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

by Lake, E. A.

  “Word is that what that fellow told Frank late last summer was God’s honest truth,” Dizzy continued, wiping away some dust from the sill with a finger. “The whole country is down, no power anywhere. Some people seen some older running vehicles on the road, here and there. I sure ain’t seen any myself. No phones neither. Says its real bad everywhere. God’s wrath or something like that. Might even be worldwide.”

  “Bull shit,” I answered, refusing to even peek in his direction.

  “Some say the nuclear plants melted down after the power went out. Half the country is covered in radiation.” I heard him approach my spot. “Thought about that? There’s plants like that all around Lake Michigan. It could be real deadly south of here. This may be the safest place in the country right now.”

  I glared at him and his rumors sold as logic. None of this was new to me. I wrote it off as Dizzy not wanting to lose a friend and nothing more.

  “It can’t be like that. It just can’t be.”

  He shrugged away my tense words. “Why not?”

  “Because I need hope, Dizzy. I need the hope that someday I’ll get out of this place.”

  Shaking his head at me, he made his way to the door.

  “Remember what they say about hope, Bob. You can crap in one hand and hope in the other. But you know damn well which one is gonna fill up first.” I heard the door creak open. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Hang in there.”

  Damn him, damn his logic. And damn this world if that’s how bad it’s become.

  Day 245 WOP

  Spring arrived with a thunderstorm just before dawn. The rolling thunder mixed in with the last of my dreams and damn they were good dreams.

  I was at a backyard cookout at my place. Everyone was there. Shelly and my friends, both of our parents, my brother Bud, her kid sister Molly (who hated Bud with a passion, not that he ever figured that out), and even some of the neighbors we had an occasional beer with.

  There were brats and burgers on the grill. God they smelled good. The beer boiling the brats was full of onions and a stick of butter. The pungent hops, mixing with the sweet onions and butter. Then the hearty medium-rare well-seared burgers. With buns the size of dinner plates, toasted and buttered.

  I manned the grill, flipping burgers, stirring the brats occasionally, and sharing jokes with Dad and Bud. It was as if I were really there.

  Shelly had set a beautiful table with bright red plates and a billowing white tablecloth. The setting was serene. The sun was setting, birds were chirping, and in the corner of the backyard, several rabbits ate in our garden. Shelly laughed, seeing them chomp at her lettuce. Normally she would have chased them away with a broom. But for some reason, she found them entertaining and quaint.

  When it came time to eat, I made an extra plate up and snuck inside. In the corner of the living room sat Frank, in his chair from home. I spread a napkin on his lap and laid the plate on top of it.

  “I’m happy you’re here, Frank,” I said, watching him stir the gooey brown beans with his cragged finger.

  He looked up at me, his face tight with either anger or concern — I couldn’t decide which it was.

  “There’s a storm coming,” he replied, his voice booming. “You need to be ready, and you’re not.”

  In the distance, I heard the thunder. When I turned to the window, lightning streaked across the now dark sky, blackened by storm clouds. The wind blew strong, tossing the plates and cups from the elegant table.

  When I turned back to my friend, he and his chair were gone. In their place, the carpet smoldered. Stomping my foot on the charred carpet, flames erupted below me. I went to scream, but thunder muffled my cries.

  Bolting up on the couch, I shook the dream from my head. Outside, rain ran from the roof like someone had turned on a giant hose. Though I knew it was morning, well after sunrise, the storm clouds gave the appearance outside of evening. Another round of lightning followed by thunder brought me to full consciousness.

  It was time to go visit Frank.

  If I were honest about things, Frank was the closest thing I had to a father up here. Though he was ornery and argumentative with most, he always treated me decently. When he spoke, I could tell he was the kind of a man who’d lived by the golden rule: treat others as you wished to be treated. Frank was a real no bullshit kind of guy. I liked that about him.

