The No Where Apocalypse (Book 1): Stranded No Where (6 page)

One second I was peeling away, minding my own business. The next, I found myself lying on the blacktop, unsure of what had just happened.

The bike was three or four feet behind me. I tried to shake away the blow to my head, the one that occurred when it met the black highway at approximately five miles an hour. Touching my scalp, I found the injury and noticed the crimson stain on my fingertips.

I lay back, right in the middle of the highway almost on top of the faded yellow stripe that divided the two lanes. It wasn’t like someone was going to come tearing down the road and run me over. In all my time here, the only working vehicle that had passed by was Dizzy’s dippy garden tractor.

Taking a few minutes to gather my wits, I finally rose and inspected my ride. As suspected, the front tire was flat. Something had caused it to blow. I wondered if that
something
had been planted by my fat friend. Quickly I shook away that thought. If anything, Dizzy was harmless.

Striding away from the crash site, I set my jaw, and mind, on my continued journey. If I couldn’t ride home, I’d walk.

It took all of 100 yards before the pain in my back and right ankle convinced me to stop. Apparently, the fall had been more severe than I first thought. Checking inside my pant leg, I found the cause of the pain. An ugly stripe of road rash covered my right calf. Further investigation showed my ankle was bleeding, badly.

I hurled the backpack as far as I could towards the woods in disgust.

“Damn it all to hell!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. A faint echo seconded my feeling.

I wasn’t going anywhere. Not anytime soon at least.

Day 36 WOP

I don’t know how many days I laid on the couch, taking sips from the latest bourbon casualty. If I couldn’t be traveling, I may as well be drunk.

Night after night I rested, listening to the eerie howls from nearby coyotes. If I had had the strength, I would have joined them. But the sound of their cries reminded me what a wild place this was.

Dizzy was delighted to find me back home…if I dared to call this place home. Treating my wounds, he showed me a compassionate side I don’t know existed. Making a large pot of venison stew was his way of bringing round a casserole.

Using what was left of his almost rancid meat, frying it to an almost black hunk of leather, Dizzy added it to a pot with a small amount of water. Already in the water, boiling the life out of them, were a dozen or so small potatoes Lettie had given me several weeks back. For a fishing touch, he added a small amount of flour to thick the sauce.

It tasted like shit, but it was edible.

“You’re lucky the wolves didn’t get you,” Dizzy pontificated on one of his daily visits. I had always suspected he’d come back the first day to pilfer what he could from my remaining stock. Discovering his friend had returned, he only borrowed two cans of spam.

Rubbing my forehead, I laughed at him. “There’s no wolves here, Dizzy. I know that much. You’re not frightening me that easily.”

When I looked back his face wore a serious expression. “There’s wolves here,” he added dryly. “They’ve moved in the past 10 years, from over in northern Wisconsin.”

“Wolves?”

He laughed. “Hell yeah. And you gotta be careful starting now through spring. Those bastards will follow you everywhere. And if you get in trouble, they’ll eat you.”

Oh, good God. Wasn’t it bad enough I was stuck in the middle of nowhere? Without power, or communication, or a vehicle? NowI had to worry about carnivorous neighbors too?

This place really sucked.

“I brought you a roof rake,” he stated as if he had told me he’d brought me a shirt.

“Don’t you need it?” I asked, knowing that when the snows came, his flat roof was far more susceptible to collapse.

“I got four,” he replied, almost sounding like he was bragging. “So I figure I give you one, you can keep up with the snow.”

I nodded, rising from my slumber spot to fetch a spoonful of nearly black nourishment. “How often do I need to clean the roof? Once a month or so?”

It was his turn to gawk at me like I was the idiot in the room.

“Try every time we get more than six inches or so,” he replied, his tone more sarcastic than I had ever heard.

That made sense. My roof had virtually no slope either. “What’s that, like three or four times a winter up here?” I asked, slurping a large chuck of burnt venison from a spoon.

“Try a lot more than that, Bob. Last year we got eight feet of snow.” His eyes flashed in my direction, showing me his wisdom. “Now that’s more than normal. But we should get at least five feet this year. That would be normal.”

