by Don Shift
The deputies walked into the briefing room. Dayshift was down two men from yesterday.
“Alright, let’s get started,” the captain said. It was highly irregular for anyone other than the patrol sergeant to lead the briefing. “Dawn shift, I need you back tonight. I know the urge to drift away is strong, but your community needs you. Remember, each of you lives nearby. You’re protecting your neighbors and your family. It’s only going to get worse from here on out so it’s vital we have as many deputies on duty as possible.
“The westside of the San Fernando Valley, Calabasas, Agoura, and Westlake are being hit by home invasion crews who will eventually come further west. If you’re on dawn shift and it makes you feel more comfortable, please feel free to bring your family here to the station. For the time being, we will remain on our current scheduling.”
An edgy deputy interrupted. His shift mates had been watching him, waiting for him to say something. He blurted out, “Captain, are we ever going to get relief or are we going to work every friggin’ day until the lights come back on?” A few grunts echoed his sentiments.
The sergeant looked embarrassed and the commander looked a bit worried about the attitude spreading. The captain didn’t change his expression but hesitated before speaking again. “At this time, there have been no changes to the schedule.” Half the room groaned and snickered openly. “Hey, come on.” He threw up his hands. “I’ll take it up with the sheriff today. I’m well aware this is unsustainable.”
“About the sheriff,” one deputy said. “I heard this rumor from the Air Unit that Sheriff Tennant absconded in an airplane.”
“Yes, Sheriff Tennant has apparently flown somewhere in his personal aircraft. Chief Villareal is acting sheriff.”
“So, the sheriff bails on us, but you want us to stick around for another day?” the edgy deputy said, clearly disgusted. “You better have a good answer for us at briefing tonight.” He walked out of the room without anyone stopping him or saying anything. Tennant’s disappearance had taken away the moral authority to censure insubordination.
Sam woke up to find Tyler and Mr. Sibley talking quietly with Marco and Erika in the living room. Today was moving day; Sam was heading to the ranch. Sam was too hungover to really care about the condolences they offered. His parents’ death seemed very far away right now. The men packed Sam’s things into the Sibleys’ two pickups and trailer while Erika tried to help Sam sober up with the remaining coffee and some food. By early afternoon, he felt well enough to drive his Jeep to the ranch.
“Marco, I guess whatever is left over, minus my personal effects, is yours. You know where to find me,” Sam said.
Marco watched as they drove off. He didn’t know what to make of the invitation Mr. Sibley made while Sam slept. It sounded a lot like being part of some half-assed militia and sleeping together in a barn. Maybe a few days, he and Erika would drop by to see what the ranch was like.
At the ranch, Sam settled in on the living room couch in the main house and sipped a Bloody Mary Mrs. Sibley made for him. Hair of the dog. Amy and Carlie were trying their best to be helpful, but visibly in shock from the death of Sam’s parents. Sam decided he wanted to watch a comedy, and thanks to the solar panel banks, he was able to distract himself with an Adam Sandler movie.
As the hangover faded, he would recall what happened and get angry all over again or silently start to cry. He expected to have his mom and dad around another twenty years and now he was all alone in the world. No romantic rescue of his lover for him. No, Sam’s would-be fiancée was three years history. He felt very sorry for himself.
Mr. Sibley and Tyler moved Sam into a small apartment in the casita that served as a guest house. On other ranches—all farms in Somis seemed to be called ranches—it would be a residence for the farm workers. This place had four buildings out near the barn and processing area that migrant pickers stayed in. The barn retained its original purpose, with some remodeling, and the main house and Sibley’s shop were custom built.
After leaving the Navy, Kyle Sibley decided to move to a rural location and setup his own self-sufficient compound. Skilled in the use of explosives, he started his own blasting and construction company that did various work including Hollywood special effects and firework shows. A few lucrative contracts came through due to his wife’s connections in the film industry and the boom in freeway construction after the Northridge earthquake made him a fairly wealthy man. When the Somis Lemon Company went bankrupt, he picked up the ranch at auction at a small fraction of what it would have cost before the early ‘90s recession.
