Nuclear Winter First Strike

by Bobby Akart

  “Of course, the baby in the family happens to be the most famous of us all,” she began with a nod and a smile toward her youngest sister at the end of the table. The woman, who was in her late forties, was not familiar to Hank, so he was intrigued.

  “Hush, Maggie,” the woman protested. “I’m not famous. Besides, I bet Mr. Albright meets lots of famous people based upon the photographs on the wall.”

  Hank shrugged. “We’ve had a few.” He was being modest. Over the nearly hundred years of its existence, the Driftwood Key Inn had hosted notables from Hollywood to Washington.

  The youngest sister continued. “I’d be willing to bet Hank doesn’t even know who I am unless he was busy on Google before we arrived.”

  Hank laughed at the reference to Google. It seemed to be common practice for people to dig around online to learn all they could about the people they came into contact with, completely incognizant of the fact that others were doing the same to them.

  He raised his hand and smiled. “Sorry, I’m not a fan of googling people. In the Keys, we have too many pirates, if you know what I mean.”

  Everyone, including an elderly couple who’d arrived that day, laughed. It was Friday night and the first night of Fantasy Fest in Key West, the annual two-week-long celebration of Halloween. Most of the guests had made the forty-five-mile drive to the southernmost point in the U.S. to join in the festivities that evening.

  “See, Maggie,” she said with a sneer at her meddling oldest sister. The woman nervously fiddled with her ring finger that no longer held a ring. She made eye contact with Hank. “I’m Erin Bergman.”

  Hank nodded and feigned recognition although he had no idea who she was. “Nice to meet you, Erin.”

  “She’s the secretary of agriculture,” pointed out her proud sister.

  “Oh, of course. Um, I saw you folks listed a Tallahassee address on—”

  The overbearing sister interrupted Hank. “No. That was before. Erin is the new United States secretary of agriculture.”

  “Okay, sis,” Erin interjected. She appeared embarrassed by her sister’s actions. “We don’t need to bother Mr. Albright with my résumé.”

  “Hank, please.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Hank studied Erin. She was markedly different from her sisters, especially her oldest one. She had softer features and was more reserved. The conversations at dinner had been dominated by the others. He wasn’t sure if she was shy, unusual for a politician, or perhaps she was dealing with things in her personal life. Hank, despite his continuous protestations to anyone who suggested he find a female companion, suddenly found himself checking for a wedding ring on his new acquaintance.

  “Erin, accept my apologies. I don’t really follow politics. I mean, I do when they raise my taxes but otherwise, um, not really. Well, I do vote. Most of the time, anyway.” Hank found himself suddenly nervous. He was usually a very confident host around strangers. This was different.

  “I totally understand,” Erin said. “Face it, most Americans have no idea who their secretary of agriculture is unless they’re mad at me or want something.”

  The elderly couple roared in laughter at her statement. Somehow, it must’ve struck a nerve with them on a personal level. Hank allowed them to enjoy their laugh, which also managed to force a smile on Erin.

  Her oldest sister continued with Erin’s résumé. “After serving as Florida’s Ag secretary and transportation secretary before that, she was only the second woman to be confirmed to the U.S. post. And, I might add, the first from Florida.”

  Erin locked eyes with Hank and grimaced. She was embarrassed by the attention. Fortunately for her, she was rescued by Phoebe, who was presenting her signature dessert.

  “Honored guests,” she began, causing Hank to cringe. She’d never started like that, making him wonder if she was in cahoots with big sister. “May I present the house specialty dessert—the 1920s Albright key lime pie.”

  Two members of the inn’s waitstaff hustled around the table, setting out dessert plates and forks. A third wheeled in a cart holding two delectable key lime pies topped with meringue. She carefully made the first cut with an olivewood-handled pie knife that had been a staple of the inn’s kitchen for nearly forty years. It, like the inn, had withstood the test of time.

  Hank explained the name. “Years ago, my grandmother presented my mom with her cookbook. It was a rite of passage that many families experience in the Keys, not unlike the presentation of the family Bible from father to son.