Depression set in. I needed to cut some wood, but my injuries had kept me pretty much bedridden. Well, that and the blind drunk rampage I’d been on. But that would be short-lived. I only had a bottle and a half left to enjoy.

Every time I cut wood, to prevent myself from becoming a human popsicle this winter, I’d have to be on the lookout for man’s best friend of the not so kind and friendly variety.

I wasn’t getting home before winter. I would simply have to wait for spring. If I lived that long.

Day 42 WOP

Killing a man, when you’re desperate to stay alive, is nowhere near as hard as the average person might believe. I understood the kill or be killed mentality my cousin, a United States Marine, mentioned to me several times. And putting that in action was simpler than I’d ever imagined.

I heard him before I ever saw him. The intruder kicked open my front door, it was unlocked so that was unnecessary, and stormed into the cabin screaming at the top of his lungs.

It took him a minute in the dim candlelight to figure out where I was. That was the break I needed. It gave me a chance to get my bearings; enough to figure out what the hell was going on in the middle of the night.

He came at me; I saw the glint of steel in his right hand. Cocked above his shoulder, the knife hurdled at me in the dark. I rolled away to miss the stab, ending up on the cold floor on the far side of my bed. He readjusted his attack, but that’s when I warned him to stop.

Dizzy had convinced me trouble would be coming, eventually. I had to get used to sleeping with the Glock near me in bed, preferably under the opposite pillow. A place where I could reach it as needed.

The wild man fell across the bed, stabbing at me in the dark, missing. But he was way too close. I knew I couldn’t get around the bed, past him, and out into the larger area without taking a poke from the blade. I cocked my pistol.

“Hold it right there,” I screamed, waving the gun so he could see I was armed. I wanted,
needed
, to give him every chance possible to retreat. At that point, I still had no idea why I was being attacked.

“Ahhhhh!” he screamed louder, thrusting at me again and again. He wasn’t going down without a fight. That much was obvious.

I fired a shoot a foot or so over his head into the ceiling. The gun roared louder inside than I had anticipated. Instantly my ears rang. He continued his fight, unfazed by the gun.

“I’m going to kill you!” he shouted, lunging again, shoving the knife where I was. Luckily, I moved in anticipation of his desperate swing.

“Leave, damn it!” I shouted, whacking at his body with the butt of the black pistol. Maybe if I could inflict enough injury to the menace, he would get the idea I was serious.

He crawled across the bed with the speed and agility of a spider. Another swing of the blade came close, too close. He caught the outside edge of my left shoulder as I tried to crawl deeper into the closet.

Rising again, I saw his silhouette against the poorly lit doorframe. The blade rose again as he drew nearer. Instinctively, I fired at his center mass, just Dizzy had told me to. Not once, not twice, but six times. I’m sure the last three or four shots zipped over his prostrate body, now flat on my former sleeping spot.

Shaking so badly I almost couldn’t hold the gun, I poked at his motionless head. No response. I shoved the barrel into his shoulder, and nothing came from the man.

Backing further into the closet, getting as tight into the far corner as I could, I listened and only heard my ragged breathing. Shaking intensified as I tried to draw a deep breath. The smell of gunpowder filled the room. The sound of my sobs soon followed.

Day 44 WOP

If my calculation were correct, it was somewhere around October 1
st
. I guess it didn’t really matter, not at that point. Whether I killed a man on September 30
th
or October 3
rd
was inconsequential. The deed was done; kill or be killed. I appreciated my cousin’s sage-like words more now. He was right, a man’s will to survive is strong than even himself dares to believe.

At daybreak the morning after the attack, I was still huddled in the closet. The barrel of the gun, my gun, was still pointed at the man’s head. Though I knew he was dead, I was against taking any further chances.

By the time I braved rising from my spot and scurrying around the body, the sun was high in the sky. The old battery powered clock on the far kitchen wall showed it was 10:30. I’m not sure I slept more than three hours. Dead men may tell no tales, but a sneak attack — hours in the planning — wasn’t going to be my demise.

I boiled some water and threw in the grounds Lettie had given me in the gallon size can. Though I wanted a drink, coffee seemed more sensible at that point. My ears still rang from the half-dozen or so shots I’d fired in the small room. That only made the pounding headache worse. Hopefully, coffee would help.

