Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  Denny froze, mid-chew. The flu. Every year, like clockwork, the seasonal disease came to harass and claim a few souls from humanity’s diminished stock. The Blue Flu, that modern Black Death, had wiped out hundreds of millions of people worldwide ten years ago, now every time he heard the flu it made him anxious.

  ‘The flu’ had been what the authorities had naively called the global pandemic—before it became known as the avian flu, or the bird flu…before it was called the Brisbane Flu or the Blue Flu, or simply The Pandemic. After the dust had settled and the final body count tallied, the little bug had been re-named The Great Pandemic. He listened to the pretty reporter for any indication that there were fatalities involved.

  “…claim, however, there are only a handful of deaths related to this season’s flu; healthcare professionals are cautiously optimistic that while we may see higher infection rates, this year may actually be less deadly to the elderly and very young.”

  He closed his eyes in relief and said a silent prayer of thanks Heavenward, not really caring who was there to hear it, as long as Someone was. Denny finished his bite and with a newfound appetite and attacked the rest of the sandwich and beer with a purpose.

  “…conflicts with the unusually high number of cases reported in Los Angeles and San Francisco…”

  Denny paused, hand on the faucet, empty plate in the sink. He turned slowly to face the doorway to the kitchen, where the darkened living room flickered with the glow from the TV.

  “The CDC earlier today confirmed that New York City is also experiencing a spike in flu cases; however, due to the comparatively mild flu season the Northeast had last year, those numbers at least, are not out of the ordinary.”

  “What about Los Angeles and San Francisco? How bad is it?” wondered Denny, as he walked into the living room, the dishes in the sink completely forgotten. He stood in front of the TV, hands dripping water on the carpet, the rest of his evening also forgotten. His attention was held tightly by the dramatic graphic on the screen, showing tiny red dots scattered across California and Oregon with the title “Flu Cases since Sept 1”. There were an awful lot of red dots along the coast, Denny noted in alarm.

  “Nationwide, however, cases are still below last year, and while the Centers For Disease Control admits they are watching closely, we have been assured there is nothing to worry about yet,” said the male anchor with a grim, but reassuring face.

  “Turning to a happier topic, at least for some, is the weather. Right Todd?” asked the pretty co-anchor with a smile, looking grateful to be moving on to other topics.

  “Well, don’t blame me for the snow that’s coming, I’m just the messenger, remember?” said the short meteorologist, to the canned laughter of his co-anchors. “We’ve got a pretty significant early-season clipper system moving south out of Canada in the next few days,” he said, stepping in front of a map of the region. He pointed with one hand toward the Canadian border. “While the brunt of the snow should fall in Montana and Wyoming, Idaho will see at least a few inches of the white stuff, especially in higher elevations. It’s a pretty big storm, folks. For those of you not ready for summer to end, just be thankful you’re not on the other side of the Rockies!”

  Denny switched to a 24-hour news channel in disgust. Unfortunately, they were fixated on the upcoming election and how President Denton enjoyed a slight lead over his challenger. Denny could care less about politics. He tried to calm himself. “Unexpected,” and “high numbers of cases” made him very wary. Memories of his personal hell during the height of the Blue Flu crisis washed through his mind unbidden, despite his best efforts to block them.

  He could see Emily, happily going about her housework on a snowy winter’s day and he struggled to keep the memory repressed. It was the last time he saw his young bride healthy and happy. He closed his eyes and put a hand to his face, slowly sinking to his knees. The memories would not stop tormenting him. Emily leaning on a chair, coughing, her lungs filling with fluid. Emily in a hospital bed, a mere hollow husk of her beautiful former self, the skin of her hands and face so blue it was almost black. The tubes and plastic drip-lines snaking from her body had merely enhanced the macabre scene.

