Dawn of the Rage Apocalypse

by Timothy W. Long

  Roger walked backward as he ejected a magazine and put a fresh one in the rifle. Even though it was full dark, the shapes of the ragers were all we could see as they continued to pour onto the rooftop. There had to be thirty or forty of them, and they didn’t seem to have any intention of stopping.

  The end of the building loomed ahead and when we reached it, we would have to make some painful choices.

  With my gun empty, I yanked my now well-bloodied camping axe out of my belt loop and brandished it, because I had no choice. It was either this or my Karate moves, and those all came from watching Chuck Norris on Walker, Texas Ranger.

  Bright lights cut across the driveway as either Elizabeth, or Mitch in the Hummer, closed in on our location, but there was a problem I hadn’t noticed until we drew near the end of the building. Whatever kind of store lay below us had large metal poles installed in front. A few of them were bent, but most looked strong, and very capable of stopping any sized truck from getting too close.

  Roger looked over the edge. “Dammit!”

  “I see it too,” I said in frustration.

  Jessica let out a short scream as one of the ragers leapt at her. Roger moved to assist while I continued to back up and scan the ground. Below us, Elizabeth wasn’t the only one who had followed our progress. At least a dozen ragers had as well, and now they waited below.

  Roger struck the rager in the face with the butt of his gun, then turned and fired on another one who got a little too close for comfort. Jessica let out a little gasp and then she was gone.

  “What the fuck?” Roger yelled.

  “Down here, guys. Just jump!” Jessica yelled.

  “She’s right. There’s a dumpster or something,” Roger called out to me.

  He leaned over, turned around, and grasped the side of the roof.

  “Go. I’m right behind you,” I called over my shoulder.

  “Be careful, the right side is closed, the left side is wide open, so don’t fall in there,” Roger warned me as he went over the side.

  “Got it,” I nodded.

  I almost did.

  The rager hit me square in the chest and sent me sprawling. I hacked at the son of a bitch with my axe, but it was like striking an enraged bull, because the blows did nothing to stop or even slow the guy.

  I gave up on digging the blade into his back, and instead put my forearm against his windpipe as he tried to bear down on my face. I whipped the axe around, planted the blade in his mouth, and then pushed him to the side. He fell over and I rolled my arm from against his neck, and used it to shove him into the ground. The axe made him think twice. He tried to rear back even as blood, bits of skin, and broken teeth gushed from his mouth.

  Grabbing his head by his dark and greasy hair, I lifted him up, and then rammed his face into the roof, practically severing his jaw from his face.

  He gurgled blood as I pulled the weapon free. I spun on my ass, dove for the end of the roof, and was shocked when Roger grabbed my wrists and hauled me down. The three of us tumbled into a heap on on top of the heavy plastic lid. Luckily I didn’t fall into the open side. Then my buddy from up top, the one with an axe hanging out of his mouth, tumbled toward the ground. He hit the edge of the dumpster, flopped over, and then struck the asphalt with a bone jarring crunch.

  I crawled down to the ground and retrieved my axe, which took a little effort to yank out of his face.

  “Christ, but it reeks here,” I said.

  Ever since I had been yanked onto the top of the huge dumpster, the smell of something pungent burned my nose.

  “Shit’s flammable, whatever it is,” Roger said as he helped Jessica to the ground. “Smells like turpentine.”

  “They’re renovating one of the stores,” Jessica said. “Probably some chemicals or whatever. Idiots. Probably a lot of flammable stuff in there.”

  “Burn this mother down,” I muttered.

  Ahead lay a break between the two buildings and it was our way out of here and into the parking lot. A pair of bright lights came at us; if we hustled we would meet up with Elizabeth in seconds. Another rager looked down on us from the roof, then dove. I stepped to the side, and the guy smashed into the ground with a crunch that his kids would feel.

  “We have to go,” I said in a panic.

  “Too many ragers, Jesus, look at them!” Roger exclaimed and pointed behind us.

