Nuclear Winter Devil Storm

by Bobby Akart

  He leaned out into the corridor again and decided to move closer. Thus far, the gunshots seemed to emanate from the large, open entry corridor near the emergency room portico. A set of double sliding doors separated the outside from the intake center of the ER. With the levels of soot in the air and the hurricane barreling down upon them, Mike would’ve expected them to remain closed in favor of the normal swinging doors flanking both sides.

  Without communications lines, he questioned whether anyone had the presence of mind to run to the sheriff’s office. He considered doing it himself if his lungs would allow it, but first he had to get out of the building. Like most hospitals, manners of ingress and egress were limited to two or three locations at most.

  He couldn’t count how many times he unconsciously reached for his service weapon. Instincts had taken over, and he knew exactly what needed to be done. He simply didn’t have the tools to do it.

  Hank broke cover and quickly moved forward until he could slip inside the open door of a patient’s room. Inside, an elderly woman lay perfectly still with the covers pulled up to her chin. Her eyes were wide with fear, and Mike had learned enough about heart rate monitors from staring at his own to know she was on the verge of cardiac arrest.

  He was closer to the ER’s reception area, and he was clearly able to make out two men shouting. Screams filled the corridors of the hospital. Mike needed to get closer to get a handle on what he was dealing with. Before he left the woman’s room, he tried to reassure her, speaking softly so as not to be heard. Then he exited her room and pulled the door closed behind him.

  That was when the lights went out.

  Mike would never learn what had caused the sudden power outage at the Lower Keys Medical Center. The storm could’ve been identified as the culprit, but the facility had been drawing upon its generators for power already. Perhaps it was the hospital’s security team’s only plan to thwart the gunmen.

  It might have been a tactic employed by the MCSO’s SWAT team to gain an advantage over the gunmen. He hadn’t been directly involved in their training, and frankly, they’d rarely been used in the last several years. It didn’t take a SWAT team to clear a bunch of drunks off Duval Street during Fantasy Fest. Regardless, it gave him an opening, and he took it.

  In the chaos, Mike used his vague familiarity with the corridor from his exercise trips back and forth to his room under the watchful eye of a nurse. Each time, he’d pushed his body a little harder until he was able to reach the ER’s patient registration area before being asked to turn around.

  It was dark, but he used that to his advantage to quickly close the gap between himself and the source of the gunfire. He’d just reached the large double doors that separated the recovery wing from the reception desk when two bullets zipped down the corridor and slammed into the medications cart behind him.

  Mike pressed his body against the door of a utility closet, using the eight-inch doorjamb to provide some semblance of ballistic protection. His heart was pounding, and adrenaline coursed through his veins, as he could feel the presence of the shooters in the dark not more than thirty feet away.

  Seconds later, one of the gunmen fired again. The muzzle flash grabbed his attention first followed by the sharp smell of gunpowder that filled his nostrils. The sound of brass casings clattering across the floor provided Mike the ability to identify the man’s location. He used the opportunity to dart across the corridor so that he had a view of the entrance, which was slightly illuminated by a battery-powered EXIT sign.

  The gunman was standing in front of the reception desk and shooting at anyone who tried to enter the ER from the outside. The two sliding doors in the center of the outer wall had been forced open, and a gurney was toppled over on its side in between them. Between the gunfire and the open doors, smoke and haze mixed with wind-driven rain filled the reception area.

  Panicked screams could be heard over the howling wind outside. They were coming from the direction of the ER’s trauma rooms. Mike knew the surgery suites were on the floor directly above them. However, for less serious wounds like his, the trauma rooms enabled physicians to provide all manner of treatment short of extensive major surgeries.

  Mike couldn’t see the entire reception area, but the lack of chatter between the gunmen was an indication that the man standing just around the double doors from his position was acting as a lookout while the other one undertook whatever his goal was.

