Nuclear Winter Whiteout

by Bobby Akart

  Ochoa began to scrape away the ice from the rear windows of the two-door classic Bronco. Without saying a word, she began to do so more frantically. She rubbed the window with her gloved hands.

  “I see a body! Wait, no. There are two!”

  Simultaneously, Sheriff Mobley began pounding on the hood of the truck while Ochoa smacked the window.

  “Hey! Are you guys okay?” she shouted.

  “Sheriff’s department. Open up!” ordered Sheriff Mobley.

  “I’ve got movement, Sheriff! I swear one of them moved.”

  “Stand aside,” he instructed his deputy. He pulled his new service weapon and turned it around to be used like a hammer. He struck the driver’s side window with the pistol grip until it cracked. Then he turned sideways and drove his elbow into the breach, causing the glass to break before falling inside. He didn’t hesitate to pull up the door lock.

  “Are you okay?” Ochoa shouted her question again.

  Nobody responded.

  Sheriff Mobley struggled to open the driver’s side door, which had frozen shut. He placed his boot on the truck’s nerf bar, the shiny steel tubular bars that served the purpose of a running board on older trucks. He grunted as he pulled on the door handle. It flew open, causing him to lose his balance temporarily. The sheriff caught himself before falling, and Ochoa quickly moved in to pull the driver’s seat forward. She raised the seat back to give her access to the rear passengers.

  Despite her hyperactive state of mind, she slowed her approach to the two people curled up together in the back seat. If they were armed, she didn’t want to startle them into shooting her. She found a teenage boy on the edge of the seat, bundled up in winter gear. His face was barely visible through the hood of his jacket, which was secured around him with a drawstring.

  She leaned in further and placed her ear next to his mouth. She managed a smile as she crawled backwards out of the truck. She made eye contact with Sheriff Mobley.

  “He’s alive. There’s another person crammed in the seat under a pile of clothing and blankets. We gotta pull the boy out first.”

  “I’ll get the Jeep and call it in.”

  While Sheriff Mobley pulled the Jeep closer, Ochoa tried to revive the young man. For a brief moment he regained consciousness.

  “Hey, buddy,” she began. “Take it easy, okay? We’re gonna get you some help.”

  The young man tried to speak to her, but his mouth barely moved. Air exited his mouth; however, his words were stifled by his weakened condition.

  “That’s okay. You don’t need to talk. Let me help you out.”

  “Dad,” he said, the word barely audible but discernible by Ochoa.

  “Your dad? Is that your father behind you?” She tried to reach under his arms to pull him out, but she couldn’t leverage his weight. Sheriff Mobley joined her side to assist.

  The young man mouthed the words and spoke whisper soft. “My mom. Dad went for …” His voice trailed off.

  Sheriff Mobley gently nudged Ochoa out of the way and asked, “Is his name Owen?”

  Tucker McDowell nodded and then passed out.

  The Otero County sheriff’s department sprang into action. While Sheriff Mobley and Deputy Ochoa raced back to the medical center with Tucker and Lacey, the other deputies gathered up the parked Jeep. Then they worked together to tow the abandoned McDowells’ vintage Ford Bronco to the sheriff’s department. Once it had arrived, they were able to confirm the family’s identity and provided the information to the medical staff.

  As the day progressed, the McDowell family occupied three spots in the small hospital’s intensive care unit. Despite being exhausted, Sheriff Mobley remained in the lobby to keep tabs on the California family he and his deputies had rescued. They’d given the young family a chance to live, and he wanted to see their care through to the end.

  The attending physician, an acquaintance of the sheriff’s, had just completed his rounds and approached to provide an update.

  “Shawn, you really oughta go home and get some rest. These folks are in good hands.”

  “What’s the prognosis?” asked the sheriff without addressing the doctor’s concerns for his well-being.

  The doctor sighed and sat on a chair across from the sheriff. He loosened his tie, one of the few physicians who continued to maintain a higher standard of dress during the apocalypse. His white physician’s jacket, however, was soiled from inadequate washing. His shirt was no longer pressed. But he still donned a tie out of respect for those he treated. They deserved professionalism, he’d told his wife the first day after the EMP destroyed the power grid. He’d worked countless hours daily ever since.

