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

somewhere in our memory banks, we recalled how to do something and could immediately pick up where we left off when the time came.

For Peter, that was not exactly the case. For one thing, he’d never owned a bicycle. Growing up in the Florida Keys, everything was about water. Paddleboards, Jet Skis, boating, and scuba diving were his outdoor activities of choice. When he played with other kids, their days were spent on the water, and to get to one another’s houses, they walked, swam, or paddled.

After Peter loaded his gear onto the Schwinn motorized bicycle, he stepped across the frame and straddled it. He held the handlebars with a firm grip and considered his next move. With his backpack stuffed full, he had to twist his entire body to look behind him. He gave one final inspection of the duffel bags strapped down with bungee cords to the battery rack above the rear wheel. He realized the bike was going to be difficult to balance, as a slight shift in his weight could cause it to topple.

He’d already given up his shelter gear consisting of a tent and sleeping bag. He was trying to eliminate the bulk he had to travel with. He felt he could locate suitable shelter along the way and chose to carry cold-weather clothing to help ward off the continuously falling temperatures.

Peter said his goodbyes, and Asia had ventured out onto the sidewalk with her family to wish him well. He found himself nervous for several reasons. One, he had a long way to get home, and he’d learned desperate people were everywhere. Second, the effects of nuclear winter had set in, making conditions uncertain. Finally, with all eyes upon him, he wasn’t sure whether he could make it out of the apartment’s parking lot without wrecking.

Growing up, he’d had the opportunity to ride another kid’s bike on occasion. It had been twenty years or more. Today, it wasn’t second nature. However, learning to ride again might be what kept him alive. He took a deep breath and recalled a Chinese proverb he’d heard once. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. He was ready.

Peter set his jaw, took a deep breath, and placed his left foot on the pedal. As if he were riding a scooter or a skateboard, he pushed off the asphalt with his right several times in order to get up a head of speed.

Once he was rolling forward, he pushed up onto the seat and began pedaling. As he picked up speed, he gained confidence and let the world know about it.

“Woo-hoo!” he shouted. Pleased with himself, he took his right hand off the handlebars and waved to the family as they hollered encouragement. Peter learned a difficult lesson. Keep your hands on the wheel, as they say.

Immediately after he let go of the handlebars, the bike lurched to the left toward a parked car. Peter panicked. He pulled his right hand down to correct his course, but he overcompensated. For several seconds, the bicycle turned wildly back and forth as his forearm muscles struggled to keep the front wheel straight. He unconsciously pedaled faster, his mind certain the increased speed would help him regain control.

He forced his body upright and tried not to look down at his feet, as it caused him to lose his balance when he did. With each minor adjustment, the bike was traveling where Peter wanted it to although his speed had picked up considerably. He was afraid to slow down for fear he’d struggle to remain balanced.

At the end of the sidewalk, he bounced hard onto the street as the bike rode over the curb. This caused him to lose control slightly. Then, immediately in front of him, several cars had stalled, forcing him into an immediate ninety-degree turn to head west away from Fairfax. He whipped the handlebars back and forth to avoid more stalled vehicles and a group of people standing in the middle of the road, observing his antics.

Peter finally exhaled. Unknowingly, he hadn’t breathed since the pedals made the first full rotation. He glanced around and shook his head at this crazy notion. How am I supposed to do this for thirteen hundred miles?

After several minutes and a number of miles under his belt, his confidence grew. He remembered to pull up the lightweight gaiter he wore around his neck so his nose and mouth were covered. At first, he found it difficult to breathe. However, until he could put some distance between himself and the fires burning out of control around Washington, he’d make every effort to protect his lungs.

So he was off. He had no idea how many miles he could travel each day. Al claimed to travel about forty miles or more daily until his legs gave out. The incentive to get home to Asia and his kids helped the loving father push his body to knock out another few miles before resting.

There were going to be obstacles along the way, Al had warned. Namely, human obstacles. The biggest challenge for Peter would be traveling near any population center, including small towns. He had a means of transportation as well as duffel bags and backpacks full of gear.

Before he left the apartment, he’d torn out pages 115 and 83 from the Rand McNally Atlas he’d taken from Dick’s Sporting Goods. These pages provided detailed maps of Eastern Virginia and Eastern North Carolina. He kept them shoved in his jacket pocket for easy reference. Naturally, he could make his way to Interstate 95 and travel all the way to Coral Gables in Miami. He was certain he wouldn’t make it ten miles before he’d lost everything to a pack of refugees or was killed in a shoot-out trying to defend what he had.

Instead, he continuously worked his way west out of Fairfax toward Manassas and then started his ride through country roads and fairly desolate highways of Central Virginia. That first day, he experienced