Nuclear Winter First Strike: Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

by Bobby Akart

  He rushed into the bathroom, found some hair gel, and worked with his sandy blond locks to get the raggedy surfer-dude look. Then he emerged, donning the orange and black jacket, with bat in hand.

  “Who am I?” he asked with a straight face. He pulled the bat up and rested it on his right shoulder and struck a pose with his chest puffed out.

  Lacey struggled to reply. Her sleeves were already covered with mucus mixed with tears that continued to stream down her cheeks. She waved her arms and tried to reply but couldn’t. Owen was glad to help her out.

  “More clues?”

  She nodded.

  Owen proceeded to hop around the bedroom, slamming the bat toward the floor, yelling, “Yeet! Yeet!”

  “Bam! Bam!” she joined in the shouting and nearly peed herself as she lost any semblance of composure.

  Tucker’s voice invaded her subconscious. “Whadya think, Mom?”

  “Um, about what?”

  “The plan. Are you in?”

  Lacey glanced at Owen, who nodded. She shrugged. “Yeah, let’s do it. But, um, can we go over it again?” She started to laugh to herself. It felt good.

  “Go ahead, Tuck,” said Owen. “I’m gonna pour us a glass of wine.”

  “Make it three,” said his son. “Sooo lit.” Cool, in teen-speak.

  “Not a chance, pal.”

  Tucker frowned and then explained what was happening with the cold front that had swept through the mountains and the other one that was approaching.

  “They had a record snowfall in Lake Tahoe overnight. It kinda got lost in the news with all that’s happening over there, but some of my friends who are farmers are pretty stoked.”

  Lacey was surprised. “Snow in October? I can’t even remember the last time that happened.”

  “More than just snow, Mom. I’m talking GOAT levels.” GOAT was an acronym used for greatest of all time. It was often overused, but in the case of the unusual winter precipitation that was ongoing, it was the truth. The snowmelt to follow was much needed by Northern California farmers.

  The horrific drought conditions had made it difficult for farmers to make ends meet. Pressured by banks to pay their notes despite the lack of crop production, many of them took to growing grapes to supply local wineries. Others in the higher elevations converted their lands to grow hemp and marijuana like so many others in California.

  The drought had another significant impact. Wildfires had devastated hundreds of thousands of acres across the state. The drought conditions and high winds at that time of year created a worst-case scenario in the event a negligent camper or a careless smoker started what might ordinarily be a harmless flame. The fires had been burning since September but were largely contained.

  “So you’re thinking South Lake Tahoe for snowboarding?”

  “You name it, Mom. Wouldn’t it be great to get away? Heck, we can even unplug the television in the room so we don’t have to listen to that crap anymore.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.

  Lacey glanced into the living room. She was tempted to turn it back on and see if there were any new developments. It was like watching a train wreck that you couldn’t take your eyes off of. Only it was much larger.

  Part IV

  One Week in October

  Day four, Monday, October 21

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Monday, October 21

  Near Key Largo, Florida

  Mike had raced up A1A after receiving the phone call from Jessica. She’d been called out to assist two snorkelers when they’d made a discovery. Fortunately, Mike was in Islamorada, only seventeen miles down the highway. To expedite matters, Jessica met Mike at the Calusa Campground Marina located on the Gulf side of the Overseas Highway.

  When he arrived, Jessica stood on the dock, waving to get his attention. She had several MCSD deputies with her and a young couple sitting cross-legged on the dock with colorful beach towels wrapped around their shoulders. The young woman was still crying, and her boyfriend appeared to be shaken as well.

  Jessica walked toward Mike to meet him halfway.

  “Hey, whatcha got?” he asked. Ordinarily, the two would exchange a kiss on the cheek, but not while on duty.

  “Another body. May or may not be related.”

  “Out there?” Mike nodded toward Tarpon Basin, a circular body of water surrounded on all sides by land except for a couple of openings to the Gulf.

  “Out at Bush Point,” replied Jessica, pointing toward the north and the mainland. “They’d taken their kayaks up Dusenbury Creek to do some snorkeling around the point. They didn’t tie their kayaks off properly, and they’d both floated away, too far for the couple to swim to. Fortunately, the young guy had brought his cell phone secured in a waterproof pouch, so he could call for help.”

  “Okaaay,” Mike began, stretching out the word. “How does a dead body fit into all of this?”

  Jessica led him by the arm toward the college kids. “I’ll let them explain.”

  When they arrived at the end of the dock, the deputies stepped away, and Mike knelt down in front of them. “Hi. I’m Detective Mike Albright. I know you’ve told these other guys about what you found, but would you mind telling me, too?”

  The young girl sniffled and nodded her head in agreement. Her boyfriend took the lead.

  “Well, we lost our kayaks, so I called for help while we were treading water. She was gettin’ tired, so I looked around the point to find some solid ground or at least a few mangrove branches to hold onto.

  “Anyways, we snorkeled around the point, and that’s when this large cluster of lobsters grabbed my attention. It was early this morning, and I’ve been around long enough to know that lobsters are more active at night, so I thought it was weird.

