by Akart, Bobby
And he liked it. Yet, he didn’t. Even for the time, many in the LGBTQ community felt compelled to remain withdrawn from some aspects of society. “You can’t be an openly gay doctor or lawyer or accountant,” they told themselves.
Patrick soon began to resent the fact that he couldn’t be who he needed to be to live life to the fullest. So he learned to hide in plain sight by cross-dressing as a woman. At first, he was nervous as he went into public. He’d stroll the mall or go to a restaurant. Testing the waters of life as someone he wasn’t but who he wanted to be.
He continued through college, excelling at business administration, and graduated with high honors. From time to time, he’d sneak out of Gainesville and drive to Atlanta or Tampa or especially Orlando, where he could remain anonymous.
He’d meet men. Sometimes, he was Patrick. Other times, he was Patricia. He would change personas like most people changed socks. He mastered his craft and eventually settled on Patricia during the evening and Patrick during the day.
To say Patrick Hollister had descended into madness would be incorrect. He was simply mad. Not mad in the sense that he’d lost his mind, although many would argue anyone capable of the heinous murders he’d perpetrated must be at the highest level of bat-shit crazy.
No, Patrick was mad because he felt compelled to hide himself from the world. He felt cheap. Like he was forced to lurk in the shadows in order to find his soul mate. This ate away at him until he acted out in a drunken rage.
His first kill was a brutal affair. He’d had too much to drink, and the man he picked up in the bar was furious when he found out Patricia was actually Patrick. A fight ensued, and Patrick bludgeoned the man to death with a bottle of vodka before slicing open his throat. This happened in Ybor City near Tampa, a crime that was written off as a lovers’ quarrel gone horribly wrong.
After that night, he’d never felt more alive. He killed twice more. Once in Orlando and a second time in Hialeah near Miami. Then he stopped. He tried to get a hold of himself.
With his degree and exceptional grades, he landed a job as an assistant manager at the Island State Bank branch in Islamorada. Then, by a stroke of luck, for him, anyway, the branch manager had a heart attack and died. He was named the temporary branch manager, a title that became permanent after six months. He was a young man and a hustler. Patrick had an empathetic side that endeared himself to all of his customers, young and old, male and female.
However, the hunger within him continued to fester. One thing he’d learned about himself was that his desire to kill, the act of stealing the life of another human being, gave him more pleasure than the sexual encounters he engaged in.
The silent rage festered within him, and he took his lust for murder to Coconut Grove. He scoped out the lively crowd. One lonely man emerged as an easy mark. The kill was enjoyable. Exhilarating. Worthy of taking the risk of doing it again.
With his appreciation of fashion and makeup, Patrick, as Patricia, became indistinguishable from any other attractive woman. So he tried his luck closer to home, adding to the excitement.
He killed again and again. Unable to stop. More frequent. Increasingly elaborate. Unlike the bludgeoning, brutal death of his first victim. Patrick was studying anatomy and surgical techniques and watching Dexter on Showtime. He’d learned how to do it right, and now, despite the apocalypse, Patricia was ready to strike again.
With the bank branches closed until further notice, he had a lot of free time on his hands. The first thing he did was gain access to the Island State Bank branch in Key West on Whitehead Street. The island-style property was in fact a historic home that had been renovated into a bank building. It still maintained its Key West character, so to the casual observer, it looked very much like a home with its Victorian appointments together with upper and lower wraparound decks.
Inside, the lower level was devoted to retail banking. Upstairs, bank officers dealing with money transfers and loan administration occupied several offices. There was also a fully furnished apartment for visiting members of the bank’s board of directors, who were scattered throughout the country.
Patrick decided to move into the apartment so he could be closer to the action. Gasoline was nowhere to be found, and his killing opportunities were greatly reduced at his home in Islamorada. He moved his clothes, and Patricia’s, to the bank located a block off famed Duval Street and set up a base of operations.
Once he was ready to hit the late-night party scene, Patricia ventured out to the Green Parrot, which was just down the street. She marveled at the number of people who’d remained in Key West to party like it was the end of the world. Well, she thought to herself as she strutted down the sidewalk, maybe it is. If so, she planned on going out with a smile on her face.
That night, there were innumerable opportunities to score, she realized as she nursed a mai tai through a tall straw. As had been her MO, tried and proven, she waited until closing time to scoop up just the right guy. Small in stature. Inebriated. Horny.
They left the bar together, and the young man tried to immediately get handsy with her. She playfully patted away his advances. To the other drunks roaming the streets of Key West at that hour, they looked like any other couple headed for a hotel room to hook up.
Patricia led him to the front of the bank. In the dark, the young man squinted his eyes to take in the magnificent house turned community bank that had graced the cover of many issues of Key West tourist publications.
“You live here?” He slurred his words.
“Yes, I do,” Patricia replied in a deep, raspy voice. “You wanna come in for, you know?”
He wobbled on his feet and grabbed the handrail next to him. “Only if you’ll marry me tomorrow.”
He began to laugh uproariously at his joking proposal. Patricia played along.
“Of course, but after we spend the night together, you may not like me anymore.”
“I doubt that, baby. Let’s do this.”
