Brushfire Plague Page 9

  After what seemed like an eternity, the laughter subsided, defeated by tired lungs and aching abdominal muscles.

  “Damn, we needed that,” Cooper said, still panting to catch his breath, and wiping his chin and face with a napkin. He used it to dry the tears of laughter from his eyes. Smiling, Dranko and Jake both nodded in understanding.

  Cooper went into the kitchen, grabbed the pot of coffee and two mugs. “Why don’t you get some milk,” he said to Jake. He waited for him to return with a mug filled to the brim with milk.

  When he came back, the levity had quickly drained from the room, “We need to take your mother to the funeral home today.”

  Jake looked at him over the top of the ceramic mug emblazoned with “Keep Portland Weird,” eyes focused and unflinching.

  “Dranko, can you help?”

  “Of course.”

  “Son, it’s your decision if you want to come with us or not. I know it very well may be dangerous. Things have changed. A lot.”

  “You mean, like the grocery store?”

  “Yes, like that, but getting worse. It would be safer for you to…”

  Jake interrupted him, “I want to go, Dad.” His gaze was firm. Cooper was taken aback by the adult eyes he saw across the table. The wide, creamy white milk mustache above his son’s lip made them stand out in stark relief.

  “Alright. Why don’t you change your clothes and be ready in five?”

  ******

  Ten minutes later they were headed toward Fuhrmann’s funeral home in Dranko’s Jeep. He had helped Cooper wrap Elena’s body in the blankets she had died on and move her to the cargo area of the Wagoneer. Cooper had muttered a few more words of goodbye and kissed her forehead gently. He would never forget how cold she was on his lips. A chill ran down his spine and his shoulders harshly shivered at the discord to how she’d felt in life.

  Cooper was in the backseat, one arm stretched over it, and holding onto her body. He was mortified at the thought of hitting a bump and her body bouncing into the air. His shotgun lay on the seat next to him and his pistol was holstered on his hip. Jake was in the passenger seat, back ramrod as he stared down the road. Cooper had noticed how he had assiduously avoided ever laying eyes upon his mother wrapped up in the cloth. Dranko was at the wheel, both hands gripping it tightly. Cooper knew he had his rifle on the seat between them and a sidearm on him as well. The crisp morning air billowed in from the half open windows.

  Cooper noticed the distinct smell of things burning. It was not the welcome, nostalgic-inducing smell of wood smoke from a fireplace that greeted their nostrils. Fortunately, he only strongly smelled the stink of rubber and plastic burning. Cars. More faintly, he smelled the earthiness of wood smoke, but it was mixed with the tang of plastic and other things that should be not burned. A house, but not close by.

  “You guys smell that,” Dranko asked, breaking his concentration.

  Jake nodded silently up front. Cooper responded, “Sure do. Let’s keep our eyes open. Jake, give a yell if you see anything.” Jake nodded and began actively scanning outside the Jeep.

  Traffic was light on the boulevard. The Subaru from the other day was still there, but the fire had gone out, leaving it charred and black. The liquor store had been ransacked. A layer of shattered, glittering glass coated the sidewalk in front. A dozen or so broken bottles lay scattered about the parking lot. Inside, the store was a chaos of tipped over shelves, broken bottles, and scattered newspapers.

  A few doors down, the wine store lay unharmed, without a scratch on its large picture window or its door.

  “Just goes to show that wine drinkers are more civilized,” Dranko quipped with a poorly done mock English accent.

  “Nah. I think it shows that Monsieur Shotgun enjoys his vino and is willing to protect it,” Cooper said motioning Dranko’s attention back to the store. A frenzied shop owner, brandishing a Remington 870 police-style shotgun, had emerged from the shadows as they drove past. When his eyes locked with Cooper’s, for just a second, Cooper was stunned.

  The man looked haunted. His tired eyes were set deep, dark circles under them. He had a scruffy gray beard, just a few days old. The gray beard blended with the white paper surgical mask he wore. The mask was dirty and looked tattered. His hair was disheveled and unkempt. Cooper had noticed that when he came to the storefront, his feet were unsteady and his legs wobbling.

