The No Where Apocalypse (Book 2): Surviving No Where Read Free

arrival.
    “We haven’t seen you lately, Bob,” Marge said from behind me. “What you been up to?”
    Yeah, I knew she would wonder why I’d only shown up recently to get patched up. Maybe that was none of her beeswax either.

    Cutting wood , I answered to myself. Pulling at my beard, I recalled the two-plus months since Violet and I had returned from Covington.
    The first two weeks I spent exclusively at Lettie’s place, protecting my friends. After Stuart Callies and/or his men failed to show up, I headed back to my own cabin with a fresh plan in my head. I needed to get as much wood cut as I could before the second winter arrived here in No Where.
    I’d managed to cut some the previous summer, but nowhere near enough to last the winter. When my left hand finally healed enough to get back to work, the going was slow. Then came my little adventure in Hell (also known as Covington) and the fall was upon me.
    I’d always known chopping wood was a tough task. Cutting wood with a missing digit? Far more challenging than I first assumed. Who knew your little finger did anything. Much less make swinging and holding an ax easier.
    “I’ve had a lot to do around the cabin lately,” I answered, my voice softer than intended. “With winter coming and all…well, you know.”
    Marge got in front of me and took me by the forearms. “Have you considered staying here, for the winter at least?” she asked, her eyes filled with hope.
    I shook off her dream of a large happy family. “Nah, not really. I mean Dizzy’s here with you now. You kind of got a house full.”
    A slight film covered her eyes. “There’s always room for one more. Right, Lettie?”
    “You preaching to the choir,” the old woman squawked. “But good luck with this one. He thinks he’s independent or something. Just plain stubborn if you ask me.”
    Prying my arms away from my nurse, I gave her one shoulder a slight squeeze. “I need my space,” I answered. Immediately I could tell she wasn’t buying it.
    “I know you’re tormented by what you’ve had to do here, Bob,” she pleaded. “I understand. But you don’t need to have any guilt. All you’re doing is surviving, and you’re helping us survive. You know that. I know you do.”
    So that’s what you called murder in the apocalypse… Surviving .

Year 2 - mid winter - WOP

    God I hated snow. I mean, I really hated snow.
    When I was a kid, my big brother, Bud, and me used to have to shovel the driveway, by hand. Now…no fancy snowblower and all that at the Reiniger household. Not while my dad had two teenaged slaves living under his roof.
    Even as a young adult, I avoided going outside in the winter. No ice fishing, no sledding, no winter sports…none of that for this guy. My wife, Shelly, had other ideas of course.
    “My father always shoveled the minute the snow ended,” she lectured me during our first joint snowfall. I remember staring back at her blankly. Did she think…?
    “That way you don’t get ruts in your driveway,” she continued in the most sincere tone I’d heard ever. “I’ll help if you want.”
    I wondered now how she would feel about shoveling the stupid roof every time it snowed. And it snowed a lot, here in both frequency and volume.
    Three weeks had passed since my last contact with another human being. I needed to talk to someone before I went nuts, but the last round of a foot plus of winter fun made that impossible. So I read.
    My father’s cabin (originally Grandpa’s) was full of musty old books and magazines. The smell hadn’t bothered me yet, so none had made it to the burn barrel.
    I began with War and Peace . Great starting point, if — and only if — you don’t trip all over the Russian names or all the French soldiers. But I did stumble my way through the book.
    One day, during a nice clear cold spell (minus 35 on the old thermometer) it dawned on me I had mixed up several characters. Somehow, in the recesses of my diminishing mind, Count