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

by Lake, E. A.

  However, I still needed to cut more wood. For that I needed a break in the weather. Watching another storm whip up the white scene outside my cabin, I knew that cutting was several days off…at best.

  Day 112 WOP

  I waited almost two weeks for the storm to abate. Well, first the snow, then the wind, and finally the cold.

  Tools in hand I made my way outside. The temperature wasn’t as bad as I had expected. After I unburied the old-fashioned thermometer and let it adjust to the air I found it to be a balmy 18 degrees…above zero. Bonus!

  It doesn’t take much movement to warm up when you have on half the clothes you own. Within minutes, I had my jacket open, stocking cap tipped back, and could work for a while without my gloves.

  Piling four 12-inch sections of chainsawed oak before me, I lifted the ax. The first thump from the first swing sent shivers into my hands and up my arms. It was as if I was trying to split concrete instead of wood. Shaking away the pain, I drew the ax again.

  With that thrust, I noticed a small fracture in the wood. The sound of the oak splitting cut the otherwise still morning air like a gunshot. A few more pounds and I had several smaller pieces of wood separated from the main stump. Progress was slow and painful, but still moving forward.

  It took no time to work up a good sweat. I knew I hadn’t been at it for an hour, yet my coat, gloves, and hat all sat on the bench near the front door. I may have needed them at first, but now they were unnecessary options.

  I ran out of energy quick, far too quick. Only sustaining on stew and rationed water left me lethargic and dehydrated. My water intake was low I suspected. The effects of dehydration hit me with a dizzy spell and I took a short break to drink some water and catch my breath.

  Who knew chopping wood was such hard work? I never had, though I also had never so much as lifted an ax before my forced confinement here in the north. If some fashionable gym down in Chicago really wanted the latest trend that worked every major muscle group, I had a program for them.

  By late in the afternoon I had split enough wood to last a day, I figured. If memory served me correct, and I was still a little light-headed, I burned between 12 and 15 hunks of oak each and every day. I had 12; 13 if you counted the one piece that was almost split into two smaller ones, so that was fairly close. I was going to have to do better tomorrow.

  Eating my dinner by candlelight and the glow from the open stove door, I read an old hunting magazine between bites of stew. This batch was getting old; it had been on the stove three days. Lettie warned me three days then toss. This stuff was ready for the toss pile.

  According to what I read in a magazine from the 70s, people liked to eat bear. Some said it made the best stew meat around. Others claimed it was only good for stew, nothing else. I had only tried it once here.

  Dizzy had given me some fresh killed black bear meat for a change of pace one night. To be honest, it stunk my place up. I mean worse than the usual gamey smell that followed me around. The meat was almost sweet but so greasy. I wondered if we ate different bear than they did back in the 70s? This couldn’t be what they were talking about when they mentioned “a delightful alternative to venison,” was it?

  Thinking more on smells, I wondered how bad I stunk. Bathing didn’t happen on a regular basis before the snow made it impossible to dive into a pond and clean up a little. Since the snow? I had maybe cleaned up once or twice a month, and that was being generous.

  I lay back on the couch, my sore muscles screaming at me never to chop wood again. As I drifted off I felt the aches in my hands, still quivering from the vibrations the ax handle delivered.

  ‘Don’t do it again,’ my body called out. ‘Just give up and give in; you’re not going to make it anyway.’

  I shook the temptation away. I had to make it. I was going to make it. I would not give up without a fight. The dreams started before I was in a full sleep. And yes, I dreamt of chopping wood, all night long.

  Day 121 WOP

  A good rhythm was all I needed and suddenly woodcutting wasn’t all that bad. My problem at first was the belief I had to chop all I could in one session. I learned quickly that wasn’t a good idea.

  I started each morning with a hardy breakfast, stuffing as much fuel into my body as possible for the day’s work. Along with food, I drank six cups of water, sometimes more but never less. I dressed in lighter layers. As long as the temperature stayed above zero the sweat I worked up kept me warm enough.

  I would chop wood from the existing stock of stumps until I felt it in my back. That signaled break time. A few more glasses of water and some jerky Dizzy gave me had me ready for the next step.

  Little by little, an armload at a time, I haul the wood from the back of the cabin to the front. Stacking it in orderly crisscross piles I found more wood than I believed I had. After that, I chopped a little more and drank more water.

  After a midday break, I began stacking my newly cut wood. Though it was dry enough to burn, it still didn’t burn well enough to be the only source of heat. That meant a separate pile where I pulled one log for every four of older dried wood. That recipe would allow me to extend my heating season by another month or so, once I had the ready to chop wood processed.

  After five days of that process, I stood in my front yard, still covered in snow, smiling at my progress. In the fall, when I was blind drunk, I could have never imagined being adaptable to my stark environment. The piles of light colored oak told a different story now. They signaled a man who was ready for anything…almost anything.

  One morning in the middle of my trips around the cabin, moving wood, a figure approached from the road. Dressed in proper attire for a winter’s day, the man (I assumed it was a man) wore crude wooden snowshoes, making his travel easier.

  I noticed the grin, then the face mask fell away.

