Nuclear Winter Devil Storm

by Bobby Akart

  And then the most painful, bloodcurdling screams he’d ever heard filled the air in front of him.

  Chapter Two

  Wednesday, November 6

  Overseas Highway at Cross Key

  Florida Keys

  One by one, those charging to the front were greeted with two rolls of concertina wire strung across the Overseas Highway. Similar to barbed wire, which features pointed barbs along a strand of wire, concertina wire was used by the military and prisons to control people. However, rather than having pointed barbs, concertina wire was made with sharp blades, which can slice deep into flesh and are oftentimes fatal to the unsuspecting person who tries to climb over it.

  The spiral, coiled wire made of razor-sharp stainless steel had been stretched across the road by two baggage-towing machines on loan from the Marathon airport. They were used by the checkpoint guards as the last line of defense before the Overseas Highway crossed the water at the Jewfish Creek Bridge.

  The first wave of people in front of Peter never saw the two rolls of wire stretched across the road in front of them. The dark conditions coupled with their panicked state of mind had prevented them from registering what was about to happen to their bodies until it was too late.

  It was a brutal, arguably illegal way of securing any border. The results of the first group of people who encountered it in those early morning hours proved why it was often used to secure a perimeter.

  Cries of agony filled the air as limbs were severed and faces were sliced open. The men who ran into the wire first were then crushed by those behind them, who fell on top of their bodies. As they squirmed and wiggled to get free, they only became more entangled as the concertina wire dug into their flesh.

  Peter reached the wire and slipped on a pool of blood just before he was cut by the sharp blades. He pushed himself away from the carnage just as another wave of refugees ran past him and ran into the wire.

  “Peter! You have to hurry!” shouted Jimmy, who was standing on the other side of the double strands of wire. “We’re running out of time.”

  “Last chance, Free! Let’s go!” shouted one of Jimmy’s fellow guards.

  Jimmy looked back and forth, deciding what to do.

  “Go! I’ll find another way,” said Peter amidst the pleas for help from the wounded. Despite the gruesome scene along the wire barriers, others continued their attempts to cross it or even crawl under it. It didn’t end well for them.

  “I’m not leaving you!” Jimmy yelled back.

  “Retreat, Free! Now!”

  Jimmy ignored the order. He moved closer to the concertina wire to get a closer look. He found an option, albeit a brutal one.

  “Peter! Over here. Climb over.”

  “What?” Peter was confused, but he followed the sound of Jimmy’s voice about forty feet to his left. When he arrived, he discovered what Jimmy had in mind.

  A pile of bodies lay across the rolls of wire. The initial push of refugees attempting to cross had forced the two rolls together. However, the wounds they’d encountered when their legs and arms became snarled with the razor-sharp wire had halted their progress. Peter suspected the people at the bottom of the pile were dead. Those on top were bleeding profusely and would succumb within minutes.

  He shook his head in disgust. In that moment of adrenaline-fueled desire to join his friend and return home, visions of the despair he’d witnessed along the borders of Serbia and Croatia filled his head. Anger built up within him at the thought of someone in the Florida Keys, quite possibly Jimmy’s aunt, Mayor Lindsey Free, ordering the barbaric concertina wire to be put into place. Then again, somebody had made the foolish decision to blow up the bridges entering the Keys.

  “Peter!” Jimmy’s shout brought him back into the present.

  Peter had always been athletic as a kid and still enjoyed running for exercise. In high school, he had been on the track team and competed in the high hurdle events. The hurdles measured forty-two inches, somewhat taller than the concertina wire. However, unlike a hurdle used in a track and field event, the doubled-up rolls of wire measured nearly six feet deep.

  He took a deep breath and stepped several paces back from the pile of mangled bodies. Then he began to run toward them. He’d have to use the backs of the people as a springboard to push him up, over and past the coils of wire. Peter focused on his own survival and tried to force the uncivilized act out of his mind.

  He took off toward the wire. He planted his left foot firmly on the pavement, and then his stride carried him upward until his right foot barely pushed off the back of a dead man. Peter’s body rose into the air, and he sailed past the second coil of razor wire until his forward momentum sent him tumbling along the highway on the other side.

