Whiteout

CHAPTER TEN

Friday, November 1

Near Amelia Court House, Virginia

Daylight was waning when Peter awoke from his long, restful sleep. A light snow had fallen, causing him to shiver. He was also concerned that he’d become infected by the buckshot wounds. His mind raced as his anxiety grew. Did I miss a pellet? Maybe I should’ve sterilized the tweezers with alcohol?

He shot up into a seated position that forced pain throughout his body. He couldn’t contain the groan that came from deep inside him. Peter felt like he’d been used as a punching bag on one side and a pincushion on the other.

He’d slept the entire day although the perpetually gray skies made it difficult to determine the position of the sun. He just knew it was getting darker, and he needed to get going, not just to make progress toward home but also to get his body heated up through exercise.

He forced himself to stand and then inwardly complained about his sore legs. Even after the ordeal in Abu Dhabi and the flying episode courtesy of the nuclear blast wave, Peter hadn’t felt this kind of pain.

He walked fifteen feet downstream from where he’d unintentionally made camp earlier that day to relieve himself. His urine was dark yellow. As an avid runner, he knew that was a sign of dehydration. He made a mental note to pour his filtered water into the canteen cup and add a Nuun hydration tab to it. The orange-flavored, effervescent tablet the size of an Alka-Seltzer quickly dissolved in water. It was used by athletes to replace lost electrolytes to avoid dehydration.

Peter also took the time to inspect his wounds. The three puncture wounds were already beginning to scab over. The bloody oozing had ceased, and he felt confident after a change of bandages, he’d be good to go. The other two wounds that he’d extracted the pellets from concerned him more.

They were turning red and tender around the edges. Peter chastised himself for forgetting the antibiotics he’d risked his life to take from the CVS pharmacy. He’d had the best of intentions to do so, but he’d fallen asleep. After rebandaging the two still-oozing holes in his upper body, he located a bottle of Keflex 500 milligram capsules. He’d taken this form of antibiotic as a kid when he’d cut himself diving around coral, and therefore, he knew he wasn’t allergic to it. He swallowed two capsules for starters with his Nuun-infused water.

Then, in the dimming light, he retrieved his atlas to chart out his course. Originally, he’d planned on riding during the day so he could see the road better. Now, thanks to the residents of the horror house on the hill who had tried to kill him, he’d slept all day, forcing him to travel at night.

Peter traced his finger along the most direct route to the Keys. Ordinarily, he’d follow Interstate 95 along the Atlantic Seaboard. He knew the route, as he’d traveled it several times by car. Along the way, there were long stretches where the only highway was the interstate. The marshlands, especially in the low country of South Carolina and Georgia, would provide him few options besides I-95. On a bicycle, even under the grid-down circumstances, Peter felt he’d be at risk of encounters far more deadly than the one last evening in which floors and sofas couldn’t protect him.

He studied his options through North Carolina. The cities of Charlotte, Greensboro, and Raleigh-Durham stretched from west to east like a trio of giant trolls waiting for an unsuspecting traveler to devour as they passed. He knew the cities had to be avoided, so he considered traveling farther away from the coast, just to the west of Charlotte. This would provide him lots of travel options through mostly rural farmland and away from the cities crowded along the coastal areas.

Peter had told himself when he left that he wouldn’t think too far ahead. Originally, he’d told himself that he could walk home if need be. Then, after he’d obtained the bicycle from Jackie’s father, he thought he could make it in three weeks if he kept a steady, uneventful pace. Certainly, he couldn’t afford any more encounters like he’d had at the farmhouse.

He plotted out his course along U.S. Highway 360 toward Danville, a small town on the North Carolina border. He wasn’t sure how far he could travel at night with temperatures approaching freezing, especially after the pummeling his body had endured. But he was determined to push himself so he could get to the North Carolina border by sunrise.

After repacking his gear and reloading his weapon, he hit the road. Peter imagined the four-lane, divided highway was scenic, if he could see it. As he clicked off the miles, he began to question the decision to ride at night. He considered attaching one of his flashlights to the handlebars using duct tape to illuminate the road in front of him. He even held one of them in his hands for a while to see if that helped. If the beam of light happened to catch a reflector off a stalled vehicle, then he could manage to navigate toward it. Otherwise, he decided he’d end up burning through his batteries.

For riding purposes, taking the federal highway was a far better option than pothole-filled county roads, where he could easily puncture a tire or bend a wheel. In this desolate part of Virginia, he hoped to avoid contact with others. But, eventually, major highways run through large cities, and that wasn’t a good idea, day or night.

Peter rode for hours and was coming up on Danville, a sizable city of forty-five thousand people. Because it was just after four in the morning, he decided to continue riding until he made it to the North Carolina border. It would mean that he would travel eighty miles that night.

Soon, it became a game to Peter. A competition as to how far he could travel in a given period of time. He’d study the map, calculate the time and distance, and pedal while trying not to think about the difficult task ahead.

It was the thoughts of reuniting with his family that helped him push through the pain.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Friday, November 1

Driftwood Key

“You know, Hank, I simply can’t remember how this happened to me,” lied the man who lived the life of a lie. Patrick was feeling better by that afternoon and was now able to prop himself up on the bed. Both Phoebe and Jessica routinely checked on him, as did Jimmy, the young man he seemed to enjoy the company of the most.

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but my brother, Mike, is a detective.”

“Yeah. He stopped by earlier when I was just coming out of the bathroom with Phoebe’s help.” Patrick paused and took a deep breath before he continued. The beatings administered to his ribs and back made the simple task very painful.

“Oh, good. I’m sure he’ll do anything he can to catch these guys,” said Hank, trying to carry the load of the conversation, as he sensed the pain that talking caused Patrick.

In actuality, Patrick was happy to be breathing again, and the pain was nothing more than a nuisance. He feigned difficulty when it suited him. If the conversation with anyone turned toward what had happened or what he could remember, he fed them a little information and then suddenly experienced difficulty breathing. The ploy worked every time.

Hank apologized for intruding on his recovery and left the bungalow. He made a beeline for the dock as he saw Jimmy returning from a day of fishing. The barely noticeable shadows were growing long as he cut through the palm trees between bungalow three and the beachfront. He remembered that Jimmy had been fishing alone each day, so he jogged down the dock to assist him in tying off the Hatteras.

“Thanks, Mr. Hank!” Jimmy said. The usually good-natured young man enjoyed life regardless of how difficult it had become after the attacks. He quickly tied off the aft line and briskly moved toward the bow to toss Hank a line. Hank, after many years of practice, expertly tied it off to a cleat.

“How’d you do?” he asked Jimmy as he repositioned one of the yacht’s bumpers to align with the rubber edge of the dock.

“I have to go farther out each day, Mr. Hank. The water is nothing like it used to be. Pockets, at depth, are cooler like always. In shallow areas, you’d think they’d be cooler, too. Between it being November and all these clouds, I’m surprised how warm it still is.”

