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

thermometer mounted on the front porch of the main house had dropped to forty-six. Over each of the last four nights, the lows had reached the upper forties, an unheard of reading for October.

That, coupled with the perpetually hazy skies, had already taken its toll. It was affecting humans as well. Seasonal affective disorder, or SAD, was a form of depression that goes with the changes from fall into winter. Inhabitants of the Keys didn’t experience this type of mood change. In fact, they rejoiced at the hint of cooler weather as an opportunity to wear a sweater or sweatshirt at night.

The general feel of depression was exacerbated by the lack of resources on the keys. Every retail store’s shelves had been emptied by buyers or looters. Food wasn’t scarce. It was nonexistent. Bottled water was gone. Gasoline pumps, even if they worked without power, would have nothing to distribute.

Driftwood Key was an exception. Through Hank’s planning and the Frees’ stewardship, they were able to create a sustainable resort operation capable of feeding a dozen people with daily fishing to supplement their food.

All they had to do was protect what they had from those who had nothing. The group prayed for the safety of Peter, Lacey, and her family. However, they agreed that the survival mindset of the Albright children would give them a better opportunity to stay alive than most.

That night, Mike and Jessica were away on police business. Hank had hoped they’d find a way to stay closer to Driftwood Key. Their experience with firearms was necessary to protect his family and their resources.

Phoebe had just turned in for the night after she’d gone over the status of their supplies with Hank. He was too wired to go to sleep, so he fixed a pitcher of mojitos and settled into a wicker chair on the front porch of the main house. Sonny and Jimmy were patrolling the shoreline nearest the highway. Hank said he’d keep an eye on the dock and the beachfront facing the Gulf. He promised them he’d stay awake until at least midnight.

He didn’t.

After a couple of drinks, Hank set the glass aside and decided to rest his eyes for a moment. He listened to the water gently lapping onshore and tried to imagine the days when the inn was full and the weather wasn’t over twenty degrees below normal.

He’d dozed off completely when there was an uproar at the bridge entering the island.

For twenty-two hours, Patrick Hollister had been brutalized and raped by his three assailants. The young man in the bar had been tasked with picking up an attractive woman. His brothers, two career criminals from West Virginia, had suggested the guys head down to the keys to look for work just before the attacks.

When the bombs dropped, they found themselves in Key West with no place to stay and no money. To survive, they engaged in petty theft and burglary, stealing food and money. They’d seen Patrick, as Patricia, walk into the bar alone. Their perception of her was that she had money and was lonely. She had been targeted by the men for multiple reasons, but they had been surprised when they forced themselves into the bank building.

The attractive woman was a man. He was surrounded by money, food, booze, and a car full of gasoline. The fact that he was a man was infuriating, as they’d had plans for the woman known as Patricia.

For hours upon hours, they drank and took out their anger and frustration on Patrick. He was beaten unconscious several times, which protected him from what happened while he was incoherent. The degenerate men were merciless, thoroughly enjoying themselves as they treated Patrick as subhuman.

After they were done with him, they filled Patrick’s car with anything of value, both monetary and nutritionally. Then they loaded his limp body into the back seat with the intention of dropping him over the railing of the Seven Mile Bridge as it crossed the water toward the Middle Keys.

However, when it was time to dispose of the nearly dead Patrick, they hadn’t factored in the continuous stream of refugees walking from Key West toward the mainland on U.S. 1. Without an opportunity to dump the unconscious Patrick, they continued toward Marathon, debating what to do with him.

Then Patrick woke up. Because he’d suffered internal damage from the beating, he immediately vomited in the back seat. The three men were incensed and pulled down a side street toward the Gulf, where they dragged him out of the car. He tried to crawl away, which earned him a swift kick to the rib cage, which forced another round of retching.

The men laughed at Patrick, took turns spitting on him, and then raced up the highway, leaving him for dead.

Only, Patrick wasn’t dead. He lay there for a while and tried to open his eyes, which were swollen shut. He tried to make out the buildings around him. Northwestern Mutual’s investment office appeared to be across the street. He noticed the furniture store that was a customer of his bank.

He struggled to breathe. He could barely move. His bones weren’t broken, but his insides were so battered he was certain his organs had been rearranged. Every orifice was bleeding, causing him to be weak.

Then it came to him. If his bloody mouth didn’t hurt so bad, he would’ve smiled at the irony. He made a decision. Patrick hoisted himself up and began to drag his legs, one at a time, to get help.

Hank was jolted awake by the wail of the marine air horns that were carried anytime someone was on patrol. They had a case of them stored on their boat to be used in case of emergencies. Mike thought the airhorns would be a perfect alternative to two-way radios to sound an alarm.

He bolted out of his chair and began to race down the steps until he slid to a stop. He ran back up the steps to