by E A Lake
Violet pushed away from her spot and headed for the living room. Perhaps there she would torment her younger brother for a while.
But I had news for her. “According to Dizzy, he saw you way out back in the swamp last week,” I said, watching as she stopped abruptly. “Claims he saw you with another person. Maybe one of the Wilson brothers. Care to share?”
She turned back towards us, grinning mostly for my benefit, “I hear the Wilson’s live five miles east of us,” she answered, shaking her head at me. I noticed her brown hair was another hand longer than I remembered it. “That would seem like a long way to walk just to talk with little ol’ me.”
“You don’t need to be that far out alone,” I chastised. I felt Marge pull my pants leg down so I stood. “Wolves are out. Saw them myself earlier. It’s not safe for you to be out there alone, Violet.”
Her arms snapped around her chest. “First of all, I had Lettie’s 30-30 with me. Second, John always carries a gun.”
Her slip caused me to grin. She scowled in return.
“And mostly…” she turned again to leave, “…it’s none of your beeswax.”
Lettie, Marge, and I shared a chuckle when her bedroom door slammed at the far end of the house. “Well, I guess you’ve been told,” Lettie added, laughing as she returned to whatever project she’d been working on before my arrival.
“We haven’t seen you lately, Bob,” Marge said from behind me. “What you been up to?”
Yeah, I knew she would wonder why I’d only shown up recently to get patched up. Maybe that was none of her beeswax either.
Cutting wood, I answered to myself. Pulling at my beard, I recalled the two-plus months since Violet and I had returned from Covington.
The first two weeks I spent exclusively at Lettie’s place, protecting my friends. After Stuart Callies and/or his men failed to show up, I headed back to my own cabin with a fresh plan in my head. I needed to get as much wood cut as I could before the second winter arrived here in No Where.
I’d managed to cut some the previous summer, but nowhere near enough to last the winter. When my left hand finally healed enough to get back to work, the going was slow. Then came my little adventure in Hell (also known as Covington) and the fall was upon me.
I’d always known chopping wood was a tough task. Cutting wood with a missing digit? Far more challenging than I first assumed. Who knew your little finger did anything. Much less make swinging and holding an ax easier.
“I’ve had a lot to do around the cabin lately,” I answered, my voice softer than intended. “With winter coming and all…well, you know.”
Marge got in front of me and took me by the forearms. “Have you considered staying here, for the winter at least?” she asked, her eyes filled with hope.
I shook off her dream of a large happy family. “Nah, not really. I mean Dizzy’s here with you now. You kind of got a house full.”
A slight film covered her eyes. “There’s always room for one more. Right, Lettie?”
“You preaching to the choir,” the old woman squawked. “But good luck with this one. He thinks he’s independent or something. Just plain stubborn if you ask me.”
Prying my arms away from my nurse, I gave her one shoulder a slight squeeze. “I need my space,” I answered. Immediately I could tell she wasn’t buying it.
“I know you’re tormented by what you’ve had to do here, Bob,” she pleaded. “I understand. But you don’t need to have any guilt. All you’re doing is surviving, and you’re helping us survive. You know that. I know you do.”
So that’s what you called murder in the apocalypse…Surviving.
Year 2 - mid winter - WOP
God I hated snow. I mean, I really hated snow.
When I was a kid, my big brother, Bud, and me used to have to shovel the driveway, by hand. Now…no fancy snowblower and all that at the Reiniger household. Not while my dad had two teenaged slaves living under his roof.
Even as a young adult, I avoided going outside in the winter. No ice fishing, no sledding, no winter sports…none of that for this guy. My wife, Shelly, had other ideas of course.
“My father always shoveled the minute the snow ended,” she lectured me during our first joint snowfall. I remember staring back at her blankly. Did she think…?
“That way you don’t get ruts in your driveway,” she continued in the most sincere tone I’d heard ever. “I’ll help if you want.”
