Military men and women had a sense of purpose that became part of their core. Alone or in a group, the purpose drove them.
Isabella had provided that purpose. Being immune to the virus, she was key to the development of the cure. How was beyond any of them, but if getting her to the safe zone in San Francisco meant there was a chance to end this nightmare, they would see to it that she got there.
And Logan would be part of it.
“Make sure you guys follow the exact path I take!” The man yelled before turning and resuming his climb.
Daniel gave him a thumbs up. “Will do!”
Breathing heavily, Logan reached the top of the cliff, pulling himself up and over the edge before rolling onto his back and laying on the ground, panting as he looked towards the sky.
He was about to close his eyes when he heard the unmistakable snarling of one of the infected.
Eyes widening, he rolled over quickly and sprung to his feet just as a crazed man rushed at him. Small and thin, the barefoot man wore nothing but torn blue jeans as he lunged forward. Unable to draw his weapon in time, Logan did the only thing he could.
He planted his fist squarely in the man’s nose.
Logan’s superior size and strength, combined with his perfect form and the man’s foreword momentum resulted in the total collapse of the man’s nose. Bits of bone and cartilage pushed backward into the man’s brain, causing micro-tears in the Dura Mater that protects the brain. Simultaneously, the man’s feet flew out from under him, causing him to land squarely on his back, forcing the oxygen from his lungs.
Without hesitation, Logan brought out his K-bar knife and sank into the base of the man’s throat, driving it downward until it severed the man’s spinal cord. The thing’s body twitched once before going still.
Breathless again, Logan allowed himself to fall backwards onto his butt. He brought his knees up and rested his forearms on them as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Holy shit,” he muttered.
From down in the valley, Daniel’s voice called out:
“Hey, Logan, you didn’t forget about us down here, did ya?”
Daniel had every member of their group go before he did, spotting them as they began their climb, making sure they looped the rope through the belt he wrapped around them so that they could climb with confidence, able to stop any downward motion with ease.
Serafina ascended first, followed by the girls: Ashley, Brenna, and Isabella. Once they reached the top, Paul took his turn, leaving Daniel alone at the bottom of the hillside. Paul climbed with ease, using his long, sinewy limbs to pull himself upwards, traversing the rocky cliff face quickly and efficiently, even with a shoulder that had been dislocated only a few days prior. He favored the arm as he climbed, choosing to use his left arm as much as possible, and since Daniel had experienced a dislocation himself, he knew exactly why.
After a dislocation, having seen your arm hanging limply at your side, unable to be controlled by the normal motor skills you’ve used your whole life, you simply don’t trust it the way you had prior to the event. The mind tells you it can’t ever be the same after that. It must be permanently damaged, barely usable, and certainly not something you want to count on in a moment of need.
With time, therapy, and conditioning, you can learn to trust it again, but Paul had received none of these, save a few lightweight exercises Daniel had taught him.
As Paul disappeared over the edge, Daniel looked back towards where they’d park the Jeep and truck. He’d miss that Jeep, especially after all it had gotten them through. Marked with bullet holes and sporting replaced windows and Freedom Panels, it had made their survival during a freeway shootout possible. It had taken a beating and never faltered, which couldn’t be said for the motorcycles and the car that had tried in vain to take them down.
Daniel chuckled to himself as he thought, ‘Jeep is Life. I gotta tell Serafina that when I get to the top…’ Turning back to grab the rope, he paused, then looked back towards the Jeep.
Nearly a dozen infected were streaming down the hill, into the valley.
Towards where he was.
“Shit!”
Serafina’s voice called down to him from above. “Daniel!”
“I see them!” Fastening his belt around his waist and running the rope through, he began climbing up the hill as fast as he could go. Unlike the other younger and lighter members of the group, he simply couldn’t move as quickly or as nimbly. Each step seemed to slip under him, knocking loose dirt and rocks, sending it rolling downward behind him.
He heard bushes crashing behind him as the infected closed in on the base of the hill, snarling and screaming as they tried to reach him.
Lunging forward, Daniel reached for a handhold. His foot slipped out from under him as the ledge he stood on gave way, tumbling away from him. Grabbing the outcropping of rock, he held on tightly, feeling his bicep and forearm muscles strain as his feet struggled for purchase.
Eleven infected had reached the bottom of the cliff and were attempting to climb up after him. Some made progress before sliding back downward, others failed at first attempt, landing on their faces and chests as the ground gave way beneath them.
Using his strength, Daniel pulled himself upward until the rock he clung to was even with his chest. Looking down, he found a spot to plant his foot. Doing so, he was able to push himself slightly upward before reaching up with one hand to grab the next handhold.
From there, he grabbed another, and then another. He felt the rope being pulled, helping him ascend faster. Feeling uncharacteristically lighter, he made the last part of the climb quickly, reaching the top less than forty five seconds later. Rolling onto his back, he sucked in air deeply as the others began rolling rocks down towards the infected. Finding strength he didn’t know he had left, he climbed to his feet, tossed aside the belt and rope, and began helping the others.