  “We floated there for a minute, watching them gnaw away at something until I noticed something metallic flash up ahead. I kicked my fins a little and moved toward it. It looked like a broken piece of dead coral stuck out of another cluster of lobsters. Only, the reflection of the light striking something shiny made me wanna take a closer look.

  “I reached down to grab the coral branch off the bottom. When I pulled it up, the hand came with it. Then an arm floated by me with a watch around it. I started to panic. I broke the surface and gasped for air, and that’s when she started screaming. The hand floated toward her, and she twisted her body in the water, kicking her fins really fast to get away. I guess the turbulence stirred up the bottom enough until more body parts were dislodged.

  “Another arm. A foot. An ear. We freaked out and swam away as fast as we could until she rescued us.” He pointed at Jessica.

  The girl began to cry again, and the young man welled up in tears. Mike decided to give them a break, so he stood to speak with Jessica.

  “Did you call it in, too?”

  “Yeah. They’re sending forensics. Also, we have another one of our units out at the scene to preserve it and, um, gather up evidence.”

  “Great. I wanna go out there. First, did you happen to bag what these two found.”

  “I did,” she replied with a smile. “Just like the boss taught me.”

  Mike chuckled as he followed Jessica to her boat. She jumped over the side and opened up a large ice cooler underneath the rear seat. On one side were several water bottles. On the other were several body parts secured in Ziploc baggies, identified by location and time. A bluish-white stretch of arm, or at least what remained after the crustaceans had fed off it, was lying on top of the ice. It had been drained of blood.

  He joined her side and studied the hand, foot and ear. “There is some decomposition here. If this is related to our serial killer, it happened sooner. Forensics will tell us that. Also, look at the arm. How it was severed. Do you see here? On the side just above the elbow? It’s not a clean cut. This arm was brutally hacked off.”

  “With what?”

  “An axe maybe? Hell, there is a whole field of science on the various cutting tools to dismember a bod
y. All I know is the wounds are different from the two victims we’ve already examined.”

  Jessica asked, “If this person was murdered before the other two, as the decomposition suggests, it could be unrelated.”

  “Or the killer is getting better at what he does,” said Mike, his voice trailing off. Mike stood and shielded his eyes from the sun to look out across Tarpon Basin.

  “You wanna take a look?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Wait. The kid said something about a watch.”

  Jessica turned around and pointed toward an open compartment in the boat’s center console. “I didn’t put it in the cooler. Nice watch, see?” She handed him another Ziploc.

  Mike held it up. “Well, we can either rule out robbery, or the killer didn’t know what he had.”

  “Whadya mean?” she asked.

  “This Omega is expensive as dive watches go. It’s not a Rolex Submariner, but a Seamaster like this one sells new for about four grand.”

  “Can you use this to ID the victim?”

  “Maybe,” Mike muttered before retrieving his cell phone. He placed a call into the conference room where the other detectives were following up on leads related to the two existing homicides. “Hey, on this new Key Largo case. I need someone to run down our list of missing persons. Contact the families and see if any of the missing persons own an Omega Seamaster Diver 300 wristwatch. Also, check Miami-Dade missing persons.”

  Mike might have just taken on another case, but he might have caught a break as well.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Monday, October 21

  Driftwood Key

  It was another beautiful day in the Florida Keys. As the operator of a resort hotel, Monday wasn’t especially different from any other day. Guests came and went seven days a week. Meals were prepared. Drinks were served. Entertainment was offered. Daily maintenance functions were undertaken.

  Fantasy Fest was underway in Key West, and thousands of people were jamming A1A as they descended upon the southernmost point of the Continental U.S. The Driftwood Key Inn was full, as always, with another couple of bungalows turning over that morning.

  Two elderly couples had arrived early, and while their room was being prepared, Hank took them on a short tour of the beach amenities. He offered to walk them down the dock, and then he’d return to the main house to meet with Sonny and Phoebe to place their wholesale orders and discuss their work projects for the week.

  “I believe this is your first visit to Driftwood Key,” said Hank casually as the group strolled along the dock toward where Hank’s fishing boat would normally be tied off. Jimmy had taken a family fishing early that morning for half a day. “Is it your first time in the Keys?”

  One couple came regularly, and the other had never been to Florida. They were residents of Colorado. As if on cue, just as they arrived at the thatched covering, Bob Marley’s music began to softly play through the speakers that dotted the beachfront. It set the tone for the group to observe the turquoise waters swarming with fish that day.

  “Would you mind telling us about the Conch Republic?” asked the man from Colorado politely, pointing at the flag gently flapping in the breeze.

  Hank smiled and nodded. This question was often asked while he interacted with guests. He reached into his back pocket and retrieved his Conch Republic passport. The novelty item, issued by the official Conch Republic office in Key West, was bent and cracked from decades of spending time in Hank’s pockets. He studied its crest, a combination of the Conch Republic flag, a dolphin jumping out of the water, and a sailing ship on the ocean. He ran his fingers across the official motto and read it aloud to his guests.

  “We seceded where others failed.”

