by Don Shift
“I’m fifteen, man.”
“Sam, does he look fifteen to you?”
Sam shone an infrared flashlight on the kid’s face. “Doesn’t look much older than fifteen, but hard to tell with goggles on.”
“Okay Jose, I’m going to let you go. I’m also going to let you take what you’ve gotten back to your family, as I have a market problem myself. So get up, grab that bag, and show me where you came through the fence.”
“Why are you letting him take the fruit?” Sam whispered.
“Look at him, he’s a kid.”
“Unless he’s selling it on the street for heaven only knows.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
Before the teen could squeeze back through the fence, Sam had a question. “Wait a sec. So why didn’t you help yourself to the free produce we and the other farmers leave in the bins on the highway in front of the Nut House?”
“The Nut House?” There was hesitation in his voice. “They were empty.”
“When did you go?”
“Just before I got here.”
The nice bike, the biking trailer, the gun; it all came together. Sibley kicked the crouching teen over into the mud. “Liar. There isn’t produce at the Nut House. You didn’t even know what that was.”
“Hey man, I knew what you meant.”
“Wrong. You’re creeping around with a Saturday Night Special in your pocket on a bike you stole or traded from someone stealing produce we donate to whoever comes and gets it. You vandalized my fence and disrespected me. You lied and I felt bad for you.”
“Me?! You dissed me when you kicked me in the mud.”
“Shut up. I don’t care what’s in the bike thing, but you’re not getting my oranges. Get through the hole you made and out of here right now. One.”
“But you said I could keep them!”
“Two.”
“Come on, man.”
“Three.”
“You ain’t gonna shoot me.”
Sibley didn’t say anything right away. “You’re right, I’m not. You need to understand something. Stealing food behind a barbed wire fence is not cool, homie. Fences exist to keep people out and the end of the world as we know it isn’t good enough of a reason to steal from me. I’m going to let you go. I’m not going to kill you for being a lying sack of crap and a thief. But I can’t have you coming back here.”
Jose looked nervous. Sibley wasn’t finished. “Be cool, Sam,” he said before keying his microphone. “Ignore the shots, it’s me. I’ll explain after.” Sibley pointed his rifle north along the road, aiming low into a small rise. He pulled the trigger and fired sixty rounds from the oversized magazine below his self-made M4 carbine. The report of the automatic fire was muffled somewhat by the suppressor at the end, also homemade in the machine shop. “Try not to scream Jose.”
Sibley firmly pressed the front end of the can-like suppressor, now at over 400º, against the intruder’s cheek and held it down. Jose screamed involuntarily and tried to roll away but was stopped when his tormentor’s boot landed hard on his chest. “Relax, it’ll be over in a second.” After about ten seconds, he let the boy roll away.
Jose clutched at his cheek and scrambled across the ditch to his bike.
“¡Chinga a tu madre!”
“¡Si vuelves, seré el que está chingara a tu madre!” Sibley yelled back.
After some incoherent mumbling, the bike disappeared down the road.
Sibley radioed that the situation had been handled and needed some tools to repair the fence with. “If you see a Mexican kid about fifteen with a double circle brand on his right cheek, shoot him. He’s our boy,” he added. To Sam, he said, “Bothered by my brutality?”
“No, I’m impressed with your charity.”
Two Percent of Men
The intrusion proved that the manpower shortage at the Sibley place had become acute. The rotation schedule was just enough to skirt physical exhaustion but gave no mental release that a day or two off provided. Mr. Sibley dispatched Sam to recruit Marco and Auggie. Simi Valley had been partially overrun by refugees from LA, Sam noticed. Even though it was still legally his house and had been his home for several years, it felt strange to park the Jeep in the driveway now. Auggie pointing his shotgun out the front window was part of the surprise.
“Sam, what the heck man?”
“Figured I’d come by and check in.” He held up a small cooler. “I brought some beers.”
Marco heard the voices and came out from his bedroom. “Sam! I thought you were gone for good.”
