The No Where Apocalypse (Book 1): Stranded No Where (2 page)

Being naked was no big deal. Bud told me he and his college cronies used to do it all the time back in the day. That was the advantage of being here — as he called this place, the spot where the rocks fall when people toss them to the middle of absolutely nowhere.

I did put clothes on that first morning; well, old sweat pants and a stinky sweatshirt I found hanging by the door. Hitting the outhouse, I noticed most of the bugs had abated. A few mosquitoes did lazy loops around my head as I tried to relieve myself of all the toxins I had ingested. Needed to make room for the next batch, beginning very shortly. I noticed a deer fly trying to find a spot to land. A wadded up magazine took care of that issue.

Eating a couple of granola bars, I waited for my water to warm on the old gas stove. I needed coffee, badly. Perhaps that was one of my issues with stress and rage; I was over-caffeinated. I played with the radio but found nothing, unless you call static a victory. In that case, I found almost a million stations of loud annoying static to listen to. Dad had always said if you wanted radio up here, nighttime was the best — and only — time to listen.

By noon, I couldn’t read the clock on the wall, even though it had to be two feet wide. Sober, I could have read the time from a mile away. Drunk, not so much. I don’t remember the afternoon or evening, though I wish I had.

I had no idea what was about to happen, how much my life would change. A truer statement is this: no one anywhere had any idea what was about to happen to them. And no one’s life would ever be the same.

But drunk me, Bob Reiniger, hadn’t a worry in the world.

Day 1 WOP

I awoke on day two (my second full day of solitude) to problems — many problems.

Problem one: a raging headache. Perhaps I wasn’t the professional drinker I had always considered myself. History would argue with that, but the pounding that began in my head the minute I opened my eyes said the contrary.

Many times I went to Cubs games and Bears games with my friends and drank so much beer that a legend began. Two hours of tailgating before the game, followed by a beer an inning (or quarter with football) and by the end I had easily consumed a 12-pack. Yet, I was the sober driver by the time we made our way home. Each and every time.

Apparently, bourbon had a different effect on my system. Well, in my system’s defense, I wasn’t used to half a bottle at a time. So that explained that.

I found some aspirin and tossed them down with the last of my glass of water from the kitchen counter. Problem one solved, or at least was on the way to being solved.

When I relieved my bulging bladder, I knew I needed to take in a lot more water. If dark urine is a sign of dehydration, I can’t imagine what maple syrup colored meant. Aside from drink more water.

When I threw open a tap on the kitchen sink, I discovered problem number two: low water pressure. It quickly became no water pressure. That meant the circuit had tripped on the pump. That meant another trip outside, this time to the back of the cabin.

Staring at the three-circuit box, I found nothing out of place. Just for good measure, I clicked each of the three off and then on again. Problem solved — or so I thought.

Still no water came from the faucet. Just a few drips, nothing more. Within a minute, they quit. I tried the radio, even though I knew no stations would come in. The fact the no static came in bothered me a little at the time. Thus, I inspected the interior further.

Not one single light would come on. Any appliance plugged into the power grid was useless as well. Only the stove worked, and that was because it was run by LP (liquid propane). As for everything else…deader than Grant himself.

I took a hit from the open bourbon bottle on the end table next to the couch. Absentmindedly, I swished the brown liquor around my mouth, staring out the front window. Crap, I was going to have to get dressed, clean up a little, brush my teeth, and head into Covington. I needed to check with the Power Company when they thought they might get the electricity back up and running.

Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from my hiding, keys in hand ready to run my single errand of the day. That’s when I discovered problem three: and this was a biggie.

Day 1 - continued - WOP

I felt lips twitch, my fingers fluttered slightly above the sticky steering wheel. While it may have been cooler in the cabin, the August morning outside was nowhere near as agreeable. The thin t-shirt I’d thrown on already had rivulets of sweat showing through.

Why, on God’s green earth, was my Explorer dead? That was problem three. I must have left the dome light on following my hasty bug-forced retreat two nights back. But it was a weird scene that morning. The dome light, nothing. Twisting the key in the ignition, nothing. Not even that ever-present
bing bing bing
when you insert the key into the switch with the door still opened. Nothing.

