Brushfire Plague Read online

  Brushfire Plague

  by

  R.P. Ruggiero

  Your Survival Library

  www.PrepperPress.com

  Brushfire Plague

  ISBN 978-0615645643

  Copyright © 2012 by R.P. Ruggiero

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Prepper Press Trade Paperback Edition: July 2012

  Prepper Press is a division of Northern House Media, LLC`

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  - To my mom, who taught me to love life and to be prepared for whatever might come my way.

  Acknowledgements:

  I wish to thank Robert Shepard and Josh Hendryx who provided feedback on the early versions of this novel. Their support and comments improved this work and helped bring it to fruition.

  I also want to express my appreciation to Sarah Cairns who provided professional editing that strengthened the story in numerous ways. Her patience was much appreciated. Mike Dostie also deserves recognition for providing copyediting in the later stage.

  Finally, and most importantly, is the support and inspiration I received from my family. I thank my wife Cindy, who provided immeasurable support while this was being written. Of course, that’s no surprise. She’s been doing that since I was 17 years old. She also provided suggestions and edits during the early drafts. My two boys, Justus and Zade, are my inspiration in all things. I thank them for bearing with the numerous times I needed solitude while writing.

  Chapter 1

  Cooper Adams bumped along the road in his old GMC pickup. Patches of white paint fought on bravely, clinging to life amidst the rust that covered most of its body. Jake, his son, sat next to him, staring blankly ahead. When his friend, Paul Dranko, had come to relieve him, Cooper had decided to take Jake with him. He wanted to get him out of the house. His son had been watching his sick mother, likely dying, for far too long.

  Before leaving, Cooper had grabbed his Smith and Wesson semi-automatic pistol and it lay holstered on his belt. He stood just over six feet, clear brown eyes and black hair. The cold steel pressed into the small of his back. It was barely concealed and he lacked a permit to carry it, but he decided he had more pressing priorities. He guessed that the police did as well. An extra magazine lay stashed in his jacket pocket. He made a sharp right turn, cranking the wheel hard, onto the main boulevard that led to the local supermarket. What he saw made him pull his gun out and place it on his lap, at the ready.

  A Subaru lay ablaze, about two hundred yards ahead, flames spitting from the interior through the shattered windows. Black smoke curled furiously skyward as oil, plastic and metal burned. He slowed down and moved into the opposite lane, to give it the widest possible berth. Already, he could smell the acrid stench. Thankfully, he didn’t smell the foulness of flesh burning. He had had his fill of that in Iraq. It was something you never forgot. He saw a few broken cartons and a torn brown paper bag scattered next to the car and he guessed the rest. At least the passengers appeared to have escaped harm. Probably just a robbery with some Molotov-wielding firebug thrown in for good measure. As people passed by, they would gawk for a moment and press a shirt or a scarf around their nose and mouth, but they kept moving. What struck Cooper was how few appeared shocked at what they were seeing. What else have they seen burning? Or worse?

  The station wagon had been burning for a while. The windshield and windows had melted out and the rest of the car almost burned down to bare metal. Yet, there was no sign of a fire engine or even the distant wail of a siren. Absentmindedly, he dialed 911 on his cell phone, “All circuits are busy. Please, try your call again later.”

  He replaced the cell phone back into his pocket as they rolled past the burning wreck. With it firmly in his rearview mirror, Cooper turned to Jake, “OK, son. From now on, we might see some things that aren’t normal. There might be some ugly things. There might be some dangerous things. But, I promise you this, I’m here to protect you. But, I need one thing from you, OK?”

  Jake nodded in rapt attention. “I need you to do whatever I say. When I say it. I need you to do it, no matter what you might think. You might think what I’m saying is crazy or what I’m saying doesn’t make any sense. But, I need you to do it without question, without hesitation. Can I count on you for that?”

  “Yes, I’ll do it.” Jake said in his best impression of a full-grown man. Cooper saw the fear that lay behind his eleven-year-old son’s eyes.

  Cooper smiled to comfort him, “OK. Good. Just remember that. It is the most important thing you can do to stay safe and sound. I will do my best to keep you safe and I know how to keep you safe, so things should be alright. But, I need your help to do it.” Jake nodded seriously in response.

  Cooper continued down the boulevard. He could smell the fear all around him. He had known streets like this in Iraq. There, the fear had been suicide bombers, improvised explosive devices, and vicious ambushes. Here, it was simply some virus that was tearing through the city’s population like a chainsaw through soft pine. Of course, it was worse than that. A chainsaw you could see coming. Its effect was predictable. This virus was unseen. Its cause and path unknown. Cooper knew such things stoked fear and dread in people. That was what he could smell in his nostrils and taste on his tongue. He knew panic didn’t lie far beyond.