  If Frank was my wilderness father figure, that made Lettie my mother. Even though she’d never wed, never bore a child, had very few kin (as she called them) she was still a loving caring human being. Her iffy past life meant nothing any longer. That was then, it was what she had to do to live, and it was over.

  It seemed almost comical to me that Frank and Lettie knew one another from the old days; Frank a salty sailor, Lettie the local favorite at the strip club. Even with their sullied pasts, they remained lifelong friends. That told me something about these people, about their characters, about their souls.

  Dizzy was the cousin that no one wanted to admit being related to. His exterior was hard to get past. Through and through he was a woodman. He acted like one, lived like one, even smelled like one. He was unique, no way around that. But he was a loyal friend.

  Many times, mostly at night as I planned my escape, I wondered what life would be like without this trio. Though they had no reason to, they had shown my kindness, support, and generosity in a time when others turned away strangers. And that’s what I had been to them.

  Waiting for the rain to end, I packed a bag to take to Frank. I had a treat for him, besides the six jars of venison that probably needed to be eaten. Declaring Marge’s depression over, Lettie turned her loose in the kitchen and cookies began to appear on my doorstep. Crumbly tan sugar cookies. I figured Frank would enjoy a dozen or so.

  Day 247 WOP

  Two days of off again on again rain kept me inside my cabin. I was going to Frank’s, but I wasn’t trudging through downpours that would leave me soaked for days.

  The rain had washed away the last of winter’s white, I noticed. Here and there in the woods I saw a few remnants of snow, but the road was clear. Walking was a whole lot easier without putting on the small pink boots. Though I did detect a hole starting at the front of my sneakers.

  Dizzy and I were going to have to “shopping” soon. That’s what Dizzy called his planned raids on nearby vacant cottages. Pillaging was probably a better description. But it wasn’t like someone would be showing up anytime soon to visit their vacation hideaway. So I adopted Dizzy’s logic, what these folks would never know was fine. No one got hurt in the deal.

  The trees along the road with their skeleton arms moved softly in the breeze. It would be another month before leaves appeared, according to Dizzy. As best as anyone could tell, it was somewhere around April 15th. A smile lit my face as the sunshine warmed my soul. Tax day, but not this year. Perhaps never again.

  Walking down the middle of the highway a thought came to me. Frank knew nothing of my injured hand. I wondered what his expression would be when I showed him the missing digit. Would he laugh, would he cuss out rotten people, or would he simply take a hit of brandy and tell me that’s the way it goes sometimes?

  My stamina was low, so the trip took longer than normal. I heard my stomach grumble as I rounded the last bend before my destination. Maybe one of these jars of venison would have to be eaten right away, along with several cookies. Yeah, sugar cookies and tepid brandy. That sounded okay.

  I stopped short when Frank’s place came into view. Studying the scene carefully, I noticed the front screen porch door open, shifting back and forth with the wind. I patted my pocket and found the Glock. Pulling it out, I approached with caution. Gone were the hunger pains, replaced by a tight feeling in my gut.

  The house felt cold as if no fire had burned in the past week, maybe longer. Aside from the screen door being opened, the main door sat ajar as well. Something wasn’t right here.

  I called Frank’s name several times, the final time shouting it loud
ly. No response.

  The place looked picked over. Every cupboard door was open. His pantry had been raided. Only a single half-full jar of peanut butter was left, sitting alone on the middle shelf. Whoever grabbed Frank’s food, didn’t want peanut butter.

  Creeping down the back hall, I checked one bedroom — empty — and then the bathroom, which was also vacant. That just left the final door at the end of the hall. The room I believed to be Frank’s.

  For some stupid reason, I knocked on the white painted door and called his name again. I guess it was just a courtesy, my proper upbringing coming through even when my skin crawled with fear.

  Opening the door the smell hit me first, causing me to pull my gloved bad hand to my face, covering my nose. It was easy to find the source of the smell — the terrible smell of death. Frank splayed in his bed, covered to his chest with a white comforter. His glasses laid on the bedside nightstand, his arms by his sides.

