The No Where Apocalypse (Book 2): Surviving No Where Page 4

  Year 3 - late spring - WOP

  God shuts one door and opens another. The slamming door resounded through my soul like a crashing tsunami from the wild sea.

  In the six days since Joe and I parted, my mood had brightened considerably. It wasn’t so much the God part and whatever plan He might have for me. The mere companionship and upbeat disposition of the Reverend had rubbed off on me.

  I found myself whistling or humming a tune throughout my days. Occasionally, I even sang aloud or recited some long forgotten poem or limerick.

  Amazing what one bright happy soul can do for another, I thought. While I wallowed through my days, he smiled and spread the word of whatever God had spoken to him. Though it seemed the world was ending for me, maybe — just maybe — things were getting better.

  Another hour of chopping and all that happiness was gone. Just typical.

  I saw the wanderer on the road but for some stupid reason I missed his weapon. I even waved at the poor ragged soul, considering him another potential friend.

  I was just about to call out a happy greeting when I noticed the flash of sunlight off the side of his stainless steel 12-gauge. The first volley rang out in the morning air like a cannonade of wars long past.

  He gave no warning of the imminent attack. Simply ignoring my friendly gesture, he fired at me. Missing with the first shot, he pumped the action, preparing for a second.

  Sprinting for the bench where my gun laid resting, I heard the thud of the slug as it buried into the logs in the cabin just behind me. I didn’t see him pump the gun again, but I heard it split the otherwise still crisp morning air.

  I spun, leveling the Glock at him. However, he beat me to the punch. It was all in slow motion. I swore I could almost see the slug tumbling at me through the air. I pulled my trigger just when it made impact, knocking me to the ground.

  Flailing in the dirty sand like a wounded animal, my hand searched for the pistol I had dropped when struck. I was hit, and hit well. In my left side, not a shot to the hand like before.

  The pain was immediate and my side was on fire. How I had ever mistaken a shot to the hand for one to the side was beyond me. Finding the Glock, I raised it and fired again as my assailant attempted to clear a jammed shell from his shotgun. It took three shots, but he finally went down.

  Touching my wound with my left hand, the pain shot through me. Though it wasn’t a dreaded shot to the stomach, one that would kill me with an infection eventually, it wasn’t a flesh wound either.

  For a moment I considered standing up, but the searing in my side told me to stay put. I rolled my head and checked my attacker. What I noticed mostly was the bottom of his worn boots; worn so low that holes were more prevalent than leather. If he were alive, if he was planning another attack, he would have been moving. I watched for a long time and finally determined he was dead.

  Trying to catch my breath, I rolled my head. My eyesight blurred as I tried to concentrate on the indigo blue sky above, dotted in places by clouds so white they almost hurt my eyes.

  I needed to get up; I needed to assess my wound. But my strength faltered with each shallow breath my lungs squeezed in and out. I tried to focus on the pines, and then a bird that fluttered past. My vision swam with each passing moment.

  I had a problem. I was in terrible trouble. Worse yet, I was all alone.

  My attacker was dead; and I would soon be as well.

  The pain consumed all and the dark sheet of unconsciousness lowered on my eyes.

  Year 3 - late spring - WOP

  Days later, my eyes opened again. I hadn’t died. What a break.

  I was home, finally. And my home; the actual place I’d left so long ago. Much to my surprise, nothing had changed. Shelly greeted me at the door and kissed me passionately.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, her voice sweeter than I recalled. “I was so worried about you. But you’re home now. Come, sit and relax. The game is on.”

  On my television was a football game. It was the Bears to boot! If the mighty Chicago Bears were playing, that could only have meant it was fall. Had it really taken me six months to make my way home? Last thing I remembered in No Where was budding trees and dwindling snow banks.

  A familiar recliner replaced my old, worn in one, but I couldn’t place where I’d seen it before. Settling in, Shelly placed a cold beer in my hand, the sweat from the bottle moistening my calloused fingers. She kissed my forehead and I took a swig of the liquid only to discover it was warm, almost hot.

