R. Ruggiero - Brushfire Plague

“It’s not revenge, it’s justice. The truth must come out because lies do nothing but destroy everything they touch.” He paused for a moment, contemplating. “You said America, eh?”

Mitchell waited before responding, warily, “Yeah, America.”

“You invoke a powerful word, Mr. Mitchell. You remind me of something. You, sir, gave up on America. You gave up on our democracy and decided to take matters into your own hands.”

“I had to,” Mitchell pleaded.

“Well, then. If you gave up on America, then you gave up on juries and the right to trial as well, didn’t you?”

Mitchell’s face recoiled in horror. He raised his hands in front of his face, “No! Let me explain!” His voice screeched as thin as a razor.

Cooper calmly raised his pistol and pointed it directly at Mitchell’s head, “I’ve had enough of your explaining.” He fired once, the bullet piercing Mitchell’s forehead and exploding blood and gore out the back of his head. His body dropped to the floor. Cooper stepped over him and fired twice more, once into the heart and another into his head. Looking down at the prostrate body of the once powerful man, he felt nothing but pity.

Then, Cooper strode out of the room, shotgun at the ready, and Dranko following close behind.

They made it to the car without incident and were grateful to find Angela there, waiting for them, hiding in nearby bushes, pistol in hand.

They drove toward home in silence, but Cooper could not help noticing that several more sections of the city had gone dark from lack of electricity.

Minutes later he stirred, “We have one more stop tonight.” Dranko could guess.

Angela couldn’t. “Where?”

“Julianne Wheeler’s,” Cooper said.

When they arrived near her home, Cooper insisted that Dranko and Angela remain behind. Their protests were stifled by the fire in his eyes. He departed, wide strides bringing him to her home.

A candle burned inside, its faint light reaching the front door. Cooper covered the porch stairs in two giant leaps. He hammered on the door. In the night’s silence, the violence echoed down the street.

He peered into the home through the door’s glass, just as Julianne came into view from the hallway. He immediately saw the glint of a stainless steel revolver in her hand. Her eyes flew wide open when she saw him. She stopped for a moment, looking at him. He glared right through her.

Then, her weary, red eyes fell. Resigned, shoulders slumped, she shuffled towards the door. She set the revolver down on the entry table and opened the door.

As soon as the lock fell open, Cooper pushed his way in. She winced as he grabbed her shoulders, shaking her, “Why?”

Tears darkened her flannel shirt. She remained mute.

“Why,” Cooper pleaded again. He rocked her back a half-step, forcing her head up. She collapsed to the ground. He knelt with her, grasping her chin between his fingers. She inhaled deeply. Her vulnerability sapped his anger.

“Mitchell’s dead,” he rasped.

She nodded slowly, “I guessed as much.” Her words were unfeeling.

He waited. Her breathing steadied.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Cooper remained motionless. But, his eyes revealed his desperate plea for an explanation.

“I thought it was the best thing. The right thing. He was so damned convincing. The science was…is…compelling. We were running out of time. You’ve got to believe that!” Her eyes flashed back and forth, scanning for his reaction.

He said nothing. He looked blankly at her. His emotion drained away.

He despised the rising urge inside that beckoned him to reach out and comfort her.

She lowered her head, “We were wrong. We should have let it happen. We should have let mankind live through the consequences,” she paused, her fingers tracing an outline around one of her bruises, “of its own making. Not ours.” When she finished, she looked back up at him.

When their eyes met, he was drawn towards her, despite himself. He clapped his hands on his knees and stood up abruptly.

“You must hate me,” she lamented.

He paused, contemplating her words. “No. I don’t. I saw the best man I’ve ever known, my father, be misled by someone he trusted. So, I don’t blame you for that. But, its worse than that,” he looked down again at her.

“What’s worse?”

“I cannot hate you.”

“Even though you want to?” She asked, her eyes pleading for understanding.

His face betrayed nothing. He turned and walked away.

She watched him go. A hint of a smile alighted onto her face as she pondered his last words. Then, anguish overtook her once more. She collapsed into herself, weeping.

When he returned to the car, Dranko and Angela looked up at him expectantly. Cooper lurched into the car wordlessly. Neither asked. Dranko did not smell fresh cordite coming from Cooper’s pistol. He was surprised, but did not ask his friend any questions about it.

Silence consumed the car as they drove towards home.

A few blocks from their home, Dranko broke the silence. “You think the military will be waiting for us?”

Cooper roused from his stupor, “I’d be surprised. They sent a squad at us earlier and that didn’t work. He’s low on manpower. The city’s in chaos. He’s got a lot of problems. If he had extra men, I think we would have seen them at Mitchell’s. He doesn’t have a platoon to send our way.”

Dranko nodded, “True. But, next week may be a different story. He may get more men. He may…”

Cooper raised his hand dismissively, “Not now.”

Dranko stopped and smiled to himself, “Sure, brother. Not now.”

When he returned home, Lisa met him at the door with open arms and excitedly told him that Jake’s fever had broken. She was confident he would soon recover. Cooper collapsed onto his knees from sheer joy. Tears streamed down his face unabashedly. Minutes later, he looked in on Jake, but he was fast asleep. He watched him for a while, kissed him on the forehead, and quietly left the room. He knew had one more thing to do this night.

He found Dranko at home and asked to use his computer, since he had a functioning generator.

“What are you gonna do, brother?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He sat down in front of the computer with a heavy heart and a jumbled mind. As he thought about what to do, the past and the future collided furiously. His thoughts swirled back and forth between what lies had done to his father and what future might await his son.

Finally, he shook his head to clear his thoughts and began to write a message to the world. He wrote about truth. His words recalled the value of democracy. He railed about the need for accountability to one’s actions. But, he also pleaded for the world’s forgiveness. Mostly, he wrote about forgiveness for a sin he had not himself committed.

In the background, the radio was frantic with unconfirmed reports that the planes carrying Chinese policemen and medical personnel carried soldiers instead. Rumors swirled that such planes had landed at several airports across the western United States. He bolted upright when the announcer said, “Portland…Oregon” while reciting the list of cities.

He continued writing as the first rays of morning sunlight streaked through Dranko’s basement windows.

He looked at what he had written, satisfied.

He had included every major newspaper, radio, television, and online news outlets he could think of across America and from around the world in the email message.

He hit send and walked upstairs.

Dranko looked at him and saw how his friend had seemed to age a decade in the past few hours, “So, what’d you do?”