Surviving Rage | Book 3

by Arellano, J. D.

  “Well, I’m up now, so you should probably go try to get some sleep. While this place is great, I want to be on the road before seven. We’ve got a ways to go still. There’s no sense dragging it out.”

  “Okay.” Joe rose to his feet slowly, groaning as he did.

  “You alright?” Daniel asked, looking up at the man. He was moving gingerly, favoring his right side as he did.

  “Yeah, I think during the little bit of sleep I got, I slept in an awkward position on that couch.”

  “That sucks,” Daniel said. “Maybe move the cushions to the floor instead?”

  Joe nodded. “Yeah, I’ll try that,” he said before turning away. “See you in the morning.”

  “Alright. Get some rest. See you then.”

  The man’s footsteps crossed the porch before the door creaked as it was opened, then clicked shut.

  Daniel leaned back and rested his elbows on the surface of the porch as he brought his coffee cup to his lips again. Off in the distance, dark telephone poles stood on either side of the highway, silently lining the way to the east or west. Only two weeks ago, random cars would be passing in the night, lighting up the road as they made their way past. Tonight, though, there was nothing but dark stillness.

  ‘At least this place has an unobstructed view of the road,’ Daniel thought.

  After their stop at the Naval Air Station, they’d been back on the road for an hour and forty-five minutes before they happened upon the home with its large surrounding farmland.

  Numerous horses and cows had been fenced in at multiple locations on the land, trapped there long after their owners had fled. The animals were thin and weak from the neglect they’d suffered, so Daniel and the others did what they could, filling the animals’ troughs with all the hay in the barn and water from the property’s well, then propping every gate open so the animals would be able to get out and find other food to eat after the hay was gone. It wasn’t ideal, but at least the animals would have a chance.

  Sitting back on the step and looking up at the sky, Daniel smiled at the sight of a shooting star. The sight of the meteorites penetrating the earth’s atmosphere was still a neat occurrence, even now, after all these years.

  Glancing toward the yard, his eyes caught the sight of something that wasn’t quite right. Off to the right of the steps he sat on, the dirt was disturbed. Looking closer, he saw long grooves in the dirt, as if someone had been trying to stand their ground against someone or something bigger and heavier.

  Had the dirt been like that when they’d arrived?

  He honestly hadn’t noticed.

  Sitting back, he tried to focus on what they’d seen when they’d arrived. They’d approached the home slowly, keeping the cars’ speed low as they drove up the dirt road that led to the ranch house to avoid creating a dust cloud that would be visible from a distance.

  He and Logan had parked side-by-side near the porch, leaving the cars pointed towards the road should they need to leave in a hurry. Daniel and Serafina had argued briefly over who would check the house, but in the end she’d relented, allowing him to accompany Logan on the mission.

  Walking towards the home, they’d looked left and right, searching for signs of trouble before climbing the steps to the porch.

  Which meant he would have noticed the grooves in the dirt, the signs of struggle.

  Which meant the disturbance was new.

  Creak

  A board on the porch distracted him, causing him to turn slightly towards the sound of the noise.

  An explosion of pain flashed in Daniel’s head.

  Everything went dark as he felt his body hit the dirt in front of the home.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  San Luis Obispo, California

  Sitting by the window at the front of the small home, Serrano gazed out through the glass at the overgrown lawn that was slowly encroaching on the narrow stone path that led from the road to the front of the house. Like the hours before, all was silent on the street. Nothing moved in the darkness, other than the occasional dog or cat that passed by, looking for food. Serrano made a mental note to search the garage for dog or cat food before they left, which would be in just over three hours.

  It was almost four a.m., and like the others, he’d struggled to sleep, barely getting four hours of shut eye before giving up and rising from his bed. In the adjoining room, he heard Sarah’s muted crying as she dealt with her grief, keeping her head in the pillow to minimize the noise for fear of waking the children. The woman had taken Damien’s death particularly hard, refusing to talk about it during the short drive to the home they’d chosen, passing on dinner when it was offered (though she ensured the children ate their share), and heading to bed early.

  Unable to find the words to comfort her, Serrano had simply offered his best reassuring smile while showing her the room she, Jason, and Olivia would be sharing. Trying to put on a brave face, the woman smiled in return, but her eyes didn’t join the rest of her face in the gesture.

  The group had remained quiet through dinner, finding little to share as their minds struggled to handle the emotions that dominated their consciousness.

  Damien had been a good man, one who chose to end his life rather than risk hurting any of them, and accepting his death was still hard.

  As the leader of the group, Serrano held himself responsible for the man’s death, and it burned him inside like a hot coal in his stomach.

  He’d failed.

  Again.

  Sighing, he took his knife from its holder on his leg, brought it up and began sharpening its edge absently, slowly dragging its edge along a whetstone as his eyes continued to look for movement outside.

  Redemption would be hard to find in his soul.

  When morning came, the group gathered in the small kitchen for breakfast, eating protein bars, cold Pop-Tarts, and canned fruit while drinking water or coffee. Serrano remained by the front of the home, maintaining the watch as he chewed his protein bar and sipped water.

