Surviving Rage | Book 4

by Arellano, J. D.

  If so, why?

  It made no sense.

  Looking closer, he realized he’d been mistaken. There was a three-foot wide stain of dried blood where the man’s legs had been torn off.

  Which meant he’d followed the stain in reverse. Backing out of the room, he walked quickly past where Sommer and Williams waited, saying nothing. He needed to make sure whatever had done this wasn’t going to sneak up behind them. They hadn’t heard or seen anything when they’d entered, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

  He passed by the nurse’s station and had just turned down the hall that led back towards the door he’d opened when a door at the far end of the hallway burst open. Snarling sounds came from within the room the door led to, and a second later a short, squat Filipina rushed out of the room. The woman’s hair was a wild mess, and her light colored scrubs were torn and bloodied. She held a severed leg in her left hand, and even from where he stood, Randall was able to tell from the blood around the woman’s mouth and the chunks of flesh missing from the leg that she’d been feasting on it.

  Turning suddenly towards him, the woman dropped the leg and let loose a high pitched, blood-curdling scream of rage. In an instant she was charging toward Randall, arms flying wildly as she rushed towards him.

  Raising his shotgun, he waited for the woman to get closer as his mind asked a pointed question: how had this little, maybe 100 pound woman torn the legs off of an average-sized man?

  The answer came a half-second later in the form of an enormous Black man emerging from the room the woman had come from. Without hesitation, the man threw aside the leg he’d been holding - one that had far less meat on it - and charged at Randall. His long strides allowed him to rush past the woman with ease, covering half the distance between the room and where Randall stood in less than two seconds.

  Backing up Randall moved the shotgun’s aim from the small woman to the much larger man and muttered, “Fucking nigger,” as he pulled the trigger.

  The blast caught the man in the chest and neck, knocking his upper body back as the hot metal ripped through flesh, bones, lungs, and sections of the man’s throat, sending a shower of blood into the air behind the man.

  The man collapsed, falling to the tiled floor, but his momentum carried him forward, and he slid into Randall’s right leg, knocking him off balance. A half second later, the Filipina slammed into him, knocking him to the floor. The butt of the shotgun crashed into the tile, jarring it from his hands. It clattered along the tile as it slid away from his reach.

  The woman’s hands were relentless, a blur as they ripped at his leather jacket, trying to reach his skin as he struggled to get her off of him. Suddenly he felt a scratch near the back of his neck as she finally reached her objective, her nails digging deep into his flesh.

  ‘Shit!’ he thought to himself, trying to get his hands into position to hurl her off of him. She was a fast moving, frenzied blur of movement, and it was overwhelming, regardless of the size difference between the two of them.

  The woman was thrown off by a swift kick to the ribs that sent her tumbling over and into the wall. Before she could recover, a gun fired, sending a bullet into her brain. She slumped down limply as life fled her body.

  Sommer looked down at Randall, his face hard and emotionless. He pointed the gun at Randall’s face.

  “She get you?”

  Praying the scratch on the back of his neck wasn’t visible to the man, Randall shook his head. “No, thank God” he answered.

  “We’ll wait and see,” Sommer replied, relaxing his gun. “Get up,” he ordered.

  Randall scrambled to his feet as Hank walked over to the black man and put a bullet in the man’s head. Stepping towards the shotgun, Randall picked it up and turned around, only to find Sommer’s gun pointed at him again.

  Sommer’s voice was cold. “Give it to me.”

  “What?”

  “Hand it over. You’re under evaluation. If you don’t turn, you’ll get it back before you head to the bridge.”

  Nodding, Randall said, “Okay, makes sense,” as he passed the gun to the man.

  Looking over at Hank, Sommer asked, “He dead?”

  While Sommer’s head was turned, Randall pretended to adjust his jacket as he reached up and wiped at the deep scratch on his neck. His hand came away wet.

  Shit.

  Pulling the collar of his jacket up, he tried to act casual as he looked at the two men.