  “Her recipe for key lime pie had always been a family favorite, and therefore it was passed down from generation to generation. I must say, Phoebe has perfected it.”

  “It’s because of one special secret ingredient,” she interjected.

  Hank’s eyes grew wide. He’d never heard of a secret ingredient, and he immediately assumed she was referring to conch. My god, he thought to himself, Phoebe has gone off the rails and is putting conch in every damn thing.

  Phoebe began to laugh and patted her boss on the shoulder. She lowered her voice as if she could read his mind. “Relax, Mr. Hank. It’s not what you think.” She made eye contact with the dinner guests before explaining the family recipe. “The recipe is not unlike many others. You know, eggs, condensed milk, sugar, and, naturally, key limes. But here’s the difference. We grow them right here on Driftwood Key, so they have that Florida sun-kissed taste.”

  The elderly man asked, “Well, you folks are known for key lime this and that, am I right? Why would that be a special ingredient?”

  Erin raised her hand. “Phoebe, may I take that one?”

  “Certainly, honored guest,” Phoebe responded with a smile. She slid her left foot over to kick Hank’s ankle.

  Erin continued. “Many people don’t know that the majority of key limes, which are more aromatic and juicier than regular limes, are grown in Mexico because of old trade agreements. Orange growers have faced the same uneven playing field. Part of what I hope to accomplish in Washington is to ease the burden on Florida’s agricultural growers by leveling the playing field with Mexico.”

  Phoebe finished distributing the slices of pie and stood back as everyone tasted it. Nearly everyone closed their eyes to savor the flavor.

  “Oh. My. God,” said the oldest sister in single-word sentences. She quickly shoved a second bite into her mouth before the first one was completely consumed. “One word. Heavenly.”

  Hank chuckled. “That it is. Because we grow the limes here on the key, we can pick them while they’re still green. Phoebe is an expert in determining when the perfect level of ripeness occurs. She says the secret ingredient is the fact that we grow them here. In actuality, it’s the love and attention she gives to picking just the right ones.”

  Erin laughed. “Hey, Phoebe. It sounds to me like a good time to ask for a raise.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hank. How about it?”

  Hank was about to answer when Erin’s phone began to vibrate and emit a text tone that resembled an emergency warning. She quickly pulled it out of her shorts pocket and studied the display.

  “I’m sorry. I need to make a phone call.”

  A look of concern came over her sister’s face. “Is everything okay?”

  “There’s been a terrorist attack in Abu Dhabi.”

  Chapter Five

  Friday, October 18

  Curry Hammock State Park

  Fat Deer Key, Florida

  Marty Kantor was a drifter. He had no roots. He had no sense of purpose. He had no soul. There was no way out of the downward spiral he’d succumbed to the day he’d tried his first joint as a teen. Drug experimentation was the first stage toward full-blown addiction, and the readily available hallucinogenic had been a logical place to start.

  Soon, the high wasn’t good enough, and he turned to Google. His mom, a functioning alcoholic and manic-depressive, had a treasure trove of goodies to choose from in her medicine cabinet. Kantor researched them all and began taking
a few here and there. The highs and lows were glorious.

  His mom was too oblivious to notice the missing pills until she tried to get refills and the pharmacy refused to accommodate her. So Kantor mastered the art of placeboing, if that was even a word. Perhaps it was, not that it mattered. It was one he made up, but at least he understood it. Kantor learned how to empty the contents of his mom’s medicine capsules and replace it with a placebo, usually baking starch or flour. He’d ingest the drugs, and she’d get to swallow a baker’s secret ingredient of no medicinal use.

  Initially, she didn’t notice the difference until she began to descend into madness. Her meds weren’t working; she’d complained to the pharmacist and then her doctor. When the doctor fired her as a patient for all intents and purposes, she’d try to find another one. However, government regulations made sure her medical records followed her everywhere. Soon, she became desperate to keep her mind sane and sought alternative ways to self-medicate.

