The Abandon Series | Book 3 | These Times of Cessation Read online

  These Times of Cessation

  Ryan Schow

  Copyright

  The eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy so that you may read it with a clear conscience and not one day end up in hell over a shitty technicality. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  THESE TIMES OF CESSATION

  Copyright © 2020 Ryan Schow. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this eBook, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, cloned, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form, or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this eBook via the Internet or via any other means without the express written permission of the author or publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents—and their usage for storytelling purposes—are crafted for the singular purpose of fictional entertainment and no absolute truths shall be derived from the information contained within. Locales, businesses, events, government institutions and private institutions are used for atmospheric, entertainment and fictional purposes only. Furthermore, any resemblance or reference to an actual living person is used solely for atmospheric, entertainment and fictional purposes.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover Design by Milo at Deranged Doctor Design

  Visit the Author’s Website: www.RyanSchow.com

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Your Voice Matters

  A Look Ahead: These Times Of Sedition

  Free Ebook: The Last Light Of Day

  Also by Ryan Schow

  About the Author

  Preface

  Much of this story takes place in Columbus, Ohio. Although there is an E. Long St. in downtown Columbus, I have taken some liberties with the neighborhood for the sake of the movement of the story. I have also taken some liberties to the layout of the Sheriff’s station and local areas of interest. Thank you for understanding this author’s creative license.

  Chapter One

  Constanza Navarro

  BOOK 1

  Day of the event… Constanza looked at her OB-GYN in anticipation of the question. It was coming and she could feel it. Then it all started, causing her to shrink down inside herself with every forced answer.

  “Have you noticed any changes in your vaginal discharge?” Dr. Francis Green asked.

  “No, not really,” she told the woman.

  “Tell me about your stool.”

  “It’s loose?”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?” Dr. Green asked.

  “I have some diarrhea. And before you ask me about spotting, there’s some, yes. But it’s not bad.”

  “Tell me about your joints,” she said, pen in hand, making notes.

  “I stopped smoking them before I got pregnant.”

  Dr. Green frowned and looked up.

  “Be serious.”

  “My joints are like my stool,” Constanza said. “Can we please talk about something else, like my contractions? Because they’re coming and they’re not comfortable. Oh, and the baby’s dropped.”

  “I can see that. How is your bladder?”

  “I’m not really comfortable talking about that,” she said. “I believe my fiancée told you I was shy. He’s said this more than a few times now.”

  “Most women get over that long before thirty-two weeks.”

  “I’m not like most of your patients.”

  “Peeing a lot?”

  She refused to answer. She had never liked Dr. Green. The woman had come highly recommended by a friend of Rowan’s, but in truth, the OB-GYN was the most sterile woman Constanza had ever met: two-dimensional eyes, a voice as cold as concrete, the bedside manner of a coma patient.

  She looked up and said, “Ms. Navarro, it’s time to take this seriously. Not to belabor the point, but you are at thirty-two weeks.” She sat up like an exasperated parent and let this statement sink in.

  Constanza folded her arms and frowned.

  “This being your first pregnancy,” Dr. Green continued, “there are things we must talk about, as uncomfortable as they are.”

  “I was uncomfortable not being able to take a shit, and now I’m uncomfortable because I can’t stop. My nipples hurt, I have hemorrhoids, and my ass now has dimples. I’m twenty-four years old and in good shape, Dr. Green, but now I have two stupid dimples that just showed up for no reason other than to put the cherry on top of this misery cake.”

  “I’d prefer you use different language in my office, Ms. Navarro.”

  “I’d prefer to actually feel awake. I’m a freaking narcoleptic. I fall asleep everywhere, all the time, and I have the stupidest cravings for foods that I would never eat before this—”

  “Perhaps that would explain the dimples,” she mumbled under her breath.

  “Ask your next invasive question, doctor.”

  She smiled, but it was disingenuous. “You said the baby has dropped.”

  “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  “And that you have pressure on your bladder.”

  “Here we go again.”

  “How many times would you say you urinate a day?”

  “Didn’t I say I wanted to talk about the contractions?” Constanza asked. “I’m pretty sure that’s what I just said.”

  She was starting to feel a bit bitchy, which was out of character for her, but she really was shy about these things, and even though she managed to stay in good shape throughout most of her pregnancy, she was feeling like a whale now. Perhaps if she had her old OB-GYN, this appointment would have gone much smoother. The woman could calm a schizophrenic mid-episode. But Dr. Green? By her personality alone, the woman could turn good people bad.

