The No Where Apocalypse (Book 2): Surviving No Where (16 page)

“Food seems a little less plentiful since my last visit, Matt?” I said, wiping the watery gravy away from my mouth. “I take it we’re all in the same boat?”

Clearing his throat first, he reached for his water cup. “Though there are so few of us left here in Covington, the same can be said of our supplies as well. The winter has been difficult. I hear they have fish for us in Marquette, but they can’t get them through.”

Bummer
, I thought casting a quick glance at Susan.
Maybe she’d be dead before me.

“I’m told a fever went through late last fall,” Matt continued, “and wiped out half the camp up there. Numbers are down everywhere. People have wandered off or died. That should leave more food, but supplies are depleted everywhere. I heard of a warehouse, hundreds of thousands of square feet, that doesn’t have so much as a crumb left in it. Three years ago, when all the madness started, it was bulging full.”

His honesty both shocked and impressed me. I’m not sure I should have felt either.

“They say Amasa is all but gone,” I added, enjoying the last bits of beef from my plate. “If you don’t mind me asking, where’d you get the beef? I don’t recall seeing many cattle the last time I was here.”

Matt stared at me, chewing something. “There’s a man, lives down your way. Goes by Wilson. I mentioned him before; I’m sure you’ve met him or know of him.”

I nodded, noticing Daisy’s eyes light up.

“He’s got a decent operation down there. Cows, pigs, goats, chickens. We were down there several years ago, testing his willingness to trade.”

What Matt was really saying was that they had tried to attack but failed.

“According to a friend of mine, he’s pretty fortified back where he is.” I waited to see his reaction before deciding to say any more. But he didn’t react, one way or another.

“Best to trade with a man like him,” Matt continued, not looking up as he spoke. More focused on his nearly empty plate. “It’s always best to keep a man like that as a friend. At least that’s what I said.”

“What’d you trade, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Finally looking my way, his poker face refused to budge. “Fish mostly. Seems like old man Wilson likes his whitefish. A few other ancillary supplies as well. Nothing big, nothing too important to us.”

He passed, focusing on me closely. “He’d give a king’s ransom for another son. Or so he claims. I had a boy lined up for him last fall. Before he went and died on me that is.”

“You got any food to spare? Just asking.” And I had to, just in case the presence of his daughter made him a generous soul.

“Food, my friend, is the new currency of our time.” He plucked a toothpick from a small jar in front of him. Leaning back, he went to work on the beef still stuck in his teeth. “Once upon a time we had a lot of food here. Stuart claimed it would last ten years if consumed properly.” He frowned.

“But it didn’t last that long,” I inserted.

“Nope. Three years and we’re down to scraping by like the rest of the world.” Smacking his lips, he enjoyed the last of his meal. “We ain’t long for here, I’m afraid. And whether that means Covington, or life itself, I haven’t quite decided yet.”

“Hunt it or raise it, kill it, grow it, harvest it,” Susan added, glancing at her husband with a soft expression. “We took too much, not ever thinking this day would come. The problem is there’s no going back. When you eat the last chicken, you can’t go searching for eggs anymore.”

“Seven men and women left in our employ; nine of us in total,” Matt stated. “Twenty-nine others that come to us each day and beg for help we can’t offer. Stuart came here with a heavy hand at first. But that’s what was needed to develop his dream.”

Given he was all out psychotic, I would have used the word delusion in place of dream. But what the heck? Potato, garden tractor. Or something like that.

“He thought he could develop Utopia, right here in the middle of the Upper Peninsula,” Susan said, shaking her head. “It was an unlikely place, but he thought he could.”

“So he died and his dream died with him,” I added, noticing the husband and wife sharing gloomy looks. “It was the fever, wasn’t it?”

Susan sat her napkin on the table. “Stuart’s dream was a nightmare. Any fool could see that.” Her voice rose and her words became angry. “We’d all be dead if he was allowed to continue. It was madness, and that’s what did him in, madness.”

I didn’t understand, and I could tell from Daisy’s expression she didn’t either. We didn’t have to wait long though for a better explanation.

