Nuclear Winter Whiteout

by Bobby Akart

  “Dang, Sheriff. Did she lose any of their herd?”

  “Some, but I’m worried about more than the livestock. A lot of folks don’t have the heat sources to withstand that kinda shock to their surroundings. Y’all take the Jeeps and head up fifty. Stop in and check on people. I’ll cover the overtime.”

  The group of four deputies didn’t hesitate. They pushed away from their chairs and cleaned up the poker game. After grabbing their gear from their lockers, they retrieved the keys to the department-owned Jeeps from their peg hooks.

  Sheriff Mobley was a Jeeper, a term used for aficionados of the classic American utility vehicle that dated back to World War II. He personally owned two vintage Jeeps, both CJ5 models. They were made for going off-road, but most importantly, as it turned out, the pre-1972 models’ lack of electronics provided him transportation that was immune to the debilitating effects of an EMP.

  During his term as sheriff, he’d begun to search the region for similar Jeeps from the sixties and early seventies. Some were wrecks, and others were in need of parts. It became a labor of love to purchase project cars and restore them. The results of his efforts paid off. The department had a fleet of four fully restored Jeep CJ5s that still operated despite the EMP. Coupled with his two personal vehicles, his deputies were able to travel throughout the county, helping their neighbors and providing the safety of law enforcement during a time when looting was rampant around the nation.

  He made sure the deputies took fully charged Bao Feng ham radios with them to communicate with the base unit at the sheriff’s department. He’d been diligent about protecting electronics from the pulse of energy as well.

  In a vacant lot across the alley from the sheriff’s office, six semitrailers had been parked side by side. These were used by the City of La Junta to store supplies, and one of the trailers had been assigned to his department. As part of his preparation for a catastrophic event like this one, Sheriff Mobley had purchased six large and a dozen small galvanized trash cans to create Faraday cages.

  A Faraday cage, an invention developed by a nineteenth-century scientist, was an enclosure formed by a conductive material like steel or steel mesh used to block the damaging electrons dispersed when an EMP detonation occurs. When electronic devices are placed within the protective shield, the massive burst of energy that was ordinarily too strong for the delicate wiring of modern electronic devices was spread around the container, and none passed into it.

  The sheriff had placed a backup of every electronic device used by his department inside one of the galvanized steel trash cans. He’d wrapped each item in heavy-duty aluminum foil and then cushioned it inside the trash cans with two-inch-thick padding like that used in chair cushions. Finally, he’d sealed the lids in place with aluminum tape used by heating and air-conditioning contractors.

  When the EMP hit near Boulder, the electromagnetic pulse didn’t penetrate the makeshift Faraday cages. As a result, Sheriff Mobley had the ability to communicate with his deputies when on patrol. He was also able to replace the solar charge controllers and other electronic equipment associated with the department’s rooftop solar array.

  He’d even secured various types of medical equipment donated by the Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center in town. As they replaced older, still-operating equipment with newer models, Sheriff Mobley asked to keep the discarded devices. He had also protected this equipment in the larger trash cans. When the EMP destroyed most of the life-saving equipment at the small medical center, he was able to provide them something to work with.

  Soon, Sheriff Mobley would learn whether his efforts could help save the lives of a group of strangers who just happened to be passing through his county.

  Chapter Six

  Thursday, October 31

  U.S. Highway 50

  Near Fowler, Colorado

  Otero County deputies Susan Ochoa and Adam Hostetler followed each other to the westernmost part of the county into the town of Fowler just as the sun was beginning to beg its way through the ash-filled skies. They split up as they drove the residential streets, using the external loudspeakers affixed to their Jeeps to let people know they were in the neighborhood. They asked them to check on their neighbors when the conditions permitted.

