Surviving Rage | Book 4

by Arellano, J. D.

  Men in pain surrounded him, each one of them in as bad of shape as him or worse. Several men were missing arms or legs; some were missing both.

  Biting his lip in sadness, he lowered his head back onto the itchy pillow.

  He was suddenly no longer bothered by it.

  A woman’s voice came from close by.

  “You’re awake.”

  Raising his head slightly, he found the source of the voice: a beautiful young redheaded woman, standing there and looking down at him with sympathetic eyes.

  “Am I at the camp?” he asked feebly.

  Looking around the woman said, “Uh, yeah. Isn’t it obvious?”

  Feeling dumb, he shook his head. “Sorry, I meant, at Đồng Vắt.”

  She shook her head. “No, this is Qui Nhơn.”

  “How did I get here?” he wondered aloud.

  “Let’s see,” the young woman replied, picking up his chart, “it says you were brought in on a jeep from the camp at Đồng Vắt. Apparently you were found near the road.”

  Her eyes continued to scan the chart before they settled on something that seemed to upset her. “Hold on, let me get the doctor,” she said, before adding, “Don’t move too much, okay?”

  He nodded wondering what it was that startled her so much. Suddenly, he remembered how he’d lost the feeling in his legs.

  Was he paralyzed?

  He tried to move his feet.

  They responded instantly.

  ‘Hunh,’ he thought. ‘Wonder what’s bothering her?’

  He laid there for a few minutes before the woman returned, trailing an equally young Army doctor, who greeted him with a smile.

  “Thanks Doc, I’m doing okay, I think. What’s going on with my chart? The nurse here seemed bothered by something she read.

  Glancing sideways at the nurse, the doctor’s face showed momentary irritation before he looked back at the shooter. He hesitated for a moment, then began, “Well, I’ve got good news and bad news...”

  As it turned out, there was shrapnel lodged deep in his back, near his spine, in a location that made surgery extremely challenging and definitely beyond the capabilities possessed by the doctors in the field.

  The presence of the shrapnel in that particular location created a predicament that would become a lifelong challenge: if the muscles became inflamed, the piece of shrapnel would be pushed into contact with one of the nerves in his spine, cutting off the electrical signals, or nerve impulses, that his brain sent to his legs.

  It not only meant that his time in Vietnam was at an end, but also that any strenuous activity was out of the question.

  Anything that required heavy lifting?

  Out of the question.

  Running?

  Out of the question.

  Sports?

  Don’t even ask.

  Diet and light exercise became a requirement, not just to ensure his bodyweight stayed appropriate for his height, but also because extra weight on his spine could also have adverse effects.

  If he wanted to maintain use of his legs, he’d watch what he ate, watch what he did and how he did it, and stick to the plan.

  For the rest of his life.

  Back in the States, he’d met with Doctor Emerson, who, like those he’d spoken with in Vietnam, was very reluctant to attempt surgery to remove the jagged piece of metal that rested so close to his spine. The risk was too great, and the surgical procedures and technology available in the early 1970s simply weren’t up to the task.

  So he’d have to endure, always remaining mindful of the fact that the dull, ever-present ache in his lower back was a lightning rod capable of literally taking his legs out from under him.

  After several years of persistent effort, both on his part and that of Doctor Emerson, the VA agreed to cover the cost of prescription for Prednisone. The steroids were the only thing that helped control the inflammation whenever he had a flare up, and as a result, he was able to lead a somewhat normal life.

  But like most people who relied on prescription drugs, the outbreak had left him without the medication he desperately needed.

  Sitting back in the passenger seat of the van, Richard Singletary willed his body to fight against the inflammation he felt building in his back. The seat was uncomfortable, and without the opportunity to stretch out, something he did every night on the floor before crawling into bed, he felt the muscles cramping.

  And he was out of steroids.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Tinker Air Force Base, Oklahoma

  The uniformed man’s eyes were wide with fear as he ran towards them. Through the scope of his rifle, Reed could tell the man’s strength was essentially gone. Fear and adrenaline were somehow pushing the man on, and it wouldn’t last much longer.