  “I know you mentioned your contractions, but we’ll get to that a little bit later.”

  “They’re coming on a lot, and I’m sure I’m dilated,” Constanza said. “I just don’t know by how much.”

  “I have other patients to see, Ms. Navarro, so if we could stay on track, then perhaps we can get through this and—”

  “If you were the patient and I was the OB-GYN, I’d put that stupid pen down and look at me like I’m a human be
ing, not a problem to be diagnosed.”

  She lowered her pen, looked at her and said, “You are likely having Braxton Hicks contractions. Practice contractions to the layman, or the laywoman.”

  “These don’t feel like practice contractions,” she said, the squeeze coming on again. She felt sweat gathering under her arms and all along her back.

  “With all due respect, you’re not an authority on these things,” she said.

  “I am an authority on my body, and this doesn’t feel right.”

  Dr. Green glanced up at the clock, let out a long breath, then frowned and studied the time, almost like she was waiting for some divine guidance. “I wish I could take a closer look, but they book me pretty tight these days…”

  “I’m not asking for a brow wax or a routine diagnosis of mole discolorations.”

  “Like I said, Braxton Hicks. Would you like to do an ultrasound now?”

  “How long have you been doing this?” Constanza asked.

  “Almost a year now.”

  This was the last straw. Rowan would be pissed that she just left, but there was no way Constanza was coming to see Dr. Green again.

  She pushed herself up and said, “My fake contractions and I are leaving now. Save your ultrasound slime for the next sucker.”

  She left the office, an entire caucus of inner-voices screaming for her to stop acting so stupid and naïve. The clearest of all the voices, however, was telling her to turn around, go back into that office, and be a freaking adult. But she didn’t like Dr. Green. This was her first child and she was going to have it with an OB-GYN who would enrichen her experience rather than stifle it with her own personal ice age.

  The contractions hit again, slowing her down. Her loose joints were feeling spongy and weak. She held the office door for a moment too long, then she pushed it open and walked out to her car. Rather, she waddled out to her car…like a freaking duck.

  Constanza knew enough about Braxton Hicks contractions to know that if she adjusted her position, they would likely go away, but if they persisted, then chances were better than not that she was going into labor. Was she going into labor?

  Am I? No, it’s too early! she told herself. She still had another four weeks to go.

  Constanza sat in the car, suffering her hemorrhoids like the itchy, violent grapes that they were. She tried to lean on one cheek, but the contractions merely persisted.

  “Stupid butthole,” she said as she started the car.

  As she drove out of Columbus Obstetrics & Gynecology, she vowed never to go back. In her head, she made a note to try to get into Columbus Women’s Care, or at least Northwest OB-GYN. But in her heart, she was trying not to melt down. That would mean tears, and she’d already cried enough tears to last a lifetime.

  She activated the Bluetooth in her car and said, “Dial Rowan.” The Bluetooth made the call. When she heard the loud ringing over her speakers, she turned the volume down, surprised by how hypersensitive she was becoming.

  “Babe?” Rowan said.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” she replied, happy to hear his voice.

  “There’s something going on downtown.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, the Hayseed Rebellion, or whatever crappy offshoot of them this group is calling themselves, just blew up a gas tanker. On purpose!”

  “Yeah, well, I finally walked out on Dr. Green. You should have heard her, talking about the stuff I told you I didn’t want to talk about.”

  “Did you hear me? They blew up a gas tanker.”

  “Near you?”

  “I’m looking at it right now. I was just talking to my mom and dad when they detonated the thing with the driver in it. It exploded, causing two nearby buildings to catch fire. The lofts and the new condos, Constanza. People are in there right now.”

  She started to drive, wanting to get home while the ebb and flow of pain was busy ebbing. “So are they able to get out? Did someone call the fire department?”

  “The fire department isn’t coming out with what the HR did to them last time.”

  She felt her emotions spiking again. “I’m so sick of these people.”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought this up. What happened now? What did you say about Dr. Green?”

  “I told her to kick rocks, in so many ways.”

  She could feel his silence.

  “What?”

  “It’s just…we’re at thirty-two weeks.”

