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

grabbed a pair of Saul’s work gloves and a cloth face mask she still had from the last pandemic. Just in case.

She drove back to the Molinaros’ armed for bear. The jack’s prybar was all she needed, though – it nicely pried the latch out of the door jamb. She swung the door open –

HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! Bee-beep.

Well, she was under a little stress – it was only natural to forget the security alarm. The Molinaros had it set to arm every night at ten unless Pete was stuck working extra late. She got the code punched in quickly, though, saving herself some hearing damage.

Then she turned to look at the living room and sighed again. There were Pete and Toni and two of their three kids, Sylvia and Julia, sitting together on the couch under a comforter, facing the TV. The screen was showing the DVD menu for Moana. They must have been watching it when they died – and they were all very obviously dead. She closed her eyes and nodded. Quietly and together – if you had to go, that was the best way to do it.

Going upstairs, she found the youngest kid Benny in his bed, looking for all the world like he was sleeping soundly. But the smell told her otherwise, even through the mask.

Somberly she went back downstairs, turned off the TV and video player and left the house, trying to close the front door as she did. But she’d broken it enough that it wouldn’t close, so she left it open a crack and hoped the wild animals didn’t get there before she figured out how to dispose of the bodies. Hmm … there might be hundreds of bodies to deal with. Did she want that hassle? And yet … something in her told her the people here should get that level of respect, even if only she would know about it.

She set the thoughts of why and how aside and drove to “the party of five’s” place over on Admiral Drive, doing her best to set her expectations to “worst-case.” Which it was, aside from the front door being unlocked. Sarah was in her room, under the covers. So was Vivian Pfeifer – Vivi Fifi to everyone at the store – and so were Leslie and Michanne. Only LaSheba wasn’t – she was sitting on that black fake-leather couch that stuck to your legs if you wore shorts. LaSheba was wearing a bathrobe over a Kendrick Lamar T-shirt and sweatpants. No signs of life.

Kelly found the bullhorn in Sarah’s closet, checked the batteries – they were fine – and was leaving when she noticed an open Moleskine notebook sitting next to LaSheba on the couch. She picked it up and read:

Last one alive. I wish I understood why this is happening. Does God or Nature want us all dead? Did we release something into the air? Is this an enemy attack? No one knows, not the news or anyone in town. So tired. I’m going to rest & when I wake up,  if I wake up, maybe I’ll take a walk and see if anyo

At that point the ink skittered off the page in a jagged line. It must be LaSheba’s journal. The last entry was dated Saturday morning, so she might’ve been the next-to-last person alive in town.

Shuddering, Kelly took the journal, wanting to apologize even as she did. But it might contain some clues as to what happened, and her friend no longer had any privacy to violate.

Next stop was Rav and Bilbo’s, then Chandra’s, the fire department and maybe the Spinnaker Inn. And maybe she should check the Ashcrofts’ house – it was her responsibility, or had been, and you just never knew. But she was past expecting good surprises now. Mostly she was going numb.

Rav was dead on the floor of his place. It took breaking into the apartment manager’s office to figure out which apartment was Chandra’s, but she too was dead. Pablo was at the volunteer fire department on Landlubber Way, a wooden building that put the “shack” in “ramshackle,” keeled over onto the floor from the chair he’d been sitting in. The Ashcrofts’ house was clean, spotless and empty.

She frowned. She was 0-for-everybody so far. And she hadn’t heard one automobile engine besides her own, not one motorcycle or bicycle or stereo or voice. The Molinaros had the only television that was on when she entered. Sayler Beach was silent as … it was unavoidable. The grave.

She returned to her Hyundai, started it up, rolled down all the windows and flipped on the bullhorn. “Hello!” she broadcast out the driver’s side window. “Is anyone out there? This is Kelly Sweeney from the grocery store! If you’re alive, please come out to the sidewalk! I repeat, please come out to the sidewalk! I’m driving around town looking for anyone who’s still alive! I’ve got food at the store if you need any! Please come out – it’s safe …”

That last part was a laugh. Who knew if she or anyone was safe? But they were safe from her, was what she was trying to convey. She wasn’t going to go feral and kill them and make a poncho of their skin, if that’s what they were worried about.

She drove around the residential district, then to the beach parking lot, north to the fire department and east to the Zen farm, calling through the bullhorn all the way for anyone to come outside. Once she was finished she repeated the route and her pleas before taking the Shoreline Highway, the portion of State Highway 1 that marked Sayler Beach’s inland border, north and west up to the horse ranch, which sat at the far corner of the town’s theoretical limits. She drove back along the highway as well, in case someone was farther from