Hard Favored Rage

by Don Shift

  As awkward as it had been until her ex-boyfriend went to patrol, it beat being fired for being caught hooking up with a former inmate. That was just one incident of many. The heart of the problem was of course the supermajority of good-looking young deputies. Hormones and natural urges combined in an environment that bred close personal relationships for twelve hours a day was a recipe for scandal.

  “It was this cute doctor. We were supposed to have sushi tonight.”

  “Well good for you Mika. Hopefully you can find this doctor again. Do you know where he lives?”

  “Um, I’ll just call and explain.”

  Rybals stopped in her tracks. “Mika, did you hear what the commander said about the EMP?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t you get it? There aren’t going to be any phones.”

  “But Henderson’s phone worked. I can go back to my locker and check mine.”

  “No Mika, the phone itself might work, but the network is dead. The cell towers are down. The phone lines are down, and the power isn’t coming back on. The electricity isn’t coming back on for a while.”

  While certainly not dumb, Mika was not a quick learner and instead learned everything through careful study. She’d gotten her academy spot during one of the department’s dubiously legal “female emphasis” programs where male candidates were arbitrarily put in later academy classes to boost the number of current female deputies. Her one upside was that she was a stickler for the rules, knowing the policy and procedures by heart, rarely making even the most elementary of mistakes.

  “Mika, you don’t get it. No phone, no water, no electricity for a long time. Weeks, maybe months. You’re not going on a date tonight or this weekend. You’re not calling this doctor. Your garage door won’t open unless you get out and pull it up.” That last part got her attention. She lived in an apartment complex and the only way to open the garage door from the outside was with the remote control.

  An hour later, Fischer drove the first van load of females to Ventura. They would go in through booking, be given their clothes and property taken when they were first booked and released. Since there was no way to prepare the release paperwork, the property tag was stapled to the inmate’s wrist band and both were put in a box for later tabulation. Requisitioned school buses would take the inmates to drop-off points centrally located in each of the former inmates’ city of residence. Though Chief Ostrander was not thrilled about the logistics of getting school buses and detailing deputies to drive inmates across the county, it prevented them from loitering around the Government Center hoping family members came for them.

  It was midnight before Mika and the two other deputies detailed to transportation were released. She briefly contemplated crashing in the bunk room, but unsurprisingly it offered no vacancy. Instead, she drove the twenty minutes home to Camarillo. The dark landscape seemed more eerie now she was not in a sheriff’s van with her partner sitting next to her. The roads were clear. Dutifully stopping at every dark traffic signal, she never saw another car. On the bright side, there were no clouds or fog to block the stars. The only time she had seen anything remotely close to that many stars was on a cruise ship, years ago. Before she went to bed, she went out on her balcony and simply stared deep into the heart of the galaxy.

  Commander Owens thought of the plaque posted above the bullet dent in the community room that read “Let this be a reminder that no day is ever ‘routine,’” to commemorate the day when a gunman shot at the station. Certainly today was far from routine, as the cold cup of coffee in his hand confirmed. He felt coltish for having tried to warm it up in the microwave. He shrugged and poured it down the sink, hoping that none of the assembled emergency operations volunteers saw his gaff.

  The runner from Headquarters walked into his office and handed him some papers with purple ink. “Orders from Chief Villareal, sir. He’s acting sheriff today.”

  “Where is the sheriff?”

  “No one knows, Commander. He was up in wine country with his wife, but he hasn’t made it in yet. Chief said the instructions are self-explanatory and if you had any questions, to use your best judgement.” Owens made a noise in his throat. “Sir, can you tell me where the Lost Hills Station is? I have to deliver a message to LA County Sheriff.”

  “Check with Bertie in Records. She can show you on the map.” Many of the old-timers kept an old Thomas Guide map book around.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  We’ll need it, Owens thought. What an afternoon. If this was any other Friday night, I’d be in the spa by now with a really nice buzz on. He shook away the thought.

  The papers were on department letterhead but were done in purple ink from a Ditto machine. The last time he saw something like this, it was on a quiz for a first-aid class he taught at the academy fifteen years ago.

  An extraordinary event has occurred, and extraordinary leadership and policing will be required of all department members. Extraordinary measures will need to be taken to ensure the basic function of the department and public safety. Certain actions will need to be taken…

  He skipped down and skimmed the rest. Yes, it was an EMP, as everyone who had read post-apocalyptic books had been saying all afternoon. A physics professor came up the road from the Lutheran University and explained the whole thing to the East County command staff and anyone else who was interested in the lecture. Owens himself figured the major disaster in his career would be “The Big One” earthquake that would drop freeways and rupture the California Aqueduct, not this. When the professor finished his lecture Owens was a true believer. The scorch marks inside the radio equipment building on the hill had convinced him of that.

  The rest of the orders seemed prudent, but startling. The East County jail would be emptied; nothing but non-violent offenders waiting for arraignment Monday morning, some prison kickbacks, and trustees. The patrol duties and scheduling were simple enough. He found the list of “critical facilities for extra patrol” interesting and was interested in the reasoning behind them, though it made sense. Most curious of all were the orders to procure supplies. Taking the listed categories of items and then leaving a blank county IOU seemed like theft, but he couldn’t contradict the reasoning.

