“Where should I be?” Paul asked as Daniel passed him the handgun.
Daniel nodded towards the rear of the car. “To my right.” He pointed forward. “Your range of fire is unlimited to your right, but to the left, don’t go farther than about here.” He pointed to a position at about 310 degrees.
“Okay.”
“Here they come!” Logan shouted before his gun chattered.
‘Damn, they’re fast,” Daniel said before setting his gun on the roof of the small car and opening fire.
It was over quickly. The unchecked aggression the infected used to overwhelm their unarmed victims was no match for the powerful semi-automatic weapons the two military veterans wielded. As Daniel predicted, Paul’s help wasn’t needed. The infected fell under the withering fire the two men sent at them, their bodies succumbing to the impact of the bullets that shredded them.
Once the last of them fell, Daniel stood up straight and looked down at the AR-15. “I can see why so many people like these.”
Logan nodded. “They’re effective, that’s for sure.”
The three of them piled back into the Prius and made their way to where Serafina and the girls were, stopping briefly to pick up the gun Paul had dropped. Logan spun the car around to face away from the bus and parked it. Stepping out of the vehicle, the three of them walked over to the small gathering of people. Serafina and the girls stood back from the man, giving him space as he drank from the bottle of water they’d given him.
As they approached, Daniel could see the man more clearly. He had a chunky, thick build that spoke of an abhorrence to exercise, dark, messy hair and a pale complexion. His nose was pronounced, with a high ridge in the middle, giving it a crooked look. His eyes were dark and small, and his mouth was a narrow slit on his face.
Seeing Daniel and the others, he pulled the bottle away from his mouth, smiled broadly and shook his head. “Man, you guys saved my life!” He extended his hand warmly.
Daniel glanced at it hesitantly. “You weren’t bitten or scratched?”
The man pulled his hand back quickly. “Oh, uh, no. Not at all. I don’t know how I was so lucky.” He stepped back, set his bottle of water down on the ground near his feet, grabbed the bottom of his shirt and pulled it upward, over his head and off, revealing skin that was even more pale than that of his face and arms. His body, while soft and lacking muscular definition, was unblemished. Standing in front of them, he turned around, showing them his back as well. It was also free of scratches or bite marks.
“Okay?” the man asked, standing there with his shirt in his hand. “I can remove my pants as well, but as you can see, they’re still intact, and they sure as heck weren’t going to get through my work boots.”
Daniel glanced at Serafina, who nodded. “Yeah, okay. Just trying to be safe.”
The chubby man nodded. “I understand completely. You can’t be too safe out here, or, I guess, anywhere.”
Logan turned and looked towards the body of the first man they’d seen get taken down by the infected. “Sorry about your friend.”
The man looked down and shook his head. “Not really a friend, but a good man nonetheless. His name was Eddy. The other guy was Jim. We met outside of Lancaster. They were running from a pack of infected when I picked ‘em up.”
“That was nice of you,” Serafina said, smiling.
The man paused, gazing at Serafina a bit too long, then went on. “Yeah, well, it looks like it only bought them a few more hours.”
Daniel looked at the car the man had been driving. Now that they were closer, he could see that the front end had been smashed in by the collision with the bus. The front left fender and bumper had been forced back into the driver’s side front tire, flattening it and bending the rim. It was undriveable.
He glanced at Serafina again, searching her eyes for any signs of hesitation. Seeing none, he looked back at the man. “Well, we’re heading north, to San Francisco. You can ride with us if you like.”
The man smiled. “You guys are my saviors. That would be great.”
Daniel shrugged. “It’s not like we’d just leave you out here.”
“Thanks,” the man said. He reached down and grabbed the bottle of water. Opening it, he brought it to his lips and drank deeply, gulping down what was left. When he finished, he grinned and extended his hand again.
“Name’s Joe Reilley.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Bakersfield, California
“Today’s been a good day, fellas.” Steve Sommer said, lifting his glass of whiskey up in a toast.
Hank and Randall copied his gesture, lifting their glasses as well. The three men drank, then leaned back in the leather seats they were resting in. The hotel lobby was dimly lit and getting darker as the small kerosene lantern struggled to illuminate the interior of the building as the sun continued its descent towards the horizon.
Nothing changed the fact that the day had been their best yet, though. In all, they’d killed nearly sixty people, a total they’d struggle to match at any point in the future.
‘Fifty-nine less vermin trying to water down the Master Race,’ Sommer said to himself as he sipped his whiskey. Putting his feet up on the glass topped coffee table, he admired the glass in his hand before leaning his head back and closing his eyes. ‘I could do this forever,’ he thought, smiling. Each day they worked was a contribution, a step towards returning the White man to prominence, no longer being dragged down by the needs and complaints of the minorities who never seemed to be satisfied.
“What’s next, boss?” Hank asked from where he sat across from him.
Sommer exhaled slowly and calmly, enjoying the relaxation they’d afforded themselves. (Truthfully, he’d given them the chance to relax earlier than usual, being more than satisfied with their day’s work.) He opened his eyes slightly and peered over at the man who sat across from him.
