Defending No Where (The No Where Apocalypse Book 3) Read online

  Slowly I dared another couple of steps, keeping my hands held high for him to see.

  “Bob,” I replied. “Bob Reiniger.”

  I paused, waiting for a hopefully decent response. But it was taking too long, and I became nervous. I swore I heard him cock the hammers on the old shotgun. This might not go so well, I thought.

  Day 1,103 — continued

  “I don’t know no Bob Reiniger,” the man said, finally stepping out of the home. His long beard and ragged clothes told me he was one of us; the lost-in-No-Where-for-eternity type.

  Smiling as broadly and non-threateningly as I could, I kept moving towards him. The two steel eyes pointed at my head. “I’m not looking for you, I’m after someone else. Maybe you can help me find him.”

  When I finally stopped walking, we were five feet apart, two if I included the 36 inches of barrel between us.

  He glanced around the stock of his gun. “This friend of yours got a name?”

  The gun wasn’t going down. Perhaps I’d made a gross miscalculation in my plan.

  “Clyde Barster,” I answered, my hands still held high above my head. “You know him?”

  The gun finally lowered to my midsection. I saw his sideways grin. He spit beside himself. Charming fellow.

  “I know two things,” he answered, setting the wooden stock of the shotgun in the ground. “First, you ain’t no friend of Clyde Barster. He ain’t got no friends. You’re way too decent of a man to be running with an asshole like him.” He laughed and spit again.

  I was finally comfortable enough with this man to lower my hands to my side. And it was a good thing; I’d begun to lose feeling in my arms.

  “And?” I asked. He signaled me to follow him inside the home with a jerk of his head. “You ain’t mean enough or nasty enough to be going after him. You’ll probably just end up dead like most people who try their luck at it.”

  Well, this was a man full of information and negative feedback. If it wasn’t for the scent of wafting meat cooking inside, I might’ve just left without so much as a goodbye. But it smelled like pork. Bacon to be exact.

  My God, the bacon was good! Almost as good as the three eggs Mr. Felix Wiggle cooked in the grease left behind by the smoky salted pork.

  Felix was not my host. No, he was just the companion and personal chef for Arthur Cragun, who insisted I called him Crag. Beside bacon and eggs, they served me actual coffee — Crag had found a stockpile of it somewhere north of Covington — and some sort of flatbread biscuits smothered in raspberry jam.

  Neither man was particularly clean, or had any sort of manners, but they were gracious when it came to passing out food. They had my vote for survivors of the year, previously given to Frank, Lettie and Wilson.

  Crag and Felix preferred to eat with their hands, even with the milky yellow egg yolks. Crag mentioned something about maybe they could use the biscuits, but decided not to mix egg and jam. Sound decision, I guess.

  They refused to discuss Barster, or anything else for that matter, until breakfast was done. Crag’s loud, rolling burp was the only signal I needed.

  “How do you figure Barster can’t be taken?” I asked, licking red seeds from my plate.

  Crag pointed a knife at me after he scooped more jam from the squat glass container. “I didn’t say he couldn’t be taken. He can be taken. Just not by you. If you had an army or at least a couple more fellows, you might stand a chance. You, alone? Nah, I don’t think so.”

  Felix had been staring at me skeptically throughout the meal. Slamming his fist on the table, he leapt from his chair. “I know you!” he howled, pointing at me with a yolk-covered finger. “You’re that fellow that lives down the highway. Halfway between Covington and Amasa, in the old log cabin.”

  I nodded, smiling and trying to recall if we’d ever met. “That’s me.”

  “The one with the two wives and two kids.” He poked at his friend, beaming with pride at his knowledge.

  I raised my hands as they both laughed. “I’m not married to either one of them,” I confessed.

  Crag tipped his head towards me, grinning through the dirtiest teeth I ever recalled seeing. “You must been a helluva lover to be able to keep up with two women. Come on, tell us who’s the best one.”

