“Screw that!” Jimmy yelled, lifting his gun and pointing it towards the sky. “The second amendment gives me the right to bear arms!”
“Sir! Stand down!”
“Fuck you! I got twenty-one men with me. Ya’ll need to ‘stand down!’” he replied, shaking his head from side to side as he mocked the man’s words.
“This will not go well for you, Sir! I advise you to leave this area immediately. We will leave this home peacefully and you may return to it once we are gone without any issue.”
Though he kept his posture rigid and unyielding, something in the man’s resolve made Jimmy question whether this was really necessary. First of all, Billy had said there were only ‘four or five Marines,’ one of which he’d shot. Twenty-two versus four should have been intimidating enough to make the men inside the home surrender, so why did it sound as if the man had no intention of surrendering? Even worse, why did it sound like the man thought they’d come out victorious?
The man was far from intimidated.
“Say something, Jimmy!” someone behind him hissed.
Egged on, he raised his voice once more. “You listen to me! Ya’ll need to put down yer weapons and come out with your hands up!” he replied, using words he’d heard on TV.
“That’s not gonna happen, Sir. Last warning. Stand down, or we will be forced to protect ourselves.”
‘Are you sure about this, Jimmy?’ he asked himself.
He’d never have a chance to answer himself.
The underlying agitation that had grown inside Jimmy, Billy, and the others had turned into a burning fire inside of them. Anger at the government had festered inside of them, especially after the landslide loss of the last president, the only one they’d ever felt cared about them and their plight. At this point they believed in their hearts that the government was out to get them, and that what was theirs would be taken and given away to others as some type of communist redistribution of property.
All that deep-seeded hatred towards everything and everyone who wasn’t part of the group they identified as ‘true Americans’ had been boiling for years.
Gunnery Sergeant’s calm, yet forceful words should have indicated to them that their best choice was to walk away.
Should have.
When Jeffries saw the flash of a muzzle, he wondered for a split-second if he’d imagined it.
But only for a split second.
The sound of a window shattering behind him was background noise to the smooth fire of his M-16 rifle.
In the future, local legend would tell of how Jimmy led his small militia valiantly into a firefight against the U.S. Government, taking them to task and nearly defeating them.
It would be completely fabricated.
The battle was short, devastating, and completely one-sided.
Though the militia was well-armed and experienced at using the weapons they had, they were light years behind the ability of combat-hardened Marines. Gunnery Sergeant Jeffries and Corporal Milligan fired off short bursts, picking off first Jimmy, then the men behind the trucks with precision not expected from automatic weapons. After each burst, they moved sideways, backwards, or forward, varying their positions to ensure they couldn’t be targeted.
And then the .50 cal guns joined in.
Heavy rounds chewed up pavement, ripped through metal, and shattered glass in a withering assault that left the attackers unable to do more than hide. When the fuel tank of the second truck was punctured, fuel spilled everywhere, only to be lit seconds later by a massive spark caused when a round hit one of the truck’s chrome rims. The fuel lit in a roaring whoosh! before the flames made it to the tank. A deafening explosion sent fuel and flames in all directions before lifting the truck several feet in the air. Hot fuel and jagged metal pelted the bodies of the men behind it, killing them instantly or causing slow, life-ending injuries.
Stupidly, some of the militia members continued to fight, believing they would somehow survive the assault. Their weapons barked as they fired in full-auto, but as typically happens with weapons fired in that mode, their aim went high, sending bullets into the upper walls and roof of the home.
In the process of shooting, they marked themselves as continued threats, earning the aim of either the M-16s or .50 caliber machine guns. If they were lucky, the former got them first, for the latter removed massive parts of the human body.
The truck behind the second one went next, causing more death and destruction as it’s heavily damaged body was torn asunder by its own exploding fuel tank.
More men died painful, horrible deaths.
As quickly as it started, it ended. Of the men that had followed Jimmy to the home, all were either dead or close to death.
Except one.
Billy felt hot tears on his face as he crawled away from the burning wreckage until he was able to hide behind the big oak tree on the other side of the lane. His shoulder still hurt from the injury he’d suffered the night before, but otherwise he was okay, because unlike the others, he’d taken cover as soon as the Marines began firing at them, diving into a ditch next to the dirt road. He’d stayed there, covering his head with his hands as he waited for the bullets, or worse, the burning fuel or flaming wreckage, to find him. When it ended, the air was filled with the horrible smell of burning flesh, rubber, and fuel. Smoke flowed upwards from every truck, even those that hadn’t exploded.
Knowing he had to take advantage of the cover the smoke provided, he crawled to the oak tree and hid, crying in shame once more.
Sometime later, the Marines left, the heavy tires of the Humvees chewing up the grass area in front of his family home as they worked around the wreckage and back onto the road.
