Surviving Rage | Book 1

by Arellano, J. D.

  Lying in the hotel bed that night, he thought of her final words. For some reason, the word ‘respect’ resonated with him more than the word ‘love.’

  Wanda didn’t respect him.

  She’d didn’t respect him as a husband.

  She didn’t respect him as a provider.

  She didn’t respect him as a man.

  When he’d returned home late Sunday morning, Wanda had been furious. They’d fought with an intensity unlike anything before, each of them accusing each other of sleeping with someone else. For reasons unknown to him, he’d held back from naming Chad or the texts he’d seen, possibly saving those rounds for a later time.

  For her part, Wanda hadn’t wanted to end it, pushing instead for them to work together to save their marriage. Harold was pretty sure this was simply because she needed his income to stay afloat as she worked to pay off her student loans, but he kept this suspicion to himself.

  In the end, she’d suggested they spend some time away, up in the mountains, where they could be alone together and focus on reconnecting. They’d spent the first night in their quaint little cabin, eating takeout and making love. While he’d enjoyed the sex at first, when he saw her lying there with her eyes closed, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was thinking of Chad.

  God damn Chad. That tall, fit white man with his stupid sandy-brown hair and washboard abs.

  Angered at the thought, he’d been rough with her, using her solely for his pleasure, uncaring of her needs.

  When she’d liked it, egging him on, he’d lost steam, and found himself barely able to finish. Oblivious of his sudden struggles, Wanda had quickly rolled over, looking into his eyes with lust.

  “That was hot.”

  His stomach churned in disgust. This wasn’t the woman he’d married.

  The next day, she’d signed them up for a boat ride on the lake, where they’d met Grayson and Kyle, along with the other passengers.

  When Grayson shot the father and son without hesitation, acting quickly and decisively, Harold had wanted to stand and applaud. Here was a leader, a man who wasn’t afraid to take action to get what he wanted.

  Someone who didn’t wait for people to respect him.

  Someone who demanded it.

  “What’s that?” The man next to him asked groggily, still half-drunk from the fifth of whiskey he’d finished sometime after midnight, barely five hours before their watch.

  “I thought I saw something moving down the street. Maybe a car or truck.”

  Ricky looked at him, his eyes half-closed. “Did you see headlights?”

  “No, but -”

  “Then you were probably imagining it. It’s too dark for anyone to be driving around without headlights.”

  “But what if they’re trying to avoid being seen?”

  “Why would they do that? They don’t know anything about us or the Sheriff.”

  “I don’t know, maybe - ”

  “Whatever. Just let me rest my eyes a bit. If you actually see something, wake me.” With that, the other man folded up his jacket, set it against the window, and leaned over in his seat to rest his head on it. Within seconds his snoring filled the truck’s interior.

  ‘Fucker,’ Harold thought, peering out into the fog. He could have sworn there was something there, moving in the mist. Whatever he’d seen was gone now, though, leaving nothing but the grey mist that shrouded the road and the forest it cut through.

  Reaching up, he grabbed his gun from the dash, relishing its weight in his hand. It felt good. The sense of power he felt when he held it was addictive. No matter how all this ended, he vowed to never lose this feeling. If the United States was restored, he’d move to a place with open carry laws.

  People would have to respect him then.

  Sheriff Halwell still seemed a bit wary about him, choosing always to have either Kyle or Ricky accompany him whenever he was assigned a task. The constant oversight didn’t bother Harold, though. He’d prove himself to the Sheriff, no matter what it took, even if it meant killing someone.

  Wanda had been shocked when Harold had aligned himself with Halwell, staring at him open-mouthed as he offered to help toss the bodies of the father and son into the lake.

  “Harold!”

  He’d turned to her, glaring into her eyes, his face showing the deep-seated resentment that had built up over the last six months and culminated with the picture of Chad’s penis. “Shut. Up.” He growled, his breathing coming through his flared nostrils.

