Exhausted, the group sat down on the ground hard, breathing heavily as they tried to get oxygen to their overworked muscles.
Shaking his head, Daniel looked at the others. “Getting old su- ”
“Give it a rest, Daniel,” Serafina said, shaking her head. “We’re all tired.”
After resting and sipping water for nearly twenty minutes, the group collectively made it to their feet and began working their way towards the highway that had been cut off by the collapse of the bridge.
Looking at the mass of cars gathered near the edge of the drop off, they found two to be whole.
“Oh great…” Daniel said, shaking his head.
Each was a Toyota Prius.
Before loading their gear into the two vehicles, Daniel, Serafina, and Logan surveyed each vehicle and the surrounding area to be sure there were no infected lying in wait. Finding none, Daniel gathered the group and began handing out tasks.
Daniel and Paul would use the hose in Paul’s backpack to siphon gas, while Serafina, Ashley and Logan would search the other vehicles for food, water, and anything else of use.
Through their efforts they found melted chocolate, bags of chips, sodas, and bottled water, along with a map, two flashlights, jumper cables, and enough sunglasses for all of them.
Because the Prius was smaller than the Jeep, they needed to change their seating arrangements. Isabella wanted to stay with Brenna, but had also taken a liking towards Logan.
“Sorry,” Daniel began, looking at the young girl. “I have to have my daughters with me. This,” he gestured towards the horizon, “might just be the end of times, and the only one I trust to take care of my family - no offense Logan - ”
“None taken.”
“- is me.”
“I understand,” Isabella said, looking longingly towards the Army Combat Medic.
Brenna reached out and took the young girl’s hand before looking at her father. “We’ll squeeze in.”
Daniel nodded.
Isabella looked at Logan once more, sorrow showing on her face.
The man smiled as he stepped towards her. “It’s okay,” he said, bringing a doll from behind his back and handing it to her. “Take this, it’ll keep you company.”
The girl’s eyes widened as she looked at the doll. With long brown hair, a navy blue business suit, a blue tie, and a tiny American flag pin on the lapel, the girl recognized the figure immediately.
It was her hero.
She lunged forward, wrapping her arms around the man tightly for the second time in less than three hours. “Thank you. She’s my hero.”
Logan grinned. “Me, too. She’s a heck of a President.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mount Weather Operations Center, Virginia
“I hear what you are saying, Madam President, but my intelligence team is telling me that it is highly unlikely that a virus with an impact of this magnitude would result from anything less than an intentional release.”
President Martinez pulled the phone away from her ear momentarily, taking a deep breath to help her stay cool.
“President Morozov, the implication that the United States would do such a thing is offensive. Aside from the fact that the Geneva Protocol strictly outlaws the use of Bacteriological Methods of Warfare, the immorality of such an action goes against everything the United States stands for.”
“Nevertheless, Madam President, if my country was to determine that this was, in fact, intentional, we would be left with no choice but to view it as an act of war.”
Feeling her blood pressure rising, the President looked towards the ceiling as she responded. “Mister President, to assume that it was intentional would be to assume that the United States would be willing to murder its own citizens. We’ve had over a hundred million people die already!”
“And yet, there you are, safe in the White House.”
‘I guess his intel’s not that great after all,’ She thought, looking out the window towards the open fields that surrounded her temporary residence at Mount Weather.
“And you’re safe in the Kremlin. What’s your point?”
“The virus did not originate in my country, Madam President.”
Pulling the phone away from her ear yet again, President Martinez turned and looked out the window. It was taking everything she had to refrain from shouting at the obstinate man on the other end of the phone. While she understood the man’s anger over the deaths of his country’s people, it was a time to come together rather than attack one another.
Taking a deep breath, she brought the phone back to her ear. “Mister President, I will say once again that this virus was not released intentionally. Mistakes were made, but our country has suffered greatly because of the outbreak.”
Silence on the other end of the line was the only response for nearly a minute before Morozov’s voice returned. “I wish I could believe you President Martinez.”
The line went dead.
“Son of a - ” President Martinez’s hand gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles whitened. Seething, she reminded herself that her calm, collected demeanor, even when faced with the most stressful situations, was something people had always admired about her. Taking yet another deep breath, she sent the phone back in its cradle, then stood and walked to the window of the Distinguished Visitor Suite she used as her office space when not in the Operations Center. A second DV Suite had been provided for her and her family to use as their living quarters.
Looking out the window, she saw a lone couple walking along the street near one of the wide open grass areas that had recently begun to turn brown. Grass areas that normally would have been teeming with life, full of families having picnics, children chasing each other, and people of all ages taking part in various sports.
Instead, the area, like the rest of the military base, was desolate, free of the life that made it special. Morosely, she wondered if the entire country was turning brown, suffering as it slowly died.
‘You knew it was gonna be a challenge, Jessica,’ she thought as she put her arms above her head and clasped her hands together. Forcing her arms upward, she stretched out her arms, shoulders, lower back and core.