  This new program worked well for Kantor. Mom would score some heavy shit like crystal meth or even heroin. After she partied with Christy and the Dragon, her dutiful son would rob her of the remaining drugs and use them himself.

  Then, one day, the Kantor party came to an end. At least in Miami, anyway. His dear mother unexpectedly became the dearly departed Mrs. Kantor. This sucked for Kantor because he still had a life to live, sort of. For a while, he toughed it out with his mother’s dead body lying in a heap on the far side of her bed against a wall.

  You see, he had to keep her alive, ostensibly, so he could collect the myriad of government checks that came her way. Kantor cashed them at a liquor store, begrudgingly paying the required twenty percent you-ain’t-the-payee fee. He’d immediately roll right around the corner to pick up some more crystal meth. Now he was partying hearty with Christy.

  This worked for Kantor for a month or so. He’d score a diamond of the dangerous drug, get his high, and try to function. Jobs were plentiful, as the economy was roaring, so warm bodies were in high demand. He’d work for a while, cash a paycheck or two, and then increase his drug intake.

  Marty Kantor decided to move on when his dead mom began to stink so bad that he couldn’t mask the smell with bonus hits on the meth pipe. He really didn’t have anywhere to go, but he’d always heard the Florida Keys were a party place. Since partying was all he knew, he loaded up dearly departed Mom’s Chevy Lumina with anything of use and headed south.

  Kantor made it all the way to Key West before the Lumina crapped out. It was a piece of shit anyway, but it had enough gas to get him to his destination. No matter, Kantor convinced himself. He wasn’t goin’ back to Hialeah anyway. He got settled into his new digs, the backseat of the Lumina.

  He tried to party the old way, scoring crystal meth and sailing out to sea in his demented mind. He soon realized Key West was a different kind of party town. It wasn’t full of dope dealers on every corner. There weren’t opportunities to trade sexual favors for a few bucks. The place wasn’t full of pawnshops to exchange stolen valuables for a few bucks. They ran a clean operation down there, and that sucked for him.

  Kantor had to change his approach to life, so he made an effort to clean up. He shoplifted a pair of shorts and a polo shirt from a local boutique. He ripped off a bicycle from the cruise ship docks. He found a drunk college kid on the beach and pilfered his flip-flops.

  All in one day.

  That night, he snuck into a hotel room while the housekeeping team wasn’t looking. He hid in a closet until they were gone. He took a shower, dressed, and studied himself in the mirror. He’d lost a ton of weight. Every tweaker did.

  He pushed his shoulders back and tried to stand straight with confidence. The skin sores on his chest revealed themselves through his polo shirt, so he returned to his customary slouch.

  He smiled and said to his mirrored self, “Hello, sir. I’m Marty Kantor. I’d like a job.” His smile revealed his decaying teeth and gums indicative of meth mouth. Kantor quickly closed his mouth and scowled at himself. This was never gonna work.

  Plan A, finding a job that could support his habit, wasn’t a viable option. So he moved on to plan B. He recalled a saying from when he first discovered puberty and began to show an interest in girls. They’re all hot at 3:00 a.m., referring to women in a bar at closing time.

  Plan B was simple. Try to stay presentable and search for unsuspecting women, or men, in the dark recesses of the local bars at the end of the night. Key West was a party town, and it was full of inebriated something or others interested in a sexual encounter for the night. Marty Kantor was just the guy for the job, although the crystal meth had taken its toll on his manhood, a fact he considered irrelevant. He just wanted their valuables. Cash, credit, or payment in jewelry was all acceptable.

  That night, Kantor went to work. He found the perfect bar, well off the beaten path of Duval Street, where the parrothead revelers tended to congregate. His head was in a good place that night, and he easily hooked up with a woman, or at least he thought she was.

  The two shared a bottle of vodka and jumped in the target’s car. Kantor didn’t care where they were going because he was getting drunk. They shared a joint. They laughed about stupid shit. They drove and drove up A1A until his new friend suddenly slowed the car and pulled down a sandy road into Curry Hammock State Park. That was when the whole dynamic of plan B changed.