Standing in the doorway between the rest of the cabin and my bedroom, I studied the man. Well, the mortal form of the man. His soul had departed this wretched Earth a number of hours earlier. His clothes were dirty and stunk of body odor. From what I could see of his left hand, he was no cleaner than Dizzy on any given day.

I thought about turning him over, maybe moving him out into the yard. But I thought better of it and decided to go get help after coffee.

I hope Dizzy had some cigarettes left. This was the day to start another bad habit, to hell with healthy living.

Dizzy came back with me right away. He even gave me a lift on his putt putt, as we now called it. With no muffler to soften the sound, it was loud. My headache couldn’t have gotten any worse, that just wasn’t possible.

“He’s dead all right,” Dizzy confirmed, poking at the body. “Deader than a polecat flattened in the middle of the road.”

Dead was dead; thus, no such thing as deader. But I kept my thoughts to myself.

“Any idea who he is?” I asked, not willing to touch the body myself quite yet.

“Let’s turn him over and find out,” Dizzy replied, almost sounding like it was going to be an exciting event. A game of identify the stiff. Oh, yay!

I let Dizzy do the rolling, and any required body touching. Once upon a time, when I was eight, I saw my dad touch my dead grandmother in her coffin. I was shocked and appalled he would actually reach in and touch a dead person. I get it now, it was his mom and he wanted one last touch from the woman he loved so dearly. That day I made a promise to myself; I was never touching a dead person.

I had to look away from the scene when he rolled the corpse over, the urge to vomit hovered near the extreme level. Half the bed was stained a dark crimson.

“Whoa,” Dizzy exclaimed loudly. “That’s a lot of blood. I bet you nailed this sucker in his heart.”

“Do you know him?” I asked, still facing the wall.

I heard him smack his lips several times, apparently Dizzy’s way of filling the silence as he thought.

“Can’t say I do,” he replied, his voice trailing off. I turned slightly to see what he was up to now. “What do you say we pull his shirt up and check out where you hit him?”

“God! No!” This guy was crazier than my attacker was. “I want nothing to do with a dead body.”

Dizzy peeked at me from the corner of his eye. “Well, we need to move him so you can use your bed again. You and I need to drag him out into the brush.”

I shook away both suggestions. “I won’t be sleeping in this bed ever again,” I answered. “And just why are we going to drag him out into the brush. Shouldn’t we dig a hole first?”

He laughed at me. Dizzy laughed out loud at me as he sat down next to the dead guy on my bed.

“He tried to kill you,” he informed me. “He don’t deserve to get buried. We’ll drag him deep into the swamp out back. Maybe a mile or so. Let the wolves and coyotes pick his bones clean.”

My stomach turned again at the thought of an animal ripping the flesh off my dead bones.

“That’s a little barbaric, Dizzy. Even for you.”

He shrugged my doubt away. “We ain’t gonna waste a good hole on this piss-ant. Come on, grab an arm.”

Day 45 WOP

I stared at the dead man’s driver’s license, taken from the wallet found in his back pocket by my less than sensitive friend. John Adams. Huh. I thought he’d died years ago, the same day as Thomas Jefferson.

Mr. Adams, allegedly from Ironwood, Michigan (if you can trust the DMV) looked no better in the picture on the plastic card than he had on his deathbed — maybe
my
dead bed — or bed of death.

According to Dizzy, Ironwood was over 100 miles to the east and slightly north. Mister Adams could have walked here in the days since the world ended, but why? Or was the address listed on his license simply of the “last known” variety?

A larger concern was how many more John Adams’ were out there, desperate for what little I had? And when was the next one coming?

The prevailing theory followed the logic of a madman. Adams was hungry, or thirsty, or lost. No one knew who long he had been wandering the highways of the desolate land. His last meal could have been the previous night, or two weeks ago. Hunger, Dizzy and I deduced, was the only thing that drove him to the dark place where he wanted to kill me for what I had.

Water wasn’t really an issue up here in the UP. At every turn, a person like me could find a stream or river or lake that held decent enough water for human consumption. It was the most plentiful resource this place offered.