Nuclear Winter Desolation: Post Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (Nuclear Winter Series Book 5)

by Bobby Akart

  The perimeter walls were lined with cubicles, all of which contained a rolling office chair and a desktop computer. In the center, there were half a dozen utility tables with folding chairs around them. The space could’ve been used as a meeting room or even a break room for the cafeteria and loading dock employees. The sheer amount of clutter and furniture in the room gave him pause.

  Mike stepped through the doorway first, attempting to lead by example. Sanchez immediately followed and moved to the right as before. Suddenly, there was a muzzle flash, and several bullets stitched the wall to Mike’s left. He dropped to a knee and held his position. He racked a round and fired in the direction of the muzzle flash. The shooter fell in a heap.

  Another gunman was in the opposite corner of the room, hiding behind some boxes. He shot in the deputy’s direction. However, his bullets were deflected by the metal folding chairs around the tables. Sanchez didn’t hesitate to return fire directly into the stack of boxes. Some of the buckshot made it through, injuring the gunman. When he fell into the open, Sanchez pulled his service weapon from his utility belt and shot him again.

  Mike and Sanchez quickly approached the two bodies sprawled out on the tiled floor. Blood splatter covered their clothing and the walls behind them. The holes in their chests and throats were all the evidence Mike needed to confirm their deaths.

  “They look like soccer dads, not gangbangers,” quipped Sanchez.

  Mike kept an eye on the door and responded, “Everybody’s a banger in the apocalypse.”

  “Four?” asked Sanchez as he led the way back into the hallway.

  Mike whispered his response. “We’ve still got work to do.”

  They cleared two more rooms and made their way to the end of the corridor, where two double doors were propped open with cases of bottled water. They had to be extremely careful now, as the gunfire just gave away their approach.

  Mike’s flashlight illuminated the sizeable storage room that rose two stories to an open-beam ceiling. The interior was filled with steel shelving full of dry goods and pallets of boxes. Above their heads, a catwalk filled with boxes extended around the second level.

  This was the high school’s storage area and the prize the intruders sought. The numerous obstructions and the potential for gunmen having the high ground would make this a difficult space to clear. Mike took a deep breath and contemplated his best approach. The large size of the warehouse coupled with the amount of shelving in the center made splitting up unwise.

  He also wanted to limit the ingress and egress to the room. Mike leaned into Sanchez and whispered his instructions. “Help me with these cases of water. I wanna seal off this exit, or at least make it difficult for them to come in or out.”

  He and Sanchez worked in near silence as one lifted the water and the other slowly closed the door. This also served to make the room darker, a benefit for the trained law enforcement officers. The two men slid along the wall and dropped into a crouch, using the minimal light to get a feel for the space. Mike’s eyes darted around the room in search of light sources. Closing the double doors to the corridor limited their visibility of the lower level, but the catwalk’s details had appeared.

  “I see a doorway above this one. It’s producing the most light, probably from the windows overlooking the loading docks. There has to be an exit into the high school opposite this one. There are a couple of skylights on the back side of the roof, but I’m guessing they’re covered in soot because they don’t allow much light in.”

  Sanchez continually scanned the perimeter. “They’re here, Mike. I can feel them.”

  “Me too. Let me take the lead, and you watch our backs. Let’s make our way to the staircase leading to the upper level. I’d feel better if we got eyes on the two who were shooting at us from the windows. Plus, I’d rather have the high ground myself.”

  Sanchez tapped the detective-turned-substation-commander on the shoulder. The two men, separated by a few feet, moved along the wall, keeping their bodies as low to the ground as possible. Just as they reached the staircase, the sound of gunfire outside the building stopped them dead in their tracks.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tuesday, November 12

  Marathon High School

  For a split second, it wasn’t clear who was more surprised to encounter a man with a gun—Don Wallace as he raced along the viburnum hedge in his attempt to escape, or Hank Albright, who heard the man’s footsteps crunching through the dead zoysia grass.