  “He’s either sick or dead-on-his-feet tired. I hope he has someone else to watch the store with…”

  “Else, he’s just a tired wildebeest and the lions are waiting for him to nap,” Dranko interjected.

  They continued down the street. As a handful of cars passed them they saw a motley collection of firearms and other weapons in several cars. Mostly, they were pistols and shotguns. However, as an old, yellow, beat up and rusted VW bus drove by, Dranko let out a low whistle.

  “Will you look at that!”

  The passenger was a man in his thirties, long flowing blonde hair, striking features. He was dressed in a green plaid kilt, without a shirt, and the kilt gathered at his shoulder with a dull gray metal broach. In his hands was clutched the biggest sword Cooper had ever seen. The tip reached outside the rolled down window.

  “What is that?”

  “I think it’s what our good friends the Scots called a Claymore, a traditional fighting sword,” Dranko responded.

  “It must be three feet long!” Cooper exclaimed.

  As the two vehicles passed, the occupants all turned to look at one another. The driver was a beautiful woman, also in her thirties. Her brown hair was well done, with bits of ribbon and small brass bells woven in. She wore a tight fitting, brown, English woolen peasant-style dress. Her face was rocked with worry and she was holding onto the steering wheel so tightly, her knuckles were white. The passenger raised his sword just a bit and glared at them with wide open eyes and barred teeth.

  Cooper almost burst out laughing, but restricted himself to a curt smile, “Do you think he’s trying to menace us?”

  “Me dothinks!” Dranko retorted.

  “Ren Faire run amok,” Cooper said, referring to the oft-staged Renaissance Faires where people re-enacted various scenes and events from the Middle Ages.

  They drove in silence the rest of the way to the funeral home. When it came into view, Cooper immediately wished that he had left Jake at home.

  Fuhrmann’s funeral home loomed large in front of them several hundred yards further down the road. The parlor had been converted from a large, two story early Victorian. The dark, blue-gray paint was highlighted with the scallops painted copper and the trim in a deep silver. The house sat on an acre of pristine emerald grass, finely groomed. A massive oak tree was perfectly positioned in the middle of the lawn, its limbs thick as a man, reaching skyward.

  There were several cars lined up in front of the home and a man in a white lab coat stood out front with a clip board. As they pulled in, Cooper could see that he had a pencil thin mustache and his hair was slicked back. He wore blue latex gloves and had an industrial grade mask with filters on either side attached firmly to his face. He was shaking his head vigorously back and forth to a woman standing in front of him. She had inclined her head towards him in a half bow, and clasped her hands in front of her, fingers locked together.

  He waved his hand firmly and appeared to shout at her, but they could not hear anything due to the distance and his mask.

  Sobbing deeply, the woman turned back towards her car, got in and drove away. Cooper saw the unmistaken shape of a body wrapped up in a flower bedecked drapery lying in her backseat.

  “I wonder what the hell is going on here,” Dranko asked himself.

  “I’m going to find out. Jake, you stay here with Dranko.”

  Cooper’s feet hit the pavement, even before the Jeep had completely stopped. Cooper strode up just as another man was getting in his car to drive away.

  The clipboard wielding man had a smug look on his face as he scribbled some notes
down. He didn’t see Cooper’s fast approach.

  “What’s going on here?” Cooper demanded.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” He looked up in surprise from the clipboard.

  “You heard me. What is going on here? Are you turning these people away?”

  Recovering from his momentary surprise, a wry smile reappeared on his face as deliberately shifted the clipboard in his hands, “That depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “On who is coming to seek our services.”

  Cooper was already weary of this man’s coy attitude. His fists clenched, “Just what does that mean?”

  “Well, you may have noticed that there is an overwhelming need for our services at the current time. Our ability to process remains in a safe and efficient manner, while meeting the quality standards that Fuhrmann’s has maintained for generations, is quite limited. So, under these circumstances, we are only able to meet the needs of our pre-paid customers at this time.”

  Cooper’s head swam amidst the prepackaged sales pitch, “Pre-paid what?”

  “Our pre-paid customers, sir. Those foresighted individuals who have made pre-arranged funeral plans for their loved ones in the event of someone becoming deceased. Are you one of those customers?” The man’s self-assured smile said he knew the question was only rhetorical.