  Wanda had recoiled as if he’d slapped her, pushing herself back against the cushioned seat. Her mouth moved as she tried to find a response to his sudden rage.

  Turning away from her, Harold locked eyes with Halwell. The Sheriff seemed surprised as well, looking at him warily.

  “You don’t have a problem with this?”

  “No sir. The way I see it, you’re a man of action, and a man of action is exactly what’s needed to survive. If you’re looking for help, I’d be honored to join you.”

  The man grinned widely, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness. “Alright, then, Harold. Grab this guy’s feet and help me toss his fat ass over the side.”

  Together they’d managed to shove the two bodies over the side, leaving them in their wake as the boat cut through the dark waters of the lake, making its way back towards shore.

  Arriving back at the pier, he’d helped Kyle tie first the boat to the pier, then the wrists of their prisoners. The mother and mentally challenged daughter had gone near-catatonic, staring straight ahead as the arms were pulled behind their backs. They’d offered no resistance, their movements wooden as they obeyed Kyle’s and Harold’s commands. The lesbian couple had reluctantly complied with the instructions they’d received, but when Kyle grabbed the dark haired beauty’s ass, their young, small-framed son had tried to fight back, throwing haymakers wildly as he attacked Harold, attempting to get through him. Harold’s first instinct was to try to calm the boy, grabbing at his arms to stop his ridiculous assault, but when one of the fists landed on his upper lip, he responded with his newly formed instinct, backhanding the child with everything he had, sending the boy flying backward onto the boat, where he crashed to the deck.

  The boy’s mothers had screamed in anger and horror, unleashing a torrent of profanity-laced insults, but with their hands tied behind them, there was little else they could do. The blonde one managed to spit on him, spraying his face, but when he’d pulled his hand back, ready to unleash another blow, Kyle stopped him.

  “They’re the Sheriff’s ladies now. He don’t want ‘em touched.”

  Lowering his hand, Harold nodded, staring at the woman. He reached forward suddenly, grabbing the woman’s long hair. Bringing it to his face, he inhaled, taking in the smell of it, then used the hair to clean the woman’s spittle from his face.

  Wanda had refused to look at him when he tied her hands, staring straight ahead as if he didn’t exist.

  It was fine.

  In the end, she’d have to respect him.

  Two hours later, Harold’s bladder was full from all the coffee he’d had. Looking over at the slumbering man, whose loud snoring seemed to rattle the windows of the truck, he contemplated waking him so that he could step out and take a leak, but decided against it. Even if the man did wake up, he’d likely talk a bunch of shit, then fall asleep as soon as Harold stepped out of the cab anyway.

  Sighing, he pulled on the door handle, opening the door to the big truck. His feet crunched softly on the gravel as he made his way over to a spot between the vehicles they’d staged around the perimeter of the parking lot. His urine created steam in the cool morning air as it left his body, coating the asphalt of the parking lot. Relishing in the relief he felt, he closed his eyes, allowing his body to relax as he emptied his bladder.

  As he finished, he opened his eyes, looking at the morning sky. It was brightening now as the sun crested the hill, casting light over the mountains on the far side of the valley. As he l
ooked down towards his fly, he saw movement in his peripheral vision. Raising his head quickly, he saw a slight glint of metal. In half a second, it was gone, disappearing behind the trees. It had come and gone so quickly, its presence so fleeting that he immediately questioned it.

  Had he seen something?

  He heard the truck’s other door close, then footsteps shuffling towards. ‘Good,’ het thought, ‘I can tell Ricky what I - ’

  Warm liquid ran down his leg.

  Looking over, he saw the man standing next to him, showering his leg with urine as he relieved himself.

  Harold shoved the man, sending him flying backwards onto the gravel of the parking lot. “What the fuck?!”

  Ricky’s eyes came open as he hit the ground, sliding on his back. He rose on wobbly legs, his face filled with anger. He rushed Harold, his fists raised, not even bothering to tuck his penis back into his pants.

  It made for an easy target. Ricky’s sluggish movements made his punch slow and easy to dodge, and Harold easily slid aside, his foot lashing out and catching the man in the crotch.

