Nuclear Winter Whiteout by Bobby Akart (books to read to improve english .TXT) 📗

twisted his body sideways to slip between the trunks of two more. That was when the six-inch carbon-steel butcher knife was thrust into his chest.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Tuesday, November 5

Bay St. Louis, Mississippi

Lacey had grown up on the water, and during her childhood, she’d spent a lot of her time around marinas. After parking their truck near the restrooms of the Bay St. Louis Harbor and Pier, they stepped into a moribund version of the vibrant and active marinas of the Florida Keys.

Her eyes surveilled their surroundings. There were no gulls wheeling and diving for bait fish that would normally be seen splashing around the docked boats, scooting away from predators above and below them. There weren’t would-be sailors toting their dock carts from ship to shore and vice versa. Only the bell-like clanging of steel cables on aluminum masts reminded her of home.

A misty haze hung over the warm water. Earth’s atmosphere and its environs struggled with a form of bipolar disorder. Parts of the planet, at the surface and below, behaved normally. The Gulf waters still managed to remain seasonally warm. However, the air temperatures shattered records around the globe. As the cloud cover increased, and temperatures continued to steadily fall, it was a matter of time before the great oceans of the world would lose the battle and become colder.

A gust of wind caused the sailboats to wobble in their slips, and their rigging became agitated as a result. The clanking sound rose to a crescendo, and then, in a blink of an eye, the wind stopped blowing, allowing the vacant boats to rest.

“C’mon, Tucker. Let’s see if the rumors are true.”

Lacey led the way toward the marina office near the start of Rutherford Pier. At the end of the eleven-hundred-foot fishing pier, several anglers were trying their luck. Lacey thought about her dad and Jimmy. One of their daily duties on Driftwood Key was to feed the inn’s guests, as well as themselves. She imagined fishing took on a whole new level of importance, as it probably did for these people on the pier.

“Hey, Mom. Look over there. It’s the, um, third pier out. There’s a man talking with a group of people.”

They picked up the pace and rushed along the waterfront until soon they were jogging toward Pier 4. The chain-link gate to the last pier of the marina had been held open by a bait bucket with several dead fish inside. The smell forced Tucker to cover his nose. Lacey, however, found it somewhat familiar and comforting.

They turned down the pier, where they were met by an older man walking briskly toward them. Lacey tried to appear cordial, making her best effort to hide her apprehensiveness.

“Excuse me,” she began. “We were told there might be charters heading toward Florida. Is that true?” She looked past the crusty old fisherman as she spoke.

“Depends,” said the old man.

“On what?” asked Tucker, slightly annoyed that the man was playing games with them. He was concerned about leaving the truck unattended and continuously glanced in the direction of the parking lot as they spoke.

“My boy and me are running some folks to Florida. There’s room for two more. The last two seats are pricey.”

“We don’t have any—” Tucker began before Lacey interrupted him.

“How pricey? We have things to trade.”

The man took a deep breath and sighed. “Lady, tell me what you’ve got, and I’ll let you know when it’s enough.”

“We have gasoline.”

“Good start. How much?”

“Maybe thirty gallons, give or take. Plus what’s in the truck.”

“Can’t siphon from these new vehicles,” he muttered. He began to walk away from the negotiations.

“It’s an older truck. Ford Bronco.”

The boat captain’s interest was suddenly piqued. “What year?”

“Mom, let’s go,” said Tucker, reaching for Lacey’s hand. He could tell where the conversation was headed.

“Sixty-seven. Pristine condition. Drove it here from California.”

“Deal. Truck and fuel for two seats.”

“No way! Mom, we can’t do this. That’s Dad’s truck.”

The captain laughed. “I’m sure he’ll understand. You wanna get—”

“Shut up, asshole!” Tucker was incensed. He walked up to the captain with his fists balled up, ready to fight. “He just died!”

Lacey forcefully grabbed her son by the arm and pulled him back toward her. “Tucker, stop it. He didn’t know.”

“Hey, listen. I’m sorry. I just have to get a fair deal and—”

“How is taking our truck for a couple of seats on a fishing boat a fair deal?” Tucker demanded.

“It is what it is, kid. Do you two wanna go to Florida or not?”

“Mom, let’s go. Okay?” Tucker was morose and sincerely wanted to take his chances on the road rather than give up his dad’s truck.

Lacey touched her son’s face and smiled. “It’s okay, son. Dad would want us to be safe.” She turned to the captain.

“Truck and fuel for two seats. And you have to take us to the Keys.”

“No way! That requires an extra fuel stop.”

Lacey held her hands up, urging him to reconsider. “Before you answer, see what we’ve got to trade. The other thing, our gear comes with us. It’s all we own.”

“Show me,” he said with a gruff.

The man whistled for his son to join them, and ten minutes later, the deal was struck. Tucker and Lacey carried their belongings toward the end of the pier with the assistance of the boat captain. As they got closer, music could be heard wafting from the old trawler as if they were preparing for a booze cruise.

Half a dozen people milled about on the dock, sizing up Lacey and Tucker as they approached. Between the duffel bags, ammo cans, and their weapons, they made quite an impression on the group. Most of them stood at the edge of the dock as far away from Lacey and Tucker as they could get.

Their fellow passengers came from all walks of life, refugees returning home or seeking a warmer climate. After the passengers realized mother and son weren’t a threat, they exchanged pleasantries to break the ice. The newcomers were assisted on board by a man