Nuclear Winter Devil Storm

by Bobby Akart

  Mike smiled. He didn’t receive words of appreciation very often.

  Suddenly, there was a commotion in the corridor. The doctor turned to take a look. It was a few of Mike’s fellow detectives. They’d come to check on him and heap praise of their own.

  The doctor slipped out of the way, and the detectives joined Mike in the cramped trauma recovery room. He rolled up his discharge paperwork and used it as a club to playfully swat at the detectives as they entered. After some ribbing, they escorted Mike out of the hospital and to the sheriff’s office. He was told Sheriff Jock wanted to personally thank him for his valor.

  Mike couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity to implement his plan. When he entered the MCSO facility, he was applauded like a rock star. He had to warn his fellow law enforcement officers that hugs and backslaps were off-limits. He didn’t need his sutures torn open again. The appreciative doctor might not let him leave the next time.

  “Hey, Mike!” shouted one of the captains on the force. “Sheriff Jock would like to see you. But a heads-up. He’s knee-deep in the shit, if you know what I mean. He does wanna throw some kudos in your direction.”

  Mike thanked the captain and made his way to the sheriff’s office. As he did, he formulated his pitch. He’d have only one shot at this, and he’d better make it a good one.

  He waited outside Sheriff Jock’s office. Mike had a decent rapport with the rarely amiable sheriff. He’d learned early on after Sheriff Jock was elected that the man wished he worked for the FBI. Nobody knew why the sheriff didn’t pursue his dream of a career at Quantico or one of the many field offices staffed by FBI agents around the country.

  He was certainly not a politician capable of slapping backs, shaking hands, or kissing babies. In his three elections thus far, he’d let voters in Monroe County know where he stood on certain issues, and they could take it or leave it. In a way, Mike thought, that had been refreshing. Full transparency should be a requirement of all politicians with no false promises.

  When Mike was finally called into the sheriff’s office, he immediately noticed a change in the man’s demeanor. He usually remained stoic in a crisis. Sheriff Jock was the kind of field general who could lead his department through the worst of hurricanes or the rowdiest of Key West gatherings. He’d even provided Mike and the other detectives the support they needed while they pursued their serial killer.

  Today, the sheriff seemed harried. Almost nervous. He was being hit from all sides with questions and demands from his staff. His secretary, the undersheriff, and two office personnel stood in a semicircle around his office, awaiting instructions. They parted slightly to allow Mike a path to approach the sheriff’s desk.

  With a deep breath, Mike put on his politician’s hat and mentally put up his guard. Let the chess match begin.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Saturday, November 9

  Aboard the Cymopoleia

  Gulf of Mexico

  The nightmare had mercifully ended. At least this chapter in the story. The Cymopoleia gently rocked back and forth as the remnants of the hurricane gradually moved toward the north, taking the energy of the atmosphere with it. It wasn’t the lack of turbulent air or thrashing water that struck Lacey as odd. It was the glimpse of sunshine.

  She’d sent Tucker below deck into the forward cabin to sleep. Ordered was more like it. He’d fought the storm all night and managed to rescue her from certain death. As daybreak came, Lacey expected to see what had become the norm—a thick layer of grayish, sooty clouds blocking out the sky. This morning was different.

  “Tucker! Tucker! We have sun. I see it!”

  Lacey pulled back on the throttle and allowed the bow to dip down toward the water. She called out his name again before racing out of the wheelhouse onto the aft deck. The brightness of the orb hiding behind the thinning clouds forced her to shade her eyes with her right hand.

  Tucker rushed up the steps into the wheelhouse and out the back to join his mother. He squinted, partly because he had been sleeping in the dark cabin and due to the unusual brightness of the sky.

  “Mom, do you think it’s over?”

  Lacey closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the sun to allow her skin to soak in its muted radiance. It was warmer than normal, a welcome change from the conditions brought on by nuclear winter.

  “I don’t know, son. It may just be temporary.”

  “’Cause of the hurricane?”