The drunk man pulled his way up the railing and stumbled into the front door. Patricia hustled up behind him and unlocked it. The man’s momentum caused him to stumble forward and land face first on the area rug adorned with palm trees and monkeys.
“Let me help you up,” she said as she lifted him by the right arm.
As the man stood, he noticed the bank vault door directly in front of him. “Hey, baby. Is that the vault? You know, full of money?”
“Of course it is. Wanna see it?”
He nodded and stumbled toward the large polished steel door. Patricia moved ahead of him and grasped the handle to pull it open. It was heavy and took considerable effort, but it soon opened.
“Hey, it’s dark in there.” The man was again slurring his words. “Somebody turn on the lights.”
Patricia nudged him forward, and then she waved her arm just inside the vault. A battery-operated puck light sensed the motion of her arm. The man became confused.
“Wait. What’s all this stuff?”
More puck lights lit up, causing him to become disoriented.
Patricia crouched down, very ladylike, and picked up a pipe wrench. Then she dealt him a crushing blow to the back of his head, but not enough to kill him. Just enough to render him unconscious. The man’s knees buckled, and he slumped to the floor.
Twenty minutes later, Patrick hovered over the man’s body, sipping a glass of Beaujolais. His nude body was strapped to a stainless-steel table, with his wrists and ankles bound by leather straps to the four table legs. A gag was wrapped around his head and into his mouth.
As he awoke, he quickly sobered up. His eyes were wild out of fear as he writhed back and forth on the table. His body was twisting and squirming in an attempt to free himself from bondage.
Patrick moved slowly to a silver serving tray set atop a stool. He picked up a knife and carefully sliced off the gag.
“Help! Somebody! Help!” The man was screaming at the top of his lungs, his voice reverberating off the steel walls and metal
safe-deposit boxes.
“Whaaaaa!” Patrick joined in the screaming. “Whaaa! Help him!” Then he let out an evil, guttural cackle.
The man lifted his head to look at his naked body. His eyes grew wide as he viewed the interior of the bank vault.
“Please, mister. Please don’t hurt me. I mean. I won’t tell anyone. I swear!” He shouted the last words at the top of his lungs to the point they were barely discernible.
Patrick shouted back, “Scream all you want! Nobody can hear you!”
He closed the switchblade and set it on the tray. He took another long gulp of wine before grabbing the bottle to refill the glass.
The man didn’t say a word as his eyes followed Patrick’s every movement. He walked around the table, studying every inch of his victim. Then he stopped and reached underneath the table. He pulled out a DeWalt cordless Sawzall. He held it upright and goosed the trigger, causing the reciprocating saw blade to rapidly move in and out of the tool.
“Noooo! Puhleeze!” The man screamed for mercy.
Patrick responded calmly, “Let’s get started, shall we? You’re not gonna need this anymore.”
The sound of the reciprocating saw cutting through flesh was drowned out by the shrieks of agony. Patrick and Patricia had stepped up their game.
Part V
Day twelve, Tuesday, October 29
Chapter Thirty-One
Tuesday, October 29
Mount Weather Operations Center
Northern Virginia
“Erin, thank you for making the trip to Mount Weather. I understand your bird’s-eye view of the devastation was gut-wrenching.” Chief of Staff Chandler was cordial to Secretary of Agriculture Erin Bergman as she entered the briefing that morning. In fact, the stress level of all the attendees was considerably less than the prior sessions.
The White House physician had ordered a sedative and bed rest for the president. President Helton was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The decision was made both for his physical and mental well-being but also for the morale of those who’d witnessed his tirades. The president was losing the confidence of his cabinet and military leaders. There were already whispers to the effect he should step down in favor of the vice president taking the helm. Before that happened, his doctor insisted he take some time off to clear his head.
Besides, Chandler ran most of his briefings anyway. Rarely did the president make a decision without discussing it at length with his longtime friend and confidant. The president wanted to turn his attention to the recovery effort, and Chandler assured him more meetings would be held with that in mind.
Within the president’s cabinet, Erin was considered the most knowledgeable on the concept of nuclear winter and how it would impact the nation’s agriculture and food supply. Although she was well-versed on the topic of electromagnetic pulse energy and its effect on transportation, she deferred that issue to her counterpart at the Department of Transportation.
“It’s sickening, Harrison,” replied Erin, who was on a first-name basis with the president’s chief of staff. The president understood the need for formality, but within his immediate circle of advisors, such as the chief of staff and the cabinet, he instructed them to address one another on a first-name basis. In President Helton’s mind, disagreements would be less acrimonious when the combatants referred to each other by name rather than mister this or miz that. “I’d seen the satellite imagery, but flying the chopper past our nation’s capital brought tears to my eyes.”
“I understand it’s difficult to see in more ways than one,” said Chandler.
“Very much so. The thick smoke from the out-of-control fires makes visibility difficult. At times, the extraordinary ground-level winds created an opening in the smoke that allowed me to see the immense crater. It’s hard to believe we all worked in that spot just a few days ago.”
