by Anselmo, Ray
… mmph. Too many thoughts, too many ideas. She needed to focus. She sat at the dining table with her to-do list and a pen to get things out of her head:
Today’s work:
Bathe
Breakfast
Check store – what else to do? Pick stuff to take home
Find good flashlight/batteries
Prep Alvarez basement for root cellar
Move food into root cellar – leave enough in kitchen for 7 days’ eating
– Label bags
Siphon more gas?
Read LaSheba’s journal?
Scrub down dehydrators
Find SOMETHING for personal defense - ?
Figure out rest days/less stressful schedule
Okay, that looked good. Labeling would be easy – she knew Saul kept old boxes of printer labels in his office – but while she could start that, it would take more time than she had left today to finish it. Unless … yes, do the labeling now in the comfort of her own home (yes, the Matchicks’ home, but it was hers until they showed up to reclaim it, she figured) and then move what she could before sunset. Going out after sunset wasn’t such a good idea, not with what happened –
– hold it. She scanned the list again until she reached Find SOMETHING for personal defense - ?
Taking into account last night’s gritty reboot of I Love Dogs (less Wes Anderson and more James Wan), would it not be worth considering that the current top priority? “Yes. Yes, it would. Living in fear is not healthy.” She circled the line and stood. Everything else would wait – 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 in the Shepherd’s eyes. “I’ve still got the height, I’ve still got the reach, and I will not live in fear of you mangy critters.” Another swing as she took a second step forward. “So are you going to play nice, or –“
The Rott mix growled.
CLANG! She slammed the end of the bat on the concrete. “Enough of that, Drool Machine!” she told it at the top of her lungs. CLANG! “Anybody else got a complaint?”
Now the canines were beginning to retreat, less of a hunting pack than the collection of pets they’d been two weeks ago. They looked uncertainly at the crazed primate who’d seemed such an easy target a few minutes before.
“Then get! Lost!” she barked and took another step. “Get! LOST!”
Again the dogs backed up, the formation breaking apart.
“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRR!” she roared, and charged the Shepherd. Forget their claws and teeth – she was the alpha here!
The pack scattered at top speed. She chased the German Shepherd half a block until it disappeared into a hedge, gave a roar of triumph and stalked back to her house, dragging the bat along the pavement behind her to let the other dogs know she could keep busting them up all night. She went back inside, locked the door, turned off the flashlight …
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br /> … and she fell to her hands and knees, her legs no longer supporting her. What the heck was that? It was lunatic! She could’ve been torn apart just by the front three dogs and scattered all over town! And why would she act that way, raging like a T-Rex on acid at a bunch of household pets? She’d never done a thing like that before! What got into her?
She started to laugh hysterically, and couldn’t stop. All the built-up fear of the last … ten days? That was it?! … had metastasized into rage and driven her out into the night with a flashlight and a softball bat to do battle with the forces of canine annoyance. Yes, she’d won, but if anyone had been around to ask if she’d lost her dang mind, she wouldn’t have been able to determine the correct answer.
When she could finally get her voice under control, she rolled onto her back, abandoning the bat and dropping the flashlight. She wiped tears from her eyes, rubbed her nose and looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, God … I guess I needed that,” she said while panting. “But I hope it doesn’t happen again. Next time might get me hurt.” Crazy that got in had to come out somehow … and everything had been crazy since she got up a week before Monday and couldn’t get anyone on the phone.
For an amount of time she didn’t keep track of, she lay on the tile in the foyer, alternately laughing and crying, letting loose the feelings she’d done her best to bottle so she could get things done. Well, most of it was done now, at least the initial long list of must-do-to-survive items. She was a little more free to feel without it too badly distracting her.
Once it was done, though, Kelly put the bat in the umbrella rack by the front door, the flash on a nearby table, went to the bathroom and changed her tampon again. She got to her room, took a lithium and an olanzapine – if that hadn’t been a manic episode, she was afraid to find out what it was! – and didn’t even bother with pajamas, just collapsed on the unmade mattress in her T-shirt and underwear. She was out like a light in a minute.
10
TRAFFIC
Kelly felt hungover when she awoke Thursday morning. She’d only gotten really drunk once in her life – senior year in college, and boy, was she glad her friends had kept an eye on her – but she’d always remember what it felt like. Had she had any alcohol last night? No. So what had …
“Ohhhh,” she groaned, and was thankful she didn’t have the traditional hangover symptoms of pounding headache and sensitivity to sound. She did have a headache, but it was the standard kind, a consistent dull pain. She could cope with that. The memories of what she did the previous evening, though, left her wondering if one actually could die of embarrassment. Whatever had possessed her …?
She double-checked her memories. Yes, she went out and challenged a pack of wild – well, wild-ish – dogs, acted like a crazy person, and in fact chased one a couple hundred feet while wielding a softball bat and a flashlight. And then she went back inside and had a little breakdown. Not her moment of glory. She was glad no one had seen her.
