Brushfire Plague Page 6

  That second was all that Cooper needed. In near unison, Cooper and Dranko drew their pistols and trained them on their opponents. By the time the leader’s head turned back toward Cooper, he was staring down the barrel of a pistol.

  “Drop it, now!”

  Caught flat-footed, he complied, somewhat in shock.

  “Now, tell Blondie to slowly put his on the ground. And, tell the one in the pickup to slowly pitch the rifle out the passenger side window. Or, your friends will get to see what a round of .357 will do to a young man’s head.”

  The teen leader grimaced, “Rick, do as he says.” Raising his voice, “Smartie, do as he says. Do it slow!”

  The blonde lifted a snub-nose revolver out from behind his waist-band, slowly, with two tentative fingers holding the grip. He pitched it a few feet in front of Cooper and it landed in a pile of damp, brown leaves. From the side of his vision, he saw the rifle emerge from the pickup’s cab. The walnut stocked, lever action was then flung into the hydrangea bush that bordered Cooper’s yard.

  “OK, good. We are going to keep these because you owe me for a can of peaches. My wife really likes peaches. But, because I’m a nice guy, we are going to let you keep your pickup and drive off. You can go enjoy the rest of the day.”

  Dismissed, the leader began to turn around and the teens began to move back toward the pickup.

  Cooper’s words brought them to a dead halt, “Oh, and one more thing. If we see any of you on this street again, you will not receive a ‘good morning’ as a greeting. You will receive a bullet. Right between the eyes. No warning, no second chances. Got it?”

  The leader nodded and gave him a half, angry upturned smile in response. Cooper saw something dark and angry behind those eyes. This guy likes angry. He clambered into the cab through the passenger door, slammed it with loud clunk, and barked at the driver, “Move it, dumbass!” Their white pickup roared all eight cylinders, squealed rubber, as they raced down the hill.

  Dranko came to his side, “Good work, brother. I thought we were gonna have to let the lead fly. How’d you think that old ‘man behind you’ trick would work, anyway?”

  “Simple. Three things. They were young. Afraid. And, on our turf. With all that, the power of suggestion can be very, ah, persuasive.” Cooper smiled sardonically.

  Dranko smiled, “And how, pray tell, did you come up with Frank?”

  As Cooper turned to humor to unload the stress they had just gone through, forced mirth filled his voice, “Easy. Guys this young, the name ‘Frank’ makes them think of their uncle or their grandfather. That adds a bit more fear and a dollop of credibility to the ruse.”

  Dranko let loose a loud bellow of laughter, “Cooper, damn you’re good. It’s no wonder I can never win a dollar from you in our poker games!”

  “I’m glad you agree with my mother that I’m wonderful. Now, let’s police these weapons and get these supplies inside. As he turned his attention back toward the pickup, he noticed a dozen or so neighbors emerging from their doorways, having watched the confrontation play out, and coming out now that danger had passed. He noticed that Hank Hutchison did indeed have an ancient, half-rusty double-barreled shotgun clutched in his hands.

  Cooper raised his voice so everyone could hear him, “Everything’s OK. Everything’s alright. Take care of yourselves, but keep a sharp eye out. If you have a gun, keep it handy. We don’t know what else might come down our road here.”

  Not eager to come together, the neighbors nodded various agreements and turned back to their homes.

  Cooper picked the revolver, a .38 special, the kind that police detectives routinely carried thirty years ago before the compact automatics made by Glock and others came to dominate. It was in good condition, with only some surface rust in a few spots. Cooper guessed that the boy had fished it out of his father’s closet or dresser drawer. Dranko picked up the rifle and gave it a cursory examination, “Cooper, this is a nice 30-30 Marlin lever action.” The rifle’s steel looked brand new and its deep brown walnut stock bore only a few nicks. Cooper bent down and brushed a few leaves off of the pistol. It was a 9mm Glock, also in very good condition.

  Cooper turned to go back inside, and saw Jake clustered in the doorway, one knee bent, and holding onto the door. Cooper gave him a wide smile, “Things are OK now, son. You did well by warning us. Next time, though, I need you to tell me as soon as you see anything fishy, OK?”

