Brushfire Plague Page 7

  Cooper clicked the TV off. He could guess the rest. The Government is already working on a vaccine. Stay calm. Take care of those who are ill, but protect yourself.

  The spate of viruses over the last ten years had already told him everything he needed to know about this one. Except this one was worse. Much worse.

  He returned upstairs to resume his vigil, growing restless and impatient at his own impotence.

  ******

  He awoke with a start; surprised he’d fallen asleep. The sharp click of the front door’s old metal hardware sounded again as someone fumbled with the lock. The room was awash in the growing light of morning. Must be just after sunrise. The rush of adrenaline sent a surge throughout his body as he came to instant alertness. Better than coffee. He was up, across the room, and standing hard against the door frame, shotgun at the ready, and with a clear view of the landing downstairs. A few feet beyond his view, lay the front door. The door creaked open, allowing a wave of morning light to wash into his home and push the shadows further back.

  “It’s me, Dranko. You guys up,” he called into the house, before entering.

  Cooper relaxed, the gruff voice of his friend was unmistakable and remembering he’d given him a key. He replaced the shotgun against the wall, exhaled, and called down, his voice muted, “Yeah, up here. Jake’s still asleep.

  Moments later, Dranko came into view, holding two cups of steaming coffee. The aroma now hit Cooper and already he could feel the rush of caffeine in his veins.

  “I’ve got coffee and news. What do you want first?”

  After a quick look to make sure Elena’s IV was still in place and that Jake still slept, Cooper began descending the stairs. “You know me, business first. I’ll take the news.”

  They sat down at the dark-stained oak table, Cooper at the head and Dranko to his right. Cooper looked blankly down at the table, absently tracing a uniquely shaped grain with his forefinger, “Lisa says it doesn’t look good for Elena. That if she hasn’t recovered by now, that she won’t.”

  Dranko looked gravely at his friend, his eyebrows knotted up in sympathy, “Damn. I’m sorry brother.” He slid the mug of coffee across the table, into his friend’s hand.

  “You hear anything different? You hear about anyone recovering after being down more than forty-eight hours?” His voice was tentative and expectant, like a boy asking for a favor a father couldn’t grant. His eyes remained transfixed on the table.

  Dranko shook his head, “I wish I had. But, no. This thing burns out quick, one way or the other.” He hesitated and then continued, searching Cooper’s eyes, “Most times, it is the other,” he said gingerly.

  “Yeah, I know,” Cooper said heavily.

  Silence lingered for a moment. Cooper took a deep breath, brought himself erect, brushed a tear from his left eye, and met Dranko’s gaze. “Alright. I got things I have to do. I’ve got to keep Elena comfortable and I’ve got to protect my boy, Jake.”

  Dranko nodded in return, “You’re right about that. I got you. Anything you need, just say the word.”

  “Thanks. So, what news do you have?”

  “Not much you don’t know if you’ve turned on the TV for even a minute. This thing is bad and getting worse by the hour. What you won’t get off the tube is how bad it is. The entire healthcare system is overwhelmed, everywhere. Not just here, in America. Everywhere. This thing went global, almost overnight. Now, the funeral homes are overflowing, almost nonfunctional.”

  “The funeral homes? Already? Are you kidding me?”

  “No, I’m not. The TV news is actually grossly understating the numbers of dead.”

  “Really?” Cooper asked incredulously.

  “Yes. Really. But, the worst is that the chaos is growing. What happened yesterday with those teenagers, even what you dealt with at the grocery store were small potatoes. There are full blown riots happening in some cities, usually sparked anyplace there is food or medical care.”

  “So quick?”

  “This is a potent mix. We’ve never seen something like this. It’s moving so fast and killing so many, people are ripe for panic. I don’t think the cities are safe.”

  “What cities are rioting? Are they big or small?”

  “So far, it’s just been the big boys. New York. Chicago. LA. Oh, LA is bad. Yesterday, a crowd dragged a doctor from his car and beat him to death. The word is the doctor had been working forty-seven hours straight, but was trying to get home when word came in his wife was getting sick. Unfortunately, he didn’t take his white coat and tie off before going to the hospital parking lot. You can guess the rest.”