Shaking her head, she said to herself, ‘As challenges go, this has got to be one of the greatest any President has ever faced.’
Sighing, she turned from the window and walked to the small kitchenette, where a carafe of coffee waited for her. Pouring herself a cup, she added a packet of Splenda and a small creamer capsule to it before returning to her desk. Sitting down she looked over at the list of names on her desk. The first three had been crossed off. There were many more to go.
Some, like the England Prime Minister, George Taylor, would be understanding, supportive, and willing to help.
Others, like President Morozov, would be difficult. People like him ruled by use of fear and intimidation, made possible by overwhelming might, using in the form of a military that operated within the country’s borders, unlike the United States military. When things beyond their control hurt their citizens, their power was weakened. Their citizens would begin to question why they tolerated life under such harsh circumstances if they wouldn’t at least be kept safe. Because leaders such as Morozov presented themselves as strong, intelligent, and powerful, the citizens would scrutinize every move made by them during times of crisis.
And what if the people found them to be ineffective? Well, then that would indicate that they weren’t so strong, intelligent, or powerful.
Of course, that just made them more difficult for her to deal with.
Taking another sip of her coffee, she sighed yet again and picked up the phone and punched in the numbers for the next leader.
‘Let’s knock the tough ones out first,’ she thought as the phone rang.
It was answered quickly, and within seconds, she was on the line with Zhang Wei Li, the Chinese President.
Looking at the international clock on her desk, she greeted the man.
>
“Good morning, President Li.”
“Good afternoon, President Martinez. I was wondering how long you were going to wait before calling.”
“My apologies, President Li. My hands have been full here. I’m sure you understand.”
“Mine too, Madam President, and my country wasn’t the one that created this problem.”
‘Here we go…’ she thought, shaking her head.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Modesto, California
The sound of the road came through the open windows of the Ford Shelby GT500 Mustang as the vehicle’s supercharged, 760 horsepower engine chewed up the open road. Though open road was something that had become increasingly hard to find, the vehicle’s occupants had somewhat accidentally found out that traveling on California State Route 99 was much better than traveling on the I-5. Most of the interstate was driveable, but only with constant maneuvering at relatively slow speeds that were almost insulting to the heavily powered muscle car.
For the two men inside the vehicle, the open road brought them a sense of peace. They’d been busy the last few days, starting early and working late as they remained dedicated to their mission. Each evening, the two men found somewhere to clean up, eat what they could find, and rest before waking early in the morning to continue their work. Their clothes were dirty, covered in dark stains that would remain there long after the clothes had been tossed aside after being replaced.
Each man’s face was clean shaven, showing smooth, white skin that was only eclipsed by that on their heads. They wore hats out of necessity, having learned the hard way that hairless scalps were unprotected from the sun. Muscled arms were covered in tattoos, showing designs that implied aggression, toughness, and intimidation: skulls, combat boots, and lightning bolts. Each man had a similar tattoo on his body: a cross over a circle with the words ‘Blood & Honor’ split evenly above and below the symbol. The driver’s tattoo was proudly displayed on his chest, viewable through the gap in his open button-up shirt. The passenger sported the tattoo on his left shoulder, colored darkly with black and red.
Looking out the windshield through pitch black wrap-around sunglasses, the man who went by the name Steve Sommer brought his cigarette to his mouth to take a long drag. Blowing the smoke out, he switched hands on the steering wheel so that he could lift the bottle of whiskey from between his legs and bring it to his mouth. He took a small swig before putting it back, then used one hand to put the cap back on the bottle. Grabbing it again, he extended his arm and placed the bottle on the floorboard behind the passenger seat.
There was still a lot of work to do, and he only allowed himself one small drink after the successful completion of a task. Each day presented a large number of tasks, as many as twenty-two (the most they’d completed in a single day to date) but never less than twelve, at least not until enough headway had been made towards their overall objective, so it was wise to keep his drinking in check until the day’s work was done. He’d mandated that their work day ended when the sun went down, and with it being summer, that typically came late, provided they weren’t in a location where visibility was affected by smoke from unchecked fires.
“Where’d you put the smokes?” He asked, flicking the butt of his cigarette out the window.
The man next to him reached into the backseat, grabbed a carton of Marlboro Reds, withdrew a pack, removed the cellophane from it, opened the top, and offered it to Steve.
Pulling one from the pack, he brought it to his lips and waited while the other man ignited his lighter and held it up for him to light his cigarette. Taking in a deep breath, he drew the smoke into his lungs, allowing himself to relax as the nicotine invaded his system. After a minute, he exhaled, blowing smoke out the window.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
The two continued driving in silence for about fifteen minutes until the passenger leaned forward suddenly, peering towards a small building that stood off in the middle of a field on his side of the road.
“I think I saw something.”
“Yeah? You sure?” The driver asked, easing his foot’s pressure on the accelerator.