Logic told me two things: the power was out in this remote area (not all that unusual from what I recalled) and I was an idiot for not checking my vehicle over before relaxing inside for two days. One was my fault; the other had nothing to do with me.

Heading back to the front screen door of the place I paused, listening to the sounds of the woods. Birds still called, an assortment of small rodents — mostly squirrels I assumed — chattered here and there. Even the ever-present insects still swarmed about my body, searching for a convenient avenue to attach themselves to me

It was peaceful, serene and quiet.

Considering that morning some years later, that should have been my first hint something different was about. It was quiet — too quiet. If I had paid attention, I would have noticed the absence of the sound of any car approaching. I would have noticed that the pulsing, low hum of the power-lines was missing. But I was a fool.

Back inside my humble, and hopefully temporary, dwelling, I sat on the couch stunned by the morning’s events. No electricity was explainable. This area was remote; hell, remote made it sound like a sleepy Chicago suburb. You know the type: soccer and dance moms hustling about on their morning walks, chatting about this and that. A number of fools much like me, grudgingly hopping into their low-mileage SUVs, off to work. Kids pounding a basketball into the driveway, occasionally tossing it up, hoping it would go through the hoop.

This was nothing like that.

If the wind blew from the north, you lost power. If the wind gusted at all from the east, even at night, radio stations refused to give up their locations. And when it rained, you were stuck inside a place that would eventually begin to smell like rotted wood.

My vehicle issue was easily explained away as well. I’d left something on and after 48 hours of sucking the life from the battery, everything was shot. But why wasn’t I seeing any other vehicles pass by? There should have been a logging truck screaming past by now. Hell, 30 of them should have flown by, pretending the speed limit was for anyone but themselves.

But nothing; and that started to gnaw away at my mind.

Reaching for an opened bottle, I took a swig of liquor. Maybe that would help with my headache. Sure couldn’t hurt, not at a time like this.

I resolved nothing that morning. Instead of investigating any of these odd occurrences, instead of making my way to the nearest neighbor (some 5 miles south), instead of clearing my head and even attempting to find logic where none seemed to exist, I laid on the couch, clutching the bottle next to my body.

And I drank until it all disappeared.

Day 3 WOP

Two days later, I found myself badly in need of a thorough cleaning. Somewhere in the middle of my drunkenness, I threw up on the couch, the floor and myself. I found my own body odor was offensive, so I knew it was pretty bad. And my teeth felt as if woolen covers lined them. That was all right, I suppose; the inside of my mouth seemed to have hosted the used underwear of a thousand Russian soldiers.

Except for the liquor, I wasn’t prepared to be this alone for two weeks. While it helped pass the idle time, what I could remember of it, day five told me it wasn’t as good of a friend as I needed.

Still no power, nothing from the car either. Desperate for something positive, I pulled my cell phone out of my green canvas attaché and pushed the power button. I knew there wouldn’t be a signal; I was too far from any tower for something that luxurious. But it would be nice to know the date and time, I thought.

Nothing. A formerly fully-charged cell phone failed to come back to life. Perhaps I’d left that on along with the light in my car. It was, after all, the only logical explanation.

I cleaned up again, using nearly all of the bottled water I had brought. Though I didn’t know it at the time, it was a waste of clean water. Brushing my teeth over the kitchen sink, I watched a pair of grey squirrels play in a large oak tree behind the house. Whatever was going on hadn’t affected their lives at all. Maybe I could learn something from them. Maybe I’d eat them, I joked to myself, if things got bad enough.

Walking down the edge of the blacktop highly, I kicked at the class-five on the shoulder. Small light brown chunks of rock shot in every direction with each boot. I wondered how often they cleaned these remote highways. Back home, the street sweepers came by every month during the spring and summer. Did they brush these roads once a year? Or did they simply allow the snowplows, pushing mounds of white slushy snow aside, do their work for them?

Four miles on a hot sticky August afternoon is hell. Especially on foot. And especially when ten billion deer flies want to make you their bitch. I made a mental note to find a head-net or something similar for my next pilgrimage. If there was a next one. Hopefully the power would be back on soon and all of this could be written off as a bad dream.