  Jake looked up, eyes full of concern, “Yeah, I know I waited a few seconds too long.”

  Cooper nodded, patted his son on the head, and got to work.

  ******

  Less than twenty minutes later, they had unloaded the supplies into Cooper’s kitchen and basement. They enlisted Hank Hutchison from across the street to stand post with his shotgun, while they hustled the provisions inside. Cooper grimaced each time a car or pedestrian passed by. He knew it wasn’t good to have others know that he had some stockpiled food and supplies in his home. However, the alternative—to wait until nightfall—did not strike him as a better option. Fortunately, only a handful of cars passed by and only two pedestrians. On a normal day, the traffic would have been five times as heavy.

  When they were finished, Cooper tossed Hutchison the recently acquired .38 revolver. His eyes lit up with surprise, but he adeptly caught it in his right hand.

  “Thanks neighbor. I saw how you were eyeing the thing. You used to be on the force, right?”

  “Retired, after forty-two years. I used to carry one just like it. Some street punk lifted it about twenty years ago. Hell, I probably have a few boxes of shells for it some where’s.”

  “Well, it’s yours. Thanks for your help.”

  “Anytime, neighbor.” Inspecting the revolver, he ambled back across the street, shuffling his feet the way old men do when the thought of a fall and broken bones scares them as bad as a Friday night without a woman did when they were younger.

  Good man. Solid. Seen action, too. Maybe long ago, but your body never forgets.

  Turning back towards Dranko, “We need to remember, he’s been on the business end of bad guys in the past.” Dranko merely grunted in affirmation.

  ******

  The night passed in fits. Cooper stood watch over both Elena, still feverish and restless in her bed, and Jake, who was sprawled at the foot of his mother’s bed, collapsed in exhaustion. Cooper watched, tormented, as his son’s sleep became fitful, limbs thrashing, and his voice whimpering. Cooper could only guess at the nightmares gripping his son. He reached out to comfort him, but bit down sharply on his lip to prevent himself from waking him. He knew from his own hard won experience that sleep, even when punctuated by terror, was better than no sleep at all.

  He patted his wife’s brow with a damp rag, a fool’s errand to quench the sticky hot fire burning within. He helped her sip water whenever he could rouse her to do so. Her lips were now dry, raw and chapped, sure signs of dehydration. Her face looked like a desert, barren. Almost lifeless. She hadn’t eaten and it was impossible to get enough water into her. Lisa had promised to return in the morning and get her onto an IV.

  Cooper slept off and on, in ten or twenty minute snatches. Casting a long, dark sinister shadow, his black synthetic-stocked Remington 12-gauge shotgun lay propped against the wall, within arm’s length. He had gathered it, and a box of shells, from his gun safe. After today’s events, Cooper was taking no chances. I’m glad I have the home defense model with the extra two-shell capacity. He had loaded it with 00 Buckshot; each shell holding nine large pellets that would devastate anyone they hit. He remembered reading how getting hit with a shell of Buckshot was like getting shot with nine rounds from a submachine gun. His pistol remained on his hip, holstered.

  ******

  In the early morning, while it was still dark out, after inserting the IV attached to a bag of saline solution, Lisa pulled him aside. She looked like death warmed over, hair ragged and oily, face streaked with worry lines, and dark shadows firmly set beneath her
eyes. He knew she’d barely rested since this had all started. Even so, she had enough compassion left to remember to put her hand on his shoulder as she whispered.

  “Prepare yourself.” Her words hit him like a two by four across the temple. In disbelief, he craned his neck to look her in the eye. “Get ready, Cooper. I’ve seen enough of this thing by now. People either recover quickly, within no more than forty-eight hours, or…” She paused, the fatigue and emotion getting the best of her and tears welling up.

  “Or, what?” he demanded, his face tightening.

  “They don’t.” She wiped her eyes, each in turn, with her left hand. “I’m sorry,” she muttered as she escaped the room.

  Anger flashed hard across his face. He crashed his balled up fists into his legs with a furious and stifled “No!” He did not want to wake Jake, who still slept soundly just a few feet away. Damn this! This isn’t supposed to be happening! She can’t die. She’s the best one at raising our boy. I can’t do it alone. For the next half hour Cooper paced the room in frantic circles. Praying for God’s help and cursing Him for allowing this to be happening in the first place.

