“Alright, Father. We’d better get on the road.” Daniel said, pointing at the car with his thumb. “As the old song says, ‘We’ve got a long way to go, and a short time to get there.’”
Serafina looked sideways at her husband. “Dork. Thank you, Father.”
The man nodded.
As the two of them turned to walk away, The man reached out and grabbed Serafina’s arm, stopping them. When they looked at him, his eyes were filled with concern. Speaking in a grave tone, he said, “Please watch over Isabella. She is important, and I feel that danger will find her when it is least expected.”
Daniel nodded. “We will, Father.”
Serafina echoed his sentiment. “Don’t worry, Father. We’ll watch after her.”
“Thank you.”
The two of them walked to their car and got in. Starting the car, Daniel glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Father Rolando watching them. Daniel pulled the car forward and turned the wheel. He extended his arm through the open window and waved at the priest before exiting the parking lot and heading for the highway with Logan and the others following closely behind.
When the two cars were gone, Romeo jumped down from the fence, trotted over to the priest, and rubbed against his leg.
“I know, Romeo. I miss them already, too.” With that, Father Rolando turned and went back inside, closing and locking the door behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Outside of Bakersfield, California
The gun boomed loudly in his hands, sending a spray of metal slugs towards the target. The black man fell to the ground for the second time. This time he didn’t move.
“Fucker almost got away!” Graham said, shaking his head.
Looking down at the bodies of the black man’s wife and three small children, Sommer shook his head, then shrugged. “He should’ve just accepted it. Not like we’d let him get away.”
“Yeah, but you know how they are. Always thinking they’re so fast and strong. Might’ve been good for picking cotton, but it ain’t gonna help ‘em outrun a bullet.”
Sommer nodded in agreement. The family had been significant. Their deaths had put Sommer’s group total kill number over three hundred, with the man marking number three hundred and two. New targets were getting harder to find, either because they’d killed everyone worth targeting in the area they’d focused on, or because word of Sommer and his men had gotten around, sending the people they targeted deeper underground.
‘Won’t be any underground railroad here,’ he thought, turning and spitting on the woman’s body.
“Where’re Hank and Randall?” he asked.
“Think they’re checking the other campers.”
Sommer nodded, looking around. They were in a small RV camping area, which had twelve spots for people to hook up their campers. Seven of them were in use, but until they checked the last one, their fifth, they hadn’t found anyone.
Aside from the big vehicles, the area was largely empty. None of the fire rings had been used recently, nor had the park-provided barbecue grills. Sommer’s eyes traveled smoothly from his right to his left as he surveyed the area. The forest provided a lot of spots to hide, but he and his men didn’t have time to go hiking through the woods in search of targets. Through the trees, he could see the lake glimmering in the afternoon sun. A trio of fishing poles stood mounted in the mud of the shore. Each of them bent near the top, indicating a catch.
Frowning, he looked back down at the bodies in front of him. Aside from the man and his wife, there was a girl of about five and a pair of what appeared to be fraternal twins.
He turned and looked back at the fishing poles.
Hank and Randall approached, their botts crunching loudly on the rock and dirt of the camping area. “Nothing else in either of the two campers, boss,” Hank said.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Checked ‘em thoroughly.”
“Hunh.” Something didn’t make sense. Looking around again, Sommer’s eyes settled on a small cinder block building. The roof was dark shingles, the blocks painted a beige color. A brown painted sign with engraved lettering that had been painted yellow read:
RESTROOMS.
“Come on,” he said, walking towards the small building. He pointed towards the women’s room. “Check that,” he ordered before entering the men’s side, followed by Graham. If his suspicions were correct, Hank and Randall would find nothing. Not him, though.
Stepping into the space, he paused, listening. Even without power, the room was still fairly well lit, thanks to decorative cinder blocks that allowed light in, which were mounted high on the exterior walls.
On the wall directly in front of him were a pair of urinals, which were next to a pair of stalls. Mounted on the wall to the right were two metal sinks, two soap dispensers, and two air dryers. Moving towards the first stall, he kicked it open with his boots.
Nothing but a surprisingly clean toilet.
‘They must have been cleaning it themselves and using water from the lake,’ he thought to himself before stepping over to the next stall.
Pulling his foot back, he kicked open the next stall.
HIs eyes locked with another’s, ones bulging with fear.
Sommer had time to look down at the gun the boy held just before it roared in the small, confined space.
When he saw the flash of the gun not five feet from his face, he thought of his time in Afghanistan.
It was where his entire world changed.
At first, he’d believed in the mission. He’d bought into it, taking the lessons he and his fellow Marines had been taught about the religion of Islam to heart. The way the Muslim Chaplain, a heavy set middle-aged white man with glasses and a receding hairline, had presented it, it sounded respectable.
It sounded relatable.
Love of God. Respect for God’s creatures. Blessing one another, wishing them well. Counting each day of life on earth as a gift.
