Surviving Rage | Book 5

by Arellano, J. D.

  Andrew took in the exchange, half focused on what was being said, and missing what the words implied at first. When he realized what the exchange meant, he smiled slightly. ‘Good. One more reason for him to want to stay alive.’

  “Alright, Adam,” he began, “I’m not going to lie. Even with the morphine, this is going to hurt.”

  When Andrew was finished, the man was no longer at risk. The loss of blood had been significant, especially while Andrew was rooting around inside the man’s midsection, looking for the bullet, but once he’d removed the offending object, he’d applied a layer of Kwik-Clot, then covered the wound with bandages, stopping the flow. Together, four of the Marines gently lifted Corporal White from the floor and moved him to the bed and now, with the bleeding stopped, the man’s fluids were slowly being replenished by Sanchez, who sat by him, unwilling to leave his side.

  Stepping back from the injured Marine, Andrew moved to the wall and leaned against it, suddenly feeling exhausted. The adrenaline had worn off, and with it, the accompanying endorphins, leaving both his mind and muscles weary.

  He was about to close his eyes when he sensed someone close by. Opening his eyes, he found Gunnery Sergeant Jeffries and Staff Sergeant Khan in front of him, their muscular arms crossed on their considerable chests.

  “You can’t do that,” Jeffries began, glaring at Andrew.

  “I - ”

  Khan shook his head. “Nope.”

  Gesturing towards Corporal White, Andrew protested. “But he needed medical attention!!”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jeffries replied, shaking his head. “Our mission comes first.”

  “But - ”

  Leaning forward, assisted by Sanchez, Corporal White added, “Can’t do that, Doc. Don’t risk yourself,” before laying back down.

  Meeting Andrew’s eyes, Corporal Sanchez nodded slowly, reluctantly agreeing.

  “Doc, you and Doctor Bowman are the mission,” Khan replied. “If every Marine here dies here in the process of getting you two to OKC safely, the mission is a success. If every one of us lives, but we lose one of you,” he said, pointing at both Chang and Bowman, “we failed.”

  “Marines hate failure,” Jeffries finished, nodding.

  Looking around the room, Andrew saw everyone, including Corporal White, looking at him. As weak as the injured Marine was, he found the strength to nod in agreement. “They’re...right....Doc.”

  Needing someone to tell him that he’d done the right thing, Chang’s eyes moved to Sanchez’s. The man met his gaze momentarily, then looked away. The message was clear: though he was privately grateful for Andrew’s actions, he remained unwilling to suggest that any action that jeopardized the mission was the correct one to take.

  Jeffries turned away, letting the point resonate.

  “Alright. This place is no longer acceptable. Let’s get ready to move out.”

  “What?” Andrew exploded, unable to hold back his emotions. “That man is in no condition to be moved!”

  Jeffries turned back to face him once more. “Listen, Doc. Whoever was here is out there,” he said, pointing outside, “and he’s probably coming back. Knowing that he’s outnumbered, he may bring friends.”

  “And?” Andrew replied, refusing to back down. “Aren’t you all like, trained in combat? Do you really expect me to believe that you can’t defend this place against a few assholes with guns? I mean, if that’s too much for you to deal with, what are we doing? I thought you guys - and gal - were capable of at least that much.”

  Stepping forward, Jeffries brought his face closer to Andrew’s. “Easy there, Doc. Don’t question my Marines’ abilities.”

  Khan reached out and grabbed Jeffries’s shoulder carefully but firmly. “Gunny. He’s just worried about White.”

  Jeffries exhaled through his nose loudly. Turning, he looked at where Corporal White lay on the bed, he asked Andrew, “How long do we need to stay here?”

  “A day would be ideal.”

  “Minimum?”

  Andrew sighed. “‘Til morning.”

  Jeffries nodded. “Fine. Marines, with me. That includes you, Sanchez. We’re going to set up a perimeter and watch rotation. It’s eighteen thirty now. We’re out by no later than zero seven hundred.” He left the room, followed by the other Marines, leaving Andrew and Lisa alone with Corporal White.

