Nuclear Winter Armageddon

by Bobby Akart

  “Dammit,” muttered Jessica. “Same MO?”

  “I hope so,” replied Mike.

  Hank was confused. He stood a little taller and asked, “What does it mean?”

  “Well, from what I was told, this guy has really stepped up his game. He’s gone from bludgeoning and hacking to more precise dismemberment using power tools.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Jessica. “Power tools?”

  “How do you know this?” asked Hank.

  “That’s why I’m here early,” began Mike in his response. “A few reasons, actually. I need to trade radios with you, Hank. Don’t you keep it charged in the kitchen?”

  “Yeah. I haven’t used it although it’s turned on. Phoebe fires up the generator every four hours for forty-five minutes or so to keep the coolers’ temperatures where they belong. That also allows her to recharge the radio.”

  “Yeah, it’s a rapid charger,” said Jess. She pulled her radio from her utility belt. “I charged mine on the boat. It’s good to go.”

  The two traded radios, and then Mike continued. “It’s gonna be a late night for me. Here’s what I know.” He paused to take a deep breath and look around the beach. Then he explained, “Until today, the city was running their garbage pickups to try to maintain some semblance of sanitation around Key West. The bars are still opening at night despite the governor’s order to shut down. We don’t have the manpower to police it. Our priority has been to remove people from the Keys.

  “Anyway, they didn’t pick up along Duval and Caroline Street this morning. Apparently, some transients were dumpster diving and opened up a few heavy-duty black trash bags. They found body parts.”

  Jessica put her hands on her hips and walked in a circle, looking at the sky. “That’s the extent that this guy tried to cover his tracks? Trash bags in a dumpster?”

  “Yep, apparently so,” replied Mike. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist. Despite the falling temperatures, his adrenaline was causing him to overheat. “But here’s what it tells me. He’s likely a local. He’s got a place downtown where he feels he can comfortably dismember a body with a power tool of some kind without being discovered. He knows our routines, including the garbage pickup schedule. He’s brazen enough to casually dump the body in a dumpster without fear of being caught by a very overworked police department.”

  “He’ll make a mistake because he’s getting cocky,” opined Hank.

  “Very astute observation, Detective Hank Albright,” said his younger brother with a chuckle. He patted Hank on the shoulder. “I’m gonna head to the coroner’s office to look at the remains and study the area where the body was found. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll have a chance to meet this asshole.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Tuesday, October 29

  Holden, Utah

  After filling the tank with fuel, Owen and Tucker worked together to strap the remaining containers to the top of the Bronco using heavy-duty ratchet straps they discovered in the maintenance shed. They ran the straps through the handles, under the roof into the interior of the truck and out the other side. The configuration still allowed them to close the doors while the fuel cans were firmly attached to the roof. Even at sixty-five miles an hour, the gas cans didn’t move.

  As they finished their travels across Nevada, U.S. 50 lived up to its name as the Loneliest Road in America. They crossed into Utah and found that nothing much changed other than the weather.

  Throughout the day, it was if a massive cold front was moving into the Rockies from Canada. Temperatures began to drop, and the dirty snow began to accumulate. With no other traffic on the road, Owen struggled to keep from dipping two wheels off the shoulder. The asphalt pavement was rough underneath the blowing snow, and the accumulation was growing as it drifted against the rock canyon walls that were only ten feet from the highway.

  They drove through a valley near Sevier Lake that caused Owen to fight the wheel as seventy-mile-an-hour gusts threatened to blow them into the rocky flatlands on the south side of the highway. The drive eastward that would’ve ordinarily been smooth and fast was anything but. By the time they approached Interstate 15 where U.S. 50 merged for a short time, Owen was physically and mentally exhausted.

  “At Holden, we’ll take the interstate north for five or six miles,” said Lacey as she tried to take Owen’s mind off the struggle. “Then, after a short ride around a mountain, we’ll pick up I-70 for a couple of hundred miles to Grand Junction in Colorado. From there, we can start working our way south and east.”

