The No Where Apocalypse (Book 4): Searching No Where Page 7

  The woman eased her horse forward. “Before the shit hit the fan,” she replied, sounding almost sexy. Interesting.

  “Kirk Fager,” the bearded man added. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  I turned back to see if any of this was making any sense to my travel companion.

  “Kirk Fager Motors,” Violet said, rolling her right hand. “Dealerships in Houghton, Hancock, Ironwood, Marquette and every shit hole in between.”

  I looked back at our greeters. “Smart girl,” the bearded replied.

  “I watched TV,” Violet added contritely. “I’ve seen the commercials.”

  “Well, you and your non-native buddy here are going to have to follow us back to the compound,” he continued in a gravel truck voice. “Gotta answer some questions so we can decide what to do with you.”

  Okay, this was getting out of hand. We had a fish camp to get to. Side trips to some pissy landlord were not on the schedule.

  “We’re going to need your guns,” the woman stated, almost sounding bored. She’d done this before.

  For a moment, I contemplated a close-range shootout. Violet could handle one; I would take two. But we weren’t exactly prepared for something so…deadly.

  “Just hand them over,” the bearded one growled. “It’s six on two. You’re dead if you don’t.”

  I couldn’t help but grin when I returned his stare. “Six? The horses have guns, too?”

  He smiled. “No, but the three others back there in the woods do.” Thrusting a thumb over his shoulder, my vision followed the line. Shit, there were three more. And they all had rifles.

  I waved for Violet to hand me her rifle. Handing them up to the last man, I fixed my attention back to our host.

  “Any chance you’ll give us a ride?” It was worth asking, I figured.

  He rode behind us, nudging us forward. “You were walking just fine when we found you. Another mile ain’t gonna kill either of you.”

  No, the mile wouldn’t. But what we found at the end just might.

  We walked and they rode back to the main compound of Kirk Fager. The name meant nothing to me, which it probably shouldn’t have. Though I’d lived four years in No Where, it wasn’t like there was a local paper keeping us abreast on all the comings and goings of local warlords.

  The buildings were those found at a typical ski lodge. The main chateau was perhaps the original hotel. A small place with a sign above the doors stating ‘Rentals’. There was even a formally cute parking structure. It was the only piece of the property showing disrepair. The rest of the building looked as if they’d be open for business with the first snow.

  Inside the chalet, we climbed a set of opulent stairs, then another, and another. By the time we crested the fourth set, my hands were on my knees, panting, head hung low.

  “I saw someone I know,” Violet whispered beside me, not huffing and puffing as much as me.

  I stared at her, sucking in air. “What?”

  “I saw a girl I know.” She slapped at me. “Can you please try and pay attention.”

  “Great. You go catch up while I head off and beg for our lives.” Another slap. “Have fun. Enjoy your last 10 minutes of freedom.”

  She inched closer as we rose and stood straight. “Don’t be so dramatic. What it means is maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe this guy’s not a monster. Not if Clarissa is here.”

  I doubted her intuition had anything to do with whether our new master would be benevolent or not. But she seemed convinced. Good for Violet.

  An older man with a crop of gray hair greeted us with a smile. At least, he had a smile until he got a good look at Violet’s face.

  “Welcome,” he said, sounding as if someone had burst his bubble. “Please come in and sit.” He extended a hand to me, purposely avoiding my travel mate. Oh goody, another person who didn’t like Violet. Just perfect.

  “I’m Kirk Fager. And you are?”

  “Bob,” I offered, wondering if I should give him my last name, not that it really mattered anymore. “Bob Reiniger. And this is my friend, Violet Luke.”

  He gave Violet a curt, pleasant half-smile and looked away quickly.

  “Did she do something to offend you, Mr. Fager?” I asked. “You don’t seem happy to see her.”

  “I don’t know this old fart,” Violet interjected, plopping down in a dark leather chair. “Except from his TV commercials.”