  He kept a sharp watch on his wife and his son. The contrast could not have been more startling. On the bed lay his wife, barely moving now. Her breath came in labored, shallow heaves that required far more effort than they seemed to yield in benefit. Her color was draining away fast. Elena had always had such a firm, warm glow to her skin. Now, it seemed to waver before his eyes, emitting a weak sallow cast. This morning was the first time he smelled it too. The odor was a mix of three day old sweat, phlegm, and bits of stale food. It did not assault or offend Cooper; it merely was a dull reminder that something was very wrong in his world. And, it was something he could do nothing about. As he sat watching, his mind drifted to another time when his efforts had been useless in staying the hand of Fate.

  ******

  Cooper ambled into the prison visitation room, like he had done so many times before. The cold from the concrete floor seeped into his body, despite the double layer of wool socks he had donned that morning. His body shook for a moment from the chill. As he slumped into the plastic chair, he looked up to see his father on the opposite side of the glass partition. The visage that greeted him was shocking.

  It had only been three months since he last visited his father. From the way he looked, it may well have been a decade. He had watched in grim worry over the last three years how his father had aged since being sent to prison. What he saw today was vastly different. It was decay.

  His father’s eyes wore puffed, dark circles underneath. The sparkle had left them. Worse, they drooped. Stark white stubble had overtaken what had been an ongoing war between salt and pepper on his face. His face was stretched thin, gaunt. His shoulders humped forward, a demoralizing contrast to his always-proud posture of confidence.

  Trance-like his father’s arm loped to the phone on the side of the dim gray wall and wrenched the receiver from its cradle. He lazily brought it to his ear. Cooper retrieved the phone that lay on his side of the glass and cement cubicle.

  “Morning, son,” his father mumbled. The voice didn’t belong to his father. It was weak, gruff, and hard to understand. His father’s had been a booming baritone that was clear and resounding. His father’s voice was one that people would sit up and listen to when he spoke; even those who disagreed with his words.

  “Good morning, Papa. How are you?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Cooper regretted them. He felt as if he’d just asked a man who lay sick in a hospital bed how his health was doing.

  A corner of his father’s mouth cocked upward and bloodshot eyes rose from looking down and stared deep into his son’s eyes, “I’m beat, son. Pure and simple. They got me.” Tears piled down his father’s face.

  Hearing his father say words that confirmed his appearance was too much. The emotion he had held back since seeing his battered father sprung forth. His eyes overflowed and he tried to wipe them away with the sleeve of his cotton twill shirt. He couldn’t look at his father.

  “Look up at me, boy,” his father commanded. Cooper wiped his sleeve furtively across his brow and meekly looked up.

  “You’re gonna have to be a man now, you hear me? I won’t last in this forsaken place until I can see you again.”

  “No, Papa! It can’t be!” Cooper shouted shrilly into the phone, his eyes pleading with his father.

  His father looked down for a moment and then back up, “I wish it wasn’t true, but I won’t lie to you, son. My spirit is broken and my body nearly so.”

  Cooper moaned miserably as his father continued, “I hope I taught you a bit about what it means to be a man. Did I?” Cooper nodded slowly, straightening up.

  “Good, that makes me feel a little better. You’re going to have to be strong for your mother, OK? I won’t worry about her knowing you’ll take care of her, alright?”

  Cooper never could recall the rest of the conversation. His father died a week later and the grief overwhelmed the memory. The doctor said his father’s ‘heart gave out.’ Cooper knew that wasn’t true. It’d been smashed to bits by deceit that had led to the suffocating prison’s walls.

  That day had always been the most helpless of Cooper’s life. Today was the first time he’d ever felt more so.

  Chapter 6

  Jake lay soundly asleep in a pile of brown and red wool blankets at the foot of his mother’s bed. His face was peaceful. His breath was measured and assured. His skin glowed golden. He had inherited the stronger hue of his mother’s Mexican and Gypsy ancestors. He lay curled up into a ball, his small arms cradling his head. Black curls framed his face, red lips puffing slightly as he breathed in and out.

