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

Bezukhov had traded places with Count Rostov.
    This was a terrible mistake on my part, for two reasons. First, Count Bezukhoz was the main character of the story. Second, Count Rostov was nothing like Bezukov. The first was rich, the later had problems managing his money. In reality, they were nothing alike. Yet, I had their places switched.
    When I finished the novel, I considered tossing it in the fire. I even had the door opened on the stove and was all set to fire the piece. But a better plan came to me at the last moment.
    I’d read it again. And right away.
    With nothing but time to kill, I poured through the pages. Keeping notes this time on an old “Seed Corn” pad I found in a cupboard, everything made more sense.
    Reading the last words for a second time, I closed the book and smiled. I got it, I really did. I felt Napoleon’s pain, struggled as his armies did, imagined the hunger felt by all. Well, I didn’t have to imagine too much about the hunger part. I was down to one meal a day to make my own rations stretch into spring.
    Raising my arms above my head, I screamed. I was victorious. I understood Tolstoy, the Russian farmers, the average French soldier. It all made sense.
    I tossed that book into the stove anyway. Time to move on.

Year 2 - mid winter (still) - WOP

    Drawing intricate patterns on my steam covered windows, I sighed. How had I survived the first winter alone? How did anyone survive a year alone — much less a month? Human beings needed other people. Being alone sucked, big time.  
    As hard as it was to admit, I had taken to having discussions with animals. Long discussions; detailed, long discussions. Even though the squirrels didn’t seem overly interested, the nearby wolf family sure did.
    Chester, Sofie, and the twins came to visit on a daily basis. Maybe they were lonely as well. Wanted to hear a long-haired, bearded man talk about life in early nineteenth century Russia.
    Or maybe they came because I fed them…maybe.
    Chester preferred to stay back, more towards the brush at the north end of my snow covered yard. The twins had no issues with human contact: petting, licking my fingers, having their bellies rubbed. The mother was never too far off during all the attention. If I became too friendly, she let me know.
    Tossing hunks of dried venison towards the woods, they never failed to show. At first they kept their distance, even the twins. But as time crawled by, they accepted me.
    I knew I had a problem when one day they wouldn’t show. Not even for food. Had I somehow insulted the beasts? Had they received a better offer from another family? Maybe that damned Dizzy was sneaking down here and feeding them actual fresh venison. Or several newly killed rabbits or smaller varmints.
    When I started my complex plan of revenge on my former friend (Dizzy, not any of the wolves), I realized I needed to talk to another human being. Cabin fever, it seemed, was at a new high.

    Walking to Lettie’s, some three miles north, meant bundling up. Though the temperature sat at a balmy minus three, the north wind howled like the wolves on a clear night. Layers, I told myself, layers . Bulky clothes just slowed you down and made you all sweaty in the end. Layers that I could open as I walked were much more sensible in No Where.
    Staring at my boot options caused me to sigh. I could wear the pink ones that Lettie had given me two falls ago. I wore a 10, they were a nine. Small but useable.
    My other option was a pair salvaged from Frank’s place after he died last spring. After he died and before I burned his place to the ground, at his request, to be more specific. But his old Sorel’s came with an issue as well.
    Though Frank was shorter and thinner than I was, he wasn’t one for tight fitting clothes or shoes. That was great news for me. Many of his shirts and coats fit just fine. However, his boots were another issue.
    Frank’s foot couldn’t have been any bigger than a nine. Now I can’t