The No Where Apocalypse (Book 1): Stranded No Where (7 page)

Shelter was another thing in good supply. Though dozens of summer cottages dotted this area, all but four were occupied now. Dizzy thought it wise that I go scavenge what I could from the empty abodes, but I was hesitant. Killing the wanderer made me cautious, wanting to hide in my cabin with gun in hand all day. Longer jaunts were going to have to wait.

One thing that was harder to come by now was food. Dizzy’s supply of ill-gotten venison was gone, either eaten or rotted. True he had a shed with stacks of supplies, but he said that would only get him through the winter. Lettie had a basement full of goodies and was more than willing to share.
 

Fred had enough for himself, he claimed. He didn’t eat much, didn’t do much, didn’t need much, or so he said. He would be happy if I ran him a jar or two or Lettie’s preserved wild game a month. Bear or deer, made no difference to him.

As best as I could figure our little group, albeit spread over ten miles, had enough food for the winter. Even into spring we’d be fed, Lettie claimed. Water wouldn’t be an issue. When it became too cold to run to the pump, I was told I could just take a bucket and scoop up the plentiful snow that would be as deep as my head. Just let it melt inside and I’d have all I needed for the winter.

The one thing I was lacking was a massive woodpile. Since the only heat the cabin had to come from the wood stove, I’d need a lot of the stuff to survive the long cold season. Lettie and Frank each had four cords, delivered this past mid-summer by a guy from north of Covington. Even Dizzy had a pile that was 40 feet in circumference and six feet high.

I could have all the wood from Dizzy, but it needed to be hauled. He agreed to come and help me cut a bunch before the snows came. It was a nice offer, especially from a man I wouldn’t have given a damn about two months prior.

But how hard could it be to cut a bunch of wood for myself? I had the tools and the time.

Day 50 WOP

The gun roared in my hand and the animal in front of us trotted off as if I were no threat at all. She had that right. It was the ninth deer I’d missed in three days. And this one was a mere 30 yards from us.

“You have to be the worst shot I’ve ever met,” Dizzy laughed, watching the doe bound through the brush. “Here I bring you to my secret spot, set you up with an easy shot, and you still blow it.”

I had no words to defend myself. Fourteen shots at nine deer, mostly standing and broadside had resulted in no harm. Unless you count my ego. That was taking a battering.

Though I’d spent three years in these woods with my father and brother, I had never taken a deer during that time. I was never too interested in killing anything, so I shot maybe once or twice. My father just shook his head at me mostly; Bud laughed each time I touched one off and had nothing to show for the shot.

Now Dizzy took the spot of both. Chastising me for ruining his prime spots and finding humor in my misfortune. Easy for him, he had taken a fat doe two days back. He and I were eating pretty damned good, for the moment.

Trudging through the sunlit forest, I pulled the collar of my coat a little tighter to my neck. Gone were the warm days of late summer, where a long sleeved shirt was all you needed. Fall came early in these parts. I knew that, but Dizzy liked to remind me.

“See that sugar maple over there?” he asked, guiding me easily through a maze of brush and bogs. “It was crimson the other day. Now it’s turning blood red. All the birch have gone from yellow to dead already. And the wooly caterpillars are everywhere.”

Keeping pace behind him, I waited for his lesson. Surely he wasn’t just playing John Muir for me.

“And?” I prompted. “What does this all mean?”

“Gonna be a long hard winter,” he answered, slowing down to weave in and out of some pines branches. “You’d best be ready.”

He was just trying to piss me off, I figured. Give me a hard time about my woodpile again, or lack of woodpile in my case.

“You know that shit isn’t so easy to chop by hand. I’ve been at it for almost a week, and my pile has grown.” Defending myself was hard; I wasn’t really all that interested in manual labor that made me feel as exhausted as chopping wood did.

He stopped and turned, shoving a finger into my chest. “Winter is coming.”

Waiting for a grin, I noticed him poke me again. “All right, Eddard Stark. I get it.”

His face turned confused. “Who’s he?” Dizzy asked.