I wondered now how she would feel about shoveling the stupid roof every time it snowed. And it snowed a lot, here in both frequency and volume.
Three weeks had passed since my last contact with another human being. I needed to talk to someone before I went nuts, but the last round of a foot plus of winter fun made that impossible. So I read.
My father’s cabin (originally Grandpa’s) was full of musty old books and magazines. The smell hadn’t bothered me yet, so none had made it to the burn barrel.
I began with War and Peace. Great starting point, if — and only if — you don’t trip all over the Russian names or all the French soldiers. But I did stumble my way through the book.
One day, during a nice clear cold spell (minus 35 on the old thermometer) it dawned on me I had mixed up several characters. Somehow, in the recesses of my diminishing mind, Count Bezukhov had traded places with Count Rostov.
This was a terrible mistake on my part, for two reasons. First, Count Bezukhoz was the main character of the story. Second, Count Rostov was nothing like Bezukov. The first was rich, the later had problems managing his money. In reality, they were nothing alike. Yet, I had their places switched.
When I finished the novel, I considered tossing it in the fire. I even had the door opened on the stove and was all set to fire the piece. But a better plan came to me at the last moment.
I’d read it again. And right away.
With nothing but time to kill, I poured through the pages. Keeping notes this time on an old “Seed Corn” pad I found in a cupboard, everything made more sense.
Reading the last words for a second time, I closed the book and smiled. I got it, I really did. I felt Napoleon’s pain, struggled as his armies did, imagined the hunger felt by all. Well, I didn’t have to imagine too much about the hunger part. I was down to one meal a day to make my own rations stretch into spring.
Raising my arms above my head, I screamed. I was victorious. I understood Tolstoy, the Russian farmers, the average French soldier. It all made sense.
I tossed that book into the stove anyway. Time to move on.
Year 2 - mid winter (still) - WOP
Drawing intricate patterns on my steam covered windows, I sighed. How had I survived the first winter alone? How did anyone survive a year alone — much less a month? Human beings needed other people. Being alone sucked, big time.
As hard as it was to admit, I had taken to having discussions with animals. Long discussions; detailed, long discussions. Even though the squirrels didn’t seem overly interested, the nearby wolf family sure did.
Chester, Sofie, and the twins came to visit on a daily basis. Maybe they were lonely as well. Wanted to hear a long-haired, bearded man talk about life in early nineteenth century Russia.
Or maybe they came because I fed them…maybe.
Chester preferred to stay back, more towards the brush at the north end of my snow covered yard. The twins had no issues with human contact: petting, licking my fingers, having their bellies rubbed. The mother was never too far off during all the attention. If I became too friendly, she let me know.
Tossing hunks of dried venison towards the woods, they never failed to show. At first they kept their distance, even the twins. But as time crawled by, they accepted me.
I knew I had a problem when one day they wouldn’t show. Not even for food. Had I somehow insulted the beasts? Had they received a better offer from another family? Maybe that damned Dizzy was sneaking down here and feeding them actual fresh venison. Or several newly killed rabbits or smaller var
mints.
When I started my complex plan of revenge on my former friend (Dizzy, not any of the wolves), I realized I needed to talk to another human being. Cabin fever, it seemed, was at a new high.
Walking to Lettie’s, some three miles north, meant bundling up. Though the temperature sat at a balmy minus three, the north wind howled like the wolves on a clear night. Layers, I told myself, layers. Bulky clothes just slowed you down and made you all sweaty in the end. Layers that I could open as I walked were much more sensible in No Where.
Staring at my boot options caused me to sigh. I could wear the pink ones that Lettie had given me two falls ago. I wore a 10, they were a nine. Small but useable.
My other option was a pair salvaged from Frank’s place after he died last spring. After he died and before I burned his place to the ground, at his request, to be more specific. But his old Sorel’s came with an issue as well.
Though Frank was shorter and thinner than I was, he wasn’t one for tight fitting clothes or shoes. That was great news for me. Many of his shirts and coats fit just fine. However, his boots were another issue.
