Nuclear Winter Devil Storm

by Bobby Akart

  “You can go—” Jimmy began before Peter cut him off. He knew his friend was rarely one to use curse words, but in the right moment, Jimmy was certainly capable. It would just make matters worse.

  “Okay! Fine!” Peter shouted to drown out Jimmy’s voice. “We want lawyers.”

  The sergeant and his fellow guardsmen laughed uproariously. “Sure. Due process, too. Right? How about a trial by jury? Maybe three hot meals and a cushy bunk?” This drew more laughter from the guardsmen. After it died down, the sergeant moved close to the guys until his face was mere inches from theirs. He leaned in and allowed his onion breath to accentuate his words.

  “You ain’t got nothin’ comin’. You hear me. In fact, you’re lucky we don’t throw your handcuffed asses in the creek.” He paused and then grinned. “Take ’em to the holding cell. Wait’ll these two see what’s in store for them.”

  Chapter Seven

  Wednesday, November 6

  Driftwood Key

  With Mike wrapped in blankets to prevent him from going into shock, Jessica quickly prepared him for transport. She didn’t have a long spine board on her WET team boat, so she borrowed one of Jimmy surfboards to create a stretcher for Mike. She strapped him down with ratchet tie straps and, with Hank’s assistance, loaded him up for the fifty-minute ride.

  They’d briefly debated taking him by truck to the only hospital in the lower keys capable of treating him. It was located in Key West approximately forty miles away. Jessica told Hank about the clogged roads full of stalled vehicles and wanderers, as she called them. Wanderers were locals and stranded tourists alike who aimlessly walked the highway in search of food, assistance, or something to steal.

  Mike was stable now that his chest wound had been sealed and his other injuries had been properly treated. He was still unconscious, but Jessica wasn’t concerned with that. As a medical professional, while a state of unconsciousness might concern some, she understood it was the body’s way of forcing itself to rest.

  Opting to travel by water, the guys got Mike settled on board her boat while she looked in on Phoebe. She checked her wounds and rebandaged them. Phoebe assured her that she’d be fine, so Jessica stopped insisting she ride with them to the hospital.

  The Lower Keys Medical Center was located on Stock Island just before the Overseas Highway enters Key West. Jess traveled in the dark, relying upon her instruments and familiarity with the island chain’s coastal waters. She slowed her boat as she entered the shallow waters between Raccoon Key and Stock Island.

  The suburban hospital was sandwiched between the College of the Florida Keys and the Key West Golf Club. Once they were tied off, she radioed the emergency room, and they dispatched an ambulance to meet her at the boat dock adjacent to the college’s power plant. After a two-minute ride, Mike was in the emergency room, being attended to by doctors and their medical team.

  It was morning when the doctor emerged from Mike’s room to discuss his condition with Jessica and Hank.

  “Jessica, before I tell you about Mike, I want to commend your work,” began Dr. Andrea Alvarez. She wrapped her stethoscope around her neck and gladly accepted a bottle of water from one of the ER support staff. “You and I both know there are a lot of wannabe pirates around here who love to get into bar fights. Occasionally, as you know, they get stuck. They don’t always make it. What you did to save your husband’s life was remarkable.”

  “The words save his life are all I needed to hear,” said Jessica, whose face beamed, not from the compliment given by Dr. Alvarez but from hearing those three simple words.

  “Yes, Detective Mike Albright is a tough old bird, and he’s stubborn, too. I threatened him with a healthy dose of propofol if he didn’t stay put. The damned fool tried to get out of bed and nearly pulled out his IV line as well as everything else he’s hooked up to.” Propofol was a commonly used, short-acting medication that induces sleepiness and relaxation in patients.

  “I use a baseball bat to knock him out,” said Jessica. “It’s easier and works like a charm.”

  The women laughed, but Hank still stared toward Mike’s room with a concerned look on his face. “Can we see him?” he asked.