  Arrests were not to be made unless absolutely necessary to preserve order. Use of force guidelines were liberalized to what was barely constitutional. He was to release all his inmate workers. With what clothes? Their jail blues? There was a GSA van parked in the lot. Owens decided to steal the van and use that to shuttle the inmates to Ventura. Let them be Main Jail’s problem, not his.

  His eyes came across “gather office supplies.” Office supplies? He laughed out loud. Alright, if that’s what they want. We should go raid Big 5 if we’re appropriating things, but what do I know? I just work here. Owens strolled over to the traffic bureau, where he found a cadet struggling with an armload of two cases of water for the deputies in the field.

  “Got an interesting little project for you,” the commander began.

  Two minutes later the explanation was finished and Cadet Jason Verga looked confused. “Alright, so you want me to burglarize a Staples so we can have plenty of paper and pens to write reports on for things like burglary and looting. Makes total sense, sir.” Verga wandered off wondering if his superiors went nuts.

  An hour and a half later, Verga was back and unloading the office supplies. A jail deputy stopped to admire the strange scene. “Gee, you know with all the life-or-death survival situation type things going on, I personally—and this is just me speaking—would have gone to Target.”

  “This office paper will provide a much-needed source of fiber in the inmates’ diet. Now do me a favor and lend a hand.”

  Barstow

  At the appointed hour, Church and Huerta went back to the headquarters building to squeeze in the overcrowded room and get the next update.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, bad news. Intelligence sources have confirmed this was an intentional act by a rogue nation.
As reports of combat on the Korean peninsula and in the Persian Gulf indicate, the likely suspects are North Korea and/or Iran, however none of this has been confirmed. The president has temporarily assigned all Army units to their respective state’s National Guard, in order to circumvent any issues with the Posse Comitatus Act. Governor Newsom has activated the National Guard and State Military Reserve. Our mission is to preserve the civil order.

  “First and Second Squadrons prepare for the new mission. Within the next day, we will deploy somewhere in the vicinity of LA.”

  “Our neighborhood,” Huerta whispered to Sam.

  “We’re putting detailed orders together for each unit now, but it will take some time, since we are doing them by long hand, so expect a runner within the hour. The short of it is, we’re not shooting looters or holding court martials for civilians. You will be required as necessary to police your area of operations, assist with any public safety mission, guard critical facilities, patrol, and reassure the public. Our engineers and maintenance troops will help public works and local utilities to repair damaged infrastructure.

  “Prepare for a full deployment. We will be taking everything with us into the field as if this were an overseas deployment. As many of you have guessed, this is a long-term situation. We are facing the collapse of our civilization. That may sound dramatic, but we will be experiencing unprecedented hard times ahead, worse than any of you may have seen in Iraq after the fall of Saddam. I don’t have any words of comfort for you. I’m sorry. But never forget, we are soldiers! We are the thin red line that stands between civilization and chaos. Stand fast! Hooah!”

  The room roared in reply. As the meeting broke up, Huerta grabbed a staff officer and asked him how Church could get off base.

  “Main gate is letting civilians off until 2100. After that, not until daylight.”

  “Well then,” Church said.

  “Right. Let’s get you back to your room and you can get out of here.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Church was ready to go.

  “Have enough gas?” Huerta asked.

  “Yeah, I filled up in Barstow before I came out. I can easily make it home on what’s left.”

  “Got a gun?”

  “My Sig’s locked up under the seat. I’ll load it as soon as I get off base.”

  “Kevin, how many people you got on base right now?”

  He shook his head. “Not enough. Look around, it’s a ghost town. Everybody is on leave, either before school starts or before deployment work-up begins. We’ll be lucky to field units at half-strength. How about you, Marine; you got a plan?”

  Church nodded. One of his friends on the department was the son of a successful explosives and weapons expert, Kyle Sibley, that ran several related businesses, usually catering to Hollywood, from his ranch in rural Somis. Other than being located in Southern California within a few miles of suburbia, it was a prepper’s fantasy redoubt. Planning for the end of the world or chaos in general had been many nights’ discussion over beers. Now what had been an eccentric interest of Mr. Sibley was a lucky break.

  Sam had thought all of this through. The reason most people were caught flat-footed in moments of danger was because they were mentally unprepared for what was happening. They froze because whatever was happening was so far outside of their range of normal experiences that they didn’t know how to handle the situation. Many figured things out on the fly, but just as many panicked or did nothing at all. As part of being a “survivor,” which up until this afternoon meant to Church winning a gunfight, involved rehearsing various scenarios and how to deal with them.

  Huerta handed over his phone. “Memorize my wife’s picture. I’ll give you one of my dog tags to give to her.”

  Church stared at the brunette’s face for a minute. “She’s pretty.” He didn’t say that she appeared a bit heavier than he expected from the brown, lanky soldier. Some guys like ‘em big.

  “Thanks. Well, good luck.” They exchanged slips of papers with their addresses on them and shook hands.

