Surviving Rage | Book 2

by Arellano, J. D.

  “Damn right,” Hank said, pulling the car to the left to use the median divide again. The car bounced slightly as they crossed over the dirt and rocks in the middle of the highway, then leveled out as they hit the smoothness of the pavement once more.

  Almost immediately after re-entering the road, Hank pulled the steering wheel to the right, slowing before leaving the asphalt of the highway for a hard packed dirt road that led west, curving slightly as it approached the small structure.

  Hank stopped the car in front of the small home, turning off the engine and sat there, waiting for Sommer’s direction. Sommer got out of the vehicle, sliding his big gun into its holster on his belt. Walking towards the front door, his boots crunched rock and gravel as his head turned slightly while he scanned the small windows at the front of the home.

  He was about to lift his foot to step on the first step that led up to the home when he had another hunch. Pausing, he turned and looked at Randall, then used his finger to make a circle motion, indicating that the man should go around to the back of the home. Randall nodded and left, moving quickly.

  Sommer looked at his watch as he waited. It was only 10:07, and if all went well, they’d complete three, maybe four more ‘tasks’ before 10:30. Considering they’d already killed five people this morning, in the form of a young black couple and a small Cambodian family. This could put them at eight or nine well before noon.

  The previous record of twenty-two was within sight.

  When he felt sufficient time had passed, he began ascending the small collection of steps in front of the home. Extending his hand to knock on the door, he heard a gunshot at the rear of the house.

  Remaining silent, he looked over at Hank, who met his gaze briefly before turning and walking towards the rear of the house. Moving to the side of the door out of an abundance of caution, he put his back against the siding of the house as he reached over and knocked on the door. At that point, he knew it didn’t make sense, since Randall had either shot someone or someone had shot at him.

  But maybe it would confuse those inside.

  A high, piercing scream sounded from somewhere in the house.

  Sommer smiled.

  Seconds later, Hank threw open the door. His left arm was around a dark-skinned Mexican woman.

  ‘Probably snuck into this country,’ Sommer thought. ‘Probably taking a job from an American, too. Fucking wetback pieces of shit.’

  “Whatdaya got?” He asked before spitting on the cement of the porch.

  “This bitch, then a couple kids in the living room. Randall shot some guy out back. He was trying to run towards the barn.” The woman struggled in his grasp, squirming as she tried to get loose, all the while speaking rapidly in Spanish.

  “Shut the bitch up.” Sommer growled.

  Hank's right arm came up before his fist flew outwards. It slammed squarely into the middle of the woman’s face, breaking her nose. Her eyes fluttered as blood burst forth from her nose, spilling down onto Hank’s sleeve.

  “What the?” Hank exclaimed, looked down at the blood on his sleeve. “Stupid bitch!” Without hesitating, he released the woman, and shoved her backwards into the wall. As her back hit the wall, she stumbled slightly on wobbly legs. Before she could fall, Hank pulled out his gun and shot her in the head, splattering blood and brains against the wall.

  ‘That’s seven,’ Sommer thought, smiling.

  A door slammed in the house, then Randall came over to where they stood. Putting his hands on his hips, he asked, “Can I put a bullet in those little shits? They won’t shut the fuck up!”

  Sommer smiled. “If you didn’t, I’d question your commitment.”

  “Pshh!” Randall replied, spinning on his heel. He strode across the living room and made his way to the first door on the left. Kicking it open to the sounds of screaming, crying voices, he withdrew his gun, aimed and fired once, then aimed and fired again.

  The room went silent.

  Sommer stepped over the dead woman’s body and into the small house. The place smelled like those disgusting tamales they loved so much. Looking towards the kitchen, he saw a small pot on the stove, the flame still on underneath it. The smell of spices wafted from the area. ‘Gross,’ he thought, shaking his head. Turning away from the kitchen, he made his way to the rear entrance of the house and stepped outside. Sure enough, the body of a Mexican man laid about twenty yards away, directly in line with a barn structure behind the home. The doors to the barn were closed, hiding what was within.

  He turned his head towards the house slightly. “Let’s see what’s so important about that barn.”

  The two men fell in on either side of him as he walked towards the barn.

  The structure was slightly taller than the house, with faded wood panels and a roof that sagged in the middle, its shingles faded and broken from age and weather. The few windows that dotted the sides of the building were nearly opaque from grime and accumulated spiderwebs.

  Reaching the door to the building, Sommer found it closed, but not locked. He listened for a moment, pressing his ear against the surface of the door, then pulled it open.

  In the dim light of the building’s interior, dozens of brown faces looked out towards him

  Sommer smiled.

  The record would indeed fall this day.

  Standing in front of the door, looking at his prize, he said, “Randall, go get the rifles.”

  When they were done, Steve Sommer counted 26 bodies in the barn. They’d almost missed a couple of small children, who’d hidden under the bodies of the dead, desperate to escape the unchecked wrath of the three men.

  In the end, they were found, bringing the midday total to thirty-five.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Castaic Junction, California

  “Fuck.”

