Nuclear Winter Series | Book 2 | Nuclear Winter Armageddon

by Akart, Bobby

  The last time its electrical wiring, backup batteries, or supply rooms had been maintained was eleven years ago. What was once meant to be the Auburn community’s Noah’s Ark against the deadly effects of radiation was now an empty concrete shell that was more coffin than shelter.

  The dark, dingy, and run-down basement had been crammed full of safety-seekers. Originally, it was designed to serve about one hundred people for two full weeks. Once fully stocked with Meals-Ready-To-Eat, or MREs, provided by the U.S. military and barrels of drinking water, its supply closets had not been replenished or updated in more than a decade.

  At that moment, none of that mattered inside the fallout shelter. After the rolling thunder that shook the building to its core, the lights went out, and the emergency lighting system powered by backup batteries failed to function.

  Nearly two hundred people, twice the shelter’s capacity, were packed like sardines standing upright in a can. Shoulder to shoulder, they could barely move much less panic.

  Yet they tried. Their screams of primal fear coupled with shouts demanding someone do something reverberated off the completely enclosed concrete structure. Many began to push and shove one another in an attempt to create a little more personal space. Some, either afraid of the dark or curious as to their surroundings, lit their Bic lighters. This drew fearful screams from the others who were concerned a fire might break out.

  Lacey McDowell, her husband, Owen, and son, Tucker had fortuitously made their way to the back of the shelter into the corner. The natural inclination of the agitated refugees was to press forward toward the door through which they’d entered. Minutes prior, they’d knocked one another over to get inside. Now, despite the massive shaking of the ground they’d just experienced, they begged to be released.

  The local police officer and the high school coach had barely closed the door when a blast wave from a nuclear explosion swept over Auburn. It felt like an earthquake, which, unbeknownst to them, it was. As the concrete pieces and accompanying dust fell on the occupants of the shelters, their screams were from surprise. When the lights went out, their primal shrieks were deafening in the enclosed space.

  The officer tried to regain order. Normally assigned to traffic duty and supervision of crosswalk patrols, he was one of the few police officers to carry a whistle at all times. It was loud and shrill, but it worked under the circumstances.

  He blew it repeatedly. The unexpected sound caused the vociferate refugees to immediately silence their emotions.

  “Everybody! Please! You have to calm down!”

  “We can’t see!” someone shouted back.

  The officer pulled his flashlight from his utility belt and shined it upward to reflect off the ceiling.

  “Better?” he asked sarcastically. “See, the sky is not falling, and neither is the ceiling.”

  “Were we hit?” a woman asked.

  “We’d be dead, you idiot!” a man replied rudely.

  “Enough of that!” the high school coach admonished the man. “We don’t know what happened. For now, we have to remain calm and wait.”

  “How long?”

  “I can’t breathe!”

  “I need to pee.” The young boy’s statement immediately sent a new wave of panic over the occupants. They could barely move. Where were they supposed to go to the bathroom?

  “Me too!” shouted an older woman.

  While the coach began answering questions and did his level best to assuage their concerns, Lacey leaned in to Owen. “This is never gonna work. These people are already losing their minds.”

  Owen whispered back, “Maybe the cop oughta grant their wish? Let’s send half of them back outside.”

  “I bet there are still a hundred more in the stairwell to replace them,” said Lacey.

  The other refugees continued to push their way toward the only exit door, which provided the McDowells a little extra breathing room. Each of them stretched their arms and legs, which helped ease the tension somewhat.

  Tucker walked along the back wall in the dim light. Another refugee had illuminated a flashlight and was shining it upward. He walked as far as he could before coming upon a group of people huddled on the floor, blocking his progress. He returned to his family.

  “There are three steel roll-up doors,” he explained what he’d found. He turned to his father. “Dad, there’s not a lock on the handles. I don’t know what’s in there, but if somebody figures out they’re not locked, this place will go nuts.”

  “You’re right, Tuck. There’s no way those two can control this mob.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder as he referred to the police officer and the coach.

  Lacey was concerned about the mood of the refugees. “I don’t trust a panicked mob. If they open the door, should we leave?”

  Owen grimaced and shook his head. “I don’t think so, honey. Everything I’ve read says the worst of the fallout is in the first forty-eight hours.”

  “Plus, we don’t know if they’ve finished,” interjected Tucker. He gulped and continued. “You know, um, nuking us.”

  Lacey’s tough exterior broke down. She began to cry as she reached for Owen’s hand. “That had to be our home, right?”

  Owen closed his eyes and sighed. He nodded.

  “Dad, that felt like an earthquake.”

  “I know, son. You know, I’m just guessing, ’cause it’s impossible to say for sure. But the Hayward Fault runs right by our house and just to the west of Sacramento. I suppose it’s possible a nuke near Silicon Valley could trigger quakes along Hayward.”

  “But we’re east of Sacramento,” countered Tucker.

  “That’s true, but you know how earthquakes can be felt for miles. When San Andreas shakes, we feel it all the way up on the ridge in Hayward.”

  “So we didn’t take a direct hit?” asked Lacey hopefully as she wiped her tears.

