Standing up from his chair, John Willey fired pistol fingers at the computer. “Pew! Pew! Line ‘em up and knock ‘em down! That’s what ol’ Wild Willey, does!” he said, using the nickname he and no one else had given him or used.
He was, by all accounts, a computer nerd, which wasn’t by any means a bad thing, even if he’d dreamed of being something more, which he most certainly had.
Throughout his childhood, he’d wanted to join the military, regardless of what his parents thought or said. He was determined and ready, and as soon as he finished high school, he eagerly rushed down to the Air Force recruiter to enlist. Though his ASVAB scores were great, they told him his ‘medical condition’ was disqualifying, whatever that meant. No amount of pleading, no desperate, heartfelt requests for waivers got him anywhere. The other services told him the same.
His dream was dead.
Discouraged, he’d decided to focus on his second love: computers. Though not as exciting as he imagined military service would be, it was good work, and it did allow him to both earn an online bachelor’s degree from the University of Phoenix (something he didn’t necessarily feel he needed, but had recognized would increase his salary potential) and enable him to afford a small apartment in central San Francisco, something that had really paid off when the outbreak occurred a mere six months after he’d finished his degree.
When the military in charge of the protective zone asked for volunteers to help run the operations, he’d practically leapt at the opportunity, and when he found out they needed someone to work on computers and electronics, he’d been thrilled. He’d be able to help, and though he would technically be in the military, he’d be working with them, ‘supporting the mission.’
So here he was, fixing things and doing a damn good job at it.
Raising his voice in the empty room, he began to sing again.
“‘I’ve got a blank space, baby
And I’ll write your name,’
“Alright, who’s next?” he asked the row of inoperable computers that had been wheeled in that morning. Seven down, three to go. They weren’t expected for another three days, but at the rate he was going, he’d be done by midday tomorrow.
“Because, I’m Wild Willey!” he exclaimed happily as he reached for the closest one.
A voice startled him, making him shout, “Ahhh!”
“Hey, boss, I’m here to pick up the phones.”
Turning from his workbench, he adjusted the coke-bottle thick glasses on his nose and looked in the direction of the voice. The man at the counter wore one of those camouflage uniforms that nearly everyone in the building seemed to wear.
Well, everyone except him.
“Well, shoot. Let me see here,” he said, walking over to the counter.
Squatting down behind the counter, he began looking through the various gear he’d prepositioned for his customers to pick up, quickly finding two of the military grade smartphones he’d been asked to specially configure for use with long-range, low frequency communications towers, which had proven to remain effective even after the outbreak. As he looked for the extra one he’d programmed as a special ‘bonus’, he took the first two and set them on top of the pad of graphing paper he’d left on the counter in front of the man. Switching his position to rest on his knees behind the counter, he rummaged around noisily as he looked for the third phone.
“Give me just a minute, okay. I got something else for you.”
“Really not necessary,” the man said.
“I know, I know, but I want you to have it,” he replied, refusing to be dissuaded. He’d put in the effort to configure the third one, and he was proud of his work. Now, where the H E double hockey sticks is it?” As he moved a box of spare electronics parts aside, his sleeve snagged on its edge, pulling it to the side. Jerking his hand back instinctively, he dumped the box of parts on the floor.
“Dang it! Sorry! Just give me a minute, will yah?” Muttering to himself, he began to round up the parts and set them back in the box.
‘Where the hell is this place?’ Paul asked himself, as he wandered down the long hallway. Instead of going to the men’s room after Chili’s commissioning, he should have just held it and followed the others down to Gear Issue.
But he hadn’t.
And now he couldn’t find it.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was nine-thirty. He needed to get his stuff, head back to his room, pack, and get to bed. He wasn’t good at getting up early, and he could not be late tomorrow morning.
Nearing a corner, he heard footsteps in the adjacent hallway. He rushed forward, hoping to catch up to whoever was there so that he could ask for directions.
When he turned the corner, no one was there.
“Dammit!” he muttered.
Looking at a sign on the left wall, he saw the words, ‘Electronics Issue.’ The door to the space was open, and he could hear someone moving around within the space.
‘Maybe they’ll know where Gear Issue is,’ he thought to himself as he stepped into the room. At first the space appeared empty, but he could hear someone moving around behind the counter.
“Hello?” he asked.
A heavy thump came from somewhere behind the counter. “Ow! Dang it! My head!”
“Sir, I just need -”
“Okay, okay, I found it! Here!” A hand popped up from behind the counter and slapped a dark green device on the counter. “Take it and let me deal with this mess!”
Surprised, Paul picked up the device and looked at it. It appeared to be a cell phone, but it was much bulkier, mostly due to the ruggedized shell that had been applied to it.
“Sir, I don’t think - ”
“They told me you’d come for it. There it is,” the man explained from behind the counter.
‘Really?’ Paul asked himself. ‘Me?’ Shrugging, he reached down and slid it into one of the pockets on the leg of his camouflage uniform.
“Um, thank you, Sir.”
“Yeah, yeah, I hope it helps. You won’t be able to make calls unless you’re in one of the bigger cities where the cell towers are still operational, but messaging will work. That stuff can be easily stored and then sent when the recipient device is in range,” he explained. “Also, since I figured you all might need to communicate with more than just one of you, when I set up this third one, I configured them to auto-forward each text message to the other recipients, so you can do group texts without thinking about it.”
“I see,” Paul replied, still surprised that he’d been rated important enough to receive such a device.
“Like I said,” the man grunted as he moved in the small space, “if there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know. Darn it!” Another crash, and this time Paul saw small RAM sticks go sliding outward in multiple directions.
Looking at the phone, he smiled. “Hey, do you think you could -”
“Son of a biscuit!” the man muttered. “What a mess! Look, just write down what you need and I’ll get it done, okay?”
“Uh, okay. It’s just - ”
“Sorry, but I’ve got to clean this mess up.”
“Okay,” Paul replied, looking for something to write on. He grabbed a piece of scrap paper, took out his pen, and quickly wrote down what he needed, and set it on the counter.
“One last thing, Sir,” he began, “do you know where ‘Gear Issue’ is?”
“Down the hall. When you get to the end, turn left. Second door on the right.”
“Thanks again, Sir.” Paul replied, before turning and leaving. Breaking into a trot, he made his way down the hallway and towards his original destination.
Putting the last stick of RAM into the box, John Willey set it back onto the shelf and sat back on his haunches. ‘Jeez, John, you made quite a mess.’
Shaking his head, he rose to his feet and looked at the counter. A piece of scrap paper with the soldier’s writing sat there. He picked it up and read it. “Easy enough,” he said to himself, shrugging.<
br />
Looking at the clock on the wall, he saw that it was just after nine-thirty p.m., and he had no real reason to stay in the workspace any longer. He could knock out what the man had requested first thing in the morning, and deliver it before noon.
Walking back to his workbench, he turned off the desk lamp, then looked around for his glasses fervently for several minutes before realizing he was wearing them. Reaching up, he absent-mindedly rubbed the scar on his scalp as he muttered to himself. “You got me again.” Shaking his head as he pulled on his old coat. Though it was June, San Francisco nights were undeniably cold, and the walk back to his quarters would be a brisk one.
Moving to the counter, he brought his hand up, intending to grab the pad of graphing paper he’d left there. He loved to doodle, and the graphing paper helped him make sure both sides of whatever he drew were evenly sized.
The pad wasn’t there.
“What the heck?” He asked the empty room. ‘That darn Army fella must’ve taken it,’ he said to himself, shaking his head.
