by Anselmo, Ray
LAST
(Tales of the Derry Plague: One)
Ray Anselmo
LAST
(Tales of the Derry Plague: One)
by Ray Anselmo
© 2021 Million Dreams Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher. All characters except for historical figures are fictional – any resemblance between the fictional characters and actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover design by EDH Designs.
License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and you did NOT purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1
FLU
2
BODIES
3
SEARCH
4
PYRE
5
ALONE
6
TALK
7
DARK
8
PACK
9
BLOOD
10
TRAFFIC
11
HIKE
12
DRUGS
13
JOURNAL
14
TRUCK
15
SKED
16
CATS
17
BANG
18
ENNUI
19
POINT
20
SIGN
21
PLAN
22
TRAVEL
23
CITY
24
FEAR
25
THOUSANDS
26
HOME
About the Author
1
FLU
Kelly Sweeney, by her own admission, didn’t have much of a social life. She worked, then went back to one of the houses she was sitting and watched movies. Two or three times a year, she went on a date, which never worked out but broke up the monotony a little. She’d visit her parents in Oklahoma at Christmas, and occasionally this or that friend from college who lived nearby. And she had her Facebook and Twitter and Reddit “friends.” That was about all.
It was fine. Not ideal, but fine. She’d given up on ideal several years before.
So not getting a call or a text for several days didn’t register as unusual. Were it not for work, she might go months without one. Not that she wanted any contact much lately. That’s what came from getting what she thought was the worst case of the flu she’d ever had. To think that last winter she’d made a point to drive to the Walgreen’s in San Rafael just to get the shot. Now it was August and here she was, flat on her face, wishing she’d just die already and get it over with.
No luck. She couldn’t manage to die. Oh well.
Not that she could manage to do much of anything else. Sleep. Drink an occasional glass of juice or water. Drag herself to the bathroom and back. Whenever she considered checking in with the folks at the store or calling someone, the thought drifted right back out of her head and she went back to sleep again. In general, she felt like she’d been run over by a steamroller and was about a half-inch thick.
She suffered like that for six days. The only reason she knew how long was because she woke up often enough to count the nights. Monday morning, when she arose feeling like organically grown non-GMO hell, she’d called into Sayler Beach Necessities & Novelties and told Ganj that his general manager was under the weather and he was in charge until she felt better. (His real name was Grant, but everyone called him “Ganj” after he got busted for selling marijuana a few years ago. Everyone thought it was hilarious, including Ganj, since in Marin County nailing someone for dope was like arresting someone for breathing. It was about as common.)
Despite his affinity for the devil’s lettuce (uncurbed by his brush with the law), Ganj was a generally reliable manager. Kelly knew he’d keep the place clean, the stock rotated, the orders coming in. She’d have to check the books carefully when she got back, because Ganj had a math block the size of El Capitan – he did his best, but somewhere along the line he’d forget to carry a one or transpose a couple of numbers. Even using a spreadsheet didn’t help. But she was prepared to tackle that.
Well, after six days of feeling like lukewarm death, she could start pondering the idea of thinking about being prepared to tackle that. Setting realistic goals, that was important. Baby steps. One day at a time. All those clichés.
Sunday morning, she was able to make herself a meal – scrambled eggs, toast, a boiled apple. She ate it all, and kept it all down. Out of curiosity, she went to the bathroom afterward, stepped on the scale and found she was three pounds lighter. Hm. She’d wanted to lose a few, so that was a nice side effect. Then she went back to sleep, exhausted by all that activity.
When she woke, needing to go to the john again, it was almost 3:30 in the afternoon. She thought again about calling the store, but figured she had time – they didn’t close until 7:00 on Sundays. If there was an emergency, they would’ve called or texted …
Wait, did they? She hadn’t checked her phone the whole week. As soon as she was out of the bathroom, she did – and found her battery had died. Well, didn’t that just figure? She plugged it in to charge it and went to lay down with a book.
She woke again at 7:12. Oops. Well, she was still recovering. She called the store anyway, since her phone was good to go, but as expected she got the answering machine. “You’ve reached Sayler Beach Necessities & Novelties, home to all your grocery and tourist needs,” she heard herself say cheerily. “Our hours are from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. Monday through Saturday, 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. Sunday. If you’re hearing this message, we’re closed right now, but you can leave a message at the beep. Thanks for calling, and have a wonderful night.” BEEEEEP!
She shrugged and talked to her pre-recorded self. “Whoever picks this up Monday, it’s Kelly. Starting to feel a whole lot better, so I’ll try to drop by today and get back into the swing of things. Hopefully I’ll be back to full-time Tuesday or Wednesday. Oh, and Ganj, don’t forget to call the folks at Berkeley Dairy and make sure they bring our order out today – you know their dispatcher will forget if we don’t remind her. Talk to you later!”
