The No Where Apocalypse (Book 1): Stranded No Where (13 page)

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.

I followed like an obedient puppy, waiting for the right time to pop the question. “Can I ask you something?” I continued after a long silence.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she replied, stopping but not turning around.

“Nate talks about the bad men, a lot. Is he referring to what happened in Covington?”

Still she faced away.

“What does it matter,” she whispered just loud enough for me to hear.

“Was it that bad?”

She turned, staring at me, emotionless. “Yes, it was that bad.”

“Maybe he needs to talk about it, that’s all I’m saying.” I thought about reaching to touch her arm, or rub her shoulder. But the emptiness on her face told me it wouldn’t do any good.

“He needs to forget; he’s young enough. He can forget.” She sounded desperate.

“Are they coming?”

Her eyes flared for just a brief second before going back to her dirty hands.

“Violet says they are,” I added with a finished tone. “That’s why I ask.”

“What else do you know?” It was a question, wrapped in a demand that could be followed by shrieking I believed. The little bits and piece I received from her children were haunting. That’s why Marge looked like she did: scared, exhausted, almost dead.

“You know she killed the man who tried to kill me.” She nodded, her lips trembling. “And she did it in a rather efficient manner. And it didn’t seem to bother her.” I let the silence attempt to elicit Marge’s reply.

“And?” Either she wasn’t much of a conversationalist, or she was hiding something. And a bet of three cans of pork and beans told me it was the later.

“Has she killed before? Maybe after things went to hell in Covington.”

For the first time, I noticed the anger in her eyes. “She was protecting a friend. The man was hurting her. Violet had to do something; even if it was heinous.”

“So that’s why the bad people are coming, for her.” I knew it already; I just wanted confirmation before all hell broke loose.

She nodded and then sat on a nearby stump. “That, and all the drugs I took from the nursing home,” Marge admitted. “I knew they were looking for them. They were going to use them for some kind of trade. But I had hidden them. I knew we’d need them after our escape.”

“Why haven’t they shown up yet, these bad people?”

She looked flustered, her lips twisting from side to side, a tic forming on the right side of her face. “I have no idea. Maybe they’re waiting for decent weather. Maybe it took them a while to figure out who murdered their man, who exactly took the drugs.”

Something didn’t sound right. Even if everything were as Marge tried to sell it, why would anyone look for them here?

She must have read my mind. “We left a note of where we were going with a neighbor,” she continued. “I hadn’t seen them since everything went bad. And I figured if they showed up, they’d know where to find us.”

“Maybe the neighbor didn’t rat you out. Ever think of that?”

She sighed and rose from her spot. “Maybe they didn’t. But if they threatened to rape their daughters, cut them off from any food or water, how long would you hold out? Friend or not, since my parents haven’t found us, I expect the next people to come looking will have revenge on their minds.”

I released a great breath, making a gasping sound. “Shit,” I muttered as we began our trip back to Lettie’s.

Marge stopped and pushed my hair away from my face. “Yes, shit.”

Day 306 WOP

Trusting a 13-year-old killer with scissors near my face and neck didn’t really bother me. Violet did what she had to do if only to protect her friends. Even if only a little less than a year ago she would have been locked away for her actions.

My scalp had been itching for the past two weeks. Upon further investigation, Lettie discovered the culprit, lice. Lice, in both my hair and beard. They and most of the hair had to go. Enter Miss Violet and her self-professed talents with hair.

She began with long chops at the back of my neck. Watching nearly a foot of brown hair fall to the ground, it reminded me of watching my grandmother cut my grandfather’s hair at home. He was far too cheap to pay $1 (at the time) for a decent haircut, so Grandma always did it.

Of course, she’d never actually killed anyone. Either by three gunshots to the chest or a knife to the throat. Violet was quick to point out that the man she killed on the road was half-dead to begin with. So it wasn’t actually all on her.

The man she had protected her friend against was actually killed by the other girl’s boyfriend. According to Violet, all she had done was grab the man by the scalp and pull his head back. The boyfriend had plunged the knife into his throat.
 

“Mom never lets me cut anyone’s hair at home,” Violet complained, attacking the top of my head. While I assumed she would have a gentle touch, I assumed incorrectly. She pulled the comb through an area that hadn’t been groomed in like six months.

“Of course, I usually snuck over to Stacy’s anytime anyone needed a trim and didn’t have money for the salon.” I felt the edge of the scissors nick my head, causing me to jerk. “You need to sit still.” She emphasized her point by thwacking the side of my head with her stiff comb.

Her fingers dug through what was left on my head. “Whatever Lettie did to those lice, there ain’t none now,” she added, coming around the front to size up my beard.