Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

He dropped the magazine out of the carbine-style rifle and tried to count the rounds remaining using the light provided by a cigarette lighter offered to him by one of the desk personnel. He asked if anyone knew why the generator had cut off. There was no explanation offered. Clearly, the cavalry in the form of the SWAT team wasn’t responsible, as they’d made no effort to come into the building once the frightened people filed out. It would be one of the mysteries Mike didn’t care to solve.

He turned his focus back to trauma room three and the hostages who were being forced at gunpoint to treat the wounded patient. Mike had no idea how surgeons could extract bullets and deal with the internal damage associated with them in the dark. There had to be some kind of lighting, perhaps battery operated.

He slowly approached the curtains leading to the space that happened to be adjacent to where he had initially been treated. He paused to recall the layout of his trauma room. It was a tight fit between the many pieces of equipment, the patient’s bed, and the personnel who’d be standing alongside to perform the medical procedures. The room, the hospital staff’s word for the open area divided by curtains, might’ve been expanded depending upon how many medical personnel the gunman had elected to take hostage.

Somehow, he had to get eyes on the gunman. He imagined a panicked man wildly waving the .45-caliber handgun Mike had heard earlier. He’d only get one shot at the gunman. He contemplated waiting for the sheriff’s office to send help, taking the burden off his shoulders for the hostages’ lives.

But despite the pain searing through his chest and the blood soaking his sweatshirt, Mike wanted to get into position to take the shot.

A man’s desperate voice could be heard. “What are you doing? You have to do something!”

That had to be the gunman, Mike thought to himself. His buddy must be losing the battle, and the guy was losing it. A panicked fool with a gun takes innocent lives. Mike determined there was no time to wait for the cavalry.

One of the doctors shouted back, “Sir, we’re doing all we can under the circumstances.”

Mike stepped forward until he could locate where the outer curtains came together. There was a gap of about twelve inches that enabled him to see into the room. He had to be careful because the temporary lighting mounted on portable towers cast its warm glow under the curtains, which would enable the gunman to see his feet.

The man was acting just as Mike had predicted. He had one arm wrapped around the neck of a short nurse with the other pointing the pistol in all directions. He alternated between the nurse’s head and anyone else in the room who crossed him.

From this angle, Mike couldn’t get a clear shot. However, the curtains separating trauma three and the adjacent space had been pushed toward the wall to accommodate more equipment and surgical trays to be brought in.

He stepped away from the curtain as the argument between the two men escalated and became more heated. He quickly moved down the corridor until he could find the gap in the curtains marking the opening of trauma four.

He eased his head in and evaluated his options. He had a clear shot at the man’s back. Chivalrous? No. Was the scumbag deserving? You betcha.

Mike prepared his weapon and slipped the barrel between the curtains. He waited until the man was distracted or pointed his weapon somewhere other than directly at one of the hostages. With his finger on the trigger, he took a deep breath and exhaled.

Wait for it, Mike. Steady.

His inner thoughts became mute, but his muscle memory didn’t fail him. Just as the gunman began to swing his weapon from the surgical team back toward the nurse’s head, Mike squeezed the trigger. The report of the rifle frightened everyone in the confined space, causing them to scream and duck for cover. Only one body remained upright, albeit for a brief moment.

The now-headless gunman.

Friday, November 8

Gulf of Mexico

1013 millibars .

“We’re really on a roll, Mom!” exclaimed Tucker as Lacey emerged from taking a nap. Her poor night of sleeping had eventually caught up with her. That, plus the steady drone of the diesel engine and the gentle rocking of the Gulf waters, had resulted in her eyes drooping until she was almost asleep standing up.

Earlier that morning, as soon as the sun rose enough to create a brighter shade of gray across the horizon than the early-dawn level of lightness, Lacey and Tucker had prepared to leave Tarpon Springs.

Andino and his brother had given them a refresher course on the use of their barometer and also performed some fuel calculations for them. Unless something happened out of the ordinary, they would have sufficient diesel to make it all the way to Key West if they chose to go that far. Otherwise, they were facing a four-hundred-mile journey down the west coast of Florida until they reached the Everglades. From there, they could easily make their way to Marathon and Driftwood Key.

As they’d entered the Gulf, they’d set a course using the GPS that took them outside the range where most of the fishing boats were operating. They’d manned the helm together to grow accustomed to the boat’s navigational panel as well as how it reacted to certain wind and wave conditions. During their trip from Bay St. Louis to Tarpon Springs, they’d relied upon the expertise of Andino to operate a fishing vessel of this type. Lacey had only marginally paid attention to the intricacies of this boat. When she was in the wheelhouse, she compared it to her dad’s Hatteras, which Lacey was familiar with.

As they sailed due south, they’d both kept a wary eye on the boat’s barometer. Registering in millibars, the digital device fluctuated only slightly as they reached the open water and set their course. The normal barometric pressure at sea level was 1013 millibars. That had risen slightly, according to Sandros, because of the consistently low ceiling caused by nuclear winter. He’d cautioned them to monitor the barometer to determine if it was falling into the nine hundreds, an indicator a weather system was approaching.

Andino said one of the ways they could determine if there was a change in the barometric pressure was to notice the onset of a headache. The closer the pressure dropped to 1003 millibars, the more likely people susceptible to migraines or headaches would take notice.

While Lacey napped, Tucker had been diligent about monitoring the boat’s digital readouts, including the barometer. Every time he looked, the reading was similar, so he eventually grew tired of the exercise.

“Wow, I feel so much better,” his mom responded to his greeting. “There’s nothing better than sleeping on a boat.”

“It’s easy because it’s so low-key,” said Tucker. “I’m ready to get there.”

“Me too, son. Me too.”

“I’m gonna hit the head,” he said with a smile.

Lacey laughed. “Spoken like a true sailor. Say, do you wanna get some sleep now? I was gonna talk to you about riding through the night until we get there.”

Tucker stopped midway down the steps into the galley. He turned slightly as he spoke. “I just assumed we were going all the way. We have GPS, so it doesn’t really matter if we can see, right?”

Lacey gave him a disapproving glance. There were a lot of factors to be considered when driving a boat on the open seas. One of them was seeing if anything was in your way. Inexperienced boaters at night created a recipe for disaster.

“It’s not quite that easy, son. Go hit the head, and we’ll talk when you come back.”

1008 millibars.