Hank stepped on board and stood with his hands on his hips as if he could get a better understanding of the water temperatures if he was standing in his boat. Jimmy directed Hank’s attention to one of the fish holds on the aft deck. With a grin, Jimmy continued.

“However, you have to remember who you’re talking to,” he said as he opened the lid. It was full of snapper.

“You are undoubtedly the second-best fisherman on Driftwood Key,” said Hank, drawing a laugh from the young man. “Say, did you see many boats out there?”

“No, not really. A Coast Guard cutter passed me, heading north. It was pretty far offshore. I see a few pleasure boats like that one milling about. It was odd ’cause they weren’t fishing, which made me wonder why they were burnin’ up fuel.” Jimmy shrugged and went about preparing the Hatteras to close up for the night.

Hank’s mind immediately recalled the night the three men had used the Wellcraft runabout on the other side of the dock in an attempt to steal fuel out of his boat. It hadn’t ended well for the three thieves, as Mike and Jessica had turned them into fish chum. It was yet another reminder of why he wished they’d stay closer to home, but he understood their position now.

With the shoot-out over fuel fresh in his mind, Hank had a thought. “Maybe you shouldn’t go out alone? With all that’s going on, having somebody watching your back might be a good idea.”

“I thought about that today when one of the boats got a little too close. I didn’t have anything on a hook, so I slowly picked up the Mossberg. When they saw I had a gun, they took off.”

Hank decided at that point Jimmy should have someone go with him. The fact of the matter was, he lamented internally, they were short-handed, especially now that Patrick needed more of Phoebe’s and Jessica’s attention.

He sighed and mumbled, “We’ll figure it out.”

As they walked up the dock toward the main house with the snapper on a string in each hand, Jimmy brought up Patrick.

“Um, Mr. Hank.” He hesitated.

“Yeah.”

“How long is Patrick gonna stay here?”

“Why? Do you think he might be a good fishing companion? I’d have to talk with Mike about giving him a gun.”

Jimmy’s eyes grew wide, and he shook his head rapidly from side to side. “No, nothing like that. Never mind.”

“C’mon, Jimmy. What’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Hank. There’s something off about the guy. Mom asked me to check in on him a couple of times today. He just creeps me out, that’s all.”

Hank was curious as to why. “Did he say something that upset you?”

“No, not really. I’m just saying he was kinda clingy or something. He didn’t want me to leave. Wanted to ask questions about the inn and whether I went to college or had a girlfriend. You know. Stuff like that.”

Hank slowed his pace, as he wanted to finish the conversation before they encountered Phoebe. “Small talk?”

“I guess.”

“And you saw him twice?”

“Yes. First thing this morning and before I went fishing around noon.”

“And you said he was talkative?” asked Hank. He stopped to study Jimmy’s demeanor.

Jimmy kicked at the sand and turned over a small shell with his toe. He nervously rolled it around as he spoke. “Yeah. I mean, he’s probably bored or lonely. Also, um, a little scared, I guess?”

Hank pressed the young man. “Talkative? Both times?”

Jimmy nodded and began walking up the stairs to the porch. Hank lagged behind and glanced in the direction of bungalow three, which was nestled in the palm trees. It was slightly obscured from his view by a wall of tropical plants.

Jimmy’s description of Patrick was far different from what Hank had observed just thirty minutes ago. He furrowed his brow and shrugged as he moved deliberately into the house, deep in thought.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Friday, November 1

Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

Northern Virginia

President Carter Helton was invigorated following the late-night presidential address and press conference two days ago. Outpourings of support from world leaders in Russia and China for his bold initiative bolstered his confidence. While certain members of his cabinet voiced their disapproval at what they deemed to be government overreach, others agreed to do everything within their power to implement his agenda. Plus, as he told his chief of staff, it gave him the opportunity to separate the wheat from the chaff, as they say. He was now able to differentiate his true loyalists from those who might undermine his administration.

He was due to receive several updates with a full analysis on the profound impact nuclear winter had on the climate as well as the devastating effect the EMP had had on the nation’s critical infrastructure. Proposals from the DHS, Transportation, and Energy would all be submitted during the morning briefing.

However, in the back of his mind, President Helton was considering leaving the protection of Mount Weather. He believed that hiding in the protection of the nuclear bunker lent an impression that he was a weak leader. He’d held extensive discussions with military leaders about relocating the government to a military base that had been hardened against the devastating effects of the EMP.

Because Washington, DC, had been destroyed, the president, a native Pennsylvanian, was considering moving America’s capital back to Philadelphia, the seat of government during the Revolution. Geographically, a more centralized location like Kansas City made sense, but he was in the unique position to lead the nation into a new era. The choice of Philadelphia would allow him to give something back to the state that had launched his political career.

The amount of government spending required to recreate the equivalent of Washington’s massive bureaucracy would be an enormous boost to Pennsylvanians during the recovery effort, as well as the local contractors who’d been longtime donors of the president.

The interim facilities for the new location of government, the Carlisle Barracks, had been an immediate beneficiary of the Helton administration. He’d directed $85 million to build new facilities at the home of the U.S. Army War College after he took office. In addition to upgrading and expanding the second-oldest army installation dating back to 1745, the president had redirected funds from another base in Florida to Carlisle Barracks. The money had been earmarked to harden the base’s wiring and electronics from the crippling effects of an EMP.

At the moment, the five-hundred-acre campus of the Army War College would suffice for the basic functions of the federal government. He envisioned Congress relocating to Carlisle temporarily so that the government could once again be together.

Military bases around the country in close proximity to existing FEMA regional offices were used as part of the recovery process. Each cabinet secretary named an undersecretary for assignment to the ten FEMA regions. These undersecretaries coordinated with the military to ensure compliance with the declaration of martial law.

It would take years to rebuild the American government, but at least he had the mechanism to do so. Now it was time to focus on those who would stand in the way of his recovery plan. He would hear first from Erin Bergmann, secretary of Agriculture.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” Erin began. She’d been a regular at the president’s daily briefings. Behind her back, other cabinet members referred to her as the doomsayer, a person who often spoke of foreboding predictions of an impending calamity.

“Good morning, Erin. Got any good news today?”

The president’s jovial mood continued, albeit somewhat sarcastically. He, too, was tiring of the gloomy predictions. His overall demeanor was boosted in part from the power he’d gained by the martial law declaration and the antidepressants he was being fed by the White House physician.

His insolent question created stifled chuckles by some members of the cabinet. He glanced at his most loyal advisors, who shared his opinion of Erin. In not so many words, he’d let it be known that Erin, who’d opposed martial law as inconsistent with the intent of the Constitution, would soon be returned to Florida when he relocated the government to Pennsylvania. For now, Erin, and her gloomy updates, were a necessary evil.

Erin bristled at his question. She had no intention of sugarcoating the dire consequences of the nuclear conflict just to curry favor with the president, as most in the room had. If he wanted to replace her and kick her out of Mount Weather, so be it. She was certain she could find a bungalow on a tiny key in Florida, where she could live out her days. She thought about Hank Albright constantly, even asking military officials about how the Florida Keys had been affected by the environmental impact of nuclear war. Until she was no longer included in the briefings or kicked out of Mount Weather, she’d do her job, even if it wasn’t what the president wanted to hear.

“Sir, the basic assumption during any nuclear conflict has been that the exploding nuclear warheads would create huge fires, resulting in soot from burning cities and forests. This toxic cloud of smoke is emitted in vast amounts and blends with our clean air.

“Based upon climatology models, it was presumed the troposphere, which starts at the Earth’s surface and extends five to nine miles high, would bear the brunt of the pollution, if you will. Those prior models understated the effect.

“The models considered only a limited nuclear conflict under the assumptions the warring nations would stand down before completely annihilating one another. None that I am aware of modeled multiple conflicts across the Northern Hemisphere.

“NOAA has provided us evidence to the effect that the lower levels of the stratosphere have been permeated with the smoke and soot. Similar to the models associated with the eruption of a supervolcano, the Sun’s incoming radiation has been blocked from reaching the planet’s surface, causing a more rapid cooling of temperatures than ever imagined.

“Due to their high temperatures, this rising smoke and soot have allowed the dirty air to drift at these high altitudes. It’s now settling in the mid-latitudes of the Northern Hemisphere as a black particle cloud belt, blocking sunshine for an indeterminate amount of time.”

The president raised his hand to stop Erin from continuing. “There has to be a point at which the atmosphere clears. Have you run models to give us some kind of reasonable time frame?”

“Yes, Mr. President. NASA and NOAA scientists have developed a predictive model that points to an eight-to-twelve-year time frame in which we get some relief.”

“Not back to normal?” he asked.

Erin nodded. She was expecting this line of questioning. Everyone wanted to know when it would be over. “No, sir. They wouldn’t commit to when our skies would resemble what we enjoyed pre-attack.”

“Okay, Erin. If we don’t know when we can expect blue skies again, can you at least tell me when we’ll bottom out? When can we point to a date and tell the American people the worst of it is behind us?”

Erin grimaced and glanced around the room. She was about to add to her reputation as the doomsayer. “Following the rapid series of attacks, the ensuing darkness and cold, combined with nuclear fallout, have begun to kill much of the Earth’s vegetation in the Northern Hemisphere. We’re receiving reports of wildlife dying out either from starvation or hunters in search of food.”

“We have a plan for the latter,” interrupted the president. “Soon, the reward in kind for reporting these poachers of our nation’s food resources will eliminate the practice of hunting. Please proceed.”

“Sir, NOAA advises that the upper troposphere temperatures have risen to the point that a temperature inversion is developing,” she said. A temperature inversion was an atmospheric condition in which warm air traps cooler air near the Earth’s surface. As a result, pollutants were trapped below with the cooler air. Erin continued. “This keeps the smog and polluted air at surface levels. Coupled with the increased nitrogen oxides produced by the nuclear detonations, our ozone layer has been severely damaged. More ultraviolet radiation is hitting our planet, which will cause skin and eye damage to all animal life.”

“Erin, when will we bottom out?”

The president wanted her to give a certain date, which she couldn’t. She equivocated, not because she was trying to protect her reputation but because neither she, nor the scientific community, could provide a definitive answer.

“We will experience freezing temperatures across most of the nation above thirty-degrees latitude until late summer of next year, at which time we’ll get a bit of a respite. The remainder of the nation, namely south-central Texas, New Orleans, and much of Florida, will be spared temps below freezing.

“In my opinion, we’ll bottom out about four years or so after that. How well our planet deals with nuclear winter will depend upon several mitigating factors, including the moderating effects of the world’s oceans. The lower latitudes I just described will benefit from the warmer waters coming up from the equatorial regions.”

“Are you saying we won’t see the worst of this for five years?”

“That’s correct.”

“What do we do in the meantime?”

“Consider moving large numbers of Americans to points near the equator or into the southern hemisphere,” she replied before adding, “and pray.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Friday, November 1

Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center

La Junta, Colorado

Sheriff Mobley had hardly slept the night before. He couldn’t put his finger on why the fate of this traveling family weighed on him so much. He made a point to touch base with his own kids and grandchild before turning in for the night. As he tried to fall asleep, he reminded himself how lucky he was to live in a small, close-knit community that most of the world was unfamiliar with.

He thought of the amenities and glamour of living near a big city like San Francisco. The Golden Gate Bridge. Fisherman’s Wharf. The cable cars. As a career law enforcement officer, naturally he’d enjoy visiting famed Alcatraz Island. Yet, today, all of those things were either obliterated or damaged. The people who lived in close proximity to San Francisco Bay perished. And those with the foresight to escape before the blast, like the McDowell family, faced unknown perils regardless.

He awoke around five and immediately dressed for work. His first stop was the sheriff’s office to coordinate the daily shift change. After an update from his deputies, he was pleased to learn that there hadn’t been any new reports of hypothermia cases as a result of the flash freeze. He attributed it to the time of night it had occurred and the fact most of Otero County’s residents were following his admonitions to remain inside to avoid inhaling the nuclear fallout and the soot-filled air.

He arrived at the hospital to check on the McDowell family just as his friend, the attending physician, came in for his fourteen-hour shift. He was standing near the emergency room reception desk, speaking with one of three surgeons the hospital had on staff. He saw Sheriff Mobley arrive and waved him over.

“Shawn, are you here about the McDowells?”

“Yeah. Just wanna see if there’s been any change,” he replied. He said good morning to the surgeon, Dr. Carl Forrest.

“Not yet,” replied his friend. “Listen, I’ve been speaking with Dr. Forrest, who is concerned about the dad’s legs.”

The surgeon furrowed his brow as he addressed the situation. “Shawn, this patient is struggling to fight the effects of hypothermia. His body has been weakened by the frostbite to his lower legs, a condition that is impeding his ability to heal.”

“I assume you need someone’s consent to perform the procedure,” said the sheriff. “Are we approaching a point of no return in which a decision must be made?”

“We may actually be past it,” Dr. Forrest responded. “Long-term effects like congenital malformation and cancer are not even my concern at the moment. Infection and circulatory disorders are beginning to manifest themselves. After the patient’s body was raised to a normal temperature, the threat of traumatic gangrene raised additional concerns.”

“How long can we wait?” asked the sheriff.

Before the surgeon could respond, a nurse came running toward them. “Doctors! The boy is waking up!”

All three men hustled down the long corridor and into the intensive care unit at the back of the hospital. It was segregated from the active emergency room so patients could recuperate, yet it was close enough to have access to the trauma team in the event of a medical problem.