“I’m here to collect rent.”
“Right. Come on, let’s go in the kitchen. Erika’s napping.” Sam handed everyone a bottle. “Ugh, Coors Lite?” Marco complained.
“Sorry, I drank all the good stuff.”
“You have the worst taste in beer, Sam,” Auggie said. “Everything you drink looks like piss and tastes like it too.”
“Admit it. You really don’t like IPAs and you only drink them because it’s a fad.”
Marco pointed at Sam and looked at Auggie. “Can you believe this guy? I know for a fact he enjoys drinking wine. We can’t trust him.”
“I’d really like to keep ripping on Sam here,” Auggie said, “but I’ve got to take a dump.” He disappeared out the back door with a roll of toilet paper.
“I missed this. Sean and Tyler are too nice. Without you guys and Palmer to keep me in check, well I almost feel like I have some self-worth.”
“What are friends for Sammy?”
“I thought you three might have gone to the station or to Todd Road.”
Marco shook his head. “All too regimented. Sounded like being in jail, not just sleeping there. I get the need for 24-hour watches and work, but I don’t want to live with my sergeant. Plus I don’t think they would have taken in me and Erika, just Auggie. Auggie can’t stand noise. He’d snap living in an environment like that.”
“I guess for some it’s better than nothing.”
“True. So how have you been, living high on the hog and all?”
“Not as great as you would imagine. We’re all fatigued from living on edge without a break. All the comforts in the world can’t make this better. I just want one night of uninterrupted sleep, but I shouldn’t complain. How have you been?” Sam asked.
“It’s rough man. Not enough food. Look at me.” He lifted up his shirt to show the small percentage of body fat he had was gone. “Wasting away on rations.”
“Where are you getting your food?”
“What we have stored. I want to sue those survival food companies bro. Thirty-day supply my butt. Thirty days if you have a 1,000-calorie diet. I’m not a little kid. And some of the bags inside were broken open. Twenty-year shelf life, yeah right.” Marco chugged the rest of his beer down.
“You okay after your shootings when you rescued Erika?”
“Oh yeah. No issues there. I was surprised at how calm I was. It was tense trying to get in and out of there, but I never really felt afraid. I knew we were in danger and all that, just not, well scared. If anything, I was worried something would happen to me and they would do who knows what to Erika.”
Sam nodded. “That’s how I felt in Iraq. I would screw up and someone would get hurt for it.”
“Can I ask you a question? How did killing feel to you?”
“I don’t think I’m the right person to ask about that.”
“But Sam, you’ve killed before. Not just that night behind CVS, but in Iraq, too.”
Sam took a long time to answer. “Marco, I didn’t feel anything when I killed people. That’s not true. I didn’t feel anything bad. The first time I was in combat, I was so startled by the noise and the realization people were trying to kill me, I pissed my pants. I got over it and I did what I needed to do. The first night I killed somebody, I was so excited I shot hadjis that I couldn’t sleep.”
“That’s how I feel. Some of those shots though, I’m not sure about.”
“Then why di
d you take the shots?”
“Because I would have had to shoot at them anyways if they continued as they definitely would have.”
“So why are you beating yourself up over it? Marco, this isn’t the same world it was a few weeks ago. You can’t call for backup to scare them off. You can’t shoot tear gas or rubber bullets at them. They were going to mess you up or worse.”
“Sam, that’s not it. I get it; it’s the rule of the gun now, not follow the force escalation guidelines. I’m worried because I don’t feel bad. Am I a psychopath? Shouldn’t I feel bad for killing as a first resort?”
Under the circumstances, killing the aggressors was a justified outcome. Traditionally, only after trying to escape or retreat, and enduring life-threatening physical abuse first, then would homicide be justifiable. Given the situation, Marco correctly assessed that lethal force to prevent death or serious injury to himself, he chose to use it to his advantage rather than as a last resort. It was something from the Wild West, not the behavior of a modern police officer.
