Families First: A Post-Apocalyptic Next-World Series Volume 6 Battle Grounds by Lance Ewing (best non fiction books of all time txt) 📗

“Daddy, we’re hungry,” he heard behind him. “Daddy! Daddy, catch a fish,” they continued. “Catch a fish,” they chanted. “Catch a fish! Catch a fish!”

The Judge was seething but wouldn’t turn around. Those brats are exactly why I never had kids, he thought.

He concentrated on his trout. “Not bad sized,” he said, holding the nearly two-pounder out of the water for all to see before tossing it back into the lake.

A smile crossed his thin lips, getting screams out of the kids on shore. “Daddy, Daddy, that man just threw the fish back in!”

“I don’t eat fish,” he called out without turning around.

“Sir, please, if you catch another, can we have it?” asked one of the dads respectfully.

“There are plenty of fish in this lake,” the Judge replied. “You will just have to try harder… Fish on!” he called out only minutes later, laughing almost uncontrollably as he took a three-pounder off the line, tossing it back, the same as before.

The men glared at him without saying a word as he waded back towards shore with the pistol clearly visible in his waistband. “I’ll leave the rest for you, at least for this morning! My reeling arm is getting a bit tired,” he said, with a smirk. He looked back to see both men wading into his same spot in the lake.

“It’s not where you fish here, boys; it’s what you have for bait!” he called out.

“You’re mean!” screamed a little girl.

“You have no idea, missy.”

“I’ll be back after lunch; I’m starved,” the Judge called out. There was a certain expectation in town that one might call acting as a particular personality, which was not quite his real self. The Judge enjoyed the few times he could be a complete jerk and not have to answer for it later. Of course, he would trade it in a second to have his old job back.

“I’ll be back, Sheriff—maybe not tomorrow, next month, or even next year. But I will be back for my town,” he shouted to no one.

* * * *

Halfway back to his cabin, he ducked into the trees after seeing a truck and silver trailer come around the bend. Road visibility was almost a mile here, and he scrambled for his binoculars to verify what he thought he saw.

“There’s no way on earth!” he mumbled, waiting for the vehicle to come clear of the trees.

Following a moving vehicle was harder than he thought, catching only glimpses of a fender, trailer tire and hitch. Leading the truck, his quick glimpse of the driver’s side door confirmed his suspicions. “Re-elect Sheriff Johnson” it said on the door, now heading straight for him a half-mile away. Judge Lowry scrambled into the bushes, covering himself with a fallen branch, and heard Charlie Daniels out the open windows. He wasn’t much of a Country fan but knew this particular song well. He sang the tune, forgetting some of the words and belting the parts he did know—like that somehow made him a true fan… He never liked the part about the weak judge letting the drug dealer go, so just skipped it.

The Judge saw his old friend, clear as a summer day, as he passed. “Time for a showdown, cowboy,” he said aloud.

He looked into the moving house with mixed emotions. “I’ll leave it to fate,” he said aloud. “Go on around the lake, and we part ways here. Stop on my side, and we’ll dance.” It sounded tough, hearing it out of his own mouth, though he knew he would never fight the Sheriff man-to-man.

He put his right hand on the butt of his pistol as the Sheriff and his girl pulled over thirty yards from where he fished and secured the trailer with blocks.

“You always were dumber than you looked,” Judge Lowry said, ducking back off the road when a little girl talking to Sheriff Johnson pointed up the road towards him. “How nice of you to be so generous,” he said, watching Kate hand the girl something that looked like food. “Kick an old friend out of town and feed a perfect stranger…I see.” I’ll let him get comfortable, he thought.

* * * *

Back in his cabin, the seething Judge stomped around, growing angrier by the second. “You’re going to kick me out of my town?” he screamed. “My town! You were nothing when I found you. You couldn’t win an election without my help the first time, and I carried you all the way this time. Now you come out to fish my lake! Tell you what, you ungrateful imbecile! I have an idea—you stay here and I’ll run Weston. How about that?”

“Hey, keep it down over there!” came the voice of a longtime cabin neighbor he had never even said hello to before.

* * * *

He loaded his pistol with shaking hands, put on a baseball cap and sunglasses, and headed down the road. He briefly thought about shooting his loud-mouthed neighbor but dismissed it as distracting to his real purpose today.

In hindsight, he would have changed his red shirt from this morning for something more subtle that a little girl might not recognize. Returning the half-mile back to the lake took longer than before, staying completely off the road and in the tree line.

The Airstream completely blocked his view of the men and children he had seen fishing before, and he couldn’t be sure if they had moved on.

Once close—maybe 50 yards, he thought, to the lake’s edge—he got back on to the road, pretending to be out for an afternoon stroll.

His hand lay on the butt of his pistol, resting his finger on the trigger. How many videos had he seen of so-called experienced guys shooting themselves accidentally? He had even had a few in his court years ago.

He opted to keep his hand off of the