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  Burn District: Yuma

  A Novel

  By

  Suzanne Jenkins

  Note: Burn District: A Short Story Prequel can be read as an introduction to Burn District: Yuma.

  Burn District: Yuma

  by Suzanne Jenkins

  Burn District: Yuma Copyright © 2014 by

  Suzanne Jenkins. All rights reserved.

  Created in digital format in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in blog posts and articles and in reviews.

  Burn District: Yuma is a complete and total work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  For more information on the Greektown trilogy, the Pam of Babylon series, and author Suzanne Jenkins, please refer to the ‘Also by…’ section at the end of this novel.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Also by Suzanne Jenkins

  Prologue

  October 29, 2012 BREAKING NEWS: Hurricane Sandy makes landfall along the coast of southern New Jersey. National Hurricane Center.

  Watching the compelling newscasts with local and national weather reporters standing on the windswept beaches, families gathered around the television waiting for those comforting words, We will keep you informed so you’ll be safe. The mentality of the times meant trusting the news from television and the internet.

  It wasn’t the worst storm to hit the eastern seaboard, but it would have lasting consequences and they occurred quickly. Once the authorities totaled the damages, reported to be in the billions of dollars, the controversy began. While homeowners froze in damaged homes during early November snows, the wealthy were the first in line to receive checks for beachfront vacation property repairs. News of the embattled homeowners was soon replaced by a scarier consequence of the storm; who cared about personal property if lives were at stake?

  After the hurricane, reports of the first cases of a virus thought to replicate in the water-soaked wood from the storm, frightened citizens. Quarantines put into place did not contain the virus and the spread escalated. Virucides sprayed from above didn’t always work, either. The resultant hysteria led to the first therapeutic burn of an area. Relocated residents testified reimbursement for their lost property was fair, even generous. It appeared to be a win-win situation…until a neighborhood was bombed with a napalm like agent for a burn, but done at night, without relocating the residents. Contrite leaders explained it was a frightful mix up; the plane was supposed to be spraying the virucides and dropped the burn agent instead.

  The rumors began.

  Chapter 1

  Laura

  My name is Laura Davis. I’m thirty-seven years old. My husband is Mike. Our marriage is a classic teenaged love story; we dated in high school, I got pregnant after graduation, he left college to marry me and we had our first baby when I was nineteen.

  Here our story changes; our son has Down Syndrome. When he came out of my body, we both knew right away that he was different. “Don’t say there’s something wrong with him,” my mother had said. “The only thing wrong is that people will be ass-holes.” It was her attitude that made all the difference to us. Mike Junior was a joy from the beginning. We quickly aligned ourselves with like-thinkers, letting negative people fall by the wayside, sometimes divorcing friends for their sheer ignorance. It was freeing.

  Mike Junior defined our marriage. Nothing worth doing was easy. Mike and I worked as a team, sometimes reluctantly but with passion. We trudged along, one foot in front of the other. Isn’t that the way everyone lives? We had three more children, careers, a lovely home, close friends and family. I was living a charmed life.

  Until this.

  We are running from our own government. It is as if they have a grass-roots plan of destruction; the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing. Look how much your government is doing to save you, people! The next night, a bomb fell on a neighborhood with the families still sleeping in their beds.

  Reading forums on the internet provided the only real information; what came from government controlled television stations was propaganda. For days, I wasn’t sure what I should believe, and then our neighbor confirmed that we were in trouble and should prepare to flee at a moment’s notice.

  When the time came, we quickly left our home with minutes to spare, bringing along Mike’s parents, Randy and Carol, and my co-worker, Kelly. Just seconds after getting onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike, the first blast hit. We could see the magnitude of the destruction fifteen miles away; the town had to be gone.

  Our destination; my father’s two hundred acre ranch in Yuma County, Arizona.

  A smoking campground in Saint Louis was the last time we saw a burn. Seeing death in person changed me. The deaths I read about on the rumor forums didn’t affect me the same way because I could pretend they didn’t exist. They were sad, but from a distance, horrifying but not personal. After viewing a body lying in a driveway outside of Saint Louis, reality set in. It wasn’t pretty. I could see skin scorched and blackened, the limbs twisted at odd angles to the body. I could imagine the families inside the burned out homes, picturing children in the same position. I silently prayed death had come quickly.

  The atmosphere when we arrived in Oklahoma was different, as if we were going on vacation, not running for our lives. I was able to relax for a while. Campers were smiling, seemingly unaffected by what was going on back east.

  Settling into the campground, Carol and my oldest daughter, Elise took the boys to the bathhouse for a much-needed scrub down while the rest of us set up camp. You could hear Junior and Ned, my-eight-year old, screaming echoes of laughter, the sound of water splashing. It felt good, knowing they were capable of having fun.

