✽✽✽
Marcus stayed low to the ground and peeked around the corner of a burned-out convenience store. The supermarket he was surveilling was not a chain store, but it was large, and it was the place at which the brothers had previously shopped for food before society came under attack.
His brother, George, was in the yard of a house behind him, keeping watch for Ragers. There was a body of a deceased Rager lying in the yard with his head propped onto the lower step of the porch. Both of the young men were now armed with serious-caliber rifles and carried six loaded magazines each. The sense of security that the donated gun and ammunition afforded was much appreciated.
The parking lot of the market held several abandoned cars, some with their doors standing open and showing shattered windows and others that looked like the owners had parked them carefully and then just walked away. The cars didn’t bother Marcus. The men standing in the doorway of the store did.
There were three of them in sight, and Marcus figured there were a few more inside. The ones keeping watch were armed with modern weapons and wearing military garb. At first, Marcus thought the military had finally arrived to take control of the city. After a few minutes of watching them, though, his initial optimism drained away.
Marcus and his brother had lived in this neighborhood for their entire lives. Except for a thirteen-month deployment to Iran with the National Guard, Marcus had never gone anywhere else. During their time in the neighborhood, the brothers had met most of the people who lived there. They knew the people who were good, honest, low wage laborers and they knew the others; people who were best left alone and avoided.
One of the men standing with a rifle in the entrance to the market was a member of “Los Mojados,” a notorious street gang. The man’s first name was Arturo. Marcus never knew his last name, but he knew the man and his friends were trouble.
The Mojados had named themselves after the slang word for illegal aliens; “Wets.” A man who called himself Lobo led them. He was short, about five feet, four inches and weighed no more than 120 pounds. What he lacked in stature he made up for in violence. Everyone in this neighborhood knew that Lobo was crazy. Certifiably so. The local police had long suspected him of committing four murders. One of those murders had been committed on a boy of sixteen who had lived across the street from Marcus and George. The only witness to the killing had been found dead with his eyes removed, an unmistakable warning to all who would dare to snitch on the group.
Marcus continued to watch the area and the activity in the store. The men in front of the market seemed to be waiting for something. Movement caught Marcus’ eyes as a group of Ragers came around the corner of a boarded up tire store. There were seven of them, two women and five men. The infected spied the men at the grocery store, and Marcus heard the screams and growls. The sickened group charged the three gang bangers, intent on tearing them to pieces.
Marcus shifted his focus back to the men at the market. They seemed almost casual as they lifted their weapons and let their attackers draw near. When the Ragers were only ten yards distant, the trio opened up on them. All three had weapons capable of firing in full auto mode. The noise was deafening, even from Marcus’ distant perch.
The infected looked like they were struck with a sudden urge to dance as the storm of bullets tore into them. Five fell almost immediately, but two of the men were ignoring numerous hits to the torso as they struggled forward. Marcus watched bullets hitting the street, the cars and the buildings around them. He noted the waste of ammunition and unconsciously shook his head. A moment later, the two stalwart infected men succumbed to the dozens of body wounds and fell to the asphalt.
The three defenders of the supermarket reacted with high fives and the display of their ridiculous gang sign on their fingers.
“What’s happening? What’s the shooting about?” George had crept up to the convenience store and was tugging at Marcus’ pant leg.
Marcus slid backward on his belly, then rose to a sitting position and rubbed the dirt from his cheek. “The market is out. The Mojados have it.”
“Damn!” George swore and leaned back against the soot-stained building. “We need that food. Most everyone back on our street is running out.” He pulled a small bottle of water from a large fanny pack around his waist and offered it to Marcus who took it and drained it. George produced another bottle that was identical to the first one and took a few sips, spat into the dirt then turned back to his brother.
“That store should belong to the neighborhood.”
Marcus snorted. “Yeah, we should just march right down there and tell that to Lobo. You go first, George.”
“Hey, I know…I’m just sayin’” He punctuated his statement with a shrug and another spit. “What do we do now?”
The younger brother looked at his older sibling and wondered how it was that George had surrendered the position of decision-maker to him. George was two years older and, when they were growing up, had always made it clear that he was the one in charge. After Marcus joined the Guard and came back from Iraq, he noticed a change in George’s demeanor. The usually active and energetic youth had taken to smoking weed most of the day and lounging around their house, content to let Marcus be in charge.
Marcus figured out early on that the Rage plague was passed on by close personal contact and urged his neighbors to stay hidden in their homes to avoid or minimize contact with others. Before things got bad, the brothers had gone to this same market and loaded up on canned goods and things like nuts, peanut butter, crackers, and other dry foods. They had shared the groceries with the six other families still surviving on their block, but things were now running low for everyone. Most of the people on the block were elderly and incapable of fending for themselves, so the brothers just assumed that responsibility.
Marcus now searched his brain, trying to recall the nearest stores. Going out anywhere in the daylight was risky now. The packs of the sickened were growing larger each day as more people were infected. The survival of the gang presented an entirely new danger to watch out for.
