Brushfire Plague: Reckoning

by R. P. Ruggiero

  Bethany glanced up, “He’s got his problems, but he has kept us supplied with milk for our kids.”

  Miles scoffed, “That’s just cause he’s sweet on you, baby, and he’s trying to get into your…” Miles caught himself, realizing his kids were there. Her cheeks turned unmistakably red this time and her eyes were downcast once more.

  “If you’re going to just talk politics, I’m going to take the kids and get to work in the garden,” she said, before gathering the kids and moving off.

  “Just don’t touch too many of the seeds as you’re liable to just kill them. Bethany’s a good woman, but she’s got the opposite of a green thumb,” Miles said with too much edge to his voice. A lot of tension between these two. Bethany stalked off, ignoring him.

  Miles laughed at his joke and motioned the others to move inside the house, which was a simple affair, with the kitchen off to their left as they entered and a large mixed family and living room straight in front of them. A hallway led to the bedroom to their right. A woodstove was burning in the corner. The familiar smell of it made Cooper long for his own woodstove back on Lincoln Street in Portland. The home was furnished with plain, worn furniture, except for a remarkable kitchen table. It looked to have been cut from a huge Cedar tree, stained, with remarkable grain patterns.

  “I built that one myself,” Miles commented with pride when he noticed their stares.

  Toys were strewn about the floor and across the rooms, “Damn woman can’t keep these kids in line,” he scowled as he kicked a toy truck across the room.

  “Miles, be kind. Mothering is always easier to the men who don’t have to do it,” Lily said, weighing in.

  “Whatever Ma, you don’t know the half of it,” Miles said, staring at her sharply. Awkward tension filled the room.

  The group took seats around the beautiful table, while Miles offered plastic cups and a pitcher of water. Cooper poured for the group and passed out the cups to everyone. As he took his seat he began, “So, what else do we need to know to get along here?”

  “Avoid the downtown as much as you can. That’s where Hodges and his crew do their worst. Whatever you do, stay out of the one bar that’s functioning down there. And, be ready for a Levy Collector to come a calling as soon as they figure out your place is occupied again.”

  “We might as well get it over with then,” Dranko said in a matter of fact manner.

  “What?” Cooper asked.

  “We need salt. I completely screwed up on that.”

  “Salt?”

  Dranko nodded emphatically, “Yup. Your body needs it to survive.”

  “I never thought about it,” Lily continued.

  “Nobody does. We usually have a problem of too much of it with all the processed food we’re used to. Now, we’re going to have to make sure we have it.”

  “How’d you screw up? What do you mean?” Cooper asked his friend.

  “Last month, I traded my salt supply for some tools I needed. I figured I’d get more salt easy enough. Then, Brushfire happened.” He paused, and then shrugged, “At least I got a good deal on the trade. But, we need to get salt. As much as we can get our hands on. And, it’s something that will just get more valuable as time goes on. Better to get it now, at whatever price Hodge is demanding.”

  Cooper nodded, “So, today?”

  “Don’t see why not.”

  “I should go with you, to make sure you get by okay,” Miles offered.

  Cooper shook his head, “I appreciate the offer, but you can brief us the best you can and then let us go. If we run afoul, it’s best we can claim the ‘we’re new in town’ defense.”

  Miles nodded at that.

  “That’s smart. Besides, you might not want to be associated with us, anyway,” Dranko added with an impish smile.

  “Why’s that?” Miles asked, confused.

  “Don’t you know who this is?” Angela said, motioning toward Cooper. Miles offered a blank look in response.

  “My dad told the truth about the Brushfire Plague,” Jake blurted out. His voice was fixed dead between pride and sadness.

  Miles’ head jerked around to stare at Cooper, “What?!”

  “You heard about all that?”

  “Well…sure…hard to know what to believe.”

  Cooper stared at him intently, “Believe it. Every word. It’s the truth.”

  Miles sank back into his chair, “Really? All of it?”

  “All of it,” Lily added.

  “You mean my boy is dead because of some damned hippies?”