  “Not good for the father and only slightly better for the other two. Shawn, they’re suffering from the worst cases of hypothermia I’ve ever seen. You know how it is around here; we get cases every winter. You warn people on Facebook and do the PSA radio spots, but they don’t listen. They think they can endure what mother nature has to offer.”

  “This was some kind of freak storm, Doc,” interrupted Sheriff Mobley. “The western part of the county got the worst of it. We’re lucky your hospital isn’t wall-to-wall with these patients.”

  “It’s a good thing, too,” said the doctor. “We don’t have the necessary equipment to give these people the treatment they deserve. If it weren’t for you storing the old stuff in those trailers, we’d have no way to monitor their vitals.” He sighed and shook his head before continuing.

  “The dad’s body temp was just at seventy degrees. I can’t stress enough that he’s suffering from a profound, potentially life-threatening level of hypothermia. By all rights, he should be dead right now except for the grace of God.”

  Sheriff Mobley grimaced. “What about the mom and their son? They were pretty bundled up in the back of the truck. Why aren’t they waking up?”

  “We could wake them, but their bodies need to rest and recover. We’re keeping them hydrated and warm. Both of their bodies’ temperatures recorded in the low eighties when you brought them in. I suspect they dropped to the mid-seventies overnight.”

  “And the dad hit seventy?” asked Sheriff McDowell.

  The doctor nodded. “You can do the math, Shawn. That means he likely hit the mid-sixties by the time your deputies found him. His vital organs were beginning to shut down, and his brain function suffered. I can’t guarantee we can save him, and even if we do, he may have suffered severe brain damage as a result of the exposure.”

  “Damn,” muttered the sheriff as he sat back in his chair and rubbed his temples.

  “There’s one more thing regarding the dad,” began the doctor. “Hostetler relayed to me what Ochoa observed when she found him in the back of the pickup. She said his lower legs had been exposed. That accounts for the severe frostbite we’ve diagnosed. I’m afraid it caused permanent damage to his calves, ankles, and feet.”

  “What does that mean?” asked the sheriff.

  “We may have to perform an amputation of both legs below the knees.”

  Chapter Nine

  Thursday, October 31

  Driftwood Key

  By dawn that morning, Jessica and Mike had arrived to help with Patrick. Jessica Albright, Mike’s wife, was a trained paramedic and a member of the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department Water Emergency Team, aptly known as WET. She was capable of providing advanced emergency medical care for injured patients. Her primary role was to stabilize people with life-threatening injuries so they could be transferred to a higher level of care such as a nearby emergency room.

  The closest medical center, Fishermen’s Community Hospital, had been closed two days prior after would-be thieves attempted to steal fuel stored for the facility’s backup generators.

  On any given day, hospitals consume a lot of energy. Their lifesaving devices rely upon electricity to monitor and treat critical care patients. The level one emergency power supply systems dictated by the National Fire Protection Association could be operated usin
g either natural gas or diesel fuel. At Fishermen’s, the diesel was stored in elevated tanks to prevent them from being damaged during hurricane conditions.

  The thieves had attempted to drain the diesel into fifty-five-gallon drums mounted on the back of a flatbed delivery truck. In their effort to break the locking mechanism on an emergency drain valve, they’d breached the raised tank, and diesel poured onto the ground, emptying the tank within minutes. The sudden loss of fuel caused the diesel generators to seize and shut down. While the tank was able to be repaired, the Keys had no source of diesel fuel to replenish the tank.

  This meant the next closest hospital was either in Islamorada or Key West, and they were only treating critical care patients. Patrick’s injuries, while brutal, fell just short of life-threatening, so Jessica made the call to keep him there.

  She set up intravenous fluids and kept him hydrated. She complimented Phoebe on her excellent first aid skills. However, with her advanced trauma kit, she was able to do some things Phoebe couldn’t, including the use of medical staples, an alternative to traditional suturing.

