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

satisfied that we’ve rid the Keys of vermin?” Lindsey Free, mayor of Monroe County’s government, was also Sonny’s former sister-in-law.

“Hank, it’s not like that,” interjected Jessica. “Mike can’t investigate crimes right now because he doesn’t have the resources. Also, until we stabilize the Keys by getting people settled in their homes, we’ll have crimes like burglaries and beatings.”

Hank sighed and gulped down the rest of his drink. He was in a foul mood, partly because he hadn’t slept since he’d briefly dozed off on the front porch the night before. The three sat in silence while Hank and Mike stewed about the overall situation.

“Hank, may I finish now?” asked Mike calmly. He respected his older brother and understood he was not used to having criminal activity that routinely took place outside the confines of Driftwood Key insert itself into his life. After he’d seen Patrick, Mike could only imagine what was going through Hank’s head with his son and daughter missing.

“Yeah, sorry,” Hank muttered. It was a half-ass apology, but Mike silently accepted it anyway.

“What I was about to say was, for starters, I’ve got the sheriff’s approval to stagger my shifts with Jessica. He’s been sending us off in different directions every night anyway, so we weren’t able to work with one another. I’m gonna work graveyard, and she’ll handle days or early evenings. Here, she’ll take the witching-hour patrols. You know, midnight to four or five.”

Jessica added, “That’ll give me plenty of time to sleep and help watch the key when we’re most vulnerable.”

“That sounds pretty good,” mumbled Hank, hoping that they’d give it all up to stay close to home.

He stretched his glass over to Jessica, who had strategically planted herself between the two brothers. Somehow, she sensed Hank had been waiting all day for an opportunity to bring the subject up. She refilled his glass and passed the bottle of Jack Daniel’s over to Mike, who topped off his glass as well. He had to leave for work in an hour but doubted the sheriff would be conducting random breathalyzer tests at the moment.

“Here’s the thing, Hank,” Mike tried to explain. “First off, we’re not getting paid, and everyone from the mayor to the sheriff have acknowledged that. So they do their best to pay us in kind. Sure, it’s not the same as money, but under these circumstances, it might be looked at as better than money.”

“That’s right,” added Jessica. “I’m given my choice of medical supplies and gear. Scuba related, too. There’s no accountability, and my boss is fully aware we’d use it on our families before a stranger if need be. Today was a wake-up call for me. You can bet during my shift tomorrow I’ll be giving myself a raise, if you know what I mean.”

The men laughed, so Mike explained how he paid himself. “I will continue to stock Driftwood Key with weapons, ammunition, and accessories. Please understand me, Hank. I know there’ll come a time when my contribution to law enforcement will be limited to this place.” He waved his arm around his head in a circle as he made reference to Driftwood Key.

“We don’t think the county is going to be able to maintain order for very long,” added Jessica. “Even with the expulsions and the processing of refugees at the bridges, the locals are becoming increasingly hostile with one another. At first, you had this sense of community. You know. Rah-rah, we’re all in this together bullshit. No, we’re not. This nuclear winter thing is gonna last a long, long time, and as people become desperate, then watch out.”

Mike leaned forward to the edge of his Adirondack chair so he could look his brother in the eyes. The flames of the bonfire grew, casting orangish light coupled with shadows across the brothers.

“Hank, I promise you. We’ll circle the wagons here long before it comes to that. But unless we act as your eyes and ears out there, we’ll never know what’s comin’.”

Part II

Day fifteen, Friday, November 1

Chapter Ten

Friday, November 1

Near Amelia Court House, Virginia

Daylight was waning when Peter awoke from his long, restful sleep. A light snow had fallen, causing him to shiver. He was also concerned that he’d become infected by the buckshot wounds. His mind raced as his anxiety grew. Did I miss a pellet? Maybe I should’ve sterilized the tweezers with alcohol?

He shot up into a seated position that forced pain throughout his body. He couldn’t contain the groan that came from deep inside him. Peter felt like he’d been used as a punching bag on one side and a pincushion on the other.

He’d slept the entire day although the perpetually gray skies made it difficult to determine the position of the sun. He just knew it was getting darker, and he needed to get going, not just to make progress toward home but also to get his body heated up through exercise.

He forced himself to stand and then inwardly complained about his sore legs. Even after the ordeal in Abu Dhabi and the flying episode courtesy of the nuclear blast wave, Peter hadn’t felt this kind of pain.

He walked fifteen feet downstream from where he’d unintentionally made camp earlier that day to relieve himself. His urine was dark yellow. As an avid runner, he knew that was a sign of dehydration. He made a mental note to pour his filtered water into the canteen cup and add a Nuun hydration tab to it. The orange-flavored, effervescent tablet the size of an Alka-Seltzer quickly dissolved in water. It was used by athletes to replace lost electrolytes to avoid dehydration.

Peter also took the time to inspect his wounds. The three puncture wounds were already beginning to scab over. The bloody oozing had ceased, and he felt confident after a change of bandages, he’d be good to go. The other two wounds that he’d extracted the pellets from concerned him more.

They were turning red and tender around the edges. Peter chastised himself for