Free Abram's Bridge by Glenn Rolfe

hall.
    “Not without you, he’s fucking crazy. He’s got nothing to lose, man. C’mon,” Li’l Ron said.
    He watched as Heath considered this.
    “All right, you fuckers, if you don’t wanna come out and play, I’m coming in,” Schultz said from the hallway.
    “Run,” Heath shouted, rushing toward Li’l Ron.
    Greg Sawyer pulled onto the dirt driveway at 32 Jefferson Hill Road. Overhanging branches scraped the roof of his cab. A maroon Oldsmobile rolled into view.
    He saw the old man standing on the porch as the front door to the little house busted open.
    Li’l Ron crashed through the front door, coming to an abrupt halt. Heath crashed into the back of him.
    “What, what are you doing?” Heath said. “Papa?”
    “That’s far enough, boys,” Orson Schultz said, pointing a revolver directly at Li’l Ron’s chest.
    “Come ooooonn,” yelled the younger Schultz, roaring up from behind them.
    “That’s far enough for you too, son,” Orson said.
    “Dad, what are you…?” Schultz said.
    “Put your guns down, right now, both of you,” Greg Sawyer shouted.
    Li’l Ron looked past the gun-toting librarian and saw his dad standing at the edge of the driveway behind a red car, aiming a rifle toward them.
    “Come on over, Gregory, let’s us and the boys figure this out,” Orson Schultz said, never taking the gun from Li’l Ron’s chest.
    “You fellas drop those barrels, and then we’ll—” Greg Sawyer began.
    Li’l Ron was yanked backward and felt the hard end of cold steel digging into the back of his skull. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, putting his hands up.
    “Shut up,” Schultz said, jabbing the muzzle into the back of his head again.
    Li’l Ron bit his lip to avoid crying out.
    “Stefan! Let me handle this,” Orson Schultz said.
    “Fuck you, Dad, I’m doing this my way,” the madman replied.
    Li’l Ron watched Heath looking back and forth between Heath’s psychopathic father and his papa.
    “Schultz, leave my boy alone or I swear to Christ I’ll drop your old man,” Greg Sawyer said.
    Heath stepped up to Li’l Ron, staring over his shoulder at the man behind him. “Dad, you can’t do this. You can’t. Just put down the gun, listen to Papa, listen to Mr. Sawyer,” he said.
    Li’l Ron felt the muzzle scrape up along the back of his head, the barrel appearing next to his left ear, aimed directly at Heath’s face.
    “Heath, no,” Li’l Ron said as Heath lunged forward.
    Bang!
    “Noooo!” Orson Schultz cried.
    Bang!
    Li’l Ron lunged to the porch floor, covering his head.
    Oh God, oh God, oh God…
    Orson Schultz hit the ground, clenching his chest, his revolver dropping next to him.
    Li’l Ron’s father was running up the stairs, rifle aimed ahead.
    “Schultz, put that gun down,” Greg Sawyer said.
    “What did I do…what did I do? My boy…” Schultz cried.
    “Put the gun down,” Sawyer repeated.
    Li’l Ron lifted his head up and watched the tears falling down his father’s cheek, his ears still ringing, the smell of cordite holding the cool air hostage. Li’l Ron turned to see Heath Barnes’s motionless body lying facedown in front of Schultz. Schultz was on his knees, rocking back and forth, both hands on his rifle.
    “Your fucking boy made me do this, Sawyer. Look what he made me do,” Schultz spat.
    “Ronnie, move,” his father said.
    “Don’t you fucking think about it,” Schultz said.
    Li’l Ron covered up again as his father tensed, aimed and fired.
    Bang!
    Li’l Ron didn’t uncover until his father shook him.
    “Ronnie, Li’l Ron, it’s okay, son.”
    The ambulance arrived, but would only be carting off one body to the Coral County General Hospital—Orson Schultz. Li’l Ron’s father had shot the man through the back, but he would make it. Heath Barnes, charging his father, saving Li’l Ron’s life, had taken a direct shot to the face. Stefan Gregory Schultz took a rifle shot to the head from Big Ron’s gun, ending his afternoon of