Nuclear Winter Whiteout Bobby Akart (love letters to the dead .txt) 📖

“Sorry, Patrick. Now isn’t the time to worry about our dignity.” He pulled the sweatpants off and immediately saw his bruised legs. Phoebe hurriedly covered his lower body with a thick blanket that was rarely used in the normally warm climate.

“Help me with his shirt,” Phoebe politely instructed her boss. The two worked together to raise Patrick’s arms and pull the tee shirt over his head. More bruising was evident as well as cuts and abrasions. Patrick groaned in pain as his arms stretched his rib muscles.

Phoebe wasted no time in cleaning the blood off his body. She used warm water and clean washcloths to wipe him clean but used sterile gauze near any lacerations. She focused on his upper body first, making mental notes of any contusions or open wounds. She then made her way to his lower body, using a hand towel from the bathroom to cover his genitals. As she cleaned him, he began to lose consciousness.

“We’ve gotta keep him awake, Mr. Hank. We need to keep him hydrated, and I don’t know whether Jessica has those IV bags. Will you wipe his forehead with a cool, damp cloth and see if you can get him to sip water out of a straw?”

She pointed to the nightstand, where she’d already set up a shallow bowl full of water and two washcloths. There was also a child’s cup that was provided to guests with children who stayed at the inn on rare occasion.

Hank eagerly helped out, following Phoebe’s instructions and talking softly to Patrick to calm his nerves. At first, he’d looked confused as his eyes darted around the bungalow, trying to make sense of where he was. He had been more coherent on the bridge when he was discovered than he was now, a direct result of his continued blood loss.

Phoebe set about bandaging his wounds to stop the bleeding. Sonny returned with the blankets and helped her keep pressure on the worst bleeders. Patrick took a couple of sips of water, but he was fading in and out of consciousness, partly from the loss of blood and partly due to exhaustion. He had been allowed very little sleep by his captors, who had abused him mentally and physically until they were finally done with him.

Phoebe checked his pulse and blood pressure. All of Patrick’s readings were low but not life-threatening. Satisfied she’d done all she could without Jessica’s expertise, Phoebe washed Patrick’s blood off her arms and hands.

Drained from the flurry of activity, she sent Sonny to bring her a change of clothes, and then she dutifully took up a chair next to her patient.

Chapter Four

Thursday, October 31

Near Amelia Court House, Virginia

Peter rode away from the nightmarish encounter as fast as his battered and buckshot-riddled body would take him. He’d lost track of how long he’d been riding, but the pain in his chest and stomach reminded him that he needed to tend to his wounds.

He drove off the two-lane highway onto a country road that led to the banks of the Appomattox River. This stretch of the river was not much more than a creek, but the water was fairly clear and only contained a small amount of silt.

Peter was extremely thirsty, and he needed water to clean his wounds. He stopped at the shoulder of the road and stepped off the bike onto the gravel bordering the asphalt. Each time his feet planted on the rocks, a jolt was sent through his body that seemed to punch every bruise and squeeze every gaping hole oozing blood.

Despite the falling temperatures, Peter didn’t hesitate to remove the three layers of clothing he wore above the waist. They were soaked in blood, and ordinarily, he’d just toss them aside. Under the circumstances, however, he considered rinsing them out and hanging them to dry.

He took a moment to glance down at his chest and midsection. Five of the shotgun pellets had punctured his skin. Two were embedded in his chest, and three holes oozed blood out of his belly. Peter gingerly felt the wounds with his fingertips. Three of the five were superficial. The skin had been broken, causing him to bleed, but the pellets apparently had been deflected or slowed enough to prevent them from going deeper.

The other two wounds obviously contained two pellets from the buckshot. He pressed on the puncture holes and could feel something round beneath his skin. The pain took his breath away, and Peter immediately contemplated leaving them there for fear he might pass out if he tried to remove the shot. Then he recalled virtually every television show or movie he’d ever seen that emphasized removing foreign objects to prevent infection. He decided he’d have to play doctor.

First, he needed to hydrate himself. He rummaged through his duffel bags to locate one of the LifeStraws he’d procured at Dick’s Sporting Goods the night Washington, DC, was bombed. He also pulled out his military-style canteen and cup combo.

Peter used the LifeStraw to extract water out of the river. To the naked eye, the river water appeared clear and drinkable, but he wasn’t sure how the fallout was affecting it. Out of an abundance of caution, he filtered it through the straw and drank until he was satisfied. Then he repeated the process, slowly filling the cup until he had enough to wash his wounds.

He located the first aid supplies he’d taken from Dick’s and the CVS drugstore. He dipped the gauze in the water and gently wiped the wounds off to remove the blood. Some was dried already, but all five holes continued to allow blood to seep out.

Satisfied that three of the holes were simply puncture wounds and didn’t contain a shotgun pellet, he cleansed them with Betadine antiseptic. After applying Neosporin triple antibiotic ointment, he used large Band-Aids to protect the wounds from dirt and bacteria. Then he turned his attention to the more complicated process of removing the pellets.

Peter steeled