“Put your head down like this,” he said, turning his head to one side before bringing the side of his face to rest on the ground. “Look for any unusual mounds. It won’t be much, but see if you can spot anything.”
“Okay.”
“You cover the left side of the street, I’ll cover the right.”
“Got it.” Ramirez stared at every possible inch of the road that he could see for the first twenty yards or so out. He couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”
“Anything?” Smith asked, turning his head to look at him.
“No, nothing.”
“Alright. Get up.” The two of them rose from their positions and moved on, walking about fifteen yards and stopping again. After spending several minutes inspecting the road ahead, they got up and moved on. They were repeating the process a third time when Ramirez’s breath caught in his throat.
“What is it?” Smith asked, turning his head.
“There, in front of me.”
“Dammit, use degrees.”
“About two eight zero, ten yards out from our line.”
Remaining on the ground, Smith crawled backwards, then to the side, then forward, coming to a stop next to Ramirez. He peered towards where the Corporal indicated.
There was a small mound of disturbed dirt, barely higher than the surrounding, uneven ground.
“Stay here, I want to check something.” Smith crawled backwards again, then rose to his feet. He walked to the side of the road and picked up the branch of a tree.
Looking at him, Ramirez said, “Tell me you’re not going to poke it.”
“Idiot. Of course not.” Smith walked over to where Ramirez lay on the ground and stopped. Ramirez started to rise from his position. “Don’t. I don’t want you to lose sight of it.”
“Okay.”
Pulling a pack of gum from his pocket, Smith stuffed two pieces in his mouth, chewed them quickly, then pulled the gum from his mouth. He stuck the gum on the end to the stick, then withdrew his mirror from his pocket and stuck it face out, onto the gum. He turned around and looked over his shoulder towards the general direction of the mine. Holding the stick up high, he angled the mirror downward, then moved it until he located the mound. He examined it, then moved the mirror to the left, scanning across the street’s width.
“Holy…”
“What is it?”
Smith brought the stick down and looked towards the mound. “Get up.” He ordered. When Ramirez was at his side, he passed the stick to him. “Locate the mine.”
Ramirez raised the stick, then moved the mirror slowly until he located the small mound. “Got it.”
“Now scan to the left.”
Ramirez moved the mirror slowly, inspecting the street. His heart pounded in his chest when he saw what Smith had. “Holy fuck….”
The entire width of the street had similar mounds, placed at two foot intervals. Each of the others was better camouflaged than the one he’d located, but the view from an angled position above the road made them identifiable. The uniformity of their placement made them unmistakable.
Lowering the stick, he passed it back to Smith, who removed his mirror from it before setting it aside. “What do we do?”
“Hold on. I’m thinking.”
“The rocks?”
“Maybe. Hold on.” Smith turned his head towards the far side of the street, looking at an empty structure. The openings for a window and door were pockmarked from gunfire, as was the facade, but the structure was mostly intact. He pointed. “There.”
He led them across the street, moving slowly as he stared down at the ground. When they reached the structure, he motioned for Ramirez to head inside. They cleared the structure before he returned to the front of it. Looking outward, Smith used his hand and quietly measured what he felt was the appropriate distance to where the IEDs were buried, then turned to Ramirez.
“Okay, come on,” he walked to the edge of the structure’ s window opening, which was closer to the line of buried devices. He held up his rock. “We toss them towards the closest device, which should be about there.” He pointed towards a spot on the road. “Then we run towards that back room.” He jabbed his thumb towards his chest. “I’ll go first, got it?”
Ramirez swallowed hard, then nodded.
“Okay, on three. One...two…three, Go!”
They didn’t make it to the back room before the explosion shook the earth, sending a concussive wave of energy outwards, throwing them across the room and through the opening. Successive blasts shook the earth as the adjacent devices detonated sending dirt and rock skyward. The two men rolled onto their stomach and brought their hands over their heads as debris rained down on them from above, falling through the opening that was once covered by a roof. Fist-sized rocks hit them, bruising them, and Ramirez waited for the larger rock that would break his bones or crush his spine, but it never came. Eventually the shower of rock and dirt slowed, leaving only a descending blanket sand-like substance that had been pulverized in the blast.
Coughing, Smith got to one knee slowly, “Fuck!”
Ramirez followed suit, moving to one knee, then to his feet. “You all right, Sergeant?”
Smith glared at him. “I fuckin’ told you.”
“I…”
“Let’s go.”
The air was a dark, grayish-brown from the particulate matter, making it difficult to breath, and both men brought their scarves up to cover their mouths and noses. Passing through the opening, they found larger rocks inside the front room of the structure. Ones that definitely would have broken bones. Smith led them to the street, where they found a hole big enough to swallow a school bus stretched from one side of the street to the others.
Hearing footsteps approaching, the two men swung their rifles around just as Baldinger emerged from the thick haze of dust, followed closely by the rest of the platoon. He slowed to a stop in front of them, pulling down his scarf.
