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

night,” the first man shot back. He waved his arm around the hotel. “Look at this mess.”

Peter was incensed. He whispered loud enough for the security guards to pick up on his outrage. “I’m talking about a man’s life, not your precious palm trees and patio furniture!”

This angered both men, who raised their weapons at Peter. “That’s enough. You’ve been warned. Martial law has been declared, and we can shoot you if necessary.”

Peter stood on his WaveRunner. He wanted so badly to climb onto the dock and pummel these two rent-a-cops, but that wouldn’t help Jimmy. Without saying another word, he gunned the throttle and did a quick one-eighty to leave the Marriott’s territorial waters. As he straightened the handlebars to direct him toward the sound once again, he lifted his middle finger to the two security guards. It was a gesture that conveyed a clear and unequivocal message that didn’t require him to strain his voice.

He was going nearly forty miles per hour when he turned the WaveRunner to the right in search of a place to tie it off. The Caribbean Club, another of Key Largo’s favorite watering holes, was just ahead. They had a T-shaped dock protruding into the water as well as a boat ramp that he could beach the WaveRunner on if necessary. When he arrived there minutes later, he was relieved to see he wasn’t greeted by men with guns.

Which reminded him. He felt his holster and realized that his weapon was miraculously secured in its holster. Then he looked at the National Guard uniform he’d stolen at the speedway. He began to wonder if this might get him shot by some overzealous local who’d bought into the whole Conch Republic secession thing.

Peter pulled the WaveRunner up to the dock and quickly disembarked. He tied it to a cleat and didn’t bother with the bumpers. He wasn’t sure he’d ever use it again anyway. Then he took off his shirt, leaving nothing on but a green tee shirt and the light green digital camo pants that were still soaking wet. He ditched the holster and tucked the firearm into the waistband of his pants. Then he covered the handle with the tee shirt.

With a deep breath and a quick look at his surroundings, he moseyed over to a boat that had been lifted ashore during the storm surge. Several bottles of water were strewn about the ground next to it. Without a second thought, Peter quickly gulped one down and then opened another, which he sipped. It provided him an instant lift and gave his throat some much-needed relief. Next, he made his way across the sandy parking lot of the Caribbean Club to the highway in search of anyone associated with law enforcement.

Chapter Forty-Three

Saturday, November 9

Blackwater Sound

Near Key Largo

Peter walked south along the highway toward the more populated part of Key Largo. He was concerned that if he walked all the way to the fire station at Lake Surprise, he might be mistaken for a National Guardsman, a sworn enemy of the Keys, he presumed. He’d just have more guns pointed at him.

Two women rode past him on bicycles, so he waved his arms to flag them down. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Hey! I need a cop. Do they have a station up here?”

“Nah, man,” one of the women said as she barely slowed long enough to make eye contact with Peter. “They’s all up at the roadblock.”

“You mean where it once was,” said the other woman. “They blowed up the bridge.”

Peter smirked and shook his head. I know. I was there.

He had to shout his questions as the women kept riding down the highway. “They don’t have another station down here? Maybe a place where they gather?”

“Try the fire station. This way about four miles!”

Frustrated, Peter mustered the energy to jog down the highway on the wrong side of the road. He expected some kind of shift change if they were still maintaining a contingent of deputies near the destroyed bridge. He’d stop every car coming his way, using his gun, if necessary, until he found help.

He’d jogged a mile or so before an MCSO deputy sheriff’s car approached from the south. Peter stood in the middle of the road and began waving his arms overhead so they would stop. The deputy slowed and tried to pull around him, but Peter quickly moved in front of his bumper. After honking and failing to move Peter out of the way, the deputy pushed the driver’s side door open and stomped out of the car.

“Get the hell out of—!” the deputy began to yell before Peter cut him off.

“I’m Peter Albright. Mike’s nephew. I need help.”

“Detective Mike Albright?”

“Yes. My dad is Hank over at Driftwood Key.”

The deputy looked around and sighed. He walked toward Peter and pointed toward his chest. Before he was able to ask, Peter explained.

“I was trying to get home, and then they blew the bridge. My friend who works for my dad was working as a deputy at the checkpoint. He tried to help me, and we got stuck on the wrong side of the bridge. Anyway, we were arrested by the National Guard. They beat Jimmy and, um, well, we had to steal a guy’s uniform to get away. Listen, none of that matters. Jimmy and I got caught on WaveRunners last night on Blackwater Sound. He fell overboard, and I can’t find him. I need a team to help search for him.”

“Peter. Right?” asked the deputy.

“Yeah.”

“Listen, I’ve got some bad news about your uncle. He was attacked the other night by someone staying at the inn. He was stabbed and is in pretty rough shape.”

“What? You can’t be serious!”

“Afraid so. He’s at Lower Keys Medical in Key West. I heard he’s in stable condition, but I’m really not certain because—”

Peter slapped the sides of his head with both hands and grabbed fistfuls of hair. He wandered in circles, alternating looking back toward Blackwater Sound and