  We had two tents, one for Mike, the boys and me, and one for Carol and Randy. Kelly and my girls were going to sleep in the van. Kelly’s ice cooler was full of thawing fried chicken and other good things she’d prepared in case we had to flee. The camp stove set up easily and I got dinner started. We’d all benefit from eating something other than sandwiches for a change, and Kelly’s food hit the spot.

  The temperature was warmer than it had been at home and we sat around the picnic table talking about things that didn’t matter long after we finished eating. Randy told funny fishing tales, and Kelly shared stories about her family’s immigration from Ireland. But when the sun went down, it quickly grew chilly and we called it a night. Ned had fallen asleep leaning up against me.

  “Come on, sweetie, we’re going to the tent now,” I whispered. He’d grown clingy over the last few hours, a combination of fear and tiredness. Mike picked Ned up and took him to the tent, helping him get into his sleeping bag.

  “Junior, come on, buddy,” he called.

  “Are we all sleeping together?” Junior asked, alarmed, sitting on the ground at my feet, pointing at the tent.

  “You got it,” I said.

  “But, Mom, you snore,” Junior replied. I could hear Mike laughing in the tent.r />
  “Well, wake me up if I get too loud,” I told him. I looked back at the van, thinking the girls would be talking, but it appeared they had already gone to sleep, the shades drawn, lights out. It was only eight o’clock. When Kelly came out of the bathhouse wearing sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt, my relief was so obvious, Randy elbowed me.

  “Stop it,” I said, frowning.

  “I’m glad you’re worried,” he replied. I don’t know what I expected of Kelly. It was too cold for nudity, but maybe I was afraid she’d be wearing a sexy nightgown. I was being ridiculous, fighting pettiness, especially so early in the course of us being together.

  Within minutes after crawling into sleeping bags, everyone had fallen asleep but me. I laid awake, listening to traffic noise on the interstate a few miles away that seemed never to let up. It was not a good sign. We’d noticed on the way to the campground that cars with license plates from eastern states outnumbered Oklahoma licenses.

  The underground news wasn’t available to me without logging onto the internet, but we’d made the decision it would be too risky to do so. We didn’t know if authorities kept track of those who fled. Suffering from computer withdrawal, I kept thinking about emails gone unanswered, eBay auctions I was missing. Why did I care if eBay still existed? Had my friends survived? What about my job? Was anyone working? If so, were they worried about Kelly and I, thinking we perished in the burn? Would news about our town, in the middle of a famous historic area be broadcast here in Oklahoma? I thought of the buildings that had stood for two hundred years, now destroyed.

  Trying to toss and turn but confined by my sleeping bag, I could feel the cold and damp seeping up from the ground, but I was too tired to do anything about it. I’d taken the time to make sure the rest of the family slept on tarps, but managed to find the one spot that was unprotected. I finally fell asleep right before daybreak and then a diesel truck started in the next camping space, the noise and fumes waking me.

  “Are you kidding me?” Mike moaned.

  “I can’t sleep anyway,” I said, groaning as I struggled to get out of my sleeping bag.

  I found comfort in making coffee the old-fashioned way on the camp stove; the earthy smell waking the adults who hadn’t been disturbed by the truck. My daughters filed out of the van, expressionless. I knew they were trying to cope and not complain. It appeared I was the only one who’d had a bad night.

  On the way back from the bathhouse, Randy talked to a young couple from New Jersey who had their computers out on the picnic table. He came back to our camp with news.

  “They aren’t afraid of exposing their location, and said the idea that the government would come after everyone who fled was ridiculous.” Randy always stirred the pot and I decided to help him along.

  “You must be reading my mind. I’ve got serious internet withdrawal.”

  “Pop, is it worth the risk?” Mike argued, ignoring me. “I think we need to be firm about no phone or internet use.”

  “Did they have any news?” I asked, changing the subject while pouring coffee into cardboard coffee cups.

  “A famous garden in southeastern Pennsylvania was burned to the ground the same night we fled,” Randy replied softly, putting his arm around Carol. She was shocked.

  Mike reached out and gave her arm a squeeze. “Hey sorry, Mom,” he said lovingly. The beautiful garden was in the center of our large farming community, so it made perfect sense to me that the decision makers would target it to burn, seein’ how all those employed farmworkers were such a huge drain on resources. Sarcasm aside, I thought of the adorable children walking single file along the road to the farm playground everyday, or the nurse in our pediatrician’s office who was married to an equipment operator at one of the bigger farms. Had they survived?

  Carol’s father had managed the garden greenhouse; she’d worked there since high school, first as greenhouse help, working her way up to tour guide. Our house was only a few miles from the gardens; we’d ridden our bikes there so many times over the past ten years I’d lost count.

  “Just think of all the rare plants destroyed,” she whispered angrily. “It just makes me sick.” I was thinking of more than plants destroyed.

  “Let’s get moving. I want to get to Yuma County and start our life,” Carol said. “I’ll get those boys going.” She put her cup down and went into our tent.

  “I think I’ll walk over and talk to the couple,” I said. Mike nodded his head, watching me. I took my coffee cup and approached them, hunched over their computers, reading.

