The No Where Apocalypse (Book 1): Stranded No Where by E.A. Lake Page A

that goes across the road stating, ‘Welcome to Covington.’ They said if anyone cut him down, they would kill the person.”
    I contemplated the ugly unruly scene. “Didn’t anyone take up arms against them?” I asked. “Fight force with force?”
    “People were pretty scared at that point,” Warren admitted. “No one really wanted to die. I guess we weren’t that desperate yet. But when they kicked people out of their own homes and tossed them out in the street, the whole thing seemed hopeless. The consensus was to just let them take what they wanted and hope they moved on.”
    “Then about a month ago,” Marge continued, “they started going house to house, taking whatever food and guns they could. We never had any weapons. Wish we had now.” She took a spot next to her husband, neither looking into the others’ eyes.
    “We left in the middle of the night shortly after that,” Warren stated. “Packed up as much as we could in four backpacks, two suitcases, and a rolling cart Marge used for gardening. We knew these places were down here. Figured no one would have taken them yet.”
    The children hung near their respective parents, Violet on her mother’s shoulders, young Nate on his father’s lap. They had the faces of lost people; scenes I had only ever witnessed in pictures from wars. But they weren’t some far off foreign speaking family. They were my neighbors, and this was our country…what was left of it.

Day 100 WOP

    Three feet of snow covered the landscape outside my drafty, but warm, home. I’d used Dizzy’s roof rake nine times already since the snow started in earnest. I wondered if there were nine or 90 more rankings needed for the season.
    As best I could tell it was Christmas time. My adventure began in mid-August when the power went out of everything. My tally said it was three months and ten days later — or thereabouts.
    For dinner, I allowed myself an extra ration of stew. Venison boiled in water, a touch of flour added, with carrots, beets, and potatoes for extra nutrients. It wasn’t my idea. Dizzy was the one who handed over his recipe happily.
    Along with his cooking secrets, he allowed me to steal 50 bottles of the sacred brew he hoarded. Dizzy was a lot more resourceful than he appeared. His sheds held stockpiles of canned foods, bags of dried fruits and vegetables, and a fair amount of candy. In his back bedroom, never used for sleeping, he stored beer and water…mostly beer.
    If I said he had a pallet of the brown liquor, I might be underestimating. Fifty bottles didn’t put a dent in his stash. And he invited me back whenever the weather allowed for 50 more, but that wasn’t happening anytime soon. Not in this weather.
    Allowing myself to think of Shelly back in Joliet, tears came. Three Christmas’ together and now one apart. I always thought that when the lights went out she headed for her parents, some five miles across town. I hoped she hadn’t waited too long. No doubt, the Chicago area got dicier than here, and much faster.
    If she were lucky, and at home with Mom and Dad, she was most likely safe. But that was something I’d have to wait another five to six months to find out for myself. Fall’s attempt to get home had ended in disaster. Any type of effort in the winter was strictly out of the question.
    My beautiful pink boots, while warm, were two sizes too small when I donned enough socks to keep my feet warm. If I only wore one pair the bitter cold nipped at my toes within minutes outdoors. The downside of that was my feet sweat faster and two pairs of socks were too tight and allowed for no circulation. End results: cold feet, again.
    One warm jacket was all I took from Dizzy before the snows came. As long as I kept it dry, that was fine. And since I spent the majority of my time inside, tending the fire and the stew, I was okay with just one outer garment.
    I had enough food, water — as promised — lie everywhere just outside my door. Two things I