  “Don’t you like it?” she asked, perched on the arm of the old plaid chair. “I’m sorry, I can get you another.”

  “Don’t bother,” another voice answered. Across from me, on a brown fabric couch that was foreign to our home, sat an old man. His eyes never moved from the television, his focus monumental; my gut told me his visit meant something else…something dreadful.

  “He has more important things to do,” the bespectacled man continued. “Damn it! The Bears need a passing game.”

  Shelly was gone and it was just him and I now. When he finally gave me his full attention, I recognized his face. He was the man who died many months before—Frank— one of my first friends in No Where.

  My voice failed and I could only moan. Somehow I didn’t think Frank recognized me. If he did, he didn’t seem to care. His face displayed vile contempt for my presence.

  In his hand was a tall, dark glass. Each time he sipped from the glass he smacked his lips and sighed. Was there more for me to hear, or was he simply here drinking my brandy?

  I tried to speak again; and again only moans came from my lips.

  “You got yourself in a pickle, boy,” the old man said. “And if you think for a second old Frank can help you out, well you’re just plain stupid. I’m dead, remember? You got to depend on others, that’s all you got now.”

  I watched as Shelly reentered the room and served Frank a plate of food, Venison stew with mushy potatoes and carrots. But that wasn’t his meal of choice. Where were the pork and beans he so dearly loved?

  He tossed the plate aside in a fit of anger. Shelly spun and scowled at me.

  “Why have you angered your friend so much, dear?” she asked. “What have you done to upset him so?”

  I couldn’t move out of the chair. And the only sounds I could make were the blasted moans. When I raised my right arm to point at Frank, I gaped seeing my right hand was missing, with only a bloody stump in its place.

  “He’s gone and got himself shot again,” Frank spewed, throwing the dark glass at me. When the contents exploded against my chest, the acrid smell of rubbing alcohol overtook me.

  “Now he’s going to die,” Frank continued in a hateful tone. “Now he’s going to really leave you, us. All because he was stupid. All because he never listened to any advice I gave him. All because he thought that dipshit Dizzy might save him. What a bunch of crap.”

  Approaching me with a smile, Shelly stroked my bangs. “Oh Robert, why can’t you take care of yourself?” I didn’t notice any tears but pain choked her voice. “If you die, you can never come back.”

  Now Frank was standing over me, jerking on my wounds. Pain took over and I tried to scream. But my mouth wouldn’t open. “If he wants to live,” he grumbled, “he has to stay. Coming back means dying. Staying means living.”

  Shelly nodded at his words. “Then you need to stay, Robert. You need to live. I’ll be all right. But only if you’re all right.”

  I returned to consciousness standing in the middle of the road right in front of my cabin. Beneath the large front window, I noticed a flurry of activity. Slowly, quietly I made my way over to the group.

  My friends lifted a body and hustled inside with it. Following, more like I was floating, I went inside and sat on the kitchen counter, unnoticed by all.

  They ripped the tattered shirt from the poor soul and flinched at the gaping wound on his left side. I peeked around the group, nodding at the wound. It was bad, I could giv
e them that. But why they were trying to save someone else, in my cabin no less, was beyond what I could reason.

  Dizzy ran for the door and headed for what I assumed was the pump. I guess the wound needed cleaning. Marge dabbed at the bloody hole with a fresh white towel. The crimson stain grew with each movement. This fellow was losing a lot of blood.

  Violet held the man’s head still as he reacted with great shudders to each touch. Her shushing made me feel better, though it didn’t seem to have much effect on the poor soul below her.

  I jumped from the counter to get a closer look at the action. Dizzy returned and brushed past, not noticing me as he did. Blood and gore does that to a person, I thought. I would probably be reacting the same way given the circumstances.

