The No Where Apocalypse (Book 1): Stranded No Where (4 page)

“Yeah,” I moaned, lying down on the couch, “this sucks big time.”

Day 7 WOP

“You got robbed,” the old woman said to me, between puffs of her menthol 100 cigarette. “You got to be careful up here, sweetie. There’s a lot of unseemly folks that wander around this place.”

Fred had told me, several days back, about another neighbor. This gal lived about three miles north of my cabin, just off the highway. Lettie Hamshire was a northwoods lady, through and through. Born in the house she still lived in, she had buried both parents somewhere on the property after their deaths. Never married, Fred claimed she was one of
those kinds of
gals. I knew what he meant, but doubted he knew much about the scenario.

She blew smoke in my face, waiting for me to speak.

“I figured that much,” I replied, chasing away the flies that circled us in her garden. Why she chose to stand there in the hot sun was beyond me. Her opened, shaded garage was a mere 15 feet away.

“You need to be mindful of strangers,” she continued, going back to her weeding.

Around us was one of the largest gardens I had ever seen. It had to be an acre, I surmised. Though I had nothing to gauge an acre against.

Beside us stood tall green tomato plants. To the left were some type of green beans, growing on poles and strings. Various types of squash and several watermelons sat further back in the garden. I had to admit, Lettie was quite the gardener.

She looked to be 60, maybe 65. Tan and fit the only thing lacking was her height. She stood a strong head shorter than me, but had more energy than most people I knew half her age. Dirt and weeds became airborne as she tended to her patch.

“Do you know anything about hand pumps?” I asked, following her down the row.

“I use one every day for the garden,” she replied, the almost used up butt hanging from her leathery lips. “Pump the handle up and down and water comes out. Pretty simple really.”

“That’s the problem. No matter how much I pump back at the cabin, water doesn’t come out.”

I studied the top of her sunbonnet as she lowered to pluck a weed by hand, one that must have been too close to use the tool. When she looked up, I noticed her short gray hair poking through several spots on the worn headdress.

“Did you prime it, plenty of water?” she asked.

I squinted at her. “Come again?”

“Did you pour a couple cups of water down the throat before you started pumping? You have to do that, otherwise you can pump from now ’til kingdom come and you won’t get no water.”

Ah, the missing step. But another problem.

“I…ah,” I stammered, shifting from foot to foot. “I lost the rest of my clean water to those bandits a few days back. Can I borrow a jug from you?”

I had spent the last three days lying on my couch, drinking and feeling sorry for myself. Only a terrible thirst and large pangs of hunger had driven me from my spot this day.

“You can use river water to prime, sweetie. It won’t affect the well at all. Hell, you could probably drink the river water up here. You might have a bad case of the trots for a week or so, but eventually you’d get used to it.”

She paused her maniacal weeding, pulling her pack from her shirt pocket. I watched as her lips twisted, pulling one of two available death sticks out.

“Dang it all,” she complained. “I think I only got one pack left in the house.”

Big deal, lady. I didn’t smoke. Not my problem.

“You’re gonna have to be a dear and run up to Dizzy’s for me tomorrow. Fetch a cartoon of menthols and tell him to put it on my tab. I’ll get over there to pay him when the power comes back on.”

Wiping the river of sweat from my chin, I peeked down at Lettie. Was I supposed to take her serious? Did she somehow think one little nugget of advice on a pump equaled an all day trip on my part to support her habit?

“And Dizzy’s is in Covington?” I asked, hoping she’d notice my skepticism of the 20 mile journey for cigarettes.

“Oh heavens no,” she cried, slapping my forearm. “He’s just up the road a mile or two from your place. On that dirt road to the east, the first one.”

“Does this road have a name?” Seemed like a decent question.

Her crooked gray smile displayed several missing teeth. Probably rotted out from too much tobacco.

“We just call it Dizzy Drive. You’ll find his place about a mile back in there. Just after the crick crosses under the road. You tell him Lettie sent you and maybe he’ll be friendly. Though sometimes he’s nasty man.”

I headed back to the cabin with a small bag full of beans, three cucumbers, four green tomatoes, and a jar of preserved venison. Lettie also gave me instructions to arm myself. Maybe that would keep the burglars away.

