by Akart, Bobby
“Dammit!” he yelled loud enough to wake his adjoining neighbors if they hadn’t been awakened already. Shadows of people milling about in the hallway forced Peter to remember he was naked. He raced back to the bedroom and quickly put on a fresh set of clothes.
As he dressed, he tried to remember how long it took the IPAWS system to activate after an ICBM missile launch had been identified. How many minutes did it take to identify the launch? Who did it? Russia? China? North Korea? From where? Land-based or submarines right off our coast somewhere?
Peter gave up and rushed to the closet. He grabbed his black backpack and the tactical sling-style pack that contained his handgun, ammo, and several other items. Within two minutes, he’d filled his backpack with clothing, and he dashed out the door, leaving the lights on and the television playing. There was no time for that. In fact, he wasn’t sure if there was time to escape the number one nuclear target in America, the White House, less than ten miles away.
Peter bulled his way through confused neighbors. He’d never gotten to know them, and now was not the time to introduce himself. He hurdled the shrubs lining the sidewalk outside his building and rushed between parked cars until he reached his Ford Mustang Mach 1. In that moment, he found himself thanking God for the four-hundred-eighty horsepower the car provided him to escape what was coming.
He never slowed down to think about what he was doing. He was frenzied, intent on going as far west as possible. Hiding in a bathtub, or under a desk in a school room, or in the basement of an office building was not going to protect him from the massive firestorm generated by a direct hit on the nation’s capital.
Ten miles away wasn’t enough for Peter. With the gas pedal mashed to the floor, he raced west on South Washington Street, periodically passing slower vehicles by using the wrong side of the road. He risked his life by driving in excess of one hundred miles an hour as he blew past Target and into the suburbs of Falls Church.
Every radio station, both local and on satellite, was repeating the IPAWS warnings. He reached the Capital Beltway Outer Loop and took the north ramp, hoping to get on Interstate 66 for a faster getaway.
Peter glanced at the clock and performed the mental calculations. It had been about thirty-one minutes since the launch of any missiles. Whether from North Korea or the Yasny Launch Base in Dombarovsky in western Russia, Washington, DC, would be hit within five minutes.
He wheeled the Mach 1 through traffic and along the shoulder of the beltway to enter I-66. He used the five westbound lanes and the tight emergency lane against the concrete median to get as far away as possible from the capital.
Suddenly, the sky lit up in his rearview mirror. Peter resisted the urge to get a better look. He knew what it was. He gripped the steering wheel and pressed forward, driving as fast as he could without looking back.
And then, suddenly, without warning, the two-year-old Ford Mustang Mach 1 died.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Thursday, October 24
Near Sacramento, California
By the time the weary travelers had reached the Eisenhower Highway, the traffic was at a standstill due to an accident at Blue Canyon some forty miles away. The hotels around the Auburn exit were packed, with many people sleeping in their cars. It was half an hour before midnight when Owen said they needed to decide if they were gonna pitch a tent or keep going. They opted to stop and set up camp.
They backtracked several miles on Highway 49, known as the Golden Chain Highway, so named to honor the 49ers, waves of immigrants and easterners who flocked to Northern California in search of gold in the mid-nineteenth century.
They pulled off into a parking lot adjacent to a walking trail built alongside the North Fork of the American River. The rocky cliffs overlooking the dark blue water would be an idyllic site to wake up to the next morning to continue their trip to Lake Tahoe.
The expert campers had retrieved only the gear necessary to set up their family tent and the extreme-cold-weather sleeping bags to snuggle into for the night. While Owen and Lacey speculated about the exodus of people and where they were going, most likely Reno or Salt Lake City, Tucker spent some time on his cell phone.
He was struggling to get a cell signal. If he held the phone a certain way, one bar would appear. When it did, he scoured the web for news. It was more of the same, so it didn’t hold his interest. The long day was making him drowsy, and he was about to power down his phone when he decided to conduct one more search.
During their trial run, both he and his mom had vowed to always know where the nearest fallout shelter was located for so long as this crisis was hanging over them. His first search, fallout shelters near me, yielded no results.
He lost the cell signal again and put the phone away for the night. But the issue nagged at him. He tried to search a different way. He recalled his dad telling him about the elementary school near the Dumbarton Bridge. Tucker searched for schools near his location, and the first result was Placer High just a few miles away. He navigated to the school’s website and began clicking on all the available links. Then he found what he was looking for, sort of.
The Placer High website touted a number of apps that were suggested to make student life better. One was the STOPit app that allowed students to anonymously report situations like bullying or sexual assaults. They also suggested the same disaster app relied upon by millions of Californians, only to be fooled by a false alarm. On that page, he found what he was looking for. The recognizable graphic comprised of three yellow triangles on a black circle.