  Dr. Alvarez replied, “Yes, although Mike will be out for a while. I’m pretty sure he’ll be excited to see the two of you.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” mumbled Hank, whose worried look was apparent. Jessica wrapped her arms around her brother-in-law and hugged him as Dr. Alvarez walked away.

  “He’ll be fine, Hank. It’ll take a whole lot more than a beatdown to take my husband.”

  Hank grimaced and forced a smile. “I know. You’re right. Mr. Indestructible. Or so he thinks.”

  Jessica led him down the corridor toward the ER recovery rooms. She slowly pulled the curtain back so as not to disturb Mike’s sleep. The two of them settled into chairs in the corner of the room and spoke in hushed tones.

  “This whole thing sucks,” began Hank. “My kids are out there somewhere. My brother got attacked by this maniac I let into our home. I knew better, as did Mike and Sonny. The only difference was I don’t know how to say no.”

  “We can’t take in every stray dog,” added Jessica, not intending to pile on but simply as a reminder they were living through unusual times.

  “I don’t understand, Jess. I’ve known Patrick for years. Not well, but casually as in a fellow islander kind of way. He’s a banker, for Pete’s sake.”

  “He had a screw loose, obviously,” she added. Jessica sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. She squeezed Hank’s shoulder to signal to him he should not carry the burden of what had happened. He continued to anyway.

  “He could’ve killed Phoebe and Mike. What the hell was he thinking? Kill us all and cozy up in one of the rooms?”

  Jessica shrugged. “That’s possible. Hank, there’s a lot of weird shit going on around here. People are desperate, and they seem to have lost their moral compass, if they even had one to begin with. You know how it is in the Keys. We’ve got an awful lot of people here who ran away from one thing or another. Petty thieves. Wife beaters. Drug addicts. Homeless. Our little paradise is prime feeding ground for criminals who can prey upon drunk tourists or people wanting to live the Margaritaville dream.”

  Hank nodded. His mind raced as he tried to recall every interaction he’d had with Patrick. He thought about the first time they’d met. How Patrick had tried to solicit his business. The few conversations they’d had together when Patrick had showed up at Driftwood Key’s gate and was recovering from his beating.

  Then he sighed. It was over, and Mike was in good hands. Yet he hoped when Mike woke up, he could shed some light on why Patrick had snapped. Hank wouldn’t have to wait until late in the evening to learn what had happened to his brother and who Patrick really was.

  “Okay, I see how it is. You two are one helluva welcome-back committee,” said Mike as he awoke from a twelve-hour sleep. He’d removed his oxygen mask long enough to speak before replacing it over his nose and mouth.

  Hank and Jessica had pulled their chairs together so they could fall asleep with their heads propped up against one another’s.

  “What?” said Hank, who was the first to stir. He saw that his brother had awakened, so he nudged Jessica with his elbow.

  She reacted quickly and shot out of her chair to join her husband’s side. Her trained eye glanced over at his heart and respiratory monitors to confirm everything was within safe readings. Her face exploded with excitement as the tears of joy streamed down her face.

  Mike gingerly raised his arm to his face to remove the mask altogether. He felt around his cheeks and mouth, which were sore from the beating he and Patrick had exchanged with one another.

  “Everything freakin’ hurts. Don’t these assholes believe in pain meds?”

  Jessica gently kissed her husband on his swollen lips and allowed the tears to roll off her cheeks onto his. “Shut up,” she lovingly whispered. “I’ll see if Dr. Alvarez is still here.”
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  “I’m kidding,” said Mike. “It hurts, but I don’t care ’bout the pain. It means I’m alive.”

  “Hey, Mike,” said Hank, who positioned himself on the other side of the bed. He leaned against the shiny stainless railings of the Hill-Rom bed. “You gave us a pretty good scare.”

  “Patrick?” he asked, his eyes darting between his wife and brother.

  “Dead. GSW, among other things.”

  Mike closed his eyes and nodded. “Good.”

  “Hey, are you sure you don’t want me to get the doctor?” asked Hank.

  Mike shook his head side to side. He looked up to Hank. “He fooled us all. He’s the killer, I think.”

  “Wait. What did you say?” asked Jessica.

