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

by Bobby Akart

  Hank tried to put their plight out of his mind and returned to his thoughts. Something had struck Hank as odd from his encounter with Lindsey. He hadn’t seen any computer-generated satellite imagery in the documents she had been studying. In fact, unless something had changed, he didn’t believe Monroe County’s government had internet access due to the collapse of the power grid.

  They had been studying maps and fishing charts. The government personnel were resorting to handwritten notes. How could they even know what the track or the intensity of the storm was? Unless, of course, they’d learned about it like they did in the old days via word-of-mouth. Hank began to understand how people in the Midwest felt about tornadoes. The vicious, deadly wind events often came without warning. Meteorological advances provided the ability to issue warnings, but tornadoes were the most unpredictable weather threat man faced.

  Hurricanes were different. NOAA and the National Hurricane Center had an abundance of resources at their disposal. For days if not weeks, people knew when they were in the path of a deadly storm. Whether they chose to get out of the way was up to them.

  What was apparently happening now was more akin to a tornado. In the middle of the night, without warning, a hurricane had drawn a bead on the Florida Keys, and people would be caught unaware. Hank had no way of notifying Sonny and Phoebe other than to race back to Driftwood Key before it hit.

  He picked up the pace and began to run toward the hospital. He’d have to convince Jessica to leave Mike’s bedside and return to Driftwood Key. If the frantic scene at the county administration building was any indication, they might not have much time.

  He slowed his pace and caught his breath as he entered the emergency room waiting area. Without checking in, he walked briskly down the hall to the room where Mike had been kept as he recovered. Mike was gone, and another patient now occupied the room.

  Hank swirled around and approached the nurses’ station. “Where’s Mike Albright? He was there when I left earlier.” Hank gestured toward the trauma wing.

  “And you are?” the nurse asked, looking over her reading glasses.

  “Hank, his brother.”

  She thumbed through a large three-ring binder. Apparently, the hospital was minimizing the amount of electricity used as their generators worked overtime, and chose not to bother with computers.

  “Through those doors is the north wing, or trauma recovery. Rooms are to your right, and the nurses’ station will be on your left.”

  Hank thanked her for her help and hustled down the corridor in search of the nurses’ station. He was almost upon it when Jessica emerged from one of the recovery rooms.

  “Hank, in here. Quickly.”

  His heart rate soared. He was immediately concerned that his brother had taken a turn for the worse. He ran down toward Jessica, who held the door open until he was inside. Much to his relief, Mike was sitting upright in the bed and was apparently fine.

  “Did you have any luck?” Mike asked without a hint of the respiratory issues that had beset him as a result of the knife wound.

  “No. Stonewalled at every turn. The sheriff’s a coward, and Lindsey’s a … well, no help.”

  Jessica offered Hank a bottle of water. After the four-mile trek from downtown Key West, he was both winded and sweaty. He took a deep breath and then several long gulps of the spring water. As he did, Jessica reported what she’d learned.

  “I went to the sheriff’s department to look for you, but I guess you’d already left. Hank, they tell me a hurricane’s coming. A big one, actually. They wanted me to stay to help, but I danced around the issue.”

  “Actually, tell Hank how you lied,” said Mike.

  Jessica rolled her eyes. “Okay, I lied. I told them I was gonna check on Mike, and then I’d report for the graveyard shift. Hank, I’m not going in.”

  “Won’t you get fired?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. Mike and I talked about it. It’s time for us to take care of our family and Driftwood Key.”

  Hank looked toward Mike, who continued to stare at him, presumably to gauge his reaction to the news. Hank turned to Jessica and asked, “Did you hear anything about the storm’s timing? I learned about it while in Lindsey’s office, but she didn’t exactly offer any details.”

  “Within the next couple of hours,” she replied. “We need to hurry.”

  “What about Mike?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Mike answered in a tone of voice that brought the issue to a close. “You guys hit the road, or the water. Jess, it’ll be your call. You know how to access the vehicle pool, right?”

  She laughed as she replied, “It would be grand theft auto at this point.”

  “No, not necessarily. You’re still a county employee until terminated. Same for me.”

  Jessica leaned over his bed and planted a kiss on his forehead. “I love you. Follow your doctor’s orders for a change, okay?”

  “Aye-aye, cap’n,” he said with a weak attempt at a snappy salute. Mike was still sore all over.

  He and Hank exchanged a half-hug as they said their goodbyes. Mike promised he’d join them at Driftwood Key soon and not to worry about picking him up. Jessica tried to argue, but he insisted before shooing them both out of his room.

  Once they made their way outside the front of the hospital, they began briskly walking toward Sunset Marina. The winds had picked up and were now sustained in the forty-to-fifty-mile-per-hour range. They were much stronger than just an hour ago when he’d left the mayor’s office.

  Hank sensed a hurricane was barreling down on the Keys, and he hesitated to take the boat back home. However, Jessica successfully argued that the roads were still clogged, and it would take some time for her to secure a vehicle. They were out of time and had no choice.

  She was right.

  Part III

  Day twenty-two, Friday, November 8

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Friday, November 8

  Blackwater Sound

  Florida Bay

  Personal watercraft were made for frolicking upon, not navigating the open seas. Those who enjoyed the water jumped waves, raced friends, and drove in circles as the exhilarating experience coursed through their veins. PWCs were the water enthusiast’s version of the motorcycle.

  They certainly were not meant for use during a hurricane.

  Unlike boats with sophisticated electronics guiding the user through darkness and inclement weather, the riders of PWCs had to rely upon visual, line-of-sight navigation. There was no map or compass. GPS wasn’t a standard feature on a Yamaha WaveRunner. Celestial navigation using the stars was out of the question during a storm.

  In a hurricane, and under the conditions created by nuclear winter, if the rider was more than a thousand feet from the shoreline, they had to rely on gut and instinct. If their mind was cluttered, or they lost focus, even an experienced rider could easily get confused, turned around, or lost altogether.

  Still concerned with being caught by the National Guard, Peter opened up the throttle and rushed into Blackwater Sound. Jimmy was close behind him, riding his WaveRunner just outside Peter’s wake.

  Because the pursuit was still fresh in their minds, they moved faster and faster toward Florida Bay, the body of water that was located between South Florida and the Keys. It was akin to the driver of a car who’d been flying along the interstate for several hundred miles at seventy-five miles an hour only to forget he needed to slow down as he entered the exit ramp. Peter and Jimmy were in the clear. They’d escaped their pursuers. They were less than a mile from Key Largo and a long walk home. Yet their fear-filled minds dictated otherwise.

  The square-shaped Blackwater Sound was almost three miles across. It was surrounded by an almost impenetrable barrier of mangrove-covered sandbars forming a semicircle from the north at the Overseas Highway, into Florida Bay and down to the south at Dusenbury Creek, where the police had discovered one of Patrick’s victims near Key Largo.

  On a typ
ical Florida-sunshine day, the guys would’ve been able to easily see the shoreline at Key Largo as well as the Boggies, the small main channel that cuts through the mangroves, leading to the open water.

  The feeder bands of the hurricane had become fiercer. Peter tried to gauge the direction the storm was traveling, but without knowing its origin, whether it was formed in the Atlantic or the Gulf, he was simply guessing.

  He and Jimmy were both experienced WaveRunner riders although they knew better than to get caught out in a storm, especially at night. Residents of the Florida Keys always kept one eye on the weather. It was ingrained in every native of the island chain.

  Growing up, there had been times before a hurricane was about to hit that the guys would take their WaveRunners out into the open waters for a quick joyride. They understood there was a difference between choppy water and rough water.

  Choppy water referred to one-to-two-foot swells that could be caused by high winds or even a large boat passing. WaveRunner enthusiasts loved trailing a motor yacht motoring along near Driftwood Key. Their adrenaline would surge as they jumped the waves, oftentimes alongside a pod of dolphins.

