Surviving Rage | Book 2

by Arellano, J. D.

  Setting the section of flooring aside, he reached down and inserted a key into the lock, which was larger and thicker than the one that had been on the door to the shed. A loud click came from the lock as it sprung open.

  “Come around this way, will ya?” Sommer said, smiling.

  Hank walked around to where the other man was, then watched as the man bent down and grasped a handle that protruded from a flat metal surface. Pulling it, a four foot wide door rose from the floor, assisted by hydraulics that glided smoothly on well-oiled pistons.

  Steps descended into the darkness below. Without hesitation, Sommer walked down the steps, located the switch for the lights, and flipped it on, illuminating the space.

  Following him down the steps, Hank stopped at the bottom, in awe of what he saw.

  A long hallway led into the space, extending far beyond the footprint of the shed above, stretching on for at least sixty feet. As he walked down the hallway, he passed a small bathroom on the right that held a sink, toilet, and shower.

  “It works,” Sommer offered without stopping.

  To the left was a kitchen and eating area. A full size fridge sat next to a gas powered stove and oven. A stainless steel sink sat in the middle of the counter space, next to a microwave. The eating area held a small, plain, four person table.

  “Gas works, too.”

  Passing the two spaces, they arrived at a large living space, the center of which was dominated by a big sleeper couch that had been pulled out. Against the wall was flat screen television that was nearly as big as the one in the main house.

  “Bedroom is actually there,” Sommer said, nodding towards a door against the right side of the hallway. “I like to fall asleep watching movies, though, so I slept here last time I was down here.”

  “Recently, then?”

  “Nah. Back when I was living in hiding, after I got out, remember? Stayed down here mostly, only going out for provisions when I needed to restock.”

  “This is...impressive.” Hank said, nodding appreciatively.

  “Thanks,” Sommer said, nodding. He pointed at a door at the back of the living room. “This is why we’re here, though.”

  Walking to the door, he opened it, revealing a six by six room that was lined from top to bottom with handguns, rifles, shotguns, and knives of all shapes and sizes.

  Hank whistled in admiration. “Nice.”

  Stepping into the room, Sommer bent down and pulled out a pair of wooden crates. Moving to the one on his right, he placed his fingertips under the edge of the lid and pulled upward, opening it.

  “This is why.”

  “Holy shit,” Hank said, his eyes widening in surprise.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Salinas, California

  “Looks like Old Stage Road will take us around the main part of town,” Phillip said, holding the flashlight over the map.

  “Alright,” Aaron replied, pulling the SUV back onto the road. Chili had made it clear that he wanted to avoid populated areas as much as possible until they reached San Jose, which they’d have to go through to get to San Francisco. It was also the place he intended to intercept the man who’d taken the immune girl hostage, and in the meantime, he wanted to rest so that he’d be ready to find and take down the bastard.

  Only he and Phillip were awake inside the SUV as they drove through the darkness, traveling north along highway 101, passing through town after town, each of them more desolate than the one prior. Though each was dark and likely abandoned, he’d stopped and extinguished the vehicle’s lights each time they got within five miles of a town (Serrano had already smashed each daytime running light earlier in the day), then drove along the highway at no more than ten miles an hour, ensuring the SUV’s battery was silently powering the vehicle through the populated areas.

  They’d managed to cover the last forty miles without attracting any attention, save that from the occasional stray dog and in one instance, a pack of coyotes.

  The various sounds associated with snoring were the only thing that served to break up the awkward silence between him and Phillip, a silence that started shortly after Jennifer lit into her brother earlier in the day, and one that had only gotten worse once everyone else in the SUV had fallen asleep.

  Unable to allow things to continue the way they were, Aaron kept his voice low as he spoke, engaging his friend of three years. “Look, man, if you really don’t want me to be with her, I won’t,” he began, staring straight ahead as he spoke, “but honestly, I’m not trying to, you know, hook up. I really think she’s special.”

  Phillip brought his right hand up and rested his chin atop its knuckles as he looked out the passenger window, absentmindedly rubbing the pad of his index finger with his thumb, feeling skin made tough by repeated firearm use. After a long pause, he looked at his hand, then dropped it to his lap and stared at the dash.

  “I know.”

  Not knowing how to respond, Aaron waited.

  After a pause that was considerably shorter, Phillip continued.

  “It’s just...I don’t want her to get hurt, that’s all.

  “I won’t hurt her, Phil,” Aaron said, glancing over at his friend.

  Phillip held up his hand, stopping him. “I know, man. I have no doubt that you won’t do anything to hurt her.” Nodding, he continued. “You’re a good dude, man, but what if she falls for you and something happens?” He shook his head as he looked off into space. “Our parents died last week, and we’re both still hurting from it. We will be for quite some time. I...just...want to protect her from any further suffering.”

  Caught off guard by his friend’s reasons, which were decidedly different from what he’d anticipated, Aaron did the only thing he could think of. He lied.

  “I understand.”