  “I think he was the serial killer. He called me Detective Mikey. Real sarcastic and smug-like.”

  Mike paused to take several deep breaths.

  Jessica glanced up at the heart-rate monitor and saw his pulse quicken. She squeezed his hand and whispered to him, “There’s plenty of time for this later. Let me get—”

  Mike squeezed her hand back and cut her off. “I’m okay,” he said reassuringly. Then he continued. “I asked him why he attacked Phoebe and me. He said, ‘You would’ve never caught me.’ And something about it being too easy.”

  Hank interrupted. “That makes you think he might’ve been the serial killer?”

  Mike glanced at Jessica and nodded. “He said, ‘I’m Patricia.’ I asked him what he meant, and the sonofabitch died.”

  “Good,” said Hank. “I mean, it was good that he died.”

  “Are you sure, Mike?” asked Jessica. “He said I’m Patricia?”

  Mike furrowed his brow and nodded. He eased the oxygen mask back on and took several deep breaths before removing it again.

  “I think this guy cross-dressed to conceal his true identity. I have no idea what brought him to killing people, who knows. I’ve always believed every killer is insane, regardless of motive.”

  Jessica was about to ask another question when Dr. Alvarez poked her head through the curtains. “I heard three voices. Lo and behold, the stubborn old cuss is awake and all chatty Cathy. No surprise there, I s’pose.”

  Mike raised his hand and playfully gave Dr. Alvarez the middle finger. The two had known one another since high school. There had been many times when Mike needed medical information on a criminal suspect who was in the hospital’s care. Dr. Alvarez accommodated him when she could.

  She flipped him off in response. “Back at ya. Say, hang on while I go fetch my toolbox out of the truck to fix up that chest wound of yours.”

  Mike’s eyes grew wide because he knew she meant it.

  Chapter Eight

  Wednesday, November 6

  Overseas Highway

  South of Homestead, Florida

  Two National Guardsmen restrained Peter and Jimmy with plastic flex-cuffs. Their arms were pulled behind their back with a little more force than was required. It wasn’t necessary to encounter a malicious law enforcement officer of any kind for zip-tie plastic handcuffs to be put on too tightly or to do real damage to the person being restrained. Many of those restrained experienced nerve damage due to improper use. In the case of Peter and Jimmy, whose bodies had been traumatized by the blast, among other things in Peter’s case, long-term damage could easily be done to shoulders and arms.

  Both guys complained to anyone who’d listen, but it didn’t result in their pain being relieved. For hours, they sat against the wheels of a troop transport. They were watched from a distance by an uninterested young woman who seemed annoyed at being given the task. It gave the guys a chance to speak before they were taken away.

  “Jimmy, we both know this is a load of crap, but we gotta keep our heads cool. This is obviously part of a bigger issue that’s pissed off either the governor or the president. And, knowing the governor, I doubt this is his idea. These troops came from Georgia or Alabama.”

  Jimmy sighed as he continued to wiggle and pull at the flex-cuffs. His were tighter than Peter’s, perhaps because of his obvious association with the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department.

  “I didn’t want any part of this,” he began to explain to Peter. Earlier, while they were outside earshot of their captors, Jimmy had brought Peter up to speed on Driftwood Key and his father. At this point, he was unaware of what had happened with Patrick the night before. “My aunt is on some kind of power trip. Maybe she thinks she’s doing the right thing by her people. I don’t know. Anyway, Mr. Hank had to offer me up to become a deputy.”

  “Lindsey thinks she can form her own country? Seriously?”

  “Man, I don’t know what’s in her head. I do know that some of the real deputies handpicked the temporary guys like me to watch the checkpoints. They’re really close to one another, you know. I hear talk. They’re a little too gung-ho-marine for me.”

  “I get it,” added Peter. “Peon power, right?” Peon power was a term his grandfather had used years ago to refer to someone who ordinarily had little authority within government or an organization. Then, suddenly, they were elevated to a position of power and wielded it mercilessly.