  “Yeah,” Hank said, nodding. “Big fucker, though, ain’t he?”

  “Yeah. ‘Cause they’re genetically made that way. Instead of brains, they got muscles. It’s why that one damn black female tennis player keeps winning. She’s got more muscles than the more graceful attractive white female players.”

  Hank scoffed, “Whatever, I’d take me some Anna Kournikova any day.”

  Forcing a laugh to make himself seem more relaxed, Randall chimed in. “You got that right.”

  “Let’s get going,” Sommer ordered, not bothering with the joking. The man’s face remained emotionless as he looked at Randall. “Lead the way. I don’t want you behind us.”

  “Okay, no problem. You wanna check the other floors, or head straight to the roof?”

  “Straight to the roof.”

  “Okay,” Randall replied, nodding. He led them back to the stairwell door, opened it and listened. Hearing nothing, he stepped through and began climbing the stairs.

  ‘Any second I’ll begin to feel something,’ he thought, as he made his way upward, carefully peaking towards the landings above them before moving up each set of stairs. He felt a trickle of blood seeping from his wound, crawling its way down his back.

  ‘How long do I have?’

  When they reached the top, they found the door locked as expected.

  “Step back,” Sommer ordered, before aiming Randall’s shotgun at the lock and pulling the trigger. The blast was dearneing in the small space as the mass of steel pellets ripped through the lock, the door, and its frame, leaving each one a patterned mess of weakened metal and wood.

  Sommer’s boot did the rest, slamming into the door near where it closed, forcing it open. The sudden brightness of daylight flooded the stairwell, momentarily blinding them.

  Blinking and lowering his gaze, Sommer led the way, stepping out onto the roof of the building. The openness of the space was a welcome reprieve to the hot, humid confines of the building, and each of them took deep breaths, inviting the fresh air into their lungs.

  Following Sommer out onto the roof, Randall was acutely aware of Hank following close behind. He lifted his shoulders slightly, so as not to be too obvious to anyone watching, hoping that his jacket was covering the gouges on his neck.

  The weird thing was, he still felt fine. No signs of fever or sickness, no feelings of unjustified irritation, no desire to embrace sudden violence.

  He felt completely normal.

  “Perfect view,” Sommer said, gazing to the south.

  Hank moved over to where the man was and took a position next to him, setting down the heavy gear he carried next to Sommer’s before looking in the same direction. Hank nodded, then looked to the north. “Yeah, this is perfect. How’d you know about this place?”

  “Saw it once when I was coming up here to meet some girl. Thought it looked out of place, being so tall amongst the smaller buildings. It was memorable.”

  Randall came over and stood on the other side of Sommer, hoping the man had decided to relax and realize that he hadn’t been infected by the little Asian woman. Randall didn’t know why, or if he’d misunderstood how the virus spread, but he was sure of one thing: he felt no ill effects.

  Looking beyond where the two men were focused, he saw something even better, something would enable him to stay here, with them.

  “Boss, look,” he said, pointing.

  Sommer’s eyes followed his finger and saw what he had: the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth spans of the San Mateo-Hayward Bridge were missing
, leaving an open gap.

  “Hunh,” he said, nodding.

  “Perfect, right boss?” Randall asked, looking towards the bridge and smiling.

  “Absolutely,” Sommer said, before pivoting and bringing the shotgun up, leveling it at Randall’s chest.

  “Wait-”

  The shotgun blast caught Randall full in the chest, driving him backwards and into the small, three foot high wall that edged the roof. Unable to stop himself (not that it would have mattered), he fell over the edge and to his death, fifty-plus feet below, landing atop a Tesla sports car that was parked in the lot in an explosion of glass and crumpling of metal.

  “We’re taking no chances,” Sommer said, turning to look at Hank.

  “Good call, Steve,” Hank replied, knowing any other answer would be met with anger and possibly violence. He’d never seen Sommer like this, and it was more than a little intimidating.

