The No Where Apocalypse (Book 2): Surviving No Where (2 page)

“Show your weapon,” I barked. I wasn’t falling for that line, again. Once or twice in the recent past someone had tried to play me the same way. His hands went back up when I loudly snapped the safety off. “I know you got something to protect yourself, so show it to me.”

Large and broad, his fake grin took up most of his filthy face. Two or three teeth were missing from what I could see. The lack of hygiene alerted me further. He wasn’t a father, not a very good one at least.

I shoved the gun nearly into his chest. “Show me your damned weapon!” I shouted. “Show me now or I’ll kill you, right where you stand.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he opened the front of his army green parka. Strapped across his chest was the large hunting knife I knew he’d have.

“Man can’t be too careful now days,” he stated, tipping his head forward an inch or two.

Pulling the blade from its worn leather sheath, I noticed the crimson stains. His hands stayed in place as I lifted the steel between our eyes.

“You’ve killed before,” I said, trying to sound amused. But I wasn’t. No, my heart raced as I surveyed the still woods around us. An attack was likely coming, but from which direction I did not know.

“I really got kids,” he squealed as I spun him and stuck the knife against his throat.

“And they know how to kill too, I bet.” I felt him tremble at my cold-blooded words. “Tell them to come out with their hands held high so we can sort this out.”

I felt him sigh, held tight to my chest. Hell, I could almost feel his heart racing through our generous early winter coats.

“Brain, Patrick,” he called, “come on out. And don’t do anything stupid.”

Yeah, don’t do anything stupid boys. I don’t really want to slit your father’s throat
, I thought.
I just want all of you gone.

Creeping at us, from near the road, I watched as they made their way out of the light brush. They hadn’t been hidden all that well. I chastised myself for missing them.

Both carried small rifles that I assumed were 22 caliber. Each had their guns trained on us…me, more likely. And they were both so damn young. My heart sank as I wondered how this would end.

“Let my dad go,” one shouted in a high female falsetto voice. “Don’t make me kill you, pal; we’ve done it before.”

Great, a standoff featuring children. That was new.
 

I ended up killing each one of them, and had to go searching for my nurse. Another wasted day in No Where.

Year 2 - late fall - WOP

“At least they didn’t shoot your other little finger off,” Lettie joked as Marge worked on the wound. “That was a worse mess than this.”

Her words jerked me back to the moment. She was right. Still, three more people were dead. Dead by my hands, no less.

“The boys were both younger than Violet,” I admitted, still feeling sick about it. “But they both kept shooting. I almost think they’ve done that before.”

Marge wrapped my two-inch wound in fresh white gauze. “They won’t anymore,” she added with a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry you had to do it, Bob. But you probably saved your life and ours.”

On a chair in the far corner of the kitchen, Violet glared at me as if I’d eaten the last piece of food on Earth.
Now what?
 

“Yes?” I finally relented, knowing I wouldn’t like her reply.

A single snort, followed by the rolling of eyes, and her diatribe was about to begin. “You killed a boy my age. How sweet. You keep doing that and who will I ever have in this shitty world?”

Lettie blew her off with the wave of an unsteady hand. Marge rose quickly, shocked by her daughter’s condemnation of my actions.

“Violet,” she scolded. “Bob didn’t have a choice. You know that. Apologize now.”

Two of the three of us older folks in the room waited for something I knew wasn’t coming. The words I assumed would come next did.

“He’s just trying to make my life impossible, Mother,” she answered without emotion. “If he keeps killing people, you’ll never be a grandmother you know.”

Marge’s jaw fell and I almost felt like pushing it back in place. She had better expectations of her daughter. Me? I knew better. The girl was still 13, though soon to be 14. Or was she 14 going on 15? Who knew; I certainly didn’t pay that close of attention to Violet’s life.

Violet pushed away from her spot and headed for the living room. Perhaps there she would torment her younger brother for a while.
 

But I had news for her. “According to Dizzy, he saw you way out back in the swamp last week,” I said, watching as she stopped abruptly. “Claims he saw you with another person. Maybe one of the Wilson brothers. Care to share?”

