Nuclear Winter Armageddon by Bobby Akart (best large ereader .txt) 📕

“It’s locked down!” One of the men shouted. His partner quickly rebuked him.

“We got this, man. Stand aside.”

Peter moved the totes of insulin and antibiotics across the counter to the side of the computer register. He wasn’t sure how this was going to play out, but he certainly wanted to stay alive first and protect the drugs second. He crouched down and moved as far back into the dark recesses of the pharmacy as he could yet still be able to watch their movements.

The four men huddled in front of the drop-off window. Thus far, none of them had the presence of mind to look up to notice the missing ceiling tiles.

Peter readied his weapon. He had to remain disciplined.

SMACK! SMACK!

The sound of the countertop being broken apart with a sledgehammer filled the air. The kids from the food aisle apparently hadn’t left yet, by their shrieks and screams. They raced out the front door, leaving their snacks behind.

“Put your back into it! Gimme that thing!”

The intruders changed positions.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

This man was stronger, and soon debris was flying inward as the countertop succumbed to the pummeling of the sledgehammer. With smaller, precision blows, a hole was quickly opened up, and the men began to crawl through.

Peter was not a murderer, but he was a killer. He’d taken another’s life in an effort to survive a terrorist attack. An hour after the shooting in Abu Dhabi, he’d vomited all over the interrogation table at the Abu Dhabi police headquarters. The realization had set in as to what he’d done. He wasn’t guilty or remorseful. He’d done what he had to. Yet that first kill still ran through his mind.

He wondered if the second, third or even fifth would stick with him as well.

Peter moved slowly to the far end of the pharmacy near the consultation room. He kept his gun pointed toward the counter, where the men were on their hands and knees. They crawled gingerly over the splinters without a sense of urgency. One after another, they made their way inside, helping the next man to his feet. Peter’s mind raced as he considered his options.

Should he hold them at gunpoint, demanding they move to the back of the store while he escaped through the hole they’d made? Should he demand to see their weapons? Would they comply or open fire? Could he take them all in a gunfight? These guys looked streetwise. Real killers, unlike him.

Until now.

Once the four men were inside, Peter begged God’s forgiveness and began shooting. He fired four shots in rapid succession, striking each man in some part of their upper body. Two fell to their knees, and the other two attempted to dive for cover.

Peter moved quickly toward them. He shot the two men in front of him again in the chest. They were the most vulnerable and easy to kill.

A shot rang out and sailed past him, ricocheting off the steel grate. Peter instantly broke out into a sweat as he fell to his knees. He fired back wildly as he sent three rounds through the shelves of pharmaceuticals. One of the men groaned in pain.

Peter lost track of how many shots he’d fired. In his nervous state of mind, he couldn’t remember how many rounds his nine-millimeter magazines held. He knew he only had a couple left. Peter had trained with his uncle on how to shoot his Springfield 1911. But he hadn’t learned how to act in a gunfight. He’d learned the hard way how to survive through his reactions in Abu Dhabi, but he’d not thought about things like ammo discipline and having multiple magazines with him to reload.

He decided to bluff.

“You’re next, buddy! You can live through this and have all the drugs you want. I don’t want the shit you’re after. But you gotta slide your gun out and hold your hands high.”

“No way, asshole!”

“I know you’re hit!” Peter shouted back. “I’ve already killed these two. You’re the only thing that stands between me and the door. I’m not gonna mess with you, understand?”

The man didn’t say anything in response.

Peter heard the sound of feet shuffling. He thought the man might be scooting along the floor. He lowered his body and crawled toward the two dead men.

Neither had a gun in their hands because Peter had shot them before they could draw. He reached under the bloodied shirt of the first man, hoping to find the man’s weapon tucked in his waistband. He was apparently unarmed.

Now you’re a murderer, Peter, he thought to himself.

Peter slowly retreated to his original position. He heard the shuffling sound toward the back of the pharmacy. The man was wounded and acting like a trapped animal. He wasn’t to be trifled with, especially since Peter was down to a couple of bullets. He decided to take a chance.

He rose to his knees and blindly felt around the counter where he’d stashed the insulin and antibiotics. He found the handles to both bags and transferred them to his left hand. Then, with his gun trained on the sound of the movement at the back of the pharmacy, he slowly retreated backwards through the opening created by the looters.

As soon as he was beyond the counter, he rolled over toward Jackie’s position and breathed for the first time in more than a minute. Peter’s chest was heaving as he tried to calm himself and listen for his adversary to emerge from the pharmacy. Once he’d regained his composure, and satisfied the man wasn’t pursuing him, Peter rose to his feet and made his way into the hair products section.

“Jackie! Let’s go!”

There was no answer.

Peter dropped the bags to the carpeted floor and gripped his pistol with both hands. He let the barrel lead the way toward the far wall of the store. He didn’t want to call out her name again in case the men had someone else with them.

Aisle by aisle, Peter inched up to the end cap of the display