Sheriff Mobley gently grabbed the two physicians by the sleeves to slow their pace. “Guys, let’s not scare the bejesus out of the kid. This young man has some very adult issues to contend with right now.”

The doctors nodded and caught their breath. They casually walked into Tucker’s room with apprehension. Two nurses were making Tucker comfortable and stepped away from the hospital bed to make way for the group.

“Doctors,” began the head ICU nurse, “his vitals remain stable although his heart rate is slightly elevated. He’s been able to drink water on his own although he’s complained of a sore throat.”

The attending physician reached over the bed rail and held Tucker’s hand. “Young man, I’m Dr. Frank Brady. This is Dr. Forrest and Sheriff Mobley. Do you understand where you are?”

As he spoke, he used his penlight to examine Tucker’s eyes and throat. Then, with his stethoscope, he listened to his heart and lungs. Satisfied with the results, he put the instruments away.

Tucker pointed toward his throat and swallowed hard. He whispered his response. “Hospital. Colorado.”

Dr. Forrest stepped in and looked toward one of the nurses. “Let’s get him some ice chips.”

Dr. Brady continued. “I’m sorry I asked you to speak, but it was important for us to confirm that you are aware of your surroundings and that you can comprehend the information we are about to give you.”

Tucker’s eyes darted around the room, and he became slightly agitated. He mouthed the words Mom, Dad.

Dr. Brady held his hand up and smiled. “They’re alive, son. Let us explain. Don’t talk so you can save your strength. Sheriff, would you briefly relay what you and your deputies found.”

Sheriff Mobley related the discovery of their bodies yesterday and how they’d brought the three of them to the hospital. He stopped short of discussing Tucker’s parents’ medical conditions. Dr. Brady took over from there.

“You did an excellent job protecting your mother from the cold. She’s still sleeping in the room next door to us. Tucker, hypothermia takes a terrible toll on a body’s organs and brain. It’s been in your best interest, as well as your parents’, that we didn’t wake you unless absolutely necessary.”

Tucker responded with an imperceptible nod. His eyes began to droop as drowsiness came over him, caused in part by the medications he’d been taking in addition to the trauma his body had endured.

Sheriff Mobley noticed the two doctors exchange a long glance. He knew what they were thinking. The kid was awake. Do they broadside him with his father’s true condition and then pressure Tucker for an answer on the proposed amputation while he was awake?

Dr. Forrest spoke up. “Tucker, your father’s condition is much worse because he was partially exposed to the frigid air. The sheriff tells us he made an unbelievable effort to shield himself from a sudden flash freeze that swept over your vehicle as well as your dad. For that reason, we have to monitor him very closely for issues that you and your mom were fortunate to avoid.”

Tucker comprehended what he was being told, but his eyes studied the faces of the doctors to determine if he was getting the complete story. He pointed toward the white plastic cup of ice chips being held by his nurse. He took a few in his mouth and allowed them to melt. He ate several more over the objection of Dr. Brady, but they seemed to help with the soreness.

“See him.” Two simple words conveying a request that was not so simple to fulfill. Then he fell asleep.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Friday, November 1

Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center

La Junta, Colorado

Tucker slowly sipped the warm chicken broth provided him by the nurses. He was slowly regaining his strength with more rest. He was frustrated with himself for falling asleep before gaining approval to see his dad. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out before the nurses and Dr. Brady had awakened him.

Now that he was able to speak with only a minor twinge of pain in his throat, he planned on pressuring his doctor to allow him to see his parents. He was thrilled when Dr. Brady didn’t object, although he had no idea there was an ulterior motive for his acquiescence.

Tucker was athletic and young. His body had been able to withstand the extreme cold that had encircled him and his mother that night. It had been a rash decision his mom made that almost killed them. Yet he understood why she did it.

They’d been sitting in the front seat of the Bronco when the first massive wind gust swept over them. Lacey shrieked as the truck shook and then was forced several yards down the highway. Then came another, this time sustained. It inched the truck forward, causing them to wonder if they were on the leading edge of a tornado.

Both of them frantically assessed their options. His mom wanted to search for Owen. Tucker argued that they should stay in the truck for safety. She became distraught and impulsive as she began to put on every item of clothing within her grasp that she could wear in order to search for her husband.

Tucker tried to calm his mother, but the flash freeze did that for him. For several moments, neither of them were able to speak, fear stealing their voices. Ice crystals began to form on the windows until soon, they were unable to see outside. Not that it mattered. The blowing snow and ash created whiteout conditions that reduced visibility to zero.

To Tucker, it appeared that the old truck was contracting. It was if a massive set of icy-cold hands had wrapped their frigid fingers around Black & Blue. It creaked and cracked and allowed the brutal cold inside.

Then, without warning, Lacey pulled the door handle on the passenger door and flung her shoulder against it. It broke the seal of ice and flew completely open with the assistance of the wind.

“I have to find your dad,” she said as she swung her body around to exit the truck. She made it three steps before being knocked into the snow-filled ditch adjacent to the highway. Tucker couldn’t get his door open, so he scrambled across the seats to help his mother. He was shocked to see how quickly she’d been affected by the subzero temperatures.

She was incoherent as he lifted her under her armpits to drag her back to the truck. The two-door Bronco was difficult to climb into on a good day, much less in epic blizzard conditions.

After a minute of additional exposure to the flash freeze anomaly, Tucker was able to position his mother in the back seat, and then he climbed in next to her. He pulled every available blanket, sleeping bag, and jacket from the cargo compartment and covered them, providing just enough space for the two of them to breathe.

Then he held his mother. He closed his eyes and concentrated in an attempt to will his body heat into hers. He ignored his own skin burns courtesy of the subzero chill. He could only think of keeping his mom alive. And then he joined his mother as a state of unconsciousness overtook them.

Now, two days later, he’d recovered enough to sit up. He was doted over by the nursing staff and constantly checked on by the doctors. However, he had the sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t being told the whole story about his parents’ conditions. He simply had to see for himself.

With Dr. Brady’s approval and supervision, Tucker was allowed to get out of bed and into a wheelchair. He was wrapped in a wool blanket, and his feet were covered with fuzzy, nonslip-grip socks. When he was ready to roll in his wheelchair, Dr. Brady elected to push his patient from room to room himself.

“Thank you, Dr. Brady,” said Tucker as they slowly rolled out of his room in the ICU.

“You’re welcome, young man. You’ve made a remarkable recovery considering what you’ve been through. After we’ve checked on your family, I plan on moving you to a room in another part of the hospital if you can stand on your own two feet. Our generators aren’t capable of operating the elevators in addition to the other loads they’re carrying. Our hospital beds upstairs can only be accessed by more mobile patients or by our strongest orderlies carrying you up the emergency stairwell.”

“I’d like to stay near my parents,” said Tucker as he wiggled his toes and then stretched his calves by moving his feet.

