The Abandon Series | Book 2 | These Times of Retribution

by Schow, Ryan

  The pounding resumed. It sounded like Garrity knocking. After the sheriff told him he would file the complaint, after Faith warned him that he was kicking the proverbial hornet’s nest, he didn’t know what to expect. Faith was opening the door as he was crossing the family room.

  “Where’s your lesser half?” the disgusting voice said.

  Colt double-timed it to the door, saw Keaton, and said, “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Yet I am,” he replied with a sinister grin.

  Roscoe had been pacing Colt as he went to the front door. Now he started barking. Colt used his boot to push the pup behind him.

  “A dog that small,” Keaton said, “it’s easy to get stepped on.”

  “That’s no ordinary dog,” Faith said.

  “Yeah?”

  “There are drug-sniffing dogs, bomb-sniffing dogs, and scumbag-sniffing dogs,” she said. “Scrape a few brain cells together and take a guess at which one he is.”

  “Stick and stones, blondie.”

  “What do you want?” Colt asked, getting irritated.

  “He was just leaving,” Faith said.

  He put his hands in the air in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. You guys made your point,” Keaton snickered.

  “I didn’t make any point, you idiot,” Colt hissed, stepping into the doorway where he could go knuckle-to-knuckle with this clown if it came to that. “You sucker-punched me, you took my hat, and then ruined my garden all because I shot your watermelon.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and said, “My ex-wife said I never played fair. And that’s what I’m here to tell you…I’m here for the long haul, and I don’t play fair.”

  Faith suddenly had her Smith & Wesson out and in his face. “Well, me and my other scumbag sniffer are here to tell you to stay the hell off our land, don’t mess with my husband, and if I ever see you here again, I’ll shoot you first and ask questions later.”

  “Cute,” Keaton said, clearly amused.

  “She’s not lying,” Colt said.

  “At least we now know who has the balls in the family.”

  “Turn around, go away,” Faith said.

  Smiling, doing a little back-and-forth dance with his hands up, he sauntered backward like it was all a big joke.

  “You say go away,” he said when he was far enough away, “but I live right down the hill. So, really, I can’t just go away.”

  The skies finally broke open, a light rain falling.

  “You can always be made to go away,” Faith said.

  Looking up, squinting at the falling rain, he stuck out his tongue, then wiped his face and said, “Your wife’s got me all wet, Colt.”

  Faith lowered her gun; Keaton dropped his hands. But then he raised a hand, making his fingers into a fake gun. Working his thumb like he was shooting, he aimed not at Colt, but at Faith. “Only good woman’s a dead woman,” he teased.

  In the distance, along a charcoal sky, scribbles of lightning danced across the horizon. Thunder shook the earth, cutting their conversation short. It started raining heavier, which caused Keaton to turn and go.

  “Everything about that man is vile,” Faith said over the driving rain.

  Roscoe barked twice.

  Faith wasn’t one to lose her temper, but looking at Colt as he picked up the pup, Faith said, “You need to see the sheriff. That piece of crap threatened us. He threatened me.”

  “I’ll take the motorcycle, head out the back way. You want to come with me?”

  “I can shoot him if he comes back, right?”

  “You can.”

  “Sheriff Garrity might not be much help,” she said. “Did he even file the complaint?”

  “He said he was going to, so I have to take him at his word.”

  “Don’t be long,” she said. “I’ve never wanted to shoot someone so badly in my life.”

  “Keaton won’t be back.”

  “I’m going to follow Walker McDaniel’s Principles for Avoiding Pain, the adult edition.”

  “Oh, and what’s that?” Colt asked, halfway amused.

  “It goes like this. ‘There’s an old saying in Tennessee, I know it’s in Texas, probably in Tennessee, that says, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me…you can’t get fooled again.’”

  Colt burst out laughing, then said, “That was George Bush, Jr.”

  Together they fell into fits of laughter.

