Nuclear Winter Armageddon by Bobby Akart (ebook reader 7 inch txt) 📗

against the glass and cupped his hands around his eyes to block out the glare put off by the sun setting behind the smoky skies.

Peter expected the clubhouse to be empty. It was not. At the right side of the building was a dining area flanked by a bar on one side and a media wall on the other. A chair was tipped over, and a body lay on the carpeted floor next to it. Peter gripped his pistol a little harder and pressed his back against the taupe-colored stucco wall. His breathing grew more rapid, and his chest was heaving as the adrenaline kicked in.

He moved along the side of the clubhouse and swiftly ran past the dining area toward a small outbuilding that was built like a mini-me of the clubhouse. Its door was flung open, so Peter decided to clear it first.

He raced down the asphalt sidewalk shared with the electric golf carts, choosing speed over silence to catch anyone inside off guard. When he arrived, he looked inside. Even in the waning daylight, he could see it was empty and nothing more than a maintenance shed full of tools commonly found in an auto mechanic’s shop. He turned his attention back to the clubhouse.

The rear entrance to the dining area was pulled closed. He rushed across the grassy back of the building and pressed his back against the wall. With his left hand, he slowly turned the doorknob of the rear entry door. It was unlocked. Peter eased it open and then steadied his nerves. With his pistol leading the way, he stepped inside to the near dark interior of the clubhouse.

The first thing he noticed was the fact it was undisturbed. He’d witnessed stores and gas stations that had been looted throughout his travels out of Fairfax. This facility appeared to have been spared by thieves.

First, he turned to the left to locate the body he’d observed from the front door. The clubhouse had a small grill and bar, the proverbial nineteenth hole, built to serve the golfers after a long day on the links. A couple of dozen square tables surrounded by bent-back chairs were packed into the space, each set up with napkin holders, salt and pepper shakers, and beer coasters. Only one had any sign of use.

Peter slowly approached the body on the floor. His table was stacked with one empty and one half-full bottle of Jim Beam whiskey. Several empty bags of chips were lying on the floor near him. Peter kept his pistol trained on the man’s torso as he kicked his feet to nudge him awake.

“Hey, buddy! Wake up!” he said in a loud whisper.

He nervously glanced around the dining area to see if he’d garnered anyone’s attention. Satisfied nobody else was around, Peter got a closer look at the man, and that was when the stench of his corpse reached his nostrils. He was flat on his back with both hands clutching his chest. The older man might have died of a heart attack, Peter surmised.

He pulled his gaiter over his nose and mouth again as he backed away from the corpse. “What were you doin’ in here, old man?” Peter asked aloud.

He looked around the room to see if anyone else appeared to answer on the dead man’s behalf. When he didn’t get a response, he quickly moved through the entire building to make sure nobody was lying in wait. He was far too exhausted for a shoot-out like the night in the pharmacy.

Satisfied he was alone, he made his way to the front entry doors, unlocked them, and wheeled his bicycle into the clubhouse foyer. After taking a deep breath and exhaling to relieve some tension, he rummaged through the kitchen, looking for anything edible. As he did, he even allowed himself a warm rum and Coke. The ice had melted, and the contents of the freezer reeked worse than the dead man, so he was satisfied with the drink without ice.

Finally, exhaustion set in. He barricaded the doors and windows with dining tables and other pieces of furniture. Then he gathered sweaters from the clubhouse shop to use as bedding. There was an upstairs loft overlooking the nineteenth hole that contained a couple of pool tables and several video poker machines. He created a bed behind the pool tables so he’d have some protection in case he was surprised by intruders in the middle of the night.

Then Peter slept hard. For almost ten hours, his mentally and physically exhausted body got the rest it needed.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Tuesday, October 29

U.S. Route 50

Nevada

“Your kid’s snoring,” said Owen with a chuckle. He kept his eyes forward although he fully expected a response from his wife.

“Just like his father except not as loud,” she said dryly.

“Skinny people don’t snore,” he continued.

“Exactly. You’ve developed a pooch.”

Owen sat a little taller in the driver’s seat of the Bronco. He sucked in his gut for a moment, but as soon as he exhaled, it returned to its normal, relaxed pooch position.

“No,” he said defiantly.

“Yes.” Lacey laughed as she glanced back at her son, who was sleeping soundly after pulling an all-nighter watching over their temporary camp at Echo Lake. “Since you’ve become a Yahoo! big shot, wining and dining and rubbing elbows and such, those rock-solid abs from college turned into a high-paid executive’s pooch.”

Now Owen was laughing. He tried to hold in his stomach to lend the appearance of the solid midsection of his younger years but failed.

“I can get ’em back anytime I want.”

Lacey stared out the passenger-side window and rested her chin on her fist. She’d suddenly grown morose and stopped the playful back and forth. Owen reached across the console and took her hand in his. She forced a smile and made eye contact with him.

“Owen, we were on a roll. You know, as a family. Listen, I get it. I feel like a jerk being upset about losing our comfortable life in Hayward. I loved running