Surviving Rage | Book 2

by Arellano, J. D.

  Using its edge, he cut away both sleeves on his shirt, then cut each one down the seam, creating rectangular pieces of cloth. Looking at the material, he realized it wouldn’t be enough, so he cut off the material below his knees on each leg of his pants and cut those down the middle as well, creating bigger rectangular shapes.

  When that was done, he used the blade to cut long strips of cloth from each piece, then took one of the strips and folded it into a thick square, set it down and put a small rock on top of it to keep it folded. Finally, he undid his belt, removed the sheath for his knife, set it aside, then secured his belt again.

  Looking at Isabella, he said, “Okay, listen. I’ve got to remove the bullet from my leg, otherwise it’ll get infected. It’s going to hurt me a lot, but I can handle it. For you, it’ll be really gross, and it’ll probably scare you. If you need to, look away, but - and this is very important - if I pass out before I finish, shake me, slap me, do whatever you have to do to wake me up. I don’t want to go through this twice, okay?”

  Isabella’s eyes were wide with nervous uncertainty as she nodded.

  “How will I know when you’re done?” she asked.

  Logan used his hand to make a small bowl-like indentation in the gravel. “I’ll put the bullet right here.”

  “Okay.”

  “Alright, now, here’s the really important part. Listen closely: once I’m finished, you need to take this square,” he pointed at the one he’d folded, “put it against the wound, and then tie at least three strips around it to keep it in place. Tie it tightly, okay?”

  Outright fear showed on Isabella’s face as she nodded slowly.

  “Hey,” Logan said, staring into her eyes. “I need you to do this right, okay? Don’t worry about hurting me. I’ll probably be out at the time. Just do it. Don’t think about it. Do it.”

  Isabella took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay.”

  “Good.” With that, he picked up the sheath. “Ready?”

  “Yeah,” the girl replied, nodding firmly.

  He stuck the sheath in his mouth and bit down on it, then folded his right leg in front of him, exposing the calf muscle. The wound was a dark, reddish-black circle on the inner edge of his calf. The edges of the wound were already crusted over, due to the extended time in the saltwater of the bay. Seeing the condition of the wound, Logan shook his head, wishing he at least had water to rinse the wound.

  Using his fingertips, he pressed against the meat of the muscle, feeling around in an effort to locate the bullet. The pressure against the wound sent flashes of pain through his nerve endings, making him grunt through the sheath. He continued on, ignoring the pain, until he felt the offending object resting against the backside of his tibia. When his fingers pressed against it, it pushed against the bone, the pain shocking him enough to make him jerk his hand away.

  ‘Come on Logan,” he said to himself, biting on the sheath even harder.

  Using his right hand, he held the muscle of his calf in place while bringing the knife forward with his left, feeling grateful that his trainer at Fort Bragg had required proficiency with his non-dominant hand. Without hesitating, he dug the knife into the wound, knowing that his only possible reprieve would be a quick finish.

  The pain exploded inside him, instantly traveling from the wound through his body and into his brain, which sent signals back down to his hand, telling him to stop.

  Fighting against the urge to do so, he dug in, his blade slicing through the damaged muscle as it sought to find the edge of the bullet. When it did, it pressed it against the bone from the inside, sending even more powerful waves of pain through him, making him feel lightheaded. Shaking his head in an effort to clear it, he moved the blade ever so slightly towards him, feeling the edge of the bullet scrape against the tip of the knife.

  ‘Okay,’ he said to himself, ‘now slide it down so that the bullet is against the blade.’

  He did so, moving the blade slowly to avoid touching its tip against his bone, breathing heavily through his nose in an effort to balance the pain with the need to focus.

  Stopping, he took a deep breath and looked up at the sky as he tried to steel himself for what would come next.

  A surgeon would use medical tweezers to grab the bullet and gently extract it.

  He was no surgeon, and he had no tweezers, so instead he leveraged the side of the blade against the muscle of his calf and began to pry the bullet upward, forcing it back up through the damaged tissue of his leg.

  “MMMRRPPHHH” he grunted, unable to hold back any longer.

  Sweat burst out on his forehead.

  His face went pale.

  His eyes fluttered.

  Smack!

  Isabella’s hand rocked him, snapping him back into awareness.

  “Hold my hand in place,” he ordered. She leaned forward and wrapped her hand around his left wrist.

  Turning to the side, he retched, spewing bile, saltwater, and some of the protein bar he’d eaten onto the gravel at his side.

  “Uhhh,” he said, heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

  “Logan, you have to finish,” Isabella pleaded.

  “I know, he replied, nodding. His head hung low as he turned back to look down at where his knife disappeared into his leg.

  Isabella removed her hand, sliding back a bit.

  Swallowing, he applied pressure again.

  “GAAHHHH!!!”

  Blood flowed profusely from the wound, coating his hand, making the knife handle slippery in it. He squeezed the handle harder, afraid to lose his grip. The bullet kept plowing forward, its sharp surfaces ripping new pieces of tissue under the relentless pressure he applied to the blade.

  “PPSHHHHIIITTTT!!” the chunk of metal popped out from the wound, landing on the gravel between his legs.

