I did some quick figuring and knew, assuming they held to this pace, that I had at least thirty hours if I did not move from the Outer Banks. This was critical, because I soon found I’d never get off the island heading north. Cars, SUVs, pick-ups all crushed onto the narrow bridge leading off the island. I could see from a distance that panic had seized the evacuees, horns blasted, bigger vehicles simply pushed smaller ones out of the way, crumpled metal and insurance claims be damned. In minutes the route would be impassable and violence loomed.
I spun south instead, but soon saw my mistake. Nobody paid attention to traffic arrows at this point. Even the southbound lanes were filling with northbound drivers. I sped along the shoulder for about a mile, but finally came to a stop on a sand