“We’ll see,” said the doctor noncommittally. He changed the subject to his mother’s condition. “Medically, your mom is considered to be in a coma. Most people associate coma with a direct brain injury resulting from some form of physical trauma. A stroke can cause a person to lapse into a coma as well.”

Tucker became uneasy. “A stroke?”

“No, not in your mom’s case,” Dr. Brady replied. “Each of you sustained a different level of trauma from the flash freeze event. That could’ve been a result of exposure to the elements, age, and physical conditioning. That’s why it’s not surprising that you’ve recovered first.” He stopped to speak to a nurse before continuing.

“We treat coma patients differently based upon the underlying cause. In your mom’s and dad’s cases, we’ve focused on their respiratory and circulatory systems. We have to keep oxygen and blood flowing to the brain.”

“Why can’t you wake her up?”

“The sudden drop in her body’s temperature resulted in her organs being on the verge of shutting down. The consequences of this were reduced blood flow and oxygen supply to the brain. Her brain swelled, and she went into a coma. Leaving her in a comatose state actually aids in her body’s recovery because she’s not exposed to external stimuli or concern for others. She needs as much rest as she can get, and pulling her out before her body is ready can result in permanent damage to the brain tissue.”

Tucker became suddenly quiet as the doctor stated the facts plainly and succinctly. It was a lot for a fifteen-year-old to process, but he appreciated the candor. Once he was rolled into his mother’s room, he became full of emotion. He raised his right hand, instructing the doctor to stop short of his mother’s bed.

She looked peaceful yet pained. Her face was completely at rest, but her body remained rigid under the layers of blankets designed to keep her warm. A variety of monitoring equipment flashed numbers and lights that Tucker didn’t want to understand. However, he did know this. His mom was alive.

After a moment of studying her from a distance, he asked to be wheeled closer. He wanted to hold her hand. He wanted to hug his mother as he had in the back seat that night in an attempt to keep her warm. A flood of emotions coursed through his mind until suddenly, without warning or permission, Tucker stepped up from the wheelchair using the bed’s side rails to assist him. Dr. Brady and the nurses implored him to sit back down, but he ignored them.

Tucker leaned over and whispered, “Mom, I love you. It’s gonna be all right. I promise.” Then he gave her a tear-soaked kiss on the cheek.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Friday, November 1

Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center

La Junta, Colorado

The next visit did not go at all like Tucker had hoped. Convinced to return to his wheelchair, Dr. Brady pushed him farther down the corridor to the ICU room closest to the nurses’ station. Owen, he explained, required very close monitoring at this stage of his treatment. The doctor provided Tucker a similar update to the one he’d given on his mother, with one noticeable exception that Tucker instantly picked up on. Dr. Brady never used the word recovery in connection with his father’s treatment. Phrases like not out of the woods yet and critical condition were used more than once.

Tucker steadied his nerves as they entered his father’s room. At first glance, he saw the same types of monitoring equipment connected to his father’s body as he’d observed in his mom’s room. Likewise, his dad was wrapped in blankets and seemed to be resting peacefully with his arms by his sides. Then something struck him as out of the ordinary.

“Why are his feet bandaged up like that and not under the blankets?”

Dr. Brady sighed. The moment of truth. Mentally, the doctor determined Tucker was ready. His mettle was about to be tested because a decision had to be made.

The doctor positioned Tucker’s wheelchair so he had a full view of his father lying in bed. He nodded toward the door, indicating to the nurses they should leave the room. They eased out and shut the door behind them. Dr. Brady slid a chair over from a corner of the room so that he was sitting by Tucker’s side.

Tucker studied the doctor’s face and scowled. He choked back the tears and sat a little taller in the wheelchair. After another glance at the monitors and his father’s face, he turned slightly and spoke to Dr. Brady. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Young man, I am not going to sugarcoat any of this. You strike me as very mature, and I applaud your parents for raising you to become the man that you are. We have a situation with your dad that requires an adult decision. Today, in this moment, you have to be that adult.”

Tucker swallowed hard and nodded at Dr. Brady without breaking eye contact. Apprehension supplanted sorrow as he prepared himself for what he was about to hear.

“Based upon what we learned from the sheriff’s office, your dad was caught completely off guard by this weather anomaly. The flash freeze hit the west end of the county the hardest. From what they could tell, he did his level best to avoid the frigid air by trying to bury himself in hay in the back of a pickup.

“His efforts kept him alive, but unfortunately, he wasn’t totally covered. The deputy discovered his body because his legs were protruding out from the hay just below the knees. Both extremities suffered fourth-degree severe frostbite.”

“What does that mean?” asked Tucker.

“Well, first degree is skin irritation and pain, the level of frostbite you and your mom suffered. Although, there was evidence of second-degree blisters on your mom’s hands but no major damage. Fourth degree, the level suffered by your dad, is indicated when the frostbite is so severe it causes bones and tendons to freeze.”

Tucker’s eyes grew wide as he immediately looked at his father’s feet. He ran his fingers through his hair and then wiped away the tears that began to seep from his eyes.

He took a deep breath and asked, inwardly knowing what was coming next, “What are you saying?”

Dr. Brady furrowed his brow. He’d learned throughout his medical career that one of the most difficult tasks he faced in addition to saving lives was informing the family of a loved one’s death. Explaining to a son that his father was about to lose half his legs ranked right up there.

“The best treatment for fourth-degree frostbite is hyperbaric oxygen therapy, a process involving breathing pure oxygen in a pressurized room. We don’t have that kind of facility here, and it’s doubtful any of the major hospitals in Denver or Colorado Springs have one that is functioning due to the EMP. Even if they did, there aren’t any helicopters that survived the EMP either.”

“Isn’t there something else you can do?” asked Tucker.

“Tucker, I’m gonna have to shoot straight with you, okay? We’ve waited as long as we can to make a decision.”

For the next several minutes, Dr. Brady explained the options to Tucker. He soaked in the information and then asked to have some time alone with his father. He sat there, crying, asking God why this had to happen to his family. Then he asked for guidance to help him make the most difficult decision of his life.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Friday, November 1

Arkansas Valley Regional Medical Center

La Junta, Colorado

“How are our patients doing?” Sheriff Mobley asked the ICU nurses as he took another sip of coffee. He’d spent the day defusing a domestic dispute between a local couple who were considered by the community as head over heels in love. He chalked up the heated argument to temporary insanity from being locked down during the adverse conditions.

Dr. Brady appeared from another patient’s room and responded to the sheriff. “Mom is stable but still out. Dad’s slipping. We can’t make any progress because of his lower limbs. A decision has to be made, Shawn.”

“What about Tucker?”

“He’s doing as well as can be expected, physically. Mentally, I took him to visit his mother, and although he seemed distraught at the shock of seeing her that way, he handled it like the strong young man that he is.”