“And don’t forget my carton of menthols,” she shouted as I was about to lose sight of her home. “And bring them to me right away when you get them. One pack ain’t gonna last me all that long, sweetie.”

She was awfully generous with both advice and food. I guess that made up for her bossiness. Now, I had to find a place to hide my supplies. Then, I remembered the pit.

Day 9 WOP

It rained like a son-of-a-gun for the 36 hour period after I returned from Lettie’s. Just before sunset, I heard the rolling thunder. Within an hour, rain came down in sheets.

I thought about the old gal, watching the water pour off the front roof of the cabin. She was out of smokes, maybe. Though I had strict instructions, from a complete stranger mind you, to return the following day with her menthols, I knew she understood the weather. Add to that the sneaking suspicion she had a stash somewhere and my guilt never reached a critical level.

The road leading to Dizzy’s place was muck and mud. The whole road. The ditches were filled with leftover rainwater and some of the sparse remaining gravel had been washed away in the low spots. It was a good thing I had three pairs of shoes with me; the boots on my feet were going to need to dry out in the returned sunshine and warmth.

Combating the nasty bugs was an issue I hadn’t lived with in Joliet. There we had a mosquito patrol squad run by the city. The flies were only bad about two weeks of the year. If I set up a poop-slurry (don’t ask) in the backyard, most nights were tolerable.

Here, in the precise middle of nowhere, the flies lived without worry of destruction. According to Fred, they only went away in the winter. Otherwise, they were just a fact of life. Having killed maybe a thousand in my first week, I realized that hadn’t made a tiny dent in their population. Nor did the deaths of their family and friends quell their quest for blood.

It took almost an hour to hike back to Dizzy’s place. Either Lettie sucked at distances or the mud had slowed me that much. I’d have plenty of time to consider that on my swatting walk back to my cabin.

The old rundown trailer that came into view as I rounded what I hoped was the last corner of my journey was nothing short of underwhelming. It was hard to believe anyone, even a man who went by Dizzy, lived in such a dilapidated place. The yellow siding was dulled from what could only have been years of neglect. I could see dull blue tarps lying across the roof, flapping in the warm breeze. Not one window looked clean. Perhaps the cleaning lady had skipped Dizzy’s…for the past decade or so.

The collection of junk in his front yard was amazing. Old lawnmowers, both the walk-behind and riding variety, took up a large chunk of land nearest me. Behind them, and to the rear of the
home
sat a half-dozen or so faded routing trucks. All had their hoods lifted high. Most were missing any sort of window glass.

Rounding the trailer, I spotted a large pole barn absent any door. Just an open area full of more crap: washers, dryers, a cement mixer, what looked to be part of a satellite — all tossed about in a random pattern.

A bearded fat man came from the shed, wiping his hands on a rag. It was hard to tell which was dirtier, the rag or his hands. He spotted me, then reached and jerked a pistol from his rear pocket.

“Stop right there!” he shouted, waving the shiny metal gun at me. “I’ll drill you right where you stand if you don’t state your business instantly.”

The thought of dying this far off the beaten path, in the middle of sheer madness, at the hands of a middle-aged wild man wasn’t too tempting. I froze and raised my hands as instructed.

“Dizzy?” I asked, a quiver finding its way into my voice.

He shot me a mean glare, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Who wants to know?” he barked, the gun still pointed at me.

“Lettie sent me,” I replied, daring a step in his direction, seeing the recognition of his neighbor’s name cross his face.

The gun lowered, not all the way but it wasn’t pointed at my body any more. “You with the IRS?” he demanded.

Another couple of steps and I felt brave enough to lower my arms. “God, no. I’m a neighbor. Bob Reiniger.” I extended my hand before noting his weren’t just dirty, they were full of grease.

“Reiniger?” he asked, shaking my hand with a firm grip. “Down my road and south on the highway?”

“One in the same.” I was glad the standoff was over.

“I know your old man. And your brother shot a big buck practically on my front step a couple years back.” He began to amble towards his dwelling. “Come on inside, I’ll grab us a beer. Too damned hot to be standing out in the sun without something to drink.”

Bravely, I followed, wondering if the inside was any better than the outward appearance of this place. But I was hot, and beer sounded pretty good.