  “I’m only involved with one of them, the blonde.” Felix nodded as if he knew what Daisy looked like. Crag’s grin said he wanted more details. “The other gal had a child with Jimmy Wilson.”

  They stared at one another as if I’d told them their mothers were the devil incarnate. “Who the hell would screw a half-wit like that kid?” Crag asked, shrugging.

  I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my brow. “Can we please get back to the task at hand? Do you guys know where Clyde Barster and his gang are hiding out?”

  They gave one another a telling look. Something in the way their faces tensed and came back to mine at the same time told me I’d struck gold. Fool’s gold.

  Day 1,103 — continued

  I crawled through the late summer brush, sweating through my shirt. Pausing for another sip of water, I checked the trail behind me.

  I hadn’t had a good feeling about any of this since Crag and Felix had enlightened me as to Baster’s latest whereabouts. It all seemed too easy.

  One minute they were laughing at me, claiming I’d never succeed in getting the drop on the gang. But once they saw I was serious about taking them on for the safety of my family, I had their blessings for my planned attack.

  Felix drew me a detailed map to their three last known locations, in pencil no less. Crag told me what the best approach to each place was. In all likelihood, Barster would be in one of these three spots. Best yet, the keys to their treasure trove of knowledge didn’t cost me a dime…sort of.

  Crag wanted whatever horses survived after I finished killing whoever was left of the Barster clan. Preferably, both he and Felix wanted a horse. I could have one if there was one left over, but they really wanted two for themselves.

  And that made me nervous. I felt like they had been following me for the past hour. Like they were checking up on me. And it really kind of pissed me off.

  They fed me well, gave me information and Crag hadn’t shot me on sight. I wondered what I had done not to hold their trust so badly that they would follow me. Did they think I was going to stiff them on the horses? Really?

  I paused again as I approached the first location. Crag told me he didn’t think they were here, but I needed to be thorough and work my way north and west. I was going to make one sweep of the area. If they were here, I was going to find them.

  I needed to focus on what was in front of me. Yet again, as I looked back at the trail, watching for movement, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was there. But every time I checked, it was empty.

  Ahead of me was the first potential hideout. It wasn’t much, to be honest, just a dingy, rundown hunting shack half the size of my place. Instead of old logs for siding, this place had rough-cut cedar. And it was mighty rough. I didn’t believe the siding had seen any care in the last 30 years.

  The brush was heavy enough for me to circle the place at less than 50 yards. There was only one entrance and exit, a yellow door in the front center of the structure. At least I think it was yellow. Time had done a number on the once bright door, leaving it a dirty beige instead.

  The rear had one small window, the front a larger one. If they were here, they were stuck.

  I crouched and began the waiting game.

  The front door looked open, maybe an inch. One of the side windows in the front was wide open and the screen hang limply below, pushed in the slight breeze. Maybe someone was there.

  Watching for any movement, I took a bite of an apple. When I burped, the taste of eggs and bacon gurgled up, ruining my apple. Disgusted, I tossed it aside.

  There was movement behind me, I was sure of it. Were they stalking me while I stalked them? Was it Chester or some other local wolf who was on to me? Whoever it was left my
half-eaten apple alone.

  The sun sank in the western sky. If I had to guess, it was going on eight p.m., maybe even eight-thirty. But who really cared.

  That was the one bright spot of the apocalypse. No one cared about time anymore. Wilson was living proof of that.

  He said he’d show up in the morning. Today or tomorrow should have always been my question. Or, my morning or his idea of morning? As long as the sun wasn’t hidden in the west by the trees behind my cabin, he called it morning.

  Even I didn’t worry about exact time any longer, or approximate time for that matter.

  If I did concern myself with such a meaningless thing, I’d be running late on my little hunting party. I thought it was day three, but it could have been day four just as easily.

  I was after prey. When I got rid of the vermin, I’d head back home. And barring some unfortunate accident, the only way I’d turn for home and my family was when the job was finished.

