Nuclear Winter Devil Storm: Post Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (Nuclear Winter Series Book 4)

by Bobby Akart

  Residents used the space under their homes to park cars and boats, as well as other things, much like anyone would use a garage space. Access to the homes might be via an elevator that opened into the ground floor or by steps leading onto decks.

  They backed off their frenetic pace to a brisk walk as they entered Hazel Street, where the houses were located. Peter was by Jimmy’s side now.

  “Did you notice the squatters hanging around?” Peter asked in a loud whisper so he could be heard over the storm.

  “Yeah. Apparently we’re not the only ones looking for a place to hide away. Different reasons, of course.”

  Peter pointed to their left. “Those facing the bay are easily two million plus.”

  “Yeah, and that’s where they’ll look for us. We need something busted up. Um, like this one.”

  Immediately across the street from a gorgeous three-story home overlooking Manatee Bay was an unremarkable, rectangular home built on stilts. It resembled a Jim Walter modular home placed on pilings. Its aluminum windows and lack of landscaping made it unattractive to the refugees, who were looking for a luxurious place to ride out the storm in comparison to the simple homes on the other side of the street.

  Suddenly, the headlights of an approaching Humvee caught their attention. The guys darted down the crushed-shell driveway toward an entry door leading to the carport under the house. There was a single car parked underneath, something they couldn’t see from the road.

  “They’re going house to house,” said Peter, who glanced over his shoulder to follow the slow-moving Humvee.

  “Hurry,” said Jimmy loudly as he raced ahead toward the entry door. His face was beginning to ooze blood as a result of his overexertion and being slapped with palmetto tree fronds as they’d run away from the entrance to the community.

  Peter pushed past him and arrived at the door first. He grabbed the doorknob.

  “It’s locked.”

  He looked around, as did Jimmy. The Humvee had stopped in the center of the road several houses down. Shouts could be heard as they barked orders to anyone they encountered.

  The guys moved underneath the building in the direction of the water and the home’s dock. A Jeep Wrangler sat underneath the house, with a cab cover stretched over it. They made their way around the back of the house to the deck stairs leading up to the main level. Soaked with salty rainwater, the guys slowly made their way up the slippery stairs.

  Peter reached the wraparound deck first, where it was the hand of God that saved his life.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Thursday, November 7

  Manatee Bay Club

  Overseas Highway

  Key Largo

  BOOM!

  The shotgun blast flew over Peter’s head. Had he not lost his balance on the rain-soaked steps and fallen to his knees, he would’ve been decapitated by the pellets.

  Peter had been through this before. He didn’t bother pleading with the shooter. He rolled over and slid down the steps on his backside until Jimmy grabbed him by the arms and pulled him up.

  BOOM!

  Peter felt the air displaced by the pellets as they soared over their heads and ripped through the fronds of a solitary date palm tree that had grown to the height of the house. The orange-colored, edible fruit mixed with the blowing rain peppered the guys’ heads below it.

  Headlights suddenly appeared, washing over the driveway and then finding the side of the house. Jimmy slapped Peter’s chest and began running toward the water. They gathered steam as they made their way down a slight incline to the floating dock at the side of the home.

  Without regard to his injuries, Jimmy flung his body into the water. With his arms outstretched over his head, the splash was barely heard over the howling winds. Peter mimicked his friend, although he wasn’t quite as graceful. The slight belly flop almost knocked the wind out of him and made a noticeable splash compared to Jimmy’s effort.

  Nonetheless, within seconds, they were halfway across the canals that separated the properties and their boats, without being noticed by their pursuers. Jimmy, a much faster swimmer, arrived at the dock on the other side of the water first. He located a wooden ladder that stretched into the water and climbed up a couple of rungs to get Peter’s attention.

  Once Peter arrived, Jimmy tried to listen to the conversations at the house where they had almost been shot. The soldiers were questioning the homeowner, but he couldn’t make out what was being said. The three uniformed guardsmen walked to the water’s edge behind the house and began looking along the dock. They illuminated the flashlights on their rifles and began to slowly sweep the grounds, the docks, and the water that surrounded three sides of the small house.

  “We’re gonna be trapped if we don’t find a place to hide,” said Peter.

  “Maybe. Come on.” Jimmy quickly climbed out of the water and helped Peter. They used the docked boats as cover as they slowly walked across a vacant lot toward a large house at the end of the street.

  It was a home straight out of an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. The entry was protected with an ornate iron gate that included two tall posts holding security cameras. The red flashing lights indicated the driveway was monitored and that the property still had power.

  They dashed under several areca palms and crouched behind a white pickup truck parked half on and half off the driveway.

  “Jimmy, we gotta do something, but I’m not interested in getting shot at again.”

  Jimmy crouched and moved to the back of the pickup so his movements wouldn’t be picked up on camera. The Humvee was joined by a second one. The third must’ve left or continued searching elsewhere.

  “I got it,” Jimmy said finally. He turned to look back toward the house. There were no other lights on and no indication that security cameras were filming from the house itself. He patted Peter on the shoulder and began running toward the water where the security fence and a row of palm trees ran toward a seawall built to prevent the rolling waves from eroding the shoreline.

  Peter dutifully followed until they reached the wrought-iron fence. Holding onto the pickets, the guys slipped into the water until they were waist deep and then swung their bodies around the end of the fence. Once on the property, they got a lay of the land.

  The guys ran up the walkway toward the house. A large waterfall flanked both sides of the entryway, which included a set of two-story-tall storm shutters that utilized mechanical arms to cover the glass. An iron swing gate marked the entry point into a large courtyard that extended under the house. It was locked, so they moved quickly to the left toward the bay. The home was built like a fortress and appeared to be impenetrable.

  Every part of the property was utilized with some form of hardscapes. A large, kidney-shaped pool was at the rear of the house although the heavy rains and storm surge had flooded it. Around the rear of the house was an undersized croquet court that was full of puddling water. Another iron gate sealed the entrance to the sweeping concrete stairs leading up to the main floor of the home.

  The guys continued to walk around the perimeter of the house until they reached a grouping of coquina rocks that formed a tropical garden. Jimmy was the first to climb to the top and surveyed their options.

  “You wanna break in?” asked Peter. “We’re at the end of the road.”

  “I can’t guarantee we won’t get shot at,” Jimmy replied with a sigh.

  “What else have we got?” As soon as he’d finished his question, Peter’s head snapped around and looked through the home’s pilings toward the front entry.

  Two Humvees were slowly approaching the home’s gated entry. They’d spread apart so that the entire front entrance was lit up with the trucks’ headlights.

  “They’ve got a pretty big boathouse. Let’s try there first.”

  The guys ran around the side of the house farthest away from the entrance. They raced along the yard where the overgrown St. Augustine grass met the riprap that prevented the built-u
p lot from washing away with every storm. A boathouse structure that resembled a miniature version of the main house appeared in front of them. Its stucco walls and round, rotunda-style roof with a wraparound deck on top would be suitable to live in by most anyone in the Keys.

  Peter tried the door and was relieved when it flung open with the aid of the wind. Inside was a thirty-eight-foot speedboat. The long nose and sleek shape were familiar to Peter. He’d seen cigarette boats around the Florida Keys his entire life. They’d stopped making them years ago, but the used ones were highly sought after by connoisseurs.

  “Let’s check it out,” said Jimmy, who once again ran inside without waiting for Peter.

  They made their way into the dark building, which smelled of salt water and dead fish. Peter quickly closed the door behind them. He located an iron latch on the inside of the door and secured it. At the very least, he thought, it might act as a deterrent to the soldiers who were pursuing them.

  “I’ll check the boat for the keys,” said Peter, who used his familiarity with go-fast boats to conduct his search. While he did, Jimmy peered through the porthole-style windows to determine if the guardsmen were coming inside the compound.

  While frequently monitoring the activity outside, Jimmy checked all the cabinets and toolboxes, hoping the owners kept the keys in the boathouse for convenience’s sake. He paused at the windows to check the soldiers’ movements. Thus far, they were content waiting by the gate.

  Peter emerged from the sleeping compartment in the hull of the powerboat. “I tore that thing apart. There’s nothing.”

  “Crap!” said Jimmy. He cupped his face and pressed it to one of the glass portholes. “The third truck is here. They must know they have us trapped.”

  “Are they making a move on the gate?” asked Peter as he jumped out of the boat and made his way to a window near the boathouse door.

  “Not so far.”

  Peter focused his attention on the house. “I don’t see any lights coming on inside. If these cameras are being monitored, you’d think the damn Army at your gate would bring them out of the house.”

  Jimmy interrupted. “Wait! They’re coming.”

  “Around the fence?”

  “No,” Jimmy answered, his voice somewhat high pitched due to anxiety. “They’ve pushed it open with the third truck. And, um, they’ve got help.”

  Peter and Jimmy studied the soldiers’ movements. After the gate was forced open, two armed guardsmen came up the driveway first. They were flanked by a third soldier, who was being led by an overly excited dog.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Thursday, November 7

  Manatee Bay Club

  Overseas Highway

  Key Largo

  The Belgian Malinois, also known as a Belgian sheepdog, had become the dog of choice for police and military work. They were smaller and more agile than German shepherds and generally had fewer health issues. Trainers and handlers loved the breed due to their intense drive and focus. They rarely became distracted when tracking a suspect.

  The dog began barking excitedly and pulled his handler toward the house. As he did, Peter looked away and turned to Jimmy.

  “That is the same kind of dog the Secret Service uses. I’ve seen them in action. He’ll track our every step and lead them right to this door.” He waved at the boathouse door behind him.

  Jimmy paced the inside platform surrounding the cigarette boat. He continuously glanced into the rafters at the two personal watercraft suspended above the speedboat. They were held in place by two steel cables that were attached to a harness wrapped underneath the PWCs.

  “I think I can hot-wire one of those,” he said, pointing up to the rafters. The WaveRunners swayed gently back and forth as the wind periodically swirled and found its way to the leeward side of the property.

  “We’re gonna have to move this thing out of the way,” said Peter, pointing at the cigarette boat.