  Owen glanced at the fuel gauge. It would be time to refill the tank soon. Also, it was getting dark fast. He didn’t want to fight this wind and not be able to see the where the pavement ended and the prairie began. It would be a disaster.

  “Okay. Let’s start looking for a place. Does Holden look like a large town?”

  “Nah. Just like the others. One stoplight and a handful of streets.”

  Tucker had pushed himself onto the edge of the back seat and rested his elbows on his parents’ seatbacks. He pointed ahead to a sign. “There’s one of those Rotary Club signs. Looks like there’s a church and a school.”

  “LDS,” muttered Owen. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was often informally referred to as the LDS or Mormon church.

  “What are you thinking, honey?” asked Lacey.

  Owen took a deep breath. “We were lucky at Echo Lake because the place was deserted. We’ve got a lot of nights on the road ahead of us, and each time we stop, we’re at risk. Somehow, I wanna believe a church might be a pretty safe place.”

  “Mormons?” asked Tucker.

  “Here’s the thing, Tuck,” Owen relayed his thoughts. “I grew up with members of the LDS church in my hometown. They were good people. Sure, they weren’t into the same types of things I was, and their families lived simple lives by comparison. That said, I remember them having an inner peace about them. They were a very close-knit group of people and lived a life of self-sufficiency. During the power outages caused by the fires, they still managed to stay in their homes, cook their meals, and tend to their farms.”

  Lacey interrupted his thoughts. “There’s a sign that says we should turn up ahead.”

  “Let’s try it, Dad.”

  Owen smiled and nodded as he turned his blinker on out of habit. He laughed at himself and then turned it off again. They drove into town just as the sun was setting, at least the best they could tell. Darkness seemed to be the rule rather than the exception. That, coupled with the blowing snow, caused visibility to be poor and barely half a mile.

  “There it is!” said Lacey excitedly. She was anxious for her husband to get some relief from the stress of driving. He refused to let anyone else take the wheel, and she respected that he wanted full responsibility for his family.

  Owen made another turn and then eased up to the front of the church. There weren’t any cars on the street in front and only a few parked on the wide streets nearby. They hadn’t seen anyone on the sidewalks or porches of the homes in town. Undoubtedly, they were staying out of the inclement weather.

  Owen parked the truck. “Tucker, will you stay here and keep an eye out. Your mom and I will see if anybody’s around.”

  He opened his door first, and the full brunt of the north wind filled the warm interior. “Whoa!” exclaimed Tucker as he fell back in his seat and started searching for his jacket, which had been used as bedding.

  Owen pulled the door closed again. “Guys, it feels like it’s dropped at least twenty degrees since we stopped at the gold mine. I know it’s getting later in the day, but this is nuts.”

  “Here ya go,” said Tucker as he passed their North Face jackets forward. “Do you want me to find toboggans in our bags?” Tucker had learned the Southern term for wool knit hats from his mother.

  Lacey slipped on her coat and replied, “No. We may not be long.”

  Owen did the same and turned to Tucker. “Eyes wide open
, son. Take nothing for granted, okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the teen, who snapped a salute as well. During their drive that day, without unduly creating a mental state of paranoia, they’d discussed the various threats they’d face on the road to the Keys. They all circled around to the most unpredictable of them all. Their fellow man.

  Lacey and Owen walked hand in hand through the soot-filled snow that had accumulated on the sidewalk leading to the entrance. They’d barely arrived under the cathedral-slanted roof when one of the double doors opened inward. A man and a woman greeted them.

  “Welcome. I’m Bishop Gates, and this is my wife, Anna.”

  Lacey allowed her husband to take the lead. “Hello, Bishop Gates, and thanks for letting us in. I’m Owen McDowell from San Francisco. This is my wife, Lacey, and my son, Tucker, is outside in our truck.”