For those who the world would call preppers, the 1990s were not kind. Survivalists, and the like, who meticulously prepared for social or natural disaster, were seen as seditious, anti-government types. Incidents like Ruby Ridge didn’t help matters. With the end of the Cold War and seemingly endless prosperity in America, preparing for more than 72 hours without water and electricity was considered paranoid, never mind arming up against an oppressive government. Distrust of the federal government, especially the Clinton Administration, was the norm in Sibley’s special forces fraternity. The current Trump era unrest made the survivalist authors of the 1990s look like uncanny prophets.
Y2K was what made Sibley get serious about prepping. Living so close to LA and the millions of people who would be totally unprepared for even another Northridge earthquake was a major security concern. He would have preferred to move to another state entirely, but Mrs. Sibley refused to leave her job and family in Southern California. What had started as just a nice rural place to live became a proto-prepper compound with all the bells and whistles.
He was glad he never took down the chainlink and barbed wire fence that the original owners had put up to guard its valuable lemon and avocado crops. He added a six-strand barbed wire cattle fence along the barranca, which was impenetrable except in two spots anyway. Boulders were added in areas where a vehicle might get in and he reinforced the gates against vehicles crashing through.
The ranch already had a large water tank and had its own well and swimming pool, but he added a powerful diesel generator and in later years over 3,000 square feet of solar panels that supplied virtually all the power the ranch needed except during the hottest times of the year. There was also a multi-acre garden and enough non-perishable dry goods and canned food for twenty people for three years.
Y2K never came and the Churches never moved on to the compound, nor did Mrs. Sibley’s family. The Palmers had been invited to move in, but they decided to stay in Ventura for the time being. Sibley had hoped for at least eight good men to help defend the place, but he was only at five; seven if David and his father showed up.
At least Sam was well-prepared. In addition to his AR-15 rifle, he had nine pistols, a shotgun, a scoped .22, and an M1 Garand, plus some other unique military-issue equipment. Sibley saw that Sam was an asset to the ranch. His roommates would be too.
In Ventura, David woke with the dawn and went out back to watch the sunrise. He and Brooke lived in a small house downtown. The place was tiny and the mortgage exorbitant, but the back deck had a perfect view over the neighbors’ houses for a panoramic view of the county. David loved the sunrises on days like this. The clear air made for a twenty-mile view. Faint tinges of pink and yellow were visible on the southwestern horizon beyond the Channel Islands. David could see the perfectly outlined arch on Anacapa Island.
The air this morning was decrepitly humid, hot, and still. The Santa Ana winds had died down the day before yesterday and were being replaced by an inversion layer. He could tell because objects on the horizon yesterday morning were twisted into fantastic shapes. These mirages, fata morganas, turned ships upside down and the island peaks into frightening spires three times as high as they really were. It was all a trick of the atmosphere and light as the different temperature layers of air acted like a lens in a carnival funhouse. It was a phenomenon he would miss when they left.
He could no longer justify living
here under the circumstances. It was far safer and more efficient to move in with his parents who held the bulk of the supplies, had a swimming pool full of water, and a garden. Brooke grew a sad collection of peppers, herbs, onion, and garlic in a shaded bed. Nothing they could survive on. Gas was becoming problematic. David’s daily commute to headquarters for his shift, plus the general trips around town and to his parents’, ate up the precious few gallons they had. With no resupply coming in the near future, the gas would have to last them six months to a year until the fuel was no longer good. Should have bought a diesel, David thought. Diesel fuel was much less volatile than gasoline and didn’t really expire.