  Rage flashed and Cooper slammed the man up against a pearly white column, his forearm across the man’s throat. The clipboard hit the ground with a loud clatter, the papers rustling in a sudden breeze.

  “No, I’m not. But, what I do have are the remains of my wife who died this morning and you’re going to give her a proper burial. I’ll pay whatever the charges are, but it’s going to be done!”

  “I’m afraid I c-c-can-not do that. We need to keep our spaces open for our P-P-Pre-Paid customers only,” the man stuttered in fear.

  Cooper pressed firmly with his forearm and the man began choking, “How about I pull your gas mask off? Will that change your mind you pompous ass!”

  “I ca-nnnn-not do anything…p-p-o-li-cy.” He choked out between shallow breaths.

  Cooper flushed with rage. He moved in closer to bring his eyes just a scant inch from the other man’s. Losing control, he drew his pistol and buried the muzzle against the man’s temple. “Damn you! Don’t you understand anything? My wife just died. I loved her since I laid eyes on her. My son is here. She needs a proper burial, you bastard!” The man cried out in pain and began whimpering.

  From behind, an iron grip tore Cooper’s pistol away from the man’s head. Another hand gripped him around the belt, restricting his movement. “Ease up, brother.” Dranko’s quiet, calm voice rang louder than a gunshot in his ear.

  Cooper regained himself. He now caught sight of two black-clad men standing outside the funeral parlor’s main entrance, one with a shotgun and the other with a military-style AR-15. Both guns were leveled at Cooper. Both wore mirror finish aviator sunglasses that video games and soldier of fortune magazine made popular with the wannabe soldier crowd. Cooper had little doubt they were ill trained with their weapons. But, at this range, it wouldn’t matter.

  “You’d be wise to heed your friend’s words,” the one on the left, slightly taller than the other, said.

  Cooper eased up on the other man’s throat and slowly raised his hands above his head. “Alright, I get it.”

  The man leaned down, picked up his clipboard from the ground. He made a grand gesture of straightening his clothes and brushing himself off.

  “You,” his voice was shaky. He cleared his throat, “You need to leave right now or we’ll call the police.”

  “You know damn well you wouldn’t see the police for five days,” Cooper shot back.

  “Well, Brian and Gary can handle things just fine. You just move along now.”

  The man’s patronizing attitude angered Cooper again, “Brian and Gary? Are you kidding me? Were you guys guarding the mall last week? And, today you are full blown mercenaries? Is that it?”

  Brian, the shorter one, took a step forward, but Gary’s arm restrained him as he spoke. “Just move along, sir. We can’t take care of your wife. We’re sorry, we really are. But, the morgue’s already full up. Trust me, you wouldn’t want to leave her here, even if we’d take her. There’s no telling how long she’d sit here. Hell, we have some bodies in the hallways. Unrefriger…”

  The clipboard-wielding man shot the evil eye at Gary and shouted to interrupt him, “Mr. Jenkins is mistaken. Our services have not declined in the least during this difficult time. We merely have been forced to restrict access to our services to our customers with a pre-existing relationship with our company.”

  Cooper turned back toward the Jeep, waving his hand in disgust, “Yeah. Whatever.” He turned his head towards Dranko, who had moved back towards the driver’s side door. “Let’s go.”

  Wordless, Dranko climbed back into the car. The sound of their doors slamming shut was muted, matching their defeated state of mind.

  They drove back to Cooper’s house in silence; the only sound was Cooper’s fingers rapping on the door frame. His head swam with bitter emotion and confused thoughts. My father always said the well-off took the best of everything first. That we were left second or third-best. He would turn over in his grave to know they’ve now taken the right to be buried first, too!

  Suddenly, he punched the window with a loud thwap and Jake jumped in his seat and Dranko jerked the wheel to the left, before correcting.

  “Damn you, I thought we’d been shot at!”

  “Sorry. I just had to direct my brain back to problem solving,” and Cooper sank back into ruminating for the rest of the drive home. He didn’t tell Dranko he was trying to push away the shame he felt for losing control and threatening the other man’s life moments before.