  Rough water was considered dangerous, as the waves were typically above three feet. Hurricane-force winds generated that kind of wave activity, and even the most daring, fearless teen knew better than to challenge a wave crest that rose taller than their PWC.

  To attack waves of that size, the most important thing Peter had learned was to stand up from the saddle. Riding in a crouched or even standing position let him use his legs like shock absorbers. It also enabled him to see his surroundings better amidst the high swells of water.

  Peter slowed his pace, finally recalling the best way to ride in harsh weather was to keep his speed slow and consistent. Now was not the time for fast runs or aggressive accelerations. Wave jumping could be fun, but not in the midst of a hurricane under pitch-black conditions.

  As he slowed, he glanced over his shoulder to confirm Jimmy was still behind him. His friend was hunched over the handlebars like a Jedi Knight hunched over a speeder bike. The strong wind coupled with the tall waves pelted both of them but was especially painful to someone whose face was covered with open wounds, and their eyes weren’t covered with protective goggles.

  Peter could only imagine how the rain mixed with salt water was stinging Jimmy’s injured face. Wind-driven rain was painful anytime, he thought to himself. As a result of his empathy, he made a critical mistake.

  He wanted to let Jimmy catch his breath and allow his face to get a respite from the deluge. He slowly released the throttle and held his right arm out to let Jimmy know he intended to stop. The waves, which were cresting at nearly two feet in the protected sound, had been battering the hulls of their WaveRunners, and even as he slowed, the rollicking water caused him to sway back and forth.

  It also turned them around, causing them to lose their bearings. Key Largo was no longer to their left, as it had been when they’d exited Jewfish Creek. It was, well, they had no idea.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Friday, November 8

  Driftwood Key

  Jessica had to yell to overcome the roar of the wind. “Hank! The wind keeps shifting, so I can’t let it carry us alongside the dock. I’m gonna take it in bow first. I need you to loop the line around the cleat a couple of times. Then I’ll bring the stern about.”

  “On it!” he hollered back. Hank positioned himself by kneeling on the seat cushions near the open bow and readied the rope. Jess had already tried to fight the wind and waves to parallel park the vessel. The hurricane wasn’t gonna let that happen.

  Jess pointed the bow so that it was perpendicular to the dock. This allowed her to reverse direction if they were blown forward. Her careful touch and finessing of the wheel did the job. Hank leaned forward and threw the line so that it was around the cleat at roughly half the line’s length. Then he pulled the line to tug the boat closer to the dock until the bow almost touched it. A wave rolled over the boat, forcing Jessica to reverse the engine’s power slightly to prevent the bow from crashing into the dock.

  Once Hank gave her a thumbs-up, using the secured line as leverage, she swung the rear around and quickly raced to the stern line. Her technique minimized the turning effects of the wind by her aggressive use of the throttle coupled with quick-reaction steering.

  After securing the bumpers so the boat didn’t get pummeled during the hurricane, they disembarked and immediately checked on the Hatteras. Apparently, Sonny had beaten them to the task. He’d battened down the hatches, as the saying goes, by closing any openings below deck and covering the windows with taut tarps.

  The two of them fought the crosswinds and headed toward the main house. Between the blowing rain and the lack of power, it was difficult to make out any of the buildings near the shoreline of Driftwood Key.

  The twenty-nine-acre island was on the leeward side of the Keys to the storm, but it didn’t really gain the benefit of a buffer. It was located along one of the thinnest stretches of Marathon. The narrow strip of land did nothing to slow or weaken a hurricane.

  Many of the hurricanes entering the Keys from the Caribbean pass over quickly, as there is little in the way of land mass to slow them down. Naturally, a storm stalls on occasion based upon atmospheric conditions such as a high-pressure area to the west. Hank had an innate ability to analyze winds based upon their velocity, direction, and moisture content. He feared this storm might be slow moving, which meant it would take its sweet time before it moved into the Gulf.

  Their feet hit the sand, which was soaked from the constant battering of the storm surge. The three Adirondack chairs that had provided the Albrights a place to wind down at the end of their hectic days had been turned on their sides and gradually buried by the migrating beach.

  The younger, more athletic Jessica raced ahead of Hank toward the steps leading onto the porch of the main house. Once gently swaying palm trees were bent over. Their dying, lower fronds, which had been scheduled to be pruned, were ripped away by the hurricane. Each one became a whipping, boomerang-like projectile capable of knocking a person down.

  Before Hank could reach the steps, Jessica announced that the front side of the main house, which would bear the brunt of the storm, was already boarded up. She raced down the porch past the windows of Hank’s office overlooking the rain-soaked lawn.

  “Let’s try the kitchen entrance!” she shouted as she reached the edge of the porch and leapt onto the wet sand below.

  Hank pivoted and willed his body to move faster to keep up with his sister-in-law. Part of him was impressed with her speed and agility while part of him cursed his aging body. By the time he rounded the corner of the house near the kitchen entry, Jessica stood in the crossroads of the path that led to the bungalows in one direction and the Frees’ cottage in the other.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, his chest heaving and his heart pounding within it.

  She pulled her hair back and wiped the rain off her face. “It’s locked. I knocked hard, too. Nothing.”

  Hank was glad to catch his breath. “Sonny knows what to do when a storm is approaching. He probably felt it coming before anyone in the Keys. I don’t understand locking the doors, though. Unless …” Hank’s voice trailed off. They’d been threatened by outsiders multiple times since the nuclear attacks. His eyes grew wide as a feeling of dread came over him.

  Jessica was one step ahead of him. “You check the greenhouses to make sure they’re secure. I’ll try their cottage. Let’s meet at the front gate.”

  Without waiting for a response, Jessica was off in a flash, ducking to avoid a bundle of coconuts that had been dislodged above their heads. With a deep breath, Hank broke off toward the greenhouses, when a heavy gust of wind smacked him in the back, causing him to face-plant on the sandy path.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Friday, November 8

  Blackwater Sound

  Florida Bay

  “Thi
s is brutal!” Peter shouted to Jimmy as the two of them attempted to keep their WaveRunners upright. The waves rolled over them, causing their machines to rise and fall with each crest. Notwithstanding their efforts to shift their weight over the rolling water, the guys struggled to maintain their balance while adrift.

  “My face feels like it’s peeling off!” Jimmy yelled back.

  Peter sat down on his WaveRunner and wrangled the handlebars in an attempt to point into the continuously blowing wind. Lowering his center of gravity helped stabilize the machine, but sitting still made the task near impossible. His mind hearkened back to Fairfax when all of this had started when he’d attempted to ride a bicycle for the first time in many years. He’d almost run into multiple cars despite his best efforts.

  He wiped the moisture off his face as he stated the obvious. “There’s no way we make it to Driftwood Key like this.”

  Jimmy was similarly wrestling with his WaveRunner. When he wiped moisture off his face, it was tinged with pink because of the blood oozing from his wounds. Yet he soldiered on and was in good spirits.

  “Agreed! Let’s go straight to Key Largo and hunker down until it passes. I can deal with walking fifty miles. What about you?”

  “Piece of cake,” replied Peter, who meant it. He’d mentally prepared himself to walk from Fairfax at one point. A combination of methods of transportation had shortened his trip by many weeks. He took a deep breath and shouted his question. “Ready?”

  “Lead the way!” Jimmy yelled his response over the roar of the storm.

  Peter thought for a moment. Earlier, they’d seemed to be riding parallel with the wave crests as they left Jewfish Creek. From his recollection of the geography of the Keys, that had them pointed in a southwesterly direction. He wasn’t sure how far they’d taken the WaveRunners into Blackwater Sound, but regardless, if they began riding head-on into the wind and the storm surge, they’d eventually find Key Largo. The ride would be rough, as they would be constantly fighting the gales and the choppy waves, but by his calculation, they were only a mile or so from shore.