Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  "Nazi bastards!" she'd called them, stomping out of the fire hall in only the way a little old lady with an oxygen tank could. "Dog dick assholes!"

  "It ain't us, it's the governor," the bingo caller tried to explain.

  "And he's the biggest son-of-a-bitch of them all!" she'd crowed, coughing her way toward the door. "He can kiss my lily-white ass too!"

  Wombat reached for his granny's huge purse, trying not to disturb the sanctity of it while fishing around for her keys. He found a keychain with some foot-long beaded macramé doohickey attached to it. He went outside and unlocked her car. When he tried to start it, he was relieved that the engine turned over and still had a nearly full tank of gas. That would be enough to get him where he was going.

  His family's old homeplace on the ridge above Muddy Creek, near Jewell Ridge, was the point from which his clan originated. Wombat was the first in his family to not have lived there at some point in his life. The place had been in horrible disrepair the last time they'd all been up there. When he'd pointed out that the place sagged and leaked, his granny remarked that she did too. The porch had been a dangerous trap of pitfalls for anyone who might dare to walk across its rotting planks.

  The place was on seventy acres though and that was the allure. That acreage had supported his ancestors through many a lean year. They'd been able to grow a meager garden, hunt, and even set out a few traps. If Wombat could get there, the place might offer him the best chance of survival available to him.

  Determined that this was his plan of action, his next step, Wombat got out of the running LTD and opened the wide chain-link gate that led to the backyard. Noticing the neighbors watching him still, he gave them another one-finger salute and pulled the car into the backyard. Something about the way they watched him infuriated him, like buzzards in a tree waiting for him to die. When he went back inside the mobile home, he was going to reload that rifle and carry it with him while he worked. If those buzzards said a single word to him he'd use it.

  Wombat reversed the LTD up to the back porch under the watchful eyes of his neighbors, then opened the trunk. He went back inside, glaring at the buzzards with contempt. He headed to his room first, filling an old suitcase with the things that meant something to him. It was pictures mostly, reminders of the childhood his grandparents had given him. They'd done their best to make him feel wanted even as his own parents had left him behind like garbage, refusing to even acknowledge the emotional injury of it. They'd been utterly self-absorbed, capable of rationalizing even the most unforgivable decisions.

  He didn't have many clothes there at the mobile home that still fit him but he tossed in all the items worth taking, mostly older hunting clothes because they were the most durable. As he'd started hunting with his buddies in Ohio he'd bought newer gear, but some of the older stuff was still good. He grabbed all of the clothing he thought he could still squeeze into, the knives he'd amassed, and the game calls he enjoyed fooling with.

  He found the few guns he owned besides the AR-15. They were mostly hunting rifles or shotguns he'd inherited from his grandfather, with the exception of a .38 pistol that his grandfather had carried as a pocket gun. Wombat wrapped them all in blankets and was going to go ahead and toss them in the car until he remembered the buzzards. They'd surely break out a window to steal a stack of guns.

  With that in mind, he decided he'd load everything at once, so he dumped the load by the back door for now. He found his sleeping bag, his pillow, a load of towels, and a stack of the old-fashioned quilts he favored. He'd been too embarrassed to take one to the gas fields with him and he was slightly ashamed of that now. His grandmother had made them by hand, when her hands had still possessed the dexterity to manipulate needle and thread.

  With clothes, weapons, and bedding dealt with, he went to the kitchen. He dumped out a few storage totes from Granny's bedroom figuring those would be good for hauling food. She didn't keep a whole lot in her pantry, living check to check like many folks her age. She made one big shopping trip a month, then several small ones as she ran out of staples. Wombat took all of it, emptying every cabinet down to the spices, the Karo syrup, the vinegar, and even the tiny sprinkles his granny put on sugar cookies. With no intention of coming back, he didn't want to leave anything for the buzzards.

  All of those totes and bags were staged by the door and then he went back for cookware. He dumped the knife drawer, the silverware drawer, and even the junk drawer into a cardboard box. He found a can opener, a spatula, a wooden spoon, and several other utensils he might need. He grabbed all Granny's cast iron cookware—the skillets from large to personal size, the griddle, and even the pan for making individual pones of cornbread shaped like ears of corn.

  With what he considered to be the essentials dealt with, he made another pass through the house gathering all those things Granny wouldn't want in the hands of the buzzards. That was her family bible, her autographed picture of the host of Wheel of Fortune, and the old photo albums full of people he didn't recognize. As he made his way through the home, he said good-bye to it all. To the grandparents who raised him. To the town that shaped him.

  He slung his rifle on his back and grabbed one more key from the kitchen, tucking it into the pocket of his t-shirt. Back outside, he efficiently packed all the items he was taking into the back and passenger seat of the LTD. The neighbors watched with great interest, talking among themselves in voices he couldn't hear.

  "Fucking buzzards," Wombat muttered.

  When he was done hauling stuff out of the mobile home, he used the key in his t-shirt to open his granny's storage building. The only thing she laid claim to in the building was a lawnmower and an electric weed whacker. Everything else was leftover from Wombat's grandfather, who'd been dead now for over ten years. Wombat opened the trunk and backed the LTD up to the building.

