Nuclear Winter Whiteout by Bobby Akart (books for 8th graders .txt) 📕

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