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

They all professed to have extraordinary talents that the Driftwood Key Inn should take advantage of. However, in the end, the resort was a family-run operation with only a handful of longtime employees.

This situation was different. Hank had met Patrick Hollister on occasion. When he first began working for Island State Bank, Patrick had called upon Hank and solicited his business. He didn’t expect Hank to completely abandon his existing banking relationship. Maybe a loan to expand his solar array or to upgrade to a newer model boat. Perhaps a small investment account for Patrick to prove his money-management skills.

Hank never switched banks, but he remained cordial with Patrick, seeing him from time to time at business gatherings in the Keys. He certainly knew nothing of Patrick’s proclivities and the secret life he led as Patricia, serial killer.

Hank and his right-hand man, Sonny Free, approached Patrick to help him to his feet. The injured daytime banker, nighttime murderer, had risen to his knees, with both hands cupping the sides of his head. Blood was trickling out from between his fingers.

Hank spoke over his shoulder to Jimmy, Sonny’s son.

“Let your mom know what’s going on. Tell her to get her first aid supplies and meet us at bungalow three. Then get back to the gate and keep an eye out.”

Jimmy turned and began running toward the trail, the beam of his flashlight dancing wildly among the palm trees. He stumbled momentarily and then regained his footing as he hustled into the canopy of palm fronds.

Hank and Sonny lifted the battered man off the crushed-shell bridge connecting the inn to Marathon. “Stay with us, Patrick. We’re gonna get you some help.”

“He needs a hospital, Mr. Hank,” insisted Sonny. “He’s bleeding everywhere.”

“I know, Sonny, but we gotta get him stabilized first. When Jessica returns with Mike, we’ll figure out where to take him.”

Patrick lifted his head as the mention of Detective Mike Albright’s name registered with him in his semi-coherent state of mind. He could feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness as the two men dragged him along the trail. He was fading fast, and his empty stomach began to retch at the taste of blood in his mouth.

Hank and Sonny stopped to allow Patrick to drop to his knees and vomit. Instead, his stomach twisted and flexed because it was empty. All that Patrick managed to do was spit out the blood that had accumulated in his mouth.

“Come on.” Hank encouraged Patrick to stand again. Jimmy’s flashlight was seen darting toward them along the trail. When he arrived, he was short of breath but relayed a message from Phoebe.

“Mom’s getting everything ready. She really needs Jessica’s help, though. I don’t think she—”

Hank cut the young man off. “She’ll do fine. Now, Jimmy, hurry back and lock down the gate. Then I want you to go to the main house and try to raise Mike and Jess on the radio. Tell them to get back here. Hurry!”

Jimmy took off toward the gate, and the guys continued to help Patrick down the trail toward the beachfront guest bungalows. As they got closer, they could hear the low rumble of the portable generator that was dedicated to this particular bungalow.

During mandatory hurricane evacuations, this was one of six freestanding bungalows that could operate on a generator in the event of a power loss. The others drew from the solar array that had been having difficulty charging the batteries necessary for the hydroponic systems and greenhouses. The day prior, Hank and Phoebe had given up on trying to keep the inn’s freezers operating.

Phoebe rushed off the small covered porch of the bungalow and met them as they emerged from the trail. The porch lights allowed her to recognize the injured man.

“Patrick? Is that you?”

He didn’t respond, as he couldn’t remember that he’d met her a few times at his bank branch. The Frees’ checking and savings accounts had been with the Island State Bank for years. They never had a need to borrow money, so as depositors, their only contact with the branch manager was a friendly hello now and then.

Phoebe had a small flashlight that she used to walk around Driftwood Key after dark. The inn tried to keep its exterior lighting to a minimum, as it tended to draw turtles toward the main house at night. Sea turtles nest from early May through the end of October in Florida. State and local laws were enacted to ensure all indoor and outdoor lights visible from the beach were shielded so as not to confuse hatchlings. After they were hatched, lights might draw them away from the task at hand—crawling toward the Gulf to start their new lives.

She swept her flashlight across Patrick’s face to examine the damage. She then illuminated his body with the beam of light. She shook her head in disbelief. Every part of his clothing was soaked in blood. His face was battered, and his eyes were nearly swollen shut.

While she waited for Hank and Sonny to bring Patrick to the bungalow, she’d prepared the room by spreading an extra coverlet on top of the bed. From Jimmy’s description of the beaten man, she suspected they’d be cutting the clothes off him so she could assess his condition, so she had laid out a complimentary bathrobe provided for their guests.

Phoebe didn’t have any medical training, but she’d learned enough about basic first aid over the years from Hank and his family. She applied common sense to her decisions as she got to work.

The three of them helped Patrick lie comfortably on the bed. Phoebe turned to Sonny. “There are some blankets stacked in the laundry building. I’m gonna have to undress him, and we need to keep him warm. This robe won’t be enough.”

“On my way,” he said as he exited the bungalow quickly.

Hank had already started removing Patrick’s clothing, which consisted of sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee shirt. The dress he’d been wearing when he met his assailants had