  “Okay, real deal,” she said. “Walker’s second principle goes like this. ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident. All men and women created by the, you know, you know…the thing.’”

  Leaning in, kissing her just under the earlobe the way she loved it, he said, “You’re an idiot you know.”

  “But I’m your idiot,” she said, pinching his side.

  “I love you.”

  “Be careful on that thing.” Meaning the motorcycle.

  He was reluctant to go, but that was because he was concerned at how flippant she’d become about killing people. He thought of all the people he’d killed overseas, and it made him physically sick.

  “One life…even if it’s the life of a turd like Keaton freaking Dodd…taking it is too big of a burden for a soul as pure as yours,” Colt said. “Trust me when I tell you this.”

  “Well, trust me when I tell you, forty-five years of walking this earth has me rethinking the purity of my ways. I almost want him to come back.”

  “Don’t wish for things like that,” he said, setting Roscoe down. “I’ll be back in half an hour. Call me if you need to.”

  Out back, he kick-started the bike, then navigated through the woods, turning onto a few backroads he knew, cutting fresh paths where he could.

  Ten minutes later, he parked the bike in front of the sheriff’s office, but Garrity wasn’t there. Laura said he had a stomach bug.

  “Something nasty going around,” she said. “You don’t get yourself dried off, you’re gonna catch that same thing.”

  “My immune system is bulletproof.”

  “Lance said that, too, but now he’s sucking down Pepto Bismol.”

  With an appreciative nod, he said, “Thank you, Laura.”

  “You can go now,” she said shooing him off. “You’re dripping on my carpet, which is now soaking wet, thank you very much.”

  He stepped out into the cold, damp afternoon. He traveled the rain-slick roads to the sheriff’s house, parked the bike in his driveway, then knocked on his door a couple of times and waited.

  Garrity answered the door smelling not like sickness and neglect but like booze and even more booze. Despite the daylight flooding in, the sheriff managed to tuck himself into a pocket of shadows.

  “What do you want, Colt?”

  “Laura said you were sick. I didn’t think you’d be drunk, too.”

  “Exigent circumstances,” Garrity muttered, followed by a sharp burp and surprised eyes.

  “What put you this deep into the bottle?”

  “Those jackasses across the street from you,” he said, opening the door a little wider as an invitation inside. “I figured you’d know by now.”

  “Keaton just came to see me,” Colt said. “He threatened Faith. Well, he threatened us both, actually. But mainly Faith.”

  “I killed two of his guys.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t hear the shootout on the road?” he said, snot bubbling in his right nostril. “Look at my freaking face.”

  “It’s kinda dark in here.”

  Garrity pulled back the shades, then turned and showed Colt his injuries.

  He winced at the damage on his friend’s face. “It’s bad, but you might want to crack a window because you smell a whole lot worse than you look.”

  Garrity let the blinds back down. “I’m not feeling up for your brand of humor.”

  “Faith says the same thing all the time,” Colt mused. “You need to stop drinking.”

  “It’s my last hoorah before I turn in my badge and confess to…whatever. Being a
murderer.”

  “Before you do that, why don’t you tell me exactly what happened.”

  He drunkenly told the full story to which Colt said, “That’s self-defense, plain and simple. You know that.”

  “Back in the day it was,” he said. “A shooting board would clear me over a burger and a beer. But post-2020, everything’s changed. I should have waited to be shot, or gotten myself stabbed or something. The shooting board these days, it’s all these social justice warriors. Bunch of pansy-ass pretenders who’ve never held a gun, who can’t even dream of having the balls we have to do what we do.”

  Colt looked at him, aghast. “Man, those maggots sure did a number on you.”

  “Which maggots?”

  “The ones who said if cops do what cops were hired to do, they’d prosecute them like criminals.”

  “I told you it’s tough out here,” he said.

  “And I said I understood.”

  “Let me drink away my problems, Colt. It’ll be okay when I get to the bottom of the next bottle.”

