Reaper

by Buckhout, Craig

  “Oh, oh,” Steve said.

  “Yeah, hope not. I’ll try to swing by his place to see if he’s there.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Across the street from the substation was another empty commercial building, with two more nearby, all casualties of the lingering great recession. Driving Great Oaks Parkway toward Santa Teresa Boulevard, Max and Myra passed an undeveloped area with big rigs parked along the street, including one that had a huge piece of heavy equipment with a scoop on the front of it, chained to a flatbed.

  When they reached Santa Teresa they turned left, drove to Bernal Road, and turned left again. Two blocks down was a shopping center and Max, who wasn’t very familiar with the area, wanted to see what resources were there he might call upon, should he need them.

  As he turned into the shopping center, which hosted a large grocery store, several fast food restaurants, a Starbucks, gas station, an office supply store, and a gym, he saw two people, not together, running from the parking lot toward the buildings. He back-tracked their approximate path and noticed several vehicles stopped in one of the parking lanes in the middle of the lot and a fight between ten to fifteen people going on. Some of the men fighting were shirtless and white, while the others appeared to be Latinos.

  Max automatically turned toward the commotion and stepped hard on the gas. As he did, Myra braced her hand against the dashboard.

  Not but a second later, he heard gunshots and saw the group scatter.

  The shots caused Max to brake hard.

  As he continued to watch the scene, he saw one of the white males standing at the back of a red Chevy Camaro, fire several shots from a pistol at the smaller group of Latinos, who were also getting into two nearby parked cars. One of the Latinos, who looked to be in his very early twenties, leaned into a car, pulled out a sawed-off, single-shot, shotgun, and fired back.

  More shots were fired as the cars sped from the scene. Max and Myra followed at a distance as one of the cars, the Camaro, drove toward the buildings on its way out of the parking lot. It was Max’s intention at this point to just follow and report until on-duty officers could make an arrest.

  The Camaro made a left at the end of the row and accelerated. As Max watched, he saw a CHP motorcycle officer approaching from the opposite direction. The officer, apparently seeing the Camaro coming at him at a high rate of speed, made a sharp right into the parking lot and immediately began a U-turn maneuver, presumably so he could fall in behind the car when it passed. But the Camaro stopped, an arm came out the driver’s window, and several shots were fired at the officer, who dumped the bike, trapping his right leg under it. The car took off again at a high rate of speed.

  Max thought about continuing to follow the Camaro, and even started that way, but he knew his first responsibility now was to check on the injured officer.

  Myra was already grabbing her new trauma bag from the rear seat, the old one contaminated by radioactivity the day before, when Max brought his truck to a stop near the officer.

  Max could see the officer was conscious and feebly trying to get his leg out from under the motorcycle. So, while Myra pulled, Max lifted the bike. Once the CHP officer was out, Myra began to assess his injuries, discovering one of the rounds hit his left elbow while another hit his ballistic vest.

  While on the phone with dispatch, Max limped toward the store fronts to check for any other injured. The first set of shots fired by the occupants of the Camaro, were in the general direction of the shopping center, concentrated around Starbucks.

  And sure enough, as Max feared, one of the bullets passed through the bicep of a woman sitting at a table outside the coffee shop, penetrated her side, and exited out her back. She was being attended to by a woman friend, so Max pointed out Myra to this woman, told her Myra was a paramedic, directed her to inform Myra about her more seriously injured friend, and to stay with the officer until additional help arrived.

  It was only five minutes before fire fighters arrived on scene and seven before other uniformed officers showed up. It was over an hour, though, before Max and Myra could get back on their way. Once back in Max’s truck, they just sat there a moment, staring out the window.

  Finally, Myra asked, “What was all that about?”