  A few people moved along the sidewalks. A woman dressed all in black and carrying a paper grocery bag, clutched to her chest like a newborn, ambled down the street looking furtively about. She had a dirty surgical mask covering her nose and mouth. When a man moving in the opposite direction—he lacked a mask but had a red handkerchief pushed up against his face—approached her, she swung to her left to create a wide arc between them. He swung to his left as well, out into the street, to increase the distance between them. His sudden movement made his jacket ride up his hip a bit and revealed the briefest glint of a concealed pistol stuffed into his belt.

  For just a moment, his mind drifted to that fateful call a few days ago, when the nightmare had started for him.

  ******

  When Cooper Adams’ cell phone jolted him awake at 2:16 in the morning, he saw her number and his throat tightened. Her call meant only one thing. His worst fears had come true since he’d talked to her earlier that evening. Only once had she ever called him this early. On that night, her mother had died. Tonight, he wasn’t worried about an in-law. This night, he knew death stalked his wife like a coyote does the lamb. His heart thundered in his chest. As he answered the phone, he flung his legs off the bed and began tugging his pants on.

  “You need to come home,” ragged words beckoned from the other end. Absent the caller ID on his cell phone, he would have had no idea that the prostrated voice belonged to his wife.

  He stifled the choking emotions that welled up, “I’m on my way.” He managed an “I love you,” his
throat constricting. She mustered a feeble “OK, me too. See you.” It was as if those scant words sapped her. The phone went dead as she hung up.

  A man possessed, he yanked a hodgepodge of clothing on—jeans, a black t-shirt, an unbuttoned dress shirt, a brown and a black sock, his sneakers, all wrapped up by a suit coat and ran out the door. He got halfway to his car and then had to run back to his room for his car keys and his wallet.

  Seconds later, Cooper’s car was squealing out of the motel parking lot. His sedan spat gravel as he careened onto the town’s main road and headed towards the highway. He’d left everything else behind. He planned on calling the motel operator in the morning to make arrangements. It was just one of many plans he had that would never happen.

  ******

  The room lay swathed in the last, dying rays of sunlight as day slowly succumbed to night. Like the faltering sun, his wife was fading away. Gone was the vibrant and warm face he had fallen in love with from the moment he met her. It had been replaced by an ashen mockery. His wife’s face lost what little color the sun’s warmth had provided and wilted to gray. Her breath reminded him of his first car’s engine, complete with rattles, fits, and the fear that it might quit on you at any time. He sat a few feet away in an old, rickety wooden chair that Elena’s grandmother was rumored to have brought over from the old country, Romania. Knowing her family, it was just as likely something bought at a flea market on the cheap, with a good story added to give it some style.

  The chair groaned with relief when he rose. His bones grinded out their protest at being forced to move after hours of immobility. Cooper hadn’t yet reached forty, but the last forty-eight hours had aged him dearly. He recalled a friend’s favorite saying, “It ain’t the years, it’s the mileage that matters,” she’d said. Now, he understood the meaning of it. The last two days felt like a round-the-world trip in a busted up Model T.

  His feet shifted over a few feet to bring himself to the edge of the bed where his wife lay in a fitful rest. The worn, faded carpet underneath grated his feet like sandpaper. He looked down upon his wife, fearing what he might see. Over the past day, every hour had brought a seismic shift. It was if she was aging decades in hours. Faint lines had turned into deep crags in her face. Her hair had faded from a rich, beautiful black mane to a scraggly, matted tangle. The color had washed out. Her skin, which had been a fine shade of amber, now lay mottled. Her once full and firm breasts were now limp and sagging. Worst of all was her breathing. Gone was any semblance of the deep rise and fall of his wife’s chest when she slept.

  Her chest rose and fell in fits and starts. She had been coughing so often that he scarcely heard it any longer. When he did, he shuddered. The coughs shouted out in desperation. As they frantically tried to clear her lungs and empty them of their life-stealing phlegm, they must have known that they were failing and cried out in wretched protest. Just a few hours ago, in a moment of consciousness, she had croaked feebly to him, “I need air, more air.” His eyes filled with tears at the thought, both of his impending loss and of his bitter helplessness: hospitals overrun, no doctors available, and only his bedraggled nurse neighbor doing what little she could for those fallen ill. It was the same across the city, at every hospital and clinic. Some veterinarian offices were even rumored to be swamped with the sick, clamoring for aid.

  There was no doubt now. His wife was dying. It was cold comfort that everyone else seemed to be dying as well. Was it really only three days ago, he had risen from this same bed, kissed his wife goodbye, before going off to another week of work?

  ******

  Fresh from the shower, Cooper ambled downstairs, stepping lightly on the stairs to avoid waking his son. Nevertheless, one of the steps squeaked loudly and he grimaced in apprehension. He paused for a few moments, heard the contented breathing of Jake continue unabated and then descended. It was not the first time he smiled about his love-hate relationship with his old house, built in the early 1940s. He loved its style and character, but some of its quirks drove him crazy, too. He often joked, “This house was born during a war and it’s been a fighter every year since. I just wish I wasn’t its enemy these days!”

