Tertiary Effects Series | Book 2 | Storm Warning

by Allen, William

  “Duly noted, but Andy at least knows I speak my mind,” I replied with a shrug. “I’m going to let Mike do most of the talking. I’m just there to make sure Andy knows who’s asking.”

  “Just how well did you know the man?” Sally asked, and I nodded in her direction, an acknowledgement of her superior question. After all, Andy wasn’t exactly a blood brother or anything like that, but we’d talked quite a bit over the years. We talked about something bad happening down the line, and the basics of prepping. I don’t know if he was feeling me out on the topic or vice versa.

  “He probably won’t shoot me on sight,” I admitted. “As long as he knows who I am.”

  Mike and I had to turn down multiple offers to accompany us to Kountze as we topped off the fuel in the old Datsun pickup I was determined to use.

  “Why that ugly thing?” Mike demanded.

  “My point exactly,” I sniffed in mock disappointment before continuing. “Someone carjacking us would have to be pretty desperate. Now, what route are we going to take?”

  Picking the route was another debate, but this time just between the two of us while I was driving. We could take Highway 87 to Highway 96 and roll into Kountze in a hair under an hour, or we could take the scenic drive through Spurger and Hillister to arrive the back way in an hour and fifteen minutes. Mike consulted with one of the paper trifold maps as I eased through town and out the other side, making it nearly to the county line before the telltale flashing lights strobed up behind us.

  “Couldn’t be speeding,” Mike grumbled, “you’re going ten miles per hour under the posted limit. Maybe crossing the center line? Reckless driving?”

  “Stuff it,” I shot back. “You try driving in these freaking wind gusts.”

  In fact, the wind had picked up through the morning and by the time I was getting pulled over, the gusts were coming from the south and swirling. With the continued downpour, this windblown rain stung like tiny needles as it scored any exposed flesh. I wasn’t looking forward to rolling my window down, but Mike’s dirty look convinced me to play along.

  “License and proof of insurance,” the deputy all but barked as he approached, and I noticed his partner remained behind, standing to the rear behind the passenger side quarter panel. A quick glance told me the unknown young deputy was standing at the ready with his pistol drawn.

  The corporal wore the black trashbag-looking rain slicker that did nothing to conceal his beer gut, or his lack of height. Nothing wrong with being short, I always thought, but no reason to look like a stereotype at five-foot five-inches and three hundred pounds. The guy looked like he should be observing and reporting at a strip mall, not working with the public with live weapons in his holster. I knew of the guy, Corporal Branham, but I pretended like he was a stranger to me. We’d never been formally introduced, but rumor labelled the corporal to be another one of Sheriff Landshire’s more odious henchmen.

  “Here you go, Corporal,” I replied politely as I handed over the required documents.

  The license was accurate and up to date, but the proof of insurance had to be a forgery. A decent cut and paste job, all in all. Not something to be proud of, but then my old insurance company no longer responded to phone calls, and their website hadn’t been updated since Rockfall. Since I’d sent them a check for the next six months of coverage, never cashed, I felt like I’d at least made the effort. When I called around to find a replacement carrier, I’d quickly discovered most all the other insurance companies were in the same boat. Even the ones with a functioning front office were still broke.

  The phone number on this insurance card went to a fake voicemail, which was the best I could do. I had the same set up for Mike for the following month, when his coverage ran out on paper.

  “Do you know why I pulled you over, Mr. Hardin?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You crossed over the double white line, Mr. Hardin. Unsafe driving,” he pronounced with an annoyingly superior tone. “Now, I could ask you to get out and perform a field sobriety test, or ask you to blow into this little tube to check to see if you’ve been drinking. Or…”

  “Or we could handle this in the field by paying a fine,” I replied without missing a beat. “Except, I couldn’t have anything like this on my driving record. Could affect my license to practice. How much of a fine are you proposing, Corporal?”

  “Drunk driving comes with minimum…”

  “I’m not drunk, and I’ll take the tests to prove it,” I interrupted, my tone carrying a touch of reproach, “but I would be willing to pay the two hundred dollar fine for crossing the double white line.”