He’d bought it all.
Looking at the brown-skinned men, women and children in the villages his assigned patrols took him through, he’d seen people struggling for survival. He’d seen the fear and sadness in their eyes as they were surrounded by near-constant war. He’d seen the way they regarded the American and other Allied troops with respect and acceptance, all the while noting how they relaxed once he and his peers moved on.
It was when he watched them from a distance, seeing them in their element, that he saw something he’d never expected to see.
He saw happiness.
In the middle of destroyed buildings, damaged homes, and non-existent infrastructure, surrounded by massive craters caused by artillery rounds and the constant presence of armed military who marched through their towns and villages, he saw mothers holding hands with their daughters. He saw young boys talking rapidly as they looked up at their fathers in admiration. He saw children playing with old, worn, soccer balls on rock-strewn fields, uncaring of the strange and unpredictable bounces the ball took on the uneven surface.
Taking all of this in, he felt something he’d never expected.
He felt compassion.
He wanted them to have peace. To have safety and comfort, free from aggression. To be able to enjoy normal childhoods, normal existences as the children grew into adults and adults aged gracefully as God intended.
Until the girl tried to kill him.
He’d been sent to lead a squad through a previously bombed out part of a village that had been identified as one Al Qaeda frequented, receiving food and water from the villagers before retreating into the mountains again.
If the intelligence provided to them had been more detailed, he’d have known the villagers were forced to provide these things, that they and their families had been threatened with death if they didn’t comply or tried to leave.
Maybe he would have seen things differently, had he known these things.
After a six hour hike, he and his squad arrived in the village. Met by the sigh
t of dead bodies and the smell of burning flesh, they’d surveyed the village from its outer edges before he gave out assignments. Each man would clear two of the small, shelled out homes before regrouping at the far end of the village. They’d provide their required reports to base, have some chow, then head back.
Walking through the village, he’d watched a small, scrawny dog nudge a dead man with its nose, trying to get the man to wake up from his indefinite sleep. Grimacing, he felt bad for the both of them.
When he reached the first home, a small structure made of mud and wood, he paused and took a breath, steeling himself as he mentally prepared for the possibility of close quarters combat. He brought his finger to the trigger of his weapon and applied the slightest bit of pressure, knowing that a millisecond of time could be the difference between life and death.
Entering the space, he found the roof had collapsed in the corner, burying what looked like an old woman and two small children. Thin, spindly arms and legs protruded from the rubble, unmoving.
Shaking his head, he climbed over loose rocks and broken wooden beams, reaching the rear of the structure. Within the ruins he saw the telltale muted colors of old Afghani blankets, indicating this was the sleeping area for the family. Looking closer, his eyes settled on the dead eyes of an elderly man. The man’s legs were unnaturally elevated well above his head, his torso buried under the debris.
Breathing through his nose, he turned and headed back the way he came, climbing over the rocks and pieces of wood in his path. He nearly lost his footing twice, causing him to curse as he struggled to keep his balance.
Emerging from the small home, he paused to catch his breath. Relaxing his finger from its tightly maintained position on the trigger of his MP-4, he let his arm fall to his side and shook it, keeping the muscles of his arm from cramping. Looking to his left, he saw Lance Corporal Stephenson step out from one of the homes. The man raised his hand and gave a thumbs up. Nodding in response, he turned and walked towards the next home, bringing his finger back to its trained position..
Like the first structure, this one was made from mud, rock, and wood. Its roof had been caved in as well, creating a large pile of debris in the home’s front room. Unlike the other home, though, he saw no signs of people buried in what remained of the roof. Climbing carefully over the rock and mud, he stepped towards the small room at the rear of the structure.
Rocks came out from under him, dropping him onto his back, causing his finger to tighten on the trigger of his rifle, sending a handful of rounds skyward.
“Shit!”
His body slid downward in the rubble, sending rocks and debris toward a small, three foot hole at the back of the home that had been created by the collapse of the roof. Struggling to right himself, he rolled to his right, releasing his grip on the trigger of his gun as he came to a stop directly in front of the hole.
Inside the hole, two wide eyes stared back at him.
A gun cracked, sending a bullet towards him.
He felt its heat as it passed by his head, smacking into a nearby rock and sending chips of it into the back of his neck and the side of his face.
Realizing how close he’d come to death, he shouted, “Fuck!!” and struggled to bring his gun in front of him.
The gun popped again. Impossibly, the bullet missed him once more, this time smacking into the barrel of his rifle, richoteting away harmlessly.
Desperate, he grabbed a rock and threw it into the hole, hearing it smack against something soft.
A muffled cry came from the hole.
Filled with adrenaline and the instinct to survive, he lunged forward into the hole, his hands reaching out in front of him. When his fingers came in contact with the hot metal of a gun barrel, he pushed past and found the gun’s grip.
It cracked once more, sending a round through his backpack, puncturing his Camelbak and sending water spraying from its bladder.
