Defending No Where (The No Where Apocalypse Book 3)

by E A Lake

  She squeezed me tightly. “I do,” she whispered. “I just wanted to hear you say it, even if you didn’t mean it. Please be careful, please come back. And if you get all shot up, I promise to take care of you again. Just please come back.”

  I rubbed the top of her head and kissed her forehead one last time. “I’m coming back,” I said, summoning the best smile I could. “That’s a promise. Then we’re all going to spend a lot more boring years together. Maybe even find you a real man who will take care of you and Hope.”

  I let her kiss me again, though my eyes did peek back down the highway to be sure Daisy hadn’t followed.

  She pushed my chest lightly. “Go then. Get this over with. And let’s get on with our boring life.”

  I was 40 feet down the road before I turned to look back and wave. There stood Violet, sobbing, doing her best to wave goodbye. I was glad to have her blessing.

  Day 1,100 — continued

  An hour plus of walking and I began to feel the effects of my hike. My feet were sore. That may have been the fact that the boots I’d chosen were old and two sizes too large. Even the extra pair of socks didn’t seem to help.

  My shoulders and back ached from the weight of my pack. I hadn’t thought I’d packed all that much, but the tender spot on my lower back signaled otherwise.

  Another hundred paces and I found a log to take a break on. Pulling the 45 from my back waistband, I studied the road behind and ahead before taking a swig of water. Damn, it was already tepid. Or maybe it was already tepid way back at the cabin.

  I pulled the map from my pocket and looked it over. Seven miles up and in on an old logging road. Five miles back to where the second major creek crossed the road. Not some little babbling brook of water, Wilson had warned. These were creeks I was looking for. And according to my strange friend, I’d been a resident of No Where long enough; I should know what a gosh-darned creek looked like by now.

  Back on my feet, I tried to figure out my location. I had to be halfway to the first turn-off, I figured. Maybe even almost there.

  A little further down the road, reality set in. Standing in the middle of the road, I stared at the charred remains of Lettie’s place. I was barely a quarter of the way to my destination for the day.

  I trudged on, silently chastising myself. Nothing about this task was going to be easy. Not the hike there, the search, the killings or the hike back. I needed to get it through my head, right then and there, that this was serious business.

  A blister brought my hike to another unscheduled stop about a mile past Lettie’s. Gingerly, I took my shoe off and discovered a small pebble that had snuck its way in and was causing the angry, red, irritated patch. No actual blister had formed yet, so I decided to rest for a while to give my foot a chance to breathe.

  I closed my eyes for a moment. While I believed I was in decent shape, my massive weight loss had caused my muscles to atrophy more than I thought. The sound of crunching gravel made my eyelids flutter open.

  When I looked up, my breath caught in my throat. Three people were walking towards me. I didn’t recognize them at first, but the woman’s smile was familiar.

  “What the hell you think you’re doing?” one of the men angrily asked. I focused on him.

  “Bud?” I asked. My eyes swam with tears as I rose to greet my brother. I looked at the other two. “Dad? Shelly? What are you doing here?” I thought I spoke aloud, but they didn’t seem to hear me.

  Dressed as if they were going to church, the three encircled me. I found it strange that they didn’t offer a handshake or hug, and even stranger that they all seemed angry.

  I turned to my father. “Answer Bud’s question, Bob. What do you think you’re up to?” I’d never seen my father that upset. It almost looked like he was going to hit me.

  Shelly stepped between us. “Bob, darling, you can’t do this. This isn’t what you’re about. You’re a kind, gentle soul, not a murderer. You have to go back. Maybe it’s time you think about coming home.”

  I tried to speak, but my voice failed me. In front of me stood three people I loved so much. I had a great deal to tell them, so many things to say. But no words came out.

  Bud stepped forward, shoving me in the chest. “You know what I think? Do ya, you little punk?” He grabbed my throat and squeezed. “You’re already dead. You just haven’t realized it yet. Ain’t that right, Pops?”

