Surviving Rage | Book 5

by Arellano, J. D.

  He looked out the doors again, noting how the sun was setting. Out there was danger, and he’d be facing it alone. Inside was safety, warmth, and food.

  “Fine,” he said, simply, before walking back towards the group. “But I don’t have to be friends with them.” Glancing at Zhang, he added, “Especially you.”

  Lisa rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t worry about me, you little shit. I’ll be fine.”

  After establishing a watch routine set by Serrano, the group settled in for the night. Though they had packed more than enough rations and water for the five-day journey, Serrano insisted on them taking advantage of the food, water, and equipment available in the store.

  ‘You’re assuming things will go as planned during this trip,’ he told them. ‘I assume no such thing.’

  As they ate their dinner of freeze-dried food, Phillip, Paul, and A.J. were able to coax information from the boy. At twelve years old, Long Tran had apparently been raised by racists, ones who trusted only White people and other Vietnamese (though some exceptions were made for Lao and Cambodian people). In fact, the Black man in the garden center area with the axe embedded in his back had been in the process of offering to help lift Long’s sister, Loan, up onto the shelves Long had used to stay out of the reach of the infected man that had killed him and Long’s family.

  Phillip paused the boy as he described what had happened.

  “Wait. So a Black man was willing to help your sister escape, and your family refused to accept it. And then they were killed by a White man.”

  “That’s right,” Long replied, holding his chin high. “White man sick. Not his fault.”

  Phillip sighed in response, shaking his head.

  “So you don’t like Black people,” Paul began, “but you also don’t like Mexicans, either?”

  “No,” the young boy replied, shaking his head. “Lazy people.”

  “Come on…”

  “Sit around all day, drinking. Taking welfare check from government,” Long said, shaking his head in disgust. “Not good people.”

  “But you also don’t like other Asians…”

  Long’s eyes darted toward Zhang, then narrowed in suspicion. “Chinese cannot be trusted,” he stated, before adding, “sneaky people.”

  “So, you’re only okay with White people and other Vietnamese people?” Mason asked.

  The young boy looked away, choosing not to answer.

  Phillip sighed heavily. “Alright. Let’s just get something to eat.” Looking at Paul and A.J., he explained, “We can deal with this later,” before turning back to the boy. “Look, I’m not going to try to change the way you think,” he said, pausing for a moment to let the words sink in. “But I will say this: while you’re with us, you will NOT disrespect the others in this group, regardless of your feelings towards them. You got that?”

  The boy glared back at him for a moment, then looked away, focusing his attention on the floor. “Fine,” he replied, curtly.

  Later that night, Phillip walked over to where Serrano sat with his previously freeze-dried packet of chili and macaroni. Seeing the man approach, the SEAL swallowed what was in his mouth and asked, “Gonna be a problem?”

  “Don’t think so,” Phillip replied. “Kid’s been taught some toxic stuff, but it’s not his fault.”

  Serrano nodded. “Unfortunately, a lot of kids have been. The smart ones figure out it’s all bullshit and get their heads out of their asses.

  After a moment, he added, “Others carry it into adulthood.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  San Francisco, California

  May 2005

  Moving closer to the edge of the pier, the boy crouched down so he could look out under the bottom railing. Twenty feet below, the water lapped the pylons rhythmically, drowning out the sound of his father’s fishing reel allowing the weighted end of the line to carry the hook out into the bay in a perfect arc. Nearby, other fishermen stood in a small grouping, chatting quietly as they cast and recast their lines into the choppy depths. Standing next to the boy’s father, the man’s longtime friend smiled as he removed the hook on his line from the mouth of a Striped Bass.

  “Thanks for bringing me out, Simon.”

  “No problem,” the man replied, looking with a certain amount of jealousy at the fourteen-inch long fish as his friend lowered it into their cooler. Last month’s footlong catch had been the biggest fish the man had caught in his ten-plus years of fishing and his friend had eclipsed it less than an hour into their session.

