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

dating him. But he turned them down, claiming to be in a relationship with a girl back home.

Then, during one night of cocaine and excessive drinking, Patrick found himself in the dorm room of a buddy of his. The young man claimed to be bisexual, and he encouraged Patrick to explore his sexuality, which he did.

And he liked it. Yet, he didn’t. Even for the time, many in the LGBTQ community felt compelled to remain withdrawn from some aspects of society. “You can’t be an openly gay doctor or lawyer or accountant,” they told themselves.

Patrick soon began to resent the fact that he couldn’t be who he needed to be to live life to the fullest. So he learned to hide in plain sight by cross-dressing as a woman. At first, he was nervous as he went into public. He’d stroll the mall or go to a restaurant. Testing the waters of life as someone he wasn’t but who he wanted to be.

He continued through college, excelling at business administration, and graduated with high honors. From time to time, he’d sneak out of Gainesville and drive to Atlanta or Tampa or especially Orlando, where he could remain anonymous.

He’d meet men. Sometimes, he was Patrick. Other times, he was Patricia. He would change personas like most people changed socks. He mastered his craft and eventually settled on Patricia during the evening and Patrick during the day.

To say Patrick Hollister had descended into madness would be incorrect. He was simply mad. Not mad in the sense that he’d lost his mind, although many would argue anyone capable of the heinous murders he’d perpetrated must be at the highest level of bat-shit crazy.

No, Patrick was mad because he felt compelled to hide himself from the world. He felt cheap. Like he was forced to lurk in the shadows in order to find his soul mate. This ate away at him until he acted out in a drunken rage.

His first kill was a brutal affair. He’d had too much to drink, and the man he picked up in the bar was furious when he found out Patricia was actually Patrick. A fight ensued, and Patrick bludgeoned the man to death with a bottle of vodka before slicing open his throat. This happened in Ybor City near Tampa, a crime that was written off as a lovers’ quarrel gone horribly wrong.

After that night, he’d never felt more alive. He killed twice more. Once in Orlando and a second time in Hialeah near Miami. Then he stopped. He tried to get a hold of himself.

With his degree and exceptional grades, he landed a job as an assistant manager at the Island State Bank branch in Islamorada. Then, by a stroke of luck, for him, anyway, the branch manager had a heart attack and died. He was named the temporary branch manager, a title that became permanent after six months. He was a young man and a hustler. Patrick had an empathetic side that endeared himself to all of his customers, young and old, male and female.

However, the hunger within him continued to fester. One thing he’d learned about himself was that his desire to kill, the act of stealing the life of another human being, gave him more pleasure than the sexual encounters he engaged in.

The silent rage festered within him, and he took his lust for murder to Coconut Grove. He scoped out the lively crowd. One lonely man emerged as an easy mark. The kill was enjoyable. Exhilarating. Worthy of taking the risk of doing it again.

With his appreciation of fashion and makeup, Patrick, as Patricia, became indistinguishable from any other attractive woman. So he tried his luck closer to home, adding to the excitement.

He killed again and again. Unable to stop. More frequent. Increasingly elaborate. Unlike the bludgeoning, brutal death of his first victim. Patrick was studying anatomy and surgical techniques and watching Dexter on Showtime. He’d learned how to do it right, and now, despite the apocalypse, Patricia was ready to strike again.

With the bank branches closed until further notice, he had a lot of free time on his hands. The first thing he did was gain access to the Island State Bank branch in Key West on Whitehead Street. The island-style property was in fact a historic home that had been renovated into a bank building. It still maintained its Key West character, so to the casual observer, it looked very much like a home with its Victorian appointments together with upper and lower wraparound decks.

Inside, the lower level was devoted to retail banking. Upstairs, bank officers dealing with money transfers and loan administration occupied several offices. There was also a fully furnished apartment for visiting members of the bank’s board of directors, who were scattered throughout the country.

Patrick decided to move into the apartment so he could be closer to the action. Gasoline was nowhere to be found, and his killing opportunities were greatly reduced at his home in Islamorada. He moved his clothes, and Patricia’s, to the bank located a block off famed Duval Street and set up a base of operations.

Once he was ready to hit the late-night party scene, Patricia ventured out to the Green Parrot, which was just down the street. She marveled at the number of people who’d remained in Key West to party like it was the end of the world. Well, she thought to herself as she strutted down the sidewalk, maybe it is. If so, she planned on going out with a smile on her face.

That night, there were innumerable opportunities to score, she realized as she nursed a mai tai through a tall straw. As had been her MO, tried and proven, she waited until closing time to scoop up just the right guy. Small in stature. Inebriated. Horny.

They left the bar together, and the young man tried to immediately get handsy with her. She playfully patted away his advances. To the other drunks roaming the streets of Key West at