  My father looked uncertain about Bud’s assessment. “I worried about you a lot, son. A whole bunch at first. Your mother was frantic, knowing you were up here all alone. I calmed her some, but that didn’t stop the nagging feeling in my gut.

  “But it’s been three years now, Bob. You can’t come home. There’s nothing left for you there. You wouldn’t recognize the world you left.” Shelly sadly leaned her head on Dad’s shoulder.

  “You’re not dead,” he continued, “not yet, at least I don’t think so. But you will be if you don’t get your head on straight. You can’t do this for revenge, son. That’ll blind you, make you lose sight of things. You have to do this for the right reason. You have to defend what’s yours. You have to take care of it. And you have to do it right.”

  Shelly stepped in front of my dad. “Daisy’s so sweet, and Libby is perhaps the most wonderful child I’ve ever met. Violet means well, she’s just young. And I don’t think there’s a cuter baby anywhere in the world than Hope.”

  “But you’re a dumb shit, aren’t you,” Bud seethed. “You think this is all about Dizzy. Well, little brother, that makes you stupid. You don’t fight for the dead. You fight for the living, so they can keep on living. Do it for your family, Bob. Do this for the people who actually care about you.”

  “Use your head, son,” my father added. Shelly nodded. They all stepped back towards the road. “Take your time. You only got one chance at this. Make it back alive to the ones you love. You’re no good to them dead.”

  Shelly waved as they headed south on the disintegrating blacktop. “I love you,” she called out in the happiest lilt I’d ever heard from her. “Remember Daisy, remember Violet, and don’t forget the children. They’re the ones who need you now. Be safe, darling.”

  “Try not to get yourself killed, dumb shit,” Bud shouted with a smile. He stopped and saluted me. “Be good, little brother. Be good.”

  Day 1,101

  My eyes shot open at the sound of a twig snapping. Bolting up from the dry forest floor, I pulled my gun to an extended position.

  Around me, the woods awoke with the sounds and smells of a new day. Soft pinks and oranges swirled the eastern sky. The pines were black and white, not yet reached by morning’s first light. Birds high in the treetops sung of dawn’s pending arrival.

  Behind me, I heard another sound. I spun and leveled the gun in the direction of my attacker. Two dark eyes stared back at if not through me. I recognized the tuft of white above the eyes, the blue-gray circles around his sockets.

  “Chester,” I whispered. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Taking in my surroundings, I almost expected the wolf to answer my question. Given last night’s dream, some might even call it a nightmare; a talking animal wouldn’t have surprised me.

  I pinched my cheek to be sure I was still alive, wincing at the pain. I’d feared Bud was right, and I had died before I ever began. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case.

  I made my way to the road. Staring first left, then right, I nodded as if I knew where I was. Maybe I did because as best as I could tell, I was only a mile north of Lettie’s.

  “Didn’t make very good progress yesterday,” I said to the wolf, placing my pack on my sore back. “Gotta do better today.”

  As I headed north, I saw Chester bolt and head south, back towards home. That was for the best, I decided. An extra set of eyes and ears made it safer there.

  Several hours later I stood on a bridge, watching a trickle of water beneath. Wilson had spoken of this bridge, the one where I needed to pay attention to the dirt road g
oing west. At least I thought it was.

  I marched forward, searching for the next stream that crossed under the highway. When I came to another bridge, I paused. Looking back to see if I had missed something, running my hand through my hair several times.

  “It’s supposed to be a culvert,” I mumbled to myself, “but this is a bridge.”

  I trudged on, hoping to find the right stream or creek or river or whatever. I had been up and down this road several times in the past three years. Since a whole lot of wilderness up here surrounded us, it always looked the same to me. Never as much as now though.

  Cresting a small rise, I peeked ahead on the road. Damn it, too far. Off in the distance, perhaps a couple miles away, I could see the faint outline of the tallest building in Covington: the grainery.