“I can feel a but coming,” said the sheriff. He finished his coffee and handed the Styrofoam cup to the desk nurse, who graciously threw it away for him.

“Shawn, I had to lay out his father’s condition and treatment options for him. We’re out of time, I’m afraid.”

Sheriff Mobley looked up and down the corridor, which was empty. “Is he in his room? May I talk to him?”

Dr. Brady pointed towards Owen’s closed door. “He asked to be left alone. That was half an hour ago.”

Sheriff Mobley gently rapped his knuckles on the counter and winked at his old friend. “Give me a little time. Maybe he needs a sounding board.”

He walked to Owen’s room and stared through the small glass window in the door. Tucker was sitting in the wheelchair, staring at his father’s face. Sheriff Mobley slowly turned the knob and cracked the door enough for his head to fit through.

“Hey, Tucker. Can I come in?”

Tucker sat up in the wheelchair and took a deep breath before exhaling. “Yeah, sure.”

First, Sheriff Mobley asked Tucker how he was feeling. He complimented him on how much better he looked since they’d met when Tucker woke up for the first time. Then he walked around to the opposite side of the hospital bed and studied Owen’s face. He grimaced and then allowed a slight smile.

“Your dad’s a helluva fighter. What he did to protect himself saved his life.”

“Yeah,” mumbled Tucker, whose attention turned to Owen’s feet. “My mom’s still out, and the doctor said it’s too dangerous to wake her up right now.”

Sheriff Mobley came around the bed and sat in the chair vacated by Dr. Brady earlier. “That’s what I hear. She’s gonna pull through, Tucker, if her body is allowed to heal itself.”

Tucker sighed and rolled his head around his shoulders to relieve some tension. “This really sucks, you know.”

The sheriff nodded. He gently patted Tucker on the back. “Ya wanna talk about it?”

Tucker shrugged. “I guess. Might as well. I mean…” His voice trailed off as he pushed himself up and grasped his father’s bed rails.

“Shouldn’t you be sitting—?”

Tucker ignored the question and allowed his thoughts to pour out of him. “I’ve got some really crappy options,” he began. He rubbed his hands along the rail, gripping it for comfort and strength as he spoke.

“Tell me what you’re thinkin’,” interrupted Sheriff Mobley, giving Tucker a moment to gather his thoughts.

“Okay, well. My mom’s in this sort of long sleep, coma thing that I’m told isn’t serious. However, it’s necessary for her recovery, so they aren’t comfortable waking her because of brain damage.

“Dad’s legs were left exposed to the flash freeze. Dr. Brady said he has the worst kind of frostbite from his calves to his toes. Basically, everything from the bottom of the knees down is dead.

“The problem is his legs need to be amputated because his body is spending too much effort to save the legs and not enough to heal the rest of his organs. Their solution is to amputate and focus on saving his life.”

“That’s what I’ve been told,” added the sheriff, allowing Tucker to catch his breath.

“Well, Mom can’t make the decision, and they want me to.” He turned to Sheriff Mobley. “Do you hear what I’m saying? They want me to approve cutting off my father’s legs.”

Tucker closed his eyes and began shaking his head side to side. Tears flowed out of his eyes as he imagined being responsible for his father’s inability to walk.

Sheriff Mobley looked away briefly as he tried to avoid crying along with Tucker. He felt a deep sadness for the teen, who was faced with such an important decision alone. He gathered himself and joined Tucker’s side. The father of four placed his arm around Tucker and spoke in a softer tone. “Sometimes, life throws us a curveball. It’s not fair, and we’re left to deal with it regardless of how old we are.”

Tucker nodded. “Dr. Brady says that if we amputate, Dad has a better chance to live. If they don’t, we could lose him soon. Maybe even today.”

Sheriff Mobley let out an audible gasp. He hadn’t heard that from Dr. Brady. But then again, this decision had been looming over the medical team for more than a day.

Tucker continued. “He says that even if we don’t amputate, the potential gangrene or infection could take his entire leg, basically confining him to a wheelchair forever. At least with the lower legs only being removed, they can fit him with prosthetics that will allow him to walk. Maybe even hike and stuff.”

The two of them continued to stare at Owen. “And a better chance of recovery, right?”

Tucker chuckled and nodded. Finally, somebody had associated the word recovery with his dad’s condition.

“No guarantees, of course. He was pretty definite about what would happen if Dr. Forrest doesn’t amputate.”

Sheriff Mobley stepped away from Tucker slightly so he could gauge his reaction. “What would your father do if the roles were reversed?”

Tucker laughed. “He’d Google it. Well, I mean, he’d Yahoo it since that’s where he works. Somehow, Yahooing something never caught on like Googling did. Anyway, he’d weigh the options and then make a decision.”

“And what do you think it would be?”

Tucker jutted out his chin and smiled at his father. “He’d rather have three-quarters of me than none at all.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Friday, November 1

Driftwood Key

Jessica and Mike were like two ships passing in the night. She returned from her shift driving one of the county’s surplus Ford F-250 pickups. The vehicle wasn’t recognized by Jimmy as it eased across the bridge toward the front gate, so Jessica stopped well short of the entry and turned off the headlights. She shouted at Jimmy to stand down. Mike, who was preparing to exit the key for work, immediately recognized her voice.

She pulled through the gate onto the key, and the married couple spent a few moments together before Mike left. He already expected a long night, as he’d volunteered to work the blockades at the toll bridge. He wanted to see for himself whether they were secure and what kind of crowds had amassed on the Homestead side of the bridge.

“The sheriff and the mayor spent most of the afternoon and evening huddled up in the Islamorada office,” said Jessica after the two broke their embrace. “It was a hot topic among any governmental personnel she encountered, and the coconut telegraph was all abuzz.” The phrase was an oft-used term paying homage to a song performed by Jimmy Buffett, “Coconut Telegraph,” referring to a rumor mill in the islands.

“I can only imagine,” said Mike as he shook his head. He held his wife’s hand as they leaned against the truck and enjoyed the silence of the evening except for the random ticking sound coming from the Ford’s hot engine. “Any idea what they’re up to?”

Jessica sighed. “Supposedly the mayor wants more cops on the street. Residents are complaining about the huge uptick in home invasions each day. The sheriff says his manpower is stretched thin because of the checkpoints at the bridges.”

“I feel a demand for working longer hours coming.”

Jessica nodded. “That’s part of the solution. The other suggestion by the mayor was to deputize a bunch of people. She wants warm bodies.”

“Armed, too?” asked Mike.

“I assume. You and I both know that the investigation of these types of crimes will never happen. Heck, you can’t even spend time tracking down the only serial killer in Florida Keys history.”

“No shit. Listen, I understand we all have competing interests here. The mayor wants people to feel safe in their homes, and the sheriff is trying to minimize the number of potential criminals on our streets by eliminating the nonresidents. The unknowns, as he calls them.”

