Surviving Rage | Book 5

by Arellano, J. D.

  After giving herself a few moments to regroup, she took a deep breath and began again. “Alright, let’s move on to food and water supply. San Francisco?

  “We’ve got approximately three and a half weeks of food available, Madam President. We’re looking at sending a convoy to Sacramento to gather food from some of the commercial food distribution centers there as well.”

  “Good, General. And water?”

  “Non-issue, Madam President. The desalination plants are producing plenty of water for the population. We’ve been limiting non-essential use, such as watering the sports fields, and we’ve been regulating shower times, but we’re actually considering removing those restrictions. We have more than enough, and it would boost morale.

  “That’s great to hear, General. Great job.”

  “Thank you, Madame President.”

  “Okay. Boston?”

  Admiral Tyll gave her report next, followed by General Mcintosh in Indianapolis. In both locations, food was in good supply as was water. For Indianapolis, the water supply largely came from the White River, while Boston was supplied by the Quabbin and Wachusetts Reservoirs. As long as power was available, the pumps would be able to keep the Protective Zones supplied with water.

  ‘If only we were so lucky,’ the President thought, thinking about how great it would be to take a long, hot bath.

  “Alright, last but not least, Oklahoma City,” the Secretary of State said.

  After a considerable pause, Colonel Walters’s voice came through the speaker. “Huh? What?”

  Mcintosh’s voice exploded through the speaker. “Dammit, Walters! Pay attention!”

  “I-”

  “Walters, if you’re too distracted to do the job, just let us know,” General Armstead, the only Four-Star flag officer of the group, added. “Lieutenant General McIntosh has Major General Browning there with him. I’m sure the Major General would be willing to travel to Oklahoma to assume command.”

  “I, uh, no, Sir! Not necessary, Sir!”

  President Martinez glanced at Secretary Roberson and raised her eyebrows. Had General Armstead just threatened to fire Walters over a lack of attentiveness? It seemed rather harsh, but at the same time, if one couldn’t be focused during a crisis such as this one, when would they be able to? The military truly were a different breed, but it certainly seemed that they were exactly what the country needed at the moment. Without a doubt, the military had been the one steady, reliable thing she’d been able to count on since the outbreak.

  “Pay attention, Colonel,” General Armstead continued. “The President of the United States is on this conference call, and anything less than your full attention would be considered disrespectful. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. Don’t let it happen again,” the General finished. After a moment, he spoke once more. “My apologies, Madam President.”

  President Martinez glanced at Roberson once more. She never knew how to respond in situations like this.

  “Thank you, General.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Now, Colonel Walters, make your report on food stores and water supply.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Walters replied. “Madam President, we have, um, no concerns regarding the water or food supply.”

  ‘Well, that was weird,’ Martinez thought. Something in the man’s stumble in the middle of his sentence seemed...off. It was a simple report, so why had he stumbled? Was it nervousness?

  Or something else?

  “So, no issues, Colonel?” she asked.

  “No, Madam President.”

  The meeting finished a short time later, and as President Martinez walked back down the hallway, headed towards the building’s entrance, where a car was waiting to take her back to her residence, she carried the stress of each Protective Zone’s situation with her. There was still no response from NORAD, where the Vice President had been sent at the beginning of the outbreak, and the CDC was done to minimum manning due to heavy personnel losses. Even worse, they were running very low on food and water, and without a fresh influx of supplies, they’d be forced to abandon their post by the end of the week. Martinez ordered the resupply immediately, telling SECSTATE Roberson to work with Colonel Williamson to figure out a way to get it done. Whatever they came up with had been given Presidential Approval in advance.

  Underneath all of that, though, was something else.

  Colonel Walters.

  There was something in his demeanor, something in the way he gave his answers wasn’t right. It was like he was hiding something, but why would he? If one of the Protective Zones needed help, she’d do everything in her power to ensure they got it.

  Was it because he was worried about reporting failure? After General Armstead’s berating of the man, that seemed like it could be the case, but still, ultimately, wouldn’t the welfare of the citizens outweigh the man’s pride?