Only then did she remember to check for messages. There were three. The first was from Tuesday morning. “Heyyy, Kelly, this is Ganj. Looks like whatever you caught is going around. I had to send Sarah home ‘cause she could barely keep her eyes open – I thought she was gonna face-plant into the salad mixes. And I don’t feel one hundred myself. But it’s been slow, so I think Ravinder and I can handle things until the evening. Just wanted to keep you in the loop. You rest and get better, duuude.”
Kelly smiled at that. As a native Californian, Ganj used “dude” as a unisex term, with the meaning dependent on tone and context. The “duuude” in that message was one of friendship and support, she was pretty sure.
Next one was from Tuesday evening. “Dear, it’s your mother. Pick up. C’mon, pick up … I know you can hear me. (Sigh.) I don’t know why you do this to me, dear. I pray for you every day, that you’ll just meet me halfway …”
“Ugh.” Her mother’s idea of “meet me halfway” was “do everything I want you to, including move back to
Oklahoma, and have no will of your own.” She’d grown up in a college town, but still went away to school in California just to get away from the woman, from the manipulation, the holier-than-thou attitude, the constant pick-pick-picking at her psyche.
“… I just wanted to check on you and make sure you’re okay, what with everything that’s going on. I know how you get sometimes when you’re in one of your moods …”
Enough was enough. The mention of her “moods” – as if she had any control over those – set her off like lighting a fuse. She deleted the message and moved on to the third, which had come in Wednesday afternoon.
“Heyyy … heyyy … it’s me, dude … it’s … me. I … uh, you still sick? ‘Cause … not good, y’know, I … no Sarah, no Rav, no … uh, no … mmmuh, what’s her name … so I, uh …”
Ganj sounded even more stoned than usual. He’d better not be using on the job, or she was going to hang him by his ponytail when she came in the next day. He’d never done it before – he was very careful about that – but he might’ve slipped with her gone for so long.
“… I … don’t feel good. Gonna siddown. Not a lotta … customers today … quiet. Too quiet … don’t … feel right … uh … gonna … gonna … uh …” There was a clatter, maybe Ganj setting the phone down, followed by distant mumbling and then silence before the message ended a minute later.
“Well, that was weird.” She thought about calling her mom back, but decided she didn’t need the hassle while she was still recovering. She noticed a few news alerts on her phone, and decided they could wait too. Instead, she chose to make dinner – her first honest-to-goodness meal in a week. Two burger patties, some rice and part of a bagged salad kit later, she felt quite a bit better. She went back to bed, read for an hour, then slept again, and this time stayed asleep through the night.
Monday, Kelly woke with the sunrise, feeling refreshed and, if not 100% healthy, at least 80%. A long hot shower and a hearty breakfast brought the number up a little farther. Yes, it appeared she was back. Good – she hated not working. The sense of accomplishment, no matter how minor or menial the task, was one of the most helpful medications she had. She put on khakis and her SBN&N polo shirt, brushed her hair out, and called work to talk to Ganj or LaSheba or whoever was in charge today.
Three rings. Four. Five. “You’ve reached Sayler Beach Necessities & Novelties, home to all your grocery and tourist needs. Our hours are from 7 a.m. to …”
She hung up and looked at her phone. 7:28. Someone should be there. But why didn’t they pick up the phone? Odd. She called again, with the same result. Something was wrong if no one was getting to the phone.
She took a few minutes before trying again to rinse the dishes in the sink and put them in the dishwasher, then make her bed in the guest room in the Matchicks’ house. She sat three vacation houses in Sayler Beach: the Matchicks’, the Ashcrofts’ and the Molinaros’, all owned by rich Bay Area couples. Pete Molinaro, who’d made his money in canned vegetables, was currently in town with his family. Julian Ashcroft owned Sayler Beach Necessities & Novelties and about eighty other small stores in the region. She usually stayed at the Matchicks’ (husband and wife ran a software firm in Santa Clara), because it was the largest, and checked the others on alternate days.