  Chuckling weakly, the injured Marine said, “You really pissed him off, Doc.”

  “I know. But it’s my duty to render care. I took an oath, as did Doctor Bowman.”

  Two miles from the home, Billy (not William, or Bill, but Billy, according to his birth certificate) Sheldon walked along an old, beaten path in the forest, holding his injured shoulder. The path had been there for ages, even prior to his childhood. He and his friend Jimmy Jones (unlike Billy, Jimmy’s parents had the decency to name him James, giving him the option of using an adult’s name), whose home he was currently headed to, had used the trail as they were growing up, taking advantage of the shorter route between their two homes.

  While the wound to his shoulder was largely superficial, the damage to his psyche was worse.

  “Why’d you freak out?” he asked himself as he stepped over a fallen branch. Shaking his head in disgust with himself, he muttered, “Shoulda just answered the door when they first knocked, instead of hiding.”

  Feeling lightheaded from the pain and exertion, he made his way to a log next to the path and sat down. After finding the cleanest part of his dingy flannel shirt he could, he tore away a piece, folded it, and pressed it against the deep groove in his upper right shoulder.

  Staring down at the dirt trail, he asked himself, “So what am I gonna tell Jimmy?”

  The distant chirp of a bird was the only response he received. After a few seconds, his father’s voice spoke inside his head.

  They came into your house, Billy. The house that I gave you.

  “Yeah, but, I mean, they did knock…” he said aloud, feeling ashamed.

  They knocked very aggressively. What gives them the right?

  “That’s true…”

  They scared you.

  Scoffing, he shook his head. “Yeah, well, I’m not gonna tell Jimmy that.”

  They broke through the door.

  “But if I had answered them…”

  So tell Jimmy the part you can tell him.

  “Yeah,” said, nodding in agreement. “Tell him the part that won’t embarrass me. It’s still the truth, ain’t it?” Getting up from the log, he stepped forward with a renewed energy.

  “I can just tell him he was right,” Billy said, smiling as he nodded his head. His friend had always said that the government would eventually come to take their homes from them. It was why he and their other friends bought and practiced with weapons of all shapes and sizes. The tyrannical, overbearing, power-hungry government had always been itching to take their land, and they had to be ready to defend themselves, Jimmy said.

  Now, that time had come.

  Billy smiled to himself. Not only would Jimmy be willing to help him take back his home, but he’d be able to round up others who were willing to take up arms and fight back.

  The government and their jackbooted thugs wouldn’t be able to get away with this.

  If they wanted a fight, they’d get one.

  “I’ll get the house back, Pappy,” he said, nodding.

  His father’s voice spoke to him once more.

  Make this right.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Mojave Desert, California

  Day 2

  As they walked back to the rear of the vehicles where the rest of the group was waiting, Chili looked at the group and said, “Not sure we can get around it through the terrain.”

  After reviewing the map in his hand, Staff Sergeant Nicholson shook his head. “Backtracking isn’t a great option, either. It looks like the Sixty-Six would take us around it, but that would add at least an hour, maybe two or three if the road’s in bad shape.”
>
  Reaching up and running the fingers of his hand against the stubble on his chin, Chili asked, “Thoughts?”

  Phillip shrugged. “I mean, we’ve got the firepower to blast through whatever they’ve set up there…”

  Chili nodded. “True, but that introduces unnecessary risk to Doc, here, and Isabella.”

  “Inside the Stryker?” Aaron asked, grinning. “That thing’s like a moving fortress.”

  “Maybe we should convince them that it’s in their best interest to let us by,” Nicholson suggested. “Unless they’re idiots, they should see that.”

  Chili nodded again. “Could work. And at least that gives us a chance to avoid a conflict.”

  “But what about the others that might come this way?” Jonathan asked.

  The SEAL shook his head. “Not our problem, Doc. We’ve got a mission here, and that mission is to get you two,” he pointed his forefinger and little finger at Jonathan and Reed, “to Oklahoma City safely. That’s the job.”

