Nuclear Winter Whiteout

by Bobby Akart

  Charles furrowed his brow. “Aren’t you Harvey Lawson’s nephew? I used to drive trucks with him.”

  “I am. Who are you?” The man’s response and demeanor were brusque.

  “Charles Spencer and this here is Peter Albright. He’s looking for a ride to Florida.”

  The man glanced at his other son and then looked around Charles to get a better look at Peter. He rose from the folding chair where he’d been seated.

  “Well, this is your lucky day, Petey,” the man began sarcastically. “We’re pulling out for the Sunshine State this afternoon.” His sons began to laugh at the reference to Florida as the Sunshine State. Apparently, the sun was no longer shining there, either.

  “Okay,” said Peter hesitantly. “I’d like a ride. Where in Florida are you headed?”

  The sons laughed again. “We thought we’d see Mickey freakin’ Mouse. Sound good to you, slim?” The bulky belly of one of the young men shook as he laughed.

  “What you got to trade? That AR?” the father asked.

  Peter sighed. He hadn’t used the weapon yet, but it would be a great source of protection in a shoot-out. However, if he had a ride, the prospect of getting into a gun battle with a bunch of bad people was less likely. He began to remove the gun from his shoulder when Charles reached his hand over to stop him.

  “Something better,” began Charles in response. “How about I fill your tanks with diesel when you return?”

  “They’s seventy gallons in there.” One of the sons spoke up, drawing a scowl from his father.

  “Deal,” the man responded before Charles could change his mind. The man asked to confirm that Charles actually had it, and it was agreed that the nephew of the former truck driving acquaintance could come over at lunch time to see for himself. After a handshake and a somewhat toothless smile from the truck’s owner, Peter was told to return at two o’clock.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sunday, November 3

  Hickory, North Carolina

  Peter returned at one, an hour sooner than he’d been instructed to by the man he began to refer to in his mind as Mr. Uber and his sons, Greyhound and Mack. The slighter thinner, taller son was Greyhound, as in the bus line. The shorter, chubbier son was Mack, as in the dump truck. The men had never offered their real names, and Peter didn’t really care. He just wanted to get to Florida without a hassle.

  Unfortunately, the hassle started before they left Union Square. Peter had wheeled in his bicycle with his tote bags after Charles gained him reentry into the market. The first order of business was to trade his bike for food. The best he could do was a box of twelve Clif bars, a nutritious energy snack used by hikers and runners.

  He contemplated trading his duffel full of winter-weight hunting apparel but then thought better of it. It was colder everywhere, including Florida, he’d heard by eavesdropping on conversations in the market. He was pretty sure his dad hadn’t been storing away fleece-lined cargo pants or woolen socks.

  He was making his way toward Mr. Uber when suddenly a fistfight broke out in the center of the market. Two men were walloping on one another over a transaction, and then a third man jumped in. Soon, there were four or five guys pummeling one another, causing the stress levels of everyone in Union Square to rise. Including Mr. Uber.

  When Peter arrived at the truck, the father and his sons were packing up their belongings. Mr. Uber’s father was there to load up the table and weapons.

  Peter stood at the back of the line of refugees waiting to climb aboard the military-surplus truck. A Hispanic man stood in front of him with his wife and son. He turned to Peter and offered his hand to shake.

  “I’m Rafael Sosa.”

  “Peter Albright. Nice to meet you.”

  “This is my wife, Maria, and my son, Javier. We hope to get to Miami. How about you?”

  “I live in the Keys,” Peter responded. He nodded toward the truck. Several people were being assisted into the rear, open-air cargo box. “I thought they might cover it for us.”

  Rafael shrugged. The “M923A1s came with a cover kit as standard issue. This one is so old, it probably tore away over the years.”

  Peter furrowed his brow. “M what?”

  “M923A1. A five-ton six-by-six. We used to call it Big Foot on account of the wheels and tires being so large compared to the frame. It has twice as much cargo capacity as its cousin the M35 deuce-and-a-half.”

