Leaning back, Sarah spoke through the slot in the back of the cabin and told the others what they were doing. “We’re gonna check things out real quick. Hang tight, okay?”
The two women got out of the truck, each carrying their handgun at their side as they approached the opening. It was clear from the tire marks on the asphalt that a lot of force had been used to move the vehicles - including a big, off-road capable jeep - sideways. The torque required to do that would be tremendous.
“Damn,” Serafina said aloud, shaking her head as she stared down at the tire marks on the street.
“I know.”
“What kind of vehicle were they driving?”
“Some fancy SUV,” Sarah said, cocking her head. “It was hard to tell, looking through the slot, but I could tell it was expensive.”
Looking down towards the Jeep’s big, knobby tires, Serafina frowned, then crouched down and reached underneath the vehicle. When she stood back up, she held a vehicle’s side mirror. The molded plastic back was painted white.
“Looks like the type of thing that would be torn off if you were trying to force a vehicle through a small space,” she said. Bringing the mirror closer to her face, she examined it for a moment, then smiled as she passed it to Sarah.
Looking down at it, the other woman read the small lettering that had been etched into the lower part of the mirror.
OBJECTS IN THE MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR
MERCEDES-BENZ, USA 2019
Nodding, she smiled as she looked back at the other woman. “Looks like this is the way to go.” Turning back to admire the heavy duty armored truck, she grinned.
“Let’s see what this thing can do.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
San Mateo, California
Driving across the grass fields of the golf course, Steve Sommer’s eyes darted left and right as he followed the long path of destruction caused by the aircraft. He moved the wheel deftly as the car’s wide tires kicked up dirt and grass, guiding the vehicle around the fallen branches and unearthed rocks that dotted the path they followed. As powerful as the Mustang was, it was still just a car, vulnerable to the things all cars were.
With the aircraft’s fiery descent being visible for miles, he knew the military would have watched it and marked its point of impact. It wouldn’t be long before they sent someone to look for survivors, and when they showed up, he and Hank needed to be long gone. A firefight wasn’t one they could win. There were only two of them, and after the attack on the plane, there was little doubt that the military would show up in force.
The only question was how long it would take for that force to arrive. Clearly they hadn’t anticipated the threat to the aircraft, so the forces on the ground would be unprepared to respond. They’d need to put together a tactical team, then find the necessary emergency responders to render care to the injured survivors. Both would take a while.
That meant he and Hank had time, but he wasn’t taking chances. What they had to do wouldn’t take long. They’d check the plane, kill any survivors, then get the hell out of there.
“Ha! There’s the tail!” Hank said, pointing.
“Getting closer,” Sommer replied, staying focused. The debris left in the wake of the aircraft was increasing in size and volume now, and he was forced to slow as he maneuvered around the pieces of twisted metal and chunks of composite material that littered the path.
Finally, the beast of an aircraft became visible. Though it was still several hundred yards away, Sommer could see its hulking frame resting between the trees at the far end of the golf course. Off to their right, two smaller paths, marked by churned up earth and flattened trees, led to the aircraft’s starboard engines.
Getting closer, he could see what remained of the aircraft at the end of the long trench it had created. The gaping hole at the rear of the aircraft, where the tail section had been ripped away, was partially covered by a fallen Monterey Cypress. The nose section was nearly buried in the pile of dirt and grass it had forced upward. The port side of the aircraft was marked by two massive holes, one a gaping circular opening caused by the missile impact, the other a horizontal, four foot tall, twenty foot long slash that led from just aft of the port wing to where the tail had been torn away.
Sommer guided the car towards the aircraft, looking towards the trees to the left of it until he found what he needed: a shadowed area underneath a canopy that had been created by the thick, windswept branches of a Monterey Cypress. He drove to it, spun the car around, and backed into the shadows, putting the tree’s wide trunk between the car and the aircraft.
“Alright, let’s do this,” he said, grabbing his rifle from the dash, “Get in, kill anyone not already dead, then get out.”
“Sounds good,” Hank replied.
Closing the door to the car, Sommer smiled.
They’d get this done, then enjoy that cigar.
Inside the aircraft, Reed looked over at Steight. “What is it, girl?”
The dog glanced at him, then back towards the giant opening on the side of the aircraft. Her lips pulled back, showing her teeth as she continued to growl, lowering herself slightly so that he haunches were under her. She was ready to leap into action, though the crate would keep her from doing so.
Looking at the agitated dog, Reed knew something bad was coming. Steight had been nothing but sweet since he’d taken her in. She showed him love and affection, nearly bowling his tall, built frame over each time he came back from work to walk her during the day. She’d been good with others, too, allowing them to pet her without showing any signs of aggression.
He’d never seen her like this.
As he heard footsteps approaching, he acted quickly. Fighting off the pain, he rolled back onto his stomach, then reached over and pulled McGhee’s body back on top of his own, using it to cover the splint on his leg. Lowering his face to the deck, he shimmied to the side so that he had a view of the hole in the aircraft through Sergeant Mason’s legs. Looking over at Steight, he urged her to be quiet.