  Hank turned the corner and abandoned his cover behind the stucco wall just as Wallace appeared at the end of the hedgerow. Hank’s sudden appearance startled the left-handed Wallace, who tried to point his handgun in Hank’s direction. His nervous trigger finger fired into the ground beside his feet and then wildly to the right, ricocheting off the school’s flagpole with a loud ping.

  Hank didn’t hesitate. He’d already racked a birdshot shell into his marine shotgun and fired at Wallace. The birdshot was designed to wound any would-be attacker before the second shell full of double-aught buckshot finished the job.

  However, at a range of just forty feet, the birdshot caused significant harm to the man. Wallace’s right shoulder was ripped open, leaving tendons and muscle dangling from where his bicep once was. He spun around and landed on his knees, frozen in that position until he fell onto the sandy soil.

  He was not dead. Hank carefully approached the man with his shotgun pointed at his chest. Wallace’s chest rose and fell as he gasped for air. Several pellets had torn through his clothing and hit his chest. Yet he still held his weapon in his left hand. He was about to raise it to shoot at Hank when more gunfire emanated from the breezeway connecting the warehouse building to the high school.

  Two more men were racing in Hank’s direction, carrying handguns. Both were shooting at him, spraying bullets over his head and into the ground on both sides. Hank quickly backpedaled to get cover behind the stucco wall. He frantically searched for Erin, looking behind him toward the other end of the wall, but she was gone.

  “Shit!” he whispered loudly to himself.

  He was concerned for her safety and had no idea where she went. He intently listened for the approaching gunmen to gauge their location. He dared not look around the wall, as they might shoot him.

  Then a single gunshot broke his concentration, followed by an explosion. This was followed by another a few seconds later. Then another coming from the other side of the utility wall. He put two and two together. Erin was shooting out their tires, eliminating their means to escape.

  Hank shouldered the shotgun and pulled his handgun. He dropped to a knee and readied his weapon. Mike had always advised him to keep his body low to the ground to create a smaller target and because nervous, untrained shooters had a tendency to fire over the heads of their targets.

  Without looking for a target, Hank quickly stretched his hand around the edge of the wall and fired in the direction of the man he’d shot earlier. If Erin was approaching, he wanted to distract the two gunmen.

  They fired back at him, embedding several rounds in the top of the stucco wall. They missed their target. Erin did not.

  The men’s gunshots gave her a point of reference to release several rounds from the AR-15 into the viburnum hedge. Two of the NATO 5.56 rounds found their mark, striking the gunmen in some manner.

  Hank holstered his handgun and racked another shell into his shotgun. He didn’t hesitate to swing around the wall and immediately shoot toward Wallace’s location. The shot hit Wallace and another man who was kneeling on the ground next to him. The man’s body was flung backwards as blood and flesh flew across the dying grass.

  The third man began running back toward the breezeway, half turning and firing his handgun toward Hank. The bullets missed badly and shredded the hedges. Hank rushed toward the man until he planted his feet and unleashed two rounds out of his shotgun in rapid succession. Both blasts tore through his shoulders and back, killing him instantly.


  “Hank!” shouted Erin, who rushed around the hedges with the barrel of her rifle pointed toward the two men left bleeding in the grass.

  “I’m good,” he replied. He walked back slowly, racking another round in his shotgun while keeping a leery eye on the breezeway. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Are they …” Her voice trailed off.

  Hank turned to kick their bodies. Neither of the dead men responded. Then, in unison, he and Erin picked up their weapons and tossed them into the shrubs.

  “Did you disable their trucks?” he asked.

  She glanced toward the loading docks and nodded. “What should we do?”

  Hank looked around. A crowd of residents had gathered, remaining safely across Sombrero Beach Road to watch the action. Most were tucked behind the pilings of the colorful homes that faced the man-made canal. Others peered through their upper-level windows, watching the spectacle unfold. Hank focused his attention back on the task at hand.

