Nuclear Winter Series | Book 2 | Nuclear Winter Armageddon Akart, Bobby (ebooks children's books free TXT) 📖

Chapter Thirty-Three

Tuesday, October 29

Fairfax, Virginia

Because Jackie had led Peter to CVS along woodsy trails and apartment complex sidewalks the night before, he was unaware that the boulevard he was riding on now led him right past the proverbial scene of the crime.

During their mission to obtain the insulin, CVS had been quiet when they first approached. Inside, Peter had been relieved that the store was only inhabited by a few children munching on snack foods. Today, in the daylight, the floodgates had opened. Streams of people entered empty-handed and exited with their arms full of some treasure or another. Peter immediately wondered if the fourth man had died in the dark recesses of the pharmacy and whether any of his fellow looters cared.

Regardless, they were distracted, and only a few noticed him pedaling by. He wound his way through the streets just outside the bedroom community of Centreville. Apartments and neighborhoods were packed together from the historic town all the way to Manassas. Some of the county roads to the east of these communities were not in his atlas, but he used his sense of direction to continue on his way.

When he was a child, Hank had taught him to navigate on the open waters without a compass. Sailors, he’d said to Peter, had traveled the open seas for centuries without fancy GPS devices. They only had a crude compass, a sextant, and a timepiece to travel the world.

Peter chuckled to himself as he methodically pedaled southward. After the electromagnetic pulse emanated outward from the point of impact, GPS devices were rendered worthless. All around him was evidence of the devastating effect an EMP has on electronics. Nothing that relied upon modern technology worked.

He recalled how his father had taught him celestial navigation. For hours at night, he’d studied the stars at all times of the year. He and Jimmy would challenge one another to identify constellations. At first, they relied upon modern technology, namely, their smartphones, to confirm their identifications of the heavens. Then it became easy for the two amateur astronomers. They even ordered a sextant online to navigate old school, as Jimmy called it.

They were able to quickly identify the North Star, which gave them a fairly precise latitude. Using their knowledge of star charts, they could locate and shoot one of the equatorial stars. April and May was their favorite time of the year to stargaze. Just over the crest of the Atlantic Ocean’s waves, the Southern Cross would appear above the southern horizon. One of the smallest recognized constellations, the Southern Cross was an important symbol to many ancient cultures. For sailors, it was a way to identify due south, as the longest bar of the cross-shaped star pattern points to the South Pole.

Peter didn’t have a sextant, and he realized as nightfall approached, he likely wouldn’t have any stars to navigate by for many years. The cloud of ash and soot resulting from the nuclear attacks blocked out the sky completely. Stars. Moon. Sun. They were all blacked out by the smoky haze.

Dismayed, he shook his head and closed his eyes momentarily. Navigation was just one of many things he’d learned from his dad and grandfather about survival. The conversations they’d had with Peter and his sister were never couched in those terms, but their intention was clear. Mostly, it had to do with getting stranded on the water, but the same principles applied.

It was so ingrained in Lacey that she made it a big part of her life between her business and her family’s activities together. For Peter, it seemed to give him a heightened sense of awareness and the ability to discern when trouble was near and how to react to it quickly. He’d been tested in Abu Dhabi and again in the CVS pharmacy. He’d proved he could kill to avoid being killed. He’d also learned to react to a dangerous situation, such as the mall takeover by the armed gang. He knew it was time to go, allowing him to avoid another life-threatening confrontation.

That night, as darkness set in and the temperatures unexpectedly dropped, Peter began to search for a place to make camp for the night. He hadn’t stopped pedaling all day and was near exhaustion when he came across a brick monument sign marking the entrance to Meadows Farms Golf Course, about ten miles due west of the famed Chancellorsville Battlefield from the time of the American Civil War. The sign proudly claimed that Meadows Farms was the home of the longest golf hole in the U.S., a par six that was eight hundred forty-one yards long. Peter didn’t know anything about golf, but a single hole half a mile long seemed pretty long to him.

He slowly pedaled up the paved entry road toward the farmhouse-style clubhouse with a shiny, red metal roof. The parking lot was empty, as the day of golfing had been long over when the bombs hit Washington, DC. The golf carts were parked in a row, waiting patiently for the golfers to arrive.

Peter eased up to the front entrance of the clubhouse and slowed to a halt. He eased his feet off the pedals and attempted to straddle the bike. His legs immediately tried to buckle, forcing him to hold his body up using the handlebars to keep from crushing his clackers against the frame.

He gingerly raised his left leg and swung it over the bike. He hadn’t stopped riding the entire day, and his body was cramped beyond belief. In that moment, he wasn’t certain he could walk to the white-framed entrance. He laid the bike against a golf cart and retrieved his handgun from the sling backpack. He chambered a round and walked slowly toward the entrance, much like a bowlegged cowboy in an old western movie.

He looked back and forth to check for any signs of life. Then he pressed his nose