Nuclear Winter Whiteout by Bobby Akart (books to read to improve english .TXT) 📗

“Adam, I’m gonna make a quick ride out to the Pueblo County line. There are a couple of farms on County Road 1 that I’d like to check on.”

“10-4. This won’t take long. Let’s meet up here when we’re finished.”

Ochoa continued down the snow-covered highway, which had been partially cleared by the gusty headwinds she faced. A half-mile-long freight train had stalled at the moment of the EMP detonation. Its cars had been filled with cattle heading from Pueblo to the Texas Panhandle. It had been a herculean effort by local ranchers to off-load the railcars and drive the cattle into the Nepesta Valley Stockyards owned by the Lucero family for safekeeping. She wondered if the bone-chilling conditions that had struck the west part of the county killed them all.

Ochoa slowed as she came upon a pickup truck stalled in the middle of the road, heading eastbound. She’d checked it out on a previous patrol to the northwest part of the county, but this time something seemed amiss. Hay was thrown on the asphalt pavement both to the side and rear bumper of the truck. However, there was something else she couldn’t quite reconcile.

She eased up to the front bumper and exited her Jeep. Despite her familiarity with the stalled truck, her instincts encouraged her to keep her gloved hand on her service weapon. She made a fist with her left hand and attempted to wipe the ice crystals off the driver’s side window. When she was unsuccessful, she removed her cuffs from her utility belt and used the steel double strand to remove enough ice for her to see inside. The interior was empty.

She slowly walked to the side of the pickup, kicking at the frozen hay at her feet. Still wary that an animal might have found its way into the truck bed, she kept her hand on her service weapon. Otero County had battled plague-infested prairie dogs and rodents the summer before. The plague had jumped from animal to animal through flea infestations, infecting the wild dogs that roamed the fields around the county line. These animals were not only infectious, they were considered dangerous.

Ochoa stopped and looked around. Nothing moved, and she began to think her hunch had failed her. She took a few steps toward the west and then turned back toward the pickup. She shrugged and shook her head slightly as she started back to her Jeep.

Then something caught her eye in the back of the truck. Her pulse quickened, and her adrenaline kicked in. She drew her weapon.

“Shit! Are you kidding me? Shit!”

Ochoa rushed to the back of the truck and used one arm to hoist herself onto the bumper. She leaned over the tailgate and rustled through the loose hay to reveal the legs of a man extending from under half a dozen bales piled on top of him. With her weapon trained on the man, she grabbed one of his ankles and shook it.

“Hey, mister! Are you okay?”

No response.

She grabbed both ankles and shook hard. She shouted her question. “Hey! Wake up!”

Again, no response.

Ochoa stood on the bumper, holstered her weapon, and pulled her handheld ham radio from her utility belt. Abandoning all protocol, she called for backup.

“Adam! This is Susan. Need you now! Middle of Highway 50, just east of CR 1. Possible dead body.”

Chapter Seven

Thursday, October 31

Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center

La Junta, Colorado

Sheriff Mobley was about to leave the department when a member of his communications team rushed to stop him. He was told about Deputy Ochoa’s discovery of a body in the back of the pickup truck on Route 50. Amazingly, the man they found was not dead. Both Ochoa and Hostetler confirmed the man was hanging on by a thread. He was suffering from exposure to the extreme temperature drop that had been reported to the sheriff’s office.

He took a seat in the chair of the communications deputy and pressed the talk button on the microphone attached to the ham base unit.

“Is he conscious?”

“Negative.”

“Both of you need to carry him into a Jeep. Be gentle. Remove his wet outer layers of clothing.”

Hostetler responded, “Negative, Sheriff. His clothes are frozen solid. I’ve never seen anything like it. He looks like that guy on The Shining.”

Sheriff Mobley scowled. His voice reflected his sense of urgency. “Come on, Adam. Respect, please. Get him in the Jeep and fire up the heat. As his clothes thaw, remove anything wet and cover him with blankets. Susan, ride in the back seat while Adam brings him to the medical center. Monitor his breathing.”

“I have a thermos of hot coffee,” she added.

“Good. If he comes to, and if he’s coherent enough to drink, let him have some but just a little. I mean, don’t let him gulp it down.”

“10-4,” she replied. There was radio silence for a moment until Ochoa returned to report their progress. “We’re coming in. ETA is gonna be half an hour, Sheriff. We’re as far away as far away can be.”

“Understood. Out.” Sheriff Mobley flung himself back in his chair and ran his hands through his thin, sandy blond hair. Throughout the crisis, he’d prided himself and his department on their ability to save the lives of his residents and travelers. Throughout the conversation, as he’d focused on instructing his deputies through the process of bringing the man to the medical center, something nagged at him.

Where did he come from? It was a question he hoped to get answers to because that meant the man would be alive to tell about it. With a sigh, he hustled over to the medical center to alert the emergency room.

Otero County, with its small population of just over ten thousand residents, was fortunate to have its own hospital. Small in comparison to the massive medical centers found in large cities, its history dated back to the early 1900s when it was founded. In the 1920s, its management and operations were turned over to