  “Yeah,” Jimmy responded with a shrug. “There’s been talk of gathering up all the food in the Keys and putting it in a central distribution center. Share and share alike is what I hear them say the most. There’s also been talk about the sheriff’s people getting theirs first.”

  Peter shook his head in disgust. “Sounds like the way Washington operates.”

  Jimmy elbowed Peter. “We’re about to have company.”

  Peter whispered his instructions. “Okay. No matter what, admit to nothing. Answer questions but be evasive. You never had a gun. Got it?”

  “What do I say when they ask what my job was or whatever?”

  “Tell them you weren’t a real deputy. You just took the offer because they promised to give you food. They’ll understand, hopefully.”

  Jimmy’s eyes darted back and forth between the men approaching them. “What are you gonna say?”

  “I’m gonna tell them the truth. It’s worked so far. But listen. I may have to throw you under the bus a little. You know, to separate us. It’s the only way I can help get us out of this mess.”

  Jimmy chuckled and leaned back against the massive truck tire. He bounced the back of his head a few times as he contemplated their predicament.

  “Just don’t get me put in front of a firing squad,” he said half-jokingly.

  One of the men growled his instructions. “All right, gentlemen, your ride’s here. On your feet!”

  Two guardsmen brusquely lifted Jimmy up by grasping him under his arms. They pushed him roughly against the side of the truck, and one of the men pressed the palm of his hand into Jimmy’s chest to restrain him. With the help of a third soldier, Peter was similarly manhandled.

  “Over here!” one of the guards shouted, waving his arm toward an approaching vehicle.

  Refugees who continued to mill about the area began to spread apart in order for the vehicle to get through. From the front, it appeared to be a white Dodge truck with some kind of camper on the back. As it got closer, Peter recognized what it was.

  “This is bullshit!” he complained loudly. “You can’t make us ride in that!”

  “We can, and you will,” one of the guardsmen hissed in response.

  The white truck bearing the logo of the Miami-Dade County Animal Services department slowed to a stop in front of them. The steel and white box container on the back had several lockable door handles protruding off the side. There was a compartment for each animal that needed hauling away.

  In this case, the prisoners.

  Jimmy began to squirm until he was forcibly restrained by two of the men.

  “Listen up, gentlemen. You either cooperate or your ride will be a lot more difficult with the air vents shut. Trust me, you’re gonna want some air.”

  The guard motioned to the driver, who opened up one of the com
partments. The stench of dog feces permeated the air around the truck, filling Peter’s nostrils to the point he almost vomited. He resisted the urge to unleash a tirade of expletives. At this point their captors were getting a special thrill from their two high-value prisoners. Neither of whom had played any role in the destruction of the bridges or the decision to do so.

  Peter looked to Jimmy and rolled his eyes. The two men accepted their fate and decided to cooperate so their punishment wasn’t made more severe. Each of the guys was shoved into a separate compartment by the soldiers, and the doors slammed behind them. The guards began to laugh, apparently taking great pleasure in slapping the side of the truck to indicate their prisoners were ready for transport.

  As they drove away, Peter closed his eyes and set his jaw. He loved his country, but not when those in position of authority acted like this. The words he’d uttered minutes ago came to mind. Peon power. It had apparently become an epidemic.

  Chapter Nine

  Wednesday, November 6

  Overseas Highway

  South of Homestead, Florida

  The military police were tasked with protecting the lives and property of the Army National Guard installations, both permanent and temporary. The Guard had established its operations at the Homestead-Miami Speedway in a matter of three days, but the law enforcement arm was a late arrival to the scene. The Army expected their troops to provide the Keys’ residents a show of force that would encourage them to back down from their attempts to block traffic on the two bridges. Clearly, that hadn’t worked, as they had been destroyed within hours of one another.

  As a result, the law enforcement arm, together with several investigators, was quickly dispatched to Homestead. The Pentagon considered the destruction of the bridges an act of domestic terrorism, which also made it a matter for the FBI. However, the Justice Department was slow to respond to the Pentagon’s request for agents to assist in the investigation.