R. Ruggiero - Brushfire Plague

“OK, luckily, it’s all superficial wounds. Lots of blood, but it won’t kill you. Here, take these,” Dranko said handing him several painkillers. Cooper gulped them down with the water bottle that Dranko provided. Instantly, he was very thirsty and he drained the bottle in seconds.

“Keep an eye out. This is gonna hurt, brother,” Dranko reported as he fetched metal tweezers from the first-aid kit. Dranko quickly, and expertly, went to work. He removed shards of glass that covered Cooper’s head on the right side and rear. His shoulder had, luckily, only been grazed. He knew he had to work quickly, because the blood flow increased as he removed each piece. Cooper’s ear had been sliced nearly in half and the lobe clung loosely to the ear, hanging by a scant piece of skin.

“Your ear will need stitches later,” Dranko told him as he pulled out the last shard. He doused the wound in antiseptic and Cooper cursed Dranko’s mother for birthing such a bastard of a son. Dranko ignored him and applied direct pressure with a bandage. Then, he began wrapping his head in layer after layer of gauze to fasten the bandage. When he finished with that, he employed two large bandages to cover the shallower shoulder wounds. These had bled only slightly and already stopped.

Dranko’s brow was bathed in sweat as he finished, “You’re all set now. As good as new.”

Cooper pivoted his head back and forth, “I guess so. Still works. Let’s go.” He turned his body slowly back to facing the front and reloaded both weapons with fresh magazines.

“You don’t miss a beat do you?” Dranko said as he put the truck in drive and began rolling forward, back toward Hawthorne.

“I’m on a clock because Jake is. I don’t have time for something as small as pain,” Cooper said firmly, his eyes already scanning their path forward. His grip was tight on the FAL with his right hand as he worked the bolt and chambered a round with his left.

The rest of their drive was uneventful until they neared the Hawthorne bridge, which crossed the Willamette River into downtown. A half mile away, they ran headlong into a gaggle of cars, bicycles, and people that formed a chaotic mishmash of a traffic jam. The air was filled with the blaring of horns, the cries of children in distress, and shouts of anger as people jostled for position leading to the bridge.

“Looks like some scene from an overseas disaster,” Dranko muttered.

“Overseas? Have you forgotten Katrina?” Cooper countered.

Dranko blew out harshly and his lips fluttered in disdain, “Either way, it’s a damn shame. Look at them. Desperate. Some already hungry. Clamoring for someone else to save them.”

A wry grin crept onto Cooper’s face, “Look Dranko, not everyone can be as smart and well prepared as you.” He elbowed his friend in the side as he talked.

Dranko crossed his arms, unimpressed, “Look, we’re not even two weeks into this crisis. I can understand looking for medical help, but look at the number of damned people in line clearly looking for food. Damn sheeple is all they are, unprepared for even a short-term disruption in their lives.”

Cooper merely nodded to placate Dranko’s temper, “You’re right. People ought to have had a few weeks of supplies on hand. That hardly matters now.”

Dranko jumped the GMC partially onto the sidewalk and killed the engine. From a distance they could see an Army armored personnel carrier barricading the bridge. A soldier in camouflage fatigues stood vigil, lazily sweeping a .30 caliber machine gun from left to right, the barrel trained just over the heads of the swirling mash of people. The soldier’s Kevlar helmet and darkened goggles gave him a sinister look. Next to the armored vehicle, a half dozen other soldiers formed a semi-circle, M16s at the ready, behind shiny coils of barbed wire. A dozen yards behind it, a tent was set up as the apparent command post.

They watched for a few minutes, appraising the situation. They saw the occasional civilian brought into the tent as others left. More frequently, soldiers moved in and out with rapid speed.

“What now, boss?” asked Dranko.

“I’m not waiting in that line,” Cooper said, gesturing to a line that ran a hundred yards long. “We’re going to see someone on the double-quick, just follow my lead.”

He jumped from the pickup, shouldered the FAL, and began briskly walking toward the line. Dranko grabbed the M16, slung it onto his back, and fell in a half step behind, “This should be fun, brother,” he grumbled.

Cooper turned back towards him, whispering as they walked, “Here’s the plan, I’m the leader of the Mt. Tabor Militia and we have important news for the Major. Your job is to announce me as we get to the line.”

A wry grin crept onto Dranko’s face, “I like it. What’s your job?”

“Act like an important SOB,” Cooper winked at him before straightening his shoulders and picking up his pace as they neared the end of the line.

Dranko took up the siren song of authority, “Make room, Captain of the Mount Tabor Militia coming through. Make room, he has an urgent report for the Major!”

Cooper intentionally bumped a few people here and there to lend a greater sense of urgency. Dranko continued the mantra over and over. A few people cried out in protest, but they ignored them and kept hustling forward, to the front of the line. Halfway to the front, a young man with a clump of oily red hair and outfitted in camouflage stepped out of the line to bar their way.

“Wait in line like the rest of us!”

Cooper didn’t hesitate, but closed the distance, shot his leg out and swept the man’s legs out from underneath him. He collapsed with an “Umph.” As Dranko stepped over him, he grabbed the butt of his holstered pistol so he could see it and whispered to the man, “I’d stay down if I were you.”

A minute later, they were at the front of the line.

A young-faced soldier who barely looked old enough to shave barred their way.

“Just a minute, you gotta wait in line like the rest of these good people,” the soldier said. Those within earshot shouted their approval and some clapped their hands.

“The hell I do, soldier. You tell the Major that the Captain of the Mount Tabor Militia is here to report to him. I have important news,” Cooper leaned in to whisper the last part into the soldier’s ear, “about the origin of the plague.” The soldier gulped.

The Guardsman stammered, “I… ah”

Cooper pressed the opening, “Christ to Hell, son, where’s your Sergeant?”

The soldier’s look of relief was as if someone had thrown a safety line to a drowning man, “Sarge!” he yelled.

A middle-aged, bald-headed man, more round in the middle than he should have been for military service came striding up, “What is it Private? Can’t you handle this line? I’m getting damn tired of babysitting you all day long!”

The Private merely nodded to indicate Cooper. He won’t be as easy to buffalo.

“Good afternoon Sergeant. I’m former military, served in Iraq,” Cooper said. The way the Sergeant cocked his head told him he had served as well in combat so Cooper quickly added his rank and where he had served, “May I have a word in private with you, Sergeant?”

The Sergeant motioned him and Dranko past the barricade, to hoots and howls of protest from those nearest the front of the line. Once they had walked about ten yards inside the barricade, the Sergeant turned to Cooper, “What do you have? Make it quick, you might have noticed we have a lot of chaos to tidy up.”

“I need to see the Major. We have information about the conditions from here up to Mount Tabor. We are both former military so our reconnaissance is quality. In addition, I have some potentially urgent news about the plague’s origins.”