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

come back to them intact someday. The carcasses of vehicles blocked the roads at times, causing Rafael to use his knowledge of the military truck to drive off road.

They encountered dead bodies more frequently. People were dying of thirst. Many people had stretched their bodies to their limits by not drinking seemingly polluted water for three days. Then, out of desperation, they’d thirstily slurp up any water source they came across. The brackish ponds and streams filling the St. Mary’s River looked drinkable, but the combination of fallout and bacteria caused many refugees to contract dysentery.

This exacerbated their dehydrated condition. The bacteria swirled through their bodies, causing bloody diarrhea, abdominal pain, and fever. Unknowing travelers tried to combat the aches, pains, and fever by drinking more fluids. They died within days. Corpses were lying in ditches or leaned up against trees, lifeless eyes staring into space.

Soon, the passengers heading south stopped looking. The dead were no longer a spectacle to be gawked at. They were another part of the landscape they traversed in their effort to get home or to a place of safety.

Rafael was careful to avoid slowing down near large packs of pedestrian travelers. On several occasions, they were surrounded by people who wanted to climb in the back of the truck, further cramping the paid travelers. It was difficult to pass up the hopeless and anguished. However, it was a decision Peter forced them to make before they left the Motel Jesup. The time to make an emotional, heart-wrenching decision was not when the sad eyes were looking into yours, he’d told everyone. The agreement not to take on any new passengers had been unanimous at the time although with each encounter, it was increasingly difficult to say no.

The first couple was dropped off about fifteen miles west of Jacksonville. They lived in a beachside community, but Rafael explained it was too dangerous for him to take the truck that close to the city.

The same was true for the mother and daughter, who asked to be dropped off in Gainesville. Her ex-husband still lived there, and the daughter was a sophomore at the University of Florida. They were dropped off along U.S. 301 in Waldo, just to the east of the college town.

The goodbyes exchanged with the two women were the most difficult for Peter. Their tears flowed as they expressed their appreciation for what he’d done to protect them. There were offers for him to come stay at the ex-husband’s horse farm near the Gainesville airport. The mom even offered up one of the man’s farm pickups for Peter to drive to the Keys.

He declined and said he planned on riding with Rafael as far as the fuel tank would carry them. He gave them one of Mr. Uber’s handguns along with a quick tutorial on how to use it. The mother and daughter had been opposed to guns prior to the night before. Now they understood how they could be used to defend themselves.

It turned out two of the older couples lived in The Villages north of Orlando. They shared stories and learned they had several mutual acquaintances. Then they both gloated how their golf carts were solar operated. The battery banks were powered by solar panels on the roofs of the golf carts, a primary method of transportation around the large retirement community. They were in high spirits when Rafael eased into the Wawa parking lot, a convenience store chain that operated up and down the Atlantic Seaboard. They also heaped thanks on the two men and promised to pray for them as they continued their trip.

Peter wasn’t ordinarily religious, but in the throes of a post-apocalyptic world, he found himself looking to God for guidance. He also found himself begging for forgiveness. At one point, he swore he wouldn’t fire his weapon at anyone again. He promised not to take another man’s life.

Eventually, that would change.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Monday, November 4

Driftwood Key

Patrick had become attuned to his surroundings and the people who surrounded him. Like many serial killers who oftentimes functioned on a highly intellectual level that allowed them to evade capture, Patrick was the consummate con man. He knew what button to push on some people and what conversations to avoid with others. It was all designed to achieve a goal—remain at Driftwood Key for as long as possible, if not forever.

Patrick sensed they were ready for him to leave. There was a level of wariness from Jimmy. Hank seemed to be more questioning about what had happened to him as each day passed. Sonny and Phoebe were no match for his wits although they both seemed to be more withdrawn around him.

And then there were the cops: Nurse Jessie, as he thought of Jessica, and Detective Mikey, the guy who was so full of himself that he didn’t realize Patrick was practically under the same roof. Detective Mikey was lucky Patrick hadn’t totally regained his strength. If he had, he’d declare himself to be King Kraken of the Key by murdering the whole lot of them.

He lay in bed, trying to put his finger on what had happened to raise their suspicions. He recalled every conversation he’d had with them. Did his story change? What about his demeanor? He acknowledged he hadn’t been a hundred percent lucid those first few days as he recovered from the beatdown. Maybe he’d let something slip?

Then his mind raced to the worst-case scenarios. Had Detective Mikey extracted his DNA and come up with a match to the murder victims? Had somebody identified Patricia and given a sketch artist all the details? Patrick had become adept at applying makeup after years of practice, but were they somehow able to study him against the composite sketch while he was sleeping?

All of this troubled him that day. And when they started taking him for limited walks and constantly badgered him about regaining his strength, warning lights flashed in his mind. They’re getting ready to vote me off the