  Logan collapsed, his vision going dim as he finally gave into the pain.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIX

  San Mateo, California, Within the San Francisco Protective Zone

  “Damn. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I fuckin’ miss Jack in the Box,” Staff Sergeant Nicholson said, leaning back in the passenger seat of the armored Humvee. Next to him Corporal Zhang was driving, taking her turn behind the wheel as per the agreement. With the exception of Corporal Rodriguez, who wasn’t about to give up his assigned spot on the M2 heavy machine gun, each member of the squad insisted on having a turn, mostly out of a desire to break up the monotony. Until recently, Sergeant WIllis would have simply claimed driving responsibilities, refusing to allow the lower-ranking individuals to have a turn, but Willis wasn’t there, and hadn’t been for the last three days.

  “Gross,” Zhang replied, shaking her head. “But I could eat the hell out of some KFC…”

  “Yeah,” Rodriguez replied, nodding, “been a while since I had some good fried chicken.

  “Not like that crap they served in the chow hall the other night,” Corporal Simmons interjected, “It’s like they ain’t never had fried chicken. Shit was all mushy.”

  “Yeah,” Nicholson replied, nodding. “That was pretty bad,” he conceded, “but the burgers ain’t been that good, either.”

  Zhang smiled. “Hate to break it to you, Staff Sergeant, but a burger’s a burger.”

  “Whatever,” he said, shaking his head. Looking off in the direction of the bay as the Humvee descended one of the many hills in the area, his eyes settled on the wide gap that had been created in the near end of the bridge. General Martin had been furious when he’d received the report of the damage, but ultimately, there was little he could do. The bridge itself was outside the Protective Zone, and while Nicholson and other Patrol Leaders had requested to venture further out, each and every request had been summarily denied. Rumor had it that eventually the Army Corps of Engineers, augmented by the Navy Seabees, would travel to the area to begin construction on replacement sections, but that was at least six months away. For the near term, the only options for getting to the Protective Zone were f
rom the north, or through the gang-controlled areas to the south.

  From the back seat, Corporal Simmons spoke up, changing the subject. “Any update on Sergeant Willis?”

  “Still recovering. Doc says he’ll pull through, and he should be able to save the arm.” They’d been on one of the rare missions outside the PZ, one that required them to hit a series of pharmacies in an effort to obtain a variety of medicines that were in high demand, when a crazed man, high on drugs, attacked Willis. At five-eight and maybe a hundred and forty pounds, the man normally wouldn’t have stood a chance against the much bigger soldier, but by bursting forth from one of the upper cabinets on the wall, the element of surprise had given him an initial, short-lived advantage. Flying downward from his perch, the man’s crazed eyes bulged in his head as he brought a meat cleaver down onto Willis’s left arm, cutting a deep, eight-inch gash down the middle of his bicep. In the moment, Willis didn’t even flinch as he grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, spun and threw him into the nearby wall, sending packages of prescription drugs flying in every direction. Though the man’s head slammed into one of the shelves, he didn’t seem to notice it, and lunged forward, intent on attacking WIllis again before the soldier fired five rounds into the man’s chest, ending his life.

  A second later, the Sergeant collapsed to the floor, blood flowing from his arm like it was being drained from his body with a hose. Shaking off the momentary shock at the suddenness of what had occurred, Nicholson had rushed to the man’s side. Seeing the wound up close, it was instantly clear that simple compression on the wound was not going to be sufficient.

  Knowing he had to take swift, decisive action to save the man’s life, Nicholson made the difficult decision of applying a tourniquet to the limb. While it did stop the bleeding, the appendage was without blood for over thirty minutes while they carried him back to the Humvee, sped back through the city, and delivered him to the medical facility.

  The fact that Willis survived the ordeal made Nicholson feel good about his decision. The fact that the man might lose his arm made him wonder if that had been the only choice available.

  Was there another option?

  Riddled with guilt, he avoided visiting the man, making excuses to others and to himself.

  If the man did, in fact, lose his arm, how would he find the courage to face him?

  As if she were reading his mind, Zhang said, “You did the right thing, Staff Sergeant.”

  Nodding as he continued to stare out the window, Nicholson muttered, “I know.”

  Sensing the need to change the subject, the young woman asked, “What time’s the flight coming in?”

  They’d heard hushed details about a military doctor being flown in, as well as the arrival of a young girl who was immune sometime later in the day. What they had heard they’d been forced to keep quiet about out of concern for the general population in the P.Z. While the arrival of someone immune was a huge development, one that could lead to development of a vaccine, there was some skepticism about whether or not the girl actually was immune. The initial thought had been that there had to be a decent number of immune people within the population, but after all this time, none had come forth, not in San Francisco, Oklahoma City, Indianapolis, or Boston. At this point, the thought of the existence of someone who was truly immune seemed like something out of a fairy tale.

  Glancing at his watch, he replied, “Pretty soon. They were actually supposed to be here sometime late last night, but I guess they were delayed at one of the stops or something.”

