Nuclear Winter Whiteout

by Bobby Akart

  “My fellow Americans, these are unprecedented times. Starting with the unprovoked nuclear attack by Iran on Israel, through the use of nuclear weapons by North Korea on its neighbors and then on the United States, the world has been thrust into a global catastrophe like no other.

  “By all counts, millions have perished as a result of the nuclear attacks, and now we face a climatic event that threatens the lives of billions more. It’s a catastrophe never faced by modern mankind, and it’s one that doesn’t discriminate between the rich and poor, or by race, gender, or nationality. The citizens of the world face this calamity together.

  “However, my job, as commander-in-chief, is the security of the American people. Other nations are suffering, to be sure, and their leaders are dedicating their efforts to saving lives. As a result, as we’ve learned, help is not forthcoming from abroad. We have to move forward on our own.

  “Through my conversations with the leaders of China, Russia, and European nations, I am assured there will be no further hostilities. Every nation is standing down militarily. This is important as we try to cope with the devastating aftermath and find a path forward toward recovery.

  “The first order of business is to regain control of our country. We are facing threats from within. There are those who would undermine our government by taking advantage of our weakened military and law enforcement. These opportunists range from criminals roaming the streets to well-organized militia who seek to subvert the Constitution and establish their own forms of government.

  “Therefore, upon the advice of the attorney general and with the strategic planning of our military leaders, I will be taking steps designed to help our fellow Americans during this inexplicable crisis.

  “Americans are concerned about their health and safety. Many are starving and without proper shelter. Some are in need of life-saving medical treatment or even life-sustaining medications. We will be outlining a comprehensive plan for helping those in need. It will be a monumental task, one that not only requires the use of all governmental resources but also cooperation from you, the American people.

  “The burden of helping one another is universal. It takes a village to achieve a goal of this magnitude, and we will be announcing the mechanism to enlist everyone’s participation. Tonight, I am signing a series of executive orders designed to create the largest recovery effort in American history. These orders will grant powers to the Department of Homeland Security, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, and the Joint Chiefs to take the steps necessary to get America back on her feet.

  “Now, make no mistake, it will be difficult times for us all. However, I firmly believe by harnessing the resolve of every American who wants to lend cooperation and assistance to this task, we will be able to make our communities safer, stronger, and better prepared to respond to any threats from within or without that hinder our recovery plans.

  “Rather than look at this plan as a potential restriction on your rights, look at it in the same vein that the great John F. Kennedy did. It’s time for you to help your country through mutual sacrifice and sharing. This is a call to action, and I know the American people will unselfishly respond as we expect them to.

  “The actions that I have taken are done with an overriding purpose, which is to ensure the stability of our government while protecting those among us who are most vulnerable. Now, I would like to allow the attorney general to read a statement summarizing the most pertinent provisions of my actions. Mr. Attorney General.”

  The president stepped back a couple of paces and gestured for the attorney general to approach the podium. The aging lawyer was much shorter than the president but tall in stature when it came to political clout within the administration. Unlike attorneys general of the past, he had the president’s ear and was eager to do President Helton’s bidding.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll get right to it. Following my statement, a copy of the executive order and declaration I am about to read aloud will be distributed to you. It will also be posted by U.S. Marshals inside the glass doors or other conspicuous places at every federal building across the country. It is required by law and the president’s executive order that I must read this declaration in its entirety.”

  Over the next ten minutes, the attorney general read aloud the provisions of President Helton’s executive order declaring martial law in America. While trying to contain themselves, the members of the media whispered to one another or unconsciously uttered words of surprise aloud.

  During those ten minutes, the declaration gutted the U.S. Constitution. The First Amendment rights of free speech, assembly, and religion were severely restricted under the guise of preventing insurrection and rioting.

  The Second Amendment right to bear arms was suspended for the general health, safety and welfare of American citizens. Under martial law, the president declared all privately held weapons, magazines, ammunition, and accessories of any kind to be illegal. Americans were ordered to voluntarily relinquish them to law enforcement or the military. The government would access the database of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives to identify gun owners. For those who failed to comply, they’d risk having them taken by force.

  In order to enforce the provisions of the martial law declaration, the president suspended the Fourth, Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Amendments that protected American citizens from unlawful search and seizure as well as a right to due process or a speedy trial in any legal proceedings.

  Further, in addition to specific provisions dealing with penalties such as forfeiture, confiscation, and imprisonment for noncompliance, the declaration of martial law suspended the Tenth Amendment. Designed by the Founding Fathers to limit federal powers, the Tenth Amendment reserved to the states any power not specifically granted to the federal government under the Constitution.

  In other words, the president was taking over control of every aspect of America’s government at all levels from the state houses to, most importantly, police powers ordinarily falling under the purview of the states.

  Even President Helton’s many allies in the media shuddered at the broad-reaching, draconian consequences of his actions.

  Part I

  Halloween

  Day fourteen, Thursday, October 31

  Chapter One

  Thursday, October 31

  Munford Residence

  Near Amelia Court House, Virginia

  Peter Albright was puzzled by what he found in the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse in rural Central Virginia. The home appeared occupied, yet it wasn’t. Upstairs, the beds 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 cent
uries-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 the direction of the floorboards changed.

