Bobby Akart - Armageddon

Peter drew faster. “Don’t move! I mean it! Do not raise that rifle!”

His demands caused the other men to turn. One of the men raised his rifle toward Peter anyway. He had no choice.

As he continued to speed up on them, Peter opened fire. His first shot struck the man who threatened him directly in the chest. The second missed badly. However, the man spun like a top and fell to the pavement in a heap.

Peter kept pedaling, charging toward them as if he were on a horse. The second man hastily raised his rifle and began firing as he did. The AR-15 sent bullets skipping along the concrete just past Peter’s bicycle.

Peter fired back three times. The first two missed, but the third struck the man in the right arm, causing him to lose his grip on the rifle. He screamed in pain as he dropped to his knees and used his left arm to halt the blood from gushing out of the brachial artery in his upper arm.

The third man, an older teen, actually reached down to pick up the first man’s hunting rifle. Peter was on top of them at that point. He skidded to a stop and quickly dismounted from the bike. He walked toward the teen with the gun pointed at his head.

“Don’t do it!” Peter growled.

The boy’s eyes were wide with fear. He hesitated, and then he continued to reach for the rifle.

“Don’t, dammit! I will kill you!” Peter’s voice was menacing and convincing. The teen raised his hands sheepishly and backed away from the dead man.

Meanwhile, the wounded shooter reached toward his AR-15. This caught Peter off guard, and he spontaneously reacted by shooting the man in his left arm. The man rolled over and over away from Peter, writhing in pain and crying out, imploring Peter to stop.

Peter swung around to determine if anyone else was coming toward him after the gunfire filled the otherwise quiet morning. There was no one, so he turned back toward the group. He waved his gun toward the young man, who’d apparently peed his pants. He was leaning against the guardrail, nervously looking back over his shoulder as if he was contemplating jumping.

“Don’t jump, kid. I’m not gonna shoot you,” said Peter before explaining his intentions. “None of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t raised his gun toward me.” He nodded toward the dead man.

“People on bikes shot his sister two days ago. She died last night.” The teenager began to cry.

“I’m sorry about that. He shouldn’t have—”

“Arrrggghhh! Help me!” The wounded man was bleeding profusely.

Peter turned around to check his back and then looked forward down the road. There were a few small houses around, but there were no signs of movement despite the exchange of gunfire. He was about to order the teenager to help his friend when he heard a splash. Peter swung around, and the boy was gone. He’d jumped over the rail into the icy water of Lake Anna.

“Shit!” he exclaimed. He set his jaw and shook his head in disbelief. He turned to the wounded man and shouted his questions. “Do you have any more weapons?”

“No. No. He’s got a Glock in his coat pocket. I don’t have anything, I swear.”

Peter moved slowly toward the dead man with a watchful eye and the barrel of his pistol on the wounded man. He felt around in the man’s coat pockets and retrieved the Glock nine-millimeter pistol together with a box of ammunition. He set them next to his bike, and then he turned his attention to the other weapons. He gathered up the two rifles and brought them back to his bicycle as well.

“Do you have ammo?” he asked the bleeding man.

His left arm was less wounded than his right. He winced as he patted the side of his jacket and began to pull the ammunition out.

“Slowly!” shouted Peter. He carefully watched the man’s movements and was relieved as he pulled out two magazines filled with ammunition from his jacket. He slowly set them on the pavement next to his dead friend.

Peter rushed forward and grabbed them. Then he knelt next to the man and talked in a low voice. “I’m gonna give you some bandages, but you’re on your own. I’m not a doctor, and I’m not gonna let you or anyone else get the jump on me.”

“You gotta help me,” he pleaded.

“No, I don’t. You guys should have never raised your guns toward me.”

Peter stood and marched back to the bicycle. His first aid supplies were in the lightweight backpack slung over his shoulders. He pulled out a small bottle of spring water, a roll of gauze, and a tube of Neosporin triple antibiotic ointment. The gunshot wound was far more serious than the lacerations Peter had experienced around Driftwood Key, but the principles of wound care were the same.

“Flush the wound with this water. Pack the bullet holes with the gauze and apply the Neosporin. Then keep pressure on them until you can get some help.”

“But—” The man began to beg for Peter’s help, but it wasn’t forthcoming.

“Good luck,” Peter responded in a cold, callous way. The good-hearted member of the Albright family was becoming desensitized to gun battles and killing.

And this was just the beginning.

Wednesday, October 30

Interstate 70 near the Utah-Colorado State Line

Just like any road trip, eventually the travelers run out of things to talk about. Especially when the road they’re taking provides nothing of interest except endless rocky surroundings and the occasional stalled car. By the time Owen pulled onto Interstate 70 and crossed over into Colorado, the weather had cleared somewhat although the wind continued to gust, forcing the top-heavy Bronco into an occasional unintentional swerve.

For the first part of the day, the McDowells talked about how gracious the bishop and his wife had been. They’d allowed the trio to eat the remaining stew Anna had made in the Crock-Pot using the church’s solar panels for energy.

Bishop Gates had explained the difficulty he’d had keeping the solar batteries at full charge. He’d had the presence of mind to purchase backup solar charge controllers when he installed his array. Along with other electronics he used frequently, Bishop Gates stored extra parts in galvanized trash cans to protect them from solar flares or nuclear-generated EMPs. For a brief time, his array had been disabled until he’d swapped out the damaged parts.

A problem he hadn’t anticipated was the haze resulting from nuclear winter that had covered North America. It prevented the sun from doing its job. They’d learned to be more judicious with their energy usage by cooking a little at a time throughout the day to allow the batteries the opportunity to recharge.

Owen’s concerns about traveling on the interstate were valid, but the two hundred miles through the mostly uninhabited stretch of mountains toward Grand Junction produced nothing in the way of human encounters. Live ones, anyway.

There were several decomposing bodies seen off the side of the road. The wind had pushed away the previous day’s snow accumulation, exposing the corpses. At first, the family was sickened by the bodies. Then they began to accept what had happened as part of the world they were in. If anything, seeing the dead strengthened their resolve to survive by whatever means necessary.

Suddenly, the rocky, gray earth that had been the norm in Utah gave way to a variety of shrubs and brush. A sign on the side of the road made of stone pillars and carved wood read Welcome to Colorful Colorado . It marked the state line between Utah and Colorado and was intended to point out how the barren surroundings began to show signs of life with plant material.

Tucker, however, pointed out the obvious contradiction between the sign’s intended meaning and reality. “Everything is dying.”