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

He knocked loudly to make sure anyone lurking behind the thin white curtains adorning the windows wouldn’t consider him a threat.

“Hello? Is anybody home?” he shouted loud enough to frighten off an eastern screech owl that was hanging out near the barn, looking for field mice.

After no answer, he tried again. “My name is Peter Albright! I’m from Wash—um, Fairfax. I’m making my way home to Florida, and I wondered if you’d let me sleep inside tonight.” These days, claiming to be from the District didn’t endear him to those outside the Beltway.

There was no answer and no sign of activity. He tried banging on the door again.

“Hello! I’m unarmed,” he lied as he surreptitiously shoved his pistol into his paddle holster. He held his hands high in the air to sell the subterfuge.

Peter walked up and down the front porch. The wooden boards gave under his feet, weakened by years of exposure to the elements. He reached the end of the wraparound porch and stared over toward the barn. He glanced down the side of the farmhouse and then upward toward the bedroom windows. The glass was still intact, and there was no sign of a candle flickering inside.

Convinced that the property was vacant, Peter walked to the back of the house to check for vehicles. When he found nothing, he made his way into the barn. There was an old tractor inside and farm implements scattered about. The horse stalls were empty, and there was no evidence of livestock feed stored anywhere.

“Well, alrighty then,” he muttered as he wrapped his jacket around the front of his body. The plunging temperatures left him dismayed. He’d learned a lot about nuclear winter in the last couple of weeks, but he hadn’t thought they meant it literally. Perpetually cloudy skies were one thing. Subfreezing temperatures in late October were another.

Peter marched across the open area between the house and the barn. A gust of wind pushed him forward slightly, and then the sound of a door slamming frightened him. He was exposed, and his instincts forced him to one knee.

Then the door slammed again. Peter’s head was on a swivel as he looked for cover. The wind was suddenly blowing hard, and it chilled him to his core. He glanced to his right and discovered several ton bales sitting just behind the back of the house. Many years ago, older balers produced smaller square or rectangular bales. The modern balers produced large round bales known as ton bales. They didn’t necessarily weigh a ton, as most reached fifteen hundred pounds.

Regardless, they were Peter’s best source of ballistic protection at the moment. He rose to a low crouch and rushed across the yard before sliding to a stop behind the hay bales. He sat with his back to the hay as he gripped his weapon. He was closer to the house now and began to realize the sound of the door closing was rhythmic, not sporadic as if someone was coming or going from the house.

He rolled his eyes for letting his fear get the best of him. “It’s just the damned wind blowing a shutter or something, Pete. Get your ass up and check out the house.”

He did as instructed and rose to his feet. Still, he was alert as he rounded the ton bales to approach the back door. He held his gun in a shooter’s position directly at the door until he reached the first step leading to the back porch. A wood-framed screen door was the source of the slamming sound as it was pulled out and pushed inward by the wind gusts.

Peter wedged his body between the screen door and the Dutch door leading inside. He tried the knob and found it to be locked. He turned his pistol in his hand and gripped it by the muzzle. Then he gently tapped the glass window with the pistol grip until a part of the pane fell inward. He gently tapped out a couple more pieces and reached in to unlock the door.

Peter turned the handle and pushed it open, but he remained behind the wall. He held his breath and attempted to listen over the now howling wind. A strong gust hit the back of the two-story farmhouse with a broadside slam, causing dust to fall off the rafters of the porch roof. Peter kept his focus and listened for any signs of movement inside.

After a moment, he stepped into a hallway that was lined with bench seating and wooden pegs protruding from the walls. Some held horse tack, and others were covered with a variety of jackets. Rubber work boots were lined up under the bench seats, as were several pairs of well-worn tennis shoes.

It was dark now, and Peter had to risk using his flashlight to walk through the house. He retrieved it from his Velcro cargo pockets and pushed the rear button to power it on. He adopted the crossover grip he’d used effectively in the last several days to clear interior spaces and moved deeper into the farmhouse.

The first room he came to was the kitchen. He immediately noticed something odd about it. Nearly all of the wooden cupboard doors were open. And the shelves had been emptied. However, it did not appear to have been looted. The residents, or somebody, had picked the place clean without causing any damage or mess. Nothing was in disarray, including the small corner table sitting at the back of the kitchen. A recipe book was sitting open, and a single stem vase, complete with a dead flower, remained undisturbed.

He walked through the kitchen and entered the dining room. Like the kitchen, everything was in perfect order. The table was set. Chairs were pushed in. The china cabinet was still filled with family heirlooms.

To Peter, the place seemed to be abandoned. Yet something in his gut said to call out again.

“Hello! I mean you no harm. I just need a place to sleep for the night. Please