Brooke was still asleep. They had stayed up late after David had come home and spent the evening in the now cold hot tub trying to cool off. The lack of any breeze whatsoever exacerbated the heat. Today was guaranteed to be a killer. If he hadn’t carefully negotiated a day off with the captain, David would’ve postponed moving. The air just barely felt nice, at 78 degrees and matching humidity shortly past six in the morning. In an hour, it would be unbearable. He recalled that the extended forecast Friday morning had called for 100-degree temperatures in Ojai, enough to set a record.
The air felt to David like when sticking his foot into a hiking boot with a little bit of grit in it. Not enough irritation to bother unlacing and shaking the boot, but surely to grow into a major irritation shortly down the trail. The hot, heavy blanket of air was a tangible harbinger of what was to come.
Dawn shift had reported a change in the atmosphere. Few people went out at night anymore. No bonfires or barbecues after dark. Figures slunk through the shadows without flashlights and ran through moonlight back into the dark. Lights didn’t show in very many windows. People were hiding from the new-fallen darkness.
Homeless
Villareal wondered how exactly he was going to provide the leadership that was expected of him. The one benefit to radio-only communication was that no one could second guess him, as Tennant often did before the pulse. At least he was gone. As craven as his flight was, the absence of the milquetoast politician cleared the way for effective leadership.
Things were already breaking down. Deputies were disappearing from duty and with the sheriff gone AWOL, he had no moral authority to drive by their houses and question them. What would he do anyway? Ask them to turn in their badge and ID? There was nothing he could offer to coax them back to duty; the original offer of free county gas had drastically depleted the tanks and now he was facing a gas shortage for patrol vehicles.
Refugees from LA were pouring into Ventura County by the thousands, their cars packed up like The Beverly Hillbillies opening, only without Granny in her rocker on top of the pile. Disabled vehicles stood by on the side of the freeway, many abandoned and looted. Others coasted into parking lots nearest the off-ramps. Still more took to the beach to escape the heat. Parks had been transformed into shantytowns.
Anyone with any sense got out of LA days ago. Now the rest were fleeing with their lives. Rumors were that LAPD had broken down; very few officers were left on-duty and few on patrol. The National Guard, Marines, and Army who had been handling the brunt of the rioting and looting were now standing down. A few of the people he talked to told him stories of soldiers standing idly by while riots raged in front of them. Another told him how a unit of soldiers and police, exactly who, the person did not know, started shooting into a crowd that had surrounded their vehicles.
The intelligence picture from down south was not clear. Certainly, law and order had broken down. The major reason many left the LA metro area was fear. Gangs roamed the street looking for victims and breaking into houses. Rioters tore up shopping centers and anyone that got in their way. Broad-daylight rapes, murders, and robberies occurred universally. The “better” neighborhoods were only isolated because of distance, and even then, the more affluent residents had to contend with burglars in cars. There was no place that was immune, no place that was safe. And now the “safer” areas were growing more dangerous and desperate by the day.
Ventura County residents weren’t exactly pleased with the quantity or the character of the people who were moving into their parks and open spaces. Domestic violence, petty squabbles, and drug use existed in the best of times, but was usually hidden inside houses; not in tents and makeshift shelters in full view of all. Deputies were having to spend their time roaming these camps making their presence known simply to remind the people within that Ventura County still had law enforcement. For now.
The whole thing reminded him of the invasion of Iraq, which he had participated in over fifteen years ago in his final year as an Army civil affairs officer. No one had an exit strategy for this situation; long-term disasters were beyond the ability of the American government to handle. Hurricane Katrina was the perfect example of how a widespread, worst-case scenario disaster could turn into a near apocalyptic event. Most Californians grew up expecting a 72-hour period before essential services or outside aid could arrive in the event that the “Big One” struck. After Katrina, that time frame grew to two weeks, which should have frightened everyone into action, but didn’t.
Katrina showed that a major disaster could overwhelm regional resources. Help from inside the affected areas could be easily neutralized. NOPD officers couldn’t and in some cases wouldn’t, do their jobs. Those who were still on patrol didn’t have the infrastructure they needed to be effective. The myth of “martial law” was used to excuse all sorts of unconscionable behavior including gun confiscation.