She turned back towards us, grinning mostly for my benefit, “I hear the Wilson’s live five miles east of us,” she answered, shaking her head at me. I noticed her brown hair was another hand longer than I remembered it. “That would seem like a long way to walk just to talk with little ol’ me.”

“You don’t need to be that far out alone,” I chastised. I felt Marge pull my pants leg down so I stood. “Wolves are out. Saw them myself earlier. It’s not safe for you to be out there alone, Violet.”

Her arms snapped around her chest. “First of all, I had Lettie’s 30-30 with me. Second, John always carries a gun.”

Her slip caused me to grin. She scowled in return.

“And mostly…” she turned again to leave, “…it’s none of your beeswax.”

Lettie, Marge, and I shared a chuckle when her bedroom door slammed at the far end of the house. “Well, I guess you’ve been told,” Lettie added, laughing as she returned to whatever project she’d been working on before my arrival.

“We haven’t seen you lately, Bob,” Marge said from behind me. “What you been up to?”

Yeah, I knew she would wonder why I’d only shown up recently to get patched up. Maybe that was none of her
beeswax
either.

Cutting wood
, I answered to myself. Pulling at my beard, I recalled the two-plus months since Violet and I had returned from Covington.

The first two weeks I spent exclusively at Lettie’s place, protecting my friends. After Stuart Callies and/or his men failed to show up, I headed back to my own cabin with a fresh plan in my head. I needed to get as much wood cut as I could before the second winter arrived here in No Where.

I’d managed to cut some the previous summer, but nowhere near enough to last the winter. When my left hand finally healed enough to get back to work, the going was slow. Then came my little adventure in Hell (also known as Covington) and the fall was upon me.

I’d always known chopping wood was a tough task. Cutting wood with a missing digit? Far more challenging than I first assumed. Who knew your little finger did anything. Much less make swinging and holding an ax easier.

“I’ve had a lot to do around the cabin lately,” I answered, my voice softer than intended. “With winter coming and all…well, you know.”

Marge got in front of me and took me by the forearms. “Have you considered staying here, for the winter at least?” she asked, her eyes filled with hope.

I shook off her dream of a large happy family. “Nah, not really. I mean Dizzy’s here with you now. You kind of got a house full.”

A slight film covered her eyes. “There’s always room for one more. Right, Lettie?”

“You preaching to the choir,” the old woman squawked. “But good luck with this one. He thinks he’s independent or something. Just plain stubborn if you ask me.”

Prying my arms away from my nurse, I gave her one shoulder a slight squeeze. “I need my space,” I answered. Immediately I could tell she wasn’t buying it.

“I know you’re tormented by what you’ve had to do here, Bob,” she pleaded. “I understand. But you don’t need to have any guilt. All you’re doing is surviving, and you’re helping us survive. You know that. I know you do.”

So that’s what you called murder in the apocalypse…
Surviving
.

Year 2 - mid winter - WOP

God I hated snow. I mean, I really hated snow.

When I was a kid, my big brother, Bud, and me used to have to shovel the driveway, by hand. Now…no fancy snowblower and all that at the Reiniger household. Not while my dad had two teenaged slaves living under his roof.

Even as a young adult, I avoided going outside in the winter. No ice fishing, no sledding, no winter sports…none of that for this guy. My wife, Shelly, had other ideas of course.

“My father always shoveled the minute the snow ended,” she lectured me during our first joint snowfall. I remember staring back at her blankly. Did she think…?

“That way you don’t get ruts in your driveway,” she continued in the most sincere tone I’d heard ever. “I’ll help if you want.”

I wondered now how she would feel about shoveling the stupid roof every time it snowed. And it snowed a lot, here in both frequency and volume.

Three weeks had passed since my last contact with another human being. I needed to talk to someone before I went nuts, but the last round of a foot plus of winter fun made that impossible. So I read.

My father’s cabin (originally Grandpa’s) was full of musty old books and magazines. The smell hadn’t bothered me yet, so none had made it to the burn barrel.

I began with
War and Peace
. Great starting point, if — and only if — you don’t trip all over the Russian names or all the French soldiers. But I did stumble my way through the book.

