R. Ruggiero - Brushfire Plague

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.