The No Where Apocalypse (Book 1): Stranded No Where by E.A. Lake Read Free Book Online

probably kill you for the bike and whatever supplies you take with. And what you gonna do for water? You need a gallon a day, ya know.”
    The water didn’t worry me. The news of someone wanting to kill me for the bike was rather disturbing. I pressed him for more information.
    “There was this guy, Al Acorn,” he began. “I know, funny name. Anyways, Al lived up on the way to Covington. He had a thing for gals. As far as I knew, he kept it under control…except when he drank. And he drank a lot.”
    I didn’t like where this was headed, but I nodded to keep the story moving.
    “So some people up there, some backwoods hicks, decided to have a talk with Al. One day he’s around, the next he wasn’t.” His eyes stared at the patterned bedspread as he recalled the incident from some years back. “Rumor is they took him out in the woods and slit his throat open. No more trouble from Al after that.”
    My ears began to ring, contemplating rumors and ghost stories recalled by a man who probably hadn’t seen the inside of a school building since 8 th grade — if that. I wondered how much was true. And I wondered what his ulterior motive was, if any.
    “You don’t want to get yourself killed over something as stupid as a bike, Bill.”
    I shook my head. “Bob.”
    He looked at me with a stupid expression. “Who’s Bob?”
    “I am. Bob Reiniger. Me.”
    “I thought your name was Bill,” he replied, rising from the bed, pulling his pants up somewhere near his sizable waist.
    “Nope, it’s Bob.” I had no idea where he got Bill from.
    He shook the mistake away. “Whatever. I just think you’d be better off staying here. We’re friends now, and friends don’t let friends make dumb choices.”
    Dumb choice or not, my mind was made up.

Day 26 WOP

    I spent the next few days preparing for my trip. I had a few changes of clothes that I washed, as best as I could without soap, by hand. I ate extra meals, making sure I put the maximum amount of protein I could into my body, which meant venison. I even loaded up with extra water; drinking a glassful every time I passed the clear bottle I left on the counter.
    The pump worked, eventually, and I had plenty of water. But I still felt the need to boil it in large batches on the two-burner stove in the small kitchen. Though it remained stained with the impediments from the ground, I knew I was killing most of the bacteria that might try to do the same to me.
    Lettie gave me a backpack one of her nieces had left behind. I wasn’t crazy about the color, pink, but I needed something to carry supplies. And it was a sturdy, if not rather effeminate, carrier.
    One afternoon, Dizzy showed me how to load and fire the handgun we found in the closet. I didn’t want to use it ever, but he convinced me it was the safe bet. Even if I only fired over people’s heads, they’d get the idea rather quick that I was armed and ready to use force.
    The morning I decided to leave was a cool one. A thick fog blanketed the area, giving a look of mystique to my surroundings. Aside from a few blue jays calling for one another in the woods, the only sound for miles was the gravel crunching beneath my tires.
    Taking one last peek at the cabin, my home for almost a month now, I mounted up and headed down the road. Eight days would lead me to Chicago: home. I wondered about the look of shock and surprise on my wife’s face. Would she have stories like I’d have? Was Chicago suffering like this area; and if so, was she safe? Or was this an isolated incident, caused by some device from the cold war, stored in a remote northern Michigan location?
    Only time would tell. Eight days of time.

    I was just settling into a good rhythm when the loud pop broke my concentration. At first, I wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps a rock shot from under my tire and struck something in the woods. Or maybe an animal had stepped on a dead branch nearby alerting me, and all of the woodland critters, of their