  “Thanks,” Phillip said, looking over and nodding. Before Aaron could say anything else, he went on. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be with her. It just means that I think you two should take it slow until we’re through all of this.” He looked away, returning his gaze to the darkness of the countryside as they drove north, several miles east of Salinas.

  “Alright, bro,” Aaron said, nodding, “I’m cool with that.” He slowed briefly, maneuvering the SUV around a pair of traffic pylons that had been tipped over. A good section of the right side of the road had been cordoned off for road repairs, but at some point the driver of a Nissan Maxima had disregarded the markers, plowing through them, only to get stuck in what had been fresh asphalt. The driver and passenger doors to the car had been left open, but with the interior lights extinguished, it was clear the battery had died some time ago.

  Turning the steering wheel back to the right, he brought the car back to the middle of the northbound lanes, straddling the line to leave as much room as possible to either side of them.

  “Are we good?” He asked after a few minutes.

  Phillip nodded, looking over at his longtime friend. He stuck his fist out. “We’re good, bro.”

  Aaron extended his fist and made contact. “Cool.”

  From the backseat, Serrano spoke up. “If you two are done with your love fest up there, I’d appreciate it if you’d be quiet.”

  “Sorry, Chili,” Aaron said, grinning at Phillip as he directed his attention back to the road ahead.

  Phillip looked at a roadside sign, then found the location of the road on the map he held. Nodding, he looked back up at the road, satisfied. If they kept making progress at the rate they’d been maintaining since nightfall, they’d be on the outskirts of San Jose by mid-morning.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Vietnam, 1971

  The sniper had been walking steadily for nearly four hours when his legs suddenly stopped working, sending him to the ground.

  Prior to the loss of feeling in his legs, he’d overestimated his strength and recovery, placing one hand on the trunk of a fallen tree and using it for balance as he jumped over its width.

  When he landed, he felt a
sharp, hot spike of pain explode in his back.

  His legs went limp.

  Though it’d happened to him previously as he’d fled the men near De Dang, this time was somehow more terrifying. Instead of being focused on the need to flee men with guns who wanted to kill him, he was suddenly aware of his predicament: alone in the jungle with no ability to move. If the feeling in his legs didn’t return, he’d lie there until he starved, was eaten by some creature, or worse of all, discovered by the Viet Cong.

  Reaching up towards his neck, his hands found the cross he wore around his neck, next to his dog tags. Without needing to look at it, he knew what it looked like: small, maybe an inch and a half in length, made of sterling silver (for durability), and engraved on the back with the words, “May God’s love protect you.”

  He needed God’s love at that moment.

  So he laid back, looked up at the sky, and prayed.

  For a long while, there were no signs of improvement, but eventually, he began to feel wetness on his calves, where the moist jungle floor had seeped through the pant leg of his uniform.

  Partially encouraged and partially desperate to verify what he was feeling was actually real, he slowly brought himself up into a seated position, all the while being careful not to jar his back again. Reaching down with his hands, he tested the ground near his legs. It was wet, confirming that what his legs felt was real.

  As he sat there, the feeling of wetness began to creep into his backside and then down his thighs. Closing his eyes, he tried to move his feet.

  His feet responded, moving outwards, then inwards, then forward, then back.

  Taking a deep breath, he rolled onto his stomach, then braced himself with his hands on the ground before trying to put one foot underneath him. The leg came forward, allowing him to plant his boot firmly in the ground.

  Looking around, he found a nearby branch extended towards him. Reaching up, he grabbed it and used it as leverage as he slowly made his way to his feet.

  When he was fully upright, he couldn’t believe it. He’d been paralyzed mere minutes ago, and now, here he was, standing on legs that actually worked.

  ‘Thank you, God,’ he said in his mind. ‘I’ll never doubt you again.’

  Slowly, he brought one foot forward, then the other, taking a few steps.

  There were no ill effects. Everything still worked.

  He walked some more, then paused, making sure he was okay.

  He was.

  So he restarted his journey, moving slowly, taking perfectly measured steps. When he reached a blockage in the path, he walked around it, too afraid to try to climb over it. He had to double back multiple times, finding different paths to get around obstacles, but as long as he went at it slowly and steadily, being careful not to jar his spine, he was okay.

  So he kept going.

  He didn’t stop until the strength in his legs finally gave out.

  “Sarge, what is that?”

  “Hunh? What are you talking about?” The man responded, spitting out of the window before turning to look towards where the other man was pointing.

  “There, in the grass to the right.”

  “Oh shit,” he replied, temporarily holding his tobacco-infused saliva in his mouth as he looked. After a long pause, he said, “Decker, stop the Jeep. Let’s check this shit out.”

  “Roger, Sarge.”

  As the Jeep came to a stop, the Sergeant stepped out of the vehicle, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the prone figure in the grass. Dried blood stained the back of the man’s uniform blouse in multiple places, as well as its right side.

  If the figure was dead, he wouldn’t be surprised at all. He’d seen a lot of death in the last six months.