  “We, as in military?” asked Peter.

  “Former Army,” Rafael replied. “Stationed at Camp Mackall over towards Fayetteville. My family and I were traveling home from vacation at Dollywood. After the nukes hit DC, we decided to head to her family’s place in Miami. We ran out of gas and got stuck here. This is the only option as far as we can tell.”

  “Come on. Hurry up!” Greyhound barked at Rafael’s wife and son. Rafael snapped his head around and cast a dirty look at Greyhound, who sneered in return.

  Peter glanced over his shoulder and saw there were a few stragglers waiting behind him. They didn’t appear to be together as they nervously kicked at the ground and studied their surroundings.

  “Come on, Petey,” Greyhound said condescendingly.

  Peter adjusted his load and inched toward the back of the military truck, assessing how he was going to hoist everything in the cargo bed.

  Mr. Uber rounded the side of the truck. “Hold up! What the hell is all of this?”

  Peter was confused, so he didn’t respond.

  “Come on, Petey,” said the man’s son. “Ya gotta an explanation?”

  “For what?” Peter responded with a question of his own.

  Mr. Uber got in Peter’s face. “The old man paid for your transportation, pal. Not your worldly belongings. This stuff has to stay behind ’cause there ain’t no room for your wardrobe.”

  “But I can rest them in my—”

  “No exceptions, Petey,” Greyhound said forcefully. He pointed his finger in Peter’s chest.

  Peter’s blood boiled when the jerk touched him. He slapped his hand away and said with a snarl, “Peter. My name’s Peter.” He stepped closer toward the man, but Mr. Uber put his hand between them.

  “Hey. Hey, now. We can work this out, right? Money solves everything. Here’s the thing, Peter. If you look around, everyone has one bag. They’re not greedy and entitled like you. You get one bag and a carry-on just like on a freakin’ airplane. Wanna tote a duffel bag and a backpack? Fine. Everything else stays behind.”

  “You guys never told us that,” complained Peter. “If I had known, then—”

  Mr. Uber cut him off. He got right in front of Peter, and his son inched closer too. “You see these nice people behind you? They want your seat. They’d love for you to get the hell out of their way. Now, do you wanna ride or not?”

  Peter glanced back at the anxious faces. They all had a single bag to carry.

  “Yes, I wanna ride,” Peter responded with gritted teeth, cracking his neck as he finished his sentence.

  “Good,” said Mr. Uber, stepping back a pace or two. He raised his right hand and waved his fingers toward him. “Gimme the AR.”

  “What?” Peter was incensed. “We had a deal!”

  “Deal’s changed, Petey!” yelled Greyhound.

  “New deal,” said Mr. Uber. “You can carry all this other shit in your lap, but the price of extra baggage is the rifle. Take it or leave it.”

  Peter sighed and ran his hand down his face. He’d already given up his bicycle, and there were no guarantees the other truck drivers were traveling south or would be any more reasonable than these assholes. He’d already given away the hunting rifle to Charles as a thank-you for his help.

  He reluctantly removed the AR-15 from his shoulder and handed it to Mr. Uber. The man smiled and winked at Peter.

  “Pleasure doin’ business with ya,” he said and then glanced over his shoulder at the three disappointed refugees. “Folks, we’ll be back in five days to rustle up another load. We’ll see ya t
hen.”

  It was wishful thinking by Mr. Uber.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Sunday, November 3

  Driftwood Key

  Hank and Sonny waited nervously on the front porch of the main house for the first invited guest to Driftwood Key since the collapse. Well, invited was a term that simply differentiated Sonny’s ex-sister-in-law, Monroe County Mayor Lindsey Free, from the armed attackers of the day before.

  Word had spread quickly throughout Marathon of the nighttime gun battle. By the next morning, it was the topic of conversation at the daily briefing held by the Board of County Commissioners in Key West. Mayor Free, who’d been elected to represent District 2 encompassing Big Pine Key, had been elected mayor as well just over four years ago. Previously, she’d sat on the Marathon City Council and had been elected mayor of Marathon prior to that. Her relationship to the Albrights went back to childhood, as she was only a few years younger than Mike. Mayor Free’s ex-husband was also the youngest of Sonny’s five siblings.