  The rest of the drive home was silent and uneventful. As they pulled alongside their home, Jake broke the quiet.

  “We should bury her in our backyard. She liked to sit out there and watch the birds. Any birds. Do you remember? Even the stupid crows.” Jake’s voice had surprised him. More so, the words that came out shocked him with their newfound maturity.

  “You’re right, son. We’ll do just that. This way, she’ll always be close by,” he said in response.

  Jake gazed back at him with a look of self-satisfaction stained with grief.

  After a moment’s contemplation, Jake nodded, exited the Jeep and ran off to get a shovel.

  He turned toward Dranko, “Can you get word to any of the neighbors that knew Elena well about the funeral? The ones who are able should be here in an hour.” Dranko was off without another word.

  Chapter 9

  Cooper was bathed in sweat, despite the chilly temperature. He had shed his jacket and shirt, his soaked-through white t-shirt and pants were all that remained. Cotton kills when wet, he thought as he shivered. The dark earth lay piled next to the trench he had dug over the past hour. The rich black earth contrasted sharply with the bright emerald grass and clover all around. The deep chasm and the splattered dirt made it look like a gaping, open wound in the Earth. Like the wound in my heart. The hole felt much, much deeper than it was. The grave looked like it could swallow him whole and his grief tried to pull him in. He consciously steadied his feet and firmed his legs.

  Almost done with digging the grave, he looked toward the sky and wiped his brow. Above, the sky was an oppressively blank gray, not a discernible cloud in view. A black crow had alighted on a nearby telephone wire, just beyond the reach of the rocks Cooper had thrown at it. It had stood vigil over him as he dug, emitting an incessant caw-caw-caw that went on and on, scarcely interrupted. Now, as he stood, leaning against his shovel, gazing upward, the crow grew silent.

  “Why thank you, my good man,” Cooper said feigning to doff a hat. “A moment’s peace is appreciated.”

  Jake giggled from where he sat atop the pile of freshly broken earth. The soil was a farmer’s delight—moist, black, solid but w
ithout too much clay. Jake had made a good effort at helping his father dig the grave, but a few minutes ago he had collapsed onto the pile of earth. They exchanged a smile and Cooper began digging, scooping out the last bit.

  The crow rewarded his work with renewed cawing.

  A moment later, Cooper heard the creak of someone stepping onto the deck. His right hand immediately swept back towards where his pistol was holstered, he used the left to lean the shovel against the fence. He stepped forward half a pace, to put his body between the deck and Jake.

  He relaxed when Dranko’s head of unkempt brown hair came into view. Dranko saw how Cooper was positioned.

  “OK. I guess I need to start announcing myself, don’t I?”

  “Probably a good idea,” Cooper said as he returned to shoveling.

  “People will be here in about fifteen minutes. Most are either sick or too afraid of getting sick. But Lily, Mark, Lisa, Peter, and Calvin will all be here.”

  “Just Peter? What about his parents?”

  “Dead,” Dranko said soberly.

  Cooper asked robotically, still digging, “Which one?”

  “Both.”

  The shovel rammed the earth as he looked up in surprise, “My God. Poor kid.” Cooper saw the growing look of alarm on Jake’s face. “Don’t worry. I would be sick already if I was going to get this thing.”

  “Why don’t you and Jake go get cleaned up. I can finish this last bit up.”

  Cooper stood up and handed the shovel to him, “Good idea. Let’s go kiddo, time for a quick shower.”

  The hot shower was welcome. He inhaled the steam gratefully, letting it cleanse him. He vigorously scrubbed the dirt from his body and from under his fingernails. He was in the middle of washing his hair when he realized he’d grabbed his wife’s shampoo by mistake. The distinct smell of it overwhelmed him. He steadied himself with one hand against the wall and the other came to his face as he wept deeply. The sobbing wracked his body as the day’s events hit him like a bulldozer. He struggled to stay quiet, he didn’t want Jake to hear him like this. He slowly sank to his knees and sat down in the shower, unable to stop. Slowly, the hot water turned warm, and then cold. Still, he sat there, lost in grief, the water washing over him.