  He stifled a sob, growling at himself to stop. Emily in the casket, finally at peace, dressed in her Sunday best, hands folded calmly on her withered chest. Then he saw things from his perspective, coughing into a handkerchief in front of his neighbors and running out of the room in terror. Lying in bed while Sally Michaels, his neighbor, tried to lower his fever. Waking up in a hospital a week later to a nurse with a bio-hazard suit on explaining the world as he knew it was gone. His wife, his friends, his neighbors, everyone died or moved away trying to escape the wrath of God.

  He opened his eyes and looked up in surprise at the fathomless heavens above him. Denny had no memory of walking outside, but the sight of the Milky Way—a giant, undulating river of stars flowing serenely across the sky—calmed his wounded spirit and chased away the painful memories. Stars too numerous to count glittered like so many diamonds scattered across black velvet. He felt calm returning to his frayed nerves, memories of the Blue Flu quickly fading as he inhaled the sweet scent of a fireplace in the distance. The light breeze cooled his warm skin. Somewhere up there, he was sure, Emily was looking down on him and smiling.

  At that moment, Denny had the distinct impression that Grandfather was looking at him too, only frowning. Denny squinted his eyes at the silent sentinels of the sky. He looked around himself, standing in his front yard and blinked like an owl in the noon-day sun.

  “How the hell did I get out here?” he asked himself.

  “Little Spear…”

  Denny spun around expecting to see Grandfather there with a smile. That was what Grandfather had called him in his youth, a name he cherished. There was no one there. He turned around in a slow circle, eyes and ears straining in the dark to detect anyone.

  “Hello?” he asked. A wave of foolishness swept over him. Grandfather had died years ago, shortly after he and Emily had married. He was at peace and had never known the terror of the Blue Flu. A thought scratched the back of his mind with persistence: I heard him.

  A gust of wind tickled the pine trees that separated his house from the Andertons. He thought he heard someone again. He closed his eyes and opened his soul to listen, the way Grandfather had taught him. He presented himself not just to the breeze making a gentle exhale through the pines, but to Grandfather. The old man was speaking through the trees, Denny was sure of it, yet he would never know how to explain it.

  “What is it, Grandfather?” Denny asked in his people’s native tongue. He waited for an answer but heard only the breeze. “Grandfather, I’m listening…” he mumbled, feeling himself slip easily into the trance Red Eagle had taught him in his youth. It helped to focus the mind and hear what needed to be heard. He waited and waited, until he thought he must surely be going crazy. Just as he was about to open his eyes, he heard it again.

  “Run…”

  Denny’s eyes snapped open and he dropped into a crouch, spinning around looking for a threat. He looked farther up the street. Still nothing. No movement, no cars, no lights.

  No lights.

  He realized the Andertons should have been home by now—especially Ruth. She rarely left their house, yet their home was dark. Denny trotted across the drive and through the shared side lawn until he got to their front porch. They had a small ranch house; a three bedroom model, just like he did. Enough for their meager possessions and enough space for the children to visit. They needed little else.

  As Denny grabbed the railing for the little set of stairs to the front porch, he remembered how John had come over to his house about a year ago and asked if Denny would help with a very special project. Red Eagle had long ago drilled into Denny’s head that Shawnee should always help and support neighbors, for in doing so they helped themselves and would honor Mishe Moneto. Denny had readily agreed. It was only after John had placed the roll of
blueprints on his kitchen table that Denny started to understand the scope of the project.

  John had been excavating under his house, adjacent to his already well-stocked basement. Denny had whistled at the impressive layout: three sleeping quarters, a self-contained bathroom, a separate shower, space for a year’s worth of food and water. Water collection cisterns with pipes that led up to the surface, radio gear, the works. Then he noticed the thick concrete walls.

  “Is this a fallout shelter?”

  “Well,” John had laughed, “it’s hard for my generation to forget old habits.” He explained a few of the special features he had designed into the shelter and smiled when Denny expressed how impressed he was with the whole idea. “Naturally, if you’ll help me, we’ll have space in there for you as well, if something happens,” John offered easily.

