Hank reached out and sat his glass on the side table. “Sounds good. I’ll save my drink ‘til we’re back.”
Randall scoffed. “Really? Ain’t like you gonna get a DUI or anything.” He lifted his glass to his lips and drained it, then reached for the bottle again.
Hank shook his head. “Still don’t wanna mess up that nice ride we got. Don’t know if you noticed, but there ain’t no repair shops open.”
Randall raised his glass, which was filled again. “Fair enough, brother.”
Sommer smiled as he watched the interaction. Each man reminded him of someone from his past. As he considered the comparisons, he wondered if the men he was reminded of would’ve been willing to join the cause. Though each man had treated people of color decently, as required by the job, neither had socialized with them outside of work, and he’d never heard either of them even once extend anything that could be considered as friendship towards minorities.
‘Maybe,’ Sommer thought. ‘Maybe.’ The fit, muscular man looked at Hank and Randall once more, nodding and smiling. Looking down at where his own hand held his glass, his eyes traveled up his arm, quickly finding the tattoo that marked the part of his past that had taught him to find the joy he now felt when he hunted and killed.
It was a circular tattoo. At the center were a globe and anchor. Surrounding the intertwined objects were eight words: six at the top, two at the bottom. Once a Marine, Always a Marine, and Semper Fi.
Though he hardly felt any association with the United States Marines anymore, he admitted his experiences during the time that he served (nearly six and a half years) made him the man he was today.
His time in the warzone had been bloody and brutal, and he’d helplessly watched many men die at the hands of the enemy. Each time, it filled him with frustration, a feeling of pressure that filled his chest, longing to explode forth from him in ruthless violence that took down everyone and everything in his path.
But the Rules of Engagement had held him back. The code required that he consider civilian casualties. The code required that he avoid targeting women and children. The code required that he help the wounded, even if they’d been shooting at him or his men two minutes prior.
‘Fuck the code.’ He said to himself, shaking his head before taking another drink. He reached out and set his glass on the table. Randall leaned forward quickly and grabbed the bottle. He filled Sommer’s glass almost to the birm, then smiled at him. “There you go, brother.”
“Thanks.” Steve replied, grabbing the glass and holding it up in a toasting gesture.
Back in Afghanistan, he’d toasted his teammates with barely cold beer after their first successful mission, but it hadn’t felt genuine. They’d only taken out one of the enemy, an Al Qaeda operative who’d been holed up in a small home on a hill, and though the ‘leaders’ said he was important, Sommer preferred quantity over quality.
It was the only way they’d win they’d win this war.
By comparison, when they’d cleared a village of Taliban soldiers, killing five in the process, he’d been nearly ecstatic. Not because of the terrorists they’d sent to their graves, but because of the old man he’d choked the life out of. The man had been, by all accounts, an innocent bystander, but given the opportunity, Sommer had used his superior size and strength to end the man’s life, feeling his heart pound as he watched the man’s eyes bulge inside his skull.
When he realized he had an erection, he knew there’d be no turning back.
The thrill was too great.
A little caution, the proper use of time and place, and he’d be able to kill over and over again.
The first, second, and third kills hadn’t been racially motivated. Not at all. It was merely his deep, dark desire to kill that had found the opportunity to make itself known, to come forth from within and fill him with a sense of power. It was exciting and addictive, and the more he got away with it, the more he needed it.
At first, when the rush of endorphins left him, the killing left him filled with guilt.
His desires overpowered his guilt, though, and as he struggled to accept himself, he found himself rationalizing his actions more and more.
When his victims were men, he said to himself, ‘They were probably terrorists, anyway.’
For the women: ‘They were probably helping the terrorists.’
For the children: ‘Probably future terrorists.’
The rationalization slowly gave way to a dehumanization of the Arabs he encountered. Soon, he looked at them through shit-colored glasses, seeing them as little more than dirt, disgusting creatures that both spread a false religion and threatened the American way of life.
When he found out Black people could also be Muslims, his focus widened.
It wasn’t long after that he began to look at the minorities around him as inferior. The ones who were junior to him were there to be abused. The ones senior to him were pawns, put in place by true leaders, White men who knew they had to give the appearance of actually caring what the Blacks, Hispanics, Asians, and others felt and thought.
He understood, and because he understood, he played along. Because he played along, he learned to hide his disdain for minorities.
He’d probably still be playing along if he was still able to keep killing. That had made it all worthwhile.
But that fucker Ramirez had stuck his nose into business that wasn’t his.
“Dark now, boss. Getting hungry.” Hank robbed the thick hair that grew on his chin. “You wanna head out?”
Sommer tossed back what remained of his whiskey, set the glass aside, and stood up. “Sure.” He stretched his arms overhead, enjoying the feeling of the muscles warming from blood flow. When he was finished, he reached down and grabbed his rifle. “You coming, Randall?”
The other man’s eyes were closed as he rested his head against the chair’s cushion. “Figured I’d hang back and make sure no one tries to come in. Keep us from having to re-check the rooms.”