  Was he worried about being replaced? Certainly, under normal circumstances, being replaced would be detrimental to career progression, but now was not the time for concerns over career progression.

  So why?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  San Francisco, California

  May 2005

  Buzzing.

  Ignore it.

  Beeping.

  Ignore. Go back to sleep.

  Footsteps.

  They’re passing by. Doesn’t concern you. Go back to sleep.

  The sound of something hollow and lightweight bumping against a surface.

  ‘What is that?’ he wondered.

  Doesn’t matter. Go back to sleep. The voice inside his head replied.

  Bump. Bump. Bump.

  A soft, whistling sound accompanied the bumping.

  ‘Airflow,’ he told himself, satisfied with his ability to make the determination.

  ‘So that makes the bumping sound a -’

  Opening his eyes, the boy squinted as he tried to focus. Eventually, he was able to make out a big, two-foot diameter light blue balloon with big red letters that read, “GET WELL SOON!” emblazoned across its surface. It floated up near the ceiling, where the air from a nearby vent kept sending it into the wall, where it bounced off, only to be sent that way again by the airflow.

  Another big yellow balloon floated lazily in the far corner of the sterile, white and pastel peach-colored room. A series of greeting cards lined the window sill, each open and facing in his direction. Though he wasn’t able to read them, he figured they probably said something similar to what the balloon did.

  Looking past the cards at the window, he saw that the sun was just beginning to rise. It was still early enough for him to go back to sleep and still wake up in time to go to school. As he began to close his eyes, he tried to swallow, but realized his mouth was beyond dry. It felt like it was lined in thick cotton.

  On his left, a small cup with a bendy-straw sat there, filled with water. His mind told his arm to reach out for it, but he could manage little more than to weakly lift his hand a few inches off the bed.

  Sighing, he looked around the room for help. Below the yellow balloon, the forms of his sleeping parents were awkwardly positioned in a pair of cloth-covered wooden chairs. His mother’s head was resting against his father’s chest, and his arm was wrapped around her, holding her close.

  He smiled. They looked so peaceful, he didn’t want to wake them. Maybe he’d try to pick up the cup again. Looking down, he stared at his hand as he commanded it to rise. It moved slowly, as if he was floating in molasses. His eyes found a new target. A small plastic cylinder with a button on top, attached to a cord.

  ‘What happens if I press that?’ he wondered. His hand flopped towards it, then knocked against it. Eyes bulging, he concentrated his energy until he was able to lift his hand enough to grab onto the device. He pressed the button, then let his hand fall back to the bed.

  Footsteps approached, then the door opened. A pretty young Filipino woman entered. “Mister and Missus Willey, do you need somethin
g?” Seeing the two of them slumbering on the chair, the woman looked towards the bed.

  “Oh my God, you’re awake.”

  His mother cried out.

  The next few days were a haze of physical and mental tests, frequent visits from doctors and nurses, a multitude of drugs, and lots of sleep. Between doctor visits and tests, he was allowed to watch TV, which he enjoyed. Though the reception was fuzzy, the hospital did get the Disney Channel, which carried his favorite show: The Suite Life of Zack and Cody.

  All in all, his time in the hospital wasn’t too bad, but he hated the way his head always itched. He constantly wanted to scratch it, but had been forced to promise not to. Apparently, scratching it could damage the stitches and cause bleeding.

  “Did I scrape my head or something?” he asked the nurse (who’d introduced herself as Alma after her initial shock when he first awoke) one day when his parents were out of the room. (They refused to talk about what happened, no matter how much he pleaded.)

  “Actually,” the woman began, looking around to make sure no one else was there, “you cracked your skull open,” she said, her dark brown eyes filled with concern. “The doctor had to fix it,” she finished, nodding.

  “What did he do?”

  Bringing her hand near his head without touching it, she made a wiping gesture. “Well, first, he had to clean everything, and then wait to make sure there wasn’t any pressure build up from swelling.”