  Standing at the sliding glass window at the rear of the home, Sarah stewed silently as she absentmindedly stared at the weed-covered yard.

  Damien’s death had rocked her to her core, forcing her to confront the fact that John was dead as well. Had he chosen to end his life the way Damien had? Had he turned? Had he killed other people?

  As the questions flooded her mind, she felt anger growing inside her. The whole situation was unfair. Good people had died and were still dying. Those who’d survived were struggling to stay alive, spending their days and nights in fear, hiding, fighting, or running as the infected sought to kill, or worse, turn them.

  How had this happened?

  How had the most advanced country in the world been reduced to a mere shell of what it had been in less than two weeks?

  At that moment, her anger found focus.

  The government had failed them.

  It was the government’s fault that this had happened.

  It was the government’s fault Damien had died.

  That John had died.

  Suddenly, she was furious. Turning away from the window, she set her coffee cup on the table before passing through the group and walking across the living room to the master bedroom, where her backpack was. Grabbing it from the bed, she returned to the living room and set it on the couch, aware that Serrano’s eyes were watching her every move. Reaching inside, she took out the military radio she’d taken from the Humvee on the freeway near Camp Pendleton.

  She was going to get it off her chest. She knew it wouldn’t make a difference, but she needed to speak her mind.

  Turning on the radio, she brought to her lips just as it crackled.

  “San Francisco Protective Zone, come in….”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Fresno, California

  Sunlight streamed through the bedroom window, finding its way through the closed drapes and shining onto Sommer’s face, forcing him to turn away from the offending light. Rolling onto his
side, he blinked a few times before opening his eyes. The bottle of whiskey he’d brought to the room the night prior sat empty on the nightstand next to a bottle of water, his watch, and the keys to the Mustang.

  Stretching, he raised his hands over his head, grabbing the headboard’s post before extending his legs straight out, feeling his muscles cry out in happiness. Sitting up slowly, he reached for the bottle of water. He took a small drink before rising from the bed and walking to the window. Opening the curtains, he looked out at the backyard and beyond that to the river.

  Grinning, he thought about how Miller’s body had floated away quickly on the river’s current after Trent and Graham tossed it in there the night before. The Captain had thought Sommer still cared about the military chain of command, but nothing could be farther from the truth.

  He hated the government and everything it stood for. The government, and with it, the military, had grown weak over the last fifty years, refusing to do the hard, challenging things that would keep the country the world’s pre-eminent superpower. Instead, it banned Christian prayer in school while simultaneously allowing mosques to pop up everywhere, attempted to regulate gun ownership, and insisted on letting other races co-mingle in the schools that should have been reserved for the White Man.

  The country was being weakened in the name of ‘equality’ and it needed a hard lesson to help it regain its senses.

  It needed this.

  The outbreak had already killed millions and brought the government to its knees. Ideally, millions more would die, freeing up land that would be available for the reconstruction of America. When the time was right, he’d establish a camp in the center of the country, where he’d gather hundreds, if not thousands, of like-minded individuals who would help him establish a place where the White Man could flourish.

  And there wouldn’t be a damn thing those whiny fucking minorities could do about it.

  Exiting the master bedroom, Sommer was greeted by the wonderful smell of frying bacon. Realizing that the home’s solar-powered energy system had kept the electricity on, which meant the refrigerators had been able to preserve meat and other perishables kept within, he smiled.

  He found Hank, Trent, Randall, and Graham in the kitchen, where the last two worked the stove, cooking eggs, bacon, and hash browns, while the first two sat at the table drinking coffee.

  “Morning, boss.” Hank said, smiling as he rose from his seat. “Coffee?”

  “Definitely,” Sommer replied, moving to the chair at the head of the table.

  “This place is nice,” Hank said as he poured the coffee into a mug.

  “Sure is,” Trent added, raising his coffee cup in a toast, “we could make this place home for a while.”

  Sommer turned and looked at the man, staring at him unwaveringly. “I’ll decide where we decide to set up home base.”

  Trent raised his hands defensively. “I know, I know. I just meant we could make it home. It’s up to you, though.”

  Sommer nodded, looking out the window towards the backyard and the river. From the lower level of the home the trees blocked the river more, but he was still able to make out the flowing water as the morning sun reflected off its surface.

  “Eggs over easy or scrambled?” Graham asked from his position near the stove. He shrugged. “Sorry, those are the only two ways I know how to make them,” he explained.

  Sommer nodded. “No worries. Scrambled works.”

  “Coming up!” the other man replied, whipping raw eggs in a bowl before pouring them onto a hot skillet.

  Sipping his coffee, Sommer looked around the modern interior of the massive home. It would be easy to make this place home base, especially with working electricity.

  Draining his cup, Sommer stood from his chair and walked over to the coffee maker to get more. Next to the small appliance, he saw Miller’s military radio sitting in its charger.

