Graveyard Shift - John Stoker

John thought he was ready for the night patrols. He’s spent his share of late nights in high school, up until midnight or later for theater rehearsals and shows. He’s taken nine months of classes at the Amarillo Academy, getting up as sun dips below the horizon and going to bed just as the desert begins to turn gold. But nothing prepared him for his first night on patrol.
It’s not that it was an eventful night. Amarillo has a low vamp incident rate compared to most large cities. For one thing, it’s too sunny to be a really popular destination. For another, it’s got one of the oldest established agencies in the world. It has three reasonably large covens and a lot of loners, all of whom are usually just looking to lie low in a sunny city where they won’t be threatened.
Still, there’s no telling when violence will break out. Especially with the trade in illegal substances over the border. Since the fae became common knowledge, the Damiana trade has sprung up almost overnight. Not that no one was moving it before, but now it’s a flood. And covens saw the chance to make some money, just like the human cartels.
So the entire patrol is spent on the razor edge of awareness. John strains his ears for the faintest hints of movement or conversation, and his eyes to see through the glare of the street lights into alleys and doorways. He’s jumpy, tensing at every sound, hand twitching and ready to fly for his stakes or his Bowie knife or the new ten-foot silver laced whip that he perfected his skill with in the Academy.
By the time their pagers ping out the UV alerts telling them vampires are no longer able to roam the streets with their powers intact, John feels like he’s run a marathon. His muscles are quivering, he’s jumping at shadows, and he feels like he could sleep for a week. But there’s still reports to fill out when they get back.
The second he sits down in his partner’s car, he wants to doze off. He keeps blinking as they speed up and slow down, the city slowly coming alive with car horns and pedestrians. He keeps leaning forward against the seat belt and then sitting back up straight with a jerk.
“Tired?” his training mentor, Jupe Garcia, asks with a knowing grin. “It’ll take it out of you till you adjust.” He turns on the air conditioning, letting it blast out of the vents with the fan running at full speed. “That’s why we don’t let y'all cadets drive your own cars for the first few weeks.”
John thinks of his Mustang, sitting in the shed at home, and nods. He’d definitely have crashed it, the way he’s feeling right now.
By the time they get back to the agency, he’s steadily blinking, and the minute he’s out of the car he makes a beeline for the break room and the row of coffeemakers on the counter that have been humming away since before sundown. Even with five of them running there’s a line, mostly other cadets in the same situation, whose patrol blocks were closer to the agency. There’s no favoritism showed even to the bluebloods, John’s assignment was totally random, just like anyone else’s.
He stands in line, leaning on a wall, until one of the coffeemakers opens up. He pours himself a mug of the thick sludge from the bottom of the pot, and after reading the tattered sign over top, “If you use the last cup, make another pot” pulls out the can of grounds to start a new batch.
When he’s started the coffee he heads out to check his gear. Garcia’s already inside, having parked and checked over the car. That’s one of the few jobs that cadets don’t get handed from their superiors. Car checks are done by the owner, since they know the vehicle inside and out. Special weapons are also checked and logged by the person who uses them. But the general armory gear, John is expected to handle for both himself and his training officer.
Garcia walks him through the inspection and log process, for which John is grateful. He knows that there are some training officers who prefer making the cadets learn through experience. They usually don’t last long in the job as a result, but there is the chance of getting one. Garcia seems more than happy to make sure John understands the process by demonstrating it.
After they’ve checked their gear, Garcia sends him to the office to grab report sheets, and when he meets John at his tiny cubicle desk in the main floor offices, he’s holding two mugs of coffee. John doesn’t tell him he already got one, it seems rude to refuse and besides, he’s still drowsy.
Reports, he knows how to fill out. Dad made sure of that since John was old enough to make full sentences. He crams a detailed account of the night’s activities, in scrawling half-cursive script, into the narrow lines on the front of the paper. They had no major incidents to report, but he details their surveillance of a potential dead drop site on the reverse side of the sheet.
“How was the first night, son?”
He jumps slightly at the sound of Dad’s voice. He’s leaning on the edge of the cubicle, his red hair spiky from running his fingers through it, a pen tucked behind his ear over his glasses.
“Pretty boring. Which is a good thing.”
Dad glances at his report, then runs a hand through his hair again. “You’re squishing all your letters again.” For a second, John feels like he’s five again, sitting at the kitchen table. He knows his scrawl is messy. Especially tonight, when he’s so tired the words blur. Dad chuckles. “I’m just teasing. Besides, Walker needs something to keep him on his toes.”
He starts filling out the mileage and fuel reimbursements log (not that he needs to, Garcia will be the one actually submitting one, but it’s good practice) when Momma shows up. Her hair is falling out of its long braid, the few traces of silver visible in what strands are falling into her face. There’s a bruise on her cheekbone and a cut on the back of her left hand. Her night must have been more exciting.
“Good first night?” She asks, setting down a mug of coffee on his desk with a thump that barely avoids sloshing any over the edges. “Thought you might need something to keep you awake through the reports.”
“Thanks.” John’s already feeling jittery, so he doesn’t plan on drinking much of that, but he appreciates the gesture.
“Dad wanted to take you out for breakfast to celebrate your first night on the job, but I told him you’d just want to crash for the day.”
John nods. “I do. Thanks.” Momma’s well aware of how rough the first field days can be, and he appreciates her experience. She waves her own reports, which include an intake form for seized contraband.
“Alright, I’m off to go add enough detail to these to satisfy the evidence log files.” She pushes herself off the desk with a level of bounce and energy that John hopes he’ll someday be able to have after a night on the job.
He’s not sure how he ends up downing the whole mug Momma left, but by the time he’s done with his paperwork, the mug is empty and his handwriting has gone from chicken scratch to code. He’s glad the report he was practicing on isn’t one that he has to hand in.
He grabs his jacket off the back of the chair and walks out to the garage, finding Momma’s rust-brown Cadillac and opening it with his key, then climbing in the back. He settles into the passenger side window seat, where he’s sat ever since he can remember. Carmen’s spot is on the other side, there’s a spot of bright red nail polish on the door handle where she was doing them last minute before a school presentation so she’d remember not to bite them. And Gabe always sits in the middle.
He’s not sure he’ll be able to sleep. He feels like he can see sounds and his hands are visibly shaking. All that caffeine was a bad idea. He sighs, leans his head on the window, and closes his eyes. Because if he can’t sleep, tomorrow night is really going to suck.
He spends the next five hours between the bathroom and his bed, and the next night on patrol reminding himself that as exhausted as he is, more than one cup of coffee is going to be something he regrets. He’s learned his lesson.