  Somehow, through no fault of my own, I had missed my turn off. I blamed it on the crude magenta-colored map I carried. Others, if they were with me, would have said I was to blame. Screw them, those missing numbers.

  Back I went down the same path recently traveled. No matter what, I would follow the first road I came to. And if it led to the described destinations, so much the better. If it didn’t, well, I’d need a new plan.

  Day 1,102

  The following morning, I woke up beneath a large pine tree some 50 yards from some type of enclosure. Of course I had taken the wrong path the previous afternoon, what else did I expect from myself?

  The first road led to a stream that led to a small lake; a body of water with no distinguishable outlet. It was nearly sundown once I came to the second option. Backtracking had cost me much of the day. A ways in on the gravel path, I came across a meandering stream and I staggered in the darkness.

  Exhausted and hungry, I decided to stop and set up camp for the night. But I only managed a few bites before sleep overtook my exhausted body. While I’m sure the bugs feasted as I slumbered, I never felt a single one of their bites.

  It was still dark when I awoke and surveyed the small light-blue shelter. In the last of the darkness, I couldn’t see any light glowing inside. That didn’t mean they weren’t there; it probably just meant they were all still sleeping…if they were there.

  I thought about my dream from the previous night, the one with my family members coming off the road to torment me. More than likely, it was the stress of the trip that caused it. That, or my extreme fatigue, or maybe my severely insufficient caloric intake.

  Whatever the reason, I found myself still mulling over their words. Bud always called me dumb shit, so that wasn’t anything new. Dad always advised me to take more time to think things through whenever I had gone to him with any problems. And Shelly wanted me home…just as I dreamed when I was awake.

  But Bud’s main point still stuck in my head: Do it for them — the living — not the dead. I pictured each of my remaining friends in my mind, my real family now. Dizzy had been gone many months. He was dead the minute the bullet struck his head. Never would he return to us, not on this Earthly plane. Lettie had once said living is for the living and dying is for the dead. That pretty much summed it up, didn’t it? I’d better be doing this for Daisy, Violet, Libby, Hope and myself. Because if I was only seeking revenge for Dizzy’s death, I was wasting my time.

  I stared at the chimney for a while, hoping to see the telltale sign of smoke wafting into the morning air. There was none, no sounds, and more importantly, no horses anywhere around.

  They weren’t here, I knew. Not now at least.

  Deciding to look inside for any signs they’d been there, I rose from my hiding spot and hoisted my pack on my back. Stepping into the clearing, I checked the house one last time.

  I felt my eyes roll as the first light of day illuminated the shelter.

  “Shit,” I muttered aloud, “that house ain’t even blue, it’s green.”

  Sneaking up the creek, I noticed another dwelling maybe 50 yards north of my spot. I’d been traveling for a while, stealthily easing through the brush, and using as much cover as I could find.

  Coming closer, I saw the small house through an opening.

  It was light blue, and there was smoke coming from the chimney. This could be it.

  Settling under a thick grouping of spruce trees, I surveyed the rundown home, or cabin, or whatever it was. Unlike my place, it didn’t have a screen door and the paint on the front door was faded, peeling in some spots. The grass around the home was overgrown and some weeds reached as high as the bottom of the windows. I knew from my own experience that this invited mice in, allowing easy spots for them to sit and chew through any weakness they found. Well, experience and Lettie’s stern warnings.

  From the sun dully shining off the front window, I could see that it was dirty and looked like it had been years since it was last cleaned. I figured the light blue paint was from years of fading, not an intentional choice by the former homeowners.

  I stood there, unmoving, for a long time. An hour, maybe two. Once, almost right away, I noticed movement inside the dwelling. Someone passed near the front window and peeked out. I couldn’t see who it was due to the untidy inhabitants.

