Surviving Rage | Book 4

by Arellano, J. D.

  Nothing.

  It’s too late, Logan.

  Feeling helpless, he leaned down once more, determined to try at least one more cycle.

  Water splattered his face.

  Gurgling sounds came from Isabella as she coughed, then spit out more water. Logan quickly turned her onto her side, holding her as she coughed repeatedly, spitting saltwater out onto the gravel. He closed his eyes as relief flooded over him.

  She was alive.

  Finally she stopped coughing up water and simply laid there on her side, her chest heaving as she continued to pull air into her lungs.

  Sensing she was getting her strength back, he gently let go of her and sat back for a second before collapsing to the ground, too tired to even think, unable to even acknowledge the feeling of the coarse gravel digging into his skin.

  He laid back on the rough surface, his chest heaving as he tried to bring enough oxygen to fuel his muscles enough to even sit back up. In his rush to help Isabella, he’d neglected to take the time to catch his own breath.

  Next to him, he heard the girl mumbling.

  “What happened?”

  Unable to sit up, he raised a single finger, signalling that she should wait. The girl was likely confused, a symptom of hypoxia, one of the effects of the near-drowning she endured.

  Unlike what people saw in movies, the truth was that a near-drowning, especially one that involved physical struggle, was incredibly hard on the body. Aside from hypoxia, caused by an insufficient supply of oxygen for normal life functions, the effects of both Respiratory and Metabolic Acidosis would likely plague the girl for a while.

  The former resulted from a person’s lungs being unable to remove enough carbon dioxide from the bloodstream, causing headaches, blurred vision, confusion, and anxiety. The latter, caused by a chemical imbalance in the body - such as too much carbon dioxide and not enough oxygen - would likely leave her feeling weak, tired, and nauseous.

  Overall, the girl would be essentially helpless in the near-term, but with any luck, she’d recover and go on to live a normal life.

  Of course, the world was anything but ‘normal’ anymore.

  Having finally recovered enough to sit up, Logan made his way to a seated position, wincing as he felt the broken rib moving around in his midsection.

  Looking at the young girl, he gave her a weak smile. “Some men threw a grenade at us. I tried to get you to the other side of the car you were up against, but the blast threw us over the side.”

  “I remember the men kicking you, then shooting, then falling…” she shook her head slowly. “Nothing after that.”

  “The impact with the water knocked you out,” he told her.

  “So you swam all the way to shore while carrying me?” she asked incredulously. Looking out towards the bridge, she tried to place where they’d been when they were stopped by the men who shot Logan. It would be a long, long way to swim.

  Logan shrugged weakly. “There wasn’t much of a choice. I couldn’t leave you there.”

  Isabella scooted her thin body along the gravel so that she was sitting next to him, then leaned over and hugged him. “Thank you,” she said weakly, fighting back tears.

  Logan was caught off guard by the gesture and struggled to find the appropriate response to her sudden affection. He’d essentially cut off all emotional responses since the death of his fiancee nearly two weeks prior, and it had become something of a security blanket, shielding him from the possibility of disappointment, sadness, or pain.

  This...felt different. Suddenly he felt something again.

  He cared about her.

  Over the last twenty-four hours, he’d been singularly focused on rescuing her from Joe, then on escaping from the men who’d pursued them across the bridge, and finally, getting her back to shore. Throughout it all, it’d been a mission, something he’d promised to do, something that had a defined outcome.

  Bringing his right arm up, he wrapped around her gingerly, and held her. “It’s okay,” he said, knowing his words weren’t as important as his embrace. As she cried he held her there, close to him, trying to communicate that he was there for her.

  She wasn’t just a mission.

  When she finally finished, he gently moved her back and said, “I need you to help me with something.”

  The girl nodded, reaching up to wipe tears from her eyes as she did.

  Reaching down to his belt, he removed his knife from it’s secured sheath on his belt. It was the only weapon he had left, but hopefully he wouldn’t need it after he finished what he was about to do.

  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 FIFTY-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 from 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 so
on. 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.