  “Suit yourself, but first, answer me this…what are you going to do about Keaton Dodd? He ruined my garden, and now he’s threatened my wife.”

  “I should have brought backup, or at least been smarter about my approach,” Garrity said, not even listening to Colt. “I could have spared those guys’ lives.”

  “God put you there because it was time for them to take a dirt nap, Lance. Now focus, I need your help.”

  “This is my fault,” he said, the start of laughter quickly devolving into tears. “Now I’ve put you and Faith in a bad way. That’s the exact opposite of me doing my job.”

  Colt plopped down on the couch and said, “You know you’re acting like a bitch right now.”

  Garrity nodded in a hard, almost childlike fit. “I totally know it,” he said, spittle flying out of his mouth and a little snot from his nostril, too.

  “Sit up, think about what I’ve told you, then tell me what to do. Or give me Derek’s number so I can talk to someone who knows their ass from their neighbor’s butthole.”

  He sat up, coughed up a loogie, spat it into his hand, and then—for some reason—stuffed it in his pocket like it was a piece of candy or a spare round.

  “You get the chance,” Garrity said, “you punch a hole in that guy’s skull with the Barrett. Just let it see the light of day.”

  Colt’s mouth fell wide open. “Tell me you’re kidding, Sheriff.”

  “Do I look like my sense of humor is intact?”

  “No.”

  “It’s not.”

  “I can’t just shoot him.”

  “Sure you can. And I’ll cover for you when you do.”

  “Why don’t you do it then, Lance? I mean, if you’re going down for double murder, why not go for three or four kills? A life sentence is a life sentence, right?”

  Now he was goading the man.

  “If he steps foot on your property, shoot him. Before I do…whatever it is I do…”

  “You’re probably just going to cry yourself to sleep then wake up in your own vomit, or worse.”

  “I crapped my pants coming home from the bar.”

  “Is that what I’m smelling?”

  He nodded.

  “If I get back to the office, I’ll file another complaint, establish a paper trail. You just shoot him like I said, then let me know right away.”

  “I’m not shooting him,” Colt said. “I want a restraining order.”

  Garrity started laughing, and it looked like he couldn’t stop. It became so uncomfortable, Colt finally got up and left.

  On the street in front of the driveway, a semi-attractive woman was sitting in a silver Honda SUV. Having just arrived, she opened the door to get out, but he stopped her.

  “Are you here to see Lance?” he asked.

  “Is he in?” she smiled.

  “You don’t want to see him,” Colt said. “Covid1984 or something like it. He’ll be fine in a few days.”

  “Are you a friend?”

  “I am.”

  She nodded, thanked him, then got back into her Honda and said, “Don’t catch what he has.”

  “Trust me, I won’t.”

  Inside, through an open bathroom window, he heard Garrity throwing up. He stopped for a second, listened to the man, then determined he was probably better off praying to the porcelain gods than being out among the public.

  He finally got on his motorcycle, headed the opposite direction as the silver Honda, then hit traffic. Everyone was stopped. Every single car.

  “Okay,” he said, dragging out the word.

  It seemed that nothing worked. The cars had stopped, the traffic lights were out, even the storefronts and interior shops looked like they’d lost power.

  Above them, the skies were churning. It had been raining steadily since Keaton stopped by, but he hadn’t seen lightning or heard the kind of thunder that followed nearby lightning strikes. Moving carefully on the road’s slick surface, he navigated through the stopped cars, past all the people getting out of them, past those who tried to flag him down.

  When he hit Sugar Creek Pike, he knew that this was no regular power outage. Why would all of the cars be stopped all at once?

  When he got home, Faith met him at the front door. “Nothing’s working. I tried to call you, but my phone is dead.”

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket, fiddled with it, then said, “Mine, too. I’ll get the generator. We can transfer some of the ice from the old freezer in the barn to the fridge in the house should things start to melt.”

  “I’ll get a fire going. It’s going to get cold tonight if this storm persists.”

