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

they went fishing. She had been whisked away that day because of the impending doom that was about to be unleashed on America. They’d barely had time to say goodbye much less discuss whether they’d ever see one another again. He thought about her every day, and the fact that she was still on his mind was an indication of how deep his feelings were for her.

Hank glanced upward in search of the moon and the stars. As a lifelong resident of the Keys and an accomplished boater, he knew what day of the month the moon was supposed to be full just like landlubbers knew what day the mortgage was due. Prior to the attacks, on a night like this, he’d look up to an impeccable midnight blue sky with a bright white orb peeking between a few clouds passing by. The stars would appear to be dancing around it, a nighttime sailor’s delight, who relied upon them for navigation. Now the constant blanket of gray, sooty cloud cover blocked out everything the heavens had to offer and radiated nothing but misery inward.

“We need a hurricane,” he said aloud. Then he laughed. He’d heard a friend of his make that statement when Hank had had to travel to Georgia once. It had been the middle of August, and the sweltering summer heat coupled with near one hundred percent humidity was oppressive. His friend complained about the weather and was certain a hurricane brewing off the coast would suck all the moisture and heat out of Georgia to fuel its wrath.

Hank wasn’t one to get offended, as he prided himself on living his life without a chip on his shoulder. However, having lived through those devastating subtropical cyclones, he’d gladly live with the inconvenience of heat and humidity.

He continued to walk back and forth along the bank of the brackish water separating Driftwood Key and Marathon. His mind wandered from topic to topic, having conversations with himself. Most were lighthearted; others were analytical. He’d become lost in himself when he noticed headlights on the other side of the mangroves.

Vehicles were operating only sporadically through the Keys as gasoline became in short supply. Government vehicles seemed to be the most prevalent, and there were a few residents who elected to leave their homes to join relatives up north. Nobody was joyriding, and there certainly was no place to shop or eat out.

Hank held his position and studied the location of the vehicle, which was roughly a thousand yards across the water. There were several older homes nestled among the trees on the other side. Hank knew the families. Like him, they’d grown up on the Keys. One owned a charter boat operation, and another owned Barnacle Barney’s Tiki Bar, which was adjacent to his residence. Early on, he’d touched base with his distant neighbors, who indicated they’d be fine if the power outage didn’t last too long. He’d suspected that most longtime residents of the Florida Keys felt the same way.

Suddenly, another set of headlights flickered through the trees, barely noticeable unless Hank focused on one particular spot. There were now two vehicles parked across from the inn but not directly on Palm Island Avenue, which led to Driftwood Key’s private access bridge.

With a wary eye on the two vehicles, Hank moved quickly back toward the bridge. He was certain he’d locked it after Mike had left earlier, but he felt compelled to double-check. He felt his pants pocket for the air horn. When he remembered he’d left it on the granite block that held one of the gate’s posts, he walked even faster.

Then he began to run as he heard the vehicles’ tires spinning, throwing crushed shell and sand against their rear quarter panels in the otherwise deathly silent evening.

“They’re coming!” he shouted spontaneously.

Hank couldn’t see their headlights, but he sensed the vehicles maneuvering across the way to make a run at the gate. He pulled the rifle off his shoulder and pulled the charging handle as Mike had taught him. In the darkness, he struggled to see the safety so he could flick it off.

Sweat poured off Hank’s brow as apprehension and fear swept over him. He’d been caught unprepared for what was coming. He reached the gate and crouched behind the granite block. He felt exposed. And alone.

He nervously searched the granite block with his left hand to find the air horn so he could issue a warning to the others. His awkwardness, fueled by anxiety, caused him to hit the canister with his knuckles, sending it flying off the granite block and tumbling down a slope until it wedged in the riprap.

“Dammit!”

He tried to gather his wits about him by holding his breath. He heard the slight crunching of tires on the crushed shell. Hank squinted, trying to block out any movement or distraction as he tried in vain to see the other side of the water in the pitch-dark night.

He steadied his rifle on the block and trained his sights on the center of the road. He listened for a few moments, hearing a snap in the distance, followed by the slow-moving tires crushing the shells beneath them.

Hank lifted his head from behind his rifle and peered around the gate post. At first glance, the bridge entering Driftwood Key looked like it always did since nuclear winter set in—a shadowy, multihued fog of grays and whites with the occasional mangrove tree making an appearance on the other end.

A few more seconds of hyperawareness and laser focus enabled Hank to see what he was facing. A truck, flanked by darkened figures, slowly approached along the bridge. They were being invaded.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Saturday, November 2

Driftwood Key

As quickly as this threat arose and Hank began to sweat, he now seemed to get a grip on himself. He was alone and unable to issue a warning to the others without giving away his position to the people who approached. Hank closed his left eye and looked through the gun’s