  “I think that would be acceptable,” the deputy replied smoothly, unruffled. “Sign here,” he offered the pad for a signature, which I completed with a flourish. Napoleone di Buonaparte, I dashed off in black cursive. That was the name his parents hung on him at birth back in 1769. Another short guy with a chip on his shoulder. I made a show of handing him the ten bills to him with no effort in concealing the transfer.

  “Now you have a nice day, ya’hear?”

  He was smooth, and I wondered how often he’d run this scam since things had started to slide. Or if he had been pulling this kind of crap before Rockfall.

  With that bit of dirty business out of the way, I focused closely on the condition of the roads while Mike navigated and watched for any threats, official or otherwise.

  “You notice the other deputy?” I asked after five minutes of silent driving.

  “Didn’t take my eyes off him,” Mile conceded. “He looked like he was ready to throw down with no notice. He got out of the squad car with his pistol drawn.”

  “Same M.O. as the unknown deputy who rousted me out of my office,” I agreed. “Ansel was there and did all the talking, but the one who had his back, that was the guy I was planning to shoot first. He never let go of his pistol either.”

  “Where the heck did the sheriff get these new deputies? Wade didn’t know, and that worries me,” Mike continued down that same path of discussion.

  “They’re going to be a problem when the breakdown hits,” I tossed in, feeling the weight of my words as a kick in my stomach. In our worst-case scenarios, these were men we would likely need to kill when the time came, if my nieces and nephews were going to live. Out of self-defense, if nothing else.

  Nikki joked about the worsening situation as eventually going full-on Mad Max, but there was an element of melancholy truth in the quip. Nikki killing her attackers at the roadside gas station wasn’t full-on Mad Max, and neither was shooting up a truck load of bank robbers in front of half the town. We still operated under rule of law, despite whatever complaints might be floated about our shady sheriff, but our family and close friends feared for the days to come.

  “You really think Andy’s going to know what’s going on?”

  “He’s been retired for years, Mike, but even when I was going to classes with him, I saw other Rangers and DPS officers popping in for training, or a cup of coffee. If the store is still there, he’s either bugged out to a secure location, or turned the storefront into a strongpoint for local law enforcement to use.”

  “If nothing else,” Mike replied philosophically, “I’ll bet he can spare us a cup of coffee.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Where you boys heading?”

  The officer wore a navy blue rainsuit with CITY OF KOUNTZE marked out on one sleeve and POLICE down the other in white lettering, with the SWAT lettering in yellow across the back, and he carried the short-barreled AR like he knew how to use it. I had no doubt he was an expert with the weapon, since he was guarding the parking lot for Andy’s store. The bright display almost completely hid the body armor he wore underneath.

  Kountze Police Department and Hardin County Sheriff’s Department had benefited considerably over the years as Andy devoted time and money to getting their patrolmen dialed in and effective protecting the local citizens. Now the local police and sheriff’s department seemed to be
taking up permanent residence in Andy’s parking lot.

  “Actually, I was headed to see the major again,” I replied, taking a tiny bit of a gamble. I’d never addressed the retired Ranger by his rank, but I wanted to see what this young city officer might say.

  “Sorry, but he’s really busy right now,” the young guard volunteered, “but you can wait for him in the front store lobby. He’s using that conference room for overflow at the moment.”

  “No problem, and thanks,” I replied casually. “Anyplace I shouldn’t park now?”

  That got a laugh before the young city cop responded. “Just stay away from the porta-johns out back, or you’ll get roped into helping load the honey wagons.”

  “No thanks,” I replied with a wave, “my back wouldn’t take the stress.”

  I made a point of circling the parking lot, buying time to chat with Mike before committing to a spot. The east lot, up front, and north side lots were full of vehicles, ranging from official patrol cars and government-issue Chevy Tahoes to battered-looking fifth wheel campers still attached to their trucks. This looked like a combination refugee camp and headquarters location, and that’s pretty much what the complex of buildings turned out to be.