  He took a deep breath and winced. The rush of adrenaline was wearing off as he calmed his nerves, and the pain medication he was due to take had worked its way out of his nervous system. All of his rushing about made the pain excruciating as he sucked in air. It felt as if someone had pushed a hot fireplace poker into the same spot Patrick had stuck him.

  Mike took a chance to ease his head around the open door. Like before, he dropped to a low crouch. A nervous shooter tended to surveil his surroundings by searching for faces and eyes to determine if they were a threat. Rarely did they focus their field of vision below their waist.

  In the dim ambient light, Mike could make out the man’s hunting rifle. While he couldn’t pinpoint the brand or caliber, it looked like a Remington-style rifle that used .223-caliber ammunition, very popular for hunting and home-defense use. For Mike, under these circumstances, it was a bulky weapon that couldn’t be wielded with accuracy by a nervous gunman.

  He pressed his back against the door and listened. He had to get eyes on the shooter, so once the man turned his attention and the barrel of the rifle toward the other corridor, Mike could make his move.

  The collision would hurt like hell and quite possibly break open his sutures, but at least he was in a hospital, where they could quickly patch him up.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Friday, November 8

  Lower Keys Medical Center

  Key West

  The opportunity came less than a minute later. Someone made the mistake of breaking through the swinging double doors leading into the trauma corridor. Startled, the gunman swung wildly toward them. The bullets ricocheted off the stainless-steel doors and embedded in the drywall inside the hallway. The woman shrieked and fell to the floor, making Mike think she’d been hit. The gunman raised his rifle and walked toward her body.

  He didn’t hesitate as he quickly moved around the propped-open safety door and lowered his head. He hit the back of the gunman at full speed, driving the crown of his head into the center of the man’s back.

  The shooter cried out in pain before the ferocity of Mike’s attack knocked the wind out of him. The two men crashed to the floor in a heap, with Mike further punishing the man with the full weight of his body landing on top of his back. The rifle had been dislodged and flew several feet ahead until it came to a rest near the woman who’d emerged from the trauma wing.

  Instinctively, Mike reached for his waistband in search of a weapon, pepper spray, or handcuffs. Anything to subdue the man until he could be restrained. The pain of the collision shot through his body. As predicted, blood began to ooze onto his fleece sweatshirt.

  The shooter had regained his ability to breathe and was beginning to squirm under Mike’s weight. Mike looked forward and realized he’d be putting everyone in further danger if the shooter was able to shout for his accomplice. He used the only weapons available to him to subdue the attacker. His fists. With several well-placed blows to the man’s temple, he successfully knocked the man unconscious without using too much force that might lacerate his meningeal artery. Mike wanted him subdued, not dead. He wasn’t in the mood to hang around and explain his use of force.

  Mike pounced onto his feet and grabbed the gun. He shook his head in disbelief when the people hiding behind the reception desk gasped as if he were just as dangerous as the shooter. He knelt down and helped the distraught nurse off the floor and led her against the wall adjoining the trauma corridor. He forced her to look at him instead of the dead security guard who lay ten feet away.

  He spoke to her in a lo
ud whisper. “Do you how many shooters there are?”

  She was breathing fast and shallow, most likely on the verge of hyperventilating. Mike needed to get answers before she panicked. He leaned toward the door opening and checked the hallway. There wasn’t any movement, so he turned his attention back to the woman.

  “Please, I need you to tell me what you know.”

  She took several long, deep breaths and then nodded. “They’re in trauma three. A man had multiple GSWs. He was helped inside by another man about his age. Forties. Tanned or dark skin. I’m not positive.”

  “Which one is trauma three?” asked Mike.

  “Third door on the left across from the trauma nurses’ station. He’s got several doctors and a couple of nurses locked in the room. I was the last one to leave the trauma wing.”