  It was crashing into Jimmy that prevented him from further injury other than the scrapes and bruises he received. Both men were on their knees when they came face-to-face.

  “Are you okay?” Jimmy asked.

  “Helluva an entrance, right?” Peter replied with humor. He shook his body and moved his arms and legs to confirm nothing was broken.

  “We’ve gotta go,” said Jimmy as he hoisted his friend off the pavement.

  Suddenly, three men rushed past them in the darkness toward the bridge. They were followed by two women and a child. Jimmy and Peter stood dumbfounded, wondering how they were able to pass so quickly.

  “They followed your lead,” Jimmy surmised as he encouraged Peter to run toward the bridge.

  Soon, a pack of a dozen people were racing along the road toward Key Largo. Peter fought through the pain of his knees and elbows, which had taken the brunt of the impact when he’d hit the pavement. Jimmy slowed to help him along, which allowed several more refugees to race past them into the darkness.

  “We’ve gotta pick up the pace. They’re gonna take down the Jewfish Creek Bridge.”

  “This is nuts, Jimmy,” said Peter as he willed his legs to move faster. They were running now although they were still being outpaced by several people on both sides of them.

  “You have no idea,” Jimmy said under his breath but loud enough for Peter to hear.

  Without warning, an explosion filled the air, accompanied by a bright light, which provided enough illumination for Peter to read the highway signs mounted to the concrete guardrail. The signs read All-American Road, Florida Scenic Highway at Mile Marker 108. Until they, along with the scenic highway, disappeared in front of them.

  Chapter Three

  Wednesday, November 6

  Driftwood Key

  Mike Albright lay on the ground, staring up at the mangrove trees hovering over him like the Grim Reaper’s army. He struggled to breathe. With each desperate attempt to fill his lungs with air, he felt like he was drowning. In the distance, he could hear shouting. His mind, slipping in and out of consciousness, tried to identify the voices. Hank. Sonny.

  Jess?

  Mike turned his head in the direction of his wife’s voice. Where was she? The gate. The dock. Somewhere above him?

  Was it over? Had he died, and Jessica was trying to find him to bring him back?

  Mike went into another coughing fit. He couldn’t shake the feeling that blood was coming out of his nose, mouth, and chest. Chest?

  He pulled his hand upward toward his heart. A warm, steady trickle of blood poured through his fingers. He pressed hard, moaning in pain as he did. He had to keep his blood inside him. He doubted Phoebe had an extra supply in her secret storage room.

  Delirium had set in. He was on the cusp of death, at that point when his body made the decision that the battle had been lost. It was his turn to check out.

  “Mike!”

  His eyes popped open. There she was again. Closer now. He tried to call out, but it just caused him to have a coughing fit filled with bloody sputum.

  “Over here!”

  “Jessica! This way!”

  More familiar voices. Here comes the cavalry.

  “Oh, Jesus, Mike,” said Jessica as
she fell to her knees on the ground next to him. She took his face in her hands and turned her head so she could listen to his breathing. She touched her fingers to his neck. “A pulse! He’s still alive!”

  “We’re coming!” Hank Albright shouted as he followed the sound of her voice. He knew the trails of the hammocks along the brackish water separating Driftwood Key from Marathon. He’d carved most of them as a boy, and others kept them maintained. Seconds later, he was by their side along with Sonny Free. He crouched down next to his brother and tried to see in the dark. “How bad is it?”

  Sonny helped by illuminating Mike’s body with his flashlight.

  Jessica was remarkably calm as she spoke. “Sonny, keep the light focused on his chest.”

  She gently lifted Mike’s hands from the knife wound, which was just below his left breast near his lungs. Blood spurted out as Mike’s chest heaved, begging for air, gurgling out of his chest with every gasp. A noticeable hissing, sucking sound could be heard as Mike fought for every breath.

  Jessica immediately applied pressure to the hole in his chest and implored her husband to fight for his life. “Dammit, Mike! Don’t you quit on me!”

