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

Mr. Uber and his sons, Greyhound and Mack. The slighter thinner, taller son was Greyhound, as in the bus line. The shorter, chubbier son was Mack, as in the dump truck. The men had never offered their real names, and Peter didn’t really care. He just wanted to get to Florida without a hassle.

Unfortunately, the hassle started before they left Union Square. Peter had wheeled in his bicycle with his tote bags after Charles gained him reentry into the market. The first order of business was to trade his bike for food. The best he could do was a box of twelve Clif bars, a nutritious energy snack used by hikers and runners.

He contemplated trading his duffel full of winter-weight hunting apparel but then thought better of it. It was colder everywhere, including Florida, he’d heard by eavesdropping on conversations in the market. He was pretty sure his dad hadn’t been storing away fleece-lined cargo pants or woolen socks.

He was making his way toward Mr. Uber when suddenly a fistfight broke out in the center of the market. Two men were walloping on one another over a transaction, and then a third man jumped in. Soon, there were four or five guys pummeling one another, causing the stress levels of everyone in Union Square to rise. Including Mr. Uber.

When Peter arrived at the truck, the father and his sons were packing up their belongings. Mr. Uber’s father was there to load up the table and weapons.

Peter stood at the back of the line of refugees waiting to climb aboard the military-surplus truck. A Hispanic man stood in front of him with his wife and son. He turned to Peter and offered his hand to shake.

“I’m Rafael Sosa.”

“Peter Albright. Nice to meet you.”

“This is my wife, Maria, and my son, Javier. We hope to get to Miami. How about you?”

“I live in the Keys,” Peter responded. He nodded toward the truck. Several people were being assisted into the rear, open-air cargo box. “I thought they might cover it for us.”

Rafael shrugged. The “M923A1s came with a cover kit as standard issue. This one is so old, it probably tore away over the years.”

Peter furrowed his brow. “M what?”

“M923A1. A five-ton six-by-six. We used to call it Big Foot on account of the wheels and tires being so large compared to the frame. It has twice as much cargo capacity as its cousin the M35 deuce-and-a-half.”

“We, as in military?” asked Peter.

“Former Army,” Rafael replied. “Stationed at Camp Mackall over towards Fayetteville. My family and I were traveling home from vacation at Dollywood. After the nukes hit DC, we decided to head to her family’s place in Miami. We ran out of gas and got stuck here. This is the only option as far as we can tell.”

“Come on. Hurry up!” Greyhound barked at Rafael’s wife and son. Rafael snapped his head around and cast a dirty look at Greyhound, who sneered in return.

Peter glanced over his shoulder and saw there were a few stragglers waiting behind him. They didn’t appear to be together as they nervously kicked at the ground and studied their surroundings.

“Come on, Petey,” Greyhound said condescendingly.

Peter adjusted his load and inched toward the back of the military truck, assessing how he was going to hoist everything in the cargo bed.

Mr. Uber rounded the side of the truck. “Hold up! What the hell is all of this?”

Peter was confused, so he didn’t respond.

“Come on, Petey,” said the man’s son. “Ya gotta an explanation?”

“For what?” Peter responded with a question of his own.

Mr. Uber got in Peter’s face. “The old man paid for your transportation, pal. Not your worldly belongings. This stuff has to stay behind ’cause there ain’t no room for your wardrobe.”

“But I can rest them in my—”

“No exceptions, Petey,” Greyhound said forcefully. He pointed his finger in Peter’s chest.

Peter’s blood boiled when the jerk touched him. He slapped his hand away and said with a snarl, “Peter. My name’s Peter.” He stepped closer toward the man, but Mr. Uber put his hand between them.

“Hey. Hey, now. We can work this out, right? Money solves everything. Here’s the thing, Peter. If you look around, everyone has one bag. They’re not greedy and entitled like you. You get one bag and a carry-on just like on a freakin’ airplane. Wanna tote a duffel bag and a backpack? Fine. Everything else stays behind.”

“You guys never told us that,” complained Peter. “If I had known, then—”

Mr. Uber cut him off. He got right in front of Peter, and his son inched closer too. “You see these nice people behind you? They want your seat. They’d love for you to get the hell out of their way. Now, do you wanna ride or not?”

Peter glanced back at the anxious faces. They all had a single bag to carry.

“Yes, I wanna ride,” Peter responded with gritted teeth, cracking his neck as he finished his sentence.

“Good,” said Mr. Uber, stepping back a pace or two. He raised his right hand and waved his fingers toward him. “Gimme the AR.”

“What?” Peter was incensed. “We had a deal!”

“Deal’s changed, Petey!” yelled Greyhound.

“New deal,” said Mr. Uber. “You can carry all this other shit in your lap, but the price of extra baggage is the rifle. Take it or leave it.”

Peter sighed and ran his hand down his face. He’d already given up his bicycle, and there were no guarantees the other truck drivers were traveling south or would be any more reasonable than these assholes. He’d already given away the hunting rifle to Charles as a thank-you for his help.

He reluctantly removed the AR-15 from his shoulder and handed it to Mr. Uber. The man smiled and winked at Peter.

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya,” he said and then glanced over his shoulder at the three disappointed refugees. “Folks, we’ll be back in five days to rustle up another load. We’ll see ya then.”

It was wishful thinking by Mr. Uber.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Sunday, November 3

Driftwood Key

Hank and Sonny