Surviving Rage | Book 4

by Arellano, J. D.

  But no, his dick had been doing the thinking, telling him that if she got better, he’d have another chance to have sex with the hottest woman he’d ever known.

  Maybe he could still fix this.

  “Hey, man, I fucked up.”

  “Yeah, whaddaya mean?”

  After wiping his face quickly and covertly, he looked over at Javier. “I left my fuckin’ clip back at my place. I only got one round in the chamber,” he said sheepishly.

  “Shit, dog, that’s not good. Never know what we might run into out here,” the other man said, shaking his head. “I think I saw an extra clip in the glove compartment, though.”

  Shit.

  Thinking quickly, he shook his head and said, “Naw, man. I took that shit out last night. Didn’t want any of the workers to find it.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah, man, sorry. Let’s make a quick trip back to my place so I can get it.”

  “Man, we gotta meet the Scorpion up on the One Oh One in a bit so she can check out the checkpoint we set up.”

  Sanchez waved his hand. “I know, man, it won’t take long, though. Swing by my place real quick.” Lifting his chin sharply, he added, “Hey, I got some of that Humboldt county shit we can smoke, too.”

  Weed was Javier’s weakness.

  “Awwww yeah, homie, let’s do this!” Grabbing the steering wheel at a low point, he was about to pull it upward so he could execute a u-turn when he hesitated. “Yo, what the fuck is this shit?”

  A black Ford Mustang sat next to the curb up ahead, shaking slightly as its engine rumbled. The car sat in front of the Korean-owned liquor store they’d been in two days prior, one that still had a good amount of beer and hard liquor on the shelves.

  “Hold on,” Javier said, moving his hand back to the top of the steering wheel. “Let’s see who the fuck these mothafuckas think they are.”

  Sanchez nodded. Whatever was waiting back at his place could wait the few minutes it would take the two of them to deal with the arrogant fucks who chose to enter Varrio Diablo territory.

  Pulling up next to the Mustang, Javier brought the car to a stop as Sanchez looked over at the driver.

  “The fuck you doing here, Esé? He asked, bringing his gun up and resting it on the window frame. In actuality, it did have a clip in it, giving him fifteen rounds to use however he saw fit.

  The driver, a white man with a clean shaven head looked over at him. At that moment, Sanchez knew something was off.

  “Sorry, man,” he began, holding his hands up so they could see them. “We’re just passing through and needed something to drink. It’s hot, you know?”

  Ignoring the tickling in the back of his mind that said, ‘Get the fuck out of here NOW!’, Sanchez stared at the man unflinchingly and said, “Yeah, well, you need ta find somewhere else to stop, homie. This here is Varrio Diablo territory.” Demonstratively, he flicked the gun’s safety off.

  “Woah, woah, woah,” the man began. “Sorry if we stopped in your territory, my friend. It’s not like it’s marked or anything…”

  From the driver seat, Javier muttered. “How the fuck did they get pass Chacho and Gustavo?”

  Ignoring him, Sanchez brought his gun up and pointed it at the white man. “Yeah? Well, either way, it’s time for you to go, white boy.”

  “Okay, okay,” the man said, shaking his head. “I don’t want any trouble,” he began, before grinning suddenly and adding, “Trent, there, does though.” He nodded in Javier’s direction.

  Sanchez turned to look at his friend just as a shotgun boomed at close range. Blood, bone, brains, and stray shotgun pellets splattered against him as his body recoiled. Blinded by the bit’s of Javier’s head that covered his face, he brought his pistol up and fired in the direction of the shooter just as the shotgun boomed again.

  The last sound he heard was the windshield shattering.

  “Fucking wetbacks,” Sommer said, stepping out of the Mustang. Walking around the lowrider, he smiled as he looked at the mangled corpses of the two Mexicans.

  Walking up beside him, Trent grinned.

  “Hey, at least I got two today.”

