R. Ruggiero - Brushfire Plague

I wish to thank Robert Shepard and Josh Hendryx who provided feedback on the early versions of this novel. Their support and comments improved this work and helped bring it to fruition.

I also want to express my appreciation to Sarah Cairns who provided professional editing that strengthened the story in numerous ways. Her patience was much appreciated. Mike Dostie also deserves recognition for providing copyediting in the later stage.

Finally, and most importantly, is the support and inspiration I received from my family. I thank my wife Cindy, who provided immeasurable support while this was being written. Of course, that’s no surprise. She’s been doing that since I was 17 years old. She also provided suggestions and edits during the early drafts. My two boys, Justus and Zade, are my inspiration in all things. I thank them for bearing with the numerous times I needed solitude while writing.

Cooper Adams bumped along the road in his old GMC pickup. Patches of white paint fought on bravely, clinging to life amidst the rust that covered most of its body. Jake, his son, sat next to him, staring blankly ahead. When his friend, Paul Dranko, had come to relieve him, Cooper had decided to take Jake with him. He wanted to get him out of the house. His son had been watching his sick mother, likely dying, for far too long.

Before leaving, Cooper had grabbed his Smith and Wesson semi-automatic pistol and it lay holstered on his belt. He stood just over six feet, clear brown eyes and black hair. The cold steel pressed into the small of his back. It was barely concealed and he lacked a permit to carry it, but he decided he had more pressing priorities. He guessed that the police did as well. An extra magazine lay stashed in his jacket pocket. He made a sharp right turn, cranking the wheel hard, onto the main boulevard that led to the local supermarket. What he saw made him pull his gun out and place it on his lap, at the ready.

A Subaru lay ablaze, about two hundred yards ahead, flames spitting from the interior through the shattered windows. Black smoke curled furiously skyward as oil, plastic and metal burned. He slowed down and moved into the opposite lane, to give it the widest possible berth. Already, he could smell the acrid stench. Thankfully, he didn’t smell the foulness of flesh burning. He had had his fill of that in Iraq. It was something you never forgot. He saw a few broken cartons and a torn brown paper bag scattered next to the car and he guessed the rest. At least the passengers appeared to have escaped harm. Probably just a robbery with some Molotov-wielding firebug thrown in for good measure. As people passed by, they would gawk for a moment and press a shirt or a scarf around their nose and mouth, but they kept moving. What struck Cooper was how few appeared shocked at what they were seeing. What else have they seen burning? Or worse?

The station wagon had been burning for a while. The windshield and windows had melted out and the rest of the car almost burned down to bare metal. Yet, there was no sign of a fire engine or even the distant wail of a siren. Absentmindedly, he dialed 911 on his cell phone, “All circuits are busy. Please, try your call again later.”

He replaced the cell phone back into his pocket as they rolled past the burning wreck. With it firmly in his rearview mirror, Cooper turned to Jake, “OK, son. From now on, we might see some things that aren’t normal. There might be some ugly things. There might be some dangerous things. But, I promise you this, I’m here to protect you. But, I need one thing from you, OK?”

Jake nodded in rapt attention. “I need you to do whatever I say. When I say it. I need you to do it, no matter what you might think. You might think what I’m saying is crazy or what I’m saying doesn’t make any sense. But, I need you to do it without question, without hesitation. Can I count on you for that?”

“Yes, I’ll do it.” Jake said in his best impression of a full-grown man. Cooper saw the fear that lay behind his eleven-year-old son’s eyes.

Cooper smiled to comfort him, “OK. Good. Just remember that. It is the most important thing you can do to stay safe and sound. I will do my best to keep you safe and I know how to keep you safe, so things should be alright. But, I need your help to do it.” Jake nodded seriously in response.

Cooper continued down the boulevard. He could smell the fear all around him. He had known streets like this in Iraq. There, the fear had been suicide bombers, improvised explosive devices, and vicious ambushes. Here, it was simply some virus that was tearing through the city’s population like a chainsaw through soft pine. Of course, it was worse than that. A chainsaw you could see coming. Its effect was predictable. This virus was unseen. Its cause and path unknown. Cooper knew such things stoked fear and dread in people. That was what he could smell in his nostrils and taste on his tongue. He knew panic didn’t lie far beyond.

A few people moved along the sidewalks. A woman dressed all in black and carrying a paper grocery bag, clutched to her chest like a newborn, ambled down the street looking furtively about. She had a dirty surgical mask covering her nose and mouth. When a man moving in the opposite direction—he lacked a mask but had a red handkerchief pushed up against his face—approached her, she swung to her left to create a wide arc between them. He swung to his left as well, out into the street, to increase the distance between them. His sudden movement made his jacket ride up his hip a bit and revealed the briefest glint of a concealed pistol stuffed into his belt.

For just a moment, his mind drifted to that fateful call a few days ago, when the nightmare had started for him.

When Cooper Adams’ cell phone jolted him awake at 2:16 in the morning, he saw her number and his throat tightened. Her call meant only one thing. His worst fears had come true since he’d talked to her earlier that evening. Only once had she ever called him this early. On that night, her mother had died. Tonight, he wasn’t worried about an in-law. This night, he knew death stalked his wife like a coyote does the lamb. His heart thundered in his chest. As he answered the phone, he flung his legs off the bed and began tugging his pants on.

“You need to come home,” ragged words beckoned from the other end. Absent the caller ID on his cell phone, he would have had no idea that the prostrated voice belonged to his wife.

He stifled the choking emotions that welled up, “I’m on my way.” He managed an “I love you,” his throat constricting. She mustered a feeble “OK, me too. See you.” It was as if those scant words sapped her. The phone went dead as she hung up.

A man possessed, he yanked a hodgepodge of clothing on—jeans, a black t-shirt, an unbuttoned dress shirt, a brown and a black sock, his sneakers, all wrapped up by a suit coat and ran out the door. He got halfway to his car and then had to run back to his room for his car keys and his wallet.

Seconds later, Cooper’s car was squealing out of the motel parking lot. His sedan spat gravel as he careened onto the town’s main road and headed towards the highway. He’d left everything else behind. He planned on calling the motel operator in the morning to make arrangements. It was just one of many plans he had that would never happen.

The room lay swathed in the last, dying rays of sunlight as day slowly succumbed to night. Like the faltering sun, his wife was fading away. Gone was the vibrant and warm face he had fallen in love with from the moment he met her. It had been replaced by an ashen mockery. His wife’s face lost what little color the sun’s warmth had provided and wilted to gray. Her breath reminded him of his first car’s engine, complete with rattles, fits, and the fear that it might quit on you at any time. He sat a few feet away in an old, rickety wooden chair that Elena’s grandmother was rumored to have brought over from the old country, Romania. Knowing her family, it was just as likely something bought at a flea market on the cheap, with a good story added to give it some style.