  “Got me, but I think we’re going to see a lot more of it,” Max replied. He reached over, took her hand, and felt her squeeze hard in return.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Max and Myra used the Chief’s credit card to load up on bulk food and other items at Costco to feed those at the substation until a system could be set up to collect money from those using the facility. Afterward, they drove by Myra’s place and picked up her personal gear, the air mattress, and her extra medical supplies. Once that was done, Max decided to swing by Blogger’s apartment to see if he was there and hopefully secure the photos he took of the altercation Max and Steve had with the DHS goons.

  Blogger’s apartment was off Williams, near Steven’s Creek Boulevard. It was a pale green stucco, thirty year-old, two-story, rectangular building, with a four-foot catwalk running in front of the doors on the second floor, and sets of stairs at either end. Parking was in the back. A patch of yellowish-green crab grass separated it from the sidewalk and, at the moment, a sprinkler head attached to a brownish-red hose was flinging water in a lazy circle.

  Myra said she would stay with the truck so nobody messed with their supplies.

  Blogger’s apartment was on one end on the second floor. Before going up, Max checked the parking lot for Blogger’s car, but didn’t see it. He decided to give the apartment a shot anyway.

  To his surprise, the door was opened by a skinny white guy, with thick frame prescription glasses. His name was Al.

  After introductions, Max asked if he knew how he could get in touch with Blogger.

  “I haven’t seen him or talked to him in two days,” Al replied.

  “Is that unusual?” Max asked.

  “Yeah, it’s unusual. It’s gotta have something to do with those other cops, the ones who came by last night.”

  “What do you mean? What other cops?”

  “Well, before he took off, these cops in this big SUV were driving back and forth in the street there, maybe four or five times a day, sometimes as late as midnight. He was all jacked up about it, too, taking pictures, peaking out the window all the time. It was freaky, man. Last night, so after the last time I saw him, those same cops showed up, said something about national security, terrorism, shit like that, and kinda just pushed their way in and started going through stuff. After about an hour and a half, they took some of his papers, his computer, a portable hard drive, and left. I know it wasn’t right …them doing that, but what was I gonna do about it?”

  “Did they ask you where he was?”

  Al thought about this a few seconds, shook his head no, and said, “Now that I think about it, no. That’s weird, huh? …You know what? I’ll bet they got him. I’ll bet that’s why they didn’t ask me about him.”

  Al went on to describe the men who searched the apartment. The descriptions fit Tattoo and Shorty perfectly.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  This time through, Walter Briggs was working security when Max and Myra got back to the substation. Briggs opened the gate, signed them in, but waived them to a stop once they were inside.

  Briggs was white, maybe five nine and one hundred sixty-five pounds, clean shaven, freckled, and had light brown hair, cut Q-tip short. He also served two tours in Afghanistan with the Tenth Mountain Division, stationed out of Lake Tahoe. He had a reputation for being a nice, quiet, competent, easy-going supervisor.

  “I know this is your thing and all, so I’m just asking, but I got this neighbor. He’s an old guy, a Vietnam vet, lives by himself, nice, friendly. He’s into shooting and reloads his own ammunition. He saw me packing the family up and asked what I was up to. I didn’t think it was a big secret or anything, so I told him. He left after a bit, but came back later and started saying all th
is stuff about how it was all falling apart and gonna get worse, and so on. Then he asked if there was enough room where I was going, for him. He said he’d be willing to make a trade …ammunition for a spot.”

  Max thought about it for a second because you could never have enough ammunition, and asked, “Is this guy a friend of yours? I mean, how well do you know him?”

  “I wouldn’t say were best buds or anything, but we’ve shared a few beers. Yeah, why?”

  “I’ll be blunt; you said he’s a vet, okay, I can get behind that, you are too, but just because he’s a vet doesn’t mean he’s not going to be a problem. I guess what I’m asking is, does he get along with people? Does he argue about stuff? Is he going to fit in or is he going to be someone we’re going to have to deal with? If so, the trade ain’t worth it.”

  “Like I say, he’s a nice guy.”