  “Cool,” Zhang replied. “Did I tell you the Air Force recruited tried to get me to join before I talked to the Army?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, he saw me get out of my car and came right outside to meet me.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I went in and listened. They do have some nice perks,” she said, nodding, “but I wanted to be a soldier.” She turned the wheel of the Humvee, guiding them down towards the waterfront area. “Plus, the guy kept trying to look up my skirt.”

  “Jeez…” Looking along the wide expanse of the bay he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head to look towards the south.

  “Hey, check it out,” he said, pointing off in the direction of the approaching aircraft. “Looks like we’ll be able to watch the landing.”

  “Cool,” Simmons said, leaning forward.

  Zhang pointed towards a small hill off to the right. “Pull over there? We can get out and stretch our legs…”

  “Sounds good,” Nicholson replied. They’d been on patrol for three and a half hours, still had two and a half to go, and a good stretch would definitely help. Plus, watching the arrival of the aircraft would be a nice change of pace.

  Zhang spun the wheel and guided the heavy vehicle up the small rise, then parked near the curb.

  “Rod, watch from the turret?” Nicholson asked.

  “You got it, Staff Sergeant,” the man replied. He relished his position as the gunner, and felt at ease anytime he was in the turret. Having the big gun at his disposal probably had something to do with it.

  Nicholson, Zhang, and Simmons got out of the military vehicle and walked across the small dirt patch on the side of the road, approaching its edge. Narrow and on the edge of a steep dropoff, it was too small for development, so apparently it had been used for smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap beer. Kicking an empty Coors beer can out of his way, Nicholson stopped at the edge of the dirt area and pulled out his cigarettes. He lit one up, took a puff, then offered it to Zhang.

  “No thanks,” she said, waving off. “I’m trying to quit.”

  “Good,” he replied. “These things will kill you,” he added, grinning. Looking at Simmons, he smiled. She hated the smell of cigarettes and was already covering her nose with her hand. “Tell you what,” he said, stepping back. “I’ll move over here so I’m down wind.”

  When neither woman responded, he looked back at them, curiously. Each one wore a shocked look on their face as they stared at the sky.

  A split second later he heard a rapid thumping sound. Turning back he followed their gaze and saw the C-17 deploying flares as a missile closed in on it. The missile exploded as the plane turned back. A second missile hit the aircraft with a boom that they felt from several miles away.

  They watched in stunned silence as the aircraft began descending towards the earth, leaving a trail of smoke behind it.

  When it disappeared from view, the three of them looked at each other.

  “What the fuck just happened, Staff Sergeant?” Rodgriguez yelled from the vehicle.

  “I don’t know…” he replied, shaking his head. It was too incredible to comprehend.

  Who the hell would shoot down a military aircraft?

  And why would they?

  Looking back towards where the aircraft had disappeared, he estimated it to be several miles southwest of their position, outside of the Protective Zone.

  “Fuck this,” he said, heading back towards the Humvee. He went straight for the driver’s seat, not bothering to explain anything. Instead, he barked out orders.

  “Buckle up and check your gear,” he said, starting the armored vehicle’s powerful engine. “Zhang, call it in.”

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

  “And Zhang?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Report it, then turn that fuckin’ radio off. We need to see if we can help, and I’d rather not get told ‘no.’”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVEN

  East Palo Alto, California

  Inside the social media headquarters building that sat along the shore of the San Francisco Bay, a 40,00 square foot food court looked down on the lobby from two floors above. Complete with a Starbucks, Chipotle, Five Guys, Panda Express, and Jamba Juice, it provided a little less than a third of all the food and beverage options inside the half-mile long building.

  On any given day (there were few exceptions, since every day was essen
tially a work day), the place was packed with people. Some were there to eat and socialize, others were there to eat and work, and others were there simply to get their work done at some place different from their desks.

  When the virus entered the food court via an overworked, overstressed young man named Aarush, the place was even more packed than usual, with every seat occupied and people standing or crouching near tables as they engaged with their fellow coworkers. A huge software update that would overhaul the user interface would be released in less than two weeks, and time was of the essence. Few people were there to socialize. Most, if not all, of the people there were working, their heads down, focused on their keyboards.

  Which is why they didn’t see the attacks coming until it was too late.

  Standing frozen at the top of the steps, Daniel and Paul stood frozen in shocked awe at dozens and dozens of the infected that moved about inside the enclosed food court, separated from them by the heavy, plate glass floor to ceiling windows that looked out onto the lobby. Men and women of all shapes and sizes, most of them in their mid-twenties to early thirties clawed in vain at the glass, their hands and fingers leaving new layers of dried blood on top of those left previously.

  Beyond where the infected stood near the glass, the interior of the food court area was in shambles. Food covered the floor, walls, and windows. Spilled drinks had dried on the same surfaces, leaving stick streaks along the surfaces. Tables and chairs had been thrown about. Some had been used as weapons and still laid atop the bodies of victims. Others had been thrown against the heavy glass, but had done little damage to the heavy safety glass.

  Through the three-inch wide vertical spaces between the sections of glass, the sounds of their rage escaped. Snarling and growling sounds accompanied the screams of anger and frustration the infected emitted as they saw new prey only five feet away from where they stood. Fingers reached out through the small openings, trying in vain to reach the two men.