  He took his spot behind a massive oak desk. It had to be 20 feet long and at least five feet wide. It was obvious he was an important man; both in the past and still so in the present.

  “I just thought from a distance she might be someone else,” he replied, sounding like he wanted to chase away a bad case of the blues. “The long, dark hair, thin form, youthful face. I thought it might be my niece, Susan. She’s out there somewhere all alone and I’m her only living relative, as far as I know.”

  I thought for a moment. Susan, long, dark hair, thin form, youthful face — that could have meant beautiful just as easily. I knew someone like that. At least I thought I did.

  “If you’re hungry I can have the chef make you something. Beef, pork, chicken, fish perhaps?” If nothing, the man was a gracious host, and very generous. But the thought of more fish made my stomach churn.

  “We just had some food not too long ago,” I replied.

  “I’d love a pork sandwich,” Violet chirped from beside me. “Do you have any gravy?”

  He snapped his fingers and someone ran from the room. Powerful.

  But I was still stuck back on his missing niece. The person sounded so familiar.

  It hit me like a lightning bolt, jerking me in my spot.

  “Your niece doesn’t happen to be Susan Weston?” I asked, trying to hide my horror.

  His face drew back, his lips disappearing under his teeth, his eyes going almost closed. And he turned and spit on the floor, rather the plush, green pile carpet lining his office from wall to wall.

  “We never say that name,” he growled. Behind me, several of the others repeated their boss’ action and spit where they stood.

  Whoa, her reputation preceded her. I’d need to be a little careful moving forward. Don’t want to get spit on all that badly.

  “So you know of Susan and her time in Covington?” I asked very carefully.

  “I knew her, and her brother,” Fager answered, not looking too happy to discuss someone like her. “I thought he was always the crazy one. And then she took over after she murdered him. What a piece of work she is.”

  He leaned forward on his elbows. “Do you know what she does with runaways?”

  I shook my head. Hell, I didn’t even know what he meant by runaways. “She had taken some people up to Marquette, to the fish camp,” Fager started, sitting back in his chair and folding his hands. “Seems the people missed someone they’d left behind in Covington. They showed up with a story about how Marquette sent them back. Lack of fish or some bullshit like that.”

  I didn’t like where this tale was headed. Checking Violet, I noticed she had slunk back in her chair.

  “Susan got word these folks had left without fulfilling their contracts,” Fager continued, “so she loaded them back up in a wagon and hauled them back there personally. When they arrived, she had a surprise for all of them.”

  My stomach began to twist and I noticed I was squirming in my chair. “And?” I dared to ask.

  “She chopped half the left foot off each of them…personally. Her goons held down every last man, woman and child, and she did the dirty work.” Fager leaned back, shaking his head.

  I felt sick. I knew Susan Weston was evil, but even that didn’t begin to tell the real story.

  Easing forward in my chair, I thought, Maybe this man would help. Maybe he’d even be an ally.

  Day 1,157 - continued

  I let him continue to speak, and wow, could he talk. More than an hour had to have passed and he just kept talking. He rarely even slowed to take a breath.
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br />   His story was simple yet complicated. He was a common man with exotic tastes. And almost everything he spoke of was done with a smile, a grin or a shit-eating smirk.

  For 40 years, he sold cars and did it well. If you believed him, and since his people had all the guns who was I to argue, he was worth a billion dollars. At least he was until four years ago — when everything fell to hell in the middle of an August night.

  “I came here after the first winter,” our host stated, waving his arms towards the windows. “It’s a huge property, close to the lake for fresh water and fish, and remote enough to be safe. It has nearly everything to make it ideal.”

  So he didn’t own the property, per se. No, he was just another opportunistic anarchist making his way through the apocalypse.

  “I had stockpiled a lot of weapons over the years,” Fager continued. “So I brought a group of core people with me and my family and established a base of operations here.”

  “Which family?” Violet asked with a hint of sarcasm. “You’ve been married something like seven times.”

