R. Ruggiero - Brushfire Plague

“You have it right there. We’re all very lucky to be healthy today. I do have to ask you to move along to find your fun somewhere else. You are messing with the supplies I have to cook my wife her last supper.” Cooper was hoping an appeal to their sympathy might defuse the flush of testosterone he knew was running most of their show right now.

The black-haired leader didn’t miss a beat, “Last supper, eh? She must be one fat bitch with all this food.” This elicited another round of laughter from his minions.

Cooper snarled inside, but retained a comforting smile on the outside. OK, you want to dig me to impress your new-found followers?

Cooper forced himself to smile even wider, “Well, she does like to eat, I can’t deny that.” Now, his smile disappeared, he hardened his face and took another, deliberate step forward, “But, be that as it may, you need to move along. You don’t want our trouble this morning.”

Cooper saw the leader’s eyes cloud up with fear. He recalled one of his father’s sage words of negotiation advice, gained from years steeped in the harsh conflict between workers and management that was his father’s life: always allow the other guy a way to give you what you want, while saving face in front of his team. After a pregnant pause, to allow his words to sink in deep, and spread the fear in their bowels, he continued, “I know you boys want to enjoy the rest of the fun this day has to offer without the trouble of having to beat down an old man like me.”

Unsure, the leader stumbled, “We do. We do.” Then, his face turned from slack fear to hardened anger, “And, we will. But, we are going to enjoy it even more with your pickup and what’s in it.” His right arm tensed up and moved rearward another half inch.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Cooper barked and deliberately smeared the blood on his shirt with his left hand, “I had to kill one man already this morning, I don’t want to have to kill another!”

The man’s hand stopped momentarily in indecision, caught between fear and anger. Anger won, “Well, the hell with you,” he shouted as he began to draw his weapon.

Cooper moved lightning quick. His left arm pointed sharply across the street, motioning behind the boys, “Frank, shoot him!” His words had the desired effect, his opponent’s head swung to his rear, looking for the made-up Frank.

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.