With his eyes drooping from exhaustion, Tucker navigated to his Google Earth app and clicked on the little yellow man, as he called the Pegman found on Google map applications. He dragged and dropped Pegman onto the street in front of the school. He rotated the school into view and slowly moved down the streets to study the fronts of the various buildings. He came to Agard Street in front of the basketball gym, and he barely saw it. The fallout shelter sign was attached to the white stucco and tucked behind a large overgrown bush. It had faded from the sun hitting it from the west in the past, but it was definitely there.
Satisfied with his efforts, he powered down the phone and fell asleep.
Until seventeen minutes after midnight.
All three of their cell phones were jolted out of sleep mode simultaneously. Their initial reaction was different from most Americans from coast to coast that sounded like this:
“What’s that?”
“Did somebody set the alarm?”
“Is that damn disaster app malfunctioning again?”
“Do you think we should check it out?”
“I’m going back to sleep. Let me know what you find out, will ya?”
Lacey and her family had heeded the warnings given to them by her brother. She was able to trust Peter’s judgment, and they immediately sprang into action.
She found her phone and read the alert aloud. It was the same one that had wrestled her dad and uncle out of bed three time zones away, as well as Peter, who was the closest of the family to a high-profile target.
Tucker was the first to speak. “What do we do, Dad?”
Owen thought for a moment before responding, “Okay, guys. Let’s stay calm and think this through. We’re over a hundred miles away from San Francisco. I’m pretty sure that’s beyond the blast radius.”
“What if they miss?” asked Lacey. Then she clarified. “What if this is real and whoever fired the missile overshot their target?”
Owen climbed out of his sleeping bags and rested on his knees. He went to the Yahoo! News home page to see if any form of announcement had been made.
“I guess that’s possible, but I don’t think it’s—”
“There’s a fallout shelter down the street,” Tucker blurted out. “It’s a high school. We kinda passed it when we drove back here. I swear it’s only a few miles.”
“Owen, let’s go there,” Lacey pleaded. “Just to be safe.”
Owen glanced at hi
s watch. Remarkably, it had been several minutes. “Come on. Gather everything up and shove it in the truck.”
“I’ve got room in the backseat,” Tucker offered as he slipped out of his sleeping bag and unzipped the tent door.
Lacey began to hand him their sleeping bags and inflatable pillows through the opening. Within a minute, the three of them had cleared out the tent, and Tucker was running up the hill to the truck.
The ballistic missile warning continued. Inside the Expedition, Owen drove quickly along the winding mountainous road, being cognizant of the trailer he was towing. Lacey frantically searched the radio for information that didn’t consist of the monotonous, repeated warning.
Tucker leaned forward and rested his arms on his parents’ seats. He held his phone so he could follow their progress on the Google Map app.
“Turn left at the stoplight by that bicycle store over there,” he began, pointing toward the intersection. “That’s Lewis Street. Then take a right when the street ends.”
In less than a minute, Owen had steered the truck onto Orange Street. After driving several blocks through a residential neighborhood, they began to see brake lights ahead.
“Everybody else had the same idea,” said Owen calmly. “Same thing happened at Patterson Elementary the other day. There wasn’t a fallout shelter anyway.”
“There’s one here, Dad. I saw the sign on the map. I swear.”
“Park the truck, Owen,” suggested Lacey.
“What?”
“We’re running out of time,” replied Lacey in a much firmer tone. “Park the truck. We have to beat all of these people in the door.”
Chapter Fifty
Thursday, October 24
Near Sacramento, California
“Follow me!” shouted Tucker as he dashed between slow-moving cars headed toward the front of the high school. He crossed Orange Street and raced across Finley Street, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to confirm his parents were keeping up. When he reached a short flight of steps leading to a sidewalk to the left of the school’s main building, he waited for his parents. He caught his breath and looked around at the traffic.
Everyone was waiting in line to turn left toward the auditorium as if they were dropping their kids off for a basketball game. Follow the leader, Tucker thought to himself. Like sheep walking off a cliff.
“Where to?” Owen asked.
“Let’s see if there’s a back way,” replied Tucker. “Come on!”
He led them down the side of the one-story administration building until they reached a courtyard filled with benches and trees. Tucker used his recollection of the high school’s layout on the map to wind his way through several classroom buildings until he arrived at the two-story, white stucco auditorium.
“There are people gathered around the front of the building,” observed Lacey, pointing toward the front of the gymnasium on Agard Street.
Owen started running that way when Tucker called his name.
“Dad, wait! I’ve got a hunch.” Like father, like son.
Owen stopped, and Tucker ran down the back of the gym, trying all the door handles. He reached the middle of the building and found one door ajar, propped open by a gray metal wastebasket.
“Here!” He waved his arm like a third-base coach imploring his runner to head for home plate.
His parents quickly joined him, and seconds later the trio was inside the hallways. Shouts and crying could be heard echoing through the mostly empty building.
“Spread out,” instructed Owen. “Tucker and I will take each end of this corridor. Lacey, you head through the gym to the front. Try to text, or meet back here once you find the entrance to the shelter.”