George leaned forward and spat into the sand again. “Maybe the Mojados will help us out. We could just walk up with our hands out and our rifles slung. Tell ‘em what we need the food for and maybe they’d give us a few cans.”
“Yeah, because they’re known for their sympathetic natures.”
“Well? Do you have any other ideas?”
Marcus sighed and wished he had a cigarette. He had kicked the habit three years before, but now he yearned to light one up and take a long, lung-filling drag, holding it in before allowing it to drift out of his nostrils slowly. “George, the only thing we would accomplish by walking down there would be the loss of our rifles, our ammunition and maybe our lives.” He scooted forward until he was closer to his brother. “We’re in survival mode here, Bro. Everyone is. You have to change your way of thinking. Anyone who sees us with rifles will see us as a threat to their safety.”
“What about those people who saved our asses that night? They even supplied us with this rifle and all those magazines.”
“Yeah, well, that was nice of them, but we can never count on others behaving like that.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the supermarket. “The Mojados were out of control back when we had the police and military intact. Now that civilization is almost gone, how do you think they’re going to act? Form a ‘Meals-on-Wheels’ and start delivering food to all the survivors in the neighborhood? No, Bro. They’re going to take whatever they see and kill anyone who objects. They are just as dangerous as the Ragers, maybe more so because they can think and use firearms.”
George hung his head and went quiet for a few moments. Marcus let him have his time. He knew his brother was slow in coming to terms with the new reality. George wasn’t stupid. Before he started overindulging on weed, he was working every day as an apprentice electrician. He put in two years with a local contractor until being fired for always coming in
late or getting high on the job.
George finally raised his head. He turned his head to the side and spat again before meeting Marcus’ eyes. “There’s a big Costco over on Ashlan. You think they got to that yet?”
Marcus smiled. “Now see? That’s a good idea. Let’s see about finding us a truck that still starts.”
✽✽✽
The three pickups entered the market parking lot and wound their way through the abandoned cars before backing up to the front door. The drivers killed their engines and exited their trucks. There had been two people in each vehicle. Two of the drivers were women.
One of the men who approached the store wore jeans and a black leather vest over a bare chest. The garment had a patch on the back with the legend “Los Mojados” in large letters across the shoulders. Below that were smaller letters that read “Fresno, CA.” The shorter man was the only one not in military garb.
When Lobo reached the doors, there was a noticeable tenseness in the men who had been guarding it. It was understandable. No one knew what would set off their leader or what he do if such a thing happened. Everyone here had seen members beaten, stabbed or shot for drawing Lobo’s displeasure. Lobo recognized the tension and smiled to himself. The condition was what he identified as respect. In his mind, there was no difference between that and fear.
“Start packing everything up,” he shouted. The leader of the gang passed through the doors and into the store. There were scattered cans here and there on the floor as well as a ruptured bag of potato chips that had been stepped on and was spilling its contents. It was clear others had been here, but there was still plenty of food available.
“Arturo!” Lobo shouted as he walked.
“Aqui, Jefe!” The answering call sounded from the back of the store.
Lobo continued through the aisles until he reached the frozen food section. Arturo was there with two of the gang’s soldiers. They were standing in a circle around a young boy about thirteen years old sitting on the floor.
Arturo was Lobo’s second-in-command or ‘Segundo.’ He had reached that level in the hierarchy by a willingness to demonstrate his anti-social tendencies and unwavering loyalty to his boss. Whereas Lobo was short and wiry, Arturo was six two and weighed almost three hundred pounds. Like Lobo, he wore dirty jeans and a leather vest. His bare bulbous belly protruded from the garment.
He nudged the boy with a boot. “Found him stealing our stuff.”
Lobo knelt so he could look the lad in the eye. He saw a slim body and skinny arms. The kid’s face was dirty, and his black hair lay matted to his skull. Though he was afraid, his eyes were defiant.
Lobo lifted the lad’s chin with a finger. “You didn’t read our tag? Can’t read?”
The boy stared back. “I can read.”
“Then you got no excuse. This store and everything in it belongs to the Mojados. You’re stealing.”
The boy jerked his chin away from Lobo’s finger. He looked down at his hands then over at Arturo. His expression was angry. Lobo snapped his fingers to bring his attention back.
“Answer me. What’s your name and why are you stealing our stuff?”
“Ramon. My name is Ramon. And I’m not stealing anything; you don’t own this place.”
Arturo unconsciously held his breath. Lobo rarely tolerated defiance of any type. If this kid were a little older, there would be no doubt as to his reaction to his words. This situation had the potential to become bloody.