Billy remained behind the tree, hiding until he was absolutely sure they were gone. When he finally came out from behind the oak tree, he began to cry yet again as he surveyed the damage. The four trucks were burnt, shot out shells of the former selves. The bodies of the men lay all around the east side of the road, each one of them dead and unmoving. His house was riddled with bullet holes, and all of the windows had been broken, but overall it was still in decent shape.
Walking across the grass area, he paused and looked down at the deep grooves that the Humvees had created.
An idea came to him. With no one left to prove him wrong, he would tell the story of what had happened there.
A great battle.
Tremendous sacrifice.
The military fleeing across the grass. ‘Just look at the tire tracks!’ he said to himself.
He’d get the backhoe from the shed and use it to dig graves for the men, then use his old truck to tow the burned heaps away.
And then he’d tell his story.
Of course, he’d leave out the part about him firing the first shot.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
San Francisco Protective Zone, California
Day 3
Reaching for the open HDMI port on the back of the large screen LCD TV, Lieutenant Colonel Miguel Juarez cursed internally at the manufacturer’s decision to put it in such an unreachable location when the device was mounted on the wall, as most TVs were.
“Just... about...got it!” he exclaimed, as the connector slid into the port snugly. Exhaling in relief, he stepped back from the large screen LCD TV. “I think that should do it, Sir,” he said.
“Thanks, Colonel,” General Armstead replied.
Light-skinned with green eyes, above average in height and fit, Juarez looked nothing like the couple that raised him. Fernando Juarez was short, with jet black hair (which he dyed to keep it looking like it had in his youth) and a pot belly from drinking more Tecate beer than he should, while Maria Juarez, who was also short, with dyed hair (which was unintentionally purplish, the last time he’d seen her), and thick-bodied from sampling too much of her admittedly delicious home cooking. By the time Miguel had finished the eighth grade, he was looking his father in the eye. By the time he finished tenth, he loomed over the both of them. W
hen they’d come to his graduation at Westpoint, few people recognized them for who they were, due to the lack of similarities in their appearances.
“Anything else, General?”
Looking up from the stack of paperwork on his desk, the enormous black man shook his head. “No. Thanks though, Mike,” he answered, using Juarez’s preferred version of his first name. “I appreciate the help,” he said, before adding, “you’re really good with all this technical stuff.”
Juarez shrugged. “Had to do something with my Computer Science degree, Sir. Being an Air Defense Artillery Officer is interesting, but I rarely get to put my hands on the gear.”
Armstead nodded. “I could see that.”
Juarez shrugged. “So I tinker with stuff in my free time: car lighting and audio systems, computers and gaming setups, audio/visual setups, heck you should’ve seen my setup in my house on the post at Fort Hunter Liggett,” he replied, referring to the training facility in the southern part of Monterey County, one hundred and eighty miles from their position.
“You were at FHL?”
“Yes, Sir. Transferred there last year after leaving Texas.”
Armstead sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling as he searched his memories. “I was there...eight years ago. Beautiful spot. Training was okay. Hunting was great. Got myself a wild boar my first time out, an eight-point buck on my second trip.”
“Nice,” Juarez replied, smiling. He shook his head. “I’ve been out a few times, but a couple of ducks and one turkey.” After a second he added, “But I do agree. It’s beautiful out there.” He shrugged before admitting, “I honestly didn’t know California had places like that.”
Armstead chuckled. “Thought it was all surfers and beaches, hunh?”
Juarez smiled, “And pretty women.”
The General said nothing, instead choosing to nod in response.
Juarez looked around, then said, “Well, General, if there’s nothing else, I’ve got to get back to the Security HQ.”
Armstead put up his hand, relenting. “By all means, Colonel. Thanks for your help.”
“Not a problem, Sir,” Juarez replied, turning on his heel and heading towards the door.
“And Colonel?”
He stopped in the doorway and looked back at the big man. “Yes, Sir?”
“You’re doing a great job running the security patrols.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center, Virginia
Day 3
As the rubber soles of her Converse All-Stars slapped the tiled floor of the mostly empty hallway, President Martinez couldn’t help but wonder if there was a better way to deal with the situation. With the increasing unrest outside the gates of the base, the base C.O. had been left no other choice than to assign a large number of the military staff members that worked in the main Ops Center building to the Base Security Force, asking them to step away from their computers and pick up rifles and/or handguns. Most, if not all of them, hadn’t held or fired a weapon since the early part of their service, so they’d been required to first undergo a refresher course prior to being assigned a watch rotation.
But would they fire upon their fellow citizens?
Jessica hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
‘If it does, I’ve truly failed,’ she said to herself, as she reached the war room. Two uniformed soldiers came to attention at the sight of her.
“Attention on deck!” the one on the left, a young woman whose name tag read ‘Kennedy’ called out.
“At ease, Soldiers,” she said, forcing a smile. She was about to step past them, through the open door and into the room, when she paused, causing the Secretary of State to nearly collide with her. “Sorry, Alan,” she said, glancing at him briefly.
