R. Ruggiero - Brushfire Plague

He reached “one” without any movement from in front of him. Cooper raised his shotgun, leveled it at the nearest work of art and wrecked it with a blast of 00 Buck. Expensive art made Rorschach by pellet holes. Slowly, deliberately, he inserted a fresh shell into the Remington. He thought he’d heard a shriek of terror just after firing, but was unsure if it had been his ears playing tricks on him.

He called out again, “You’ve got a lot of great art out here, Mitchell. I’m sure you are fond of it. Come on out!”

Seconds ticked by with no response. So, Cooper began counting again, “Ten…nine…eight…”

Mitchell’s voice was made tinny by the intercom, “You will guarantee my safety Mr. Adams?”

Cooper responded to the ether, “Yes, I will. I’m not here to kill you, just to talk.”

More seconds passed and then the suction sound of a vacuum-sealed door opening came from the second door on the right. Mitchell stepped out, resplendent in a custom-tailored black suit.

“And your guards?” Cooper called out.

“You didn’t include them in our negotiations, Mr. Adams. They will not be coming out. They are my insurance policy, if you will. If you kill me, at least you know you will have others to deal with.”

The man’s arrogance grated on Cooper again, “Sure enough. You tell me what I want to know and there will be no more problems tonight.”

“Tell you? Christ, man. Why do you set your sights so low? Why do you not want more for yourself? I’ll show you everything you want to know. It’s too late now for you to do anything at all, anyway.”

Cooper was momentarily taken by surprise and his mouth fell open by a scant degree. He chastised himself for it.

“Please do not be surprised, Mr. Adams. I am quite proud of what we have accomplished. I want to show you. Why don’t you and your, ah, associate just step inside and I’ll show you it all.”

Cooper was leery of going inside, but he desperately wanted the information that Mitchell appeared to have. “Have your guards step outside. I’m not going to walk into a trap.”

Mitchell waved his hands nonchalantly, “Fine, fine. Men, come outside, if you will.”

Moments later, two burly men who looked almost identical in their gray uniforms, appeared at the door and joined them in the hallway. Their brown hair was cut short as were their matching mustaches. Each carried an M16 with side arms on their hips. The men eyed each other warily.

Mitchell spoke first, “Let’s avoid one of those disagreeable Mexican standoffs that have become cliché,” He flagged his arms at his men, “Gentlemen, you can shoulder your arms. I am quite confident that Mr. Adams is not some crazed man bent on revenge. He would have shot me already if that was the case. He is here for information, which I’m going to provide.” The two guards complied immediately. Mitchell began leading them back into the room. Cooper and Dranko followed.

Once inside, a dizzying array of monitors, the buzz of printers, and maps of the United States and the world were lit up with a multitude of colored lights and scrolling numbers and graphs. Two guards stood across the room, behind Mitchell on either side.

“Welcome to what we affectionately call Plague Central!” Mitchell declared, waving his arms in a wide arc held high as he spun around in a full circle.

“So this is where you watch the world dying?” Cooper asked, his words drenched in acid.

Mitchell laughed, “Watch? Again, my good man. You underestimate. This is where I started everything. But, I didn’t start the world dying. That was already happening. What I have done is begin to save the world!”

From an unseen corner, flame spat with a deafening roar. Cooper felt like he’d been hit in the gut with a sledgehammer, but the body armor held up. Blood rushed to his head and the room began to swim. Absently and from a distance, he heard Dranko’s words yell “Get down!” and then the muffled sound of more gunfire.

The sensation of something burning his arm, the sight of blood splattering across his face, and the acrid smell of cordite brought everything back into laser-like focus.

The two guards opposite him, flanking Mitchell, sprang into action. The one on the left grabbed at his holster to draw the pistol, while the one to the right rushed to remove the M16 from his shoulder. Cooper pointed the shotgun at the one on his left, guessing he’d have his gun ready first. He had the advantage of never having slung the shotgun onto his shoulder. He merely had to raise it to waist height and fire.

The guard bounced off the desk. Cooper was dimly aware of how shooting hurt his right arm like hell. He was further confused when the shotgun fell from his hands.

The guard had both hands on his M16 and was bringing it to bear. Cooper dove to his left and, finding his right arm useless, grabbed his pistol out of its holster with his left. The guard’s M16 let loose a frantic burst of bullets where Cooper had been standing just a moment before. The bullets began chasing Cooper as they spit marble and dust from the floor. Cooper point shot at the guard, losing three rounds in rapid succession. Two of the three found their mark. One hit the man in the left leg and the second hit him squarely in the stomach. He slumped to the ground, dropping the rifle. Cooper finished him with a shot to the head. He scanned the room and saw a body lying in the corner, from where the original shot had come. Dranko must have got him.

Mitchell looked like a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar. The difference was he knew there could be deadly consequences for his duplicity. Cooper trained his pistol on him, remembering the flash bang grenade from the factory, “Keep your hands up!”

Dranko was swiftly at his side, “Keep your eye on him, brother. You got winged in the right arm. This bastard had a guard hidden. I spotted him right before he fired.” Already, Dranko was digging in his backpack and wrapping a pressure bandage on Cooper’s arm.

Cooper felt sick to his stomach, but he knew this was not solely from his wound. Mitchell’s words had turned his world upside down and his head and stomach were swirling.

“Get me on my feet,” he hissed at Dranko. Dranko looked at him in surprise, but lifted him onto his unsteady feet. He continued bandaging his arm.

Cooper stumbled across the few feet that separated him from Mitchell, “I hope you realize that little stunt of yours frees me from my word not to hurt you.” He jabbed the muzzle of his pistol into Mitchell’s temple. Mitchell tried unsuccessfully to cover a gulping sound with a cough.

“If you want to have any chance of saving your skin, you’ll keep talking. Just what the hell did you mean when you said you started it all here?”

The fear left Mitchell’s eyes and the fire returned. Only the cold steel of Cooper’s pistol restrained him from parading about the room as he talked, “Just what I said. I started this illness.”

Dranko looked up from dressing Cooper’s wounds, “Why the hell would you do that?”

Mitchell’s voice was so calm it sent chills down both men’s spines, “Because we had to.”

Cooper pressed the pistol further into Mitchell’s head causing him to grimace in pain. Cooper’s words spat out from between grinding teeth, “Stop speaking in riddles. Tell it plainly.”

“Can you remove the pistol from digging into my head? I can think more clearly that way. There’s so much to explain.”

Dranko had finished bandaging the wound and Cooper directed him to bar the door so they could avoid any more surprises. Cooper relaxed the grip slightly. A sliver of light shone between his pistol and Mitchell’s head.

“Thank you,” Mitchell said. “You want to know what we did? I’ll tell you. We released this virus—codenamed Reset—about two weeks ago. It was designed to spread rapidly across the world, kill quickly with as much mercy as possible, and then mutate out of its lethality.”