  Watching his father, the boy caught the envious look in his eye and sighed. They’d be there for a while. Simon Willey wasn’t necessarily competitive towards others, but he definitely was known to be unrelenting when he set his mind to something. The second his friend Brian whistled and announced the length of his catch, the boy knew his father had decided to try to catch one that size himself. Not to outdo his friend, no, not at all. Simon Willey wasn’t wired that way. It was about knowing that it could be done, and if it could be, he would be determined to do it.

  Sitting back onto the thick wooden planks of the pier, the boy looked at what he’d brought with him for the morning fishing trip as he weighed his options. His rod and reel leaned against the railing near where his father stood, but that held little interest. Fishing was boring. He wanted to be out running around and playing with friends, not sitting in a chair on a pier for hours, hoping some fish would suddenly decide that the bait on his hook was so much better than anything else in the water.

  There was the book he’d brought, ‘The Flags of Our Fathers’ (which he’d already read once but was enjoying a second time through), but he was too full of energy to sit and read at that moment. He wished he’d been allowed to bring his Sony PSP, but his father had forbidden that. For some reason the man was determined to make him enjoy fishing as much as he did, but didn’t seem to understand that sitting in one place in silence for hours on end was essentially torture for seven year old boys.

  Swinging his legs around toward the edge of the pier, he let them dangle over the edge as he held onto the bottom railing. Looking off towards the next pier, some fifty yards away, he saw two boys close to his age chasing each other around, laughing as one of them tried to catch the other.

  He sighed again.

  He looked down at the water below him, then over at the pylon to his right. The bottom half of it was covered in mussels and barnacles, and as the water splashed them and then pulled away, they seemed to blow bubbles as pockets of air escaped. The top end of the crustacean-covered portion looked to be a mere three feet away, and there, moving amongst the shells, was a small crab.

  ‘I wonder if I can reach it?’ the boy thought. Swinging his legs back up onto the pier, he shifted until he was lying on his stomach. Sliding outwards over the edge of the pier, looked down at the pylon until he spotted the crab once more. There it was, moving about happily between the shells, holding its claws in the air almost triumphantly. The creature’s back was to him as he looked at it, so he slowly extended his arm towards it. With his arm fully extended, he reached with his fingers and came within inches of the small crab. It shifted up and to the right, moving higher on the thick cylinder.

  Bringing his arm back, the boy grabbed the edge of the pier and held it as he slid forward a bit more. Once in position, he extended his arm again, straining to reach the little crustacean.

  Behind him, he heard his father’s friend yell.

  “Simon, I think you got something!!”

  “I do! Damn, that looks like it’s a big one!”

  Ignoring them, he continued to reach for the crab.

  Almost there...

  The crab remained motionless, seemingly unaware of the small fingers reaching for it.

  Almost there…

  His fingers touched the barnacle to the right of the crab, making it shift ever so slightly. The crab moved to its left, increasing the distance between itself and the hand that sought it.


  Just...a…little...more…

  As he scooted forward, he felt his shirt snag on a splinter. ‘Dang it,’ he said to himself, twisting his body so that he could reach back with his right hand and gently sliding the fabric of his shirt free of the offending object. Looking at the shirt, he saw a small hole. Nothing he couldn’t hide from his mother (taking care of the things that had been purchased for him was Rule Number Three, right behind Respect Your Parents and Always Tell The Truth).

  Newly freed, he twisted his body back around and returned his focus to the task at hand. Seeing the crab still there, he slid forward some more.

  And went over the edge.

  He felt the terror of falling deep in the pit of his stomach as gravity pulled him towards the dark blue, white-topped waters of the San Francisco Bay. Time seemed to slow as he fell headlong towards the dark surface of the water. Somewhere he heard a woman screaming. In the final moment before impact, his eyes bulged at the sight of what remained of an older concrete/rebar-reinforced pylon just below the surface. He winced in anticipation of what would surely be an ungodly amount of pain.

