“How ‘bout that one?” Aaron asked, pointing at a small, single level home.
Slowing the van as much as he could without stopping (Serrano was fairly sure that if they gave the van the opportunity to quit, it would gladly take it), Serrano looked ahead and to the left, where the small home sat just behind an elementary school on a road to the right. Like many other homes in the Southwest, the small home had sand-colored stucco and a red tile roof. At some point the front yard may have had a lush green lawn, but now it was a mixture of weeds, crabgrass, and bare spots. An old, faded grey Nissan Sentra sat in the driveway, covered in dust in cobwebs. Next to it, a much older Ford truck, covered in even more dust and cobwebs and lacking wheels sat on cinder blocks.
Turning the wheel, Serrano guided the van carefully onto the narrow street where the house sat. He allowed the vehicle to coast a bit, his foot hovering above the gas pedal, ready to stomp down should the van exhibit any signs of choking out. While he understood that the drive had been challenging, the van’s reliability had taken a nosedive after they’d unexpectedly hit a massive pothole in the middle of the road. Admittedly, he couldn’t blame the manufacturer for the van’s inability to recover from the damage inflicted to the underside of the van, but it was certainly frustrating.
Giving the home one last once-over, nodded.
“Looks like it might work,” he said before pulling the van over to the right, stopping the vehicle next to the curb. Exhaling in measured relief, he turned the key in the ignition to the off position, silently praying that the vehicle would start again should they need it to. In his mind, he knew that should the need to escape arise, they’d likely be doing it on foot.
With that in mind, he grabbed his AR-15 and exited the vehicle, his eyes surveying the far side of the street as he made his way to the other side of the van, where he opened the door to let his passengers out. As they filed out of the vehicle slowly, he felt his confidence in their ability to escape on foot drop when Damien stepped out of the van, his tremendous weight causing it to rock back and forth on its springs.
The group naturally gathered around him, waiting for instructions. Glancing at Sarah, he noticed that though she was still refusing to make eye contact, she was close enough to listen to him. As he looked at her, he wondered if the grudge she obviously held against him was permanent or temporary.
His eyes lingered on her face as he considered this, and in that moment she felt his gaze upon her. Reflexively, she turned to look towards him, catching him staring at her. She scowled before turning away angrily.
‘Great,’ he thought, kicking himself internally, ‘now she thinks I was checking her out.’ Taking a breath, he looked at the group gathered around him. The driving had made him tired, reducing his readiness, so he decided to delegate some of the necessary tasks.
“Aaron, Phillip, clear the house. Make sure you cover the backyard as well.”
The two Marines grinned widely as they received their orders, happy to have earned his trust, happy to execute a task without his personal oversight.
As they moved out, Serrano found himself moving over to lean against the van so he could rest. His bones were tied and weary, his mind flighty and unfocused. As a SEAL, he recognized the vulnerability that fatigue introduced. He needed rest, and he needed it soon. Forcing himself to stay focused, he continued to watch the street as he waited for the two men to return.
After almost ten minutes, the Marines returned, nodding as they approached.
“All clear,” Phillip said, nodding slightly. “Whoever lived there left some time ago. The kitchen’s clean and the beds are made so I’m guessing they left and never came back.”
Shaking his head, Aaron added, “Yeah, but with that known, I’d be afraid to open that fridge.”
Serrano grinned. “Alright. We won’t do that, then.” Looking at the group, he raised his voice slightly. “Okay, this is it. Let’s get inside, off the street.”
Phillip and Aaron led them up the narrow sidewalk and into the small home, with Phillip entering first while Aaron held the door open. The inside of the home was dim, lit only by the rapidly setting sun. The drapes at the front of the house were shut, but the men knew they needed to keep them that way to reduce their exposure. With the house facing east, opening the drapes at the rear of the home would help a little, so they opened those to allow some of the meager light in, which was only enough to illuminate the kitchen area.
With the living room still dark, Serrano told the others to stay put, then took out his flashlight and made his way to the kitchen, where he found the door to the attached garage. Stepping into the dark space, he cast the light around until the beam landed on what he was looking for: a camping lantern.
Grabbing it, he returned to the kitchen, where he rummaged through the drawers until he found a book of matches. He took the lantern and the matches to the living room, set the lantern on the small coffee table, and lit it, bringing warm light into the dark space. The living room had a small, yellow couch with dark reddish flowers, a solid beige corduroy-covered recliner, a small wooden oval-shaped coffee table, and a 35-inch flat screen that rested atop an end table against the wall.
Sarah and her kids went to the couch and sat down, while Jennifer insisted on letting her grandfather take the recliner. Looking around, Serrano saw the seating shortage and grabbed two of the chairs from the nearby dining table and brought them into the room. After closing the front door, Aaron followed suit, bringing two remaining chairs. Realizing they were still short one, Serrano was about to lower himself to the floor when Damien stopped him.
“Slow your roll, there Chili,” the big man said, smiling. Looking at the wooden chairs, he shook his head. “I’m not sure them chairs could hold half my ass, let alone the whole thing.”