To Arturo’s surprise and relief, Lobo looked over at his lieutenant and grinned. “I like this kid.” He shook his head and turned back to face the youngster again. “Okay, you get a pass for having balls.” Lobo’s hand moved so fast that Ramon never saw it. His head snapped to the left as the slap stung his cheek. He looked back at Lobo to see there was an index finger now pointing at him, an inch from his face. “You only get one pass, kid. Now, when you leave here, you tell everyone out there that this place and this food belongs to me. People need food; they can buy it from me. Bring me guns, bullets, cars, anything they think I might want. But if you or anyone else ever tries to steal from me again…well…it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
Lobo turned to Arturo. “Let the kid fill up one bag with food then kick his little ass out of here.”
Arturo gave Ramon a light push toward the canned goods aisles. The youngster didn’t know it, but the big man was doing him a favor by getting him out of Lobo’s sight. The unstable boss of the Mojados was known to change his mind quickly.
✽✽✽
Pops drove us south along Locan Avenue. I had the M-240 ready for action in the back, but we had seen no real threats so far. There were more than a few bodies strewn here and there. There was no way to tell for sure, but the corpses appeared to be those of dead Ragers judging from the condition of their clothing. The sight of them stoked our hopes that the Rage victims would die off, leaving us a safer world in which to live.
The housing projects flashed by us on either side. Pops swung us into the parking area of a big high school on the east side of the street and gave one honk of his horn. He thought someone might be hiding out inside, but no one made their presence known. We went back out on Locan and continued south until we reached Ashlan Avenue where we turned west again. I figured Pops was taking us to check on Marcus and George, the two brothers we had rescued a few nights before. Before we passed Clovis Avenue, I saw a McDonalds and wished I had a hot, cheesy hamburger with a mess of fries and a large, icy Coke.
We went by a business complex, and Pops slowed down again, rolling us through the parking lot. I wondered if anyone inside might see us but be afraid of the two machine guns sticking out of the backs of our vehicles. We got through the business complex and were about to continue across the street to a big Costco when Buck came over the radio.
“Hold up, Dan. I see a truck over there on the south side behind that dumpster. Movement inside.”
Pops braked. “Take up position here and cover us,” he replied. “I’m going to check it out.” He looked at me in the rear-view mirror. “Be ready just in case.”
I nodded and drew back the charging handle to chamber the machine gun.
Pops swung the Bronco around and started south at a crawl. He lowered his window and put his left hand out like he was waving. We went around a pair of trees in a loop so we could approach the dumpster head on. I was looking over my shoulder and saw the truck was a Dodge one ton diesel. It was a four-door model with an eight-foot bed and seemed to be brand new. When we got twenty yards away, the driver’s door opened, and a familiar looking man stepped out.
Pops pulled forward and stopped right in front of the other vehicle. He got out. “Hi, George.”
Marcus rose up with his rifle in the bed of the truck. He was there to provide cover in case of attack. He waved at us.
Pops leaned back in to call Buck over via the CB. I dropped the gate and climbed out, relishing the flow of blood back into my cramped legs.
Buck and Jaime came over. Buck had positioned the Suburban with the rear to the west, covering the only direction from which we could conceivably be sneak-attacked. I saw him point to Jaime and guessed he was telling him to stay put and provide cover for us.
I walked up to where Pops and the two men were shaking hands and talking. Marcus saw me and opened his arms for a hug. He darned near snapped my back as strong as he was. When he released me, I was spun around and grasped in another hug from George. That’s when I discovered that impressive physical strength must run in this family.
We got the hugs and handshakes out of the way, and Pops was asking them what they were doing out in the daylight and hiding behind a dumpster.
Marcus pointed to the big Costco building across the street. We were looking west, and the back of the store was facing us. All I could see from my vantage point was the featureless white rear wall of the store. Well…not entirely featureless. There was a steel ladder attached to the building and leading up to the top. The ladder ended about t
welve feet from the ground to keep would-be burglars from exploiting the access to the roof.
“We were thinking of maybe getting inside and snatching some food. The people still left on our block are almost out.” He shook his head. “It looks like the Mojados got there first.”
Questions and answers were going back and forth as I continued to look over the mammoth store. The story I was hearing was that a local gang had already laid claim to another grocery store and was now chasing others from the Costco. I knew how Pops was going to react to this news.
“There are two trucks over in the parking lot by the main doors.” Marcus was explaining. “It looks like they haven’t been able to get them open yet, but they have tagged the doors with their sign. In their minds, that means it all belongs to them.”
I noted the darkness on Buck’s face as he glanced over at the store and back. “And you say they have already taken over another grocery store?”
George nodded. “Yeah, they’re a big gang. They terrorized our neighborhood even before the Rage hit. I don’t know how so many of them avoided the sickness, but we spotted at least ten of them earlier today. The six over there by Costco make at least sixteen. I’m guessing there are probably more.”
Pops listened but said nothing for a while as he looked toward the store. I knew my Pops. He was not inclined to let a situation such as this continue. He finally made his conclusions and looked at Buck.
“I think I know what these guys are doing. They want to control the food that’s left so they can control the people.” He turned to where Buck and I were standing. “Buck, you’re the professional here. Think there’s any way we can run those boys off without risking a wholesale gun battle?”
Virgil's War- The Diseased World Page 7