  “Urghh!!” Ricky fell to the ground, coughing as he tried to catch his breath, his hands cradling his genitals. He refused to give up, though, stuffing himself back in his jeans before rising back to his feet.

  Fully awake, thanks to the invigorating feeling of having one’s balls mashed, Ricky charged at Harold headlong, tackling him and knocking him into the back of the truck. The two men struggled against each other, trying to get the upper hand as they wrestled on the ground, rolling over and over in the gravel. They cursed each other between grunts, insulting everything from their stature to their skin color to their mothers.

  Shouting voices came closer as someone yelled at them to stop, but neither man listened, instead focusing on finding the opening that would land the winning blow.

  BLAM!!

  A gunshot echoed in the morning air.

  They still scuffled, ignoring the sound.

  BLAM!!

  “Cut it out!” A voice boomed from above them. “I said,” a voice pulled on Harold’s windbreaker, pulling him backward, “cut that shit out!”

  The two men were pulled apart, their arms and legs still kicking in vain attempts to strike at one another as the distance between them grew. Calming, they looked at the owner of the voice.

  Grayson Halwell stood there, hands resting on his hips as he glared at them. “What is the meaning of this? Acting like fucking schoolboys, fighting in the yard?”

  Still being restrained, Harold glared at Ricky. “That fucker pissed on me!”

  If Halwell found it amusing, he showed no indication of such. His head turned slowly towards Ricky. “That true?”

  “Fuck no! I just got out of the truck to go take a piss and he fucking knocked me down when I wasn’t looking!”

  Harold tried to lunge at the man, filled with renewed anger over the man’s lie. “You son of a bitch!”

  Ricky spat in his direction, the glob of saliva falling to the ground several feet away. “Fuck you.”

  Halwell put his hands up. “Enough.”

  “Fuck you!” Harold responded to his newfound nemesis.

  “I said enough!!” Halwell glared at Harold, his eyes bright with intensity. “Clearly you two need to release some pent up frustration.”

  He gestured towards the rest of his crew, raising his voice slightly. “Something tells me all of you need to release some frustration.”

  He walked a few steps away, looking at the ground as he thought to himself, then spun on his heel, turning to face the group. “I understand, men.” He nodded slowly, relaxing his shoulders as he spoke, taking on an apologetic tone.

  “I understand, and I apologize . I have gathered you all here under the promise that we would clean this city and restore order, and yet we’ve done nothing but drink and relax.”

  He shook his head, pacing back and forth as he addressed them.

  “I allowed myself to forget one important thing - correction - one very important thing: you men are warriors.”

  Halwell paused, watching each of them for several seconds before he went on. “And what do warriors do? They fight.”

  He shook his head again, resuming his pacing.

  “Warriors fight, and I allowed myself to forget that.”

  Grayson Halwell walked to Harold and stopped in front of him. He reached forward and clasped the man’s shoulder, looking into his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, brother.”

  Harold nodded, looking at the ground. “My fault, sir.”

  Halwell clapped his hand on Harold’s shoulder twice, then turned away and repeated the sequence with Ricky, who mumbled. “It’s all good, Sheriff.”

  Walking back to his previous spot in front of the group, Halwell turned back to his men, smiling.

  “Men, today we will finish securing the guest rooms so that we can keep our workers - and our women - safely locked up in our absence. After that, we will take an inventory to see what supplies we need.”

  Looking at the men, Halwell’s smile widened to the point that he resembled the Cheshire cat from the Wizard of Oz.

  “Tomorrow we hunt.”

  CHAPTER FORTY NINE

  The Boeing C-17 Globemaster III, or C-17 for short, is a beast, with an overall length of 174 feet, a wingspan of 169 feet, and an empty weight of 285,000 pounds. Standing at 55 feet tall, it carries over 35,000 gallons of fuel for powering its four Pratt & Whitney turbofan engines, giving it a range of 2,400 miles. Big and powerful, the C-17 provides a smooth ride for its occupants, cruising at 450 knots at an altitude of around 30,000 feet.