Jessica walked away from the truck and shrugged. “Well, I hope he deputizes the knowns because, otherwise, we could find ourselves working alongside someone with a gun who doesn’t know how the damn thing works.”

Mike rolled his eyes and laughed. “Anything else exciting?”

Jessica smiled and walked back into his arms. “Yeah. Your partner wanted me to let you know he might have a lead on the killing that took place near Islamorada. He said it came as the result of a random conversation he had with a bartender up there.”

“Hey, there’s some good news,” said Mike cheerily. If he had his way, he’d be chasing every lead to find the serial killer regardless of the apocalypse.

“The other good news is the fact that there haven’t been any more bodies turn up since they found the one in the dumpster several days ago,” added Jessica before asking, “Do you think he’s moved on?”

Mike stuck his chin out and stared in the direction of Marathon. “I want to believe so. Maybe. Somehow his MO may have been thrown off by the power outage. It’s possible he remained in Key West after the last murder and saw how quickly we descended upon the crime scene. It’s all speculation, but I do know he’s taken a breather.”

“Stopped the bleeding, right?” asked Jessica with a chuckle.

“Yeah,” agreed Mike, with the insensitive choice of words. He glanced at his watch, but he wanted to give Jessica a heads-up on their patient. “Speaking of stopping the bleeding, apparently Patrick is recuperating nicely. He’s sitting up in bed on his own and making it to the bathroom without assistance.”

“Good for him.”

“You know, Jess, I’ve dealt with victims of crimes my entire career. Including the families of murder victims. In every case, both victims and families are determined to find the perp. I mean, you know, I’ve shared this with you. They’re uber-helpful. Any little detail is sent my way. They watch a damn episode of Blue Bloods and call with some theory or another. I have to humor them sometimes, and I always respect them because I can’t imagine what they’re going through.”

“Where are you goin’ with this, Mike?”

He hesitated before responding, “I just don’t get that same feeling with Patrick.”

Jessica rubbed her husband’s shoulder. “Do you think it’s PTSD?” It was common for the victim of a brutal sexual assault and beating to want to block out the event as a coping mechanism.

“I don’t know,” he responded as he stared off into the distance.

Jessica had a suggestion. “Try spending some more time with him on a personal level. You know, not as Mike the detective but as a concerned member of the Albright family. Maybe he’ll open up?”

Mike glanced at his watch. He would be late, not that anyone would notice. He was most interested in catching up with his partner in Islamorada to see what he’d learned about the body they’d found in the hammocks.

“Yeah. We’ll see. Love you.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek and climbed into his truck. Jimmy quickly opened the gate to let Mike out. He drove off into the darkness with his mind focused on the serial killer who’d eluded him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Friday, November 1

North of Winston-Salem, North Carolina

Before dawn that morning, Peter found a looted gas station near the Virginia-North Carolina border. It allowed him an opportunity to sleep for several hours, which was sufficient rest to ride well into North Carolina before stopping for the evening. He’d traveled an extraordinary number of miles early that Friday, and he’d be pleased to make it another sixty miles or so to the outskirts of Winston-Salem by nightfall. A good night’s sleep there would put him back on a daytime travel cycle.

Peter had been diligent about staying hydrated and checking on his wounds. Between the mall and his foray into CVS, he’d obtained a duffel bag full of first aid supplies and considered them to be more important than toting his sleeping gear.

Despite the long rides, his body was responding better than expected. His various pains were subsiding, and his excellent conditioning as a runner aided his stamina, which helped him avoid taking breaks. After crossing into North Carolina, the terrain became less forgiving. He started to experience more hills, which both challenged his energy levels but provided him a respite as he coasted downhill.

He stopped to drink from a roadside stream. He had a temporary lapse of judgment during which he cupped the water in his hands to slurp it down. He thought he was sufficiently far enough away from DC to avoid the radioactive fallout, but then he reminded himself that the nukes might have struck nearby. Charlotte was a major banking center. Raleigh-Durham was a high-tech corridor. There were also numerous strategic military bases in the region, including Fort Bragg and Seymour-Johnson Air Force Base.

He pulled out his LifeStraw and filled the stainless-steel cup that came with the canteen. He added his electrolyte supplement and drank it down. Peter had to remind himself that he could take nothing for granted when it came to the harmful effects of nuclear winter. The radiation was only one aspect. The soot and ash flowing through the atmosphere could also be harmful to his airways and digestive system.

He studied the map and identified a town close to Winston-Salem called Stokesdale. It appeared to be about ten miles north of the city and a logical place to head west for fifteen or twenty miles before finding a desolate road that would lead him due south.

Peter approached the town as the sun was setting and temperatures were dropping. It seemed to be getting slightly colder and darker each day, which was not unexpected. He was, however, surprised by how low the temperatures had dropped below what he considered to be normal for early November. Once again, he reminded himself he was in uncharted territory, and therefore, he should expect the unexpected.

Which was exactly what he got.

He navigated through a wooded area during his approach to the town. One winding turn after another minimized his visibility of the road ahead. He took a deep breath and pedaled harder as he rose up a steady incline on the tree-lined road that obscured what little light remained that day.

His body was screaming now, the hill seemingly being the last straw his muscles could take as he pedaled to the top of the rise. He kept going, determined to make it to the point he’d identified on the map before turning west. His breathing was labored, but he kept pressing on.

Almost there. Peter encouraged himself to continue up the hill. He stood on the pedals and pushed downward to keep a steady pace. He was not going to quit, but, in his mind, he hoped the intersection would provide another vacant gas station or business to shelter him for the night.

Peter looked ahead and saw that the top of the hill was approaching. Like reaching the apex of a roller coaster, he arrived at the top and began to sail down the hill, building up speed to get to his destination sooner. Peter leaned back on the seat and arched his back to relieve some tension. He took a deep breath of the musty air inside the gaiter he’d been wearing from time to time.

He was coasting at a high rate of speed as he crossed through the intersection with several abandoned businesses in sight. As had been his practice, when the stop sign appeared, he ignored it. He hadn’t encountered any operating vehicles since his Mustang stopped running.

This time was different.

As he entered the intersection, a car appeared out of nowhere from the west. Peter struggled to slow the bicycle to stop. When he couldn’t, he chose to pedal faster to beat the approaching vehicle, which he did. Barely.

He abruptly applied the brakes and skidded to a clumsy halt, almost toppling his bike over as he lost control for a moment. He stepped off the pedals to straddle the frame. Peter furrowed his brow and physically wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. He looked in wonderment as the passing vehicle slowed at a curve and applied the brakes before speeding eastward.

“Wow! Didn’t expect that,” Peter said aloud.

HONK!

Peter jerked his head around. Another car was approaching, and they were laying on the horn to force him out of the road. Peter pushed off and shuffled to the shoulder to avoid getting hit by the second car. This time, he got a better look at it. It was a late-model Mercedes.

