R. Ruggiero - Brushfire Plague

“Who’s ‘some of our guys’?” Dranko asked.

“Our side of the border. Oregonians. Militia-types.”

The three sat in silence as Dranko and Cooper digested the news.

Joe broke the quiet, “That’s a temporary situation. The National Guard has arrived in Portland and we hear more troops are on the way.”

“It looks like you all have had a rough go of things around here? I saw your welcome mat coming in,” Cooper remembered that Joe had a very rough childhood. He had been an active gang member in his youth. So, the wry grin that spread across his face wasn’t a surprise.

Cooper shrugged, “Yeah, we’ve had a few scrapes. Is it like that most places or are we just special around here?”

“It’s hit or miss. I’ve been into some areas today that made my skin crawl and others were just like before. And some, I avoided altogether. This thing has been so bad, so fast, that no one knew how to react. So, you get too many kinds of crazy in too many places. Luckily for me, this uniform is something everyone, and I mean everyone, has been happy to see.”

“I guess we’ve just been unlucky,” Dranko lamented.

Joe shook his head, “Trust me, there are many places worse off. It looks like you guys got organized and kept the worst stuff from happening,” he paused for a moment, considering.

“Something else on your mind?” Cooper queried.

“If you need additional help, my cousin is involved in the Vietnamese Protection Society,” he looked at him with squinted, evaluating eyes.

“The what?”

“The VPS. I won’t mince words with you guys. It’s a gang pure and simple. I’m not proud of what my cousin does. But, I know they’re helping a lot of people keep things safe, right now.”

Dranko scoffed, “For a price, I’m sure.”

Joe straightened his back and stared right at Dranko, “Look, don’t get high and mighty with me. Sure, they charge a price, and a hefty one at that. But, they have lots of guys who know their way around guns and how to deal with ugly situations. That’s in high demand right now.”

“How do we contact him?”

Dranko’s head whirled around to gape at Cooper, “What? Are you serious?”

Cooper dismissed him with a wave of his hand and a wrinkle in the corner of his mouth, “Don’t get hysterical. We might have a need. I want to be prepared.”

Joe scribbled a phone number and address onto the back of an envelope and handed it to Cooper, “You know what the great irony is, don’t you?”

“What’s that?”

“There are only three groups organized and functioning right now: the churches, organized crime, and some street punks.”

“What’s ironic about that?” Dranko asked.

“All three of those have been called gangs at one time or another. Yet, the biggest gang of them all—the US Government—is barely functioning with a few scattered mailmen and national Guardsmen. It’d be funny if it didn’t want to make you cry,” he chuckled hollowly. He turned, began walking away, and called over his shoulder, “I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Hopefully!”

“Stay safe, Joe,” Cooper called after him.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Cooper turned to Dranko, “Can you be kitted up and ready to go in five?”

Dranko clapped his hands together, “Sure, where we going?”

Cooper began donning his bulletproof vest, “We have two people to see before the five o’clock meeting here.”

“Who’s that?” Dranko asked, reassembling his pistol without letting his gaze drop from Cooper.

“Joe’s cousin and whoever is in charge of the National Guard downtown.”

At the mention of Joe’s cousin, Dranko wrinkled his nose, but he didn’t say a word.

Cooper quickly finished assembling his gear. He crossed the kitchen, grabbed a Kaiser roll, and went out back. There he found Angela covered in grease and sweat from the barbeque and the smoker, both belching heat and smoke.

“Thank you,” he said as he grabbed two sausage links, stuffing them into the roll.

She saluted him patronizingly, using a large spatula, “You’re welcome. Someone had to keep things going while Rip Van Winkle was sleeping.” Her smile gave a healthy glint to her eyes.

“Oops! Being a hard-ass just cost you your overtime pay!”

“We’ll see about that. You forget. Not only am I a union nurse, I also carry a gun these days. You might say I’m protected seven ways to Sunday,” a confident smile spreading across her face.

Cooper’s face grimaced in mock pain, “Ouch, you got me there!” His face turned serious once more, “I’m going out with Dranko to see a few people—including the military group downtown. I will be back by five, when Calvin and some others will be coming for a meeting. Can you hold things down while I’m out?”

She nodded as her face turned grave, “Be careful, alright?”

He raised the Kaiser roll in response, took a big bite out of it, nodded, and then retreated back through the house. The sausage tasted wonderful. He figured it was a combination of how hungry he was and the quality of the meat. Crunching the sesame seeds from the roll certainly helped. The sausage bit back with just the right amount of spice and tang. Hot oil dripped down his chin as he ate. He wiped it away, luxuriously, with his left hand.

Dranko had convinced him that they should visit the National Guard first, reasoning that knowing the extent of coming security would be helpful in any conversation with Vang’s cousin. The pickup was headed west on Division Street, toward downtown. They soon passed the car with the dead family inside, the bodies were still there, unmoved, and beginning to bloat.

More damage and violence had happened since their last trip through. Cooper had his rifle with him on this trip and he gripped it, at the ready. Dranko was driving again, his fully automatic M-16 close at hand on the bench seat.

A gas station at Division and 39th was burned to the ground. A building to the immediate west of it had caught fire, as well. It was halfway burned to the ground. Cooper mused at what had stopped the fire. The fire department? Neighbors? A dramatic shift in the wind?

As they drove, it looked like every third or fourth business had been looted. Some made sense: the hardware store, a corner grocery store, a bar. But, when they passed a pet store which had been burned down with most of the animals still inside, Cooper could only shake his head in wonder. Later, an art store’s windows had been smashed and the contents of the store trashed, but one large pane remained intact. In blood-red spray paint, someone had written, “Devilish Art Played Its Part!” A large cross of black paint lay directly beneath this graffiti. Dranko and Cooper exchanged confused looks at that.

Cooper shrugged, “I guess you could say this plague is of Biblical proportions?”

“But, it’s hard to see how a store selling paint-by-number kits and paint brushes caused this.”

“True,” Cooper said as they drove onward.

At 32nd Avenue, they encountered a roadblock. It looked similar to theirs. An old pickup and an even older station wagon were parked nose to nose to block the road. Three people, two men and a woman, were in position behind the vehicles. One man trained a bolt-action hunting rifle on them, the other a shotgun, and the woman held a pistol aloft.

“Hold it up. No fast moves,” she shouted to them when they were about thirty yards away.

Dranko slowly raised his hand from the steering wheel and leaned his head out of the driver’s side window, “We are from up near Tabor and heading downtown. How can we get through?”

She pointed north with her pistol, “You can go up to Hawthorne. No roadblocks there that I know of. You can squeeze through here and take a right, but don’t try anything stupid.” They both saw the gap she was referring to, as the vehicles formed a V to block anyone coming further up Division, it did allow enough space for a pickup to pass north up 32nd. He considered their strategy. On the one hand, it allowed a car to pass dangerously close to their barricade. On the other, it could prevent a confrontation by having a safety valve of allowing people to continue moving without having to turn around.