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

had been slept in. Covers were pulled back, and the sheets were wrinkled. However, all of the pillows were missing. The closets had been rummaged through. Hangers had been emptied, and some had even fallen to the floor as if the residents had been in a hurry.

As he continued to shine his light on the family photos located throughout the home’s expansive foyer, he became more certain the family had bugged out when the bombs fell. Most likely, he surmised, they’d gathered the clothes necessary for an extended stay in a bomb shelter nearby. They’d packaged up the food in their cupboards to tide them over until relief supplies came in.

But Peter had an uneasy feeling. Perhaps it was the cold gust of wind that just broadsided the two-story farmhouse. Maybe it was the passing by of a ghost roaming the halls from the home’s past.

Nonetheless, he noticeably shivered. He was overcome by a mixture of wide-ranging emotions, exhaustion and the physiological rush of being in someone else’s home under eerie circumstances. In the moment, he’d become hyperaware of his surroundings as if life were moving in slow motion, one frame at a time.

The multiple clicks of the rifles’ hammers being cocked occurred within milliseconds of one another. Peter’s reaction happened equally as fast.

He leapt backwards, recoiling away from the walls depicting the ancestors of the Munford family. As his body flew toward the front door, bullets pierced the wood floor, sending splinters and centuries-old dust into the air. The first two rounds obliterated the dusty footprints Peter had left before his leap to safety.

He crashed into the door hard. His lower back hit the doorknob, causing him to cry out in pain. Stunned, his body slid to the floor in a heap.

The unmistakable blast of the shotgun made his ears ring as the double-aught buckshot blasted a hole in the floor where he stood. This was immediately followed by the shooters loading another round by cocking the lever actions on their Henry rifles.

Peter twisted around onto his knees and tried to turn the door handle. It was locked. In the darkness, he ran his hands all over the mortise lock, an antique door hardware system in which the lock mechanism was combined with a door pull.

“Dammit,” Peter mumbled as his fingers found the hole where the bit key was inserted to unlock it.

BOOM!

Another shotgun blast tore through the floor near his feet. Peter abandoned his attempt to flee through the front door and began to scramble on all fours into the parlor. He crossed the threshold separating the two rooms when more bullets flew past his side, striking the ceiling, which resulted in plaster raining down onto his head.

Peter begged his attackers to stop. “Please! Stop shooting! I just need a place to sleep!”

He tried to regain his footing. The rifles fired in unison, blasting through the plank flooring again, ripping into a side table, causing a ceramic table lamp to shatter.

Peter covered his face from the flying bits of shiny porcelain as he stumbled forward toward the wall. He tried to get his bearings. He frantically searched his pockets for his flashlight before he realized he’d dropped it in the foyer.

He had to keep moving. He moved quickly through the parlor toward the large entryway, using the outer walls to guide him. Once in the foyer, he accidentally knocked a painting off the wall and tripped over it. The portrait of a long-deceased Munford landed with a thud on the splinter-covered floor. Peter’s body twisted as he fell. He tried to brace himself, but his right arm rammed through the hole the shotgun had made moments earlier.

He was stuck.

He pulled and tugged to free his torn jacket from the shredded flooring. Then, as if he were immersed in a horror movie, someone beneath the floor grabbed his hand.

Peter’s mouth opened to scream, but nothing came out. His primal fear prevented him from letting out the blood-curdling shriek his mind wanted to release.

With all his strength, he tore his arm back through the floor and scrambled into the living room, which was combined with the dining area. He clumsily regained his footing and ran several steps in the darkness before stumbling over the rolled arm of the sofa, where he landed facedown on the musty cushions.

BOOM!

Another shotgun blast from below. The buckshot tore a hole in the floor beneath the sofa, rattled off the springs, and ripped through the cushions.

Peter heard the unmistakable sound of the shooter racking another shell into the shotgun. He couldn’t react in time.

BOOM!

The pellets from the second shot came through the same opening as the first. This time, there was very little in their way to protect him from the impact. Half a dozen found their way into Peter’s midsection and chest. He screamed in agony as he rolled off the sofa onto the rug.

At that point, Peter’s anger kicked in to join his adrenaline-fueled fight to survive. He found his way onto his feet and started running toward where he remembered the kitchen entry was located. He pulled his gun from his paddle holster and fired without aiming into the floor in an attempt to frighten off his attackers. The momentary attempt to multitask almost proved fatal.

The loose area rug slid under his feet, and he fell hard to the floor. Two more rifle shots rang out and pierced the floor in front of him. His loss of balance likely saved his life.

He quickly regained his focus and crawled again toward the kitchen before clumsily crashing into a dining chair with the crown of his head. He was immediately rewarded with a goose egg, a hematoma, that began to swell from the trauma. Nonetheless, he was undeterred.

Peter felt the cool air coming through the kitchen and the hallway that led to the back door. It gave him hope and the feeling that he would survive the onslaught. He changed his course and scrambled forward. His hands reached the part of the kitchen where