  “I agree,” Serrano said through his balaclava as he stared at the mountains in front of them. Fire raged across them, burning everything in sight as the flames shone a deep, angry orange as they licked the sky. Sparks burst forth randomly in multiple spots, flying on the wind as they sought to find unburned spots on the hills.

  Few were left.

  Phillip frowned as he turned away from the view and looked towards the large passenger van they’d taken. It was nearly midday, and their way forward was essentially blocked.

  Driving north on the 5 would take them through the heart of the fires, a suicide mission no one had signed up for.

  They would have to head east or west before heading north, towards San Francisco.

  Holding the spare t-shirt against his nose and mouth, he strode towards the van, shaking his head. He had no words to convey his frustration. Their destination was clear, and after the encounter with the gang on the freeway, he was confident that they could deal with any challenge thrown at them. Serrano was a frickin’ superhero, and as long as they backed him up, no one would stand in their way.

  But fire cared little about who or what it burned. Superhero status meant nothing to the intensity and determined nature of an element, one determined to turn anything and everything in its path to ash.

  “What are we going to do?” Jennifer asked, holding a piece of cloth over her mouth and nose as she called out through the small gap between the window and the door’s frame.

  Phillip shrugged, barely able to contain his frustration. “Fuck if I know,” he replied, shaking his head.

  Serrano appeared at his side, silently approaching as he always did. “We head west,” he stated as he passed Phillip on his way to the van.

  “West? Are you sure?”

  Serrano nodded. “Seems like the better route. Close to the ocean, vegetation’s less likely to be so dry. We can drive up the One Oh One.”

  “How long will that take?” Phillip asked, exasperated.

  Serrano’s eyes met his. “Does it matter?”

  They’d been driving two hours on the 126 highway, heading towards the coast when Sarah Ferguson finally protested. The van was cramped. T
hough it was large, it was filled to capacity with people, every bit of remaining space was filled with supplies or weapons.

  Struggling to push a box out from the space under her feet, she blurted out, “Can we take a break?”

  Serrano looked surprised as his eyes darted towards the rearview mirror. “What’s that?”

  “I said, can we take a break? I’ve been cramped back here for hours, unable to stretch out, trying to find a way to get comfortable with this damn box between my legs, and feeling downright gross!”

  “Okay, okay,” Serrano replied as he turned the wheel to the right, angling the vehicle toward a small turnoff on the side of the road. Leaving the pavement, the tires crunched on gravel as he maneuvered the van towards a spot of shade under a large rock outcropping. Slowing the vehicle methodically, he positioned the van mostly in the shade before killing the engine.

  “Alright, just hang tight for a minute.” he said, grabbing his shotgun as he exited the vehicle.

  Sarah protested. “Do you really have to take that with you?”

  “Yes.”

  Serrano walked around to the front of the van and waited as Phillip and Aaron got out and joined him, each holding a rifle as well.

  “I’ll check out the area ahead,” he said, pointing. “One of you check the area behind us. No need to go too far, maybe fifty yards. I don’t think we’ll encounter much out here. We’re pretty far from any towns and I didn’t see any vehicles broken down in the immediate area.”

  “Got it,” Aaron said before walking away from the van, carrying his gun tightly.

  Serrano turned and strode away, his eyes scanning the area around him as he moved. In truth, it did feel good to stretch his legs after being cooped up behind the wheel of the minivan (‘a God Damn Minivan!’ he thought) for the better part of the day, save the short time they’d spent staring in awe at the raging inferno that covered the mountains north of Santa Clarita.

  Walking with purpose, he verified the area was clear before stopping to look west. Ventura was out there, still over thirty miles away, and he thought they’d be lucky to get there before 5 p.m. While driving was the safest and easiest way to move, it was both slow, tiring, and for some, sickening. The roads were littered with abandoned vehicles, dead bodies, and other items, which made the need to maneuver the vehicle a constant requirement, which had been causing Jennifer, Sarah, and Jason to get motion sickness. In an effort to lessen the effects of driving with all the windows closed, Serrano had been periodically turning on the air conditioning, even though he knew it affected the vehicle’s gas mileage. In the end, it did little to help, and the only thing he could do to lessen the effects of the constant swerving was the one thing he hated to do: slow down.

  Turning to walk back towards where the van was stopped, he looked at the van briefly and gave a thumbs up, signalling to Phillip that it was safe for the others to get out of the van. As he saw the two women, the two small kids, and the old Marine get out of the car, followed by the vehicle-rocking mass that was Damien, he pondered how he’d come to be in charge of the group. The Marines, including the retired one, were easy to lead. They didn’t require explanations, didn’t argue, didn’t complain, provided quality input when asked, and carried out their assignments quickly and effectively.

  The civilians, on the other hand, required a certain amount of what his former boss, Lieutenant Commander Woods, used to call ‘care and feeding’: he had to consider their comfort (such as the motion sickness issues they’d been struggling with), their inputs (though they had zero tactical experience), and worst of all, their feelings.

  Of all of them, the woman they’d rescued had been the worst. While he understood that she’d been through a lot, including the loss of her husband (which she really didn’t say much about), she was clearly having a hard time not being in charge and not having her input considered or even requested. Serrano hoped in time she’d realize that he knew what he was doing, and following his lead would get them to their destination safely.