  “Any chance we can hide under the dumpster?” Jessica asked.

  “That kind of stuff only works on television,” I said.

  Roger was right. We were so close to reaching our friends, and yet the ragers had completely cut us off. We might be able to make it if we ran all the way around the block, but we were bone tired. I was so exhausted I didn’t think I could handle moving more than a few feet in any direction. Not only that, but a number of them had appeared on the roof’s edge, and they looked ready to pounce.

  We were going to die in a shitty alley and there was no one to save us.

  A smell reached my nose and made me sneeze. Smoke? Speaking of smoke, what had happened to my cigarette?

  Something glowed in the open side of the dumpster bright enough for me to make out a number of aluminum cans tossed on their sides. Now it was magically glowing? What the hell?

  Then I realized what was happening. My cigarette…

  I pulled my face back as flame exploded out of the dumpster. The blast was so strong it ripped the closed lid open and tossed it against the side of the building before it crashed back down.

  Roger, Jessica, and I all met each other’s eyes and it was like some kind of telepathic fucking signal. I grabbed the dumpster and pushed. With them right beside me, we shoved the flaming vehicle ahead of us and into the parking lot. Ragers swarmed around us, but they shied back from the flame. Call it Mother Nature finally giving us a win. These things seemed to be afraid of fire.

  Here we were, in the middle of the rage zombie apocalypse, and we were literally shoving a dumpster fire at them.

  “Fuck yeah!” I roared.

  “Fuck yeah!” Jessica and Roger roared back.

  The dumpster built momentum as we put our backs into it, thankfully, there was a slight slope in the parking lot allowing us to quickly build momentum. Ragers fled from the fire, so I ripped the second lid open to let in more oxygen. A bunch of cardboard boxes had been broken down and left inside and those went up next.

  One gold Range Rover and one black H2 Hummer closed in on our location.

  Maybe I was delirious from the nonstop action of the day. Maybe it was the fumes, and smoke from the dumpster fire. Or maybe it was a combination of realizing that my girlfriend and my friend were having a thing. It was probably all of those that led up to me practically passing out from sheer exhaustion. The next few moments are a blur but somehow I managed to crawl into the truck with Elizabeth and then we were back on the road again.

  I tried to keep my eyes open, but it was almost impossible.

  Elizabeth reached over, grabbed my hand, placed it between the seats, and held on as she drove. It was reassuring, and I think I told her as much. Hard to say. I may have blurted out my social security number for all I know.

  We drove for an indeterminate amount of time which involved all manner of turns, and plenty of stop and go. More stop than actual go, to be honest. Elizabeth kept a running dialog with someone over the phone but I felt like they were keeping their voices down so I could rest. That was it, a nice leisurely drive in the countryside.

  A hand on my shoulder. I leapt aside, cracked my head on something cold and hard, and then scrambled against a wall. The rager had his hands on me and he was going to finish the job this time. I lashed out but the rager caught my fist and pushed it down. I wiped at my eyes, sure they were covered in mucus, and realized I was still in Elizabeth’s Range Rover.

  “Steady,” she said. “We’re here.”

  “Where?” I asked and rubbed grit from my eyes.

  “At Roger’s. We’re going to get some rest, and
then in the morning we’ll go get your car, some things from my house, and figure out our next move,” Elizabeth said.

  “Okay,” I muttered.

  * * *

  I had never been to Roger’s top secret location, as he liked to refer to this place, but he had spoken of it often enough. We were on a dirt road that led back from a paved street a good fifty feet or more away. There was a house but it was tiny, and couldn’t have held more than one or two bedrooms.

  The Hummer sat idling a few feet to our right. The back left door opened and Roger got out, stretched, checked his rifle, and then waved at us. Jessica hopped down with Mindy and then they went to chat with Mitch for a minute.

  Roger strolled toward us with a wave.

  “I can’t believe we made it.” Roger clapped my shoulder. “You and your smokes.”