  While Patrick was sleeping, Jessica took the time to examine every inch of his body. She was the first to discover that the man had been sodomized. She’d shed a tear as she studied Patrick’s badly beaten face. His eyes were very swollen, and both of his lips were cut from repeated punches. There was even an abrasion on his right cheek that resembled the sole of a sneaker.

  After a long day, she, Mike and Hank gathered around the fire for a drink. She provided the guys an update on Patrick’s condition before their discussion turned to other events of the day.

  “Hank, last night’s incident with Patrick’s sudden arrival at the gate has me concerned,” began Mike as he stared off into the darkness.

  The three of them were in a solemn, melancholy mood. Patrick’s beating reminded them of how depraved their fellow man could be. Depravity was an innate, moral corruption of the soul unique to the human species. No animal on the planet had the cognitive ability, or the penchant, for wickedness.

  “Me too,” said Hank as he sipped his drink without looking in Mike’s direction. It had been a sore subject. He’d made his feelings known to Mike previously that he wished he and Jessica could stick around Driftwood Key. If anything, over the last several days, the opposite had occurred. The sheriff’s department had demanded more of their time than ever.

  “I know your feelings on this, and trust me, Jess and I have wrestled with what to do,” Mike said. “You know, when you’re in law enforcement, you have the same sense of duty as those who are in the military. We were hired to do a job, which includes protecting our community.”

  “And being traffic cops?” asked Hank, allowing his frustrations to pour out. “Seriously, Mike. Is the sheriff asking you to investigate crimes? Are you still pursuing the serial killer? All I hear you guys talk about is evicting nonresidents and leading them off the Keys like the freakin’ Pied Piper.”

  “Listen, Hank,” said Mike as he sat up in his chair. “We gotta do what we gotta do. As soon as—”

  “As soon as what?” Hank rudely cut him off. “As soon as Lindsey is satisfied that we’ve rid the Keys of vermin?” Lindsey Free, mayor of Monroe County’s government, was also Sonny’s former sister-in-law.

  “Hank, it’s not like that,” interjected Jessica. “Mike can’t investigate crimes right now because he doesn’t have the resources. Also, until we stabilize the Keys by getting people settled in their homes, we’ll have crimes like burglaries and beatings.”

  Hank sighed and gulped down the rest of his drink. He was in a foul mood, partly because he hadn’t slept since he’d briefly dozed off on the front porch the night before. The three sat in silence while Hank and Mike stewed about the overall situation.

  “Hank, may I finish now?” asked Mike calmly. He respected his older brother and understood he was not used to having criminal activity that routinely took place outside the confines of Driftwood Key insert itself into his life. After he’d seen Patrick, Mike could only imagine what was going through Hank’s head with his son and daughter missing.

  “Yeah, sorry,” Hank muttered. It was a half-ass apology, but Mike silently accepted it anyway.

  “What I was about to say was, for starters, I’ve got the sheriff’s approval to stagger my shifts with Jessica. He’s been sending us off in different directions every night anyway, so we weren’t able to work with one another. I’m gonna work graveyard, and she’ll handle days or early evenings. Here, she’ll take the witching-hour patrols. You know, midnight to four or five.”

  Jessica added, “That’ll give me plenty of time to sleep and help watch the key when we’re most vulnerable.”

  “That sounds pretty good,” mumbled Hank, hoping that they’d give it all up to stay close to home.

  He stretched his glass over to Jessica, who had strategically planted herself between the two brothers. Somehow, she sensed Hank had been waiting all day for an opportunity to bring the subject up. She refilled his glass and passed the bottle of Jack Daniel’s over to Mike, who topped off his glass as well. He had to leave for work in an hour but doubted the sheriff would be conducting random breathalyzer tests at the moment.

  “Here’s the thing, Hank,” Mike tried to explain. “First off, we’re not getting paid, and everyone from the mayor to the sheriff have acknowledged that. So they do their best to pay us in kind. Sure, it’s not the same as money, but under these circumstances, it might be looked at as better than money.”