“We’ll head out in a bit and find some grub, then come back and sack out here.” They’d already cleared the place, ensuring the rooms were free of people, adding to their total along the way. They’d taken down a few infected in the parking lot, but the interior of the hotel had fortunately remained free of the diseased men and women who’d brought the country to its knees.
Hank reached out and sat his glass on the side table. “Sounds good. I’ll save my drink ‘til we’re back.”
Randall scoffed. “Really? Ain’t like you gonna get a DUI or anything.” He lifted his glass to his lips and drained it, then reached for the bottle again.
Hank shook his head. “Still don’t wanna mess up that nice ride we got. Don’t know if you noticed, but there ain’t no repair shops open.”
Randall raised his glass, which was filled again. “Fair enough, brother.”
Sommer smiled as he watched the interaction. Each man reminded him of someone from his past. As he considered the comparisons, he wondered if the men he was reminded of would’ve been willing to join the cause. Though each man had treated people of color decently, as required by the job, neither had socialized with them outside of work, and he’d never heard either of them even once extend anything that could be considered as friendship towards minorities.
‘Maybe,’ Sommer thought. ‘Maybe.’ The fit, muscular man looked at Hank and Randall once more, nodding and smiling. Looking down at where his own hand held his glass, his eyes traveled up his arm, quickly finding the tattoo that marked the part of his past that had taught him to find the joy he now felt when he hunted and killed.
It was a circular tattoo. At the center were a globe and anchor. Surrounding the intertwined objects were eight words: six at the top, two at the bottom. Once a Marine, Always a Marine, and Semper Fi.
Though he hardly felt any association with the United States Marines anymore, he admitted his experiences during the time that he served (nearly six and a half years) made him the man he was today.
His time in the warzone had been bloody and brutal, and he’d helplessly watched many
men die at the hands of the enemy. Each time, it filled him with frustration, a feeling of pressure that filled his chest, longing to explode forth from him in ruthless violence that took down everyone and everything in his path.
But the Rules of Engagement had held him back. The code required that he consider civilian casualties. The code required that he avoid targeting women and children. The code required that he help the wounded, even if they’d been shooting at him or his men two minutes prior.
‘Fuck the code.’ He said to himself, shaking his head before taking another drink. He reached out and set his glass on the table. Randall leaned forward quickly and grabbed the bottle. He filled Sommer’s glass almost to the birm, then smiled at him. “There you go, brother.”
“Thanks.” Steve replied, grabbing the glass and holding it up in a toasting gesture.
Back in Afghanistan, he’d toasted his teammates with barely cold beer after their first successful mission, but it hadn’t felt genuine. They’d only taken out one of the enemy, an Al Qaeda operative who’d been holed up in a small home on a hill, and though the ‘leaders’ said he was important, Sommer preferred quantity over quality.
It was the only way they’d win they’d win this war.
By comparison, when they’d cleared a village of Taliban soldiers, killing five in the process, he’d been nearly ecstatic. Not because of the terrorists they’d sent to their graves, but because of the old man he’d choked the life out of. The man had been, by all accounts, an innocent bystander, but given the opportunity, Sommer had used his superior size and strength to end the man’s life, feeling his heart pound as he watched the man’s eyes bulge inside his skull.
When he realized he had an erection, he knew there’d be no turning back.
The thrill was too great.
A little caution, the proper use of time and place, and he’d be able to kill over and over again.
The first, second, and third kills hadn’t been racially motivated. Not at all. It was merely his deep, dark desire to kill that had found the opportunity to make itself known, to come forth from within and fill him with a sense of power. It was exciting and addictive, and the more he got away with it, the more he needed it.
At first, when the rush of endorphins left him, the killing left him filled with guilt.
His desires overpowered his guilt, though, and as he struggled to accept himself, he found himself rationalizing his actions more and more.
When his victims were men, he said to himself, ‘They were probably terrorists, anyway.’
For the women: ‘They were probably helping the terrorists.’
For the children: ‘Probably future terrorists.’
The rationalization slowly gave way to a dehumanization of the Arabs he encountered. Soon, he looked at them through shit-colored glasses, seeing them as little more than dirt, disgusting creatures that both spread a false religion and threatened the American way of life.
When he found out Black people could also be Muslims, his focus widened.
It wasn’t long after that he began to look at the minorities around him as inferior. The ones who were junior to him were there to be abused. The ones senior to him were pawns, put in place by true leaders, White men who knew they had to give the appearance of actually caring what the Blacks, Hispanics, Asians, and others felt and thought.
He understood, and because he understood, he played along. Because he played along, he learned to hide his disdain for minorities.
He’d probably still be playing along if he was still able to keep killing. That had made it all worthwhile.
But that fucker Ramirez had stuck his nose into business that wasn’t his.
“Dark now, boss. Getting hungry.” Hank robbed the thick hair that grew on his chin. “You wanna head out?”
Sommer tossed back what remained of his whiskey, set the glass aside, and stood up. “Sure.” He stretched his arms overhead, enjoying the feeling of the muscles warming from blood flow. When he was finished, he reached down and grabbed his rifle. “You coming, Randall?”