He twisted the gun sideways hard, feeling it come loose from the person’s grip. In the darkness, he grabbed another rock and thrust it forward. It hit flesh and bone hard, sending a shockwave up his arm. He felt the other person’s will give way, but with adrenaline, anger, intensity, and (admittedly) fear running through him, he struck again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And...exhausted as the fight drained from him....no more. Dropping the rock, his senses strained as he tried to determine whether or not the threat was still there.
He heard nothing. No breath, no movement.
He saw nothing. Only blackness.
He smelled...death. Blood, accompanied by the smell of urine and defecation.
Taking a breath, he reached for the flashlight he kept in the breast pocket of his uniform. Turning it on, he directed the light towards his foe.
The young face and body of a preteen girl flooded his vision. His blows had caved in the left side of her face, but the intact right side of her face revealed what a natural beauty that would stop the hearts of men. The undamaged hazel green right eye was left open wide in fear and shock at her acceptance of death at his hands.
Choking back tears, he fought to maintain control of his emotions as his brain tried to process the series of events that led to her death.
He’d never wanted to kill a civilian, let alone a child.
A child?
How could he?
His mission was to find the enemy and to ‘neutralize’ them.
Was she the enemy?
What the fuck?
How?
He stared at the girl’s face, suddenly feeling an inexplicable sense of love for her, as if she were his own child.
Tears ran down his face as he looked at the girl’s dead form.
He’d killed her.
He’d killed a child.
Regardless of the circumstance, he killed this young girl, snuffing out her life with a rock from the ceiling of her own home, filling her mind and body with pain before her will to live was simply snuffed out at his hands.
A voice called out for him, accompanied by pounding feet.
“Sergeant?”
Looking at the prone form of the girl, he swallowed hard. “Yeah!”
Stephenson’s voice floated to him from the front of the small home. “You alright?”
Looking at the girl, his mind sped through a number of possible answers and related scenarios. Most of them led to questions.
One did not.
“Yeah! Hostile back here! Fucker shot at me! I killed the bastard with a rock!”
A pause.
Then Stephenson’s voice again.
“A rock?”
“Yeah! His shot damaged my rifle. I hit him with a rock.”
“Damn! Good job, sarge!!”
Pushing himself upright, he looked towards the dead body of the beautiful girl he’d killed. To her left was a small section of beam that had kept the roof from falling, creating the small, dark space she’d hidden in.
He yanked at the beam, allowing the rubble to fall, covering her corpse.
Hiding the evidence of what he’d done.
He’d emerged from the home a changed man. Struggling to accept what he’d done, his mind had spent hours and hours trying to justify it, trying to find a way to make sense of it.
He’d killed a child.
How would God forgive him?
In the end, he’d used the perversion of a belief to justify his actions.
He told himself it was for mankind. That killing her was necessary for the survival of the species.
The rational part of his mind struggled with this, throwing questions in the forefront of his consciousness, demanding explanation.
The irrational, emotional part of his mind slowly turned his memory of the girl into something else. Whereas he’d been stunned by the sleek lines of her face, her flawless skin, (which seemed impossible in such a harsh environment), and the glimmering color of her eyes, now his mind showed him a picture of a squa
red-jawed, masculine-looking girl, one whose eyes were filled with rage and a thirst for blood.
American blood.
When his mind revisited the fight, he didn’t allow himself to consider an opponent who was scared for her life, firing the gun out of little more than blind instinct.
He saw a trained fighter, intent on killing the enemy.
He saw someone who’d been taught to hate Americans.
He saw people different from them.
People who didn’t look like them
Who didn’t act like them.
Who didn’t pray like them.
People who weren’t Christians.
More specifically, White Christians.
Feeling the bullet pass by his head, he never even flinched.
Instead, he smirked.
The young boy in front of him simply didn’t understand.
He was chosen.
His foot lashed out again, kicking the gun free from the boy's hands. It smacked against the wall before falling to the ground, sliding out of the stall
Looking down at the boy, he felt his heart racing in his chest.
He was going to enjoy this.
“Leave us,” he ordered.
Graham’s footsteps echoed in the small space as he retreated.
Feeling his penis begin to harden in anticipation, he lowered himself to his knees.
And placed his hands around the boy’s neck.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
San Mateo, California, Within the San Francisco Protective Zone
Gunfire pinged against the side of the Humvee unexpectedly, making the soldiers inside recoil instinctively. The armored sides of the vehicle protected them, but the surprise of unprovoked attack wasn’t something one ever truly grew accustomed to.
“Goddamn it!” Staff Sergeant Todd Nicholson yelled, turning the wheel of the Humvee to the right, away from the gunfire. “What the fuck is it?”
Directly behind him, from his spot under the opening in the roof, where the mounted M2 heavy machine gun was, Corporal Rodriguez yelled, “Five hostiles with automatic weapons, now at two zero zero!”
Surviving Rage | Book 3 Page 28