Frank’s foot couldn’t have been any bigger than a nine. Now I can’t say I ever studied them, but if a fellow stands five five or five six, his feet aren’t all that big. So why he had two pairs of winter boots in size 13 was beyond my comprehension. Still is.
Grabbing the larger pair, I stuffed a crumpled sock into the toe of each. Weeks and months of testing led me to the correct socks to use, and the right ones to crumple as well. When you have nothing but free time in your life, it’s easy to work on such complicated projects.
With almost everything I owned either on or wrapped around my body, I began my trek. As predicted, by me, the wind had an awful bite to it. Snow, driven by the 20 to 30 mile an hour gusts, stung any of the little exposed flesh I dared to leave uncovered. But I had a trick for Mister Wind. I had snow goggles, thanks to Frank.
Bob Reiniger - 1, Winter - 0…so far for this trip.
Just before I made it to the road, some 30 or 40 yards from my own front door, I found myself struggling through the waist-deep snow. As much as I tried, winter had a few tricks of its own. Backing up and staying on the driveway, I finally found a better path covered by a mere two-foot snow fall. The score was even I told myself.
When the disintegrating road was clear, I could make it to Lettie’s in a little less than an hour. Snow covered? Try two, sometimes three hours. And it was all work. This was one of those days, and something told me I’d be spending the night with them.
Year 2 - mid winter (still) - WOP
The heat in Lettie’s place was much more moderated than back at mine own shack. Here it stayed a nice temperature where you didn’t have to take off clothes and then an hour later put them back on. Sometimes I thought about staying with them, as they begged me to. But I like my own place, my own surroundings, my own life.
“Wolves been thick lately,” Dizzy stated. “Seeing lots of them almost every day. How about you, Bob? Same down there?”
He knew I fed them; even warned me about doing that. The difference was that he had company—human company—while I didn’t have that luxury.
“Oh, a few here and there I suppose.” I lied and he knew it. I could see it in his shit-eating grin.
“How’s your food holding up?” Lettie asked, fetching me a cup of coffee. The black gold was something I was lacking. Just another incentive to visit.
I scratched my beard, considering my dwindling food supply. “Twenty-six jars of venison, three jars of bear — not that I’ll eat it ever.” I had just counted the day before, so I knew my stock. “Couple dozen more of veggies, handful of potatoes.”
Lettie stopped her fussing and stared at me, a bewildered look covered her face. “Who’s gonna win? You or winter?”
That was the question, and a fair one at that. Purposely I’d cut back on my intake a few weeks back to save my shrinking supply. As far as we could tell, winter was past its peak, for this year at least. Soon major melting would happen and that would grant my freedom to roam the woods again.
When I arrived in this place, some 17 or 18 months prior, I was a terrible hunter. It took me a dozen tries to get my first deer. And I gave half of that away to Marge’s late husband, Warren. His story about his starving family rocked me at the time.
Nowadays I wouldn’t give anyone anything. Not without a decent trade. If I ate, I might survive. If I gave away my food to every man, woman, or child that begged for some, I would die. That’s just the way it was. No emotion, no tears, no remorse. If the other person was likely to die anyway, why should I share and run the risk of the same?
“I’ll be okay,” I answered Lettie, leaning back in the white-painted kitchen chair. “See anything from those folks in Covington this winter?”
Marge reentered the room right on cue. It was her pilfering of the much-needed drugs that caused our panic last fall.
“Nothing,” she answered in a huff. I detected underlying disappointment from her…almost as if she didn’t want the ruffians to leave us alone. “And they won’t be coming and we all know why.”
Peeking at Dizzy, I noticed him roll his eyes. “Now, sweetie,” he began, reaching for her but got a slap in return, “no one blames you for what you did, taking those drugs and all.”
“And I gave them all back,” Marge countered. “So there’s no reason to ever expect to see them again.”