  Mike was pleased that the woman had recovered from her hysteria. “Okay. One more thing. We need to seal off the recovery wing. Pile furniture in front of it, whatever needs to be done. Just don’t let anyone abandon the patients. There’s an old lady just past the entrance on the right who needs attention. Can you do that?”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  “One more thing. Find the fastest, most reliable person you can and send them to the sheriff’s office for help. Tell them to use my name—Detective Mike Albright.”

  She nodded rapidly with her eyes locked on Mike’s. He took a quick glance down the hallway before sending her on her way. He waved to the other hospital personnel and loved ones who’d crouched beneath the reception desk to get out of the building. He admonished them to be quiet so the other shooter wasn’t alerted.

  Then he turned his attention to the gunman and the victim of the gunshot wounds. There must’ve been a reason they felt the need to shoot up the hospital to get him treated. Mike intended to find out.

  He dropped the magazine out of the carbine-style rifle and tried to count the rounds remaining using the light provided by a cigarette lighter offered to him by one of the desk personnel. He asked if anyone knew why the generator had cut off. There was no explanation offered. Clearly, the cavalry in the form of the SWAT team wasn’t responsible, as they’d made no effort to come into the building once the frightened people filed out. It would be one of the mysteries Mike didn’t care to solve.

  He turned his focus back to trauma room three and the hostages who were being forced at gunpoint to treat the wounded patient. Mike had no idea how surgeons could extract bullets and deal with the internal damage associated with them in the dark. There had to be some kind of lighting, perhaps battery operated.

  He slowly approached the curtains leading to the space that happened to be adjacent to where he had initially been treated. He paused to recall the layout of his trauma room. It was a tight fit between the many pieces of equipment, the patient’s bed, and the personnel who’d be standing alongside to perform the medical procedures. The room, the hospital staff’s word for the open area divided by curtains, might’ve been expanded depending upon how many medical personnel the gunman had elected to take hostage.

  Somehow, he had to get eyes on the gunman. He imagined a panicked man wildly waving the .45-caliber handgun Mike had heard earlier. He’d only get one shot at the gunman. He contemplated waiting for the sheriff’s office to send help, taking the burden off his shoulders for the hostages’ lives.

  But despite the pain searing through his chest and the blood soaking his sweatshirt, Mike wanted to get into position to take the shot.

  A man’s desperate voice could be heard. “What are you doing? You have to do something!”

  That had to be the gunman, Mike thought to himself. His buddy must be losing the battle, and the guy was losing it. A panicked fool with a gun takes innocent lives. Mike determined there was no time to wait for the cavalry.

  One of the doctors shouted back, “Sir, we’re doing all we can under the circumstances.”

  Mike stepped forward until he could locate where the outer curtains came together. There was a gap of about twelve inches that enabled him to see into the room. He had to be careful because the temporary lighting mounted on portable towers cast its warm glow under the curtains, which would enable the gunman to see his feet.

  The man was acting just as Mike had predicted. He had one arm wrapped around the neck of a short nurse with the other pointing the pistol in all directions. He alternated between the nurse’s head and anyone else in the room who crossed him.

  From this angle, Mike couldn’t get a clear shot. However, the curtains separating trauma three and the adjacent space had been pushed toward the wall to accommodate more equipment and surgical trays to be brought in.

  He stepped away from the curtain as the argument between the two men escalated and became more heated. He quickly moved down the corridor until he could find the gap in the curtains marking the opening of trauma four.

  He eased his head in and evaluated his options. He had a clear shot at the man’s back. Chivalrous? No. Was the scumbag deserving? You betcha.

  Mike prepared his weapon and slipped the barrel between the curtains. He waited until the man was distracted or pointed his weapon somewhere other than directly at one of the hostages. With his finger on the trigger, he took a deep breath and exhaled.

  Wait for it, Mike. Steady.

  His inner thoughts became mute, but his muscle memory didn’t fail him. Just as the gunman began to swing his weapon from the surgical team back toward the nurse’s head, Mike squeezed the trigger. The report of the rifle frightened everyone in the confined space, causing them to scream and duck for cover. Only one body remained upright, albeit for a brief moment.