  Other than that, no one came outside. I didn’t hear any hooting and hollering like I unrealistically expected from such a rowdy bunch. As time passed, I started to wonder if the people inside were even my intended target.

  I tried to crawl through the brush to get a closer look, but I knew if I moved forward, I’d compromise my cover. The best I could do was to shift 30 feet to the east, giving me a look through the front and rear windows at the same time.

  More movement. At one point, I counted two bodies. I thought I saw a third, but the dirt might have been playing tricks on my vision.

  Another hour and I began to wonder where their horses were stored. I was certain that Wilson said they were still on horseback. That would require horses. So where were they?

  I listened carefully, trying to make out any sounds from behind the building that might be from their animals. Save for a few red squirrels fighting and a pair of blue jays calling back and forth, there were no other sounds.

  I peered up at the sun that was beaming over my left shoulder. It was a lot further west than I’d hoped it would be. Mid-day had come and gone, and I knew I had another four hours of daylight at best. It was time to make a decision.

  I ticked through the clues.

  No sign of horses — bad.

  Signs of people inside the house — good.

  Unable to tell who they were — bad.

  I was nearing the end of the third full day of my operation and still had nothing solid to go on — bad, real bad.

  Clouds began to pile up in the western sky, blocking the late day sun. Damn it, they weren’t friendly cotton balls of white either. They were the dark kind, thunderheads. A low roll of thunder from dozens of miles off grumbled through the woods.

  Unless I got that tarp out in the next hour or so, I knew I’d be getting soaked. Just great, I thought.

  Day 1,103

  I hadn’t prepared for the possibility of a storm. Rain, I could handle. A little wind, sure. But this was anything but a little rain and wind.

  It started with a lightning display unlike any other I’d seen in No Where. The thick, black clouds eventually covered the sky as evening settled in. They hung over the landscape like a dark heavy blanket, bringing nighttime to me and my surroundings. According to my calculations, darkness had arrived a couple hours early.

  Was it dark enough not to be able to find my bag? The lightning rippled through the sky, illuminating my surroundings with pulsating clarity. Of course, each bolt brought with it an ear splitting explosion, lasting anywhere from five to 15 seconds.

  When the lightning slowed some, the wind began to blow. No longer was I watching the blue house. No, I was sure that the wind would blow it away at any moment, along with my tarp, supplies and possibly me.

  Then the rain came. Of course, a storm like that couldn’t just spit on me. No, it was as if God himself was di
rectly above me, pouring an endless supply of gallons of water on me for what seemed like hours.

  By the time daylight came, I was soaked, chilled to the bone and exhausted. If I had slept at all, it was only for an hour or two.

  Maybe Bud had been right. Perhaps I was a dumb shit for doing this.

  The house was still there, but I no longer cared. I figured I had two choices: Go up and knock on the door like a lost traveler and see who was inside, or give up, turn around, and head back home to people who loved me.

  Naturally, I chose the first.

  I was too tired to go all the way home empty-handed. I hoped the Barster gang wasn’t there and whoever was had a bed I could borrow for a couple of hours.

  Shaking out the tarp, I studied the house. I still didn’t see anyone outside. Maybe they’d seen me already and were waiting for me to show my face first.

  Or perhaps they had no idea I was there and would be shocked by a knock on their front door. One way or another, we were about to meet.

  I emerged from the thick pine cover and took two steps before the front door burst open, a double-barreled shotgun aimed in my direction.

  “What the hell do you want?” someone shouted from inside. Yeah, they’d noticed.

  I raised my hands and took several steps towards the male voice. “I’m from down the road, half way to Amasa. I’m looking for some friends of mine.”

  “Well, you ain’t got no friends here.” I still hadn’t seen a face but the gun stuck out a little further, waving in my direction.

  “Maybe we could talk for a moment,” I proposed, trying to sound as friendly as a guy could with two barrels of hurt pointed at him.

  “You got a name?” he asked, and finally I saw an old grizzled face that matched the hoarse voice.