  “Damn right,” Sommer replied, setting the shotgun down on the surface of the roof. Standing up, he dusted off his hands and smiled.

  “Now let’s get ready to greet our guests.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Palo Alto, California

  “You know Chili, I understand the mission, but I gotta say, I don’t like leaving them back there alone and unprotected,” Phillip said, shaking his head.

  Serrano shook his head. “They’re far from unprotected, Phil. Remember how Sarah beat the crap out of that Chadwick Beaumont guy?”

  Phillip laughed, “Yeah, that was pretty impressive.”

  “Hell yeah, it was,” Aaron added, grinning. “That fucker fully expected an easy fight and got his ass handed to him.”

  “He deserved everything he got,” Serrano said, turning serious. Keeping his MP-4 at the ready, his eyes were constantly moving, surveying the area as he led them east on Wilson Road, towards the 101, where they’d split up, with him heading north to the cover the Hayward-San Mateo Bridge, and the two of them continuing the short distance east to the Dumbarton Bridge.

  “Look,” he said, continuing, “Sarah and Jennifer are smart, capable women who will do what it takes to keep the children, your grandfather, and themselves safe.” Grinning as he looked ahead, he added, “Plus, they’re literally in an armored truck.”

  “Great point,” Phillip added, occasionally glancing over at the man to watch his movements. He found himself mimicking the man more and more, and it didn’t bother him in the slightest. While he and Aaron had done a tour in Afghanistan and seen plenty of combat, they had no illusions about their experiences being anywhere near what a Navy SEAL did. The closest thing the Marines have is Force Recon, but as badass as those men are, they’re not the ones called upon to complete an objective of National Interest. SEALs go places considered too difficult to reach or too dangerous to go, entering under concealment and achieving their mission with an incredibly high success rate (though actual numbers were classified) .

  In addition to the professional respect he had for Serrano, he also felt a genuine liking towards the man. He was courteous and considerate when dealing with the members of their group, ensuring each members’ needs were met when possible, and willing to sacrifice for the good of the others when needed, but he was also capable of switching from that person to a well-oiled fighting machine in an instant when needed. While he was deadly with every weapon on his person (and probably anything remotely resembling a weapon within his reach), he was also efficient in their use. Not just effective, but efficient. He used the exact amount of force needed to put his enemy down, conserving energy, ammo, and effort.

  Admiring the man was natural, and Phillip wasn’t afraid to admit he did so. He suspected Aaron did as well.

  Arriving at the intersection of Willow Road and Bay Road, Serrano slowed and moved to a spot on the sidewalk underneath the awning of a boarded up deli.

  In a routine, practiced manner, Serrano grabbed the tube to his Camelbak and stuck the end in his mouth, taking a small, measured sip before withdrawing it and tucking it back into its clip. Reaching into the pocket on the right leg of his trousers, he withdrew the map and quickly folded it so that it only showed what they needed to see.

  “Alright, here’s where we split up. You two will continue on this road until it merges onto the bridge. Don’t head too far out onto it. Keep an escape route available. If you see that fuckin’ Hermes, try to take him by surprise. A head on assault will either result in a standoff with him using the girl as a shield and pawn, or in her being injured or killed. Got it?”

  The two men nodded.

  “Good.” He looked down at the map and traced his finger along the route he’d take, repeating the street names aloud. “Chestnut, right, Veterans, left, Whipple, left, Industrial, right.”

  After a few repetitions, he folded the map and put it back into his pocket, then nodded. “Alright, we good?”

  “All good, Chili,” Aaron replied nodding.

  “Good to go, Chief,” Phillip added.

  Serrano stuck out his fist, first to Aaron on his right, then Phillip on his left. Each man brought his fist up and tapped it against Serrano’s.

  “Let’s get it done,” he said, before stepping forward and breaking into a smooth, even, energy-conserving run.

  Phillip and Aaron watched his form for a moment, then turned and began walking towards the bridge.

