An Acquired Taste

by Darrell Maloney

  It wasn’t easy.

  All it took was working fifteen hours a day, seven days a week, only going home for an occasional shower and change of clothes. They slept in the motor pool, usually on the back seat of a Crown Vic with both doors open to provide circulation.

  The parts they couldn’t find they improvised. They took working starters from pickup trucks and switched out the copper wiring and brushes. The pickup starters themselves wouldn’t fit on the Crown Vics because their housings were different. But the internal parts were almost exactly alike.

  Switching the wiring and brushes from one to another was time-consuming, but relatively easy.

  The electromagnetic pulses seemed to behave like lightning in a certain way. They tended to dance and arc, and occasionally flew over certain buildings.

  Mike and Mike found a metal storage building at a Ford dealer on the south end of town. It was full of pickup trucks which had been damaged by hail and had been awaiting inspection by an insurance adjuster at the time of the magnetic superstorm.

  And against all odds, they were undamaged.

  “How the hell did that happen?” one Mike said to the other.

  “I don’t know,” Mike said. “But I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. So what do we do with them?”

  “Hell, we put them in our fleet, dummy.”

  “But they don’t look like police cars.”

  Mike took a can of white spray paint and painted “POLICE” across the hood of a black pickup.

  He did the same across the back of the tailgate.

  “How’s that?” he asked.

  “Ugly” was the reply.

  “I’ll tell you what. We have a boatload of stick on door emblems back at the shop. Let’s drive ‘em back there, get ‘em all painted up and put stickers on the doors, and let Castro make the decision.”

  It turned out that John Castro, who was all spit and polish before the blackout, couldn’t care less whether the pickups were professionally painted.

  “They move. They’ll allow us to get our work done a lot faster and a lot more efficiently. That’s what counts.”

  The fourteen pickups Mike and Mike obtained from the building at the back of Pendleton Ford were pitted with hail damage and were a variety of colors.

  But each was now decorated with the proud emblem of the SAPD on each of its doors.

  And they did something else too. They put Mike and Mike over their quota. The pair of mechanics now had forty two vehicles to dole out to the city’s police districts.

  Word had gotten out via working radios which had been obtained from the National Guard from a top-secret underground storage unit in east Texas. Officers were coming from districts all over the city to pick up their vehicles.

  Mike and Mike?

  They were celebrating their feat by hosting a barbeque in the SAPD motor pool.

  They’d procured a hog from a local farmer and greeted each arriving officer with a plate of barbequed pork, roasted corn on the cob and old fashioned pork and beans.

  It was the closest thing to a party most of the men had attended since the first blackout.

  The city had been mostly mounted for a long time now. And while most officers were adjusting well to doing patrols on horseback, the method did have its drawbacks. Chief among them was that it seemed to take forever to get from one place to another.

  Especially in times of emergency.

  This Tuesday was looked forward to by all. For this Tuesday would alleviate some of that problem.

  Not all of it. For there were still more officers than there were cars.

  But it was a very big step in the right direction.

  -49-

  It was an odd sight indeed as it drove slowly up Baker Street.

  A Ford Crown Victoria, decked out in the colors of the San Antonio Police Department, several cardboard boxes sprawled across the back seat.

  The boxes weren’t what made it look odd, though.

  What made it look odd was the sight of the operator’s arm hanging out the driver’s side window, hanging onto a leather lead.

  On the other end of the lead a horse, a rather tall Morgan named Cisco, walked slowly alongside.

  The people of Baker Street knew Cisco well. He’d been John’s constant companion for months. He was gentle by nature, with a keen sense of who was on his back and their abilities. He was the perfect horse to ferry around Baker Street’s little ones while John conducted his business with the adults on the street.

  But not today.

  Today the horse looked like he was in pain.

  Or at least uncomfortable.

  John Castro, on the other hand, was in a very good mood.

  He liked the people of Baker Street, and they liked him. He didn’t get to see them as often as he wanted, but every visit was like the return of a long-lost son. Joyous and happy and a cause for celebration.

  Maybe a bit more so on this particular day.

  “Hold on a minute, John.”

  The words came from the mouth of Tony Martinez, another SAPD officer who was in the middle of a three day break. Tony had John wait as he placed an old Chevrolet Impala into neutral and pushed it out of the way.

  The Impala served as a gate, of sorts, to allow passage into the last two blocks of the street.

  The two-block neighborhood was barricaded with abandoned cars and wooden pallets to keep intruders out and livestock in.

  This was in fact, the only way in and out.

  This was the way of modern-day San Antonio.

  Most blocks had been abandoned completely, their houses slowly being torn apart for firewood. The survivors clustered together in groups on other blocks, setting up a variety of security systems and walls made of anything they could muster.

  “Hello, Tony. I heard there was gonna be a party today.”

  “Yes sir, boss. Pull this beauty up in front of my house. I’ve got some catfish frying and crawdads boiling even as we speak.

