Surviving Rage | Book 5

by Arellano, J. D.

  Nicholson watched as the men laughed, feeling, rather than seeing, the soldiers that bracketed him tense up. “Easy,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for them to hear. “Just wait.”

  A blow to the back of the head. Then darkness.

  An arm around the neck, denying access to oxygen. Darkness.

  The feel of a gun barrel against the back of the head.

  “Drop it,” a voice ordered.

  “Listen,” the man with the ponytail began. “We ain’t gonna undo all our hard work. We was thinkin’ about letting you all pass, since you’re military and all that, but if you think we’re gonna let you come here and tell us what we can and can’t have, we might have to re-evaluate our position.”

  “Tell ‘em, Bruce,” the man to his right said, nodding.

  “Shut up, Leroy,” Bruce replied, before pointing a finger at Nicholson. “Now ya’all ain’t got no business here, and ya ain’t got no jurisdiction.”

  Nicholson shook his head. “Wrong on both counts, there, what was it, Bruce?”

  The man glared back at him.

  Nicholson continued. “We’re passing through this way, so we do, in fact, have business here.”

  “Whatever,” the man referred to as Bruce replied. “You still ain’t got no jurisdiction.”

  “See, that’s where you’re wrong again. Due to the outbreak, the President has already authorized us to operate on American soil, as evidenced by the establishment of the four Protective Zones.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So,” Nicholson continued, gesturing toward Zhang and Simmons as he spoke, “we took an oath to defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic.”

  The thick-bodied man’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Nicholson. “You know, I don’t appreciate you calling us ‘enemies of the Constitution.’ Now, my boys and were thinking of letting you all pass without ‘asking’ for a little ‘contribution,’ but, now, seeing as how you pissed me off, I’m gonna have to require a little bit of restitution.”

  “Restitution?” Nicholson asked.

  “Yeah, soldier boy. You know, a little something to make our time out here in the desert a bit better.” Raising his chin, he used it to point towards Zhang. “Like the Asian girl, there,” he said, grinning again. “I’ve always had a bit of what you call ‘Asian Fever.’”

  “Yeah, right,” Zhang began, gripping her M16 so tightly that her knuckles whitened, “like I’d have any interest in your little shrimp dick.”

  The man’s face instantly turned red as his brow furrowed in anger. “Listen, bitch…”

  “Hold on!” Nicholson said, raising his hand.

  “I think we’re done talking,” the other man said as he continued to stare daggers at Zhang.

  “Are you sure?” Nicholson asked, smiling slightly.

  “Yes, I’m sure!” the man replied, turning his focus towards Nicholson. “Ya’ll pay up, or you ain’t gettin’ by. You try to force your way through,and my boys and I will have to use force.”

  “Force?”

  “Yes. Force.”

  “Well, that hardly seems fair…”

  Sticking his chin forward, the man sneered at Nicholson. “Well, too bad, soldier boy, you shoulda - what the hell’s she smiling at?” He asked, staring at Zhang.

  “Because she knows I meant it wouldn’t be fair to you,” Nicholson replied.

  “Ha! We’ve got another eight men back there with us!”

  “Are you sure?” Nicholson asked, grinning openly now.

  “I - ” the man began, before turning to look behind him.

  Three men in military uniforms stood near the two semi trucks, holding their weapons in their hands. Directly in front of them, eight men lay on the rough surface of the highway.

  “Yeah, so... I think it’s time for you to put down your weapons,” Staff Sergeant Nicholson said, still grinning.

  “Honey, what is that?”

  Wiping sleep from his eyes, Doug Robinson blinked and stared in the direction his wife Katy was pointing. Physically and mentally exhausted, he’d been close to suggesting that they find somewhere to pull off the road to rest before his wife had spoken. They’d hiked more than sixty miles over the last four days, climbing mountains and crossing valleys under the blazing sun, and he’d wondered if the two of them would even have a chance of escaping the desert before they finally succumbed to its unyielding heat, heat that didn’t seem to care whether the sun was in the sky or on the other side of the world, when they found an abandoned car with a half tank of gas in the small town of Goff.

  Relieved and filled with hope, they’d wasted no time pulling the car onto the highway and heading west. His mind had just started to flash warning sides in his head, telling him he was dangerously tired and that he shouldn’t be behind the wheel when his wife had spoken.

  “What the hell?” he asked out loud.

  “Looks like those trucks crashed.”

  Opening the window to allow fresh (but hot) air in, he peered in the direction of the two long shapes that sat out in the middle of the dirt, some fifty-plus yards away from the eastbound side of the highway.

  “I don’t think so…” he said, decreasing the pressure he had been applying to the gas pedal. Taking a quick glance at the road ahead to make sure it was clear, he looked at the trucks again, wishing he had sunglasses to help shield the glare.

  The two semi trucks were on opposite sides of the highway, each at a perpendicular angle, pointing away from the road. Each one sat low to the ground, appearing as if they’d sunk into the sand, but after another quick glance at the road, he realized that every tire on each truck had been flattened.

  “Weird…”

  “What is it?”

  “Those trucks didn’t crash. They were driven out there and abandoned. The wheels have been slashed.”

  “Why would someone do that?”

  “I don’t know. Wait,” he said, leaning forward once more. Something had been painted onto the side of the truck that sat between the east and west bound sections of the highway.

  DANGEROUS MEN. DO NOT STOP.

  His eyes went wide.

  “Honey, I see someone up there.”

  Up ahead, a group of men were making their way towards the westbound section of the highway.

  Suddenly no longer tired, Doug Robinson slammed his foot down on the gas.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  San Francisco Protective Zone, California

  Day 2

  “Got an update for me, Major?” General Armstead said, looking up from his book as Major Kincaid entered the room. Armstead’s brow furrowed as he took in the Major’s appearance. The man had always been rather on the slim side, more wiry than fit, and while it helped for passing every physical fitness standard the Army required, it also meant the man was never far from looking borderline skinny.

  That wasn’t good for soldiers.

  And it was how he appeared now.

  As Kincaid opened his mouth to speak, the General held up his hand, silencing him.

  “You eating, Major?”

  Kincaid nodded. “Yes, sir. Three square meals a day.”

  “Sleeping?”

  The Major looked away, averting his eyes from Armstead’s inquisitive gaze.

  “Major?” Armstead asked, leaning forward in his chair.

  “Some, Sir,” the man conceded, nodding absently. “It’s been tough as of late.”

  Rising from his chair, the General took long strides across the room and closed the door. Turning back to face the Major, he said, “Come. Join me,” before moving over to sit in one of the plush leather chairs by the room’s large picture windows.

  The Major held up the file he held in hand. “The update?”

  “Set it on my desk. We’ll talk about it in a few minutes. For now. Come have a drink with me, Major.”

  Seeing uncertainty on the younger man’s face, the Armstead added, “That’s an order.”

  �
��Yes, Sir,” Kincaid replied, setting the file down and walking over to settle into the seat next to the General.

  Armstead grabbed a bottle of Cognac and two glasses from the shelf next to his chair. Holding the two snifters in his massive left hand, he deftly poured two ounces into each, then returned the bottle to the shelf before passing one of the snifters to Kincaid.

  “Just a little sip. Enough to take the edge off for a bit,” he explained.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  Sitting back in his chair, Armstead brought the glass up and looked at the caramel-colored liquid within. “This isn’t the good stuff, but it’s not bad,” he said, before bringing the glass to his lips and taking a small sip.

  The Major copied his action, taking a sip as well.

  “So what’s going on, Mike?” Armstead asked, looking out the window. “What’s keeping you up at night?”

  Kincaid looked at the liquid in his glass for several long seconds. “It’s...I don’t know, Sir. I’m just worried.”

  “Yeah? What about?”

  Taking another sip from his glass, Kincaid took a breath before speaking again.

  “It’s...I...I can’t put my finger on it, Sir, but I feel like we’re missing something.”

  “Missing something? How do you mean?”

  “That’s the problem, Sir. I don’t know. I just feel it, and even though I can’t put a finger on it, I can’t shake it, either.” Looking over at the General, Kincaid leaned forward as he tried to express himself. “You know how when you’re getting ready to deploy and it’s the night before and you’re running through the checklist in your head, trying to make sure you’ve packed everything you need in your duffle bag, but you just feel like there’s...” clenching his fist, he gritted his teeth, “...Something you’re forgetting.”

  Armstead nodded slowly. “Oh, I definitely remember that feeling, even though it’s been a few years since I’ve deployed.” After taking a sip from his glass, he asked, “And you have no idea what it is?”

  Kincaid sighed. “No, Sir. If I did, I could take care of it.”

  Setting his empty glass aside, General Armstead turned to him. “Listen, Mike. You’re a great officer. You’re conscientious, meticulous, and analytical. You’ve made my job much, much easier. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. In the meantime, though, you need to get some sleep. A lack of sleep will only snowball into a much bigger issue. If you can’t figure out whatever you think we’re missing when your mind is fresh and well-rested, you sure as hell aren’t gonna figure it out with a brain that’s fried from a lack of sleep.”

  “I know, Sir.”

  Standing up from his chair, the General looked at him. “Let’s go over that update, then I want you to go see medical. Tell them to give you something to help you sleep. If they give you any crap, have them call me.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Major Kincaid replied as he rose from his chair. Following the big man back to his desk, he began telling him what he’d come to report. “Team Whiskey made it to the small town Tehachapi yesterday,” he began, referring to the West Coast team with the operational name they’d been assigned. (The East Coast team was Team Echo.) “They made it there without issue, but apparently they took in someone.”

  “What? We agreed, there wasn’t room for anyone to be rescued. They’re supposed to render aid if needed, but move on without picking up any stragglers.”

  “I know, Sir, but apparently it’s a small boy. They felt that leaving him alone there would basically be sentencing him to death.”

  Armstead sat down in his chair heavily, then leaned back in it. “I see. I guess I can’t expect them to set aside their humanity.”

  “Agree, Sir.”

  “Alright, so what else?”

  “Well, Sir, that’s really the major part of it. The highway there is the Fifty-eight. That takes them east, towards Barstow. From there, it merges with the Forty, which will take them all the way to OKC. With the hardest part behind them, we anticipate they’ll be in Oklahoma City in four days.”

  On the underside of the General’s desk, strategically placed near the opening for his computer’s power cables, a small listening device picked up every word of their conversation.

  When they were done, General Armstead stood from his desk and went to step around the edge of the desk. As he did, his right hand collided with a stack of papers on his desk, knocking them askew. Underneath was a device encased in a dark green rubberized case.

  “Crap! I completely forgot about this,” he said, shaking his head as he picked it up.

  As they walked towards the door, Kincaid asked, “What is it, Sir?”

  Holding up the phone, Armstead said, “That nice young man, what’s his name? Willey? Dropped this off, with a note that it was supposed to be delivered to that Alvarado guy… you know, the retired Navy Officer.” Shaking his head, he added, “I’ve been a little busy, and didn’t see it as a priority.”

  Holding out his hand Kincaid said, “I’ll take care of it, Sir.”

  Armstead passed it to him. “Thanks. I feel bad that I forgot about it.”

  “You’re a busy man, Sir,” Kincaid replied, sliding the phone into his pocket. “I’ll get it to him.”

  “Alright,” Armstead said, smiling. “Hey, while you’re there, I heard he’s brewing beer in his garage.”

  Kincaid rolled his eyes. “Sailors.”

  “I know,” Armstead agreed, nodding. “It’s no surprise they’re the only service with drinking alcohol in their fight song.” Looking at Kincaid out of the corner of his eye, he grinned.

  “Get me some, though, will ya?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Winslow, Arizona

  Day 2

  “‘Standing on the corner in Winslow, Arizona’...” Steve Sommer sang cheerfully, as he checked the knots on the ropes he’d tied. Satisfied with their tightness, he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

  “Let’s see a sailor do better than that,” he said, nodding sharply. Turning away from his work, he went to the kitchen counter and picked up the bottle of tequila he’d been eyeing. Unscrewing the cap, he tossed it aside, ignoring it as it bounced off the counter and onto the floor. He took a swig from it and grimaced.

  “Gah! This stuff is rough! I don’t know how you drink it. Have you ever had Gran Centenario? That stuff is pretty damn good.” He waited for a moment, then chuckled. “Ah, I almost forgot why you can’t answer me.” Leaning forward, he pulled the piece of cloth he’d tied around the man’s head away from his mouth. “There. Now, have you?”

  “Please, Sir…”

  “What?”

  “Just let us go. You can have whatever you want here.”

  Taking a deep breath, Sommer raised his voice. “Woah, woah, WOAH! You don’t get to control the conversation here! I do! Now, I asked you a fucking question!” Lifting the bottle to his mouth he took another drink.

  “Señor?”

  Using his sleeve to wipe his mouth, Sommer stepped forward and leaned down, bringing his face within inches of the Mexican’s. “The fuck did you just call me?”

  “I - ”

  Leaning back suddenly, Sommer laughed. “Ha! I’m just fucking with you ‘ese!’” Lifting the bottle up, he said, “Here, have a drink.” Without waiting for the man’s response, he moved forward, grabbed the man’s chin in one hand and tilted his head back. Holding the bottle above the man’s open mouth, he began to pour tequila into it.

  “Don’t you fucking close your mouth, ‘señor,” he warned.

  The man coughed suddenly, causing some of the tequila to splatter onto Sommer’s shirt.

  “Goddammit!” He roared, pulling the back and stepping away. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I thought you like this shit! I mean, it was on top of your fucking refrigerator.”

  A whimper came from the other side of the table.

  Whipping his head towards the sound, Sommer pointed a finger at the much younger Mexican woman and glared at her. “You shut the fu
ck up. When I’m done with your father, I’ll deal with you.” Shaking his head, he added, “Besides, you’re too young to drink anyway.”

  “Mmmph!” The woman responded, shaking her head.

  “What?” Sommer asked, “You expect me to believe you’re not too young to drink?”

  Still coughing, the Mexican man muttered, “She tell you she not my daughter.” Turning his head, the man tried to look in the direction of the teenager. “Silencio, mi amor,” he added, before lowering his head to look at the floor.

  “Hunh, yea right! What is she, then, your niece or something?” Sommer asked, bringing the bottle back to his lips. He paused, thinking about whether or not the other man’s lips had touched it. They hadn’t. He took another drink.

  “She my wife,” the man offered.

  “PFFTTTT!!” Sommer spit the tequila out in a massive spray, covering the man, the table, and the young woman’s left side.

  “Are you fucking serious?” he asked, glaring at the man.

  “Si.”

  Rolling his eyes, Sommer shook his head. “No wonder you fuckin’ people are so fucked up. How old is she?”

  “Ninteen,” the man replied.

  “And how old are you?”

  “I...thirty.”

  Reaching behind his back, Sommer grabbed his gun and brought it forward. Pointing it at the man’s head, he asked, “You sure about that?”

  The man’s eyes went wide with fear. Swallowing heavily, he spoke softly as he corrected himself. “I...thirty-six.”

  Shaking his head, Sommer lowered the gun. “Yeah, no way you’re only thirty, ‘señor.’” Putting the gun back into the waistband of his pants, he shook his head. “But that’s what I was saying. She’s barely half your age, and you fucking married her. She probably didn’t even have a chance to meet anyone else.”

  “In my culture - ” the man stammered.

  Without warning, Sommer stepped forward, drew back his right leg, then shot his heel forward, into the man’s crotch. The thick rubber sole of his boot smashed the man’s penis and testicles into the wooden surface of the chair.