  “Let’s do what Mike told us. We gotta trust his abilities on the inside.”

  Mike desperately wanted to leave the building to help his brother, but when the barrage of gunfire rang out, the remaining gunmen panicked. They began to fire their weapons indiscriminately throughout the warehouse. Containers of liquid were punctured. Bags of flour were torn open by the bullets spreading a cloud of white into the air. Canned goods were knocked off shelves, clanking to the floor, making it difficult to differentiate between the sound of their shell cartridges plinking to the concrete and a can of vegetables being knocked off a shelf.

  While Mike was ready to dispatch the gunmen, he also wanted to stop the wasteful destruction of food. He used their panicked firing against them by identifying their locations in the near darkness.

  One of the shooters was on the catwalk near the single door leading to the upstairs hallway. Mike slapped Sanchez on the leg and took off toward the stairway leading up a level while the panicked shooters continued to fire in all directions without any identifiable target.

  Walking silently on the concrete and wood steps, they made their way up to the catwalk. Keeping their bodies close to the shelving attached to the outer walls of the room, they moved rapidly at a low crouch toward the gunman on the upper level, who was now leaning over the rail in search of a target.

  All of a sudden, several shots broke the silence. Mike immediately spotted the source through the muzzle flash. The man on the catwalk fell to his knees and began shouting.

  “That’s me you shot at, dumbass!”

  “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Mike took advantage of the confusion and moved deftly along the catwalk to get into position. As soon as the gunman on the upper level stood upright, Mike shot him without hesitation. He rushed toward the body and fired another round from his service weapon into the man’s chest.

  Below, there were panicked shouts coming from the two remaining gunmen. They fired into the ceiling, knocking out one of the skylights. Then their heavy footsteps could be heard running away from Mike’s position.

  Mike searched for the sliver of daylight coming from the exit door on the opposite side of the building. He had a clear shot at the door. He held his breath, trained his weapon on the exit leading to the breezeway, and waited.

  It took just seconds for him to find his target. The men ran side by side and slammed into the doors simultaneously. The moment the panic bars were hit with their hands to open the double doors, Mike fired in rapid succession, sending round after round into their bodies until they crashed through the doors and landed facedown on the concrete sidewalk. Their motionless bodies lay half in and half out of the doorway. Dead.

  Any return fire never materialized, so Mike and Sanchez cleared the second floor of the building. When they returned to the catwalk, they could see Hank standing over the two gunmen with his shotgun pointed at their heads. Mike finally exhaled and holstered his sidearm. He cradled his shotgun and turned to Sanchez.

  “What’s your body count?”

  Sanchez thought for a brief moment. “Three up here. Three down there. Those two in the doorway. Plus whatever happened outside. It’s possible we missed somebody.”

  Mike chuckled. “I dare them to stick their heads out of whatever hole they crawled into.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Tuesday, November 12

  Marathon High School

  Mike and Sanchez joined Hank on the sidewalk, where he continued to stand over the dead men. He cradled the shotgun in his arms and wiped the sweat off his brow. Hank had been through a gunfight before and knew what to expect. He silently said a prayer thanking God for keeping his family safe once again.

  He turned his attention to Mike and Sanchez, who squinted to allow their eyes to adjust to the daylight. “You guys good?”

  “Yeah,” Mike said, mindlessly kicking the legs of the two dead men bleeding on the pavement between them. He half-waved to Erin, who stood over the other three dead men. Her head was on a swivel, looking between the hedges toward the loading dock and across the street toward the crowd of people who’d accumulated in the street. “What’s all that?” He pointed toward the onlookers.

  “We made plenty of noise, I guess,” replied Hank. “Erin shot out their tires, by the way. If there are any stragglers, they’re walking home.”