  “Better than nothing,” Sommer conceded, nodding. He looked inside the car for anything of value that they might want. Seeing nothing, he reached in and put the car in neutral, then had the men with him help push it to the curb. Finished, he turned off the engine, took the keys out of the ignition, and tossed them onto the roof of the liquor store.

  Sneering in disgust, he turned away from the car with its deceased occupants.

  “Alright. Let’s get going.”

  Their destination was a mere five miles away; a five story medical building that offered unobstructed views of the 101 and an elevated point of attack.

  One of the things that had made the Rage Virus so difficult to deal with was the rate and randomness of infection. Those who were infected first had an incubation period of 7-8 days, followed by a short time during which the infected felt better, even stronger, than they had before getting sick, before the virus changed them, turning them into the insatiable, anger-filled monsters that killed anything and everything that got in their way, while being oblivious to pain.

  The first mutation resulted in near-instantaneous changes in people, wherein they fell victim to an attack from one of the infected, and, if the injuries weren’t life-ending, they rebounded as one of the infected themselves.

  A second mutation was one that allowed the virus to come slowly, allowing those infected to believe that perhaps it was something else. Perhaps they didn’t have the Rage Virus at all.

  Perhaps they could defeat whatever bug they’d caught.

  Such was the case with Caroline Ratcherford, the woman who’d been forced to spend the last 24 hours was Robert “Dirty” Sanchez.

  But when she turned, it was bloody.

  And very, very violent.

  The vast majority of those she infected through her savagery fell under the first mutation, changing almost instantly into killing machines out for blood. Soon, the Palo Alto Luxury Tower, an ultra-modern high-rise apartment building Sanchez had been in charge of overseeing, was bursting at the seams with the infected.

  The glass doors at the main entrance to the high-end luxury apartment building were both impressive and aesthetically pleasing, but they would end up being no match for the dozens and dozens of newly infected.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Fremont, California

  As he reached the crest of a small hill, Reilley stopped short, taking his foot off the gas pedal and jamming it down on the brake.

  ‘This is not good,’ he thought to himself, looking at the cluster of cars in the middle of the street. The cars stretched from one side of the street to the other, leaving no room to pass. Behind the cars, men walked back and forth rifles held loosely in their relaxed grips.

  Not good at all.

  Turning the wheel, he was in the process of making a u-turn when he heard shouting coming from the direction of the road block. Seconds later, bullets pelted the side of the Prius.

  “Shit!” Stomping down on the accelerator, he swung the car through the rest of the turn and accelerated away, heading back in the direction he’d come from. Knowing he still needed to go north (aside from the need to stay away from the gang-controlled San Jose area, his plan revolved around him escaping across the San Mateo-Hayward bridge) he took the first right, heading in the general direction of the bay. If his assumptions were correct, he’d be able to travel at least a couple of blocks before turning right again, heading north once more.

  The Prius’s engine whined as he accelerated through the streets, passing stalled cars and trucks every few seconds. Fortunately, there was more than enough space to maneuver, allowing him to keep his speed up as he drove.

  Glancing in the mirror, he felt instant dread in the pit of his stomach.

  A large black Hummer was pursuing him.

  Not the smaller, commercial version GM had made
to satisfy the wannabes who couldn’t afford the original.

  The real deal.

  The over seven-foot wide, 8,000 pound behemoth that seemed capable of nearly anything other than quick acceleration.

  Riding on big tires, the Hummer was closing fast, its massive black brush guard growing bigger in his mirror with each passing second.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” he yelled aloud inside the car, his eyes searching the road ahead for a way to evade the SUV.

  He saw an intersection up ahead.

  ‘Too much time,’ he said to himself.

  Continuing on, he pressed down harder on the gas, increasing his speed. Shops flew past on either side of the car as he headed west, moving down the street as fast as possible, weaving in between cars with ease.

  Checking the mirror, he found that he’d increased his distance on the pursuing Hummer, giving him a moment’s reprieve from the intense fear that maintained a death grip on his chest. Exhaling, he pushed on, swinging the wheel back and forth as he worked his way down the street.

