Surviving Rage | Book 4

by Arellano, J. D.

  “No thanks,” she said, waving off. “I’m trying to quit.”

  “Good,” he replied. “These things will kill you,” he added, grinning. Looking at Simmons, he smiled. She hated the smell of cigarettes and was already covering her nose with her hand. “Tell you what,” he said, stepping back. “I’ll move over here so I’m down wind.”

  When neither woman responded, he looked back at them, curiously. Each one wore a shocked look on their face as they stared at the sky.

  A split second later he heard a rapid thumping sound. Turning back he followed their gaze and saw the C-17 deploying flares as a missile closed in on it. The missile exploded as the plane turned back. A second missile hit the aircraft with a boom that they felt from several miles away.

  They watched in stunned silence as the aircraft began descending towards the earth, leaving a trail of smoke behind it.

  When it disappeared from view, the three of them looked at each other.

  “What the fuck just happened, Staff Sergeant?” Rodgriguez yelled from the vehicle.

  “I don’t know…” he replied, shaking his head. It was too incredible to comprehend.

  Who the hell would shoot down a military aircraft?

  And why would they?

  Looking back towards where the aircraft had disappeared, he estimated it to be several miles southwest of their position, outside of the Protective Zone.

  “Fuck this,” he said, heading back towards the Humvee. He went straight for the driver’s seat, not bothering to explain anything. Instead, he barked out orders.

  “Buckle up and check your gear,” he said, starting the armored vehicle’s powerful engine. “Zhang, call it in.”

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

  “And Zhang?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Report it, then turn that fuckin’ radio off. We need to see if we can help, and I’d rather not get told ‘no.’”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  East Palo Alto, California

  Inside the social media headquarters building that sat along the shore of the San Francisco Bay, a 40,00 square foot food court looked down on the lobby from two floors above. Complete with a Starbucks, Chipotle, Five Guys, Panda Express, and Jamba Juice, it provided a little less than a third of all the food and beverage options inside the half-mile long building.

  On any given day (there were few exceptions, since every day was essentially a work day), the place was packed with people. Some were there to eat and socialize, others were there to eat and work, and others were there simply to get their work done at some place different from their desks.

  When the virus entered the food court via an overworked, overstressed young man named Aarush, the place was even more packed than usual, with every seat occupied and people standing or crouching near tables as they engaged with their fellow coworkers. A huge software update that would overhaul the user interface would be released in less than two weeks, and time was of the essence. Few people were there to socialize. Most, if not all, of the people there were working, their heads down, focused on their keyboards.

  Which is why they didn’t see the attacks coming until it was too late.

  Standing frozen at the top of the steps, Daniel and Paul stood frozen in shocked awe at dozens and dozens of the infected that moved about inside the enclosed food court, separated from them by the heavy, plate glass floor to ceiling windows that looked out onto the lobby. Men and women of all shapes and sizes, most of them in their mid-twenties to early thirties clawed in vain at the glass, their hands and fingers leaving new layers of dried blood on top of those left previously.

  Beyond where the infected stood near the glass, the interior of the food court area was in shambles. Food covered the floor, walls, and windows. Spilled drinks had dried on the same surfaces, leaving stick streaks along the surfaces. Tables and chairs had been thrown about. Some had been used as weapons and still laid atop the bodies of victims. Others had been thrown against the heavy glass, but had done little damage to the heavy safety glass.

  Through the three-inch wide vertical spaces between the sections of glass, the sounds of their rage escaped. Snarling and growling sounds accompanied the screams of anger and frustration the infected emitted as they saw new prey only five feet away from where they stood. Fingers reached out through the small openings, trying in vain to reach the two men.

  Looking towards the hallway that led into the third floor, past the entry to the food court, Daniel saw a series of items had been used to secure and block the doors that led into the eating area. A skateboard had been wedged between the metal door handles to keep them together. A red fabric couch had been pushed up against the door. Five gallon jugs of Arrowhead drinking water, books, computers, and a variety of other items had been stacked atop the couch. A heavy filing cabinet laid on its back, pressed up against the couch, adding even more resistance.

  Two men laid on the ground near the couch, their bodies unmoving. Motioning for Paul to follow him, Daniel slowly made his way towards the piled furniture, watching the two bodies on the floor as he moved. The infected rushed over to that side of the food court, pressing themselves against the glass as they continued to make their animalistic sounds.

  Getting closer, Daniel quickly realized each man was dead. The closer one wore a security guard uniform and still held a gun in his hand, which he’d apparently used to put a bullet in his brain. The front of his shirt had been torn open and was covered in long gouges that were caked in dried blood. The other man had also died from a gunshot, likely from the first man. Like him, the man had been injured by the infected, evidenced by furrows of torn skin along his left cheek and neck.

  They’d blocked the doors, ensuring the infected couldn’t get out, then killed themselves to prevent further spread of the virus. Looking back at the first man, Daniel saw a wedding ring on the man’s finger. Near the hand that didn’t clutch the gun, a phone lay on the floor.