  “What the hell are you doing out?” I asked, shocked to see Dizzy. As far as I knew, he was still holed up for the season.

  He laughed, slapping his mitt covered hands together. “I needed some fresh air,” he replied in a tone of optimism I had not expected him to have. “I’ve been going out for a little bit everyday for two months now. I think I’m getting in shape.” He dug a pack of smokes from a front pocket and lit one. Well, at least all of his bad habits weren’t gone yet.

  He poked a paw at my wood piles. “You been busy. Wasn’t sure what I’d find when I got here. But you’re doing okay from the looks of it, Bob.”

  I too admired my work. “I was worried I was low,” I replied, taking a sip of ice-cold water from my Packers thermal mug. “Once I started digging though…” I nodded at the cut wood.

  “You got a month’s worth there,” he offered. “Maybe a month and a half. But you’re through the worst of it now. You’ll make it.”

  Dizzy’s affirmation of my best guess caused a feeling of pride to swell within my soul. I could feel my chest rise and stick out slightly; pride does that to a man. But I knew pride could be my downfall as well. If I became too complacent with my surroundings and myself this place could, and most likely would, eat me up in a heartbeat.

  “I’m planning a hunting trip next week,” Dizzy added, taking a seat on my front bench. “Thought you might want to come out with me for a few days.” He peeked up at me through his long hair. “You game?”

  The thought of going out into the wild, particularly this wilderness, for a hunting trip would have caused me to practically wet myself with fear a few months back. This area was too large, too remote, too dangerous for a novice like me. But surviving nearly four months on my own gave me a “can do” sense of accomplishment.

  “Yeah,” I answered, sounding more sure than I felt. This was Dizzy after all. And trouble could still easily find us. “Couple days, hunt from your place?”

  “Yep,” he answered, scooping a mitt full of snow from the ground and licking at it. “You head on back in a couple days. We’ll get all set up and then hunt from sunrise to sunset; back to my place in the d
ark. I figure we get a couple deer, that’ll put us in a good spot. We can clean ‘em, hang ‘em, and won’t have to worry about them spoiling right away.”

  “But they’ll freeze rock hard,” I inserted, finding a hole in Dizzy’s plan.

  He grinned, drawing up another hand full of snow. “I got a smoker,” he answered, proudly. “We’ll smoke them and then that meat will be good for six months. I done it before. Even got some sweet apple wood to burn. It’ll take a couple more days, but it’ll be good in the end.”

  So the plan was set. Dizzy would wait for me to arrive; we’d take a couple deer, smoke them, and have another source of protein to last almost to summer.

  “I’ll see you in two days,” he announced as he trudged off on his snowshoes. “If you ain’t there, I’ll come looking for that skinny sorry ass of yours, so don’t make me trudge all the way back here.”

  “I’ll be there,” I shouted after him. “Just be ready, because I’ll be there.”

  Day 123 WOP

  Famous last words: This ship is unsinkable (The Titanic). It’s just a few Indians (George Custer). Just be ready…I’ll be there (Bob Reiniger).

  Gathering the last of the necessary items for my hunting excursion with Dizzy, I paused and stared blankly at my pile. Something was missing.

  My coat laid on the couch, stuffed with some essentials. One extra pair of gloves, an extra hat, my woolen scarf that Lettie had so graciously offered me last fall. Next to my coat was my travel pack, also a gift from Lettie. In there were a number of plastic bags of dried fruits and vegetables from Lettie, some jerky given to me by Dizzy, and a plastic jug three-quarters full of brandy. The liquid was a gift from Frank on my last fall visit to his area south of here.

  It came to me again that I owed my neighbors a lot. To be honest, I would have been dead by now if not for the generosity. How I would ever repay them had been a quiet argument all winter, if only in my mind.

  I snapped my fingers; I had forgotten extra ammo. My Glock held 15 shells in its clip. Though my shooting had improved as time inched forward (thanks to three boxes shot up over a five day period where I was bored during some decent late fall weather) I still needed an extra box — just in case.

  Digging the ammo out from its storage spot in the closet, a loud conversation outside caught my attention. I stood and peeked through the bedroom blinds but I couldn’t see anyone near. Moving to the living room, let’s be honest it was the only other room in the place but I still called it my living room, I waited for someone to appear as the shouting grew louder.

  On the road, some 20 yards out, a large man marched, pushing a smaller person along. I’d seen this scene before, and it always went the same. A father, desperate for a better life than just surviving in the woods, urged his child along towards a chance of something more.

  This child, like most, argued. And why wouldn’t they? Four months ago, they fell asleep in a world that offered them everything. At all times they were connected to social media, whether through the laptops, iPads, or cell phones. Life was good.

  Then came a sharp right turn. Gone were their friends, their connectivity, their life (or so they believed).

  Parents needed to employ strong measures to keep their children safe. And if that meant dragging them from one small community (such as Covington) where order had disintegrated, to another safe place (like I believed Amasa to be) then so be it.

  And so the struggle ensued. More than once I’d met these kinds, strolling down the middle of a former busy highway. The parent implored reason; teens despise reason. They see it as a trick. But like the scene before me, the parent always won out.

  The conversation became clear to me. And it was as nasty as the ones before.