  “Hi, I hope you don’t mind if I come for a news report,” I said. They looked at up me. The girl, maybe twenty, moved over on the picnic table.

  “Have a seat,” she said, smiling. “I don’t think we’ll flip the table over.”

  “I’ve seen enough,” the man said, getting up. “I’m Craig and this is Cindy.” I shook hands with both of them, making a mental note to wash my hands before we left the campground. I’d become a germaphobe, worried we might pick a bug up before we reached Arizona. I sat next to Cindy and she scrolled up to the beginning of the page of Google news.

  “We think this is the best mix of government bullshit and rumor. What do you do at home?”

  “I’ve been reading the rumor forums,” I admitted. She nodded her head, understanding how easy it was to get to a point where nothing big business published was acceptable.

  “I don’t really like this source, but at least they address the burns.” We read for a few minutes until coming to a name I was familiar with; Miranda Garrison.

  “She’s a big contributor to the forums I read.”

  “Well, it says here she was murdered last night,” Cindy said softly. It was stunning news. She continued to read out loud. “Miranda Garrison founded the Rumor forums. Her father, Victor Garrison is the senator from Virginia. Garrison claimed Winston Clarke, head of the Winston Clarke Humanitarian Fellowship controls the current party in office through his dominance in the stock market and his wealth from energy futures.

  “Claims made by unnamed sources accuse Clarke of deciding the burn districts based on welfare roles, public assistance records and minimum yearly wage earnings, with a group of advisors that include the eminent Four Star General John Eastman. Garrison claimed to have had a video tape in which Winston Clark proselytizes that having to feed, house and provide health care for indigents is destroying the economy. ‘It would be kinder to euthanize those who are struggling and better for the country.’ The drain of public assistance funds came to head last fall after Hurricane Sandy hit. And the rest is history.”

  “Oh, how awful,” I whispered. I didn’t notice Mike had come over to get me.

  “That’s if you believe it,” he said, a tinge of hostility in his voice. “We’re ready to go now.” He could tell something had upset me, but I wasn’t sure how much he’d heard and I wouldn’t tell him about Miranda. It would mean nothing to him because he didn’t read the forums. In spite of what was happening to us, he still didn’t fully believe the government had anything to do with it.

  “Thank you for sharing your computer with me,” I said, shaking Cindy’s hand again. She stood up and hugged me.

  “Have a safe trip,” she replied.

  “Where are you headed?” Mike asked her, curious.

  “We’re staying here,” Cindy answered. “We’re almost out of money and Craig found a job in Tulsa.” I wondered how they concluded that it would be safe enough to stay. And then it struck me; we were well prepared. How many people had to leave their homes and jobs without being able to close their bank accounts or to save like we had? Mike and I walked back to our campsite. I waved to Cindy; in just minutes, we’d made a connection. It gave me hope for the future.

  Our neighbor who had warned us came to mind. I was grateful for him.

  “I just thought of Pete. He saved us,” I said, choked up.

  “You’re not kidding,” Mike replied. “I was thinking the same thing; how many families w
ere able to get away but didn’t have the time to prepare like we did?”

  “How many families didn’t get to escape?” We looked at each other and squeezed hands, not wanting to boast out loud, worried about karma.

  The family was on edge, waiting for me to return. Even Carin, who liked to putter around in the morning was anxious to get on the road. Buckling into our seats, the questions about Yuma started.

  “Where will we live?” she asked when we were driving down the road to the interstate entrance. I’d avoided giving out too many details while we were still at home because I was afraid one of the children might reveal it to friends who would tell their parents. The excuse we used was that we might have to evacuate quickly in case of another disaster like Hurricane Sandy and that was why we were preparing.

  “Grandpa has an old trailer on the property, and his fifth wheel. There’ll be plenty of room for all of us.”

  “How many acres does he have?” Kelly asked.

  “I think about two hundred. Most of it is flat land, but there are hidden places, too. When I was a kid, my sister and I loved to play hide and go seek.” The implication was that if we had to hide, there were places on the land to do so.

  We’d discussed getting a second trailer if we needed more room. My dad, Randy and Carol, Kelly; four families coming together could be problematic. But I wasn’t sure Yuma County was our last stop.

  Before we left Pennsylvania, late at night after our children were asleep, Mike and I whispered about the what ifs. He’d watched all the prepper television shows, and although we knew we would be limited in what we could take with us, water was the most important thing to have once we got there. Although my dad’s place had a well so water wouldn’t be a concern, Mike was worried about the summer heat, where temperatures of one hundred-ten degrees were common. As long as we had electricity to run the air conditioners, it would be fine. But we didn’t want to be dependent on an electric company for our power. Electricity would be one of the first things we’d lose. Mike talked about getting solar power and wind generators but the expense would be prohibitive. We put everything we had into our house in Pennsylvania, now most likely a pile of ash.