As I strolled, closer to the actual highway at times, I wondered what was going on back in Chicago at work. Were they even aware of the power outage some 400 miles away? Most likely not. This was a spot that not many in the office had ever heard of. Sure, some knew where the UP was, but only a handful had ever traveled north of Green Bay, and that was some 160 miles south of here.

Shelly popped into my mind suddenly. It was Sunday, maybe Monday — I wasn’t sure. That either meant she was lounging on the three-season porch on the rear of the house, reading the Sunday paper — or — she was hard at work. No matter where she was, she certainly wasn’t sweltering in the August heat and humidity like I was. No, a constant stream of cool air surrounded her, whether in the car, or at work, or back home. She was lucky.

They say a man can walk at a rate of four miles per hour if he hustles. It seemed to me I was going slower than that. I knew I’d been walking for over two hours, and still I knew the house I was headed for was another mile down the road. I guess I wasn’t really hustling. Hung-over meandering better described my gait.

By the time I reached the neighbor’s front yard, and let’s use that term
neighbor
loosely here, I was sun burnt, parched, tired, and had drunk the last of my bottled water. I hoped this was the only trip I’d be making like this.

The mailbox, that had seen better times, stated “Fred Morgan” lived in this spot. Can’t say I ever noticed that before, either as a child or the one time in the area as an adult. All I hoped for now was that Fred was home, friendly and generous with his cold water.

Day 4 WOP

“You’re the first person I seen in the past five days,” the old man squawked, sitting in a green-plaid recliner that had to be a few years older than him. And he looked ancient.

I sucked on my third glass of tepid water, finishing it and pouring myself a fresh one from the plastic jug. He said drink it all and I intended to drink.

“Say you’re from Chicago, aye?” he shouted, pointing a wooden came at me. I figured he was almost deaf, given the volume he used.

I nodded, tossing down half a glass of water. I was almost feeling hydrated again. The sun really zapped it out of me; well, that and the four-day bender.

“Yeah,” I finally got from my dry throat. “Lived down there my whole life.”

He scowled; probably didn’t like ‘big city folk’ too much. “I guess that makes you a Bears fan then.”

I got a deep breath out and slid back on his pleather couch. One I’m sure he’d salvaged from the local dump, during the Eisenhower administration, no doubt.

“You bet,” I replied. “Love them Bears.”

“That’s too bad, that’s too damn bad,” he said, playing with the handle of his cane. “Most folks up here are Lions fans. Or Packer fans. Depending who’s doing better in any given year.” He shot me a crooked smile. “I guess that makes us mostly Packer fans then, since the Lions suck and have for a long time now.”

Though I found Fred’s conversation tantalizing, I had other needs to address still. Spotting an older cordless handset next his chair, I pointed.

“Do you mind if I use your phone, Mr. Morgan,” I asked in my most polite tone. “I really need to touch base with my wife.”

He looked at me with indifference. Maybe he wanted money for the call. “Go ahead.” He shrugged, laying his head back in his chair. “Wouldn’t do you no good, though.”

I paused mid-reach. “Why’s that?”

He sighed and pushed his thick-lensed, black horn rim glasses high on his lined face.

“It don’t work,” he replied. “It hasn’t in almost a week now.”

I felt my heart begin to race. “Do you think something’s wrong? Or perhaps you didn’t pay your bill?”

When he smiled this time, I noticed his lack of teeth. There were one or two missing for every tooth present. It was kind of creepy but went along with the theme of my visit.

“Oh, I paid my bill. Comes right out of my account on the fifth of every month.” He tried to push out of his chair but only made it part way before giving up. “I was gonna show you my bank statement. Proves I paid it.”

I rose and wandered through his cluttered living room. “Is your wife gone somewhere right now?” I asked, hoping she was.

“Oh, she’s gone all right,” he answered from behind. “Gone dead and shoved in the ground in the Methodist cemetery down in Amasa. So she won’t be coming home anytime soon. Been dead ten years now.”