  “We carrying in the building?”

  Mike’s question stopped me cold. I honestly panicked for a moment.

  “What’s wrong? Not that hard of a question, bro.”

  I shook my head.

  “I’d say leave it in the truck. No, I just froze up because I couldn’t remember the last time I was disarmed.”

  “When the cops showed up at the feed store and took our guns,” Mike complained, and not without reason. The sheriff’s department had yet to return our weapons confiscated at the time.

  “No, I still had my FP9 stuck in my jacket pocket there,” I explained, then shrugged. “Oh, when I went to see the District Attorney after the Urgent Care Clinic shootout. Metal detector,” I clarified, and Mike just glared at me.

  “What?”

  “You still had your subcompact, hideout pistol in your pocket when the cops were grilling us?”

  I shrugged, then turned the wheel and pulled into a likely looking spot to park. After I killed the engine, I finally answered Mike’s question.

  “Forgot I still had it,” I explained. “Until I stuck my hand in my pocket. Damn thing is smaller than one of those old pagers I used to have.”

  “Drug dealer,” Mike deadpanned.

  “Pimp,” I replied, my voice a forced neutral.

  “Fool,” we said at the same time, and giggled like little kids. The routine was stupid to outsiders, but still for us, it harkened back to a simpler time. The first time Mike ever saw me checking my stupid Motorola pager, in fact.

  More seriously, Mike asked the next logical question.

  “Planning on trying that with Major Carstairs?”

  “Not a chance,” I hissed, then went on to explain. “That old man literally taught the class on concealed carry, and how to spot when someone’s carrying. I’ll take my chances, but let’s be careful in what we say, and who we talk to in there.”

  “You worried about mentioning the meteorite?” Mike asked, a bit puzzled. “Or, are you worried to find out it was all a hoax? Something Bart made up to excuse going AWOL?”

  “Mike, I never thought the story was a hoax,” I replied with some exasperation in my voice. “That blast wave was enough to convince me and I always believed you, even when I didn’t want to. But the president and his advisors have worked very hard to discredit the idea, and neither of us knows why.”

  “You think Carstairs might know?”

  I shook head. “I’m not sure if even the governor knows why they stomped on this story so quickly, but I’d be concerned if Andy asks the wrong person about it. His questions might lend credence to the story.”

  “You’ve got something on your mind,” Mike observed, his accusation clear though unvoiced. “Something eating at you. You gonna’ share?”

  “Maybe after we see what the major has to say,” I temporized, opening the driver’s side door and swinging out into the rain. Mike followed suit, barely registering the light downpour. I guess mankind really can adapt to just about anything, I thought, but I’m not sprouting gills.

  The front door featured two armed guards on duty, but it was the eight-foot-wide desk set twenty feet back into the foyer that controlled access to the room. The desk was waist high, and I recognized one of the men sitting at one end of the reception desk. He was in his mid-forties, medium height and fit-looking, dressed in a long-sleeved denim shirt and faded blue jeans. What I’d heard referred to as a style called the Canadian Tuxedo. We met eyes and the older man was quicker off the mark with his quip when he saw me enter the long, narrow entryway.

  “Better hold onto your wallets, folks,” the man announced. “That there is the infamous Bryan Hardin, lawyer and gunhawk like his infamous ancestor.”

  I faked an injured expression, though in reality I didn’t appreciate the comparison. By all accounts, John Wesley Hardin had been an exceptionally unpleasant gentleman, even given the times in which he lived.

  “It’s a very common last name, Ernest,” I replied tightly, then spared a glance at the other two people seated next to my old shooting competition member, “and I’ve never been accused of shooting someone just for snoring.”

  Ernest, or Ernie to his friends, stood up suddenly and stuck out his hand. “Good to see you again, Bryan. This is Trevor Ellis with the city council,” he gestured once, then again, “and Corporal Madelaine Hicks with the sheriff’s office.”