Chandler sighed and nodded. “Erin, we’re trying to find a way forward that both saves the lives of those in the paths of radiation or these superfires and Americans who live away from the blast zones. NOAA has provided me some sobering graphics of the fallout spanning the globe, especially in the Northern Hemisphere.”
“I’ve seen them as well. I’ve had an opportunity to speak directly with some of the research scientists at NOAA. They’re all astonished at how widespread the effects of nuclear winter have been.”
“And so quickly,” added Chandler. “I had a working knowledge of the concept as it pertained to a regional nuclear war between India and Pakistan. I’d never seen a hypothetical that involved as many nukes as they fired off and a fallout spread that circumnavigated the planet with such speed.”
“That’s the key. The speed at which the massive cloud of soot and smoky ash reached the atmosphere and then began to spread is remarkable. It’s been ten days since the exchange in the Middle East and eight days since South Asia. Yet the entirety of North America is now feeling the effect.”
Chandler brought her up to speed on the administration’s directives. “We’ve ordered all personnel to remain within the confines of Mount Weather and underground due to the poor air quality. Now I’m told by the National Weather Service that average temperatures have dropped eight degrees already.”
“That’s right, Harrison. As we know, temps can fluctuate, but what we’re witnessing is a steady decline. Keep in mind, there are regions, like the Mountain West, that will experience plunging drops in the next few days. The west coast superfires are generating so much heat that the prevailing winds are being held off the coast and even pushed backwards toward the center of the Pacific. This is allowing frigid air to swoop down through the Rockies. Eventually, these icy conditions will make their way across America’s heartland.”
“What does that mean for our agricultural and livestock supply?” asked one of the attendees in the room.
“There is some good news in that regard,” Erin began in her reply. “By this point in the season, the vast majority of crops in the Midwest had been harvested. Obviously, there were late-season crops like most of the root vegetables. The problem lies with what happens next. Any notion of planting this spring should be abandoned.”
“What do you mean?” asked Chandler.
“Unless there’s some kind of miracle from God or Mother Earth, the grounds across the upper latitudes of North America will remain frozen until late spring or even summer. If you couple that with the toxicity levels resulting from the nuclear fallout, including ash and debris, you’re looking at soil that isn’t fit to grow anything.”
“How long will this last?” asked the labor secretary, who insisted on sitting in even though it was beyond his purview. Every member of the cabinet wanted to play a role in the recovery effort.
“Years, based upon current projections,” replied Erin. “All of this effects livestock and poultry as well. These animals rely upon our fields and nutrients from the ground to survive. It’s doubtful there’s a rancher in America who has stored sufficient grasses to feed their cattle. Every food-producing animal relies upon what is produced in the nation’s breadbasket to survive. There will be a war trying to decide whether to feed animals or people.”
“There already is,” said Chandler as he shook his head. “The president is being called upon to nationalize all farming operations. They want us to seize every ear of corn and potato available.”
“Martial law?” asked Erin.
“It has to be considered. The president considers it a last resort. Frankly, he hoped the largest agricultural producers would voluntarily make their inventory available to the government. That hasn’t been happening, so the president is weighing his options.”
“Harrison, nuclear winter results in a semidarkness that will last for years. This current crop will likely be the last one produced in America by normal farming techniques. Those with greenhouses and hydroponic operations will fare better as long as they have the power to operate their systems. However, there are not near enough of those sustainable farming operatio
ns to feed a nation.”
“And you say the sun will be blocked for years?” asked the transportation secretary.
“Yes. The ash from burning cities and the surrounding areas is in the process of creating an umbrella shielding large portions of the planet from the sun. As you diminish the amount of sunlight making its way to the surface, then the atmospheric temperatures are reduced as a result. This umbrella cloud will interfere with the process of photosynthesis for years.
“We’ve had scenarios like this in the recent past. For example, there was evidence of the Indonesian volcano, Krakatoa, erupting in 1883. It blasted enough volcanic ash into the atmosphere to lower global temps a couple of degrees. In 1815, when Mount Tambora erupted in the same region, it blocked sunlight around the globe, causing what came to be known as the year without summer. The U.S. experienced summer snows and temperatures up to ten degrees less than normal.”
“That’s what is going to happen to us now?” asked another attendee.
“No,” replied Erin before pausing. “It will be much worse.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Tuesday, October 29
Virginia
The old expression just like riding a bike was often used to describe an activity that came second nature and was therefore easy to do. It implied that somewhere in our memory banks, we recalled how to do something and could immediately pick up where we left off when the time came.
For Peter, that was not exactly the case. For one thing, he’d never owned a bicycle. Growing up in the Florida Keys, everything was about water. Paddleboards, Jet Skis, boating, and scuba diving were his outdoor activities of choice. When he played with other kids, their days were spent on the water, and to get to one another’s houses, they walked, swam, or paddled.
After Peter loaded his gear onto the Schwinn motorized bicycle, he stepped across the frame and straddled it. He held the handlebars with a firm grip and considered his next move. With his backpack stuffed full, he had to twist his entire body to look behind him. He gave one final inspection of the duffel bags strapped down with bungee cords to the battery rack above the rear wheel. He realized the bike was going to be difficult to balance, as a slight shift in his weight could cause it to topple.