“Is Harry alright?”
“He’s fine. He’s fine. He just needs some flowers. That’s all.” She resumed her haphazard stumbling around the yard.
Dranko had pulled up and was leaning out his window. Cooper continued, “Mrs. Ferguson, is it alright if Paul goes and checks on Harry for you?”
“Sure, sure. But, I told you, he just needs some flowers.”
Cooper nodded to Dranko, who exited the Jeep and entered the Ferguson’s home. It was an English cottage style home, much like Cooper’s, except it had a little more Tudor thrown in for good measure. The dark gray paint was accented with white trim. The Ferguson’s home was compact and sat squarely on its finely landscaped yard. A scattering of white, blue, and red tulips lay in various clumps. The other flower beds were dormant, waiting for the planting of an annual or the sprouting of a perennial. Cooper watched Mrs. Ferguson ramble about in silence, waiting for Dranko to come and tell him what he already knew.
Moments later, Dranko came out. He shook his head quickly at Cooper and then raised his voice for Mrs. Ferguson’s benefit, “You were right, Harry’s fine. Just waiting for some flowers. Why don’t you bring him the red ones?” He motioned with his left hand to a clutch of red tulips.
She snapped out of her frantic trance, “Ah, that’s a nice boy, Paul. Always full of good ideas.” She bent over and pulled the tulips from the ground, using her bare foot to provide leverage. Muttering under her breath, but smiling widely, she went back inside her door.
Cooper and Dranko moved toward the truck. Cooper said what was on both their minds, “I suspect we’ll see more of this. Shock. On a mass scale. Anyone with the faintest hint of a feeble or weak mind may just well slide over into shock, or worse.”
“Yeah. Harry looks like he’s been dead through the night. The sunrise must have put her on this mission of finding flowers for him.”
“We’ll need to come back later and check on her, and hopefully be able to take care of the body. But, first, she will have to accept that he’s passed on.”
Chapter 7
Cooper jostled as he drove down the road in the pickup. Those shocks needed to be replaced 50,000 miles ago. He could make out Dranko in his rearview mirror. Deep furrows around his eyebrows, firm, thin-set lips, and a tight grip on the steering wheel, both hands. He’s nervous about this run to the gas station. Of course, Dranko was nervous and careful about most things. He did tell me to come ‘strapped, heavy’. From someone like Dranko, that spoke volumes.
Cooper saw a light blue Honda Civic approaching from the opposite direction. The Civic lurched suddenly to the right, to the far lane and further away from Cooper’s GMC. As the two cars passed one another, Cooper could see the driver and into the front seat of the Civic. The driver was a woman, likely in her twenties, a blonde with her hair yanked back into a hasty ponytail. She wore a tight-fitting black athletic top. Her window was down and the cold air blowing in likely made her regret not wearing a coat. Her face was hard, lips curled up into a snarl, and eyes squinted nearly shut. As she passed, he saw the barrel of a shotgun poke just above the rolled down window, covering him as she passed. From the receiving end, the barrel looked enormous, like the bore of a twelve pounder he’d seen as a child on the USS Constitution in Boston. Well, ain’t that the shit. The incongruity of an otherwise attractive blonde in a Honda Civic rolling down Division Street with a shotgun trained on him was startling. It wasn’t until several seconds later that he realized he had reflexively grabbed his pistol with his right hand, where it still stood, ready for action. He smiled to himself, chuckled, and re-holstered it.
Up ahead, he saw the line. At least fifteen cars were queued up in front of the Union 76 station. Immediately in front of him was a convertible, black Porsche, top down. In this weather? Are you still showing off with everything that is going on? A middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair, and wearing a high-tech North Face jacket was behind the wheel. Immediately, Cooper saw the large, shiny Heckler and Koch stainless steel pistol lying boldly in the passenger seat. Guy likes German, I guess. Beyond the Porsche was an orange van, full size, paint peeling, and rust getting the better half of the wheel wells. He could only see one arm of the van’s driver, perched firmly on the door sill, meaty and hairy. Cooper glanced up, into the rearview.
Having parked and run up, Dranko was already at his side. “Did you see the girl’s scattergun in the Civic?”
“Course. Porsche-guy has a pistol in the passenger seat. I guess Sunday drive has taken on a whole new meaning, huh?”
“Yeah, I’ll say,” Dranko responded.
“Makes sense. With this plague running around, no one wants anyone getting too close.”
“Except for those of us who don’t believe in the tooth fairy and understand we’ve probably already been exposed,” Dranko responded.
Cooper nodded in response, lips pursed in agreement.
“Well, let’s get ready to wait. Give me a honk if you need anything.” Dranko ran back to his Jeep. Two cars had finished at the pumps and pulled away. Slowly, like a continuously dissected snake, the cars moved forward, separated, and then rejoined.
As time passed, Cooper noticed the man in the Porsche continuously glancing at his watch and growing increasingly agitated. Thirty minutes into their wait, they’d only made it halfway to the pumps. The man in the Porsche began beating furiously on his steering wheel and shouting obscenities into the wind. I’ll need to keep an eye on him. After he spent his rage, he settled back into a pensive wait, tapping his fingers and looking about anxiously. He also closed the convertible top, so Cooper lost sight of him. Maybe he’ll warm up and get his brain working again.
Finally, after another half-hour, they approached the pumps. The van pulled up, with the Porsche close behind. The station was down to one pump, the other having already run dry.
An overweight young man wearing faded blue jeans and a green University of Oregon sweatshirt, a pimply face and greasy black hair, emerged from the van and began filling it. He was unshaven and absently munched on a half-full bag of Cheetos. He shuffled his red Converse-clad feet to the time of a song playing on his iPod.
Moments later, the gas pump emitted a loud shnick as the pump automatically shut off. The man must have heard it too, despite the iPod, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. He walked over to the pump and tried re-engaging the handle to no avail. He tried it again. He began looking more confused and then replaced the handle onto the pump and then tried swiping his credit card again. He had barely taken the handle back in hand when the door on the Porsche flew open wildly, banging loudly against its hinges. The driver sprang out of his car, his face contorted.
“Hold on, just a minute. What the hell do you think you’re doing,” he shouted at the man at the pump.
He moved back toward his van and reinserted the nozzle back into the gas tank, “Just trying it out again. It stopped way too early. I’m not full.”
The Porsche man gesticulated in wide arcs, which is when Cooper noticed the pistol imprinting on his shirt, near the small of his back. Uh-oh. “No, you don’t. No you don’t. Today, my friend, you get one turn at the pump. One turn. Don’t you see this long line? One turn!”
The overweight man continued fiddling with the pump’s handle as he considered the man’s words, staring back.
“Didn’t you hear me, you fat fuck? Move on, right now! I’ve got a sick wife at home I have to get to.” Mr. Porsche was screaming now, veins bulging red on his neck and spittle flying from his mouth.
Cooper silently opened the door of his pickup and slid off the seat. His feet ghosted silently onto the pavement. He kept the door between him and the other men. His right hand held his pistol, low and at the ready, but out of sight. With his left, he motioned Dranko to the opposite side of the pickup.