  With no regard for orderliness, he tossed in all of the tools he could find, both those in toolboxes and those hanging on the wall. Hammers, hatches, sledges, axes, handsaws, and bowsaws. Screws, nails, and odd bits of wire. Rope, chain, and a come-along. A hi-lift and a bottle jack. He threw in what was left of the mower gas, shifting the load to keep the can from tipping over.

  Making one last pass around the storage building, he found an unused ax handle tucked up in the rafters. His grandfather must have bought it at some point with intentions of repairing an old ax but hadn't gotten around to it. Wombat hefted the ax handle in his hand. There was something about the feel of the stout piece of hickory in his hands. This had to be the reason rednecks loved wielding them so much. There was just something about it that felt right. The ax handle was going with him.

  When the trunk was full and the car beginning to sag on its suspension, Wombat slammed the trunk. With the trunk lid no longer blocking his vision, Wombat found himself staring into the face of one of the neighbors. The son-of-a-bitch had walked right up on him.

  "Shit!" he yelled out, whipping the gun off his shoulder.

  "Easy now!" the neighbor said, raising his hands in surrender. "I don't mean you no trouble."

  "What the hell you doing on my side of the fence?" Wombat hissed, pointing his AR directly at his neighbor's face. As only a casual user of the weapon he wasn't practiced and familiar with it. It took him several seconds to realize the safety was still on and he couldn't remember if he had a round in the chamber. He would have to get a lot better at this if he hoped to defend himself with the rifle.

  "My family and I was wondering what you was doing?"

  "Yeah, I noticed that. Bunch of nosy bastards." Wombat fumed at the audacity. "I reckon if it was any of your damn business, I'd have been over there telling you already."

  The visitor was a man around Wombat's age, but they didn't know each other beyond the occasional eat-shit glance. Wombat suspected the man must not work because he was always hanging around the house, often with a group of shady characters of a similar ilk.

  "I was just asking because we got kin in the house that's come
to stay with us. They got trapped here and can't get no gas to go home, and now the house is a mite full. It looks like you're leaving to go somewhere for a spell, so we were wondering if you might let us use your place for a while. Especially seeing as how your granny is dead and all."

  "Why you son-of-a-bitch," Wombat snarled. "She ain't even cold in the ground yet. You and your people over there didn't lift a damn finger to help me. Didn't even offer a word of comfort. She called you people 'buzzards' and I don't reckon she'd take kindly to the likes of you roosting in her house."

  The neighbor appeared offended at Wombat's attitude, which made no sense to Wombat. When you steal, use drugs every day, and never hold a job, you have a lot of damn nerve to act offended when someone points out the obvious.

  Before the neighbor could say anything else, Wombat gestured with the gun. "Back to your side, scumbag. Don't come back over here again. Ever."

  As the man walked off, his attitude boiled over and he couldn't rein in his mouth. "Reckon if you're gone, you won't know if someone is staying there or not, now will you? Might just have to let ourselves in."

  "We'll see about that," Wombat muttered. He grabbed the blue jug that Granny used for storing kerosene for her heater. When he gave it a shake, it was half-full. He grinned broadly.

  He locked the car and stepped back inside the house, blue jug in hand. "Granny, I apologize for this but I hope you understand." He dumped the jug through the length of the mobile home, the blue shag carpet and drapes eagerly soaking up the fuel.

  Wombat stepped out onto the porch with a stained bath towel he'd soaked in kerosene. In plain sight of the neighbors, he lit it and tossed it into the trailer. He grinned as the towel flared and ignited the fuel-soaked floor. When he turned back toward the neighbors, their faces were now registering horror.

  "You'll burn the whole damn neighborhood down!" an older man, patriarch of the worthless clan, shouted.

  "Good," Wombat said. "Good riddance to every one of you bastards."

  He unlocked the car, tossed in his rifle, and started the engine. To his left, flames were now climbing the curtains. A living room window shattered and flames began licking their way up the white aluminum exterior.

  Wombat raised a middle finger out the window and punched the gas, slewing onto the empty street and squealing the tires. He kept his finger up and the throttle down until he was clear of the whole mess of them.

  5

  Conor's Compound

  Jewell Ridge, Virginia

  After Ricardo departed in his chopper, Shannon and Ragus were anxious to hear what they'd missed. The group headed up to Conor's living room, stoked the fire, and collapsed into the comfortable furniture.

  "Looks like we missed a party," Shannon said, nodding at the two liquor bottles sitting atop the Hardigg case.

  "A gift from Ricardo," said Doc Marty. "For medicinal purposes."

  Shannon and Ragus looked at each other, a conspiratorial glance of shared disbelief.

  Conor made certain the bottles were tightly-capped and slid them back into the case, locking the latches. "We have a lot to talk about."

  "I assumed as much." Ragus stared at him. "Another mission? The parents running off to leave us home alone again?" The silence that followed his remark was as telling as any response. Something significant had transpired in their absence.