Sommer nodded. “Good call.” He and Williams walked outside and got in the car with Hank taking the wheel. When Hank started the engine, the brilliant white light from the headlights illuminated the front of the building, showing the large silver letters that were mounted on the building’s facade.
Residence Inn by Mariott
Bakersfield
They’d come farther south than he’d originally intended, but the more he thought about it, the more their southern travels made sense. Los Angeles and San Diego were big, diverse cities with plenty of targets.
He told himself they’d head back down south once they started running out of targets in the northern part of the state. He also knew that they’d encounter plenty more travellers heading towards San Francisco, where the government had set up their so-called “Security Zone.” If he and his men were successful, the Security Zone would be lacking in diversity, which meant that the survivors, those who would repopulate the country after the government got their shit together would be white. They’d return the white race to prominence in the United States.
It was a daunting task, but he, Hank, and Randall were dedicated. They’d keep up their work, putting in hours, accomplishing tasks, as long as they could.
“How ‘bout this place?” Hank asked, leaning over and pointing towards the dark structure of a grocery store. The windows that lined the front of the building were broken, leaving the sidewalk in front of the store covered in glass. The signs were dark, as was the interior of the store.
“Sure,” Sommer replied, “probably won’t be much, but we’ll take a look.”
“Alright.” Hank pulled into the parking lot and sped across it, bringing the car to a stop at the edge of the sidewalk directly in front of the store’s main entrance. The two men got out, guns in hand, and paused, surveying the parking lot and the area around the building. Save for a handful of cars that looked like they hadn’t moved in at least a week, the parking lot was empty.
Turning, they focused
their attention on the store. There were splatters of blood on what remained of the doors and the ground beneath them. Pieces of cloth were stuck on the jagged edges of the door’s glass, fluttering in the soft wind of the night. The place was tomb-like in its dark, quiet presence.
Sommer nodded silently, then stepped towards the door, mindful of the noise his boots made on the broken glass beneath his feet. Though the place looked empty, looks could be deceiving, and he was not about to be caught by surprise. He paused momentarily, taking his flashlight from his pocket and affixing it to the end of his rifle. Pointing the rifle downward, he used his thumb to press the button for the light, turning it on. He brought the rifle up slowly, swinging it to either side of the entrance to make sure it was clear before stepping through the door.
The inside of the store smelled stale and rotten. Grimacing, he tried to block the smell out as he continued moving into the store. To the right was the produce area, which was both the source of the unyielding stench and unlikely to yield any edible food. He moved to the left, eager to put distance between himself and the decomposing produce. The first row he passed was designated for canned vegetables. Though the shelfs were mostly bare, there was a random assortment of cans here and there, enough to make him commit to coming back for a more thorough evaluation. Pausing, he looked back at Hank. When the man acknowledged his gaze, Sommer pointed down the aisle, towards the back of the store. Hank nodded and moved in that direction silently, carefully placing his feet as he moved. Once his partner was in position, Sommer gave a hand signal, motioning for the man to head forward. They reached the second aisle, each turning and looking down its length. The aisle still contained a lot of pasta and canned or jarred sauces, items forgotten during the hoarding that had taken place.
The two men continued on, checking each row for people and finding none. The frozen food area was a mess, the floor covered with water and melted ice cream, the insides of the freezers covered in water soaked cardboard and defrosted foods that were covered in mold. Fortunately, the doors to the freezers were keeping the stench of the decomposing food inside, sparing them from breathing the putrid smells likely generated.
Overall, what had been left behind by the people who’d raided the store was more than enough to feed the three of them for several days, so they’d take time to load what they needed once they’d finished clearing the remainder of the store.
When they got to the deli & bakery area, they were unable to avoid the smells of rotting meat and molding bread. The two men worked through the area quickly, verifying no one was behind any of the fixtures before meeting up again at the front of the store.
“What do you think?” Hank asked, lowering his gun as he relaxed slightly.
“Looks good. There’s still the offices in the front here, and the back storeroom and freezer areas, though. Let’s clear those before we start loading up supplies.”
“Sounds good,” Hank replied, nodding. He looked towards the food aisles then shook his head and added, “I can’t believe I’m looking forward to Chef Boyardee raviolis.”
“No kidding. I’m craving some of that canned chili.”
Sommer turned and led them to the offices in the front of the store. The manager’s office was a small cluttered room, containing little more than an officer chair behind a small desk that held a computer monitor and stacks of paper. A short hallway connected the office to the customer restrooms, which were both free of people and still relatively clean.
The adjoining employee break room was where they found the bodies.
The door to the room was difficult to open, requiring the strength of both men to push it inward. Looking inside, they realized its weight was due to a number of items that had been stacked up against it. Tables, chairs, trash cans, and boxes of canned sodas had been positioned against the door in an effort to keep the infected out of the small space.
Unfortunately for the victims, their efforts had made their escape from the infected within impossible.