  “We gotta go!” Tech Sergeant Andrews yelled from the doorway of the aircraft.

  “Shit! What do we do, Doc?”

  Reed paused, holding his rifle down by his waist as he considered options. Behind him, the four massive Pratt & Whitney turbofan engines of the C-17 sprung to life, partially drowning out the man’s voice.

  Looking at the figure racing towards them, Jonathan could see that the man’s lead on the pursuing horde of infected was decreasing quickly.

  Raising his rifle to his shoulder, Reed looked through the scope.

  “Doc, what are your orders?” Mason asked from behind him.

  “Hold on!” Reed replied, peering through the lens. He moved the scope’s field of vision up and down the man’s body, looking for tears in the man’s uniform, blood, or injuries. He didn’t see any.

  Raising his voice, he shouted, “Take down the infected closest to the man! We’re taking him with us!”

  McGhee paused, looking towards the man. After a moment, he said, “Ooh Rah, Doc. Let’s hope he ain’t already infected.” As he flicked his weapon’s safety off, he said, “Get some!”

  The aircraft’s engines whined louder as its thrust reversers began to direct engine exhaust air upwards and forward. The aircraft began slowly moving backward, towards the direction they’d come from after landing. They’d discussed contingency plans in advance of landing, and being unable to verify the condition of the runway normally designated for takeoffs, the plan was to reverse course and use the one they’d landed on.

  Jacobs’ gun barked first as it sent bullets into the infected closest behind the man to his left. One of the two hit by the bullets fell to the ground and was trampled by the others who pursued the man. The other continued on, only further enraged by the pain.

  McGhee’s weapon followed suit a second later as he fired into the group. Bullets hit the bodies of the infected, knocking them sideways and backwards momentarily.

  Reed and Mason joined in, firing their weapons into the horde. Each bullet met flesh and bone, but only two fell, barely depleting the numbers who charged towards them.

  Still they came.

  “This is not good, Doc!” McGhee yelled as he fired his weapon again.

  The aircraft’s nose was nearly abreast of where they stood as it began its slow turn towards the direction they’d come from.

  Time was running out quickly.

  The man and those who chased him were within a hundred yards, when the man stumbled and fell to his knees.

  “Shit!” Mason yelled, firing his weapon at the infected closest to the man.

  The man was up and back on his feet instantly, his legs propelling him onward.

  One of the infected lunged suddenly, swiping at the man’s leg with one arm. The thing’s hand connected with the man’s left ankle, tripping him and causing him to stumble to his left.

  Just as Jacobs’s weapon fired again.

  A bullet sank home in the man’s shoulder, knocking him off balance and slowing his momentum.

  A second infected person dove towards him, its hands outstretched. The hands grabbed the man’s uniform blouse, pulling him backward.

  “Fuck!” Jacobs yelled. It’d been his sh
ot that had injured the man, slowing him enough for the infected to catch him. He stepped forward, ready to rush to the man’s side to help him.

  “Don’t even think about it, Jacobs!” Reed yelled, looking through his rifle’s scope. He squeezed the rifle’s trigger.

  The head of the infected person that gripped the man’s uniform snapped backwards.

  The hands fell away, releasing the Airman.

  “Good shot, Doc!” Mason yelled, firing his weapon again.

  The combined efforts of Reed, Mason, McGhee, and Jacobs hadn’t stopped the group of infected that chased the man, nor had they lessened the numbers much, but they had allowed the man to increase the separation between himself and the mass.

  The Airman was within twenty yards now, and Reed could see pain had joined the look of fear on his face. Blood flowed from the man’s shoulder, rapidly staining his uniform.

  Andrews called out from the door of the aircraft. “Time to go, Doc!”

  Reed nodded, yelling, “Roger that!” Aiming his rifle again, he fired once more before shouting, “Fall back!”