  Falling from that height, the water did little to slow his descent. Though he’d managed to get his hands out in front of him, it was no use. His left hand simply slipped off the edge of the cylinder, while his right shoulder was pushed back and out of the socket. His head smacked against the concrete pylon with frightening force.

  As Simon Willey rushed to the edge of the pier his eyes registered the sight of his son’s unconscious form floating on the surface, a halo of red formed around him.

  Without hesitation, he swung his leg up and over the railing and jumped into the water.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Oklahoma City Protective Zone, Oklahoma

  Day 1 - Day 2

  Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Specialist Anthony Mejia poured himself a big cup of coffee, knowing he’d need all the help he could get to make it through his six hour watch shift. Bringing the cup to his mouth, he took a small sip.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “How long has this been sitting on the burner?”

  Taking the pot to the sink in the small breakroom, he dumped out what remained in the pot, rinsed it, and filled it with water. Returning to the coffee machine, he filled the water reservoir, then dumped the old grounds and filled the basket with a new filter and fresh grounds before turning the machine on.

  He looked at the dark liquid in his cup and considered taking another sip. After all, the new batch wouldn’t be ready for a few minutes. He brought the cup halfway to his mouth again before the acrid, burnt smell of the coffee assaulted his nose, causing him to shake his head in disgust. Walking back to the sink, he dumped out the old coffee, then checked his watch.

  11:38 PM

  He still had seven minutes before he needed to relieve Sergeant Talley. Sighing heavily, he dropped down into one of the plastic chairs at the table. Setting his cup down, he extended his arms above his head and stretched.

  Leaning back in his chair, he relaxed instantly, then caught himself as he began to close his eyes. “Dammit!” He stood up quickly, then began raising each heel towards his backside as he tried to get his blood flowing. After several cycles, he did squats, then knocked out a set of twenty-five pushups. By the time he was done, he felt much more alert.

  Seeing the coffee pot nearly done, he grabbed his cup and went over to it. Knowing the old machine didn’t have a sensor that would allow removal of the pot while it was being filled, he smoothly pulled the pot away while sticking his cup in place, allowing the coffee to pour directly into his cup. Using the pot, he filled the cup the rest of the way, then swapped the two once more.

  After adding a packet of non-dairy creamer and one with sugar, he looked at his watch again.

  11:47 PM

  “Shit!” How did time move so quickly? He was late now, and he knew Sergeant Talley would let him hear it. Taking a big drink of coffee to decrease the amount in his cup so that it wouldn’t spill, he felt the hot liquid burn the tip of his tongue. “Of course,” he said to himself, shaking his head as he walked out the door. “This night is off to a shitty start.”

  “Thought you overslept,” Sergeant Talley said when Mejia opened the door to the guard shack at the gate. Big and burly, the man seemed to fill the majority of the small space, and even though Mejia was only five foot eight and a hundred and fifty pounds, joining the man inside the guard shack wasn’t an option.

  Holding up his cup, Mejia stood in the doorway and replied, “Sorry. Had to make fresh coffee. The stuff that was there tasted like shit.”

  Grinning, the big man looked at him. “So you know what shit tastes like?”

  “Yeah,” Mejia answered, scoffing. “Remember that time they put you in charge of the barbecue at the Command Picnic?”

  Pushing past Mejia, Talley shook his head. “Fuck you. That was some good meat.”

  Watching Talley’s large form head towards the building, where their lockers were, Mejia extended his middle finger at the man’s back.

  “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath. Unlike Mejia, the man would be able to sleep in his bed that night, whereas he had to sleep in the bunkroom because of the time his watch rotation started. He wouldn’t be able to sleep in his normal bed until sometime after he got relieved in the morning. By the time he grabbed chow, checked in with Sergeant Newsome (his actual supervisor), and walked across the P.Z. to his quarters, it’d be after seven a.m., and regardless of his schedule, Physical Fitness Training at eleven was mandatory.