Unable to help himself, Serrano chuckled. “Let me take a look around, see what other options there are.”
Damien held up his hand. “No need. Imma check out the kitchen, see what they got. I’m starving and I'm a pretty good cook. Let me see what I can rustle up, alright?”
Serrano smiled. “Sounds good. The gas should still be on if you need it. No pressure, since there likely isn’t anything fresh, but I’m pretty sure everyone here would be thrilled to have a hot meal for a change.”
Standing up from the sofa, Sarah asked, “Can I help?”
The black man grinned. “Absolutely, but that kitchen looks pretty small, so don’t be surprised if you get bumped around once or twice.”
Sarah smiled. “It’s okay, I won’t mind.”
Damien snorted. “You say that now, but wait ‘til three hundred and fifty pounds of Damien knocks you backward. You might feel different.” With that said, he turned and made his way into the home’s small kitchen, waddling in his usual side-to-side way as he walked. Soon after, Serrano and the others heard cabinets opening and closing, along with muttering that sounded positive at times, and negative at others. In the end, the big man’s voice came through clearly.
“Yes, we can work with this. We can most definitely work with this.”
Gently pushing past Sarah, Damien stuck his head around the corner and looked towards those in the living room.
“I gotta plan for dinner, but it’s gonna take about an hour. Is that okay?”
The group nodded in unison, giving them their unanimous consent, assuring him that they were fine with waiting. Jennifer, who’d already hit it off with Sarah as the only other woman in the group, was sitting with the two kids, talking to them softly as she kept them occupied, while Richard was dozing off in the recliner. Aaron had returned to the front porch to maintain watch, while Phillip was on the steps behind the home, guarding the back entrance.
Rising from his chair on weary legs, Serrano made his way across the living room and into the small hallway that led to the bedrooms. To the left, the master bedroom stood dark and empty, a queen-sized bed sitting in the middle of the floor. Walking into the room, he looked over and saw a small bathroom
connected to it. Turning on his heel, he made his way back into the hallway where he found another bathroom centered between two additional bedrooms. Each of the other rooms held small, twin sized beds, covered in old flowered bedspreads.
No matter how he looked at it, several of them would be sleeping on the floor that night.
Pausing in the farthest bedroom, he reached up and scratched the stubble on his chin as he thought. After a few seconds, he looked at the room again. There were few personal effects in the room.
Guest room.
He strode to the closet and opened it, revealing stacks of extra blankets and sheets next to several extra pillows.
‘Perfect.’
Reaching into the closet, he scooped all of it up and made his way back to the living room, where the smells coming from the kitchen were so enticing his stomach instantly lurched before growling loudly.
He set the bedding in the corner near the front door before returning to his seat, where he bent down and unlaced his boots. Removing them, he felt bad for those in the room, knowing that the odor that permeated from his feet was strong, and unforgiving musk born from unforgiving boots that refused to breath regardless of the effort the manufacturers put into trying to make them lightweight and breathable.
Serrano leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, intending to rest them for a bit.
An hour later he was woken by the sound of Damien’s booming voice.
“Almost ready!”
Snapping awake into a full state of readiness, Serrano sat forward quickly, his eyes moved about the room, evaluating everything and everyone. Realizing there were no threats, he allowed himself to relax in his chair for a moment before reaching down and grabbing his boots. He REALLY needed to wash his socks, but he saw no way to do so.
‘Unless...” Standing from his chair again, he went back to the bedrooms, entering the master first. Crossing to the dresser that was set against the wall to the right of the bed, he opened the top drawer.
Bingo.
Rows of balled up white tube socks sat inside the drawer in front of him. Based on the home’s decor, he’d determined the home’s owners were elderly. Based on his experience helping his grandfather through the later years of his life, he knew that the elderly had issues with circulation in their lower extremities. Because of that, they preferred long tube socks, socks that no one else would wear - unless, of course, they wore tall combat boots.
Holding his arm close to his chest, he scooped up every pair of socks in the drawer, ten in all, and returned to the living room. Knowing that a person’s feet could be their weakness whether they realized it or not, he divided the tube socks into five piles, giving himself the extra pair, since he was the leader. ‘There’s gotta be some benefit of taking on the majority of the responsibility,’ he told himself, while knowing that he’d give the extra pair up in a heartbeat should someone need it desperately.
The point of the socks was not only to provide relief. The point was also to make the other men think about the need to take care of their feet. It was easy to focus on what you looked at every day (your arms, your hands, your torso, your face in the mirror) but it was also easy to forget that the things that kept you upright - your feet - were actually kind of fragile, and because of that, they held the power to make even the strongest men vulnerable.
A loud slurping sound came from the kitchen, followed by “Alright! That’s pretty damn good!” Then a pause, followed by, “Oh shit!, I mean shoot! That’s pretty darn good, I’m sorry…”
Sarah’s voice followed. “It’s okay, Damien. After everything they’ve been through, a little cursing ain’t that bad.”
“Okay, well, still, I’ll try to do better.”