  As the men began slowly walking backwards, continuing to fire their weapons into the horde, Mason leaned in towards the tall Captain. “Doc! We need you on the aircraft first!”

  “I - “ Reed began, before Mason cut him off.

  “No arguments, Sir! We’re escorting you, not the other way around! You’re the one who’s needed in San Francisco, not any of us!”

  Reed relented, looking back once more before re-entering the aircraft.

  The man was close now, and both Jacobs and McGhee stopped their retreat, allowing him in between them, bracketing him as they continued to fire their rifles.

  Though Reed, Mason, Jacobs, and McGhee had each fired at least ten rounds, only six bodies laid on the tarmac. The remainder of the infected charged on, unrelenting, not slowing as bullets tore through their flesh and shattered their bones.

  Sergeant Mason reached the bottom of the steps. He climbed the first two before pausing and firing his weapon again, taking down one of the infected. “Hurry up!” He yelled before stepping into the aircraft. He remained by the door, guarding it as the others retreated quickly.

  McGhee and Jacobs pivoted, placing the man between them as they created a single file line aimed at the stairs.

  Jacobs continued shooting as he slowly stepped backwards. With the Airman no longer in his field of fire, he was able to shoot more freely, no longer worried about hitting the man. The infected fell more rapidly, but it was too little, too late.

  The mass closed in on them still, now within twenty yards of the aircraft. They had seconds at most.

  “Are you injured?” McGhee called out to the man as he reached the steps.

  “One of you shot me!” The man replied, looking at McGhee in bewilderment.

  “I mean, from the infected!”

  “No, the one that grabbed me only got my uniform!”

  “Come on!” McGhee yelled, before turning and bounding up the stairs and into the aircraft. The Airman moved to follow him, grimacing as he reached up with one hand to steady him against the side of the aircraft.

  Jacobs's rifle barked again as he fired into the crowd. Squeezing the trigger again, he heard it click empty. Turning, he moved to head for the steps, only to be knocked forward as he was tackled from behind. His rifle flew from his hands, striking the back of the Airman’s leg as he fell forward. Trying to catch himself, Jacobs reached outward for the steps but only caught one. His other hand found the Airman’s right boot, tripping him as well. The two fell from the steps, landing on tarmac.

  In seconds, the mass was on them, ripping and tearing at their bodies.

  McGhee watched in shock and fear as the two men were ripped apart.

  Pushing him aside, Sergeant Andrews unhooked the loop on the cable that extended to the end of the steps. “Give me a hand!” He ordered.

  “But they - ”

  “They’re gone!” Andrews replied, muscling past the bigger man and pulling back on the cable. The steps lifted from the tarmac grudgingly before the hydraulics engaged and assisted the lift. The assembly folded inward as the door closed, sealing them inside the aircraft.

  “Get in your seat and strap in!” Andrews yelled, latching the door into place. “Headsets on!” He turned and rushed to his seat, throwing his harness on as he looked at them. When he saw headsets on the three men, he clicked on his microphone.

  “Hold on! We’re doing a combat takeoff!”

  Looking at Sergeant Mason for an explanation, Reed saw the man’s eyes widen.

  “What does that mean?” He asked.

  “Really steep, really fucking fast!” He replied. “Hold on!”

  The presence of the infected on the runway introduced the high risk of Foreign Object Damage, or FOD, necessitating the need for the short runway takeoff. Having the body of an infected man or woman get ingested by one of the engines would likely result in damaged turbines, intakes, or compression chambers, something that would, at the very least, handicap the big aircraft. At worst, they lose multiple engines, grounding the aircraft, stranding them on the runway, surrounded by dozens of infected.

  Reed heard the engines roar as they spun up for maximum thrust. Within seconds, they were charging down the runway, leaving the mass of infected behind. Seconds later, he and the others were thrown sideways as the aircraft’s nose lifted from the ground and pointed skyward.

  The angle of ascent was intense, steeper than that he’d have thought possible. Though he knew it was merely his equilibrium trying to adjust to the rapidly changing center of gravity, he felt as if they would go all the way over, looping backwards in the sky.

