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

“They managed to steal twenty to thirty gallons at a time. You know, it’s a cost of doing business that we accept, but things are different now. Diesel is like liquid gold.”

“Was somebody trying to steal our diesel?” asked Tucker as he looked over the shorter man’s shoulder.

“Yes, and we caught them. Since this started, we’ve all joined together to take overnight shifts. We patrol one another’s docks and then administer justice to the thieves.” He turned around and glanced toward the dark boathouse.

“Justice?” asked Lacey.

Sandros spread his arms wide and moved forward in an attempt to herd them away from the boathouse. “Let’s go back to the house and get some coffee. Would you like that?” He was trying to shield them from what was about to happen next.

Lacey held her ground. “Okay, but, Sandros, what’s going to happen to the thieves?”

“The boy will be given a stern warning. His father will receive a harsher punishment in front of his son. Lessons will be learned by both of them.”

“But they’re just trying to survive, right?” she asked.

Sandros dropped his chin and stared at his feet for a moment. “They weren’t trying to steal food or even fresh water. Do you understand where I’m coming from? If these two had come to us and asked for a meal, we would’ve gladly helped, just like we opened our homes to you. They took the cowardly way out by stealing.”

“What will they do to him?”

“My brother is taking care of it. Do not concern yourselves. Now, please. Let’s go.”

Lacey’s eyes darted from Sandros to their boat. She was seeing a different side of the Andino family, which was surprising based upon their prior interaction and was completely unexpected. They seemed like a fun-loving, generous group. Yet there were lines that couldn’t be crossed, and they didn’t hesitate to punish those who crossed them.

Despite all of her mental machinations and internal debates from the night before, Lacey had made up her mind. It was time to go home.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Friday, November 8

Lower Keys Medical Center

Key West

It had been a long, boring and uneventful day for Mike Albright, who was already plotting his escape from the evil clutches of the medical staff at the Lower Keys Medical Center. He was a well-known figure around the Keys, and the staff there were working overtime to give him the best possible care. It wasn’t their fault he was a stubborn mule of a patient.

As the hurricane winds picked up, Mike noticed the flurry of activity outside his door. He was still dressed in a hospital gown. You know, the kind that allows your butt to catch a draft if you got out of bed. When he was finally allowed to go to the bathroom without an escort or the use of a walker, he vowed to find something else to wear that might be hospital approved. They forbade him from putting on his regular clothes, which Hank had dropped off earlier.

So, during a shift change earlier in the day, he’d snuck into the hallway and entered a storage closet, where he’d secured a set of all-white scrubs. He wasn’t sure what the color designation meant because the nurses and doctors wore some shade of blue or green. Hopefully it didn’t mean he was designated as a psych patient.

In any event, as the nurse visits to his room became less frequent, he dressed himself and then kept the blankets pulled up to his neck whenever someone looked in on him. The last several visits by the nursing staff involved nothing more than a glance at the monitors and a question that was some variation of how’re ya doin’? His answer was always twofold. Fine and can I leave now? Their response was always the same. Good and not yet.

Truthfully, Mike was feeling much better although it still hurt to take a deep breath. He imagined he could make his way to the sofa in their room at the inn or even wander around the main house to get a little exercise. Cocktails were a possibility, but his beloved cigars would have to wait a while. He’d never forget the disapproving look he had been given after he regained consciousness and the doctor had asked him if he was a smoker.

Only cigars.

He was read the riot act about how cigars caused cancer of the mouth and throat even if he didn’t inhale. The doc droned on and on about how cigars were not a safe alternative to cigarettes. Cigars have twenty times the amount of nicotine as a cigarette.

Blah-blah-blah.

If Mike didn’t need the medical team to keep him alive, he would’ve correctly pointed out that it was a homicidal maniac with a knife who had landed him in the hospital with a hole in his chest. Not his occasional Macanudo.

Mike was no longer hooked up to the monitors. His blood pressure was checked periodically, and he was required to show the nurses that he’d been staying hydrated. He was always thirsty, so that wasn’t a problem.

He was also told to use a volumetric exerciser on a regular basis. The handheld device was frequently required for patients who were recovering from surgery or lung illnesses. The spirometer device helped keep the lungs free of fluid. Mike did it because he was incredibly bored, and the process became like a game to him. It also enabled him to perform a self-assessment as to his eligibility to be discharged.

He’d been given a pen and notepad. Using the battery-operated clock on the wall, he recorded the time and the volume of air, and using a few dots that wouldn’t make any sense to the medical staff, he recorded his pain level. As his stay in the hospital wore on, Mike found his ability to take deep breaths increased, and the pain associated with the ordinarily simple bodily function decreased.

As far as he was concerned, he was ready to be released despite the hospital’s anticipated refusal to sign off. It would be