  Collapsing onto the uncomfortable stool that sat in the middle of the guard shack, he took another drink of his coffee, using more caution this time, though he realized the coffee had cooled considerably. Setting his coffee aside, he looked at his watch once more.

  11:56 PM

  “Fuck my life.”

  1:23 AM

  When Specialist Mejia first saw the approaching headlights, he assumed he was imagining things (that is after his mind assured him, he wasn’t dreaming). A few seconds later, the headlights were accompanied by the sound of a big engine. The shape of the vehicle came into view a few seconds later as the large white box truck pushed its way through late night fog.

  “What the hell?” Mejia wondered aloud as the truck approached the gate. Talley hadn’t said anything about a delivery that night. Heck, they hadn’t had one in nearly a week and a half. Glancing down at the turnover log, he verified nothing had been entered indicating a delivery was expected.

  Realizing the truck was nearly to the gate, he stepped out of the guard shack with his right hand resting atop his sidearm. Using his left hand, he flagged the driver down.

  The truck came to a smooth stop next to the guard shack and the driver lowered the window. A lean, blonde haired, blue-eye man looked down from the truck at Mejia.

  “Evening, Sir. Gotta delivery,” the man stated, offering a tired smile.

  ‘Probably been driving all night,’ Mejia thought to himself.

  Shaking his head, he looked up at the man. “We don’t take deliveries at night. No one’s here to process the order.”

  “Seriously?” the man asked, frowning. “Buddy, I’ve been driving all night, and I can’t just park this thing on the street with all the food in it.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” Mejia replied. “Orders are that all food that comes in is inventoried and logged so that the Colonel has a clear picture of how much we have in the way of rations at all times.”

  The man’s shoulders slumped slightly in exasperation. He stared at the truck’s dash for a moment, then took a deep breath. Turning back to look at Mejia, he said, “How about this? I drive the truck in, then unhitch the back. We can leave it there until morning. It’ll be locked, so no one can access the food. Inside the fence here is much safer than out on the street.”

  Mejia considered this for a moment. “Well…” Uncertain, he said, “I’ll tell you what: let me call the Watch Supe, see if it’s o-” A heavy
object slammed into the side of Mejia’s head from behind, knocking him unconscious. He fell to the ground with a thud, landing on his side before slumping onto his stomach.

  “Good job,” the man in the truck said.

  A large man wearing all black nodded and said nothing. Reaching down, he retrieved the keys from Mejia’s pocket, then relieved the man of his firearm. Moving to the guard shack, he pressed the button to open the gate. As the gate was sliding out of the way, a third man, who was slightly smaller and also dressed in all black, appeared. He walked over to the Army Specialist’s unconscious form, grabbed the man’s left arm and leg, and dragged him out of the truck’s path.

  Stepping out of the guard shack, the second man looked up at the driver of the truck. “You got the supplies?”

  Jutting his thumb towards a fourth man, who was seated in the passenger seat, the blonde man nodded. “Yeah. We’ll handle it.”

  The large man in black looked at his watch. “Alright. Load up as much as you can. We need to be out of here by three-thirty.”

  “Will do,” the driver replied before pulling the truck forward. As the truck drove around towards the loading deck at the rear of the building, the big man looked down at the fallen soldier.

  “Alright. I’m gonna get this guy inside, then I’ll help you set things up,” he told the other man.

  “Need a hand?”

  Hoisting the soldier’s body up onto his shoulder, the big man shook his head. “Nah. He’s a little guy. It’s the main reason we waited until he came on watch, remember?”

  The other man nodded. “You gonna leave him inside then? Even after we set this place on fire?”

  “Yes. Can’t have witnesses.”

  Holding his backpack in his hands, the smaller man pointed in the direction the truck had gone. “You know he won’t like that.”

  “Don’t tell him.”