  “There might be, but I believe they’re long gone,” said Mike. “Plus, we have a few dead guys inside. Did they give you any trouble?” His face showed his concern for the onlookers, who were inching closer.

  “No, they stayed hidden behind pilings and cars. I doubt they want any piece of this.” Hank pointed the barrel of his shotgun toward the two dead men.

  Mike took a few steps toward where Erin stood. He studied the crowd, who continued to inch closer. He estimated there were more than a dozen of them. He turned to address his deputy.

  “Sanchez, go to my truck and grab a couple of rolls of crime scene tape. I’m not sure it’ll keep them out, but we gotta try something.”

  “Do you think they’re gonna rush us?” asked Hank.

  “The building. They want what’s inside as much as these guys. Only, they aren’t willing to die for it.” Mike paused and then added as he unconsciously raised the barrel of his shotgun slightly, “I hope.”

  “Is it full?” asked Hank.

  “Pretty much. These morons shot it up, but there are a lot of nonperishables inside.”

  Sanchez returned with the yellow and black tape containing the lettering CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS. Mike instructed him to cordon off both entrances to the utility yard in front of the loading dock and from the hedgerow to the entrance to the high school.

  “You know what,” began Hank. “Let me go talk to them.”

  Hank wandered away from Mike and Sanchez to join Erin.

  “Is it over?” she asked.

  “Yeah. However, we need to make sure these people don’t do anything stupid. Wanna help me?”

  She nodded and lowered her weapon so as not to appear to be a threat. Erin was aware that the mere appearance of an AR-15 sent some people screaming into the night. They walked side by side toward the crowd, causing some to react by backing up several paces. Hank noticed this first and began to speak as he approached. His goal was to satisfy the curious and to warn them against interfering.

  “Hi, folks! My name is Hank Albright, and this is Erin Bergmann. If you have a moment, let me bring you up to speed on what just happened.”

  Erin made eye contact and gave him a reassuring smile. Hank nodded his appreciation. What he was about to say would spread around Marathon faster than the Coconut Telegraph could be printed.

  “Don’t you own the inn on Driftwood Key?” asked one woman.

  “That’s right. And my friend, Erin, is the United States Secretary of Agriculture. She’s here to help us through this mess.”

  “What happened over there?” asked a man in the front of the group.

  Hank glanced over his shoulder and then explained. He chose hi
s words carefully in order to send a very clear message. “Those armed gunmen thought they were entitled to something they weren’t. Many in our community are suffering. They’re sick, hungry, and thirsty. But that doesn’t give a few the right to load up in their trucks, arm themselves with guns, and break into a place like the high school to steal. My brother and his loyal deputy took decisive action to protect this food for everyone in Marathon, not just a handful who thought they could take it by force. They paid the ultimate price for their rash decision and brazen attempts to kill two members of our law enforcement.”

  A shy woman at the rear of the group pushed her way to the front. “There have been people breaking into our homes at night. They carried guns and threatened to kill us if we tried to stop them. They robbed my sister’s house across the canal. She was hiding in a closet and overheard them say they were from the Tarpon Harbour apartments.”

  Erin addressed her. “Thank you for this information, ma’am. We’ll provide it to the detective and his deputies. Does anyone else know anything about these break-ins?”

  Suddenly, several people in the crowd began to relay what they’d heard and experienced. The home invasions had a chilling effect on everyone in the adjoining neighborhoods, who were just trying to survive. Their plight was made all the more difficult by the brazen robberies.

  Hank and Erin listened intently to their stories, mentally taking notes to share with Mike. As the conversation died down, one man was bold enough to ask what was on most of their minds.

  “Hey, is there any food in there?” he asked.

  “How about fresh water?” chimed in another.

  Hank wasn’t sure how to answer the questions. He presumed to know why they were asking. “Well, we were a little busy, as you can imagine, to take inventory. After the deputy secures the building, I’m sure some kind of inventory will be taken. Technically, it’s the property of the county, so I’m not sure—”