  Worried our host would take offense at Violet’s tone, I shot her a stern look that he could see. Instead of being offended, he held up a single hand with all of his fingers opened.

  “Five times,” he corrected. “I brought my fifth wife with me, along with our children. And the other eight children I had from previous marriages.”

  I counted three little ones wandering around the office, climbing on and off his lap, playing with things that got them chased away, only to return moments later.

  He leaned forward on his elbows, wringing his leathery hands. “What are you looking for, Bob?”

  It sounded like he was about to sell me a car. How about a late model Buick for you and the little woman? Or maybe this decked out minivan? I saw my opportunity. “We’re looking for someone. A woman named Daisy Vaughn. Does the name ring a bell?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t say it does.”

  “She was taken from our group by Susan Weston,” I stated. “Something about settling a debt with a fish camp.”

  He cringed at the mention of Susan’s name, but otherwise, his expression remained neutral. “Can’t help you, I’m afraid. Lots of missing people now. Like my niece, Susan Dumpling. You ever run across anyone by that name?”

  I glanced at Violet, who signaled no, as did I.

  “Yeah, this world really sucks now,” he lamented, turning in his chair to stare out the large picture window overlooking the former ski slopes.

  Yeah, I agreed to myself. It did.

  After further explanation, Kirk Fager told us of his current vocation. He was the one and only protector of approximately a half-dozen nearby fish camps. The way he said “protection” made me immediately think of the Italian mafia from the old movies. He had a deal they couldn’t refuse, I was sure.

  “I know it sounds like I play with a heavy hand, Bob, but it’s for everyone’s benefit.” While I would have never trusted a car dealer in the past, something in his eyes told me his words were true. “I have all the fire power they don’t. I have eyes and ears all up and down this peninsula. If something bad is going to happen, I can usually prevent it.”

  In exchange, of course, each camp gave up a certain amount of fish and other supplies as brought in by the boats from other harbors. It seemed like a sinister arrangement, but I figured it was best for all parties involved.

  “What are they using for boats to transport goods now?” I asked. I had meant to inquire about this back at one of the other camps, but as usual, my lack of attention got in the way.

  “They’ve got some decent-sized sailboats out there,” he replied, standing to stretch his legs. “I’ve even seen a couple coal and steam ships in the past year. They can haul a lot more.”

  Another question that I’d wondered about came to mind. “What kind of fishing boats are they using?” I knew the commercial boats with gas engines and electric were all but dinosaurs, but what did they use?

  He chuckled before answering. “Mostly large row boats, a few small skiffs as well. It’s a dangerous occupation. In the windy season, the mortality rates can be quite high.”

  Violet rose beside me. “I need to use the bathroom. Can I go by myself or is one of your goons going to follow me inside?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, grimacing at her crassness. Could she just drop the attitude for like an hour, even 10 minutes?

  Again, our host was un-offended. “We have an indoor privy down the hall and to the right. It’s clean and sanitary. My wife refuses to use an outhouse, so we keep it spotless for her.”

  Violet disappeared and when I looked back, Fager was staring at me.

  “She’s quite…spirited,” he said with a slight grin.

  I simply nodded my reply, thinking, Oh, my new friend, you have no idea.

  Day 1,157 - continued

  We left with no help, but no losses. I had asked Kirk Fager for a few men or women to aid in our search.

  “Sorry, but this is your fight,” he said solemnly. He took a step closer and imparted one last bit of wisdom. “We all have our own little battles to fight in this great war of survival. Don’t expect any help along the way.” At least he gave us our packs and guns back.

  “He was an interesting man,” Violet commented as we left the facility.

  I glanced back to be sure we weren’t being followed. No need to piss off the big boss on our way out of his territory.

  “Liked to hear himself talk, that’s for sure,” I replied.

  Ahead, I thought I could spot the white tents of Silver City Fish Camp against the blue water of Superior. Though it all looked far in the distance, I figured another hour of walking should put us there.