Stepping back, she looked at the two soldiers. The young woman was about five-six, fit, with reddish hair, green eyes, and an attractive face that was covered in freckles. The young man, whose name tag read ‘Lee,’ was taller, probably around five-ten, with short, cropped black hair and Asian features.
The pair looked at the President out of the corners of their eyes as they continued to remain rigid, even though she’d told them to relax.
“At ease, soldiers,” Martinez repeated. They both did so visibly. “Sergeant Kennedy, what’s your first name?”
“Jessica, Madam President,” the woman replied.
“Well, that’s easy to remember,” Martinez said, smiling. “And you, Sergeant Lee?”
“Michael, Madam President,” he answered.
The President nodded. “It’s nice to meet you both,” she said.
“You, too, Madam President,” Lee said.
“Likewise, Madam President,” Kennedy added.
Standing in front of the two soldiers, Martinez took a breath. She had a good idea what kind of answers she’d likely receive to the question she was about to ask, and they wouldn’t be good, but she needed to ask it anyway.
To stay grounded.
“Have you heard from your family since you’ve arrived, Jessica?”
The woman averted her eyes, looking down at the floor. After a pause, she said, “No, Madam President. I mean, not my parents. My husband is here with me, staying in the quarters, but I haven’t talked to my mother or father since the day I got here. I’ve called, but their phones just ring and ring.”
“Where do they live?”
“Upstate New York, Ma’am. They have a house in a small town called Wilmington.”
“That could be good. The virus has been relatively slow at spreading to the rural areas.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for, Madam President,” Kennedy replied.
Martinez nodded slowly, then looked at the other soldier. “What about you, Michael?”
“No, Madam President,” he replied, staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched tightly.
She glanced at his left hand. No ring. “Do you know if they were planning on travelling to one of the Protective Zones?” she asked.
“I don’t, Madam President.”
“I see. Where do they live?”
“Los Angeles.”
The young man’s words hit her like a sledge hammer. The massive metropolitan city had been almost completely destroyed by fires that had raged unchecked during the first weeks of the virus. The likelihood that anyone was still there was low. Very low.
Unable to find the right words to say, President Martinez simply reached out and clasped the man’s shoulder. “I will pray for them.”
Colonel WIlliamson stuck his head out into the hallway. “Madam President, the P.Z.s are on, along with the CDC.”
“Thanks Colonel,” she replied, before following him into the room, still shaken by Sergeant Lee’s words.
After switching from VTC to audio-only conferencing a week prior, the daily meeting with the Protective Zones went routinely and had settled into a rhythm. Population numbers were briefed, then infrastructure status was discussed. Water, power, and gas were stable in each city, which was a small blessing, but as population levels continued to grow in each location, there was concern that once the population exceeded that of the pre-outbreak number (something that seemed inevitable at this point), utilities would quickly show the strain of the increased demand.
The country needed more Protective Zones, but there simply weren’t enough military forces to establish them.
“Any issues with the infected attacking the zones?” she asked, as she jotted down notes on her yellow notepad.
“Only that we need to have teams leave the protected area to move the bodies of the infected to some of the mass graves we’ve dug,” General Mcintosh, who was in charge of the Indianapolis Protective Zone, replied.
“I see,” Martinez said, nodding. “How are you handling that issue in San Francisco, General Armstead?”
“It’s difficult, Madam President,” the man replied. His deep voice sounded weary, but it was no surprise. T
hey all were tired. “Unlike Indy or OKC, the area outside the SF Protective Zone is heavily populated. Sending troops out to deal with the bodies of the infected introduces them to unnecessary risk.”
“Same in Boston, Madam President,” Admiral Tyll stated in her usual businesslike tone.
“I see. And in OKC?”
There was no response.
“Colonel Walters, are you still there?” she asked, after several moments of silence.
“What? Oh, yes Madam President, I’m here.”
“And?”
“Um...I...I’m sorry, Madam President. Can you repeat the question?”
“Dammit, Walters, pay attention,” General Mcintosh growled.
“I’m sure he’s busy, General,” Martinez said, trying to defuse the situation, even though she was irritated by the man’s lack of focus. The daily conferences were never more than 45 minutes, and typically less than 30. This wasn’t the first time she’d needed to repeat herself, hence Mcintosh’s irritation. Why was the man so distracted as of late?
“General Mcintosh said that the only issue his forces are having with the infected is that he has to send people out to deal with the bodies of the infected. General Armstead and Admiral Tyll said that they’re unable to do so because of the dense population around the perimeters of their respective Zones. How are you dealing with the issue?”
“Oh, uh, we’ve set up a perimeter well outside the city limits, Madam President. We don’t remove the bodies of the infected that attack daily. We do burns every third day.”
“Burns?”
“Yes, Madam President. We decided it was the safest way to deal with the bodies of the infected.”
“I see,” Martinez replied, closing her eyes momentarily. She didn’t want to ask how many Americans were being buried or burned each day. The weight on her shoulders was already nearly more than she could handle.
Surviving Rage | Book 5 Page 20