The other man’s eyes were closed as he rested his head against the chair’s cushion. “Figured I’d hang back and make sure no one tries to come in. Keep us from having to re-check the rooms.”
Sommer nodded. “Good call.” He and Williams walked outside and got in the car with Hank taking the wheel. When Hank started the engine, the brilliant white light from the headlights illuminated the front of the building, showing the large silver letters that were mounted on the building’s facade.
Residence Inn by Mariott
Bakersfield
They’d come farther south than he’d originally intended, but the more he thought about it, the more their southern travels made sense. Los Angeles and San Diego were big, diverse cities with plenty of targets.
He told himself they’d head back down south once they started running out of targets in the northern part of the state. He also knew that they’d encounter plenty more travellers heading towards San Francisco, where the government had set up their so-called “Security Zone.” If he and his men were successful, the Security Zone would be lacking in diversity, which meant that the survivors, those who would repopulate the country after the government got their shit together would be white. They’d return the white race to prominence in the United States.
It was a daunting task, but he, Hank, and Randall were dedicated. They’d keep up their work, putting in hours, accomplishing tasks, as long as they could.
“How ‘bout this place?” Hank asked, leaning over and pointing towards the dark structure of a grocery store. The windows that lined the front of the building were broken, leaving the sidewalk in front of the store covered in glass. The signs were dark, as was the interior of the store.
“Sure,” Sommer replied, “probably won’t be much, but we’ll take a look.”
“Alright.” Hank pulled into the parking lot and sped across it, bringing the car to a stop at the edge of the sidewalk directly in front of the store’s main entrance. The two men got out, guns in hand, and paused, surveying the parking lot and the area around the building. Save for a handful of cars that looked like they hadn’t moved in at least a week, the parking lot was empty.
Turning, they focused their attention on the store. There were splatters of blood on what remained of the doors and the ground beneath them. Pieces of cloth were stuck on the jagged edges of the door’s glass, fluttering in the soft wind of the night. The place was tomb-like in its dark, quiet presence.
Sommer nodded silently, then stepped towards the door, mindful of the noise his boots made on the broken glass beneath his feet. Though the place looked empty, looks could be deceiving, and he was not about to be caught by surprise. He paused momentarily, taking his flashlight from his pocket and affixing it to the end of his rifle. Pointing the rifle downward, he used his thumb to press the button for the light, turning it on. He brought the rifle up slowly, swinging it to either side of the entrance to make sure it was clear before stepping through the door.
The inside of the store smelled stale and rotten. Grimacing, he tried to block the smell out as he continued moving into the store. To the right was the produce area, which was both the source of the unyielding stench and unlikely to yield any edible food. He moved to the left, eager to put distance between himself and the decomposing produce. The first row he passed was designated for canned vegetables. Though the shelfs were mostly bare, there was a random assortment of cans here and there, enough to make him commit to coming back for a more thorough evaluation. Pausing, he looked back at Hank. When the man acknowledged his gaze, Sommer pointed down the aisle, towards the back of the store. Hank nodded and moved in that direction silently, carefully placing his feet as he moved. Once his partner was in position, Sommer gave a hand signal, motioning for the man to head forward. They reached the second aisle, each turning and looking down its length. The aisle still contained a lot of pasta and canned or jarred sauces, items forgotten during the hoarding
that had taken place.
The two men continued on, checking each row for people and finding none. The frozen food area was a mess, the floor covered with water and melted ice cream, the insides of the freezers covered in water soaked cardboard and defrosted foods that were covered in mold. Fortunately, the doors to the freezers were keeping the stench of the decomposing food inside, sparing them from breathing the putrid smells likely generated.
Overall, what had been left behind by the people who’d raided the store was more than enough to feed the three of them for several days, so they’d take time to load what they needed once they’d finished clearing the remainder of the store.
When they got to the deli & bakery area, they were unable to avoid the smells of rotting meat and molding bread. The two men worked through the area quickly, verifying no one was behind any of the fixtures before meeting up again at the front of the store.
“What do you think?” Hank asked, lowering his gun as he relaxed slightly.
“Looks good. There’s still the offices in the front here, and the back storeroom and freezer areas, though. Let’s clear those before we start loading up supplies.”
“Sounds good,” Hank replied, nodding. He looked towards the food aisles then shook his head and added, “I can’t believe I’m looking forward to Chef Boyardee raviolis.”
“No kidding. I’m craving some of that canned chili.”
Sommer turned and led them to the offices in the front of the store. The manager’s office was a small cluttered room, containing little more than an officer chair behind a small desk that held a computer monitor and stacks of paper. A short hallway connected the office to the customer restrooms, which were both free of people and still relatively clean.
The adjoining employee break room was where they found the bodies.
The door to the room was difficult to open, requiring the strength of both men to push it inward. Looking inside, they realized its weight was due to a number of items that had been stacked up against it. Tables, chairs, trash cans, and boxes of canned sodas had been positioned against the door in an effort to keep the infected out of the small space.
Surviving Rage | Book 2 Page 24