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

grayish boats with their drivers on top flanked the group. Bringing up the rear was a boat the size of a cruise ship. Tucker described it as being five or six times larger than their fishing boat.

He returned to the open window of the wheelhouse next to the helm and described what he’d observed. “Mom, there aren’t any to our right. I think if we hurry, we can cut across their path before we get stuck. I’d hate to run out of diesel waiting on these guys to pass us.”

“Agreed. Come back in and let’s open her up until we’re clear.” She glanced down at the fuel gauge. There was no time for calculations. Let the chips fall as they may.

Lacey’s decision to take the Cymopoleia at full throttle to avoid contact with the Coast Guard was a wise one. The contingent had been dispatched on the president’s orders. Like its counterpart on the Atlantic side of the Keys, it was moving at a steady pace with one ship at a time dropping back and settling into a fixed position. By late that afternoon, the Coast Guard would have created a blockade that included orders to board and search every vessel coming in or out of the Keys.

After the encounter with the Coast Guard was behind them, Lacey and Tucker became more excited as they approached. Their eyes darted between the boat’s fuel gauge and what lay beyond the bow. The chain of limestone islands extending from Key Largo to Key West and geographically all the way to the Dry Tortugas were beginning to reveal themselves through the haze.

The calm seas and very little in the way of surf made their final leg of the journey uneventful. That didn’t stop their pulses from racing in nervous anticipation. Lacey turned giddy as the largest cluster of islands making up the Lower Keys could be seen off the stern. The large gap between the islands was clearly Seven Mile Bridge. As they got closer, she pointed out the various keys by name. Big Coppitt. Cudjoe. Big Pine.

And then Marathon.

Lacey began to cry tears of relief and joy. Somehow, in the back of her mind, there was still doubt whether the Florida Keys still existed. Her home in Hayward had likely been destroyed. She certainly expected Peter’s had been as well, or at least was uninhabitable. Would the devilish people who’d ordered the release of the nuclear weapons set their sights on a place like Miami as well? Maybe. And if so, had the Keys been spared?

Trepidation turned to elation as the dock came into view right where it should be. Her dad’s boat along with Jessica’s WET team vessel were tied off to the cleats.

“We did it, Mom! I knew we could!”

Lacey got emotional as she approached Driftwood Key. Thoughts of Owen filled her head. They should’ve made it together as a family. A freak winter storm event had taken his life, just as a devilish hurricane had tried to take theirs. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, speaking to her husband as if he were by her side. She told him how much she loved him and how much he would be missed.

She thought of his cremated remains secured in a thick, tightly sealed equivalent of a Ziploc baggie. During the shooting at the dock in Bay St. Louis, Lacey had made sure her small duffel with his remains made it on board the boat. She was glad she’d had the forethought to secure it away in the galley so Owen’s remains wouldn’t be disturbed. She’d find a special place to bury him on Driftwood Key, a place Owen had loved as much as he’d loved her family.

“Mom! Is that Sonny?”

“It is!” Lacey began to press the button on the helm to sound the air horn. She pressed it several times so that long, drawn-out blasts filled the quiet, still morning.

Tucker rushed out of the wheelhouse and made his way to the bow. He gripped the railing and waved his arm back and forth in a long arc. He and Sonny had always gotten along when the McDowell family came to visit. Growing up, Tucker had enjoyed learning about the greenhouses and the hydroponics operation in addition to the nonstop frolicking on the beach.

“Mr. Hank! Mr. Hank!” Sonny turned away from the shore and began running in the direction of the bungalows.

Lacey had slowed to an idle, and her wake began to push her towards the shoreline. She glanced over at the dock to check the waterline. It gave her an idea of whether the tide was low or high. Based upon her recollection of the shallow nature of the waters around Driftwood Key, she figured she was close enough to shore since it appeared to be low tide.

“Stand clear, Tucker!” she shouted through the side window of the wheelhouse. “I’m dropping anchor!”

Tucker stood back but remained on the foredeck, staring toward the shore. He waited to see his grandfather arrive to greet them. For an eternity, nobody else appeared on shore.

Mike eased across the bridge, eventually pulling the Suburban just short of the center point. He could make out traces of blood on the bridge, which immediately set off alarms in his mind. He reached for the holster sitting on the passenger seat and removed the .40-caliber Smith & Wesson handgun.

With the weapon swinging back and forth in search of a target, Mike slowly walked to the spot on the bridge where he’d noticed the blood. He dropped to a knee and felt the moist, sticky substance, which had begun to soak into the crushed shells.

He dared not call out for fear he might alert gunmen on Driftwood Key. The moist blood coupled with the unmanned gate concerned him. For whatever reason, they’d abandoned the only point of entry from land. Had a boat approached from the Gulf, forcing them to defend the dock? Then what about the blood? Whom did it belong to?

Mike didn’t