  Cooper returned a measured look, “It’s more complicated than that. But, yeah, Brushfire was no act of God.”

  Miles fists balled as Lily extended a hand to comfort his son. He was left alone to his thoughts for several seconds and then his eyes alighted, “You got trouble, my friend. Hodges would likely shoot you on sight!”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s been calling you a damned liar and a scoundrel. He says the entire conspiracy theory is a bunch of BS spread by the enemies of America.”

  Cooper sat back, arms folded on the table, “Interesting.”

  “You’re going to have to use a fake name when you roll into town.”

  Dranko exhaled, “Well, that should be interesting.”

  Miles face grew clouded, “Why’s that? No big deal. Just come with your own version of John Doe.”

  A sardonic smile infused his words, “Cooper don’t lie. Never.”

  “Oh my. I see,” Miles responded. “Why don’t you just stay out of town?”

  Cooper thought for a moment, “Two reasons. First, I want to get a feel for what’s going on around here. I can’t do that hiding up in Dranko’s cabin. Second, since this whole thing started, I’ve learned that trouble is going to find me, no matter how I might try to avoid it.” Cooper’s attempted joke fell flat.

  “Maybe you ought to rethink that,” Dranko said, looking at him intently.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Cooper said, irritated.

  Dranko shook his head in resignation, “Ever the optimist, brother.”

  **********

  Dranko was at the wheel once again, with Angela sitting next to him in the front seat. Cooper sat in the back seat alone, Lily and Jake having been left at the Stotts’. Miles had finished briefing them so they had their pistols holstered, as it was very common in Estacada for people to be carrying. They had left their rifles behind, as well. Sheriff Hodges was fond of confiscating any long arms brought into town, especially military styled weapons. They had decided it wasn’t worth the risk. Cooper felt agitated without them. I don’t like going into a potential bad situation under gunned. He had his pistol out, trying to burn through his anxiety by checking the function and thumbing the rounds out and then back into the magazine. Miles had filled them in on what to do, how to act, and what to look out for as they made their way around the town. He had drawn them a rudimentary map, as well. This showed the key buildings and the main store that functioned as the place to buy and sell goods.

  The drive into town was uneventful and silent. Apprehension gripped them all. Dranko was frequently grabbing his earlobe, which was what he did when was under stress. Cooper had won many poker hands against him by learning his ‘tell’ early on. Angela’s lips were pursed tight and sometimes she whistled while breathing. Cooper kept his hands occupied with the pistol.

  Estacada was a typical small town nestled off a secondary highway. The whole affair was maybe four blocks in any direction. Shops catering to passing motorists and tourists flanked the highway. Cooper had stopped at some of them in days past. The stoplight on the highway was out and a few scattered vehicles littered the roadway. Most looked to have been abandoned, but a few had been shot up. The stoplight had been replaced by two pickups parked head to tail and four men armed with rifles.

  “Here we go,” Dranko muttered as they were motioned to a stop by one of the men.

  Dranko pulled up next to the man and cranked his window
down.

  The guard was dressed in warm hunting clothes and a red ball cap with the Budweiser logo emblazoned on it.

  “How are you folks?”

  “Fair to middlin’,” Dranko said, deliberately clipping his words.

  “What’s your business in town today?”

  “We come to see about gettin’ some salt.” He’s adding a bit more ‘country’ to his tone. Cooper had watched his father do the same, varying his tone and inflection to reflect the groups of people he was working with. When he was twelve, Cooper had witnessed him doing this with some workers from India. He had been horrified, thinking his father was mocking them. When he had asked him about it, his father had shrugged his shoulders and said, “I didn’t notice I was doing it.” What Cooper had noticed was how his father had, in fact, not offended them, but established an easy rapport. From that day on, he saw his father do this often. As an adult, Cooper had a laugh one day when Jake asked him why he was mimicking a fellow from West Virginia who owned a hardware store down in Enterprise, Oregon. He’d chuckled, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I didn’t notice I was doing it!” He expected Dranko’s effort was more intentional.

  The guard nodded, “You got the right currency?”