  Hank had been told in advance by Mike to expect something other than a social visit. It was going to be more of a courtesy call than anything. The sheriff, in light of the attack on Driftwood Key, felt compelled to give Mike a heads-up. In an unrelated decision reached by the Board of Commissioners, Mayor Free was prepared to take a tighter grip on her constituents.

  “Sonny, you really shouldn’t be here for this,” said Hank as he finished a protein shake. He set it on the table next to his old friend’s partially empty bowl of watered-down Frosted Flakes. They had powdered milk in their storage pantry, but Sonny thought it would be wasted on cereal.

  “Let me at least say hello. Otherwise, she might think I’m hiding from her. Lindsey’s a viper, Hank. If she smells weakness, you’re a goner. Ask my brother.”

  “I heard. No wonder she’s a politician. It suits her.”

  “So what does she want?” asked Sonny.

  “I don’t know for sure, but we’re about to find out,” replied Hank as he stood and pointed toward the driveway. A deputy sheriff driving a marked SUV slowly pulled toward the parking area joined to the bromeliad-lined walkway in front of the main house. The tropical plant bloomed once in its lifetime although the flowers usually lasted for a fairly long period of time. It was one of the features Hank’s wife had introduced to greet guests with a lovely first impression when they walked to the front porch. Each day since nuclear winter began to take its toll, the beautiful tropical flowers withered and died.

  Sonny walked down the steps to greet his former sister-in-law. “Hi, Lindsey. Well, I mean, Madam Mayor. This is official business, right?”

  Hank chuckled to himself. Nice touch, wingman.

  Lindsey leaned in to accept a peck on the cheek from Sonny before she responded, “Oh, not really. I heard this morning what happened to you folks last night. I’ve always held the Albrights in high esteem, and I simply worried about them, and you, of course.”

  Hank managed a smile. She was every bit the snake as she was growing up when she pitted boys against one another for the chance to kiss that picture-perfect smile while gazing into her enchanting hazel eyes. Many a man had been caught off guard by Lindsey’s wily ways. He took a deep breath and was inwardly thankful he’d engaged in the gun battle last night. It better prepared him for what was coming.

  “Good morning, Mayor,” said Hank nonchalantly as he eased his hands into the pockets of his linen slacks. It was a little cool that morning, but he didn’t have much else to wear. He’d bloodied his khakis moving dead bodies out of the way so a county flatbed wrecker could get the disabled pickup truck removed.

  “Hi, Hank!” she said in a little too friendly manner. She’s up to something, Hank thought. His level of awareness had just reached its peak.

  Sonny excused himself and opened the door for the visiting dignitary and Hank. Her bodyguard deputy took up a position outside on the porch while Sonny made himself scarce. Hank and the mayor made small talk until they were settled into his office with the door closed. Then Hank utilized a communication method that had unnerved his kids on those few occasions they’d gotten out of line.

  He said nothing.

  After a moment of awkward silence, the mayor, who obviously had an agenda, spoke up.

  “Hank, the deeper we get into this crisis, the more difficult it has become for me to both protect and care for our neighbors. None of us asked for this, and we’re all trying to find a path forward that is both safe from the criminal element and sustainable by providing basic necessities to those who need it most.”

  “I bet you never imagined something like this when you were elected mayor,” said Hank.

  He was making a point that she may or may not have understood. Politicians need to be more than the people who spend tax dollars. They need to be visionaries of progress and collapse. To Hank, it’s easy to be a politician when a nation or community is at its best. It’s when the society begins to decline, and they all do, as history has proven, that the real leaders step up to shepherd their constituents through it.

  “You’re right about that,” she replied before getting back to her agenda. “In any event, we’ve made great strides in removing nonresidents and preventing any newcomers from entering the Keys through our implementation of checkpoints. This has also enabled us to keep our law enforcement professionals like Jessica and Mike fully employed.”