  “Was there?”

  She shook her head, then reached down and gently moved a strand of hair away from his forehead. “No, thankfully.”

  “Then what?” he pressed.

  The nurse smiled, showing him rows of pearly white teeth and dimples on either side of her mouth. He found himself getting lost in her gaze. “Then he took a special piece of material and put it over the hole. Once it was in place, he sewed everything up.”

  Listening to the pretty young woman, he found himself distracted by her beauty, but when she said the word ‘stitches,’ a thought flashed into his head. “Am I gonna have a scar on my head?”

  The nurse nodded slowly. “Yes, most likely, but I wouldn’t worry about it, if I was you.”

  “Why is that?”

  She playfully smacked his arm. “Because girls like boys with scars, silly. It shows they’re not chickens.”

  The boy smiled. ‘Cool,’ he thought, before asking, “What kind of material did he use?”

  “Titanium,” she replied, reaching over to adjust his sheets and bedspread so that he was covered once more. Smiling mischievously, she added, “Don’t be surprised if you set off metal detectors in airports.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Near Kingman, Arizona

  Day 3

  Unable to help, he watched helplessly as the uniformed man’s grasp on the pipe was torn away by the sudden impact of two infected men slamming into him. The man’s body slipped sideways as his fingers lost contact with the extended piece of metal.

  For a brief moment, Anthony Spinelli seemed to hang in the air, frozen in time as the sudden realization of his impending death flooded his mind. His mouth opened as he sought to find the right words to say, but nothing came out.

  His eyes found Serrano, standing on the ground some seven stories below, and when they did, Serrano saw - and felt - the sense of betrayal conveyed in the young man’s stare.

  ‘How could you let this happen?’

  Time leapt back into motion, and Spinelli was falling, dragged down towards the earth at an incredible speed. The infected that clung to him were still trying to rip at the young man’s body when the three of them hit the ground with a sickening, wet, sound.

  Thwack!

  Blood and flesh exploded outwards, coating everything in the area.

  Knowing he had to control his emotions, Serrano reached up to wipe away the single tear that ran down his cheek.

  When he brought his hand away, he was surprised by two things: one, that he wasn’t wearing his usual tactical gloves, and two, that it wasn’t a tear at all.

  It was blood on his palm.

  Spinelli’s blood.

  Serrano’s eyes flew open.

  Again?

  Stifling a groan, he rolled onto his side, turning to look at the wall of the small home they’d holed up in for the night. Still tired, he closed his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep, but even as he tried, he knew it was hopeless. Sleep had been a cruel mistress of his for quite some time, and when she did decide to stay for more than a few hours, it was almost always when he’d been between deployments, at a time when he’d been able to decompress from the previous one and hadn’t begun to grow anxious over the upcoming one.

  Yes, she was a heartless bitch, and that was before she was able to wield the deaths of his team members as weapons, sawing back and forth across the fibers of his emotions until each was a frayed remnant of what it had once been.

  ‘All you can do is move forward, Gabriel,’ he said to himself as he sat up in the small bed he’d been using. Testing himself, he estimated that it was just after midnight, well before he was expected to relieve Paul from his watch at 1:15. He looked down at his watch.

  12:27

  ‘Not bad,’ he thought, before adding, ‘but what would be better would be more sleep.’

  Sliding out of bed silently, he grabbed his uniform, boots, Glock, and MP-4 before gliding into the bathroom, where he quickly got dressed. After splashing water on his face, he quietly crept from the bathroom to the kitchen, where he grabbed a bottle of water and a protein bar, before making his way out of the home, passing the sleeping forms of the group as he did.

  Stepping out onto the porch, he was surprised by the heat of the midnight air. It was both hot and dry, and even the slightest breath seemed to parch his throat. Nevertheless, he knew what he needed to do. Taking a swig of water from the bottle, he went to where Paul and Logan sat on top of the Stryker and looked up at them.

  “Morning,” he said, nodding.

