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

he wanted. There was plenty, she assured him, although he couldn’t imagine where she stored it. The house was full of furniture, but it appeared they only had a limited amount of food. Perhaps that was by design, Peter thought to himself as he offered to clear the dishes.

“Not on your life, young man,” admonished Anna as she raised her hands. “You’re a guest in our home.” She pushed her chair back and immediately grabbed his bowl.

“Young man, have you heard about the farmers’ market tomorrow?” asked Charles.

Peter politely raised his voice so his host could hear him. “Farmers’ market? As in selling their harvest?”

Charles laughed. “Well, it’s something like that. People have been gathering each morning to trade with one another. One man’s bushel of apples is worth another man’s bottle of bleach.”

“Barter?” asked Peter.

“That’s right,” Anna replied as she set a small plate in front of him, full of sliced apples. Peter wiped a tear from his eyes. In his lifetime, no one had shown him this much kindness in a time of need other than his family.

Charles reached over and squeezed his wife’s hand. He smiled as he spoke. “It’s more than that. You are determined to get to your family, and there is a way that might become easier for you.”

Peter slowly munched on an apple, savoring the flavor. “I have my credit cards. Do you think I could buy a car?”

The trio laughed, and after several jokes about how the banking system had probably collapsed just like the Spencers’ grandparents had warned them it would someday, Anna explained, “My husband is referring to the truckers. You see, like Charles, most of the drivers who work for Freight Concepts live nearby. This is their only terminal, and all deliveries start right here. When they’re done with their trip, they come back to Bethlehem empty.”

Charles took over from there. “Most of them, like us, had small farms. They also had trucks big enough to take livestock to the stockyards over in Catawba, or if they had chickens, Tyson up the road would take all they had.”

Peter finished the apples and gave Anna a thumbs-up. She offered him more, but he declined. His stomach was truly full. He was concerned how the sudden influx of beans and apples might wage war on his digestive system. The excessive gas might cause the Spencers to throw him out in the cold.

Charles continued. “We all have farm diesel stored. Me and the missus topped off our tanks the day after the bombs hit. The day after that, the supplier ran dry. Others like us did the same. Now they’re finding a way to profit from it.”

“How’s that?” asked Peter.

Anna laughed. “Well, it ain’t no Uber, but it serves the same purpose. They’re takin’ folks west and south away from where the bombs dropped in DC and New York. Folks who weren’t ready for something like this are searching for seclusion or, like you, family.”

Peter’s eyes lit up. Greyhound bus or chicken truck, he didn’t care. How do I get south?

“Do you know how much? I mean, they must charge something.”

“We don’t know ’cause we don’t go down there,” replied Anna. “It’s getting more crowded every day as people have started walking along I-40 from Charlotte into the Smokies.” The Great Smoky Mountains were located at the southern end of the Appalachian Mountains along the North Carolina-Tennessee border.

Peter’s elation suddenly turned dour as he thought about the reality of paying someone to drive him to Florida. He didn’t have any money or bushels of apples to trade. He grimaced and sat back in his chair.

There had to be something, or some way, to make this work.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Saturday, November 2

Driftwood Key

Since Patrick’s arrival several nights ago, there hadn’t been any activity at the gate separating Driftwood Key from Marathon. Hank had begun to feel foolish for his constant nagging at his brother about keeping one of the family’s law enforcement officers at the inn at all times. Despite Hank’s vivid imagination that conjured up marauders at the gate, the only person attempting to enter Driftwood Key had been a harmless banker who’d been beaten to within an inch of his life.

It had just turned dark when Hank arrived at the gated entry to the inn, with an AR-15 slung over his shoulder. The rifle was equipped with a suppressor confiscated by the sheriff’s office during a drug bust. Mike had taken a few liberties with the evidence locker after the collapse sent everything into disarray.

Armed like a soldier, he hardly looked like one. His uniform consisted of Sperry Top-Sider deck shoes, khakis, and a Tommy Bahama half-zip sweatshirt. His appearance on patrol that night looked more like that guy Dale who drove the motor home in the early episodes of The Walking Dead than an armed sentry who should be reckoned with.

Mike had had to leave early to deal with a looting situation in Key West and wasn’t due back until midnight. Because it was just after dusk, Hank sent Sonny and Jimmy to join Jessica at the main house for dinner. He told them to get some rest, assuring them he could handle any wayward soul who ventured across the bridge connecting their key to Marathon.

A chill came over him as the slight breeze off the Gulf brought with it dropping temperatures. He cursed himself for not sending Jimmy or Sonny to Walmart to purchase cold-weather clothing, if it was even available. He’d tried to prepare based upon the warnings he’d received from Erin Bergmann and Peter. In the back of his mind, he’d doubted their cautionary advice to expect nuclear winter to live up to its name.

As he mindlessly wandered along the shoreline, he thought of Erin. He’d become smitten with her in a way he hadn’t felt since his wife was alive. Erin was attractive and intelligent. Their conversations ranged from serious, such as geopolitical affairs, to silly, as was the case on their last day together when