  Standing behind the group, I peeked over Violet’s tied-back brown hair to get a better view of the man who had tried to kill me. Her head moved with mine, continuing to block my view.

  I moved to the head of the couch, and the fellow, as she began to speak in whispers.

  “Hang in there,” Violet begged, sniffing back tears. “You’ve got to make it. Please, Bob, don’t die.”

  The sound of my own name struck my ears as I got my first clear look at the man on the couch — my face.

  “Shit,” I said aloud, unheard by others, “I’m going to die.”

  Year 3 - late spring - WOP

  I awoke in a dream-like haze. My eyes blurry from lack of use. The first thing I saw was my own right hand, my fingertips pressed against my forehead. I studied the palm for a few moments until my vision improved. It was clean, it moved when my brain called for movement. So far so good.

  Gazing up at the low ceiling, I noticed the faded grout in the aging lumber. Behind me was the back of the faded brown couch. I noticed a smell, my own scent, coming from the fabric. The odor was…well, clean. That was new.

  I let out a long painful sigh. Twisting my head, I noticed the bandages on my left side, just below my ribcage. I was in No Where. Still here and presumably still alive. But wounded, as I last remembered I was.

  In the kitchen I observed a blurred figure. Squinting, I tried to make out who it might be. My heart raced for a second — Shelly. She was here.

  I heard a voice, a female voice; and that encouraged me further. Somehow, in the middle of all of the madness the world had thrown at us, we had been reunited.

  I reached for the figure, her name croaking out through my dry throat and lips. “Shelly.”

  The female turned and approached. Each step brought her a little more into focus. But the long brown hair, the youthful face, the slender figure wasn’t Shelly’s.

  “Well, look who’s back amongst the living,” the voice replied. My heart fell with the realization my savior was actually my tormentor…Violet.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to roll onto my back and hide my disappointment from the girl.

  I felt her sit on the wide couch next to my stomach, and cool hand placed on my forehead.

  “Well, Mom and I have this deal,” she continued, her fingers brushing my hair away from my face, “every time you get yourself shot and try to die, we come and patch you up. But since she can’t possibly spend 24 hours without Nate or Dizzy by her side, she leaves me here to watch you die.”

  “But I’m not dead, am I?”

  I felt her fingers slide down and adjust the bandages. “Nope,” she replied, almost sounding disappointed. “You are one tough bugger.”

  “How bad was it this time?” I asked, focusing on her pale face hovering over mine.

  “Well, your fever is gone. So that’s good.” She pulled the covers over my chest. “But it was pretty bad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that much blood before.” She lifted a cup to my lips. “Here, Mom says you need fluids to replace the blood you’ve lost. But just little sips. I don’t want to clean up your puke anymore.”

  The water should have slid down my parched throat easily, but it didn’t. Instead, I had to force it down, one small dribble at a time.

  “How’d you find me?” I asked, shaking the question away as fast as it came out. “No, how long? How many days ago did it happen? And how’d you get here so fast? How did you and your mom save me?”

  She rose and headed back toward the kitchen portion of the single room, shaking her head as she did.

  “That’s a lot of questions, Bob. Why don’t I start at the beginning.”

  I nodded my acceptance. She held the key; may as well let her tell the tale.

  I listened for the better part of a half-hour; at least what I assumed was that amount of time. Violet either paced or sat next to me on the couch. Recounting the horrid story, as she called it.

  When she finished I tried to summarize the tale. Even if just to get it clear in my own mind.

  “So Dizzy and Nate were coming to see me,” I began. “Wanted to see if I wanted to go fishing with them?”

  She nodded with no emotion. “Yep.”

  They had heard the shots from the fight and came running, carefully albeit, and found me passed out in the yard somewhere near my front door. I remembered that part. I thought that was my dying moment at the time.

  “They found me and ran back to get your mom,” I continued. “Why’d they leave me alone?” That part didn’t make much sense.