Over the past few days, hundreds of refugees from LA drove up to Ventura County looking for somewhere cool and safe to stay. For those descending the Conejo Grade and too low on fuel to continue, they searched for parks. The large and proud Pleasant Valley Fields sports complex was a convenient stop. It also was a water delivery site.
The refugees brought with them their own issues, particularly begging residents for food and supplies. Some drug use and fights gave the group an unsavory air. Racism played a part in that many of the refugees were black or non-English speaking Hispanics. Residents of the neighborhood were not unjustified in being on their guard towards the make-shift camp. Men on a nearby cul-de-sac decided to put an armed man on patrol at night. Armed men standing with their shotguns at port arms made Villareal feel like he and the deputies had failed.
It took Mika a long time to realize what the loud beeping was. In the twilight of sleep, deepened by oxycodone, she dreamt she was in the grocery store, listening to a stock boy take inventory with a price gun. It always made her wonder if she was awake or dreaming because the price gun beep was the exact same frequency of her alarm clock. But this beep was different. It was close to a scream. Was she still in the hospital?
In an instant she was fully alert. Smoke alarm. She was at home. The alarm in her apartment was going off, along with everyone on her floor. Beyond the deafening noise of the alarm, she heard screaming, yelling, and glass breaking.
She stood up and breathed in smoke. It was faint, but she instinctively dropped down to her knees and started to crawl. Modesty gaining control over fear for a moment, she slipped on a pair of sweatpants. Looking over the balcony, she could see the other end of her building was on fire. Smoke was pouring out of the second story windows. She couldn’t hear any sirens, but that was just because the smoke alarm was blaring.
Black smoke was now rolling under her front door meaning exiting through the hallway and stairwell would be suicide. Mika swore aloud. Thanks to her swollen face, the word came out as something less than what she meant. Frantic, she dug around the back of her closet. There it was. Her mother had given her a thirty-foot rope ladder in case of a fire. Who knew she would actually need it? Before climbing down, Mika ran back inside one last time and tossed a photo album in her work gym bag and dropped it, along with her purse, over the side.
Forget this, she thought, looking down the ladder to the ground. Dizzy from smoke inhalation and from the height, she carefully climbe
d over the edge of the balcony and down the ladder, her legs shaking the whole time. Halfway down, her bladder let go. She was tempted to let go of the ropes at that point and save herself the embarrassment but didn’t. Soon enough she was down and started to look for her car to hide in. That’s right, she remembered. Her car was still parked at the jail. Someone from the department, she was too medicated to remember who, drove her home and helped her upstairs.
Oh no, no no. Mika hoped that everyone was too busy looking at the fire or trying to save other people to notice her wet pants. Part of her knew she should be concerned about those who were quite obviously burning alive, but her consciousness was too fogged to fully appreciate the significance of what was going on. People leaned out of windows gasping for breath. Parents were tossing their small children to people below in hopes of saving them. A woman who leapt out of her third-floor window partially alight and smashing into the pavement below; Mika took it in without feeling. She looked vainly for her car and started to wander the parking lot, dazed.
A few minutes passed and she was hopelessly lost, and her adrenaline rush was fading. Her face hurt, her head throbbed, and her bare feet were burning on the asphalt. Sean, a deputy she didn’t know, who saw the plume of smoke and responded towards it Code 3, was keeping the residents from other buildings away from the fire and from interfering with the fire department. He happened to see a young woman with a mangled face and wet sweatpants walking aimlessly around the parking lot. “Hey, are you alright?” he asked.
Mika turned and looked. It was a deputy. Oh no. “I just need to find my car,” she said. It sounded a lot clearer to her that what she actually said. She started looking through her purse for her car keys.
Sean heard the woman mumble and then saw her reach into her purse. He saw her gun. “Hey, let me take that for you.” He grabbed the purse from her. A Sig Sauer P239 was in there.