  He handed the passport to the man from Colorado, who opened it and began to flip through its pages. It looked as official as any passport from any nation he’d visited.

  As they admired it, Hank explained. “Here’s what happened. Many folks down this way believed the United States declared war on the Florida Keys. In April of ’82, as part of its anti-drug programs, the U.S. Border Patrol set up a roadblock and customs checkpoint just before A1A crossed over to the Florida mainland, which, as you probably know, is the only way in or out of the Florida Keys.

  “It was the first time the U.S. government had set up an armed checkpoint that was within the territory of the U.S. itself and not actually at any internationally recognized border. Customs agents began checking IDs and systematically searching every vehicle leaving the Keys, looking for drugs. Within hours, the stopped cars had produced a traffic jam nineteen miles long, forcing travelers to wait for hours before being allowed to continue on.

  “Over the next few days, as word spread across the country about the massive delays, tourists began cancelling their Key West vacations. Delivery trucks from the mainland stopped going to the Keys. The businesses, like ours, that were so dependent on outside tourists and supplies, were completely paralyzed.

  “It so happened that Skeeter Davis, the owner of the Last Chance Saloon right in front of where the border patrol had set up the roadblock, was a friend of Key West mayor Dennis Wardlow. After a day, he was on the phone to the mayor, asking if he could do anything about the situation. The Key West City Council met and decided to have their lawyers seek a federal court injunction to force the border patrol to lift the roadblock.

  “To avoid the traffic, Mayor Wardlow and a few other officials flew to Miami to make their case. On April 22, the court ruled against them and refused to issue an injunction. As they were leaving the courthouse, reporters asked him what the city would do next, and Mayor Wardlow announced to the reporters, ‘We’re gonna go home and secede. Tomorrow at noon, the Florida Keys will secede from the Union!’”

  The group laughed as Hank relayed the mayor’s words with an excited voice as if he’d uttered them himself. He’d told the story hundreds of times before, so he continued with the unwritten script that he’d recited from memory and practice.

  “Well, the story flew around the country, and when the Key West city government gathered at Clinton Square, in front of the old customs building, at noon on April 23 to formally announce their secession, they were surrounded by reporters from across the US. They were also surrounded by federal agents wearing earphones and blue suits, who stood out amongst the locals, who were wearing tee shirts and flip-flops.

  “The mayor stood on the back of a flatbed truck and announced that since the U.S. government had decided to treat the Keys as a foreign country and had already established the border to be at the Last Chance Saloon, Key West might as well be a foreign country.

  “He declared himself to be the prime minister before presenting the Conch flag just like the one above us. He even had a pledge of allegiance.”

  “Do you know it?” asked one of the guests.

  Hank smiled and placed his right hand over his heart. “Of course, I’m a Conch.” The group chuckled as he turned reverently to face the flag and recited the pledge.

  “I pledge allegiance to the flag of my tiny island nation. And to the Republic for which it stands. One nation, under the sun, indivisible, where the liberty is true and the justice is divine. Long live the Conch Republic!”

  Hank thrust his fist into the air as the group of four guests cheered him on. Everyone exchanged high fives, and Hank imagined they’d be racing down the highway shortly to join the movement.

  Hank left out the part of how the newly anointed prime minister then formally declared war on the United States of America, and for one full minute, the citizens of the new Conch Republic attacked the US Navy and Coast Guard officials who were present by pelting them with stale Cuban bread. It was all in good fun, of course, but would generate a far different reaction if it had occurred today.

  While the guests got a good laugh, Hank felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It was a text message notification from Peter.

  Peter: Call me. 911.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Monday
, October 21

  Washington, DC

  The U.S. Department of State was headquartered in the Harry S. Truman Building in an area of Washington, DC, known as Foggy Bottom. It was one of the oldest neighborhoods in the District located just west of the White House. In the nineteenth century, Foggy Bottom received its name because it was in a low-lying marshy area near the Potomac River. Fog, and later industrial smog, would settle there, lending the appearance of a perpetually cloud-covered part of the city.

  The State Department had been labeled with the metonym Foggy Bottom when the Truman Building was constructed in the late 1940s. Peter’s friends would often ask him, “How are things over at Foggy Bottom?” Today, the answer was not so swell.

  He paced the grassy lawn across C Street from the Truman Building. The National Academy of Sciences was closed for refurbishment, so pedestrian traffic was light. It was the only place he could think of without prying ears.

  “Come on, Dad,” he muttered as he checked his phone’s display for the fifth or sixth time. Finally, the phone rang, and Peter picked up the call before the first ring finished.

  “Son, are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, Dad. I’m fine. Listen, I need to tell you something. Nobody outside Foggy, um, the State Department is aware of this yet. Definitely not the media, okay?”

  “Sure. I understand. What’s up?”

  “My friend at Defense tells me Pakistan is on a war footing with India. Here’s the thing. The Kashmir region—the disputed borderlands between India, China, and Pakistan—has always been a flashpoint for a war. Overnight, there were tit-for-tat airstrikes across the cease-fire line established by the UN last year. These two have been fighting over the Himalayas for nearly forty years.”