They took off in their separate directions in search of the stairwell leading below the gymnasium floor. Once again, Tucker’s instincts paid off. He reached the end of the hallway and found a door marked concessions. He opened it slightly to listen.
Hurried voices shouting instructions could be heard from the other end of the space filled with refrigeration equipment and sales counters. He moved closer to the ruckus and found people pushing and shoving toward the rear of the concession’s storage area.
He turned and rushed back into the rear corridor that ran the length of the building. His parents stood in the dimly lit hall, looking in his direction.
“I found it! Hurry! There are a lot of people trying to get in.”
The family was off and running again. They followed Tucker into the concession area, and then they merged with the crowd, who continued to shove their way toward a single door entrance.
The three of them held hands and then locked arms to prevent being separated by the crowd attempting to force their way inside.
“What’s taking so long?” asked Owen, who glanced at his watch. It had only been sixteen minutes since the alarm was sounded.
They were being shoved from behind, but they managed to keep their balance. Babies were crying, as were their mothers. Somebody in the rear screamed women and children first. The McDowells silently disagreed as they kept their place in line.
When they finally reached the doorway, a man dressed in the green-and-gold school colors with Placer emblazoned across the sweatshirt flanked the door along with a uniformed police officer.
Owen arrived at the door first.
“ID!” the officer shouted.
“What?” asked Owen, who was genuinely confused as to what the purpose of presenting identification was.
“ID, sir! We need to confirm you’re a resident. Let’s go.”
Owen started to reach for his wallet, and then Lacey grabbed his arm.
“We were afraid and ran out the door. We don’t have it.” She presumed, rightfully so, that they would try to turn back someone from outside their community.
“Where do you live?” the Placer coach asked.
“Over on Finley,” replied Tucker.
His observance of his surroundings and quick thinking paid off. They were waved through, and the next group of refugees was interrogated.
Once inside, they descended two flights of concrete stairs to the bottom of the structure. Fluorescent lights flickered, causing all three of them to squint to avoid the strobe effect. They followed another group through a single thick steel door into a large room that was illuminated with more fluorescent lighting.
It was dank and smelled musty. There appeared to be little or no ventilation, causing the trio to gasp for air slightly. The excited occupants, all of whom were chatting nervously, exacerbated the problem.
“Let’s ease away from the door,” suggested Owen.
They grasped each other by the hand and moved through the crowd toward the concrete wall. Slowly, they made their way to the back of the space until they reached a series of corrugated roll-up doors locked closed with padlocks.
“That’s it!” someone shouted.
“No more!” yelled another.
The shouts of those safely in the bunker began to explode in unison. Owen glanced at his watch. He understood why. The nuke could strike at any moment.
“Let us in!” a woman demanded from outside the protective bunker.
“There’s just four of us!” argued another.
“I’m a single,” shouted one woman as if she were waiting in line at a Disneyland ride.
“You can’t leave us out here!” begged a woman through her sobs.
The cries for help and admittance rose to a crescendo outside the shelter. Inside, the voices were equally loud as people demanded they close the door. Eventually, the insiders won out, and the metallic sound of the nuclear-hardened blast door closing and locking shut was heard.
This final act of separating the refugees from the horrors possibly awaiting those on the outside instantly brought a hush throughout the shelter.
Everyone held their breath as they waited. They strained to listen. Some studied their watches and whispered to their loved ones. Parents tried in vain to calm their crying children.
Others could be heard openly praying. Some simply closed their eyes, held hands with the person closest to them, and waited for the nightmare to be over.
They didn’t have to wait long. Three minutes later, the ground shook as if a seismic wave from an earthquake had swept over them. Decades of brittle concrete and dust fell from the ceiling, coating the occupants in the grayish-white debris.
Screams filled the air as everyone found God in that moment. For those who hadn’t, that all changed when the power suddenly went out, thrusting them into pitch-black darkness.
THANK YOU FOR READING NUCLEAR WINTER: FIRST STRIKE!
If you enjoyed it, I’d be grateful if you’d take a moment to write a short review (just a few words are needed) and post it on Amazon. Amazon uses complicated algorithms to determine what books are recommended to readers. Sales are, of course, a factor, but so are the quantities of reviews my books get. By taking a few seconds to leave a review, you help me out and also help new readers learn about my work.
Sign up to my email list to learn about upcoming titles, deals, contests, appearances, and more!
Sign up at BobbyAkart.com
VISIT my feature page at Amazon.com/BobbyAkart for more information on my other action-packed thrillers, which includes over forty Amazon #1 bestsellers in forty-plus fiction and nonfiction genres.
NUCLEAR WINTER: ARMAGEDDON, book two in this epic survival thriller.
Other Works by Amazon Charts Top 25 Author Bobby Akart
Nuclear Winter
First Strike
Armageddon
Whiteout
Desolation
New Madrid (a standalone, disaster thriller)
Odessa (a Gunner Fox trilogy)