  He hoped.

  Having a long, heartfelt discussion with the woman about the subject was only slightly preferable to being bitten by one of the infected.

  As he approached the van, he saw Sarah standing with her arms crossed near the passenger side front door while Phillip reached inside the vehicle. When he pulled his arm back, the map was in his hand.

  “What’s going on?” Serrano asked as he watched him pass it to Sarah.

  Phillip shrugged. “She wants to look at the map,” he said before turning and quickly walking away, leaving Serrano alone with the woman.

  Sarah spread the map out on the short, steep hood of the van and began tracing its surface with her finger until she found Castaic Junction. From there, she moved her finger along the 126 highway.

  “So you said we’re headed to Ventura, right?” She asked, staring at the map.

  Irritated at the thought of someone questioning his plan, Serrano paused momentarily in an effort to keep his voice even before responding. “Yes.”

  “And what are you thinking after that?”

  “The one oh one all the way.”

  Sarah leaned closer, looking at the map. “The one oh one? Why wouldn’t we take the thirty three to the one nineteen, back over to the five?”

  Stunned, Serrano stepped back. During his time as a SEAL, he’d been questioned a number of times, but only by his fellow SEALs, including LCDR Woods. To have a civilian question his plan was nothing less than offensive.

  “What?”

  Sarah glanced at him, her eyebrows furrowed in concern. She stood back and pointed at the map. “The one oh one is a smaller highway, which could get blocked easily. If we can get back to the five, we’ll have more room to maneuver.”

  Serrano contemplated simply telling her that he was running the show, that he was the leader and if she didn’t like it, so could leave, but he reminded himself that civilians didn’t understand a military chain of command. Instead, he nodded towards where her finger was resting on the map.

  “See all that green? That’s forest. Based on what we just saw, there’s a good chance it will be burning, too. The one oh one keeps us away from the forest. We stay near the coast, it won’t be so dry.”

  The woman stared at the map, her mouth slightly open as she considered what he’d said. He was right, and she knew it.

  Serrano continued, piling on so he could drive home his point. Maybe he could kill this idea that there was more than one person running the show. “We spend time working our way here,” he touched the map northeast of Ventura, where Highway 33 entered a massive green area, “and find it to be on fire, we’ll have to backtrack, which will just waste more time and more fuel. I’m not a fan of either. People are going stir crazy in the van, and every time we have to stop for fuel it’s a risk. We see cars, we’ll probably see people, and as we know, people are our biggest threat right now.”

  Sarah put her hands up in surrender, “Okay, okay.” She turned away suddenly and stormed off, keeping her head down.

  ‘Too much, man,’ he thought, watching as she walked away. He shook his head. ‘Great job, Gabriel. Picking on a woman who recently lost her husband.’ He vowed to try even harder to be tactful.

  Serrano joined the rest of the group near the back of the van, where they’d opened the doors to access some of the food and water they had with them. There wasn’t much, and with several days of driving ahead of them, they’d need to restock soon. He looked at his watch, then at the sun’s position in the sky. If they could get to Ventura before dark, they could search for supplies that day. If not, they’d have to focus on finding somewhere to hunker down for the night, then find supplies in the morning. Looking over at Sarah, he made a mental note to ask for her opinion before they began their search. He wouldn’t commit to her plan just yet, but he figured that if he at least offered to hear her out, maybe she’d feel a little bit better about her position in the group.

  “Let’s load up. I wanna ge
t to Ventura before sundown.” He said, draining the last of his water and throwing the bottle in back into the box he’d taken it from. Aside from adhering to his long held belief that people should respect the planet, he also didn’t want to leave a trail for anyone to follow.

  With the exception of the Marines, the group groaned in response, not looking forward to being stuffed back into the van again.

  The kids were the loudest protesters, with the young girl crying as Sarah tried to corral her.

  “Hey,” Damien said, smiling broadly at the little girl. “If you listen to your mom, I’ll tell you stories as we drive.”

  Olivia paused and looked at the man. “Really?”

  “Sure,” he replied, continuing to smile.

  “What stories?” She asked, looking at the man skeptically.

  “I know a bunch.” He nodded, his cheeks jiggling slightly as he did. “Mostly the classics, like Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, you know, that stuff.”

  “Little Red Riding Hood?”

  “Yup. And I’ll tell you the whole story, as long as you listen to your mom.”

  The girl bounced slightly, her mood changing in an instant. “Okay!”

  Next to her, the boy signed heavily. “Great, little kid stories.”

  Damien, moving side to side as he made his way towards the van, looked over at the boy. “What kind of stuff do you like, Jason?”

  Jason responded instantly. “Superheroes. Iron Man, Captain America, Spider Man.”

  Damien smiled again. “Really….well, I just happen to be an expert on comic books. I’ve been to Comic Con the last twelve years in a row.”

  “What?!!” The boy responded in shock. “Twelve years? I’ve never been able to go even once!”

  Damien nodded, reaching up and grabbing the roof of the van to help pull himself up into the van. “Tell you what,” he said over his shoulder. “Let me tell your sister some stories, and then I’ll tell you all about the origins of each of your favorite characters.”