  The sun dipped lower and the first chill of the evening set in. I pulled a sweatshirt from my pack and put it on, grateful for its warmth. Again, I sensed someone or something was watching me.

  I knew it wasn’t from the house. It seemed empty, I was sure of it. Plus, the weeds around the door were cut and trampled. All around the front of the house, I could see the long grass had fresh trails cut in by recent footsteps.

  Maybe they weren’t there now, but they’d be back. So I settled in for a night of waiting.

  Day 1,104

  I awoke abruptly and was confronted with a shadow standing over me. Someone with a gun, pointed at my face.

  She knelt and held a single finger to her lips. “Just get up,” she whispered, “and we can wander back a ways and discuss this.”

  As long as she had the gun, I figured I might as well be compliant. Seemed like the friendly way to respond, one that wouldn’t end in my immediate death.

  Backtracking several hundred yards, I walked with the long Colt revolver poking in my back. Before she turned me to face her, she grabbed my pack and revolver. When I turned, I was pleasantly stunned at what I saw.

  This wasn’t an ugly woman, even with my dolled-up Chicago taste. Though her clothes were dirty, I noticed her face and hands looked clean. Though she wore no makeup (and who did nowadays), she still had a natural good look to her.

  But the gun was ugly and still pointed at me.

  “What the hell you think you’re doing, buddy?” she whispered in an irritated voice.

  I lowered my hands to my side. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, lady. Now if you’ll just give me my stuff back, I’ll get back to my day and you can run along and play old west with someone else.”

  I reached for my pack, but she tossed it behind her.

  “I need an answer because you’re really trying to turn my day into shit,” she spewed, jabbing the gun in my ribs.

  I leaned in towards her face. Only then did I realize she stood an inch or two taller than I did.

  “I’m after someone,” I answered, probably sounding less pissed than I was, “and you’re messing this up. So leave.”

  She grinned, waggling the gun a little. “You think you can take Clyde Barster and Jimmy Darling that easy? Like you can just sneak up on them and kill them? Like it’s no big deal?”

  Well, that was sort of my plan. It was a little more detailed than that. But if you broke it down, those were the main points.

  “I’ve got my reasons. And I don’t think you have any say in my plan.” There, put that in your pipe and smoke it, lady, I thought to myself, bemused.

  “You’re going to get my sister killed,” she replied with a pissed off attitude.

  “If your sister is one of them, then yeah, she’s dying today, too.” I mean that’s the way it was, right?

  She looked down and shook her head. “She’s not with them willingly. She’s chained to them, but apparently you haven’t noticed that.”

  No, I hadn’t. But when you’re busy being robbed or threatened at gunpoint, a person tends to overlook those little details.

  “So it’s Barster, this Jimmy fellow, and your sister,” I stated. “Anyone else riding with them?”

  Her face drew close to mine and she placed a gloved hand on my chest. “Pack up and leave,” she demanded, giving me a surprisingly strong shove backwards. I could tell this wasn’t going to resolve itself pleasantly.

  “They robbed us. They killed my friend and burned another friend’s place to the ground.” I moved within inches of her face, almost nose to nose. “Then a little while ago, they hung two fried bodies in front of my cabin and told us to leave.” I wanted her to see my resolve. “So I got my reasons to be here. And I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.”

  I reached behind her, ignoring the gun pointed at my head. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll just collect my stuff and get this over with,” I added. “If you want to join me, I won’t stop you. But I’m not leaving.”

  She jammed the butt of the revolver into my chest and I winced. “But we’re not killing my sister. Got it.”

  I looked up and nodded. I guess I had a partner. And a sore sternum to boot.

  Jean and I waited somewhat together in the brush were I had previously been alone. I say somewhat because it wasn’t like we sat side by side holding hands, though she did take my old spot on the log and made me kneel in the leaves.

