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

Sausalito was the worst for her emotional state. Probably because it was like Stinson Beach or Bodega Bay – a tourist town – without any weekend tourists. The restaurants and marinas sat empty, the only sounds the clang of ropes and cables on the yachts and the squawking of seagulls looking for hot dog buns that would never be dropped again. “They warn you that the end of the world will be dangerous,” she griped. “They never warn you that it’ll be a bummer. Ever think of that, George Miller?”

The moment of sarcasm actually made Kelly smile. Well, at least she could keep her sense of humor. It was something positive, and in the middle of yet another empty town she treasured it.

Despite the lack of success, her resolve had stiffened. She would keep looking. Next week, she’d start on the big fish, San Rafael. It and Novato to the north were the county’s main cities. She could either do San Rafael first or the towns surrounding it, or maybe both if she got an early start. The next Saturday, Novato. After that … hmmm. Around San Pablo Bay to Sears Point and Skaggs Island, see if the military was still holding on there? Or across the bay from San Rafael to Richmond and maybe Berkeley? Every option led to more options.

“If there’s anyone to find, I’m gonna find them,” she declared to her steering wheel as she headed west and home. And if I say it enough times, I might start believing it.

The next day, she rested. The day after that, she was back at the farm, digging out potatoes and dehydrating veggies and watching Krzysztof Kieslowski films. Work helped. Watching good movies helped. They didn’t solve the problem, but they blunted the loneliness and balanced her emotions. It wasn’t ideal, but she’d given up on ideal long before the world ended. No point in becoming a perfectionist now.

The sun rose on another Saturday, and another feeling of reluctance. But she pushed it aside over breakfast – tortillas, salsa and cheese – and the journal. Day 62. Wow. Two whole months since she got sick. She’d managed to survive, and in most cases tame, everything that had been thrown at her for two months, with no support system, no counseling, no training. “Dang, Kel, you’re a superhero,” she told herself. Then she wrote that in the journal, just to reinforce it.

And today, she’d go into San Rafael. No suburbs, no stalling, no pussyfooting around. Right into the biggest former population center in the area, right at the heart of her fears and despairs. Because that’s what flipping superheroes do … or would in these circumstances. She guessed.

Gun – check. Mizuno – check. Binoculars – check. A big lunch – packed: four energy bars, a can of chili, some dry salami, dehydrated lettuce, an orange she picked off someone’s tree, a small jar of applesauce, a spoon. The Ram – gassed up, and the siphon kit and two empty jerricans in the back. AAA map – on board. Music – piled on the passenger seat. Courage – summoned. Meds – in the backpack for emergency use. Go – let’s.

She didn’t feel any more optimistic as she hit the highway, just more determined. This was a Thing She Could Do, so she’d do it. Today probably wouldn’t be the day she got lucky, but she could, and on that basis alone she should put herself in luck’s way and try to get hit. There were worse ways to spend a Saturday.

She headed east on 1, then north on 101, blasting the Dave Matthews Band as an attractor – everyone seemed to either love or hate the Dave Matthews Band, so if anyone was there it would hopefully draw them in to either appreciate or complain about it. Past the signs for Tiburon and Corte Madera and Greenbrae, past the merge with 580 that led to the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, past all the pricey auto dealerships, finally getting off the highway at Second Street.

There was one place she wanted to stop, aside from any people-searching – the Walgreen’s on Third Street, to snag whatever supplies of her meds happened to be around. But unlike the one in Tam Valley, somebody had the wherewithal to lock this store up before abandoning it. And she’d gotten so used to places being wide open, either by accident or panicked human action, that she hadn’t brought the crowbar. “Well, that’s just great!” she groused.

But the Mizuno could open a lot of doors, especially the sliding glass ones at the front of a drugstore. Ten minutes of beating the daylights out of them gave her a nice workout, a healthy way of relieving weeks of frustration, and finally a way in. She raided the pharmacy for lithium, olanzapine and lamotrigine – LOL! – then grabbed some deep heating rub (her muscles could use it after all that farm work at Holy Green), cat food, dog food and human snacks on the way out.

Until the end of it, that was the highlight of the trip. She didn’t find any signs of occupation downtown or east down the creek, none up Point San Pedro Road or around the Dominican University, none inland toward San Anselmo or down Andersen. North, south, east or west, it was all the same – quiet as the one big grave it had been turned into.

“Well, it wasn’t like I didn’t anticipate it,” she said as she headed toward the tip of the sub-peninsula – San Quentin, home of the famed prison. She shuddered at the thought of the inmates trapped there, dying in that fatal week with no hope of escape or cure. That was the sort of thing that made origin stories for horror films, and she’d never been partial to horror films anyway. Reality had always been scary enough