  Reed shook his head. “But with that setup...I mean, anyone who’s trying to get across the desert is gonna be at their mercy. It’s already hot as hell out here. People will be desperate to get by, and who knows what these…” his eyes darted towards Specialists Zhang and Simmons, “...jerks will demand.”

  Grinning, Zhang spoke up. “I’m with the Doc. Let’s make sure these assholes don’t get the opportunity to screw people over.” Locking eyes with Reed, she added. “I’m in the fuckin’ Army, Doc. I’ve heard plenty of cursing.”

  “Watch yourself, Zhang,” Nicholson said sharply. “You’re speaking to a Colonel.”

  Zhang’s eyes went wide in realization. “Shit!, I mean, sorry, Sir.”

  Reed shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, but for the record, I wasn’t watching my language for you, I was doing it for her,” he said, nodding towards Isabella.

  Feeling herself redden, Zhang tried to explain. “But the way you looked over at me…”

  “Because I’ve heard how you speak.”

  Lowering her head, Zhang said, “Sorry!”

  “Alright, if we could get back to the matter at hand,” Chili began. “The Marines say we should take ‘em out.”

  “Ooh rah!” Aaron chimed in.

  “Our Army folks here think we should negotiate our way through. Doc says we shouldn’t let them keep their roadblock. What about you?” he finished, looking pointedly at Logan.

  Finishing the drink he was taking from his water bottle, Logan capped it, then wiped his mouth. “I don’t know, Chili. On the one hand, it is the job of this team to make sure Doc and Izzie get to OKC. On the other, I’ve had to deal with some pretty shitty people - sorry, Izzie - over the last three weeks, and I’m a little tired of them always getting the first punch.” Looking back in the direction of the blockade, he shook his head. “I’m not a fan of letting them hurt, or possibly kill, people who come this way after we’re gone.

  “I see,” Chili replied, nodding. “Stay here,” he said, to no one in particular. Stepping away from the group, he went to the edge of the convoy and looked down the highway towards the bridge and the parked semi trucks. After a few moments, he came back. “Alright. Here’s what we’re gonna do.”

  Standing atop the bridge, the man reached up and placed a hand above his eyes to shield them from the sun. “Binoculars,” he ordered.

  The man next to him put them in his hand. “Here.”

  Bringing them up to his eyes, he peered through them and watched as a single Humvee approached the blockade at a slow steady pace. The other two vehicles, both military, remained about a half-mile behind. The three vehicles had stopped back there nearly twenty-minutes ago, and he guessed they were trying to decide whether or not to turn around and head back in the direction they’d come from.

  “Come on, you bastards,” he muttered to himself as he watched the heavy vehicle approach. He and his motorcycle gang had set up the road block that morning, and so far their efforts had yielded little. The one car they’d stopped, an older model Saturn sedan, had only one passenger, a short, fat man named Ashton Thomas, who’d carried little of value other than several bags of chips, beef jerky, and a twenty-four pack of bottled water. (Ashton Thomas’s body was face down in the dirt off to the side of the road behind, and prior to the arrival of the military convoy, he and the men with him had been watching in amusement as birds picked at the man’s corpse.)

  Finally, the Humvee stopped about what he estimated to be a mile away. It sat there in the hot, dry, desert air for a few minutes, then began flashing its headlights in a repeated, methodical manner: three times, a pause, then two times. After a pause, the sequence was repeated.

  “What the hell are they doing?” he asked.

  “No idea, man.”

  Flicking the lever that controlled the headlights, Staff Sergeant Nicholson couldn’t slow his heartbeat as it thundered in his chest. While the prevailing assumption was that Team Whiskey had more firepower than the group at the roadblock, that a), was an assumption, and b) still left a gap in knowledge regarding what firepower the opponent had. Did they solely have handguns? Shotguns? Semi-Automatic rifles?