  Truth be told, Denny would have done it for the experience, if nothing else. He had grown up in Oklahoma, in an area of the country where basements were just not practical. After the Blue Flu, there had been some part of him that was determined to be better prepared for the next catastrophe, but he just had no idea how to do so. It had taken him months to get to the point where he even wanted to survive the next disaster.

  Denny had always been firmly rooted in the outdoors. If something happened again, he would head for the mountains, leave civilization and return to his heritage. The Andertons had the opposite idea: they would bury themselves in the ground with food, water, supplies and stay locked away like skutelawe, the turtle, hiding in his shell until the danger passed.

  Now, as Denny peered in the darkened windows of the Anderton home he saw nothing but blackness. He knocked on the door, tried the doorbell. No response. He glanced at his watch: 6:30pm. He suddenly felt very foolish. They were likely just in town for dinner. He took a deep breath to calm down and then walked back to his house chuckling at himself.

  When he stepped onto his own front porch again, he could hear the phone ringing inside. He ran to the kitchen and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Good grief, Denny, when are you going to get an answering machine?”

  “Sorry, Phyllis,” he said to the school’s administrative assistant.

  “Oh, it’s okay,” the older woman sighed. “You’re the last on my list to call anyway.”

  “What’s up?” he asked as he reached for the remote to mute the TV.

  “Bob is closing school for tomorrow.”

  “Why?” Denny said, finally reaching the remote. The TV went silent displaying a picture of the President and a graphic of his planned campaign stops in California.

  “Where you been, Denny? At least a third of the students are out sick.”

  “Well, there were a few in my classes that were absent today, but I hardly noticed a third of the students gone…” he said absently, trying to puzzle out why the President’s campaign stops were sticking in his mind.

  “Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a third today, but the sophomore class just got back from their field trip to Sacramento on Monday and half of them won’t be in school tomorrow. I’ve talked to the parents calling in—they all claim it’s a stomach bug or the flu. Lot of them are starting to get scared. We haven’t had this many people come down with something since…” her voice trailed off.

  Two little words. The flu. His conscious mind, if blissfully unaware of the other factors swirling about his head, would have merely nodded and been excited to go fishing the next day. But there were too many factors for his subconscious to ignore.

  Flu reports on the rise in California. A few students sick today, many more called out for tomorrow—already, at…6:40pm on a Wednesday. There were no big games tomorrow, no tests, nothing he could think of that would tempt students to skip school.

  Hell, there was hardly any homework yet, because the school year was only a few weeks old. The annual sophomore trip had just returned from a three day jaunt in California’s state capital. The Andertons not home…

  His subconscious screamed for the stubborn side of his mind to wake up and look at the warning signs. Denny’s pulse quickened and he felt his hands go clammy. He gripped the phone tight, muscles tensing for activity: fight or flight. “Y-you,” he cleared his throat. Then, more confident sounding, said: “You said, the flu?”

  “Yeah,” exhaled Phyllis in a tired sigh. “Bob’s just nervous about it spreading. He’d rather we lose a few snow days than have it passing around the entire student body again like last year…Between you and me,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “I think it’s just ‘cause he doesn’t want the football team getting sick. Gotta beat that record on Friday night, right?” she half-chuckled, half-cackled in the way of old women.

  “But honestly, I can’t say I don’t have a touch of it myself, you know?” She coughed quietly off to the side. “Back of my throat been ticklin’ me since yesterday.” Phyllis loudly cleared her throat.

  “Anyway, I got more calls to make, so I just wanted to let you know we’re out tomorrow. Go have fun fishing, will ya?” she said. He could almost see the smile on her face. Phyllis had always liked him.

  “Thanks, Phyll,” he muttered.

  “You betcha! Okay then, bye-bye, now.”

  Denny slowly hung up the receiver and stared at the blank wall for a few moments, processing his fears and trying to rationalize everything.

  “Run…” echoed through his mind, in Grandfather’s voice.

