Tales of the Derry Plague by Anselmo, Ray (most inspirational books of all time TXT) 📗

a good bonfire by now. She filled up the food and water pans, swept up various scatterings and refuses, and petted the German shepherd, who somewhere along the way had decided she was his bestest friend and deserving of tail wags. The pack would be set for a week, anyway.

Back home, she re-bagged and labeled all her newly dried gourds, took them to the root cellar, then secured the cellar door and the front door as best she could. Returning to the Hyundai, she went around to the rest of the town and did the same with each front door. Her last stop was SBN&N, where she gathered all the food she’d need for the trip that wasn’t sitting at home. She locked the sliding front doors, then for the first time since her last work day before getting sick – sixty-eight days ago – she pulled down the metal shutter over the doors and locked it too.

She stood there for a moment, reflecting on things. Sixty-eight days since she’d gone back to the Matchicks’ after a dull Sunday evening shift at SBN&N, with no reason to think anything would be different in the coming days. Sixty-seven since she woke up sick. Sixty since she found the first dead body, in a Volvo that hadn’t moved since, hadn’t even had the gas drained out. Fifty-six since the mass cremation. Fifty-three since the power went out. Forty-eight since she made her first journal entry, and read LaSheba’s last.

Six days since she’d seen the sign beckoning her to Santa Cruz, of all places. Two since she resolved to go, fear or no fear.

She’d done a lot with the last sixty days – sixty-one, counting today. She’d stored away over a year’s worth of food and a couple barrels worth of gasoline. She’d watched lots of animals in peace and challenged a few in anger and fright. She’d learned how to fire a gun and practiced until she could both hit a target and not fall down. She’d explored a post-apocalyptic wasteland, albeit a very green and pleasant one. She’d successfully avoided going out of her mind, despite her mind’s propensity toward that. She’d survived. Most of all, she’d survived.

Tomorrow, she would take the biggest risk of all. She’d leave the county – and her comfort zone – and head south to see if there was anyone where the sign said there was. She hadn’t seen a living breathing person in all that time, and had no clue what the person or people she’d meet would be like if she found anyone. Would she find welcoming arms, or rifles pointed at her? Smiles or sneers? Friendly helpers, or murderers and rapists? A town or a trap?

Who knew? But she’d find out, even if it cost her everything, because not finding out might cost her her sanity. And she’d rather die with her sanity than live without it.

Time to start packing. She wanted to hit the road as early in the morning as she could manage.

She moved the siphoning kit from the Accent into the bed of the Ram, knowing she’d need the bigger vehicle to clear any blocked intersections. She drove to the beach parking lot, filled the tank until it would hold no more, then lifted three jerricans into the bed and bungee-corded them and the kit in place. Back home, she packed her rolling suitcase with four days’ worth of clothes, plus a warm jacket, extra underwear and a package of Tampax – her period should be coming soon and she didn’t want to be caught without. She set the suitcase by the front door.

She broke out the big cloth shopping bags and began to fill one after another with three meals’ worth of food – she’d just be able to grab one in the morning and work through it. A gallon of water plus two extra bottles. Dried meats and cheeses. Dried fruits and vegetables. Dried potatoes. Some canned stuff. Toast. She couldn’t count on being able to build a fire – everything had to be ready-to-eat. She added a bottle of soda to each – call it dessert, not to mention extra hydration. Once she had seven bags done, she set them with the suitcase.

One last bag, into which she put her pill bottles, a box of .45 ammo for the Colt, soap, deodorant, two towels, a hairbrush, spoons, a can opener, the flashlight, the journal, and the map of Marin County. A quick search found a state map and another one of Santa Cruz County, both of which went into the bag too. She put it with the others, added the Mizuno to the pile, then stood back and looked it over.

It didn’t seem like that much for a seven-day trip – she’d half-decided that if she couldn’t find anyone in seven days, she’d cut bait and come home. But she wasn’t living large, just bringing what she thought she might need. As long as she didn’t try to extend it too far and didn’t get ambushed and robbed, she would be fine.

Kelly wasn’t entirely confident she was ready, but she knew she was as ready as she would ever get. There was no point in putting it off – either there were people down in Santa Cruz or there weren’t. She had no internet she could check, no way she could call, no radio or TV stations she could tune in, no equipment she could use to bounce a signal off a satellite. She had her own eyes and ears, and the only way to use them was to go there.

She took the dishes down to the sea, washed them, washed herself, washed her clothes, tossed on her pajamas and brought them all back up again. She had nothing more to do except take her lithium and go to bed, so that’s what she did. But sleep took a long time to come, and