  Sonny pulled the flashlight back so she could see her husband’s face. Mike was alert, but his eyes were darting wildly in all directions, looking toward his brother, toward the gnarly mangroves, and then back to Jessica. His mouth was agape with a trickle of blood dripping over his lips. Mike didn’t try to speak, allowing his eyes to plead for help.

  “We gotta get him to the hospital,” said Hank.

  Jessica took a deep breath and exhaled to steady her nerves. Mike didn’t need his emotional wife right now. He needed a trained paramedic. She looked at Sonny and Hank.

  “He’s got a sucking chest wound. He needs a chest tube.” The knife had plunged into Mike’s chest cavity and punctured the lung.

  “Do you have one on the boat?” asked Hank.

  “No, but there’s a workaround,” she replied. She turned to Sonny. “I need Saran Wrap and duct tape. Hurry! Go!”

  Without hesitation, Sonny disappeared into the mangroves, leaving the Albrights behind. Hank rose and walked over to Patrick’s body. He kicked the dead man in the ribs to confirm he was dead. Then he angrily kicked at his head although he missed in the darkness.

  “He did this,” he muttered as he returned to Mike’s side. “First he attacked Phoebe and then this.”

  “Why? Is Phoebe okay?”

  “Phoebe will be fine, and we don’t really know what caused that asshole to snap.”

  Mike began to cough again, so Jessica turned her attention back to her patient. “Mike, look at me. I know this hurts and you’re afraid. It’s gonna be all right. I love you, and I’m not lettin’ you off the hook this easy. Got it?”

  Mike managed a smile and slowly nodded once.

  “What are you gonna do, Jess?” asked Hank, his voice filled with trepidation and concern.

  “The knife created a hole in his chest. As he breathes, air is being sucked into his thoracic cavity through his chest wall instead of into his lungs through his airways. When he tries to breathe, his chest cavity is expanding in order to inhale. The problem is air not only goes into his mouth and nose like normal, it’s getting pulled into the hole.”

  Hank ran his fingers through his hair and wiped the sweat off his face. “It sounds awful.”

  Remarkably, Jessica chuckled. “It does, but in actuality, it’s the sound of not dying. Right, Mike?” She bent over and kissed her husband on the forehead. Their eyes locked, speaking to one another as only a loving husband and wife could.

  “Comin’!” Sonny shouted from the direction of the main house. Seconds later he was by their side with the Saran Wrap and duct tape in his left hand. He had a gallon of spring water and the first aid kit Phoebe kept in the kitchen in the other.

  “Good thinking, Sonny. I need your shirt, too.”

  Sonny pulled his sweatshirt over his head and turned it inside out so the fleece side was exposed.

  “Okay,” he muttered.

  “Pour some of the water on it so I can clean the dirt and debris from around the wound and chest. It’s hard to get tape or even a chest seal to stay in place when the patient’s skin is bloody, sweaty, or dirty.”

  Mike coughed again, and his breathing became shallower. Jessica smiled and rubbed her fingers through his hair.

  “Hang on, Mike,” she said encouragingly as she pulled a square of the Saran Wrap out of the box. She tore it until she’d created a four-inch-square piece. She placed it over the knife wound and held it firmly with both hands.

  She looked to Hank to give him instructions. “Rip off three pieces of the duct tape about eight inches long.”

  “Just three?” he asked as he stretched out the first strip and used his front teeth to create a slight tear in the side.

  “Yeah. It’s called a three-sided occlusive dressing. I’ll show you.”

  Hank quickly created the strips, and Jessica expertly taped the Saran Wrap over the wound, leaving one side open. As she worked, she explained the method.

  “Every time Mike breathes in, air gets through the wound. It gets caught in his chest, pressing on his lungs. This acts as a one-way valve. It seals the wound as he inhales and lets out air through the fourth side when he exhales.”

  Sonny held the flashlight in his shaking hands but managed to provide Jessica sufficient light to work. When she was finished, she paused for a moment before pulling her hands away from the chest seal.