“Okay.”
“Alright, anyway, everyone, dinner’s ready! Come n’ get it!”
One by one, the group made their way to the kitchen, where they received a hard, plastic plate filled with white rice, topped with red beans and spam. Jennifer took a plate out to Phillip, who sat on the small steps at the rear entrance to the house, and to Aaron, who sat on the steps out front.
When Serrano, who’d gone last out of habit, sat down and brought the first spoonful of food to his mouth, he’d wanted to set his plate aside and attempt to wrap the big man in an embrace.
The food was magical; filled with flavor, both intense and somehow at the same time subtle. The Spam, which he’d always turned his nose up at, filled the void of the expected sausage, providing a saltiness and flavorful deliciousness that seeped into the beans.
In short, it was delicious.
Under their circumstances, it approached decadence.
The sudden silence of the living room and adjoining dining area was the truest indication of the level of satisfaction the group found in the food.
Until little Olivia expressed it perfectly.
“Mommy, this is yummy!”
At that point, each and every one of them chimed in, complimenting Damien on his cooking.
The big man held up his hands. “Hey, I had help.”
Hearing his words, Sarah shook her head vehemently. “I was basically responsible for the rice.” She pointed at her plate. “This was all you.”
Damien shrugged, looking down at his plate, which had easily twice that of everyone else. “Oh, alright,” he said between bites, “no one’s gonna believe someone with a narrow behind like yours is experienced at making Southern food anyway.” As he took another giant bite, Serrano realized the man was using the serving spoon to shovel food in his mouth. “If you were,” he added, “your booty would be bigger. A whole lot bigger.”
Sarah looked away, blushing.
Olivia giggled as she leaned towards her mother. “Mommy, he said booty.”
The group broke into laughter at that, with each of them enjoying the moment of levity in the midst of what had been an incredibly stressful time.
As he chuckled, Serrano’s eyes wandered to Sarah’s hips as he considered what Damien had said. He hadn’t noticed before, but the woman did appear to be very fit.
Looking up he found Sarah’s eyes on his. She glared at him intensely then looked back down at her plate and resumed eating.
‘Fucking A, Gabriel,’ Serrano said, shaking his head. Frustrated with himself, he stood up and took his plate out to the back steps, where he sat down next to Phillip to finish his meal.
Near the side of the house, a man named Chadwick Beaumont waited for night to fall. It wasn’t far off, and when it came, he’d continue to wait until the group inside the home went to sleep before making his move. They’d likely have someone watching the front and back of the house, which would probably have been effective, had he not already been in position.
When he’d heard the sputtering van approaching, he’d hid deep in the overgrown bushes in front of the home across the street. From his vantage point he’d watched the group of people exit the van and gather in a small circle. After the two military looking men went into the home and returned, the group had filed into the home. Watching the group, he was a little concerned about the military men (he counted three now, the third being a man who looked exhausted) but once he set his eyes on the fit blonde woman who led a pair of children into the small home, he knew he had to have her.
He waited patiently, knowing they’d likely set up some kind of lookout, and sure enough, not long after the group closed the door to the home, the young black man returned to the front porch and sat down in the shadow behind the bicycle that rested against the porch railing. Beaumont assumed there was someone watching the back entrance to the home, but he wasn’t worried. If the good looking blonde had kids, they’d likely put the three of them in the master bedroom. Since he’d already broken into multiple homes in the neighborhood, he knew the locks on the windows were easily defeated.
When he saw the front door open, he made his move, staying behind the bushes as he moved up the street. He watched as the young dark haired woman brought the black man a plate of food, ta
king note of the way they stared at each other as they spoke. There was something going on there, but it didn’t affect him, so he didn’t care. Once far enough up the street, where he was out of view of the man, he crossed the street, then remained in the yards of the homes next to the one they occupied as he worked his way back towards the house. Finally, he arrived at the edge of the neighboring house, where he sat down amongst the dirt and weeds and patiently waited.
The anticipation was intoxicating.
Once inside, the woman would be his. The military men with her did concern him, but once he had a blade pressed against her throat, they’d have no choice but to back off and let him take her.
When the plague that had come out of nowhere wiped out the majority of the population, including law enforcement, it made his life easy. No longer did he have to travel to other cities, wear hairpieces and different clothes, and use a fake name when he found his victims. No longer did he have to listen to the stories the women told and feign interest, as if anyone cared what they had to say. No longer did he have to pretend to be the nice guy, the one who listened to them, offered to buy them sodas first before they lowered their guard and asked for a drink, which he would happily go to the bar to get, adding in a little something ‘extra’ before delivering it to them.
Jonathan Wilburn.
Cary Simmons.
Peter Jasper.
Steven Williamson.
His previous aliases were now a thing of the past. With no one to stop him, he’d skipped the act, attacking countless women without hesitation, forcing himself upon them, showing them who got to say ‘no’ for a change.
Not that he didn’t hear their ‘no’s’.
He just didn’t care.
Surviving Rage | Book 3 Page 23