  The feel of death surrounded them. There were very few birds that inhabited the area, and those were frozen, their carcasses strewn about, lifeless eyes staring toward the sky. Sadly, cats and dogs had fallen victim to the flash freeze as well. Owners, unable to feed their animals, had sent the domesticated creatures out of the house to fend for themselves. Cats were better adapted to the inclement weather, as they squeezed themselves under home foundations or deep into barns. Dogs were another matter. Loyal to their owners, they waited on the porch next to front doors, knowing they’d be let inside eventually. They weren’t.

  Ochoa and Hostetler made their way west on U.S. Highway 50 toward Pueblo. They slowed at the entrance to the stockyards to see how the cattle had fared. Hostetler pulled in first. However, as he did, Ochoa had another thought and raised him on the radio.

  “Adam, I’m gonna make a quick ride out to the Pueblo County line. There are a couple of farms on County Road 1 that I’d like to check on.”

  “10-4. This won’t take long. Let’s meet up here when we’re finished.”

  Ochoa continued down the snow-covered highway, which had been partially cleared by the gusty headwinds she faced. A half-mile-long freight train had stalled at the moment of the EMP detonation. Its cars had been filled with cattle heading from Pueblo to the Texas Panhandle. It had been a herculean effort by local ranchers to off-load the railcars and drive the cattle into the Nepesta Valley Stockyards owned by the Lucero family for safekeeping. She wondered if the bone-chilling conditions that had struck the west part of the county killed them all.

  Ochoa slowed as she came upon a pickup truck stalled in the middle of the road, heading eastbound. She’d checked it out on a previous patrol to the northwest part of the county, but this time something seemed amiss. Hay was thrown on the asphalt pavement both to the side and rear bumper of the truck. However, there was something else she couldn’t quite reconcile.

  She eased up to the front bumper and exited her Jeep. Despite her familiarity with the stalled truck, her instincts encouraged her to keep her gloved hand on her service weapon. She made a fist with her left hand and attempted to wipe the ice crystals off the driver’s side window. When she was unsuccessful, she removed her cuffs from her utility belt and used the steel double strand to remove enough ice for her to see inside. The interior was empty.

  She slowly walked to the side of the pickup, kicking at the frozen hay at her feet. Still wary that an animal might have found its way into the truck bed, she kept her hand on her service weapon. Otero County had battled plague-infested prairie dogs and rodents the summer before. The plague had jumped from animal to animal through flea infestations, infecting the wild dogs that roamed the fields around the county line. These animals were not only infectious, they were considered dangerous.

  Ochoa stopped and looked around. Nothing moved, and she began to think her hunch had failed her. She took a few steps toward the west and then turned back toward the pickup. She shrugged and shook her head slightly as she started back to her Jeep.

  Then something caught her eye in the back of the truck. Her pulse quickened, and her adrenaline kicked in. She drew her weapon.

  “Shit! Are you kidding me? Shit!”

  Ochoa rushed to the back of the truck and used one arm to hoist herself onto the bumper. She leaned over the tailgate and rustled through the loose hay to reveal the legs of a man extending from under half a dozen bales piled on top of him. With her weapon trained on the man, she grabbed one of his ankles and shook it.

  “Hey, mister! Are you okay?”

  No response.

  She grabbed both ankles and shook hard. She shouted her question. “Hey! Wake up!”

  Again, no response.

  Ochoa stood
on the bumper, holstered her weapon, and pulled her handheld ham radio from her utility belt. Abandoning all protocol, she called for backup.

  “Adam! This is Susan. Need you now! Middle of Highway 50, just east of CR 1. Possible dead body.”

  Chapter Seven

  Thursday, October 31

  Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center

  La Junta, Colorado

  Sheriff Mobley was about to leave the department when a member of his communications team rushed to stop him. He was told about Deputy Ochoa’s discovery of a body in the back of the pickup truck on Route 50. Amazingly, the man they found was not dead. Both Ochoa and Hostetler confirmed the man was hanging on by a thread. He was suffering from exposure to the extreme temperature drop that had been reported to the sheriff’s office.

