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 The stoplight had been replaced by two pickups parked head to tail and four men armed with rifles.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.