  Mike’s breathing slowed and became more rhythmic. As he took a deep breath, the Saran Wrap pulled into his chest as if it had become a second skin. When he exhaled, the opening created a gap, and air mixed with a few droplets of blood escaped.

  “There you go, babe. Just relax and breathe.”

  Mike tried to raise his arm, but he was too weak. He mouthed the words thank you to Hank and Sonny. Then tears flowed out of his eyes to mix with the blood on both cheeks. He turned to the paramedic, his wife, who’d just taken the first step toward saving his life.

  “I love you,” he whispered as the loss of blood caused him to lose consciousness.

  Chapter Four

  Wednesday, November 6

  Gulf of Mexico

  Near Pass Christian, Mississippi

  No one was chasing them. There wasn’t anybody left alive on the dock except for the other would-be passengers who’d jumped over the side to save themselves from the barrage of bullets. Yet every fiber of Lacey McDowell’s being wanted to rush the forty-five-foot trawler into the Gulf of Mexico as far away from the bloodbath that had occurred at Bay St. Louis as she could.

  After her pulse slowed and the epinephrine coursing through her veins found its way back into her adrenal glands to be used another day, Lacey became a little more comfortable with the modified Grand Banks trawler powered by the big 855 Cummins diesel engine and the six hundred horsepower it generated. Her overzealous escape from the mayhem had resulted in her tearing out of the harbor at full throttle. The Cymopoleia, as the trawler was named, began to shudder as she reached her top speed of nearly twenty knots. The high-pitched roar and the gauges screamed at Lacey to slow down to an ideal cruising speed of fourteen knots. Yet she was intent upon leaving the visions of bloodied, bullet-riddled bodies behind in Bay St. Louis.

  Finally, it was a man’s voice that startled her, bringing her back into the present.

  “Ma’am!” He spoke loudly. “You’ll run us out of diesel before we hit the Alabama state line. And, about that, you might wanna turn her to the left; otherwise we’ll be out there with the oil rigs.”

  Lacey and Tucker both spun around. Frightened, Tucker pointed his weapon at the man while Lacey fumbled to find the gun she’d set to the side.

  During their panic, the man raised his hands and continued. “Easy, everyone. We’re not with them. Remember? That’s my wife and daughter back there.” He turned slightly and pointed to the aft deck seating. They were sit
ting in the darkness, but their silhouettes could be made out against the boat’s running lights.

  “Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” said Lacey. She’d forgotten about the man and his family who were waiting on board when the melee began. She gave up searching for her weapon and placed her hand on the shotgun Tucker was holding. It had belonged to the captain, who had been killed with a single bullet to the heart fired by one of their attackers. Lacey gulped and asked, “Are you all okay?”

  “Yes, we are. My name’s Erick Andino, and that’s my wife, Anna, and our daughter, Katerina,” he said in response as he half-turned toward his family. The short, stocky man with jet-black hair and a bushy mustache continually watched Lacey’s and Tucker’s body language as he spoke. “We live in Tarpon Springs. Do you know of it?”

  Lacey turned to the console and ran her fingers across the many switches. She flipped on the interior lights of the wheelhouse so they could see one another better. Then she waved to Andino’s family and urged them to come into the enclosure.

  “I’ve heard of it but never visited. It’s the place with all the sponges, right?”

  “Very good. That’s correct. Where are you from?”

  Lacey introduced herself and Tucker before explaining how they had traveled from San Francisco with the goal of returning to where she’d grown up in the Florida Keys.

  Tucker left for a moment to rummage through the galley, where he found some snacks and drinks for everyone. Andino told his family’s story as they sailed along the Mississippi coastline in the dark. The boat’s navigational equipment was working properly, so she was able to ease along parallel to the shore without fear of running aground or dragging the hull along a sandbar. It would be some time before they’d have to adjust course to follow the bend of the Gulf Coast.

  “My ancestors were born and raised in the Greek seaside villages before immigrating to the United States. They entered through Ellis Island like so many others following the Second World War but immediately made their way to Florida because jobs were available that suited them.