“You’re alive. Thank God. I was worried there for a minute.”
Ramirez saw zero emotion on the man’s face.
Determined to tell someone what he’d witnessed weeks before, Ramirez remained vigilant over the next few weeks, waiting patiently for Baldinger’s tour to end. There weren’t any additional ‘scouting mission’s asked of him, and for the most part, things seemed almost as they had prior to the incident by the tower.
Almost.
It was when he was relaxed, eating his meal, walking to the latrine, or going through one of his workouts that he would look up and find Baldinger watching him. The man never said anything or made any gesture more than a slight nod, but it happened over and over until Ramirez began having trouble sleeping.
Once that started, it only got worse for him. The lack of sleep made his nerves frazzled, and more and more he found himself unable to focus. He knew it was only a matter of time before he failed in battle. He’d be too slow, aim poorly, or fail to account for something. Then he’d be dead.
Which, he believed with every fiber of his being, was exactly what Baldinger wanted.
Luck intervened somehow, with Baldinger receiving word that he’d be heading back a week early due to planned aircraft downtime the following week. It was the only opportunity for him to go, and Captain Miller insisted he take it.
The man stared long and hard at Ramirez as he lifted his pack onto his back, not caring who was watching.
“See you around, Corporal Miguel Ramirez.” He took a step towards the opening to their tent. As he passed in front of Ramirez, he stopped and looked back at him one last time. “You know, we should get together sometime. You live in San Antonio, right? At 15733 Avenida Fronterra?” His face broke into that out-of-place smile that sent a chill down Ramirez’s back. He nodded as he grinned at the young Corporal. “Yeah, we should do that.”
With that, he turned and left, tossing the flap to the tent aside as he passed through. Ramirez remained there, heart pounding in his chest as he tried to calm himself. After
a couple minutes, he turned and walked out of the tent, heading towards the helicopter landing zone, where Baldinger would depart from on his way to Bagram Airbase. He needed to be sure the bastard was actually leaving.
When the helicopter departed, taking the Staff Sergeant with it, Ramirez found the nearest stack of pallets and sat down, taking a deep breath. The man clearly had it in for him, and even though Baldinger had left, something told him it wouldn’t be the last time he’d see the man.
What could he do?
Who could he go to?
‘Pray, Miguel, pray,’ he thought, reaching up and grabbing hold of the cross around his neck.
His eyes widened as he realized the answer was basically right in front of him.
The Chaplain.
CHAPTER FOUR
Marine Corps Station Camp Pendleton, 2017
“The fuck are we going in such a hurry?” The heavily muscled black Marine asked, sitting in the passenger seat of the Base Police vehicle as it sped across Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton.
“We’re supposed to pick up some Staff Sergeant who’s staying in the TQ.” The other Marine replied. Nearly as big as his partner, his originally fair skin had been browned by the Southern California sun. He glared through the windshield as they headed west across the massive piece of federal land. Off to the right, horses grazed on one of the hills, their tails whipping in the afternoon sun as they tried to shoo flies away.
“Yeah? What for?”
“Some shit he did when he was out in theater.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Apparently he may or may not have killed some civilians, including women and children.”
“Damn,” The black man said, shaking his head. “That’s some fucked up shit.”
“I know.”
The driver turned the wheel hard as they pulled into the parking lot of the Transient Quarters, making the tires squeal loudly. He cut diagonally across the mostly empty parking lot, then slammed on the breaks as they stopped at the curb in front of the building. Throwing open the door, he said, “Room one eighteen. Let’s go.”
“Let’s do it.”
The driver led the other Marine down the hall, walking quickly towards Room 118. Their boots smacked the pavement in unison as they walked, unaware that they’d fallen perfectly in step with each other out of habit. Across from the sidewalk they walked on, a small group of young Marines were huddled around a cigarette butt receptacle, holding their smokes in their hands as they watched the men make their way towards the room. None of them said a word as they looked on, wondering what had brought the two large men from the base security detail to the Transient Quarters.
When the two reached their objective, the black Marine went to the far side of the door and stood there, arms crossed in front of him, making his muscles bulge even more. The other man rapped on the door loudly, leaning closer to listen for sounds inside the room.
“Base Security, open up!”
After thirty seconds, the man knocked again, then repeated himself.
When another thirty seconds passed without the slightest sound, the man pointed towards one of the Marines in the smoke pit. “Hey, Devil Dog, go get the building attendant.”
A young thin Marine nodded. “Roger that, Gunny Sergeant.”
Several long minutes later, an older Filipino man showed up with the young Marine, carrying a ring of keys.
“You need access?” The man asked in this thick accent.
The tanned Marine nodded. “Please. Thank you sir.”
“Okay, okay. The man worked through a number of keys, inserting each one until he found the one that matched. When the key unlocked the door, he stepped aside.
The Marine nodded at the Filipino man and stepped in front of him before pushing open the door.
“Base Security!”