That triggered another little breakdown, a smaller one. No one had seen her because no one was there, and maybe no one would ever be there, because she might be the last person that could ever be there, surrounded by a ghost town filled with dogs that could attack her and who knew what else and oh crap was she doomed was there any hope for her to survive …
It took a while for this one to pass, as it was eminently logical both from the circumstances and from last night’s mood swings. She rode it out, let the tears come and go, until it was done. Then she dried her face on her pillowcase, sat up and started thinking in addition to feeling.
Item one: she had been under enormous stress, due to the rest of Sayler Beach and everyplace else close by being wiped out by some disease. Item two: she’d also been frantically busy the last ten days, disposing of all the bodies in town and prepping food and adjusting to life without electricity or indoor plumbing. Item three: the workload had forced her to set her emotions aside, which she did for as long as she could until they burst out every which way last night.
Hypothesis: she was actually doing really, really well, but the circumstances were so difficult that it didn’t seem as impressive. She might be doing badly under normal conditions, but the conditions were so far from normal that honestly, having only one episode of outright psychosis in a week and a half was quite decent – and even that was a reaction to a serious threat. She’d come out the other side without causing herself, her property or random canines any physical damage.
She was still here. She was still safe – safer, if the Gang of Dog had taken her ravings to heart. She was in good health, at least physically. Mentally, she was probably no worse off than before. She had a whopping food stockpile, an ocean to bathe in, a roof over her head with a hundred backup roofs available, and could probably find anything else she needed somewhere in town so long as it didn’t need to be plugged in.
Short version: she was negotiating the end of the world like an absolute boss. Her therapist would be proud of her. In lieu of that, she’d be proud of herself. “You are kicking metric tonnes of butt, Kel,” she whispered. “Get it!”
Next step: figure out what to get. She stretched, changed her tampon and clothes, went to the kitchen for a bottled water, an apple, some dry cereal and a few slices of leathery cheese, then sat at the dining table to figure out the liturgy for the Second Thursday After the Fall of Civilization. She decided to make a new list rather than working from the last one with all its crossings-out and emendations:
Today’s options:
Make bed / clear clothesline
List food in kitchen
Move food into root cellar
Leave enough in kitchen for at least 7 days’ eating
Scrub down dehydrators
Siphon / store more gas
Read LaSheba’s journal / start own journal
Figure out rest days
Also create more moderate daily schedule?
She considered adding a bath, but she usually couldn’t take one the second or third day of a period. If she got really dank and sweaty today, she’d consider one for tomorrow; otherwise, Saturday would be soon enough. It wasn’t like she had to be presentable. She hadn’t even shaved her legs since before she fell ill.
Well, that was a thought – she might never have to shave her legs again. Another point in favor of Armageddon.
She chuckled and looked the list over. “Options” was better than “work,” less urgent. As far as urgency, it was more or less in order from the top. Not one of them absolutely had to be done today, but they were all good ideas. She could take it easy. Given the carousel of insanity the last several days had been, she should. Balance. Tranquility. Other words she’d expect to be embroidered onto pillows at the Zen farm.
She finished eating and went out to the backyard, where her clothes and sheets waited. She gave them a good reviewing, found no evidence of yesterday’s blood and gore, then inhaled. Mmmm … that whole deal about air-drying laundry making them smell fresher was true after all. She hauled it all in, remade her bed, then folded her pajamas and left them on the pillow. Check.
Going back to her trusty pad and pen, she started going through the cupboards. Once she’d listed every food item (and item that could be turned into food with an effort), she went through and redid it, sorting it into proteins, starches, fruits and vegetables, sauces and condiments, baking ingredients, etc. When she was done, she had three pages that told her pretty much what she had to eat aside from all her dehydration efforts. Check.
It also told her that almost all said efforts could go to the Alvarezes’ basement for now – everything except a few bags of dried meat and cheese, five pounds of potatoes and some of the orange slices and dried broccoli. She started hauling them next door, filling up a laundry hamper to speed the process and keep from dropping things. Her second trip, she saw the Rottweiler mix staring at her and barked at it. The Rott quickly trotted off, but for all subsequent trips she brought the Mizuno with her. Take no chances.
&nbs
p; Once she brought over the last bag, she spent some time organizing it – meats and cheeses over here, bread and other starches there, veggies in this corner, apple and orange slices in that one. Despite how much she had, there was still a lot of room to spare, so if she wanted to bring more cans, boxes, bottles, jars, bags and three-dimensional containers from the store, she had options. Heck, her options had options. Check.
Three down at a relaxed pace, and it was … where did she leave that watch? She shook her head. “Kel, no point in having a watch if you’re not going to carry it,” she chided herself gently. Thankfully it was easy enough to find – sitting on the bedside table – and was still ticking away. She wound it up some anyway, put it in the little pocket in her jeans that seemed designed for it, and shook her head again because in the midst of that, she hadn’t checked the time after all. 1:37, she found as she pulled it out again. If it was still accurate, she had plenty of day left.
She stopped for lunch – she hadn’t been doing that enough lately, and she needed to keep up her strength. Deciding to treat herself, she opened a can of chili, poured it over a few pieces of toast and ate it cold with a little leftover cabbage from last night. The chili sauce moistened the bread nicely, and it tasted fine unwarmed on an August day after a morning’s activity. The only downside was a few loud burps.