  He took a seat in the chair of the communications deputy and pressed the talk button on the microphone attached to the ham base unit.

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Negative.”

  “Both of you need to carry him into a Jeep. Be gentle. Remove his wet outer layers of clothing.”

  Hostetler responded, “Negative, Sheriff. His clothes are frozen solid. I’ve never seen anything like it. He looks like that guy on The Shining.”

  Sheriff Mobley scowled. His voice reflected his sense of urgency. “Come on, Adam. Respect, please. Get him in the Jeep and fire up the heat. As his clothes thaw, remove anything wet and cover him with blankets. Susan, ride in the back seat while Adam brings him to the medical center. Monitor his breathing.”

  “I have a thermos of hot coffee,” she added.

  “Good. If he comes to, and if he’s coherent enough to drink, let him have some but just a little. I mean, don’t let him gulp it down.”

  “10-4,” she replied. There was radio silence for a moment until Ochoa returned to report their progress. “We’re coming in. ETA is gonna be half an hour, Sheriff. We’re as far away as far away can be.”

  “Understood. Out.” Sheriff Mobley flung himself back in his chair and ran his hands through his thin, sandy blond hair. Throughout the crisis, he’d prided himself and his department on their ability to save the lives of his residents and travelers. Throughout the conversation, as he’d focused on instructing his deputies through the process of bringing the man to the medical center, something nagged at him.

  Where did he come from? It was a question he hoped to get answers to because that meant the man would be alive to tell about it. With a sigh, he hustled over to the medical center to alert the emergency room.

  Otero County, with its small population of just over ten thousand residents, was fortunate to have its own hospital. Small in comparison to the massive medical centers found in large cities, its history dated back to the early 1900s when it was founded. In the 1920s, its management and operations were turned over to the Mennonite Board with the agreement to expand its facilities. Over the years, it grew before ownership was turned back over to the city of La Junta. Now, the community-owned medical center provided all manner of treatment from birthing babies to treating patients in its intensive care unit.

  Sheriff Mobley walked to the hospital to give himself an opportunity to process the weather anomaly that had swept across his county overnight. He’d had several conversations with other ham radio operators in the region about what they’d experienced.

  Some explanations were more dramatic than others. Reports of everything freezing instantaneously. Comparisons to space travelers in a cryogenic state. Descriptions of animals instantly frozen, still standing on their legs as if they were an animatronic creation at an amusement park.

  There were also the descriptions of the weather event itself. Godly people described it as the Grim Reaper flowing across their fields in the form of a black, shadowy cloud of death. The collector of souls was accompanied by a frigid wind unlike any other they’d ever experienced. During any winter, Otero County was susceptible to icy, subzero temperatures as Canadian air swept down the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, but longtime residents said nothing they’d seen in their lifetimes compared to this.

  The sheriff entered the hospital through the emergency room entrance and was not all that surprised to find it bustling with activity. Although most people had been inside during the flash freeze, some had been caught outside checking on their animals or retrieving firewood for their woodstoves.

  It was all hands on deck as medical personnel from all parts of the hospital were in the emergency room, treating people for breathing difficulties resulting from taking in the frigid air. Others had suffered frostbite and severe burns to their exposed skin.

  One man was suffering a mental breakdown. He’d heard his beloved horse become agitated as his barn was struck with an enormous gust of wind. He ran out to the stable in his nightclothes without a jacket. Within a minute, he realized he was in trouble, and when his horse fell over dead, he did the only thing he could do to survive.

  He grabbed a razor-sharp sickle hanging from a support post. He cut open the belly of his horse and removed her intestines. The small-framed man forced himself into his horse’s body cavity and then pulled straw up against himself. He’d lain there for hours, sobbing, but somewhat warm. At least enough not to freeze. He survived physically. Mentally, he’d never be the same.

  Sheriff Mobley convinced the emergency room staff to have a treatment room reserved for the incoming patient. They shuffled some of the already-treated patients to other parts of the hospital after he convinced them there might be more exposure victims inbound that morning.