  “They’re very grateful for that. I imagine their paycheck will be pretty big when the county is able to actually deliver it.”

  Hank wished he’d never made the statement. He resented his family having to leave Driftwood Key when armed gunmen were roaming around with nefarious intentions. That said, they’d both impressed upon him the importance of having access to the world beyond Driftwood Key to gather information and acquire necessary supplies.

  The mayor bristled at the implication the county’s essential employees were working without pay despite the fact it was true. “I’m sure there will be a relief package coming out of Washington or Tallahassee when this is all over that compensates everyone. However, Hank, we have to get to the point where we turn the corner. That’s why I’m here.”

  “How can I help?” he asked and then gulped. Dammit, Hank. Two unforced errors. Get in the game!

  “Well, I’m glad you asked. I’m calling on everyone, business owners and local residents alike, to pitch in to help their neighbors. I refer to it as shared sacrifice. During these unprecedented times, we need those who have a little extra to assist those who are barely scraping by or who are without.”

  “Okay,” said Hank, stretching the word out as he prepared for the big reveal.

  “How are you folks making out here on Driftwood Key?” She glanced around Hank’s office and through the windows. If one didn’t know better, nothing appeared out of the ordinary except for the perpetually soot-filled cloudy skies and the lack of resort guests.

  “We’re, um, okay. Thanks.”

  The mayor leaned forward to the edge of the chair to look Hank in the eye. “I wasn’t referring to how you were doing, Hank. I’m referring to what you can contribute to help sustain your neighbors and the community which you’re a part of.”

  “What exactly are you asking for, Lindsey?” She was no longer the mayor in Hank’s mind but, rather, Sonny’s ex-sister-in-law.

  “For one, we need more deputies to protect the community, as you well know.”

  Her tone of voice indicated to Hank that the conversation was now adversarial. He tried not to bare fangs.

  “We gave at the office. Mike. Jessica. Remember them?”

  The mayor wasn’t satisfied with those already in her employ. “You, Phoebe, and Sonny are too old for the tasks we have in mind. Jimmy, however, would be a great addition to our border guards.”

  “We can’t spare him. Jimmy’s fishing abilities feed my family.”

  “I’ll assign him a night shift so he can continue to do the fishing chores for you. Besides, did you forget how
to fish since all this started?”

  Dammit! Hank was cornered. He looked for an out. “I’ll have to speak to his mom and dad.” He tried to remind Lindsey that Jimmy had loved ones, and he wasn’t just a tool he could loan out.

  “Do that, and let Mike know so the sheriff can work him into the schedule. Now, let’s talk about your hydroponics and greenhouses. How are they producing?”

  “Not enough to feed the Florida Keys,” replied Hank angrily. She’d already collected one scalp—Jimmy’s. Now she wanted Hank to feed the Keys?

  The mayor leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. She studied Hank for a moment. It was time to play hardball.

  “Listen, are you aware of the president’s declaration of martial law?”

  “No. Well, vaguely. Haven’t had a chance to mosey down to the post office to read it.”

  “Well, let me give you the CliffsNotes, okay?” She stretched her hands away from her body with her palms face up to create an imaginary scale. One was much higher than the other.

  She continued. “Here’s how shared sacrifice works. Up here. In this hand, is Hank with his Driftwood Key Inn. Now, it’s producing enough food out back to feed the Albrights, the Frees, and the many guests who normally fill your fancy bungalows.

  “In this hand are a dozen or so families, your neighbors, who can’t grow their own food or who couldn’t afford to empty the store shelves before the wealthy did. Now they’re hungry and they’re desperate, and some are even dying of starvation. If we don’t do something to help them, they’re gonna be at your gate again tonight out of desperation.

  “You might be able to kill them or turn them away. But tomorrow night, there’ll be another group and then another and then another.” She paused to catch her breath and allow the scales of shared sacrifice to even out.