Bobby Akart - Armageddon

The intruders changed positions.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

This man was stronger, and soon debris was flying inward as the countertop succumbed to the pummeling of the sledgehammer. With smaller, precision blows, a hole was quickly opened up, and the men began to crawl through.

Peter was not a murderer, but he was a killer. He’d taken another’s life in an effort to survive a terrorist attack. An hour after the shooting in Abu Dhabi, he’d vomited all over the interrogation table at the Abu Dhabi police headquarters. The realization had set in as to what he’d done. He wasn’t guilty or remorseful. He’d done what he had to. Yet that first kill still ran through his mind.

He wondered if the second, third or even fifth would stick with him as well.

Peter moved slowly to the far end of the pharmacy near the consultation room. He kept his gun pointed toward the counter, where the men were on their hands and knees. They crawled gingerly over the splinters without a sense of urgency. One after another, they made their way inside, helping the next man to his feet. Peter’s mind raced as he considered his options.

Should he hold them at gunpoint, demanding they move to the back of the store while he escaped through the hole they’d made? Should he demand to see their weapons? Would they comply or open fire? Could he take them all in a gunfight? These guys looked streetwise. Real killers, unlike him.

Until now.

Once the four men were inside, Peter begged God’s forgiveness and began shooting. He fired four shots in rapid succession, striking each man in some part of their upper body. Two fell to their knees, and the other two attempted to dive for cover.

Peter moved quickly toward them. He shot the two men in front of him again in the chest. They were the most vulnerable and easy to kill.

A shot rang out and sailed past him, ricocheting off the steel grate. Peter instantly broke out into a sweat as he fell to his knees. He fired back wildly as he sent three rounds through the shelves of pharmaceuticals. One of the men groaned in pain.

Peter lost track of how many shots he’d fired. In his nervous state of mind, he couldn’t remember how many rounds his nine-millimeter magazines held. He knew he only had a couple left. Peter had trained with his uncle on how to shoot his Springfield 1911. But he hadn’t learned how to act in a gunfight. He’d learned the hard way how to survive through his reactions in Abu Dhabi, but he’d not thought about things like ammo discipline and having multiple magazines with him to reload.

He decided to bluff.

“You’re next, buddy! You can live through this and have all the drugs you want. I don’t want the shit you’re after. But you gotta slide your gun out and hold your hands high.”

“No way, asshole!”

“I know you’re hit!” Peter shouted back. “I’ve already killed these two. You’re the only thing that stands between me and the door. I’m not gonna mess with you, understand?”

The man didn’t say anything in response.

Peter heard the sound of feet shuffling. He thought the man might be scooting along the floor. He lowered his body and crawled toward the two dead men.

Neither had a gun in their hands because Peter had shot them before they could draw. He reached under the bloodied shirt of the first man, hoping to find the man’s weapon tucked in his waistband. He was apparently unarmed.

Now you’re a murderer, Peter , he thought to himself.

Peter slowly retreated to his original position. He heard the shuffling sound toward the back of the pharmacy. The man was wounded and acting like a trapped animal. He wasn’t to be trifled with, especially since Peter was down to a couple of bullets. He decided to take a chance.

He rose to his knees and blindly felt around the counter where he’d stashed the insulin and antibiotics. He found the handles to both bags and transferred them to his left hand. Then, with his gun trained on the sound of the movement at the back of the pharmacy, he slowly retreated backwards through the opening created by the looters.

As soon as he was beyond the counter, he rolled over toward Jackie’s position and breathed for the first time in more than a minute. Peter’s chest was heaving as he tried to calm himself and listen for his adversary to emerge from the pharmacy. Once he’d regained his composure, and satisfied the man wasn’t pursuing him, Peter rose to his feet and made his way into the hair products section.

“Jackie! Let’s go!”

There was no answer.

Peter dropped the bags to the carpeted floor and gripped his pistol with both hands. He let the barrel lead the way toward the far wall of the store. He didn’t want to call out her name again in case the men had someone else with them.

Aisle by aisle, Peter inched up to the end cap of the display shelves and then revealed himself, ready to shoot. Each time, nobody materialized. At the last aisle, he glanced to his left at a tall L’Oreal display and then down the aisle.

Still nothing.

He took a chance. “Jackie!”

He sensed movement. He swung around and pointed his weapon at the display. It moved slightly, so Peter crouched into a shooting position.

“Peter, here I am.”

Sunday, October 27

Driftwood Key

“Everything seems odd, doesn’t it?” asked Hank as Mike and Jessica joined him for a breakfast of eggs and fish. Phoebe had warned everyone that their meals would begin to become unexciting and simple. There were plenty of fish in the sea, she’d quipped. Then she reminded them that their regular fish diet would be coupled with perishables in case the power went out permanently.

“That’s an understatement, Hank,” said Mike, laughing. “What was your first clue?”

“No, you know what I mean. I had a routine that I’d lived by for years and years. Guests came and went. There were regular chores to do, and then sometimes, we’d have something out of the ordinary to break up the monotony.”

“I’ll say this,” said Jessica with a mouthful of food. She pointed her fork toward the main highway. “Out there, those partying fools haven’t missed a beat. It’s the darndest thing. They all agree it’s the end of the world as we know it. What they disagree on is what to do about it.”

Mike shook his head and finished his meal. “We’ve really got our hands full, Hank. I told Jess that we’re surrounded by four different groups. There are the locals, like us, who’re kinda adopting a hunker-down-and-see-what-happens-next approach.

“Then you got the inbound tourists, who, by the way, babe, we’re gonna shut out starting this afternoon.”

Jessica leaned back in her chair. “They’re cutting off the island?”

Mike nodded. “Outbound only unless they can provide proof of residency such as a driver’s license or a deed.”

“Wow, that’s big,” said Jessica.

“The Conch Republic rises from the ashes,” added Hank with a smile.

Mike explained, “Well, we’ve caught bits and pieces on the news of things Hank’s already learned from the Ag secretary and Peter. Hell, we can see and feel it for ourselves. It’s getting colder. A little bit at a time, but noticeable.”

Jessica nodded in agreement. “The haze started before the bombs dropped here. It’s a lot worse than Thursday.”

“People in the southeast who weren’t impacted by the EMP or the blackouts began to drive south as the news media frightened everyone with this nuclear winter thing,” said Mike. “The consensus seems to be that the best place to be in America is the southernmost point—Key West.”

“Just where the hell do they expect to stay?” asked Hank.