I nodded but my mind disagreed. Hollow words, I said to myself.
Stuart Callies, his sister Susan, and her husband, Matt Weston, were at the forefront of everyone’s mind. We all knew we hadn’t seen the last of them or their murderous ways, Marge knew it too. Violet most likely still had nightmares of Susan dragging her from her bed and torturing her to death. The woman had left little to our imaginations.
“Probably be a lot more stragglers and bums on the road this spring,” Lettie added, chasing around her kitchen preparing some kind of meal for us. “And most likely more folks that will want to take away what’s ours, the way I figure.”
I noticed both Dizzy and Marge nodding without looking up. The battles we had fought were over, but more were perched on our horizon. With spring would come nice weather, tolerable at least. The nice weather brought people. And most of the people in northern Michigan had nothing compared to us.
Desperation was our plague. People without food, decent shelter, drinkable water, and any hope for a real life. How far of a leap was it to kill a man for his food, when you or your children were starving to death? If frostbite had claimed three fingers and four toes, even my decrepit shack looked damn fine.
We had to be ready. We had to be on-guard and ready for battle at any given moment. My own body count was five. I knew there’d be more. If I wanted to survive another year in No Where, there’d be more.
Year 3 - early spring - WOP
Chopping wood, surrounded by the last few drifts of snow, kept me warm. If I had to guess, it was late April. Maybe early May. But I didn’t know for sure and our calendar kid wasn’t very good at his job.
We assigned Nate, Marge’s nine-year-old son, this one task in all his time in No Where. Keep track of the days. Every day got a hash, but instead of crossing the hashes at five, he was to do it at seven. Simple enough for even someone his age to handle.
Or so we thought.
One afternoon last fall, Nate came to us as we dug the last of the potatoes from the sandy earth. Scrunching his face, staring at a piece of paper, he approached his mother.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” Marge asked, as she ruffled his hair.
“What month do you think it is?” he asked, sounding more unsure than I would have thought our official calendar keeper should.
“Oh, late September,” his mother answered, getting back to her work. “Maybe a little before the first of October. What does your calendar say? Am I close?”
Instead of looking at his mother, he glanced at Lettie. “July nineteenth,”
he said proudly.
I figured out why he watched the older woman. Her look of shock and disbelief caused even me to laugh.
She stormed his way and ripped the calendar from his hand. “Give me that damned thing,” the woman the kids referred to as Grandma Lettie groused.
She studied it carefully, nodding several times. Finally, she grasped the entire stack of papers and tore them in half. Handing them back to Nate, and the kid wasn’t even embarrassed by any of this, she spit next to him in the dirt.
“That’s what I think of your calendar keeping,” she huffed, and turned back to her harvest.
The month and day made no difference to me; it was early spring, and that’s all I needed to know. Time to get out and start chopping wood for next winter. Time to think about taking another deer. Time to keep a close eye on the road and all of the trouble it could bring.
I heard him before I saw him, but that wasn’t hard to do. This one didn’t try to sneak up on me. No. This one sang—loudly, and off key.
“Glory glory alleluia, glory glory alleluia…”
Frank would have heard this one coming, and Frank couldn’t hear a damned thing.
Knowing he was about to clear the tree line and spy me, I paused my work and turned. His last chorus rang out, loud and clear, before he stopped. Smiling broadly, he gave me a great wave from the road. Dressed in black from head to toe, his long gray beard popped out in contrast. Removing his dirty, black hat, I noticed his baldhead.
This type I knew. While they were mostly harmless, though crazy, I still stuck my Glock into my pocket before heading him off.
Religion had arrived. And by God, he was a happy one.
“Hello, brother,” he called out, taking long strides to greet me. “Glory be to God on this beautiful day. We are truly blessed.”
Apparently, he was living in some parallel universe where duckies and bunnies woke you each morning, filling you with sweet rolls and expensive strong coffee. Or he had a bottle hidden somewhere below his dark loose clothing. I assumed the second option.
