R. Ruggiero - Reckoning

First, I wish to thank the many readers of Brushfire Plague that reviewed the book or contacted me directly. Your positive support is always an encouragement that cannot be underestimated.

My family deserves my eternal gratitude as well. I already work in a field that is demanding and intense, so the additional time to write is another sacrifice they make for me to pursue my dreams. Their support is immeasurable and it fills my heart with gratitude.

Many thanks to Prepper Press for supporting my work and providing the professional editing from Sarah Cairns. She has improved Brushfire Plague: Reckoning , as she did with the original!

Finally, to my readers, I offer these words that inspire me.

“A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyse a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.”

This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are set in a fictional environment.

Startled, Cooper Adams shuddered awake and bolted upright in bed. His rifle was in his hand without a thought. His heart thundered in his chest, revving up for action as adrenaline raced into his veins. Alert eyes darted about, scanning for danger. His ears fixated on any noises coming from outside or inside his home. They told him nothing was amiss and he emitted a long exhale. He relaxed his nearly six-foot frame, put the rifle against the wall, and laid back into the bed. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, deliberately slowing his breath and collecting his thoughts. He couldn’t tell if some random noise had woken him or if it had been another fitful dream.

Next to him, his eleven-year old son, Jake, lay sound asleep. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, while his eyes moved rapidly about, underneath closed eyelids. Dreaming. I can only hope for sweet ones. A chill ran down his spine as he thought about his son’s encounter with the Brushfire Plague. The fever had broken just last night. Without thinking, Cooper put the back of his hand to his son’s forehead for reassurance and smiled in relief.

His gaze drifted back to the white, monotonous ceiling. For a moment, Cooper wistfully thought the last twenty-four hours could have been a dream, but the distant crackle of gunfire belied the thought. The fact that his son, instead of his wife, slept next to him burned it out of him. The plague had merely scared his son, but it had taken his wife, Elena. It had only been two weeks since she breathed her last breath, but the world was already so different that his life with her was steadily turning into a dream-like memory. Now, he realized what had jolted him awake. He had been dreaming of Elena and was terrified that he could not recall her eye color. If the world had somersaulted in just two weeks, it had added a barrel roll in the last twenty-four hours when Cooper learned that the calamitous Brushfire Plague was a deliberate act of men and not some dreadful accident of nature. A deliberate act that will end up slaying one billion people. Ethan Mitchell, a zealous CEO of a biotech company, had argued that his actions served the greater good by saving mankind from the civilization-destroying effects of climate change and a ravaged planet. Cooper’s mind still whirled at the facts and arguments made by the man who had released the Brushfire Plague across the planet. Luckily, Mitchell’s brain thought about these things no more. Cooper had made sure of that. He gritted his teeth at the thought. A pained, wry smile crept onto his face, as he thought of Mitchell’s body, cold now, lying in the man’s mansion.

A billion dead. The thought staggered Cooper and his breath caught in his throat. Unlike anyone else, Cooper had had the satisfaction of putting a bullet into the brain of the main progenitor of this horrendous act. He did not doubt that Mitchell deserved death for what he had done, but revenge had not lightened his heart nor dulled his pain. He also uniquely carried the burden of having told the world the truth of what he’d learned, with consequences still unknown. The magnitude of those possibilities gnawed at him like a lazy rat nibbling rope.

Cooper was also perplexed by his feelings toward the woman, Julianne Wheeler, who had assisted Mitchell in all that he had done. He wanted to hate her and failed to understand why he didn’t. He desperately hoped it was simply the lingering effects of the deep, primal, connection he’d felt toward her when they had met. He could not deny the instant connection. He remembered an oft-quoted line; the heart wants what it wants. However, this instant connection happened before he knew anything about her role in the conspiracy to unleash mass death on humanity. So far, this knowledge had done little to sever the bond. While his brain warred with his heart to make it so; the heart kept winning.

Next to him, Jake stirred. His eyes fluttered and opened. He saw his father and smiled. Cooper curled his arm underneath his son’s head and pulled him closer.

“Mornin’, boy.”

“Good morning, dad.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Tirrrr-ed,” he yawned with a gaping maw. “I feel really tired, dad. But, I do feel better. For a while, I thought I was gonna catch on fire!”

“Yeah, you had the fever bad. But, it’s passed now. Lisa says you’re going to recover,” Cooper said, sharing the report he’d received last night from the woman who was their friend, neighbor, and nurse.

Jake smiled incredulously, eyes twinkling and moistening, “I’m not going to die… like mom.” His words were caught between question and statement by the force of wonder.

Cooper pulled his son into an embrace, “No, you’re not going to die like your sweet, sweet mother.” His own heart swelled with a torrent of love for his son and his dead wife; sorrow for the latter and unbridled newfound hope for the former. They held each other for a long time. Finally, curiosity grabbed ahold of Jake.

“So, what happened last night?”

Cooper burst out laughing so loudly it echoed off the walls of Jake’s bedroom. When he finally caught his breath, he blurted out, “What didn’t happen would be a better question, son!”

Jake grimaced in annoyance and returned with mockery in his voice, “Alright then… what didn’t happen last night!”

Cooper tussled his son’s hair. As he did so, levity fled the room like animals fleeing a wildfire. Cooper breathed deeply and looked his son squarely in the eye. “I learned last night that this Plague wasn’t an accident, son. It was started by some stupid, stupid… and misguided men.”

Jake’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Tears welled up in his eyes. His breath came in fitful gasps. His lips quivered. “You mean… they… someone killed mama on purpose,” he wailed between pain-wracked sobs.

Cooper pulled his son in close once more, allowing him to bury his head into his chest. He rocked him back and forth in a vain attempt to comfort him. He breathed more and then said, “Yes, son, they did.” His stark words of confirmation sent Jake into another round of deep sobs. Like any father, his son’s pain cut him to the core. His fists clenched and his jaw grinded his teeth as rage against Ethan Mitchell surged once more. Then, listening to his son’s sobbing, it hit him.