  Elena offered a picture of a devastating illness, while he gave a portrait of vitality and health. The contradiction overwhelmed Cooper. He needed refuge from the stark reminder of his wife fading away.

  He stepped lightly downstairs and turned on the television.

  “…fourteen dead in the small town of Independence. Doctors there report similar symptoms and outcomes as we have heard from other locations. After these messages, we will have reports for the Portland Metro region and give you the latest updates on the Brushfire Plague.”

  He tuned out the commercials, except to find one so morbid it was impossible to ignore, an ad running for a cruise line vacation to the Mexican Riviera. His thoughts ran bitter, even in the midst of a national crisis, Madison Avenue is still trying to separate us from our wallets? I wonder what pharmaceutical company will buy the naming rights to ‘Brushfire Plague’?

  “Thank you for turning to KGW for all of your information needs at this critical time. Despite our own staffing shortages due to the illness, we remain Portland’s Number One News Source. Now, I would like to welcome, Dr. Martin Long, Chief Public Health Officer with the Multnomah County Health Department. Welcome, Dr. Long.”

  “Yes, thank you. I should correct you, though. I’m the Deputy Assistant Public Health Officer. Both the Chief and the Deputy Chief are currently unavailable.” Dr. Martin Long looked like a no nonsense type. He wore his hair close cropped. It was black with substantial streaks of gray. His thin lips were set into a firm face that looked like it had been carved from granite with a sharp chisel.

  “Pardon me, Doctor. My notes had not been updated. My assistant is, ah, out of work.” You mean sick or dead, don’t you, Mr. Newscaster, Cooper opined darkly.

  Dr. Long nodded sympathetically toward the newscaster, who continued, “But, let’s get right to it. Our viewers, I am sure, want the latest update on the Brushfire Plague. What do we know and what can people do to protect themselves?”

  “Sure. The truth is that we do not know enough. The illness is moving with such speed that we have simply lacked ample time to conduct the rigorous tests and evaluations that we normally conduct…”

  “Yes, yes, Doctor,” the newscaster interrupted, “We understand all that. Just tell us what we do know or at least give us you
r best guess.”

  “Yes, sure thing. Here are the facts that we are aware of. So far, there have been just over twenty thousand deaths in the Portland Metr….”

  “Twenty thousand?” the newscaster gasped. There goes journalistic calm. “Just last night the report was of only a few thousand!”

  Dr. Long barely could hide his irritation at the newsman’s lack of composure. Dr. Long was on the air to put oil on the waters and calm things. “Yes, twenty thousand. While that is indeed a tragically high number, I want to remind your viewers that we have over two million people living in this region so, the numbers are less than one percent of the population.”

  The newscaster slumped in his chair. “Yes, go on please Doctor.”

  “We also know that there are at least tens of thousands, perhaps more than a few hundred thousand, additional people infected by this virus in the Portland area. The virus still appears to be spreading very quickly and the morbidity rate is alarming indeed.” Cooper read between the lines. They either don’t know or aren’t sharing the number of infected and the likelihood of death if you get it.

  With each word, the anchorman’s face fell further. He must be sleep deprived like everyone else. Or, maybe he’s just feeling the weight of the entire city’s crisis since he has to report it all. “In sum, the situation is grim and likely getting worse. I get it. Why don’t we turn to what people can do to protect themselves,” he responded tersely.

  “Of course. First, we are fortunate here in Oregon. We have one of the nation’s leading biotech companies, Admonitus, right here in Portland. CEO Ethan Mitchell has been working closely with our department in getting to the bottom of this plague and a possible cure. Second, we are recommending that people avoid contact with anyone who has the illness. We recommend that all public places be avoided. Who hasn’t been exposed by now? Such nonsensical advice. Normal masks are mostly useless against viruses anyway. “In fact, the Mayor has signed a Special City Ordinance outlawing all public gatherings. This is especially important to those who have, thus far, avoided exposure to anyone who is ill. The National Guard has already been mobilized, so food and water distribution will be done in a manner consistent with the order to avoid public gatherings. As always, good hygiene is our best defense against spreading the disease. So, please continue washing your hands with warm soapy water.”