  He looked out the kitchen window at the Andertons’ place. Still no lights on. “Okay, okay, enough,” he told himself, hands firmly planted on either side of the sink. “Get it together, Denoyan!” He tried mightily to tamp down the fear that was bubbling up inside him.

  He glanced at the mantel over the fireplace in his living room. The picture of his Grandfather decked out in the full council outfit, complete with headdress, seemed to watch him. His wedding photo was there next to the chief, reminding him of all that he had—and lost—because of the Blue Flu. The old man seemed to defy him to do better this time around.

  “There is no this time, Grandfather. It’s not the Blue Flu.” He walked through the room, heading for the basement door. He turned back to the mantel. “It’s not. Besides, you weren’t even there to see what happened. You never saw—Christ,” he said shaking his head. “I’m talking to pictures, now.”

  Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the growing feeling that Grandfather was right. Sighing, he resolved to go dig out his hunting gear and get everything in order. Just in case. He hoped going through the motions of preparing would at least calm his jitters enough to let him get some sleep. He was trying to convince himself that tomorrow he would wake up, watch the news and all this nonsense would make him laugh. Maybe he’d take John out to the river to fish.

  He turned on the light in the basement and started digging through the plastic totes that held all his camping and hunting gear during the off-season. He realized he would’ve done this in a few weeks, anyway, for the start of deer season. He looked around behind him, trying to shake the feeling that someone was watching him. Again.

  “I need to get out more…” he muttered as he carried a few of the plastic bins back upstairs.

  CHAPTER 4

  Los Angeles, California.

  BRENDA ALSTON SAT IN her old clunker of a car, barely edging forward along the parking lot the locals called I-10. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and checked the rear-view mirror for the thousandth time. She hated the first day of work. No matter the work, be it the summer job she got in high school as a lifeguard, or the first day of boot camp; the first day of any occupation she had ever attempted always sucked. It was a curse. She was sure of it.

  This time would be no different: new hospital, new staff, new doctors to learn, new boss, new everything. Not to mention it was her first civilian job since college. She went through her mental checklist once more: find the supply room, get scrubs, name-tag, pens, notepads, phone numbers, beeper numbers…the list seemed
endless.

  The DJ on the radio made some lame joke about morning commutes on Fridays and launched into a predictable TGIF monologue. She tuned the radio to another station, hoping that it actually played music.

  “…my dog toooooooo,” crooned a singer with a pronounced drawl. Country was not her first choice, but it was music and it took her mind off sitting in traffic. She looked up at the sign that proclaimed she was on the Santa Monica Freeway.

  I could walk faster than this, she complained to herself. Brenda checked the dashboard clock again and prayed that she wouldn’t be late on her first day.

  The next song came on, something about jilted love under a pine tree in the rain, in Georgia. She rolled her eyes and decided she’d had enough. “Okay, I’m going to change this one more time and stick with whatever comes on.” Better to listen to garbage than rear-end someone on the way to her first day at work.

  She clicked the radio and went back to drumming her fingers on the steering wheel and trying not to check the rear-view mirror again. Instead of the pop rock she was expecting, she heard the hourly news blurb:

  “…dozen thankfully mild cases of the deadly H5N1 flu virus have been confirmed in the Chicago area. Stringent quarantine procedures, created after The Great Pandemic, have been put in place and the CDC is monitoring the situation carefully. Dr. Paul Kreen, virologist with Loyola University Medical Center, says last week alone, 21 patients tested positive for Influenza A. Thankfully, all but one of those cases were the pre-Pandemic H1N1 swine flu variant…”

  Brenda turned up the volume a little. The reporter continued the story, “Dr. Kreen cautions, however, that many people may have developed a false sense of security over the last couple of flu seasons, which were comparatively mild.”

  The doctor’s voice then replaced the reporter’s melodramatic tone, “We honestly don’t know why it’s emerging right now, but the fact that it is unusual and has caught the attention of the Centers for Disease Control is—I believe—significant.”