  “Okay, well, let me put it this way. If you were me, what’d you do? You know him, I don’t. Should I make the trade? You can always tell him I was the one who said no if you think it’s a bad idea.”

  “I think he’ll fit in fine, and I think he has a point about the way things are going. We might need the ammo.”

  “Yeah, okay, make the deal but only if he can supply 5.56 or .223, 12 gauge number four buck or bigger, and 9mm. And I don’t want just a few hundred rounds either. I want as much as he can bring. Tell him we’ll tag it as his, store it in the arms room, and return it to him afterwards if it’s not used. I’ve got mine in there. Also, all the other rules apply. He’s got to supply his own personal stuff, help out, and kick down for food.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call him and let you know if there’s a problem.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Larson. Frank Larson.”

  As Max drove on toward the substation itself, he wondered if maybe he was thinking about this whole thing all wrong. All along he’d thought in terms of a few days, a couple of weeks at the most. But what if it went longer? What if it went on for a month or two? Longer than that? Naw, no way. I’m being paranoid, he told himself. But despite his words, he had doubts. He sensed a momentum here, a downward spiral. The bottom wasn’t in sight yet.

  Another thought; I have something people want — a sense of safety. Fear’s a big motivator, safety a basic human need. And I’ve already traded safety for goods and services three times now — Will Mason in exchange for building maintenance. Myra in exchange for medical services, well, maybe a few other services as well. Jeeze, why did I think that? It’s not that way. Well, maybe a little. And now this guy Frank Larson, in exchange for bullets. What if I use fear to get other things we need — weapons, additional medical, cooking, electronics expertise, ah, what else …I don’t know yet.

  Safety, that’s the thing. I need to beef it up. Put on a show of it. People need to see that there are others who stand between them and the boogeyman at the gate.

  He stopped the truck, turned to Myra, and took her hand. “What are your feelings on all this?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked in return.

  “I guess I’m asking, you know, not about your thoughts, but about your feelings.” He turned his free hand palm up, “…ah, I don’t know how else …your feelings. You’re gut.”

  “I don’t know,” …she dropped her head and raised it back up. “I mean I guess I’m scared. Feelings. …My job …traffic accidents, heart attacks, the homeless guy who, you know, turns his liver to mush, a stabbing or shooting here and there, I can cope with that. But all this, …a couple of guys walking into a mall and blowing themselves up, you getting, well, you know, the convention center and all the people killed and contaminated, everyone so angry about everything, cops pointing guns at other cops, people getting shot while just having a cup of coffee, Raha, her husband. It’s like, I don’t know, it’s like everyone has gone completely off the charts mad or something.

  “Do you think it’s going to get worse? Do you think, well, basically, we’re screwed? Or do you think this is going to last just few days and everything will go back to the way it was?

  Myra started to answer but paused. “I started to say, that, ah, everything will be okay. In a couple of days people will get their act together, the people who are doing all this stuff will be caught, and everything will go back to the way it was. But you asked how I felt. And I guess, …I guess I feel that something has changed. That the world has tilted. That what we knew or thought we knew isn’t true anymore. That this thing, whatever it is, is far from over and these evil, evil people are going to keep messing with us, and our government is going to mess with us, and …well …and we’re in real trouble here.”

  Max leaned over and kissed her. In his mind he started to form a response to what she said, but he was interrupted with a knock on his driver’s door window.

  He spun around. It was Steve. Jesus!

  Max rolled down the window.

  “Everyone’s lookin’, you know. They’re all at the window.” Steve pointed his thumb back over shoulder toward the windows. “The women are all getting’ squirmy and everything. Saying shit like how romantic, I wish my Ted, Bob, Harry the Horse, whoever, was like that. And the men, the men are just grabbing their junk. Personally, I think you should go for it.”

  Myra placed her free hand on Max’s thigh and moved it up until it rested just below his crotch. With her other hand, the one holding Max’s, she put it to her lips, smiled, looked at Steve, and kissed it. “You mean something like this?