“I smothered him in his sleep, late one night,” she admitted. “We’d all be dead if it wasn’t for that. This wasn’t Utopia, it was Hell.”

“We’re all gonna die soon, Bob,” Matt added plainly. “Sooner than we want, that’s for certain. Starvation, disease, gunshot. Hell, even the common cold can kill us now. And there ain’t a damned thing we can do about it. Not one damned thing.”

My hosts depressed the hell out of me, and I was sure Daisy felt the same. I peeked over and noticed Libby’s head on her lap. The cold ride here had sapped the child’s energy it seemed.

“We may need to stay the night,” I said, looking again at my hosts, gauging their feelings on the subject.

“You can if you want,” Matt replied, pointing at his wife, who shrugged politely at the request. “But you may want to head back post-haste once I tell you something you need to know.”

I sat forward on my elbows, giving him my full attention. What the hell was he holding back from me?

Year 4 - early spring - WOP

We dressed with great haste. Our clothes dried pretty well in our hours spent negotiating. The only dampness that remained was on my scarf. But it didn’t matter, we needed to leave — immediately.

“You could have told me this hours ago,” I groused at Matt, pulling on my coat.

Stepping forward, he grabbed my arm. “I just found out about it before dinner. I wanted you to eat first; otherwise, you’d never make it.”.”

I stopped my dressing and glared at him. “Can you spare any bodies?”

He shook his head, his expression almost pained. “This is your struggle for survival. Not mine and certainly not ours. That’s coming soon enough. For now, I couldn’t force a man into helping you even if I held his child at gunpoint.”

Daisy and Libby rose from the bench, stomping their boots in place. “We’re ready,” she reported, her voice more confident than I’d heard before. “We need to go.”

Almost to the main door, Susan cut us off, extending her arm, offering a bag of something. “Some food for your trip. In your current condition, I don’t think you’d make it back there before you’d collapse from exhaustion. With a little something extra, you might stand a chance.”

Daisy slapped the bag away, knocking it to the floor. “Poisoned, no doubt,” she spewed with pent up wrath.

Retrieving the bag, Susan gave us a gracious smile. Stuffing it under my arm, she leaned nearer to Daisy and I.

“You’re going to die tonight,” she whispered, “either by exhaustion or gunshot. Why would I waste my time trying to kill you when you’re dead already? Don’t be silly; take the food. It will be the last you ever eat.”

I stared at her, unsure of what was more accurate: That the food was safe, or that we’d be dead before morning. Neither comforted me, even though the food was most likely fine.

We took our leave and stepped into the winter evening. If we hustled, we could make it back in three hours. And by hustling I knew that meant Daisy would need to walk most of the way. We had trouble, big trouble. And we were seven miles removed from safety.

Seven miles — on a winter’s night. Seven miles — through drifts of waist-deep snow. Seven miles — with very little energy in our bodies. Seven miles — with nothing but hours to increase our fear.

It may as well been seven thousand miles.

The first sign of trouble came several hours later, just as Matt had warned. Hoof marks dotted the snow.
Damn it
, I seethed. I had hoped he was just bluffing to get rid of us, for his wife’s sake if nothing else. But that hope was gone.

“The hoofmarks are on top of our sled marks from this morning,” I reported to Daisy. Holding the rope along with me, she tried to keep up. Though she was failing, a small break every couple hundred yards helped her tremendously.

“We’re never going to beat them back there,” she cried, checking to see if Libby was still asleep. “What are we going to do if they come at us on the road?”

With a jerk of my head, I urged her forward. “Let’s just hope they don’t. I’m not sure either of us have the strength to raise our guns.”

Of all the bad timing in my life, and there was plenty, that day was the worst — ever.

What Matt Weston suppressed during dinner was the knowledge of the Barster Gang’s impending rampage. As in Clyde Barster and his followers. All five of them, on horseback and well armed.

According to what Matt had just heard, Barster felt someone had held out on him. He and I both knew what that meant. They were coming for us, for our remaining stock.

Someone had arrived in town shortly after us, shouting his news to whoever would listen. The man and his son had bumped into Barster in the woods, somewhere between their camp and the road. Clyde told the man of his intentions and warned him not to aid anyone.