  “You know what’s funny,” he said, looking at his cell phone. “I had a full charge when I left the house.”

  “So?”

  “Now, it won’t even turn on.”

  Her worried look intensified. “Colt, is there something going on here? Something more than the storm?”

  He’d been thinking that very thing.

  “If so, we’re feeling a different kind of storm. One where we’re kicked out of the frying pan right into the fire.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Keaton Dodd

  Keaton looked at the bud, smelled it, then melted into a deep, relaxing smile.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  Remy, which was short for Remington, said, “Ghost Train Haze. It’s a Sativa strain, but it’s got some kick. Not like chill, relax, talk about this or that. This is going to melt your dome, leave you all gooey and weak, but it’s a long smooth run.”

  Keaton looked at Trixie and said, “Let’s get started now. Go get me a Viagra so when it starts to tail off we can grind our way into ecstasy.”

  Remy flicked another baggie, this one different. A foil packet. “A little crystal when the weed runs dry.”

  “That’s like bringing a five-dollar hooker to the playboy mansion,” Keaton said.

  Remy started laughing. “Yo, man, high is high.”

  “Go get Booger and see if he wants in on this,” Keaton said.

  Lewis Mahoney earned himself the nickname “Booger” a few years back. Late one night, he got laughing so hard, a brick of crusted snot popped onto his mustache and he didn’t have a clue. No one said anything for like an hour, but they hadn’t laughed that hard for days. Lewis hated being called Booger, but the way Keaton saw it, if you’re going to do the crime, you’d better do the time. In this particular case, the booger was the crime, the nickname was the time.

  Later, when they were high as kites and burrowed into a sinkhole, Keaton walked Trixie to bed. When they were able to sleep, Keaton slept hard, but Trixie slept harder.

  Having her next to him calmed him. She was the anchor he needed to get through the night and still feel like he could power through the next day. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone was there to tell him no. Not his mother, not Diesel.

  Diesel had told Keaton no hard drugs until the EMP hit, but t
hen the EMP hit. At least, all the signs of the EMP were there. Not that it mattered. When you’re baked out of your mind, little things are big and big things are little. They were on another planet all day, so when the lights and heat went out, they all just sort of laughed and blamed the storm. But then he took Trixie to bed and they slept for a few hours. When he woke, he was freezing cold. Then again, he couldn’t be sure if it was real or just a dream.

  “Get up and turn on the heater,” he said, nudging Trixie.

  She sat up slowly, like an animated corpse, and walked over to the heater. She started to fiddle with it. Nothing happened, so she smacked it.

  “It ain’t working,” she said.

  “Figures,” he groused. He got out of bed, naked, cold, and angry. “Turn on the lights, let me look at this thing.”

  Outside it was raining. She went to flip on the lights, but they didn’t work either.

  “Power’s still out.”

  There was some light, but not enough for him to see. “Get me my cell phone, we’ll use the flashlight app.”

  “Where’s it at?” she asked.

  “By the bed.”

  She stumbled toward the bed, caught her shin on the frame, then cursed as she felt her way over to the nightstand. There was a sudden knock at the bedroom door.

  “Hey Keaton, you up?”

  “Yeah,” he said, too groggy to know which one of his guys he was talking to. Booger could sometimes sound like Remy when he was high.

  “Power’s out again, brah.”

  “Your phone’s dead,” Trixie told him.

  “It’s not dead,” Keaton said. “I just charged it.”

  “Trust me, it’s dead.”

  “Mine, too,” the guy on the other side of the door said. Keaton caught the nuances of the voice on the other side of the door. It belonged to Remy.

  “So everything’s out?” Keaton asked. “Heater, cell phones, lights…?”

  “Yeah,” Remy said.

  “Go wake Booger. Have him check his cell phone.”

  A moment later, Remy was back at his door, the house still cast in perfect darkness.

  “Booger’s here,” Remy said.

  “When’s the last time any of you used your phones?” Keaton asked.