  “Hey, buddy,” he said, from a few feet away.

  Nothing.

  Moving closer, he extended his leg and nudged the man’s heel with his boot. “Hey, you alright?”

  A barely audible groan came from the man.

  “Shit! This guy’s alive. Gordon, turn him over,” he ordered.

  “Yes, Sarge,” Gordon responded, stepping forward and reaching for the figure’s left shoulder. Pulling the man’s shoulder, he eased him over onto his back.

  Looking down at the name on the man’s chest, Sergeant Allen’s sharp intake of breath was audible.

  “Holy, shit. It’s him.”

  When he awoke again, he was inside an Army medical tent. His upper body was tightly bound in fresh white bandages, and underneath he felt the telltale itch of stitched skin. The skin on his back felt tight, as if it’d been stretched to cover the muscles underneath.

  His head rested on a standard Army-issued pillow, made evident by the feathers that poked through its cover, irritating his scalp. In the rack where he normally slept, he kept a towel over the pillow to prevent the irritation.

  It was marginally effective.

  Looking down at his arm, where he felt something alien, his eyes found an i.v. plugged into his vein. He figured it was the reason he didn’t feel thirsty.

  ‘They must be hydrating me through this tube,’ he thought, as he looked around the room.

  Men in pain surrounded him, each one of them in as bad of shape as him or worse. Several men were missing arms or legs; some were missing both.

  Biting his lip in sadness, he lowered his head back onto the itchy pillow.

  He was suddenly no longer bothered by it.

  A woman’s voice came from close by.

  “You’re awake.”

  Raising his head slightly, he found the source of the voice: a beautiful young redheaded woman, standing there and looking down at him with sympathetic eyes.

  “Am I at the camp?” he asked feebly.

  Looking around the woman said, “Uh, yeah. Isn’t it obvious?”

  Feeling dumb, he shook his head. “Sorry, I meant, at Đồng Vắt.”

  She shook her head. “No, this is Qui Nhơn.”

  “How did I get here?” he wondered aloud.

  “Let’s see,” the young woman replied, picking up his chart, “it says you were brought in on a jeep from the camp at Đồng Vắt. Apparently you were found near the road.”

  Her eyes continued to scan the chart before they settled on something that seemed to upset her. “Hold on, let me get the doctor,” she said, before adding, “Don’t move too much, okay?”

  He nodded wondering what it was that startled her so much. Suddenly, he remembered how he’d lost the feeling in his legs.

  Was he paralyzed?

  He tried to move his feet.

  They responded instantly.

  ‘Hunh,’ he thought. ‘Wonder what’s bothering her?’

  He laid there for a few minutes before the woman returned, trailing an equally young Army doctor, who greeted him with a smile.

  “Thanks Doc, I’m doing okay, I think. What’s going on with my chart? The nurse here seemed bothered by something she read.

  Glancing sideways at the nurse, the doctor’s face showed momentary irritation before he looked back at the shooter. He hesitated for a moment, then began, “Well, I’ve got good news and bad news...”

  As it turned out, there was shrapnel lodged deep in his back, near his spine, in a location that made surgery extremely challenging and definitely beyond the capabilities possessed by the doctors in the field.

  The presence of the shrapnel in that particular location created a predicament that would become a lifelong challenge: if the muscles became inflamed, the piece of shrapnel would be pushed into contact with one of the nerves in his spine, cutting off the electrical signals, or nerve impulses, that his brain sent to his legs.

  It not only meant that his time in Vietnam was at an end, but also that any strenuous activity was out of the question.

  Anything that required heavy lifting?

  Out of the question.

  Running?

  Out of the question.

  Sports?

  Don’t even ask.

  Diet and ligh
t exercise became a requirement, not just to ensure his bodyweight stayed appropriate for his height, but also because extra weight on his spine could also have adverse effects.

  If he wanted to maintain use of his legs, he’d watch what he ate, watch what he did and how he did it, and stick to the plan.

  For the rest of his life.

  Back in the States, he’d met with Doctor Emerson, who, like those he’d spoken with in Vietnam, was very reluctant to attempt surgery to remove the jagged piece of metal that rested so close to his spine. The risk was too great, and the surgical procedures and technology available in the early 1970s simply weren’t up to the task.

  So he’d have to endure, always remaining mindful of the fact that the dull, ever-present ache in his lower back was a lightning rod capable of literally taking his legs out from under him.

  After several years of persistent effort, both on his part and that of Doctor Emerson, the VA agreed to cover the cost of prescription for Prednisone. The steroids were the only thing that helped control the inflammation whenever he had a flare up, and as a result, he was able to lead a somewhat normal life.

  But like most people who relied on prescription drugs, the outbreak had left him without the medication he desperately needed.

  Sitting back in the passenger seat of the van, Richard Singletary willed his body to fight against the inflammation he felt building in his back. The seat was uncomfortable, and without the opportunity to stretch out, something he did every night on the floor before crawling into bed, he felt the muscles cramping.

  And he was out of steroids.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO