navigating through the phone's menu, she pressed the button to display the text. Her eyes grew wide as she stared at the terse message. Slowly, a broad smile crossed her face. On the small screen in front of her, Dr. Gupta had written two simple words that made Samantha's heart skip a beat and restored her faith in human nature.

Betsy bounced.

"Betsy bounced!" she practically screamed. Once more, she repeated for all to hear, "Betsy bounced!"

The other patrons at the bar stared in her general direction. Oblivious to all of the many crazy looks, she stuck the phone back in her jeans and stood up.

"Hey guys, sorry about this, but I gotta go!"

Grabbing her purse, she was halfway out the bar door, but not before throwing back a fast "Nice meeting you guys. I'll call you..." she quickly remembered and added "Mabel."

"Ahhh, okay," her friend shot back.

"What was that all about?" Stud #2 asked, thoroughly disappointed that his date for the evening had left. "Who's Betsy and why did she bounce?"

"Oh... Betsy's a friend of hers and has a problem with her bra. She never could get one to fit her just right." Both guys smiled at the thought. "You know those ditsy lingerie models. But forget her. Let's dance!"

Samantha was out on the sidewalk and into the cool Monterey night air. Luckily, she had met Linda at the bar and had driven her own car tonight. In fifteen minutes, she was at her apartment and with a quick change of uniform, she was back out the door and in her car again.

Arriving at the main gate of Fleet Numerical, she was surprised to see a small line of cars waiting to enter. The main road at Fleet Numerical was a circular, one-way street, although you could immediately veer left to enter a small parking lot. Samantha noticed that this lot was uncharacteristically full for a Friday night.

When she finally got to the head of the line, she flashed her identification for the guard to see. She asked the sailor, "Do we have something going on tonight?"

"Don't know ma'am," he replied a bit impatiently. "But they just issued a general recall ten minutes ago, so it's been filling up fast." He looked back at the traffic behind her.

Samantha picked up on his non-verbal cue and glanced in her rear view mirror. She could see headlights backed up behind her and spilling out into the main road.

"Thanks," she said. He took a step back, saluted her smartly and waved her in.

She drove along to the overflow parking lot near the base's tennis courts. This too was full. Some cars had started a new section on the grass strip near the edge of the wire fence, so Samantha found a place in line as far away from the huge garbage dumpsters as she could. During the short walk to the administration building, she noticed all of the lights on.

Dr. Gupta was waiting for her as soon as she had walked into her office.

"Hello, little one." Uncharacteristically, he walked over and gave Samantha a quick hug. "It seems that we were correct."

"No professor. Your equations were correct. I just did the grunt work, that's all."

"Theories are all well and good, but they're useless if not implemented. You did that." He smiled at her in a fatherly way. "And it's okay to take credit when credit's due, little one."

Her cell phone buzzed once again, although this time she carried it in a small holder attached to her belt. She flipped it open as she sat down behind her desk. There were several messages waiting for her that had automatically gone to voice mail. A quick glance down the list showed the majority to be the recall phone messages that all-important base personnel would have received. At the bottom of the list was one lonely text message from Linda. Samantha would have to read it now before she got into the main computer center. Due to the high security level, cell phones were not allowed. Even if you managed to smuggle one in, it would not operate properly since the walls of the building were lined with electronic scrambling devices. She decided to wait.

Dr. Gupta had not brought his chair with him so he leaned against the doorframe as Samantha glanced at her email. With the higher ups at Fleet Numerical now convinced that Betsy's early simulations were valid, routine tasks and projects were being suspended so that a larger than normal percentage of the Center's computing power could be directed towards Hurricane Jesse. Before that could be done, however, the new algorithms developed by Dr. Gupta needed to be ported over to the other computers. To Samantha's surprise, one of the emails was from her division head, tasking her to spearhead this job.

"I have to go into the Center and move our computer code over to the main bank," she informed him.

Dr. Gupta had been working with her for a while, so he sensed that she was in a downbeat mood.

"What's wrong? You should be happy that you've been vindicated. And certainly this should clear things up between you and Captain Pierce."

"Well, yes, but..." her voice trailed off.

"But what?"

"I have mixed feelings, Professor. It does feel good to be proven right, but that's very small consolation. In a very short time, Florida's going to receive billions of dollars of property damage and a lot of people are going to be hurt." She stared off into space as she continued. "With a storm of this magnitude, there will be more than a few deaths."

Dr. Gupta surprised Samantha when he said, "All this is true, but what do you think would have happened had you not gone to the commanding officer and told him of our results? When the storm made its first perturbation, the chief scientist called me at home and had me come in. He hadn't had a chance to look at our reports that we delivered to him, but all the groundwork was already done. You should feel proud that you have saved a lot of unnecessary deaths with your work. Listen, Hurricane Jesse would have changed course anyway but the preparations would have started a lot later than they did."

That bit of information surprised her. "So they have started?"

"Yes. The call for emergency preparations went out at eight o'clock."

She stood up and unclipped her cell phone. She muted the ringer and placed it in a side desk drawer.

_Damn, did Betsy and I do all this?_ she wondered as she grabbed her large coffee mug and headed out the door. It would take her and the three other people she was assigned at least a few hours of hard work and she would need a strong shot of java to make it through the night.
Chapter Fifteen

Downtown Orlando, Florida - Early Saturday Morning

JUANITA RUBBED THE SLEEP from her eyes as she sat on the concrete stoop in front of her apartment. Dressed in her house cleaner's uniform, she took another large gulp of coffee as she lit up her third cigarette of the morning. She felt relatively safe here, but from years of habit and instinct, she constantly scanned the surrounding area looking for trouble or anything out of the ordinary. The stoned out white college kids from the university across town that ventured into the ghetto looking for drugs were all partied out, so there was no traffic at this hour of the morning. Wise in the ways of the street, she knew that the gang bangers, winos and crack heads all crawled off to bed when the sun rose, but still she didn't venture out further than the safety of her home.

She ran her long fake fingernails through her shoulder length dark hair. Her hairbrush was in the apartment next to her bed, but she was too lazy to go back up the stairs to get it. With a loud yawn, she shifted her butt cheeks on the cold concrete step. Juanita didn't bother to pull down the short skirt that had risen high on her thighs. Nobody was around to catch a peek and she had long ago stopped caring about mundane things like modesty. Besides, the cool morning air felt good on her legs and she knew it would not last. A long, hot day of cleaning and scrubbing lay in front of her.

Juanita couldn't remember the last time she was up at six o'clock in the morning. It was way too early for her to be awake and dressed but the fat white woman she worked for had her by the short hairs. The knowledge that Juanita was on probation gave the woman an unfair advantage. Since maintaining a good job record was one of the probation conditions imposed by the court, a phone call from her boss could have her back behind bars and she definitely did not want that to happen. In prison, she could smoke dope, watch television and get laid every night if she so desired, but Juanita much preferred doing it on the outside in the comfort of her rat infested tenement house. Lacking any semblance of ambition, she was resigned to her place in life.

Without remorse, Juanita thought back to the events that had shaped her life. Not far from where she sat, one of her gang _sistaz_ had been foolishly walking alone late at night years ago. Out of the shadows, three girls from a rival gang challenged her with the customary, "Who you wit'?" In the world of the street, she was being asked about her gang affiliation. When the young girl gave the wrong answer, she was stabbed over twenty-seven times in a drug induced frenzy and left to die in a dirty alleyway.

The code of the street demanded a swift retribution for this injustice. Whacked out of her skull from smoking a PCP laden blunt, young Juanita got into the back of a car with three other girls. Driving slowly down the neighborhood looking for who they thought killed their friend, they opened fire on a group of people from a rival gang who were partying in front of an abandoned apartment. Emptying their automatic weapons, the female gang bangers were so stoned they completely missed their intended targets only thirty feet away.

Unfortunately, one of the bullets ricocheted off of a cast iron pipe, shattered a window and entered the back of the head of a small black child reading a storybook in her bedroom. The fragments of the nine millimeter round ended the young girl's life before she had a chance to hit the floor.

Public outcry for the crime reached a fever pitch. Even the street code of "Never rat on anybody" was ignored because of the devious nature of the crime. In took only a few days for detectives to find out the vehicle's make and license plate number from witnesses. Juanita and her friends were quickly rounded up and hauled in to jail. At the trial, it was shown that Juanita had not fired the fateful bullet, but she was convicted anyway of participating in the drive-by shooting. Not smart enough to know better, Juanita had the misfortune of being tried as an adult since she had waited a few days after her eighteenth birthday to participate in the crime. The judge handed out long prison sentences to the girls as if he was handing out candy. Juanita received the least severe prison term of the group; twenty-five years at the Federal Women's Prison in Tallahassee with a chance of parole after fifteen years.

Named by the Washington Post as one of the worst prison systems in the nation, Juanita adapted to the rigid structure of prison life as best she could. She quickly learned which guards could be bribed since cigarettes and dope were routinely traded for sex and money in prison. However, this all came crashing down when ten guards were indicted by the FBI for crimes ranging from supplying contraband to inmates to intimidating convicts in an effort to cover up the scandal. Juanita was asked to testify on behalf of the government in exchange for a more lenient parole hearing. She left prison after serving just ten years and quickly moved back to the slums of Orlando, Florida.

A beam of sunlight reflected from a window across the street, momentarily blinding her. The hot sun was just rising, the light busting up the long shadows cast by the surrounding buildings. With a quick glance, she checked the time on her cell phone. Six in the morning was when her young son finished his night shift work and it was time for him to come home. Right on time, she was thankful when she noticed Manny and two friends walking down the street.

Friday night was always busy and last night was no exception. Surprisingly, there had been only one fight the entire night and nobody got shot, which was unusual when you combine guns, money, drugs and high levels of testosterone.

Last night's work had been very profitable for young Manny, even after he gave his cut to the older gang bangers. As usual, the police cars drove through the neighborhood on a regular schedule as a show of force in this election year. The black and white cars that they used stood out like a sore thumb. The first person to notice the cops gave the signal 'Five-O' for all to hear so that the kids selling drugs could scatter into the abandoned tenements.

Manny had his own good technique for evading the cops. Dressed entirely in black, he easily slipped into the shadows like a ninja whenever they drove by. As a backup plan, he had his own secret place to hide the drugs. In his assigned territory, he had carefully chiseled out a small brick from a section of a wall in a dark alley. He blocked this from view with a large dumpster. By using this hidden vault, he could stash money and drugs and not be caught with anything illegal in his possession. This way, the worse thing the man could pin on him was an after hours juvenile rap.

"What's happening, Mom?" he asked when he noticed her sitting on the stoop. "Whatcha doin' up so early?"

"I gotta go into work," she answered. She flicked the butt of her cigarette into the street.

"Sucks to be you," was the only advice the young boy could offer his mother.

"Yeah. Hey, get me a ride into town, Manny. My car won't start again."

He gave her a look of exasperation. "Where the fuck am I gonna get a ride now?"

One of the guys with Manny offered up a suggestion. Jose was a bit older and always liked the way Juanita looked. His eyes lingered on her long legs stretched out in front of her.

"I can help you. Wait here."

He took off down the street at a slow trot and disappeared around a corner.

"He's gonna expect something in return for a ride, you know."

Juanita shrugged her shoulders. She could handle a young _vaquero_ like him. She had done so many, many times before.

"Where's the asshole?" Manny asked.

"I can't wake him." She checked the time on her cell phone again and lit up another smoke.

"That fucking guy is useless. You should have let me cut him the other day."

Last week, Manny had argued with Poco when he caught the lay about stealing from his pot stash and that just would not do. The only thing that had stopped Manny from exacting street revenge on the man was his mother's insistence that he not be hurt.

He changed the subject. "Why do you gotta go to work today? I thought you had Saturday's off?"

"The bitch is having a party for all her other rich bitch friends, so I gotta clean up and help the caterers get things set up. You didn't think that she was gonna wash her own floors, did ya?"

"So can you get me an invite to the party?" Manny joked. "I'll bring some smoke." He pulled out a joint and lit it up. They both shared a laugh as they got high on the dirty porch.

From around the corner, they heard Mexican music. A broken down Chevy appeared with Jose behind the wheel. He pulled up in front of the building, radio blaring. With a slight nod of his head, he motioned towards the empty front seat next to him.

"Hop in."

Juanita knew better not to ask how he acquired the ride. She got into the car and snuggled up close to the young man. With her hands in his lap, they sped away down the block.
Chapter Sixteen

Orlando, Florida - Early Saturday Morning

JAKE OPENED HIS EYES slowly. He was tired, hung over and needed to go to the bathroom badly. A dark blue screen was on the television in front of him with 'Insert Disc' flashing repeatedly. As he shifted his legs over the edge of the couch, he felt a sharp pain in his neck. The couch was two inches shorter than he was and it always left a crimp in his neck whenever he fell asleep on it. He rubbed at a knot at the top of his shoulder as his bare feet hit the floor.

After finishing in the bathroom, he stumbled downstairs into the kitchen and managed to get a pot of coffee brewing. On the way, he noticed that Paul's bedroom was empty. It was apparent that his son hadn't come home yet and had probably stayed the night with one of his friends. At least Jake hoped that's what had happened.

Jake had stayed late at work yesterday and instead of heading straight home to an empty house, he had joined some co-workers for dinner and after work drinks. Coming home late and more than a little bit tipsy, he had jumped into the pool for a refreshing dip and fell asleep on the couch while watching an old John Wayne movie.

After some coffee, Jake felt ambitious enough to retrieve the paper from the front yard. Finding his slippers, he shuffled to the front door and opened it wide. The normally bright morning sky was obscured by small fluffy clouds, offering thin wisps of shade.

He stepped out of his house onto the grass, stretched loudly and rubbed his neck once again. Standing on the lawn, Jake watched the trees sway in the light breeze as he picked up the paper. He noticed that his neighbor across the street had activated her garage door. In a moment, Jenny Reid pulled out of her driveway in more of a hurry than she usually drove.

Jake considered himself lucky to be surrounded by good-looking women. Barbara was a raving beauty, but Jenny had a pretty, wholesome quality about her.

_Too bad about her scumbag husband,_ he thought. Living in a small community like La Noche Pacífica was like living in a fish bowl and it was common knowledge that he liked to hit her.

During the short time that Jake had lived at La Noche Pacífica, he had heard the rumors about most of the surrounding occupants. The Dog Lady made sure that he received the latest juicy gossip about his neighbors. Normally he wouldn't care and just let it slide off his back, but one night he had heard a terrible fight across the street. They was a lot of screaming and the sound of something breaking, followed by Jenny getting in her car and peeling down the road, not to be seen for a couple of days.

Jake had little tolerance for men who needed to prove their superiority by smacking women around. Just because her husband had a PhD after his name didn't mean that he couldn't be a SOB.

"Hello, Jake. Are you going to the store?" she asked in a neighborly manner.

Jake was still hung over enough not to be able to process the question correctly.

_Why is she asking me this?_ he wondered.

"Ummm, maybe later," he answered as best he could.

Note to self. Don't talk to neighbors after drinking Wild Turkey all night.

"Well, you better hurry or there won't be anything left. I figured that I'd probably bypass the Publix. That'll be swamped by now."

"Oh, I see," he said. He didn't understand.

"And if I have time, I'm gonna swing by the hardware store, but I don't have much hope for that either."

"Oh, I see," he repeated again.

"Well, gotta get going. See ya. Keep dry." She put the car in gear and sped off down the street at her usual neck breaking speed.

The coffee and fresh air was beginning to clear his head. Still holding the rolled up newspaper in his hand, he noticed another neighbor farther down the street opening his garage door. Almost in tandem, Jake heard Leo's door open. With the idea that he might get another glimpse at Barbara, he tucked in his tee shirt and ran his hand through his hair. It was then that he realized that he had left the house in his under shorts.

To his dismay, Leo pulled out into the driveway. He gave a courtesy wave to Jake as the garage door closed behind him.

"Going to the store, Jake?"

_Why the hell is everybody asking me about the damn store?_ he thought. _Are they having some sort of super special I don't know about?_

"Morning Leo," he managed. "What's going on?"

"What's going on?" he mimicked back in a way that always managed to piss Jake off. "Haven't you heard?"

_If I heard, would I be asking you, dumbshit?_ he thought but did not say. Instead, he said, "I had a late night and just woke up. What's going on?"

"Look at your newspaper," he answered. "Better hurry or there won't be anything left. These people can be real animals." With that, he pulled out into the street and drove off, but not before offering a quick, "Nice boxers, neighbor."

Jake stood there like an idiot. As if activated by some unseen signal, he watched as several more people pulled out of their garages and drove off in a hurry. Clearing the sleep out of his eyes, he unrolled the rubber band from around the newspaper. He shot it across the lawn in the direction of a fat grey squirrel.

Normally printed and distributed well in advance, this morning's paper was a special edition. A huge black headline proclaimed 'Jesse Changes Direction.'

He read further down. 'Hurricane Jesse unexpectedly changed direction in the middle of the night and is now projected to bear straight down on Central Florida. It is not known at this time why the storm deviated from its previously projected path, but Jesse is now headed straight for several major metropolitan areas. This had never happened before since records were kept."

Next to the story was a diagram of the storm's new path. Jake noticed that the center of the new track hit the Florida coast just below Tampa and went straight across through Orlando and exited into the Atlantic Ocean north of Cape Canaveral.

_Crap!_ he thought. _Just what I need. A hurricane is not going to help my hangover._

A small line of cars passed in front of him. By now, almost all of his neighbors were leaving their homes to hit the stores. Some of the drivers smiled and waved at him, others stared straight ahead. Jake thought about it for a moment, and then headed back into the house to join them.
Chapter Seventeen

Monterey, California - Saturday Morning

THE COMPUTER CENTER AT Fleet Numerical was normally a very busy place, but today it was absolutely alive with activity. More than triple the usual amount of people were moving about in all different directions, compiling and shuffling paper as fast as it was produced. A sense of urgency hung heavy in the air.

A chain reaction of events occurred as soon as Samantha's prediction came true and Hurricane Jesse first wobbled prior to its change of course. When the National Weather Service noticed that Jesse was deviating from its anticipated path, a new Lockheed WC-130J Hercules was sent aloft. The additional information that they gathered was important; historically Hurricane Hunter data provided a thirty percent increase in forecast accuracy. Determining a more precise fix on these huge storms was highly desirable since it cost approximately one million dollars per mile to evacuate a coastal region in the United States.

Much work needed to be done in a very short time. Starting with the executive branch of the government, the White House was first notified. Shortly after that, the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), headquartered in Washington D.C. was directed to activate its national response framework plan. As part of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, FEMA had nearly four thousand standby disaster assistance employees available for deployment. It also coordinated efforts across twenty-seven federal, state and local agencies that were part of the nation's emergency management system. The agency had taken its lumps during Hurricane Katrina and management was eager not to repeat those mistakes.

The Applied Meteorology Unit, co-located with the 45th Weather Squadron at Range Weather Operations on Cape Canaveral Air Force Station, Florida was officially notified of Jesse's abrupt change. As one of the nation's most vital assets, protection of the Space Shuttle was critical. It didn't take long for the NASA bureaucrats to decide to move the billion-dollar space vehicle from the launch pad and tuck it safely inside the Vehicle Assembly Building.

But storm preparation was not just for government agencies alone. Many non-profit and private sector agencies such as the American Red Cross were informed of the emergency to assist the public in responding to and recovering from a disaster of this magnitude.

State governments and municipalities throughout Florida and the southeast section of the United States were put on alert. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, part of the Department of Commerce, started to notify and re-route all maritime shipping so that vulnerable ships at sea would steer clear of the storm's path. Dozens of oilrigs in the Gulf of Mexico had to be evacuated and shut down. The logistics of reconfiguring thousands of scheduled commercial airline flights along with the corresponding connections was mind-boggling. Military aircraft, support equipment and personnel vital for the nation's defense needed to be flown out of the danger area to other bases, some hundreds of miles away. Traffic flow on bridges, interstate highways and roads of all sizes needed to be re-routed so that millions of evacuees could safely leave the affected areas.

Samantha was huddled over a computer console when she saw Captain Pierce walk down the wide passageway towards her. Although his position as commanding officer meant that he was ultimately responsible for all that occurred at Fleet Numerical, his job was almost purely administrative. It was a rare occasion when he got his hands dirty with the actual workings that occurred in the bowels of the center.

_It's awful strange to see him down here,_ she thought to herself.

A tall man that she did not recognize accompanied him. Since joining the Navy, Samantha had met a lot of influential people. She knew the senior scientist and most of his large staff of hangers-on by sight, but this person was not one of them. From the way that the commanding officer deferred to him and just by the fact of being allowed entrance to the high security level center, Samantha figured correctly that he was a very important person. She also observed that he was wearing a very expensive suit.

_Important people wore important clothes,_ she thought to herself. For the tenth time that day, she wondered anxiously about all the activity going on around her.

She rose to her feet as the two walked over to Samantha's workstation.

"Dr. Taylor, this is Lieutenant Knudson. She and Dr. Gupta developed the new computer algorithms I mentioned before."

"How do you do sir," Samantha replied. She added the 'sir' because that was always a safe bet when you didn't know what sort of astronomical government service level this man possessed.

Captain Pierce turned to Samantha and asked, "Have the simulations finished yet, Lieutenant?"

"About ten minutes ago, sir. The new path has been refined and plotted."

"Can you fill us in on the hurricane's status?" her commanding officer asked.

"Certainly sir," Samantha opened her laptop and positioned it in front of them.

"As you know, Hurricane Jesse unexpectedly veered from its projected path yesterday after it ran into an unexpected front wall barometric build up. This anomaly was first detected by a flyover at 1600 hours and verified by the NOAA GOES east satellite during its 1700 hours pass, using visible and water vapor imagery."

As she was talking, a PowerPoint slide appeared on screen. It showed a graphic image of a hurricane symbol churning its way across the Gulf of Mexico. Times, latitude, longitude, speed and wind strength were notated at various points.

Samantha continued. "Besides the info from the chase planes, we ran cross checking routines with the sea state data just received from the National Weather Service."

The new data she was referring to was information collected from hundreds of buoys anchored in the Gulf. They reported on everything from salinity readings to sea surface water temperature, all important items to be added to the computer simulations.

"The storm will continue traveling in a northeastern direction at twenty-two miles per hour and maintain its category five strength wind speed of 155 mph in a fifty mile radius until it makes landfall, which is predicted to be Tampa Bay at 2000 Eastern Daylight Savings Time. It will continue in this direction and stall over Central Florida for a minimum twenty-four hour duration. Jesse will then translate slowly through the area and enter the Atlantic just north of Melbourne, Florida. A cold front diving down from Canada will drive it out into the colder waters of the mid-Atlantic where it will be dissipated by upper level wind shear."

"What's our confidence level on this simulation, Lieutenant?" the civilian asked.

"This has a .947 correlation with the new data, sir."

This was not good news. Samantha had just told them that there was a 94.7 percent chance that a powerful hurricane was going to slam into Florida, stall out for 24 hours, then move away.

Captain Pierce threw her a curt "Thank you, Lieutenant" as he motioned towards his companion. The tall man nodded to Samantha and the pair continued on their walking tour of the center.

Samantha turned away to sit back down, but was called back to attention when she heard Captain Pierce say, "And Lieutenant Knudson?"

"Yes sir?"

"Tell Betsy that I said, 'Well Done.' "

"Yes sir! I will."

And try as hard as she could, Samantha could not suppress the wide smile on her face.

_Maybe I'll walk back over to my office, call Linda in a bit and tell her the good news,_ she thought to herself. _Plus I need to find out what happened with those cute guys..._
Chapter Eighteen

Orlando, Florida - Saturday Morning

THE EFFECTS OF THE approaching storm were already beginning to be felt. What started out as last evening's gentle breeze was now this morning's steady wind, blowing the palm trees that infused the area noticeably. The large palm leaves made rustling sounds as they rubbed against each other and added to the increasing background noise level.

Normally busy on a Saturday morning, the parking lot that fronted the outdoor strip mall was packed to overflowing. The fact that it was full of shopping carts which people didn't bother bringing back to the store only worsened the dreadful parking situation. A pimply-faced stock boy struggled in the heat and humidity with a long line of the metal and plastic carts. He had been dispatched by the store manager in the hope of freeing up some badly needed parking spaces. A redneck driving a beat up Chevy pickup truck and a yuppie type driving a BMW converged on a now available space from different directions. As each nosed into the prized spot, neither wanted to yield. They both sat in the comfort of their vehicle's air-conditioned interior, honking their horns at each other and gesturing wildly.

Even though this was the closest mall to the main entrance to La Noche Pacífica, it had taken more than an hour to drive there since local street traffic was mobbed. This Saturday, however, parents were not taking their kids to karate class or dropping off their dry cleaning. The main objective this morning was the Publix grocery store. Surrounded by a Chinese take-out store and beauty shop, both which were uncharacteristically closed, the grocery store anchored the outdoor strip mall.

Outside of the store, a long line formed before the cash machine. Seasoned veterans of past storms knew that having cash on hand was a very good thing. Banks may be closed for a while after a big blow and money would be needed afterwards. As a man dressed in shorts and flip-flops moved to the head of the line, a glass partition abruptly lowered down, shutting down the ATM before he could stick his card in the slot. A groan erupted from the people standing behind him. They quickly scattered to other places.

In times of impending peril, human nature was to hunker down and hoard what they believed to be necessities. Inside the large grocery store, the young day manager was having a hell of a time, barely able to control the chaos. Some of his employees did not bother to show up for work that morning and many irate customers had swamped the place looking for anything to sock away for the storm.

Knowing that the first items to go were always the essentials, the young manager quickly scanned the almost empty bread aisle. Grabbing a black magic marker and a cardboard box, he hastily constructed a sign putting a two-loaf limit on bread. On his way back to the front of the store, a woman rolled her cart past him, full to the brim with a dozen gallons of milk. Ripping off another box top, he added milk and water to the list of limited items and taped the sign to the entrance door.

_That was the easy part,_ he thought to himself. The hard part would be telling the people already in line about the restrictions.

Walking along the busy cashiers, he informed them in a loud voice about the new food restrictions. For all to hear, he shouted, "There is a two case limit on water and a one gallon limit on milk."

Upon learning this, the crowd reacted in a bad way. People who have stuffed their carts full looked around sheepishly, unsure of what to do. One man screamed back, "Why only a one gallon limit on milk?"

A woman whose shopping cart was packed with cases of bottled water complained loudly about the two case limit.

"What am I supposed to do with all this water?" she yelled out. "You should tell people first!"

"Sorry ma'am," a cashier said while shooting her a dirty look. Now backed up with the authority of the manager's decree, she repeated, "Two case limit on water."

The lady in line rolled her eyes and shook her head for effect. "What am I supposed to do now? Put all this stuff back?"

A tall man behind her added his two cents into the conversation. "Let me help you, maam," he offered. Quickly he reached into her cart and pulled out two cases, then dropped them into his. "See, now we all have some," he said smugly.

Not knowing where to direct her anger, the woman fumed silently.

Another woman, pushing a cart full of baby formula was busy arguing with the person behind her.

"There's no limit on formula!" the well-dressed lady shouted in her defense. She pointed a finger to the manager. "He didn't say there was a limit on formula!"

The woman who had just unceremoniously surrendered her water screamed out, "Don't be such a hog! You gotta share. Other people have babies too, you know!" Venting her frustration made her feel much better.

To the amusement of the people in line, the two women squared off at each other in a full-fledged shouting match.

"What am I supposed to do?" the wild-eyed woman yelled. "My newborn needs it!"

A college kid in the back of the long line leaned against his shopping cart and watched the proceedings. The only smart one in the crowd, his cart was full of beer. Deciding to be an asshole, he offered his advice.

"Use your titties, lady! That's what they're for!" The joke had its desired effect and a small nervous chuckle momentarily broke the tension.

The manager ran his hand through his rapidly thinning hair. After listening to the women argue, he caved in and added a one case baby formula limit to the list. He informed the cashiers working the long checkout lines about the update in the same way he did before and decided at the last minute to swing by the bread aisle once again, this time to grab a few loaves for himself to take home.
Chapter Nineteen

Orlando, Florida - Saturday Morning

MRS. MCDONALD WAS ROYALLY pissed. She had been planning this party for weeks and now it looked like it was going to be called off, and all because of a little hurricane. Having finally gotten through to the caterers on the telephone, she was livid when she was informed that they were not going to show up. No matter how much she argued and screamed, she still could not convince them to cater her party during a category five storm. The rotund woman did get a small bit of satisfaction when she told the man on the phone that this was the last time that she would use their particular service and that they had better send her deposit back pronto.

The large oak table in the main dining room had been decorated with Mrs. McDonald's finest linen and best china. Juanita was unfolding the expensive cloth napkins she had carefully set out a couple of hours ago. All morning, she had cleaned, scrubbed and prepared for the party guests. She had listened to the fat lady yelling at the caterers for the last fifteen minutes with disgust.

Without being told, Juanita started putting the items back into the china cabinet, being extra careful with the delicate plates. With one eye on the worsening weather outside the large bay windows, she closed the mirrored doors on the display hutch.

In a far corner of the room, Peepers was laying on the floor behind a chair, licking himself. Peepers always gave Juanita a wide berth. She hated animals and had smacked the dog often enough when Mrs. McDonald wasn't looking so that even the brain damaged animal learned to avoid her. Sometimes she just glared at him with her cold, dark eyes. That alone was enough to put the fear of God into the dim-witted creature.

"Well, I guess you should just go home, Juanita," Mrs. McDonald said. "I won't be needing you after all."

_Thanks a lot, bitch. You made me come in early for nothing,_ she thought.

The weather outside had turned decidedly crappy and Juanita was looking at a mile long walk to the bus stop located on the main road outside of La Noche Pacífica.

"Is there any way you can give me a ride to the bus stop, Mrs. McDonald?" she asked her boss. "I had to get a lift from my son this morning."

She knew better then to call and ask Manny for a ride. He would be sleeping soundly, resting up for his next all-night shift tonight. Saturday nights were even busier than Fridays. In any case, he would have his cell phone turned off. And even if Poco had a phone, he wouldn't be in any shape to drive. Maybe she should let Manny and his friends take care of that lazy bum and cut his _cojones_ off.

The fat, class-conscious woman took no effort to hide the contempt she held for Juanita from her voice.

"You need a ride to the bus stop? I'm sorry, but that's not my problem. Where's your car? You have to take more responsibility Juanita if you're going to succeed in life. Maybe I should call the parole officer and get somebody else more reliable in here."

Having spent her fury at her house cleaner, the woman quickly turned her attention to the dog. "Peepers!" she shouted in a voice that could etch glass. "Let's go do walkies before it rains."

She grabbed at the retractable lease hanging on a hook by the door. Peepers, always ready to go outside and hump something, ran towards his master with what can only be described as a lecherous look on his face.

Juanita watched her employer waddle away as she left the house.

"I need this job like a fuckin' hole in the head," she mumbled to herself. Pausing a moment to let Mrs. McDonald get down the block, Juanita left, not bothering to finish cleaning up.

As she walked along the sidewalk past the nice houses, Juanita noticed the dark clouds forming and hoped that it didn't start raining before she could get to the bus stop. Had she thought about it and not left the house in an angry huff, she could have stolen an umbrella from her boss. On her way, she observed that a lot of people were driving around, most busy trying to make it to the stores to stock up on provisions.

_Maybe I can hitch a ride from somebody,_ she thought.

A truck full of Puerto Rican workers and their gardening equipment passed her by. Like everybody else, they had heard about the storm and decided to leave. The weather would soon be too bad to do any gardening, so they were all heading back to their families. The small Toyota pickup stopped at the stop sign directly in front of her.

In Spanish she called out, "How about a ride to the bus stop, amigos?"

One of the guys in the back answered, "There's no room for you. We're crammed in tight."

Another shouted out, "I'll make room for you right here." He brushed his thick moustache with the back of his hand. They all laughed as the truck sped away.

Juanita groaned and turned up her collar to the strengthening wind as she continued walking.
Chapter Twenty

Orlando, Florida - Saturday Morning

STANLEY WOKE UP AT ten o'clock with a massive hangover. After a night of heavy boozing, it took a supreme effort on his part just to walk over to the bathroom. As if still asleep, he unzipped his pants and somehow managed to pee. Since he kept his eyes closed the whole time, he depended on echolocation to help guide the stream into the bowl. His sonar was way off that morning, so most of it ended up on the tile floor.

Done with that, he splashed cold water on his face using both hands in a feeble attempt to wake up but most of this also missed and wound up mixed with the urine on the floor. He grabbed at a filthy towel hanging on the rack to wipe his face as he reached into the medicine cabinet. After knocking over most of the shelf's contents, he struggled with a childproof bottle. Somehow, he managed to open it and forced down two aspirins.

Functioning at a smaller percentage than normal, the throbbing pain in his head was rivaled by the larger one in his side. His hardening liver was desperately trying to tell him that he has the beginning symptoms of cirrhosis, but Stanley ignored the slight jaundiced yellowing of his skin and other obvious signs of the disease.

The interior of the house was now infinitely worse than before. The kitchen resembled a war zone. Since he has not bothered taking out the garbage in weeks, the receptacle was filled to the brim with trash. Stanley solved this minor problem the same way he solved all of his problems; by ignoring it. A five-foot high mound of filth, beer cans and liquor bottles was piled on the floor next to the trash can. Flies and gnats of different varieties circled the huge mount of garbage like airplanes waiting for permission to land.

Last night in an extremely drunken state, he had opened up a can of beans and weenies and tried to heat it on the stove. He would probably have been more successful if he had bothered to use a pan, but lacking a clean one, he tried to cook the food right in the can, hobo style. A two inch thick crust of beans had permanently attached itself to the stove counter top with the remnants of what passed for last night's dinner spilled all over the counter and floor.

The sight and smell of the filth made the bile rise in Stanley's stomach and he gagged just as the pain in his side took that opportunity to remind him of his deteriorating health once again. Luckily, he had instant coffee in the cabinet and he somehow managed to microwave himself a cup.

With the coffee and aspirin burning a hole in his already lacerated stomach lining, he plopped down in front of the television. Trying to find some Saturday morning cartoons or similar easy fare, he quickly noticed that all the local channels have pre-empted regular broadcasting in favor of news about the upcoming storm. He surfed through the channels and finally settleed on the one that has the prettiest female announcer.

The perky little redhead was standing in front of a weather screen, reading from a sheet of paper that she held in her well manicured hands. Normally, she would have read the copy from a teleprompter but the weather updates were coming in way too fast to allow that. Behind her, a three-day radar loop of Jesse's movement played repeatedly. From a satellite high above the Atlantic Ocean, the circular storm with a well-defined dark eye could be seen moving slowly in the Gulf of Mexico. Abruptly, it reversed and changed direction, noticeably picking up speed as it now headed for the west coast of Florida.

"The National Weather Service has just issued their 10 am probability track. The newly revised route still takes it over the mainland, but it now shows the storm stalling out for a considerable time over Florida."

On screen, a computer graphic of the southeast coast of the United States appeared. A symbol representing the eye of Jesse was now edged over a bit closer to Florida. Emanating from it and pointing towards the east was a thin, multi-segmented wedge. Representing the probabilities of the storm's path, this graphic was segregated into sections, each color-coded.

"All residents of Central Florida are advised to immediately prepare for a category five hurricane. The governor has already mobilized the National Guard and ordered all units to move out of the area and to be ready for the aftermath. Stock points are being prepared south of Orlando as far away as Miami and as far north as Atlanta. The president, in collaboration with the governor and his staff, has declared a national emergency in order to expedite federal funding for the upcoming devastation."

In cases of emergency like this, the National Guard and other federal agencies had a difficult time. They had to move men, material and supplies out of the danger area to insure that they would not be affected by the storm, yet remain close enough so that they can be of assistance when the storm passes. The hurricane's unpredictability only added to the problem.

"All major metropolitan areas in the storm's path are being ordered to evacuate. We repeat, this is a mandatory evacuation. Due to the rapid nature of the storm's changing course, local authorities are busy preparing for the emergency as best they can. The city of Orlando has announced that the police will not be going door to door to enforce the evacuation, but this is not to be taken as a sign that the danger has been minimized in any way. As usual, when powerful storms threaten the area, all major interstates and highways in Florida have been turned into one way headed north since eight am. Toll roads are free for the duration of the emergency."

A live feed replaced the graphic. The camera, shaking violently in the wind, showed a dark and stormy scene of Interstate 95. Water dripped slowly down the sides of the camera lens. In the shot, both sides of the four-lane highway were crowded with bumper-to-bumper traffic, all headed away and traveling at a snail's pace.

"Some looting has already been reported in the affected areas. The governor's office has not confirmed this, but nevertheless has warned that looting, hoarding and price gouging will not be tolerated. If you see any evidence of this, you are advised to report it using this toll free number." On the bottom of the screen, a telephone number momentarily replaced the scrolling reports of outings and closings.

Stanley Drudge watched the news report through blood shot eyes as he contemplated struggling into the rancid kitchen for more coffee.

_I guess that explains the wind waking me up,_ he thought. Outside the living room window, he could see the palm trees in the back of the house swaying back and forth violently.

He started to feel a little better, but it wasn't the aspirin or caffeine kicking in.

_I hope the storm comes and blows away this fucking house,_ he thought to himself as he remembered the mess in the kitchen. _Better than the bank or that no good bitch of a wife getting it._

Unlike his neighbors, there was no need for Stanley to run out and pick the stores clean. Unintentionally, he was well prepared to ride out the storm. Using the last free space on his credit card, he had stocked up the day before. Hitting the local ABC store, Stanley filled the trunk and back seat of his car with cases of beer and all the booze he needed to weather the storm. He hadn't bothered to go food shopping since his stomach lining was way too gone to hold down anything solid.

_Well, I don't have everything I need,_ Stanley thought. _I could use me some tail instead of jerking off to these porno movies._

He turned his attention back to the pretty little red head in front of the weather screen. As if on cue, the news anchor put down her copy and looked directly into the camera. Stanley took this as a degenerate sign that out of the millions of people watching, she was talking only to him.

"This is going to be a bad one, folks. It looks like we're in for a real big blow."

"I got your big blow right here, bitch!" He grabbed at his crotch for his new girlfriend's benefit and laughed out loud, even though it hurt his side a lot.
Chapter Twenty-One

Orlando, Florida - Saturday Morning

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN you can't make it?" Doug practically screamed into his cell phone. "We had this all planned for a week now."

"There's no way I can make it over to your side of town, dude. Didn't you read the papers? There's a major hurricane on its way. The streets are jammed."

"I know there's a storm coming. That's why I'm gonna need the stuff." Doug pleaded his case as if he was arguing in front of the Supreme Court. "If it's a matter of money, we can probably get you some more."

The drug dealer on the other end of the line rolled his eyes and shook his head. This was the part of the job that he hated the most. He was on everybody's speed dial and the calls had not stopped all morning. Like spoiled children who thought that they were the center of the universe, all of his customers assumed that they were the only ones in the world who needed to feed their habit. The really rich assholes like Doug thought that any problem could be fixed by throwing more money at it. The funny part about all this was the fact that if it were not for the coke and the occasional bag of methamphetamine that he provided, these people wouldn't give him the time of day.

"Doug. Listen to me carefully." He repeated his litany. "There's no way that I can get to you now. The roads are jammed. Traffic is crazy." He pulled out his ace in the hole. "But I tell you what. I'll be home for the rest of the day, so if you think you can make it over here, then we can do some business."

"You know what I think?" Doug screamed into the phone. "Fuck you! That's what I think!"

He folded up the small cell phone and slammed it down hard on a dresser before his dealer had the chance to hang up on him. Trying his best to calm down, he plopped down heavily on the edge of the bed

The house was very quiet except for Doug's labored breathing. Nancy had volunteered to battle the swarming mob and hit the stores while he stayed behind, doing his best to negotiate with his drug connection. After a moment, he decided that a snort would help him think more clearly.

Doug opened the top dresser drawer where they kept the coke. Underneath a pair of Nancy's finest panties, he pulled out a small wooden box. Since they had assumed they could make a love connection with their dealer today, Doug and Nancy had partied heavy last night and their once large cocaine stash was now dangerously low. Hefting the baggie in his experienced hand, he quickly estimated that there was only enough to last the two of them through the day.

_I told her to take it easy on the blow, but she never listens,_ he thought to himself.

Out of his shirt pocket, he pulled out a small plastic vial which he filled with the reminder of the coke. _Is this all that's left?_ he wondered to himself. _I thought we had a little bit more than that._

Doug poured out a thin line on the side of his hand. Quickly, he snorted it with one noisy motion. After a few seconds, the drug crossed through his brain blood membrane and activated his pleasure centers. Along with the heightened euphoria, Doug began to think a bit more clearly.

_I wonder if she's holding out on me?_ he thought after a moment. _Maybe she knew about the storm coming and put some aside for herself?_ After a moment, he reasoned, _That's silly. I'm just being paranoid. She wouldn't do that._

All the same, before Doug capped the bottle, he poured a small amount back into the sandwich baggie and tucked it away in his pants pocket for safekeeping.
Chapter Twenty-Two

Orlando, Florida - Early Saturday Afternoon

THE APPROACHING STORM WAS rapidly growing worse. Ominous grey thunderclouds had replaced the white, wispy-looking ones that normally floated high overhead in the warm summer Florida sky. More dark than light, what had started out as a drizzle an hour ago had progressed into wavy sheets of rain that bounced violently off the pavement.

Juanita stood underneath the bus stop kiosk bordering the two-lane thoroughfare in front of La Noche Pacífica, doing her best to hide from the elements. Huddled in the far corner behind a concrete bench, there was very little protection from the rain that pelted her tender skin. Designed only to shield waiting people from the harsh Florida sun, the stand was enclosed on three sides by thin Plexiglas sheets that did little to screen her from the wind driven water. Open at the bottom and front, the entire left side of the structure shook violently with every new blast of air, creaking and vibrating loudly. To make matters worse, she noticed that the aluminum frame had begun to buckle in several places under the pressure of the fierce wind.

When she first arrived at the bus stop, the traffic in front of her was backed up from an accident at the interstate onramp a mile away. The fragile tempers of the people trying to escape the storm's fury, already at a razor's edge from stress, were exacerbated by the weather. People flipped each other off and laid heavy on their horns with the hope that somehow all the noise would speed up the traffic jam. It was every man for himself as a line of cars drove on the grassy median to pass a vehicle that had the misfortune to stall out in the fast lane.

After a while, Juanita had ventured outside the relative safety of the bus stop and stuck out her thumb in the traditional hitchhiker's pose, but nobody would stop. She could see inside the cars that passed her by slowly. Almost all of them were packed full of people, supplies and the occasional house pet. Full of guilt, the occupants wouldn't even make eye contact with her except for one suburban housewife who shot Juanita a look of utter contempt from the safety of her passenger's seat.

She had not seen a city transit bus in the last two hours, so she guessed correctly that they had stopped running. In desperation, she had tried in vain to contact Manny on her stylish cell phone, but all she could get was a recording telling her that all of the lines were busy. Fumbling with wet hands, she tried her cell phone once again. The absence of any signal bars in the display told Juanita all she needed to know. The local cell phone system had just failed entirely.

Juanita caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the Plexiglas. Her long dark hair was a stringy mess and the black mascara she had carefully applied this morning had run down both cheeks, making her look like a vampire. She wiped at the matted lines on her face with the back of her hand, smearing the makeup even more.

Her clothes were thoroughly soaked through to her skin. The thin blue nylon uniform that her employer insisted she wear to work had turned completely transparent and clung to her body like a second skin. She could plainly see through both the wet outer material and her underwear. From a distance, it appeared as if she was standing in the rain butt naked.

_Well, that explains all the strange looks I've been getting,_ she thought.

With the storm rapidly worsening, traffic had now thinned out considerably. Only the occasional car passed by every few minutes, throwing up a high rooster tail of water in the flooded street. Above the howl of the storm, Juanita thought she heard one approaching. In the distance, a pair of headlights came into view.

As she did her entire life, Juanita decided to use her body to her advantage. With both hands, she smoothed back her slick hair as best she could. And as an afterthought, she hiked up her short skirt as high as it would go, pinching the thin material away from her wet skin.

_Anywhere is better than here,_ she thought just as a Plexiglas sheet popped out of its retaining frame at the far end of the kiosk and scuttled nosily down the street, driven end over end by the wind.

Standing in ankle deep water, she stepped out of the shelter into the full fury of the storm and tried to make eye contact with the driver of the passing car, hoping for a ride. Eventually, Juanita could make out that it was a small utility van.

_Cool!_ she thought. _There ought to be plenty of room for me in there!_ With her foot on the edge of the curb, she smiled broadly as she thrust both her thumb and her breasts forward in what she hoped would pass for a seductive stance.

The bright headlights of the van approached slowly down the street, riding the center crest of the road where the water was the most shallow. Now thirty feet away, Juanita was shocked to see the vehicle speed up and quickly veer to the right, on an apparent collision course with her. At the absolute last moment, the van turned away, but not before throwing up a huge wall of water.

The force of the wave knocked Juanita hard to the concrete sidewalk. Landing awkwardly on her left side, her foot twisted at a bad angle beneath her. She looked up just in time to see the van speed away. The passenger's side window was being rolled up by a teenage boy, his face contorted in glee as he looked back at the prone woman with her wet skirt completely over her head. Over the roar of the wind, the noise of the van's engine and her own cursing, Juanita thought she heard maniacal laughter.

Slowly, Juanita tried to stand as she pulled down her skirt in some semblance of modesty. A shooting pain in her ankle made her grimace loudly. Placing most of her weight on her good leg, she hobbled back to the bus stop slowly.

She sat down on the hard bench and cried, partially in pain but mostly in frustration. As her tears joined the runny mascara on her face, Juanita could see another section of Plexiglas siding loosen in its frame. It vibrated obscenely in the wind for a minute and with a loud bang, suddenly tore loose and exited down the street like the other one before. She quickly decided that she couldn't stay here in this rapidly disintegrating makeshift shelter. Juanita had to leave the kiosk and seek better protection from the storm. There was no other choice. What else could she do?

It was doubtful that she could make it back to her employer's house with her gimpy leg. The closest building she could think of that would offer her protection from the storm was the guard shack at the main gate. It was small, but it was the strongest structure within reach. Built of concrete cinder block, the front of the shack had a thick iron barrier that guarded the main body from any drunken drivers who might crash through. She knew from experience that it was manned twenty-four seven by security people that had radio equipment.

_And maybe a nice hot cup of coffee and a cigarette,_ she thought to herself.

Abandoning the safety of the bus stop, Juanita slowly made her way back to La Noche Pacífica. Even if she weren't hampered by a bad ankle, she would have had a hard time walking against the wind. The rain, driven by fifty mile per hour gusts, stung her exposed skin as it hit her from every direction.

Bent over at the waist, she fought hard to hobble the few blocks back to the main entrance. The high standing water level made it difficult to judge the places where the sidewalk ended and the street began. After walking two blocks, her foot slipped off the submerged curb edge, causing her to scream out loud once again in pain.

After fifteen minutes of struggling against the wind, she finally reached the street corner that led to the main entrance. To her horror, she could see the total destruction of the guard shack. A sixty foot saw tooth oak tree that bordered the entrance of La Noche Pacífica had toppled onto the front of the small building. Resting partially on the iron barrier and what had previously been the roof, the structure was entirely open to the elements. The sliding glass window that normally greeted the happy residents in front of the shack was blown out, the white Venetian blinds flapping angrily in the wind.

Juanita saw that she now had a much bigger problem. Not only had the demolished shack been abandoned by the security guards, the tree had also smashed down parallel to the wooden traffic barrier arm, completely blocking the road. On either side of the entrance, a twenty foot stonewall prevented her from going around. Although Juanita was young and in relatively good shape, climbing the wall would have been hard under the best of circumstances. With the storm and her injured ankle, it looked to be an impossible task.

For a moment, she considered waiting out the storm in the guard shack. That thought soon passed when high above, an electric transformer exploded loudly. A connection that had been loosened by the wind caused the oil-filled device to overload, throwing down hot sparks all around her. The accompanying bright flash lit up the area harshly, momentarily blinding the injured woman. In a moment, her sight returned. Looking up, she could see that the utility pole leaned menacingly forward in her direction. Juanita wasn't the smartest person in the world, but she quickly decided that standing in ankle deep water underneath an electrical transformer that was about to fall was suicidal. She had to get out of the area quickly if she didn't want to end up fried like the chicken her _abuela_ cooked every Sunday for dinner.

There was only one way through the entrance into the development. Somehow, Juanita had to pick her way through the dense fallen tree that lay before her. She was cold, wet, tired and hungry but another noisy burst from the transformer above spurred her forward to the wall of tree limbs.

Carefully, she crawled under a set of small branches. After a few minutes of struggling in the thicket, the sharp ends of the branches poking and scraping her in a thousand places, she reached the main trunk of the tree. Grasping at a thick limb overhead, she managed to pull herself up to the top with a mighty effort, but as she tried to shimmy down the tree to the other side, the back of her uniform caught on a broken branch.

She tumbled over the huge limb, tearing the wet fabric of her clothes along with a few layers of skin. A long red gash appeared across her exposed shoulder blade. Blood slowly trickled from the wound all the way down the small of her back. She finally cleared the barrier, but not before she splashed down face first into a large mud puddle.

Juanita lay on the ground, sobbing softly as she caught her breath. The stabbing pain in her back now rivaled the one in her ankle as the wind-driven rain sloshed dirt on her face and into her open mouth. Shaking her head to clear away the pain, she spit out a foul tasting mixture of blood and mud as she decided what to do next.

The closest house to the guard shack was a good three hundred yards away, not even visible from where she lay in the street. What she could see ahead of her in the dark was a road full of debris. Should she continue down this route and try banging on a few doors with the hope of some good Samaritan taking her in before a fast-flying garbage can knocked her out? There might be a chance that the homes were all empty, having been evacuated by their owners. With the intensity of the wind blocking out all other sound, anyone who was at home might not even hear her pounding outside.

She decided that her best bet was to make it back to Mrs. McDonald's house somehow. It was sure to have been abandoned since there was no way that her self-absorbed employer and her husband would have stayed home. Juanita was very familiar with the layout of the house. It would be easy enough to break a bathroom window and ride out the storm inside. That bitch would have shit her panties at the first sign of the storm, loaded up her big suburban with that stupid mutt and hightailed it out of town. The thought of resting in the fat woman's bed and drinking up all her liquor while the hurricane raged outside brought a momentary smile to her dirty face.

The only problem with this well thought out plan was that the house was almost a mile away down the main thoroughfare. What she had walked along with ease only a few hours ago was now a dangerous obstacle course. The street before her was lined on both sides with more utility poles. Should she take the chance of getting electrocuted by a fallen power line? There was very little chance that she would make it through.

She looked around and turned her attention to the right. Just over a small rise, she could barely make out the top of a small white flag waving violently in the wind. The storm had hit so quickly, the La Noche Pacífica staff had not had a chance to remove the flags that marked the golf course holes. Having walked this route in much better weather a few times before, she remembered that the course bordered the main street. If she cut across the open field, she could take advantage of a gentle curve in the road and come out behind the McDonald's subdivision.

Juanita considered this idea as she wiped at the mud in her eyes. The golf course scheme had a few advantages. The total distance she would have to walk by taking the short cut would be half of the normal way. The open area wouldn't provide any shelter from the fierce wind, but there were no electric transformers snarling angrily overhead and the well-manicured greens would provide somewhat of a steady walkway with no street curbs to trip over. There would probably be a lot less crap flying at her from all directions. She would have to cross a small wooded conservation area behind the McDonald's house, but it was nothing compared to the huge tree barricade she just had to climb over.

Her mind was made up. The mud puddle Juanita was lying in had become a mud pool, fed by a fast moving rivulet that flowed down the slope of the expensive landscaping. The rain, driven sideways by the storm, slammed into her and grated her exposed skin raw. Gale force winds made it hard for her to stand, but slowly, Juanita struggled to one knee. With a great effort, she stood up and leaned against the howling wind.

The entire left side of her body was caked with filth. Her house cleaner's uniform hung off of one shoulder and slipped down to her waist as she took her first fleeting steps. Ignoring any pretence of modesty, she tore at the fabric, ripping it off her thoroughly soaked body. Now standing in just her underwear, she used the one remaining semi-clean spot to wipe the dirt from her eyes. In disgust, she threw down the bloody, mud-crusted garment. In a flash, her uniform flew down the street and disappeared from sight. Pushed forward in self-preservation, she hobbled towards the open space of the golf course, pushed forward by the thought of a warm, dry bed.
Chapter Twenty-Three

Orlando, Florida - Saturday Afternoon

JAKE WIPED HIS FACE and hands dry with a towel as he set the plastic grocery bags down on the kitchen counter. Just back from the besieged grocery store, he had somehow managed to buy a gallon of milk, two loaves of bread and a couple of cans of tuna fish, but not without a fierce struggle. He thought he was going to have to slap the crap out of some old lady who had tried to take the milk out of his cart when she thought that he wasn't looking.

On his way back from the store, the unruly garage door had given up the ghost and quit working entirely. It was now hanging at half-staff on its tracks and no amount of prodding could get it to slide down to a closed position. Unfortunately, this was probably the worst time for the mechanism to give out since the wind and rain was now blowing almost straight into the garage. Paul had left the windows open in his car and a wide assortment of school papers and discarded burger wrappers circled the interior of the garage, chasing each other in a never ending spiral dance. Jake was soaking wet and tired from his adventure at the store, so he was in no mood to clean up the swirling whirlpool of trash.

As Jake was putting away his prized plunder, he noticed some empty ice cube trays on the kitchen table, right where Paul had placed them before he left for the store. He had instructed his muddleheaded son to fill the trays and make as much ice as possible before the electricity went out, as it was sure to do. The damn coolers that he had to schlep in from the garage by himself wouldn't be worth a shit if he did not have any ice to fill them with.

For the last three hours, Jake had been trying to get his lazy son to help him prepare the house for the hurricane, but trying to get Paul to stay focused on any subject for ten minutes was proving once again to be impossible. There were so many things to do and not nearly enough time to do them in, according to the latest weather reports. In frustration, Jake had left the house for the grocery store, but not before giving Paul a long list of tasks to finish.

_Am I doing the wrong thing by trying to ride the storm out in the house?_ Jake thought as he filled the small plastic trays in the kitchen sink and shoved them in the freezer. This was his and Paul's first experience with a hurricane and it looked like it was going to be a nasty one. He had seen the traffic that was inching its way towards I-95 when he was out hunting for food and decided against joining all those cars heading north. The drivers had acted like animals out there, cutting each other off, yelling and screaming at each other from their vehicles. In an hour's time, there would be millions of these terrified refugees on the roads. All of them would be battling the elements while trying desperately to control their own cars. There was sure to be plenty of accidents.

Could the hundreds of small southern towns be able to support the huge influx of people, all trying to get gas, food and a place to stay for the night? And where would all those people go? Certainly, they would have to travel farther north than Tallahassee to be safe. Would Atlanta be far enough to escape the hurricane's fury? Some of them might try heading down south to Miami to escape that way, but the scientists had been wrong about Jesse's path all along up until now, so they might easily get trapped if the storm prediction was wrong or it changed direction once again.

_Better to hunker down here than to get caught out on the highway,_ Jake thought.

In any case, it was probably way too late to abandon ship even if he wanted to. On the way back from the store, Jake had experienced the worst weather that he had ever driven in. Visibility was down to a car length or two. The windshield wipers couldn't move the water fast enough from the glass, even at maximum warp speed. Jake had to struggle with all his might to keep the truck on the road, both hands clenching the steering wheel in a vice-like death grip as he fought against the sheets of wind driven rain. At times, he thought the heavy truck had actually lifted up and lost contact with the road.

Jake looked around the kitchen and felt a little better about his decision to ride out the storm at home. This was a newly constructed house and appeared structurally strong.

_It better be. I paid enough for the friggin' thing,_ he thought. If the windows didn't break, he might manage to keep out the water and limit damage to the new carpet. Just the same, Jake decided to empty the downstairs closet in case he and Paul needed a final secure space to hide in.

Another important task that he had given to Paul was to set up and test a small electric generator on the back patio. The last time the engine had been run was on a camping trip years ago, way back when they were all one happy family. It was one of the few things his ex-wife did not get in the divorce. That and Paul.

_Two things that don't work well,_ Jake thought to himself.

Even though his son was lazy beyond compare, Jake was grateful to have Paul in his life. The divorce had been pretty nasty, with both sides screaming at each other across the bargaining table about how they had wasted the better part of their youth with each other. But that same union had created Paul and Jake was thankful for that.

Now if I can only get him to concentrate on the task at hand for more than a minute at a time.

"Paul! Did you get the generator set up yet?" Jake called out. There was no answer that could be heard above the howling wind.

While his dad had been out fighting the crowds at the grocery store, Paul was upstairs in his bedroom with a much more important job on his mind. It looked like he was going to be stuck in close quarters here in the house with his dad for a while and he needed a safe place to hide his stash. He had just gotten some absolutely primo weed from his buddy last night and since he had paid a hefty price for the dope, he couldn't take the risk of it getting discovered. Or wet.

As usual, when confronted with a difficult problem, Paul had rolled up a fat doobie and smoked half. The chronic herb had worked its magic once again on his few remaining brain cells and he had gotten quite stoned.

After what seemed like an eternity, the teenager sat down on the edge of the bed, turned on some music and stared longingly at a poster on his far bedroom wall. It had three nearly naked girls, all blonde and smiling seductively back at him. They would be his for the taking if he would only switch his brand of beer to the one that the girls were holding.

Paul, being all of nineteen, listened to the tunes that filled his bedroom while he tried to figure out why his Dad was bugging out so much about the storm.

Yeah, it was unexpected, but it was no big deal. A little bit of rain, some wind... You would think that it was the end of the friggin' world coming.

He never approached his father about his drug use, but he was fairly confident that his Dad knew he was a stoner.

_Maybe I should offer Pops a joint to smoke so the old geezer could relax..._ he thought to himself through the fuzzy cloud in his head.

Paul stopped in mid-thought. _What was it he was supposed to be doing in here again?_ He looked around his bedroom. After a moment, he noticed the roll of duct tape lying on the bed. _Oh yeah. I remember now. Tape up the windows._

He stuck the baggie full of pot in a leg pocket of his cargo shorts and ripped off a long slice of the silvery tape. Paul tried to pull the tape apart, but he was all thumbs and couldn't manage. Being stoned out of his mind didn't help his dexterity either.

Paul's thoughts drifted back to his father as he wrestled with the tape. _He just needs to get stoned, that's all. He worries wayyyy too much about stuff, like work and school and..._

By this time, the tape was stuck to his thin fingers and had doubled up on itself in a dozen places. In exasperation, Paul balled up the tape and flung it towards a trashcan. He missed the garbage completely, but managed to hit the wall right below the beer poster. Paul watched through stoned eyes as the sticky wad slowly walked down the wall.

He giggled to himself. _Whoa. Too cool, dude!_ He had just invented a fun new game to play when he got stoned.

Easily distracted, he pulled off another strip of duct tape and wadded it up. With a flick of his wrist, it went sailing across the room and stuck to the wall like the other. Unlike its twin, it fell to the floor after a moment.

Always on the lookout for a good idea, Paul was sure that he had come up with a solid money making game. All he needed now was to come up with a cool name. Paul racked his clouded brain for something to call his new idea. In a moment, it came to him in a flash.

Sticky tapeball. Yeah, that's it. I gotta patent that name. Sticky tapeball. Coming soon to a town near you...

Through squinty, blood shot eyes, he could see it all. First, he had to invent some rules for the new game. After that, it was a short jump to getting some teams together. In about a month's time, he would go national with the concept.

Paul heard his father cry out again, this time even louder. "Paul! Where are you? Did you get the windows in your bedroom taped up yet?"

_Oh yeah. That's what I came in here to do. Tape up the windows._ He giggled again. Sticky tapeball would have to wait for a while.

"Almost, Pops," he called out to his father downstairs.

Paul put aside his new invention as he got off the bed and turned up the volume on his stereo. Walking over to the window, he ripped off another piece of tape and tried again to prepare his room for the storm.

_Damn, it's really blowing out there,_ he thought to himself as he watched the rain splatter against the glass.
Chapter Twenty-Four

Orlando, Florida - Saturday Afternoon

NOT VERY USED TO manual labor, Doug was sweating profusely even though the air conditioner inside the house was cranking out cold air full blast. For the last two hours, he had been gearing up for the storm and had started with the essential items first. He made sure that there was a cooler completely full of the expensive imported beer that he preferred and another for Nancy's domestic swill. Doug placed these on the kitchen floor next to an ice chest containing all of the soda, water and mixers he and his wife would need for a decent hurricane party. A quick side trip to the refrigerator ascertained that the large freezer was packed full of prime cut steaks and lobster tail.

_Even though there's a storm coming, that's no reason not to live well,_ he thought.

With the beer chilling, Doug could no longer put off the worst of the hurricane preparations. The wind outside was getting worse and it was only a matter of time that some of the patio furniture would blow through the cage screen or worse yet, a very expensive bay window. The only good news was that the rain, which had come down quite heavy at times, had subsided for the time being.

As a native Floridian and a veteran of a few past hurricanes, he knew that the best place for the patio furniture was at the bottom of the pool. Safe from the wind, Doug didn't have to lug them through the house into the garage. An additional benefit was that when he retrieved them after the storm, the powerful chlorine and other chemicals that the pool service added cleaned off the aluminum and plastic surfaces to a factory finish.

Stepping through the sliding glass doors outside to the patio, Doug began with the light items first. Moving over to a row of deck chairs, he unfastened the Velcro snaps that held the mattress pads to the frame and tossed them in a pile by the door. One by one, he folded up the aluminum recliner frames and lowered them into the deep end of the pool.

The matching patio table was next to get baptized. After ratcheting down the large shade umbrella and pulling it from the center holder, Doug debated whether to remove the glass top from the table frame first. In any case, moving the table was a two-person job so he needed his wife's help for this item.

As if on cue, Nancy had come out to join her husband. She was wearing denim cutoffs and a white tank top that was thoroughly soaked. Both knees and a sizeable portion of her backside were covered with mud. She ran her hands through her tangled blonde hair and pulled out a few leaves.

"What happened to you?" he asked.

"I was in the front of the house taping up the windows and getting things ready when I lost my balance and fell off the step stool." She rubbed her butt with both hands. "Landed hard on my ass. God damn storm!"

Doug quickly recognized the warning signs in his wife. Her last outburst was unexpected and had come out of nowhere. He knew that Nancy could get a bit edgy if she ran short of coke.

Deciding on the best way to defuse the situation, he walked over to her and gave her a long hug. She reciprocated as he plucked a remaining leaf from her hair.

"Let me help get some of that dirt off you, babe," Doug said as he gently rubbed up and down her butt cheeks.

"Sorry," she forced a smile and looked up at him.

"No problem."

With a quick kiss, he continued, "We're almost done out here. Give me a hand with the table, honey."

The two of them went to the other side of the patio and positioned themselves on either end of the table. Carefully walking it over to the pool, they edged it over and slowly lowered it in. The glass top floated free from the aluminum frame momentarily as it reached the water level, then with a gurgle of air, keeled over and sunk end over end like a World War II battleship that had just been torpedoed. It joined the rest of the expensive patio furniture in the deep end.

"I got the drain pump running full blast. We should have the water level down in about an hour or so." Doug looked up in the air at the rapidly darkening sky. "I'm surprised that the pool isn't overflowing already with all the rain we got."

"Well, that should just about do it," Nancy said. "We should go switch the vehicles now."

"Okay," he answered.

They had a major problem. Like the rest of America, their three-car garage was completely full of crap, with barely enough room for only one of the vehicles. The rest of the garage space was taken up with their motorcycles, a freezer, tools that were scattered on a workbench and all sorts of items that had never managed to get put away.

Since the storm started, they had a heated discussion about which vehicle was going to get the prime shelter of the garage. Doug's truck was the current resident since Nancy had used her vehicle for the shopping spree.

"Let's do this," Doug volunteered. "I think my truck can handle the storm a bit better. I'll pull out the truck and you can get your SUV inside."

Another wave of wind-driven rain caught them by surprise. Out in the open, they were both thoroughly soaked within a moment's time. Now wet and covered in dirt, they walked around the side of the house to the garage. The morning's previously heavy downpours had already started to tax the area's sewer system, so they had to slosh most of the way through ankle deep water.

In ten minutes, they had exchanged vehicles. Nancy's shiny SUV was now safely inside the garage, while Doug's seven year old truck remained outside to brave the elements. With Nancy directing him, Doug had angled the truck parallel to the house and tucked in close against the garage entrance. With any luck, it might be spared most of the flying debris that was sure to accompany the storm.

Inside the garage, Doug pushed the button to lower the large door. Soaking wet, there was barely enough room among the mounds of crap for the both of them to move about. Leaning against her husband, Nancy removed her sneakers and wet socks. In disgust, she threw them on the cement floor with a loud splat. Doug did likewise.

"Well, that's it babe," Nancy said as she peeled off her shirt. "We've got everything buttoned up as best we could."

"Yeah. I put the beer on ice before I came out to help you, so it's good and cold by now."

"Got to have beer to go through a hurricane party. That's the first thing they teach you when you get to Florida."

Doug picked up a beach towel that was hanging on a doorknob and started to dry his grey hair.

"How are we doing on the coke?" she asked

Doug pulled out the small vial from his back pocket.

"Not so good. This is what we got left." He gave it a shake for effect.

"Ewwww. That's not good at all." She fingered the vial expertly. "Looks like two, maybe three hits left."

"Yeah. We're going to have to tough it out for a bit."

He pulled out a small inspection mirror from his tool cabinet and laid out a thin white line. With a long fingernail, Nancy divided the powder into two small sections.

"Bottoms up," she said. Bending over, she snorted her line. Doug pinched the side of his nose closed and quickly followed her.

Both were happy with their hit. Nancy cooed euphorically as she flipped of her wet shorts and let them drop to the concrete floor. With the drug in his system stimulating his libido, Doug sided up to her. Quickly, he grabbed her in a warm embrace and gave her a wet sloppy kiss. She responded back in kind. With one arm, he swept clean a small area on the dirty garage worktable and lifted her up.

"We going to get the hurricane party started early?" she asked through closed eyes as she wrapped her legs around her husband.

"Why not? You did say, 'Bottoms up', didn't you?"
Chapter Twenty-Five

Orlando, Florida - Saturday Afternoon

FOR THE LAST HOUR, Willie had been working in the backyard in a driving rain, gathering up his precious vegetables. After learning about the hurricane early this morning, Willie and his small family had readied their house and the surrounding area as best they could from the approaching storm, taping up windows and stowing all loose objects from the howling winds. But with the house preparations nearly completed, he decided at the last minute to pull up his garden. As a veteran of previous bad storms, Willie reasoned that it was better to store the food in the garage as opposed to letting it all rot in the rain soaked dirt.

_And who knows, the stores might be closed for a day or two and we could use them for emergency provisions,_ he reasoned.

He wiped at the lens of his thick eyeglasses with a handkerchief as he set the large wooden bowl down on the ground next to a dozen other containers. Full of carrots, the dark green stems flowed over the side. Willie had used almost everything he could find in the house and the garage for this unplanned harvest. At the far end of the garden to his right, his daughter Trisha was plucking tomatoes from the vines.

"Get them all Trish," he called out.

"Even the green ones, Dad?" she asked.

"All of them. And when you're done, start on the peppers."

"And just why are we doing this again, Dad?"

He saw his daughter shoot him one of her famous attitude looks his way, but she kept on working.

Originally, Trish had started to freak out a bit when she watched the weather report on the television. Her reaction had gone from one of irritation that the malls had closed up shop early to concern about the news. However, when she heard the first crack of thunder as the wind picked up, Willie saw the fear in his daughter's eyes. That's when he decided to take his youngest aside and calm her down. He comforted her by telling her in a calm and steady voice that everything was going to be okay. Willie also knew that if he kept her busy, she wouldn't have time to think about the impending danger, so he set both his kids to work.

His daughter led a pretty sheltered life. He and his wife had tried their best to guard her against everything that they had to suffer through. They made sure that she attended a fine school and had never wanted for anything. And although her brother gave her crap for hanging out with a bunch of white kids, he was secretly glad that she associated with kids of all races.

With one eye towards the darkening sky, he called out towards the house. "Willie! We could use your help out here." He had sent his son into the house to help his mom almost fifteen minutes ago and hadn't seen him since.

Thelma appeared at the back door. "I've got him filling the bathtubs upstairs," she informed him. "He should be done in a minute."

Willie nodded as he set back to work on the radishes. Between his wife and Willie Jr. getting the inside of the house ready and his daughter helping him pick the last of the vegetables, he was confident that they were ready for anything that hurricane Jesse could throw at them.

He turned his attention to the rain barrels. The fifty-five gallon drums were full to the brim and the rain, which now fell continuously, made the barrels overflow. Willie walked over to the back door and stuck his head inside. His wife was in the kitchen, cleaning vegetables in the sink.

"When Willie's done, send him out here with some of those empties," he said, nodding towards a stack of milk jugs. She looked up without stopping.

"Okay. How's Trish?"

"She's calmed down a lot. I've got her sharecropping out in the fields."

They smiled at the secret joke. Thelma was born in Chicago from middle class parents and hadn't suffered through Willie's dirt-poor background. They had met in college and she loved her husband intensely, so she tolerated his passion for gardening.

After a while, Willie Jr. came out, lugging a shopping bag full of empty gallon jugs.

"Where do you want them Pop?" he asked.

"You can start filling them up from the barrel. Find room for them in the garage somewhere when you're done, Willie."

"I've got both bathtubs full. Don't you think that's enough water? It's raining cats and dogs now." He adjusted his cap on his head against the wind.

"We'll be needing every drop if the weather people are right, Willie."

He shot his dad a look. "It's Jamal."

Willie was in no mood to put up with his son's nonsense. Lately, his son had been taken to calling himself Jamal Marcus X. The X part was borrowed from Malcolm X who used the letter since he claimed that his real name was stolen from him and his ancestors when they were taken away from the motherland as slaves.

"Sorry kid, I'm not doing that." He added for emphasis, "Willie."

"Man, you're just a tool of the American capitalist system."

"Well, whoever you are, get a move on. This storm's getting worse."
Chapter Twenty-Six

Orlando, Florida - Saturday Afternoon

NORMALLY IT WOULD HAVE taken Juanita only fifteen minutes to walk the distance between the main gate and the house by cutting across the golf course, but moving with her injuries against the gale force winds had taken her the better part of an hour. At times, she had to bend over completely at the waist to make any headway at all in the strong wind, fighting all the way. Once, the wind had swelled up, changed direction and knocked her down to the grassy turf. She tore a huge gash in what remained of her pantyhose and skinned her knee on the hard ground.

The small wooded conservation area that separated the back of the subdivision from the golf course was just one of the many patches of natural vegetation that the developers had designed into La Noche Pacífica. Bordering the rear of the smaller sections, the sixty-foot deep piece of land provided a cheap but pleasant looking boundary for the houses. The wide area of overgrowth offered an excellent barrier for the errant golf balls that some of the less experienced golfers would occasionally shank down the fairways.

Some of the older trees that lined the edge of the golf course had fallen in the storm, but Juanita was more worried about the animals that she knew still lurked there. She had seen plenty of snakes and raccoons running around while performing her house cleaner duties in the back yard at the McDonald's house. Being a city girl, she didn't know if they burrowed for safety or ran away when a storm came up, but the thought of encountering native wildlife only added to her anxiety to quickly cross over this mini-forest and find shelter.

After another twenty minutes of thrashing through the thick trees and undergrowth, she finally arrived at a clearing at the back of her employer's subdivision. She had seen streetlights in the distance and used them to help navigate, but she was still well left of the McDonald's house.

_At least the power is still on,_ she thought.

Juanita walked parallel to the conservation area for another hundred feet. Even with her ankle completely swollen and throbbing in pain, she quickened her steps as she approached the screened-in cage that surrounded the McDonald's pool. As she got closer to the property, she could see that the screen mesh panels were torn in several places. The large pool in front of her had not been drained and was overflowing onto the concrete patio. The well-manicured lawn had absorbed all the water that it could and fast moving rivulets of mud were pouring over the sidewalk into the street. Trying her best to be careful, she nevertheless slipped in the mud and landed hard on the ground once again.

As she picked herself up and approached the back of the house, Juanita was shocked at what she saw. The McDonald's house was completely shuttered up. Covering the wide patio door and all of the back windows was thick corrugated sheet metal.

_Did they close up the house for protection before she abandoned the place for safety?_ she thought. She hadn't counted on this from the bitch!

In desperation, Juanita hurried around to the front of the house, looking for any way inside. She was overjoyed to see that a small decorative hexagonal shaped window to the side of the entrance vestibule was not covered up.

Juanita hobbled up to the window and peeped inside. From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw movement and a flash of light from inside. Suddenly, her employer's fat face appeared in the frame behind the glass, startling the crap out of Juanita.

"Mrs. McDonald! Open the door! Please let me in!" she pleaded. Her hands went together in prayer as she begged the woman for her life.

She watched as Mrs. McDonald and her husband, now also visible in the small window, stared back coldly at her. Backlit in the harsh light, her employer and her husband appeared to be talking but Juanita couldn't hear what they were saying. Mr. McDonald nodded towards Juanita with a quizzical look on his face. The fat woman scowled at him and turned to look at the woman once again. Slowly, she shook her head no.

Juanita watched in terror as the pair lifted a metal insert up to the window. Over the wind and her own screaming, she could just barely hear the sound of an electric drill securing the bolts to the inside of the window frame. The metal covering blocked out the last bit of light coming from the interior of the house, plunging the foyer in deep shadow.

"No! Let me in!" she screamed once again. " _Por favor!_ Don't leave me out here to die!"

She went over to the front door and leaned heavy against the doorbell. Juanita couldn't tell if the buzzer was working or not since the wind and the thrashing of palm trees was all that she could hear. Realizing the futility of that action, she banged hard on the metal covering with both fists until her hands bled, but deep down inside Juanita knew that her pleading was all in vain.

Collapsing against the front door, Juanita was repulsed at her own reflection. She looked like death warmed over. The wound on her knee had opened up once again and a thin stream of blood trickled down her leg. Her left tennis shoe, once clean and white, was red streaked while the other was brown with mud. Her stockings were ripped in so many places it looked like thin strings of spaghetti were covered her legs.

She crumpled to the ground in a heap in front of the McDonald's house. Juanita assumed the fetal position for warmth and protection, but shivered uncontrollably nevertheless. Under the thunderous howl of the wind, she sobbed softly to herself and began to pray in Spanish.

_So this is how I die,_ she thought to herself. _Wet, cold and in my underwear._

It might have been the wind, but Juanita imagined that she heard something that contrasted with the storm noises. She lifted her head slightly off the wet ground and tried to focus her eyes against the stinging wind and rain. Juanita wiped at her face as she thought she saw a beam of light in the distance.

Slowly, a dim figure came into view. It was an image of a man and he was waving a flashlight at her. _Dios Mio!_ she thought as she struggled to get to her feet. _I am saved!_

The thought of being rescued from the hurricane gave her an extra jolt of adrenaline. Pulling herself up, she leaned heavily against the metal sheet covering the door. She could now plainly see a man waving to her, beckoning her to come over.

The house across the street was approximately one hundred feet away, but it might just as well have been one hundred miles. With a superhuman effort, Juanita braced herself against the wind and forced herself to push forward, but not before she spat a bloody booger at the door. _Puta!_

She limped towards her savior, managing a few more steps before she slipped off the edge of a curb that was submerged in water. Blood flowed freely from her palm as she sheared off a few more layers of muddy skin.

Somehow rising to her feet once more, Juanita managed to stumble thirty feet before the torn ligaments in her injured ankle failed completely. With the blinding pain shooting up her leg into the small of her back, she tried to brace herself for the inevitable fall, but this time she landed hard on the wet asphalt, fracturing a bone in her wrist. Everything went black for Juanita as her forehead slammed into the ground.

As if from far away she heard, "Don't worry, lady. I've got you now and I'm going to take real good care of you." In a dream-like state, she thought she felt a pair of strong arms lift her up out of the water and off of the ground.

On the edge of unconsciousness, Juanita smiled as she heard these words. She knew now that she was saved and would not die in the street like a dog. Her last sight before passing out from the pain was looking deep into the eyes of her rescuer. Before she completely lost consciousness, Juanita heard Stanley Drudge softly repeat the words as he smiled down at her.

"I've got you now lady and I'm going to take real good care of you."
Chapter Twenty-Seven - The Storm

Central Florida - Saturday Night through Monday Morning

THE TECHNICAL DEFINITION OF a hurricane is a tropical cyclone with winds that exceed seventy-four mph. They circulate counter-clockwise in the Northern Hemisphere and clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere, giving rise to the old wives tale about the direction of water flowing down a drain. The sheer dimensions of these storms are by themselves impressive, averaging about three hundred seventy-five miles in diameter and forty thousand feet in height.

Hurricanes can live for as much as three weeks and are called by different names in the various regions of the world. The name hurricane is given to systems that develop over the Atlantic or the eastern Pacific Oceans while in the western North Pacific and Philippines, these systems are called typhoons. In the Indian and South Pacific Ocean, they are known as cyclones.

The exact mechanism for hurricane formation is not completely understood, but it usually starts with a low-pressure area containing moist air. This air expands, becomes less dense and rises. As the air gains altitude, the atmosphere cools and condenses, forming clouds and thunderstorms. The column of rising air acts like a chimney, continually pulling additional warm moisture laden air upward, thereby feeding itself in an ever-strengthening cycle. This later forms the eye, a calm area where you can look up through the inner walls of the hurricane.

Once a disturbance has become a tropical depression, the amount of time it takes to achieve the next stage of tropical storm can take as little as half a day. The same may occur for the amount of time a tropical storm needs to intensify into a hurricane. The Coriolis effect, caused by the Earth's rotation, provides a spinning force to the storm.

Hurricanes have crossed paths with humans many times in the past and with each new encounter, they have caused massive destruction and death. Particularly affected were sailors of old who learned to recognize that following seas and blustery winds were the warning signs of an approaching storm and that shelter in a safe harbor was quickly needed.

One of the earliest hurricane reports ever recorded was made by Christopher Columbus in 1495, who encountered a tropical storm near Hispaniola on one of his voyages to the New World. He later declared that "nothing but the service of God and the extension of the monarchy" would make him sail into such a storm ever again.

Sometimes hurricanes have even altered history. A Spanish expedition of seventy-four ships sent to the New World in 1559 to recapture Florida had the misfortune to sail directly into a hurricane's path. Most of the fleet was sunk, but one ship survived and founded a colony near present day Pensacola. In 1565, a storm destroyed a French fleet off the Atlantic coast of North America.

Probably the greatest maritime disaster happened on July 31, 1715 to a Spanish treasure fleet. Seven days after departing Cuba, all eleven ships were sunk in a hurricane off the coast of Florida. As many as one thousand sailors and a treasure worth fourteen million pesos were lost. Some artifacts from that fleet still wash up on Florida beaches to this day.

Hurricanes also have enough power to physically change the landscape. In 1749, a hurricane created Willoughby Spit in Norfolk, Virginia. According to one record, "A sand spit of eight hundred acres was washed up," by the storm. Two major inlets on the North Carolina Outer Banks were carved out by a hurricane in September 1846. Later on that year, another severe hurricane came across the Florida Keys, destroying all but eight of the six hundred houses on Key West.

In September 1900, a category four hurricane slammed into Galveston, Texas, striking the island with sustained winds of one hundred forty miles per hour. Before the age of satellites and radar, the coastal residents had very little knowledge of the conditions awaiting them just one hundred miles offshore and so there were no preparations made for the deadliest weather disaster in United States history. With less than a day's time to evacuate their homes, eight thousand people died in that terrible storm. Today, warnings are received one to two days in advance, let alone the extra time we are aware of the hurricane's existence.

There have been a few naming conventions for hurricane since mankind started looking up at the skies and observing the weather. For many centuries, storms in the West Indies were named after the particular Catholic saint's days on which they occurred. Hurricane San Felipe struck Puerto Rico on September 13, 1876. When another hit on the same day more than fifty years later, it was christened San Felipe the Second.

Naval meteorologists started to name the storms after women since ships were traditionally referred to as female and were often given women's names. The National Weather Service continued this practice until 1979 when men's names were added at the urging of feminists. Since then, the Tropical Prediction Center has produced the lists of names for hurricanes. As a tropical depression develops into a tropical storm, it is given the next available one on the list. A name for each letter of the alphabet is selected, except for Q, U and Z. In very active hurricane seasons when the number of storms is greater than names on the list, there is the option to use the letters of the Greek alphabet, from alpha to omega, giving scientists twenty-four more names to work with. For Atlantic Ocean hurricanes, the names may be French, Spanish or English since these are the major languages bordering the Atlantic Ocean where the storms occur.

The World Meteorological Organization uses six lists in rotation, which are reused every six years. The only time a name is retired and a new name chosen as a replacement is if a hurricane is very deadly or costly but before 1979, some storm names were simply not used anymore. Retiring a name actually means that it cannot be reused for at least ten years. This is done not only to avoid confusion with another storm of the same name but also to ease historic references, insurance claims and legal actions.

And so, following in the footsteps of the many storms that have occurred before, the hurricane that humans named Jesse made landfall ten miles south of St. Petersburg at 8:04 pm Eastern Daylight Savings Time, almost exactly as Betsy had predicted.

Packing enough energy to power all the households in the United States for a month, Tampa Bay received the brunt force of the storm. Traveling in an east northeastwardly direction at a relatively good clip of twenty-two miles per hour, Jesse produced hurricane force winds of one hundred fifty-five miles per hour radiating out in a fifty mile radius from its center.

The main damage to Tampa Bay and the immediate surrounding area was caused by the immense storm surge. Having the misfortune to catch the area at high tide, this wall of seawater was pushed toward the shore by the sheer force of the winds. Already the third wettest state behind Alaska and Michigan, this onrush of water caused vast flooding of the flat Florida landscape. With a mean elevation of only one hundred feet above sea level, the fifteen-foot tidal surge also severely affected inland rivers and lakes.

Believing that they were safe from the rising sea level in their third floor condo, thirteen people did not heed the warnings to evacuate the oceanfront area and decided to throw a hurricane party. Since the structure's foundation was not specifically designed to withstand the immense forces that pounding water could exert, the softer understructure eroded away and the building collapsed before the second round of drinks was poured. All of the partygoers were swept out to sea with the wreckage, their bodies never recovered.

Like air movement over an airplane wing, high velocity winds flowing over the tops of buildings created a negative pressure difference, causing roofs to fail. Mobile homes and poorly constructed structures were the first to go but in the course of an hour, tens of thousands of solidly built homes were wrecked. Boats and cars of all sizes were pushed around like children's toys by the wind and water, some being deposited as far as five miles inland. Miles of beachfront property and coastal highways were severely eroded. Extensive damage to fallen electric poles, water towers and overworked sewage systems caused widespread disruption of all public utilities. Even utility lines buried underground were not safe. Trees uprooted from the wet soil carried away a small part of the area's electric grid.

Many of the foolish people who stayed behind were killed, most by drowning but others by being hit with flying debris. Signs, roofing material and other small items left outside became lethal flying missiles in Jesse's hands. One man standing in the doorway of his house filming the storm with a video camera was hit by a Big Wheel tricycle that some careless person had left out in the storm. Traveling at eighty miles an hour, the plastic toy split his head open and drove him back into the house, where he was found under the wreckage two weeks later. To his wife's dismay, the entire event was captured in remarkable clarity on the high definition recorder she had given him for a birthday present.

A three hundred foot section of Interstate 275, which travels through the city and over the bay, was destroyed when the fierce winds and rising water pushed a barge through several sets of concrete pilings. The flat boat, still containing tons of rotting garbage, had not been secured properly to its moorings by city workers who were anxious to leave and be with their families. With one of the area's main transportation loops out of commission, escape was now impossible for many.

Hurricanes normally weaken when they travel over land or colder ocean waters, but Jesse was traveling much too fast for this effect to be noticed. The strongest winds of a hurricane occur in the right-front quadrant of the eye wall and with Jesse moving in that direction, Central Florida received the lion's share of the hurricane force winds. Acting like a knife's edge, the winds devastated everything in its path, snapping palm trees as high as a twelve story building like matchsticks.

In the center of the Florida peninsula, Orlando led a charmed life when it came to hurricanes. In the past one hundred fifty years, the time that the United States government had been actively tracking storms, there had not been a recorded category four or stronger hurricane to hit Orlando. This string of good luck came to an abrupt end when in just under four hours, Jesse proceeded through Central Florida parallel to I-4, took aim at The City Beautiful and stopped dead in its tracks.

For twenty-four hours, Jesse remained over Orlando, unleashing its fury over the area. In that short time, thirty inches of rain fell, overflowing the two thousand lakes, rivers and ponds located in the city limits. Home to an incredible assortment of family entertainment attractions, all had been closed and evacuated as soon as the order went out. At Universal Studios, Jesse's winds knocked down the Hollywood back lot sets of New York and San Francisco, but surprisingly, did little damage to the Twister live action simulation ride. Sea World, Pleasure Island and the Epcot-Walt Disney World Resort were leveled in the space of three hours.

Ranked as one of the top vacation destinations in the world, there were far too many tourists to evacuate via the limited number of flights, trains or overburdened highways. Caught in town, the stranded visitors huddled in the lobbies and rooms of the area's thousands of hotels. The stronger modern structures near the tourist area of International Drive withstood the storm's fury much better than the older bungalow type hotels at the periphery of the city. The unlucky people stuck behind who could not find shelter in a motel crowded public places for safety. The Florida Mall, the largest in Orlando, became the tomb for over seventy people when the main wall collapsed. The connecting sides and the roof followed suit, pancaking down like a house of cards.

A troop of Boy Scouts who had won a contest to visit Orlando had the good sense to find shelter in a downtown parking garage. With the thick concrete walls reinforced with steel rebar, the structure easily withstood the storm's intensity, although some of the vehicles left behind were pushed around by the hurricane force winds that entered through the open siding.

Hurricanes can also spawn tornadoes that add to the storm's cataclysmic power. In 1967, there were one hundred forty-one recorded from Hurricane Beulah, whose name was retired in 1971 and replaced with Beth. Not to be outdone by a woman, Jesse produced his fair share. Fanning out from the eye wall, over sixty tornadoes were created in the first hour alone, adding to the massive destruction. One slammed into Downtown Disney, ripping up the Lake Buena Vista golf course, scoring a meteorological hole in one. Another tore into the seventy-acre Gatorland Park. A large percentage of the thousands of alligators, crocodiles, giant tortoises, reptiles and birds were set free after the main buildings were destroyed. Following their natural instincts, the now pardoned animals took to the rain-swollen streets, sewers and lakes, quickly blending into the tropical surroundings.

The SunTrust Center, the tallest building in downtown Orlando, had all of its windows blown out. Driven by one hundred twenty-five mile per hour winds, large shards of glass from the high rise buildings joined with the other storm debris that peppered the area and the unfortunate people below. The city's sewer system, taxed way beyond its designed limits, backed up. The overflow caused some of the manhole covers to lift up from the street where they were picked up by the wind and turned into lethal metal Frisbees. One flew for a mile and a half and imbedded itself in the wall of the Arnold Palmer Hospital for Children, where it narrowly missed a surgical nurse reading a bedtime story to a frightened child. Another one smashed into the concrete base of the large water fountain at Lake Eola. An hour later, another Jesse spawned twister passed directly over the weakened monument and finished it off. The city's symbol now lay on its side in three feet of water.

A United Parcel Service 767-300 jet, unable to evacuate Orlando International Airport in time and denied shelter in the limited hanger space, flipped over. With its left wing sheered off, thousands of gallons of aviation fuel spilled out onto the tarmac. The flow of burning fuel spread to a section of maintenance buildings where it set off a chain reaction of explosions from fuel tankers that had not been emptied. The entire air cargo section of the airport and parts of both commercial terminals received a considerable amount of damage and burned for days after the storm.

As promised, a slow moving cold front diving down from Canada exerted a gentle but firm push on Jesse. Slowly, the hurricane was reluctantly budged from its strangle hold on Orlando and inched forward towards the east coast. On its way towards the Atlantic Ocean, it destroyed Bithlo and Wedgefield, two small towns bordering Route 50, a main east-west highway connecting Orlando with the Space Coast.

Named after the original Army fort built in 1837 during the second Seminole Indian war, the small town of Christmas was somehow spared and received relatively little damage. Home to many of Orange County's digital television transmission towers, the tallest one broke apart in the high winds. At 1,617 feet, the tower remnants narrowly missed the town post office, which did a bristling business during the holidays when people from all around the area brought their holiday cards to be postmarked, 'Christmas, Florida.'

Now accelerating towards the John F. Kennedy Space Center, Hurricane Jesse passed over the coastal city of Titusville. The busy cargo depot of Port Canaveral had ordered all ships away from its six terminals and out to sea to ride out the storm. All of the Carnival and Royal Caribbean International cruise ships were safely evacuated but the Sovereign of the Seas received extensive damage off the Atlantic coast when it was struck by a rogue wave off its port bow. The sixty-foot tidal wave crashed over the multi-deck atrium lobby and completely destroyed the Viking Crown Lounge on the top deck.

Still moored alongside its pier, the cruise ship Disney Wonder did not fare so well. Operated by the Disney Cruise Lines, the ocean liner was slated to go into dry dock for a general sprucing up and the addition of new features. Unable to make way in time, the deck hands did the best they could to secure her for the storm. Even though double hawser lines were used fore and aft in a storm configuration, the tidal surge lifted her up as if she was a canoe and slammed her hard against the concrete pier. A large gash extending almost the entire length of her starboard side below the waterline sealed her fate. The eighty-three thousand gross ton ship quickly sank where she lay alongside the pier in the deepwater harbor. Most of the skeleton crew of fifty engineers and maintenance people left aboard were trapped in the bowels of the ship and perished.

Guided along by the Canadian high-pressure system, Jesse finally was pushed out into the Atlantic Ocean. Normally, the warm seawater would feed the internal heat engine that powered the storm but the atmospheric conditions were just right to exert an upper level vertical wind shear. This slicing effect weakened Jesse's topmost circulation patterns and deformed its rotating winds, causing the storm to break down. What was left of Jesse was swept up in the winds running along the Gulf Stream parallel to the east coast of the United States.

Now downgraded to a category one hurricane, Jesse caused minor beach erosion and coastal flooding to the Outer Banks of North Carolina and the Tidewater area of Virginia as it passed closely by offshore. The beach at Atlantic City, New Jersey received six inches of rain, but this was not nearly enough bad weather to deter the happy gamblers who flocked to the casinos to rid themselves of their money. In a few days, Jesse entered the colder waters of the northern Atlantic off the coast of Newfoundland and completely dissipated.

In the space of a day and a half, billions of dollars worth of damage was inflicted on Florida and thousands of people were dead or injured. Orlando suffered a major economic hit with the almost total obliteration of its tourist attractions and infrastructure. Like a bad relative that had overextended his stay, Jesse left a path of death and destruction that would take man and nature many years to repair.
Chapter Twenty-Eight - The Struggle

Orlando, Florida - Monday Morning

THE ELECTRICITY WENT OUT in La Noche Pacífica sometime in the early evening right before the full fury of the storm hit. The designers had followed the city's code about installing underground utility lines to the letter, but in this case, it would have done little good to bury the transmission lines. An aluminum traffic pole that was knocked over by the wind fell on top of a substation transformer servicing the La Noche Pacífica area and blew up in a spectacular display of sparks. A cascading failure of the other power substations on the local electric grid occurred as automatic circuit breakers activated to prevent an overload. As each one tripped off, less and less power was available to the city. The death knell came when the main high power transmission towers connecting the Orlando area to the state's power grid were blown down, effectively isolating the city from the surrounding area.

All Internet, cable television and telephone services were interrupted as microwave repeaters and cell towers were destroyed in the storm. Without power, city utilities such as natural gas distribution centers, water treatment plants and sewer system buildings all switched over to internal diesel-electric generators, but this was like applying a band-aid to a major chest wound. Almost all of the seven hundred lift stations used to collect and pump wastewater to the water reclamation treatment facilities were without power. Combined with the billions of gallons of rainwater that had fallen during the storm, the overworked sewer system failed completely, dumping massive amounts of raw waste material into the streets of Orlando. Like little brown submarines, hundreds of thousands of unprocessed turds floated their way back up sewage pipes into the flooded streets and streams.

Jake and Paul had started out the storm on the second floor of the house but had moved downstairs when the lights went out. As the hurricane intensified Saturday evening, they sat in the kitchen listening to the wind building in strength. Since neither man had thought of buying fresh batteries, they soon scrambled to find candles. Luckily, Paul found a few scented votive candles, a gift left over from his house warming party. The kitchen soon smelled deeply of apple cinnamon and sandalwood.

Outside, the storm raged its fury against the house. Warranted to resist winds of up to eighty miles an hour, small sections of the fiberglass-asphalt composite roof shingles soon worked loose and flew off, leaving naked plywood sheeting. The bedroom windows that Paul had taken his sweet time duct taping were on the northeast side of the house and were the first to be blown out. These were joined in rapid succession by all of the other double paned windows on the second floor. But the real damage to Jake's house occurred when a huge tree limb, propelled along by hurricane force winds, smashed through the sliding glass doors in the living room, removing the frame and half of the wall.

Like the wing of an airplane, the air pressure differential caused by all of the new openings in the structure exerted a strong lifting force on the house's main truss. Constructed to support the roof, the thick wooden beams were designed to be incredibly strong, but the small metal plates that fastened the unit to the exterior walls eventually loosened. With a large explosion of wood and plasterboard that put the fear of God into both father and son, the top floor of their home was instantly destroyed when the entire roof lifted off in one piece.

Now open to the elements, wind and water poured in. Like Dorothy's house in The Wizard of Oz, everything inside that was not nailed down formed a whirling vortex of flying pots, dishes and glassware. Combining with debris from outside, some of the smaller pieces of living room furniture decided to join in the fun. Everything from couch cushions to Jake's pricey artwork became airborne. A set of very sharp kitchen knives that Jake had somehow managed to keep in the divorce easily detached from the magnetic strip that held them to the wall. Not to be outdone, they also joined in the macabre dance around the room. A large meat cleaver missed Jake's head by inches and embedded itself deeply in an expensive rosewood cabinet. A second later, cabinet and cleaver came crashing down when the supporting wall collapsed.

Both men quickly abandoned the kitchen for the safety of the small downstairs closet. Located underneath the staircase in the center of the living room, the space was the most secure part of the rapidly crumbling house. Unlike the exterior walls that were covered with just a thin layer of plasterboard and plywood, they were now surrounded by a solid wood frame imbedded directly into the concrete foundation. The traverse wooden planks that made up the steps helped reinforce the thick support beams to form a tight protective structure around them.

Father and son forced their way into the small closet, hastily throwing racks of old coats and shoes over their shoulders to make room. Jake pulled the thick wooden door shut just before another powerful explosion rocked the house. For the better part of the weekend, they huddled in the dark and the terror pressed tightly against one another. As Hurricane Jesse pounded what remained of the house, they covered themselves with some old woolen overcoats that Jake had been meaning to donate to the Salvation Army.

It wasn't until the winds started to subside in the early hours of Monday that Jake and Paul emerged from their life-saving cocoon. It took both men almost an hour of work on the closet door since a massive amount of furniture and debris had piled up against it, but they finally managed to open the door far enough to squeeze through. They were spurred on by the fact that the closet had been both shelter and bathroom for the last few days, and as Paul had put it, was starting to smell like a particularly nasty combination of refried funk and an anchovy's asshole.

In shock, they looked around wordlessly. Scrunched up in the dark closet during the long storm, their eyes were not accustomed to the bright sunlight that greeted them. Jake welcomed the fresh air that floated in on a cool breeze until he realized that although the sun was rising in a beautiful blue sky, it was doing so in the space that was formerly his living room. With the roof and a large section of the second floor of his home completely gone, he watched in a daze as a few birds flew overhead against a background of white clouds.

The two men carefully climbed over the ruins of the living room into the devastation of the kitchen. The kitchen cabinets had spilled their entire contents onto the floor before they had flown off for parts unknown. In what used to be the corner of the kitchen, a box of Fruit Loops cereal carefully mixed in with a few inches of pink fiberglass insulation. A large palm tree was resting comfortably on the refrigerator that Jake had stocked so carefully with food, water and ice. Now compressed down to half its former size, both doors had been busted wide open, blown off their hinges. The gallon jug of milk that he had fought over with the little old lady at the supermarket mixed in with a large open Tupperware container of leftover spaghetti to form a huge red and white gloopy mess.

Pushing aside a thick wooden two by four, the two men struggled over the rubble to the garage. The concrete block structure was mostly intact, but all of the wire shelving and lighting fixtures had been ripped from the walls. Both of their vehicles were buried under a mountain of debris. The outer garage door that had been stuck halfway up had blown away in the storm, leaving the interior to receive the full brunt of Jesse's winds. Despite being fastened by thick metal retaining straps, the water heater had detached from the wall and was now on top of Jake's truck, the hood smashed in. Jake's expensive tool cart was nowhere to be seen.

After some more climbing, they finally made it out into the open. Jake's eyes saw the carnage that lay before him, but there was way too much damage for his dulled brain to process all at once. What had been a neat, orderly suburban neighborhood was now a surreal scene from hell. It reminded Jake of the World War Two footage that he watched on the History Channel late at night; only it was in living color and not grainy black and white. Like the Russian army advancing on Hitler's underground bunker in Berlin, there was massive devastation everywhere. Taking in the whole scene, all Jake could finally manage was a feeble "Damn..."

Most of the places that Jake could see were severely destroyed, torn wide open, the roofs lifted off at odd angles like the tops of canned beans on display at a hobo convention. Every house in La Noche Pacífica received some degree of damage. Almost all of the expensive trees and shrubbery lovingly put in by the residents had been ripped out by the roots. Some of it was resting on the top of rubble piles, while a few of the larger trees were sticking straight through garage walls. The huge Florida palms that dotted the area were all torn down, several of them snapped in half. Ground up cinder blocks mixed in with glass, wood and the other trappings of civilization to form a thin layer of filth and grime on top of the rubble that would blow around like talcum powder with each fresh gust of wind. So much debris littered the neighborhood, Jake could not tell where the sidewalks began and the streets ended.

Nothing was registering in Jake's mind. With so many things bombarding his brain, for some strange reason he focused on the fact that it was obscenely quiet for a Monday morning. There were no children to be seen riding their bicycles up and down the street in the cool of the morning. The Puerto Rican groundskeepers who would normally be grooming lawns and shrubbery with their loud gas lawn mowers and buzzing electric hedge clippers were missing in action. Without a constant parade of cars driving along the curving road, the sound of a grey heron flying high overhead in the clear blue sky somehow made Jake realize that there was no longer a curving road in front of him.

_Maybe there are no more workers or children either,_ he thought numbly.

Jake regained his bearings somewhat as he spotted his mailbox by what he assumed was its normal position by the curb. Crushed into a tiny ball, the little red flag was twisted, but still sticking straight up.

_Maybe the mailman came while I was shitting my pants in the closet,_ he thought to himself.

He looked over at his neighbor's house. The place was half demolished, the wall of the building closest to Jake completely caved in. A leather sofa was obscenely sticking out of the wide front bay window like a big brown tongue. Jake could see through the few remaining wooden studs inside to the kitchen. The expensive granite counter top that Leo had installed and been so proud of was visible, gleaming in the bright sunlight. Directly above it, the master bedroom was open to the world. An overhead fan dangled by a thin wire from what was left of the ceiling frame. Still in shock, Jake watched absentmindedly as it rotated slowly in the cool breeze.

Leo and Barbara Morgenstern were nowhere to be seen. For a moment, he thought about calling out his neighbor's names, but thought better of it. After the intense noise that the fury of the storm had produced, the quiet was surreal, yet soothing and he didn't want to disturb the easy, peaceful feeling it gave him.

"Holy shit, Pop! Look at that!"

Jake glanced over at Paul who stood motionless, staring blankly into space and pointing his finger out in front of him. It was an effort for Jake to answer, "Look at what, Paul?"

"Pop," he answered solemnly. "It's gone."

Slowly, Jake realized what his son was talking about. The two-story house across the street next to Jenny's was completely missing. Once worth over a half million dollars, it was now an empty void. As if a giant hand had come out of the sky and brushed the house aside, the only thing remaining was an almost bare-naked concrete slab, a footprint to mark where it once stood.

All of the wooden wall support beams had been ripped clean out of the foundation. A thick iron utility pipe, twisted like a pretzel, was sticking out from the ground. Smaller white PVC water pipes protruded from the surface of the slab a few inches next to a toilet bowl, which was bolted to the floor and still mostly intact. The only other thing remaining on what was previously the side of the house was an external air conditioner unit, sitting on its own smaller concrete slab. A huge tree limb had smashed down on top of the cooling system, cleaving it nearly in half. Like an armadillo that had been hit by a semi on a Texas highway, the motor, condenser and electronic guts of the unit had spilled out of the sheet metal sides.

All of this devastation was in severe contrast to a gentle wind and bright sunshine, courtesy of the cold front that had pushed Jesse out to sea. The weather would have been absolutely perfect for a summer day in Florida had they not been living in hell.

Paul turned and faced his dad.

"What do we do now, Pop?" he asked.

And for once in his life, Jake did not have an answer for his stoner son.
Chapter Twenty-Nine

Orlando, Florida - Monday Morning

STANLEY WAS SITTING ON the edge of the bed, tightly holding his head in both of his hands. His skull was pounding like a jackhammer from all the alcohol that he was now consuming at an enormous rate. After surviving a long weekend of the hurricane's fury, he was being forced to drink his liquor straight from the bottle since all of his dirty glasses now lie broken on what was once his kitchen floor. He took another hard swig and shivered involuntarily as cooler air filled the house through the many holes in the walls.

He looked down at the naked woman lying next to him. Juanita had curled up into the fetal position and hadn't moved an inch in the last few hours. The only sound she made was an occasional moan in between her labored breathing.

Stanley had watched Juanita many times previously, leering at her from behind his curtains as the dark haired Latina went about her work for the fat woman across the street and had fantasized exactly what he would do with her given half a chance. And by coincidence, Stanley had been peering out of his bedroom window just as Juanita was begging Mrs. McDonald for shelter from the storm. Seeing her stumbling around wet and half-naked, his drunken lust got the better of him. As soon as she fell in the rain, he had run outside and carried the unconscious woman into the house. Once he had her safely held captive inside the upstairs bedroom, he shut and locked all the doors, but in reality, that wasn't necessary. Hurricane Jesse had parked itself over Central Florida and the full strength of the storm was upon them. Anyone caught outside would surely be killed by either the high winds or flying debris. As a section of his living room wall was smashed through by a flying two by four, Stanley wasn't all that confident that his house would withstand the fierce battering that he both heard and felt.

Dressed in only the tattered remains of her underwear, Juanita was a mess. Her wrist was broken and she had multiple cuts and abrasions on her face, hands and legs. There was a deep, nasty-looking wound running the length of her shoulder blades that wouldn't stop bleeding.

_That's okay,_ Stanley thought as he threw her on the bed and ripped off what was left of her clothes. _I want her on her back._

He went into the bathroom and brought out a filthy towel and a small basin filled with soapy water. Bending over the unconscious woman, Stanley carefully wiped the top layer of mud from her face and neck. Satisfied with his work, he went to work cleaning the rest of her body. This wasn't done for any semblance of kindness; he just didn't want to bump uglies with a girl covered in dirt. Stanley had his standards, after all.

As he moved her arm to clean off some grime, the pain in her injured wrist woke Juanita up. In Spanish, she cried out something he didn't understand. Slowly, she tried to focus her eyes in the darkened room. Eventually, Juanita recognized Stanley as the person who had lifted her up out of the flooded street to safety. He smiled down at her but didn't bother to stop scouring her body.

"Thank you," she said softly.

He just looked at her with soulless eyes and continued wiping her legs.

Gazing around the bedroom, she asked, "Where am I?"

"You're safe," Stanley lied.

Juanita settled back on the bed, comforted by Stanley's warm healing touch. He had managed to clean most of the mud, dirt and blood from her body. With her eyes closed, the memories of what had happened outside in the storm started to come back to her. A flash of anger gleamed in her eyes as she blurted out, "That damn bitch wouldn't let me in her house!"

Stanley didn't answer. He didn't like Mrs. McDonald either, having had a few words with the domineering woman over the last few years at La Noche Pacífica.

"Thank you for helping me," she said again. "I would have died out there." Then more slowly, "Who are you?"

In his intoxicated state, Stanley was feeling a bit confused. He knew who he was of course, but now that he had Juanita lying naked in front of him, Stanley thought he noticed a certain resemblance to his soon to be ex-wife. The more he stared down at her, the more he could easily imagine that it was Marilyn with him once again. For a brief second, he closed his eyes and remembered the great times they both had right here on this very mattress.

_That's crazy,_ Stanley thought to himself as he shook his head. Marilyn didn't look anything like Juanita. The two women were as different as night and day in both appearance and temperament.

Nevertheless, Stanley thought that he smelled a subtle whiff of the particular brand of perfume that Marilyn liked to wear. It was expensive and it had one of those stupid celebrity names, but damn, it sure did make her smell nice. She wore it only on special occasions, like anniversaries or birthdays. Or when she wanted to signal to Stanley that she was feeling horny...

This girl's skin was soft too, just like Marilyn's. _Even after all the years and having that damn kid,_ he thought. For a moment, he easily imagined once again that Juanita was his lovely wife. Stanley shook his head to clear his mind, but was half-scared, half pleased when he saw Marilyn smiling back up at him.

Done with the first part of his task, he set the washcloth down.

"You know who I am, Marilyn," he said just loud enough to be heard over the storm. "It's me, Stanley."

Juanita didn't notice the mistake in name as she suddenly became aware that she was butt naked. She tried to lift her hand up to her head, but grimaced loudly with the pain.

"Oh shit! I think my wrist is broken. And my ankle hurts a lot, too."

"Oh yeah?" Stanley said, unconcerned. Done with his good Boy Scout deed for the day, he started to rub her inner thigh with his bare hands. "That's too bad," he said absentmindedly.

"Are you a doctor?" she asked, a bit more concern in her voice.

"Nope."

"Did your wife undress me?" Juanita asked. With her good arm, she reached over and pulled a dirty bed sheet across her naked body.

Stanley heard the words as if from very far away. The tone of this woman's voice was now exactly like Marilyn's. A slight, sexy hissing in the way she pronounced her 'S' made it come out sounding like, "Did your wife undressssss me?"

Juanita noticed a strange look in his eyes as he told her, "You're my wife, Marilyn. Or at least you were a while ago before you hired that fucking lawyer..."

Still in shock, Juanita had a hard time registering what he was saying.

"Marilyn? No, my name is Juanita. Juanita Perez."

Stanley stood up and unbuckled his pants.

"Don't give me that bull shit, Marilyn," he said again, this time a wide smile on his face. "I know who the hell you are."

She tried to sit up, but Juanita was having a difficult time. Holding tightly onto the bed sheet, all she could manage was to prop herself up on one elbow.

"No, I'm Juanita Perez. I work for Mrs. McDonald." Desperate to change the subject, she added, "Do you know them? They live across the street."

Stanley glared down at her, lust in his bloodshot eyes as he slid his pants down to the floor. It wasn't hard for Juanita to notice that he wasn't wearing any underwear. Being a woman of the world, she quickly figured out that Stanley was demanding payment for the help he had provided her. Her years of living on the tough streets of Orlando told Juanita what was coming next.

"It's been a while baby. Did you miss me?"

Getting no answer from the stunned woman, he continued, "Don't worry, Marilyn. I know what you want and I know how you like it..."

"No!' she shouted. "You don't have to do this!" she pleaded. "Please, look, I'm hurt..." She held out her wounded arm.

Stanley really didn't care if she was injured or not. He was horny and wanted some tail. In a drunken fury, he ripped the sheet away from her body and quickly jumped on top of her.

She slapped at him with her good hand. "No!" she begged again.

Stanley grabbed her long black hair with one hair and yanked it backwards.

"I know you like it rough, Marilyn. Tell me you want it!"

"Oww!" she screamed. "Stop!"

Juanita's cries were drowned out by the fury of the storm. Debris blown about by the fierce wind was slamming into the side of the house and knocking out windows, but Stanley was too far gone to care about that. In desperation, Juanita reached out and clawed at Stanley's face just as the electricity went out. With her one remaining fake fingernail, she dug it deeply into his cheek.

That was the wrong thing to do. Stanley liked to inflict pain but he wasn't too keen on receiving it. In a maniacal frenzy, he balled up his fist and punched her in the face several times in rapid succession. With her jaw broken in two places, Juanita passed out once again, this time knocked unconscious by Stanley and not the storm.

"Fuckin' bitch!" he shouted in the dark above the wind. "I'll teach you to divorce me, Marilyn!"

Stanley took advantage of the helpless girl many times during the long weekend. Being a degenerate prick, he didn't care if she was awake or not and showed the girl no mercy. Spurred on first by the image of his wife laughing at him, then the little secretary at work and finally the hooker in Toledo, Stanley continued to beat the helpless woman long after his sexual fury was spent.

The extreme shock that Juanita had suffered in the hurricane was compounded by the nightmarish psychological and physical trauma that was delivered to her system by Stanley. As she drifted in and out of consciousness, Juanita imagined that she was still outside in the storm, being thrashed around violently by the wind and rain, only the noises that she heard in her dreams were Stanley's wild ravings as he continued to beat her savagely. With her body and mind completely desensitized, she had finally shut out the world and drifted into an unresponsive, catatonic state.

Resting in-between attacks on his helpless victim, Stanley had taken the time to glance outside at the damage in the neighborhood. Compared to the rest of the block, his house was relatively intact. The windows were all smashed and a lot of rain had filled up the bottom floor, but this only served to wash away the weeks of filth that he lived in.

Stanley set his drink down and pressed a dirty pillowcase tightly against the cut on his face, but it continued to bleed as he wondered what to do next. The storm was over and daybreak now illuminated the room. The tramp would probably be dead soon and he needed to figure out how to dispose of the body. Maybe he should dump her back over at the McDonald's front door and let them take care of this little problem.

A quick check outside the hole where his bedroom window used to be showed that a few people were starting to emerge from their destroyed houses.

_This will have to wait for nighttime before I can get rid of her,_ he thought to himself. That's plenty of time to figure what to do next.

With another long pull of his whiskey bottle, Stanley looked down at the naked figure of Juanita lying motionless on the bed.

_Might as well have another go,_ he thought. _No use wastin' a good whore..._
Chapter Thirty

Orlando, Florida - Monday Morning

JAKE STOOD ON HIS lawn with both hands on his hips, gazing numbly into the abyss before him. The street in front of him was a four-foot high mound of garbage, broken furniture, random house parts and tree branches resting in a half foot of filthy water. Wordlessly, he glanced over at his son. Paul was over to one side of the heap, peeing on a bunch of trash. Glad to see that his son was apparently less affected by the catastrophe than he was, Jake started to pick his way over the pile across the street towards the empty concrete slab. After Paul finished watering the lawn, he followed behind his dad over the trash.

Jake was almost at the top of a large stack of plywood when the load shifted slightly under his weight. With his arms extended for balance like a California surfer, he rode the top sheet down the other side where he landed face first in a muddy section of what used to be the street.

"Careful, Pop!" Paul said as helped his father to his feet. "You don't want to break your skull hanging ten after all we've been through."

Now on the other side on the rubble, it was much easier going. Whatever meteorological forces had ripped away the house from its foundation had also managed to clear away all debris in a six-foot radius, making the bare slab stand out like an oasis in the desert. Once they reached the empty base, they both walked over to the toilet bowl. Paul unceremoniously plopped down on the seat and wiped tiredly at his eyes.

Jake turned around and looked back across the street at what was left of his house. A small five-foot section of wall over the front entrance was still intact, but there wasn't much left to indicate that it was once a solid three-dimensional object. Mechanically, he let his gaze drift up and down the block, examining each neighborhood house in turn.

Before Hurricane Jesse hit Central Florida, all of the properties in La Noche Pacífica were easily identifiable. Sliced off into clean, highly measurable sections, it wasn't difficult to locate the individual property boundaries of the residents. It wasn't so now. Most of the buildings in the neighborhood were as badly destroyed as his place. Some of the smaller one-story houses that were tucked in-between larger bordering houses had ridden out the storm relatively well but still sustained major damage. All around him, garages were demolished and huge sections of walls and roofs were missing, replaced by jagged shards of glass and wood.

The Puerto Rican landscapers that La Noche Pacífica hired to groom the common parts of the community were very meticulous in their work. If the border of a person's property touched a freshly groomed section, the difference in grass height created what he called a 'lawn Mohawk' which often served as a dividing line. The mark between Jake's lawn and his uber-neat neighbor was usually an inch or two high, but was now hidden under tons of crap.

_Guess I'm off the hook for mowing the lawn for a while,_ he thought numbly.

With his mind still thick, Jake suddenly realized that there wasn't a single backyard patio cage standing. Constructed of thin wire mesh screens stretched over aluminum frames, they were designed to keep out mosquitoes and were obviously no match for force five hurricane winds.

After a few minutes, Jake thought he heard a noise off in the distance. He glanced over at Paul who had leaned back against the toilet basin, eyes shut as he let the bright sun warm him.

"Did you just hear anything, Paul?"

"Mmmm, no Pop," he said, half asleep.

As soon as he finished saying those words, both men heard a woman's voice, much louder and crying out for help from the rubble next door.

Jake and Paul quickly crossed over the concrete slab towards the wooden framework of Jenny's house. Cupping both hands to his mouth, Jake called out into the pile. A muted, "We're in here!" answered them back. Using this slightly more adult version of Marco Polo, the two men picked their way through the damaged house, calling out Jenny's name and listening for an answer.

After five minutes, they located the source of the distress call. Jenny and her husband were trapped in what was a bottom floor bathroom. As the tempest began to tear down the house around them, the couple had sought shelter in a small bathtub. With a mattress pulled on top of them, the couple had weathered the storm out side-by-side, right before a large part of the upstairs floor had pancaked down onto the tub, trapping them securely in their fiberglass coffin.

Jake and Paul found a large wooden beam and used it as a lever in an attempt to free the trapped pair. With their combined weight, they managed to pry up enough of the structure so that Paul could wedge a cinder block under the wood. Slowly, Bob Reid slithered out from underneath the rubble on his belly like a snake, closely followed by Jenny.

Although their clothing was severely torn, neither appeared hurt besides minor cuts and bruises. Sitting on what was her living room floor, both Jenny and her husband took the opportunity to stretch out the kinks in their bodies.

"Thank God you came along!" she exclaimed while rubbing at her calf muscle. "We were cooped up in that tub for days."

"Damn, not much left of this place," Bob said as he cleaned the lens of his glasses. "Shit! I bet the truck's totaled too!"

_Shouldn't you be concerned about your wife's welfare before you worry about your material possessions?_ Then on second thought, Jake added, _And you're welcome for being rescued, asshole!_

After a few minutes, both had sufficiently recovered the circulation in their limbs and were able to stand. Slowly, the entire group made its way outside of the demolished house into the bright sunshine. Jake recognized the same shocked look on their faces as the one he probably had an hour previous.

For some strange reason, he was surprised when Jenny didn't cry or moan over her destroyed house. An almost inaudible "Oh my!" was the only thing that she could manage as the newly freed couple examined what was left of their neighborhood.

Her husband Bob, however, was another story. Acting like a real dickhead, the man hadn't stopped complaining about every little thing since being set free. Like a spoiled child, he practically wailed each time he noticed something new that was damaged.

"Man, we're never going to recoup the value of the house from the insurance people," Bob said in a high register that scrapped at Jake's one remaining nerve.

Jake averted his eyes as he noticed Jenny absent-mindedly fumbling with the remnants of a ripped tee shirt. Paul did his hormone driven best not to look but still managed to sneak the occasional peek. Just as Jake was about to offer the pretty woman his own shirt to cover up, Paul surprised his dad as he quickly took off his cargo shirt and wordlessly handed it to Jenny. Three sizes too big, she draped it across her shoulders.

_Guess I was wrong about Paul..._ Jake thought to himself as he looked at his son in a different light. _Maybe there is hope for that boy yet._
Chapter Thirty-One

Orlando, Florida - Monday Morning

THE ELDERLY WOMAN WAS sitting on the toilet bowl, both hands covering her face. She had been crying non-stop for the last fifteen minutes. Barbara Morgenstern was at her side, trying her best to comfort the woman to no avail. Wearing the same tank top and shorts that she had started out the storm with on Saturday, Barbara looked incredibly sexy even with a dirty blanket draped across her shoulders. Although she was chilly, Barbara removed it and offered it to the distraught woman.

"I can't believe it! They're all gone, all gone..." her voice trailed off as she shook her head. "Even their newborn baby!" This set off another loud spasm of crying.

"I didn't know them very well," Barbara said as she cradled the woman's head against her body.

"The Bronson's were very nice people," the old woman said through tearful eyes. In a second, her head shot up. "Maybe they're still around! Maybe they're trapped under all this wreckage! We should start a search party and look for them!"

"We're not even sure if they rode out the storm in the house," Barbara tried her best to assure the distraught woman. "They might have left for someplace else safe far away."

After hearing Barbara trying to comfort the distraught woman, Jake just glanced over at her and shook his head slowly. Without uttering one word, he said everything that needed to be said. If the Bronson's were at home when the storm hit, they were surely dead.

Recovering well from being entombed in a bathtub for the better part of a weekend, Jenny was standing off to the side next to Jake, still taking stock of everything around them. Her husband had gone back into the damaged garage to look for some tools, but not before yelling at Jenny for something trivial.

A few other residents of La Noche Pacífica that didn't evacuate from Jesse's fury started to emerge from the wreckage. As the only clear space in the neighborhood, the house slab became the defacto meeting place for the survivors. Slowly making their way out of the destroyed houses, most of them were in shock. People who were acclimated to waking up to seventy-five degree mornings were chilled at the fifty degree weather that greeted them after the storm and so, like Barbara, many were wrapped in sheets and blankets.

Paul went back across the street into the house against Jake's protest, presumably to look for another shirt to replace the one he had given to Jenny, but in reality, he was going to get high to help cope with all of the devastation. The teenager had carried the bag of pot in his cargo shorts the whole time that he and his dad were riding out the storm in the closet. Paul needed to get high very badly.

Leo walked over to the small group gathered around the toilet. His left arm was hanging down limp.

"We went back in the living room and searched all around, but Britney and I couldn't find the case of water we had stashed away," he announced to the group. "It's a mess in there."

"Where's my daughter?" Barbara asked, a look of concern on her face.

"She's in what's left of her room looking for her bible and some clothes," he said.

Barbara glanced back at the house. "That's not too safe, Leo. The whole place will fall down in a good breeze."

"You know Britney. I couldn't talk her out of it," he said, a bit sheepishly. "I warned her to be careful."

"How's the arm?" Barbara asked her husband.

"It's worse. I can't move it at all now."

"Let me look at that arm," Jenny said. Carefully she examined him, but it didn't take long for her to say, "Yep. It's broken. You're lucky that there's no bone protruding though the skin. We should set it in a splint."

She walked over to a pile of rubble and picked up a piece of wood.

"We can use this to keep it still. All we need now is something to tie it to your arm."

"I'll get something from the house while I check on Britney. I'll be right back," Barbara said.

"Be careful, babe," Leo said as the shapely woman made her way over to her house. With all the men watching her every move, she disappeared over the rubble in a flash.

Jake was impressed with the way Jenny was conducting herself. He had thought all along that his neighbor was a meek woman who never spoke her mind but now he saw her in a different light. She appeared cool and calm even in the face of massive amounts of destruction.

He asked Jenny, "You have medical training?"

"I sure do," she informed Jake. "I was an emergency room RN before I got married."

The relative silence was broken when they heard, "Can anyone help me? My grandson's been hurt real bad."

Crossing over a mound of rubble, an older man was carrying a young boy. The kid had a bloody towel wrapped around his head.

Surprising Jake once again with her decisive manner, Jenny waved the man over. Slowly she unwrapped the red stained towel from around the young boy's head and examined the wound.

"This doesn't appear too bad," she said in a clinical mode. "His eyes are clear and he's alert, so I don't think there's any immediate neurological damage. Keep applying gentle pressure against the wound," she instructed the grandfather. "We'll try and find something else to dress it with." Done with that, she walked over to Leo.

Barbara joined the group again, carrying a handful of nylon stockings.

"Will these do?" she asked.

Even though Jake was recovering from the storm's aftermath, he had the presence of mind to imaging Barbara's long legs in the sexy hosiery.

_Yeah, those will do just fine,_ he thought.

"Good," Jenny answered. "Take those and tie two pieces of that wood to either side of your husband's arm. Make it tight enough to keep his arm from flopping around, but not so tight as to cut off the blood flow."

Barbara nodded yes and tended to her husband.

Jake looked around at the scene. "We should set up some sort of a first aid station. There's sure to be more walking wounded," he said.

"Okay, but we're going to need medical supplies."

"Like what kind?" Jake asked.

"Like anything. We're going to need it all. Bandages, alcohol, medicine..."

"We should organize a search party first before we do that," Leo said. "Search through the ruins for more wounded."

"Let's do this," Jake suggested to Leo. "If you're up to it, you take some of the healthy people and look for the wounded. I'll grab some of the younger guys and start searching medicine cabinets in the houses for anything we can use."

Jake thought he saw Leo give him a funny look, but grudgingly he nodded yes as Barbara finished dressing her husband with her finest nylons.
Chapter Thirty-Two

Orlando, Florida - Monday Afternoon

IN THE LAST FEW HOURS, the sun had risen higher in the sky as more people had emerged from their houses. A larger amount of walking wounded continued picking their way aimlessly through the mess. Slowly Jake glanced around the concrete slab. With all the activity going on, the cleared out area had filled up fast. It seemed to him that the whole neighborhood was congregating around this central meeting point.

Over in one corner, Jenny had set up a hospital area with some couches and mattresses put down with the help of a man who was a part time volunteer EMT. She had also drafted Barbara Morgenstern into hospital duty. Presently, she was helping the small child that had been carried in before by his grandfather. He was resting comfortably and looked to be doing better.

In his search of the rubble, Jake had found some medical supplies, which he had turned over to Jenny. To his dismay, he had also found a few dead people. He marked those locations with small crosses fashioned from sticks, placing them as close as possible to the entombed bodies.

Paul walked over to his dad with an armful of canned food. He and some of the younger guys had been tasked by Jake to gather up supplies and they had done an excellent job. In the middle of the concrete slab was a huge stockpile of food, water, a few tables and chairs, his generator, three barbeque grills and a small pile of Igloo coolers.

"Where do you want these, Pop?" he asked.

"Put it with the other stuff for now, I guess."

Leo had just returned from his search efforts. The splint on his arm was now set in a crudely fashioned sling, immobilized tightly against his body with a torn bed sheet that wrapped around his neck and chest.

"How did it go, Leo?"

"We searched through the houses south towards the conservation area for about two blocks. As we went along, we found these things." He motioned towards some supplies that a small group of men behind him was holding. "It was all we could carry."

"Good," he nodded. "Have them add it to the pile."

He lowered his voice. "We didn't find anybody trapped alive under the rubble, but there were a few bodies. We marked the front of those houses with some colored towels."

Jake just nodded at the bad news.

"I figure that we'd start back up on the north side after we dump off this stuff," Leo added, gesturing towards the heap.

"Let's think about that, Leo. We're running out of space here real fast. We should organize the stuff we've got now before we go looking for more."

He didn't know if it was his imagination, but Jake thought he saw that same flash of annoyance from Leo once again.

Before he could comment on it, the awkward silence was broken when Willie Johnson and his wife walked up to them.

"Hello, Leo," Willie said. "What happened to your arm?"

"I broke it in the storm. Part of my bedroom wall fell on top of me. How's you're family doing?"

"We're all okay, thank God. The house took it in the shorts and the kids are a bit shaken up, but we're hanging in there."

"Do either of you have any medical training?" Jake asked. "We're short handed over there." He motioned towards the make shift hospital.

"Not anything beyond basic CPR." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Willie Johnson and this is my wife Thelma. We live the next block over."

They shook hands. "I'm Jake White and I live across the street." He motioned to the rubble pile that was previously his house. "Or at least I used to."

Paul made his way back over to the group, happily stoned and with a bad case of the munchies.

"Hey Pop, me and a couple of the guys were wondering if we could tear into the food. We're getting kind of hungry."

At the mention of food, Jake's stomach began to rumble. Since he had emerged out of his broken house when the storm ended, he had been directing people almost nonstop. Now that he thought about it, it had probably been two whole days since he had eaten anything.

"Okay, but first we've got to set up a few things." He pointed towards the space between the slab and Jenny's house. "Get a couple of guys to clear that area, then move all the food stuff over there. Keep the generator where it is and try to get it started."

This time Jake definitely noticed a flash of irritation from Leo.

"Think that's a good idea, Leo?" he asked, gauging his reaction. "We'll need the open concrete space for the hospital. There's sure to be more wounded."

Leo mumbled a pained agreement. "I guess so. Let me give you guys a hand." He walked off with Paul.

_What the hell is his problem?_ Jake wondered. _Like I need a friggin' attitude from Mr. Tightass right now..._

"What can I do to help, Mr. White?" Thelma asked.

Jake smiled. "Well the first thing you can do is call me Jake. My dad was Mr. White."

He looked over at his son. Paul was having difficulty starting the small gas generator. A grey haired man was apparently explaining to him how the choke worked.

Switching gears, he said, "It's going to be a while before we have any power and we need to find out what's going on in the outside world. Ask around and see if you can find a battery powered radio. Gather any info about the storm and especially anything about what they're going to do about rescue attempts."

"Okay. I think my son has a radio. Let me check." Thelma turned and made her way back to her house.

With Willie's wife tasked, Jake walked over to where Jenny was tending to a woman's ankle.

"How's it going?"

"Better now that I have some bandages to work with." She smiled sweetly at him. "Thanks for doing that." She reached out and gave his hand a tender squeeze. "And thanks for getting me out of the tub."

Unable to help himself, Jake blushed. He mumbled out, "No problem."

Quickly changing gears, he said, "I've got the guys clearing the space between here and your house. And we're going to get some food going in a bit."

"Mmmm, good. I'm hungry."

Jake turned his head when he, along with everybody else, heard Jenny's husband call out her name.

"Jenny! Where's the hell's my chain saw?" Bob's head popped up from behind a small section of the garage wall.

She called out loudly, "It should be under the wooden cabinet, next to where the bicycles were hanging."

"Yeah, well it's not there now."

Jake could here anger in his voice. Once again Jake thought, but didn't say, _What an asshole..._

"Let me go help him find it," Jenny said in a muted voice. "If I don't, he'll be impossible..."

"Sure thing, Jenny," Jake said with a forced smile. To his surprise, she gave his hand another squeeze, then turned and made her way across to her house.
Chapter Thirty-Three

Orlando, Florida - Monday Afternoon

STANLEY DRUDGE WAS DRIFTING gracefully through an open meadow full of beautiful flowers and green grass, the bright sunlight and gentle breeze warming his face. His hair, no longer greasy, was neatly cut. He stretched out his arms and noticed that all of the many aches and pains in his worn-out body had somehow magically disappeared. Feeling fit and trim, he ran his hand across his torso and discovered that he had lost the beer belly that he had worked so diligently on for the last fifteen years. Looking down, he noticed that he was wearing the same black tuxedo that he had been married in. To his pleasant surprise, it still fit him like a glove. Stanley smiled widely as he realized that he was a young man once again.

Through the glare of the sun, he could just barely see his wife Marilyn off in the distance. She was wearing the white summer dress that she had worn the first time they had met. He loved the way she looked in that dress, all fresh and beautiful and innocent.

After what seemed like an eternity, Marilyn turned and finally spotted him. With a smile that warmed Stanley to the core of his being, she waved at him in her own funny way. Sticking her arm full up over her head, she flapped it back and forth vigorously, like a flower being blown over by a strong wind. Stanley would always tease her about it, but secretly he loved that peculiar quirk of his wife.

Quickly, she crossed the meadow and was now standing in front of him. The fragrance of her perfume filled his nose as he breathed in deeply. The angry words, shouting, crying, all of the previous unpleasantness that drove them apart evaporated in an instant. Now that he was ready to start out his life again with his bride, Stanley remembered how her easy smile could light up his life and make all the troubles of the world disappear.

She drew in closer and embraced him tightly. He could feel the warmth of her body through her thin clothes as she pressed up against him.

"Stanley," she whispered softly in his ear. "Make me happy."

"Of course, darling."

He leaned in and gave her a kiss. It was just a light brushing kiss, their lips barely touching.

"No, baby," she said again, this time a bit louder. "Make me happy."

Stanley was getting confused again. He caressed her soft hair but his wife just stared back at him vacantly. The twinkle in her eyes slowly disappeared as her inviting smile turned into an ugly sneer, like that of a museum gargoyle. Her face was transforming right before his eyes and was now contorted into something ugly, almost obscene. He was scared of what she was becoming.

Stanley heard his own voice say off in the distance, "How can I make you happy, Marilyn?"

In an instant, she had changed into a cruel, ugly wicked monster. Her sweet breath, now reeking of the smell of bile and decaying flesh, caught him full in the face, causing him to gag. The sheer force of her voice pushed his hair back as if it was being blown in a breeze just as her sharp teeth sunk deeply into his neck.

"KILL THE BITCH!" she screamed at him.

Stanley woke up with a start. He was huddled under a thick woolen blanket on the floor in a far corner of the bedroom. After being awake for almost three days straight, he had finally fallen asleep, an empty bottle of whiskey still clutched tightly in his hand. Since he started drinking heavily, the alcohol messed up his sleep patterns. The booze coursing through his system was forcing the blood away from his vital organs towards his skin, decreasing his core body temperature rapidly. Despite all this, he found himself covered in sweat.

For a moment, Stanley was unsure of where he was. The strong afternoon sun had traveled across the sky. As it streamed in through the window frame, it fell on Stanley's face from a different angle, momentarily blinding him. He blinked rapidly to clear his head. When he raised his hand against the glare, he found that he was still clutching the empty bottle. He screamed a ghastly, almost inhuman sound as he flung it against the far wall where it shattered into a thousand little pieces.

"Hello? Is any one in there?"

Stanley remained still. Was this new voice part of his dream too?

"Hello? Is everyone okay in there?"

He heard it again, only this time it was coming from outside. Slowly, he tried to stand up. A sharp pain split his head in two and his back was stiff from lying on the floor. With faltering steps, Stanley managed to make his way over to the window opening, still wrapped in the dirty blanket.

Looking down, Stanley noticed Thelma peering into what remained of his kitchen.

"What do you want?" he screamed down at her.

Momentarily startled, Thelma took a step backwards and almost tripped over some garbage. Regaining her composure, she looked up at Stanley.

"Are you okay? I heard some glass breaking."

He wiped his mouth on his dirty shirtsleeve. Still very hung over, he managed to squeak out a feeble, "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Well, that's good. A bunch of us are meeting over by the Morgenstern place. It's a few blocks over that way." She pointed in the general direction. "We're going to have some food in a bit if you want to come and join us..."

Stanley thought about that for a moment. He could use some food in his ulcerated stomach.

"No, I'm not hungry."

"Is there anybody up there with you?"

He looked over at the bed where Juanita lay motionless.

"Nope. Just me up here."

"Okay. Well, glad to hear that you're all right. If you change your mind, come on over and join us. We've got a nurse and a hospital setup too."

With a last scowl, Stanley popped his head back into the room far enough where he could just see Thelma shrug her shoulders, turn around and walk towards her house. His bloodshot eyes lingered on her butt as she carefully stepped over the debris that littered the open space between their houses.

He watched as Thelma suddenly stopped in her tracks and froze. For a moment, he thought that she had forgotten something and was going to turn around and try to talk to him again, but he finally noticed the problem. A light green snake about three feet long had slithered out from under the rubbish right in front of the women. He watched as she picked up a rock and chucked it in the general vicinity of the reptile. Like a flash, it popped back down into the ground.

Stanley stumbled back over to his corner and leaned heavily against the wall. _Damn black bitch afraid of a little snake._ The conservatory piece of land behind their houses was full of animals in the best of times. With all the rain and flooding from the storm, there would be a lot of snakes around to scare the crap out of her. Lots of other critters too. Snakes and squirrels and woodchucks and...

Gators. Big fucking alligators. Stanley knew that they were always out there, lurking on the perimeter of civilization. He had seen quite a few on his morning drive to work when he was late and took the back roads. Hell, this was Florida. You can hear them late at night, bellowing out to get laid during mating season in February and March. The association was always warning parents not to let their kids play in the wooded area for fear of one of the little bastards getting eaten by one.

Stanley knew what he had to do now as he checked his wristwatch. It would be dark in a few hours and he had to get Juanita ready.

He staggered over to the bed. Slowly he turned the women over on her stomach. Grabbing the edge of the bed sheet, he tucked it underneath her naked body. As if he was making a human burrito, he rolled her over and over, wrapping her tightly in the dirty linen.

Now he just needed to secure his little package. Looking around the room, Stanley noticed the expensive Venetian blinds that had come crashing down when the windows were blown out. Pulling out a long piece of cord from the mechanism, he secured the sheet tightly around her body with the rope.

Done with his chores for the day, he pulled out a fresh bottle of whiskey from a half full case and flopped back down in the corner. As he cracked the seal on the bottle, in the back of his mind he could hear his wife's voice urging him on.

Make me happy, Stanley. Make me happy...
Chapter Thirty-Four

Orlando, Florida - Monday Evening

AFTER A FEW HOURS of hard work, a larger area had been cleared around the perimeter of the house slab. Jenny's husband had finally found his chainsaw and had set to work on some of the larger tree trunks and branches. Eager to be busy, most of the able-bodied people had dragged a huge portion of the rubbish away, creating a wide path through the mound of debris separating both sides of the street. A large mount of the trash was set up in Jake's front yard. Over his objections, another dumping site was established on Leo's lawn.

In the now vacant space behind the slab, food and water had been prepared and set out buffet style on three long picnic tables shoved together end to end. Initially, the group had a heated discussion whether or not to conserve whatever food they had, but everyone was tired and hungry so they voted to eat before their meager supplies went bad. A long line of people looking like refugees snaked around the front of the serving tables. Paul had finally figured out how to start the three-kilowatt generator and it was now humming contently in the background, supplying power to a row of microwaves.

They had also managed to drag out some patio tables from the bordering backyards to serve as a makeshift dining area. At one of them, a small group of people was brainstorming ideas while they ate and suggestions were coming fast and furious from all directions.

Jake was sitting next to Jenny at the head of the table. The stream of wounded people emerging from the wreckage had slowed down considerably in the last few hours so she had been relieved long enough from her nursing duties by the EMT to grab a bite to eat. Barbara and Leo were also at the table, munching on a plate of warmed up spaghetti and cold cuts. Paul had separated from the group and was sitting with a bunch of teenagers off to one side. Even in emergencies, kids wanted to show off their independence and didn't like sitting with their dorky parents.

"We should set up some lights in the hospital area before it gets dark," Jenny said. "I bet a lot of people are going to sleep out in the open tonight. Nobody wants to go back in their shotgun shacks for too long."

Jake glanced over at Leo as he put down his fork.

"Add that to the list and make it a priority. Also find and set up some mattresses."

During the discussion, Jake noticed once again that Leo seemed upset with him. Every time he offered an idea, his neighbor was quick with a snide comment.

_I wonder if he thinks I'm trying to usurp his leadership position,_ Jake had wondered. _On the other hand, maybe he thinks the defunct association board is still in charge._

In any case, Jake was getting tired of Leo's crappy attitude real fast. He was just about to tell him so when, from out of the blue, Barbara surprised him.

"Honey," she said in a sultry voice that turned Jake's legs into butter. "We need to capture these thoughts. Why don't you take this pad and pencil and write down all the good ideas that we're coming up with?"

From the look on his face, it was obvious that Leo did not like playing the part of Jake's secretary, but nevertheless he sat quietly next to his wife, scribbling on a pad of paper with his good arm.

"Anybody hear a weather report for tomorrow?" someone asked.

"It's going to be a cold one tonight," Barbara said absentmindedly as she munched on a bologna sandwich. "We'll need to find blankets, too."

"I think we should send out some of the younger guys to the front gate and see what's up," another person offered.

"Let's leave that for tomorrow after everybody's rested. We can't have people tripping over crap in the dark."

Thelma walked over to the group with her food and sat down.

"Here's our information officer," Jake said. "What's going on in the outside world?"

"Well, I finally found my son's battery powered radio underneath the rubble that was my house. All of the local stations are off the air, but we can just tune into a faint AM station located outside of the Orlando area up north somewhere. I listened to it for a while, then I put the radio over there by the food table. Also, somebody dragged a television outside. We hooked it up to the generator before but all the stations are off the air too."

Thelma checked off the items on her fingers as she took a bite out of her sandwich.

"Overall, the news is not good. From coast to coast, Central Florida is devastated. Moreover, it looks like it's going to be a long time before help comes. The radio says that Jesse was the worst hurricane ever to hit the Orlando area. All of the main and secondary roads are out from Tampa to Daytona Beach. The power grid in this section of Florida is down and will be for a while. The National Guard has been mobilized, but the report says that they're going to hit the big important spots first once the primary roads are cleared. I think we need to start preparing ourselves for a long wait," she said again for effect.

A silence fell around the table.

"Damn. Anybody got any good news?" Jake finally said.

Willie said, "I think the cold weather snap will end by tomorrow and we'll settle back into our usual hot and humid summer weather pattern." He pointed towards the setting sun. "Red sun at night, sailor's delight. Red sun in the morning, sailor take warning."

"That's not so good news, Willie," Jake said. He lowered his voice and leaned in a bit closer. "We've got a lot of dead people underneath the rubble. Once it turns hot again, they're going to start to stink."

That bit of information really brought the group down.

"Let's add 'organize a burial detail' to the list," he told Leo somberly.

"I saw a nasty looking snake at the house," Thelma said to break the silence. "Crawled out of the ground right in front of me."

"We need to be careful and warn everyone of the danger from wild animals," Willie said. "For a while, I lived in Louisiana and when it would flood badly, the extra salt water would drive the critters out of the washed out areas and into the city looking for food. With all the extra rain and flooding we've just received, the overflowed waterways will act like a superhighway for snakes and alligators."

Vito Capputo sat down at the table with a big plate of food in his hand and the ever-present cigar in his mouth. His shirt was torn and he had some scratches on his face, but otherwise looked to be uninjured.

"Who's in charge here?" he said gruffly. "I've got a complaint."

Jake asked, "What's the problem?"

Vito pointed his finger towards Paul and the teenagers.

"I noticed them kids going through my house without my permission. Friggin' brats probably doing some looting in all the commotion."

"They weren't looting," Jake answered. "We organized some search parties before to look for wounded and supplies in the wreckage."

Vito snarled, an enraged look on his face. "And who told them to do that?"

"I did." Jake held both his ground and his gaze against this angry man. "My name is Jake White and I live across the street there."

The old man pulled his cigar out of his mouth and stared across the table at Jake.

"And who the fuck put you in charge?" Vito snapped, his face red. A vein in his head started to throb.

Now Jake had somebody else besides Bob to be royally pissed with. All of the frustrations of the past several days came pouring out. He lashed out at the man.

"I'm not in charge. I just saw what needed to be done and I helped get things moving. And as long as we're talking about it, I didn't ask to be boss and if anybody else wants the job they can have it."

He turned to face Leo.

"What about you, neighbor? I'm getting tired of your shit-eating attitude. You want to take over? How much do you think you can do with your broken arm?"

Leo sat uncharacteristically silently.

Hoping to defuse the situation, Jake counted to five, then stretched his hand out across the table. "Look, I'm sorry. It's been a long day. What's your name?"

Vito continued to glare at Jake, ignoring Jake's hand. After a long pause, he slowly turned his attention away to the food in front of him.

"I'm Vito. Vito Jones," he said finally.

The group was quiet until Jenny stood up and turned to face Vito. She grew red in the face as she practically screamed, "Look here, Mr. Jones, Jake has been running things ever since the storm ended and he's been doing a fine job of things. He was instrumental in getting stuff done and organized when everybody else was walking around with their thumbs up their asses!"

A moment of anger re-flashed in Vito's dark eyes for a brief second. A strange smile showed as he said, "Okay sweetheart, relax. Don't get your panties in a wad."

"Okay, let's everybody calm down," Willie chimed in. "We've been through a lot and everybody's nerves are frazzled. Let's finish our meal and get ready to bed down for the night. There are a lot of things to do tomorrow."

The group went silent, except for Vito who still was munching noisily on his food. Thelma was the first to break the tension.

"I saw our neighbor when I went home," she announced to nobody in particular.

"Stanley Drudge?" Barbara asked. "The nut case?"

"Yeah, that guy. He was acting a bit weird."

"He always does," Willie said. "I don't think he's had a kind word for me in all the years we've lived next to him. He's best left alone."

"Well, he's holed up in his house. I told him about the food and the hospital. In any case, he says he's fine."

Jake stood up. Having vented his anger and frustration, he felt much better.

"Well, we should get ready for the night. Leo, can I get you to task the kids to find a few lamps? If anybody has a camping lantern, that would be good. If not, have the boys drag a few out of the rubble and we'll plug them into the generator."

Without waiting for an answer, Jake walked away from the table. _No good deed goes unpunished,_ he thought to himself.

"Jake, got a minute?" He turned around to see Willie catching up to him.

"Yeah, Willie. What do you need?"

"You might not know this since you're relatively new to the neighborhood, but I had a good sized garden growing in my backyard. Had for years. Right before the storm hit, me and the kids pulled up a lot of the fruits and vegetables and stored them in the garage and kitchen. That part of the house got hit pretty bad, but I bet we can get in there and salvage some of it."

Jake smiled. "That's the first good news I've heard all day, Willie."

"That's not all. I have four drums of rainwater in the back yard too. They're too heavy to move, but at least we've got some fresh drinking water."

"Excellent! That will help a lot." He lowered his voice. "Let's not make that common knowledge right now until we get a chance to see what's up."

Willie nodded his head in agreement.

"Okay. And hey, don't worry about those guys. Me and Thelma think you're doing a fine job and really appreciate you stepping up to the plate."

Jake slapped Willie on the shoulder. "Thanks, buddy. It's good to have friends."
Chapter Thirty-Five

Orlando, Florida - Monday Night

BY NIGHTFALL, THE STRESS from riding out the storm and the hard work of setting up camp had taken its toll. Everyone was completely exhausted and most had just collapsed onto the many recliners and mattresses that had been dragged out of the wreckage. Leo's brown leather sofa had been removed from its place in the window frame and now held a prominent place in the encampment, as far away as he could be from the great unwashed masses.

Almost all of the people in La Noche Pacífica slept outside the first night after Hurricane Jesse unleashed its fury on Central Florida. Most of the houses were unsafe at best and the owners were afraid to go back inside for any extended period of time. The temperature had quickly dipped down into the mid-forties, positively freezing for a summer's night in Florida. People huddled together as best they could under torn blankets and sheets, grateful for both the release that sleep brings and the warmth of human contact. Jake's generator had been left on all night powering a few electric table lamps, which they had scattered around the perimeter of the camp but even over the constant hum of the gas engine, the residents could hear the occasional shift of debris caused by the stiff north wind. Once during the cold night, an entire section of wall collapsed a few blocks over, rubbing already frayed nerves raw.

Although most of the sophisticated urbanites in La Noche Pacífica fell asleep quickly in the cool night air, one person was hard at work.

* * *

At the top of the stairs leading down to the kitchen, Stanley paused for a moment to rest, breathing hard and heavy. It had been a while since he had done anything that resembled physical labor and he was way out of shape. With a loud heave, he picked Juanita back up and placed her over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Wrapped up tightly in the thick woolen blanket, she made no sound at all.

It was very dark in the hallway and Stanley didn't have a flashlight. Even if he did, he would have had to use it sparingly to avoid being seen. He would have a hard time trying to explain to his nosey neighbors what he was doing carrying a body in the middle of the night.

The stairway was filled with house debris and long lengths of shattered wooden beams, their razor sharp splintered edges making Stanley's journey difficult. To compensate for the extra weight on his shoulders, he balanced himself with one hand on the remaining wall, the other firmly on Juanita's butt.

Finally reaching the bottom floor, he had to step over the mess in his kitchen carefully. Even though he was wearing his thick hunting boots, Stanley was careful not to walk on the broken glass that crunched beneath his feet. Slowly, he pushed his way over to the refrigerator and paused. In the darkness, he could smell the rotted food and mounds of garbage that littered the kitchen. The combined stench made his ulcerated stomach retch. Reaching deeply into the freezer compartment, Stanley pulled out a bloody package of warm ground beef. The juice ran down his arm as he removed a pillowcase from his pocket. He threw the decaying meat in the sack and tucked the whole mess in his pants. In disgust, he wiped his arm clean on the bed sheet covering Juanita.

With that completed, Stanley set out for the difficult part of his task. Retracing his steps, he crossed back over into the living room. The long sliding glass door unit leading out to his patio had been pushed inwards in one piece, the aluminum frame lying on a heap of garbage and upended furniture on the floor. He set Juanita down on the leather couch and stepped outside to contemplate his next move.

Stanley let his eyes adjust in the clear moonless night for a few minutes as he listened for any telltale noises. Uncharacteristically quiet, the only sounds he heard were the muted voices of the residents and the constant hum of the generator a few blocks over. Without any streetlights to block out the night sky, he could see Venus hovering brightly among the many twinkling stars.

The cage screen and metal frame surrounding the patio were blown away, nowhere to be seen. In front of him, the oval shaped swimming pool was a slimy, green mess. Mold and a thick layer of gunk had built up over the last few months and had overflowed onto the concrete patio. The white vinyl fence that separated his property from the wooded area was also gone, with only one lone post sticking out of the ground to mark that it had even been there.

Eventually, Stanley's eyes adjusted to the dark and he could just make out the tree line in the shadows behind his house. Wishing that he had brought a bottle along to fortify his courage, he knew that he had to act quickly, so it was now or never.

Stanley hefted Juanita over his shoulders once again and stepped back outside into the cold night air. Cautiously, he sloshed through the yucky pool water, the goop slippery beneath his feet. Reaching the back of the patio, he walked to the far edge of the concrete pad. There was a two-foot drop into his backyard and Stanley almost fell over as he half ran, half slid down the embankment.

The overgrown lawn in his backyard was flooded. With the added weight of Juanita across his back, his boots made a sucking noise as he walked across the spongy ground. A few times, Stanley sank deeply into the mud and almost got stuck. Resting a minute to catch his breath at the broken fence line, he crossed over a small drainage ditch. Originally put in to help move rainwater, it had been transformed into a four foot deep, rapidly flowing stream with all the extra flooding from the storm. Stanley shivered uncontrollably as he slowly made his way through the cold, waist deep water.

He finally reached the edge of the wooded area. It was difficult to see in the dark, but he noticed that a few of the huge trees had fallen over and was blocking what he thought was a good entrance. Eventually Stanley spotted a small clearing off to one side. He headed over in that direction and entered the woods, using Juanita to push his way through the thick undergrowth. Stanley stumbled a few times across the uneven ground and fallen tree limbs. Along the way, he had to place Juanita down twice to work his way over some of the larger tree trunks.

After twenty minutes of thrashing through the bush, Stanley finally found what he was looking for. On the border of a small clearing near the golf course, he spotted a large swampy area surrounded by thick, dense vegetation. Completely exhausted and out of breath, he threw Juanita down roughly on the ground into a shallow puddle of water.

As she hit the dirt, Juanita let out a small "Ooof" sound, surprising Stanley.

"Damn, bitch! You still alive?"

Juanita opened her eyes and stared directly at Stanley. With her broken jaw, the best that Juanita could manage was a low, unintelligible moaning sound.

She watched helplessly as he opened the pillowcase and pulled out the package of meat. With his fingers numb from the cold, he bent down near the captive woman and smeared a large bloody handful all over her head and face.

The smell of the rotted meat made Juanita choke. Even in the dark, Stanley could see the fear and disgust on her face as he plastered more of the ground beef into her long, matted hair. He chuckled softly to himself as she shook her head back and forth in a fruitless attempt to clear away the blood that dripped down into her large brown eyes.

Stanley stood up over the powerless woman. Slowly, he scattered the remaining bits of the raw meat all around Juanita. Done with that, he wiped his hands clean on the filthy grease stained pillowcase and threw it down near Juanita's feet.

"This should bring some of our little woodland friends out to play," he mumbled to himself.

Now aware of what Stanley had planned for her, Juanita struggled feebly in the tightly wrapped sheet to no avail.

With cold, unfeeling eyes, Stanley gave the area one fast look around. All had gone as planned. He could smell the rancid meat stinking up the area and figured that it would take one or two days tops for something to come on by and dispose of the women.

_Hell, even if a gator doesn't find her and finish her off, I bet the fire ants will..._ He shivered half from the cold, but mostly from the thought of being slowly devoured by ants.

Without saying as much as a goodbye to Juanita, he turned away and left the woman to die. With his task for the night finished, Stanley made his way out of the woods, back to his house and a waiting bottle of hooch.

Another problem solved...
Chapter Thirty-Six

Orlando, Florida - Tuesday Morning

THE MIDSUMMER SUN peaked over the horizon early, sending a bright, warming ray of sunshine to Jake's face, which just happened to be the only part of his body exposed to the elements. Like a swaddled baby, he was completely covered by a thick, itchy woolen blanket that Paul had managed to salvage from the closet. Even though he aired it out for an hour, it still smelled like a unique combination of mothballs and pee.

Jake turned his head to the side and noticed that Jenny was already awake and up on her feet. Over at the first aid area, she had just finished rolling up a sleeping bag. He tried to be sly as he watched her walk up and down the row of wounded people, checking on the people in her charge.

_She probably slept on the ground all night,_ Jake thought to himself as Jenny tucked in a blanket around a small child. He also noted that her asshole husband was nowhere to be seen.

Just as Jake's bladder decided that he should also get up and start the day, the generator ran out of gas, plunging the area into deafening silence. Grumblings of 'Now what'll we do' and 'Somebody fix that thing' filled the air. As Jake scratched at the stubble on his chin, he reflected on the fact that even though there were a few cans of gasoline not ten feet away, nobody bothered to refill the tank and restart the generator. It really irritated him when people were too damn lazy to work for their own survival.

Before he flopped down for the night, Jake had been thinking hard about the previous day's confrontation with Vito Capputo. He remembered the old man asking him who was in charge and now that he looked around at the confusion and lack of effort by these people, Jake realized the truth; there wasn't anybody in charge.

His mind was made up. In times of trouble, people always look for a leader and since nobody else jumped up and volunteered for the job, Jake decided he would grab the reins.

_Left to their own devices, these friggin' people would starve to death,_ he thought as he unwrapped himself from his smelly cocoon and got to his feet.

"Hey you, grab that can of gasoline," he shouted at the nearest person. The man froze like a deer in oncoming headlights and gave the classical 'Who, me?' shrug.

"That's right, I'm talking to you buddy!" he said with emphasis. "Grab a can, fill up the generator and restart it."

To his surprise, the man picked up the gasoline can and made his way back over to the generator. _That was easy,_ he thought. On a roll, Jake decided to see if he could push his luck.

He pointed towards another person. Using his best authoritative voice, Jake said, "Once he has the generator back online, find some people to help you set up tables so we can get some food going."

"Should we plug the microwaves back in?" the man asked.

"No. Let's get morning coffee started first." Jake looked around the collection of salvaged kitchen items. "Fill up one of those big pots with water and get it boiling on a barbecue grill." He grabbed a colander and lined the inside with a sheet of newspaper.

"Pour the coffee grounds in this. When the water's almost boiling, strain it through and collect it in some containers."

With a leader at the helm, the atmosphere in the camp quickly changed. People started to help one another, working on the various tasks. Already, a few of the men were pushing some of the tables together that had been set aside to make room for couches.

As predicted by Willie the day before, a high-pressure area was reforming over the region and the normally hot, muggy Florida weather was returning. Moving through the crowd of people while giving instructions, Jake noticed little beads of sweat on some of the people who were the most active. As he paused to wipe his forehead, he noticed Jenny looking at him from across the slab. She smiled as their eyes locked.

After two hours of rapidly increasing temperature and with everybody fed on a breakfast of strong coffee, peanut butter sandwiches and warmed up canned corn, Jake decided to hold his first question and answer session with the community. Standing on top of a tree stump away from the hospital zone, he called for everybody's attention.

"Can everybody gather around here please?" he called out in a loud voice.

The crowd shuffled over and surrounded him.

"Okay, gang, as you may have heard, the National Guard is coming, but it looks like we're going to be on our own for a while. We need to get organized."

Everybody in the audience listened to him as he repeated the information that Thelma had told him yesterday. After bringing the crowd up to date, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the list that Leo had compiled.

"There's a lot to do. Since the sewer system is out of commission, one of the first things is that we have to set up community bathrooms." He pointed towards a far tree line. "I suggest we place them over there. It's not so far that we can't walk it, but it's a good distance away so we can have some privacy and don't have to smell it over here. That means a bunch of ditches needs to be dug. Anyone want to volunteer to help set that up?"

A man raised his hand.

"Good. Get with me later on that. Next, we need to search through the wreckage for more supplies. I suggest that we use the younger kids and those that are physically able to search through the ruins."

Somebody called out, "Why use the kids?"

"Well, they're young, strong and agile. Plus it'll keep them busy so they'll stay out of trouble." That got a few laughs and nods of agreement from the crowd.

Jake glanced over at his son.

"Paul, I'm putting you in charge of that. There are two things I want you to do right away. First, start searching the closest houses that are the least destroyed. Remember, before you go in, call out and make sure that it's not occupied. We don't want anybody to think that you're looting..." He glanced at the faces staring up at him, hoping to recognize Vito, to no avail. "And be very careful. Some of these buildings are hanging together by a shoestring and as we've seen, can collapse at any moment."

"Okay, Pop. What am I looking for?"

"Items like canned food, water, gasoline for the generator, tools, medicine... things like that. If you can't carry it back, make a note of where it's at and we'll get you more help to fetch it."

"What's the second thing you want me to do?"

"Whenever you can, make your way over to the guard shack at the main gate and look for any radio gear or walkie talkies. And while you're there, check out the main road leading to the outside of the community if possible. Make that a priority." In the back of his mind, Jake hoped his son was up to the job.

With the organization of search parties delegated, Jake's next most pressing problem was to find somebody to put in charge of food. He had considered tapping Willie for the job since he had baskets of vegetables and water to contribute but that was before he met Rosie.

Earlier in the morning, she had walked up to him and volunteered her services. Jake had never seen her in the neighborhood before but that was because she had been on vacation from New Jersey, visiting her daughter in La Noche Pacífica when Hurricane Jesse hit. An older woman that walked with a slight limp, she was built like a muscular fire hydrant. They talked briefly and Jake liked her right off the bat.

"I'm a retired cook. Used to work at a senior citizen's center. Thirty odd years, cooked every meal and didn't miss a day of work," she proudly boasted to him in a Jersey accent so thick it could peel the paint off a car. "I think I know what to do."

He quickly discovered that Rosie was a no nonsense type of person who can get things done and didn't mind yelling at people if necessary. Jake immediately moved her to the top of the list.

"Next thing is we need a food czar in charge of setting up the kitchen and to control out meager supplies of food. I have just the person for the job. Rosie, let the crowd take a good look at you."

She stood up and waved her hand.

"Rosie, these microwaves are okay in a pinch, but we need to set up a proper kitchen area. Drag out all of the backyard barbeque grills and propane gas tanks that we can find. We'll need pots and pans, dishes and knives and forks too. Grab as many people as you need to get that done. Without being too sexist, I'd like to get some of the ladies to volunteer for that job so we can save the men for the heavy lifting."

Jake continued. "With all this going on, we'll need to organize the space around the camp. I suggest we clear out a sleeping area down the block and drag all of the mattresses down there away from the generator."

Somebody from the crowd asked, "What about finding a place for bathing and laundry? I don't know about you, but I'm getting a bit gamey."

"You and me both, brother. Anybody know if there's a swimming pool available for that?"

Doug Moody raised his hand. "Mine's still in pretty good shape but there's a great big tree blocking the side entrance. I'll need some help clearing it to gain access into the backyard."

"Okay. See me later and I'll get you some help with that."

Jake looked around at the sea of tired, haggard faces staring back at him. "We've been knocked down pretty hard guys, but we're not out. There's a lot to do, but I think if we all pull together, we can hang in there until help arrives."
Chapter Thirty-Seven

Orlando, Florida - Tuesday Afternoon

DOUG WAS MAKING his way back to his house, picking through the debris in the streets with two other men. The group traveled slowed since the man carrying a large gas powered chainsaw across his shoulders was both overweight and a two pack a day cigarette smoker. Sweating profusely in the afternoon sun, they stopped every few minutes to rest before passing the machine back and forth over huge piles of rubble. As they rounded the corner to the semi-private cul-de-sac a few blocks away from the camp, they could see down both sides of the street.

"Your house looks like it's in relatively good shape," the heavyset man said.

"Yeah, it pulled through the storm pretty good, but as you can see, the garage took it in the shorts."

In front of them, Doug's truck was resting on its left side on top of the smashed-in aluminum garage door. Left outside at the mercy of the hurricane, it had been pushed through the house by the force of the high winds. Inside, the men could barely make out Nancy's SUV, which had been crushed flat when most of the garage roof fell on top of it.

Doug led them along the side of the house. A ten-foot high wall of limbs was blocking access to the backyard. A huge oak located in the conservatory bordering this section of La Noche Pacífica had fallen in the wind, landing in such a way that the top third of the tree had completely filled the space between his house and the neighbor's. Unfortunately, the rest of the tree had fallen on his neighbor's house and had destroyed the living room, crushing the man in the process. Doug just nodded to the makeshift cross hanging from the doorknob on the front door. The fat man crossed himself.

"If we can clear a big enough section of this tree, I figure that we can have everybody enter the backyard this way."

The guy with the chain saw pulled on the starter. With a belch of smoke and noise, he went to work on the tree, concentrating on the smaller branches first. After those were cleared and the tree trunk exposed, he expertly cut it up into small manageable pieces. In an hour's time, the men had dragged away the wood, stacking it in two-foot piles along the side of Doug's house.

With an entrance way cleared, they went into the backyard. The flimsy patio cage, like all the others in La Noche Pacífica, was demolished. Most of the expensive wooden decking had also been damaged badly. The large hot tub that Doug and Nancy had frolicked in was still intact, but the large insulating cover was nowhere to be seen.

"We should take down what remains of the frame," the thin man said. "These sharp, jagged edges are sticking out and could cut somebody bad." He started tugging at a piece of black frame, working it back and forth. After a minute, it snapped off in his hand. Doug nodded his head in agreement.

While the two men were removing what was left of the frame, Doug bent down and scooped up a handful of water with his hand. After giving it a sniff, he splashed it on his face.

"The water looks pretty good," he said. "None of that yucky stuff has built up on the surface yet. I can manually skim off most of the leaves and crap from the surface if I can find my equipment." He gestured toward a pile of broken boards. "I think that stuff is buried in the tool shed somewhere."

"How come the pool didn't overflow in the storm?" the fat guy asked as he broke off another long piece of metal.

"I emptied most of it before the storm started," Doug answered. Working in the hot afternoon sun had him sweating like a banshee. He took off his shirt and laid it on the wood decking, then jumped into the pool. "Can you give me a hand with this stuff?" he asked.

Without waiting for an answer, he dived under the water surface and pulled out the furniture that he had tossed in before the storm. One by one, he lifted it up to the men who set the expensive patio frames over to the side to dry.

"Hey guys, might as well jump in and cool off before the dirty unwashed masses get at the clean water."

The men looked at each other and quickly decided that was a good idea. Both kicked off their shoes and jumped into the pool without bothering to take off their clothes. All three enjoyed themselves in the cool water for a long moment. The fat man took off his wet shirt and flung it onto the back of the newly rescued chairs to dry in the sun. After scrubbing at their faces, hair and stinky arm pits, they sat on the pool edge and dangled their feet in the water.

"Man, that felt good. I was beginning to feel like I was going to crawl out of my skin."

"I know what you mean," the thin guy said.

Doug pointed to the hot tub. "We should use that for laundry. I'm pretty sure that I've got some clothesline in the garage. We can stick some of the broken frame pieces into the ground over there and string it up in between," he said, gesturing with his hand.

As the men were drying themselves in the sun, Nancy was watching them from inside the house. She had broken free from the group right after breakfast and made her way back to the damaged house. Gaining entrance through a broken window, she had initially been searching through the wreckage for some more clothes and clean underwear, but for the last fifteen minutes Nancy had been frantically pulling apart a chest of drawers looking for some coke.

Her last hit was three days ago and she was suffering through all of the classical symptoms of cocaine withdrawal. Last night at the camp, she woke up shaking and nauseous from a terrible night's sleep. Besides an overwhelming, intense craving for the drug, her mood alternated between extreme agitation and fatigue.

Not finding any of the cocaine, she waited until the men in the backyard got dressed and left. After they went, she worked her way through the house to the backyard and joined her husband. Even though she was suffering through withdrawals, she tried to appear upbeat.

"Good job on the tree, babe. How did you convince the guys to clear it away?"

"While you were here, I sat in on a meeting back at the camp. They needed a place for everybody to bathe, so I volunteered our pool."

Nancy's eyes flared wide after she heard this.

"You did what? Are you serious, Doug?"

Doug was a bit taken aback by his wife's strong reaction.

"Sure I am, babe. Of course I'm serious."

"Why did you do that? I don't want all those strangers in our pool. They're going to be washing their clothes and taking a bath here?"

Doug could see her eyes widen as she spoke. She was getting more agitated and he tried his best to calm her down.

"Think about it for a minute, Nancy. This is a win-win situation for us."

"How so?"

"Well, if we let people in to clean up, that makes us look like good guys. And it won't last for long, maybe a few days at the most. After that, when all this is over, we present the association with a bill to get the pool and hot tub cleaned and the patio fixed up." He lowered his voice a bit. "Just hedging our bets if the insurance company tries to screw us, babe."

"So now we're going to have people trampling around our house all hours of the day and night?"

"No. We'll make sure that there is a certain set of hours that people can use the pool. And they're not going to go in the house. That's totaled anyway."

All of Doug's logic was falling on empty ears. By now, Nancy was fuming. With a huff, she quickly wheeled around and stormed back inside the house. Doug wisely decided to stay outside, dangling his legs in the cool water. After a minute, he leaned over and grabbed his shirt. Inside the pocket, he fingered the plastic vial containing the one last hit of coke and debated giving it to her to knock the edge off.
Chapter Thirty-Eight

Orlando, Florida - Tuesday Afternoon

AFTER JAKE'S EARLY MORNING speech, the camp area was buzzing with activity. Now that he had asserted his authority as the camp leader, the first thing he did was to continue to delegate some of the many open jobs to people. With Jake in the center of it all, the upbeat mood in the makeshift camp was infectious as a constant stream of people constantly checked in with him about various items. Rejuvenated from the pep talk and with the effects of a good night's sleep, it seemed that everybody wanted to know what they can do to help or what supplies were needed.

As if by magic, the area had been transformed. Using a pair of rusty wheelbarrows, a kid's red toy wagon and sheer muscle power, eager workers had cleared back the piles of debris, further enlarging the area around the cement slab. Now with more room to work with, Jake had assigned areas for the various components of the camp.

After consulting with Rosie, Jake decided that the rectangular slab itself would best serve as the kitchen since it would get the most foot traffic. Under her direction, she had assembled some of the women together and in an hour's time, they were starting to layout the beginnings of a first rate bivouac style field kitchen.

As he watched Rosie directing people to organize the area, Jake remembered why he enjoyed working with women a lot more than men. It was his experience that they took direction better without all the attitude and macho crap that men seemed to possess. Pleased with her dynamic attitude, he considers making her his second in command.

_Wouldn't that just piss Leo off royally,_ he thought to himself.

His next task was to relocate the hospital area. Jenny was caring for a dozen bedridden patients cramped up in the small space between her house and the concrete slab. They, along with the bedding and supplies, needed to be moved to a quieter, more secluded place so they would have a chance of getting some rest. Measuring outward from the edge of the kitchen, the farthest spot was a flat and dry area behind the destroyed house. Void of most of the debris that littered the rest of La Noche Pacífica, it had been cleared back to the tree line by a few eager workers with chainsaws.

Moving the meager amount of supplies that they had found in the wreckage took only fifteen minutes, but more than a few of the injured people had to be carried to the new location. First, the empty cots and mattresses were moved. Grabbing a few of the stronger men and a large blanket, Jenny oversaw the transfer. After quite a few trips back and forth, the hospital had been completely moved to the new spot.

The sun had reached the hottest point in the day when the stink coming from his body made Jake realize that he needed a change of clothes badly. For the past few hours, he had been scratching himself almost raw. With things running smoothly, Jake decided to take a break and go back into his house to look for some clean socks and underwear.

_And maybe I can get five minutes worth of peace and downtime,_ he thought to himself.

Now that a path had been cut through the wall of debris in the middle of the street, it was easier for Jake to cross the street over to his house but he still had to fight his way back over the mess in his garage. As he re-entered the remnants of his kitchen, the stench of rotten food baking in the hot summer air overpowered him for a brief moment. He quickly realized that pulling his tee shirt over his nose to block out the nasty food odors did no good since the clothes he had on his back stunk almost as bad as the kitchen.

It took several minutes of careful climbing until he was able to work his way through the rubbish in his living room over to the staircase. The sight of the battered remains of the closet door and pushed aside furniture brought back the memory of the terrible ordeal that Paul and he had weathered as the hurricane raged. As he passed the closet, the strong smell of shit reminded him that the closet was also their toilet bowl for two days and nights. He hurried past.

This was the first time that he had ventured up to what was left of his bedroom since the storm hit and Jake was astonished once again at the damage to his now almost vacant second floor. The corner section of the house containing Paul's bedroom was completely gone. Most of the master bedroom was open to the sky and with a large part of the exterior wall torn down, Jake has to shoo away a flock of pigeons that have taken up residence on his overturned bed. His closet was missing but a dresser full of socks and underwear was still there, smashed and knocked over.

Jake found an empty gym bag lying on top of the rubble and started to fill it up with clean clothes. After a moment, he noticed a pair of blue jeans in the backyard hanging from a section of the torn down patio cage, waving in the wind like a flag. Next to it, other pieces of his and Paul's clothes are scattered on the lawn.

_I should get back there and see what I can salvage,_ he thought.

Lugging the bag full of clean underwear, Jake slowly made his way back down the stairs. On the main floor, he had to struggle once again to get to the backyard. A mountain of broken living room furniture and general house crap was blocking his way. Lying scattered in pieces underneath his feet, the safety glass from the sliding patio door twinkled in the bright sunlight like diamonds.

Once outside, his patio area looked like a scene from the Apocalypse. The furniture that Paul forgot to secure before the hurricane struck was missing in action, blown away to parts unknown. Huge piles of house debris made getting over to the pants difficult, but Jake was spurred on by the fact that he'd been wearing the same crusty shorts since the storm began.

His luck held out. A close examination reveals that the Levi's aren't ripped and what's more, the strong sun has dried them out.

_Cool! Clean underwear and a fresh pair of pants,_ Jake thought as he gazed longingly at the small pool in front of him. _All I need now is a quick bath._

The dirty water looked cool and inviting even though it was full of storm trash. Pieces of drywall and wood were floating on the surface but Jake spotted a small section that was relatively accessible and clear. He decided to strip down naked and scrub off the top layer of filth that had accumulated on his skin before changing clothes.

As he bent over to untie his boots, Jake noticed a crinkled piece of paper at his feet. Most of it was covered in dirt, but he could just make out that it was a picture of a woman.

_Damn that kid of mine,_ he thought to himself. _I bet his Playboys are scattered all over the neighborhood._

Jake picked it up to take a closer look and slowly realized from the weight of the paper and the semi-glossy finish that he was holding a photograph and not a page from a magazine. With the side of his hand, he wiped off the dirt covering the face in the photo and was pleasantly surprised when he recognized his sexy neighbor, Barbara Morgenstern.

"Whoa! Nice photo, Barbara," he said out loud.

The image looked staged, like a cheap valentine boudoir photo taken at a novelty shop. Wearing dark fishnet stockings, five inch spiked stilettos and a deep blood-red corset, Barbara's pretty face was distorted by a mean scowl. Her arm was holding a leather cat-o'-nine-tails raised up high and ready to strike.

_How lucky is that dumb shit Leo to have a good looking wife that would pose for these kind of photos,_ he thought to himself. _That asshole doesn't deserve her._

In any case, Jake tucked the photograph deep in his gym bag underneath the clothes.

_This one's a keeper._ Then slowly, he glanced around the yard. _I wonder if there are any more candid photos lying around?_

Looking over at the space between their houses, Jake thought he saw a trail of papers among the household crap. Hoping that all of the Morgensterns were busy elsewhere, he crossed over to his neighbor's property. From this angle, he was well hidden from the street by the collapsed wall of Leo's house, so he believed that he had privacy to do some first class snooping.

Almost immediately, he spotted another photograph lying in the rubble in front of him. Cautiously peering around to make sure no one was watching, Jake picked it up. This time he's shocked to see Leo and Barbara posing in the picture together. Barbara was wearing the same fetish dominatrix type outfit as before but now Leo is kneeling in front of her. From the red marks running down his back and the wide smile on his face, it appeared that a good time was had by all.

_This is no boudoir photo,_ Jake thought as he stored the photograph safely in the bag along with the other one. _She's whipping the shit out of him. Man, what a freakin' whack job!_

Emboldened by the thought of seeing Barbara in some more compromising positions, Jake threw caution to the wind and peeked inside Leo's house. Seeing nothing but rubble, he entered the house through a gaping hall in the wall. Being careful not to disturb anything for fear of a collapse, he rummaged around the kitchen. On the far side of the room, he noticed that the upstairs bedroom closet is now on the main floor, lying on its side. Pulling up some drywall blocking his way, he pried open the wooden door.

His eyes grew wide. Underneath six inches of pink fiberglass insulation, he spotted a small space chock full of sex toys. Still attached to hooks in the wall, whips and chains of various shapes and sizes were lying right next to a few medieval looking restraining devices.

Well, isn't this interesting. My neighbors are full-blown kinky bastards!

Jake picked out one particularly menacing-looking instrument of torture. Turning it over in his hands, he was unsure about what it was, where it goes or how it's used.

_I guess these things must come with operating instructions,_ Jake thought as he set it back down.

His mind wandered back to the previous night when Barbara easily convinced her husband to take notes at the brainstorming session.

Here Leo's been playing all tough and macho, but in reality, he's really a submissive little jerk. That's why it seemed that she had him wrapped around his finger. She'll whip the crap out of him if he says or does anything wrong.

Having a sudden pang of guilt for snooping on his neighbors, Jake decided to keep all of this a secret. _Unless that asshole starts acting bossy or gives me major attitude again,_ he thinks.

Replacing the sheet of insulation and drywall as before, Jake made his way out of the house. Back over on his property, he humed a little tune as he stripped down to take a swim. Now that he has clean clothes, a bath waiting for him and pictures of his sexy neighbor, he was in a much better mood.
Chapter Thirty-Nine

Orlando, Florida - Tuesday Afternoon

VITO WAS IN A foul mood, even by his standards. Normally not a good-natured man, today he was even more unpleasant to be around. For the last two hours, he had been digging through what was left of his bedroom and he had worked up a good sweat from the heat and humidity of the summer day. Since the old man hadn't had a shower in days, an annoying prickly heat rash had quickly developed under his groin and armpits.

He also needed a cigar badly. Before going to sleep last night, he had smoked his last one. Usually he kept a humidor full of imported Italian panatelas on top of the nightstand right by the bed but the interior of the room was a complete mess. All probing underneath the wreckage for the nasty smelling stogies proved futile.

His house had been completely leveled by the fierce storm, except for the master bedroom, which had been relatively untouched. Standing strong like a protective cocoon, the connecting exterior walls had saved him from the strength of Hurricane Jesse. Whether it was solid house construction techniques or sheer luck, Vito considered his survival as nothing short of a miracle from the holy saints themselves. He blessed himself once again as he got ready to tackle the hard part of the job.

During a previous attempt to salvage items from his bedroom, Vito had been stopped short by a partially collapsed ceiling. This time however, he had the advantage of a long piece of steel rod to use as a crowbar. Most of the long afternoon's work had been in loosening and removing the thick wooden beams that blocked his way. With that taken care of, he now had enough of the room cleared away to drag his recliner in from the lawn. Vito was thankful to get the chair inside. The nasty Florida weather accompanied by the punctual afternoon tropical thunderstorms would be returning soon. Even if you were in the shade, it was as hot as hell.

With the offending joists finally pushed towards one side, Vito now had access to his large walk-in closet. Reaching his arm deep inside, he tugged at the casing that held the compartment's sliding door with no success. Normally he would have it open in a few easy moves, but the latching mechanism had broken off, jamming the door shut.

It was imperative that Vito salvage some of the items from his closet. He felt absolutely naked without access to a weapon. Being an astute observer of human behavior, he knew that conditions like this brought out the survival instinct in men. If the damage to Orlando was as bad as that around him, they were in for a long wait until normal services were restored. The teenagers he had observed the other day roaming through the wreckage were only the first wave of lawlessness. Before you know it, roaming gangs of thugs would be looting the neighborhood in search for food and water. Well, if that was going to happen, Vito Capputo would be on the winning side.

An altercation this morning at breakfast had only reinforced the necessity of being armed. Not wanting to mingle with the other people in the makeshift camp a few blocks over, Vito preferred to stand guard over his few remaining possessions and went there only to eat. As he was finishing his second cup of coffee, some _caffone_ had the audacity to approach him about helping out at the camp. Although the man had tactfully explained to Vito that everyone was pitching in with the chores, the old man had felt mortified.

_Did that guy think I was some sort of common mook that would bus tables and shovel shit?_ he thought. Luckily for the man, he wasn't armed. Instead, Vito just gave the guy a 'fuck you' look that stopped the young man in his tracks.

Vito felt his blood pressure rising once again. Using his pent up anger, he picked up the steel bar and smashed it hard against the closet wall. The force of the blow popped open the small panel that closed off the extra hidden space. Grabbing the edge of the door with both hands, he leaned back for leverage and in a rage, yanked it open. The board came off its hinges in one piece. With a loud snort, Vito threw it to the side.

He was intimately familiar with the interior layout. By design, Vito had practiced handling the weapons with his eyes closed in case he had the need to find a weapon in the dark. Down and to the left on a small recessed shelf, he felt for a leather gun holster. Luckily, it was still attached to the wall, held secure with a thick strip of Velcro. With a quick flick of his wrist, the .38 snub nose came out with a loud _shrrrifffttt_ noise. Hefting it in his meaty hand, Vito checked the revolver by instinct. Well oiled and maintained like all of Vito's weapons, it was loaded and ready.

A sudden noise behind him caused Vito to whirl around. With the .38 held straight ahead in both hands, Vito looked down the blue steel barrel and saw Peepers. Having gotten bored, Peepers was both familiarizing himself with his new surroundings and looking for something to hump. He wagged his tail when he saw Vito.

"Stupid mutt," he said, bile reaching the back of his throat. "Get the fuck out of here!"

Never one to take a hint, Peepers grinned as he noticed that his new friend had a mighty fine looking leg. _Yep,_ Peepers thought. _Mighty fine indeed._ Peepers slowly made his way towards Vito.

Picking up a large piece of wood, Vito flung it in Peepers' general direction. Using his limited mental capacity, Peepers took this rude action as a sign that today's love connection was not destined to be. The dumb animal turned around and quickly left through a small hole in the wall, completely missing a ten-foot section of open space.

Vito watched the animal leave. _Even dogs respected you when you shoved a gun in their face._ Pulling up his shirt, he holstered the pistol and tucked it into the band of his shorts.

Turning his attention back to the closet, he picked up the large section of sheetrock and placed it against the opening. Using the building material around him, Vito pilled it against the door until the exposed gap was completely covered.

_This will have to do for a while until I can figure something else out,_ he thought.

Turning to leave, Vito noticed something on the floor. Moving a piece of broken bed frame, he found his cigars, most of them undamaged.

_I need to make these last,_ he thought to himself as he lit one up. _Might be a while until I can order some more._
Chapter Forty

Orlando, Florida - Tuesday Night

JAKE, PAUL AND A few of the men from camp were hunched over a large map that had been set up on a folding poker table, plotting the next day's strategy. A large section of La Noche Pacífica fanning out from the main road had not been investigated yet, although people from that side of the subdivision had been in camp the last two days. The architect's blueprints that they were using had been on display in front of the clubhouse, but that was before Paul had liberated it from the glass case. Part of the developer's original set of design documents, it depicted all of the roads and surrounding areas in La Noche Pacífica to scale with the individual subsections shaded in light blue and the award winning golf course highlighted in a dark green color. Carefully, Jake peeled back a sticker of a red arrow with the words, 'You Are Here' from the map. He rolled the gummed label between his fingers for a moment, then flicked it back over his shoulder.

They had been sitting around the table for the last hour, listening to a news broadcast from Jacksonville. The AM signal was much stronger after sunset so the announcer's voice was crystal clear as he reconfirmed their worst fears. A wide swath of destruction caused by Hurricane Jesse extended from Tampa Bay east to Deltona. The National Guard and federal authorities were working around the clock to restore services to the area, but there was massive damage to the area's infrastructure. The larger interstates were being cleared first and they hoped to start on some of the smaller secondary roads soon. Jake reached over and shut the radio off when the announcer reached the bottom of his script and repeated the bad news.

Paul was knocking back his second Pepsi that he had emancipated from the clubhouse's soda machine. He and some of the camp's teenagers had set out on an exploration trip and managed to make it down the main road as far as the guard shack. They had raided the La Noche Pacífica clubhouse for anything of value on the way back.

"It was rough going all the way, Pop. Both sides of Los Lobos are either flooded or full of debris," Paul said.

Like everybody else living in La Noche Pacífica, Paul used the shortened form of the street's real name: _Avenida De Los Lobos_. Spanish for _Avenue of the Wolves_ , the developers had named all of the streets in the trendy golf course community this way, which usually led to massive confusion whenever you tried to give directions over the telephone to a confused pizza delivery kid.

He pointed to an area on the plans. "We had to climb over huge piles of crap almost the whole time. And there's a huge river of mud covering these side streets." He stabbed at the map again. "It must be runoff from the golf course. In some places, it's almost three feet thick."

The sun had set ten minutes ago and it was getting dark. Jake reached over and switched on a gooseneck lamp that had been salvaged from somebody's home office, bathing the map in a harsh yellow light. He swatted at yet another mosquito buzzing around his head. The normal Florida summer weather pattern had returned with a vengeance, bringing back hot and humid air along with the hoards of bugs that accompanied it.

"We saw a bunch of wounded people sitting alongside the road down by the clubhouse," Paul continued. "We told everyone we met about our setup here." Paul hesitated for a moment. "But some of them were just sitting there, kinda ignoring us, like they were in shock or something..."

"Hmmm... I didn't notice anybody new wandering in today. Did anybody else?" Jake looked around at the faces in the dark. All just shook their heads wearily. Paul wondered if he would have to send out search parties to bring in the wounded from the other subdivisions in La Noche Pacífica. He decided to set that aside for the moment.

"Here's some bad news, Pop. The guardhouse at the main gate is completely destroyed. A huge tree landed on top of it and smashed it flat," Paul said, referring to the same oak tree that had given Juanita problems. "The entrance is completely blocked, too. And from what we could see, it's just as bad on the other side of the gate all the way up to the highway. It'll take a major effort with bulldozers to get through and clear the roads. Looks like we're stuck inside La Noche Pacífica for a while."

"That answers my next question. Guess we'll have to stay put and wait until the authorities can dig us out," Jake said.

Just then, Leo came up from behind and joined the group.

"We could use some better tools to work with in the mean time," Jake continued. "Leo, do you know where they keep all the heavy equipment that they use for the golf course?"

"Yeah, there's a bunch of sheds lining the fairway by the west edge of La Noche Pacífica." He studied the map for a second, then gestured with his good arm. "Here. And here. They're unmarked on this set of blueprints, but that's where the green keepers store the large mowers and crap. Gas and oil too, I think."

Jake turned to his son. "Do you think you can get through there, Paul?"

Paul put down his Pepsi and peered down at the map. After a long pause, he said, "Yeah, Pop. No problem. The golf course is real muddy, but there's far less crap to climb over. With any luck, it might have dried out some with all the strong sun we've been having."

"Okay. Tomorrow, take a swing by the storage sheds as you're searching down these side streets." In a lower tone he said, "We could use the gas. We're going through what we have on hand pretty fast. We started siphoning cars for the fuel but we've emptied out most of the vehicles around here."

Through the harsh glare of the lamp, Jake could see the tired look on the other faces surrounding him.

"You got anything else, Paul?" Jake asked his son.

"Yeah. Some good news. I managed to squeeze inside the guard shack and salvage these."

Paul shrugged off a canvas backpack from his shoulder and tossed it on the table with a loud plop. Quickly unzipping the side, he reached inside and pulled out three walkie-talkies and a charger.

"We tested them on the way back from the shack. They work, but they're all low on juice. Let me go plug them in so they'll be ready in the morning." He scooped up the equipment in his arms and walked towards the bank of generators in the distance.

Jake watched as Paul receded into the darkness. Just as he thought that there might be some hope for his boy yet, his thoughts were interrupted by someone calling out.

"Jake! You got a minute?"

He recognized the heavy New Jersey accent instantly and turned towards the kitchen area. Rosie was waving to him, a large silver ladle in her hand, beckoning him to come over. With business done at the make shift command area and Paul sufficiently tasked to keep him occupied for the next few days, Jake made his way over to the slab.

It wasn't easy. A large group of people were helping Willie and his son transport the fruits and vegetables to the kitchen. The steady stream of workers had been busy digging through the wreckage of Willie's house all day long, using whatever they could find to transport the food. Most of them looked ragged. In the middle of all of the mayhem, Rosie acted like a traffic cop, directing people and coordinating the efforts of the group.

She had wasted no time in getting the area arranged to her liking. Rosie had set up the beginnings of a bivouac style kitchen, putting out food all day long to the workers while coordinating the setup. Under her leadership and with the help of the many volunteers, she had the place arranged like a first class kitchen. One of the scouting parties had found some barbeques grills and bags of charcoal. These had been arranged in a long row that also functioned as a serving line. Jake noticed that one of the burners had a large pot of something boiling away, filling the air with a wonderful scent.

He pointed to the cooking pot as he approached her.

"Something smells good Rosie."

"I got a big pot of soup going," she said, her head on a swivel. "These guys have been working hard all day, so I figured I'd send them bed with something warm in their bellies."

Today had been a busy day at the campsite. More debris had been pushed aside to enlarge the clearing around the concrete slab that they now would have to call home for a while. In the afternoon heat, the men had dug several latrines, using only improvised shovels and back breaking labor. Bed sheets salvaged from the wreckage served as privacy for the jury-rigged bathrooms.

Willie and his son walked up to the group. Willie Jr. was carrying a large plastic garbage can full of vegetables.

"Where do you want these peppers, Rosie?" he asked.

She pointed towards the row of microwaves. "Right there for now until I get a place cleared."

Willie Jr. hefted the can and trudged off.

"Is that the last of them?" she asked.

"No," Willie answered. "The guys are picking up the rest."

"Good thing we brought those vegetables over from your garden, Willie," Jake said. "Rosie tells me it's really helping to extend our canned food supply."

"If our fuel supply holds out, we can stretch it out for another couple of days maybe," she said.

"From what we've been hearing on the radio, we might be here longer than that," Jake said. "We probably need to start rationing the food."

"Rationing?" Willie repeated. "That's not going to go over well."

"It's going to have to," Jake answered. "I'll wait until after breakfast to announce the bad news. It's easier to disseminate unpleasant information to people on a full stomach."

"An open kitchen was okay for today, Jake," the muscular woman said, "but starting tomorrow we need to set up a regular mealtime schedule. We can't feed on demand forever."

"You figure out the times for the meals, Rosie, and I'll announce it first thing in the morning."

"Good. And Jake, before you go. See that dog over there?" She pointed with her ladle towards where the men were stacking the last of Willie's food. Peepers took that opportunity to stick his nose out from underneath a small cardboard box. The Dog Lady, who hid in her house most of the day to avoid any manual labor, had let him run free in the backyard to go to the bathroom. Bored to be by himself and feeling a little bit horny, Peepers had wandered down to the campsite to see what all the commotion was about.

"That friggin' dog has been sniffin' around the place and getting under foot all day long. Every time I chase it away, it manages to make its way back to take a crap in my kitchen." Her voice rose up several levels higher. "If I catch that mutt, he's gonna be in the next pot of stew!" With that, she chucked a small piece of scrap potato at Peepers, hitting him square in the snout. He yelped and took off running, but not before he scarfed down the offending item.

"I know the owner," Jake said. "I'll have a word with her about her dog."

As Rosie nodded in agreement and walked away, Jake added this task to his rapidly growing list.
Chapter Forty-One

Orlando, Florida - Wednesday Morning

THE DAY PROMISED TO be another typical hot, miserable summer day in sunny Florida. With not even a hint of a cloud in the early morning sky, the sun quickly heated up the air, the ground and the temperaments of the waking people. By the time breakfast was served, people were already sweating buckets.

Jake sipped at his cup, hoping that the strong coffee would help clear his head. Everybody in camp had been jolted awake at three in the morning by the sound of an explosion far off in the distance. There was no accompanying fire to light up the night sky, so Jake hoped fervently that it was the authorities busy clearing the roads. In any case, like an awakened baby, it had taken an hour to get the people in camp settled down and back to sleep.

As he looked around at the morning's activities, Jake noticed that the attitude of the hurricane survivors was beginning to change once again. Everybody was in shock the first day after the storm, but that quickly turned into a survival mentality with everybody trying to keep busy by pitching in to set up camp. But now, three days after the tempest, a routine of sorts had set in and most of the people were sick of sleeping outside in the warm summer night. Everyone was covered with mosquito bites. Combined with the dirty living conditions and steamy hot weather that they had to endure the last few days, people were constantly itching and scratching at themselves. Most of the smokers in the group had run out of cigarettes, so the anxiety level was ratcheted up another notch as they went through their own particular brand of withdrawal hell.

After a breakfast of leftover soup and coffee, the group gathered around the tree stump to listen to Jake give out the day's news and pass out assignments. Jake consulted a page full of hastily written notes as he began the morning's speech. He started off by repeating the news from last night's radio broadcast. This did little to cheer up the assembled group.

"I'm sorry to say it took so long to implement, but I'm happy to announce that we've got the clothes washing and bathing area set up at the Moody's place." He pointed to the far corner. "Stand up and let the people get a look at you, Doug."

Doug raised his hand and stood for a moment, then resumed his position leaning against a tree. By his side, Nancy remained motionless, her arms sternly folded across her chest. She had made it quite clear to her husband a number of times over the past few days that she did not like the idea of turning her beautiful terrace and pool into a public bathtub.

Normally she was an even-tempered and happy person, especially when she was receiving her daily doses of cocaine, but her raging withdrawal symptoms were now in full force. Nancy was constantly sweating, partially due to the heat, but mostly because her inner craving for cocaine prevented her from getting more than small snatches of sleep. Doug had carved out a small section of their destroyed house from the rubble for them to live in, but she had taken to staying by herself for hours on end, feet drawn up in the fetal position. Clinically depressed and entertaining fleeting thoughts of suicide, her mood quickly flip flopped between mild agitation and an unjustified attack of crying jags. Her perceived notion that Doug harbored a continual disregard to her predicament did little to help her sour disposition.

"Here's the set up," Jake continued. "The laundry area is where 307 El Camino Norte once stood. It's a few blocks north of the clubhouse. We have signs posted showing the way." He pointed in the general direction of the house. "Please remember that the swimming pool is for bathing and the spa is for washing clothes. There's clotheslines strung in the backyard for drying. Women and small children can bathe from eight to ten in the morning. Men get to use it from five to seven pm. Laundry time is from noon to four. That's when the sun is the strongest, so the clothes should dry quickly." Jake paused to wipe the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. "Also, we have a small amount of laundry powder at the site, but no bath soap, so if you have any or know where to get some, bring it along with you and add it to the community pile."

A voice from the back of the group spoke up. "Why did it take so long to set up a place where we could wash up?" A bunch of affirmative noises accompanied this question. "Why wasn't this made a priority?"

"It was important," Jake said. "But we had a bunch of other priorities just as, or more important."

"Like what?" somebody shouted out.

He pointed towards the kitchen as he ticked off the items in his head. "Like setting up a place to eat. Assembling a hospital. Digging through the rubble to find supplies. Moving all that stuff over here so we could use it." Jake now gestured towards a line of trees in the distance. "And don't forget we had to dig out a place so we could all take a decent crap without stinking the place up."

The group let out a round of grumblings as they mulled over what he had said. Jake hoped this logic would appease the herd for a while.

"Next item. At our present rate of consumption, we've only got enough food left for a couple of days. So with that in mind, starting today, we're going on a two meals a day schedule."

This had the undesired effect that Jake knew was bound to happen. Another handful of low moans came from the crowd. The meal downgrade plan only added to the overall discomfort level of the survivors.

Jake continued. "We'll split it up into a morning and an evening meal based around the pool time." He gaze remained steady as he added, "I'll post the new meal and bathing times on the bulletin board we have set up near the kitchen. But remember, these hours are going to be strictly enforced."

Then Jake dropped the bomb.

"And speaking of stink, you may have noticed that we need to do something about the bodies that are buried underneath the rubble. We're not sure about how long we're going to have to live off the land, but I'm told that the decaying bodies will definitely start to become a health hazard soon if we don't do something about it. As soon as we figure out a place to store them, I'll be asking for volunteers to dig out and transport them away, possibly starting as early as tomorrow.

That brought out the loudest complaints from the assembled group. Almost everybody in camp had seen a body or two lying in the rubble of the destroyed houses but nobody was in a mood to handle the corpses of people that used to be their friends and neighbors.

"And while we're at it, here's another thing I need to mention. A lot of the work is being done by a small group of people. We need all able-bodied people to contribute to the effort." He scanned the crowd for effect. "This means everybody. There's plenty to be done. Please don't let me coming looking for you." He tried to offer up some hope. "Hey gang, with any luck, the authorities will clean the roads and reach us before too long."

He finished the morning report by handing out some other low-level tasks, but Jake could feel the change of mood among the La Noche Pacífica residents as the people dispersed.

From the far edge of the crowd, Vito had been listening to the morning's status report, watching intently as Jake finished giving his briefing. All during the speech, he imagined that Jake was looking directly at him, especially when he was talking about people shirking the camp jobs. Even though Vito hadn't been tasked to do anything, he probably wouldn't have done it anyway, preferring to spend his time freeing up a large portion of his personal arsenal from the wreckage of his house and coming out only for meals.

The old man's blood pressure rose dangerously high the more he thought about this and how he had been so disrespected by Jake at their first meeting. Vito was used to giving orders, not taking them. He hadn't risen so high in the mob by being dictated to by an inferior nobody like this Jake guy.

_How could such a low-level cafone even think about telling me what to do?_ he thought to himself angrily. Unconsciously, Vito touched the pistol that was tucked away in his waistband under his shirt. The cold steel was a constant reassurance to him that he was, and always would be, the boss.

In Vito's universe, there was no one that he could truly call a friend. He had learned early on from growing up on the tough streets of New York that if you wanted to live to see another day, everybody had to be regarded as the competition. Family were the only people you could trust and even then you had to be very careful. To Vito, Jake was just another common mook; a nobody who had taken the opportunity of the storm to seize power for himself. He had dealt with guys like him many times before in his life and on each and every occasion, it had turned out badly for his enemy.

Off in the distance, he noticed Brian, assembled with the other kids for the morning's scavenger hunt. Vito had seen what he believed to be the beginnings of the coming lawlessness when he spotted the teenage kids poking around through the wreckage in the early days after the storm. Feeding on his suspicious nature, he was positive that Jake was using the boys to raid the abandoned houses for himself.

His mind raced on furiously thinking about possible upcoming scenarios. The storm had blown away all the trappings of civilization. If the streets around him were any indication, it might be weeks before the roads outside were clear enough so that food and fuel supplies could get through. Until then, anarchy would reign and it would be everyman for himself.

It was clear as day to Vito that the hardest part of the struggle lay ahead of them. He had ridden out the storm; now he had to survive the aftermath. And for La Noche Pacífica to survive as a self-contained unit, raiding parties to other similarly trapped subdivisions would be necessary to steal their supplies. To accomplish all of these things, the group would need a strong leader.

Vito was that leader.

Whatever adjectives you could use to describe this dangerous man, stupid wasn't one of them. Even though he had a huge supply of weapons, what he required to get started in his quest to seize power was a patsy that he could prop up to take the heat. This trick had served him well before and would do so now. By staying in the shadows, he could direct the action by pulling the strings of his marionette and reap the profits without taking any of the fire.

As the crowd broke up, Vito noticed the tall man with his arm in a sling walk by. He recognized Leo from the first encounter he had with Jake.

_The perfect patsy,_ he thought to himself.

"Hey buddy," he called out.

"Umm, hi." Leo said, stopping to talk. "It's Vito, right?"

"Yeah, that's right. So tell me, what's with the food rationing that guy just mentioned?"

"Oh that? Jake figured out that we're burning through the supplies too fast, so we need to drop down to two meals a day."

"He did, did he? This Jake guy has sure been making a lot of decisions for the group lately."

"Yeah, I noticed that too," Leo answered sourly.

Vito instantly picked up on the tone of Leo's voice. "Who put him in charge?" he asked.

Leo scratched at a mosquito bite at the back of his neck as he said, "Nobody did. He just kind of took over the other day."

Vito continued feeding Leo's oversized ego. "Yeah, well I don't know about you, but I think we ought to eat up all the food until it runs out. It's going to go bad soon without any refrigeration any way." Vito repeated the words for effect. "Might as well eat it all up."

"You know, I thought it was kind of silly when I heard that he was going to ration the food. And you're right, Jake is getting bossy. He was my neighbor before the hurricane and I didn't think very highly of him before." He took a step closer to Vito. "I don't think too much of him now..."

Vito, a master of manipulating people, worked on Leo's inflated feeling of self-importance to win him over.

"Tell me something. Weren't you some sort of big shot in the community before the hurricane struck? How come you're not the one up there giving the orders?"

Leo straightened up a bit as he said, "I was a member in good standing of the La Noche Pacífica homeowners association." He beamed with pride and tried to be nonchalant as he added, "And I was on a number of important decision making boards."

"Yeah, you look like a guy that knows what needs to be done and how to get people to do it. It's a damn shame that someone like you isn't in charge..."

Leo studied the face of the muscular man standing in front of him. This strange person was correct, of course. From day one, Leo was upset that Jake had assumed control.

How could someone who couldn't even take care of his lawn correctly dream about being a leader of men in a time of a crisis? It should be me up there on that tree stump, directing people and leading the troops. After all, I was a Marine.

Vito shrugged his shoulders in a way that momentarily confused Leo. "Well, I don't give a crap what he says. I definitely ain't digging up no dead bodies. And I don't think that somebody as important as you should either. That's what all these other clowns are for." He gestured at the people walking around them.

Vito was now standing by Leo's side, smiling in his weird way. He pointed to a distant clearing in the woods.

"Why don't you and me take a walk and chat about things for a while?"
Chapter Forty-Two

Orlando, Florida - Wednesday Morning

AS THE SMALL GROUP started out from base camp early in the morning, the mood was upbeat. With Paul in the lead, the army of children walked down the main boulevard of La Noche Pacífica. They were making their way back down the road that ran adjacent to the golf course, the same one that Juanita decided to bypass at the height of the storm. Travel was difficult since large sections of the sidewalk were full of rubble, piled high by the hurricane force winds. Even though they knew that the power was off, the group gave the downed electrical transformers that lined the street a wide birth.

Consisting of about two dozen kids, they were grateful to actually be doing something and away from the ever watchful eyes of their parents. Some of the younger kids were fooling around, throwing clumps of dirt and grass at each other while the older teenagers tried their very best to ignore them. Carrying a walkie-talkie attached to his belt loop and a map scribbled on the back of a long discarded pizza box, Paul assigned a pair of them to search the different houses at each intersection, with detailed instructions on what to look for. Remembering his Dad's insistence, he reminded each of them to be careful. They, in turn, reminded him to get stuffed.

After three hours, the group had dwindled down to Paul, Brian and Leo's daughter, Britney. As they climbed over yet another mountain of rubble, Paul was trying his best to make small talk with Britney while he desperately racked his brain to figure out a way to get rid of Brian so he could be alone with her.

Ever since he moved into La Noche Pacífica, Paul had been checking out his good-looking neighbor. A year younger than himself, she was the spitting image of her mom, from her long dark hair to her fashion model looks. Dressed conservatively in shorts and a tee shirt, Britney was the kind of girl that could wear a burlap bag and make it look sexy.

Complicating Paul's plans, Brian was talking nonstop about anything and everything. Like a hummingbird on crack, he prattled on relentlessly while Paul and Britney were doing their very best to ignore him, with little results.

"I don't mind all this camping out stuff, but I sure do miss television. My house is torn down. All my crap got ripped up in the storm. We don't have to go to summer school for a while. I don't like school."

After hearing this latest rapid outburst, Britney let out a little laugh that Paul thought was drop dead sexy. Just a little _'tee-hee'_ , he enjoyed the way the sound came out of her mouth. Short, sweet and to the point.

"I was really scared when the main part of the storm hit," she told the group. "I think our house got smacked by the big tree first, because there was an awful noise and then the whole place shook. That's when the bedroom wall fell down and hit my dad. I don't think I prayed as hard in my life."

"We had to move downstairs to the closet when the roof came off our place," Paul told Britney. "Me and my dad squeezed into that tiny space for almost a day and half. It was more fun than people deserve to have," he said sarcastically.

"Your dad's a real butthead," the young boy said as he picked up a rock and tossed it across the street. He managed to hit the only window that was not blown out in what remained of a two-story house. The large bay window shattered with a loud crash.

"What makes you say that?" Paul asked, more than a bit annoyed at his crappy attitude.

"He wouldn't let me charge my iPod at the generator this morning."

"Oh man! Is that so? Do you think that he might have done that because the generator is only for important stuff?"

"What the hell's more important than my damn iPod?" Brian shot him a look that conveyed what he considered the proper amount of sacrilege and disrespect.

Paul just shook his head and momentarily made eye contact with Britney with the hope that it communicated the message that he thought Brian was a brat. She smiled at him once again, this time returning an expression that warmed him down to his toes. Inwardly, he was on cloud nine by her reaction but since he considered himself a skinny, long haired stoner, Paul figured that there was little chance of hooking up with a drop-dead sexy girl like Britney.

The group paused at the top of the tall mound. Paul surveyed the area, occasionally comparing it to the pizza box map.

"What are you looking for?" Britney asked him.

"The buildings over there." He pointed in the general direction of the wide fairway. "I told my dad that we would check out the storage shacks on the edge of the golf course. Hopefully, there should be some tools inside that we could use."

He checked his make shift map once again before flinging it away like a Frisbee. "If we go down this way and cut across the greens, we could avoid most of the garbage." He made wide sweeping gestures that he hoped made him appear as if he knew what he was talking about so he could impress Britney.

"Sounds good to me," she answered. "Lead the way."

Carefully, they climbed slowly down the trash heap.

"You know, I'm thinking that the golf course might be a good place to store the dead," he announced somberly.

"Ewww! You mean bury them here?"

"No, I was thinking about suggesting to my dad that we place them here, away from the camp. I noticed that they were starting to stink." Paul hoped he sounded authoritative to her.

"Yeah, I smelt it a bit too," she admitted.

"I saw a dead guy sticking out from under a pile this morning," Brian informed them. "He was all bloated and stuff. It was bitching."

"Brian, do you think you can stop cursing?" Britney said angrily. "Everything out of your mouth is filthy and vulgar."

"So what are you, some kind of a Jesus freak?" the young boy asked.

"First of all, I'm not a freak. And it's no shame to love the Lord."

Brian now flashed his patented 'get bent' look, rivaling the one he had given Paul.

Thinking quickly of a way to get rid of the young pest, Paul said, "Hey Brian, I think I've got the perfect job for you. Do you know where the clubhouse is?"

"Sure I do. What do you think, I'm a retard or something?"

Paul didn't bother to answer the hanging question.

"Why don't you go check that place out?"

"That's all the way across the other side of the division," he whined. "You couldn't tell me that when we were down that way?"

"I didn't think of it until just now," Paul lied. He freshened the pot. "You know, nobody's looked in the back storage areas yet. There might be some bodies inside."

"Oh, yeah!" the young boy exclaimed as he thought it over. "That would be friggin' cool! I'm so there, dude!" Happy with the chance of seeing some actual dead people, Brian wheeled around and like a shot, took off in the opposite direction back up the tall debris mound.

Paul watched as the small boy disappeared over the top. He just shook his head once again as he said, "Thought I'd never get rid of that kid."

Britney tossed her hair around with an easy flip as she nodded in agreement. "He certainly is annoying. But you know, it's all part of the plan."

"Plan?" he asked. "What plan?"

"God's plan, silly. I think that all of this destruction is His way of testing us," she said.

"Maybe it is," Paul answered cautiously. "The only problem is that I'm a 'C' student."

Paul was surprised when she threw her head back and let out a large laugh. He didn't think the joke was that funny, but he was in seventh heaven anyway as they walked up together to the sidewalk and sloshed across the green.

The sun had dried up some of the excess water that had pooled on the grass but it was still soggy going. They both laughed when Britney's leg sunk up to the ankle in the thick mud and he had to grab her thigh to help her out. All of Paul's senses were on overload as her skin was soft and velvety smooth to the touch.

It took them fifteen minutes of slow, torturous slogging through the flooded greens to get to the storage shacks. Located at the edge of a heavily wooded area, they were basic, sturdy structures, constructed of reinforced cinder blocks. Still intact, they were used by the maintenance men to store all of the larger machinery needed to care for the golf course lawns. Since the storm had hit the area so quickly, nobody had bothered to lock them. Choosing the closest one, Paul and Britney put their weight to the heavy steel door that was hanging from one hinge and forced it open.

The inside of the shed was brightly illuminated. A clear Lucite panel ran down the center of the ceiling, letting in sunlight. They could easily see a dozen gas cans near a large riding lawn mower parked over in the corner. Next to it stood a fifty-five gallon drum of motor oil. Sticking out of the opening was a hand pump. On the far concrete walls, a wide assortment of hand tools was hanging from a pegboard.

Paul walked over to the pump and gave the handle a few cranks. A squirt of thick oil splotched out on the dirt floor.

"Woo-hoo! Jackpot!" he cried out. "My dad will be so glad we found these gas cans. We really need something to store the generator fuel in. And this little baby will make life a lot easier to siphon the gas from cars and lawnmowers. Using a hose to suck fuel out of a tank gets old real fast after you've gotten a couple of mouthfuls of gasoline."

The filtered light from overhead softened Britney's already pleasant features. Paul could see her smile again and this time he was totally convinced he was in love.

She moved closer to him and said, "The Lord always provides, Paul."

Not knowing how to answer, he just nodded his head.

"Well, I guess so," he mumbled.

With a graceful fluid motion, Britney pulled the black fanny pack she was wearing around her small waist around to the front and unzipped it. Reaching inside, she extracted a disposable lighter.

"Do you have any pot with you?" she asked. "Mine got lost in the storm and I sure could use a good buzz."

Paul was stunned. It took him a few seconds to say, "Yeah, I do." He reached into the large pocket of his cargo shorts and pulled out a plastic baggie. "But..."

"You didn't think that I liked to smoke pot? Why? Because I'm a Christian and I read the Bible?"

"Well, yeah. Isn't pot the devil's weed?"

"Devil's weed? No, I usually smoke Maui-Wowee. Devil's weed cost a heck of a lot more," she joked.

It was Paul's turn to go on the offense. "And just how did you guess that I liked to get high?"

"Oh, please," she said in an offhanded way that made Paul's heart skip a beat. "Since you moved in next door, I've been smelling pot coming from your car every time you drove by." She moved a little closer to him as she whispered, "You really should be more discrete."

Paul wasn't really listening to her. He was still fixating on the fact that the love of his life was a stoner. Life couldn't get any better.

He opened the seal on the sandwich baggie containing his last ounce of weed. On top was a white joint, pre-rolled for just such an emergency.

"Let's light this up," he suggested.

"Okay, but not in here," Britney said. "Let's step out into the bushes in case Brian comes back. I have to be very careful about who I let know I smoke. I definitely don't want my folks to find out."

Paul motioned towards the door. "Same here." And with a quick nod towards the storage cans, "It's probably a good idea to get away from all this gasoline before we light up a doobie."

Paul unhooked the radio from his belt and placed it on top of the large fuel drum. Without bothering to close the door, they left the shed and pushed their way through the thick underbrush. After a few minutes, they reached a small clearing far enough inside the woods so that they were no longer visible from the golf course. All around them were oak and pine trees, with a few tall Florida palms thrown in for good measure.

The two teenagers sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree. Britney did the same quick twisting motion with her fanny pack as before while Paul was trying his best to act cool. Being the perfect gentleman, he handed her the joint. Holding it in the classic, two-fingered hippie style method, Britney lit it up, took a deep toke and passed it back to Paul. They laughed as they passed the joint back and forth three more times.

The two teenagers were stoned within minutes. Making sure that it was completely extinguished, Paul placed the roach back inside the baggie. He ran his skinny finger along the plastic seal and stored the dope safely back into his pocket.

"Thanks, that was pretty good," Britney said, unable to stop grinning widely.

"You're welcome," Paul answered.

"I've always said that a friend with weed is a friend indeed." She closed her eyes and tilted her head back.

Hoping that his inexperience with girls didn't show through, Paul struggled for something else to say. He pointed to her boots.

"You're covered with mud."

Britney just nodded her head.

"It's nice out here. I like the nature sounds."

"Umm, yeah," he answered back. The only nature sounds that Paul heard was his own heart beating and the voice in his head screaming, "Kiss her, you jerk!" This voice was fighting vigorously with another one telling him that this beautiful girl sitting besides him was way out of his league.

Paul decides to listen to the first voice.

Believing that he's achieved a rare rapport with Britney, he figured that this was a good time as any to make his move. Just like in the movies, he drew his head closer to hers. She didn't pull away as he planted a warm kiss on her lips.

Paul and Britney start making out like two stoned teenagers lost together in the deep woods on a hot summer day. Unsure on how far to take it since she was a child of God, Paul played it by ear and stuck to kissing with minimum tongue usage and absolutely no fondling of the naughty bits.

After a minute, Britney stopped kissing Paul long enough to ask, "Did you hear that?"

"I didn't hear anything," he said. Paul was very anxious to get back to kissing Britney.

The teenagers went at it again. In their drug induced state, this make out session went on for what seemed like hours. Just as before, she abruptly stopped and said, "Now this time I definitely heard something."

They sat quietly for a moment until they both heard a noise. It was a loud hissing sound, followed by a deep baritone gurgling type growl.

"Look, Paul. Over there."

Britney pointed to a space between two trees. In the distance, they watched as an alligator slowly pulled himself out of a shallow creek. This male gator was ten feet long and weighed in at six hundred pounds, making him slightly larger than average. Normally he lived in the swampy wetland area behind La Noche Pacífica, but the storm had flooded the marsh and increased the water level, causing the reptile to roam across a much wider expanse. Usually a territorial animal, with his supply of fish and turtles disrupted, he was following his natural instinct to hunt for food.

They both watched as the gator shuffled along his merry way. Had Paul been by himself, he would have beat feet out the area in a hurry, but he knew that he had to present a brave face in front of Britney, just in case there was more kissing in his foreseeable future.

"Totally cool!" she said. "Let's see where it's going."

In a flash, she was up and following the alligator as it lumbered across the wet ground. Paul, not knowing what else to do, followed in close pursuit.

The teenagers moved parallel with the alligator, keeping a healthy, respectable distance between it and themselves.

"It's heading for that thing over there," Britney said as they entered another small clearing in the woods. "What is that?"

"Where?" Paul's gaze was fixated on the large animal. He hadn't seen many alligators when he was living in Connecticut and desperately wanted to give it a wide berth.

"Over there by the water. It looks like a blanket."

"It must have blown over here from someone's backyard during the storm. There's probably an animal or something underneath it," Paul guessed. "Mother Nature running its course."

As the alligator drew ever closer to Juanita, he hissed again. His reptilian brain, honed over millions of years of evolution, sensed that there was an injured and therefore easy prey around. In anticipation of a good meal, the smell of raw meat in the area drove the gator forward.

Ever since Stanley had dumped her here to die, Juanita had been passing in and out of consciousness. Her face was twice its normal size, both from her injuries and the hundreds of insect bites from the ants that lived in a nearby colony. They had swarmed over her face and neck, also attracted by the odor of the meat that Stanley had rubbed all over her.

Juanita heard the noise from the alligator and painfully forced her swollen eyes open. From her ground level view, she could see the animal quickly approaching her. Powerless to defend herself, all she could do was struggle helplessly in the sheet and hope for a quick, painless death.

Since they were both stoned out of their heads, Paul and Britney watched the scene unfold in slow motion. As if in a trance, Britney finally recognized the figure of a woman inside the sheet as Juanita convulsed her body upward in one last feeble attempt at freedom.

"Paul! Look! There's a person under there!"

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Paul stammered out, "Are you sure?"

"Yes I'm sure! She must be injured from the storm. And if we don't do something, that gator's gonna get her." Britney turned to face him and half pleaded, "We've got to help her!"

Paul rubbed his eyes briskly and jumped on a small rock to change his view of the scene. From the different perspective, he could now clearly make out the outline of Juanita under the sheet. For the briefest of moments, their eyes met. Paul saw the terror in her swollen face and instantly knew he had to do something.

Uncertain on exactly how to fight a ten-foot alligator, Paul started waving his arms over his head in the hopes of diverting the animal's attention away from the helpless woman. He shouted, "Hey gator! Over here!"

The alligator was well aware of the presence of the other humans. In fact, it had sensed them ever since it had left the water and ventured onto land, but had decide to ignore them since the odor of the meat that Stanley had laid out signaled that there was delicious prey around. Everything in the air was screaming free meal to the alligator's primitive senses and it could not be bothered with the noise coming from behind.

To Paul's left, Britney picked up a stick and flung it at the gator, missing by a foot and a half. Paul looked around for a weapon and seeing none, pulled up the rock he had been standing on out of the dirt. Lifting the very heavy stone high above his head with both hands, he quickly moved in closer and chucked it towards the alligator.

With all of his experience inventing Sticky Tape Ball, his aim was much better than Britney's. The rock smashed the gator on its long snout right between the eyes. Lacking emotions, the animal's basic instincts told him that he was now being attacked by something and its sense of preservation overrode his hunger. It stopped advancing on Juanita, spun around quickly and turned its fury towards Paul.

Alligators can move very quickly when they want to. Capable of short bursts of speed of up to twenty-five miles per hour, it took the animal only a few seconds to cover the short distance between them. In the blink of an eye, Paul had been transformed from the hunter into the hunted.

"Shit! Britney, run!"

With the gator quickly closing behind him, Paul ran for all he was worth. He could feel the alligator's warm breath as it was snorting at his heels.

In a race of thirty feet, the gator would have beaten Paul every time, but in a desperate act of self-preservation, Paul jumped up and grabbed at a tree branch. With an adrenaline-fueled burst of strength, he pulled himself up off the ground. He clung tightly to the limb for all that he was worth, trying not to move. There was another branch a few feet above him, but Paul knew that any sudden movement could cause his safe perch to break and throw him down to the alligator below. Praying that the thin limb would hold his weight, he looked at the gator directly below him, mouth wide open, waiting patiently for him to fall. Paul could see the rows of sharp teeth in the gator's mouth as he heard the tree branch creak ever so slightly.

He was not certain of the jumping abilities of the average Florida alligator but quickly decided that he was way too close to the gator's waiting mouth. In preparation to climb higher, Paul shifted his leg hold on the tree limb. This acrobatic motion caused the Velcro fastening of his shorts pocket to open. His wallet, car keys and lighter tumbled out, followed by the baggie full of marijuana, straight down into the alligator's mouth.

"Hey!" Paul screamed in anger as he watched his possessions drop away. "That's my pot!"

Feeling his mouth full of items, the alligator quickly swallowed everything down in one wet gulp.

All of a sudden, Paul heard a loud _'thwack'_ as the gator turned its attention away from him. Below, he could see Britney, a long stick in her hands. Rearing it back, she swung it hard on the gator's head again and again.

The gator wasn't really hurt by the stick so much as he was annoyed. This was the second time today that he had been distracted from a meal. With the leather wallet and other things filling his belly, he decided to forego Paul for the time being and return later when it was dark. Slowly, it turned and headed back towards its water hole, but not before letting out one more loud hiss for good measure.

Paul watched the gator lumber off. When he was sure that the animal was a safe enough distance away, he dropped down from the branch in front of Britney, who was still holding the large stick in her hand.

Not knowing what else to do, he gave her another deep kiss.

"Thanks," he said. "I guess that makes you my hero."

"No problem," she replied. "Let's go help the lady under the blanket."
Chapter Forty-Three

Orlando, Florida - Wednesday Evening

FROM DAWN'S FIRST LIGHT, Jake had been working almost non-stop the entire day. He has been busy meeting with people, informing, tasking and occasionally solving the petty problems and squabbles that turned up with what seemed increasing frequency. He didn't even have the time to take a dip in his pool to wash off the layers of dried up salty sweat that covered every square inch of his tired body.

The day's biggest surprise was the discovery of Juanita in the overgrowth. After the alligator had left, Britney stood guard over the now unconscious woman and rendered first aid as best as she could. Paul went back to the maintenance shed and radioed into his father. After a few minutes, he finally convinced his dad that there really was a naked woman in a blanket in need of immediate medical help. Armed with a makeshift stretcher hastily constructed out of a screen door and some PCV piping, Jake rounded up a few strong men and made their way to the golf course. It had taken a major effort to transport Juanita back through the mud and over the trash heaps, but the medical team managed to get her back to camp safely and into the care of Jenny.

He barely made it back into camp when another problem arose. Rosie had caught Peepers making a pest of himself in the kitchen area once again. Finally fed up with the dog, she snatched Peepers up by the scruff of his neck and quickly placed him in a wooden crate. He remained imprisoned there until dinnertime. As people came for the evening meal, Rosie asked everyone who the owner was. Residents pointed out Mrs. McDonald, who had taken time out of her desperate search for Peepers to stand in the chow line for a fast bite to eat.

Rosie walked over and quickly pulled Mrs. McDonald out of line with a brusque, "Follow me."

"Is this your mutt?" she asked, pointing to the incarcerated Peepers.

"Peepers!" the fat woman exclaimed. "I've been looking for you all day long, you naughty dog."

She moved to free him from his prison but Rosie quickly intercepted her and blocked her path.

"Not so fast," she said using her best New Jersey attitude voice. "This friggin' dog has been running loose for the last couple of days and I'm tired of him getting into the food." She stared right through Mrs. McDonald, her hand holding down the top of the crate. Peepers, unaware of the seriousness of the situation, licked at Rosie's fingers through the wooden slats.

"He got away this morning through a hole in the screen," Mrs. McDonald lied. "Poor Peepers is so tiny, he can squeeze through the smallest opening."

"Bullshit, lady! This dog's been running free for a while."

Both women turned towards Jake as he approached.

"Jake, this woman is holding Peepers hostage in that box and won't let me have him." She screamed out, "My poor Peepers!"

Upon seeing Jake, Peepers came to life. The stubby appendage that served as a tail started wagging furiously. Love filled the air as what only could be described as a lecherous grin crossed over his little doggie face.

"Mrs. McDonald," Jake sighed heavily. "We've gotten more than a few complaints about Peepers." He tried to appeal to any sense of reasoning the woman might have. "It's not safe for him to be running loose like that. There's lots of ways he could get hurt."

Mrs. McDonald, however, would not back down. "I'm sure you're mistaken. Peepers only escaped this morning..."

"Well, I'm sorry, but from now on you have to keep him on a leash."

"But poor little Peepers hates his leash and..."

"I don't care!" Jake shouted, cutting her off in mid sentence. "He's got to stay on a leash and that's final!"

As the wife of a city official, Mrs. McDonald was not accustomed to be given orders to from people whom she deemed to be below her social level. Her facial expression quickly turned to one of anger.

"And who do you think you are to talk to me like this?" she demanded. "I've lived in La Noche Pacífica for years before you got here."

Jake's frustration exploded.

"You know what, I don't give a shit how long you've lived here. I've got too many other problems without worrying about you and that stupid dog. If I see him running free again, I'm going to let Rosie here take care of him."

On cue, Rosie brought both her hands together and pantomiming a twisting motion, made an _'Acckk'_ sound as she screwed up her face.

"And another thing. I'm tired of you hiding out in your house when there's work to be done. Tomorrow, I want you to report here to Rosie to help out. She's short handed and needs all the help she can get." He took a step closer and said slowly for effect, "You understand me?"

The fat lady's face turned ashen white at this disrespectful behavior being directed towards her. Without a word, she walked over to the crate and pulled out Peepers. With just the slightest 'Hmmphh!' she turned and waddled away. Jake could see Peepers looking back longingly at him, licking his little doggie lips.

"Let me know if the Dog Lady gives you any problems," Jake said.

"Sure will," Rosie said. "Guess there's one in every crowd, isn't there?"

Jake left the question to hang in the air as he walked over to his command post. Along side the large map, the walkie-talkies lie next to a small radio. Jake, Gunter, Leo and Willie have been sitting around the table for the last hour, listening to a news broadcast.

"Any new info?" Jake asked the group.

"No," Willie offered. "It's pretty much a repeat of what we heard yesterday." He reached over and clicked off the radio.

Over the hum of the generators, the conversation turned to the mystery woman.

"Did you see her when we brought her in?" Jake asked the other men.

Gunter shook his head no. "I was too busy trying to track down my son. But I heard she was in pretty rough shape."

"That's an understatement," Willie added.

Jenny walked over to the group and sat down heavily on a wooden bench. Jake could see the toll that long working hours was taking on her.

"How's the workload over at the hospital?" Jake asked.

"We've leveled out as far as the number of injured. We had one kid hurt himself this morning on a search party, but it was a minor sprain. Our mystery lady is in the most severe shape. All the rest are either resting comfortably or walking around. It's a good thing because we ran out of bandages a few hours ago. I've had to resort to ripping up some bed sheets."

"How is she?" Jake asked her.

"She drifts in and out of conscious. Lots of bruises and cuts all over her body. From the looks of it, she's been exposed to the elements for a while." Jenny took a candy bar that Jake offered her and unwrapped it. "There isn't much I can do for her. She's extremely dehydrated, but I don't have any saline solution to start a drip. All I can do is keep her warm and comfortable. Let's hope she recovers enough so that she can start taking in some food and water."

Jenny closed her eyes and made a yummy sound as she bit into the chocolate. "Does anybody know who she is?"

"We've been asking around discreetly. Nobody seems to know her."

"I don't think she's a resident," Leo said. "I know most of the people in La Noche Pacífica from my work on the association board. If she wasn't a guest or a visitor, she just might be one of the homeowner's workers."

"You mean like a nanny?"

"Could be. Or maybe a cleaning lady. A few of the larger places over a couple of blocks employ part time domestic help."

Jenny stretched her arms high above her head, then flexed her back muscles before standing up. "In any case, I've got to get back and check up on her in a bit. I want to keep a close eye on her in case she wakes up." Jenny added, "Walk me back, Jake. I've got something to show you at the infirmary."

Jake noticed that she gave him a slight, discrete nod of her head. In a minute, the two of them were walking slowly side by side towards the makeshift hospital area.

"I finally got Mrs. McDonald helping Rosie in the kitchen," Jake said, making small talk. "That is, unless you could use her."

"No, thanks. I don't need help that badly." She smiled up at him. "How did you manage getting that fat lady off her ass?"

He managed a small smile. "Let's just say that she volunteered and leave it at that."

They stopped at the small child's desk that Jenny was using as her office. She turned on a small Coleman lantern, bathing the area in a harsh white light.

"I wanted to talk to you in private about our Jane Doe. I don't think that the storm caused all of her injuries."

"What do you mean?" Jake asked.

"She has a disproportional number of bruises on her face and head. When I examined her a second time, I discovered that her jaw was broken."

"Could she have done that in the storm?" Gunter asked.

"Might have, but I doubt it." Her voice got even lower as she drew in closer to Jake. "I'm pretty sure that she had been sexually molested too. There's bite marks on her lower torso and butt."

He went silent and just stared at her. After a moment, Jake asked, "So what do you think happened?"

"Jake, think about it. She was wrapped up tight in a sheet, naked in the middle of a storm. Let's face it, somebody put her out there to die."

Jake lowered his own voice as he half said, half asked, "So with all of our problems, do we have to worry about a killer walking among us?"

Neither one of them answered as they pondered the question.
Chapter Forty-Four

Orlando, Florida - Wednesday Evening

LEO WAS SITTING ON the ground with Vito, their backs against the only tree on the block that was still right side up. The sun had been down awhile now but the air was still fiercely hot and muggy.

"He was always like that," Leo said as he cradled his bad arm. "As soon as he moved in next to me, I could tell that he wasn't going to fit in." Leo tried to act nonchalant as he continued. "And don't get me started about that kid of his. A real loser, just like the father."

Vito passed a bottle of red wine that he had salvaged from his house to Leo. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Leo uncorked it with a small penknife, then took a long pull from the bottle. Vito had received the wine from one of his former capos as a present a few months ago and had not had a chance to test it for poison or any other tampering. Glad to see that the man did not collapse in a fit of agony and die an instant death, he continued with the impromptu meeting.

"Yeah, so are we gonna let this guy continue to make decisions for us or what?"

"All I know is that he's in real tight with Willie, that black guy. The one who grows all the vegetables we've been eating all week."

Vito stirred the pot a little more. "He sends the kids out every morning looking for stuff. How do we know that he isn't hiding all the good things for himself and his friends?" Then he added quickly, "Was it just a coincidence that Jake put his kid in charge of the scouting parties?"

A sharp noise came from a nearby trash heap. The men turned and saw Brian crossing over the top. As if immune to the sweltering heat, he was swinging a large stick back and forth like a crazed musketeer, all the time yelling out, "Yah! Take that!"

"Leo, call that kid over here so we can ask him some questions," Vito said. He shrugged his broad shoulders and said, "Believe me, he won't come anywhere near here if I call him."

Leo cupped his good hand to his mouth and shouted out, "Brian!" then waved his arm over his head.

Brian turned and saw the men gathered below. He approached them hesitantly, all the while watching Vito like a hawk. He rubbed at the scar on his throat and quickly figured that stopping ten feet away from the old guys was good enough.

"Brian, have you been going out with the other kids on the morning scouting parties?" Leo asked.

"I went out a few times," he said, still laser locked on Vito, who just sat quietly. Brian noticed that he had that same strange smile on his face as when he almost choked him to death.

"You guys been finding a lot of stuff?" Leo continued. It was a half question, half statement.

He kicked at the dirt as he said, "Some, yeah." Brian desperately wanted to get away from these old geezers and their goofy questions.

"You guys ever set some things aside for yourself? You know, like good food or medicine?"

"No, nuthin' like that." Brian studied the faces of the men as he tried to figure out what was going on. These fossils were in way too serious of a mood just to be starting a conversation.

"What about Jake?" Vito asked, leaning in closer to the young boy. Brian unconsciously stepped back a corresponding distance.

"You mean Paul's dad? I don't think so."

Brian was an insecure spoiled brat who loved attention, so when he looked at the men this time, he noticed that they were hanging on his every word, anxious to hear what he had to say.

Never one to disappoint when he had an audience, he thought about a recent incident. After having been denied permission to charge his iPod at the generator a few days ago, Brian, being an average, normal pre-teenager, decided to say screw you and do it anyway.

Brian thought he had been sly when he unplugged one of the microwaves before the morning meal and swapped it out with his charger but he didn't account for Rosie's eagle eye spotting him. She had quickly cuffed him on the back of the head, then ratted him out to Jake.

_I'll remember you, lady,_ he thought to himself as she dragged him across camp by his shirt collar. Using his best gangsta rap logic, he added, _Snitches get stitches_.

Having just argued with a bunch of men about the next day's work schedule, Jake was in no mood to put up with Brian and his crappy attitude. He gathered Brian and his iPod and walked him over to his dad where he unleashed his frustrations on the both of them. The end result for Brian was another ass chewing from his father and the threat of confiscation of the device.

"Although, you know..." Brian continued addressing the men in a different vein. "Paul did work it out so that he was always alone at the last place to be searched. Kinda like he was leaving the best spots for himself. Know what I mean?" Brian scratched his chin. "I ain't sayin' yes or no, but maybe..."

Vito stood up. With a nod of his head, he told Brian, "Follow me over here for a minute. I need to talk at you in private."

Brian stood motionless, not moving an inch.

Vito laughed. "C'mon over here, kid. I ain't gonna hurt ya."

Brian followed Vito to a small clearing, all the while keeping his distance. He remembered well the last time when the old man demonstrated how fast he could move when he wanted to.

Vito smiled as he instructed the boy. "Let's keep all of this between you and me, alright?"

Brian nodded yes.

"Tomorrow morning, instead of going with the other kids, stop on by here. I'll send you out with a list of stuff to look for."

Brian was on full guard now. "Oh yeah? Now why would I want to do that?"

"Because," Vito said slowly for effect, "When you work for me, you get to keep anything else that you find."

The young boy tried not to show his emotions as he thought the proposition over. Deep down inside, Brian knew that this disaster wasn't going to last forever. He also knew that there was a lot of cool stuff, like primo Xboxes, Playstations and wicked loud stereos buried in those fancy houses. Nobody would ever notice if some of that stuff went missing.

_Hell, they'll get reimbursed from the insurance companies, so it wasn't like it was stealing,_ he justified to himself. If he could only get his hands on some of those goodies before life went back to normal, he could score big time.

Damn, I could be keepin' it gangsta! Just like an original G!

"I'll think about it," Brian said as he tried out his best tough guy routine.

"Good," Vito said. "By the way, you know anything about making bombs?"
Chapter Forty-Five

Orlando, Florida - Thursday Morning

MRS. MCDONALD WADDLED SLOWLY down the muddy street, being careful to avoid the larger puddles. Peepers was straining on his retractable leash ahead of her, stopping every ten feet to sniff at the ground. With a guiding tug and a sharp "C'mon, Peepers," the pair gradually made their way towards the campsite.

The morning meal had been over for two hours but that didn't matter much to Mrs. McDonald or Peepers. Being borderline survivalists, she and her husband had a fairly good supply of freeze-dried camping food on hand in their house. Using a large supply of water augmented by rain runoff to regenerate the food packets, the McDonald family was well fed and self-sufficient. Luckily for them, the surrounding houses were located such that they helped protect the boarded up structure and had received the brunt of Jesse's winds. With the steel reinforced window and door inserts, her house was probably the least damaged in the entire subdivision of La Noche Pacífica.

She approached the camp with Peepers smelling the ground cautiously in front of her. Over at the far end of the kitchen, Rosie had her sleeves rolled up and was busy washing a large roasting pan in an even larger tub of soapy water. Her thick biceps flexed with every movement. Looking up from the make shift sink, she noticed the fat woman standing in front of her.

"Glad you could make it," Rosie said, not bothering to hide the contempt in her voice. "We've got a million things to do today."

"I know that I was supposed to be here a few hours ago," the fat woman lied, "but I had a headache and decided to lie down for a bit."

Peepers took this opportunity to provide some comedy relief as he nudged over a sack of charcoal briquettes, scattering them on the concrete pad. Selecting a small black piece that had rolled in front of him, he scooped it up with his tongue and happily crunched down hard on the small brick.

Rosie glared at Peepers. "And why did you bring that friggin' dog with you?"

"I couldn't let Peepers stay all by himself," she lied again. "There's nobody at home during the day to take care of him." Mrs. McDonald moved the catch closer to Rosie. "And see, he's on a leash."

Rosie counted slowly to ten. It seemed like this woman was going out of her way to prove the she was absolutely worthless. Rather than arguing with this woman all day long, Rosie wanted to task her with something so she would get out of her hair.

"I need you to go over to the hospital and collect the dirty dishes from breakfast. Bring this box with you."

Mrs. McDonald thought about this for a moment. That didn't seem like too hard of a job for her. With any luck, she could stretch out the five-minute job to an hour or so. With a curt, "Okay," she tugged at the leash and waddled away from Rosie.

Across the way, Jenny was busy. Her best helper was late this morning and she had to both feed the patients their meals and change a few dressings by herself. Just as she debated leaving the hospital area to go look for him, Mrs. McDonald walked over.

"Rosie told me to come over here and pick up the dishes," she said unceremoniously.

Jenny looked at the woman. She certainly needed help this morning but knew from experience that the snobby old biddy was not going to provide much assistance. _Any port in a storm,_ Jenny thought as she quickly decided to press the fat lady into service.

"Hold off on that for a while. I'm short handed today and I really need your help with the patients."

Mrs. McDonald thought about this for a moment. Visions of herself dressed all in white like Florence Nightingale filled her head. Given the choice of washing dishes or wrapping bandages, she chose the latter.

"Okay," she said, forcing her best smile.

Jenny pointed at the dog, then to a distant point. "Why don't you tie him up over by the fence there?"

"Oh, I couldn't do that," Mrs. McDonald squealed. "Poor little Peepers gets lonely by himself."

Upon hearing his name being called, Peepers stopped sniffing at a large bug that was crawling in front of him. Expecting a doggie treat, he lovingly looked up at his master and waited in anticipation. A jet-black streak from the charcoal briquette ran down the center of his pink tongue.

Tired and in no mood to argue, Jenny answered with a slight "Whatever." She followed that up with a "Give me a hand over here. I need to check a patient's dressings."

Mrs. McDonald followed Jenny over to a row of cots. Set back far from the concrete house slab and the constantly running generators, the area had been established for those who needed bed rest. Currently there were three people occupying the section.

Juanita was lying on an expensive leather sectional sofa that served as her bed. She appeared to be resting comfortably but still looked like death warmed over. There were multiple gauze bandages covering her scalp, neck and hands. Her wrist and leg were immobilized with stiff pieces of clear plastic tied with medical tape. Having been carefully cleaned up and dressed in jeans by Jenny and a helper, the woman's face was swollen and purplish from her injuries and the massive amounts of insect bites she had received during her time in the woods.

Peepers was the first to recognize Juanita as the women stopped in front of the bed. Straining backwards at the leash, he let out a little whimper and tried his best to move away. Wondering why her pet was acting so strangely, Mrs. McDonald also let out a gasp when she recognized her former house cleaner.

"What's the matter? Do you know who she is?" Jenny asked as she checked her patient.

Mrs. McDonald thought back to when she last saw Juanita, banging furiously at her front door. Arguing with her husband not to let the woman in, she had assumed that Juanita had set out and found shelter somewhere else in the hurricane.

"No," she lied. "I never saw her before. I was just shocked at her injuries, that's all."

As if on cue, Juanita stirred slightly as a small gurgling noise came out from her lips.

"Well, that's a good sign," Jenny said. "Maybe she's finally waking up." She bent in closer to her patient while asking in a loud voice, "Hello, can you hear me?"

Juanita slowly opened her eyes and blinked in the strong sunlight. She brought her good arm up to her head and felt at one of the bandages.

Jenny peered deeply into her eyes as she continued to settle down the injured woman. "You're in a hospital here in La Noche Pacífica. There was a bad storm. Do you remember that?"

She mumbled out something unintelligible. With her lower jaw broken, the resulting malocclusion meant that Juanita's teeth didn't line up quite right as normal, making speech difficult for her.

"Don't try to speak," Jenny said. "You've had a bad injury to your jaw."

Mrs. McDonald moved back a few steps as Jenny concentrated on Juanita.

"Umm, you know, I just remembered I got to go do something real important."

Mrs. McDonald reeled in Peepers' leash and picked him up. Cradling him in her pudgy arms, she quickly turned and left the area without a sound, vowing never to set foot in the camp for any reason whatsoever until helped arrived.
Chapter Forty-Six

Orlando, Florida - Thursday Afternoon

BRIAN WAS SMILING and humming to himself despite the fact that it was hot in the small metal shed that he was working in. The air was foul and stagnant, but this was probably the only place that was both close by and secluded enough for his evil purpose. Surprisingly, the thin sheet metal walls had held up well in the storm with only a small section ripped from the frame. He turned up the volume on his iPod as he remembered the time last summer when his father had put up the outbuilding in the backyard to hold all his gardening tools. It was the first time he heard his dad use bad language, having had to fill out numerous forms to appease the ever powerful neighborhood association.

When Vito had instructed him to gather bomb-making material, Brian gladly contributed his vast knowledge and construction skills to the cause. He didn't care one way or the other what the purpose of the bomb was for; he just liked blowing stuff up. If he could help himself to valuable electronic goodies along the way, so much the better.

Concentrating on places he considered to be owned by wealthy people, Brian had scored big at the first home he had entered in the morning's scavenger hunt. Spying a two-story house just a few blocks past the clubhouse, he had squeezed his way into a second floor bedroom that had collapsed on top of the ground floor. As if it was governed by fate, right as he entered the room he saw a brand new, top of the line laptop. Unfortunately, he had to step over the owner who had been dead for a week to get to it. Quickly moving outside to the fresh air, he booted up the computer and discovered to his immense pleasure that it was full charged. Looking just like a burglar in the movies, Brian added it to the large canvas sack he slung over his skinny shoulder. After a few more hours' worth of break-ins, he had collected all of the material that he needed.

His first order of business upon returning to the camp was using his newly found plunder to charge his iPod. With that done, he was spurred on by his favorite gangsta rap music and a warm energy drink that contained the caffeine equivalent of five cups of strong coffee.

Psyched up for the afternoon's job, Brian carefully laid out all his supplies and tools that he would need on a bench in front of him. Working in precise assembly line fashion, he grabbed an AA sized battery from a large box. Holding it steady against the counter, he gently tapped a tiny hole in the negative side with a roofing nail. A small puff of air sprayed out, relieving the pressure caused by the chemical reaction inside.

Using a worn down hacksaw blade, he sawed the battery in half lengthwise. Pulling it open, he used the head of the nail to scrape out the jet-black magnesium oxide that coated the inside. The small amount he retrieved from this battery was added to a rapidly growing pile drying in the sunshine that was streaming through a crack in the wall.

For the next two hours, Brian continued collecting the black grain from a few dozen more batteries. When all of the magnesium oxide had been dried and ground down into a fine powder, he collected it in a small square of newspaper, which he then twisted up into a tight little bundle. He finished this part of the job by filling up a two-liter soda bottle with water mixed with a three percent hydrogen peroxide solution.

Being a latchkey kid most of his life meant that he was unsupervised after school and had plenty of experience with explosives, having built these types of bombs before with his friends. Downloading the instructions from the internet, he learned that once you mixed the paper packet of magnesium oxide with the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, you had a very powerful explosion mixture that, if you weren't careful, would take your head off.

With the easy part of his afternoon behind him, he was now ready for the more difficult part of the job. Using some of his dad's tools, Brian inserted a stripped out electric barbeque igniter down into the neck of a large glass container. He threaded the long wire leads through small holes in the container's cap, then attached the ends to an electronic kitchen timer he had taken from someone's refrigerator. Wrapping the connections with black electrical tape, he poured a half gallon of gasoline that he had siphoned from the tank of a BMW into the bottle. Fumes quickly filled the small shack as he capped the jug and sealed the holes with a fresh wad of chewing gum. He carefully set the whole assembly down on the floor along with a fresh battery for the timer.

He was anxious to get outside and find something to eat, but he had one more thing to build. It was something he had been thinking about since last week and Brian had decided to take this opportunity to make it happen. He had never constructed this particular type of device before, but he had seen it done a few times, so naturally he considered himself an expert.

Brian used the last remaining teeth of the hacksaw to cut off a foot long section of a three-inch diameter lead pipe. Closing off one end with a ninety-degree elbow, he carefully poured in a mixture of gunpowder salvaged from leftover fireworks and the sulfuric contents of a highway flare into the pipe opening, pausing now and then to tamper it all down with a long wooden stick. The last remaining four inches of space were filled with a few dozen rusty ten-penny nails, pointy side facing out. A fourth of July sparkler was inserted straight down the middle of the pipe to act as a fuse. He closed off the mouth of the barrel with sticky electric tape to make himself a first rate self-contained, hand held, nail shooting bazooka gun.

Proud of himself, he covered the bomb parts with a tarp for Vito to pick up later, then left the shed with his homemade weapon in his sack, all the while singing along with his favorite song.

Dissin' me, dissin' me,

Why you keep on dissin' me?
Chapter Forty-Seven

Orlando, Florida - Thursday Late Afternoon

WHAT STARTED OUT AS a tickle in the back of his throat has rapidly progressed to a hacking cough that made Stanley's chest burn as if was on fire. Short of breath, he noticed with horror that the nasty looking phlegm he raised whenever he coughed was stained red with blood. He hadn't slept at all since he had the terrible nightmare of his wife and he alternated between running a high fever and chills that made him shiver uncontrollably. Stanley Drudge was a very, very sick man.

The energy he expended while disposing of Juanita had overtaxed his already weakened system. Since he hadn't eaten solid food in days, he was feeling extremely faint and it worried him. His filthy kitchen was completely demolished in the storm, but he didn't have much in the way of sustenance there to begin with. Just a couple of blocks over, he can hear the generators running and the sounds of people going about their daily activities. He remembered the encounter with his neighbor Thelma telling him that food was available at the camp. Stanley doesn't want to leave the safety of his house, but in the back of his mind, he knew that he has to get something to eat or he will surely die.

Gingerly, he tried to get up from the floor, leaning heavily against the bedroom wall. The fever made the room spin and it's all he can do to stand up on his own two feet. With his legs feeling like lead, he made his way down the rickety bedroom steps once again. Halfway down, his pants leg caught on a loose board. Stanley tripped and fell the rest of the way, banging his head hard against the floor.

Stanley was so weak he couldn't even smell the grime in the kitchen as he leaned his body weight against the kitchen door to force it open. Like a vampire emerging from the crypt, the bright sun blinded him. The full fury of the late afternoon heat was beating down on his already dehydrated body. He needed a moment to adjust to the outside world and took a knee on the wet ground of his front lawn.

After a moment, his eyes focused on the spot across the street where he plucked Juanita up out of the storm. He noticed that the McDonald house now has all of the metal shutters removed. It was in relatively good shape and the intact windows and doors seem oddly out of place among all the carnage. Even though all of this took place only days ago, it seemed like eons to Stanley.

Driven by hunger, Stanley rose up and slowly shuffled his way over to the street. Unlike the makeshift camp area where a huge area has been cleared and sectioned off, there are piles of debris everywhere that he has to navigate, blown about from the neighboring houses. With a great effort, Stanley crossed over a big mound of garbage.

In his weakened state, it takes Stanley almost a half hour to travel the few blocks to the camp. Finally, he turned a corner and got his first close up view of the site. The smell of food hits his nose as he spots a small line of people in front of a row of barbeques. Huge steaming pots of something are simmering on the grill. Behind them, women are serving the food to the waiting people.

Stanley slowly ventured closer. As he entered the perimeter of the camp, his appearance didn't go unnoticed. Only a few of the people who have been here awhile have had a chance to bathe and change clothes, but Stanley is much filthier than the other survivors are. He's also three shades paler from lack of sleep and an excess of alcohol.

Hoping to display an air of confidence, he walked over to the serving line as if he's been there all along. Grabbing a small plastic bowl from a pile in front of him, he shuffled along with the rest of the people. A middle-aged woman behind the table ladled in some soup.

"Hi," she said with a smile. "I haven't seen you here before."

"Um, yeah. I live a couple of blocks down," he said, picking up a piece of bread from a pile on the table. "I've been busy trying to work on my house."

Hoping that the lie will suffice, Stanley carried the food over to a picnic table, making sure he is seated far away from a couple of teenagers who are staring intently at him. He coughed loudly as he forced a small mouthful of soup down his burning throat. The food warmed his stomach, but he found it difficult to swallow another bite. Stanley is content for the moment with leaning over the bowl of soup, breathing in the hot steam.

After a moment, Jenny appeared out of nowhere and sat down in front of him. She watched him intently as Stanley siped at the broth.

"Hi. My name is Jenny Reid. Aren't you Mr. Drudge?"

Stanley did his best to ignore her. With his head down, he was pretending to concentrate on his food as he carefully soaked up some of the soup with a piece of bread.

"I've been running the camp hospital over there." She pointed at him with her finger. "That's a nasty cut that you've got on your face."

"It's okay," Stanley lied, just as a nasty hacking cough attack rattled his body. The pain caused him to set down the spoon to catch his breath.

"Hmm. That sounds bad. How do you feel?"

"It's just a cold," he lied again.

"Why don't you let me take a look at you?" Jenny asked.

"No, that's okay. I'm fine."

But Stanley isn't fine. Everything on his body hurts and his chest feels like it's on fire whenever he takes a breath. The next time that Jenny suggested he come over for a checkup, he grudgingly agrees. He drained the bowl empty with a loud slurp and leaved it on the table as they both walk over to the hospital area.

Jenny sat him down on a stuffed recliner and treated the scratch on his face with some antiseptic ointment. He relaxed a bit and settled back as Jenny took his pulse. Stanley has been laying on a hard wooden floor the last few days and the little amount of food that he has just managed to force down combined with the comfortable chair made him feel very sleepy.

"I don't like your color. You might have pneumonia." She reached over to a backpack and rummaged through it. "The only medicine I have left is some aspirin, but you're welcome to it."

Stanley nodded his head yes and accepts two tablets and a small glass of water. Forcing the medicine down, he glanced around the area and noticed the various patients in the makeshift beds.

"You been taking care of all these people?" he asked. His eyes grow heavy and start to close as he settled deeper into the recliner.

"Yes, me and two other guys," Jenny said, making small talk as she feels at the glands on his neck. "I used to be a nurse before I got married. So far, all of the injuries seem to be mostly broken bones and cuts."

She motioned over to a far section of the camp.

"We've only got a few seriously wounded people. The older gentleman over there had a heart attack during the storm but he's resting comfortably. And that little girl who's sitting up and reading a magazine has got a shattered lower leg."

Jenny offered him another glass of water, which he refused. "That's about all. Well, except for our mystery woman."

"Mystery woman?" Stanley repeated dreamily.

"Yes. We found her in the woods the other day. Got beat up by the storm pretty bad. Nobody knows who she is or where she came from. She's been unconscious since we pulled her in here, but she finally woke up this morning long enough to drink some water and soup. Poor girl..."

Almost asleep, Stanley forced his eyes open when he hears these words. Trying hard to focus his blurry vision, he shook his head to clear the cobwebs and finally sees Juanita asleep in the corner, lying face up on a mattress. With her face grotesquely swollen, Stanley almost doesn't recognize her at first.

"She can't speak because her jaw is broken and she's still a bit out of it. You don't happen to know who she is, do you?" Jenny asked. Intent with taking care of his injuries, she doesn't notice his eyes grow wide with fear.

Stanley stood up abruptly, almost knocking Jenny over.

"No, never seen her before," he hears himself say as if from far away. "I got to go back to my house. Thanks for everything."

Moving as fast as his ailing body will allow him, Stanley tried to put as much distance as he can between himself and his former victim, all the while trying to drown out his wife's voice in his head.
Chapter Forty-Eight

Orlando, Florida - Thursday Evening

THE EVENING STORM ROLLED in quickly with little warning, as most Florida summer storms do. In a time span of half an hour, the sky turned from sunny blue to grey, then black as dark, angry looking clouds moved in from the east coast. At first, a light drizzle covered the campsite, but the weather rapidly deteriorated to a full downpour. Booming thunder shook the ground while bright forks of lightning lit up the night sky.

Without the benefit of a local weather station, mostly everyone had been caught unawares by the quick emergence of the storm. The kitchen staff had just closed down the chow line and was preparing to clean up when they had to scramble to get things put away. With very little shelter available, Rosie was directing people to cover the more important items they couldn't afford to get wet. Workers struggled to protect the row of microwaves and a pile of charcoal briquettes that lay near the grills.

The speed with which the thunderstorm moved over the region meant that everything and everybody were thoroughly soaked. The chairs, sofas and mattresses that people had rescued from the debris to use as bedding were now saturated.

Jenny, also caught off guard by the rainstorm, directed her small staff to help the patients under her care towards the remains of her house, the closest shelter available. The front vestibule of her home had been propped up with framing material to serve as a lean-to for relief from the bright Florida sun. Those that were able helped move the more severely injured. With the rain coming down in buckets, Jenny and a few others managed to get Juanita under cover.

The storm lasted for an hour and dumped another two inches of rain on an already soaked area. Its passing did little to drop the ambient air temperature but it did manage to raise the relative humidity to one hundred percent. With a dew point in the low 80's, it promised to be another humid, miserable night for the survivors to get some sleep.

Throughout the fury of the storm, Jake was in the middle of it all. He ran throughout the camp, directing people and helping whenever possible. By the time the rain stopped, he had visited all the various stations of the site. Thoroughly soaked, he walked into the crowded hospital makeshift space.

"Jenny, how are you holding up here?" he asked.

"All right, I guess. When the rain started, we got most of the non-ambulatory patients under cover, but I'm afraid that all of our blankets and stuff got soaked. We'll probably have to scout around in the houses to see if there are any dry sheets or towels that we can use to wipe down the beds." She looked up at Jake. "But we're not half as bad as you look."

"Tell me something I don't know," he smiled back, slicking back his wet hair.

"Man, this storm couldn't have come at a worse time."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Haven't you noticed that people are walking around like zombies?"

"Hmm, actually, I have. I thought that everybody was dragging ass from all the crap we've been through."

"No. There's more to it." Jenny slipped into clinical mode. "The effect of heat and humidity takes a burden on the human body and it's slowly exacting its toll on everybody here. Humidity makes the temperature of the surrounding air feel warmer and the cooling effect of evaporation from the skin is greatly reduced. A loss of electrolytes makes this much more difficult and efforts to maintain an acceptable core temperature are significantly impaired. More blood flows to the external surface of the body and relatively less goes to the active muscles, brain and other internal organs. Alertness, mental capacity and physical strength declines and fatigue occurs sooner than it would otherwise." She paused to wipe sweat from her neck. "Without the modern convenience of air conditioning, we're experiencing the same miserable weather conditions that the early Spanish settlers suffered through." She quickly added, "And it kicked their asses back then."

"Crap. What can we do about this?"

"The only thing we can do besides praying for some cooler weather is to increase the amount of water that people drink."

"That's going to be tough. We've been depending heavily on Willie's water supply, but that's been going down fast." He took out a small pad and scribbled on it. "We need to set up some way to capture the rain water from the next storm." He shook his head. "Should have thought about that sooner."

Jake's shoulders slumped down. "Damn, what's next on the agenda? A visit from a swarm of locust?"

Jenny took the opportunity to cuddle against him. "Don't beat yourself up over it. I think you're doing a great job."

He answered by wrapping his arms around her in a hug. Jake could feel the warmth of her body through their wet clothes. She closed her eyes and laid her head against him as he gently pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen in her face.

"I was thinking about going back to my place to look for some dry clothes. There was a dresser in my bedroom that managed to stay intact. It might have a few dry things we could use." He whispered into her ear. "Can you break away for five minutes to help me?"

Her hand slid down his arm and their fingers intertwined. With a look that said it all, she whispered back, "I can give you all the time you need."

After hastily conferring with her assistant, Jenny left the house with Jake and proceeded across the street to his place in search of dry clothes, towels and a moment's worth of privacy.

Across the street where the latrines had been dug, Jenny's husband Bob had just emerged from the makeshift outhouse. Battling a severe case of the runs from some undercooked meat, he finished just in time to see the couple walking across the street, hand in hand.
Chapter Forty-Nine

Orlando, Florida - Thursday Night

IT MAY HAVE BEEN the incessant drinking that he has been engaging in the past few months or perhaps is was the viral pneumonia that was ravaging his body, but for whatever reason, Stanley Drudge has slipped over the line that divides the sane from the insane and was now stark raving mad. Nursing his last bottle of whiskey, he no longer needed to fall asleep and dream to imagine that he was talking with his former wife.

"Can't we just leave her alone and live out our lives together?" he pleaded with Marilyn as he lay on the wet, filthy mattress in the dark room. His bedroom was full of standing puddles of rainwater dripping in through the many holes in the ceiling. He wiped back the tears that filled his eyes with the back of his grimy hand.

"No, Stanley," she said, mocking his tone. "We can't just leave her alone. She's going to wake up sooner or later and tell everybody how you messed up." He shivered uncontrollably as she drew closer to him. "And you really messed up royally this time, Stanley." She snickered and flashed an evil grin. "You never could do anything right. Why did I every marry you in the first place? You're a worthless piece of shit..."

"Leave me alone!" he yelled at the imaginary woman.

"Poor little Stanley. Kiss the girls and make them cry..."

He grew wild-eyed as he screamed at the empty room. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!"

His wife's ghost laughed at his outburst, then lowered her voice in an effort to placate him.

"C'mon, Stanley. Do it for little old Marilyn. Please, baby, for me?"

She drew closer to him and laid her head on his chest. Stanley was reduced to a weak, pathetic mess, lying on the bed, weeping like a baby.

"You can do it, sweetheart," she cooed at him. "You know what mama likes."

For some reason, her close presence calmed him down somewhat. She ran her hand through his greasy hair and for once in his life, Stanley is far too weak to think about sex.

"I can't do it. I just can't do it." He stareed at his wife's image. "Please, just let me rest. Look, I'll lay down here, close my eyes and go to sleep forever. And I'll never hurt anybody ever again..."

In an instant, she was towering above him.

"You can go to sleep when the job is done, Stanley," she screamed at him. Her face started to revert back to the ugly image that frightens him so much. "When the job is done and not before," she repeats. "If not, I'll make sure that you'll never go to sleep again!"

Stanley squeezed his eyes shut tightly but this doesn't erase the image from his mind. His wife is still there, alternately smiling pretty one minute, menacingly the next.

"Okay," he finally said, every ounce of strength in his body completely drained. "I'll do it."

"That's my baby." She put her head back down on his chest. "Lay here with me until the time comes, Stanley."

He closed his eyes once again, but sleep doesn't come. All that he can hear are her words repeating over and over, "Make me happy, Stanley. Make me happy."
Chapter Fifty

Orlando, Florida - Thursday Night

EVER SINCE JAKE SHOUTED at her for letting Peepers run loose, Mrs. McDonald has badgered her husband persistently to fix up an area in the yard for the dog. Unable to take her nagging any longer, he went out into the hot afternoon sun and used pieces of wood and other building material laying about to repair enough of the remaining fence to make a large dog run. Previously allowed to frolic the camp freely, the stupid dog had almost gotten lost a few times, confused in all the unfamiliar rubble. It was only due to equal parts natural homing instinct and dumb, blind luck that the brain damaged animal had managed to find his way back home.

Normally Mrs. McDonald would walk Peepers at regular intervals, but without the comfort of air conditioning, the fat lady had been feeling a bit lazier than usual. She also wanted to avoid Jake, that terrible Rosie woman and, of course, Juanita as much as possible, less she be tasked once again to do menial kitchen work which she considered to be far beneath her social status. Peepers was now confined to what remained of the backyard for his own safety, doing his business wherever he felt like. The end result for the formerly immaculate landscaping was little multiple piles of doggie doo scattered among the house rubble.

On this particularly humid night, Peepers was in a good mood, content to lie on the wet grass while he licked himself. Without anybody or anything to latch onto, he had entertained himself by playing with one of the many dried out turds that littered his new surroundings. For half an hour, he flipped it over and over with his snout, barking euphorically every time he managed to get it rolling. Peepers finally gave up the game when the piece of crap broke into three pieces, totally confusing him.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Peepers spotted something he had never seen before. Alerted to the dog's presence by his constant yapping, the male alligator that had almost eaten Juanita was lurking on the other side of the chain link fence.

After the gator had attacked Paul, it had been feeling quite strange. The strong acid in its gut had acted slowly but steadily on the remains of a dead squirrel it had found by the side of a creek, the leather cover of Paul's wallet and his marijuana. Taking the better part of a day to dissolve the thick plastic baggie, the ounce of strong cannabis had hit the gator's blood stream all at once and rapidly crossed across the blood membrane that surrounded its small reptilian brain. With the dope adding to its normal instincts to hunt for food, the alligator was completely stoned and had an extreme case of the munchies. Hallucinating badly, the gator found it difficult to focus his eyes correctly as it watched Peepers playing with his turds in the safety of his backyard.

Since he had been left alone and void of contact with any living thing, Peepers was feeling extremely horny. Blissfully unaware of the danger that lay before him, he ran up to the chain link fence as fast as his stubby little legs would carry him and faced the amphibian from his side of the barrier. Wagging his tail wildly, he could now see in the feeble light that this strange new creature was large, green and scaly. Peepers was in love once again.

Believing that the hissing noise his new love interest was emanating to be a song of passion, he desperately looked for a way out of his prison. Peepers racked his tiny brain trying to figure out the best way to get to the other side of the fence so that he could hump the unusual looking thing. Suddenly, he remembered the beginnings of a hole he has started the day before.

With a heavy body and a slow metabolism, the stoned out reptile didn't want to expend any more energy than was necessary, so with his food being delivered to him, he just watched as Peepers ran down to the corner post and started digging.

Spurred on by the thought of a cross-species tryst, Peepers dug into the ground for all he was worth. His two tiny front paws threw up large streams of dirt behind him as he excavated a small trench just large enough for his head to stick through.

Just as Peepers had wedged his body halfway underneath the chain link fence, he saw the gator rise up and turn towards him. With surprising speed, the intoxicated animal had quickly covered the distance between them. Using his extremely powerful jaw muscles, he clamped down on Peepers' head and with a slight twist of his body, yanked him through to his side of the fence. The fifteen pound dog was a mere snack to the larger predator as a flick of his neck caused Peepers to fly through the air and straight into the waiting alligator's wide open mouth.

The last feeble yelp that Peepers made in his short life was barely audible as he was swallowed whole, leather collar and all. The gator's strong pharynx muscles pushed Peepers down along his narrow throat passage towards his digestive tract where he would soon join with the other remnants of the gator's munchies attack.

With a loud burp and a flick of his tongue, the alligator turned and slowly made his way back to the water to finish digesting his meal and take a well-deserved nap.
Chapter Fifty-One

Orlando, Florida - Early Friday Morning

STANLEY WAS SWEATING buckets. At three in the morning, the temperature was still warm and unbearably humid. Running a high fever, he had found a pair of black sweat pants and matching long sleeved shirt to wear in what was left of his closet. The ensemble was completed by covering the exposed parts of his hands and face with mud from a nearby puddle.

Dressed all in black like a ninja to better blend into the dark night, it had taken Stanley an hour and a half to make the short trip from his house to the hospital area. Feeling faint, he had crept along the dark, damp streets slowly and carefully, hugging the shadows all the way. The alleys behind the camp had still not been cleared of all the rubble, forcing him to scale over huge piles of debris and downed trees cautiously, making sure not to make any noise.

Finally arriving at the rear of the first aid station, Stanley squatted in the bushes and watched the sleeping people for fifteen minutes. All was quiet except for the hum of one lone generator. Low on fuel, Jake had ordered that they power down at night, running only a solo night light and a small refrigerator. With his eyes fully adjusted to the dark, he noticed that Juanita's sofa was off to one side of the concrete pad, away from the few other injured people.

He wasn't quite sure how he was going to kill Juanita. Stanley had searched for what seemed like hours in his kitchen for a knife, but couldn't find one in all the mess. After a while, he decided to trust to Fate that something would make itself available.

For lack of a better weapon, he hefted a stick in his hand. Split on one end, it was jagged and sharp. He had hoped to kill Juanita quietly, then sneak back to his house and his waiting wife and the blessed relief that sleep would bring.

Suddenly, off in the distance, Stanley saw his weapon of choice. Resting on an empty mattress was a bunch of couch pillows. Slowly, he made his way over to the slab. Putting down his pointy stick, he picked up a large, fluffy pillow. Filled with goose down, it was edged with fancy ruffles and decorated with elaborate needlework. Hefting it in his hands, he decided that it would suit his needs.

_Perfect,_ he thought to himself.

Carrying the pillow in his teeth, he crawled on his hands and knees over to where Juanita lay sleeping. Ten feet away from his victim, he stopped in mid-crawl as the fat man who had helped clear away Nancy's backyard snorted loudly in the distance. Without the use of his CPAP breathing machine to help control his sleep apnea, his airway had temporarily blocked shut for the hundredth time that night. He made another loud noise as he regained his breath, scratched his ass and turned over in his sleep.

Assured that all was well, Stanley continued his crawl towards Juanita. Now inches away from her, he could see that she had been cleaned up nicely by Jenny. He watched as her chest rose and fell in time with her slow, steady breathing and remembered the fun times that he had shared with her. His wife's voice broke his concentration as she whispered in his ear, "Get on with it, Stanley."

Taking the pillow out of his mouth, he hovered over Juanita for just the briefest moment, then quickly placed it across her face. In a second, he bent over her and pressed down hard on the cushion. With all of his weight behind him, Stanley leaned across on the powerless woman.

Juanita woke up gasping for air. Noiselessly, she flailed her good arm helplessly at whatever was covering her face. Stanley shifted his position slightly so that he was now lying directly on top of her. Pressing down with the full force of his body weight, Stanley closed his eyes and waited for Juanita to die.

Slowly, Juanita's struggles weakened. Her good leg had been kicking at her unseen assailant in the beginning, but after a minute or so, it had slowed down to the occasional spasm.

Stanley heard the strange noise a millisecond before he felt the pain in his head. It was a loud _bong_ sound, somewhat like a bell clanging off in the distance. Still fully intent on smothering Juanita, he noticed a small drop of blood take shape on the pillow below him as his head started to ache. Unsure of what was happening, he lifted his head up long enough to see Rosie standing over him. She was holding a large cast iron frying pan in both of her strong hands. As if in a dream, he watched as Rosie drew her arm back. Like before, she swung the pan with all her might squarely at Stanley's head. The first shot she gave him had been hurried and was only a glancing blow, but her follow up stroke was right on the money. This time, Stanley didn't hear the second louder _bong_ noise that the pan made as it contacted his skull. He collapsed unconscious on top of Juanita.

Rosie dropped the pan and grabbed Stanley by the shirt collar and pants waist. With one good yank, she pulled him off Juanita and flung him aside like a sack of potatoes, all the time yelling, "Help! Help!" at the top of her voice.

The sleeping people in camp woke up. Jenny sprung off her cot and was at Juanita's side in a flash. Jake awoke with a start and grabbed the flashlight he kept by his makeshift bed.

"Rosie! What's going on?"

The muscular woman now had Stanley in a tight headlock. Her thick arms surrounded Stanley's head and neck, securely holding him upright.

"This asshole was trying to smother that lady with a pillow," she shouted.

Stanley's eyes bulged out grotesquely and his tongue, purple and swollen with fever and a lack of fluids, protruded oddly from the corner of his mouth. Her grip tightened another notch as she growled at him. "Son of a bitch!"

"Geez, Rosie! Let him go! You're going to strangle him!" Jake hollered.

She looked right through Jake as her eyes narrowed. "Is that such a bad idea?" she yelled.

He considered the thought for the briefest moment. It was obvious to all now that it had been Stanley who had molested the young woman in the first place. Aware of the extent of her injuries, Jake thought about what she would have felt as she was left to die alone in the woods.

Calming himself down, Jake just shook his head and said, "No, Rosie. It's not the right thing to do. That would make us as bad as him."

Rosie just stood there with her arms clenched around Stanley's windpipe. Slowly, the anger left her face. With a loud huff, she let go of the unconscious man and let him drop to the ground in a heap. She turned away but not before giving him a sharp kick in the ribs.

"Douche bag!" she mumbled under her breath as she picked up her frying pan and walked away.

_Guess it's true what they say about Jersey girls,_ Jake thought as he looked around at the assembled crowd.

"So what do we do with this guy, Jake?" he heard Willie say from behind.

Jake thought for a moment as he watched Stanley slowly bring his hands up to his head.

_At least she didn't kill him,_ Jake thought.

"Well, we don't have a jail to stick him in, but we need to make sure that he isn't running around loose." He asked the crowd in general. "Anybody have any rope we could use?"

From a dark corner, Barbara Morgenstern walked forward into the light, revealing that she was wearing a thin tee shirt and shorts that did little to hide her figure. Everybody heard her say, "Jake, give me your flashlight." After handing it to her, she said, "Wait a minute and I'll be right back," then turned and walked off quickly into the darkness. Most of the men in the crowd watched her go. Jake wondered if she was going back to the house to get more of her sexy nylons.

"You guys keep an eye on him," Jake directed the group.

With that, he turned his attention to Juanita. He was glad to see that she was breathing and sitting up with help from Jenny, although it appeared that she was suffering once again from shock. She just mumbled through clenched teeth and pointed a shaking finger towards Stanley on the ground. Jenny was doing her best to placate the scared woman.

"No, no. Don't worry. He can't hurt you now."

She tuned to face Juanita. "Tell me," she asked the trembling woman. "Is that the man who did those terrible things to you?"

Juanita stopped whimpering for a moment as the memories of the storm and its aftermath came flooding back to her. After a long moment, she shook her head affirmatively up and down, then resumed crying again. Jenny cradled her head carefully and did her best to comfort the woman.

Stanley broke the silence of the night by letting out a loud moan, followed by a blood-curling scream.

"Let me go! I've got to kill her! Don't you understand that? How can I ever get to sleep if I don't kill her?"

Completely lost to the realities of this world, Stanley convulsed on the ground wildly. Even in his weakened state, it took three men to hold Stanley down on his stomach as he thrashed about like a lunatic.

Barbara reappeared, carrying the flashlight in one hand, a pair of chrome handcuffs and a long leather strap in the other. Quickly, she straddled Stanley and with an expert's flair, snapped the handcuffs on his wrists.

This action did not go unnoticed. Willie gave Jake a knowing sideways glance and was answered with a silent nod of his head and a smirk.

_You should see some of the pictures I've got of her in action,_ Jake thought as Barbara locked the cuffs with a small key she plucked out of her pocket. With her prisoner secured, she jumped off his back and wiped the dirt from her hands.

"Move him over to the toilet," she ordered the men.

They got him to his feet and gave him the bum's rush to the middle of the concrete slab. With Barbara directing the movements, they sat him down, his back towards the bowl. In another well-practiced move, she quickly fastened the thick leather strap around his waist and the narrow curve of the toilet and secured him tightly.

With the entire camp now wide awake, a few more lamps were turned on. Stanley could clearly see the faces of the people staring down at him. Oblivious to everyone around him, he continued squirming in the sitting position, foaming at the mouth as he mumbled out, "Marilyn! Help me baby! Get me outta here!"

"Dear God!" Willie said to his wife, who had joined him by his side. "And to think that this guy had been living next to us all this time."

He looked up and spotted Willie and Thelma.

"Hey Aunt Jermima!" Stanley shouted at the top of his lungs. "Come over here and get these handcuffs off of me!"

This brought out Thelma's fury. With a flip of her hair and a well-practiced neck roll, she answered, "I got your Aunt Jermima right here, you crazy old white man!" before storming away in a huff.

"What the hell are you people looking at?" Stanley screamed. "Don't you recognize me? I'm Bobo the clown! Bow down before me and give me candy!" With that, he lashed out with his foot at someone who had gotten to close. He narrowly missed snapping the man's ankle by an inch.

"Holy crap! Rosie must have knocked his brain out of whack with that cast iron skillet," Jake said. With a forlorn shrug of his shoulders, he added the now totally insane Stanley Drudge to his ever-growing list of problems.
Chapter Fifty-Two

Orlando, Florida - Friday Morning

JAKE WAS LOOKING OVER his notes, getting ready to begin the morning meeting. Everyone around him was bleary eyed and feeling the effects of lack of sleep from last night's aborted assassination attempt. Once again, it had taken a long while for the camp to return to sleep. Unlike the other day when they had been awaken by a far off explosion, Stanley kept raving all night long. Handcuffed and strapped to the toilet bowl in the middle of the concrete slab, he drifted in and out of different levels of sanity, one moment able to carry on a lucid conversation, the next, screaming like a madman. Thankfully, he had also finally drifted off to sleep.

With all of his current problems, Jake didn't need a lunatic running loose in the camp so he had assigned a watch to stand guard over him. This couldn't have come at a worse time, since it further lessening the available pool of men for more pressing jobs. Right now, he needed every available body for work.

All morning, Jake had a weird feeling that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Originally, he blamed it on lack of sleep but as he took his usual place on the tree stump, he noted with a deepening sense of concern that there was a strange sort of silence in the air, hanging over the camp like a thick blanket. It was more than just the weight of the week's events bearing down on the group. He shook off the feeling of impending doom as a byproduct of the heat and humidity.

Jake looked out at the sea of dirty faces in front of him and noticed Leo staring directly at him. Behind him, Vito, his arms folded across his chest, was whispering something into his ear. Jake knew something was up when he gave Leo a friendly wave and it was returned with a stone-faced scowl.

He raised his voice to be heard. "Let's begin the meeting. As you all know, we had a very disturbing incident last night. One of the residents here in La Noche Pacífica tried to kill the wounded lady that we pulled in from the golf course. We don't know why he wanted to do that, but it appears that he has gone insane, possibly from injuries he received during the storm. Luckily, we were able to stop him from doing any further harm to the woman. Currently, we have him secured and under twenty-four hour guard. We'll post a watch on him just as if we were in the military, with people taking four-hour shifts. A list has been posted on the bulletin board, so take a look at it to see if your name is on the sheet. Please be prompt when relieving the watch." Jake heard a smattering of moans.

"We need to talk about the pool and laundry times. Look guys, the Moody's were nice enough to set up the area for us to use, but they tell me that people have been sneaking in there after hours. We should at least respect their wishes and observe the times." More groans and general agitation noises came from the crowd.

"The next item is important. We're really getting low on water. We've set up some places around camp to collect runoff water the next time it rains, so with any luck, it'll pour again like it did the other night. But these stations need to be manned when the storms do come, so I'll be passing out responsibilities for the collection points."

He continued. "Our food supply is getting grim. We've been stretching out our supply of canned goods with the veggies from Willie's garden, but we're running short. When we send the boys out on today's scouting party, I'm having them concentrate on finding and bringing back food." Jake practically forced himself to say, "We should all be prepared to drop down to one meal a day very soon if the situation doesn't improve."

"Is that so?" he heard a loud voice boom out. Everybody in the crowd turned towards Leo, who was now standing directly in front of Jake. With his broken arm in a sling, he had his legs spread wide in an arrogant stance.

"Is what so, Leo?" Jake answered back.

"The food. You said it's running low."

He stood his ground. "That's right, it is."

Leo took a step closer and offered up a challenge. "And why should we believe you?"

"What reason would I have to lie?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders. "What would I get out of it?"

"You know what I think? I think the reason that we're low on food is because you've been holding back some of the better supplies for yourself and your friends." Some in the crowd made affirmative agreement noises.

"And what friends of mine would that be, Leo? Are you talking about the people who have been digging the ditches and doing all of the heavy work?"

Leo wasn't fazed by this outburst of logic. His eyes narrowed as he said, "We want an accounting of the supplies."

"Who's 'we', Leo? Who is it exactly that you're speaking for?"

"I'm speaking for everybody here in La Noche Pacífica," Leo shouted at the top of his lungs.

"Well, I'm telling you that there's been no hording of food or water or any of the supplies by me or any of the workers here in camp."

Leo repeated his demand. "We want to know where all the food has been going."

Jake was rapidly getting fed up with his former neighbor.

"The limited amount of food we rescued from the rubble has been eaten by the people you see standing all around us," he shouted back.

With venom dripping on every word, Leo said, "I don't believe you."

Despite his resolve to stay calm, Jake's temper flared. "I don't give a shit what you believe!"

Leo gestured with his good arm. "We don't have to take orders from the likes of you. And until we find out what's been happening with the supplies, none of us are going to do any of these little jobs you keep dishing out."

Jake couldn't help control the sarcasm in his voice. "You think you could do a better job running the show? Does your vast experience with the homeowners association somehow make you magically qualified to take over? And just when did you grow a set of balls?"

Leo was on the defensive now. "What are you talking about?"

The words came pouring out of Jake's mouth in his anger. "I'm saying that you're a mealy mouthed little puke, that's what I'm saying. I think that somebody has been putting these ideas in your head. That's right, somebody put you up to this because you don't have a backbone or the smarts to think about it yourself. You're a spineless wimp of a man and I've got the pictures of your wife giving you a good whipping to prove it! That's right, I found some of those photographs of you getting a good spanking when they blew across my backyard. How about it, pal? Want me to break them out and pass them around so everybody can see what a momma's boy you really are?"

A brief moment of silence fell over the assembled survivors. Leo froze motionless as he turned white. After a second, Vito leaned over and whispered into his ear. With those words of encouragement, Leo regained his composure, nodded his head and shouted, "I'm out of here!"

He turned around and quickly walked away. Vito stood rock still, smiling up at Jake. After a long moment's pause, he turned and walked away, following Leo into the woods.
Chapter Fifty-Three

Orlando, Florida - Friday Morning

JAKE DECIDED TO CALL an emergency meeting of the main players in camp after Leo and Vito stormed off. He hastily assembled Jenny, Willie and his son, Rosie and Gunter over by his poker table/office. Stanley was an uninvited guest, being secured to the toilet bowl a few feet away. In his delirium, he alternated between acting like a lunatic one minute, a whimpering, pathetic wreck the next. On top of that, he was also prone to screaming out nonsensical phrases due to the damage done by multiple whacks on the head delivered by Rosie's cast iron frying pan. After a night's worth of idiotic jabber from Stanley, the hurricane survivors all did their very best to ignore his crazed ranting.

"Has anybody seen Barbara Morgenstern this morning?" he asked the group.

"I've asked around," Gunter said. "But she's nowhere to be found."

"Spread the word that I need to speak to her. Maybe she can tell us what crawled up Leo's ass."

"So what do we do about Leo?" Willie asked the group. "I don't put it past him to start trouble."

"I won't be any trouble," Stanley offered. "But I will need my wheelchair and two beef tacos if I'm going to perform the operation on your ingrown toenail."

Jake wiped at his sweaty forehead with a piece of cloth. "Has anybody seen them lately?"

As if on cue, Stanley let out another piercing scream, followed by "And after I eat all of the rats, I'm going to munch on your brains!"

"After the meeting when they stormed off, the kids spotted them headed towards the clubhouse area," Gunter said. "That was about an hour ago."

The best that Stanley could offer to the conversation was a loud, "The royal spaghetti monster is coming! Everybody get the tomato sauce and parmesan cheese ready!"

"Shut up, you freakin' fruitcake!" Willie Jr. said, his frustration showing.

"I don't trust that Vito guy," Willie offered. "If you ask me, he's behind all of this."

"I agree. So on top of everything else going on, we need to watch out for these guys. We should probably set out guards at night around the food. Rosie, can you take care of that?"

"Sure thing, Jake." She flexed her bicep for the group. "Just let them try something."

"Willie, you still have a lot of the water over at your place, plus it's our best rain runoff collection point. You should probably keep an eye on that."

He nodded his head wordlessly.

"Anybody got anything else?" Jake asked.

"I've got some more info about my patient," Jenny said. "With her broken jaw, the best that the injured woman could manage was to sip carefully at some soup and water this morning at breakfast, but that small influx of nutrition did wonders for her health. In between being fed little bits of broth soaked bread, she wrote out the answers to my questions. Her name is Juanita Perez and get this, she was Mrs. McDonald's part time house cleaner. She was trapped outside when the storm hit and Mrs. McDonald refused her shelter. That's when she got picked up by our resident nutcase over there."

The heap of humanity that was once Stanley Drudge looked up at them and smiled.

"Hey baby, if I had a big enough telescope, I could see Uranus."

He threw his head back and let out a fierce laugh, followed quickly by another plea to be released.

Unfazed by Stanley's wild ramblings, Jenny continued. "According to Juanita, it was Stanley who attacked her and put her out by the golf course to die." She lowered her voice and gave Jake a sideways glance when she added, "Among other things."

"Damn," Jake muttered. "And you say that Mrs. McDonald denied knowing her the other day?"

"Yeah. She acted kinda squirrelly when she saw Juanita lying down in the hospital area. I should have guessed something was up."

"Don't beat yourself up over it. We've been worrying about other things."

"Juanita says that she's going to sue both Mrs. McDonald and Stanley once this is all over."

Jake shook his head as he said, "She's got a good case. But it's going to be a while before things return to normal, although the radio reports that the National Guard has had success using bulldozers and explosives in clearing the main roads. At least that's what we heard the other night."

"Help!" Stanley shouted out, wild-eyed. "The rats just told me that they want to eat MY brain!"

"God, I wish he would make up his mind," Willie said.
Chapter Fifty-Four

Orlando, Florida - Friday Afternoon

MRS. MCDONALD HAD SPENT the better part of the afternoon searching for Peepers. She had gone out early in the morning to feed him and fill his water dish, but he was nowhere to be seen. After a few minutes, she noticed with alarm the small trench dug out underneath the chain link fence, the same spot where the animal had become a late evening munchies snack for the alligator.

She enlisted the services of her husband to search the camp area after reminding him to stay away from where Juanita lay injured. She didn't want to go back there to see either Rosie or Jake or any of the mean, uncouth people who had treated her so unkindly. Since he never really liked the now thoroughly digested mutt, he had walked out into the shade of the woods behind his house, where he sat on a rock and drank his last warm beer.

The hot afternoon sun beat down on the fat woman relentlessly. She searched up and down the side streets of La Noche Pacífica, avoiding the high piles of debris since she was not in shape to do any climbing whatsoever. With an empty leash in her hand, she called out in her high, shrill voice, "Peepers! Peepers! Where are you?"

Totally exhausted, she figured that she would check down two more side streets and then circle back to her house for a cool drink of water and a bowlful of trail mix and potato chips. With any luck, her lazy husband had already found the dog or perhaps he had returned home on his own.

It took her ten minutes to walk down the littered street. Not wearing proper walking shoes, she had twisted her ankle slightly on a partially submerged rock and was hobbling along the best she could. Totally exasperated and out of breath, Mrs. McDonald leaned against the wall of a house to take advantage of the limited shade and to catch her breath.

From a corner of his broken house, Vito had been listening to the woman calling out for her dog. He watched her slyly through a crack in the bedroom wall as he finished cleaning the pistol he now carried constantly. Carefully checking it one more time, he tucked the shiny revolver in his pants waistband.

Vito wanted to assume control of the situation and would have no hesitations about killing anybody who got in his way so he kept secret the fact that he had a powerful bomb in his possession. He didn't absolutely trust Leo to follow through with the plan but in any case, after the display that they had put on at the morning's meeting, neither one would be able to get close enough to the camp to plant the bomb.

He needed another patsy for that.

With a plan forming in his mind, Vito stepped out into the street.

Mrs. McDonald looked up and saw Vito walking towards her. She had seen him around a few times before the storm, but both of them thought the other was outside their social circle and kept mostly to themselves.

"How you doin'?" he said with a faked, forced smile.

"Umm, hi," she answered back.

"Pretty hot out here today," Vito said, making small talk. "Looks like you've been workin' hard."

"I'm looking for my dog. His name is Peepers. He got out from my backyard and he's running around loose. You haven't seen him, have you?"

Vito thought back to when he had seen Peepers enter his house.

"Is he a small white dog about this big?" He held his hands about a foot apart.

"Yes, that's him!" the fat woman beamed. "Have you seen him?" she asked again.

Vito took a step closer. "Oh gee, I did see him a while ago. But I'm afraid I got some bad news to tell you." He put on his best sympathy face.

"What is it?" she exclaimed. "Is he hurt?"

"I'm afraid it's worse than that. You know Jake, the guy who's been running things around here?" He studied her face carefully for a hint of expression.

"Yes, I know him," she answered with an annoyed tone in her voice. "What about my Peepers?"

"Well, I last saw the dog being carried off by him and a few of the people who work for him."

"What! Jake has Peepers?" the fat woman squealed.

"Yeah. And he wasn't being gentle with him either."

Mrs. McDonald exploded in anger. "That piece of shit! I told him to stay away from my dog!" She found strength as she told him, "He threatened to kill Peepers before. Him and that fat cook of his."

Vito saw his opening and took it.

"I heard him say that was where they were taking him." He paused for effect. "To the kitchen."

"Oh my God!" she yelled. "I've got to go save Peepers!"

"Yes, you should." He lowered his voice in fake sympathy. "But I think it might be too late for that."

"What do you mean?" She was on the verge of tears.

"Well, as he was carrying off your dog, I heard him say something like that he was going to cook him. You know, to stretch out the food supply."

A look of horror crossed Mrs. McDonald's chubby face.

"No!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. Ignoring her injured ankle, she quickly walked away. "Thanks for the information," she shot back over her shoulder.

"Anytime," he answered back, a wicked smile on his face. "Let me know if I can help you again."
Chapter Fifty-Five

Orlando, Florida - Friday Afternoon

DOUG WAS SITTING cross-legged on the floor, cradling his wife's head in his lap. For the past two hours, she had been crying uncontrollably. Nothing that Doug said could snap Nancy out of her deep blue funk.

Nancy Moody was a full-blown cocaine addict who was currently undergoing the worst part of her withdrawal symptoms. Without the constant intake of cocaine fueling her system, her mental cravings for the drug had affected her physically as well. She had not eaten anything in the last few days or for that matter, hadn't set foot outside the small hovel that Doug had created inside the rubble of their house. To Doug's displeasure, she had also not bathed or changed clothes in a while.

Cocaine is a powerful stimulant that forces the brain to release higher than normal amounts of dopamine, a neurotransmitter linked to excitement and pleasure. It's also one of the most addictive drugs around. When heavy use is stopped abruptly, a crash follows almost immediately, accompanied by a strong craving for more cocaine. Withdrawal symptoms include fatigue, anxiety, irritability, sleepiness and sometimes agitation or extreme suspicion. The craving and depression can last for months following cessation of long-term use.

"C'mon babe, try to eat something," Doug coaxed as he pushed back her dirty hair from the front of her face. With his other hand, he gently shook the half-full box of corn flakes that he had salvaged from the kitchen.

"I'm not hungry, Doug," she moaned in a low voice. "I just want to rest here next to you, okay?"

Doug was exhausted. He had stayed awake with her all last night, trying his best to make her feel better, to no avail. He had experienced her withdrawal for coke once before and did not like it. Over a year ago, their normal drug dealer had been arrested, temporarily closing off their supply for a week. That had been the worst week of their lives. During that time, Nancy had gotten so ill, she needed to take off a few days from work. This time, though, she was in far worse condition. Doug was very concerned for Nancy.

"Things are looking up babe," he said as he continued stroking her hair. "We're going to be back to normal real soon. We'll have the house rebuilt and we'll be partying our asses off in the hot tub before you know it."

"It's never going to be the same. Never ever." Her voice grew louder. "Look around you, Doug. Everything is destroyed. All the things we worked so hard for." She wiped at the tears in her red, swollen eyes. "All gone..." she sobbed softly.

"Why don't you take a quick dip in the pool, babe? A quick wash up will make you feel better." Doug hoped that she would agree. In the small space that they were calling home, she was stinking the place up.

"I don't want to go out there with all those strangers in the back yard. Why did you ever let them use it for laundry?"

Her voice trailed off again as Doug checked his temper. In her drug-induced mood, she had constantly nagged him about his decision to share the pool. After explaining his rationale for the fifth time, he was growing weary.

"Let me check out there," he said. Doug pulled himself up to his feet and walked over to the large section of drywall that was serving as their privacy to the outside world.

Blinking his eyes in the strong light, he walked outside to the backyard. The few people that had been there an hour ago drying their clothes in the hot sun had left. Noticing that someone had left an empty box of laundry detergent lying on the ground, he picked it up and flung it onto a large pile of drywall rubble. Satisfied, he splashed his face and back of his neck with a handful of pool water. The cool water, still clean and sweet smelling, refreshed him.

Back inside, he put on his best face for his distressed wife. Nancy had managed to sit upright on the floor. She sat motionless, her back to the wall with a blank look on her face.

"We're in luck, babe. There's nobody out there. We've got the place to ourselves."

Totally withdrawn, she just stared off into the distance.

"Let's both take a dip, Nancy," he continued. "We'll splash around a bit and get cleaned up."

"I don't know..." Her voice trailed off again.

"C'mon, it'll be fun. We'll get naked and jump in the pool. It'll cool us off and we can wash our clothes at the same time."

To his pleasant surprise, Nancy agreed. "Okay." She slowly got to her feet. "Guess it can't hurt."

"That's it, babe," Doug said as he peeled off his tee shirt. "You go jump in and I'll be right behind you. I need to gather up some other dirty clothes to wash."

He leaned over and kissed his wife on the forehead as she slowly walked past him. The beginnings of a small smile crossed her tear stricken face. Nancy pushed the makeshift door aside, filling the room with light. Poking her head out to see if the coast was clear, she quickly pulled off her clothes. With just her sneakers on to protect her feet from debris, the naked woman slowly walked to the edge of the pool and threw in her clothes. A split second after, Doug heard a loud splash as she jumped in.

Doug was glad that she had agreed to take a dip. He picked up a few items of clothes that he had thrown in the far corner of the room that had served as his laundry hamper the past few days. Satisfied with himself, he pulled off his denim shorts and underwear and added them to the pile.

He felt the outline of the small plastic vial in the back pocket of his shorts. Doug had almost forgotten about that last bit of coke that he squirreled away before the storm hit. Carefully hefting the tiny bottle in the palm of his hand, he thought back to when he had taken his last snort. Truth be known, he had also suffered through cocaine withdrawal symptoms, but had not exhibited nearly the severity that Nancy had.

Doug stood there naked with the vial in his hand. With his willpower slowly receding, he uncapped the bottle. He spread out a thin line of the white powder onto the back of his hand with a well-practiced motion. Pinching one nostril closed, he quickly snorted up the last of the drug.

"You bastard!" he heard from behind. Doug quickly swiveled around on the balls of his feet to see Nancy standing in the doorway. She was still naked and dripping wet. Her face was screwed up in anger as she screamed again.

"Scum sucking bastard! You've been holding out on me all this time!"

"No baby! I just found this last bit in my pants pocket. I forgot I had it in there, that's all."

"Liar!" she shouted. "You waited until I went into the pool and then you snorted up the coke!" She took a few steps closer to him, her hands balled up tightly into fists. "Gimme a hit, damn it!"

Since he had not gotten high in over a week, the cocaine hit Doug hard and fast. The drug instantly cleared his head and caused his skin to tingle. It also made him feel very horny as he stared at his naked wife.

"That's was the last of it baby, I swear. You know if I had some more, I'd give you some."

Had he not been under the influence of the cocaine, he would have been more cognizant of the crazed look in his wife's face. The only thing that he did notice was Nancy's naked body, glistening in the bright sunshine.

"Hey, c'mon babe," Doug said as he grabbed at his crotch. "Let me make it up to you." Doug took a step closer.

The betrayal that Nancy felt at her husband filled her with rage. He had horded the last bit of coke when she needed it the most and now he was expecting to get laid? Blind with anger, her foot lashed out into his groin.

"How does that feel?" she asked as her foot made contact with his scrotum.

Doug let out a large _'Ooooff'_ as he doubled over. He collapsed to his knees as the pain radiated upwards through his body.

"Bitch!" he cried out in agony.

In a rage, Nancy took out all of her frustrations on her coked up husband. She fell on top of him, clawing at his face and eyes with her sharp nails. Making a low, growling noise, she raked at his face. Thin streaks of blood quickly formed down the left side of his cheek.

The two of them wrestled on the floor naked. Doug recovered long enough from the pain inflicted upon him by his wild-eyed wife to backhand her hard across her face. She flew across the room and landed roughly against the wall.

Nancy was way too far gone in her insanity to feel the pain. The only things she felt was anger and a false sense of betrayal. As her husband lay on the floor, one hand on his groin, the other holding his face, she picked up a wooden two by four that was lying nearby. Three large rusty nails protruded from the end of the board.

"Son of a bitch!" she screamed in her fury. Nancy recovered her balance and quickly came after her husband with the weapon. With all of her strength, she reared back and swung at him with the board.

Doug saw the nails coming towards him and in reflex, put up his hand to protect himself, all the while holding onto his injured groin. He screamed again in pain as the sharp rusty spikes pierced the fleshy part of his hand.

Nancy didn't hear her husband scream again as she pulled back on the stick, ripping out the metal studs from his hand. She didn't notice the blood squirting out and covering the both of them with large crimson drops as she swung down on him a second time, hitting him in the shoulder. This time, the nails dug deeply into both muscle and bone.

In her madness, she yanked back the board for what was to be the killing blow. Holding the two by four high over her head, she came down hard again with all of her weight behind her. Taking careful aim, she struck Doug in the middle of his forehead.

The nails tore through the front of his skull and punctured the frontal lobe of his brain. A small trickle of blood flowed from the wound as first his eyesight was lost, then his sense of smell, followed swiftly by his life.

Nancy watched her husband's blue eyes go dim and slowly close as he fell backwards to the floor. In a minute, all was quiet in the small space except for her labored breathing. In what seemed to her like an eternity, Nancy let go of the board. It remained stuck in the front of Doug's face, firmly embedded in his skull. It took another minute for her to notice that Doug had stopped breathing.

"Doug," she whispered to her dead husband. With no answer coming, she called out at him again. "Doug!"

She took two steps backwards in horror. Once she had fully realized what she had done, Nancy threw her head back and let loose a hideous scream that reverberated against the walls like a wounded animal.

"Noooooooo!" she cried out in her anguish.

She turned and fled the house. Nancy ran into the backyard, screaming and wailing all the way. Needing to get far away from the horrific scene, she climbed over a small pile of rubble, tripped and fell to the other side. Oblivious to the pain in her hands and knees as she crawled across the raised wooden pool deck, she ran into the woods behind her house, leaving behind her backyard terrace, the miniature palmettos in their redwood containers and the expensive hot tub she had enjoyed so much with her dead husband, all the while crying like a wounded banshee.
Chapter Fifty-Six

Orlando, Florida - Friday Evening

THE SMALL GROUP GATHERING in the dark around Jake's messy office table. Barbara Morgenstern sat majestically on a high-backed plastic lawn chair while Jake, Paul and Gunter sat opposite her on a couch that had been dragged out of someone's house. A Coleman lantern had replaced the electric gooseneck lamp as the only source of light on the humid night. The flickering light showed that Barbara was wearing that same thin white tee shirt and a pair of incredibly tight denim shorts that showed off her long legs to their best advantage.

Stanley was also present a few yards away. Jenny tried her best to get him to eat something, but for the last two hours, he had been on a self-imposed huger strike, refusing any food or water until, as he put it, 'all mankind elect him as their Supreme Galactic Overlord.' Since they were short of a quorum on that vote, she had given up trying to feed him but nevertheless left a small bowl of food within his sight with the hopes that he would change his mind.

Jake was unsure how to handle this meeting. Barbara had finally arrived back in camp after a long unexplained absence. Having put in another very long, busy day, Jake couldn't help himself from drifting off. Every few minutes, he had to force himself back to the discussion at hand.

"You have to realize that Leo's a proud man, Jake," Barbara said in between sips of water from a plastic cup. Speaking softly, she held the attention of every man present. "His ego is so very fragile when he doesn't get his way."

He wasn't certain if Barbara was telling the truth or if she had decided to side with her husband. Jake tried to lighten the somber mood by making a joke. "I don't understand, Barbara. What made him go off the deep end? Has the heat fried his brains?"

"Have the preliminary poll results come in from China yet?" Stanley asked no one in particular. "I'm expecting to do well with the foreign vote."

"More importantly," Gunter asked seriously, "Is he capable of violence?"

"Leo? Violence?" The beautiful woman flung back her dark hair and let out a sweet sounding laugh that captivated all of the men. Paul recognized the same giggle sound that Britney had made in the woods that turned him on so much. "Please. He's as gentle as a pussy cat." She lowered her gaze at the men as she added, "Especially in my hands."

This had the desired effect that she wanted on the men. Paul's thoughts returned to Britney and his aborted make out session at the golf course, only this time Barbara had taken Britney's place while Jake remembered when he first saw Barbara on her knees in the dirt, tending her roses back before the storm hit. He shook his head to clear his mind.

"He seemed pretty upset at the meeting this morning," Jake said.

Barbara shifted her butt in the hard chair as she slowly re-crossed her legs the other way. "What exactly was he angry about?" she asked. Her firm gaze never wavered from Jake's eyes.

"He was of the opinion that we were hording food and supplies, which is simply not true. Everything we found, we've shared equally among all."

"Hmmm..." she said softly. "That doesn't sound like him at all."

Jake leaned forward a bit, both to emphasis his point and to get a better look at Barbara. "We think that Vito might have talked with him and filled his head with lies about us."

"That very well may be it. I love Leo more than anything in the world, but he has..." she fumbled for the correct words. "... a submissive personality at times and can be easily led."

This statement brought Jake back to the happy look on Leo's face in the photos he had found. 'A submissive personality' was certainly a stretch of the imagination.

"Beat me, hurt me, make me write bad checks!" Stanley chimed in.

"In any case Barbara, can you tell him to come see me so we can discuss this? We have enough problems here without worrying about..." It was Jake's turn to fumble for the correct words. "... a splinter group."

"Of course, Jake," she said demurely. "Don't you worry about Leo." She flashed that same look again that made their hearts skip a beat. "If necessary, I'll take care of him."

"Well, okay," was all that Jake could think to say.

With the beginning of a promise of help from Barbara, everyone stood up to leave. Just then, a voice shouted from the distance.

"Jake! Where the hell are you? Come out here!"

Jake immediately recognized Mrs. McDonald's shrill voice, only this time, it was dripping with venom. From out of the darkness, the Dog Lady appeared as she stepped forward into the light. Her skinny husband was two steps behind her, holding a large flashlight. When Peepers hadn't returned home, she had assumed the worse.

"You son of a bitch!" she screamed in fury. "Why did you cook my dog? He wasn't hurting anybody! You never liked him."

"Woof! Woof" Stanley added to the conversation.

"Whoa! Slow up lady! What the hell are you talking about? I didn't cook your friggin' dog."

"Yes you did!" she shouted back at the surprised man. "You grabbed Peepers from my backyard and had that crazy cook of yours throw him into a pot! You monster!"

Stanley's eyes bugged out as he went wild. "That nurse lady tried to poison me! She wanted me to eat a doggy burrito!"

Jake was way too tired to handle any more of this. "You're nuts," was all he could muster up.

"I'll get you for this," the fat woman screamed as her husband pulled on her arm. "I swear I'll get even with you!"

Everybody in camp heard Mrs. McDonald crying as she and her husband receded into the darkness.

"Guess I'm going to need a royal food taster when I become Supreme Galactic Overlord," Stanley said.
Chapter Fifty-Seven

Orlando, Florida - Saturday Morning

JENNY WAS HAVING a busy morning that had started very early. In the middle of the night, the teenage girl with a shattered lower leg had twisted the wrong way as she slept and woke up screaming in agony. Without any proper medicine to relieve her pain, Jenny did her best to comfort her. To make matters worse, the young girl's cries had gotten Stanley barking like a dog again at the top of his lungs. With everybody's nerves on edge, she had quickly tired of his antics and had threatened to brain him again with Rosie's cast iron skillet. This warning calmed him down to manageable levels.

Neither the temperature nor the relative humidity had lowered much from the previous day's high, so it was hot early in the morning as she finished her breakfast. This morning's meal offerings were pretty thin. With food supplies down low, breakfast consisted of black coffee, the last of stale bread with the slimy green mold scraped off and a watery vegetable broth. Jenny made sure that her patients were fed before she polished off her portion.

Jenny had just finished supervising the construction of some shade for the still incarcerated Stanley. The sun had risen high enough in the summer sky to bake the concrete slab beneath their feet. A white bed sheet was draped over an antique Chinese room divider, providing some limited protection from the hot, blazing sun. The guard assigned to watch Stanley was tasked with moving the shade as the sun moved across the sky, along with the envious job of listening to his insane ramblings. They had tried removing Stanley's handcuffs for a short break, but he lost that privilege when he threw an empty bowl at Thelma as she passed by, claiming that the woman had cast a spell on him and was trying to steal his mojo.

By nine o'clock, things had calmed down from the morning's frantic pace at the makeshift hospital. Knowing that the lull in camp activities wouldn't last long, Jenny debated whether or not to take a fast dip in Jake's pool to cool off, but decided to wait until he was free after the evening's meal. For now, she would have to settle for a quick change of clothes.

After making sure that all was well with her patients, Jenny walked back to the remnants of her destroyed home, her thoughts focused on the little romp she had with Jake the other day. The pair had quickly traversed from his backyard pool to his ceiling-less bedroom in a matter of minutes. Making love indoors with the clear Orlando night sky above them was a bit unusual, but after all the weirdness that Hurricane Jesse had dumped on them the past week, it seemed only natural as they both gladly released all of their frustrations upon one another. She had enjoyed herself immensely.

Jenny thought about her husband Bob as she entered the foyer of her home. He had been that sweet to her once, long ago, but for the last year and a half, they had lived almost totally separate lives. Even now, Bob stayed by himself in the house wreckage, doing only God knows what while she tended the injured of La Noche Pacífica.

The early signs of domestic abuse started shortly after he finished graduate school. She had worked as a full time emergency room nurse, supporting the both of them during the completion of his doctorate degree. At first, the abuse was verbal. He had begun to yell at her about the most inconsequential issues, even though he had lucked into a sweet teaching job at the local university. After a while, Jenny felt that she needed to walk on eggshells whenever they were together. Then one day, out of the blue, Bob demanded that she quit her job. In retrospect, it seemed to her that he was almost trying to punish his wife for being the main provider for the family. Even though she enjoyed nursing immensely, Jenny reluctantly agreed.

Shortly after that, Bob went out of his way to demean Jenny at every opportunity. One of the ways he tried controlling her was by withholding sex. Longing for physical affection, she quickly developed a diminished feeling of self-worth. Looking back on that time in her life with 20/20 hindsight and an outlook developed from watching too much Dr. Phil, Jenny realized that his attempt to be all controlling over her was his way of projecting his own insecurities upon her.

Jenny confided with her girlfriends about her husband's changed attitude towards her, but only one advised her to leave him before it got worse. Her friend had experienced life with an abusive spouse and was keenly aware that domestic abuse often escalated to violence.

Her friend was correct. One day, Bob hit her. As usual, the argument started over something trivial, but Jenny noticed that this fight was much different from the others. After knocking her down on the floor with a sharp slap to the side of the head, he stormed out of the house, not to return for three days. When he finally did return, she remembered vividly how he had said that he was so very, very sorry and swore that it would never, ever happen again.

Unfortunately, it did. And it got easier for him every time that he hit her. After a series of beatings that grew progressively worse, Bob knocked out all of Jenny's self-assurance along with her dignity. In deep denial, she tried to keep the secret and shame to herself. Although everybody in La Noche Pacífica knew about Bob's loathsome abusiveness towards his wife, she assumed the role of the abused wife.

However, Hurricane Jesse changed all of that. Acting once again as a nurse had done wonders to restore her self-confidence. After last night's romp with Jake, she had made up her mind. When life returned to normal, Jenny would leave her husband and return to nursing full time.

She had survived a terrible storm; she would survive a terrible husband.

Deep inside the bowels of the ruined house, Jenny pushed aside some wood pilings that blocked her way. Bob had cut away and removed most of the debris that had fallen from the top floor, making it possible to reach the bedroom. She hadn't been this deep inside the house for a few days, but she could see that he had cleared out a passage to her clothes closet. Carefully she made her way across the room.

"Hello, Jenny," he said, startling her.

"Bob!" she gasped. "I didn't think you were in here. You scared me."

He rose from the floor, half hidden behind a large, overturned chest of drawers. It was apparent that Bob had lived there a while, squirreled away like a burrowing animal.

Jenny pulled off her blouse and reached inside the closet for a shirt.

"It's brutally hot out there in the sunshine today," she said, making small talk. "I was sweating buckets all morning and came in here to change clothes." She motioned to the bureau. "Can you pass me a clean pair of shorts?"

Without a sound, he slid open the top drawer. He reached in without looking and threw one across the room to her.

"How's that?" he asked.

"Um, fine," she replied.

Bob pulled out another pair of denim cutoffs.

"How about these?" he asked again as he threw it at her. "Maybe these are better."

He was now grabbing handfuls of clothes, wildly flinging them at her.

"Bob, stop it!"

He opened up the next drawer that contained her underwear.

"Maybe he wants to see you wearing these," he shouted as he tossed a sexy pair of panties at her. "Or these..." He grabbed wildly at the clothes in the drawer and tossed them angrily in all directions.

"You know, I've got what I came for. I have to get back to my patients." She hesitated as she stared him down. "They need me."

Carrying an armful of clothes, Jenny squeezed past her husband in the narrow confines of the bedroom. As she tried to get by him, he blocked her path and tightly grabbed her wrist.

"How long has it been going on with Jake?" he asked angrily.

"Let go of me, Bob. I don't know what you're talking about."

A sneer crossed his face as he said, "I saw the two of you sneak off the other night."

She no longer could control her anger.

"You want to know what's up, Bob? Well, I'll tell you." She met his gaze. "When this is all over, I'm leaving you."

Without letting go of her wrist, he quickly backhanded Jenny across the cheek with his other hand.

"You're leaving me?" he screamed. This was followed by another, sharper slap. "You're leaving ME?" he repeated.

Jenny's face stung from the blows.

"That's right!" she screamed in fury. "For someone who's far better than you!"

The next time he struck Jenny, it was with a closed fist, knocking the much smaller woman down with the punch. Quickly straddling his wife, he struck repeatedly in a blind rage.

The last thing Jenny heard her husband say before she passed out was, "Let's see if he likes you now."
Chapter Fifty-Eight

Orlando, Florida - Saturday Afternoon

THE FAT WOMAN WALKED across the debris littered streets with a determined stride. Trailing behind her, she pulled an expensive wheeled briefcase that bounced on the rough ground. A large wooden box was strapped securely to the rack with colorful bungee cords. She had originally bought the luggage for her husband to carry his laptop and other items that he traveled with through the long lines at the airport on his many out of town trips, but now she needed it for her afternoon plans.

Instead of turning left towards the center of camp, she continued straight ahead, entering a small thicket that bordered the kitchen area. Trying to be as quiet as possible, Mrs. McDonald slowly pushed her way through the thick bushes. After a few minutes, she emerged on the other side, behind the hospital and the concrete slab. A few feet away, the gas powered generator hummed softly. She could see that the hot afternoon sun had sent most of the people inside the ruins, seeking shade and maybe a short nap. Even the insane Stanley Drudge was resting comfortably in his man-made shade, snoring loudly as he slept.

Carefully, she undid the elastic straps and placed the box on the ground. Removing the tight fitting top, she dropped the packet of black powder into the peroxide. Cautiously, she screwed the cap onto the plastic bottle, being careful not to jar it unnecessarily. Next, she picked up the electronic kitchen timer from inside the box and punched in the exact time that Vito had instructed her to. With a quick look around to see if she had been spotted, she pressed the button to start the countdown and quickly replaced the lid. Using her foot, she slowly pushed the whole assembly right next to a small pile of five-gallon gasoline cans.

"This is for Peepers," she said as a small tear formed in her eye.

Mrs. McDonald didn't have much in her life, but she had loved Peepers with her whole being and soul. The dumb dog had been both a friend and a substitute for the children that she could not bear and that her husband did not want.

She slowly turned around and left the campsite for the safety of her home.
Chapter Fifty-Nine

Orlando, Florida - Saturday Night

THE POOL WATER WAS dirty with bits of wood, insulation and other bits of house debris floating on the surface, but Paul didn't care. He and Britney were snuggling close to one another in the warm water. Both of them kept their sneakers on to protect their feet from the crap that had settled to the bottom, but little else. Paul was wearing his briefs, while Britney, a bit more modest than Paul, still had on her tee shirt and denim shorts. The young man delighted in the fact that the water made the thin material she was wearing translucent.

Ever since the incident on the golf course, they had taken the time to sneak away by themselves every chance they could. Today, however, they both had jobs which kept them busy on different sides of La Noche Pacífica. Paul had led another expedition into the broken houses, this time concentrating on the smaller side streets near the main entrance. Britney had assisted the women who gathered at Willie's house, refilling water jugs and lugging them to various places near the campsite. It was only until well after dark that they had managed to get together to soak in the pool for a little bit of privacy and to make a love connection.

"Mmm, this feels good," Britney said as she closed her eyes. "It was so hot out there today. I must have moved a hundred gallons of water with that little red wagon."

"I would have traded places with you easily," Paul said as he fished a piece of wood out of the water and flicked it towards the bushes. "We found some more medicine supplies down by the houses near the entryway, but I had to squeeze across a bunch of bodies to get to it." He screwed up his nose as he added, "I don't think I'll ever get that stink off of me."

Britney drew closer to him and wrapped her arms around his head. "Well, let me see if I can help you with that." She gave him a deep kiss that made his toes and other parts of his body tingle with delight.

The make out session hadn't gone too far when it was interrupted by Jake's voice calling out.

"Paul? Are you back here?" he heard in the dark.

The couple disengaged from one another as Jake rounded the corner, flashlight in hand.

"Over here, Pop," he called out.

"Sorry to interrupt, guys," Jake added quickly as he focused the light on Britney in the pool. _Say what you would about Paul,_ he thought, _but he's got good taste in women._ "Have either one of you seen Jenny recently?"

Britney shook her wet head while Paul said, "Nope. Haven't seen her, Pop. She wasn't at the hospital when I dropped off the medicine we found today, so I gave all the stuff to the other guy that was there."

"Hmmm," was all Jake said. "I just talked to him about a half hour ago. Nobody's seen her for a while."

Even in the dark, Paul could tell that his dad was worried.

"Want us to go look for her?" he asked, secretly hoping that he would say no.

Jake force a smile as he turned away and headed out of the backyard, shooting back a "No, that won't be necessary. I'll find her eventually," over his shoulder. "You relax and have a good time."

He was aware that the two of them were becoming an 'item' as they used to say in his day. He wondered if Leo knew that Paul was making it with his pretty little daughter.

_That would definitely send him over the edge,_ he thought to himself.

* * *

Vito was hiding behind a partially destroyed wall a few blocks away from the campsite. He pressed the backlight button on his watch to read it in the dark. _Almost time,_ he thought to himself.

The plan was simple. The bomb that was going to explode soon would take out the area's only working generators along with Jake's little command post. After the smoke and fire cleared up, he would swoop in amid all the confusion and panic and blame the explosion on Jake's incompetence. After that, it would be easy to set up Leo as the new leader of La Noche Pacífica, with Vito calling the shots behind him, of course.

There would be plenty of damage to the other areas close by and people were going to get seriously hurt, but that was inconsequential to Vito. He already had a cover story made up about how Jake had ordered the gasoline stowed improperly, causing the explosion. Unfortunately, Jake would be in no position to argue his side of the story since this was going to be his last day breathing air on earth.

_Chop off the head of the snake and the body will die,_ he thought. _And after he's dead, the rest of the spineless wimps will fall in line._

He hadn't told Leo about the bomb, of course. Vito couldn't trust him with that valuable knowledge. There's no way that he would have went along with that severe of a plan. The only one else that knew about the bomb was that rotten kid Brian.

And after all of this was over, Vito would take care of him too.

Vito checked his watch again as he ran his finger along the outline of the pistol in his paints waistband, eager to get started.

* * *

Thelma sat on the lawn chair, brushing lazily at the mosquitoes that were buzzing around her head. She and a few of the women had been sitting outside in what used to be Thelma's backyard ever since the sun went down.

"More juice?" she asked the group in general.

Barbara, who was sitting to her immediate left, stuck out her plastic tumbler and nodded her head yes.

"It was pure luck that I found the packet of powdered juice mix." She set the pitcher down on the wooden crate that was serving as a table. "Wish we had some ice to cool it down," she added wistfully.

"Or some vodka," Rosie said as she pulled out a bottle from her handbag.

"Woo-hoo! Rosie!" Thelma squealed. "You're the man!"

"That's what they said before my sex change operation," the muscular woman joked as she poured a finger's worth of clear booze in everyone's glass.

The women laughed as the vodka warmed their bellies.

Willie poked his head around from the side of the house. "I'm going to head off to the campsite with this last load," he said. "You ladies be okay here all by yourselves?"

"We'll manage along without you somehow," she told her husband as she blew him a kiss. The women chuckled to themselves as Willie disappeared.

"It's good to get away from the men folk once in a while," Thelma said. "Don't get me wrong, I love my husband to death, but there are times..."

"I know what you mean," Rosie said. "I buried two husbands that I loved to death."

* * *

Jake moved the flashlight beam back and forth on the ground in front of him as he walked across the street. The camp workers had moved an incredible amount of material from the road separating Jenny's house from his, making a small pass in the mountain of debris, but there was still the danger of stepping on the occasional roofing nail or shard of broken glass.

It was unlike Jenny to go missing for so long. If she needed to be away from the hospital for any length of time, she always told someone where she would be and when she was expected to return. Searching for Jenny since late afternoon, Jake had exhausted almost all the possibilities where she could be. Perhaps she had slipped away back to her house for a short afternoon siesta and had overslept. She certainly deserved to take a break.

_Jenny has been going nonstop since all this started,_ he thought to himself. _But hadn't we all?_

Jake stood at the entrance of Jenny's house. Shining the flashlight inside for a quick look around, he listened carefully for any sounds.

_What if she was in here with her husband?_ It would be embarrassing for all of them if he walked in on the two of them bumping ugglies.

He pushed through the wreckage a little further, past the downstairs bathroom where he had freed Jenny and Bob from the bathtub. He called out softly, "Jenny? Are you in here?"

He heard no reply.

Jake had given up hope of finding her in her home. He started to turn around and leave when he thought he heard a faint noise coming from deeper inside. Jake stood still and listened for a long moment.

There! He heard it again. A sort of low whimpering. Almost like someone crying.

He cried out again, "Jenny?" a little bit louder as he went forward. His flashlight showed nothing out of the ordinary in front of him. Household material, cracked drywall and broken wood beams littered his way.

He reached the doorway to what must have been a bedroom. Peering inside, he noticed a heap of clothes on the floor next to a large dresser. Jake almost dropped the flashlight when the pile of clothes began to move.

"Jenny? That you? Are you okay?"

Hearing no answer except for the same low crying sound, Jake climbed over a section of wall. He was by her side in a minute.

"Jenny? What's wrong?"

Jake got his answer as she slowly turned around. At first, he thought that the dim light was distorting her features, but he quickly realized that she had been badly injured. She had multiple marks and cuts on her face. Her left eye was almost swollen shut and completely blackened. Both of her lips were swollen.

She quickly brought her hands up to hide her face.

"Don't look at me," was all she could say.

Jake stood frozen by what he saw. Breathing deep to gain his composure, he gently asked, "Did your husband do this?"

For what seemed like an eternity, Jenny said nothing, then silently shook her head yes.

* * *

For the last five minutes, Stanley and a little red squirrel were having a contest. Stanley was trying his best to stare down the rodent two feet in front of him, but the squirrel was good. Really good.

_He must have played this game many times before,_ Stanley thought as he squinted his eyes tightly and screwed up his face. However, with the perseverance that comes with being Supreme Galactic Overlord, Stanley kept at it until he believed he had gained an advantage in the game. Already he could see that the little animal showed signs of wavering.

The guard assigned to him had just taken a break to go to the bathroom. This gave Stanley and the squirrel a chance to chat.

"Hey, squirrel." Stanley asked. "Whatcha' doing?"

"What do you think?" the squirrel replied, his gaze fixed firmly on Stanley. "I'm playing with my nuts."

"Real funny," Stanly answered. Out of all the animals in the forest to talk to, he had to get a friggin' comedian.

"Do me a favor, will ya?" he asked.

"What do you want? And, by the way, my name is Tom."

"Tom. That's a nice name." Stanley knew how to butter people (and squirrels) up when he needed to ask a favor. "I'm Stanley. And as you can see, I'm handcuffed to this toilet bowl."

"Sucks to be you, Stanley," Tom said as he cracked open an acorn.

"Yeah, it does. Think you can help me out here, pal?"

"How can do I do that?" Tom asked as he stuffed his left cheek full of nutmeat. "I'm only a squirrel."

"Well, you can climb up on that table over there and bring me the keys to these cuffs." Stanley gave Tom what he hoped was his best sympathy look. "That would help me out immensely."

Tom stopped feeding and looked up at Stanley.

"What's in it for me?" he asked.

"All the acorns you could ever eat," Stanley promised.

"I've got a whole grove of acorns now," Tom said.

"How about this, then. Get the keys and I can get the dogs to stop chasing you," Stanley lied.

"Hmmm... Go on."

"Set me free and I promise that I'll have a talk with them."

"They'll listen to you?" Tom asked.

"You bet. I'm in tight with them. If I give them the word, they'll be no more squirrel chasing."

Tom thought this over carefully.

"Okay. But I gotta get this food back to the missus first." He shrugged his tiny squirrel shoulders. "Women. You know where I'm coming from."

"Yep," Stanley agreed. "Can't live with them, can't live without them."

* * *

Jake and Jenny emerged from the interior of her house. Not knowing what to say or do, Jake just held her tightly by her side.

"I'm going to kill him," Jake swore.

"No, don't do anything, Jake." She looked up at him through swollen eyes. "Let's just go over to the hospital so I can get some ointment on these cuts."

"Anything you say, babe."

Jake moved the death of Jenny's scumbag husband up to the very top of his to do list.

* * *

At precisely nine o'clock, the electronic timer zeroed out, just as it was programmed to. A millisecond later, the circuitry inside the plastic case sent out an electric impulse from a nine-volt battery that was attached to the device. Instead of sounding a buzzer to alert the intended user that a pizza was ready to come out of the oven, the signal traveled along a pair of twisted copper wires connected to the barbeque gas igniter. By the use of a tiny built in transformer, the small electric potential was greatly amplified upwards to twenty thousand volts. Acting just like an automobile spark plug, the arc of electricity jumped across the gap of the igniter electrode. Surrounded in highly volatile fumes, a rapid chemical reaction occurred, converting the gasoline into heat, light and lots of energy. This primary explosion set off the unstable compound mixture that Brian had so painstakingly created. A toxic derivative of a solvent used in modern high-octane fuels, it rivaled TNT in its destructive punch.

The wooden box ignited in an intense fireball, detonating the nearby gasoline cans in smaller secondary explosions. Completely vaporizing everything inside a three-foot area, the resultant powerful shock wave traveled from the epicenter of the explosion at over six hundred miles an hour. A wall of heat radiated outwards from the blast, igniting dried out vegetation in the dense growth of bushes as well as some of the barely standing structures.

The blast front created by the rapid compression of the surrounding air disintegrated Jake's makeshift office in an instant. The flimsy folding poker table that served as the camp's nerve center shattered into a thousand pieces, along with the radio, lamp and other objects on top. If there had been anybody standing there, they would have been killed instantly by the force of the bomb.

Being way past the dining hour, there was nobody at the kitchen area. In any case, dishes, food and the kitchen utensils that Rosie had so neatly organized were cast around easily like paper in the wind.

Stanley and the man guarding him were the first people to be hit by the explosion. As fortune protects the insane, Stanley was shielded from the pressure wave by the thick ceramic toilet bowl, which cracked and shattered in a hundred pieces. Sitting down low to the ground and with his back to the force of the blast, the only physical damage that happened to Stanley, besides being knocked unconscious and suffering minor cuts and abrasions from flying bits of porcelain, were two ruptured eardrums.

His guard, however, was not so lucky. Having the misfortune to be standing upright and facing in that general direction at the time of the explosion, his entire body caught the full brunt of the blast wave. His torso was neatly ripped in half, one end flying across the campsite, landing in the latrines dug out one hundred yards away, while various parts of his bottom half were scattered in all directions.

Being farther away from the epicenter of the explosion, Juanita and others at the hospital area were the next to be hit. Even though the intensity of the blast force dissipated inversely by the cube of the distance traveled as dictated by the laws of physics, it was still strong enough to knock most of the sleeping injured patients out of bed.

Juanita had been lying comfortably in a high backed sofa, so she wasn't much affected by the blast. The young teenager with the shattered lower leg, however, was thrown from her bed, landing heavily on her broken leg. Her screams of agony were drowned out in the general commotion as the man who had suffered a heart attack during the initial fury of Hurricane Jesse had another, more painful attack.

* * *

Britney and Paul were playing a modified game of Marco Polo in the pool water involving deep, passionate kissing and the removal of clothes when, across the street, a bright light lit up the night sky. He had convinced Britney a while ago to remove her tee shirt and was just about to claim his victory prize of her shorts when they saw, heard and felt the explosion.

"What was that?" Britney asked.

"I don't know," Paul said. "But that was close by."

He was out of the pool in an instant.

"Help me out," she said.

Paul grabbed her hand and lifted the half-naked girl out of the water.

"Where did you throw my shirt?" Britney asked, looking around the crowded patio.

"It's around here somewhere." Paul said. "Here it is. I got it." He moved closer to hand her the shirt, than snatched it away at the last moment.

"Where's my finder's fee?" he asked, still holding the wet tee shirt away from her.

The dark haired beauty laughed sweetly as she cuddled up closer to him.

"Gimme that so we can go see what happened," she said as she kissed him again.

"Britney!" they both heard Leo scream from across the way. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

In the distance, they could see Leo walking towards them. He had snuck back into his house a few hours ago for some peace and quiet and had just now been woken up by the explosion.

Britney pivoted around and quickly slipped on her tee shirt. Even in the dark, it did little to hide her near nakedness.

"Um, hi Daddy. Paul and I were just taking a little swim to cool off. We've been working hard all day."

"So hard you had to swim without your shirt on?" Leo fumed.

Britney said nothing as Leo looked back and forth at the two teenagers.

"Well?" he asked again.

"You know, my dad's been looking for you," Paul said as he tried desperately to change the subject.

The anger welled up in Leo's face. "I've got a few more words for him too!"

Without another sound, he turned and left the patio, heading in the general direction of the explosion.

"We'd better follow him," Britney said. "I've seen him get in these moods before."

* * *

The women at Thelma's place had finished most of the juice punch and all of Rosie's vodka when the explosion occurred. They were laughing and having a good time, trying to figure out who was screwing whom in La Noche Pacífica when the night sky brightly lit up in the distance.

"Holy shit!" Rosie screamed. "What the hell was that?" She was drunk.

"Don't know, but it came from the camp," Thelma added. Like Rosie, she had imbibed too much vodka on an empty stomach.

"We ought to get over there and see what's up," Barbara said, drunker than the rest of them. She was unsteady and weaving as she got to her feet.

"Yeah, but first, we should go see what that 'plosion was about." Rosie suggested.

"Good idea!" Thelma shouted. "Girls, to the camp!"

With Thelma leading the charge, the women stumbled around in the dark looking for their shoes before venturing out of the backyard.

* * *

Both Jake and Jenny had been knocked down by the force of the explosion. They ended up inside the foyer of Jenny's house with him partially on top of her.

Jake shook his head to clear his thoughts.

"Jenny? Are you okay?" he asked

She rubbed dirt out of her swollen eyes as she said, "Yeah, I think so. What the hell was that?" She pushed him off and quickly got to her feet.

"It came from the campsite," Jake said as he pointed to the rising cloud of smoke.

All around them, people were screaming and running in every direction. A small boy passed by them, crying loudly and bleeding profusely. Holding a cloth to his head, crimson streaks ran down his face and cheeks in thin rivulets.

Although having been severely beaten by her husband a few hours previously and still in shock, Jenny's training took over. She quickly reverted to her self-assured nursing persona.

"Hey kid," she called out to the injured boy. "Come over here!"

She ran after the terrified boy. Without breaking stride, she shouted back to Jake, "I'm gonna take care of this kid and then get back to the hospital!"

In all the confusion, Jake quickly decided to follow her to the source of the blast. As he dusted himself off and was preparing to leave, he spotted something unusual out of the corner of his eye. From the light given off by the fire raging back at the campsite, he saw a man in the distance crouching behind a wall, staring at them. He instantly recognized Jenny's husband, Bob. Amid all the yelling, smoke and confusion, a rage welled up in Jake as their eyes met.

Jake pulled on a small piece of iron rebar that was sticking out of a wall. After a tug, it came free. Bob's face turned ashen white after Jake pointed at him with the weapon in his hand. In a flash, he turned and disappeared from view.

"You go ahead," he shouted back at Jenny as he took off running. "I'll catch up with you in a bit."

* * *

All was surreally quiet around him as Stanley slowly regained consciousness. He was no longer sitting with his back to the toilet bowl. Instead, he was lying face down on the concrete slab a few feet away from his original prison cell.

Blood was dripping out of both of Stanley's ears. He tried to wipe the sticky liquid from his skin, but realized that his hands were still firmly handcuffed behind him. He rolled over and somehow painfully managed to sit upright. There was thick acrid smoke all around the campsite that made him choke. In the chaos that surrounded him, he could see a dozen people all around. Some were running around madly, clutching at their bleeding wounds, while others lay motionless on the ground.

Stanley struggled to get to his feet. Bits of ceramic and dust fell from his head and body as he took a few cautionary steps. Unsure of what had just happened, he quickly put the pieces together. Obviously, this was all of Tom's doing. Somehow, that little red squirrel had caused all of this mayhem in order to free him.

_What a pal,_ he thought. _Guess I'm going to have to put in a good word for him with the dogs after all._

Realizing his chance at freedom, Stanley quickly decided what to do next. Marilyn could help him get out of these handcuffs. He turned around and headed into the woods to return home, unaware that Juanita had been watching him intensely for the last few minutes.

* * *

Vito cursed in Italian and slammed his fist into his other hand as he spotted Jake running down the street. He figured by now that they would be scrapping his guts off a wall somewhere, but somehow the man had cheated death.

_Time to finish the job so I can get down to business,_ Vito thought as he followed the pair at a distance.

* * *

Jake ran down the street, breathing heavily with the exertion and thick smoke. Hoping over a small pile of rubble, he turned the corner just in time to see Bob disappear into a house. Destroyed like the rest of the structures on the block, the entire front of the two-story structure was open to the elements.

He pushed deeper inside what used to be an attached garage. Looking quickly around him in the dark, he could see that the kitchen door in the back leading into the house was completely blocked by a huge washer and dryer unit that had blown over.

_He has to be in here somewhere,_ Jake thought to himself.

A small noise to his left made him look in that direction. In the dim light, Jake could just make out the form of a man cowering behind a destroyed BMW.

"Stand up, asshole and take your beating like a man." Jake said softly.

Bob cautiously peered out over the hood. Trapped on the other side of the car with nowhere to run, he slowly stood up.

"Let's talk about this Jake," he pleaded.

"What's to talk about?" he said as he raised the iron bar. "You like smacking women around."

Bob tried his best to weasel out of the situation.

"Hey! That's my wife you've been fooling around with, you know."

Jake smashed the bar hard down on the automobile fender.

"That doesn't give you the right to beat her!" he screamed. "She's not your friggin' property!"

Bob opened his mouth to say something else but stopped short just as the shot rang out. The inside of the garage briefly lit up from the flash of the pistol as Bob spun around and fell over the hood. He clutched at his chest as he slowly slid to the floor.

Jake turned to see Vito standing in the street about thirty feet away. He was moving towards Jake slowly with his arm outstretched, holding a pistol in his hand.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jake screamed. "Why did you shoot him?"

Vito smiled in his weird sort of way as he cocked the trigger back on the revolver with his thumb.

"I missed," was all he said as he took a step closer.

Jake stood motionless inside the garage, staring down at the man aiming a gun at him just as another bright glow lit up the outside street. This light was different from the others; intense red, green and blues cast weird shadows on Vito and the white concrete garage walls. In disbelief, he saw Vito turn to his left as Brian stepped into view, wearing his iPod and holding his homemade pipe gun in his tiny hands. The sparkler sticking out of the barrel twinkled brightly in the dark.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Vito chuckled at the comical sight.

"Hey kid, whatcha got there?" He lowered his own weapon briefly as he laughed again. "You think it's the Fourth of July or something?"

That was the last thing that Vito would ever say. The white-hot sparkler burned down past the black elastic tape into the barrel of the pipe, igniting the gunpowder and sulfur mixture. With a bright flash and another loud detonation, the homemade weapon exploded.

Spraying out its contents in all directions, Vito was hit with shrapnel from two dozen iron nails. Most of the wounds that the sharp objects made were superficial and would have caused only minor pain and damage, but one nail passed straight through the side of his neck, neatly severing his jugular vein. Another larger piece of metal entered his chest, lodging across both his pulmonary and mitral heart valves.

Unfortunately for Brian, he didn't take into account that the pipe gun he was holding would produce a strong reaction opposite the blast coming out of the opening. The force ripped open the soft, thin wall of the lead pipe, severing his right hand neatly at the wrist. The remaining shards of pipe were driven backwards into his abdomen, rupturing his spleen and causing massive internal bleeding.

Jake was in shock as Vito slumped to the ground just as Brian screamed in pain. By the time Jake pushed pass the debris in the garage and the dying Vito, the young boy had rundown the street, shrieking in agony the whole way.

* * *

The drunken army of women quickly sobered up when they saw the carnage that lay before them. The campsite and kitchen areas were in shambles and had been almost completely destroyed from the blast. Small fires were burning all around as the injured and walking wounded moaned loudly. Shrugging off the effects of the alcohol, Rosie grabbed a bed sheet and started beating at the flames that had engulfed a small couch.

Just then, Leo entered the area, closely followed by Paul and Britney. Any idea of talking to Jake about the goings on between their son and daughter had disappeared.

"Crap," was all that Paul could think to say. He was snapped back to attention when Jenny yelled, "Paul! Over here!"

This call mobilized them all to action. Britney ran to help the teenage girl that was screaming in pain while Leo and Barbara carried a badly injured man towards the middle of the concrete slab. As they laid him down, Barbara noticed the shattered remains of the ceramic toilet bowl.

"I wonder what happened to Stanley?" she asked aloud as Leo started CPR on the man.

* * *

Stanley was having a hard time walking through the thick brush with his arms behind his back. Dazed and confused from the explosion, he had gotten hopelessly lost in the woods and had fallen down at least a half dozen times. To make matters worse, with both eardrums ruptured, he was completely deaf and couldn't hear Juanita trailing right behind him. With her injured leg, she was trying her very best to keep up. Carrying the large meat clever she had found right before she left camp also slowed her down a bit.

Tripping on a tree root, Stanley hit the ground hard once again, knocking the wind out of him. This time he just lay there, catching his breath as Juanita quickly closed the distance between them.

After a moment, he noticed the woman standing above him. He shook his head from side to side to move the greasy hair from his face. Stanley couldn't hear himself as he said, "Marilyn! Baby! Help me."

Juanita looked down at the pathetic man in front of her. She winced in pain as she tried to curse him with her broken jaw, but the only sound she could make was a low gurgling noise.

"You've come to help me baby, just like I knew you would." A tear formed in his eye. "I did what you asked me to, Marilyn. I set everything right."

This time when Stanley looked up at her, she was the pretty, smiling Marilyn and not the ugly gargoyle she could transform into. Once again, they were young newlyweds, playing in the sunny meadow, in love and enjoying themselves.

"Get these handcuffs off me Marilyn," Stanley sobbed softly. "They're cutting into my wrist."

With her index finger outstretched, Juanita motioned for Stanley to roll over.

"Sure, baby. And afterwards, can we sleep some? I'm so, so tired..."

It was Juanita's turn to smile as she shook her head yes.

Stanley rolled over onto his stomach, closed his eyes and smiled peacefully, just as Juanita used her full weight to drive the sharp meat clever deeply into the small of his back.
Chapter Sixty

Orlando, Florida - Monday Morning

IT WAS CRAMPED INSIDE the command vehicle as 1st Lieutenant Ralph Edwards scratched at his three day old beard growth. He peered down at the map in front of him, cursed for the hundredth time that morning, then threw it on the floor in disgust. Reaching into his canvas bag, he grabbed the large Rand McNally atlas and opened it up on the dashboard.

The first thing he had done before leaving Tallahassee, Florida over a week ago was to stop in the local 7-11 and buy an Orlando area map. For ten bucks he had the latest, greatest information along with an accurate mileage chart. It's not that he didn't have faith in the five year old maps that the army had given him to use, it's just that none of the newer subdivisions showed up on the older documents.

He and three other solders were packed tightly inside an M1114. Its official designation was a High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle but everybody just called it a Humvee. Designed to conduct reconnaissance and security operations as its primary function, it was able to withstand small arms fire, boasted a powerful turbocharged engine, a beefed up suspension system and thank God, a large capacity air conditioner. They had quickly removed the 40mm automatic grenade launcher that was mounted to the vehicle when they left their unit and replaced it with additional communication gear and other 'personal items'. That's what the solders traveling along with him on this mission called their Playboys and other unauthorized things used to pass the time.

Lieutenant Edwards was part of the 53rd Infantry Brigade Combat Team, the largest National Guard unit in the state of Florida. Normally when he wasn't playing solder, he was a sergeant with the Tallahassee police, studying for his detective first class exam. When he joined the Army National Guard after completing officer training at Florida Southern College a few years after the birth of his third child, he didn't expect to be rescuing trapped people in the worst natural disaster to hit the United States in two hundred years. By law, Guard units can be mobilized at any time by presidential order to supplement regular armed forces and upon declaration of a state of emergency by the governor, so he had anticipated being called up when Jesse changed direction and headed for Florida.

His present mission was to assist local authorities with rescuing people and bringing order back to the area. It had been a harrowing operation so far. He had taken the wife and kids to visit Disneyland last year and couldn't even recognize the place. So far, they had encountered washed out roads and bridges, downed power lines and a severely damaged infrastructure. Lots of dead people too.

Edwards commanded a small convoy of vehicles. He had two five-ton trucks, one light medium tactical vehicle, the Humvee he was traveling in and a heavy equipment wrecker along with all of the necessary personnel to operate them. Trailing in the rear were a dozen two and a half ton cargo trucks, known affectionately by the Navy Seabees as 'The Darling Deuce And A Half', each packed full with cases of MREs and trailing 500 gallons of potable water behind in wheeled tanks. The Meals, Ready to Eat were a field ration food packet known throughout the various service branches by its nickname, 'Meals Refused by Ethiopians' mostly for it inedible consistency and disgusting taste.

But by far, the most important piece of gear that traveled with them was the D9, a large tractor designed and manufactured by Caterpillar. With a 474 horsepower engine and an operating weight of 49 tons, it was a bulldozer equipped with a large detachable blade and a rear ripper attachment. They had made extensive use of the machine to clear the roads of abandoned vehicles, downed trees and anything else that got in their way.

The command Humvee stopped at the intersection while Lieutenant Edwards consulted his atlas. Needing to stretch his legs and to get some fresh air, he popped open the top hatch and pulled himself partially out. The morning sun beat down on his head as he surveyed the damaged area.

"This is it," he called down to the vehicle driver. "The next subdivision."

The corporal popped his head up in the hatch.

"Looks like that tree has got the road blocked. Should I call up the KillDozer?"

"Yeah, Smitty. And have them knock out that shack at the same time."

The driver went back down inside the vehicle, picked up a small microphone and barked an order. In a minute, they felt the ground rumble as the large D9 passed them on the shoulder of the road. Pivoting neatly on its tracks, the bulldozer slowly made its way up to the large oak tree that was blocking the road into La Noche Pacífica. With a puff of black exhaust smoke, the twenty cubic foot blade pushed aside both tree and concrete block building as easily if it was a child's toy. Done with its task, the driver wheeled the huge vehicle around and waited patiently for his next order.

"Looks like we can get the Humvee down that road," Edwards said as he looked through a large set of binoculars. "But have the dozer standing by in case we get stuck."

"Have I ever gotten us stuck before, Lieutenant Edwards?" the young driver asked. He was an automotive mechanic in real life and raced motocross quad ATVs in his spare time.

Edwards shook his head in amusement, chuckled and popped back down into the comfort of the air conditioned interior.

The vehicle's powerful engine revved up. With its high ground clearance, the Humvee slowly made its way down the main road over the heaps of garbage and mud. After traveling a short distance past the golf course, the driver noticed a group of people in the distance. A man was standing on a chair waving a white bed sheet at them.

"Boy, are we glad to see you!" Jake said as he moved towards the vehicle.

"I bet you are," Lieutenant Edwards said as they shook hands and exchanged names.

"We've been stuck in here since the storm hit."

"Well, we knocked down the stuff blocking the entrance to get in here, so you've got a clear passage now."

"Thanks..." was all the Jake could think to say.

"How's the main road outside?" Barbara asked.

The guys in the Humvee had been away from their wives and girlfriends for the better part of two weeks so they took notice of Barbara, Jenny and Britney the instant they drove up to the group.

"We came off of the interstate and have been working these side roads for a while. It's slowly getting back to normal." Lieutenant Edwards sucked in his gut a little as she smiled sweetly at him.

"How are you guys fixed for food?" Jake asked. "We've been down to eating bugs and grubs the last few days."

"I'll drop off some rations and leave a water tanker here before we pull out for the next place." He smiled for Barbara's benefit. "It's not quite filet mignon, but it'll do."

Jenny was standing next to Jake as she asked, "Do you have any medical supplies that you can spare? We have a bunch of injured people here."

The lieutenant noticed the fresh bruises on her face as he answered, "I have a medical kid that you can have."

He turned to the driver to relay the order back to the convoy. As he was doing so, the corporal whispered to him. "Hey lieutenant. Look at that." He pointed to an area fifty feet away. There was a small crater in the ground surrounded by a section of scorched earth.

"What happened there?" Lt. Edwards asked the group.

"Oh, that?" Jake said as he shrugged his shoulders. "We had a problem a couple of days ago. A spark set off a gasoline can. The explosion took out our working generator."

He nodded nonchalantly as he set his men to task. Feeling curious and a little bit suspicious, the lieutenant gave the blast area a closer look. Pretending to lace up his boots, he bent down and ran his hand along the rim of the crater. A dark residue coated his fingers. A quick sniff confirmed his suspicions.

"Anything I can help you with?" Barbara asked. She was standing over him, watching him carefully.

"No problem here, ma'am." He took a step closer to the beautiful dark haired woman. "I bet you guys had a hard time of it for a while."

"Mmm, just a bit," she cooed. "But you know, these things all have a way of working out in the end." She flashed him a look that chilled him to the bone, despite the heat of the day. "Know what I mean?"

Lieutenant Edwards nodded silently. Giving her a courteous salute, he turned around and shouted out an order to his troops.

"Saddle up!"

The men climbed back into the Humvee. In a minute, they were headed down the road to the main entrance.

"How do you want me to write this one up, Lieutenant?" a man in back asked. Edwards had given him the responsibility of keeping a written log of their actions during the mission.

He paused a moment as he thought back to the worn-out people he had just left in the makeshift camp. He had seen the same thing, one way or another, in the last few subdivisions they had liberated. Dirty and tired, they had a distant, far away look in their faces, just like all the other people they had help set free in the past few days. _Rode hard and put away wet,_ as his daddy used to say.

_It wasn't his problem,_ he reminded himself. Playing police detective was not part of his standing orders.

"Put down, 'Situation Normal' for this one."

The private in the back nodded as he scribbled on a clipboard.

Lieutenant Edwards consulted his ten-dollar atlas. "Okay, guys. Let's hit the next one."

The vehicle lurched over a pile of garbage and turned left at the gate, leaving La Noche Pacífica far behind.

###

Thank you for reading my book. It was a pleasure to write. If you enjoyed it, won't you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer? (Indie authors live and die by word of mouth reviews!)

Thanks!

Harry F. Smith

About The Author

Harry F. Smith grew up in the frozen wilderness of Jersey City, New Jersey and proudly claims to be a native, but only when it is to his financial advantage to do so.

After a brief career in the United States Navy stationed at the amphibious base at Little Creek, Virginia as a member of Beachmaster Unit Two, he attended California State University, Chico where he somehow managed to obtain a BS in Mathematics and a Master's in Computer Science. A glutton for punishment, he spent another year at the McCloud Institute of Simulation Sciences as a graduate assistant and was the first person to receive a Certificate of Achievement in Simulation Science from the Institute.

He also ate a lot of ramen noodles and drank many beers during this time.

After graduating from college, Harry needed to pay off his numerous school loans, so he worked as a software engineer on various defense industry projects. Most of them can't be talked about in public forums without filling out massive amounts of paperwork, but believe me, they involved some pretty cool stuff like lasers and bombs and small furry creatures from other planets.

During this time, he authored many boring technical documents and manuals, such as 'A Case Study of Constrained Nonlinear Optimization Methods' and 'A Thousand and One Ways to Properly Use Your Constructive Cost Model (COCOMO)'. None of these ever reached the New York Times Best Sellers list, although he did win a minor award for 'The Most Semicolon Usage in a Government Document.'

Having conquered the exciting world of software engineering, he finally caved into the voices that rattle around in his head as they commanded him to switch from writing computer code to mystery stories that concentrated on living, breathing people and the evil things that are done by them.

After a while, he started his own E-book publishing company, Like A Duck Publishing and wrote his first novel, 'The Chat Room Murders.'

He invented the character of John DelMonico, an ex-Jersey City detective who is recruited by a friend to join the newly formed National Cybercrime Investigation Agency. This was a bit of a stretch since John was quite possibly the most computer illiterate person ever born. Recently divorced from his childhood sweetheart, John moves out to Silicon Valley to start his life anew, taking his prized '67 Mustang to face the harsh San Jose traffic.

Since all good detective stories need at least one beautiful woman, he is teamed up with the gorgeous Terri O'Brien, a red headed, ex-FBI lawyer babe. A native of California, John soon learns that behind her green eyes lurks a fierce Irish temper. Being a Shaolin kung fu master, Terri quickly proves that she can hold her own in the male dominated world of criminal computer investigations.

Eugene Lee, a Chinese-American software engineer / computer nerd extraordinaire, rounds out the team.

John and Terri's exploits have spanned five novels so far. In each one, they manage to defeat the bad guys while they try to deny the building frisson that they feel for each other. Since there was a bit of a cliff hanger in 'The Hunting Club', he wrote 'Shadow Of The Throwaways' to continue the story.

Besides the John DelMonico / Terri O'Brien detective stories, Harry wrote 'The Peaceful Night', a story about a category five hurricane that smashes into Orlando, Florida and forces the people of an exclusive gated community to fend off starvation, a power hungry ex-mafioso don, alligators, a horny but brain dead mutt named Peepers and a psychotic killer who'll do anything to silence the voices in his head until help arrives.

He decided to make this story a FREE download because:

A) He is a kind and generous person.

B) He believes that authors should give something back to their fans.

C) Everybody kept bugging him for a freebie.

Since the statute of limitations for unspeakable past crimes has not yet expired in New Jersey, Harry now lives in Sioux Falls, South Dakota year-round so that he can enjoy the snow, ice and freezing cold weather. His interests include listening to esoteric music, perfecting his vast barbecuing skills and devising new ways to scare small children, all the while fighting killer rabbits who are intent on eating the lush green lawn outside of his condo townhouse.

Connect With Harry F. Smith

**Email** : hfsmith@LikeADuckPublishing.com

**Website** : <http://www.harryfsmith.com/>

**Facebook**: http://www.facebook.com/harry.f.smith

**Twitter** : <https://twitter.com/HFSmith2>

**Google+** : <https://plus.google.com/u/0/111671147399257798793>

**Smashwords Author Profile** : <http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/HFSmith/>
Other Titles By Harry F. Smith

**The Chat Room Murders** \- <http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/22426>

In this erotic thriller, former Jersey City detective John DelMonico and his beautiful new partner Terri O'Brien confront unimaginable dangers from teenage hackers, roadside Mexican burritos, rapping white boys, sadistic lunch meat, mutilated stuffed animals, irate California drivers and finally, a pair of kinky, psychotic killers who use the Internet to hunt down and torture their victims.

Sample Chapter Thirty Five - But For The Grace Of God

JOHN WALKED DOWN the hospital hallway, his nose crinkled at all the various antiseptic aromas. Born with a good sense of smell, he thought he could distinguish a few of the odors and if he was correct, he did not like any of them one bit.

I'm not paranoid, but God only knows what else is wafting through the air into my body.

It might be the loss of control, the feeling of helplessness or having to trust your care and feeding to someone else but he always hated any kind of medical institutions. The few times John had been a patient, he was one of the world's worst.

_Not to mention those dreadfully cold bedpans,_ he thought as a chill ran down his spine.

The corridor abruptly changed from a drab olive green to a more cheerful pastel combination. When John noticed brightly painted murals of clowns, ponies and circus scenes adorning the walls, he knew that he was in the children's ward.

The nurse's station was located in the middle of the intersection of two long hallways. He walked up to the counter and looked at the nurse in attendance wearing light blue surgical scrubs.

_Whatever happened to those tight, starched white uniforms you always see on television?_ he thought sullenly.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for my daughter's room. They moved her here last night."

"Name, please," she said without looking up from her paperwork.

Even though it wasn't the best of circumstances, he was in an upbeat mood, so he decided to try a joke.

"I'm John. What's yours?"

The nurse looked up at him slowly. He could see weariness in her tired eyes that suggested she had heard every opening line that a pretty young RN could hear. With an icy cold stare, she said slowly for effect, "No. Your daughter's name."

John swallowed hard as he realized the mistake he had just made by trying to be a smartass.

"Sorry. It's DelMonico. Elizabeth DelMonico."

The nurse swiveled around in her chair and rapidly consulted a stack of medical charts hanging from a wire wheel. She said in an even voice, "Room 1277." Without turning around to face him, she held out her arm and pointed down the hallway. "That way."

John mumbled his thanks as he turned tail and walked in the indicated direction. In a minute, he found Elizabeth's room. Peeking inside, he saw his eleven-year-old daughter sitting up in bed, casually thumbing through a magazine. Even though he had seen her just yesterday, he was taken aback at the sight. The bottom part of her left leg was in a plaster cast while her right forearm was wrapped tight in an elastic bandage.

Elizabeth, being equal parts DelMonico and tomboy, had to prove to the other kids on the block that she could climb trees as well as the rest of them.

_Just your average little girl trying her hardest to be one of the guys,_ John thought. But when the rotted tree limb snapped from her weight, she had come tumbling down to the hard city pavement twenty feet below, spraining her wrist and breaking her tibia in two places. Alison, at home with Johnny Jr., had heard her daughter's cries and immediately called 911, which brought them to the emergency room at St. Francis hospital. John had been at the police station when he got the call and set new speed records rushing to his daughter's side. It was only after Elizabeth was being attended to that Alison let herself break down in tears.

Today was his daughter's second day in the hospital. Normally, the doctors would have set the bones, put the cast on and sent her home but the young girl had hit her head hard on the pavement and they wanted her in for observation for a few days.

_Last time she was in a hospital was when she was born,_ John thought as he gazed at Elizabeth through the doorway. _But she's still my little baby._ He steadied himself and walked into the room.

"Hey Lizzie!" he said cheerfully. "When are we going dancing?"

"Oh, Daddy!" she answered back, throwing the magazine onto the bed. Her smile lit up both the room and John's heart.

John walked over and gave his daughter a hug, followed by a quick, loud kiss on her forehead.

"How's the noggin'? You know the city gave me a bill to repair the crack in the sidewalk?" he joked.

"Oh, Daddy!" she said again, the smile widening a notch. "No they didn't!"

"Sure they did!" Seeing her laugh and her eyes bright and clear brought John's anxiety level down a notch. "Where's the hag patrol?" he asked.

One of the fringe benefits about being a police officer meant that John could pull some strings and was allowed by the hospital higher ups to have family members on almost round the clock vigil. And since Elizabeth inherited her father's extended Italian family, she had a constant stream of aunts and girl cousins in attendance by her bedside, some wearing traditional Italian long black dresses and all older than dirt. John wondered about the futility of this since none of them spoke any passable English. Still, it was nice that Elizabeth could wake up to a semi-friendly face, even if it was a withered one.

"Mom just left," she informed her dad. "She didn't want to go home, but Aunt Stella made her go. She looked tired." Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. "And she needed a shower, too." Quickly she added, "You'd better not let them hear you call them the hag patrol."

John was glad that his wife went home for some rest. Alison had been in the hospital by her daughter's bedside almost constantly since the accident.

"Don't worry, pumpkin. If any of them give me trouble, I'll have them all deported back the Old Country." The inside joke between father and daughter made them both laugh again.

He looked at the plaster cast on his daughter's leg. Feeling the need to keep the conversation upbeat, John reached into his jacket and pulled out a pen.

"Lizzie, can I be the first one to sign your cast?" He clicked the ballpoint pen rapidly for effect.

"Sure you can, Daddy."

John reached over and went to sign the cast up by her knee, but suddenly Elizabeth shouted, "No, not there!"

"What's wrong with right here?" he asked surprised, pointing to the spot with his pen. "I wanted to sign here so you can always see it."

His daughter looked at him a bit sheepishly and after a moment's hesitation she said, "I sorta have that place reserved for somebody else, you know?"

As was usual with his young daughter, John did not know what the hell she was talking about.

"No, I don't know. Who's it for?"

"Umm, nobody special," she mumbled, eyes downcast. "Except, well, there's this boy in my class..." Her voice trailed off.

In an instant, the time that John had dreaded had arrived. Another male was quickly displacing his position as the most important man in his daughter's life. The words, "There's this boy in my class..." echoed again and again in his head.

"Does this boy have a name?" John asked slowly.

Elizabeth answered, "Michael."

Not 'Mike' or 'Mikey', but a solemn, dignified 'Michael.'

John capitulated the prime cast real estate to the unseen Michael, as he knew he had to.

"Well, how about right here?" He pointed to a spot lower down the leg.

Elizabeth's eyes brightened as she said, "That's fine."

John was going to write some smart-ass remark like 'Have a nice break? See you next fall!' but instead opted to write, 'Love you always and a day, Daddy.' And as an afterthought, he underlined the word 'Daddy.' Twice.

"There. Plenty of room for... Michael." He made a flourish of replacing the pen back into his inside jacket pocket.

A black orderly bringing in a wheel chair broke the moment. "Time for more x-rays," he announced to the room in general. Expertly, he positioned the chair alongside the bed. John stood helplessly out of the way as Elizabeth slid over and with the orderly's assistance, got into the wheel chair. Together, the group headed out the room.

"Listen, this is probably going to take a while, so I'm going to go home and see how your Mom's holding up." He bent down and gave his daughter another kiss on the forehead. "I'm sure one of the Italian Hit Squad will be back soon to stand guard. I'll peek in on you again tomorrow. Do you need anything?"

"No, I'm fine," she said over her shoulder as the orderly pushed her down the long hall. "Tell Mom not to worry, okay?" was the last he heard as they disappeared around the corner.

John just stood in the doorway staring down the empty hallway, still a bit numb from being blind-sided and upstaged by Michael. Noticing a water fountain, he bent over and took a long drink, letting the cold water quench his thirst. From close by, he heard an unfamiliar voice say, "They grow up so fast, don't they?"

He turned his head around to see a man next to him. John quickly guessed from the stubble on his face and the wrinkles in his clothes that this was another weary dad visiting a sick child.

As John finished with his drink, the stranger continued. "The kids. They grow up so fast."

"You bet," John joked. "They sprout up like weeds. Although my wife suggested that if we stop feeding them, they'll probably stop growing."

John had hoped for a smile or at least a nod of understanding, but the man's face remained strangely reticent. Observing that this was the second time in fifteen minutes that he did not get the intended reaction from a joke, he stuck out his hand and offered, "I'm John DelMonico. That was my daughter Elizabeth. She broke her leg trying to play Tarzan of the Apes."

The man shook his hand and offered back, "William Cook. My friends call me Cookie."

"Glad to meet you, Cookie."

"Likewise. My boy's name is Christian. He's in the next room."

John took a step towards the doorway and glanced inside. He was instantly galvanized by what he saw. This was one serious hospital room. Monitors and electronic machines filled every corner of the large room, dwarfing the bed. By comparison, Elizabeth's room was filled with stuffed animals, homemade greeting cards from her friends and the odd salami smuggled in by one of the Hags.

In the middle of all the technology, a small figure lay under the covers. Even at this distance, John could see tubes and wires running into a frail body. The boy's head, peeking out from under the bed sheets was completely hairless, even the eyebrows strangely absent. John could not even begin to guess at the child's age.

"Neuroblastoma." John heard the words softly behind him. "It started out as a low grade fever a couple of months ago. We thought it was chicken pox at first since a case had been going around his school. But when we took him to the doctor for a checkup, they found a large mass." John turned around to face him just in time to see Cookie point to his stomach. "Right about here."

"The chemotherapy made all his hair fall out real fast," he continued in a worn out tone. "But it did shrink the tumor somewhat. The doctors want to try a bone marrow transplant soon if there's no further improvement." His shoulders hunched down another level. "Don't know what we would have done if we didn't have the health plan from my company." As if trying to change the subject, he said, "I'm a salesman for an electronic outlet. What do you do, John?"

John looked his new friend in the eye and said, "I'm a police detective here in Jersey City."

Cookie's face brightened for just a moment, a hint of sparkle in his eyes.

"You're a cop? Christian wants to be a police officer so bad he can taste it. He watches all the detective shows. Even draws pictures of them in his coloring book."

His voice dropped a level as he said, "Listen, John, you don't have to if you don't want to, but if you talked to Christian for just a moment, it would mean the world to him. I mean anything, any kind of cop story, anything at all..." He trailed off wearily.

John put his hand on Cookie's shoulder.

"No problem. Let's go inside and see if we can't cheer him up." John forced a wide smile on his face as he followed him into the crowded room.

Cookie went to the opposite side of the bed and bent close to his son's face. In the softest of voices, he said, "Christian, I have somebody that I think you might like to meet. This is John DelMonico and he's a policeman." The small boy slowly turned his head to John's direction.

"Hello, Christian. My name is Lt. DelMonico and I'm a detective just like your dad said."

He reached into his side pocket, pulled out his identification billfold and opened it. Leaning over a maze of tubes, John placed it within easy reach of the boy. A skinny finger came out from under the sheets and traced the outline of the metal badge.

"Your dad tells me that you'd like to be a cop too someday?" The boy slowly nodded his head yes.

Almost inaudible over the machines, John barely heard Christian ask him, "Do you have a gun?"

"Of course I do." Making a great pretense of looking around, John slowly opened his jacket so that his holstered .38 was visible. Christian's face lit up.

John continued. "It's pretty cool being a cop, you know. You get to ride around in a police car all day and arrest the bad guys."

"Do you ever get to play with the siren?" Christian asked.

"You bet!" John said excitedly. "Every chance I get! And tell you what, I'll make a deal with you. If you promise to get better, we'll go for a ride in my cop car. With the siren on and everything!"

John could see the tiniest bit of life in the young child's eyes. "And all I have to do is get better?" he asked incredulously.

_Yeah kid,_ John thought, _you just gotta beat cancer._

"That's it, son. And maybe draw me a picture, if you want to." John motioned to a small pad lying on the bed.

"What of?" Christian asked.

"Hmmm... I don't know. Anything you like. I'll leave that up to you. You promise?"

"Promise."

"Well, I gotta get back to the squad room, Christian. We're hot on the trail of some bad gangsters."

John made a great pretense of waving his arms in the air, hand formed in the shape of a gun. "And we're going to get them, too."

With a broad smile for everyone, John said his goodbyes to Cookie and Christian and left the room.

Two days later, John and Alison were back at the hospital to pick up Elizabeth. The fear of a concussion or head injuries was ruled out, but the nasty compound fracture in the leg would take a while to heal. John noticed the cast was now almost completely filled up with signatures from her school friends. Discreetly as a detective could, he read the inscription that Michael had written on his daughter's leg, the words 'Did you fall for me?' in big, bold script.

_Gotta remember to check up on this Michael character,_ John thought. _He could have a rap sheet. Might need to put an APB out on his young butt._

As Alison pushed the wheel chair down the hall, John peeked in the small window of Christian's room. The place had been efficiently transformed back down to an ordinary hospital bedroom. All of the life sustaining machinery was gone, the only thing remaining from the other day was an unmade bed with the metal rails down. John remembered that Cookie had said something about a new procedure at the end of the week.

They must have moved him to a surgical area or the intensive care unit. That's what they do with cancer surgery patients, don't they?

From down the hall, John heard someone calling "Detective DelMonico" in that hushed sort of way people use in hospitals. Both John and Alison turned around to see a nurse waving at him. Alison, who was highly suspicious of any female paying John the slightest bit of attention, gave up one of her famous 'Hmmpfs!' and said curtly, "We'll wait down in the lobby for you when you're done here, John." Before he had a chance to defend himself, the elevator door opened and Alison whisked Elizabeth inside.

As the doors closed, John recognized the cold woman from the nurse's station.

"Detective DelMonico. Can I have a minute, please? I just wanted to apologize for being curt with you the other day. I was just finishing up a double shift..."

"Forget about it," John said, cutting her off. "I was the one being a butthead. And thanks for all the help you've given my daughter."

He pointed down the hallway. "By the way, do you know where they transferred Mr. Cook's kid? I'd like to pop up and see him again before I go."

The pretty nurse lowered her voice. "Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm afraid the young boy expired this morning."

She continued before John could say anything. "As a professional, you're supposed to stay aloof and distant, but with little kids it's really hard. When you spend as much time with the children as we do, you get attached. Before he left, his father told us what you had done for him. That was very kind of you. You really cheered him up, you know."

John's heart sunk in his chest. "No. That's terrible." He mumbled out, "Please give my condolences to the family if you see them."

"I will. Mr. Cook wanted me to make sure that you got this." She reached into the large pocket of her scrubs and pulled out a piece of paper. Handing it to John, she turned and quickly walked away.

John unfolded the paper. Inside was a crude crayon drawing of a car. On the side was labeled 'Police' with the 'L' written backwards. A light on top was flashing, red jagged lines emanating from a bubble on the roof. Two stick figures were inside the car. One was a tall figure in front, one hand on the steering wheel, the other shooting an extremely large pistol into the air. John noticed that the second occupant in back was a smaller figure with a rounded little head. An IV pole, complete with hanging bottle was outside of the car. Apparently, the whole apparatus was being pulled along since it was equipped with its own set of wheels.

As he pushed the elevator button, John carefully folded the drawing and placed it in his pocket. When the doors opened, he was grateful that the elevator was empty. He never did like people to see him cry.

**Last One Standing** \- <http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/73007>

This second novel in the John DelMonico/Terri O'Brien series finds them traveling to Manhattan to investigate a pump and dump securities fraud scheme on Wall Street. As John reminisces about early life growing up on the streets of Jersey City, Terri grows close to someone connected to the case. Along the way, they encounter Mafia hit men, fierce nuns and an even more dangerous ex-wife.

Sample Chapter Nine (A) - Dancing The Night Away

Jersey City, New Jersey - Late September 1968

IT WAS A BIT chilly as John walked with his friends down the street towards the school. Everyone in his small group was in an upbeat mood. It was Friday night, the weekend was here and that meant only one thing: the CYO dance at Our Lady of Perfect Divinity School.

The rock bands who played at the dance were local kids possessing varying degrees of musical skill. Located in the basement of the school next to the cafeteria, admission costs fifty cents for a night's worth of deafening music. Normally reserved for high school aged kids, the dance was also open to eight graders in the neighborhood. This was a good deal for John and his friends who really liked to listen to the rock bands that played. In between sets, the jukebox was turned on, filling the room with music by Led Zeppelin and Cream while one of the parents who acted as a chaperon sold sodas for fifteen cents. This break in the action gave the young Lotharios a chance to check out the high school girls who flocked in, some from as far away as Bayonne or Union City. Most of the time these older girls paid the young boys no mind. Even so, all of the boys in John's circle of friends wore their best blue jeans and had their hair combed just perfect. Having borrowed after-shave from their dads and older brothers, the group's combined fragrance rivaled that of a perfume counter.

School had been in session for three weeks and it was already starting to get dark early. Up ahead, John could just make out the long line of people waiting to get into the dance. Judging from the huge turnout, it was going to be a good night.

Father Henry O'Blivion, an Irish priest and designated youth pastor for the Catholic Youth Organization, was at the door taking in the money. The youngest of the parish priests, he had instituted the event a year ago under the relentless insistence of the kids. He gave the boys a smile and a hearty hello as John forked over his fifty cents. In return, he got the back of his hand stamped with an ink outline of an angel, complete with halo, casting away the devil from a fluffy cloud.

Once inside, John quickly surveyed the room, but that was by force of habit. There was always a constant turnover at these dances. People moved in and out of the room frequently, usually stepping outside for a smoke or a sip of beer that someone had managed to obtain.

Tonight, the basement was heavily separated into the usual cliques. The prime spot near the jukebox was reserved for the older kids, usually in the second year of high school. It was they who had control of the half time music. The girls who hung out with these alpha males were the prettiest in the neighborhood. Wearing makeup and the latest of the hippie movement fashions, they danced around in mini-skirts and suede fringe jackets. Most of the time, this was where John's three sisters could be found.

The music in the small room was incredibly loud. The drummer had just launched into his solo, trying his best to imitate Iron Butterfly's _In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida._ A local boy who had been pressed into service when the normal drummer cut his hand working in his dad's restaurant, he was hunched over his borrowed drum kit, banging out the surreal tribal beat on the tom-toms.

John settled in a far corner of room with a group of his friends from class. They were already talking loudly with one another, heads pressed close together so they could be heard. The current debate was, as usual, about cars. The night's burning question was about which car was faster, the Batmobile or Grandpa Munster's Coffinmobile. Both sides of the debate offered excellent reasons and facts about horsepower and cubic inch displacement for the imaginary vehicles.

John was only half-interested in the argument since he was busy checking out the pretty girls who were dancing closely with one another, swaying their bodies to the rapid banging of the drums. As a bunch of people moved off the dance floor, he noticed Alison on the other side of the room. Standing in the middle of a gaggle of her girlfriends, she had her back turned to him. Carefully, he scrutinized her outfit from afar. Her summertime tan had worn off but tonight she looked wonderful in a brown pullover tucked into a denim mini-skirt, white socks and sneakers. Like John, she had apparently dressed carefully that night, certainly much different from her everyday drab school jumper.

It was then that a buzz filled the room. All heads turned as Sallie and a few of his gang walked into the cafeteria. Badly needing a shave, his biceps bulged underneath his cotton tee shirt. Calmly walking into the high school group, he was warmly greeted by everyone there. As a much smaller boy walked by him, Sallie reached out and plucked the can of soda from his grasp. The young boy, knowing that he had no chance, meekly gave up the drink without a fight.

King of all he surveyed, Sallie leaned against the wall next to the jukebox, looking smug in the fact that he was the top alpha male in the room. After a moment, one of his tagalongs whispered in his ear, then pointed to the group that Alison was standing in. Slowly, he smiled a crooked grin and shook his head. With a pat on the back from his crony, he sauntered over to Alison.

John, along with everyone else at the dance, watched as Sallie walked straight up to Alison and started talking to her. Normally, the music was so loud that you had to get close and scream to be heard, but Alison initially kept her distance, discrete and unafraid. After a few minutes of chatting, she smiled up at him as he moved in closer to her.

The conversation went on for what seemed like hours. The two of them stood in the middle of the dance floor, oblivious to everyone else. John's heart leapt up into his throat as she laughed heartily at some unknown joke. He could not hear the conversation over the music, but his fertile imagination supplied the words.

The real surprise came when Sallie bent down close to her, their faces almost touching. She laughed once again, only this time her smile was a bit wider and the twinkle in her eyes just a bit more sparkly. Coyly playing with a long lock of her beautiful dark hair in between her fingers, it was then that John noticed that Alison had touched his arm. The movement was short and sweet, but to John, it spoke volumes.

With their eyes locked onto one another, Sallie nodded his head towards the door. In horror, John watched as Alison shook her head yes. Together, the pair walked towards the exit, his hand guiding her on the small of her back. In a flash, they were gone.

The room returned to normal as the buzz about what just happened circulated around.

"Did you see Sallie pick up Alison?" one of the group shouted, straining to be heard.

"Man, that guy is smooth," another added. "Bet he's gonna get some tonight!"

John turned to the kid who had just spoken, anger flashing in his eyes. He was not a neighborhood kid and Johnny didn't know him, but nevertheless, John felt the need to set him straight.

"Hey! Listen you. Don't ever say that about her again. She ain't that kind of girl."

The other boy squared up to John.

"Yeah? From what I just saw, it looks like that she's that kind of girl."

John saw red as his fist connected with the kid's jaw. It was a solid punch, timed perfectly. The other boy's eyes fluttered for just a moment, then his legs gave out from under him as he hit the tile floor.

This one punch started a chain reaction of fights. In the hormone driven crowd, the kid's buddies quickly jumped in when they saw the fight develop. John's group of friends came to his defense and there was now a smattering of small groups of fighting youngsters everywhere. To add a bit of flair to the happening, the drummer, having finished his solo, launched into a fast rendition of _Wipe Out_ by the Surfaris.

John was just about to land another punch on some kid in front of him that he didn't recognize when he felt himself being lifted up by his shirt collar. He turned to see Father O'Blivion tightly holding on to him.

All fighting stopped at the display of authority. The good father shook John a few times at arm's length like a rag doll and walked him towards the exit.

_Crap!_ John thought to himself. _I'm in for it now..._

**The Prying Eye -** <https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/210586>

This third novel in the John DelMonico/Terri O'Brien series finds them getting involved when the Director's secretary, Mary Beth Harrington is blackmailed by a rogue Internet service provider technician. He gains entry to customer's computers by tapping into their service and installing backdoor snooper programs. Not satisfied with blackmail, he begins a murderous spree that must be stopped.

Sample Chapter Two - A New Case

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

"Really? All of this for me?"

Special Agent John DelMonico faked a surprised look on his face as he entered the office that he shared with his partner, Terri O'Brien. John knew something was up when he noticed that the office door was closed. His office door was never, ever closed. He didn't even think that the lock worked.

Crammed inside were a dozen people centered around his desk, most of whom John knew. The desktop had been cleared off, the papers and other normal office items unceremoniously dumped in a pile on the floor. Now occupying the top of the desk was a large sheet of cake. Blue icing spelled out a warm 'Happy Birthday, John' message in between a pair of green and blue rosettas.

"Don't tell me... Death by chocolate?"

"You got it, partner," Terri answered. "If you're going to eat cake, get the best, I always say."

Terri's affinity for chocolate cake was legend around the Agency. Being a native to the San Jose area, she knew where most of the finer bakery shops were located. Like an addict craving a fix, this cake had been ordered with a clandestine phone call to one of her special contacts. Once again, John wondered how she stayed in such good shape with the enormous sweet tooth that she possessed. But then, so did all of the men at the Agency who watched her walk down the halls every day.

"Well, gee thanks, everyone. You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble," he said as Terri shoved a Styrofoam plate containing a large piece of cake into his hands.

"So how old are you, John?" his longtime friend Tom Everett asked.

"Not as old as you, butthead," John answered as he shoveled a piece of cake into his mouth. The different layers of chocolate melted instantly in his mouth. He did his best to suppress making a yummy sound.

The room burst into laughter, then just as quickly went quiet as the Agency Director walked in.

"Happy birthday, John," the director said.

"Thank you, sir," John managed to answer, quickly swallowing what he had in his mouth.

John always used a formal manner when he addressed his friend. Although they had been police officers back together a long time ago in Jersey City, Roger had been elevated a billion pay grades above John in the Federal pay system.

_Back before he recruited me to the Agency, he was Roger Dodger,_ John thought. _Now he's sir..._

"A year old, and hopefully a year wiser," the Director said as Terri passed him cake.

"Let's hope so," John answered. He watched as the Director scarfed down the food in four huge bites.

"Good cake, Agent O'Brien," Roger said as he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.

"Thank you, sir," Terri answered. With that, the Director turned and left the office.

John heard, "Well, he didn't stay long," from his side. Eugene Lee, the computer technician assigned to John and Terri, pointed down the long hallway with his plastic spork.

"He's a busy guy, Eugene. I don't imagine he's got the spare time to lounge around eating cake."

"Guess not," the small man answered as he glanced quickly at the wall clock. "Ai-ya! Neither do I!" In a flash, he was out of the office.

Eugene's action broke up the party. Having scored some free birthday cake, the guests all wished John a happy birthday once again as they filed out of the small office, leaving paper plates and cups everywhere.

"Thanks Terri. I really appreciate the gesture," John said as he started to clean up.

"No problem, John. Any excuse to get my chocolate fix." Terri folded the box around the remaining cake. "I'll just take care of this for you."

_I bet that cake won't survive the night,_ he thought as he noticed the sugar high gleam in her green eyes. With the desktop cleared, he scooped up his paperwork from the floor.

"Here, John. Happy birthday."

He turned to see Terri in front of his desk holding a small present. It was elegantly wrapped with a small pink bow on it.

"Terri! You didn't have to buy me anything."

"I know... but I did anyway. Go ahead and open it."

John took the small box and with a flourish, ripped open the paper covering. Like a jewelry box, he separated the top half of the package.

"Terri! What a nice gift," he said as he took out the phone case.

"That's for your BlackBerry. It's specially designed for your particular model."

He flipped it over and examined it from all sides.

"It's metal," he said as he tapped at the shiny case with a fingertip.

"One hundred percent anodized aircraft grade aluminum."

"What made you think I needed another phone case?"

"Are you kidding?" she exclaimed. "That leather holder you've got attached to your belt is almost worn through. Here, let me help."

Faster than he thought anybody could move, Terri reached out and yanked off the small phone from his belt. She pulled the cell phone from the frayed leather holder and carefully slid it into the new case.

"See? Fits like a glove! The inner lining is made of neoprene and holds everything tightly in place." She gave him a peculiar smirk as she added, "Acts like a shock absorber, too."

"So what...You think I drop my phone all the time?" John asked as he continued examining the case.

"Oh please! I've seen it fall off your belt at least a dozen times."

_Guess I shouldn't mention the time the phone slipped off when I was in the bathroom and it fell into the toilet,_ he thought.

"And there's no need to open it up when you need to use it," Terri added. She demonstrated its operation with a quick flip of her wrist.

"Hmmm... Pretty cool." He flipped it back and forth just as Terri had done, the cell phone beeping each time. "I can see me going over my data plan minutes."

"Then don't play with it so much..." she said with a twinkle in her eye. "You might go blind."

"Funny girl," he answered. "How about I do it until I need glasses?"

"Funny guy," she shot back. "Now, remember, this case's just a bit different than your other one."

"How so?"

"Well, with this one, you don't hang it from your belt."

"No?"

"No. It's designed so that you carry it inside your pocket."

With a quick step towards him, she took it from his hand. Completely catching John off guard, Terri reached out and slowly undid his jacket button. Pushing back the fabric, he could feel the warmth of her hand as she slowly slid the phone inside his inner jacket pocket. He tried his best not to blush.

"Um, thanks..." he mumbled out after a moment that felt like an eternity.

"You're welcome, partner," she said softly, their faces inches away from each other. "Wear it in good health."

"I'll keep it close to my heart," John said as he smelled her sweet perfume.

_Is her hand still on my chest?_ he wondered.

"Well, I guess we should get back to work," she said as softly as before.

"Yes, we should," he agreed as he looked deep into Terri's eyes.

Neither of them moved.

The sound of John's cell phone ringing broke the tender moment.

"I should probably get that," John said.

"Hmmm... You should." Slowly, she slid her hand down the front of his shirt as she backed away from him.

He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his cell phone. Remembering how she had instructed him, John flipped it open and answered, "Agent DelMonico."

John half listened to the voice on the other end as he watched Terri point to herself, then motioned towards the door. She gathered up her briefcase that was on her desk, then made her way out of the office, all the while being carefully scrutinized by John as she made her way down the long hallway.

**The Hunting Club -** <https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/384667>

An erotic thriller, the fourth novel in the John DelMonico / Terri O'Brien detective series finds Terri leaving the safety of the National Cybercrime Investigation Agency to infiltrate a rogue group of hunters who have decided to swap out animal trophies for people while John reminisces about early life growing up on the mean streets of Jersey City.

Sample Chapter Four - Come Here Often?

THE LIGHTS of the various ambulance and police squad cars played off the walls of the shack and the surrounding area as a uniformed cop stretched out a thin ribbon of yellow tape across the entrance of the lot, warning everybody that this was a police scene - Do Not Cross.

Terri was sitting on the wide back bumper of an ambulance being attended to by a large, mousey-looking female EMT as she watched the activity taking place around her. Off in the distance, a small crowd of lookey-loos gawked at her from behind the tape barrier. Consisting mostly of a few well-dressed women, they took the time off from their busy day of shopping and spending their husband's money to stop and stare. Some pointed at Terri, whispering unknown words silently.

It had not taken long at all for the small rock lot to become full of official vehicles once she made the emergency call to 911.

_Probably didn't hurt to mention that I was a federal agent_ , she thought.

She snapped back to reality as the woman sprayed a solution on Terri's arm that stung worse than the cut did, and then applied a butterfly bandage to the area. She had not noticed until after the fight was finished that she had somehow cut her arm. A small ribbon of blood seeped from a three-inch wound that had opened when the iPhone had ripped itself from the Velcro armband.

_Oh goody. Another scar,_ she thought to herself. _Another one to add to my collection._

"You should have that looked at in a couple of days," the rotund technician said. "Wouldn't hurt to get a tetanus shot either. Looks like some dirt might have gotten in deep."

"I'll do that," Terri answered. "Thanks for everything."

"No problem." She packed up the folding case that was lying next to Terri on the bumper and moved away.

"Agent O'Brien?" she heard a voice call out. Terri turned and noticed a tall man walking towards her.

"Yes?"

"I'm Detective Perry," he said as he displayed his identification, simultaneously flipping open a small pad. "You up to a few questions?"

"Sure," she answered. "I gave my statement to the uniforms that were here first on the scene."

Teri gave the man a quick professional once over. He was wearing the standard detective uniform: a dark blazer over a white button down Oxford shirt and khaki pants. Tall and well built, the jacket fit him well.

_Nicely tailored,_ she thought. _Nothing off the rack here._ Jet black wavy hair with the slightest hint of grey forming at the temples offset his dark blue eyes and a finely chiseled jaw that suggested he was a no nonsense type of guy.

Terri decided that she liked what she saw.

"And it's Terri," she added quickly. She was pleased to see that he had a quick smile to go along with his handsome features.

"I'm Mike." He held out his hand, then pressed ahead with his questions. "You say that you first noticed the perps at the parking lot?"

"Yes. They passed me on the trail going north on their bicycles." She pointed a finger to her right where a uniformed cop was loading them in the back of van. "Those ones over there."

"Anything else you can tell me about the one that got away?"

"Mmmm... not much more that I can add to the description. Like I said before, he jumped on his bike and hightailed it out of here after he saw his buddies go down. I watched him cut across the lot, then he took a left on the main road in front of the shops." Terri stared deep into his eyes as she said, "Sorry, but I don't know the name of the street. I'm not that familiar with this area of Campbell," she apologized.

"It's Avenida de los Reyes," he answered her. "Avenue of the Kings."

"You speak Spanish?" she asked him.

"Just enough to get my face slapped."

She let out a little laugh. "That's pretty funny. Anyway, after that, I turned my attention back to the girl and kept an eye on the guys in case they decided to come at me again." She paused a second, then added, "How is she?"

"They took her over to Kaiser Permanente. Medics said that she had a bad concussion. Looks like they lay in wait for her over by the bush, then whacked her hard on the head with a rock. After that, they dragged her into the lot." He closed his pad with the same flip that he had used before. "Good thing you came along when you did. No telling what might have happened."

"Hey, what are you going to do?" Terri answered with a small shrug, trying her best to appear humble, but hoping to hell that she didn't sound like an arrogant dweeb.

_Damn nice looking guy,_ she thought as she caught a whiff of his aftershave. _Smells good too._

"Let me ask you something, Terri. Why did you decide to tackle these guys by yourself? At those odds, it would have been much better to wait for backup."

Terri answered with another shrug. "I acted as the situation warranted."

"But you couldn't have known if they were carrying any weapons or not?"

Terri couldn't decide if that was supposed to be a question or not. "There was only four of them..."

"Ah!" he answered. "Only four of them."

"Any chance one of the uniforms can give me a lift back to the park?" she asked just as a squad car passed by. Inside were two of the filthy gangbangers. She saw the nasty one that had pawed at her glare from the back seat. Terri smiled and gave him a little wave goodbye. He was unable to return the wave because of the handcuffs restraining his arms behind his back.

"I think that can be arranged." He motioned over to a television van that had pulled into the lot. A young man in a tee shirt and shorts was setting up a video camera on a tripod, while an attractive woman in a bright red three-piece business suit was busy touching up her makeup. "But I think the local news wants an interview first."

"Oh, great!" she exclaimed. "Catch me when I'm looking my best." She ran a hand down her tee shirt in a desperate attempt to brush off some of the dirt. Quickly, she refastened the green scrunchy that pulled back her bright red hair into a ponytail.

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," he said with another smile that melted her heart. "I think you look just fine, Terri," he said.

"Ummm, thanks," she mumbled back as she felt her face turning red. "Oh no! My cap!" She quickly looked around the lot. "Damn! Don't tell me I lost it!"

"Anything special about the hat?" Mike asked.

"It was my favorite. I got it my freshman year at Stanford." She smiled sheepishly. "I know this sounds crazy, but I wore it every time I had an exam for good luck. After that, it's been my lucky hat..."

"Well, hopefully it'll turn up," he added.

Not knowing how to recover, Terri just added a meager, "I hope so."

Oh good. Not only did I lose my lucky hat, now this drop dead gorgeous guy thinks I'm a ditz.

Possibly sensing her discomfort, he asked, "So, you ever give self-defense lessons?"

"I do where I work in Sunnyvale," Terri said as she examined her face in the ambulance's large side mirror, and then added, "but mostly for the other agents I work with." She tried desperately to rub off a small patch of dirt on her cheek.

"I see. So what's the chance of me getting in a lesson or two?" he asked.

She saw her face turning red again in the mirror, but not from her trying to remove the smudge.

_So is this cute guy really asking me out now?_ Terri thought.

"Ummm... I guess so." Terri rubbed harder at the dirt on her face as she saw Mike reach into his jacket pocket and pull out a business card.

"Why don't we talk about it over dinner sometime? Here's my number."

"Thanks," Terri said as she took the card. "Sorry I can't give you my card. I normally don't carry any when I'm on a run."

He laughed softly. "Now that's funny." He buttoned his jacket, and then added, "Well, I need to get back to work. Good luck with the news crew." He pointed to the television reporter, who was making her way over to them. "Careful with this one. I've dealt with her before. She's a real piece of work." He finished with a conspiratorial wink and nod.

"Thanks for the info," Terri said. Despite everything that had happened that morning and dreading the upcoming interview, she found herself smiling uncontrollably.

Mike walked away towards a waiting car when he suddenly turned his head around and without breaking stride said, "Nice meeting you, Agent O'Brien."

Despite herself, she flushed once again.

Hmmm... Maybe I didn't need that lucky hat after all...

**Shadow Of The Throwaways -** <https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/489354>

In the fifth story of the John DelMonico / Terri O'Brien series, the National Cybercrime Intelligence Agency agents take on an assignment to hunt down Mafia backed pornographers that have been exploiting young runaways for their films. Exposing themselves to the seamy side of the mob, they go undercover in Los Angeles, all the while sharing close quarters as they pose as a Mafia hit man and his girlfriend. But it's terrible timing for John as he becomes involved with a fiery, banana kidnapping Irish beauty while he tries to ignore his growing feelings for Terri.

Sample Chapter Two - A Gentle Touch On My Banana

IT WAS A TYPICAL Silicone Valley sunshiny day as Federal Agent John DelMonico drove down the middle lane of Mathilda Avenue, keeping pace with the slowly moving traffic. In fact, it was such a nice day, he had decided to take down the canvas top on the 'Stang, his treasured 1967 convertible Mustang.

It had been a while since John had driven the car. His most prized possession, it was normally parked underneath the carport awning in his apartment complex, wrapped in a very expensive car cover. Waterproof and measured to an exact fit, the inside of the cover was lined with soft lambskin so that it would not scratch the 'Stang's vintage paint job.

_Nuthin' too good for my baby_ , John thought as he carefully changed lanes in the heavy traffic.

The seven day weather forecast showed no rain in the immediate future, so last night John decided that this would be a good time to get in some quality driving time at highway speed and blow out a bunch of carbon from the carburetor. Before leaving for work in the morning, it took him thirty minutes to unwrap it from its protective cocoon and to switch places with the car he normally drove. One of the benefits of working at the National Cybercrime Investigation Agency was the use of a government vehicle. A late model Chevy Impala, it was just basic enough to get him back and forth to work in as little style as possible.

On the days that he did break out the 'Stang for a drive to work, he made it a habit to park at the far end of the long lot, safe from the other careless drivers who might scratch the custom paint job with a carelessly thrown open door. He had learned his lesson more than a few years ago back in New Jersey when some reckless teenager had bumped into the 'Stang's front quarter panel with his bicycle. That minor altercation had cost the kid's father dearly.

Without a care in the world, John enjoyed the bright sunshine on his face as he drove along, moving easily with the flow of the heavy San Jose traffic. With one hand on the wooden steering wheel, the other was beating time to the live version of _In Your Own Sweet Way_ by Dave Brubeck.

_This is the one recorded at the Blue Note in Manhattan,_ John thought. _Man, I'm driving the 'Stang while listening to great jazz standards on the radio_. _Life don't get no better than this..._

In a cheerful mood, he returned the smile of a cute soccer mom in a large urban assault vehicle. Driving in the lane next to him, she was shuffling her brood of kids off to their next scheduled organized school sponsored event.

_When I was a kid, we didn't have organized play dates,_ he thought. _My parents kicked me out the door and said, 'Go play until dinnertime'!_

With work done for the day, his next and last chore before returning home was to stop at the local Ralph's supermarket. There were a few things lacking in his kitchen pantry that he needed to pick up from the store. John ticked off some of the items in his mind.

_Peanut butter, milk, coffee... all the modern staples of a bachelor diet._ _And don't forget toilet paper_ , he reminded himself. _Definitely getting low on that_...

Arriving at the large outdoor strip mall, John navigated the 'Stang into the busy parking lot as the dissonant piano harmonies of Thelonious Monk's _Straight, No Chaser_ played.

_I'm glad I found this college radio station,_ he thought as he maneuvered towards an empty spot in the middle row. _They're playing some sweet stuff today..._

Waiting until the song had finished, John killed the engine and stepped out into the parking lot. He decided to leave the top down since he planned to do a quick dash in and out of the huge supermarket.

John entered the grocery store through the automatic doors and grabbed a plastic hand basket from a pile by the ATM machine. He reviewed the shopping list again in his head as he quickly walked up and down the crowded aisles just like the rest of the happy consumers around him.

Passing the freezer section, he reached into one of the huge refrigerated cases and snapped up a handful of frozen dinner meals, even though they were not on the list. With a small grunt, he threw them into the basket.

_Been eating way too many of these_ , he thought.

Lately, John found that it was much easier to pop one of the pre-packaged meals into the microwave, then go veg out in front of the boob tube with a cold beer when he got home from work.

_Easier than making a meal from scratch_ , John thought as he looked over the nutritional label printed on the side of the carton. With another sigh, he placed a few more frozen dinners in his basket. _At least it's healthy crap_... he tried to convince himself as he made his way towards the dairy case.

Being single, he managed to eat dinner with Terri O'Brien, his partner in crime at the National Cybercrime Investigation Agency at least once a week, but ever since she got a boyfriend, their evenings out at the Bay Area's finest restaurants had abruptly stopped.

His good friend and ex New Jersey refugee, Tom Everett, kept an open invitation for him to have dinner with his family anytime he wanted. Although he liked Tom's family well enough, he often felt like a third wheel in those situations. Whenever he sat at the dinner table with his wife and kids, John was reminded of the family life that he once enjoyed.

_Definitely do not feel like going to a restaurant all by myself either,_ John thought as he put a half gallon of skim milk into his basket. _How desperate looking is that?_

Traveling past the fruit and vegetable section, John decided to counteract all of the pre-processed factory products with some fresh, natural food. Tearing off a few plastic bags from the roll, he picked out some ripe Roma tomatoes along with a pack of bagged lettuce. Having promised himself that he would start brown bagging a lunch to work, he thought, _These would go good on my infamous, homemade baloney sandwiches..._

Off to the side, John noticed a young teenaged clerk stocking a bin with some fresh bananas. Ever the discriminate shopper, he carefully looked over the selection for just the right ones. Since childhood, John preferred his bananas slightly green and firm to the touch.

_Those are the sweetest_ , he thought as he continued probing through the huge pile in the hope of reaching a perfect banana nirvana.

Finally, after examining and rejecting a dozen inferior candidates, he saw a bunch that fit his exacting criteria. Taking a step to his left, John reached over to claim his prize. Just then, another hand shot out and grabbed at the bunch stem. With fingertips touching, John noticed that this hand was long and slender with finally manicured fingernails.

He looked up from the contested fruit and saw a woman at the other end of the hand. She was a tall, stunning blonde with piercing blue eyes that momentarily stopped John dead in his tracks. Framed by a shock of wavy blonde hair that flowed easily about her shoulders, the woman had an angelic face with almost perfectly shaped ruby red lips.

Giving her a subtle yet professional once over, John saw that she was impeccably dressed. A cream-colored button-front utility skirt was expertly matched with a black sleeveless blouse that accented her flawless figure. Way down at the end of a pair of very shapely legs, she wore leather Nine West's Illumie kitten heel pumps.

"Could you be letting go of me bananas now?" she asked him with a deep brogue.

Ever observant, John could tell her accent was Irish from the way she pronounced her words and the inflection of tone in her voice. Her sentence structure varied sharply from the American way of speaking by a slight lilt in the middle of the question, followed by a sharp downturn at the end. To John, her unique speech pattern seemed to fit her appearance perfectly. Nevertheless, he still held onto his bananas. He wasn't one to be easily deterred from a highly valued fruit selection, even if it was by a drop dead gorgeous woman.

"Your bananas?" John asked back. "Excuse me, but I did grab them first," he said.

"And did ye now?" she asked.

"I did," he answered, a bit put off by her smug, 'holier-than-thou' attitude.

John watched her carefully as she just stared at him in silence, her hand still holding tightly onto the bunch stem. Hoping to break the impasse, in a moment of extreme chivalry he offered, "Look, why don't you go ahead and take them?"

"I was goin' to."

Thinking of nothing better to say in such a situation, he bit his tongue and mumbled out an "Ummm... okay. I'll just go grab another bunch."

He held onto the bananas for another brief moment, then gallantly yielded up his prize. He watched as the woman silently picked them up and placed them in her basket.

Expecting at least a small 'Thank you', John counted back with a trite, "Bananas are healthy, you know. They got lots of potassium and other wholesome stuff that's no good for you."

Instead of provoking some sort of verbal response or, at the very least, a thin smile, the woman cocked her head to one side as if to more thoroughly examine him. Narrowing her gaze, John could feel her laser-like stare burn right through him. After a long uncomfortable moment, she turned to walk away.

"Hey!" he blurted out. "You know why I like bananas so much?"

John watched as the blonde stopped dead in her tracks. As graceful as a prima ballerina, she slowly pivoted on her high heels and turned around to face him.

"And now, why would that be?" she asked, using the same sing-song voice as before. Sweet and lilting, John wasn't sure if the statement was meant to be quizzical or threatening.

"Because bananas have appeal." He smiled a wide grin and held out his hands. "Get it? A peel?"

John watched as her expression changed to one of disbelief, rivaling the one before in intensity.

"Flyin' gobshite," she muttered softly under her breath. With a shake of her head that tossed her silky hair softly about her shoulders, the blonde turned and walked away again. This time she had a much more determined step to her walk.

Admiring the view as she made her way down the aisle, John wondered, _What the hell is a flyin' gobshite?_ Then with a bit of irritation, _Don't call me a gobshite, babe! You're a gobshite!_

Figuring that he gave it his best college try, he picked out another bunch of bananas and placed them in his basket. Not nearly as good in quality as the ones that got away, he quickly remembered that he needed toilet paper. Heading in the opposite direction of the stunning Irish beauty, he set off in search for the much-needed item. Bypassing the store brand bargain tissues that were as rough as three hundred grit sandpaper, he selected a four pack of premium toilet paper.

Two ply, please! Nothing too good for my sensitive butt!

With his basket loaded to the top, John was satisfied that he had found everything he needed for the upcoming week.

_At least until I get home,_ he thought. _Then I'll remember something important that I forgot._

John made his way towards the checkout counter. Being the after work rush hour, all of the lines were open but at least three people deep. Selecting a line that was guaranteed to move the slowest, John picked up a copy of the latest celebrity magazine to read while he was waiting.

To his surprise, the line moved quickly. All was going well when, in sight of the cashier, a gray haired, little old lady in front of him tried to pay for her groceries with a check. A grandmotherly type, she fumbled with her checkbook and pen as she slowly wrote out the check.

"Do you have a check cashing card with us?" the young teenage girl asked, obviously annoyed that someone dare try to write a check in her line.

"No," the old woman answered. "Do I need one?"

"Not really, but it speeds things up and makes life a lot easier." She grunted disapprovingly when she read the printed information. "This is an out of state check," the cashier said.

"Yes. I'm visiting my grandkids from Ohio. Is that a problem?"

"All out of state checks have to be approved by a manager," the young girl informed her, using as much attitude as possible. With a flick of her wrist, she switched on her aisle light. Blinking on and off, the light was meant to get the attention of a supervisor, much like the Bat Signal summoned the Caped Crusader. "Do you have a credit card you can use?" the young cashier offered sullenly in the hopes of speeding the woman along.

"Oh no," she said softly. "I don't trust those things."

"Well then, I'll need to see your driver's license."

_Great_ , John thought as he listened to the conversation. _I always get behind someone who has three speeds; slow, slower and reverse._

Resigned that the old woman will probably have to fill out a bunch of government forms and leave a DNA sample to pay for her groceries, John replaced the magazine back in the rack and looked around for a shorter line. The three people behind him were also watching the major financial transaction going on and were resigned to their fate in life. A guy at the end of the line quickly switched over to the next aisle that was moving a bit faster, beating John to the punch.

Across the store, eight aisles over, John noticed the stunning Irish blonde standing out in the crowd like a shining beacon on a foggy night. Like him, she was in line, loading her items on the belt. With dismay, he spotted the highly contested bananas as they slowly made their way towards the cashier.

_Those are mine_ , he thought as he admired her trim figure once again. _Damn banana kidnapper..._

John watched as she turned around and finally spotted him. As their eyes met, he flashed her a wide smile. Deciding for no particular reason to be a butt head, John picked up his bananas and pointed to them. From across the store, she returned him a look that could only best be described as half mad, half flyin' gobshite. Quickly, she turned her attention back to the cashier who started to ring her up.

_Pretty good looking babe_ , John thought with a grin as the elderly woman in front of him slowly shuffled off, having managed to pay for her groceries while simultaneously rebalancing her stock portfolio. _It's not every day a hot blonde touches your banana..._ he said to himself as the young cashier started to ring up his items.

After a few minutes and a swipe of a major credit card later, John was carrying an armful of plastic grocery bags out of the building into the parking lot. A short walk back to the 'Stang, he dropped the bags onto the front seat just as he felt his stomach growl.

_Man, I'm hungry_ , he thought as he started the engine. A busy day at work, he had skipped lunch for an impromptu meeting that lasted way too long for his liking. Looking around carefully, he shifted into reverse and slowly backed out of the parking space as Billie Holiday sang her powerful rendition of _Strange Fruit_.

_Traffic looks a lot lighter now_ , John thought to himself as he gently turned the wooden steering wheel. _I should be home in about ten minutes. Another five to heat up a bachelor healthy meal. Then I can relax in front of the television and catch some of the baseball scores. Maybe I'll even watch a game tonight if the Yankees are on..._

John was brought back to the present when he felt the 'Stang come to an abrupt stop, accompanied by a loud bang. In the center of the wide lane, another car had also pulled out of a space and backed right into him. From the force of the impact, the plastic grocery bags had fallen from the front seat onto the car floor. Looking down, he saw bananas, toilet paper and Roma tomatoes intermingling in one great food orgy.

With a loud "Crap!" John stomped on the brake and threw the Mustang into park. In a flash, he opened the door and hurried back to the scene of the crime.

Surveying the damage done, John saw that the thin rear chrome bumper was dented and pushed in from the impact. To his dismay, the left rear brake light cover was smashed to bits, cracked down all three sections. A thin line of broken red plastic covered the black asphalt parking lot behind the car, looking like a stream of automotive blood.

_Double crap!_ he thought as he analyzed the damage. _Replacement parts for a '67 Mustang are getting harder and harder to find these days!_

He turned to see the driver getting out of the car. His anger subsided a millimeter as he noticed the hot blonde throw open her door. Moving quickly, she stepped to the rear of her car and looked down at the damage.

"Are you okay?" John asked.

As before, she ignored his question and fired back with a loud "And Lord, what were ye thinking? Are ye daft, man?" A fire burned brightly as hot as coals behind her blue eyes as she clenched her fists tightly.

"What was I thinking?" John answered just as loudly. "You backed into me!"

"Shite!" she exclaimed. "Ye came across the car park, drivin' like ye was late for Mass! Probably thinkin' about ya bloody bananas!" She pronounced the word as 'tinkin'.

Abruptly, she turned her back on John and squatted down to examine her car. Even though the damage to the 'Stang was a most serious and heart wrenching situation, John couldn't help but notice her skirt rise to mid-thigh, revealing a shapely leg.

She ran her long manicured fingers across a dent. "Ye put a fine lookin' bump in me boot," she said as she turned back towards him. "And it bein' a rental and all..."

John noticed a small crowd gathering around them. A young, pimply faced boy that had been collecting shopping carts to return back to the store stopped and stared at the proceedings.

"Ouch! That's gonna cost a chunk of change," he said to no one in particular as he pushed a long line of carts by the accident scene. In the midst of puberty, the kid gazed at the Irish beauty's long legs and exquisite figure much more than the damaged cars.

"Aye, the lad is right," the blonde said, shaking her head. "That's gonna tear a few nickels from ya pocket."

Trying his best to control his temper, John took a deep breath and counted to five before saying, "Okay, look, let's not assign fault right now. Let's just move the cars to clear the way, then we can exchange our information for the insurance companies." He added, a bit peeved, "And I'm fine, by the way. Thanks for asking."

The pretty blonde took a step closer to him. The fire in her eyes has now grown to a full-fledged inferno. Squared up to him, she placed her hands on her hips and practically shouted, "How can ya be fine with your arse in two halves, a hole down the middle and no sign of it healin'?"

It was John's turn to shake his head in wonderment as this verbal exchange set the remaining gawkers laughing uncontrollably. A full head smaller than John, she was close enough so that he could smell her perfume.

Funny I didn't notice it before in the store. Kinda like rain falling on a warm spring day...

"Yeah, whatever, babe," he answered dourly, annoyed at her crappy attitude once again. Hoping to smooth out the situation somewhat and to speed things along, John said, "Look, let me show you my driver's license." He reached his arm around to retrieve his wallet from his back pants pocket. As he turned his body, his jacket, which was unbuttoned, pulled open to reveal his holster.

The woman's eyes instantly changed from anger to fear.

"Ack!" she exclaimed loudly. "Are ya gonna shoot me now?" She took yet another step closer to him. "Well, ye'll find I'm not one to be takin' down lightly!"

"No, no," John said, putting his hands up in front of him as he took a step back. "Look. I'm a federal agent." He opened his jacket and reached into his side pocket. Making an exaggerated movement with two fingers, he pulled out his leather billfold.

"See. My name is John DelMonico and I'm a federal agent," he repeated. "We're allowed to carry firearms in the course of our duties."

A bit calmer, the woman carefully scrutinized the identification and badge, then visibly relaxed a bit.

"Think I can see your license now?" John asked.

Wordlessly, the woman turned and walked back to the door of her sedan. Reaching inside for her purse, she pulled out a leather wallet. After a bit of fumbling, she handed a plastic identification to John.

He looked down at the card, a driver's license from Ireland. Grabbing a pen and notepad from the 'Stang's console, he began to copy down her information.

_Siobhan McKenna from_ Dublin, Ireland. He noticed that she was smiling brightly in the photograph. She's very pretty when she's not scowling, he thought as he wrote down the rest of her info.

Just as he handed her back the card, she pulled out another one from the wallet.

"This is me international driving permit," she said, holding it out to him. "It has a local address here in the States."

"Thank you, Miss McKenna."

"You're welcome, Federal Agent DelMonico." For the briefest moment, John sensed that her hard exterior had softened a bit.

_Or just a wee tad_ , he thought, imitating her Irish brogue.

"No need to be formal. You can call me John." As he wrote down her address, he asked, "How do I pronounce your first name? Is it like Si-Bo-Han?"

"Si-Bo-Han?" Her anger flared up just as quickly as before. "Ye daft gobshite!" She reached for her card, almost tearing it out of his hand. "It's pronounced Shev-aun!"

"Sorry, Shev-aun," he repeated with emphasis. "I didn't see the 'V' in your name."

"The 'V' in me name?" she replied slowly. John watched a slow burn bubble up from way down from the depth of her soul. "Tell me something, Federal Agent DelMonico, are you a total bleedin' fool eejit?"

With a look that could melt concrete, she tossed her long blonde hair to the side and rapidly stormed towards her car.

"And ya be hearin' from me solicitor in the morn," the gorgeous woman shouted loudly as she started her car. With a squeal of tires on the black pavement, she yelled out an intense-sounding "Ifreann na fola!" through the open driver's side window as she sped out of the parking lot.

_That didn't sound like 'You're Welcome',_ John thought as, on cue, another piece of red plastic tail light fell, joining its brothers onto the black asphalt.