“You’re worried because your whole life and training you’ve been taught to only hit back after someone else started the fight. The world isn’t like that. Stand your ground, no duty to retreat; well history says we have a right to deal with a threat pre-emptively. Turn the other cheek until you can’t anymore only works in civilized society. We decivilized pretty darn quickly dude. You saw their final move ahead of time and it was something worth killing over so you killed the whole chess game to go for checkmate without giving them a chance to do the same to you. You worry because your brain hasn’t made the shift to understanding the old playbook is gone.”
Sam had put into words what Marco felt and couldn’t express. “That’s not all of it, it’s part of it. I know it’s irrational, but I worry that somehow everything goes back to normal and they try to prosecute me.”
“I like to call that fear of ‘no good deed goes unpunished.’ Morally and ethically you make the right call but the system second guesses you. End of the day, you’re alive and so is Erika.”
“Better judged by twelve than carried by six, right? Personally, it’s the lack of empathy for them that scares me. Shouldn’t I feel sympathetic for their mothers or something? I feel like the world is a better place.”
“I get it. It’s not something that a lot of people can understand. I’d only worry about it if instead of feeling nothing, you felt good about it and wanted to do it again.”
“Heck no man. I’ll do what has to be done but I’d rather not kill people, you know? It’s like in the background check process when they ask you if you’re willing to kill people in the line of duty if necessary. Yes, of course, but that’s not why I wanted to be a cop.”
Sam laughed. “Sorry, it’s random, but your mention of the background check brought back memories of my psych exam. I’m bubbling in questions on whether or not I talk to stuffed animals and the doctor had a big booking photo of Charlie Manson hanging on the wall, those crazy eyes staring at me for three hours.”
“Yikes.”
“Have you read Grossman’s book On Killing?” Marco shook his head. “Well I know you’ve heard that police are sheepdogs. The analogy gets way overblown, but we don’t kill for fun even though we are just as tough and deadly as wolves. You know why I feel good about killing hadjis? Because once they were gone, they wouldn’t kill another Marine or bomb another Sunni mosque. I lament the circumstances that made it necessary to kill.”
“I wish that I didn’t have to kill them, not that I wish I didn’t kill them.”
“Grossman pointed out that about two percent of men can kill without regret or remorse for a righteous cause. You’re wondering if you’re crazy because you killed some wolves and you don’t feel bad? That means you’re not a sociopath.”
Not everyone was the rare warrior who was psychologically superior. Plenty of good cops and soldiers throughout history faced danger and killed but dealt with the mental aftermath for years. Sam and Marco both knew cops and veterans that had seen hell and never wanted to see it again. It didn’t make them weak. The weak ones never stepped up to the plate in the first place.
Auggie came in from the latrine.
“I didn’t come here just to share a beer with you guys. Mr. Sibley is inviting you two, and Erika, to come to the ranch. You’ll get a small apartment in the field hands’ house and you will be required to work. Food and basic necessities are included. You two will have to share perimeter patrols and will have to fight if it becomes necessary.”
Their faces lit up with relief. “I don’t have a problem with that,” Auggie said. Marco nodded in agreement.
“Good, because we could really use the help. I take night patrol six nights a week. There are terms. In addition to security and work contributions, this deal ends when you are no longer needed for security. The same is true if the ranch can no longer support you. If food runs out or something like that, everyone but the relatives, including me, has to leave. Mr. Sibley thinks this is a three-year arrangement until there is some sort of normalcy restored. You good with that?”
“I’m not going to be some moocher trying to wear out my welcome,” Marco said. “I’ll keep to myself and steer clear of his family if that’s what he wants.”
“He invited you three over weeks ago,” Sam said.
“We didn’t feel right just showing up at the gate saying, ‘Take us in,’” Auggie said.
“We’re all one big family.” Sibley found in David and Sam a shared interest in things mechanical and electrical that his own sons lacked. Sam was a kindred heart as a Marine. All the extra people filled out the big family that Kyle Sibley never had.
Auggie had a question. “So is Sibley really nuts? He was always so intense at the range.”
