Nuclear Winter Whiteout by Bobby Akart (books for 8th graders .txt) 📕

half-hearted attempt to straighten his hair, Patrick emerged from bungalow three to take a little tour of the grounds.

He was somewhat familiar with the twenty-nine acres that made up Driftwood Key from his prior visits to Hank years ago. When he’d first solicited the Albrights’ business, he did his homework. He studied the property assessor’s records online and then viewed images posted on Google by guests or the hotel staff. As a banker, when he set his sights on a prospective business client, he made the extra effort to learn all he could about their operation in order to impress them in some small way.

He didn’t earn Hank Albright’s business on that day, but it certainly benefitted him on the day he planned on taking it away from him.

Patrick stepped onto the sugary white sand of Driftwood Key. It was cold. Until now, he’d played up his recovery by remaining inside the bungalow or on the porch. He moaned and groaned when he moved in their presence. He’d winced so many times he wondered if he’d need Botox after this was over. If Botox was still a thing someday.

However, Patrick saw the handwriting on the wall. They were ready for him to leave. He’d worn out his welcome to the point they were getting suspicious. Truth be told, he was ready to live again. He was tired of the bedridden days and nights filled with an insatiable hunger to kill.

It was time.

Throughout his time in the bungalow, he tried to watch everyone’s movements through the windows. He had a clear view of the drive connecting the front gate and the main house. He eavesdropped on their conversations when he sat on the front porch. He engaged in casual conversation with Jessica and Phoebe, especially, when they came to tend to his wounds or feed him.

For the last several days in particular, they all used a sneaky ploy that didn’t work with the man who’d mastered deception. Small talk was generally followed by pointed questions as to how Patrick had suffered his injuries. Patrick was interested in small talk, so he did everything he could to extend the casual discussions. He was gathering information while his adversaries were setting him up to extract theirs. It was a game of mental chess that he was winning easily.

Their routine had changed in the last day or so. He’d overheard that Jimmy, his favorite, had been pulled away to work for the sheriff’s department. The poor boy must be exhausted, Patrick had thought to himself the night before as he fell asleep. Eight hours away. Eight hours doing chores and fishing. More hours on patrol with a few hours of sleep a day.

Then there was Jessica. She was pulling double duty outside Driftwood Key. She was gone most of the afternoon and didn’t return until close to midnight. On more than one occasion, her truck pulled in as Detective Mikey’s pulled out.

Sonny spent his days in his precious greenhouses, doting over their vegetables after a long night of patrolling the grounds and manning the gate. He’d disappear to sleep, presumably from late afternoon through the early evening until around eleven. Phoebe was tethered to the kitchen. When she wasn’t planning and preparing meals for everyone, she was constantly checking their supply inventory. The woman was borderline obsessive-compulsive about all of that stuff. However, Patrick thought, she’d be his first hire if he were staffing the inn. Unfortunately, on this day, she’d be the first fire.

Patrick turned his attention toward the soon-to-be-former-sole-proprietor of Driftwood Key, Mr. Hank. Even in Patrick’s mind, he managed to say the words sarcastically. He found it so annoying that the Frees referred to him as Mr. Hank. C’mon, people! It’s Hank. Or Mr. Albright. Or boss. Or sir. Or something other than some plantation-speak like Mr. Hank.

Regardless, good old Hank had to go; otherwise a new sole proprietor couldn’t be anointed.

So Patrick began to wander the grounds of Driftwood Key. He came across one or two of them throughout the day, and they were cordial while keeping their distance. He knew what they wanted—a healthy enough patient capable of hitting the road and going home. He was going to raise their hopes while laying the groundwork to have one helluva party that night.

For hours, with only an occasional stop to take a rest, Patrick took mental inventory of the main buildings and their locations. He began to lay out a time frame to make his move.

Phoebe fed him like clockwork around six every evening. She tended to stick to the house after dark, she’d told him. Sonny ate early and went to bed to get some sleep before the graveyard shift. Then she fed Patrick.

His dinners were delivered on a bamboo tray complete with plastic utensils, of course, befitting any inmate. You must feed your prisoners, but you certainly don’t give them a knife and fork, right? Patrick laughed when he analyzed this part of his daily routine. Clearly, someone at Driftwood Key had watched Silence of the Lambs.

After the meals were served, Hank, Jessica, and Mike would gather by a bonfire next to the water’s edge. Sometimes they’d drink, and their conversations varied. In the dead calm of the post-apocalyptic world, oceanfront edition, their voices carried, and Patrick made a point to settle in on the bungalow’s porch to listen. Jessica didn’t always join the guys because she was still working. With a little luck, she’d be off saving lives while Patrick was drumming up some business for her back at home.

Jimmy hadn’t been home at the evening hour for days, so he wasn’t likely to get in the way. With a little luck in terms of timing, Patrick could dispose of the others and Jessica, upon her return, leaving Jimmy all alone.

As Patrick wandered, so did his mind. He thought of all the ways he’d killed in the past. He considered himself a versatile and imaginative serial killer. Guns would be easy. He laughed at this as he