  “I’m Bryan, and this is my little brother Mike,” I replied in a carefully modulated voice, shaking hands with all, including the young female deputy. She had telltale callouses on her fingers and palm, which made me wonder just how much she had to have been shooting before. “Is Andy in?”

  “He is,” Ernie replied, “but he’s been in with the County Emergency Management team all morning.”

  “Ernie, you can’t just tell people things like that,” the corporal admonished. “No offense,” casting a look my way, “but you don’t know these people.”

  “I know Bryan,” Ernie replied breezily, “and I’ve competed against him for years. He’s always been a straight arrow, and I don’t suspect the apocalypse has changed that about him. You’re not here to hurt the town or try to take over, are you?”

  “What?” I replied, shocked at the question. “No, of course not. Who would try such a thing?”

  “Judge Robards,” Trevor replied with a low almost-whisper in his voice. “He was the county judge here. I think the whole thing left him a little…unbalanced. He tried to order the sheriff around. A scuffle broke out a few days back, and the judge needed to be placed in the hospital.”

  “Sorry to hear your trouble,” I replied automatically. “I was just passing through and wanted to ask Andy a question or two, completely outside the current situation. More along the lines of my firearms instructor and less about his job as a retired Ranger, if you follow.”

  “Well, if you gentlemen would care to grab a seat…” Corporal Hicks started, but she was interrupted by a familiar voice I usually associated with curse words and a head slap that would make Jethro Gibbs proud.

  “Who let that ambulance chaser in my store?! Guards! Guards!”

  “Oh, shut it, you whiney old fucker!” I barked, and all eyes in the room flicked in my direction, and I saw the big grin break out across Andy Carstairs sun-wrinkled old face. In a completely different, well-modulated tone, the retired Texas Ranger and successful local businessman spoke up again, as if his prior comments had not been uttered.

  “Good to see you again, Bryan, and glad you brought your brother with you on your trip. Need somebody to watch your back on the roads these days.”

  As he spoke, Andy stepped close and extended a hand, which I dutifully shook. Mike repeated the gesture, and as soon as he released my brother’s paw, he hooked a thumb over his
shoulder and simply said, “Come on back and we can talk.”

  I exchanged a glance with Mike and we wound our way around the wide desk and took up station behind Andy as he led the two of us deeper into his store. All around, I saw many busy workers, mostly men, and usually uniformed in some manner, as they moved piles of supplies or stacked buckets. I didn’t pretend to understand what was going on, but the strained expressions I saw made clear that things were not all champagne and roses in Kountze.

  The small office looked more like a breakroom than the homebase of a powerbroker, but I sat when Andy gestured. When I gave the surroundings a heavy glance, Andy just shook his head.

  “Using my old office as a nursery for now,” he explained. “Has a sound system and DVR where they can show movies for them. So I’ve packed up and moved here for now.”

  “The hurricane…” I started, but Andy interrupted me.

  “Killed half the population of this county that failed to evacuate,” Andy finished. “Just like it did in a ring around the fucking state. Similar in Louisiana, except the numbers were even higher. And what’s left behind is flattened and in need of extensive rebuilding to return to functionality.”

  “Which you don’t have the money or expertise to undertake,” Mike continued, “and there’s another tropical storm warming up in the Gulf. Where the residual heat energy continues to cycle through the planet’s arteries and organs.”

  At Andy’s cocked eyebrow, I elaborated, “Mike’s a school teacher, physics and chemistry, but he knows enough meteorology to hum a few bars. Sorry to see your neighborhood all fucked up, but it’s only going to get worse, and you know it.”

  Andy sank into his own chair, the roller wheels skittering as he settled.

  “Yeah, I know, and I don’t much care for the attitude, young man. Why are you here to antagonize an old man?”

  “Stuff it, Andy,” I retorted, my voice flat and without heat. “We didn’t do anything to you or your people, but you know the weather is only going to continue to worsen.”

  “Yes, and word is, once we get to winter, the irregular weather patterns will fade,” Andy said, surprising me with this unexpected and candid revelation.