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

Jessica didn’t hesitate; she took aim and unleashed a salvo toward two men who’d broken their cover. She didn’t miss. The men were riddled with bullets and thrown to the pavement. She gritted her teeth in anger and stood. With the barrel of her rifle seeking any movement from the men still alive, she patiently waited.

Then she got her chance. The man Hank shot in the leg tried to run-hobble away. He turned his body sideways and continued to fire wildly toward the gate, missing his targets. Jessica, however, did not. Her first shot struck him in the good leg, and the second ripped through his neck, killing him instantly.

She ran toward the gate, where both Sonny and Hank were standing. Her eyes grew wide as she darted between the two men toward the disabled pickup.

“Get back down,” she growled at them. “This may not be over.”

Both men rushed back to their protective cover. Switching the rifle to her left hand, Jessica jumped on top of Hank’s granite block, swung her right arm through the post, and hurled her body around until she landed at the front side of the gate just feet from the water’s edge.

Using the concrete railing for cover, she caught her breath and readied her rifle. She crouched as low as she could and began to ease around the barrier, focusing her eyes on the concrete surface of the bridge.

Although she’d arrived late to the party, she believed there was still one attacker unaccounted for. If the driver of the truck was dead, then the only attacker left was the man pinned against the guardrail, who might still be alive. A wounded animal was a dangerous animal with nothing to lose, she thought as she walked heel to toe, studying the undercarriage of the pickup for movement.

She took several steps closer until the large rear tires provided some clearance to see the other side. She could discern the shape of a man’s legs spread apart as if he was leaning against the guardrail. She squinted her eyes to search for any movement. She had to be sure he was dead, and there was only one way to do it without exposing herself.

Jessica lowered her body to a prone position on the bridge. She aimed at the man’s foot and gently squeezed the trigger. The powerful NATO 5.56 round entered the sole of the man’s shoe and tore a hole through his foot.

No scream. Not even a twitch of his already dead body.

She jumped to her feet and raced for the back of the pickup, swinging her rifle’s barrel from side to side as she swept the bridge in search of targets. There were only two, and they’d already been eliminated.

After a long moment during which she stared at the darkness on the other end of the bridge, serenity had returned to Driftwood Key as Jessica gave the all clear.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Saturday, November 2

Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center

La Junta, Colorado

Lacey’s mind had taken a respite, an unconscious sleepy slumber, during which time she had minimal brain activity and showed no signs of awareness of her surroundings. Her eyes had been closed, but not clenched shut. No sound, no pain, no external stimulus triggered any form of response from her. Even basic reflexes such as coughing and swallowing were greatly reduced.

A coma was the body’s way of healing itself following a traumatic injury. It had been two days, and it was time to wake up. Slowly, at first. Lacey began to hear things around her. Shuffling of feet. Whispered conversations. The occasional words of encouragement from what she thought was an angel, but it was actually one of the ICU nurses.

Then she heard Tucker’s voice. Oddly, he was retelling her stories of family outings. Backpacking through the Redwood National Forest. Camping at Wild Willy Hot Springs. Hiking to Burney Falls. Standing atop the Cone Peak at Big Sur.

His voice was comforting. Familiar. Yet something was wrong. Owen was missing from the storytelling sessions. Tucker mentioned his dad as he spoke, but Owen wasn’t present. His smell. His touch. His loving voice whispering in her ear.

Inside, Lacey was becoming agitated and apprehensive. Where was her husband? Why couldn’t she hear him joining in the conversation reminiscent of their evenings around the dinner table at night? It was all so confusing.

Then, in an instant, as if a thousand roosters had crowed at once, Lacey awoke with a start. Her body lurched as if it had been shocked with an overcharged defibrillator. She took in a deep exhale, filling her lungs through her mouth, but seemingly unable to expel it. Lacey McDowell was awake, and she choked out a scream to let the world know it.

Tucker rushed out of the room to the nurse’s station to let them know his mom was waking up.

“Find Dr. Brady! Stat!” a nurse shouted from just outside her room. She turned to Tucker who was headed back into the room. She firmly grasped his arm. “Young man. Please wait here until the doctor examines your mom.”

Within seconds, three nurses had rushed to Lacey’s side, checking the machinery around her and feeling her neck and wrist. Her eyes were forced wide open and wild with perplexity as she tried to process her surroundings.

“Mrs. McDowell, my name is Donna Ruiz. Everything’s okay. Please calm down while we check you over.”

“Where?” Lacey tried to ask, but it came out as a whispered breath of air. Her intubation tube had stolen her ability to speak.

Nurse Ruiz seemed to sense what she was saying. The long-term ICU and emergency room nurse had seen people come back from the brink of death before.

“Honey, you’re fine. You’re at the hospital. The doctor will be here in a—”

As if on cue, Dr. Brady rushed into the room, penlight in hand. “Did she just come out?”

“Yes, Doctor,” replied Ruiz. “Her vitals went through the roof, but she’s calming quickly. Only her pulse is elevated.”

“Good, very good,” said Dr. Brady, who leaned