  “Here? No,” Owen responded. “Listen, I can only speculate, but we all knew Silicon Valley and San Francisco were likely targets for a nuclear attack. We’re just over a hundred miles or so from the city. If the bomb was big enough, I imagine it would shake the earth for at least that distance.”

  The police officer and two men were now shouting at one another, causing the crowd to grow even more apprehensive. The two dads were demanding to know who they should hold accountable for the poor conditions in the shelter.

  Lacey returned to her immediate concern. “Then maybe we’re safe to leave? I just don’t feel good about being in here with these people. They worry me more than the radiation.”

  Owen reached out to his wife and wrapped his arms around her. He held her tight and whispered in her ear, “For now, we may not have a choice. We’ll stick to our corner in the back and let the others knock each other over the heads at the front. Okay?”

  Lacey nodded. She reconciled herself to the fact they were better off inside the shelter than facing radioactive fallout. Then someone changed the topic of conversation.

  “Hey, these doors open! There’s food and water in here!”

  Chapter Four

  Friday, October 25

  Placer High School Fallout Shelter

  Auburn, California

  Inside the fallout shelter, a massive scrum was created in the center of the square-shaped space. Those who wanted to get their share of whatever was available behind the storage doors pushed and shoved their way to the back. Others, intent on being the first ones out of the dark, damp space, fought against the tidal wave of people toward the front door. Arguments teed off the melee, which soon turned into men muscling their way through, clearing a path for their loved ones in tow. A few punches were thrown, and several of the weaker refugees were knocked to the dusty concrete floor, only to get trampled by their fellow man.

  The police officer incessantly blew into the whistle in an unsuccessful attempt to restore order. The coach shouted at those in the back of the shelter to leave the doors alone. It was, as he insisted, an unauthorized area.

&n
bsp; To the panicked refugees, law and order had collapsed, and a survival-of-the-fittest mentality had set in. The doors were quickly rolled up, and those closest to the storage rooms rushed in first, including Tucker.

  Despite his father demanding he stop, Tucker was determined to grab whatever he could see to help his family. Next to him was the man who’d turned on his flashlight moments ago. As he held off the crowd with his broad shoulders and his legs spread wide, he illuminated the shelves for him and Tucker to see.

  There were stacked barrels of drinking water and cases of boxes labeled food. Each case indicated it was enough for seven shelter occupants together with five pounds per person. On wire shelving, smaller boxes caught Tucker’s eye. Medical kits, high-calorie MRE bars, and personal hygiene kits. Because they had plenty of food in the truck, Tucker grabbed these three items and wrapped his arms around the boxes to keep anyone from snatching them away.

  He turned to join his parents and was met with a throng of people trying to force their way into the storage space. He lowered his head and bulled his way past as the high-pitched shrill whistle could be heard getting closer to him. The officer was now screaming threats ranging from using his pepper spray to arrest.

  Nobody cared.

  Soon, refugees were exiting the three storage spaces, clutching boxes of food and barrels of water. One person even carried a wooden chair high over his head that had once been used in the gymnasium. Another held two battery-operated Coleman lanterns in each hand, with a dusty box of batteries tucked under his arm.

  “Hold these,” said Tucker as he handed his haul to his dad. “I’m going back for more.”

  The officer shouted at the top of his lungs. “Back off, everybody! I said back the hell off!”

  When more people pressed forward, he followed through with his threat. Alarmed, he pulled his SABRE law-enforcement-grade pepper spray and deployed a quick burst into the crowd in front of him.

  This panicked the group, who quickly turned away. Now a stampede of people was forcing their way back toward the front as if an otherworldly being were teasing a dog with a cookie. As they crashed into one another, they began to lose their balance and fall. Some tried to assist their fellow refugees up. Others knocked those in the way to the ground and trampled over the fallen.

  The whistle continued to blare. The officer continued to order the occupants of the shelter to stand down. The McDowells continued to stand in the corner, making every attempt to avoid physical or verbal contact with the crazed mob.

  “Would everyone please calm down?” shouted the coach. “Stop where you are! Please!”

  Perhaps it was his begging, or the simple fact that he asked nicely. But the crowd suddenly calmed itself. Following the crowd was a natural human tendency. Human nature lent itself to living and moving in groups. All at once, it seemed, the refugees seemed to work as one. Fortunately, it was to establish calm rather than turn their stay in the shelter into a deadly riot.

  Coughing and sniffling could be heard by those directly affected by the pepper spray. Some removed their coats and waved them over their heads to cause the propellant to dissipate. Most everyone covered their nose and mouth with their shirts.

  “Thank you,” the coach said calmly, in a slightly elevated tone so he could be heard. “If we all work together, we can decide what to do next, and also we can figure out a way to get comfortable.”

  “Are you gonna open the door?”

  “What about a bathroom?”

  “Do you have anything for my children to eat?”

  The coach raised his hands and spoke louder. “Those are all good questions, but let’s take one thing at a time. First, I wasn’t trained on how to operate this facility. I was simply the man with the key to the door. However, after what happened overseas, I studied up on what to do.”

