A gull swooped in for a landing next to the head, and before I knew what was happening it had grabbed the eyeball in its beak and was tugging at it. I kicked at the bird and it flew off, dropping the eye which now dangled out of the socket, hanging by the still-connected optic nerve. I turned away and dry-heaved a couple of times, but there was nothing to come out. I walked back toward the others, thinking of what I would say, and whether we should bury the bodies, and wondering if I was even up to that.

We rounded the point and reached Garibaldi with the sun high in the sky, though still mostly hidden behind the clouds. None of us were wearing red shirts, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around to notice. The town, though displaying little visible damage, seemed remarkably deserted. We had hoped for somewhere quiet where we wouldn’t be disturbed, and it seemed like this place might fit the bill. The lack of people had been the subject of ongoing discussion between us for the last few days. Some of the villages seemed still inhabited, but we had gone out of our way to avoid coming across other groups like us, and they were probably doing the same, and this mutual avoidance made it difficult to judge the true level of human presence. Main roads, like the 26 and 101, were now largely impassable due to the many vehicle smash-ups, so movement was much reduced. Just before the communication breakdown there had been evacuations from some parts of the tsunami zone, so it seemed that most of the residents had left and then never made it back, but it was hard to tell whether that had happened here. Whatever the reasons, it was quiet here, and that was what we had been looking for – a reasonably safe place to hole up for a little while, get some rest, and piece together whatever meager semblance of a plan that these new circumstances would allow.

Houses were situated inland for a few blocks, and then a little ways up the hill. The highest ones were only at about fifty feet of elevation, but I remembered from overhearing my dad and uncle talk as a kid on trips to the beach that this was high enough, in this area, to be out of the tsunami danger zone. After days of worrying about finding shelter, it turned out to be much easier than I had anticipated, with no violence required. Looking up the hill from the main road, I noticed a small house set off by itself, perhaps fifty yards from the nearest cluster of houses, like a shy, thoughtful child sitting quietly away from her classmates. It wasn’t much of a looker, but it was off the main drag and would have a good view and no blind spots. Beyond that, something about the place just spoke to me, gave me a good feeling. I told the others to wait for me while I walked up to check it out.

Around the east side, the kitchen window was up a few inches, so I put my face to the opening and called out, “Hello? Anyone here?” There were no sounds or signs of movement – the place seemed deserted, like the rest of the town. In the back was a gravel-covered parking area, and by the back door was a big Weber gas grill with an extra propane tank and what looked like a whole cord of chopped firewood stacked neatly. That would do just fine. Following a now-familiar routine, I took off my hoodie and wrapped it around my arm to protect my elbow from breaking glass, but then something stopped me. It seemed a shame to break in that way – the plan was to stay for at least a few days and regroup, so it was worth not making a mess of it right away. And breaking the window might be unsafe for another reason – if the glass was broken, it would be easier for someone else to let themselves in unannounced. I thought of the bodies on the beach, and the icy cold feeling of death waking me in the night, and the hair on my arms stood straight up. 

Where would the key be? I checked under the mat – nothing. I reached up into the soffit where the board made a little shelf, and didn’t find anything there either. Where had I hidden keys before? Ah yes, the grill; I took the cover off, opened the lid, felt around. Then I flipped up the cover on the side burner, didn’t see anything there, but I ran my fingers around the square opening and hit paydirt. There it was, one end wedged down in the crack where the metal pieces met at a right angle.

The back door opened into a small laundry room, and a hamper contained some towels and clothes that had never made it to the washing machine. The kitchen was small but tidy, and opened into a living room with a woodburning stove on one wall, a couple of small couches, and a rocking chair. On the way to the last room I passed the bathroom – tiny, but neat, like the rest of the house. Then I stepped into the remaining room, and couldn’t believe my eyes: it was filled with books, on floor-to-ceiling shelves covering all four walls, and in stacks on the floor. The room wasn’t big, but it was stuffed to the gills with books, a couple thousand of them at least. In one corner, by the only window, was a small table with a Remington typewriter, a small stack of newspapers laid beside it, one on top of the other, and bolted to one corner was a manual pencil sharpener with a crank. Whoever had lived here had been a writer, from the look of it. I ran back to get the others, and showed them around our new cardboard bungalow, saving the library for last. Everyone was excited, though maybe not as much as I was about the books. We lit a fire in the stove, and shared a bottle of wine – a very nice Rioja – to celebrate our good fortune. As night began to fall, I looked forward to the others going to sleep, which would give me some quiet time to explore the library.