  ‘He called home to say goodbye before he pulled the trigger,’ Daniel thought to himself, shaking his head as he looked down at the man in sadness..

  He was pulled out of his moment of contemplation by the sound of voices and footsteps on broken glass coming from the lobby below.

  “Alright, let’s find those fuckers,” a woman’s voice called out.

  “You got it, Scorp,” a man’s deep voice replied.

  “Where should we start?” Another male voice asked.

  “Hold on,” the Scorpion replied, looking outside. A black Toyota Tundra pulled up and parked next to the battered Mercedes. Four men emerged from the truck, all armed to the teeth. Seconds later, they were inside, looking around at the vast open space of the lobby as one of the men approached the Scorpion.

  “They here?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” the Scorpion replied, looking around. “Not sure where, but they’re here.”

  “What’s the plan?” he asked, deferring to her authority. He, like the men with him, knew better than to cross the Scorpion.

  She looked around the lobby, then guided her eyes up the stairway, past the second floor landing and up towards the third level. Smiling, she said, “Split up. Two of you cover the first level, the other two cover the second. I’ll take Clint and Mario up to the third. Something tells me they’re up there.”

  “Got it.”

  “Check in every ten minutes.”

  “Will do.” Turning to the other men, he pointed at two of them. “Hector, Mikey, take this floor. Me and Carlos will head up to the second.”

  Splitting up, each group began moving towards the areas they needed to search.

  “Come on,” Daniel whispered, leading Paul down the hallway, leaving the two dead men behind.They stood no chance in an armed confrontation with the gang members who were hunting them. Their only chance was to find somewhere to hide, and then either sneak out or wait for the woman and her men to tire of looking for them.

  After the reaction he’d seen from the woman upon the death of the
other woman, Daniel placed the chances of the latter at slim to none.

  He led Paul further into the long building, passing several offices and a number of what he could only call ‘lounge areas’ - open spaces with eclectic chairs, weirdly shaped tables, and flat screen monitors mounted on the wall. Several balls dotted the floor: tennis balls, stress balls, a soft foam football, and even a basketball (Daniel located the basketball hoop near a set of stairs that led to the roof), likely used to break the monotony of work.

  If not for the massive windows that lined the sides of the building, the interior would be dark, but as it was, visibility was actually better than Daniel would have preferred. A little bit of darkness would help them in their efforts to hide.

  Rushing down the main hallway, Daniel kept hoping to find a perpendicular one, one that he could use to put space between them and those chasing them, but as they moved along the wide open corridor, Daniel realized their mistake: the third floor was for the more senior people in the company. As such, the offices they occupied were big, taking all the space on either side of the hallway. As he and Paul moved further into the building, it appeared that the offices were increasing in size, indicative of an increase in seniority of those assigned. It made sense: those closer to the food court and lobby would deal with more noise, more traffic, etc. The more senior folk would be further down the hallway, away from the commotion, able to use their offices for more serious meetings.

  To make matters worse, the walls that faced the adjoining offices and the main hallway were glass, open for anyone to see into. It might have been aesthetically pleasing, but it absolutely stunk for their purposes.

  The modern furniture didn’t help either. All of the desks were open underneath, making the offices look even bigger, and denying the two of them the opportunity to take cover underneath them. What books, binders, and other printed materials there were had been confined to small bookshelves that didn’t rise to the level of the windows that looked out onto the bay to the north, or to the parking lot to the south.

  ‘Maybe a conference room?’ Daniel asked himself, as he heard footsteps pounding up the stairwell. He almost passed one, assuming it was a child’s play area, before catching himself and skidding to a stop on the tiled floor, reaching out to grab Paul’s arm as he did.

  “In here,” he said, leading the young man into the room. “Hurry,” he added.

  “Are you sure?” Paul asked, looking at where Daniel was headed inside the room.

  “No,” he replied.

  A second later, gunshots echoed through the building.

  “Hurry!” The Scorpion said, leading the two men up the stairs with ease, her light frame bounding the steps effortlessly.

  “Slow down!” Clint replied, glancing upward. “You don’t know if they’ll try to ambush us.”

  The Scorpion scoffed. “Pshht! Those bitches? No fuckin’ way. They’re probably hiding from us.” Her foot was just landing on the next step, still several away from the landing, when she froze.

  “Oh shit!” Clint yelled, lifting his gun and firing it at the snarling face less than ten feet away from her.

  Multiple bullets smacked into the glass, leaving a trail of pock marks in its surface, sending hairline cracks away from the points of impact.

  The snarling faces, and those around it, never flinched.

  “Stop!” the Scorpion ordered, putting her hand out.

  The three of them froze, waiting to see if the glass would hold or falter. If it failed, the infected would be on them in seconds.

  After thirty seconds of stillness, during which each of them had forgotten to breathe, the Scorpion nodded, exhaling loudly in a sigh of relief.

  “Next time, look twice,” she said, reprimanding the man. Normally, she’d have a knife to his throat to make sure he understood, but they had more pressing issues at the moment.