The door crashed against the wall, then bounced back slightly before being caught by the Marine’s forearm.
“What the - ?”
The man’s uniforms had been neatly set out on the bed, organized in great detail, including which part went with which. Field uniforms were stacked neatly next to Dress uniforms, which were stacked neatly next to Service Uniforms. Shoes and boots were aligned neatly at the foot of the bed, the dress shoes polished to perfection, their surfaces glass-like. The camouflage covers (hats) were set next to the stack of Field uniforms, and the Dress cover, which had been cleaned and shined, was set near the Dress uniforms.
Stepping into the room, the large black man stared at the stacked uniforms on the bed, then looked towards the small table and chair in the corner of the room. A piece of paper was atop the table. He crossed the distance between the door and the table in long strides and picked up the piece of paper.
It’s been fun, Devil Dogs, but I’ve got work to do. Work you all might not be okay with.
See you on the other side.
Semper Fi,
S.B.
Part II
CHAPTER FIVE
“This is the Emergency Broadcast System with an urgent announcement. If you or someone you know is immune to the Rage Virus, please make your way to one of the protective zones immediately. Your help is needed as soon as possible. Protective zones had been set up in San Francisco, Oklahoma City, Indianapolis, and Boston. Citizens are advised to proceed to the protective zones immediately. The government will not be working to secure other cities until a much later date. All entrants will be subject to a four day quarantine in the outer tent city, during which time they will be provided protection, food, water, and temporary shelter. After required quarantine, entrants will be allowed into the city and provided with more permanent accommodations.”
CHAPTER SIX
Phoenix, Arizona
“For God’s sake, be quiet!”
The man’s hand gripped his wife’s arm tightly, demanding her compliance. His eyes were wide as he looked out of the surprisingly intact storefront window. Crouched down behind an overturned magazine rack, he peered around its edge, looking out towards the street. The woman next to him was choking back tears, struggling to remain silent as she dealt with the grief she felt over her young son’s injuries. Holding the boy’s head in her lap, she cupped his face in her hands as her tear-filled eyes traveled down his body, taking in the multiple bandages that had been applied in desperation, trying to stop the flow of blood that ran from his body. The boy’s breathing was shallow, his skin pale and cool as his body tried to deal with the shock of trauma. His time was short, maybe minutes remaining, and his mother was struggling to accept the lossa.
The boy’s father wished he could take the time to mourn his son’s impending death, to spend the boy’s last minutes with him, holding his hand and remembering the moments of joy the child had brought into his life, but his focus was on the pack of infected that were shuffling in their direction from the far end of the street.
Moving slow and steady, the group snarled and growled as they walked, their heads moving from side to side, looking for signs of life. Life they’d quickly, ruthlessly, and violently take. From time to time, one of the infected would stop, raise its head, and smell the air, confirming the scent of uninfected humans was still present. Each time, the creature would lower its head, look forward, and emit a hissing sound, rage showing on its face.
Inside the store, the man looked down at the tire iron he still clutched in his hand. Blood and bits of hair remained on the end of it, remnants from the creature he’d brained with the bar. The one that had snuck up on his family, climbing across the roof of the small gas station, where they’d stopped to look for food.
The one that had beaten his son to a pulp.
‘A lot of good being immune to the virus did him,’ the man thought wryly.
Watching the five creatures move along the street, the man found himself praying to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in, asking for divine intervention, not just for the group to pass, but also for his son’s recovery.
The group stopped in
front of the store, pausing, as two of them tilted their heads upward, smelling the air.
Robert looked towards the door, wondering if it would be enough to keep their scent from reaching the noses of the infected. Swallowing hard, he stared out through the window, watching as the creatures remained frozen, heads held high. The other three looked around, searching for signs of life.
Heart thundering in his chest, he realized he was not only holding his breath, but squeezing his wife’s arm hard, possibly causing her pain.
Looking back towards his wife, he realized she was staring down at their son, eyes wide in shocked sorrow, her mouth open and working to find words.
Following her gaze, he looked down at where their son’s head rested in her lap. The boy’s head lulled limply to the side, his battered and bruised mouth hanging open, revealing missing and chipped teeth.
No breath left the child’s body.
His chest had stopped moving.
He was gone.
Immunity to the virus meant little when the damage was more than a human body could withstand.
‘Jackson….’ he thought, blinking back tears.
In a sudden realization, he knew his wife would be unable to control herself. Letting go of her arm, he reached for her face, hoping to turn her towards him so he could convince her to keep it together, if only for a few moments.
His hand was within inches of her face when a loud keening sound came from somewhere deep inside her. It rose in intensity, getting louder as she began to scream.
“No...no...no…..nooooooooooo! Please, God! No!!!”
She pulled their son closer to her, burying his head in her bosom as she fell to the floor.
“I can’t...I can’t….”
The window behind them exploded inward, showering them with shards of glass as five of the infected crashed into the space.
It was over in seconds.
Surviving Rage | Book 3 Page 4