  The sound of the Belgian sheepdog barking at the rear of the house near the pool indicated the guards were halfway through their search. It gave the guys an increased sense of urgency.

  “Untie these dock lines,” ordered Jimmy. “I’ll get the other side. We can push it out into the canal without them seeing it. That’ll give us time to lower the WaveRunners.”

  Working together, the guys pushed the heavy boat halfway out of the boathouse. Then the wind began to fight against them and tried to force it back inside. They struggled for nearly half a minute until the bow nudged its way out. With one final shove, they forced it out far enough to let the waves and wind finish the job. Soon, the expensive boat was aimlessly adrift, rocking on the waves toward the boats tied off on the other side of the canal.

  Neither of them bothered to watch the speedboat’s demise. Instead, they frantically turned the handles on the wall-mounted cranks. The WaveRunners were lowered together, with Jimmy’s landing in the water first.

  Using a fishing gaff, Jimmy pulled the Yamaha WaveRunner over toward the platform. He slowly slid his body off the wooden dock until both of his feet were securely in place on the WaveRunner.

  “We’re in business!” he shouted a little too loudly.

  Whether it was his excited tone of voice or the fact that the military dog felt he was closing on his prey, the dog began barking rapidly. “I’ve got the remote transmitter.”

  Some PWC models didn’t use keys in the traditional sense. A few had alternative security measures like a push-button keypad, while others, like these particular WaveRunners, utilized an electronic key fob similar to the kind used for cars. Jimmy found the key fob attached to a floating keyring that was slung over the grip of the handlebars.

  The sound of the dog barking was closer, panicking Peter. He whipped the crank around and around until his WaveRunner fell into the water with a loud splash. The wake it created caused Jimmy to rock back and forth. The momentum of the other WaveRunner carried across the water until their bumpers were crashing into each other.

  Jimmy held the second watercraft in place until Peter lowered himself into the water and boarded it from the rear. He raised his hand and exchanged high fives with his best friend. The two riding WaveRunners together was reminiscent of their days growing up after school. It had been their preferred method of transportation when traveling around the Keys.

  WOOF! WOOF, WOOF!

  The dog was at the door, and the soldiers were yelling to one another.

  “Cover the back!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “You! Inside. Open up and come out with your hands raised high. This will not end well if you don’t!”

  Jimmy and Peter exchanged glances. There was no doubt what they intended to do. With the flip of a switch and the press of a button, the Yamahas fired up. Jimmy didn’t hesitate. He gave his machine its full throttle, and he jumped forward through the end of the boathouse.

  Peter was close behind, following in Jimmy’s wake. Jimmy made a wide, sweeping left turn just as bullets splashed in the water all around them. The lack of light and the adverse conditions made it impossible for the National Guardsmen to take an accurate shot. They fired hoping to get lucky, and the dog roared his disapproval at the fleeing prey.

  In less than a minute, Peter and Jimmy were crashing through the waves created by the hurricane that was pummeling the Florida Keys. And, at the time, they were in the relatively safe waters of the hurricane hole located at Manatee Bay. By the time they entered Barnes Sound, their visibility was reduced to near zero, and the blowing rain stung so hard that Jimmy’s somewhat healed wounds began to bleed.

  Using their knowledge of the shorelines from one end of the Keys to the other, the guys located the entrance to Jewfish Creek. They slowed as they approached where the bridge had once carried tens of thousands of cars and trucks daily. Now it had disappeared beneath the water’s surface, leaving a mangled opening that Jimmy was all too familiar with.

  Several bodies floated in the middle of the creek while others were se
en tangled in the razor wire at the shoreline. The metallic smell of blood mixed with the brackish water forced both men to cover their mouths and noses with their shirtsleeves.

  At Gilbert’s Resort on the right, refugees yelled at Peter and Jimmy as they slowly drove past. Several National Guard vehicles could be seen parked at the hotel and restaurant. At that point, the guardsmen were unaware that the guys were fugitives escaping their comrades’ pursuit.

  Once they cleared Gilbert’s Resort, they accelerated slightly into Blackwater Sound, where the eye wall of the hurricane would soon greet them.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Thursday, November 7

  Key West

  Hank had no allies to call upon for a ride back to the hospital. The streets were packed with locals commiserating about the coming hurricane while frantically boarding up windows, as they’d done so many times in the past. Only, the storm was upon them, and the winds weren’t cooperating.

  To clear his head and process what he’d learned, Hank chose to jog the four miles back to the Lower Keys Medical Center. After a mile, he became winded and blamed his lack of energy on the fact he hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. Of course, being out of shape had nothing to do with it. After that first mile or so, he alternated between a brisk walk and a jog. During the forty-minute jaunt through the increasingly rain-covered streets of Key West, his thoughts alternated between the conversation he’d had with Lindsey and the one he dreaded having with Jimmy’s parents.

  He needed help to organize a search party for Jimmy. It would have to wait until after the storm passed. He passed a group of people huddled in the portico entry of a closed hotel. They were holding one another to keep warm as the wind-driven rain pelted them.