  “Saved us,” I said. “How many people can say that cigarettes saved their lives?”

  “I must have missed that part,” Elizabeth said.

  “We’ll fill in the blanks later. For now, let’s get settled. I’ll have to fire up the generator, and set up a watch schedule, but we’re here, for now, and you all can crash for a while,” Roger said as he leaned back and stretched until his back popped.

  “Real neighborly of you, offering us a place to stay, and all,” I said with a thickened southern drawl.

  “Yeah, well, don’t get fucking used to it, cowboy. This is a temporary situation that we can evaluate after we get some rest, food, and something warm to drink.”

  “You have my thanks,” Elizabeth said.

  “Thank me by making that cure happen,” Roger said and then looked at Elizabeth’s truck. “Where’s Latimer?”

  I scratched my head because I just realized he hadn’t been in the Range Rover with us.

  “He left at some point. He was there when I got out of my vehicle to see if I could spot you on the roof, but when I got back in, he was gone,” Elizabeth said.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said with a frown. “All of that work getting him out of that place, and he up and ran away from us.”

  “I hope he is all right,” Elizabeth said.

  I didn’t know if she was being honest and at this point I didn’t care. She could have her secrets for now. All I wanted to do was crash like I have never crashed before.

  We gathered together and went into Roger’s house for the rest of the night.

  Dawn would arrive shortly, and I wondered what kind of a world we were about to wake up to.

  The End

  The story continues in:

  Day of the Rage Apocalypse

  Afterword

  Thank you so much for reading DAWN OF THE RAGE APOCALYPSE. I sincerely hope you enjoyed the book, and that you are looking forward to future novels in the series.

  I’m a full time author, and pay my mortgage with my writing. If you could take a spare moments to leave a review for DAWN OF THE RAGE APOCALYPSE on Amazon, I would be extremely gratefully, and sing the praises of your name. Badly, but only in the shower.

  Dawn of the Rage Apocalypse

  If you’d like to connect with me, head over to the Timothy W. Long Readers, and Reavers group on Facebook. This is a closed, but friendly group. I post covers, advance information on upcoming releases, and sample chapters.

  Thank you so much!

  -Timothy W. Long

  Chicken Dinner Sample

  I hope you enjoy this sample of Chicken Dinner

  A Dystopian Novel of Battle Royale

  Available now on Amazon!

  “I am so fucking dead!”

  Leonard “Smitty” Smith ducked as the high-powered round exploded right next to his head. The bullet impacted against the freckled wall of the old chapel and sprayed him with stucco and paint. A razor sharp burn across his cheek. The patina would leave a tattoo for the rest of his life.

  If he even lived out the day.

  Smitty was so close to the end. Only one more kill and he would go home with $25 million dollars.

  $25 million!

  Chicken Dinner wasn’t just about the money, it was also about the immense fame and notoriety. He would spend months doing talk shows, late nights, and even the endless podcasts and streaming channels dedicated solely to the game.

  Right now, Smitty had to focus on the task at hand, and stop dreaming of what could be, because what could happen involved a bullet to his head. Or worse, multiple bullets to his unprotected appendages that led to a slow death as he bled out on a live stream.

  Months of work, exercise, training with weapons, learning everything there was to know about surviving in hostile situations. Smitty had been a United States Marine, Oorah, and had seen his share of action, but not the sort where forty-nine other people were out to kill him over a four hour period of time.

  The echo arrived, but he was already on the move, following the shot, and he had only seconds if the shooter was halfway adequate. Rack the slide, slam it home, get the target in sight, and then squeeze the trigger. Smitty could do it in 1.2, but this shooter, in his opinion wasn’t as competent.

  The next round took out part of the doorway as he dove inside the room. The boom, like thunder, came just as he rolled over in a puff of dust and debris. Christ! That one hurt. He had already been stabbed, shot, punched, and had a metal pan bashed against the side of his head, but he was still alive.

  Alive!