  “That was one heckuva storm,” she replied. “I’ve been through some bad ones before but never, of course, on the water. That storm was powerful, though. It could be that whatever this crap is that’s mixed into the atmosphere got pulled up the coast with the hurricane.”

  Tucker’s shoulders drooped. His body language immediately reflected the conclusion he’d reached. “It’s just gonna come back.”

  Lacey grimaced and wrapped her arm around her son’s shoulder. “Yeah, probably. But it does prove this smog isn’t invincible. Eventually, it seems like hurricanes and upper-level winds will cause it to dissipate.”

  Tucker shielded his eyes and took in the moment before the opportunity was lost. “Who knows how long it will take. Eventually, there’ll be enough hurricanes and storms to push the bad air off to wherever pollution goes, right?”

  Lacey could only guess what the answer was, but she had no problem giving her son some semblance of hope. “Right, skipper!” she said as she hugged her son.

  At this moment, they were alive, and nothing stood in the way of their trip home. Riding out the storm had resulted in them being pushed way off course. She’d already done some mental calculations and determined they had just enough fuel to make it to the Keys. She understood how race teams felt when they did their calculations. Many pit bosses were gamblers by nature and would rather go for the win than refuel only to finish a couple of laps down. The closest point of land to their position was to backtrack toward Everglades City or even Naples. As far as she was concerned, that wasn’t an option.

  She turned the helm over to Tucker with instructions to sail directly toward Driftwood Key. She was gonna go below, redress her bandages from the beating she’d taken when she flew overboard, and fix them something to eat. They would calculate their fuel levels in an hour and adjust their course for a closer point in the Keys if necessary.

  As far as Lacey was concerned, if the Cymopoleia quit on them near the finish line, they’d gladly swim to shore. It was a gamble worth taking.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Saturday, November 9

  Key West

  “Mike Albright, come over here,” the sheriff instructed as Mike approached. “You need to be congratulated for a couple of reasons.”

  Mike was surprised by the sheriff’s friendliness. His tone of voice was far from what Mike had expected considering the chaotic nature of the meeting with his staff. He was also confused as to why he’d made reference to a couple of reasons.

  “Just doin’ my job, Sheriff,” he said, a phrase he’d repeated many times since he’d killed the two gunmen.

  Sheriff Jock leaned onto his desk and extended his right hand to Mike, who gladly took it. The handshake seemed heartfelt.

  “Detective, you saved a lot of lives in that hospital. Those drug runners have a rap sheet a mile long and were on the FBI’s most wanted. Apparently, they’d been holing up in a vacation rental house near Hemingway’s. The homeowner had returned from Georgia and confronted the three. There was a shoot-out resulting in the owner’s death. The leader of the trio, the guy on the table full of holes, decided it was a good idea to storm the hospital to get treatment. You showed him otherwise. Well done.”

  An aide had entered the sheriff’s office and handed him a clipboard full of documents. He signed multiple pages without reading them. Apparently, despite the collapse of normalcy, the government hadn’t lost its love of a paper trail. This might make his job more complicated.

  “Thanks, Sheriff. Um, I take it the ringleader of the bunc
h survived.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s the downside. I don’t want the scumbag in my jail. Hopefully, he won’t need any medical attention while he’s locked up. I’m sure the hospital will be a little slow to respond, if you know what I mean.”

  Mike glanced around the room at the disinterested aides. None of them had left, so he assumed his time with the sheriff was drawing short.

  “Well, there is something I’d like to—”

  The sheriff cut him off. “Also, Detective, there’s something that just came in that only a handful of detectives are privy to. The guy who stabbed you, Patrick Hollister, is your serial killer.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “I picked a couple of guys who were available to toss his home and the bank branches where he worked. You have no idea what we found at their location on Simonton. He’s a demented jackass who needed to fry in Old Sparky at Starke.”