  In route to California, the aircraft would receive additional fuel from a tanker aircraft deployed from Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma, allowing it to make the journey across the country.

  The 507th Air Refueling Wing stationed there was woefully undermanned, but with this being a Presidential Priority Mission, they assured Major Richards and crew that they would put together enough personnel to meet the requirement.

  Shortly after takeoff, Doctor Reed was surprised to see each of the SEALs fast asleep, a few of them snoring into the microphones on their headsets. Serrano had already told Reed that the headsets were to stay on at all times, in case the aircrew or a team member needed to pass information. How these men could sleep sitting upright with the sound of the plane’s massive engines humming, combined with the sound of Orlosky’s snoring in their ears, was beyond him. Sitting there, surrounded by sleeping Navy SEALs, he looked around and found Technical Sergeant Andrews looking back at him.

  “I’m guessing this is your first time in a C-17, isn’t it Doc?”

  Reed chuckled softly. “Yeah.”

  “She’s big and loud.” Andrews said, smiling. “Just like my ex.”

  Reed laughed out loud clasping a hand over his mouth to keep from waking the slumbering men. Shaking his head, he looked back at Andrews, smiling.

  The Airman unbuckled his harness and leaned across the aisle, handing Jonathan a small blue and white box. Opening it, Jonathan found a pair of foam earplugs.

  Andrews keyed his mic. “Go ahead. I know it’s hard to sleep in this thing if you’ve never done it.” He passed Reed a folded blanket. “Use this as a pillow. I’ll wake you if anything happens.” With that, he stood and walked towards the front of the aircraft, the cord to his comms gear attached to an overhead line.

  Removing his headset long enough to insert the earplugs, Jonathan sat in his seat, looking at each of the Navy SEALs in turn, wondering what made them sign up for such a dangerous career. ‘Adrenaline,’ he surmised, nodding to himself. The Navy SEALs truly were the best of the best, and if he had to go into a potential war zone, he was lucky to be with this group of men.

  Closing his eyes, he began using his tried and true method of reciting various blood disorders and both their trusted and experimental treatments, using a monotone inner voice. The memorization and description of them had been part of his specialized tra
ining, and as interesting as the subject was to him, the rote memorization part of it had always put him to sleep. This time was no different.

  Trapped on a train hurtling down the tracks, Jonathan struggled to break free of the bonds that held him. Thrashing back and forth, he fought with all of his might, his muscles straining against the straps that held his torso against the wall, but the straps held fast, refusing to give way, despite his efforts.

  The train bounced on the tracks, shaking him back and forth as a figure approached, its face covered by shadows. Its hands reached out towards him, holding a thick cloth in front of his face. Knowing what was coming, Jonathan struggled harder as desperation set in.

  The thick cloth slammed against his face, covering his nose and mouth. Suddenly unable to breathe , panic set in. His legs and feet kicked wildly, trying to reach the figure that held the cloth against his face, while his head swung violently from side to side, trying to get out from under the cloth that was suffocating him. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t draw air into his lungs. Feeling his strength leaving him, he decided to try the one thing he hadn’t tried: he blew air out, trying to push the cloth away from his face.

  A foam ear plug flew out of his nose, bouncing against the seat opposite him as Jonathan awoke, still in a panic as he fought against the harness that secured him in his seat.

  The SEALs erupted in a roar of laughter, pointing at him as they doubled over. Serrano gave Jefferson a fist bump as he jabbed his thumb at Reed. “Good one!”

  Yanking the other foam plug out of his right nostril, Jonathan looked at them, bewildered. “What the hell?”

  Serrano shrugged before speaking into his mic. His voice came through as muffled and far away as Jonathan realized he still had earplugs jammed in his ears. Sheepishly, he pulled his headset aside as he took them out, knowing he’d been caught. When he put the headset back in place, Serrano’s voice came through clearly.