  Getting her name was nearly impossible. I suppose she thought I’d stalk her after this or something stupid like that. All I wanted was a name to put to the face and flowing long brown hair.

  Her eyes were a pretty shade of blue, somewhere between light and pale. But they were tired eyes, the same eyes the rest of us had up here. Probably the same eyes found throughout the world if things were as bad everywhere else as they were in No Where.

  Her sister, Lucy, was taken about a year ago in a raid northeast of Covington. Jean claimed their hometown was no more than a wide spot on the two-lane road running through it and laughed when I told her I was from Chicago. She didn’t realize how lucky she was to be used to living a hard life before all of this. Or perhaps she did.

  The day wore on and we waited patiently for Barster to show up. At least one of us waited patiently. She tirelessly spun the cylinder of her revolver like it was some kind of tic. Even my harshest glare didn’t slow her rhythm.

  “When do you think they should be here?” I asked, trying to end the boredom.

  She shrugged, spinning the cylinder again. “Within a day or two,” she answered, blowing make-believe dirt from the gun. “They were here a week ago. Then north of here for a couple nights, then north of that for the last four.” She pointed at the home. “Here is where they’ll stop next.”

  I stared at the dilapidated faded green shack. “I got all fall. I don’t care.” As long as I got clean shots at Clyde and Jimmy, I really didn’t care how long this lasted.

  “Sun’s almost down,” Jean said beside me, standing from her comfortable spot. “You take first watch and I’ll take the late night to morning.” She turned and grinned at me. “You got a blanket?”

  I gave it to her, but I made sure she knew I was none too happy about it. “Don’t drool on it,” I chided, turning back to the shitty excuse for a home. “I don’t want your spit all over me while I’m sleeping.”

  Day 1,105

  Midday we sat and snacked on whatever both of us had left. Jean’s dwindling supplies were much better than what I had, at least in my mind.

  My pack had one-half container of dried venison, two small green apples and a handful of shriveled, spongy carrots.

  Jean removed several large pieces of semi-stale flatbread from her backpack, accompanied by two flavors of jam. She also produced some dried cubed beef and dried pears. Compared to my stash, hers was like dining at The Ritz.

  She asked, so I told her my story while we waited. I told her all of it: Chicago, my job, my folks, my wife. I told her about being drunk when the world ended, which made her smil
e. I told her about Frank, Lettie, Marge and Nate.

  I explained my involvement with Daisy and Libby. That brought a sad smile to her face, one that spoke of her own pain. I even told her about Violet and Hope. I told her the whole story about Violet.

  “Sounds like you have a decision to make when you get back,” she remarked. “What are you going to do?”

  I wrung my hands and grimaced. “I’m going to have to send her and Hope away to live with Wilson and Lettie. There’s no other solution. I can’t risk losing a good thing with Daisy. Not for an 18-year-old girl.”

  Jean looked at me, confused. “I thought you said she was 14?”

  I smiled and chuckled. “And now you understand the complexities of Violet. What about you? You got family?”

  Her eyes darkened. “Lucy is about all I got left. Mom and Dad died last winter. Both sets of grandparents are long gone. I got a brother, Jackson. He’s somewhere in New York, I suppose I’ll never see him again.”

  I gave her my full attention. Her dead expression took a turn for the worse. “You got a husband?”

  “Had one,” she answered quietly. “He died about a year in. Type one diabetic. He was okay at first. But that went south quickly once the insulin went bad and then dried up.”

  Her answer came somewhere between matter-of-fact and all out crying. I dared the question I hated most. “Any kids?” I knew better, but had to ask.

  “One. She’s dead, too. Caught the same fever my folks did.” She looked at me and I saw her eyes water. “Madison. She was four.”

  I rubbed her right elbow. “I’m sorry.” A better man would have said something comforting, something a little more heartfelt. But not me.

  “Thanks,” she answered quietly. “That’s why I got to get Lucy back. She’s all I got left.” She peeked at me. “Her and Raymond.”