  When Hostetler’s Jeep roared into the covered entrance to the ER, Sheriff Mobley rushed outside with the nurses pushing the gurney. He wanted to do all he could to keep anyone in his county from dying on his watch.

  The medical team quickly moved the man into the ER treatment room. They began their work on the patient but not before they had to encourage remove Sheriff Mobley and his two deputies to leave the room. The three law enforcement officers looked upon the man they knew nothing about with concern and sadness. None of them expected the man to live.

  A nurse handed Ochoa two bags containing the man’s belongings as she closed the curtain to block their view. The three law enforcement officers walked outside with the bags and laid them on the hood of the idling Jeep.

  “We need to go back and fetch Ochoa’s Jeep,” said Hostetler in a somber tone of voice.

  “Let me get the rest of the victim’s things,” she added as she opened the passenger door and reached into the back seat of the Jeep. She returned with the man’s thawed jacket and pants. She was also holding something that puzzled Sheriff Mobley.

  “What’s with the car parts?” he asked.

  “Strange, right?” replied Ochoa. She held them up for Sheriff Mobley and Hostetler to examine. “The vic had the radiator hose stuffed inside his jacket, and his arm was wrapped through the air filter.”

  “Broken-down car?” asked the sheriff.

  “Not that I recall seeing,” replied Ochoa. “You know, vis is limited. Plus, once I found the body, I focused on getting him here.”

  Sheriff Mobley took the parts from her and set them on the still-warm hood of Hostetler’s Jeep. He dumped the contents of the man’s property bag on the hood and spread everything out.

  “Let’s look for some sort of identification.”

  The three of them rustled through the pockets of his clothing until Ochoa found something. “Hey, it’s a business card. I don’t know if this is the guy or not, but it makes sense.” She handed it to Sheriff Mobley, who studied it.

  “Owen McDowell. Senior VP with Yahoo in Sunnyvale.”

  “Should we let the docs know?” asked Hostetler.

  Sheriff Mobley handed the card to him and nodded. “Take his things and tell them what you know. Ochoa, you’re with me. Let’s head up the highway and find this gentleman’s car.”

  Chapter Eight

  Thursday, October 31

  U.S. Highway 50

>   Near Fowler, Colorado

  “Sheriff, um, that was County Road 1,” said Deputy Ochoa hesitantly. “We’re in Pueblo’s jurisdiction now.” She kept her eyes forward, mostly, with only the occasional side glance at her boss as he continued up Highway 50.

  “I’m sure they won’t mind. I wanna see where this McDowell fella came from.”

  Sheriff Mobley relaxed his death grip on the Jeep’s steering wheel momentarily and adjusted his stout frame in the seat. He set his jaw and leaned forward, unconsciously causing him to propel the vehicle a little faster on the slick, snow-covered highway.

  Despite the darkened daytime conditions, he wore his sunglasses to shield the glare produced by the white cloud cover. What little sunlight found its way to Earth’s surface reflected in all directions off the snow and the grayish atmosphere.

  “Sheriff, up ahead. Bright blue. Looks like a classic Bronco or Blazer.”

  “I see it!” he exclaimed as he began to decelerate. He’d already noticed patches of ice under the blanket of snow, and he didn’t want to make a bad day worse by plowing into the stranded truck in the middle of the highway. He slowed to a stop, and the two quickly exited the Jeep to approach the stalled Ford Bronco.

  Sheriff Mobley noticed the hood wasn’t completely closed, and knew he had the right truck. He pulled his tactical flashlight from his utility belt and illuminated it. Despite it being midmorning, the interior of the truck was dark. Ochoa, as she’d done before, tried the door handles first, and then she scraped the ice off the driver’s window with her handcuffs.

  The sheriff shined the light through the hole in the icy exterior and peered inside. “Looks empty,” he muttered.