Nuclear Winter Devil Storm by Bobby Akart (great novels txt) 📗

he learned they planned to continue their journey to the Keys first thing in the morning. That was when he revealed a rumor he’d heard.

Hurricane.

Chapter Sixteen

Thursday, November 7

National Guard Encampment

Homestead-Miami Speedway

Homestead, Florida

“Roll it up, Albright! You’re being released.”

Peter jerked himself awake after he’d succumbed to the weeks of mental and physical exhaustion. The jail cell might have taken away his freedom, but it certainly provided him a place to recharge his batteries, albeit an uncomfortable one. He sat there for a brief moment to gather his wits and to stretch his upper body. The concrete slab of a bed was unforgiving on his sore body.

The loud clank of the cell door being unlocked lifted his spirits. He jumped up and forgot about what he’d been through for the last couple of days. Now he could focus his efforts on finding Jimmy.

“Let’s go, pal. Everybody’s bugging out.”

“Whadya mean?”

“I mean we’re evacuating this outpost, and that means you’ve gotta go. Now!”

Peter glanced at the toilet but was afraid to relieve himself for fear of remaining locked up. Besides, he turned his attention to Jimmy.

“Um, what about the guy I was brought in with. Jimmy? I think?” This guard was different from the others he’d dealt with, so he felt comfortable in directly broaching the subject. He added, “He kinda saved my life, and I wanted to thank him.”

The guard stood back a couple of paces and motioned toward the door. He rested his hand on his sidearm as he studied Peter’s demeanor and movements.

“I think he’s in the infirmary,” he replied. “He suffered some injuries that needed to be attended to.”

Peter screamed the words in his head. Injuries? What injuries? He was fine when we got here.

“Wow. Okay. I’d still like to look in on him. Would you point me in the right direction?”

“Look, Albright,” the guard began in response. “You don’t get it. This is not social hour. We’re movin’ out, and most likely anyone in the infirmary will be medevacked out.”

Geez. What did you do to him?

The guard escorted Peter out of the police substation and into the tunnel underneath the grandstand seating that faced the Start/Finish line at the track. The first thing that struck him was a cold, howling wind that entered through the open portals leading up into the grandstands. A familiar whistling sound was made by the steady winds that were reminiscent of tropical storm activity he’d endured while growing up at Driftwood Key.

“Which way?” Peter asked.

The guard pointed ahead of them. “Up ahead about a hundred yards will be an open area leading to the parking lot.”

“And where’s the infirmary?” he asked, knowing he risked being rebuked by the guard.

The guard pointed toward a long corridor that ran perpendicular to the tunnel. “Out there. It’s the Infield Care Center near the entrance to pit road. But I’m tellin’ ya, he’s probably gone already.”

Peter nodded and began walking toward the exit of the speedway. He glanced over his shoulder after he passed the corridor leading to the heart of the racetrack to see if the guard was still watching him. When he saw the door to the substation closing behind the guard as he returned to his post, Peter darted back toward the corridor and ran toward a chain-link gate. Seconds later, he was standing at the gate overlooking the racetrack. He shook his head in disbelief as a gust of wind smacked him in the face.

Despite the late time of year and the unusually cool conditions for South Florida, a tropical depression must’ve formed somewhere in either the Atlantic or the Gulf of Mexico. The Florida Keys and the southern tip of the state were visited frequently by hurricanes. Some formed in the Atlantic, like Hurricane Irma in 2017 that resulted in eighty-four deaths, while others grazed the island chain from the west, like Hurricane Donna in 1960 that nearly destroyed Marathon and Driftwood Key.

In Peter’s memory, the worst storm to hit the Keys was Hurricane Wilma in October of 2005. That had been considered a late-season storm. It was early November, although Peter had no idea what today’s date was. Somehow, dates and times didn’t matter much when you were constantly fighting for your life.

He pushed open the gate and fought the wind that struck him in the chest. The open speedway, filled with concrete and infield grass, allowed the gusts to blow unimpeded. Peter slowly walked down the slight, three-degree banking near the Start/Finish line. Darkness was settling in that allowed him only limited visibility. Once he hit the infield, he ran across the grass toward the entrance to pit road, where the guard said the Infield Care Center was located. He caught a glimpse of light emanating from the gray trailer adjacent to a building that resembled a small fire hall. There were several tan-colored Humvees parked haphazardly between the two.

Using blue and yellow stacks of painted tires as cover, he ran at a low crouch until he was only forty feet away from the entrance to a building identified as Motorsports Complex EMS. He also had a direct view of the Infield Care Center, which was nothing more than a gray office trailer. Peter had watched enough racing to know that after a wreck of any kind on the track, the drivers had to report to medical to get checked out.

He knew he couldn’t waltz into either building, introduce himself, and ask to see Jimmy. His friend might not even be there if the substation guard was correct. Peter sighed as he considered his options. As his eyes darted back and forth between the two buildings in search of activity, wind-blown raindrops began to pelt his face.

If Jimmy was there, the coming storm might provide just the distraction he needed to free his friend.

Chapter Seventeen

Thursday, November 7

National Guard Encampment

Homestead-Miami Speedway

Homestead, Florida

In those first few moments, Peter got antsy. Then he settled in to wait despite the worsening conditions. He was cold and wet but determined to help