  She drew a deep breath, then let it out in a measured sigh. “You, too? Because I don’t remember you being at thirty-two weeks, but I remember me being at thirty-two weeks.”

  “I know you miss your old OB-GYN, but she retired.”

  “Thanks for the late breaking news,” she said sarcastically.

  “Let’s try Columbus Women’s Care,” he said. “I keep hearing good things about them.”

  She felt herself starting to smile. She had been so worried that he’d be mad at her for this, for being unreasonable and walking out on the doctor, but he still wanted to help remedy the situation. This was yet another reason why she loved him.

  “Aww…Rowan, you’re reading my mind right now.”

  “Accommodating terrorists isn’t the same thing as negotiating with them,” he teased with a less than subtle hint of humor in his voice. “Seriously, though, I just want you to be comfortable having this baby.”

  “I’m worried about you,” she said, her tone softening.

  “Yeah, this is a little crazy,” he replied. “All the rioting and looting, and now this?”

  “How close are they to you, these idiots who blew up the tanker?”

  “Too close,” Rowan said. “If things get a bit dicey here, I’ll try to get out. If not, I’ve got Uncle Walker’s bag and a couch to crash on while this all blows over.”

  “You should leave now.”

  “I kind of think there are more of these anarchist pukes coming in, but I can’t be sure,” he said. “The last thing I want to do is go out into that freaking mob.”

  “Do you have your bango?” she asked, their code word for gun.

  “In the car.”

  “Not in your bag?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  “You can start a fire, filter pond water, heat water in the sun, charge a phone, cut anything and everything, and bullhorn an emergency helicopter, but you can’t bring a bango to work?”

  He laughed and said, “You were never worried before. In fact, I remember the whole ‘I don’t want a bango in the house’ conversation not too long ago.”

  “Yeah, well…times have changed.”

  “The duffel bag is EMP proofed, which means it’s for other things,” he said, avoiding her point, even though it was valid. “It’s not a bango case. The case is in the car, and the bango is in the glovebox where I want it to be.”

  “Overkill Oliver,” she said, a bit of the edge returning with the sudden squeeze of pain in her lower abdomen. “That’s what your uncle should have called himself. He should have told you to take that bango everywhere.”

  “The guy is a war hero, a veteran, and one of the most respectable men I know.”

  “He put a bullhorn in your bag.”

  “Actually, I did that.”

  “Didn’t you say your uncle Walker was a little crazy?” she asked.

  “Not crazy…crazed. Guys like him, guys who see too much war, then have to come home and deal with the douchebags they were out there fighting for...you know, all these Muppets going on and on about their feelings and how they get offended so easily? I swear these freaking colleges are turning out the most vile—”

  “I can’t talk about that right now, Rowan,” she said, stopping him.

  She felt herself frowning inside. The cramps had taken a brief reprieve, but now they returned with a vengeance.

  “My point is…oh crap…the fire is spreading up the building…can I call you back? If there’s a chance of us getting out, it might be in the next few m
inutes.”

  “How many?” she asked.

  “How many HR?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “A few dozen, but more are coming now.”

  “Where are they coming from?”

  “Boiling up from the middle of hell for all I know,” he replied.

  “Rowan, I need you home with me.”

  “You need me to put peanut butter on your peaches,” he joked, although she could hear and feel the concern in his voice. “By the way…hang on, I want you to listen to me fake vomiting.”

  She laughed at the statement, which caused her to pee herself a bit, but then she said, “Rowan, you’re going to make a great father.”

  “And you’re going to be a great mother. Little Rose is lucky to have us.”

  She felt her heart softening at the wonderful things he sometimes said. “Maybe pick up some Mandarin slices on the way home tonight?” she asked. “If you leave now—”

  She heard some noise on Rowan’s end. Then he said, “I’ve got to go, someone just ran out of the building on fire. I’ll text you if I stay the night.”

  “Call me either way,” she said.

  “Okay, love you.”

  She felt herself starting to cry. “I love you, too.”

  They ended the call, but she didn’t stop crying. The cramps had become vice grips on her lower organs. Wave after twisting wave surged until she let out a soft moan.

  At that point, she wasn’t sure if she would even make it home without peeing herself. Quietly cursing God for giving women the responsibility of childbirth, she was clenching her openings closed, but only barely. Then, to her absolute relief, she felt a gentle release of pressure, which gave her a chance to breathe.