  There was just one more player out there, and he (or she) currently had Smitty practically dialed in. The only reason his brains weren’t on the side of the chapel were thanks to his quick movements. The shooter obviously had a scope and a high-powered rifle, however, they didn’t seem to know about things like adjusting for wind, or leading a target.

  Lucky for Smitty, the round had gone wide instead of through his brain pan.

  He groaned as his harness sent a warning shock that knocked him silly.

  Oh god. Not now!

  The zone had closed again and he hadn’t been able to check his tablet to find out which direction he needed to move. If he stayed here he would likely be disabled in the next minute. The one thing he had in common with the sniper was that they were most likely stuck outside of the zone as well. They would both have to move soon, or take increasingly powerful bolts of electricity that could leave them prone on the ground.

  He lifted his watch and groaned yet again as the red circle flashed. An arrow indicated which direction he needed to move in order to stop the body harness shocks from rendering him helpless. He really needed to get out his tablet and verify the distance to the next free zone, but he was going to lose a lot of precious seconds if he stayed out here with his dick in the wind.

  A stronger shock arrived and sent him reeling. He clenched his teeth and staggered to his feet. With his back to the wall he dropped his backpack, dug out a smoke grenade, and then a Mule Punch energy drink. Maybe the caffeine would give him an edge, even though he’d had enough of those things. He wondered, if he survived, would he need a kidney transplant when it was over? How many energy drinks could a man drink in an hour and not cause permanent harm?

  He smiled grimly, popped the top, and chugged overly-sweet bubbles, caffeine, taurine, and whatever other shit the FDA had been bribed into allowing in the formula. He barely had time to let out a quiet belch before the next shock came. As the electricity raced across his body, Smitty involuntarily clenched his fists and crushed the can. When it was over he suspected he had pissed his pants.

  “You all ready for the big finish?” he leaned over and asked.

  His body cam had been beaten to hell, but the glass was nearly unbreakable, and even though it bore a few scratches, he knew from watching streams of past games that his image would be intact. He pulled the camera away from his body and verified the little green light deep within the device was still lit. He had to cup it with his hand, and peer inside. They made it difficult to detect because players would be sitting ducks with a big light on their chest.

  Smitty pulled out a second
smoke grenade, hustled to the doorframe, pulled the pin, and tossed the grenade. It let out a little pop and smoke rolled out a few seconds later.

  Smitty used the distraction to look around the corner. His eyes roved across the open space as he considered where he could run to find cover. There wasn’t much. Trees that weren’t wide enough to obscure his frame. A boulder that was a quarter mile away. A truck and a motorcycle, but they were also too far.

  Unless he could draw out the shooter.

  He ducked back around the corner and considered what he had seen. If he had possessed a sniper rifle, and the location of the other remaining contestant, he would camp out and wait for either the zone to close, or for other guy to make a mistake.

  Perhaps that was the answer.

  He pulled the pin on a smoke grenade, but held the lever. It would be a thirty-yard sprint and he would have the benefit of a little bit of cover.

  Smitty lifted the backpack, held it in front of the doorway, and shook it.

  The backpack flew out of his hand and the boom arrived a second later.

  Clutching the AKM rifle in both hands, he slung the second smoke grenade as he ran.

  The angle would give him his best chance because it lay fifteen degrees to his right and the shooter, if located in the house, would have a hard time picking him off.

  The second grenade popped and smoke rolled out in a thick cloud.

  Smitty counted, one, two, then he ducked and juked. Sure enough, another explosion sounded, but he remained on his feet and alive.

  As he threw himself down behind the old rusted pickup, the answer to his dilemma presented itself.

  Like an ugly wart, the big propane gas tank next to the house bore almost as much rust as the truck he currently called cover.

  The truck’s window above him exploded as another shot nearly ended his life. Five or six inches lower and the top of his head would have been gone. Safety glass created a shower as it tinkled down the side of the door. Pieces rolled off his helmet, and small shards found the back of his shirt.