  “Will do, Scorp,” he replied. “Sorry,” he added, not making eye contact.

  “Don’t let it happen again,” she said, looking past the food court. “Now let’s find these fuckers.”

  The three of them moved into the hallway, pausing momentarily to look down at the bodies of the two men near the entrance to the food court before moving on.

  The Scorpion had Clint look left and Mario look right as they moved along the hallway, searching for the men who killed the woman she loved. Fury burned inside her as they searched, and with every passing minute that she was denied the revenge her heart called out for, the fury intensified. She was fuming, shaking with pent up anger as she led the men down the hallway. At this point, she knew it would take tremendous concentration to steady her hand if she needed to fire her gun, but she hoped it wouldn’t come down to that.

  The three of them would track the men down and force them to surrender.

  Though ultimately both men would die, first she would make one of them admit to killing her love.

  Then she’d have her revenge.

  Slowly.

  Methodically.

  Introducing the man to heights of pain he likely had no idea were possible. Pain that was all-consuming. Pain that took over the heart, the soul, and the mind.

  Pain that made a person wish for death, if only to end the possibility of more pain being introduced, because every new introduction was somehow more intense, more agonizing, more soul-rending than they could even comprehend.

  Samantha knew that deep down she was a sadist. She got off on other’s pain. She loved inflicting it, and she loved watching the reactions of those who received it. She loved the challenge of finding new ways to inflict pain. She loved the blood, the screams, the tears.

  Most of all, she loved it when they begged for mercy, knowing that their lives were in her hands.

  The only disappointment was when they finally resigned themselves to their fate. When they simply gave up. At that point, they were little more than rag dolls, mannequins that bled as she cut them, but made no sounds and put up no resistance as their minds took their conscience into a protective place, shutting out the horrors of her ministrations.

  She was getting better at it, though, she reminded herself. She’d learned to start much, much smaller. Smashing a finger. Using a nail gun into the muscle of the thigh. Pulling off a fingernail.

  Small stuff.

  The real fun would come later.

  “How far do you think they went?” Clint asked, swinging his gun from each potential hiding spot to the next.

  “Not sure,” she responded, “but seeing how there’s really nowhere to hide, they probably went further than this.” Looking to the right, she saw Mario looking at what looked like a daycare center.

  “Pay attention,” she barked, getting his attention.

  “Sorry,” he began, “I thought - ”

  The Scorpion’s glare kept him from finishing his sentence. He’d probably been imagining things anyway. It was just a play area.

  Nodding, he focused on the next office ahead on the right, training his gun on the desk, then on the bookshelf, even though neither of them offered as good of a hiding spot as the…

  ‘Forget it, Mario,’ he told himself. ‘This crazy bitch will kill you.’

  Putting the thought out of his mind, he moved on, remaining by the Scorpion’s side as they continued further into the building.

  Buried underneath the colored plastic balls of the ball pit inside the ‘idea room’ Daniel tried his best to slow his breathing, knowing that even one deep breath could possibly move the balls in a way that would give away their presence.

  With each of them settling into their respective positions, taking shallow breaths, they waited. Time stood still as they each stared upward at the plastic spheres that were resting against their faces.

  One minute….

  Two minutes….

  Three minutes?

  Four?

  Sometime around five minutes after they’d heard the voices close by (he couldn’t be sure, since he’d been unable to check his watch), Daniel br
ought his torso upwards, moving as slowly as possible in an effort to minimize the noisy movement of the balls. The last thing he wanted was to give away their location. Part of him wanted to wait longer, but he had no idea how long it would be before the woman and her henchmen came back.

  Logically speaking, the gang could realize they’d been given the slip, that he and Paul couldn’t have gone as far as they were looking without being spotted. If they did, they’d head back this way, and worse, they’d search each and every room more closely. Once they did that, Daniel and Paul would be found for sure.

  Peering over the edge of the ball pit, he looked up and down the hallway for signs of their pursuers. He listened as well, his ears straining to hear anything that might indicate the gang was returning.

  After thirty seconds or so, he nodded to himself, then whispered, “Okay, let’s go. Be quiet, though.” Placing his hands on the ledge, he slowly twisted his torso so that he could lean forward, then gently pulled his right leg out of the pit and onto the edge. Shifting his body some more, he managed to extend his right leg down onto the floor, then leaned forward and slowly extricated his left leg from the pit as well. Rising to his feet, he leaned over and extended a hand to Paul, who took it before slowly making his way out of the pit as well.

  What Paul didn’t realize was that a ball had wedged itself between the bow and the quiver of arrows he kept strapped across his back. Nodding at Daniel, Paul gave a short nod, indicating that he was ready to move on.

  Daniel moved to the door, where he leaned out and looked first right, in the direction the gang had gone, then left, in the direction the two of them needed to go - back towards the food court, down the stairs, and out of the building.

  He saw no signs of the gang members in either direction.

  “Alright,” he whispered, “let’s go.”

  Paul nodded in response.