Third time’s the charm? She dialed the store number. The phone rang five times and then … “You’ve reached Sayler Beach Necessities & Novelties, home to …”
She hung up. Her own voice wasn’t the one she needed to hear, but it was the only one she was getting. “What’s going on?” she mumbled. Had something happened at the store? But if it had, surely someone would’ve left her a message. Does Mr. Ashcroft know what’s up? She called his corporate office, which she had on speed-dial – one of the perks (and responsibilities) of being the local boss. As long as she could get through the automated voice system …
“You have reached Ashcroft Stores of California. Our offices are closed temporarily due to the outbreak. If you know the extension you’re trying to reach, please dial it now, followed by the pound sign. Otherwise, leave a message at the sound of the tone. We thank you for your patien–”
Kelly punched in 888# – eight was Mr. Ashcroft’s favorite number – and waited for Wanda, Mr. Ashcroft’s receptionist, to pick up. Wanda just about lived in the office – she’d be there this early.
“You have reached the office of Julian Ashcroft, president and CEO of Ashcroft Stores of California. Please leave a message at the tone.” BEEEEEP!
She was momentarily stunned – the only time she’d ever hit Mr. Ashcroft’s voice mail was on a weekend. Finally she remembered to speak. “Mr. Ashcroft, this is Kelly Sweeney, the GM at #17 in Sayler Beach.” Ashcroft’s stores were meant to look mom-and-pop, but at corporate HQ they were still numbers. “I’ve been out sick the last week, and no one’s answering the phone at the store. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m headed over there right now to find out.” She added her cell number and hung up.
Bizarre – had everyone slept in today? What was the deal with that message Ganj had left on Wednesday? None of this made sense …
… wait. What was that on the automated voice system again? She redialed the office to check.
“You have reached Ashcroft Stores of California. Our offices are closed temporarily due to the outbreak. If you …”
Outbreak? What outbreak? It couldn’t have been what she just had – you didn’t shut down a corporation, not even a smaller one like Ashcroft Stores, because of the flu. But … she suddenly recalled her mom’s comment about “what with everything that’s going on.” She’d blown it off, too angry about the “moods” jab. Besides, Mom’s “everything that’s going on” often meant a Democrat being elected or the local school district installing solar panels or homosexuals being allowed to breathe. No reason to take it seriously.
Only then did she remember she had news alerts. Maybe she should check those out. She sat on her bed and tapped the Associated Press news app on her phone. Maybe that would give her some insight.
MILLIONS DEAD FROM NEW PLAGUE was the top headline. A headline that was dated four days ago, Thursday. The day after Ganj’s last message.
Kelly backed up and scrolled through the alerts she received. She’d thought there were a few – actually, there were over twenty. The last one was late Thursday evening. And they all were reporting on this plague that was spreading worldwide at lightning speed. It started with flu-like symptoms, then extreme lethargy, mental debility and finally death as the brain stopped working. Every continent was being ravaged by it. Governments and social services were falling apart. Entire countries were out of contact with the rest of the world …
She found she was hyperventilating, and forced her breathing to slow down. This was the stuff of bad movies – it couldn’t actually be happening. She remembered the COVID outbreak, how millions had died and hundreds of millions were sick … but that happened over a couple of years, not a week! There was no way …
… or was there? “Think, Kel, think,” she told herself. Who would know what was going on?
She tried calling the store again – no answer. She called Ganj’s home number – no answer. She called Ravinder and Bilbo and Sarah and LaSheba and Vivi Fifi – no answers. The Molinaros – no answer. The Matchicks in Atherton and the Ashcrofts in Millbrae – no answer. She had the numbers for a couple of local radio stations and tried those, then looked up the San Francisco TV stations, then Marin General Hospital and Kentfield Hospital and Sutter Pacific and MarinHealth and her doctor and her therapist and the county sheriff and 911 and even operator assistance.
No answer. No answer. No answer.
In desperation she called her parents in Oklahoma, even if it risked having to talk to Mom. But all she got was the answering machine – which thankfully her dad recorded the message for. “Ya reached the Sweeneys. We ain’t in at present, so leave us a message. Or don’t, but if ya don’t leave it, I cain’t return it. Your choic
e.” BEEEEEP!
“Dad, it’s Kelly! I just want to make sure you’re all right! I can’t reach anyone right now and I … I …” She tried to swallow the panic rising in her throat. “… anyway, when you get this, call me back on my cell, okay? I love you.” She hadn’t meant to add that last part, but … well, she just hoped he heard it.
Kelly took a deep breath, held it as long as she could, let it out slowly, did it again. The fourth breath seemed to do the trick. She stood, headed out of the house and forced herself to walk, not run, to the store. Sayler Beach wasn’t big enough for anything to be far from anything. She’d be there in five minutes just walking.
Or that’s what she thought. She wasn’t even halfway there when she saw the first corpse.
2
BODIES
Kelly had never seen a dead body before, except at a funeral. Those had been carefully restored by professionals to something approaching lifelikeness, to look peaceful and smell … well, not smell like anything much.
