Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga (6 page)

Denny let his eyes wander over to the portrait of his wife on the wall next to the fireplace.
 
They had come together over his ancestry. She had been attracted by his looks and lineage.
 
Outside of her passion for Native American history and culture, they had been complete opposites in everything in life.
 

He smiled again, remembering his wife.
 
She had been Lutheran; he was a not-uncommon blend of Christian and Tribal custom.
 
He was just as apt to mumble a prayer to Jesus as he was to listen to the wind or patiently wait for a grove of pines to give him a message from
Mishe Moneto
, the Great Spirit.
 
She liked to travel to the big cities like Chicago, New York, or Dallas, and dreamed of visiting London and Paris.
 
He, on the other hand, would have liked nothing more than to grab a sleeping bag and head out under the stars and commune by the fire with
Kokumthena
, his people’s mythical Grandmother.
 

Emily had not really liked and indeed, preferred to avoid most things to do with the outdoors. Denny loved every second he could spend hunting, camping, fishing, or hiking.
 
His family, for generations, had grown up deep in the plains of Oklahoma on land they owned but still referred to as The Reservation.
 
The tribe had been cut off from the forests and hills and streams of their past for over a hundred-fifty years.
 
As a hotheaded youth, Denny had sworn to old Red Eagle that one day he would lead his people back to the land of their ancestors, where they belonged, away from the dry, dead flatland of their communal imprisonment.

Grandfather Red Eagle had smiled and placed his bronzed, wrinkled hand on Denny’s shoulder and smiled.
 
His face had been genially crinkled with mirth and age.
 
Grandfather never spoke at length—as was proper for the clan chief—for he listened much.
 
In that way, Red Eagle had earned the respect of his people.
 
But that day, he had told a very young Denny that he believed him and would ask Mishe Moneto to send him assistance on his quest.
 
He had said the ancestors would be proud.

Denny shook his head to clear such morose thoughts from his mind.
 
He turned on the TV and reluctantly got out of his chair to get some well-earned dinner.
 
A local news channel came on, the three anchors chatting about the weekend’s upcoming football games.
 
He smiled, thinking of how his students had been bragging about taking on the neighboring team after school on Friday.
 
Two days, they had told him, two days and they would break their best record for a season wide open.
 
He chuckled as he put a sandwich together with cold cuts and grabbed a beer from the fridge.
 
Here it was only 4 weeks into the season and the team was pumped up about going to 3-1 on the year like they were already State Champs.

“…
reports from Idaho State Health officials seem to indicate a higher than normal number of influenza cases this year.
 
That does not bode well for the coming winter, warns the doctor in charge of
…”
 
The report floated into the kitchen as he took the first bite of his roast beef and Swiss sandwich.

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.