  Still they climbed as the engines powered them skyward, defying earth’s gravitational pull.

  The straps of their harnesses were tested as the aircraft climbed. Looking down at where Steight was in her carrier, Reed saw that the entire cage was suspended in the air by a few inches as gravity pulled it away from the cargo deck.

  Steight’s eyes were filled with fear as she looked through the bars of the carrier at Reed.

  Struggling to speak as the G-forces pulled against him, Reed managed, “Hang in there, girl.”

  The dog whined in response.

  Though the climb’s intensity was nearly overwhelming, it made it a short one, and soon they felt the aircraft begin to level off. As it did so, Reed was able to catch his breath.

  Looking towards McGhee, he reached up and keyed his mic. “What happened?”

  McGhee’s fists clenched as he gripped the seat cushion on either side of his legs. Looking down, he reached up and turned on his mic. “They got Jacobs. When he fell, he knocked the other guy to the ground.” Shaking his head, he added, “Those...things were on them before I could help.”

  Reed was unable to respond as he digested what he’d heard. He leaned forward and buried his head in his hands as grief and despair rose inside him.

  Counting SEAL Team Eight, Jacobs was the seventh man to die on a mission with him.

  Was his presence a curse?

  Would they have been better off with Lisa or Andrew?

  Too many people had died around him.

  It would get worse before it got better.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  San Jose, California

  The Scorpion’s toned, glistening body arched upward from the bed as she surrendered to the pleasure her lover gave her. Grasping the fine sheets of her king-sized bed, she moaned as she felt her orgasm surging inside her body, the pressure building rapidly as her lover’s mouth and fingers manipulated her most sensitive areas.

  Suddenly her orgasm was upon her, making her cry out in release as endorphins rushed through every inch of her body. Unrelenting, her lover’s mouth and fingers kept pleasuring her, extending and intensifying the climax until she thought she would lose consciousness.

  An expert in every way, her lover knew when to stop, slowing before gently backing off and away f
rom her.

  Exhausted and high with pleasure, she felt herself go limp as her strength left her. Her arms fell limply to her sides as her head lolled on the pillow.

  Sliding up next to her on the bed, her lover gently kissed her forehead before lying down next to her.

  Samantha looked over.

  “That was - ”

  “I love you,” Lizette said, cutting her off. The young woman’s dark eyes locked onto hers as she brought a hand up and gently brushed aside some of Samantha’s hair. At twenty years old, she was five years Samantha’s junior, though she seemed more mature, thanks to her rough upbringing and the even rougher time she’d had in the Army.

  Young and motivated after completing Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) school, finishing at the top of her class, she’d reported to her Platoon in Iraq, where it had been deployed for the last four months. Beautiful and fit, it hadn’t taken long for the male soldiers in the platoon to approach her, hoping to ‘hook up,’ only to find out that she wasn’t interested in men.

  The Sergeant First Class in charge of her platoon hadn’t cared, nor had he been willing to take ‘no’ for an answer. He’d forced himself on her, using a t-shirt to muffle her screams while the other Sergeants stood outside his tent, making sure no bystander came too close. He’d raped her savagely, yanking her hair and slapping her when she protested too loudly, and, worst of all, not bothering to use protection.

  When it was over, she’d limped back to her tent, battered physically and emotionally, and collapsed in her rack, where she’d sobbed for over an hour as her hands covered her abused areas. Eventually she’d showered, staying under the hot water until it ran cold, drawing the ire of the other women, the majority of whom had been quick to shun her over her attractiveness and desirability.

  Two days later, unable to sleep or eat, she’d approached Captain Weever, the Company Commander, and told him what happened.

  Surprisingly (or was it?), the man disregarded her statement, downplaying its severity until it was simply, ‘a misunderstanding.’ He’d dismissed her from his office, sending her away without concern, promising he’d ‘talk to Sergeant First Class Kraft.’