  For seventy-five years, the electric chair had been the sole means of execution in Florida until the Florida State Legislature signed lethal injection into law. After 2000, prisoners awaiting execution had the choice of lethal injection or the electric chair. None of them had chosen Old Sparky, the nickname for the device located at the Florida State Prison outside Starke in Northeast Florida.

  “I saved the state a lot of money,” quipped Mike.

  “And burial expense,” added the sheriff. “I understand your family threw him into the water. The nasty SOB is fish chum. It’s better than he deserves.”

  Mike saw an opening. “Sheriff, we have the potential for more of this type of lawlessness. All of a sudden, the Florida Keys looks very long and spread out. Whadya think about letting me set up a substation of sorts in Marathon? Jessica and I could cover everything from the Seven Mile Bridge up to Lower Matecumbe Key. That would free up your deputies to focus on high-population areas like Key West and Key Largo.”

  The sheriff thought for a moment and then turned to his undersheriff. “You and I have talked about something similar. Until we can get the roads cleared of stranded vehicles, first responders can’t make it past Big Pine Key without delays. We could do something similar in Islamorada. Right?”

  “Absolutely, Sheriff,” he replied. “We don’t have a facility up that way, but I understand the mayor has plans to confis—”

  The sheriff quickly cut him off before he could finish his sentence. “All of that’s on hold for now and can be discussed later.” He turned to Mike, who quickly offered a solution.

  “Sheriff, Jess and I could work out of Driftwood Key and respond to calls. There’s no need to create some formal substation. We only need to gear up so we can have the tools necessary to respond.”

  “What would you do with anyone you arrest?” asked the undersheriff.

  Mike shrugged. “Tie ’em to a tree, I guess.” His quip caused the people in the office to roar with laughter, especially the sheriff. It helped seal the deal.

  Sheriff Jock raised his right hand and pointed at one of his aides. “Take Detective Albright to get whatever he needs. This man is one of our finest, and I have no doubt he can handle Marathon and the surrounding Keys.”

  “Yes, Sheriff,” the aide responded. “Detective, if you’ll follow me …” Her voice trailed off, as she was uncertain whether the meeting was over.

  “Okay, Mike. Well done on all counts. And you’re right. It’s gonna get worse around here before it gets better. It’ll take some time, but we’ll shepherd Monroe County through this storm.”

  Mike said his goodbyes and hustled out of the office before anyone could change their minds. He followed the woman to her office, where she started rummaging through her desk in search of requisition forms.

  Finally, out of frustration, she muttered a profanity under her breath. She whispered to Mike, “You know what, Detective, this whole paper trail thing is a waste of time. Only half of us fill it out, and then who the hell knows whether it’s getting logged in. Do you have an idea of what you want?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where do you wanna start?”

  “Communications and then the armory. Also, I’ll need a set of wheels together with a few things from the motor pool. It doesn’t have to necessarily be our equipment. Seizures will work.”

  The woman nodded. “Let’s get started. I could use the fresh air, if we can manage to find any.”

  Pleased with himself, Mike followed the young woman down the corridor into the bowels of the sheriff’s department’s complex of buildings. The stars had aligned for him to take whatever he needed, assuming he didn’t go nuts and unduly garner someone’s attention.

  A quick hour later, Mike pulled out of the MCSO complex with a black, four-door Suburban that had been seized in a drug bust together with a six-by-twelve enclosed trailer from a cabinet maker who’d skipped town after taking his customer’s deposit checks. Both the Suburban and the trailer were full of weapons, ammunition, and a myriad of supplies Mike considered to be essential to his family’s survival. The six five-gallon gas cans strapped to the roof of the Suburban served as the icing on the cake of his retirement present. The only thing he forgot to do on the way out was give notice of his retirement, by design, of course.

  After he drove past Stock Island, it took Mike over two hours to reach Seven Mile Bridge. Stranded cars and pedestrians constituted the biggest impediment to traveling across the long span of A1A. Prior to that, fallen trees and parts of buildings still covered the highway following the hurricane.

  Big Pine Key had been hit hard. There, A1A made an S curve through the retail district along a stretch where the highway ran through the hammocks that were barely a few feet above water. Sand, vegetation, and the metal fencing that acted as guardrails had become melded together. The tangled mess swept across the road, making it difficult to differentiate between the highway and the rest of its surroundings.

  Apparently, clearing the road of debris was very low on Mayor Lindsey’s list of priorities. That was fine with Mike. The undersheriff’s near slipup had confirmed what Mike suspected would be happening throughout the Keys very soon. Lindsey planned on tightening her grip on the county’s residents and businesses. Mike had two options. One, which he’d set into motion today, was to appear to join them or be a loyal participant when she consolidated her power. The other was to show his cards only if forced to. It would be a dangerous game that required a clear mind.

  Standing up to an angry mayor and her puppet sheriff was a deadly proposition Mike didn’t want to contemplate. He leaned back in the seat of the Suburban and relaxed once he exited the bridge and arrived in Marathon. When Hank and Jessica left, he’d told them to stay away until the storm had cleared and they’d taken care of Driftwood Key first. From what he’d observed on the drive up, he suspected they had their hands full.

  Chapter Fifty

  Saturday, November 9

  Aboard the Cymopoleia

  Gulf of Mexico

  As expected, the brief glimpse of the sun peeking through the clouds was soon lost, and the depressing hazy skies returned. That didn’t dampen the spirits of Lacey and Tucker. For the first time since they’d left Tarpon Springs, they could make out land in the distance. More than land. It was home.

  They were moving at a steady pace and expected to make landfall within hours. That was when they encountered something unexpected. The United States Coast Guard.

  It was not just a single patrol vessel. It was an armada that stretched as far as the eyes could see to the north. Tucker found the binoculars and counted the ships, although he was unfamiliar with their nomenclature. He described them as one large boat with a helicopter pad on the rear; then there were four or five short boats with orange railings that looked like rubber. Two grayish boats with their drivers on top flanked the group. Bringing up the rear was a boat the size of a cruise ship. Tucker described it as being five or six times larger than their fishing boat.

  He returned to the open window of the wheelhouse next to the helm and described wha
t he’d observed. “Mom, there aren’t any to our right. I think if we hurry, we can cut across their path before we get stuck. I’d hate to run out of diesel waiting on these guys to pass us.”

  “Agreed. Come back in and let’s open her up until we’re clear.” She glanced down at the fuel gauge. There was no time for calculations. Let the chips fall as they may.

  Lacey’s decision to take the Cymopoleia at full throttle to avoid contact with the Coast Guard was a wise one. The contingent had been dispatched on the president’s orders. Like its counterpart on the Atlantic side of the Keys, it was moving at a steady pace with one ship at a time dropping back and settling into a fixed position. By late that afternoon, the Coast Guard would have created a blockade that included orders to board and search every vessel coming in or out of the Keys.

  After the encounter with the Coast Guard was behind them, Lacey and Tucker became more excited as they approached. Their eyes darted between the boat’s fuel gauge and what lay beyond the bow. The chain of limestone islands extending from Key Largo to Key West and geographically all the way to the Dry Tortugas were beginning to reveal themselves through the haze.

  The calm seas and very little in the way of surf made their final leg of the journey uneventful. That didn’t stop their pulses from racing in nervous anticipation. Lacey turned giddy as the largest cluster of islands making up the Lower Keys could be seen off the stern. The large gap between the islands was clearly Seven Mile Bridge. As they got closer, she pointed out the various keys by name. Big Coppitt. Cudjoe. Big Pine.

  And then Marathon.

  Lacey began to cry tears of relief and joy. Somehow, in the back of her mind, there was still doubt whether the Florida Keys still existed. Her home in Hayward had likely been destroyed. She certainly expected Peter’s had been as well, or at least was uninhabitable. Would the devilish people who’d ordered the release of the nuclear weapons set their sights on a place like Miami as well? Maybe. And if so, had the Keys been spared?