“Damn, this is one big fucking hole,” a man’s voice remarked.
“Yep,” a second one answered. “Stinger missiles do a lot of damage.”
“Awesome.”
Two white men, both with clean shaven heads, climbed through the hole and into the aircraft. Both men were just over six feet tall and fit, but one appeared to be the more muscular of the two. The other one spoke first.
“Fuckin’ a, Steve, you fucked this plane up!”
The man referred to as Steve nodded, barely paying the other man attention as he head moved while he surveyed the inside of the aircraft.
“Check it out,” he said, “a dog.”
Steight growled in response, her hackles rising.
When the first man turned and pointed his gun at Steight, Reed thought he’d made a mistake by hiding. He had no way to stop the man.
“Hold on, Hank,” Steve said, putting his hand out. “Let’s clear the plane first, then come back for the dog.” He paused, staring at Steight. “I might keep her. Been wanting a dog for a while now.”
Lowering his rifle, Hank nodded. “Alright. Whatever you say.”
Steve turned and looked towards the cockpit. “Let me check on the pilots. You check these guys. If they ain’t dead, put a bullet in their head.” He chuckled. “Hey, that rhymes.”
Hank smiled, repeating the words. “If they ain’t dead, put a bullet in their head.” He laughed. “Hey, that could be our new motto.”
“Why not?” Steve replied, smiling. After a few seconds, the smile faded, returning his face to one devoid of emotion. “Alright, be right back.” With that, he turned and began working his way towards the front of the aircraft, climbing up and over the wreckage that had created a barrier between the two areas.
Hank stood in place, looking back at the cargo area for a long moment. Steight continued to growl at the man. Moving closer to the crate, he lashed out with one foot and kicked it. “Shut up, you f
uckin’ mutt.”
Glancing first at the two prone forms on the deck of the aircraft, he decided they’d likely perished in the crash, having not been strapped in. ‘I’ll check them next,’ he thought, looking back at the man still strapped in his seat. Hank watched him for several long moments as he tried to determine whether or not the man was still alive. The man’s chest wasn’t moving, was it? Stepping to the man, he brought his left hand up and pressed the fingertips against the man’s neck, checking for a pulse.
It was there.
Stepping back he brought up his rifle and pointed it at the man’s head.
Using only his right leg to propel himself, Reed lunged forward, slamming his shoulder directly into the man’s left knee.
With more power and better form, he would have blown the joint out, tearing at least one, if not all, of the ligaments.
As weakened as he was and having only the strength one leg could provide, the impact did none of that. He did, however, knock the man’s feet out from under him.
The man fell forward, landing on Reed’s damaged leg, sending an explosion of pain through him. Stars bloomed in his vision as his mind sought to analyze the injury.
Finding a resolve he’d developed after spending time with Navy SEALS and discovering that a man had literally guided him to safety as his life’s blood seeped out of him, Reed pushed the pain aside.
Now was not the time to process it.
It was time to fight.
For his life, and the lives of the other survivors of the crash.
He flipped over, pulling his injured leg free, then lashed out with his right boot, aiming it for the man’s head. The man jerked his head away at the last second, saving himself from a devastating blow, but Reed’s boot still made contact, slamming instead into the man’s neck and shoulder, stunning him. The man’s rifle fell from his hand, landing on the deck of the aircraft with a clattering sound and sliding a few feet away on the sloped deck.
Seizing the opportunity, Reed lunged forward, reaching for the rifle. It was farther than he’d realized, though, and his hand came down a full three feet from where the rifle lay. Using his right foot, he scooted himself forward.
Wham!
Pain exploded in his head as the man brought both fists down on the back of Reed’s skull, sending his chin into the deck. His vision blurred as he tried to force his mind to focus.
Wham!
Another strike sent his chin into the deck again. Reed felt his consciousness fading again. Somewhere nearby a dog was barking.
“Fucking nigger.” The voice above him growled. He felt his body being flipped over. A second later, hands grabbed his throat and began applying pressure. Above him, the face of the Skinhead pulsated with the throbbing in his skull. Choking as he struggled for air, he brought his hands up and grabbed the man’s arms. Using all of his strength, he pulled outward. The man’s fingers dug deeper into his neck as he fought back, but Reed’s strength was too much for him. The man’s hands slipped away from Reed’s neck, allowing him to breathe once more. The sudden influx of oxygen filled Reed with more strength, and he let out a primal yell as he forced the man’s arms outward.
Seeing the panic in the man’s eyes, Reed knew he had him.
‘Call me a nigger, you skinhead fuck?’ he thought, feeling his anger rise up within him, joining the determination that drove him.
His confidence was premature.
With both of Reed’s hands holding the man’s arms out away from him, he was unable to protect himself when the man’s forehead slammed down into his face, breaking his nose. Reed’s head slammed back into the deck once more.
His vision began to fade.