Another hour and another mile — at best. Daisy was back on the sled, her energy all but gone. Mine was not where it should be, even after eating the snack Susan had graciously packed for us. Dried fruit, apples I think, had given me shorts burst where I thought I could pull faster, stronger. But the cold truth was I spent everything getting to Covington, and in the first mile out of the place.

At best, we were halfway back. Except for the snow giving us some extra vision, night has fully enveloped the three of us.

Libby woke several times, mostly to reposition herself in the warmth beneath the blankets. As on our trip northward, she was just as warm going home.

Another two hundred yards and I paused, trying to find some strength. With hands on knees, my head hanging low, I began to wonder about it all. Was this it? Would we ever make it back? Or would we find ourselves stranded in the woods? Vulnerable to the cold and potential prey for the wolves?

If we did make it back, what would we find? By the time we got there, at our current creep, it would be morning. Any battle fought would be well over. Would anyone have survived the war? Or would everyone been gone? Perhaps they were all already dead.

I stood, stretched my aching back, and pulled again. The sled wouldn’t budge. Or more plainly, my strength was depleted. We were screwed. Forget about the others — we were dead.

“Bob,” Daisy called out from behind me. Maybe she was about to offer words of encouragement, or a plea for strength.
 

I looked back to see her hand extended at me, past me.
Good God, if we were attacked now let death come quickly
.

I spun, straining to find what she pointed at. But the road was quiet, with nothing but white before us. “Up,” she said. “Up by the treetops.”

My eyes rose. There was nothing there, nothing that I could see at least. Just as I opened my mouth to reply, I saw it. Light… orange light. The surge of adrenaline made my heart race.

Fire.

Year 4 - early spring - WOP

It was two miles; I knew it well. I had passed this spot many times in the previous years. There was a corner, and an old sign for a gas station on the corner. Lettie always said that spot was exactly two miles from her driveway. I pushed on, dragging my precious cargo behind.

The sky became brighter with each turn of the road. At first it was hardly noticeable, the fire. Now, as we closed in on the remaining two miles, it was clear that something was burning ahead. I knew in my heart that it was Lettie’s place, our home.

My breathing became ragged as I pushed forward. My muscles no longer called out for oxygen, the adrenaline pumping through my heart took care of everything.

From behind, I heard Daisy urging me on. “Please hurry,” she cried in a muted voice. Whether it was
 
intended to reach my ears wasn’t important. Since I was hurrying, I took no offense to her cheering me forward. I wanted to get there as badly as she did; though once we were there we would not be pleased with what we found.

I’m sure if someone had taken a movie of our precession at the time it would have been laughable. A man trudging through snow at a pace that a child could keep. Behind him, a sled, sometimes pushed by a waif of a woman. On the sled, the sleeping child actually had the proper attitude: We’d make it when we made it, and nothing before that mattered. And the speed at which we approached wouldn’t have saved our friends. Nothing would have saved them.

Another hundred yards and I collapsed into a pile of stiff, crusted drifted snow. This was it, this was the place I would die —
we
would died. There was not one bit of energy left in my body; I already expended it all. I knew Daisy was beyond exhausted; she had stopped walking and even pushing several hours back.

If we were lucky, we’d simply fall asleep and let the cold do its work. Once upon a time someone had told me that before you froze to death a person went through three stages.

First, your body fought back with violent shivering, trying to warm itself as the system cooled past the point of normal comfort. Next, you were overtaken by a warmth that spread throughout your entire being. Lastly, euphoria. You were at peace; close your eyes and relax — it was almost done.

I felt none of these. The simple fact of the matter was exhaustion. I’d just close my eyes and go to sleep — forever.

Feeling a gentle touch on my back, I lifted my head slightly. Before me stood Shelly, dressed in summer attire. My favorite orange sundress clung to her body, with a crisp white, thin sweater hanging on her shoulders. Even in the frigid night, she was bare legged and wore a pair of those damned flip-flops I hated so much.

“Bob,” she urged sweetly. “You need to get up. Daisy and Libby are depending on you. If you don’t keep moving, they’ll die. You have to get them back to Lettie’s.”