Day 9 - continued - WOP

Dizzy shoved some dirty clothes from a chair and pointed for me to sit. Meanwhile, he opened a stained blue cooler, pulling two beers from inside. Popping the tops on a kitchen counter edge, he handed one to me.

I expected it to be warm, almost as hot as the day. Instead, it was only tepid. Bonus points for Dizzy.

“I suppose you want to talk to me about raking your roof this winter,” he began, leaning on the counter casually paging through a nudie magazine. “Not sure I can do that this year. Not ’til my truck works again.”

Okay, I was thoroughly confused. First off, why would he think I wanted to discuss snow removal on perhaps the hottest day of the year? Further, it seemed he was ignorant to what Fred had informed me had happened. If that weren’t bad enough, why did he toss me another magazine from his two-foot stack on his counter? I couldn’t imagine what disgusting things I might find inside, both printed on the page and more organic.

“Actually,” I said, taking a slug of some of the nastiest brew I had ever tasted. “I’m here because Lettie needs another carton of cigarettes. Apparently you’re her dealer.”

His face screwed up something wild. “That old bitty still owes me for the last two,” he raged, pounding his fist on the counter. I noticed dirty dishes leaped up and down with the anger. “Her credit ain’t no good with me no more. You go tell her that.”

Me? Did I look like the messenger service to this hillbilly? Add that to the fact that I had never met two people more willing to pawn their chores off on complete strangers.

“You can probably tell her that yourself.” I gave him a half-smile and took another large gulp.

He shrugged, tossing the magazine aside. “Truck’s broke down, so I can’t.”

Pausing for a moment, I wondered just how aware he was of the current situation we were facing.

“Power seems to be out too,” I offered.

That didn’t seem to shock him. “Yeah, ain’t paid my bill in a while so I imagine I need to run up to Covington to take care of that. Once it goes over $500 they get pretty serious about collections.”

I scanned the hovel for a landline, but only noticed his cell phone lying on the counter. “Any luck with the cell?”

He shook his head, looking as defeated as a man could. “Ran out of battery,” he said, sighing before he flopped onto the laundry filled couch. I assumed it was all dirty. “Can I get you to charge it at your place and run it back to me when it’s done?”

I had to admit that for an outward ogre appearance, Dizzy had a charming side.

“I don’t have power either,” I answered, watching his eyes for any hint of recognition.

He nodded, peeking in my direction. “Didn’t pay your bill either, aye?”

I felt a jolt of reality shoot through my body, starting in my head and racing for my extremities. He had no idea what was going on outside of Dizzyland. The world had ended, and he wrote it off as just his own bad luck.

Leaving Dizzy’s, I brought home three cartons of cigarettes, three beers, and four large packages of venison chops from his defrosting freezer. The bonus was the mountain bike he gave me. Well, sort of gave me.

Even with the mud, the ride home took a quarter of the time the walk there had. Granted my back was covered in brown liquid goo where the rear tire kicked the rooster tail on me. But I felt renewed and refreshed. I even started formulating a plan. Emphasis on formulating, not plan.

Dizzy insisted I pay for everything he gave me, even Lottie’s smokes. But I had little cash, only $35 in my wallet. With a laugh, he shook away my offer to let him keep one of my credit cards. Said didn’t believe in the things. My checkbook had been stolen with my attaché, so that was a bust as well.

His ingenious idea was to scribble out a list of all he gave me, assign prices to each item, and have me sign it — a sloppy type of IOU. Once the power came back, he expected a check or cash for the amount — $145. And within three days preferably. His last demand only solidified in my mind that he couldn’t comprehend what was happening in the world outside of Dizzy Drive.

The smokes cost me, Lottie actually, $30 per carton. That seemed awfully low, even for a non-smoker. But I don’t believe Dizzy had his thinking cap on tight when I was there. He wanted to give me the beer but I insisted on paying. Another $10 added to my IOU; again, fair.

We agreed the venison would be going bad sooner rather than later, so what he gave me was his gift. And with the present came with a promise that I could come back and get as much as I wanted. He admitted with a blushing face that he had almost three freezers full of the same. Something told me “hunting season” had its own definition to the humble woodsman.