There was Nothing

He was, legally speaking, homeless, and that's what allowed Ernest to travel the United States for free.

Whenever he would arrive at a new destination, he would simply take out a cardboard sign asking for money, or if he didn't have a sign, he'd ask an officer which way to the nearest shelter or social worker.

"Where are you from?" The officer would ask.

"Somewhere," Ernest would reply.

"Well then, where would you like to go?"

Every city in the United States had figured out it was cheaper to send homeless people away on a bus rather than take care of them. It saved so much money that officers would carry extra discretionary funds to give to the homeless to ease their way back onto the bus.

That money was important because Ernest didn't want to spend all his time on the bus. Sometimes, he wanted to see the sights and stay in a hotel.

He had been to 47 out of 50 states in the U.S. Alaska and Hawaii were off-limits for obvious reasons, and he could never go to California.

California was the one and only state that did not put homeless people on buses. As a result, that's where all the homeless people lived. And Ernest did not like homeless people.

That's partially why he chose to go to Miami for the winter.

The officer at the station in Indianapolis handed Ernest his ticket.

"Ahem?" Ernest asked with his hand still outstretched.

The officer rolled his eyes and added a twenty-dollar bill.

Typical Indiana, Ernest thought.

He got on the greyhound bus, stretched himself out over two seats and drifted off to sleep.

When he woke up, the bus was empty except the driver, and on either side of the bus was an endless flat plane of white snow below a monotonously overcast sky.

It was nothing. Nothing for as far as Ernest could see. Just snow.

He felt something was not right but didn't know if he could justify his unease. Nothing was unusual about riding on the bus alone. He did it often.

Nobody took Greyhound anymore. They all knew the buses were full of homeless people.

And fields of nothing weren't unusual either. In his travels, Ernest had quickly learned that the United States was mostly just fields. usually corn fields.

But this was different. Not corn fields, just barren empty fields, like the kind he'd seen farther north.

"Excuse me? Driver." Ernest said, "Where are we?"

The driver did not respond, which was also not unusual.

So, Ernest waited and regretted it.

After another four hours, the bus stopped.

"Everyone out," the driver said, which could only mean Ernest since he was the only one.

"Say, I was supposed to be going towards Miami," Ernest said.

"I said, everyone out," the driver insisted.

Ernest inspected his surroundings again.

There was still nothing outside. No station. No sign. Nothing but the road.

Ernest turned back towards the driver ready to protest, but then saw the man was now brandishing a handgun.

"I'm not going to repeat myself again."

Ernest departed with nothing but twenty dollars in his wallet.

The bus made a U-turn through the field and sped away.

Ernest was at a crossroads. He could follow the road straight, back, right, or left, or go in any of the other 356 directions.

He knew the way back would mean over a day of walking, and Ernest figured he'd freeze by then.

So, he took the right.

Ernest was poorly prepared to hike through snow. Icy water trickled into his shoes. The wind tore through his coat like it wasn't there. His ears and nose were numb within an hour.

He wasn't even used to walking, not like this.

After several hours, Ernest saw three men sitting in chairs in the distance.

"Hey!" he yelled. They didn't respond, but Ernest hurried to them anyway.

The three men were fishing through holes drilled into a frozen pond. There was a fourth man; he was dead.

"Let me guess, you were a drifter getting free bus rides, and then they dumped you here," the first man said, never taking his eyes off the hole in front of him.

"Yeah, same for all you?" Ernest asked.

The men nodded.

"That's the thing about free rides," the second man said, "they always come to an end."

"Umm... I think this man is dead," Ernest said.

"Huh. That'd explain a lot. Like the silence," the second man said, still staring at the hole.

"Did you enjoy traveling around the country?" the third man asked.

"It was alright. I give America 3 out of 5."

"I wish I had appreciated it more when I had the chance."

Ernest's stomach growled. "Do people really catch fish this way?

"Oh sure, lots of people."

"You guys?"

"Not yet," the first man said.

"Don't expect to catch anything for a while. You have to put in your time, pay your dues. Then the pond will feed you," the third man explained.

It wasn't like Ernest had anything else to do. He took the fishing pole from the dead man and sat down.

Minutes passed. The three men never once took their gaze from their respective holes. Ernest's eyes wandered aimlessly, even though there was nothing to see.