  “Where else?” Cooper commanded.

  “Miami. Dallas. Detroit. And, the Bay Area. Yeah, that’s all of the ones I’ve heard about.”

  “Well, the good news is that it’s only the bigger cities.”

  Dranko rolled his eyes in exasperation and grabbed his friend’s arm, “Yeah, for now. For now, brother. I’m telling you, the cities aren’t safe. This is why I came to see you. I think we should get out of here. I’ve got a place up near Mt. Hood. A small cabin, but I could fit you guys. It’s well stocked. Could hold us for months.”

  “Leave? When?”

  “I could be ready to go in an hour.”

  “Elena can’t travel.”

  “Elena is…”

  Cooper pushed his friend’s hand away, held up his finger, his voice clipped and his eyes burning sharp, “Don’t you say it. Don’t you dare.”

  Dranko bowed his head and shook it, “Yeah, OK. I got it. Just think about it is all I’m saying.” He brought his head back up, “We should do one thing this morning. We should go together to gas up our cars. I think the stations will be empty soon. That’s already happened in the cities where panic has set in. Whether you come with me or not, a full tank of gas will serve you well.”

  Cooper nodded, “Yeah, OK. That makes sense. But, we’ll need to be quick. I don’t want to be gone for long. He checked his watch, “Lisa should be back in a few minutes, to check the IV. I can see if she can look after Jake for a few.”

  Dranko straightened up to leave, “Alright. I’ll be ready to go. Just honk when you’re out front. We can go to the Union Station on 39th.”

  ******

  He pulled up alongside the curb, the hundred-year-old cement chipped off in numerous places along the curb in front of Dranko’s house. His house was just a few doors down from his own, on the same side of 58th. He pumped the deep-throated GMC horn a few times and then waited for Dranko. To reassure himself, he fingered his holstered pistol and confirmed that he had the two magazine holder clipped to the opposite side of his body on his belt. His shotgun lay on the seat next to him, still fully loaded with 00 Buckshot. Movement caught his eye and he looked up.

  Instead of Dranko coming to join him from several houses further up the street, he saw old Mrs. Ferguson exit her front door and begin walking about her yard. She wore a loosely buttoned housecoat, its flap catching the breeze. Her thin, stork-like legs were bare. Only her left foot was ensconced in a fuzzy yellow slipper. Her right foot tramped about in the wet grass of her finely manicured lawn. Transfixed, Cooper kept watching her. She ambled about, going from one clump of flowers to another, bending down, and then walking to the next. Cooper noticed she was moving in a wide-arced circle about her yard, aimless.

  Watching her, his face revealed a deep furrow of concern by the time Dranko’s house door banged wood on wood and he emerged. He’d always hated Dranko’s screen door. It would often disturb a peaceful summer night or a deep thought with its loud clanging and clatter. Dranko clambered down his driveway, and leaned his head into the cab.

  “You ready?”

  “Sure thing. But take a look down the way. I think Mrs. Ferguson is in trouble. Something ain’t right.” Dranko pivoted his head and gave her a quick once over for a few seconds.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Why don’t you pull up, I’ll be right behind you in the Jeep.” He turned back
toward his driveway and the parked brown, battered, Jeep Wagoneer that Dranko somehow kept running. It’s formerly metallic paint was now chipped, almost beyond recognition. Oxidization had further taken its toll. Instead of a shiny metallic hue, the Jeep was coated in a mottled splotch of varying shades of brown. Watching Dranko clamber in, Cooper remembered that the Jeep still had an operable 8-track player. Dranko had only one tape left, a well-worn copy of KC and the Sunshine Band. Whenever they went somewhere in it, Dranko would lament the age of the tape and how he had to take care of it, allowing himself only one song per trip.

  Cooper put his truck back into gear and moved up the street toward Mrs. Ferguson. She did not look up nor break her stride as he pulled up. He got out of his truck and walked in front of his truck towards her.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Ferguson,” he called out.