  “Clarissa said he’s a decent man,” Violet added, letting the daisies on the roadside run through her fingers.

  Clarissa, Clarissa, Clarissa. “Who?” I finally asked.

  She huffed as if agitated with me…still, not again. “My friend; the one I said I recognized. She’s claimed Mr. Fager is a fair and decent businessman. He really does offer protection for the camps. And they happily pay him for it.”

  Oh goody, a benevolent dictator.

  “Just kinda kinky in the bedroom, that’s all.”

  I shook my head and peeked at Violet, and of course, she was grinning. “You can leave that part out next time. TMI.”

  Leaning against a large wooden tent pole, I held the sides of my head. There was no hope left in the world. The census master at Silver City Fish Camp proved it.

  I felt someone take my hand in theirs: Violet. When I looked up, she wore a smile like she knew something good, very good. I knew she hadn’t found Daisy (no record of her ever being here, I was told), but she was beaming and smiling mischievously.

  “I found someone who might have met her,” Violet said, tugging me away from my leaning post. “Come on, you need to talk to her.”

  The woman in question was squat and missing a few teeth. Other than that, she was completely charming. If you could get past the smell that veiled her and the fish guts clinging to her fingers.

  “I was up the road,” Ada Morehouse stated, waving a sharp knife as she spoke. “Not Ontonagon, or the next place. That’s Sleeping Bay, and that place is a dump. Ain’t no person fit for a sleazy hole like that. I think it’s called Beacon Hill, almost sure of it.”

  This was the closest we’d come thus far, and yet it still didn’t feel very close from Ada’s story.

  “And you met her there?” I asked, panting the words out.

  “I met a girl named Daisy there, true,” Ada replied, chasing a fly or two away. “She was small and fair and blonde. But like I told your missus, this Daisy had short hair. Cut shorter than yours.” She thrust the knife in my direction to make sure I understood she was speaking to me. Mind her, Violet’s hair hung to her mid-back. So there wasn’t any confusion on my part to start.

  “How long ago?” Violet asked, giving me a chance to catch my breath.


  “It would be three weeks now,” the fish wife answered. “Right before I came here. Got traded for two fishermen.” Her chest puffed forward. The woman was proud her skills were worth that of two grown men.

  “Course, we had a boat go down up there in Beacon Hill,” she added in a mournful tone. “Six lost souls that day, taken by the witch of the lake.”

  “Do you suppose she’s still there?” I asked, trying not to sound like I was rushing her too much, which I was. “The way you and others have said it, it sounds like there’s quite a bit of trading of personnel that goes on between these camps.”

  Ada thought for a moment, a large gut-covered hand resting on her hip. “I would think so,” she finally said. “Good cook like her is hard to come by. A camp may trade lots of people throughout the year, but once they get a good cook like your Daisy, well, they don’t give that up too easily.”

  I’d heard the part up to the mention of the first cook. After that, my brain shut down along with the rest of my body and soul.

  Violet hugged the woman, turning her back towards her work. “Thank you so much for your help, Ada. I can’t tell you how lucky we feel to have run into you. God bless you.”

  She retreated with a nod and punched some stringy man halfway back to the cleaning tent. I felt Violet by my side, her presence perhaps the only thing keeping me erect.

  “Daisy wasn’t a good cook,” I whispered. “She was terrible. And that was on her good days. You look like a five-star Michelin chef compared to her.”

  Violet stroked my crossed arms. “It could be her. Maybe she just needed to be in her element to really shine.”

  I looked at her and sighed. “Daisy could burn water, Violet. She was a filleter, not a cook. We both know that. And Mrs. Fish Guts never said this person's last name. I don’t think it sounds like her.”

  Violet inched closer, placed a hand on each of my arms. “But it’s worth looking into, right?” I managed a half-hearted shrug. “It’s the first real piece of information we’ve had on anyone named Daisy who’s even come close to her description, Bob. We need to look into it and keep going.”