The white swath of their flashlights revealed the bodies of a middle-aged white man and a young white woman were closest to the pile near the door. Both had been brutally attacked from behind, their faces and heads smashed beyond the point of recognition, leaving dried blood and an assortment of teeth on the tiled floor beneath them.
Sweeping his flashlight to the left, the light revealed a tall black man, sitting on the floor near a small sink. His eyes stared into space while his hands rested in his lap, no longer able to hold his entrails inside of him. His intestines had spilled out of the gaping wound in his stomach and piled onto his crotch, making it appear as if he’d taken them out for presentation.
In the far corner of the room, a short, stout Filipina lay on the ground, a bloody knife still clutched tightly in her hand. Her face was bloodied and battered, the skin on her neck had been ripped away, exposing the muscles and flesh beneath. Her attacker, a redheaded, freckled teenage girl lay off to the side of the woman. The girl’s hands and mouth were covered in the dried blood of her victims, but the blood around her midsection was her own, having poured forth from the multiple stab wounds the Filipina had inflicted.
Sommer was still taking all of this in when he heard the pop and hiss of a soda being opened.
“Crazy shit.” Hank said, bringing the can of Pepsi to his lips.
“No kidding,” Sommer replied, reaching down and grabbing a can for himself. He opened and drank from the can, enjoying the flavor of the drink, regardless of the fact that it was lukewarm.
Stepping into the room, he looked at the refrigerator. Against his better judgement, he walked to the appliance and opened it. As expected, the smell of rotting food escaped, adding to the already overwhelming smell of the decomposing bodies in the space, further assaulting his senses. Finding what he expected made it worthwhile. He reached in and scooped up nine bottles of water. Moving to his left, he set them on the counter while using his foot to kick the door to the refrigerator closed.
Resting against the counter for a second as he tried to breath, he looked over at Williams. Still choking from the smell, he managed, “Make sure it's clear out there.” As the man turned and left, Sommer scooped up the bottles again and moved to the door.
Hank’s voice came from outside of the room. “Clear.”
Sommer squeezed the door, carefully clutching the bottles of water against his chest. The last thing he wanted was to drop one of them and have to return to the stench-filled room. Emerging from the room, they rushed to the nearby bagging area and set the bottles down before returning to the door and pulling it closed.
“Fuck!” He muttered, shaking his head. In his mind, he reasoned that the black guy and the Filipina probably exuded the worst smells, being from a lesser race.
Once he’d regained his composure, he stood and brought his rifle back in front of him. “Let’s check the back area.”
The two men moved to the rear of the store, sweeping their lights as they went. When they reached the swinging door behind the meat counters, they paused, gathering themselves before entering in tandem.
“Well, shit.” A voice called out from their left.
They swung their lights and guns in the direction of the voice and found a large, burly white man, covered in tattoos. His head was clean shaven, the only hair on his head that of a thick moustache and beard. In his large arms was a small, Asian boy, who struggled against the man’s grasp. The man held a gun to the boy’s head. Nearby on the floor, the bodies of an Asian couple lay face down.
“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this,” the man growled. “Put down your guns or I blow this kid’s head off.”
Sommer scoffed, keeping his rifle trained on the man. “Why the fuck would I care what you do to that fuckin’ gook?”
The man’s face broke into a huge grin. He released the boy, who stumbled backwards. As the boy regained his balance, the man shot him in the chest, sending him flying backwards into the shelving. The boy’s corpse flopped to the ground
heavily, coming to rest near the bodies of the others.
The man turned back to them, holding his gun at his side. He looked down at the bodies near his feet. “Caught these fucking chinks trying to take my shit. I was in the middle of carving them up when I heard y’all enter the store.” He looked back at Sommer and Williams. “Thanks for letting me finish my business. I hate these yellow bastards.”
Sommer smiled as he lowered his gun. “No problem. Name’s Steve Sommer. This is Hank WIlliams. Yes, like the singer.”
The other man nodded. “Graham Walker. Pleasure to meet ya.”
Sommer went on to explain who they were and what their mission was. The man listened intently, nodding as he took in the information. When Sommer finished, he smiled.
“Sounds fuckin’ awesome. Hell yeah, I’ll join ya.”
Sommer looked over at Hank. “Whaddaya think, brother, do these three add to our daily total now that Graham here’s part of the team?
Hank shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
“Alright, the new record is sixty-two. That’ll be tough to beat, but with hard work, dedication, and the right opportunities, I think we can do it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ventura, California
The sun was near the horizon when Serrano and his group reached the outskirts of Ventura, puttering along in a van that was on its final leg. Not wanting to get into the main area of the small city in a van that could literally quit on them at any moment, Serrano had everyone looking for possible spots to hide out in for the night. He’d given them a number of choices, which he listed in order of preference: small homes, churches, and libraries/government buildings. He recognized that only the first would have the amenities most of the group was used to, but their available time and search area were both limited. He made it abundantly clear that if they got within ten miles of the city center without finding a suitable home, they’d stop and backtrack until they found a suitable church, library, or other government building to hole up in for the night.
Surviving Rage | Book 3 Page 22