“You don’t watch much TV, do you Dizzy?” What a dumb question. Nowhere did I see a satellite dish on his property. Cable wires? No, just a few power lines. And the nearest television station was over 100 miles away. Except for a fat-tubed color set, the oldest VCR known to mankind, and a stack of skin flicks (as he lovingly called them) that would have made Ron Jeremy proud, Dizzy had no need for such a frivolity.

“You either need to get two cords cut, or figure out how to haul that much from my place,” he continued. “And I’m out of gas, so the putt putt ain’t gonna work no more.”

Leaning against the trunk of a large oak, I thought about his advice. I needed venison and wood. Dizzy would happily supply both, but I felt I needed to be able to produce something myself as well.

“I’m gonna head back to my place,” I told Dizzy, seeing his trailer in the distance. “I still got a few hours of daylight. First thing I’m going to do is drag all those chunks out of the woods on the west side. All that stuff my dad cut last spring.”

“Last summer,” Dizzy interjected. “And that’s good because it will be dry enough to burn this winter.” He slapped my back, damn near knocking me over. This guy wasn’t losing any strength in the dark days of the world. No sir, Dizzy was in his element.

Almost back to the highway I paused to watch bright yellow leaves drop from the birch tree lining the road. Dizzy was right; fall had come quick and brief. That could only mean winter’s early arrival. Marvelous.

My brother and father drug their hunting stuff back and forth each fall. Neither wanted to leave much at the cabin over the winter, afraid someone would break in and take their belongings. As such, I didn’t have a winter coat or a decent pair of boots. Certainly not what Dizzy called winter boots.

Fred’s feet were too small, as were Dizzy’s. Anything they had would be three sizes tighter than preferred. And, according to both experienced woodsmen, tight boots got cold fast.

Lettie offered me a pair she had lying around. They were only a single size too small. Thus, they might fit the need. Except of course they were pink. Not hers, she claimed. Just something some relative had left behind years back.

So I had a pair of boots that would work in a pinch, but what I really needed to do was scavenge around the area. Who knew, I just might find something my size, and a bit more manly.

Dizzy promised to dig through his back shed and find me a parka that would last the winter. Claiming to have clothes dating back to the 40s, he couldn’t guarantee any coat he found would be fashionable — just warm.

A few more strides and I was on the highway leading home. That’s when I saw it. Standing there on the shoulder, chewing on the last of the green weeds of the season.

The doe was small but vulnerable. Perhaps she’d never seen a human before. It was, after all, possible in these parts. My dad had said once that if a hunter went deep enough into the woods and swamps of this area, you’d set foot on land where man had never trod.

Slowly, trying not to spook the brown animal, I raised the gun. When the explosion sounded, the doe took off for the far side of the road.

Damn it!

Day 50 - continued -
 
WOP

My heart fell when the tiny doe began her dash for the east side of the road. Fifteen shots and ten deer and I was zero-for-10. There had to be a worse hunter than me somewhere in the world. At least I hoped there was.

When I heard the crash just into the woods to my left, I craned my neck to see if the confused animal was coming back. Maybe she’d be closer, and dumber. A second chance at a (hopefully) non-moving target.

 
A thrashing sound came next. One that made me wonder if I was about to meet my first wolf. Then it died away, slowly, suddenly halting. I stepped into the ditch to investigate.

The first thing I noticed was blood at my feet, on a path the deer had taken in her hasty retreat. There were some on the road, I noticed. Not a lot, but enough to give me hope. And in the ditch just before the tree-line I found more, much more.

Bright red foamy droplets covered the ground near my feet. According to what Dizzy had said, that was a good sign. A double-lunger, as he called it.

Excitement took over once I was inside the forest. There, maybe ten feet in front of me laid the doe on her side, not moving. I noticed the gun tremble as I extended it at the animal, making sure it didn’t jump up suddenly and sprint further into the woods.

By the time I reached it, I knew it was dead. Well, I was pretty sure it was dead. With each step, dead leaves and small twigs cracked under my dirty boots. And with each sound, the deer remaining motionless. So either it was a good faker, or she was dead.

I nudged her hindquarter with the toe of my boot — no response. Slowly, I circled towards her head, my gun still pointed at the deer. Gently I gave her one last nudge, just under her jaw.
 