  Dranko’s mouth curled up at the corner, “We’ll see. Ain’t gonna get fleeced in any trade.”

  The guard laughed, “Alright, good luck. Just don’t forget to get a receipt showing you paid your taxes on the purchase. We’ll be checking you out on your way out.” He waved them on.

  Dranko rolled up his windows and drove onward, slowly. Once they were a safe distance away, he burst out laughing.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “There hasn’t been a politician born yet that could get a sales tax in place in Oregon. But, wham, Brushfire Plague come along and BOOM Sheriff Hodges gets it going!”

  Cooper smiled at his friend’s comment.

  “I hadn’t even thought of that!” Angela said, chuckling.

  “Good job, by the way,” Cooper added.

  Dranko’s shoulders responded nonchalantly. “I like how you countrified your voice.”

  “Oh that? I seen you do that before when you talk to different people, so I thought I’d try it out.”

  “Well, you pulled it off.”

  “I was half waiting for you to blurt out ‘git er done’!” Angela’s voice cracked with laughter.

  Dranko winked at her, “I’m saving that for the trip home!”

  Cooper turned his attention to the town as they drove toward the trading center. After the last two weeks in Portland, he was immediately struck by the lack of destruction. Not a single building had been burned, or even looted. There were many scattered groups of people and individuals who walked along the streets, desultory, heads down. He noted how a few still wore ragged surgical masks or dirty scarves over their mouths, but most had abandoned the effort to protect themselves from the plague. Cooper was struck by how the amount of pedestrians on the streets was much higher—and the cars on the streets much less—than before the plague had struck. As people passed one another, they either made no effort at greeting or did so without much enthusiasm; a lazy wave or head nod. Miles had been right, at least half of the people walking around had pistols on their hips, but nary a rifle was to be seen. He also noted that no one was simply out strolling or ‘window shopping’. Almost everyone was carrying loads of goods, or pushing or pulling a cart laden with the same. Foodstuffs and firewood were the most prevalent, but some had bundles of blankets or clothing that they were moving from one place to another. Surveying the scene, Cooper felt like he was watching old movie footage of downtrodden refugees from Eastern Europe.

  “I guess Hodges moved quickly to secure things here. Nothing has been destroyed,” Angela commented.

  “And, he moved firmly. Look at how somber everyone looks,” Cooper answered.

  “Yeah, it’s striking. Chaos would have happened slower here, in any event. Small towns, where people know each other, tend to be safer.”

  “Good point.”

  “On the flipside, they are also friendlier. So, everyone being so down on the streets is even more telling than it would be in a big city,” he continued.

  “Even better point,” Cooper said.

  The Jeep crawled down the main street, toward the store that Miles had indicated on their map. On their left, two men were clustered around a man laying curled up in an abandoned store’s entryway. One carried a hunting rifle, while the other had a shotgun pointing at the man lying down. The man on the ground was homeless; dirty clothes, unshaven, with a worn backpack sitting next to him. The men were kicking him, in an attempt to get him onto his feet. The man was disoriented, flailing about with his arms. Cooper rolled down his window so he could hear what was going on.

  “…up, you worthless slob! NO drunks in town!”

  “Wha…lea-vve me…’lone,” the man slurred back. He was rewarded with another round of stiff kicks to his legs and stomach. To their credit, the men weren’t trying to hurt the homeless man, but to harass him until he got up and moving. The man’s arms flailed down to protect his body, revealing his face for the first time. Cooper was shocked for a moment. His eyes shined in disbelief.

  “It can’t be,” he exclaimed. His left hand grabbed Dranko’s shoulder from behind, “Pull over!”

  “Why?”

  “I know that guy. It’s the cook from Redmond! Buck Floy!”

  **********

  Dranko glided the Jeep past the gathered men and over to the curb, “Who?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Cooper shouted as he leapt from the vehicle before it came to a stop.

  As he rounded the back corner of the Jeep, one of the guards directed his attention at him and gripped his shotgun with both hands, “Hold up!” The gun wasn’t pointed at Cooper, but was positioned as if to physically bar him from crossing.