  Looking behind him once more, his heart sunk in his chest.

  Ill-equipped for high speed maneuvers, the Hummer was using its literal strength: powering forward, slamming through the vehicles in its way, its front end protected by the thick steel of the chrome plated brush guard. Cars, trucks, and even vans were thrown aside as the Hummer plowed through them, its driver solely focused on catching Reilley.

  Looking ahead, Reilley saw exactly what he needed.

  He’d have to time it right.

  Easing on the gas pedal ever so slightly so as not to give away his intentions, Reilley continued on, his eyes darting back and forth between his objective and the Hummer in the rearview mirror.

  The H1 drew closer, reducing the gap rapidly as its big, 6.6 Liter Turbo DMAX Diesel engine pushed it forward. The grill grew larger and larger in the mirror as Reilley pushed on, desperately trying to stay ahead of the massive SUV.

  Reilley felt the Prius lurch as the Hummer’s front grill slammed into his rear bumper.

  “Shit!”

  Pushing down a bit harder on the gas, he increased the distance between the two vehicles momentarily before pulling his foot off the gas altogether -

  - And yanking the wheel to the right, barely missing the front end of a moving truck. The little car’s tires screamed in response as the vehicle threatened to lose control, sliding sideways towards the liquor store that sat on the corner. With the sidewalk approaching fast, the tires finally found purchase on the asphalt, stopping the sideways motion before allowing the engine to propel the car forward.

  Though the H1’s wide wheel base made the vehicle inherently stable, the driver of the SUV knew its cornering limitations. Rather than attempt to make an impossible turn, he chose instead to slam on the brakes, leaving a swath of rubber on the road as the heavy vehicle came to a stop. Slamming the gear shift into reverse, he accelerated backwards until he could safely make the turn, guiding the H1 around the edge of the moving truck and onto the street the Prius had turned onto.

  The Prius was nowhere in sight.

  Accelerating down the hill, Reilley slowed slightly before turning right onto another parallel street. He’d keep doing what he’d been doing, taking a step-like approach to achieving a northerly route, driving north, then west, then north, then west again, over and over, until he could no longer go west.

  That point came sooner than expected when he reached Fremont Boulevard, which ran alongside the bay, and later, an ecological preserve called The Baylands. Unable to execute his evasive tactic any longer, he simply pressed down on the gas harder, pushing the car forward. As luck would have it, the northbound side of the street was largely empty.

  Apparently most people fleeing had tried to head east. If unable to do so, they made their way south.

  In the distance ahead, he saw an intersection with another road. Not knowing what it was, he knew it didn’t matter.

  He’d head west, farther away from the danger posed by whoever was trying to control access to Fremont.

  Slowing as he approached the intersection, he glanced in the rearview mirror instinctively.

  The Hummer was there, at most half a mile away and closing the gap quickly.

  “Mother fucker!” He screamed, slamming his hand on the wheel before yanking it to the left, taking the turn at a high rate of speed.

  In the backseat, Isabella cried.

  “Shut the fuck up!!”

  Settling on Boyce Road, he jammed his foot down on the accelerator again, speeding forward. He took the first left, hoping to create more space between them and those who pursued them.

  Car dealerships lined either side of the road he traveled down. Looking ahead, he saw a large, open area dominated by an array of greenish colors. To the right of that were large, flat pinkish areas.

  The Salt Ponds.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said to himself, speeding west, directly towards the area.

  Checking the mirror, he saw the Hummer turn onto the same road he had.

  ‘No matter,’ he thought, ‘I’ll lose them in the Pond areas.’

  Zipping down Cushing Road, just over a mile behind the Hummer, Logan leaned forward on the moped as he pulled back on the throttle, coaxing more speed out of the engine.

  When the Prius turned suddenly, heading west, he knew Reilley was headed towards the Salt Ponds.