Being singularly focused on killing, the infected made no attempt to protect themselves as the rocks tumbled down the hill towards them at high rates of speed. Bones broke and skulls cracked as Daniel and the others pushed rock after rock over the edge until the last infected succumbed to his injuries, falling in a heap amongst the others.
Exhausted, the group sat down on the ground hard, breathing heavily as they tried to get oxygen to their overworked muscles.
Shaking his head, Daniel looked at the others. “Getting old su- ”
“Give it a rest, Daniel,” Serafina said, shaking her head. “We’re all tired.”
After resting and sipping water for nearly twenty minutes, the group collectively made it to their feet and began working their way towards the highway that had been cut off by the collapse of the bridge.
Looking at the mass of cars gathered near the edge of the drop off, they found two to be whole.
“Oh great…” Daniel said, shaking his head.
Each was a Toyota Prius.
Before loading their gear into the two vehicles, Daniel, Serafina, and Logan surveyed each vehicle and the surrounding area to be sure there were no infected lying in wait. Finding none, Daniel gathered the group and began handing out tasks.
Daniel and Paul would use the hose in Paul’s backpack to siphon gas, while Serafina, Ashley and Logan would search the other vehicles for food, water, and anything else of use.
Through their efforts they found melted chocolate, bags of chips, sodas, and bottled water, along with a map, two flashlights, jumper cables, and enough sunglasses for all of them.
Because the Prius was smaller than the Jeep, they needed to change their seating arrangements. Isabella wanted to stay with Brenna, but had also taken a liking towards Logan.
“Sorry,” Daniel began, looking at the young girl. “I have to have my daughters with me. This,” he gestured towards the horizon, “might just be the end of times, and the only one I trust to take care of my family - no offense Logan - ”
“None taken.”
“- is me.”
“I understand,” Isabella said, looking longingly towards the Army Combat Medic.
Brenna reached out and took the young girl’s hand before looking at her father. “We’ll squeeze in.”
Daniel nodded.
Isabella looked at Logan once more, sorrow showing on her face.
The man smiled as he stepped towards her. “It’s okay,” he said, bringing a doll from behind his back and handing it to her. “Take this, it’ll keep you company.”
The girl’s eyes widened as she looked at the doll. With long brown hair, a navy blue business suit, a blue tie, and a tiny American flag pin on the lapel, the girl recognized the figure immediately.
It was her hero.
She lunged forward, wrapping her arms around the man tightly for the second time in less than three hours. “Thank you. She’s my hero.”
Logan grinned. “Me, too. She’s a heck of a President.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mount Weather Operations Center, Virginia
“I hear what you are saying, Madam President, but my intelligence team is telling me that it is highly unlikely that a virus with an impact of this magnitude would result from anything less than an intentional release.”
President Martinez pulled the phone away from her ear momentarily, taking a deep breath to help her stay cool.
“President Morozov, the implication that the United States would do such a thing is offensive. Aside from the fact that the Geneva Protocol strictly outlaws the use of Bacteriological Methods of Warfare, the immorality of such an action goes against everything the United States stands for.”
“Nevertheless, Madam President, if my country was to determine that this was, in fact, intentional, we would be left with no choice but to view it as an act of war.”
Feeling her blood pressure rising, the President looked towards the ceiling as she responded. “Mister President, to assume that it was intentional would be to assume that the United States would be willing to murder its own citizens. We’ve had over a hundred million people die already!”
“And yet, there you are, safe in the White House.”
‘I guess his intel’s not that great after all,’ She thought, looking out the window towards the open fields that surrounded her temporary residence at Mount Weather.
“And you’re safe in the Kremlin. What’s your point?”
“The virus did not originate in my country, Madam President.”
Pulling the phone away from her ear yet again, President Martinez turned and looked out the window. It was taking everything she had to refrain from shouting at the obstinate man on the other end of the phone. While she understood the man’s anger over the deaths of his country’s people, it was a time to come together rather than attack one another.
Taking a deep breath, she brought the phone back to her ear. “Mister President, I will say once again that this virus was not released intentionally. Mistakes were made, but our country has suffered greatly because of the outbreak.”
Silence on the other end of the line was the only response for nearly a minute before Morozov’s voice returned. “I wish I could believe you President Martinez.”
The line went dead.
“Son of a - ” President Martinez’s hand gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles whitened. Seething, she reminded herself that her calm, collected demeanor, even when faced with the most stressful situations, was something people had always admired about her. Taking yet another deep breath, she sent the phone back in its cradle, then stood and walked to the window of the Distinguished Visitor Suite she used as her office space when not in the Operations Center. A second DV Suite had been provided for her and her family to use as their living quarters.
Looking out the window, she saw a lone couple walking along the street near one of the wide open grass areas that had recently begun to turn brown. Grass areas that normally would have been teeming with life, full of families having picnics, children chasing each other, and people of all ages taking part in various sports.