  Seeing that no one else was going to jump in, Conor began. "That last mission we did changed some of the projects we had planned. Ricardo has been offered a highly-lucrative contract but it comes with some complications. I don't have any idea how long we'll be gone. It could be weeks, it could be a month."

  "Who is we?" Shannon asked.

  "Ricardo asked for Barb, Doc Marty, and myself. We accepted."

  "It must have been lucrative to make you willing to stay gone that long," said Ragus. "You're kind of attached to your place here. I'm surprised you're willing to entrust it to me for as long as a month."

  Conor let out a long sigh. "I trust you more every day, lad. You've grown into a fine young man. I have to admit that the incentive is more than any money or supplies Ricardo could offer. You know that Shani and I have a child together and I've never met her. I accepted the job on the condition that Ricardo would see if he could facilitate a meeting with Abela."

  "And I, of course, want to meet my half-sister," Barb said.

  "Maybe you two can play dolls together," Ragus teased. "Like Jujitsu Barbie or Little Sally Sniper."

  Barb shot him a look that froze that particular vein of humor.

  "And Ricardo wants me along in case someone chips a tooth," Doc Marty piped in. "To the best of my knowledge, I have no undiscovered children out there."

  It was Conor's turn to shoot mean looks, searing Doc with a glare. "We'll all be well-paid in addition to my request to see Abela, but this mission is about more than that. According to Ricardo, there are forces at work here that are intent on using this disaster to seriously undermine the freedoms we're used to in this nation. That's not simply a theoretical political argument either. If the powers that be have their way, America will come out of this disaster a much different nation than it went in."

  Shannon was sitting there with a look on her face that was both confused and intense. "This may be a silly question so forgive me if I'm being naive, but who are we talking about here when you talk about these 'powers that be' and 'forces'. Are you talking about the president?"

  "That's not a dumb question," Conor replied. "In our business, people sometimes speak in these generalities because no one wants to name names. No one wants to compromise operational security by disclosing too much. The truth of the matter is that sometimes the president is an actual player in the mechanism of government, but at other times he's little more than a celebrity spokesmodel for a regime or an ideal. I hate to break it to you but that's what we have now. A pretty smile who's really good at speaking in sound-bytes and giving congenial press conferences. He's all biscuit and no butter. Word is he's hiding out in his bunker, hosting nightly dinner parties for celebrities. Supposedly he even has a deejay who spins baby boomer classics for them to dance to each night."

  Shannon looked disturbed. "I hear this stuff from my dad all the time, but it's easy to push it off into the realm of conspiracy until you're actually confronted with it."

  "Actually, what most of the government officials in Washington want is a president who doesn't screw up the program and try to meddle in the operation of government. They want someone who does what he or she is told and doesn't have some agenda of their own. The real power brokers in government never see the light of the day. They probably aren't names you'd recognize. At least that's my experience," Conor explained.

  Because he felt it was important they understand the gravity of the job, they spent an hour discussing their mission in a general sense. Conor had no qualms about sharing the information with Ragus or Shannon. Despite his initial issues with the Doc, they'd grown into an oddball family of sorts. Since accepting this job would result in Shannon and Ragus being left on their own for an indefinite amount of time, Conor wanted them to know how high the stakes were.

  "So, we could be left alone for a month," Ragus stated. "With no way of knowing when you're coming home."

  Hearing it out there, spoken, made Doc uncomfortable. "Sounds like a long time when you put it that way."

  "And to be completely realistic about it, there's always the possibility that none of us will come home," Conor added. The comment won him a completely different look from everyone involved in the discussion, none of them appreciative of his blunt honesty. "It's true!"

  "If that's the case, Ricardo would let you know there'd been a negative outcome." Doc put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. "Let's hope that's not the case."

  "We'll be fine for a month or two," Ragus said confidently. "I'm eighteen now and Shannon will be soon. We're adults. The dogs are a big help in watching the compound. Shannon and I can cover what works needs done with the livesto
ck and firewood."

  At Ragus characterizing himself as an adult, Barb gave a dramatic eye-roll.

  "Have you considered having the folks from the firehouse come help while we're gone?" Doc Marty asked.

  "I've considered it," Conor said. "But how do you politely ask them to leave when the mission is over? I suspect they wouldn't want to go. Besides, I'm not really comfortable with strangers living in my compound."

  "What about Johnny Jacks?" Barb asked.

  Conor fell silent. He'd not considered that option before, but maybe. Just maybe.

  6

  The Firehouse

  The Dismal River Valley

  "Are they late again?" Wayne asked.

  Rod, the man who led the daily forays to gather firewood, nodded. It wasn't the first time this had happened. It wasn't like the residents of the men's house were staying out drinking, but they were known to stay up late playing cards, which led to oversleeping in the morning. They were all young and undisciplined, which rubbed the older men the wrong way.

  Wayne shook his head in disgust. "Dammit! You'd think they'd take this a little more seriously."

  "Most of them ain't much more than kids.” Rod held his hands out. “Still wet behind the ears. Don't have families of their own or responsibilities. Not sure I was much better at their age."

  "You're just making excuses," Wayne said, not admitting that he was pretty much a screw-up at that age too.