  The now-headless gunman.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Friday, November 8

  Gulf of Mexico

  1013 millibars.

  “We’re really on a roll, Mom!” exclaimed Tucker as Lacey emerged from taking a nap. Her poor night of sleeping had eventually caught up with her. That, plus the steady drone of the diesel engine and the gentle rocking of the Gulf waters, had resulted in her eyes drooping until she was almost asleep standing up.

  Earlier that morning, as soon as the sun rose enough to create a brighter shade of gray across the horizon than the early-dawn level of lightness, Lacey and Tucker had prepared to leave Tarpon Springs.

  Andino and his brother had given them a refresher course on the use of their barometer and also performed some fuel calculations for them. Unless something happened out of the ordinary, they would have sufficient diesel to make it all the way to Key West if they chose to go that far. Otherwise, they were facing a four-hundred-mile journey down the west coast of Florida until they reached the Everglades. From there, they could easily make their way to Marathon and Driftwood Key.

  As they’d entered the Gulf, they’d set a course using the GPS that took them outside the range where most of the fishing boats were operating. They’d manned the helm together to grow accustomed to the boat’s navigational panel as well as how it reacted to certain wind and wave conditions. During their trip from Bay St. Louis to Tarpon Springs, they’d relied upon the expertise of Andino to operate a fishing vessel of this type. Lacey had only marginally paid attention to the intricacies of this boat. When she was in the wheelhouse, she compared it to her dad’s Hatteras, which Lacey was familiar with.

  As they sailed due south, they’d both kept a wary eye on the boat’s barometer. Registering in millibars, the digital device fluctuated only slightly as they reached the open water and set their course. The normal barometric pressure at sea level was 1013 millibars. That had risen slightly, according to Sandros, because of the consistently low ceiling caused by nuclear winter. He’d cautioned them to monitor the barometer to determine if it was falling into the nine hundreds, an indicator a weather system was approaching.

  Andino said one of the ways they could determine if there was a change in the barometric pressure was to notice the onset of a headache. The closer the pressure dropped to 1003 millibars, the more likely
people susceptible to migraines or headaches would take notice.

  While Lacey napped, Tucker had been diligent about monitoring the boat’s digital readouts, including the barometer. Every time he looked, the reading was similar, so he eventually grew tired of the exercise.

  “Wow, I feel so much better,” his mom responded to his greeting. “There’s nothing better than sleeping on a boat.”

  “It’s easy because it’s so low-key,” said Tucker. “I’m ready to get there.”

  “Me too, son. Me too.”

  “I’m gonna hit the head,” he said with a smile.

  Lacey laughed. “Spoken like a true sailor. Say, do you wanna get some sleep now? I was gonna talk to you about riding through the night until we get there.”

  Tucker stopped midway down the steps into the galley. He turned slightly as he spoke. “I just assumed we were going all the way. We have GPS, so it doesn’t really matter if we can see, right?”

  Lacey gave him a disapproving glance. There were a lot of factors to be considered when driving a boat on the open seas. One of them was seeing if anything was in your way. Inexperienced boaters at night created a recipe for disaster.

  “It’s not quite that easy, son. Go hit the head, and we’ll talk when you come back.”

  1008 millibars.

  While Tucker was away, Lacey got her bearings. They were approximately fifty-five miles off the coast of Sarasota. She couldn’t see the barrier islands of Longboat Key or Siesta Key as they motored past. The ever-present haze of soot seemed to blend in with the water, resulting in a feeling that they were completely alone in a sea of fog.

  Tucker returned with a sixteen-ounce can of Monster energy drink. The fact that he was guzzling it down told Lacey all she needed about her son’s plans for the rest of the trip. He was going to remain jacked up on B vitamins and caffeine until he crashed on the dock below the Conch Republic flag at Driftwood Key.