Nuclear Winter First Strike by Bobby Akart (best fiction books of all time .txt) 📗

and that, am I right? Why would that be a special ingredient?”

Erin raised her hand. “Phoebe, may I take that one?”

“Certainly, honored guest,” Phoebe responded with a smile. She slid her left foot over to kick Hank’s ankle.

Erin continued. “Many people don’t know that the majority of key limes, which are more aromatic and juicier than regular limes, are grown in Mexico because of old trade agreements. Orange growers have faced the same uneven playing field. Part of what I hope to accomplish in Washington is to ease the burden on Florida’s agricultural growers by leveling the playing field with Mexico.”

Phoebe finished distributing the slices of pie and stood back as everyone tasted it. Nearly everyone closed their eyes to savor the flavor.

“Oh. My. God,” said the oldest sister in single-word sentences. She quickly shoved a second bite into her mouth before the first one was completely consumed. “One word. Heavenly.”

Hank chuckled. “That it is. Because we grow the limes here on the key, we can pick them while they’re still green. Phoebe is an expert in determining when the perfect level of ripeness occurs. She says the secret ingredient is the fact that we grow them here. In actuality, it’s the love and attention she gives to picking just the right ones.”

Erin laughed. “Hey, Phoebe. It sounds to me like a good time to ask for a raise.”

“Yes, Mr. Hank. How about it?”

Hank was about to answer when Erin’s phone began to vibrate and emit a text tone that resembled an emergency warning. She quickly pulled it out of her shorts pocket and studied the display.

“I’m sorry. I need to make a phone call.”

A look of concern came over her sister’s face. “Is everything okay?”

“There’s been a terrorist attack in Abu Dhabi.”

Chapter Five

Friday, October 18

Curry Hammock State Park

Fat Deer Key, Florida

Marty Kantor was a drifter. He had no roots. He had no sense of purpose. He had no soul. There was no way out of the downward spiral he’d succumbed to the day he’d tried his first joint as a teen. Drug experimentation was the first stage toward full-blown addiction, and the readily available hallucinogenic had been a logical place to start.

Soon, the high wasn’t good enough, and he turned to Google. His mom, a functioning alcoholic and manic-depressive, had a treasure trove of goodies to choose from in her medicine cabinet. Kantor researched them all and began taking a few here and there. The highs and lows were glorious.

His mom was too oblivious to notice the missing pills until she tried to get refills and the pharmacy refused to accommodate her. So Kantor mastered the art of placeboing, if that was even a word. Perhaps it was, not that it mattered. It was one he made up, but at least he understood it. Kantor learned how to empty the contents of his mom’s medicine capsules and replace it with a placebo, usually baking starch or flour. He’d ingest the drugs, and she’d get to swallow a baker’s secret ingredient of no medicinal use.

Initially, she didn’t notice the difference until she began to descend into madness. Her meds weren’t working; she’d complained to the pharmacist and then her doctor. When the doctor fired her as a patient for all intents and purposes, she’d try to find another one. However, government regulations made sure her medical records followed her everywhere. Soon, she became desperate to keep her mind sane and sought alternative ways to self-medicate.

This new program worked well for Kantor. Mom would score some heavy shit like crystal meth or even heroin. After she partied with Christy and the Dragon, her dutiful son would rob her of the remaining drugs and use them himself.

Then, one day, the Kantor party came to an end. At least in Miami, anyway. His dear mother unexpectedly became the dearly departed Mrs. Kantor. This sucked for Kantor because he still had a life to live, sort of. For a while, he toughed it out with his mother’s dead body lying in a heap on the far side of her bed against a wall.

You see, he had to keep her alive, ostensibly, so he could collect the myriad of government checks that came her way. Kantor cashed them at a liquor store, begrudgingly paying the required twenty percent you-ain’t-the-payee fee. He’d immediately roll right around the corner to pick up some more crystal meth. Now he was partying hearty with Christy.

This worked for Kantor for a month or so. He’d score a diamond of the dangerous drug, get his high, and try to function. Jobs were plentiful, as the economy was roaring, so warm bodies were in high demand. He’d work for a while, cash a paycheck or two, and then increase his drug intake.

Marty Kantor decided to move on when his dead mom began to stink so bad that he couldn’t mask the smell with bonus hits on the meth pipe. He really didn’t have anywhere to go, but he’d always heard the Florida Keys were a party place. Since partying was all he knew, he loaded up dearly departed Mom’s Chevy Lumina with anything of use and headed south.

Kantor made it all the way to Key West before the Lumina crapped out. It was a piece of shit anyway, but it had enough gas to get him to his destination. No matter, Kantor convinced himself. He wasn’t goin’ back to Hialeah anyway. He got settled into his new digs, the backseat of the Lumina.

He tried to party the old way, scoring crystal meth and sailing out to sea in his demented mind. He soon realized Key West was a different kind of party town. It wasn’t full of dope dealers on every corner. There weren’t opportunities to trade sexual favors for a few bucks. The place wasn’t full of pawnshops to exchange stolen valuables for a few bucks. They ran a clean operation down there, and that sucked for him.

Kantor had to change his approach to life, so he made an