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

soldiers returned from war and families reconnected by taking long driving trips. The freestanding buildings were quaint and modestly furnished in order to keep the nightly room rate low. Most had a bed and foldout sofa.

The Motel Jesup had plenty of vacancies that night. As in, all of the rooms were empty. Looters had broken into them to take the bedding. They’d stolen the remaining complimentary bottled water and Lance crackers. The toilet paper and towels had been removed, as were the trial-size toiletries. All that remained were the mattresses and perhaps a few pillows.

The cargo truck rumbled to a stop, and Mr. Uber stumbled out of the cab. He reeked of liquor as he waddled to the back gate.

“All right, people, this is where we’ll hole up for the night.” His words came out slowly and slurred.

His son, Greyhound, was less inebriated and began to order everyone out of the truck. “You heard him. Let’s go! It’ll be dark soon. And cold, too.”

Peter had been the last to be loaded into the cargo compartment, so he was the first to be removed. He tossed his duffel bags out first and began to climb out of the back when Greyhound interfered.

“Hey, let me give you a hand.”

Instead of helping Peter, he tugged on his pants leg, causing his foot to slide off the steel bumper. Peter slipped and lost his grip on the back gate. He struck his chin hard on the metal and landed flat on his back with a thud, reinjuring the bruises he’d received days before.

Had he not lost his breath momentarily, matters might have escalated. That, and Rafael’s quick actions saved a life—either Peter’s or Greyhound’s. He jumped out of the truck and helped Peter sit up. He turned and faced Greyhound.

“We’ve got this,” he snarled.

“Good for you, beaner,” hissed Greyhound, using a derogatory slur often associated with people of Mexican descent.

Rafael was undeterred. “I’m Cuban,” he fired back although he didn’t expect the racist to understand why the beaner reference was misdirected.

Greyhound sneered at Rafael and said, “No matter. My precious cargo is the last to unload. Move it!”

The rest of the group made their way out of the cargo hold. Peter lagged behind while everyone else chose a cabin. He watched as the mother and daughter hesitantly exited the truck. They knew what was in store for them, as did Peter. The question was what, if anything, would he do about it.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Sunday, November 3

Jesup, Georgia

The Federal Correctional Institution located just south of Jesup was a medium-security prison that housed male inmates primarily incarcerated for drug and white-collar crimes. During the rolling blackouts that swept the southeast, state and federal prison officials were faced with a significant challenge. They were responsible for tens of thousands of inmates who’d been incarcerated for a wide range of crimes from petty offenses to capital murder. As the grid failed, they found themselves unable to perform the basic functions required to house the inmates. So they turned to the courts for guidance.

Like most governmental agencies, the United States court system was in disarray following the nuclear attacks. All hearings were cancelled. Judges and their staffs remained home as the blackouts began to occur. The Department of Justice offered little in the way of guidance as the entire federal government adopted a wait-and-see approach.

Then the temporary rolling blackouts became permanent. As a result, prison administrators began to make judgment calls. With their correctional staff operating at a bare minimum, they were unable to control, much less feed, their entire populations. Their solution was to review the case files of the inmates and release them from prison based upon their level of offense. Short-termers and nonviolent offenders were sent out in the first wave. The medical inmates with harsher sentences were next. Then on day eight following the nuclear attack on the U.S., the floodgates were opened.

Day after day, these inmates were given street clothes and a kick in the pants as the prison doors were opened. They were reminded that they were not truly free, as they were expected to report back to their designated prison facility once the crisis was over. Most of the inmates were unable to hide the smirks on their faces when given this instruction. In their minds, once they left, they were free.

However, they had no place to go and no way to contact friends and family. At FCI Jesup, two thousand federal prisoners walked through Wayne County, Georgia, aimlessly, most without a plan as to what to do next.

That morning, the final group of eight inmates was released from the medium-security facility. They were the snitches, informants who’d cooperated with authorities to help convict others like them. They were eight men who’d committed crimes of murder in various degrees, but because of their cooperation with the DOJ, they were given more relaxed, bucolic accommodations than the concrete and steel environs of the federal penitentiary in Atlanta.

Chris Stengel and his cellmate, Benjie Reyes, had spent eight years at the Jesup prison. They’d both committed gang-related murders in Atlanta before rolling on their brethren. At Jesup, they’d managed to avoid the scrutiny of correctional officers as they ran their hustles ranging from bringing in contraband cell phones to drugs in exchange for commissary and other favors.

That afternoon, they walked out together and immediately contemplated a variety of criminal acts to make their lives better. Booze. Drugs. Stolen vehicle. Women. Their laundry list was not imaginative. They were like wild animals released from captivity.

Both men had family in Savannah, and they’d always daydreamed about living on the ocean. As far as they were concerned, the real estate market was wide open for them. They’d find a nice McMansion on the sea. Kill the owners. And get settled into a beach chair with their toes buried in the sand.

As they walked up the highway, they tried to recall the distance to Savannah. Stengel thought it was about sixty miles or so. The two men had