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

all the landmarks that helped identify the Keys. Not that it mattered because the constant haze that smothered the area reduced visibility to a minimum like a dense fog would obscure London from approaching ships.

But there wasn’t a glimpse of light to help with his navigation, and the boat he had been given at the marina didn’t have the usual navigation devices. It was stripped to its bare minimum with only a compass to work with.

Peter tried to calculate his location based upon where he’d exited the Boggies and how far out his circular search pattern took him. Since he’d never run into the Everglades at the southern tip of the mainland, he presumed he was safe to sail due south. Southwest might have been a more accurate option, but it also meant he might miss the Keys entirely if he miscalculated.

With a deep breath and a verbal promise to Jimmy that he’d return the next day with help, Peter pressed down on the throttle as nightfall was fast approaching. He hoped to find his way to the shoreline, pick out a point of interest that was familiar to him, and ease down to Driftwood Key, which stuck out from Marathon.

He ended up nearly running aground at Shell Key off the coast of Islamorada. After he turned toward the shore, he ran out of fuel. The engine seized, immediately shut down, and left Peter adrift in the middle of Little Basin near Bass Pro Shops on Overseas Highway. After a swim that zapped nearly all of his energy, he walked onshore at the private beach of a local bar.

Peter had no idea what time it was other than the fact it was late in the day. That wasn’t surprising, as every day bore the same characteristics regardless of where he’d been during his twelve-hundred-mile journey.

After getting his bearings straight, he began walking down U.S. 1 toward Marathon. He came upon Mile Marker 80, which meant he was about to pass over the Teatable Channel Bridge. He was thirty-two miles from home.

Peter picked up the pace. His feet hurt. He was dehydrated from the lack of water and especially after he’d continuously gargled salt water to relieve the pain in his throat. But he pressed forward. With each mile marker, he mentally ticked off twenty less minutes until he was home.

As he approached Mile Marker 61, he considered approaching Hawk’s Cay Resort on Duck Key. The resort had once been owned by a longtime friend of the Albrights until he’d sold out to an investment group for nearly one hundred fifty million dollars. There were many times thereafter that Peter and Lacey had urged their parents to sell the inn and retire to a life of luxury.

Hank’s response had been where would we live? His mom had been concerned with Hank driving her nuts because he had nothing to do all day. When his mom got sick and eventually passed away, his dad had thrown himself into managing the inn’s operations. Driftwood Key had been more than a business. It had been their family’s home for generations. To the Albrights, it was priceless.

He gave up on the notion of stopping at Hawk’s Cay and continued walking until he came upon a gift from heaven, as he saw it. Actually, it caused him to laugh uproariously until his throat hurt again. Peter had gone full circle.

A bicycle had been thrown off the side of the highway near the Dolphin Research Center. He glanced around for a moment and didn’t see anyone. Knowing the area, he couldn’t imagine where the owner might have gone, as there was nothing there except the research facility. He smiled as he settled onto the seat. This would certainly make the final fifteen miles of his journey a little easier and faster.

He was pedaling with ease as U.S. 1, the Overseas Highway, officially turned into famed Florida State Road A1A near the Marathon airport. Peter sped up, fast enough to create a steady breeze in his face that blew his long hair. When he’d left his home the night of the attacks, he had been in need of a haircut. Now, several weeks later, he was almost unrecognizable as a result of his shaggy beard and matching hair. In fact, he could’ve been cast as Shaggy in a Scooby-Doo movie.

He pedaled faster, thrilled with the sight of Marathon Community Park on his left. He actually saw people milling about the parking area in front of the Marathon Fire and Rescue Station. He waved his arm back and forth as he shouted hello. He was in great spirits until he wandered off the highway ever so slightly during his exuberance. The front wheel caught a pothole created by the heavy rains during the hurricane.

The sudden stop caused the front wheel to sink into the hole and threw the back wheel upward until for a brief moment, Peter was suspended above the ground. And then, like a bucking horse at the rodeo, the stubborn bicycle threw its rider head over heels onto the pavement and coquina shells making up the shoulder of the road.

Peter rolled over and over again. He had the presence of mind to tuck his body to prevent breaking any limbs, but the hard landing took its toll on his skin. His hands and arms were ripped open, as was his chin. Blood poured out of his wounds, covering his clothes.

He was less than a mile from home.

Peter lay flat on his back for nearly five minutes, trying to catch his breath. He closed his eyes in an effort to mentally shake off the million bees that were stinging his hands and arms. After he shook his head in disbelief, he rolled over on his stomach and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. The pain was excruciating.

Peter began to drag his feet down the shoulder of the highway until he reached the side road leading to Driftwood Key. The skies had turned from black to a