  One minute, Marty Kantor thought he had the upper hand and was ready to make bank from this unsuspecting loser. His mind raced as he thought of the diamond-shaped crystals ready to take him away to another dimension. The next minute, he found his head forced down into the woman’s crotch—only, it wasn’t a woman.

  Kantor had had enough. He tried to pull away from the guy dressed as a woman. He even threw up the contents of his mostly empty stomach as a defensive mechanism. This prevented him from committing the sexual act.

  It also ended his life with a swift, brutal blow.

  The man, dressed as a woman, thrust a knife into the base of Kantor’s skull and twisted and twisted before pulling it out. By the time he was done with the meth-head-turned-grifter, the body was unrecognizable.

  Human scum. Detective Mike Albright of the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department studied the crime scene from a distance. He’d trudged through the wetlands and slopes surrounded by the stands of hardwoods that covered the island. The evidence trail was a hundred yards long, and the low-lying palmettos still showed blood splatter. There were body parts everywhere. Some were missing, either to the wildlife that inhabited the hammocks or because the killer had decided to take them as trophies.

  It didn’t look like any body he’d seen before. The corpse was naked. The upper body had been stabbed dozens of times. Appendages had been sawed off, including the man’s genitals. Even its hair was gone, with only a few patches of bloody scalp remaining. What the brutal murderer had done to the victim’s face was unimaginable. The crime was sadistic.

  Mike knelt down over the corpse and studied what remained. Where would the medical examiner even start? Did it really matter what the precise cause of death was? He supposed it would in the event the perp decided to go to trial. He tried to imagine what a jury, many of whom might be friends or casual acquaintances of the Albright family, would think of the photographs the forensic team was taking.

  The ME approached him. “Mike, the killer has escalated his rage. The MO on this victim is the same as the other except for the obvious increase in body mutilation post-mortem.”

  “Any sign of the murder weapon?”

  “Part of it,” the ME replied. He handed Mike a Ziploc evidence bag with the handle of a knife inside. “It appears to be spring-assisted. The handle is roughly three and a half inches long. Perfectly legal.”

  “What about the blade?” asked Mike.

  The medical examiner shrugged and turned toward the body. “In there somewhere, I suspect. I’ll get to work this afternoon and let you know what I find.”

  Mike gr
imaced as he thanked the ME. He’d seen enough. The forensics team would do their level best to gather evidence, but most likely, since this was the second murder in the last two weeks, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, FDLE, would get involved.

  The Florida Keys wasn’t exactly the murder capital of the world. It wasn’t even a murderous county. They were few and far between. Most cases that Mike investigated related to assaults, robberies, and the occasional rape.

  These killings were disgusting. Demented. Psychotic. Unlike anything he’d seen or heard about in his lifetime. And they were becoming more brutal.

  Chapter Six

  Friday, October 18

  Havana Jack’s Oceanside Restaurant & Bar

  Marathon, Florida

  Mike balanced his empty glass on the edge of the teak bar, waiting for the bartender to refill it with Jack Daniel’s and a few cubes of ice. The young man had been preoccupied with a group of pretty girls sitting at the other end of the U-shaped outdoor bar overlooking the Atlantic. They were knocking back pineapple-looking drinks full of rum and juice and all kinds of sweet things skewered by an extra-long toothpick. Of course, a tiny paper umbrella had been plunged into the pineapple slice adorning the rim of the glass.

  Typical, he thought to himself.

  Mike wanted a quiet moment to gather his thoughts, and he hoped Havana Jack’s might give him a place of respite. Mike was not much of a drinker. None of the Albrights were. Hank had gone through a period of escape after his wife died but eventually returned to nothing more than a social drink with his guests in the evening.

  For Mike, however, today was different. A special occasion, if you will. He’d worked all day at the grisly murder scene, and technically, this was the end of his tour. A Jack on the rocks or three just might help him cope with what he’d just seen in the hammocks.

  A female voice entered his solemn consciousness. “Can I buy you a drink, sailor?” Cliché, but real. It was also familiar.