‘Faster, dammit! You have to run faster!’ Serrano pushed himself harder, churning his arms as his legs powered him across the grass of the golf course. He raced past one of the aircraft’s engines as he raced towards the where the aircraft.
At last, he saw what remained of the plane: a tailless fuselage with one wing missing and one reduced to a short stub.
The sound of gunfire came from inside the aircraft.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
East Palo Alto, California
While the Scorpion was taunting Daniel from her spot at the top of the stairs, the two men she’d sent to check out the second floor of the giant social media company headquarters were just entering one of the only cool, dark spaces in the building: the server room. Dimly lit with cool blueish-purple low-heat LED lighting, neither man had ever seen anything like it: raised platform floors designed to keep the power cabling out of the way and prevent heat buildup, overhead metal cable trays that went in seemingly every direction, large vents that pushed out powerful airflow, and most of all, the rows and rows of six-foot tall racks of computer equipment that pulsated green, yellow, and in some cases, red lights.
While the sight of the room was awe inspiring, the noise level was borderline overwhelming. The space was filled with the humming sounds of the computerized machines, the beeping of numerous alarms indicating faults on the servers, the buzzing of server rack fans and, most of all, the heavy gusting noise of air conditioned air being forced into the enormous space.
It was like they’d stepped into another world, one in which computers were the focal point of existence, where man lived to take care of the machine.
Looking around, Jorge, one of the Scorpion’s most trusted deputies, shook his head. “Shit’s crazy, man.”
“I know,” Carlos, the man with him, replied, keeping his rifle pointed in front of him as he walked alongside Jorge. After several long seconds, he added, “You know, my cousin works in a place like this.” Another long pause, then he corrected himself. “I mean, he used to.”
“Yeah? What’d he like to go to college or somethin’?”
“Yeah, like community college or somethin’. I don’t know, but my Tia was always bragging about him. Said he made like, good money.”
Jorge scoffed. “More than you made on the streets?”
The man laughed softly. “Nah, homie. Not even close.”
Walking through the white noise-filled room, they were lulled into a sense of calm, which caused them to let down their guard.
Jorge was in the process of tapping on one of the flashing alarm indicators, when he stopped suddenly and cocked his head, listening.
“What’s up, dog?” Carlos asked, looking over at him.
“Listen,” he replied, remaining still as he concentrated.
Stopping where he was, Carlos tilted his head and listened as well.
Somewhere back in the direction they came, multiple semi-automatic rifles were being fired repeatedly.
“Shit!” Jorge, yelling spinning on his heel to head back towards the room’s entrance. Carlos fell in behind him, running down the aisle of server racks.
Distracted by the dim lighting and constant white noise, they hadn’t heard the infected approaching until they reached the end of the aisle, where they came face to face with no less than twenty former IT Specialists.
Recognizing that there were too many of the infected for the two of them to fight off, Jorge and Carlos turned and ran back down the aisle. When Jorge reached the end of the aisle, he turned to the right, hoping to find another route back to the entrance, but was met with another group of the infected.
His low top white Adidas tennis shoes slid along the surface of the nomex tiles that comprised the false floor before he managed to stop himself. Turning away again, he ran deeper into the server room, followed closely by Carlos. Chased by the screaming horde of infected, they wound their way in and out of the rows of server racks, trying to confuse and slow the infected. The room seemed to stretch on infinitely, a testament to the astronomical computing requirements of the company’s social media platform, but like all things, it did have an end, and when they reached it, they were trapped.
Unlike Mikey and Hector, Jorge and Carlos did manage to fire their weapons, taking down seven of the infected before the remaining
twenty-two tore into them.
Unable to keep their guns pointed at their attackers, they continued to fire their weapons out of pure desperation, hoping they’d hit something that would make the creatures that ripped their flesh and pummeled their bodies stop. The bullets sprayed everywhere, riddling the servers around them with holes.
The leadership that ran the social media giant had considered the possibility of multiple servers going offline, and, since every minute offline resulted in lost revenue, they’d prepared for the loss of servers by building in redundancy.
What they didn’t prepare for was Jorge’s decision to take as many of the infected as he could with when he died.
After expending the last of his bullets, he tossed his gun aside and pulled a grenade from his jacket pocket. Pulling the pin out, he discarded it as he faced the mob.
“Come get me, you fuckin’ pendejos!!”
Seconds later, something that hadn’t happened in over twelve years occurred: the social media giant went offline.
This time for good.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
East Palo Alto, California
Daniel had less than a second to wonder if he’d remembered the layout of the lobby correctly before he felt the impact.
Water flew into the air as he landed in the shallow koi pond, breaking his fall. His arms shot outward as he tried to stop himself from sinking before realizing the pool was barely four feet deep when his butt hit the bottom.
Worried about the younger man, he lunged over to where Paul lay and pulled him off to the side of the pond, bringing his head up to rest against one of the rocks on the pond’s inner edge. Needing a moment himself, he brought his own head down and placed it against the adjacent rock.
He was so damned tired.
If he made it out of this, he could see himself sleeping for a week.
Surviving Rage | Book 4 Page 32