  Startled, she stopped suddenly in her tracks, and almost fell over. He quickly stepped in to catch her and stabilized her. “You alright? It’s a little chilly to be out dressed like you are.”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine. Harry. Harry just needs some flowers right now.” Cooper caught how her voice caught on her husband’s name.

  “Is Harry alright?”

  “He’s fine. He’s fine. He just needs some flowers. That’s all.” She resumed her haphazard stumbling around the yard.

  Dranko had pulled up and was leaning out his window. Cooper continued, “Mrs. Ferguson, is it alright if Paul goes and checks on Harry for you?”

  “Sure, sure. But, I told you, he just needs some flowers.”

  Cooper nodded to Dranko, who exited the Jeep and entered the Ferguson’s home. It was an English cottage style home, much like Cooper’s, except it had a little more Tudor thrown in for good measure. The dark gray paint was accented with white trim. The Ferguson’s home was compact and sat squarely on its finely landscaped yard. A scattering of white, blue, and red tulips lay in various clumps. The other flower beds were dormant, waiting for the planting of an annual or the sprouting of a perennial. Cooper watched Mrs. Ferguson ramble about in silence, waiting for Dranko to come and tell him what he already knew.

  Moments later, Dranko came out. He shook his head quickly at Cooper and then raised his voice for Mrs. Ferguson’s benefit, “You were right, Harry’s fine. Just waiting for some flowers. Why don’t you bring him the red ones?” He motioned with his left hand to a clutch of red tulips.

  She snapped out of her frantic trance, “Ah, that’s a nice boy, Paul. Always full of good ideas.” She bent over and pulled the tulips from the ground, using her bare foot to provide leverage. Muttering under her breath, but smiling widely, she went back inside her door.

  Cooper and Dranko moved toward the truck. Cooper said what was on both their minds, “I suspect we’ll see more of this. Shock. On a mass scale. Anyone with the faintest hint of a feeble or weak mind may just well slide over into shock, or worse.”

  “Yeah. Harry looks like he’s been dead through the night. The sunrise must have put her on this mission of finding flowers for him.”

  “We’ll need to come back later and check on her, and hopefully be able to take care of the body. But, first, she will have to accept that he’s passed on.”

  Chapter 7

  Cooper jostled as he drove down the road in the pickup. Those shocks needed to be replaced 50,000 miles ago. He could make out Dranko in his rearview mirror. Deep furrows around his eyebrows, firm, thin-set lips, and a tight grip on the steering wheel, both hands. He’s nervous about this run to the gas station. Of course, Dranko was nervous and careful about most things. He did tell me to come ‘strapped, heavy’. From someone like Dranko, that spoke volumes.

  Cooper saw a light blue Honda Civic approaching from the opposite direction. The Civic lurched suddenly to the right, to the far lane and further away from Cooper’s GMC. As the two cars passed one another, Cooper could see the driver and into the front seat of the Civic. The driver was a woman, likely in her twenties, a blonde with her hair yanked back into a hasty ponytail. She wore a tight-fitting black athletic top. Her window was down and the cold air blowing in likely made her regret not wearing a coat. Her face was hard, lips curled up into a snarl, and eyes squinted nearly shut. As she passed, he saw the barrel of a shotgun poke just above the rolled down window, covering him as she passed. From the receiving end, the barrel looked enormous, like the bore of a twelve pounder he’d seen as a child on the USS Constitution in Boston. Well, ain’t that the shit. The incongruity of an otherwise attractive blonde in a Honda Civic rolling down Division Street with a shotgun trained on him was startling. It wasn’t until several seconds later that he realized he had reflexively grabbed his pistol with his right hand, where it still stood, ready for action. He smiled to himself, chuckled, and re-holstered it.