Once again, he rubbed his eyes as if he were dreaming. Then he rubbed both hands on his thighs as if to confirm he was really standing by his bicycle. In the growing darkness, he studied the buildings around him. None of them showed signs of life, much less electricity. Yet two late-model cars had just sailed past him.

Peter took a deep breath and held it. He focused all of his senses on his surroundings, straining as he listened for any signs of machinery operating, whether it be another car or a small appliance. He cupped his hands to his ears in an effort to block out any ambient noise caused by the wind rustling through the trees. He concentrated.

Then he heard it. It was the low rumble of a truck approaching from behind him. He pushed his bicycle off the shoulder of the road behind a dumpster standing between a gas station and a barbeque restaurant.

Peter pulled his weapon and crouched next to it. Peering around the edge of the dumpster, Peter saw headlights appear on the road he’d just traveled along. The truck had lumbered up the hill and was coasting down the other side toward the stop sign. Only, he stopped, whereas Peter hadn’t.

After a second, the driver of the diesel farm truck began to drive past him, shifting gears as he picked up speed. Peter wanted to call out and ask him a simple question.

How?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Friday, November 1

Stokesdale, North Carolina

Peter eased up out of his crouch and assessed his surroundings. There were several older homes at the intersection together with an auto repair business on the back side of the gas station. The barbecue restaurant was attached to a hair salon. Despite the vehicles that had unexpectedly passed him, the rural crossroads was devoid of life except for a dog nosing around the back of the building.

Peter breathed a sigh of relief. He watched the dog sniffing around in search of food and wondered if the older pup might help him find something to eat as he suddenly realized how hungry he was.

The pup noticed him and immediately made a beeline to Peter’s side. Tail wagging and the tags on his collar jingling, the family pet turned scavenger used his friendly nature to introduce himself to Peter.

He crouched down and held his right hand out for the dog to sniff him. Peter spoke in a calm, reassuring tone. “Hey, buddy. Are you looking for some yummies?”

The dog responded by wagging his tail even faster. He sniffed at Peter’s arm and then sat down, eagerly allowing Peter to scrub on his neck. His panting and smiling face confirmed to Peter that he wasn’t likely to bite him.

“I wish I could help ya. I’m pretty sure the MRE bars I have would suck for you as much as they suck for me.”

Peter stood and rummaged through his bag in search of the Clif protein bars. Most of them had chocolate, but he found one that substituted carob, a powdered form of the dark brown pea produced by the carob tree that tasted like chocolate. He broke off a small piece and allowed the Heinz 57 pup to try it.

“Um, did you even taste that?” asked Peter with a chuckle. The dog panted, and his eyes seemed to ask for more. “All right, a couple more bites. Let’s not overload that stomach.”

Peter fed his new friend half and ate the other half for himself. It was hardly enough but satisfied him until he could find shelter. The dog raised his nose in the air and caught a scent of something. He darted off between the buildings and glanced back at Peter before disappearing.

He suddenly felt exposed. Thus far, he’d been riding along with very little human contact, thank goodness. Either the people he’d encountered had tried to kill him or they had already been dead. Peter had developed a survival mindset in which everyone was a threat and the world would be lacking any form of operating electronic device. Yet, here he was, roughly three hundred miles from Washington, and he’d just witnessed three vehicles that had survived the electromagnetic pulse generated by the nuclear warhead destroying the city.

Peter needed to process this as well as rest for the next day’s ride. He considered his options. Unlike the small communities he’d ridden through previously, these businesses didn’t appear to be looted. There was no electricity, at least as far as his eyes could see. This was puzzling to him as well. If the EMP didn’t impact the cars, why would it take down the electric grid here?

He paced back and forth behind the dumpster, contemplating all of this. Finally, he pushed his bicycle between the buildings. At the rear of the simple block building, which contained the restaurant and hair salon, there was another business that built storage sheds. They were the kind you found at most home improvement stores. Shaped like small cabins and Dutch barns, the simple structures could be loaded on the back of a flatbed delivery truck and installed on blocks just about anywhere the owner desired. They’d become popular for some as tiny houses, a way of living inexpensively and, in some cases, off the grid.

Now that he’d seen signs of activity in the form of moving vehicles, Peter assumed law enforcement was active as well. He was not comfortable breaking into the businesses to look for food and shelter. He looked to the inventory of storage barns as an option that might not draw the owner’s ire if he was discovered.

He checked the door handles of the first few floor models lining the front of the business. They were all unlocked. After a look around, he decided on a small, near-windowless storage building in the middle of the business’s inventory. The lack of windows would insulate him from the cold, and the centralized location within the property might give him a heads-up in the event somebody else had the same idea.

Operating vehicles meant people were more mobile. The lack of electricity meant they were still going to be desperate.

Peter wheeled his bicycle inside and unloaded the gear. Then he laid the bike crossways across the barn door and used his bungee cords to secure it to the interior door handles. This barricade would give him peace of mind as he slept.

After rebandaging his wounds, he laid out the various pills that had become part of his daily regimen. The Keflex followed by the potassium iodide. He also took a multivitamin, vitamin C, D, and E supplements as well as a zinc tablet, most of which helped build his body’s immunities to disease. He had a sufficient supply to last him six months although he was certain he’d be back at Driftwood Key by then. Meanwhile, as he traveled, he’d be more likely to encounter diseased animals or people. And, as he’d proven, the prospect of being injured was high as well. The vitamins and supplements would help protect him while his nutrition was lacking.

After settling in, Peter took a sip of the Chivas Regal scotch he’d packed at the golf course. It caused him to wince as it went down, but he allowed himself another swig. He chuckled to himself as he imagined a doctor assessing his mental state. On the one hand, he was taking extra precautions to keep his body safe with various supplements. On the other, he was swigging a premium scotch without regard to the countereffect on his medication.

“Sometimes, you gotta just say screw it. Right, Pete?”

He took another sip. Within minutes, the lack of food in his stomach immediately resulted in a buzz. Peter, who’d never been a heavy drinker, had become a survivalist much like his sister. He recognized the importance of keeping a clear head. He capped the bottle of Chivas and stored it away before he took one swig too many.

Peter inhaled deeply, leaned against the wall of the shed, and laid the AR-15 across his lap. He closed his eyes and ran all the scenarios through his head. He tried to recall everything he’d ever learned about EMPs.

After all the calculations and possibilities were run through his mind, he came to the conclusion that the effect of the ground detonation in Washington had been limited to a certain radius. He became convinced that the power grid had been taken down due to the cascading failure similar to what had happened in India years ago.

Most likely, he decided, appliances and electronics like computers could function the farther he traveled away from DC. And, as he’d witnessed, vehicles were moving, although not in large numbers.

This meant his options for getting home just widened. As Peter drifted off to sleep, his entire focus changed. He needed to find a ride, one with at least four wheels.