by Bobby Akart
There was another obvious problem. A hose running from the radiator had developed a crack. Owen didn’t know if the two problems were related or coincidental. Nonetheless, it would need to be replaced.
Owen shuddered as a gust of cold wind swept over them. He carefully reached into the engine compartment and squeezed the radiator hose. The crack grew wider and emitted a little more steam. Radiator fluid was dripping from beneath the truck as well.
“Well, shit,” he muttered as he stared at the engine with his hands planted on his hips. “This is a hot mess.”
“Sure is,” Tucker mumbled his reply. “What are you gonna do?”
Owen looked behind the truck and tried to calculate how far he’d traveled since Pueblo. If it had been twenty minutes or more, even at a brisk pace, he’d have to backtrack six hours or more. He swung around and looked down the dark and empty highway as far as the conditions allowed. It would be an hour, maybe two, until the next town. He shined the light at the engine again.
“Let’s get the tools and take off this hose. I think I just need a flathead screwdriver for the hose. I can twist off the wingnut from the air filter cover with my fingers.”
While he did that, Tucker retrieved the screwdriver. Ten minutes later, the parts were removed, and Tucker was sitting in the driver’s seat while Owen spoke to Lacey through her window.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked, concern in her voice. “I mean, we can wait until morning.”
“Honey, it’s gonna get cold and really uncomfortable out here. I can make my way into town in an hour or so and be back before you know it.”
Lacey offered him the pistol. “At least take this.”
Owen shook his head. “I won’t need it. I mean, what are they gonna steal from me? A busted radiator hose and a clogged air filter? I want you guys to be safe until I get back.”
Lacey couldn’t argue with him. She reached through the window and pulled his head closer to hers. They kissed one another and lovingly tapped their foreheads together.
She choked back the tears as she spoke. “Please be careful. Don’t take any chances, okay? We’ll be fine.”
“I promise. I love you,” he responded and then looked into the truck to make eye contact with Tucker. “Stay alert and watch out for your mom. Okay?”
“No prob, Dad.”
With those final words, Owen marched down Highway 50 in search of parts for the truck. He glanced back once and waved to his family. The second time he tried to give them another wave, darkness had surrounded him, leaving him alone.
He saved the battery life on his flashlight and turned it off. He zipped his jacket up to his neck and pulled his tee shirt through the tight-fitting North Face collar to cover his mouth and nose. The ashy smell aggravated his throat, but the face covering helped him stave off the cold somewhat.
Owen tried to walk at a brisk pace. Visibility was low, so he looked down constantly, simply focused on following the center line of the highway. He didn’t expect to encounter any vehicles, so getting run over wasn’t a concern. He actually laughed at one point as he thought about how rebellious he was being.
Then another cold burst actually pushed him forward slightly, causing him to stumble. He shoved the radiator hose under his jacket and ran his arm through the filter so he could keep his hands warm in his pockets. Owen hunched over in an effort to stay warm, looking down at the dual yellow stripes that were starting to get covered by a light snowfall.
The snow began to accumulate, and soon he found himself kicking through it with his sneakers. His pants legs became damp as the moisture began to soak up to the middle of his calves.
Owen began to shiver. The wind picked up and began to emit an eerie howl at times. Then, in the pitch darkness, something happened to the north of Highway 50 that had also occurred in the late fall of 1836. At the time, it couldn’t be explained. If today’s weather watchers had fully functioning instruments, they would’ve been able to tie the rare anomaly to the fires surrounding Denver and the Arctic air pushing in from Canada. However, they didn’t, and therefore what happened next came without warning.
A dark cloud, traveling over thirty miles an hour, descended from the northwest. It was accompanied by a roaring noise that frightened Owen so bad he ran out of the middle of the road, thinking a dump truck was barreling toward him.
Only, it wasn’t a truck.
Within minutes, as the cloud passed over him, temperatures dropped nearly sixty degrees as a flash freeze enveloped him. The subzero temperatures caused any form of moisture on his body or clothing to freeze in an instant. His tee shirt slipped beneath his nose, and the mucus that dripped out froze to the top of his lips.
Owen struggled to run. He was barely able to force his legs forward. Just ahead, he saw a pickup truck parked on the shoulder of the road. It had bales of hay stacked haphazardly in the back.
He gathered his strength and pushed the unexpectedly bitter cold out of his mind. He reached the truck and tried to get inside, but the doors were locked. He returned to the tailgate and tried to open it, but it was frozen shut.
His breathing became labored. He was unable to blink, and his eyesight began to become fuzzy. Owen pulled himself onto the rear step bumper and flung his body into the back. Then he did his best to move the hay bales around to seek some form of protection from the flash freeze that engulfed him. He burrowed under the straw, using what was left of his strength to avoid the extreme cold.
He shivered violently. He gasped for breath as he struggled to stay warm. His skin felt like it was burning. He became confused as to where he was and what was happening to him. He had visions of Lacey and Tucker, like watching a movie at thousands of frames per second. Tears emerged from his eyes and then froze.
And then, as if his surroundings weren’t already pitch-black, Owen’s mind found darkness of its own.
