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

she needed to be ready for the next ambush, whatever direction or species it came from.

A quick search of the Matchick house turned up nothing that would work at a distance, just the usual household collection of knives and scissors and an autographed hockey stick, which struck her as too flimsy to be of use unless her attacker had a phobia about Patrick Marleau. She wanted something that wasn’t a gun, but could keep anything from getting too close and make them pay if they did. She wanted a big stick – a big sturdy stick, no autographs required. Okay, and maybe a gun as backup, but mostly a big stick.

The memory hit with the force of revelation: didn’t Henry Wilkins play in a seniors’ softball league in San Rafael? And a softball player would have …

She dashed next door and began ransacking the closets. The second one was the charm – a lovely duffel bag full of Henry’s aluminum softball bats. And in the midst of them, better still … “Oh ho ho ho …” She remembered Henry bragging about this sucker when he bought it. A Mizuno World Win 34-inch 30-ounce graphite composite bat. “You couldn’t break it by running a truck over it,” the old man had claimed with a grin on his face like he’d just taken Clayton Kershaw deep.

Smiling herself, she brought it and the rest of the bag of busters home, but not before finding one more item – a large metal-sheathed LED flashlight that had been sitting on the shelf above the bats and other sports equipment. Two birds, one stone. What a relief. Now she felt ready for … okay, not everything, but a lot more than she did.

It was well into the afternoon, so she needed to decide what else to do today and what to hold off on until tomorrow. The labeling, that was probably the first thing. She needed to make a detailed list of what she actually had in the cupboards, so she’d know what else to not move next door. And she’d barely eaten today, so dinner needed to be worked in there somewhere. She couldn’t just keep going until she dropped, not when no one was around to pick her up.

She spent the next hour writing and peeling labels and sorting food from bigger bags into smaller ones until hunger pangs let her know she needed to deal with that instead. She refilled and lit the barbecue grill, sliced up half a cabbage, filled a saucepan with it and water, and set it on the grill. Half a dehydrated ham steak and two potatoes, all diced, went into a frying pan to wait until the cabbage was done. She finished writing and sticking labels, swapped the pans, drained the cabbage, stirred the ham and taters until they were golden brown, and ate her fill.

She changed her tampon, then began carrying bags to the “root cellar,” and got almost half of them there before sunset signaled an end to her work day. “Not bad,” she told herself as she sat on the couch after securing the Alvarezes’ place and her own. “Especially not bad for the first day of your period, after a bad night’s sleep, and you know, being the last human alive in the middle of the apocalypse. Very impressive.” She laughed sardonically, not fighting the incoming melancholy but letting it wash over – and hopefully past – her.

She closed her eyes, and must have dozed off for awhile, because she was woken by the last sounds she wanted to hear. A bark and a growl. “Ugh, not again.” Still, tonight she was inside, not out in the dark. There were intact windows and a locked door between her and the dog pack. She didn’t need to do a blessed thing about them except sit and –

“Rrrrff!” “Grrrrm …”

– start getting angry. How dare they! They would’ve died in their pampered-pooch beds if she hadn’t loosed them. No food except for their dead owners, no running water, no more tummy treats – just starving to death without even a goodbye pat. She gave them the chance to fend for themselves in a town free from predators (for now, anyway) or vacuum cleaners or veterinarians with needles. “And this is how you repay me?” she declared to the darkened room. “You come to my house …”

Without stopping to think, she picked up the Mizuno and the flashlight, unlocked the door and went out to face the ingrates.

Five of the six from last night were present – all except the cocker spaniel – but they’d been joined by a Sheltie and some cross between a Rottweiler and God only knew what. The German Shepherd was in the lead this time, flanked by the Rott mix and the golden Lab. All three of them snarled, one after the other.

Nature red in tooth and claw, huh? “That’s how you want it?” she snarled back and turned on the flashlight, shining it in the Shepherd’s eyes. It turned its head away – an LED light was painful to stare into, especially adjusting from pitch blackness. “Yeah, how do you like that, you four-legged trash compactor? Wanna mess with the dominant predator, you get what you get!” Fuming, she took a step toward the pack.

They didn’t back up, but they didn’t advance. Except for the fluffy dog, who moved to one side as if looking to flank her.

She spotted him, though. “NO!” she snapped at it. “BAD DOG!”

Fluffy Boi understood that, and retreated.

A line from the Street Fighter games popped into her head – I’m the strongest woman in the world! – and she bared her teeth in a triumphant smile. “Now, do you want to try me? I may be alone, but I’ve still got the big stick.” She swung the bat in front of her in a wide arc, keeping the flashlight