  Cooper stopped, palms up, “I’m just here to help. I know this man.” He pointed at Buck, who was now lying on the ground, groaning.

  “Well, then. You can do us all a favor. You get him up and out of here in two minutes, I don’t care if you got a contract to kill ‘im,” the first guard said, relief in his voice.

  Cooper nodded and took the final steps to kneel at Buck’s feet. The second guard stepped back to give him room as he did so. Buck saw Cooper’s approach and pulled back, curling his legs and arms into a defensive posture. His face had a gash across his left cheek and, although they were covered by clothes, he was likely bruised from the beating that had just been administered.

  “Donnnn’t hu-rr-t mme…” he stammered.

  “Buck, I’m here to help you.”

  Buck shook his head, trying to clear it, “Whhaa…whoooo?”

  He leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Cooper Adams.” Buck reeked so badly, he had to fight his urge to recoil backwards. The first odor to assault him was the rank of too much alcohol, but the foul body odor of a man who hasn’t bathed for a long time quickly piled on. The wafting smell of dried vomit joined the fray. Cooper brought the crook of his elbow to shield his nose from the affront.

  Cobwebs hung on in Buck’s mind, “Cooopp…who?”

  With the guard so close by, Cooper didn’t want to yell out his name and he struggled to find a way to help Buck remember him. Then, it hit him.

  “Sicilian omelet, double helping of wheat toast!” Cooper exclaimed with the glee one has when they figure out the key to a puzzle. If anything sparks him, it will be my unusual order!

  A smile started in the corner of Buck’s mouth, but quickly took over, “Coop—! Doubb-llle the wh—eat! Healthy Portl-landers,” he finished with a disdain-ridden muttering. His eyes had some clarity now, drilling into Cooper’s.

  Cooper smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, “Yup, you got it! The one and the same.”

  “You lovebirds gonna get moving or not?” The second guard said, prodding Cooper with the butt stock of his rifle. He s
tifled his anger, but not before his right hand moved a few inches back toward his pistol. Luckily, the guard did not notice the movement.

  “Yup, we’ll be moving along,” was what he said instead. “Can you move?”

  Buck moaned as he sat up, “Sure. Jusss-t might n-need help.”

  Cooper grasped him under the arm and helped lift him to his feet. Buck was unsteady and nearly stumbled. Cooper righted him. As he turned him towards the vehicle, Dranko was waiting, arms crossed. The vicious frown plastered on his face as he shook his head slowly from the side to side, made his statement unmistakable.

  Cooper rebuffed him, “It’s happening. One, I know him. Two, remember that homeless man from Hawthorne?” The reference to the man they had met in the first days of the Plague, who was teaching about the value of generosity while the world fell apart, deflated Dranko in an instant.

  The frown turned into a sheepish smile, “Sure.” Dranko moved to gather up Buck’s belongings and throw them into the back of the Jeep. Meanwhile, Cooper manhandled Buck into the backseat, opposite of where he was sitting.

  “Buck, this is Angela…Angela, Buck Floy, best cook east of Mount Hood.”

  Buck gallantly offered her a sloppy smile, “P...pl-eeased to meet you,” and a dirty palm. Angela took it and shook.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir!” She offered an awkward smile, but her nose involuntarily curled up.

  Cooper closed the door on Buck and made his way around the back of the Jeep. He tipped his hand from his forehead to the guards, who pretended not to see him. Instead, they turned and walked away, dismissing him.

  “He’s a solid man,” he said to Dranko as they met up at the rear of the vehicle.

  “Sure looks like it,” he smirked.

  They opened their doors simultaneously as they got back in.

  “Buck Floy, this is Paul Dranko. A very good friend of mine. And, Dranko, this is Buck Floy, a good man and a great cook from Redmond.”

  The other two men exchanged nods.

  “You stink. Roll down a window,” Dranko grunted. The stench was indeed that bad and Cooper wasn’t annoyed at Dranko’s blunt command. Buck fumbled with the window handle for several tries before getting the window down. Dranko didn’t wait for him and resumed driving towards the store, a few blocks further up.