  To another, it might have appeared he was sleeping. But I knew better; Frank was dead.

  Withdrawing to the living room, I choked back emotions that begged for release. Foul play hadn’t happened here. Sure, maybe some road trash came to the door, knocked and when no reply was offered, they came inside. They took what little Frank had to offer.

  Maybe they even looked in the closed room. But if the sight of a dead man didn’t deter them, the rotting corpse most certainly would have.

  I went to his hiding spot where he kept a bottle at all times. Fishing around the corner of the cupboard, deep inside the dark recesses that held white china plates with matching cups, I found his stash. Pulling the half-full bottle out, I noticed an envelope taped to its round clear edges.

  The scratchy jagged handwriting showed one word: Bob.

  Bob,

  Hopefully, it’s you who found me. The last thing I need is for a bunch of strangers digging through my house. Even worse than that if my numbskull nephew finds me, hell, he’ll try and bury me. That ain’t what I want.

  I built this place back in the late 60s with my wife, Isabel. She and I were married 47 years before she died a decade and a half ago. Missed her every day since. But the point is this place is mine. Not no one else.

  When I worked on the big ships out on Superior, which I did for a great many years, I slipped one day and broke two vertebrae in my back. Besides surgery, they gave me Valium for the pain. God, it’s a wonderful drug. I’ve been hooked ever since I took my first taste. It was the one thing that eased the pain.

  A few mornings ago I began to search my stash for more pills. Thought I had another bottle or two hidden somewhere. Turns out I was wrong. I was working on the last bunch I’d ever have. That scared me straight.

  If things went as planned I took somewhere between 15 and 20 painkillers all at once. If that didn’t kill me, I’m too ornery to die. But I’m betting it did.

  Don’t shed a single tear for me, ‘cuz I wouldn’t for you. I’m old, I’m tired, I miss my wife and I’m ready to go. And ain’t gonna live on some hope that you or that dipshit Dizzy will show up and go steal me more pills. No sir. I’m going out my way.

  You know where I keep the key to my root cellar. Go get it and clean the place out. Take that bow my nephew left behind too. Should be good for killing deer. And I’ve tucked my 45 under my pillow, just in case someone breaks in while I’m still with it. Man never knows anymore.

  Everything you want that I have left is yours. I got a cart out back you can load the stuff into and haul it back to your place. Probably gonna take you half a dozen trips, maybe two days. But when you got all you want, you need to repay my kindness with one last act.

  Take that stack of old newspapers I keep out on the front porch and pile them around the living room. There’s about a quarter of a gallon of gas out back in the shed. Coat the papers well but watch out for the fumes. You should probably toss a burning rag in through the front window. No need in two of us going up in flames.

  Do it, damn it. Don’t think about it, just do it. It’s what I want.

  What I don’t want is a bunch of strangers moving into the place that Isabel and I called home for so many years. That would be the worst way to honor my death. And I really don’t want a bunch of vultures picking my bones clean because a bunch of idiots tossed me out back in the swamp.

  Before you think of doing anything stupid, let an old man give you some advice. That dipshit nephew of mine always warned me about nuclear hazards. If what we think has happen has happened, it’s gonna be bad most places. Avoid Green Bay, avoid the Twin Cities, avoid Milwaukee and Chicago both. Stay in the UP, Bob. It may be the last decent place left on earth now.

  Live because you’re pissed off at God, or humanity or whatever gets your blood pumping. But live, and live a good long life, like I have — just minus the drugs. Those things will mess with your mind.

  Tell Lettie she was the best stripper I ever met. Though she already knows that, I think it will make her smile knowing I was thinking of her at the end. Tell Dizzy to lose some weight and quit smoking. I’m surprised he’s outlived me already. And if my nephew ever comes around looking for me, tell him to go to hell. He always treated me like a free lunch.

  Goodbye.