  One thing was certain: having Rodriguez on the .50 cal made him feel better. Few people would be willing and/or able to stand in the face of assault from the weapon’s ferocity. Capable of sending its half-inch diameter, five and a half-inch long rounds towards the enemy at a rate of up to 600 rounds per minute, it easily shredded anything less than heavy armor in seconds. If the men (and possibly women) at the blockade planned on hiding behind cars, they’d quickly regret their decision.

  Parked at what Zhang had determined was 1000 meters from the blockade based on the readout on the laser rangefinder (well within the M2’s effective firing range while remaining beyond that of an AR-15), Nicholson watched and waited for a response from the people behind the roadblock. It was unlikely that they’d understand the light signal, so he expected something else to indicate that they wanted to communicate.

  “Come on…” he muttered. “See anything?” he asked Zhang.

  “A few of the men that were on top of the bridge moved down behind the trucks, but that’s about it,” she replied.

  Finally, after about ten minutes, a man stepped out from behind the truck on the right. Looking through the powerful lenses of his binoculars, Nicholson did a quick evaluation of the man. Somewhere in his late thirties, he was around six feet tall and thick bodied, sporting a heavy gut that hung out over the waist of blue jeans. Wearing a black leather biker vest, the majority of his visible skin was covered in tattoos, and his long, dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

  As he walked forward, he was joined by two armed men, both of whom had apparently chosen to shop at the same clothing stores and were regulars at the same tattoo parlor, though one of them, the man on ponytail’s left, appeared to be Hispanic and wasn’t as heavy as the others, while the man to the right was similarly built, but had a scraggly beard that hung down to his upper chest.

  The three men walked forward about a hundred yards, then stopped.

  “Alright,” Nicholson said inside the Humvee, “here we go.” Looking first at Zhang, then Simmons, he asked, “You ready?”

  “Hooah,” each of them replied, grabbing their M16s and following him out of the vehicle.

  “I gotcha covered, Staff Sergeant,” Rodriguez said from his position at the gun mount.

  “Thanks,” Nicholson replied. Together, the three of them strode forward, closing the gap between them and the three men. Their eyes moved constantly as they evaluated the situation.

  “I got four on the bridge,” Nicholson said in a low voice.

  “Three on the right,” Zhang said, “two near the front of the semi, one on top.”

  Simmons added her assessment: “Two, left. One on top, one near the front.”

  “Got it,” Nicholson said. “You know your assignments. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Agree,” Zhang repli
ed, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “I’d hate to end these assholes out here.”

  “Sounds like you feel strongly about this.”

  “Fuck yeah, I do,” Zhang said, adjusting the strap for her gun on her shoulder slightly. “You know what happens to women in these situations…”

  “Yeah, no shit,” Simmons added.

  “Alright, cool down,” Nicholson warned. “We’re not starting anything, as long as they agree to what we need them to do.”

  “I’m good, Staff Sergeant,” Zhang said.

  “Same,” Simmons added.

  The three men had begun walking towards them as well, helping to decrease the space between the two groups. When the two groups were about twenty yards apart, they stopped.

  “Afternoon, there, soldier,” the man with the ponytail began, focusing on Nicholson.

  “Afternoon,” he replied.

  Looping his thumbs into his belt loops, the man asked, “What brings you to our safety checkpoint today?”

  “Safety checkpoint?” Nicholson asked, unbelieving of the man’s characterization.

  “Sure. We ask people to stop and then verify they’ve got what a person would need to get across the desert. Keeps us from having to go out there and find them,” he said, before smiling and revealing a mouth that contained more than a few metal fillings.

  ‘Stay cool, Todd,’ Nicholson told himself, before adding, ‘stick to the plan.’

  “That’s a good story,” he began, keeping his hands down by his side, close to where his pistol was holstered, “but we’re gonna have to ask you to remove your roadblock, here.”

  The man recoiled in surprise, then grinned. “What?”

  Pointing, Nicholson repeated himself. “Your roadblock. Gotta get rid of it.”

  The man laughed, extending his left elbow out to nudge the man next to him. “You hear that, Chico? They want us to get rid of the checkpoint we put so much work into!”

  The Hispanic man grinned widely as he shook his head. “Crazy, man.” .