  “That’s right,” added Jessica. “I’m given my choice of medical supplies and gear. Scuba related, too. There’s no accountability, and my boss is fully aware we’d use it on our families before a stranger if need be. Today was a wake-up call for me. You can bet during my shift tomorrow I’ll be giving myself a raise, if you know what I mean.”

  The men laughed, so Mike explained how he paid himself. “I will continue to stock Driftwood Key with weapons, ammunition, and accessories. Please understand me, Hank. I know there’ll come a time when my contribution to law enforcement will be limited to this place.” He waved his arm around his head in a circle as he made reference to Driftwood Key.

  “We don’t think the county is going to be able to maintain order for very long,” added Jessica. “Even with the expulsions and the processing of refugees at the bridges, the locals are becoming increasingly hostile with one another. At first, you had this sense of community. You know. Rah-rah, we’re all in this together bullshit. No, we’re not. This nuclear winter thing is gonna last a long, long time, and as people become desperate, then watch out.”

  Mike leaned forward to the edge of his Adirondack chair so he could look his brother in the eyes. The flames of the bonfire grew, casting orangish light coupled with shadows across the brothers.

  “Hank, I promise you. We’ll circle the wagons here long before it comes to that. But unless we act as your eyes and ears out there, we’ll never know what’s comin’.”

  Part II

  Day fifteen, Friday, November 1

  Chapter Ten

  Friday, November 1

  Near Amelia Court House, Virginia

  Daylight was waning when Peter awoke from his long, restful sleep. A light snow had fallen, causing him to shiver. He was also concerned that he’d become infected by the buckshot wounds. His mind raced as his anxiety grew. Did I miss a pellet? Maybe I should’ve sterilized the tweezers with alcohol?

  He shot up into a seated position that forced pain throughout his body. He couldn’t contain the groan that came from deep inside him. Peter felt like he’d been used as a punching bag on one side and a pincushion on the other.

  He’d slept the entire day although the perpetually gray skies made it difficult to determine the position of the sun. He just knew it was getting darker, and he needed to get going, not just to make progress toward home but also to get his body heated up through exercise.

  He forced himself to stand and then inwardly complained ab
out his sore legs. Even after the ordeal in Abu Dhabi and the flying episode courtesy of the nuclear blast wave, Peter hadn’t felt this kind of pain.

  He walked fifteen feet downstream from where he’d unintentionally made camp earlier that day to relieve himself. His urine was dark yellow. As an avid runner, he knew that was a sign of dehydration. He made a mental note to pour his filtered water into the canteen cup and add a Nuun hydration tab to it. The orange-flavored, effervescent tablet the size of an Alka-Seltzer quickly dissolved in water. It was used by athletes to replace lost electrolytes to avoid dehydration.

  Peter also took the time to inspect his wounds. The three puncture wounds were already beginning to scab over. The bloody oozing had ceased, and he felt confident after a change of bandages, he’d be good to go. The other two wounds that he’d extracted the pellets from concerned him more.

  They were turning red and tender around the edges. Peter chastised himself for forgetting the antibiotics he’d risked his life to take from the CVS pharmacy. He’d had the best of intentions to do so, but he’d fallen asleep. After rebandaging the two still-oozing holes in his upper body, he located a bottle of Keflex 500 milligram capsules. He’d taken this form of antibiotic as a kid when he’d cut himself diving around coral, and therefore, he knew he wasn’t allergic to it. He swallowed two capsules for starters with his Nuun-infused water.

  Then, in the dimming light, he retrieved his atlas to chart out his course. Originally, he’d planned on riding during the day so he could see the road better. Now, thanks to the residents of the horror house on the hill who had tried to kill him, he’d slept all day, forcing him to travel at night.

  Peter traced his finger along the most direct route to the Keys. Ordinarily, he’d follow Interstate 95 along the Atlantic Seaboard. He knew the route, as he’d traveled it several times by car. Along the way, there were long stretches where the only highway was the interstate. The marshlands, especially in the low country of South Carolina and Georgia, would provide him few options besides I-95. On a bicycle, even under the grid-down circumstances, Peter felt he’d be at risk of encounters far more deadly than the one last evening in which floors and sofas couldn’t protect him.