  He stepped onto the landing and scanned the living room to his right. Sure enough, the black, cast iron woodstove held a few dying embers that threw a shallow orange glow. He debated rekindling the fire, but decided against it. Two hours from now, the house would be empty with Elena off to work and Jake at school. Woodstoves were good for long-term heat, but not so efficient for the short. Instead, he turned the corner into the dining room. The solid oak table that occupied most of the room intimidated the rest of the house. It lay like a hulking battleship docked impressively in some nameless Third World nation’s capital harbor. The thing must have weighed over two hundred pounds. Cooper admired how it imparted solidity to their home.

  He paused here, as he usually did, and closed his eyes. He inhaled the coffee brewing in the automatic coffeemaker on the kitchen counter and the faint whiff of wood smoke from last night’s fire. He felt the wood flooring under his feet and reached out to touch the strong oak table. This is the way to wake up. I am a lucky man. He opened his eyes and smiled as a ray of sunlight caught his brown eyes.

  He continued to the kitchen, his bare feet shifting from amber-colored oak wood flooring to the green-speckled, and chilly, linoleum. A few minutes later, toast and coffee in hand he returned to the dining room table and put his cup and plate onto the table. He continued to his front door and opened it to retrieve his newspaper. He breathed the chilled morning air deep into his lungs. Cooper loved the fresh, yes; I am alive feeling that it gave him.

  He gazed out to his front yard. The trio of white birch trees stood as silent sentries watching over his yard. The blueberry bushes still lay leafless, as the season was stuck between the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Between the birches, a jogger was heading down Lincoln Street, twoard the forested park that was two blocks to the east of his home. Dressed in warm running clothes this season demanded in the Pacific Northwest, the jogger’s shoes made a distinct clip-clop, clip-clop on the sidewalk. A city bus chugged down the hill, heading west, the soft whine of its engine was a quiet contrast to the noise they made coming the opposite direction; when climbing the hill. He closed the door and made his way back to his waiting breakfast and newspaper.

  “Let’s see what we have today,” Cooper mumbled to himself as he opened the newspaper. He munched on his warm, wheat toast. Sipping the hot, black coffee, he relished the feeling of the warm liquid curling its way down his throat and into his stomach. Already, he could feel the caffeine coursing into his veins.

  The headlines covered the familiar topics these days. Unemployment. Tensions in the Middle East. Global Warming. Cooper read voraciously and quickly moved into the middle pages of the newspaper. His friend, Paul Dranko, who was a cynic and distrusted every institution ever made by man—be it government, religion, the military or the local PTA—always told him that’s where you could decipher some real news. Cooper had laughed him off when he’d told him that, but he couldn’t help but look at those pages a little more closely ever since. Over time, he’d seen the wisdom in his friend’s remarks.

  Today, nothing struck him as notable. There were about a dozen church members from Seattle returning from a retreat that were all hospitalized with flu-like symptoms. A brief article appeared about a huge military contract signed with Taiwan for US weapons—mostly aircraft and missile defense systems. Expectedly, Chinese officials were expressing their “deep disappointment” with the weapons sale. Another story showcased a local manufacturing company that was relocating its operations from Asia back to the United States due to the need for higher quality controls and stronger connection to its engineering and design team. “Wow, that should have been on the front page,” Cooper exclaimed to himself. Finishing his breakfast, he ended by reading the uplifting story of James Michaels, a former high school football star who’d been paralyzed while playing
and now was competing in the upcoming Para-Olympics. Some guys you just can’t keep down. He circled that story with a red marker and left it open on the table for Jake to read later. He was sure his son hated him for it, but Cooper never passed up an opportunity to impart an important life lesson to him.

  Twenty minutes later, he was dressed and heading out the door. Before doing so, he stopped in the doorway to his son’s room and gazed in. Swaddled up in several blankets, a fresh face with eyes closed, he breathed in effortless slumber. A lock of black hair hung down between his eyes. He caught a glimpse of red pajamas from under the bundle of blankets that held his boy. For years, Cooper had kissed him lightly on the cheek before leaving on his trips, but about six months ago, Jake had started waking up when he did so. So, Cooper now only peered in, welcoming the sight of his boy so calm and peaceful. Cooper smiled and pivoted to head out the door.

  He quickly deposited a Samsonite suitcase in the trunk of the diesel-powered VW sedan. Opening the door and getting in, he pitched the black leather soft briefcase onto the passenger seat. As he usually did, he looked back at his home before driving off. He loved his home and the people in it. He hated to leave it behind. He’d done much work on it over the last several years. He had certainly left sweat, tears, and even a little blood in her joints and boards. The green English Cottage style home seemed to agree and peered back at him with an accusatory glare. The dim morning light glinted off the phalanx of windows that faced him, each one looking like an eye with a cocked eyebrow—bent in reproach. “Yeah, yeah, I know lady. I’m a damned bum for leaving you, Elena, and my boy. But, someone’s gotta make that mortgage or we all leave you for good—so cut me some slack will ya?” He laughed at his own joke, as much to brace himself for the coming day of a long drive punctuated by service calls on his customers.