  “What’s the matter with Cisco? He don’t look none too happy.”

  “He’s not well, Tony. I want to talk to our equine expert to see if she can help.”

  “I haven’t seen her, John. I suppose you can find her at home, taking care of her bone-headed husband.”

  John smiled.

  Scarlett was a good woman. And she was indeed a good and devoted wife as well, determined to help her husband Rhett heal from his injuries.

  He parked the car in front of Tony’s house and waved at several friends lounging about the driveway and in the yard.

  He didn’t speak to any of them, though. Not just yet. He had something he had to attend to first, and walked four houses farther up the street to Rhett and Scarlett’s house.

  He knocked on the screen door and was instantly welcomed by a voice from within.

  “I don’t know how many times we have to tell you, you old fool,” Scarlett chastised. “You don’t have to knock. Just come on in.”

  “Careful, Sweetheart. That’s my boss you’re calling an old fool.”

  “Well, he may be your boss, but he can’t fire me. If he even tried I’d beat him to within an inch of his life. He’s terrified of me, aren’t you, John?”

  As John hugged her he said, “I really would be a fool if I weren’t afraid of you, Scarlett. Your anger is known far and wide.”

  “Damn right.”

  John shook Rhett’s hand.

  “And how are you doing, buddy?”

  “Well, as you can see, I’m on my feet. Most of my fingers are working now, and the headaches are completely gone.”

  “Good. Maybe my question should have been, ‘when are you coming back to work?’”

  Scarlett interjected, “Don’t push him John. I won’t have him go back too soon and hurt himself all over again.”

  “I won’t have that either, Scarlett. As soon as he feels he’s ready I’ll take him by Santa Rosa Hospital and have a doctor look at him to make sure he’s reasonably fit for duty. Onl
y after the doctor’s okay will he come back to work.”

  “And how long after he starts working will you and Hannah head for the hills?”

  “They’re ready to leave today. Heck, they’ve been ready for awhile. But they love Rhett as much as I do, and they don’t want to rush it either.”

  He turned back to Rhett before continuing.

  “As far as training for my position, there isn’t a lot of training that needs to be done. You already know how to be a policeman. To be the deputy chief you just enforce the rules, be sure the men follow policy and come down on them when they don’t. You take care of their needs, make sure they have the equipment and ammunition and supplies they need, and make sure they take their required time off.”

  “That sounds like a lot, considering all the officers we have and how big the city is.”

  “Not really. Each district has a district commander who will do ninety percent of the work. They’ll take care of the men in their districts, you take care of them. It’s all a piece of cake.”

  “What will my typical day look like?”

  “That’s up to you. If a case or cause strikes your fancy, jump on it. Otherwise you can spend your days meeting with the district commanders and finding out what they need and working to help them get it. Talk to the patrolmen and answer whatever questions or concerns they might have. Talk to the citizens. Ask them whether we’re serving them well and what we can do to be better.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “It isn’t. Still think you want the job?”

  “Yes.”

  John turned back to Scarlett and said, “I need to draft you too, if you don’t mind.”

  “Me? For what?”

  “Cisco is hurting and I can’t figure out why.”

  “Hurting how?”

  “I can see it in his eyes. It hurts him to walk now. I’ve inspected his hooves and they’re okay. I don’t know what else to look for.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Outside, in front of Tony’s house.”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  Scarlett was born on a horse ranch and was an expert rider by the age of seven. She rode in competition during her high school years and won more events than she could count.

  She once took great pride in the trophies she’d won.

  Now that the world had changed so drastically she no longer placed much value in such things.

  But she still knew more about horses than anyone John knew.

  The three walked out the door rather slowly so that Rhett could stay up.

  Scarlett walked up to the big horse and spoke to him softly, stroking him and patting his shoulder.

  She could see the problem immediately but went through the exam anyway, in case there were any aggravating conditions.

  One by one she lifted his hooves and examined them. Then his joints and legs.

  She untied the lead from the car’s rear view mirror and led him off the pavement.

  “Come on, boy. Let’s get you on soft ground.”

  Her tone to John changed a bit when she addressed him again. It was just a bit sharper than before.

  “John, you know you’re supposed to keep him off the pavement as much as you can.”

  “I know Scarlett. But I haven’t been working in the suburbs. Lately I’ve been working mostly in the downtown and Riverwalk area. There aren’t a lot of grassy lawns to walk him on. It’s mostly streets and sidewalks.

  “What do you think is wrong with him?”

  “He’s got shin splints.”

  “Shin what?”

  “Shin splints. Inflammation to the legs caused by constant beating of the hooves against hard ground or pavement. Runners can get the same thing if they do too much training on hard ground.”

  “Is it fatal?”

  “No, but it’s very painful.”

  John pulled an apple nugget from one of his saddlebags and placed it on his palm.

  Cisco eagerly lapped it up.