  He picked up the pace, and then he used the kitchen countertop to pull his battered body upright. Recalling how he’d entered the home, Peter stumbled blindly into the back hallway leading to the outside as he tried to find his way out.

  In a frantic rush, he pushed himself toward the Dutch door he’d breached earlier. He flung it open and raced into the cold, dewy air. Relieved, he gasped for air, but in his fight to survive, he’d forgotten about the amount of ash and soot that had permeated the atmosphere. He immediately began a coughing fit as he fell onto his knees in the backyard.

  The pain. The inability to breathe. His heart pumping out of his chest. None of that mattered to Peter. He was safe.

  Or so he thought.

  Chapter Two

  Thursday, October 31

  Munford Residence

  Near Amelia Court House, Virginia

  Peter stuck his hand into his jacket and felt the warm moisture oozing out of his upper body. The blood from the shotgun wound had soaked all the clothing layers he’d worn to keep warm. He resisted the urge to pull off the wet clothing. He needed to get to his bicycle and get the hell out of Dodge, as they say.

  He pulled his shirt over his mouth and nose to avoid inhaling the sooty air. The rusty, metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils, but it was preferable to the smoky air that had circumnavigated the planet. Peter began to walk quickly through the backyard.

  BOOM!

  The shotgun roared as it sent another round through an opening under the porch. The sound of pellets embedding in the broad side of the barn forced Peter to the ground. Still holding his pistol, he fired twice in the direction of the house. Glass shattered as the rounds entered the kitchen through the windows.

  “Stop! I’m leaving!” What’s wrong with these people?

  His attackers never responded, verbally, anyway. Two more gunshots rang out. The bullets whizzed over his head. Close enough to be felt by Peter, which caused the hair to stand up on the back of his neck.

  He looked all around him. The ton bales would require him to backtrack, and the barn was too far away to run to. He stuck to the plan. Peter rose to a low crouch and hustled across the yard toward the side of the house. As he did, he held his gun sideways and fired toward the open space under the porch. His first round hit the ground with a thud, so he raised his aim. The second round struck the side of the house.

  He became more confident and stood to run toward the driveway where he’d ditched the bicycle. He was rewarded for his efforts by slipping on the moist grass, and he almost fell.

  BOOM!

  Another shotgun blast with the bellow of a cannon shattered the silence.

  Peter screamed over his shoulder, “Leave me alone!” He fired wildly toward the house.

  He could hear the muffled voices shouting instructions. The sound of a window rising caught his attention. He fired toward the house again, the bullet embedding in the wood clapboard siding.

  His attackers’ response was more gunfire, which startled Peter and caused him to fall forward. He regained his balance once again and began running across the yard in a zigzag pattern. The shots followed his path, tearing into the tall grasses all around him.

  Then his right leg caught a farm hydrant protruding from the ground. Often used on farms, the hydrant consisted of a steel standpipe attached to an underground water source that utilized a cast-iron lever and plunger handle. Designed to be freezeproof by avoiding plastic, the all-steel device was an immovable object that caused Peter to spin around before landing hard on his back.

  The impact knocked the wind out of him, and for a moment, his visi
on became blurred. His shirt had fallen down from his face, and he once again sucked soot-filled oxygen into his lungs. The incessant coughing began again and gave away his position to his attackers, who immediately unloaded a barrage of gunfire.

  Peter had to move. He was on the downslope of the yard now. He winced in pain as he turned his body. Then he forced his prone torso into a roll. Like a kid playing in a sloped backyard, he turned over and over again as he rolled through the tall grass toward the bottom of the hill where the driveway cut through the trees. His body was stabbed with sticks and the sharp edges of rocks protruding from the ground. It seemed like each time, they sadistically found a bruise or an embedded shotgun pellet.

  Then, mercifully, the gunfire stopped.

  Nonetheless, he kept an eye on the house until it disappeared from sight. In a fluid motion, he made one final roll and bounded to his feet. He rushed through the grass until he found the limestone rock and packed-dirt driveway.

  Peter glanced over his shoulder one last time to see if anyone had emerged from the house to pursue him. He pointed his gun up the hill, searching the hazy surroundings that were now slightly illuminated by the rising sun at predawn. His eyes were wild with fear, and his mind raced as he tried to recall how many shots he’d fired.

  Then, without any sign of the shooters, he carefully backed down the hill toward the location where he’d stashed his bicycle. With a deep breath of musty air and the odor of his own blood, he swiftly pushed the bike down the hill toward the road, leaving the Munford home behind him.

  Chapter Three

  Thursday, October 31

  Driftwood Key

  Florida Keys, USA

  Hank Albright wasn’t the type to take in every stray dog that came a-knockin’. The Florida Keys was every American’s dream of an island paradise. Pristine waters. Island living. Free spirits enjoying life the way they pleased. But, eventually, those who came to the Keys for fun had to pay the bills. Prior to the collapse, there had been a never-ending stream of newcomers seeking a job. 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.