Tales of the Derry Plague | Book 1 | LAST Anselmo, Ray (electric book reader .txt) 📖

And she didn’t want to. Going around the deserted streets of Sayler Beach was soul-dampening enough, and Sayler Beach only had about eight streets, not counting the Shoreline Highway. The bigger towns and cities on the county’s eastern side, where all the population was – had been – were another matter. Last week’s jaunt had been decidedly unencouraging, and had probably helped send her into the spiral of ennui that cost her a day in the woods to pull out of. Did she really want to go through that again?

But she needed to know. If there was anyone out there, if anybody had survived the plague besides her, she needed to find that person or those people. She could not just live the rest of her life as a hermit in an abandoned town with no one but the dog pack, the farm cats and the occasional cougar for company. She wasn’t Ms. Super Social, but she had to have some interaction if there was any to be had.

Besides, whoever was out there might need help. She was no mountain man or survivalist who could live off the land, but she’d acquired a few skills in the last month, and she could provide necessities for someone else – a lot of someone elses, especially if they were willing to pitch in. The continuation of the human race might depend on it.

Yes, she’d go tomorrow, even if her emotions took a beating. She’d bring the lamotrigine along in case she needed its help to get through it. But she’d go.

Saturday morning, over cereal, milk and dried tangelo slices, she wrote her concerns in the journal. Imagining herself driving through all those depopulated streets was not helping her resolve. If only she could check someplace that wouldn’t be quite as daunting, it might help. But again, the eastern side was the most logical place if she wanted to find people.

She sat up straight as the idea hit. The most logical place, yes – but not the only one. There were a lot of little towns up the coast, popping up along Highway 1 like beads on a string. They mostly relied on tourists to survive and were full of stores and restaurants and antique shops. And in between were long stretches of forest and beach and wetlands, where she could relax. She could go up the west side of Marin, cover a lot of ground, and ease herself back into exploration.

“Bingo,” she said around a mouthful of Rice Chex. That’s where she’d go.

A little digging turned up a AAA map of the coast, but it probably wouldn’t be needed – the highway would be guide enough, since none of the towns extended more than a few blocks from it. She’d take it just in case. Another trip to the beach parking lot let her siphon a GMC pickup enough to fill the Ram’s tank; she left the rest for another time. The morning was barely half gone when she headed north, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t be too much of a downer.

Off she went with the windows rolled down and a personal selection of CDs – Coldplay, Taylor Swift, Jars of Clay, Alicia Keys, Trisha Yearwood, Arcade Fire – curated to let anyone listening know she was there but not freak them out. She played them a little louder than usual, figuring that someone might hear it and the engine and take a look. The combined sound should be suitably non-threatening. Besides, it was fun to cruise up the road singing “Every Teardrop Is a Waterfall” at the top of her lungs.

A two-car accident at the south edge of Stinson Beach forced her to pull over. Mask on, gloves on, reach across the now very degraded bodies to put the cars into neutral and push them off the road. That was something she’d never get used to, at least not until the bodies collapsed into bonepiles and no more. How long would that take, exactly? Maybe by spring …

The thought of still having to clear roads of auto accidents over six months from now did not fill her with glee. And if the corpses got any ickier, she might decide to push the vehicles out of the way with the Dodge and never leave the cab. Enough was enough.

She drove around Stinson Beach, making notes of what she saw and what could be scavenged. For a moment she thought she had a decision to make – continue north on the highway or duck left along the coast to Bolinas – then realized there was no direct road to Bolinas. A little spit of land extended that way, then ended before reaching the little town. The entrance to Bolinas Lagoon wasn’t bridged, so to get there would mean driving north a mile on the highway, then south another mile on a rural road.

She might not have bothered except for two things. One was that she had plenty of time. The other was a little green marker on the map that said “Bolinas Quail Refuge.” For some reason it intrigued her. Eh, why not? She took to the highway, and a mile later took the detour.

Bolinas and its surroundings were a jewel, adorned with hippie-ish murals and decorations and rustic houses, like Sayler Beach only more so. And it wasn’t just a refuge for quail – of which she saw plenty – but honeybees and foxes and uncountable flocks of seabirds. It was beautiful and fulfilling, and she wrote plenty of notes as she wound up and down the narrow roads. After a half-hour or so, she turned back and headed for the highway again.

Woodville. Five Brooks. Olema. Point Reyes Station. Bivalve. Millerton. Most of the towns were barely names on maps, or were just a few houses and a small store or gas station. Marconi. Reynolds. Marshall. The highway went up the inland side of