"This is kind of boring, isn't it?" Ernest asked.

"Got to eat somehow," the second man said.

"Just keep with the grind," the third man said. And then Ernest felt a tug. With hardly any effort, he pulled a massive salmon from the ice. The men were shocked.

"Whoa! This does work! Oh man! Look at the size of this," Ernest said.

The men stared at him, looking away from the frozen pond for the first time in weeks.

"You asshole! You ruined it."

"You don't deserve that fish!"

"You didn't earn it."

"Well, if that's how you feel, I'm not going to share," Ernest said, not realizing the deadly intent forming in the minds of the other men.

"You're going to give us that fish," the first man said, "and you're going to give it now!"

Ernest fled.

The three men chased him, until they dropped dead one by one. When the final pursuer fell, Ernest dropped the salmon on the snow and grabbed his knees. The frozen air burnt his throat, and he couldn't produce enough saliva to drench the fire.

He sat and sat. And finally looked around. He was back to where he started - at the crossroads. He picked up the fish and took the left path.

The overcast day slowly dimmed.

If it was this cold in the day, he knew he'd never survive the night. And as he stared at the darkening sky, he tripped and fell.

He looked at his feet. There was something sticking out from the under the snow, maybe a lot of things. He started clearing off the area. A pole. Canvas. It was a tent. And there was more. Logs and newspaper to make a fire, old blankets. It was a campsite.

He worked his frozen fingers until they were bloody to create a home in this frozen hellscape.

He built a fire. It wasn't easy to light damp paper with half-used Bic, but within an hour, he was warming his fingers against the heat of a healthy blaze.

Now, he could cook. He had never prepared a salmon fresh from a frozen pond before. He stuck it on a stick and held it over the fire, figuring that's all he really could do. Ernest thought it was funny, in all his travelling he had experienced so little compared to this one challenging day.

Ernest had a single bite of fish, before a silhouette approached. He protected his food, like his own baby, but then realized his new assailant was nothing but a little girl.

She was skinny, dirty, and dressed in rags. She tore at Ernest's heart, and he knew he had to take care of this little girl, so he offered her his salmon.

A moment later and the fish was just bones. Ernest was still hungry, but he didn't mind. He was just happy the little girl ate.

"What's your name?" He asked. But she didn't reply. Instead, she drifted into the tent and fell asleep. He didn't want to bother her, so he grabbed what dirty blankets he could and fell asleep spooning the dying heat of the fire.

He woke up cold. The day hadn't dawned, but the dim white light had already returned. Dirt flew in his face. He looked up to see half a dozen homeless kids holding sharp pieces of metal.

Ernest scurried away, but the kids surrounded him, until the little girl emerged from the tent and protected him. The kids stopped. They seemed to know her.

She hugged Ernest. Then, she pulled away and joined the other kids, holding Ernest's wallet.

"Alright, get him," she said with an adult voice. And for the second time in a day, he ran for his life.

The wear of the last 24 hours quickly set in. He knew he'd never outrun the kids, and he was lucky he didn't have to. A gun shot shook the ground and the kids and Ernest ducked.

"Get out of here you brats," an old man yelled. The kids fled; Ernest was left with nothing. "Hello, stranger, would you like a bit of breakfast?" The man asked.

Ernest nodded.

The old man was staying in an RV. They exchanged stories over eggs and bacon, but nothing seemed to faze the old man, as if he had seen it all before.

"Yeah, kids grow up quick out here in the wildness," he explained, "I remember when I first got dropped here. Thought I was going to die, and I nearly did."

"How did you get through it?"

"Hmm... well, you got to accept that your roaming days are over. You got lucky out here, but you can't count on that. You've got to settle in and build something."

"How? There's nothing out here."

"I thought that too," the old man said, "Well, that's all I can say, I got to go. I'd wish you all the luck in the world, but you already have it."

And just like that, the old man left, and Ernest was alone again.

They'd been eating at the crossroads, and the moment the old man left, Ernest realized where he was. There was only one road he didn't take, and so he went straight.

He found a town after a few hours. It was a village of people who were all dropped at the crossroads and out of the nothingness, they had built a life.

The town included a bus station. For a moment, Ernest considered getting a free ticket for Florida, but he decided that if he ever traveled again, he would pay for the ticket.