Tales of the Derry Plague , Anselmo, Ray [fun to read txt] 📗

Inn, the Zen farm, and the Sayler Beach parking lot. Forty or fifty bodies in all – she’d originally intended to keep a tally, but it didn’t seem all that important in retrospect. She was exhausted, both by all the physical work and by keeping the despair at bay.

But from the parking lot, she spotted a few bodies on the beach itself. The seagulls were already landing on them – those flying rats probably saw them as an appetizer sampler. She sighed, knowing that her conscience wouldn’t let her leave them there once she’d seen them. But though she could get a moving van down there – they’d widened the access path to accommodate ambulances several years back – she might not get it out once it was stuck in the sand up to the hubcaps.

Oh, right. She’d just pulled a man out of a Land Rover Discovery, and what was a Land Rover for if not to rove over land? (Well, that and to show your neighbors you’re so rich you can afford the darn thing.) She walked over and – lucky break! – the keys were still in the ignition. She Lysol-ed the driver’s seat to within an inch of its life, wiped it down with a dishrag from the Spinnaker Inn, got in and started it up. Twenty minutes later she had it backed up to the delivery truck and was unloading four slightly pecked-at bodies.

And really, that was enough for one day – besides, it was too dark to keep going. Her phone said 8:20 p.m. Thirteen hours ago, she’d been wondering why no one was picking up the phone at the store. She’d spent the last six or seven doing corpse removal. What a difference a day made.

She returned the Land Rover to its parking space and drove the delivery truck back to the Matchicks’, figuring she’d need it the next day and the day or two after that. It was only when she pulled it into her driveway that she started logging signals from her body. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, or gone to the bathroom since … when, noon or so? She’d been running in manic mode for most of that time, to keep from thinking about how she was surrounded by a mass grave. She needed to care for herself now, or she wouldn’t have a self to care for.

She entered the house and got out of the fire suit, which she tossed into the coat closet in the front hall so it wouldn’t stink up the rest of the first floor. Bathroom next to release ballast and sit for a minute. Shower next, or food? She sniffed, and while she was sweaty it seemed the suit had protected her well enough from the putrefaction. And a shower might relax her too much, so she might not get to the food if she did that first.

To the kitchen, where she decided she’d earned a feast. Shrimp and tilapia from the freezer. Fresh spinach and Mexican bulb onions from the crisper. Start boiling spaghetti. Chop up the veg and the fish, and stir-fry them in that big Joyce Chen wok with the shrimp, some pre-chopped garlic from a squeeze bottle and a liberal dose of sesame oil. Once the onions were browning, drain off the excess oil and set the wok aside. Drain the spaghetti, now soft like she liked it, dump it into the wok and mix it in.

The step-by-step work of cooking was soothing to Kelly’s nerves, and she was a decent enough cook that she would be pleased with the results. She hoped she’d still be able to manage once the electricity went bye-bye …

She knew she shouldn’t have thought of that. You couldn’t keep extinction-level-event depression back forever, and at that moment it all returned along with a couple of party crashers. She sat hard on the kitchen tile, cried and groaned for as long as it took to let it out. Once it was done, she levered herself up and went to take her nightly lithium before returning to eat at the kitchen counter. The food was room temperature and she barely tasted it, but the tactile sensations of chewing and swallowing helped a lot.

She surprised herself by eating most of it – she must have been hungry indeed. She scooped the rest into a plastic container and put it in the fridge (might as well use the appliances while you can), thinking she might take it with her on the next day’s rounds so she wouldn’t have to stop for lunch. That, of course, was contingent on actually having an appetite.

On to the bathroom, where she stripped, showered and scrubbed a little more thoroughly than usual. She threw on her favorite green flannel pajamas and, before settling in bed, remembered to turn off her alarm clock. There were no schedules to keep now. Score one point for the plague.

She wasn’t sure when she fell asleep, but it was 8:51 when she woke up from a nightmare about zombies roaming through town looking for brains or other fatty foods. They devastated a KFC, she recalled as she rubbed her eyes, only Sayler Beach didn’t have a KFC. Well, dream logic. She brushed her hair, wondering if she should eat before resuming … her current project. She finally decided she’d need the energy and plowed through a bowl of cereal and an apple, then put the fire suit back on, got her tools and leftovers and headed to the delivery truck.

That was how it went for the next three days. Wake up. Eat. Dress. Drive down each street and break into each door. Remove bodies. Release pets. Go to the next one. Try not to think about it too much. Stop shortly after sunset. Drive home. Change clothes. Mourn. Make dinner. Shower. Sleep. Have nightmares. Her schedule didn’t need any clock but the sun, didn’t need any