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ he conceded.

  When the H1 turned, he continued on.

  He’d meet them in the Salt Ponds.

  And rescue Isabella.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Loyola, California

  “Looks good,” the Scorpion said, nodding appreciatively as she looked up at the pile of vehicles that blocked the 280 Freeway on both the North and Southbound lanes. Cars, pickup trucks, vans, and moving trucks had been used to form a wall, leaving little room for anyone to get by. At best, they could trek off the freeway on foot and climb through the bushes before reentering on the far side of the roadblock. “How’d you get the cars piled up like that?”

  “Found out one of our workers knows how to operate a crane,” the man standing next to her replied, smiling.

  Stepping back further, she continued nodding, then said, “Well, you know what?” She looked over to Lizette. “I don’t think we need you to blow anything up.”

  “Damn,” the Latina replied, shaking her head. She held up a brick-sized object that had multiple wires and a small circuit board on it. “I had just the thing, too.”

  “Don’t worry,” the Scorpion said, smiling at the woman, “We still have the Dumbarton Bridge to deal with.”

  “True,” Lizette replied.

  “And I’ll need you to put some IEDs on the 101 to make sure no one’s going to try to ram through our checkpoints.”

  Lizette smiled. “Already done.”

  One of the men with them laughed. “Pretty fucking hilarious us Mexicans put up a fucking checkpoint.”

  “Hey!” the Scorpion replied, smiling broadly as she pointed at him. “It’s for a good reason.”

  The group laughed even more raucously.

  When the laughter subsided, the Scorpion looked back at the man she’d put in charge of the roadblocks. “Alright, so what’s next?”

  The man’s demeanor changed as he took on a professional role. He’d been put in charge of the effort, and he wasn’t going to let the Scorpion down. More important than the fact that she would put more and more trust in him if he was successful, allowing him to move up in the ranks of her gang, was the fact that failure was not well-received by her. “Well, from here, we’ll work our way over to the Eighty-Two. We’ll block north and southbound lanes there, then work our way back to some of the major roads, like the Foothill Expressway. When that’s done, we’ll check back and see what your next priorities are, like reducing the number of approaches from the West.”

  “Good, good,” she replied, nodding her head. She looked at it a moment longer, then turned away.
Motioning towards the big white Mercedes G550 SUV they’d arrived in, she said, “Let’s go. We’re supposed to check on the check point Javier and Dirty Sanchez put up.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  North San Jose, California

  Serrano held the wheel tight as he rejoined the northbound side of the 101. They’d made better time than expected traveling north on streets that ran parallel to the 101, but at this point, no other route made sense. There were no streets that ran parallel on the north side of the highway, and most of those south of the highway tended to veer further and further away, which would only add time and distance to their planned drop offs at the Dumbarton and San Mateo-Hayward bridges.

  So far the morning had gone well, but Richard’s obvious discomfort in the passenger seat was beginning to worry him. Though the man’s movements were small as he tried to find a comfortable position, they were frequent.

  ‘Must have had some kind of injury when he was younger,’ Chili thought, glancing at the man before returning his focus to the road ahead. He’d already decided he’d cover the San Mateo-Hayward Bridge himself. Aside from the possibility of danger, it would be a long trek, heading out onto the bridge to set up in a spot where he could intercept that ‘Hermes’ asshole. The old man’s back wouldn’t do well on the hike, and Serrano would actually feel better knowing the man was staying behind to watch over the women and children, not that Sarah hadn’t proven to be highly capable of defending herself.

  They’d been on the 101 for just under an hour, traveling all of fifteen miles, when Sarah leaned forward and nudged Serrano’s elbow.

  “Water?” she asked, smiling as she extended the plastic bottle.

  Smiling in return, he took a quick look at the road and was in the process of turning back to grab the bottle from her hand when his mind stopped him. He jerked the wheel to the left, hard, swinging the SUV away from the thing that caught his eye.