  “You’re, like, really early, Sir,” Paul said, glancing at his watch.

  “Call me ‘Sir’ again and I’ll break your arm,” he replied, half-joking. Being a Chief Warrant Officer technically did mean that enlisted men and women were supposed to refer to him as ‘Sir,’ but he didn’t care. He’d been an enlisted man for his entire career, and he was proud of it.

  “Sorry, Chili,” Paul said, looking somewhat frightened.

  Next to the young man, Logan grinned. “Easy there, Sir. He’s still figuring this stuff out.”

  “Son of a bitch…” Serrano muttered. Setting the bottle of water and protein bar on the rear wheel well of the big vehicle, he pulled his MP-4 off his back and passed it up to Logan.

  “Gonna go for a quick run,” he said.

  “You sure? Could be dangerous out there.”

  Serrano looked out at the dark, barren area that surrounded the small shack they’d chosen to spend the night in.Long, narrow, two-lane roads stretched off into the distance, while small bushes and shrubs that would soon become tumbleweeds dotted the landscape.

  “I think I’ll be fine. Nothing out here to keep the infected interested. They’re likely gone or dead by this point.”

  “Probably true,” Logan replied, nodding. “Wanna take the kid with you?” He asked, jutting his thumb towards Paul.

  “I - ” Paul responded, his eyes going wide.

  “Sure,” Serrano answered, grinning. “Tormenting the Army is one of my favorite things to do.”

  Glancing at Logan, Paul stammered, “I… but….don’t you need me to keep watch with you?”

  “I’ll be fine. Go on,” Logan replied, grinning.

  Feeling impatient, Serrano said, “Come on, kid, leave your rifle and get your ass down here.”

  “But…”

  “How about this? Since you want to call me ‘Sir,’ consider it an order.”

  “Okay…” the teenager replied, setting his rifle down atop the roof of the armored vehicle. Moving to
the edge of the roof, he used the handholds to climb down.

  “Recommend you leave the blouse,” Serrano said, as he unbuttoned his uniform top. He hung it on one of the many exposed pieces of metal that extended from the body of the vehicle, then began performing light stretches while he waited for Paul to do the same.

  “Ready?” Serrano asked, smiling.

  “I guess…”

  “Good. Let’s go.” He took off at a fast pace, but one that Paul was able to keep up with, knowing that it would do no good to demoralize the young man. Leading the way, he ran down one of the long country roads, trailed a few yards behind by Paul. With eyes that had already adjusted to the darkness, he kept a vigilant eye out for signs of movement as they ran, knowing that the teenager was likely unable to do little more than focus on drawing in breath as he struggled to keep up. A few times movement caught his eye, but on each occasion it was a small desert animal, scurrying away at the sound of the men running.

  After running for fifteen minutes, he knew they’d covered just over two miles, so he turned and headed back. Seeing Paul slow in anticipation of turning around, he said, “Nope.” Pointing towards the spot he’d turned around at, he said, “Another hundred yards, then turn around. I’ll wait here.”

  Too out of breath to respond, and knowing better than to argue, Paul nodded and continued on. Jogging in place as he watched Paul run, Serrano said to himself, ‘Gotta help him focus on maintaining good form, regardless of how tired he is.’

  When the young man returned to where Serrano waited, the SEAL said, “Alright, let’s head back. I’m gonna stay with you, but when I see us get to the last half-mile, we’re going all out. I see you dogging it, and we’ll run the whole thing again.”

  Paul looked back with fearful eyes.

  “I know you’re tired, and I’m not saying you need to keep up with me,” Serrano continued, “but I’ll know if you’re not giving one hundred percent.”

  “Oh…….Kay…….” Paul managed.

  Serrano led the way back towards the shack, keeping Paul in his peripheral vision as his boots pounded the pavement. As promised, one he estimated they were within a half-mile of where Logan waited, he pressed a button on his watch, then said, “Alright, give me everything you’ve got!” before leaping forward and sprinting at full speed.