  “Oh my gawd,” Steve said, biting his hand. “Run. It’s a trap.”

  “Too late,” Myra said. “He’s already hopelessly under my control.”

  Max shook his head. “What the hell you want, Steve? You’re ruining the moment.”

  “What do I want? Oh yeah, ah, almost forgot in all the …. His eyes dropped to Myra’s hand that still rested high on Max’s thigh. She purposely rubbed it back and forth. Steve looked to the sky.

  “Steve?”

  “Okay, yeah, the thing is, shit, the thing is the lieutenant in Narco called me again. He said that somebody over at the Department of Homeland Security called him directly and asked that he round file our case.”

  “So?”

  “So, he says that without those photos we aren’t going to get a complaint from the DA.”

  “I’m trying, man. Our guy wasn’t home, or for that matter, anywhere to be found.”

  “You mean like he took a trip somewhere or …”

  “Don’t know, but I’m betting DHS has him. Look, tell you what, have the L.T. give us a couple more days, and if we don’t come up with the photos, he can dump the case.” Max pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the supplies in the bed of the pickup truck. “Now, how about getting your head out of your pants and help me unload this stuff, will you?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The conference room wasn’t big enough, nor was the break room. Max had to use the briefing room for the meeting. The total now was one hundred three men, women, and children taking refuge at the substation. This included one lieutenant, four sergeants, and eighteen officers. Of that number, about eighty-eight people were present, including a few of the kids. The rest, sworn and non-sworn police department employees, were at work.

  Max stepped to the front of the room and stood behind the podium. “Okay everyone, as you can see our numbers are growing. This is no longer something one person can run by himself. So out of this meeting tonight I hope to accomplish several things. First, I want to select five volunteers who will serve on a steering committee. I’d prefer all are non-sworn. Secondly, I also need to discuss some new procedures that must be put in place to make things work.” He looked down at his notepad before continuing. “Third, I hope we can select a treasurer, so to speak; someone to collect monies and keep track of where they go. Additionally, I want to find someone to run the kitchen, with help of course. We’re going to start cooking community meals. We have to. There are just too many of us to be competing for kitchen time. Another
thing I hope we can accomplish tonight is to sign up some non-police types who will be willing to share in the security duties. In light of the continuing attacks, we need to tighten things up. For one thing, I’d like to staff the security monitors 24/7, have two people outside near the gate at all times, at least one of them armed, and set up a routine to periodically, but frequently, check the perimeter fence. And if staffing allows, maybe check our surroundings outside the fence from time to time.”

  “Who we let stay here will still be up to me. And speaking of that, I’m thinking we may need to go outside our group of police department employees and their families to get people who are looking for a little security and who also have some skills we can use. For example, maybe we don’t have anyone here who knows how to run a kitchen, so we’ll need to find someone. I’ve already allowed a couple of outsiders, for lack of a better term, to take up residence here.” At this point, Max pointed to Will Mason. “That’s Will Mason there. He’s one of them. Raise your hand Will. He works for the city but not the police department. If it wasn’t for him, we’d all be sitting in the dark right now.”

  “A woman sitting in the second row raised her hand and asked, “What exactly will this steering committee do?”

  “Well, you’ll be living here for the next week or two or more, so you should have a say in how we do things. The way I see it, people who have ideas, or gripes, or whatever, need other people they can go to who have the authority to deal with that kind of stuff.”

  Max could see several people in the room looking around and nodding their heads in agreement.

  The same woman said, “Okay, then I guess you can put Jessica Martinez down for consideration. That’s me.”

  Max met Jessica when she first arrived but didn’t remember her name. She was the wife of a police officer working the Robbery Detail, if he recalled correctly. He did remember, though, at the time they met, she struck him as one of those no-nonsense, I can do anything type of people. She ran a business of some kind that had something to do with organic fruits and vegetables; maybe a small farm or distributorship. He couldn’t exactly recall.