R. Ruggiero - Brushfire Plague

Heads began to nod as the crowd came around. Inside, he smiled. He knew he had them.

Then, a familiar voice rang out from the back of the group, “The real question is whether this plan will do any good at all.” Dranko stepped into the circle that had formed in front of him when he began speaking. He was looking straight at Cooper, emotionless. Cooper glared back at him as he continued, “I agree with Cooper that things are unsafe now. But, it’s worse than that. To be blunt, there isn’t a way to keep ourselves safe here in the city. There are more bad guys out there. I’ve been on my ham radio since this all started and riots and waves of crime are overrunning cities across America. It’s simply not safe in any city.” The crowd rippled with the dull roar of fear as people exclaimed in nervous reaction to his words.

A terrified voice called out, “What do we do, then?”

“My advice is if you have somewhere else to go in the country or to a small town, go. That’s what I’m doing first thing in the morning.”

“What if we don’t have anywhere else to go?”

“Then bunker down as best you can and may God help you,” Dranko replied coldly.

The murmurs rose again as the group was thrown into confusion. Cooper’s face flushed red and the muscles around his neck tightened, as strong as a vice.

“Dranko is wrong. He is only hearing the worst news out of the other cities. In every natural disaster, some groups and neighborhoods stick together and they come out alright. It happened in Haiti, in Chile, even in Manila! We can do that right here too!”

“Cooper, your pictures showed the work of one, maybe two, psychos who didn’t think twice before pulling the trigger. What will happen in this city when the gangs decide they want to take advantage of the situation? Not to mention the newly formed gangs of common criminals who now see a new opportunity? In a week’s time, those pictures will be multiplied by hundreds or possibly, thousands.”

Cooper felt the sting of betrayal in his back, “You’re wrong, Dranko. We can protect ourselves. United We Stand. Don’t you remember that? You want us to pull up stakes and run. These are our homes. We can’t abandon them now.” Cooper choked on the last sentence as emotion welled up from deep inside.

“Brother, she’s dead. You’re not abandoning her by leaving.”

Cooper took a step forward, ready to charge at him. But, he controlled himself. The two men stood facing one another, fifteen yards apart. But now, a world separated them. Cooper felt the momentum drain from the crowd as it devolved into whispers, some shouts, and most simply standing in confused silence.

Calvin stepped forward, ever the diplomat, “As President of the Neighborhood Association I move that we adjourn for the evening. Many useful comments and ideas have been presented tonight, but I do not see any consensus for action to move forward at this time.”

Cooper stood in silence, looking hard at Dranko, as the seconds ticked by. Finally, he just shook his head and turned to go back inside. Calvin tried to put his hand on Cooper’s shoulder, but Cooper stopped his arm in mid-air with a glare. He looked upward, but the sky had returned to a depressing gray. He went into his home, dejected, Jake following him. His heart was pounding, his fists were clenched, and he wanted to punch the walls.

Jake spoke up, “Dad, can I tell you something?”

“Sure. Shoot.”

“You were right and they were all wrong. I never knew Uncle Dranko was such a scaredy cat!”

Cooper burst out laughing.

Cooper had meant what he’d said about the need for safety in their neighborhood. That night, they slept on a worn mattress and blankets in the basement. That decision saved their lives.

Cooper’s eyes popped open like they did at boot camp when the Drill Instructor shouted at them to wake up. This time though, it was the quiet creak of a loose floorboard on the first floor that awakened him. His right hand immediately went to his pistol at his side and he moved silently into a crouching position. His left hand instinctively felt for Jake’s peaceful, slumbering body next to his in the down sleeping bag. Jake’s chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.

Cooper looked intently up at the doorway that led from the basement into their home. Just beyond the doorway, he heard hushed voices in frantic whispering. Amateurs. Professional thieves wouldn’t be talking inside the home. He distinctly heard two voices, male, but could not make out what they were saying. After a brief discussion, the footsteps moved in opposite directions and away from the doorway.

Cooper clasped one hand over Jake’s mouth and used the other to jostle him awake. Jake awoke with terrified eyes and immediately attempted to make a noise. Cooper clamped down harder to prevent him from making any noise at all, and ordered him to silence with a single finger to his mouth and intense, squinted eyes. Jake relaxed and Cooper released the hold on his mouth.

Cooper put his mouth next to his son’s ear and whispered, “Stay calm. We have intruders in our house above. At least two.”

Fear clouded Jake’s eyes and they turned into narrow slits. “Don’t worry son, I will deal with them.”

Jake nodded, then whispered with an unsteady voice, “Wh…What are you going to do?”

Jake was unnerved by what he saw in his father’s eyes and the icy tone in his voice, “They will leave or I will kill them.” Cooper moved a few feet away and grabbed the .22 rifle that they had put next to where they’d slept.

He thrust the rifle into his son’s hands. For the first, but not the last time, he inwardly cursed the way this plague was forcing his son to lose his childhood. He knew his son was losing it in large, hacked out, slices instead of the slow erosion of innocence lost.

“I need you to take this. If anyone comes down these stairs that isn’t me, aim this at the center of their chest. Keep squeezing the trigger until the gun is empty,” he racked the bolt to chamber a round. “This magazine holds twenty-five rounds. You can protect yourself. Kill the first man who comes down. Anyone behind him will run. Got it?”

Jake gripped the rifle tightly, the way he used to crush his teddy bear when he had been scared by a bad dream. Cooper was surprised by the steady gaze on Jake’s face. Eleven-year-olds shouldn’t have such a hard stare. Cooper was torn between feelings of pride and remorse seeing it on his own son.

“Don’t worry. I remember how to shoot,” Jake whispered with exaggerated confidence; referring to the two or three times that Cooper had taken him target shooting.

Cooper gave him a squeeze on his shoulder, grabbed the shotgun from where it leaned against the concrete foundation wall, and turned to head upstairs to deal with the danger that waited above.

In normal times, he would have stayed put and simply defended the basement if they had decided to come down here. Now, however, he knew they could not afford to lose anything that they had upstairs that the burglars had come to steal. Going to the store for replacements was no longer an option. Worse, his gun safe was in the guest bedroom closet and he was certain they would find that, as well.

He began the silent ascent on the stairway, taking time to avoid any sound coming from the old, creaky, steps. He was like an old man, bent over and taking each step in due time. He had the shotgun firmly in grasp, while his pistol was holstered with a round in the chamber. Cooper steadied his breath to keep his reflexes alert and adrenaline flowing, while still keeping himself under control. This discipline had saved his life during firefights in Iraq.

Finally, he reached the top stair and slowly turned the doorknob. Once he had enough room to squeeze through, he stepped onto the main level of their home, did a scan in all directions and closed the door behind him. He listened intently and heard footsteps from upstairs, moving rapidly from room to room. He smelled a sour whiff of fear-laced sweat and he wrinkled his nose. He took a step to his left to begin circling the staircase that rose to the second floor. The house was darkened; the only light was from the streetlamp cascading through the windows on the south side of the house. He now wished that he had set up his shotgun to accommodate a tactical flashlight. Dranko had urged him several times to do so, but he’d never gotten around to it. Hopefully, my strong night vision will be good enough.