He’d go to Gear Issue tomorrow to see if they had anymore.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Near Pleasanton, California
Day 0
Inside a modern, two-story, six bedroom, four bathroom, 6,500 square foot house, a single light shone inside the upstairs master bath at the rear of the house on the second level. Previous confidence would have led the man to turn on any light he felt like turning on, taking advantage of the home’s solar panels that charged the numerous batteries mounted on the walls of the three-car garage, but things had changed. Discretion was now the preferred course of action.
At least until he healed.
Peeling back at the wide bandages that covered his midsection, Steve Sommer (formally Stephen Baldinger) examined his wounds. The pain that radiated from the three tightly placed wounds near his sternum would incapacitate most people, but for him it only fueled the fire that burned inside him.
He’d failed.
He’d been face to face with two men who sought to ensure the Mexican girl’s blood would be used to make a vaccine for the Rage Virus, a vaccine that would be given to millions, if not billions of people, and he’d been beaten.
Thrown from the airplane by the impact of the bullets fired by the Hispanic man’s gun, he’d hit the ground hard enough to knock what breath he still had in him after the bullets had hammered his torso completely out of him. For several long seconds, he felt as if he was suffocating as his body sought to pull air back into his lungs. Like a Catch-22 situation, the lack of oxygen made him too weak to take the deep breath he needed to take, and without the ability to take that breath, he remained weak. His mouth worked silently as he sought to find the air he so desperately needed. Like a trickle, the air flowed in slowly, snaking its way back down his throat and into his lungs, eventually giving him the strength to take a breath.
Finally able to sustain his breathing, he laid there on the ground, staring up at the hole in the aircraft through a red-like mist of pure fury. He’d yearned to get to his feet and climb back up into the aircraft, but his strength had left him, as had the fight in him, driven out by the multiple blows he’d taken, the blood loss from the wound he’d suffered when the dog had attacked him, the three shots to the chest, and lastly, the fall from the aircraft.
As much as he hated to admit it, he was beaten, and like the proverbial dog, he needed to retreat and lick his wounds, not only to give his body a chance to heal, but also to avoid the inevitable arrival of the military. They’d undoubtedly seen the aircraft’s fiery descent, and regardless of whether the likelihood of survivors was high or low, they’d visit the crash site to look for clues as to what had happened.
‘I shot it down. That’s what happened,’ he said to himself, as he worked his way to his side, pausing multiple times to grimace as pain shot through his body.
‘Come on, Sommer,’ he said to himself, using the last name he’d given himself after much research into the Nazi Leaders of the Third Reich.
Using one hand, then the next, he grabbed hold of the chewed up turf and used it to pull himself forward slowly, working his way back to where he’d hidden his car underneath the bent form of a Monterey Cypress. Progress was painfully slow, but eventually he made it to the shaded area underneath the tree’s thick canopy. His chest and ribs throbbed, a dull ache pulsating through his body that served as a reminder of the fact that he’d been badly beaten.
Instead of climbing into his car, which he knew he’d be unable to drive with any real control, he moved far underneath the lowest branches, putting some space between himself and the black muscle car.
Lying under the branches, he closed his eyes and finally allowed himself to rest. There was a likelihood that he’d be found, but at that point, there was little else he could do. Trying to drive away would only attract attention to himself, and he’d be unable to lose any real pursuit in his current state. In the unlikely scenario that the military men and women who arrived on the scene did notice his car, they’d look inside it, find it empty, and assume the car belonged to Hank, whose body was still inside the aircraft.
Most likely the two bastards still alive inside the aircraft would be unable to pursue him and would probably be too weak to tell anyone of his expected presence outside the aircraft.
So he waited and rested.
Less than five minutes later, the heavy roar of a military vehicle approached in a hurry and skidded to a stop near the aircraft. Sommer listened as loud voices yelled commands and communicated statuses back and forth. Another vehicle arrived, this one a larger, slower sounding one that he assumed was an Armored Personnel Carrier, and more commands were shouted as people were loaded into the second vehicle. He waited patiently, willing himself to remain both still and quiet as the commotion went on close by. Weakened and essentially helpless, he’d be an easy target for anyone to find and eliminate, but no one found him. No one even came close to the tree he laid underneath.