  “Shouldn’t we stay here?” asked a woman in front.

  “Yes, ma’am. I believe we should. Of course, we don’t know what happened outside. However, I feel confident we didn’t take a direct hit here. That doesn’t mean we’re entirely in the clear. There could be more nukes, and then there’s the fallout.”

  “The fallout can’t reach us in Auburn!” a man shouted from the center of the room.

  “Sir, we don’t know that because we don’t know where the nuke was detonated. Plus, I learned there are a lot of factors, including winds, humidity, and the size of the warhead.”

  “I heard we need to stay in here for two weeks,” another man chimed in.

  “Well, that may be true if Sacramento was the target,” countered the coach. “I personally don’t think it was high on any of our enemies’ lists. The more likely scenario is the Bay Area. That’s two hours from here.”

  “What does that mean for us?” a man next to the McDowells asked.

  “Two days,” the coach replied.

  The chorus of experts began to dominate the discussion.

  “No way! Fourteen days at a minimum!”

  “You’re nuts! Even in the movies, seven days is the max!”

  “I don’t want to stay in here another minute!”

  “Same here. If it hit the coast, we’re safe.”

  “Didn’t you feel the ground shake?”

  “That doesn’t mean shit!”

  The officer began to blow the whistle again, and he held the canister of pepper spray high over his head. He lit it up with his flashlight to show the group he meant business. He weighed in with his opinion.

  “Our department has trained for this scenario in the past, and the coach is right. Forty-eight hours is the bare minimum. We can handle that.”

  The crowd turned in unison to address the officer.

  “What about the food and water?”

  “Are there sleeping bags?”

  “How about pillows?”

  “There’s no room to lie down, morons!”

  The officer blew the whistle again. Tucker covered his ears and shook his head in disgust. His ears were starting to ring.

  The officer ignored their questions and shouted, “Make way in the middle to allow the coach to get through! He and I will divvy up what we have. First, we need to take inventory, and to do that, everyone who grabbed something earlier needs to bring it back.”

  Lacey and Owen shared a glance before surreptitiously hiding their packages behind their backs against the wall. Tucker noticed what they’d done, so he stood in front of them to give them cover.

  Reluctantly, the people who’d carried off drums of water and cases of food brought them back. The crowd cooperated and made way for the coach to join the police officer at the back of the shelter. Together, they took a quick inventory. With the help of some of the more cooperative refugees, they reorganized the three storage rooms.

  The first room, located farthest away from the McDowells, was used as a latrine. Several toilet-height barrels marked SK III Sanitation Kits were lined up along the back wall.

  The coach tried to use a Coleman lantern to provide some light for the users of the latrine, but the batteries’ useful life had expired. The man who had been near Tucker earlier volunteered his flashlight for the toilet users, who would roll down the door for privacy.

  The middle storage room was used for food and water distribution. The cases of freeze-dried food were divided into groups of six or seven. Because the shelter held twice as many occupants as its capacity, each person was allocated one meal per day. The meal was supplemented with a sleeve of saltine crackers that seemed to be in abundance.

  Finally, the third storage room nearest Lacey and her family held a variety of supplies, including the items they’d already retrieved. Lacey was confident they’d packed everything they needed into the Expedition and their vintage 1967 Ford Bronco. If there was something useful, they’d take backups from what the fallout shelter offered.

  It was nearing three in the morning on the west coast, and exhaustion had set in for most of the refugees. Tucker was hyped up, so he suggested his parents sleep. He’d t
ake the first shift, as he called it. Using their lightweight jackets rolled up around the small boxes Tucker had obtained, they stretched out against the wall while their son made sure nobody stepped on them.

  It was gonna be a long, uncomfortable forty-eight hours until the doors reopened.

  Chapter Five

  Friday, October 25

  Driftwood Key

  Marathon, Florida

  Hank Albright pushed his way past his brother, Mike, and slowly approached the television mounted behind the bar. Normally at this hour, CNN would be replaying one of their Special Report segments from the night before. Now, CNN International anchor Michael Holmes had taken over the network’s regular broadcasting. The Aussie was visibly shaken and fought back tears as he reported on the events.

  “I want to remind our viewers that we are receiving secondhand reports of the events taking place in the United States. We have lost all contact with our newsrooms on the West Coast, New York, and Washington. Our colleagues. Our friends. Their loved ones. We have no way of knowing …” His voice trailed off as the tears began to flow down his cheeks. He gathered himself and continued.

  “The images we have been repeating on your screens are from archived streaming footage via our security cameras outside CNN studios in Washington and New York. They depict the horrific effects of a nuclear attack at the moment of detonation.”

  Holmes paused and held his hand to his right ear to adjust his earpiece before continuing.

  “We are receiving information from our sources within the Ministry of Defense. This is not official; however, it is deemed reliable. A dozen, maybe more, nuclear bombs were delivered by North Korea toward the United States. There were at least five massive impacts. Washington, DC, and New York on the east coast. Seattle, Washington, in the Pacific Northwest. In California, the first strikes took place in San Diego in Southern California. Simultaneously, San Francisco in the northern part of that state was hit. I must caution—”