  “How far does he have to run, anyway?” Aaron asked.

  “‘Bout ten miles, give or take,” Phillip replied.

  “Think he’ll break a sweat?”

  Phillip scoffed. “Yeah, but only because of the heat.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Fremont, California

  Something shaking him insistently.

  If only it would stop so he could rest.

  “...ogan, ...ake up!”

  “...” Unable to form words with his mouth, he moaned.

  “Logan, please! They’re coming!”

  They’re coming….who are they?

  Shapes formed in his mind.

  Dark, angry faces behind the windshield of a black SUV.

  Guns aimed at them.

  Wait, ‘them’?

  Who else was there?

  Isabella.

  Forcing his eyes open, he blinked. Her face was above him, her eyes looking down at him, filled with concern and something else.

  Fear.

  “Please!” She insisted, pulling on his arm, the one that didn’t burn like fire.

  His memories flooded back in an instant. They’d been thrown from the moped after he’d been shot. The men chasing them couldn’t be far behind.

  Forcing himself into a seated position, he blinked again. “Help me up.”

  Needing no further urging, Isabella stood and grabbed his right arm once more, using both hands. Grimacing at the pain she felt in her own damaged shoulder, she planted her feet and pulled, leaning backwards to help him.

  Rising to his feet, Logan felt a momentary dizziness that made him stagger, but he refused to give in. “Walk,” he said, stumbling forward, heading up the ramp out of instinct.

  Together they climbed the ramp, Logan gaining strength with every step, not from healing, but from determination. By the time they’d covered twenty yards, his head was clear, his stride strong and confident. His arm still burned, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Looking at where the fabric of his button up shirt had been torn by the bullet, he saw bits of fabric were embedded in the open wound, stuck in place by the dried blood, all of which was covered in a thin layer of dust and grime from the tumble he’d taken.

  ‘Clean it later,’ he thought to himself, pushing ahead.

  Looking back over his shoulder, he saw four men at the bottom of the ramp, holding guns as they broke into a run. One of them paused long enough to raise what looked like an automatic weapon and pulled the trigger.

  Bullets broke glass and pinged off the metal frames of nearby vehicles, causing both of them to flinch in response.

  “Faster!�
� he said, more so to himself than to the girl. He broke into a measured trot, covering ground with short, energy conserving strides. Isabella kept pace with him, breathing heavily as she ran, her dark hair flying wildly as she pumped her arms and legs.

  Something dark on her leg caught Logan’s eye. The denim of her jeans had been torn away on the outside of her left leg, revealing a long, bloody abrasion, likely from when they’d crashed.

  Now that he noticed her injury, he realized she was limping as she ran, trying desperately to keep up with him, even though he was barely exerting any effort.

  She needed him to slow.

  They needed to run faster.

  Putting his hand out in front of her, he forced her to slow as he angled his body in front of hers. Squatting down, he said, “Get on.”

  “What? Why?” she asked, confused.

  “You’re hurt. I’ll carry you. Get on.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. “Keep going.”

  “We need to go faster, now stop arguing and get on!”

  “But-”

  More gunfire sounded, pinging off metal and breaking glass.

  She got onto his back, wrapping her legs around his midsection and her arms around his neck. Rising to his feet, he began running in the same measured fashion he’d been using before. Soon he was used to her weight and picked up the pace, covering more ground with longer strides. With the extra weight, even as thin as she was, he wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long, but the bridge was only a little more than a mile and a half long, and they’d already covered a few hundred yards. If they could open enough distance between them and the men chasing them, he could slow down for a bit to catch his breath.

  So he ran, the extra weight sending pain through his back and knees on each impact as his feet hit the concrete surface of the bridge. Within a minute, sweat formed on his brow, beading there. Soon it was running down either side of his face, dripping onto his chest as he ran. Some of it began flooding into his eyes, making him blink and shake his head in an effort to clear it without letting go of Isabella’s legs.