But apparently someone had spotted him.
Sometime after the APC and Humvee departed, heavy footsteps approached in a determined manner. Realizing the person was bound for his position, he’d struggled to get up, but had barely made it to his hands and knees before a man in military fatigues stepped under the tree’s canopy and pointed a gun at him.
“Don’t say a word, and don’t move,” the man ordered, staring at Sommer with a hardened gaze.
Sommer looked down at his hands and knees pointedly, then back at the man.
“Alright, you may rise to your knees.”
Sommer did so.
“What part did you have in all of this?”
Sommer shook his head, choosing to remain quiet.
The man stepped closer, keeping the gun pointed at Sommer’s chest as he did.
His aim disappointed Sommer. The inexperienced, as well as people in movies, aimed their guns at people’s heads. Experienced shooters knew that center mass was the safest and most productive place to aim. It was much harder to move a chest out of the way than a head.
“I don’t believe you,” the man said.
“I don’t care.”
“Really? I could put a bullet in you right now.”
Sommer’s eyes locked onto the other man’s. “If you wanted to kill me, you would have done so, and you wouldn’t have come alone.”
The man said nothing.
“So why don’t you tell me what the fuck you want?” Sommer pressed.
The man continued to point the gun at Sommer as he stared at him, seemingly measuring him. After a moment, he spoke. “Let’s just say that there might be a job for the person that has the skill, resources, and motive to take down that plane.” He cocked his head, looking down at Sommer as he continued. “I’ve had conversations with someone who’s intent on making a move, one that might shift the direction this country is headed in, while changing its very fabric of existence.”
Without bothering to ask, Sommer rose to his feet. “I’
m listening.”
Forty-five minutes later, Sommer was headed east, doing his best to ignore the pain in his ribs as he headed towards the house he now occupied. The plan the man shared with him was still in its formative stages, but one part - the part that involved him - was predetermined: ambush the men and women escorting the girl and take her. By agreeing to take part in the plan, he agreed not to kill her, at least not initially, and in exchange, he’d be given a small cadre of handpicked soldiers that were fully invested in achieving the ultimate goal:
Seizing control of the United States.
A creak downstairs snapped Sommer out of his reverie, placing his senses went on high alert. Hastily wrapping the bandages back in place, he tore off two short pieces of medical tape and stuck them on the end of the wrapping, securing it in place. Not bothering to don a shirt, he slipped out of the bathroom quietly and moved down the hall, heading towards the home’s central staircase without a sound.
Jogging quickly up the staircase was a dark figure.
Sommer aimed his gun at the man’s torso. “One more step and I’ll send you down that staircase with a hole in your chest,” he announced.
The man stopped instantly and brought his hands up.
“Easy. It’s me.” The man he’d met under the Cypress looked up at him through the darkness. “You don’t wanna turn on a light or something?”
Sommer reached over and flicked the switch on the wall, illuminating the central part of the massive home and temporarily blinding the other man..
“See how bright this shit is? We can be seen for miles.” Flicking the switch again, he extinguished the light. “Let’s head down to the office at the back of the home,” he said, stepping forward as his eyes began readjusting to the darkness.
“Fine,” the other man said, stepping back as Sommer passed him on the stairway. He fell in behind the taller man, following him down the stairs and through the home until they reached the aforementioned office. Sommer turned on the light as he walked in, then moved to one of the two leather chairs and slowly lowered himself down into it. Reaching to a wooden globe with an old world map that sat atop a pedestal, he lifted the top half, revealing several crystal decanters of scotch and six matching crystal tumblers. Grabbing one of the decanters, he pulled the top off and poured four fingers worth of scotch into a tumbler, then put the decanter back and reinserted the stopper.
Surviving Rage | Book 5 Page 7