  “Oh, you must fetch him,” insisted Anna. “This unexpected cold air could be deadly if he’s exposed too long.”

  Owen looked at Lacey and through the glass panes next to the doors. “Um, well, everything we own is out there. We, um, don’t want anything to—” Owen felt guilty for disparaging their town by implying thieves might steal their belongings.

  Bishop Gates picked up on his hesitancy. “Mr. McDowell, do you and your family need sanctuary for the evening? If so, you’re welcome to stay here, and we have a garage in back to secure your vehicle.”

  “And we have hot stew in the crock left over from tonight’s supper,” added Anna.

  “You do?” asked Lacey. “Hot?”

  Anna smiled and nodded. Her eyes were kind. “Why don’t you stay with us, dearie? A warm meal and some fellowship would do your bodies good. Maybe this foul weather will find its way elsewhere by morning.”

  Owen and Lacey looked at one another. A few tears streamed down Lacey’s face. He immediately hugged his wife and looked over her shoulder to Bishop Gates.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asked.

  “God has placed us on this Earth to help in times like these,” he replied as he held his arms wide. “Let us give you a night of respite before you continue your journey.”

  Part VI

  Day thirteen, Wednesday, October 30

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Wednesday, October 30

  Key West, Florida

  In folklore, the time of night between midnight and four a.m. was known as the witching hour. It was the point of the evening when the powers of a witch or a magician were considered to be at their strongest. It was Patrick’s, as Patricia, favorite time to find his next victim. His targets were inebriated and looking for companionship. They were easy marks. Only one had put up a fight, and he had been easily disposed of in the mangroves.

  The lack of power in the Florida Keys changed the way Patricia conducted the business of killing. The bars, never to miss an opportunity to serve drinks, fired up their generators and poured their whiskey. Frozen drinks cost an inordinate premium, as did any cocktail requiring ice. Lukewarm beer was embraced by the patrons without complaint. Music blaring from a boombox was more than enough to set the tone for the partiers trying to cope with TEOTWAWKI—the end of the world as they knew it.

  Tonight, Patricia had to get an earlier than usual start because the governor had declared martial law. The local authorities agreed to look the other way so the bars could allow people to blow off some steam, but they let it be known that midnight was closing time. No exceptions.

  During the day, Patrick contemplated his life as Patricia. He was beginning to see a time when killing opportunities would be fewer and far between. He only knew how to use the cover of bars and an inebriated mark to find his next victim. He’d thought about life after the bars closed permanently, but until that happened, he’d look for a new companion every night.

  Besides, now he didn’t have to take them very far. There were a dozen bars within a couple of blocks of the Island State Bank building where he’d set up his vault of torture. The law had their hands full, and therefore Patrick could get his hands bloodied more often.

  Patricia casually strolled up Whitehead Street on the sidewalk in front of the post office. She considered taking another side street to make her way over to the Roost, a local bar that was the location where she’d met her second kill. Like her last kill, where she met the victim at the Green Parrot, coaxing a drunk man a couple of blocks was not that great a task.

  Patrick was drawn to the post office because of the police activity. It had taken him several trips to tote the trash bags on the gray Rubbermaid cart he’d stolen from the back of Margaritaville. During the early morning hours, he didn’t draw anyone’s attention. He was surprised later that afternoon after he woke up to hear the sirens and discovered the dumpsters hadn’t been emptied like normal. It was purely bad luck that those same dumpsters had become a buffet line for the homeless.

  Not that it mattered, because he was being extremely careful as he honed his craft. He was meticulous about not leaving fingerprints or hair fibers not that the sheriff’s department had the means to analyze anything. Without power, all they could manage to do was rudely evict people from the Keys who had no place else to go.

  As Patricia made her way around the post office and back onto Fleming Street, she noticed Homicide Detective Mike Fleming wandering the grounds with his flashlight, searching for clues. She wanted to wave her fingers at Mike. Give him a little toodle-oo as she walked less than twenty feet away. I see you, Mikey, but you don’t see me.