“He is just very knowledgeable and passionate about what he does. I also think he bought into his persona of eccentric ex-special forces type that he puts on to be the kind of person people expect. It impresses the heck out of movie producers.”
“You ever meet Hollywood people at his place?” Auggie asked.
“Not really. As I kid, I met some special effects people that you can find on Wikipedia but not like actors.”
“So are you in?”
“When do we leave?” Marco asked.
“Now. Go wake up Erika.”
Packing was not too involved. Both had little in the way of “preps” to move. The food all fit in the trunk of Auggie’s car. Sibley’s offer had not come too soon. Clothing and bedding took up most of the remaining space. With no need for furniture or electronics this was a different exercise than moving into Sam’s house to begin with, the lack of a U-Haul notwithstanding. When it was finished, all three made a final pass through the house, including looking in the attic.
“Need to say your goodbyes?”
“No,” Sam said. There was nothing with meaning to him or utility left in the house. “It was just a place to live.”
On the way to the ranch, the three-vehicle convoy stopped off at the East County station so that Auggie could let the staff know where he was going. The station was now surrounded by a mix of barbed wire on posts and temporary chain-link fencing. K-rails barricaded the front entrance and back exit. Some sort of pipe went under the road from the water district across the street.
Auggie came back. “We made a good choice. That place is too crowded.”
Driving through Moorpark, Sam noticed that a motorcycle was following them about a mile back. He tried to raise Auggie and Marco in their cars on the radio, but they must have not had them on. Something else to get them in the habit of. As they drove into Somis, Marco honked the horn and pointed behind their little convoy, at the trailing bikes. At least he was watching his mirrors.
Sam pointed two fingers at his eyes and gave a thumbs up. I see them. He stopped in them middle of the highway and motioned for the two to follow him. Sam turned up a road off the direct route and sped up, the highway disappearing behind several curves. Givin
g plenty of notice, he flipped on his left turn signal and held out his hand in the “slow or stop” position before he hit the brakes and jerked the wheel left.
All three cars turned down a dirt driveway that disappeared behind a thickly wooded barranca, shielding them from the road. Sam jumped out with his rifle and motioned for the others to turn off their engines. The high-pitched whine of a small motorcycle buzzed past them and faded as the bike headed into the hills. “Let’s go.” They arrived at the ranch via the back entrance, over the bridge from the neighbor’s orchard, without incident.
Mr. Sibley was impressed with Sam’s quick thinking and subterfuge. Marco and Auggie thought it was “some next-level spy stuff.” Sam just smiled and basked in the admiration. That was one of the first things he learned in the surveillance and counter-surveillance class one of the Narcotics sergeants put on.
Everyone but Tyler, who was sleeping off his night patrol, came out to meet their three new housemates. The greetings were brief. Erika acted a little put off.
“I assumed they might want to get to know us a little more,” she said.
“I’m sure they do. It’s just that, uh, well you guys smell really bad.” They no longer noticed their pungent body odors owing to not having a shower since the EMP hit. “You can take as long a shower as you want before dinner though.” Then it’ll be: get wet, soap up, and rinse off. A water conservation shower from then on. Sam took only cold showers now because of how valuable the propane for the hot water heaters was.
Hearing that news, Erika went to investigate the shower and Mika offered to show her around. Sam lent a hand to Marco unloading the car.
“Dude, Freaky Fischer is here!”
“Marco, she’s cool.”
Marco playfully backhanded Sam’s stomach. “You’re tapping that? Auggie and I were wondering if you were a homo.”
“You’re one to judge, mister metrosexual. I’m not sleeping with Fischer.”
“Too bad man. Why not?”
Sam didn’t have an answer.
Rescue Mission
Sam was reading a Mark Twain memoir of the writer’s days on the frontier when the call came in. The watch desk provided plenty of time to read in between patrols. With the addition of two new bodies, he got one night off a week and another night all he had to do was cover the security desk for six hours to monitor the radio and scanners.