  “I’m sorry, boy. I didn’t hurt you on purpose. I’d never do that.”

  Cisco turned his big head toward him as though to say he understood.

  “So,” John said. “How do we treat it?”

  “Normally I’d send you to a vet to get him some pain medicine but I know all the drug addicts have cleaned them out of all their meds by now. You’d have to go outside of town anyway because those are the only vets that carry equine medicines.”

  “Will he heal without the pain meds?”

  “Yes. I’ll put some wraps on him that’ll help a little and keep him on soft ground.”

  “How long will it take for him to heal?”

  “If I baby him, a few weeks. But the same thing will happen again if you take him right back out on pavement. If you want to keep him on patrol, you’ll need to transfer him to a cop in the suburbs. Somebody who can ride him across front lawns instead of down the middle of the street.”

  “That was my plan. I’ve got a car now, so I can afford to leave him here awhile. Take as long as you need with him, and when he’s better I’ll find a nice cushy post for him. One with lots of park space and places for him to run.”

  As John was talking shin splints with Scarlett, Rhett was peering into the back seat of John’s unit.

  “What’s all the boxes for?”

  “Those are for the birthday boy. Help me carry them over, would you?”

  “Stop right there, John.”

  It was Scarlett, who had her own idea.

  “He’s still on a cane, you big dummy. Carry what you can to the barbeque. I’ll put Cisco in our back yard to graze and then get the rest. I’ll meet you over there.”

  John was uncertain until Rhett whispered to him.

  “Do as you’re told. It’s not worth the risk of pissing her off.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Scarlett and Cisco went in one direction and Rhett and John went the other.

  Up the street came running a little boy in a grown man’s body.

  “Mister John, Mister John!”

  John braced himself, thinking he was about to be tackled.

  But the man/boy stopped short.

  “Mister John, guess what? Guess what?”

  “What?” John asked as he gave Bill a man hug.

  “It’s my birthday!”

  “It is? Well, fancy that…”

  In some ways life hadn’t changed on Baker Street, San Antonio or the world.

  People still lived and died, they still loved and hated, they still watched over and did harm to one another.

  They still recognized special milestones of the people they cared for and tried to make things a little bit brighter for birthday girls and boys.

  The good times and celebrations seldom lasted long these days.

  But they still counted.

  *************************

  Thank you for reading

  COUNTDOWN TO ARMAGEDDON, Book 10:

  An Acquired Taste

  Please enjoy this preview of

  the next installment in the series,

  COUNTDOWN TO ARMAGEDDON, Book 11:

  A Troubling Turn of Events

  *************************

  John Castro was a seasoned police officer. His areas of expertise were as a patrolman and an administrator. He had very little time under his belt as a detective.

  Tom Haskins had been a sheriff for a very short time and had even less experience investigating crimes. But he had a firm grasp on the harsh realities of the new world.

  Both men shared the same feeling.

  That Sara had been missing for too long, and they had to find her fast.

  The longer it took to find her the more likely harm would come to her.

  The more likely they’d find her dead than alive.

  They didn’t even know for sure their killer had taken her.

  Signs had pointed that way, sure.

  But there were also other indications she’d merely wande
red off, gotten herself lost in the woods.

  Tom had lost his voice. John wasn’t far behind him.

  Yelling for hours at a time was hard on the vocal cords. Now, for Tom anyway, any attempt to yell elicited nothing more than a painful coughing fit.

  He could whisper but nothing more, and even that was painful.

  John wisely stopped yelling as well. He had to retain what was left of his voice to use his radio.

  If they needed backup from the other searchers they’d have to coordinate it over the airwaves.

  They’d taken to using Tom’s whistle. Three blasts every ten minutes or so.

  The whistle could be heard for hundreds of yards. If Sara was out there somewhere and heard it, they’d rely on her to call out to them.

  That was, of course, if she wasn’t bound and gagged.

  Or worse.

  John had grown up deer hunting with his father.

  But he wasn’t versed in the art of tracking animals. His dad preferred to sit in a blind or a tree stand for hours at a time, watching and waiting for an east Texas whitetail to happen along.

  Tom, on the other hand, had some tracking skills. He was rusty, but still remembered the signs to watch for.

  John wisely let him take point.

  Several times they’d stumbled across a broken twig, a bent branch, an overturned rock.

  Each time their lead didn’t pan out. Usually because they came to a point when the signs simply disappeared. Or once when Tom stepped right into a fresh pile of deer droppings and realized they hadn’t been following a human at all.

  The ground was too rocky for footprints in most places, although there was a stretch of loose ground the previous day which yielded about twenty yards worth of boot tracks.

  For a brief time they followed them to see if they played out. But they weren’t even sure it was a viable lead, since they were a men’s size eleven boot and were several days old.

  It was possible it was their killer, on his way through the woods to wherever he had Sara or another victim hidden.

  It was that possibility which made them try to follow the tracks, though they both thought it was a waste of their time.