  Up ahead, he saw the line. At least fifteen cars were queued up in front of the Union 76 station. Immediately in front of him was a convertible, black Porsche, top down. In this weather? Are you still showing off with everything that is going on? A middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair, and wearing a high-tech North Face jacket was behind the wheel. Immediately, Cooper saw the large, shiny Heckler and Koch stainless steel pistol lying boldly in the passenger seat. Guy likes German, I guess. Beyond the Porsche was an orange van, full size, paint peeling, and rust getting the better half of the wheel wells. He could only see one arm of the van’s driver, perched firmly on the door sill, meaty and hairy. Cooper glanced up, into the rearview.

  Having parked and run up, Dranko was already at his side. “Did you see the girl’s scattergun in the Civic?”

  “Course. Porsche-guy has a pistol in the passenger seat. I guess Sunday drive has taken on a whole new meaning, huh?”

  “Yeah, I’ll say,” Dranko responded.

  “Makes sense. With this plague running around, no one wants anyone getting too close.”

  “Except for those of us who don’t believe in the tooth fairy and understand we’ve probably already been exposed,” Dranko responded.

  Cooper nodded in response, lips pursed in agreement.

  “Well, let’s get ready to wait. Give me a honk if you need anything.” Dranko ran back to his Jeep. Two cars had finished at the pumps and pulled away. Slowly, like a continuously dissected snake, the cars moved forward, separated, and then rejoined.

  As time passed, Cooper noticed the man in the Porsche continuously glancing at his watch and growing increasingly agitated. Thirty minutes into their wait, they’d only made it halfway to the pumps. The man in the Porsche began beating furiously on his steering wheel and shouting obscenities into the wind. I’ll need to keep an eye on him. After he spent his rage, he settled back into a pensive wait, tapping his fingers and looking about anxiously. He also closed the convertible top, so Cooper lost sight of him. Maybe he’ll warm up and get his brain working again.

  Finally, after another half-hour, they approached the pumps. The van pulled up, with the Porsche close behind. The station was down to one pump, the other having already run dry.

  An overweight young man wearing faded blue jeans and a green University of Oregon sweatshirt, a pimply face and greasy black hair, emerged from the van and began filling it. He was unshaven and absently munched on a half-full bag of Cheetos. He shuffled his red Converse-clad feet to the time of a song playing on his iPod.

  Moments later, the gas pump emitted a loud shnick as the pump automatically shut off. The man must have heard it too, despite the iPod, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. He walked over to the pump and tried re-engaging the handle to no avail. He tried it again. He began looking more confused and then replaced the handle onto the pump and then tried swiping his credit card again. He had barely taken the handle back in hand when the door on the Porsche flew open wildly, banging loudly against its hinges. The driver sprang out of his car, his face contorted.

  “Hold on, just a minute. What the hell do you think you’re doing,” he shouted at the man at the pump.

  He moved back toward his van an
d reinserted the nozzle back into the gas tank, “Just trying it out again. It stopped way too early. I’m not full.”

  The Porsche man gesticulated in wide arcs, which is when Cooper noticed the pistol imprinting on his shirt, near the small of his back. Uh-oh. “No, you don’t. No you don’t. Today, my friend, you get one turn at the pump. One turn. Don’t you see this long line? One turn!”

  The overweight man continued fiddling with the pump’s handle as he considered the man’s words, staring back.

  “Didn’t you hear me, you fat fuck? Move on, right now! I’ve got a sick wife at home I have to get to.” Mr. Porsche was screaming now, veins bulging red on his neck and spittle flying from his mouth.

  Cooper silently opened the door of his pickup and slid off the seat. His feet ghosted silently onto the pavement. He kept the door between him and the other men. His right hand held his pistol, low and at the ready, but out of sight. With his left, he motioned Dranko to the opposite side of the pickup.

  The overweight man took a step back and put his hands up in a calming, open-palmed gesture. “Alright dude, just calm down. Calm down. I’ll move along. I think this pump is dry anyway.”

  Mr. Porsche exploded, “Empty? Dry? Are you kidding me? You goddamned bastard! You used all the gas. I need some gas. You hogged it all with your huge van just like you hog food with your huge fat ass! People like you don’t deserve to walk around hogging everything for yourself.” He took another step towards the overweight man and reached for his pistol.