  A grin broke out across her face. This was going to be fun. She’d pick out her next target and march him right past Mikey and his buddies. They’d never be the wiser.

  As planned, Patricia found a seat at the bar of the Roost and sipped a glass of red wine. The place was hopping with activity. She waited to be noticed by the right guy, and if she wasn’t, then she’d become a little more aggressive and choose one.

  Midnight was approaching, and she started to feel the pressure of picking out a partner to play with for the night. She made her move on a couple of late-night drinkers, but she was unsuccessful. Had she lost her touch? Did she not dress sexy enough? She didn’t want to overdo it under the circumstances. Most people wore the same clothes day after day. They were unkept and were beginning to smell. Patricia had planned ahead for that by filling the bathtub with water and being judicious about bathing. If anything, she was clean.

  Then opportunity knocked in the form of a hayseed with a hideous Southern accent. Patricia could barely stand the guy, who seemed to talk like he had a mouthful of nails. Be that as it may, he was more than drunk enough and certainly frisky, too.

  The young guy spun around playfully on the black barstool and ran his fingers across the green marble inlaid bar top as he spoke. After a while, Patricia actually took a liking to the guy and considered leaving him there. Then he made a couple of remarks about the other patrons in the bar that annoyed Patricia. They were out of line and inappropriate. The shiny new toy had lost his luster, and it was time to get down to business.

  Patricia whispered in his ear and provided him all kinds of promises of debauchery. The young man easily took the bait. They left the bar arm in arm and wandered the dark, mostly deserted streets of Key West toward the bank and its newly repurposed vault.

  Only, they weren’t alone. They were being followed.

  Patricia feigned being entertained by his jokes. She playfully swatted away his clumsy groping attempts. They made their way slowly down Duval Street until they turned by St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. The red wooden doors to the historic church established in 1832 remained open, as they had since the day after the nuclear attacks. The parishioners did the best they could to feed and clothe displaced travelers. Throughout the night, people arrived seeking shelter.

  Patricia and her new friend stumbled across Eaton Street to avoid a swarm of people who were breaking into the Tropic Theater, looking for a place to sleep. The two men who followed lurked in the shadows and used the people wan
dering the sidewalks to blend in.

  When the seemingly drunk couple made their way to the front of the Island State Bank, they were laughing and talking about all of the sexual acts they intended to perform on one another. Patricia held the railing and her guest, whom she helped up the steps to the front doors. Having practiced the maneuver the night before, she learned how to handle her man while unlocking the entrance. Once inside, if he face-planted onto the rug, all the better. He’d be in for some real pain soon enough anyway.

  Once the doorway was opened, the young man stumbled forward. Only, he didn’t hit the floor.

  Patricia did. It would be the beginning of the worst day of Patrick Hollister’s life.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Wednesday, October 30

  Central Virginia

  Peter awoke rested but extremely sore. He’d used muscles that he didn’t know he had, although his upper legs suffered the most. He cursed as he made his way to the bathroom to relieve himself. With each attempted step, his hamstrings and quadriceps hit the floor with a jolt. If he pushed off too hard, his calves joined in the torturous motion, drawing more verbal assaults from Peter.

  These were the primary muscles used to move the bicycle forward, but he found his shoulders sore from tension as well. His constant firm grip on the handlebar had resulted in his upper body being tense. The old adage sore all over certainly applied to Peter.

  He swallowed three Aleve he’d secured from the pharmacy and repacked his gear to include some of the things he’d found at the golf course, including batteries, kitchen knives, and several tools out of the shed that might assist him in repairing his bicycle. He also packed a bottle of Chivas Regal scotch and several bottles of Fiji water. Somehow, the thought of a nightcap at the end of a long day of riding gave him a rewarding inducement to keep going.