Chapter Forty-Three
Wednesday, October 30
Near Amelia Court House, Virginia
“Pa, somebody’s comin’,” eleven-year-old Cletus Munford whispered to his father, Nelson. “He’s walking up the hill.” Young Cletus kept his eyes glued on the person, using the small slat opening underneath the front porch of their home. The light was dim, but the silhouette of the figure that approached could be seen against the rocky driveway.
Nelson pulled his son down from the produce crates he stood on to see outside. He peered through the slats himself to confirm what his son reported just as the approaching man’s legs disappeared up the steps toward the front door.
He abruptly turned around and grabbed his son. “Cletus, go alert your mother and sister. Tell ’em we got company.”
“Yes, Pa,” the boy responded politely before disappearing.
The man walked across their porch, bellowing as he went. Nelson Munford chuckled and spoke in a hushed tone to himself.
“Yeah, sure. Mister nice guy just wants to close his eyes for the night. Ain’t no marauder comin’ near my wife and baby girl.”
He took a deep breath and held it so he could focus on the man’s movements. Nelson had been born in that home and had spent almost every night of his life in one of its bedrooms. His parents had passed, and his brothers had been lost to wars in the Middle East, but he remained behind to continue their farming operation while caring for his family.
His wife, Marjorie, suddenly appeared by his side. Nelson turned to her and relayed what he knew.
“Seems like only one man. He’s headed back toward the barn now. He’s been out there hollerin’. He claims to be a nice guy. I don’t believe anybody, do you?”
“Nah. Sure don’t. We heard what happened to our neighbors when they let their guard down. They died. I’m not gonna die ’cause some stranger says he’s safe.”
“Come on,” said Nelson as he gently nudged his wife back toward the center of the house. They’d had this basement hideaway since the days of the Civil War. Once the conflict broke out, the Munford family began to prepare for
the battle to be brought onto their fields. All around them, the North and South fought one another until the final days came in April of 1865.
Cletus took up a position on another stack of crates at the back of the house. He watched as the man emerged from the barn and then suddenly became frightened when that creaky screen door came loose from its latch due to a gust of wind. It was a sound the family was used to. It had been that way for the boy’s entire life.
The family intently listened once the sound of breaking glass could be heard at the back door. The man’s shuffling footsteps caused their youngest, eight-year-old daughter Patience, to gasp. Her mother calmed her down, and then she reminded her to stay quiet.
Young Cletus grabbed his lever-action Henry .45-caliber rifle. It was a powerful gun for a teen, but Cletus was a strong youngster raised on a farm.
His mom took a firm grasp on her shotgun, which was ready to do its job. Nelson readied his Henry rifle, which was identical to his son’s. Like father, like son. Just as it had always been in the Munford family for nearly two hundred years.
They were ready.
The intruder’s flashlight grabbed their attention as it illuminated the basement through the knotholes of the plank flooring. As he slowly walked around the kitchen and into the dining room, dust began to fall off the rafters onto their heads.
The trio walked together, slowly in the dark, confident in their familiarity with the dirt-floor basement that had been their hiding place since the bombs dropped. Nelson led the way as Cletus and Marjorie walked side by side, tracking the intruder.
They positioned themselves under the foyer as the man trudged up the stairs toward their bedrooms. Marjorie bristled at the thought of a stranger traipsing through the rooms where her children slept. Where she and her husband had created their precious lives. Anger built up inside her as she thought of the intrusion on their privacy.
“He’s coming back down,” whispered Nelson to his family.
The man’s flashlight shined through a knothole and washed across Nelson’s dusty face. He quickly pulled his head aside to prevent being seen. In the foyer, the man wandered slowly, shining his light upward on the members of the Munford family who’d inhabited the homestead in the past.
Nelson positioned himself under the knothole and stared upward. The man stood directly over him. He turned to his family, and in the dim light, he nodded to his wife. Marjorie leaned over to her daughter.
“Cover your ears, dear. And, honey, don’t look up, okay?”
The child nodded.
Nelson made eye contact with his son, who also nodded, indicating he was ready. Then, in unison, as the Munford family had practiced, they raised their weapons to the underside of their entry foyer. With determined looks on their faces, the Munford men cocked the hammers on their rifles and prepared to fire.
Chapter Forty-Four
Wednesday, October 30
Florida Keys
Hank had tried to remain busy around Driftwood Key to avoid thinking about Lacey and Peter. His children were out there somewhere, he was sure of it. Despite the travails they were likely facing, at least they were alive. He knew this to be true.
With each passing day, the Florida Keys was becoming a microcosm of the suffering being felt around the nation. While the remaining inhabitants of the islands weren’t subjected to the direct radioactive fallout from the detonations, they were exposed to the nuclear winter that had traveled completely around the planet.
Plant life was suffering already. Dead seabirds were floating onto the beach. The skies remained a drab gray, but they didn’t produce any sort of rainfall. And temperatures were dropping.
Some of the lowest temperatures ever recorded in the keys occurred in 1981 when Key West dropped to just forty-one degrees in January. Since 2000, the lowest recorded temperatures occurred in January, as was typical, but hovered near fifty. That night, as the last day of October approached, the thermometer mounted on the front porch of the main house had dropped to forty-six. Over each of the last four nights, the lows had reached the upper forties, an unheard of reading for October.
