Nuclear Winter Series | Book 2 | Nuclear Winter Armageddon
Page 18
As they traveled through Nevada, they quickly learned why it had been dubbed The Loneliest Road in America by Life magazine in the mid-eighties. U.S. 50 was the backbone of the highway system, running coast-to-coast through the heart of America for thirty-two hundred miles. It traversed the nation’s most unforgiving landscapes, like the Sierra Nevadas and the Appalachian Mountains as well as large desert valleys separated by the majestic mountain ranges of the Rockies.
The highway’s history dated back to the pioneers who blazed a trail across the western frontier. Men like Daniel Boone and his brother Squire carved out a wilderness trail that was later utilized by the pioneers during the westward expansion.
However, despite its historic background and familiarity as it passed through hundreds of timeworn small towns across America, it was rarely used thanks to the massive interstate highway system.
Owen and Lacey knew this. With the memory of the wreckage and dead bodies resulting from the shoot-out fresh in their mind, they considered U.S. 50 an ideal route to take for the first half of their journey to Driftwood Key because it was less traveled than the interstates.
However, as they learned as the day wore on, what compelled many to take the Loneliest Road in America during normal times because of mountain vistas, Old West sagebrush, and pristine blue skies presented problems for the McDowell family. There were no opportunities to find fuel.
Mile after mile of desolate terrain through Nevada began to concern Owen as soon as the gauge on the Bronco dropped below half. When the tank hit a quarter, he stopped to stretch his legs and drain the last of the gasoline into the tank. He continued driving while Lacey studied the map to assess their options.
“Eureka’s a couple of miles ahead. It doesn’t look like much, but there might be gas.”
“I really don’t want to stop in any town, regardless of size. People are gonna want our truck. I’m afraid it could get ugly.”
Lacey laid the map in her lap and stared forward. “I know, Owen. I just don’t see any other—.”
She cut herself off and perked up in her seat. She pointed toward the right side of the road. Towering above the barren horizon were large steel structures resembling conveyer belts coupled with buckets.
“I see them,” said Owen, who began to slow the truck. “Find the binoculars.”
“Here ya go.” Tucker’s sleepy voice spoke from the back seat. He handed the binoculars to his mother.
“It’s some kind of mining operation,” she observed as he pulled to a complete stop. “There appears to be a mountain of sand and those giant earth-moving dump trucks. I also see two large water towers erected on steel supports.” She lowered the binoculars and shrugged.
“Let’s find a way in. Hopefully, nobody’s there.”
Owen eased forward and drove another mile around a long curve until he reached the intersection of State Road 278. A simple wooden sign was affixed to wooden poles in the dirt. Lacey read it aloud.
“Ruby Hill Mine. Private property.”
“I say we go for it,” said Tucker. He leaned forward in the seat, holding one of the handguns they’d found. The other one was in the Bronco’s glove box. Lacey noticed he was holding it loosely in his right hand.
“Put that thing down,” she ordered her son.
“Mom, we might need it. I carried it all night, remember?”
“Yes. Still, put it down until we get there.”
Lacey was still uncomfortable around the guns, mainly because neither her son nor her husband had trained with them. She could handle a weapon thanks to the excellent training from her uncle Mike. She just wasn’t sure if she could take someone’s life with one. What concerned her more was Tucker’s cavalier attitude toward guns and his apparent insensitivity toward the two men who’d been killed by them on that bridge.
Tucker grumbled but obliged as Owen drove the Bronco deeper into the mining operation. The Ruby Hill mine was located west of the small Nevada town of Eureka. Part of the Battle Mountain seam of gold, it had been producing millions of dollars’ worth of gold for decades. Today, much to the relief of Owen as he eased toward the administration buildings, it appeared to be deserted.
“It looks like a roller coaster,” observed Tucker as he pointed to the two sets of conveyor belts that stretched from one side of the mining operation to the other.