  “Dizzy said he couldn’t leave Nate alone, and he couldn’t let him be on the road alone,” she offered, rubbing a towel through her wet hair. “So he had no choice. And you weren’t going anywhere.”

  They got Marge. Marge grabbed her medical kit and took off on a run, dragging Violet and Dizzy behind. When they came, she decided I needed to be moved inside. So I either dreamt that part or remembered it somehow.

  “What about the other guy?” I asked.

  I noticed her lips twist. “He was deader than dead. You hit him four times. Once in the heart even, according to Dizzy. Dragged him off in the woods across the road. Your pets have been howling ever since.”

  On the couch, safely inside, mother and daughter went about accessing the damage my body had received. Once Marge determined no major organs had been struck, as far as she could tell, she set about cleaning and dressing my wound. Apparently, that’s where the fun began, according to Violet’s story.

  “I’ve never seen anyone in that much pain,” she stated. “You thrashed and tossed and screamed like you were on fire. Dizzy helped hold you down, I tried to hold your head still, and Mom worked on the bloody mess. You finally passed out and that made everything a whole lot easier. Except for all the bleeding and the other couple of things.”

  I had peeked under the blanket covering me. Everything felt a little loose down there.

  “And what exactly happened to my clothes?”

  She got up and strolled away to tend the fire.

  “That was disgusting,” she reported, a certain amount of disdain coloring her words.

  It would seem they found me in a less than hygienic state. In all truth, I hadn’t been bathing much, just cleaning up now and then. The shower set up was too cumbersome for me to play with all the time. Add to that I had been alone for most of the winter. And in the end, I suppose I might have been covered in a fine layer of filth, maybe a little more if this teen was to be believed.

  She knelt on the floor by my head. “We had to clean you,” she said, her body all in shivers as she recalled the process.

  Year 3 - late spring - WOP

  I could tell by the disgust on Violet’s face that what she had gone through wasn’t pretty. But if I were honest about it, I didn’t ask to be saved…or bathed.

  “You were disgusting,” she spewed, lightening up almost immediately. “See, we have a bathing schedule down at Lettie’s. And every third day I take a shower. You know, a shower with soap and shampoo. It may be chilly water sometimes, but we clean up. You…” She pointed a finger at me with several sharp jabs.

  “I live alone, Violet. I’m sorry your Mom had to see me that way.”

  She be
came bemused, grinning at me. “Oh no,” she continued, poking the right side of my bare chest. “Mom worked on the wound, I got the joy of cleaning you up.”

  Describing in minute detail, Violet explained how her mother was worried about what diseases may be laying on my skin. Her solution? Strip and bathe me. Just what every fourteen-year-old-girl wanted to do.

  “We burned your clothes,” she informed me. “When was the last time you’d changed?”

  I couldn’t recall, so I didn’t bother answering.

  “Then we found that lovely festering wound on your lower right leg. And I got to clean that. As well as bathe every inch of your disgusting body.”

  I thought about laughing, or at least making light of it. But her display of abject horror made me think better of it.

  “I saw things I can’t un-see,” she seethed, looking away and shaking her head. “Mom said we had to leave you that way so the wounds could heal in the open air. She was worried about covering you with anything more than that stupid blanket. Then, she left.”

  By sunset the first day, it was just Violet and her patient. Not something she found all that enjoyable I surmised.

  “To keep the fever down I had to give you some pills.” She began to move in laps around the small interior. “I could just stick them in your throat and wash it down with a little water, Mom claimed.”

  Her pause caused me to glance at her. “Did it work?”

  She nodded, grinning again. “Except the part where you threw up. She’d left that out somehow. So I’m on my hands and knees, digging for a pill in a pile of your puke. I didn’t think it could get any worse than that.”

  But it had.

  After all had settled down, Violet decided to get ready for bed and chose the bedroom as her own. While there isn’t a whole lot to her, a boxspring is not a mattress she discovered.