  Your friend,

  Franklin Peter Morgan

  Day 252 WOP

  Using Frank’s well-constructed cart, it took three days to haul away the usable items from his root cellar. That place, by the way, was a treasure trove full of goodies.

  He had managed to accumulate full crates of canned food. Most were vegetables; he always claimed that they were the key to his long healthy life. But there was more.

  It became apparent that Frank was a lover of pork and beans. One certain variety of the stuff. Almost one full crate held more than 30 cans of the still edible legumes. Those were going to be tasty, and last quite a while.

  In a corner, I found two full boxes of 45 caliber handgun shells. Each box contained 50 separate containers holding 20 shells apiece. That meant I now had a gun with 2,000 rounds of ammo. Thank you, Frank. Thank you very, very much.

  Jars of venison and bear lined one wall, along with a large quantity of canned meat. Those shelves alone cost me a day of travel. Articles of old clothing, several pairs of boots, boxes and boxes of stick matches, and other items necessary for my survival made the trips. Did I say my survival? I meant our survival.

  On the last trip, I piled the cart full of any other remnants of Frank’s days I thought might be useful. The final item I loaded was a Bear compound bow, along with four dozen arrows, left behind by Frank’s nephew.

  All items were hauled almost 10 miles to Lettie’s place. There we could take our time and sort through our bounty. She had extra storage; I had a tiny place with an unusable bedroom that still contained a blood-soaked mattress. Eventually, I’d need to fix that problem, but not until I was finished with Frank’s wishes.

  “Are you sure about this?” Dizzy asked as we filled Frank’s home with crumpled newspapers. “I mean it seems kind of odd, if you ask me.”

  I kept at my task, stuffing some wads under the couch. “It’s what he wanted. His last wish.”

  A chair cracked as Dizzy took a seat. “I knew Frank a long time. He was always a half-bubble of plumb if you ask me.”

  That caused me to grin. The feeling was mutual I knew.

  “Okay, you got the gas?” I asked, knowing everything was ready.

  “You want to go look at him one last time?” Dizzy asked, rising from his spot.

  No, I didn’t. And it wasn’t because dead people bothered me. I’d seen plenty in my life. Two grandmas, three grandpas (I guess one was actually a step-grandpa), numerous great-aunts and uncles. Dead people were just that — dead, lifeless. Plus I’d already said my goodbyes to Frank.

  “Can’t stand the smell, Dizzy. He’s been dead a while, so it isn’t pretty.” I peeked back at him. “But if you want to, be my guest.”

  The man lost all color in his face. “God no. I hate
dead people. Gives me the willies. Let’s just get this done.”

  A half hour later we stood in the middle of the deserted highway, watching the flames lick through the shattered windows. Inside what was left of Frank was being released. Just as he wanted.

  Dizzy and I passed a bottle back and forth, taking hits, wiping away whatever tears Frank didn’t want.

  “I guess the old coot got his wish,” Dizzy said, passing me the brandy again. “He was always a stubborn prick.”

  I laughed, then coughed as liquor burned my throat. “He claimed you were a dipshit.” I peeked back as Dizzy chased away a final tear. A grin covered his face.

  “Yeah, I liked him too,” he admitted, putting his arm around my shoulder, stirring me away.

  Little was said as we walked home. Besides our shoes crunching gravel on the side of the road, then only sound we made was the occasional slosh from the brandy bottle as one or the other raised it in Frank’s memory.

  Day 295 WOP

  Carrying a mesh bag, I followed my leader on this hunt. Though she said she was capable of doing it alone, I needed to talk to her.

  “How do you know which ones are edible?” I asked, watching her pick through several bunches of wild mushrooms.

  Plucking several from the dirt, she placed them in the bag. “Just do,” Marge answered, shrugging away the question. “My mother and father taught me and my sister from the time we were little.”

  “You know all the names?” I decided the keep the conversation flowing now that she was actually speaking. The truth was she hadn’t said a lot to either Lettie or me since Warren’s death.

  “Just what we called them,” she replied, walking ahead of me, never looking back.