At one end of the roller coaster, as Tucker called it, was a dredging machine deep underground in the middle of a gold seam. Formed in an earthquake-powered flash, when rocks were pulled apart deep below the Earth’s surface, the high-pressure fluids they contained instantly vaporized, leaving behind residues rich in minerals, including gold.
This gold-infused rock and soil was pulled up from the mine through an excavation process. Then, using steel buckets, the material was run through an extraction process known as a bucketline that ran in a continuous circular motion in which everything but the gold was eliminated.
For the McDowells’ purposes, while a bucketful of gold would be nice, gasoline would be a nice alternative in terms of value. They drove along the packed dirt road, winding their way around the dredging machinery and past the simple block administration building. Eventually they struck paydirt.
A rectangular, corrugated steel building stood off to the side near several parked pickup trucks. Fifty-five-gallon drums marked oil were stacked along the side of the building. There were also dozens of truck tires for equipment much larger than the pickups parked next to them.
“Let’s try there first,” said Owen as he pulled in front of the building’s double doors. Lacey was the first to notice a potential obstacle.
“It’s padlocked and chained. Let’s see if there’s a side entrance.”
“No worries, Mom. I’ve got this.”
Tucker turned in his seat and began to move duffel bags and clothing out of the way as he dug through the contents of the Bronco’s rear storage compartment. Seconds later, he found what he was looking for.
“Yeet!” He pulled his arm back and revealed a set of long-handled bolt cutters. “Check these out. I found them in one of the trucks last night. A burglar’s dream, right?”
Lacey studied her son disapprovingly. He seemed to be embracing this whole apocalypse thing a little too exuberantly.
Owen shut off the truck, and the three exited the vehicle. Lacey glanced at the glove box and debated whether to bring her gun. She looked around at the open space surrounding them. It was midday, and she was certain they would’ve been approached if a guard was present. She opened the glove box and immediately shut it, leaving the gun behind.
Tucker was the first to make it to the door and quickly got to work on the heavy-duty padlock. He used all his effort to cut through the shackle of the lock but had no success. He turned his attention to the chain. Within seconds, he’d cut open one side of a link. He tried to twist it free of the rest of the chain but couldn’t, so he cut open the other side of the link. The chain fell against the corrugated steel door with a crash, causing all three of them to nervously look around to determine if it had raised anyone’s attention.
“Good job, Tuck,” said Owen as he patted his son the rookie burglar on the back. Owen had accepted the fact that in the apocalypse, the normal rules of fatherly guidance didn’t apply. “Let’s see what we can find.”
He and Tucker pulled the heavy doors open and revealed a mechanic’s paradise that would put Harbor Freight Tools to shame.
Unlike the exterior of the building, which was surrounded by dust, dirt, and debris, the interior of the storage building was in pristine condition. Whoever was in charge of the mine’s operations ran a tight ship. Every tool had a place on a pegboard and was outlined with white paint as if it had been a victim in a homicide. Next to every tool was a chit, a round piece of cardboard with a number on it as well as the name of the tool. When an employee needed a tool, they exchanged one of their employee-identifying chits for the tool chit. Chit for chit, which allowed the person responsible for maint
aining the storage building to keep the tools from walking off the property at the end of the day.
“This is amazing,” mumbled Lacey as she looked around. She recalled her father’s maintenance shed at home. You’d be lucky to find a place to stand much less a chit system to borrow a tool for the day.
“Back here, guys!” shouted Tucker from the darkest side of the building. “I’m talking mother lode!” An ironic use of the term meaning the discovery of a vein of a precious mineral like gold.
Owen and Lacey jogged into the building to join him. On a steel rack near a back door sat a dozen gas cans made by Midwest. Owen pulled his flashlight out of his pocket and studied the hard plastic containers.
“These are six gallons each. Not five. I’ve never seen that before.”
“Works for me!” Lacey exclaimed cheerily. “Let’s take them all.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tuesday, October 29
Driftwood Key
It was late afternoon, and for the first time since the nuclear warheads struck the U.S., the power in the Florida Keys appeared to be out permanently due to a cascading failure of the nation’s electrical grid. Hank was beginning to understand why the aftermath of a nuclear war had troubled Secretary Erin Bergman so much. Certainly, those lives lost instantaneously from the blasts were tragic. However, for the rest of America, who had to find a way to survive in a powerless world, the struggle was more than they’d ever imagined.
Many things had changed on that Tuesday for Hank and the rest of his extended family on Driftwood Key. Last night’s gun battle with a group of men who had intentions of stealing the fuel of Hank’s boat had resulted in three dead bodies and a heightened level of anxiety for everyone. Now, in addition to managing their food and fuel resources, they would have to patrol their twenty-eight-acre island at all times.
Mike and Jessica formulated a plan in which two-man shifts could patrol the shoreline and the only bridge onto the key. Hank opened up the gun closet, and everyone was assigned a pistol. The rifles were taken when on patrol, and some were strategically placed within the main house in the event a large number of intruders approached.
Even Phoebe was required to keep a weapon with her at all times. Although she mostly stayed around the main house, she did have occasion to go the greenhouses and hydroponic facilities alone. She hadn’t been formally trained, but Jessica ran her through some dry-firing exercises so she could defend herself if surprised. Most importantly, she assured Mike and Jessica that she was not afraid to pull the trigger if threatened. As they told her, don’t point a gun at someone unless you’re prepared to use it.
Jimmy was the island’s workhorse, only sleeping a few hours a day. He volunteered to handle the night shift, which he shared with his dad and Hank, who was a notorious early riser. During the day, he fished off the dock or shore, in addition to harvesting the Caribbean lobsters found in the waters off Driftwood Key.
Hank emerged onto the porch and pulled his bandana up over his face. He and Phoebe seemed to be affected the most by the smoky air that had descended upon the Keys. He subconsciously felt for the handle of his pistol that rested on his hip. It was something he did multiple times a day as he worked around the inn. Not only was it something new and unexpected as part of his daily attire, but it was also a comfort blanket of sorts. The gunshots of the night before had shocked him to his core. The collapse of America had barely begun following the nuclear attack, and armed bandits were already coming after Driftwood Key’s resources.
“Mr. Hank! Mr. Hank!” Jimmy shouted as he ran through the sand. Both hands were full of baskets containing spiny lobsters. The ever-darkening conditions had tricked the lobsters into feeding throughout the day, much to Jimmy’s delight. They were easy prey for an advanced skin diver such as himself.
Hank bounded down the front steps of the porch to greet him. His apprehension shot up a few notches. “Is everything okay?”
“There’s a boat approaching from the north. Pretty fast, too.”
Hank didn’t hesitate. He ran back inside and grabbed a hunting rifle that remained propped near the entry door.
“Phoebe! We have a boat coming this way. Keep an eye on the house.”
Jimmy met him at the top step as Hank emerged. “Do you want me to get my dad?” Daytime was the only exception to the two-man patrol arrangement. And that was only on the rare occasion when either Hank or Jimmy was unable to assist.
“No,” replied Hank as he began to descend the steps. “Stay close to the house. Let me see what the deal is, and I’ll yell for you.”
Hank walked briskly and with purpose toward the dock. After cleaning up the dead bodies and discovering they had no identification, Mike and Jessica had towed them out a mile into the Gulf and then cut them loose. Shark attacks in the Florida Keys had been nonexistent until this week. The diminished sunlight had taken away some of the sharks’ natural feeding opportunities. It was likely the three men would be nibbled at until they were unrecognizable.
As law enforcement officers, Mike and Jessica understood they’d broken numerous laws after the shooting took place. However, as they’d come to realize, the rule of law was breaking down daily. This was part of the reason the sheriff’s department had moved quickly to evacuate the island and set up the roadblocks. Soon, people would no longer obey their commands.