  “Move your scrawny ass,” a deep voice shouted. “We gotta make Amasa before nightfall. It ain’t safe on these roads after dark.”

  “I’m not going!” a young voice screeched. “Leave me be!”

  Maybe Mom had died; perhaps she’d taken her own life in a world full of mostly despair. And there were likely friends involved. Nearby perhaps, even if that meant a mile or two away. I turned and glanced at the scene, pulling my jacket on. This was their fight, no place for me in it.

  I watched as the large man in a brown leather duster pushed the child along. He towered over her by a good head and a half. There was no way she would win this battle. Even if only out of spite, the child would march along silently in the end.

  More shoving ensued. A backhand from the monster knocked the girl to the ground. I became concerned, but it wasn’t my fight.

  Taking his glove off, I watched as he pulled her up from the road by her stocking cap covered hair. That’s when my heart skipped a beat. When the stocking cap came off and I noticed something familiar.

  Purple hair.

  Day 123 - continued - WOP

  Out the door as fast as my legs would allow, I sprinted for the road. Fishing in my right jacket pocket, I dug out the Glock, letting it hang by my side as I approached the kicking and screaming.

  Getting within ten feet before being noticed, I halted and raised the gun.

  “Leave her alone,” I demanded in a sharp tone.

  That got the man’s attention. His eyes shifted away from Violet to me. “This is none of your business, pal,” he growled. “Piss off.”

  I raised the gun at him, clicking the safety off at the last moment. That definitely got his attention. He backed away several steps to the far side of the road, studying the pistol and me through tight eyes.

  “This is between me and my daughter, friend,” he said, raising both hands slightly, palms opened towards me. “So why don’t you just go about your day and leave us alone.”

  It was only then I noticed the thin twine strung between his waist and Violet’s wrists. Though she was trying to make her escape, the short tether wouldn’t allow her much distance.

  “First, that’s not your daughter,” I said, taking a step towards the quivering girl. “And I don’t know what gives you the right to bind her like that, but I want you to cut that twine right now.”

  He shrugged, his eyes going between the two, the girl and my gun. I watched him draw a small thin knife from his side and he cut her loose.

  Taking her by the arm, I guided her to the far side of the road. “What’s going on, Violet?” I asked, helping her pull her wrists free of the old rope.

  Shucking her bonds onto the road, she shoved a hand at the man. “I was out gathering wood and this creep comes along and grabs me.” The disgust in her voice should have made the man blanch, but instead he grinned.

  “You know what a nice young person will bring you at the fish camps they’re setting up for next spring?” he answered, acting as if he’d done nothing wrong.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied, shoving Violet behind me on the edge of the road. “And I don’t care. She’s going back to her parents.”

  I turned and faced her. “Where’s your dad?”

  Her eyes were still focused on the ruffian. “He’s been sick the last week or so,” she replied, shaking her head as she did. “We’re getting low on wood so Mom sent me out to scrounge for dry stuff, for the cook stove you know. I must have wandered further away from the place than I thought.”

  I squeezed her arm gently. “Well, you’re going back now.”

  When I turned to face the other again, I noticed it at his side. Larger than mine, yet just as jet-black. I watched him cock the trigger.

  “She’s coming with me,” he stated in a low even tone. “I need her to settle a debt down the road. She’ll be fine. All she’s gonna do is take a wagon ride to Marquette in a couple weeks and then start cleaning fish.”

  He turned his head sideways at us. “I ain’t gonna hurt her. But I need her. You understand.”

  Yeah, I understood. He was selling her to the highest bidder. And just as Frank had prognosticated last fall, there’d be all sorts of free labor available by spring. For whatever jo
bs ruthless people wanted done. Anarchy at its finest…and worst.

  “She’s going home,” I replied, watching his gun. Though it hung at his side, I knew that could change in a heartbeat.

  “I’m taking her, even if that means killing you, friend.” This guy had no intention of backing down, though I was praying hard he might.

  “I don’t want to kill you,” I replied, trying to reason with a desperate man.

  He glared at me and me alone now. “If you don’t give her to me, I will kill you.”

  With an eye on his gun, I guided Violet a little further away from the pending battle. “Stay over here,” I said, loud enough for the stranger to hear. “I don’t want you getting caught in the middle of this.”

  He grinned again, licking at his long dirty mustache. “You may as well have her stand over here,” he said, laughing as he spoke. “That way when I kill you I can tie her up again. Make it easier on the both of us.”

  My breath came in stuttered spurts. My heart pounded so loud I could hear each beat push against my eardrums. Yet, I willed myself to stay cool on the outside, refusing to show any fear.

  “Leave,” I said forcefully. “Head down that road and never come back.” I took several small steps further away from Violet. He measured my movements with tiny slits of eyes, waiting for the moment.

  “Just so you know,” he stated from maybe 20 feet away, “I don’t get no joy out of killing another. Why don’t you just turn around and run off? Save us both a lot of misery.”

  So that was the way he wanted it. Either I ran off like a coward, or he’d gun me down where I stood. Not much of a choice, I figured. Maybe back six months ago, I would have already been a half-mile down the road, running until my legs and lungs gave out.