Instead, the area, like the rest of the military base, was desolate, free of the life that made it special. Morosely, she wondered if the entire country was turning brown, suffering as it slowly died.
‘You knew it was gonna be a challenge, Jessica,’ she thought as she put her arms above her head and clasped her hands together. Forcing her arms upward, she stretched out her arms, shoulders, lower back and core.
Shaking her head, she said to herself, ‘As challenges go, this has got to be one of the greatest any President has ever faced.’
Sighing, she turned from the window and walked to the small kitchenette, where a carafe of coffee waited for her. Pouring herself a cup, she added a packet of Splenda and a small creamer capsule to it before returning to her desk. Sitting down she looked over at the list of names on her desk. The first three had been crossed off. There were many more to go.
Some, like the England Prime Minister, George Taylor, would be understanding, supportive, and willing to help.
Others, like President Morozov, would be difficult. People like him ruled by use of fear and intimidation, made possible by overwhelming might, using in the form of a military that operated within the country’s borders, unlike the United States military. When things beyond their control hurt their citizens, their power was weakened. Their citizens would begin to question why they tolerated life under such harsh circumstances if they wouldn’t at least be kept safe. Because leaders such as Morozov presented themselves as strong, intelligent, and powerful, the citizens would scrutinize every move made by them during times of crisis.
And what if the people found them to be ineffective? Well, then that would indicate that they weren’t so strong, intelligent, or powerful.
Of course, that just made them more difficult for her to deal with.
Taking another sip of her coffee, she sighed yet again and picked up the phone and punched in the numbers for the next leader.
‘Let’s knock the tough ones out first,’ she thought as the phone rang.
It was answered quickly, and within seconds, she was on the line with Zhang Wei Li, the Chinese President.
Looking at the international clock on her desk, she greeted the man.
“Good morning, President Li.”
“Good afternoon, President Martinez. I was wondering how long you were going to wait before calling.”
“My apologies, President Li. My hands have been full here. I’m sure you understand.”
“Mine too, Madam President, and my country wasn’t the one that created this problem.”
‘Here we go…’ she thought, shaking her head.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Modesto, California
The sound of the road came through the open windows of the Ford Shelby GT500 Mustang as the vehicle’s supercharged, 760 horsepower engine chewed up the open road. Though open road was something that had become increasingly hard to find, the vehicle’s occupants had somewhat accidentally found out that traveling on California State Route 99 was much better than traveling on the I-5. Most of the interstate was driveable, but only with constant maneuvering at relatively slow speeds that were almost insulting to the heavily powered muscle car.
For the two men inside the vehicle, the open road brought them a sense of peace. They’d been busy the last few days, starting early and working late as they remained dedicated to their mission. Each evening, the two men found somewhere to clean up, eat what they could find, and rest before waking early in the morning to continue their work. Their clothes were dirty, covered in dark stains that would remain there long after the clothes had been tossed aside after being replaced.
Each man’s face was clean shaven, showing smooth, white skin that was only eclipsed by that on their heads. They wore hats out of necessity, having learned the hard way that hairless scalps were unprotected from the sun. Muscled arms were covered in tattoos, showing designs that implied aggression, toughness, and intimidation: skulls, combat boots, and light
ning bolts. Each man had a similar tattoo on his body: a cross over a circle with the words ‘Blood & Honor’ split evenly above and below the symbol. The driver’s tattoo was proudly displayed on his chest, viewable through the gap in his open button-up shirt. The passenger sported the tattoo on his left shoulder, colored darkly with black and red.
Looking out the windshield through pitch black wrap-around sunglasses, the man who went by the name Steve Sommer brought his cigarette to his mouth to take a long drag. Blowing the smoke out, he switched hands on the steering wheel so that he could lift the bottle of whiskey from between his legs and bring it to his mouth. He took a small swig before putting it back, then used one hand to put the cap back on the bottle. Grabbing it again, he extended his arm and placed the bottle on the floorboard behind the passenger seat.
There was still a lot of work to do, and he only allowed himself one small drink after the successful completion of a task. Each day presented a large number of tasks, as many as twenty-two (the most they’d completed in a single day to date) but never less than twelve, at least not until enough headway had been made towards their overall objective, so it was wise to keep his drinking in check until the day’s work was done. He’d mandated that their work day ended when the sun went down, and with it being summer, that typically came late, provided they weren’t in a location where visibility was affected by smoke from unchecked fires.
“Where’d you put the smokes?” He asked, flicking the butt of his cigarette out the window.
The man next to him reached into the backseat, grabbed a carton of Marlboro Reds, withdrew a pack, removed the cellophane from it, opened the top, and offered it to Steve.
Pulling one from the pack, he brought it to his lips and waited while the other man ignited his lighter and held it up for him to light his cigarette. Taking in a deep breath, he drew the smoke into his lungs, allowing himself to relax as the nicotine invaded his system. After a minute, he exhaled, blowing smoke out the window.
Surviving Rage | Book 2 Page 12