The sun was in his eyes, so he was unable to determine the make of the boat. He took up a position behind some sandbags Mike had filled and piled along the end of the dock closest to the Hatteras. He’d told Hank the sandbags would provide them ballistic protection the next time anyone thought about trying to steal from them.
He knelt down behind the wall of sandbags and poked his head up just enough to see the approaching boat. The driver had just throttled down to slow their approach. Hank was perplexed by the sudden appearance of the vessel, but was feeling better about their intentions. Unless they’d brought half a dozen armed gunmen, they’d be largely unprotected on the open water in broad, albeit hazy, daylight.
He rose slightly with his rifle pointed in the direction of the boat. He squinted as it approached, and then he exhaled, allowing all of the stress and tension to leave his body. It was Jessica.
She idled toward the pier on the opposite side of the Wellcraft that had been used by the thieves the night before. Mike was supposed to check with the sheriff’s office to determine if it had been reported stolen. If not, they’d keep it there until the owner was located or in case they needed it.
“Hey, Hank! Throw me a line!”
Hank set his rifle down and waited for Jessica to pull parallel to the dock. She left the steering wheel and threw two bumpers over the side to buffer the hard rubber around the dock from her boat. Seconds later, she was tied off, and Hank extended his hand to pull her up onto the dock.
“Is everything all right?” he asked. It seemed to be the question he asked of all the inhabitants of Driftwood Key. Hank seemed to expect the answer to be no, everything is not all right. He’d become a glass half-empty kind of guy lately.
“Yeah, actually. The sheriff has pulled me off eviction duty. That’s the good news. The bad news is that we’ve had a rash of pirate activity, if you wanna call it that.”
Hank smirked and shook his head. “Pirates? As in boarding boats on the high seas?”
“Well, it’s an all-inclusive term, I guess. There were reports of gas and boat thefts from last night. Apparently, or at least the working theory is that the three men we encountered might be part of a larger group working the keys. The boatyards were the hardest hit. There was a report of another yacht being ransacked.”
“Unbelievable,” said Hank.
“A local fisherman from Stock Island and his wife were found dead. Their shrimp boat was missing, too. Hank, I gotta tell ya’, this is just the beginning. The amount of panic on the other side of that bridge is beyond comprehension.” She pointed toward the sole access point to the outside world from Driftwood Key.
Jessica raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “Both, really. Although our immediate concern is here. We’ve secured the land-based access to the Keys. We’re still working diligently to ferret out who doesn’t live here and send them on their way. However, once word spread that the sheriff was removing nonresidents, they found a way to hide from us.”
They stepped off the dock and were greeted by Jimmy. “Hey, Jess. I think I heard Mike’s truck pulling onto the island.”
She looked back toward the setting sun. There was maybe an hour of daylight left.
“He’s earlier than I expected.”
The trio heard a car door slam, and Mike came lumbering through a path carved under a group of palm trees following years of use. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder and another one in his right hand. In his left hand, he carried a military-style, forest green ammunition can. The heavy weight caused his body to list to the left.
Hank noticed the effort Mike was using, so he patted Jimmy on the back and urged him to help Mike with the load. The two men spoke for a moment, and then Jimmy took the ammunition can together with the two rifles to the main house.
“New toys?” asked Jessica, who kissed her husband on the cheek.
“Yeah, military stuff, too. Full-auto M4 carbines. The governor has declared martial law in Florida.”
“That’s not surprising considering the power situation,” said Jessica. “That may be why the sheriff pulled me off traffic and onto pirate patrol.” She pointed with her thumb over her shoulder toward the dock.
Mike looked past her and nodded. “I heard. In hindsight, I wish we’d tied those three amigos to the dock pilings and reported it.”
“Why? Who’s gonna investigate it? You?”
“True,” said Mike. “Actually, since the power’s been out all day, I’ve been unable to charge my radio, so I couldn’t reach you. They found another body in Key West.”