One day, during a nice clear cold spell (minus 35 on the old thermometer) it dawned on me I had mixed up several characters. Somehow, in the recesses of my diminishing mind, Count Bezukhov had traded places with Count Rostov.

This was a terrible mistake on my part, for two reasons. First, Count Bezukhoz was the main character of the story. Second, Count Rostov was nothing like Bezukov. The first was rich, the later had problems managing his money. In reality, they were nothing alike. Yet, I had their places switched.

When I finished the novel, I considered tossing it in the fire. I even had the door opened on the stove and was all set to fire the piece. But a better plan came to me at the last moment.

I’d read it again. And right away.

With nothing but time to kill, I poured through the pages. Keeping notes this time on an old “Seed Corn” pad I found in a cupboard, everything made more sense.

Reading the last words for a second time, I closed the book and smiled. I got it, I really did. I felt Napoleon’s pain, struggled as his armies did, imagined the hunger felt by all. Well, I didn’t have to imagine too much about the hunger part. I was down to one meal a day to make my own rations stretch into spring.

Raising my arms above my head, I screamed. I was victorious. I understood Tolstoy, the Russian farmers, the average French soldier. It all made sense.

I tossed that book into the stove anyway. Time to move on.

Year 2 - mid winter (still) - WOP

Drawing intricate patterns on my steam covered windows, I sighed.
How had I survived the first winter alone?
How did anyone survive a year alone — much less a month? Human beings needed other people. Being alone sucked, big time.
 

As hard as it was to admit, I had taken to having discussions with animals. Long discussions; detailed, long discussions. Even though the squirrels didn’t seem overly interested, the nearby wolf family sure did.

Chester, Sofie, and the twins came to visit on a daily basis. Maybe they were lonely as well. Wanted to hear a long-haired, bearded man talk about life in early nineteenth century Russia.

Or maybe they came because I fed them…maybe.

Chester preferred to stay back, more towards the brush at the north end of my snow covered yard. The twins had no issues with human contact: petting, licking my fingers, having their bellies rubbed. The mother was never too far off during all the attention. If I became too friendly, she let me know.

Tossing hunks of dried venison towards the woods, they never failed to show. At first they kept their distance, even the twins. But as time crawled by, they accepted me.

I knew I had a problem when one day they wouldn’t show. Not even for food. Had I somehow insulted the beasts? Had they received a better offer from another family? Maybe that damned Dizzy was sneaking down here and feeding them actual fresh venison. Or several newly killed rabbits or smaller varmints.

When I started my complex plan of revenge on my former friend (Dizzy, not any of the wolves), I realized I needed to talk to another human being. Cabin fever, it seemed, was at a new high.

Walking to Lettie’s, some three miles north, meant bundling up. Though the temperature sat at a balmy minus three, the north wind howled like the wolves on a clear night.
Layers,
I told myself,
layers
. Bulky clothes just slowed you down and made you all sweaty in the end. Layers that I could open as I walked were much more sensible in No Where.

Staring at my boot options caused me to sigh. I could wear the pink ones that Lettie had given me two falls ago. I wore a 10, they were a nine. Small but useable.

My other option was a pair salvaged from Frank’s place after he died last spring. After he died and before I burned his place to the ground, at his request, to be more specific. But his old Sorel’s came with an issue as well.

Though Frank was shorter and thinner than I was, he wasn’t one for tight fitting clothes or shoes. That was great news for me. Many of his shirts and coats fit just fine. However, his boots were another issue.

Frank’s foot couldn’t have been any bigger than a nine. Now I can’t say I ever studied them, but if a fellow stands five five or five six, his feet aren’t all that big. So why he had two pairs of winter boots in size 13 was beyond my comprehension. Still is.

Grabbing the larger pair, I stuffed a crumpled sock into the toe of each. Weeks and months of testing led me to the correct socks to use, and the right ones to crumple as well. When you have nothing but free time in your life, it’s easy to work on such complicated projects.

With almost everything I owned either on or wrapped around my body, I began my trek. As predicted, by me, the wind had an awful bite to it. Snow, driven by the 20 to 30 mile an hour gusts, stung any of the little exposed flesh I dared to leave uncovered. But I had a trick for Mister Wind. I had snow goggles, thanks to Frank.