Apache Dawn, - [little bear else holmelund minarik txt] 📗

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’d 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 Andertons’ home, he saw nothing but blackness. He knocked on the door, tried the doorbell. No response. He glanced at his watch. 6:30 p.m. 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 have 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’ve merely nodded and been excited to go fishing the next day. But there were too many factors for his subconscious to ignore.

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’s been ticklin’ me since yesterday.” Phyllis loudly cleared her throat.

“Anyway, 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.