She was dead. I was a hunter.

Kneeling beside the kill, I slapped its back quarter several times. Perhaps not as much meat as I might need for a month, but still something. And I had taken it. No one helped me.

“I can do this,” I whispered aloud, smoothing the fur on the side of
my
deer. “I can survive this. I can make it to next spring. Then maybe, I can get home.”

Rising up, I threw my arms in the air above my head. Pumping several times like Rocky Balboa celebrating his stair climb, I let out a small
whoop
. Remembering there was no one to hear me, I doubted Dizzy would have even heard the gunshots two miles back in, I shouted as loud as I could.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” echoed through the otherwise silent woods. Only the pines, and maples, and birches took in my celebration.

When the adrenaline quit pumping through my veins, and my heart rate slowed to below 500, I studied my kill. It was double-lunged, just where I was aiming…I think. Dizzy claimed I only pointed the gun; you need to aim was his typical battle cry after a miss. Well, aim this, sucker.

A problem came to mind, studying the deer. What was I supposed to do next?

My plan had always been to have Dizzy guide me through the next steps. He was the experienced hunter. Certainly more experienced than I was. But he was two plus miles away. Most likely memorizing his magazines.

“Gut it,” I said aloud as if I knew what that meant. I remembered that much from my limited hunting experience.

And that was a problem. I had never actually watched a deer’s entrails being removed. Typically, I showed up an hour after Dad or Bud had taken and properly cleaned their kill. Even then, the nearby gut piles made me want to puke.

To gut this thing, my first kill, I was going to need a knife. That meant running back to the cabin, finding a sharp knife, and making my way through the rest of the mysterious process.

I rose, glancing one more time at my deer. My deer. That sounded awesome for some reason to me.

Day 50 - continued -
 
WOP

I ran most of the few hundred yards back to the cabin. Trotted was probably a better description. Though I was “fit,” I wasn’t that physically active in my former life. My exercise program included a weekly walk with Shelly, usually taken on Sunday mornings.

My wife had always warned me I needed more physical activity. “Some day you’ll thank me for riding your butt,” she often said. Usually, I laughed her off. But at that moment, I remembered just how right she was. Eerily correct.

Sucking for air, I scanned my small home. Somewhere someone must have left a decent knife here. A quick check of the kitchen offered one possibility. An old wood-handle meat knife with an edge duller than the lip of a wood table. If needed, I could make it work.

I lit a candle to dig in the deep recesses of the dark closet — nothing. Did Dad really cart his hunting knives back and forth to Milwaukee every deer season? Didn’t he know that I might be in need of one someday? Like when the world ended and I found myself stranded here, in thew middle of nowhere?

I took a spot on the couch; my heart rate settled. There had to be a real-life hunting knife, somewhere, in a real-life hunting cabin. But where?

A thought finally came to me. Standing, I made my way back into the bedroom. Pulling open a dresser drawer, then a second, I spotted what I knew I’d find, Grandpa’s old hunting knife.

My first recollection of the tool was my first deer season, some 10 years in the past. Grandpa, dressed from head to toe in woolen blaze orange, strapping a thick leather belt around his rotund mid-section. The only reason for the belt was to hold his knife, sheathed in a dark tan leather holder.

Back then, it and he was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.

“Don’t you dare touch that,” he warned me at the time. “It’s sharper than a surgeon’s scalpel.”

Grandpa died the winter after that deer season. Since then the knife had sat in the same spot in the white painted dresser. It was my dad’s homage to his dad. We all knew it was there; and that meant Grandpa was still with us, no matter what.

Picking the antique up, another voice sounded in my head.

“Don’t touch that.” It was Dad. I looked around the room, expecting him to be standing there. “That’s Grandpa’s knife. It belongs right where he left it. You’ll just lose it somewhere. Grandpa deserves more respect than that from you.”

I pulled the blade from its sheath. What I expected to find was a shiny steel knife with an edge that could slice on sight. However, I discovered something else.

A layer of rust covered the tool. And I mean the whole thing. Only the cracked leather handle wasn’t covered by the orange coating.

“You two are such morons,” I replied to the ghosts of my father and brother.