  There were no issues leaving the base, just the usual handing in of the base pass and paperwork. Church drove the twenty-odd miles back to the Interstate and got on for the short hop. Oddly, the southbound lanes towards LA were light, while the northbound lanes were heavy with headlights. He wondered what that meant and if it was good or bad.

  Barstow was interesting in the dark. He always got bad vibes from this town at night. The hotel was impossible to miss, even in the dark. Across the street, cars were lined up at the gas station. Many others were parked haphazardly in the lot, the occupants standing around aimlessly. The hotel was just as jam packed. Church left his Jeep under the porte-cochere and went in through the open doors.

  A clerk shined a flashlight on him. “I’m sorry, but we’ve given away all our rooms.”

  “That’s alright. I’m looking for someone. Raylene Huerta.”

  “And you are?”

  “Sam Church. I’m a friend of her husband.”

  The clerk shined the light on Church again. “Just a moment.” He looked a legal pad and found the name. “I can’t give you the room number, but when my assistant gets back, I’ll send her back to let the guest know.”

  Church nodded and found a chair to sit in. He must have dozed off, because all of a sudden, he heard a woman say, “Mr. Church?”

  Sam opened his eyes and stood up. “Mrs. Huerta? I’m Sam Church.”

  “Have I met you before?”

  Sam dug Huerta’s dog tag from his pocket and handed it over, helpfully using his own pocket flashlight to illuminate it. “I was his Arabic instructor at Fort Irwin. He asked me to retrieve you and take you to his parents.”

  Sam gave her a note. After she read it, she looked worried. “Is Kevin alright?”

  “Just fine. In fact, he is going to be attached to a unit that is deploying to our neck of the woods. Both he and I are from Ventura County.”

  “Oh, I’m from Alabama originally. Why aren’t you in uniform?”

  Sam was wearing a polo shirt and “tactical” cargo pants. “Oh, I’m former military, Marine Corps, actually. And a reserve deputy with the Ventura County Sheriff’s Office.”

  She smiled, but Sam couldn’t see it. “What exactly happened? Someone said it was a solar flare.” Sam explained. Raylene started to cry. “My parents. They’re all alone. God knows they’ll be done for. They’re just a harmless old couple.” Sam held her until she stopped crying. “But no use in crying now, I should go pack.”

  By the time they got her things loaded into Sam’s Jeep, Raylene seemed a bit better. “Only going to be eighty degrees in Westlake tonight,” Sam said.

  She laughed. “After all afternoon in this heat, that’s a relief. I tell you, the heat down south is just terrible when the humidity rises.”

  “The summers in Iraq are pretty awful, I hear. I got blown up and sent home before it warmed up though.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Tis but a flesh wound. It got me out of the Sandbox. I was hurt worse in a car accident.”

  “What happened? You seem too young to be an invalid.”

  “I got hit by a distracted driver at 80 miles an hour. They had to cut me out of the car. Had to quit when my back wouldn’t get better.”

  “Has your back healed? Can you go back to being a cop?”

  “It’s pretty much healed, as much as it’s going to. I’ll never go back full time.” He explained that a reserve was a volunteer deputy and he chose to pick up a couple patrol shifts a month. Sam did not tell her that chronic back pain was a permanent part of his life. No one but his doctors would ever know that. “I’m fit enough to lend a hand.” The thought made him excited and eager to get back in a black and white. “Ready?” She nodded. “Put your seatbelt on.”

  Church fired up the Jeep and turned for the freeway. At the intersection, several people ran towards the Jeep. Church stiffened up and his right hand reached for his holstered gun.

  “Hey! Can y
ou give me a ride?”

  “I’ll give you $50 to take me to Rancho Cucamonga!”

  He cursed himself for leaving the windows down on city streets. “No!” he yelled, gassing it.

  “Why not give them a ride?”

  “This isn’t a taxi,” Church protested, trying to be polite.

  “You took me.”

  “That was a warrior’s favor. I like your husband. But I don’t know those people. I don’t know if they are going to try to carjack me or lead me into a trap. I also want to get you safely to your in-laws and get myself home in one piece.”

  The short hop on the freeway from Barstow to Victorville took about half an hour. Just outside of town, about a mile from the freeway, a pillar of fire climbed to the sky. A large diameter high-pressure gas line burst, and the gas ignited somehow. Natural gas was usually the most robust of utilities and functioned even after many earthquakes. The compressor stations often had the ability to run on natural gas, although the Obama administration’s EPA had tried to use engine emission controls to force compressors to go electric.

  More than likely, the EMP shorted it out or otherwise damaged the supervisory control and data acquisition (SCADA) computers that ran the compressors and valves in the pipeline system. Such an event happened in San Diego years ago when a Navy ship’s radar jammed equipment far inland. This time, the massive disruption and outright failure of some compressor stations more than likely caused pressure waves inside the charged gas, eventually blowing out through a weak section.

  Church got off the Interstate and drove through Victorville, a suburban satellite colony of the LA basin in the high desert. He hated driving through town down the state highway under such conditions, but he had no knowledge of the backroads there and did not want to take a chance getting lost, so he stuck with the main highway. It was still early enough that a rolling stop through each intersection was sufficient to ward off anyone with ill-intent. Still in shock over it all, Church thought.