Tilting his head to the side, the man looked towards the building. A shadow moved downward inside the structure, shrinking from view.
“Yeah. Definitely.”
Steve Sommer moved his foot from the gas to the brake and brought the muscle car to a stop on the side of the road.
“Alright, let’s get it done.”
Ten minutes later they were powering down the highway again, their clothes carrying new stains. It would be time to swap them out soon.
“Good eye, Hank,” Steve said, holding his bottle of whiskey out towards the man.
“Thanks.” Hank brought his bottle up and clinked it against the other man’s.
Setting the bottle on the back floorboard again, Steve Sommer brought his right hand back up to grip the steering wheel so that he could bring his left to his mouth to take a puff from his cigarette.
He took a long pull from the cigarette, held it for a while, then blew another cloud of smoke out the window again. Looking back towards the windshield, he noticed a small dark spot on the glove that gripped the steering wheel.
Grabbing a rag from the center console, he wiped the blood away.
Three hours and seven successful task completions later, the two men were tired, hungry, and thirsty when they spotted the crowded parking lot of a bar and grill ahead in the distance. At first glance, they assumed the cars had been abandoned there, reminders of a time before the world had gone mad, but as they drew closer, they saw movement inside the windows of the bar and grill.
Steve Sommer slowed the car as they approached, leaning forward to get a better view of what was going on inside the establishment. The place had an old Western cowboy feel to it, with its faded wood exterior, and decor that included old cow skulls and horns, horseshoes, and tin stars.
A long wooden porch ran along the front of the structure, and on it a large, fat man sat, relaxing in a chair with a rifle across his lap. If the man was positioned there as a guard, he was doing a lousy job, considering the fact that he was fast asleep.
Directly in front of the porch were six motorcycles, lined up in a neat row. All of the motorcycles were Harley Davidsons, each one a Softail. Big, powerful engines dominated the bikes’ frames, which gleamed in the afternoon sun.
Sommer applied minimal pressure to the gas pedal as he drove the Mustang into the parking lot, still looking through the windows of the place to see what they were dealing with.
Inside he saw at least seven people, two of which were playing pool at a table near the window. Of the seven, three were women, including one that was working behind the bar. The other two were positioned close to the men they accompanied, their companion’s arm draped over their shoulders lazily.
Glad they hadn’t been noticed, Sommer let the Mustang coast around the structure until they were out of view. He parked it along the side of the structure, then looked over at Hank and nodded. Exiting the vehicle, he paused, then said, “Jackets.”
Each man reached in and grabbed a heavy jacket, which they slipped on before grabbing their guns and placing them behind their backs. They closed the doors to the car quietly before turning away from the vehicle.
Their footsteps crunched on the dirt and gravel parking lot as they made their way to the front porch. Reaching its edge, Sommer stepped up onto it and walked over to where the fat man snoozed. Reaching down, he pulled the rifle off the man’s lap and held it up at his shoulder.
Still the man slept, his snores coming through his open mouth noisily.
Sommer kicked the chair hard, waking the man.
“Hunh? What?” Startled out of his slumber, the man snapped forward, nearly falling out of his chair. Staring up at the muscular white man in front of him, his hands reflexively went to his lap, expecting the rifle to be there. Finding nothing, the man turned his head, looking for it. Seeing it a
t Sommer’s shoulder, his eyes widened.
“Looking for this?” Sommer asked, tilting his head to the side to indicate the rifle.
Stunned, the man could only nod, his fat jowls shaking slightly as he did so.
“Here.” Sommer extended it towards him, keeping the barrel pointed at the sky.
The man’s hands came out quickly and grabbed it from Sommer, pulling it away and to his own shoulder. Looking up at the tall, bald man sheepishly, he struggled to his feet as his massive stomach threatened to keep him down. Standing awkwardly, the man’s elbow bumped the window, gaining the attention of those inside. He was in the middle of pulling his shirt down to cover his belly when three men burst forth from inside, filing out onto the porch.
“What the hell, Larry? You’re supposed to be standin’ watch!”
“Sorry, Will,” the fat man replied, looking at Steve and Hank sideways, “they snuck up on me like a couple of cats.”
The man named Will walked over, followed by the two other men. Will was big, taller than Sommer by at least three inches and heavier by at least twenty pounds. His two companions were equally large. All three wore biker jackets and jeans. Like Steve and Hank, their arms were covered in tattoos.
‘But not the right ones,’ Sommer thought, looking over the men.Though all three of them were bigger than him, he wasn’t concerned in the slightest.
The man named Will tilted his chin upward as he regarded the two men in front of him.
“What can I do for you fellas?”
Sommer shrugged. “Kinda thirsty, a bit hungry. Whatcha got?”
Will made a deep snorting sound as he worked up a loogie. He spat on the ground, barely two feet from where Sommer stood on the porch. “We got both. But it depends on what you’ve got to give in exchange.”
Surviving Rage | Book 3 Page 10
