Nuclear Winter Devil Storm by Bobby Akart (read 50 shades of grey .txt) 📕

shooter. He knelt down and helped the distraught nurse off the floor and led her against the wall adjoining the trauma corridor. He forced her to look at him instead of the dead security guard who lay ten feet away.

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

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

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

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

“Which one is trauma three?” asked Mike.

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

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

She nodded. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait for it, Mike. Steady.

His inner thoughts became mute, but his muscle memory didn’t fail him. Just as the gunman began to swing his weapon from the surgical