That, coupled with the perpetually hazy skies, had already taken its toll. It was affecting humans as well. Seasonal affective disorder, or SAD, was a form of depression that goes with the changes from fall into winter. Inhabitants of the Keys didn’t experience this type of mood change. In fact, they rejoiced at the hint of cooler weather as an opportunity to wear a sweater or sweatshirt at night.
The general feel of depression was exacerbated by the lack of resources on the keys. Every retail store’s shelves had been emptied by buyers or looters. Food wasn’t scarce. It was nonexistent. Bottled water was gone. Gasoline pumps, even if they worked without power, would have nothing to distribute.
Driftwood Key was an exception. Through Hank’s planning and the Frees’ stewardship, they were able to create a sustainable resort operation capable of feeding a dozen people with daily fishing to supplement their food.
All they had to do was protect what they had from those who had nothing. The group prayed for the safety of Peter, Lacey, and her family. However, they agreed that the survival mindset of the Albright children would give them a better opportunity to stay alive than most.
That night, Mike and Jessica were away on police business. Hank had hoped they’d find a way to stay closer to Driftwood Key. Their experience with firearms was necessary to protect his family and their resources.
Phoebe had just turned in for the night after she’d gone over the status of their supplies with Hank. He was too wired to go to sleep, so he fixed a pitcher of mojitos and settled into a wicker chair on the front porch of the main house. Sonny and Jimmy were patrolling the shoreline nearest the highway. Hank said he’d keep an eye on the dock and the beachfront facing the Gulf. He promised them he’d stay awake until at least midnight.
He didn’t.
After a couple of drinks, Hank set the glass aside and decided to rest his eyes for a moment. He listened to the water gently lapping onshore and tried to imagine the days when the inn was full and the weather wasn’t over twenty degrees below normal.
He’d dozed off completely when there was an uproar at the bridge entering the island.
For twenty-two hours, Patrick Hollister had been brutalized and raped by his three assailants. The young man in the bar had been tasked with picking up an attractive woman. His brothers, two career criminals from West Virginia, had suggested the guys head down to the keys to look for work just before the attacks.
When the bombs dropped, they found themselves in Key West with no place to stay and no money. To survive, they engaged in petty theft and burglary, stealing food and money. They’d seen Patrick, as Patricia, walk into the bar alone. Their perception of her was that she had money and was lonely. She had been targeted by the men for multiple reasons, but they had been surprised when they forced themselves into the bank building.
The attractive woman was a man. He was surrounded by money, food, booze, and a car full of gasoline. The fact that he was a man was infuriating, as they’d had plans for the woman known as Patricia.
For hours upon hours, they drank and took out their anger and frustration on Patrick. He was beaten unconscious several times, which protected him from what happened while he was incoherent. The degenerate men were merciless, thoroughly enjoying themselves as they treated Patrick as subhuman.
After they were done with him, they filled Patrick’s car with anything of value, both monetary and nutritionally. Then they loaded his limp body into the back seat with the intention of dropping him over the railing of the Seven Mile Bridge as it crossed the water toward the Middle Keys.
However, when it was time to dispose of the nearly dead Patrick, they hadn’t factored in the continuous stream of refugees walking from Key West toward the mainland on U.S. 1. Without an opportunity to dump the unconscious Patrick, they continued toward Marathon, debating what to do with him.
Then Patrick woke up. B
ecause he’d suffered internal damage from the beating, he immediately vomited in the back seat. The three men were incensed and pulled down a side street toward the Gulf, where they dragged him out of the car. He tried to crawl away, which earned him a swift kick to the rib cage, which forced another round of retching.
The men laughed at Patrick, took turns spitting on him, and then raced up the highway, leaving him for dead.
Only, Patrick wasn’t dead. He lay there for a while and tried to open his eyes, which were swollen shut. He tried to make out the buildings around him. Northwestern Mutual’s investment office appeared to be across the street. He noticed the furniture store that was a customer of his bank.
He struggled to breathe. He could barely move. His bones weren’t broken, but his insides were so battered he was certain his organs had been rearranged. Every orifice was bleeding, causing him to be weak.
Then it came to him. If his bloody mouth didn’t hurt so bad, he would’ve smiled at the irony. He made a decision. Patrick hoisted himself up and began to drag his legs, one at a time, to get help.
Hank was jolted awake by the wail of the marine air horns that were carried anytime someone was on patrol. They had a case of them stored on their boat to be used in case of emergencies. Mike thought the airhorns would be a perfect alternative to two-way radios to sound an alarm.
He bolted out of his chair and began to race down the steps until he slid to a stop. He ran back up the steps to retrieve his rifle. He cursed himself for falling asleep and spontaneously shouted, “I’m coming!”
Hank raced through the palm trees that separated the bungalows from one another. His chest was heaving as he dashed past them and lowered his head at times to avoid low-hanging fronds. The shortcut saved him time, and he reached the crushed-shell driveway quickly.