  After filling his cup with coffee, he grabbed the radio and returned to the table. Setting on the table, he noticed the green light on the front, indicating the device was powered on. A low, steady static tone came from the radio as it sat there on the table. Annoyed, he was about to reach for it when Graham slid a plate piled high with eggs, bacon, and hash browns in front of him. The steam rising from the plate reminded him that it had been well over a week since he’d had a hot meal, and the intoxicating smell of freshly cooked bacon made his mouth water.

  Forgetting about the radio, he dug into his food, shoveling fork after fork of eggs, potatoes, or both into his mouth, pausing occasionally to take a bit of a strip of bacon.

  “How is it?” Graham asked, standing near the table.

  Not wanting to stop, Sommer brought a hand up and raised his thumb.

  “Glad you like it, boss. Like Trent said, maybe we could make this home base…”

  With his mouth still full, Sommer mumbled, “Maybe…”

  On the table, the radio crackled.

  “San Francisco Protective Zone, come in….”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  San Mateo, California

  “Dang, girl, nicely done!” Samantha ‘The Scorpion’ Garcia said, walking around the burned out wreckage of the military Humvee. The heavy vehicle was on its side, put in that position by a tremendous blast from the IED Lizette had created.

  Getting the Humvee to follow them down the small street had been easy; a couple of well-placed potshots on the hood and windshield had gotten the attention of the military men and women within, and with their sense of superiority, they’d taken the bait. The heavy vehicle’s engine roared as it swung around the corner, turning onto the small street and accelerating as the driver pursued the fleeing gang members. Halfway down the street, the IED laid hidden under a dark grey blanket in a pothole they’d dug themselves, so well camouflaged that the driver hadn’t seen it until it was too late. The Humvee’s brakes squealed loudly as they tried in vain to stop the five thousand pound vehicle, but their best efforts only did enough to stop the vehicle halfway over the explosive device.

  Lizette, who’d been dubbed ‘Bang’ after the first time she’d shown off her handiwork, waited until the vehicle was directly over the device before sending the signal to the detonator using a garage door opener. The detonator ignited the device’s primary charge (she’d managed to find a stash of C4 in one of the gang houses they’d raided), causing it to explode, sending rapidly heating and expanding gases outward, resulting in a massive blast that traveled out from the pothole at over 1600 feet per second, lifting the Humvee six feet off the ground before it crashed to the ground on its side.

  For the men and women inside the armored vehicle, the effects had been worse. The blast wave ruptured eardrums, slammed their brains back and forth inside their skulls, and perforated their organs by expanding the air molecules within them. Each of them died painful deaths, bleeding from every orifice on their body.

  “Thanks,” Lizette said, smiling as she looked at the results of her handiwork. The one negative of the blast had been the damage done to some of the weapons the soldiers carried. Several rifles were bent and damaged, left unusable from the force of the explosion.

  Fortunately, the handguns and body armor were salvageable, so The Scorpion had put her gang to work at gathering the usable items and placing them into the truck they’d parked further down the street.

  The noxious fumes of burned paint, rubber, and plastic, along with the pungent odors given off by the recently deceased overpowered the normally pleasant morning air that was carried in from the ocean to the west, so both of the women had placed red bandanas over their mouths and noses.

  Bending down, Samantha pulled a helmet off a dead female soldier and placed it on her head, not bothering to strap it in place.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Hot,” Lizette replied, biting her lower lip. “Wear it later?”

  Samantha smiled slyly in response. “Maybe. If you’re good.”

  Lizette moved closer, decreasing t
he space between them to a few inches. “Oh, I can be real good….”

  The Scorpion brought her hand up and gently pushed her lover away. “Not now, baby. Let’s stay focused.”

  Lizette smiled wickedly and backed up, licking her lips as she did. The woman turned and walked away, moving her hips seductively.

  The Scorpion shook her head in mock disgust, grinning slyly the whole time. Stepping around towards the front of the Humvee, she glanced toward the bodies of two young men in the front seats. Blood ran from their noses, mouths, eyes, and ears, running down and staining their uniforms. Looking at them, she wondered if they’d had to die, but knew in her heart that their surrender had been unlikely.

  Leaning into the vehicle through the broken windshield, she grabbed a couple of 9mm magazine clips from the driver’s belt. In the awkward position she was in, she couldn't reach her pockets, so she stuffed them into her bra. Reaching upwards towards the man in the passenger seat, she strained to reach the holders on the man’s belt that held his spare magazines. No matter how she reached, the snap closures for the holders remained just out of reach. Twisting her body, she tried again.

  No luck.

  Lunging forward, she got more of her torso into the cab of the Humvee before she tried again.

  Her fingers scraped the closure’s edge.

  Straining even harder, she felt the waistband of her pants, which had gotten snagged on one of the windshield wiper arms, being pulled downward as she reached for the holders. Ignoring it, she extended herself even further.

  Her fingers found the edge of the first holder and pulled it upward, unsnapping the closure. Assisted by gravity, the clip inside slid forward, allowing her to grab it with two fingers. She quickly stuffed the clip inside her bra, then reached for the remaining clip. Her fingers found the end of the magazine and pulled it forward. It slipped from her fingers and fell, landing on the driver’s corpse. Shaking her head, she reached for the clip.