Cooper stopped listening for a few moments, trying to digest what he’d heard. The numbers were staggering. This was already worse than the Spanish Flu Pandemic, with no end in sight. Worse still, that pandemic had taken over a year to run its course. This swath of death had occurred in just a few days.
“Widespread rioting and acts of violence have been reported in most major cities across America. Many small communities have been so afflicted, as well. Authorities are urging people to remain calm, to stay in their homes, and call emergency personnel if there are any problems. Leading medical experts have issued statements to remind people that, while this illness is extremely deadly to those who come down with it, that many people appear to have immunity to it. All research medical resources around the globe are frantically working on a cure and a vaccine for this new virus.”
Cooper could only shake his head in disbelief.
“In business news, all of the world’s stock exchanges remain closed during this emergency. In fact, most commercial and industrial activities have ceased altogether given the rampant closure of borders around the world and the massive absenteeism at workplaces and factories worldwide…”
Cooper staggered from the living room to the kitchen. He was famished after the tumultuous day before. He could smell the sausage and eggs before he started cooking. He added toast, orange juice, and a pot of black coffee to round out the breakfast. Midway into the cooking, Dranko and Jake stumbled into the kitchen. Jake’s eyes were bleary and blood-shot. He dragged a red blanket lazily behind him that had caught up on his leg. Dranko was shirtless, but was struggling to find the sleeves of a ratty black t-shirt, which advertised some cheap brand of whiskey.
Cooper looked intently at Jake, “Good morning, son.”
Jake looked up and offered a tepid smile, “Good morning, Dad.” Cooper pulled him close, hugged him tightly and whispered in his ear, “Come what may, we’ll be together through this thing.” Jake pulled away, looked at him hopefully, his eyes laced with doubt, and began buttering the toast in dull silence.
“Take your seats, gentlemen. Dranko, will you grab some plates and silverware? Everything is almost ready.”
They ate in silence, but ravenously. Jake tore his toast to pieces, ripping them into his mouth. Dranko bit a pork sausage link in half, fat spurting out and stinging him in the eye. Cooper devoured his eggs in single bites and yellow yolk dribbled down his chin. He wiped it off with a slice of toast and ate half of it in a single bite. A half-gallon of orange juice disappeared between them amid loud slurping noises as they gulped it down. All told, a dozen eggs, almost a pound of pork sausage links, and a half a loaf of bread were consumed.
Five minutes later, sated, they all sat back almost simultaneously.
Cooper surveyed the scene. Not a speck of food remained, plates were picked clean. Jake had butter smeared across both cheeks and his fingertips were wrapped in grease from the pork. He was furiously licking them clean now. Dranko had bits of pork grease, yolk, and crumbs from the toast coating the better half of his goatee. Cooper could only imagine what he looked like.
“My, we must look like a trio of starving men who’ve just emerged from prison and had their first meal!”
He burst out laughing. Loud, side-splitting chortles filled the room. Tears streamed down his face and he gasped for breath. Dranko and Jake first looked at him, astonished. Then, looking from Cooper to one another, they too fell into uncontrollable laughter. That caused a new spasm of guffawing. Soon, they were all doubled over, clutching frantically at their sides, and waving at each other to stop.
After what seemed like an eternity, the laughter subsided, defeated by tired lungs and aching abdominal muscles.
“Damn, we needed that,” Cooper said, still panting to catch his breath, and wiping his chin and face with a napkin. He used it to dry the tears of laughter from his eyes. Smiling, Dranko and Jake both nodded in understanding.
Cooper went into the kitchen, grabbed the pot of coffee and two mugs. “Why don’t you get some milk,” he said to Jake. He waited for him to return with a mug filled to the brim with milk.
When he came back, the levity had quickly drained from the room, “We need to take your mother to the funeral home today.”
Jake looked at him over the top of the ceramic mug emblazoned with “Keep Portland Weird,” eyes focused and unflinching.
“Dranko, can you help?”
“Of course.”
“Son, it’s your decision if you want to come with us or not. I know it very well may be dangerous. Things have changed. A lot.”
“You mean, like the grocery store?”
“Yes, like that, but getting worse. It would be safer for you to…”
Jake interrupted him, “I want to go, Dad.” His gaze was firm. Cooper was taken aback by the adult eyes he saw across the table. The wide, creamy white milk mustache above his son’s lip made them stand out in stark relief.
“Alright. Why don’t you change your clothes and be ready in five?”
Ten minutes later they were headed toward Fuhrmann’s funeral home in Dranko’s Jeep. He had helped Cooper wrap Elena’s body in the blankets she had died on and move her to the cargo area of the Wagoneer. Cooper had muttered a few more words of goodbye and kissed her forehead gently. He would never forget how cold she was on his lips. A chill ran down his spine and his shoulders harshly shivered at the discord to how she’d felt in life.
Cooper was in the backseat, one arm stretched over it, and holding onto her body. He was mortified at the thought of hitting a bump and her body bouncing into the air. His shotgun lay on the seat next to him and his pistol was holstered on his hip. Jake was in the passenger seat, back ramrod as he stared down the road. Cooper had noticed how he had assiduously avoided ever laying eyes upon his mother wrapped up in the cloth. Dranko was at the wheel, both hands gripping it tightly. Cooper knew he had his rifle on the seat between them and a sidearm on him as well. The crisp morning air billowed in from the half open windows.
Cooper noticed the distinct smell of things burning. It was not the welcome, nostalgic-inducing smell of wood smoke from a fireplace that greeted their nostrils. Fortunately, he only strongly smelled the stink of rubber and plastic burning. Cars. More faintly, he smelled the earthiness of wood smoke, but it was mixed with the tang of plastic and other things that should be not burned. A house, but not close by.
“You guys smell that,” Dranko asked, breaking his concentration.
Jake nodded silently up front. Cooper responded, “Sure do. Let’s keep our eyes open. Jake, give a yell if you see anything.” Jake nodded and began actively scanning outside the Jeep.
Traffic was light on the boulevard. The Subaru from the other day was still there, but the fire had gone out, leaving it charred and black. The liquor store had been ransacked. A layer of shattered, glittering glass coated the sidewalk in front. A dozen or so broken bottles lay scattered about the parking lot. Inside, the store was a chaos of tipped over shelves, broken bottles, and scattered newspapers.
A few doors down, the wine store lay unharmed, without a scratch on its large picture window or its door.
“Just goes to show that wine drinkers are more civilized,” Dranko quipped with a poorly done mock English accent.
“Nah. I think it shows that Monsieur Shotgun enjoys his vino and is willing to protect it,” Cooper said motioning Dranko’s attention back to the store. A frenzied shop owner, brandishing a Remington 870 police-style shotgun, had emerged from the shadows as they drove past. When his eyes locked with Cooper’s, for just a second, Cooper was stunned.
The man looked haunted. His tired eyes were set deep, dark circles under them. He had a scruffy gray beard, just a few days old. The gray beard blended with the white paper surgical mask he wore. The mask was dirty and looked tattered. His hair was disheveled and unkempt. Cooper had noticed that when he came to the storefront, his feet were unsteady and his legs wobbling.