Unfortunately for the victims, their efforts had made their escape from the infected within impossible.
The white swath of their flashlights revealed the bodies of a middle-aged white man and a young white woman were closest to the pile near the door. Both had been brutally attacked from behind, their faces and heads smashed beyond the point of recognition, leaving dried blood and an assortment of teeth on the tiled floor beneath them.
Sweeping his flashlight to the left, the light revealed a tall black man, sitting on the floor near a small sink. His eyes stared into space while his hands rested in his lap, no longer able to hold his entrails inside of him. His intestines had spilled out of the gaping wound in his stomach and piled onto his crotch, making it appear as if he’d taken them out for presentation.
In the far corner of the room, a short, stout Filipina lay on the ground, a bloody knife still clutched tightly in her hand. Her face was bloodied and battered, the skin on her neck had been ripped away, exposing the muscles and flesh beneath. Her attacker, a redheaded, freckled teenage girl lay off to the side of the woman. The girl’s hands and mouth were covered in the dried blood of her victims, but the blood around her midsection was her own, having poured forth from the multiple stab wounds the Filipina had inflicted.
Sommer was still taking all of this in when he heard the pop and hiss of a soda being opened.
“Crazy shit.” Hank said, bringing the can of Pepsi to his lips.
“No kidding,” Sommer replied, reaching down and grabbing a can for himself. He opened and drank from the can, enjoying the flavor of the drink, regardless of the fact that it was lukewarm.
Stepping into the room, he looked at the refrigerator. Against his better judgement, he walked to the appliance and opened it. As expected, the smell of rotting food escaped, adding to the already overwhelming smell of the decomposing bodies in the space, further assaulting his senses. Finding what he expected made it worthwhile. He reached in and scooped up nine bottles of water. Moving to his left, he set them on the counter while using his foot to kick the door to the refrigerator closed.
Resting against the counter for a second as he tried to breath, he looked over at Williams. Still choking from the smell, he managed, “Make sure it's clear out there.” As the man turned and left, Sommer scooped up the bottles again and moved to the door.
Hank’s voice came from outside of the room. “Clear.”
Sommer squeezed the door, carefully clutching the bottles of water against his chest. The last thing he wanted was to drop one of them and have to return to the stench-filled room. Emerging from the room, they rushed to the nearby bagging area and set the bottles down before returning to the door and pulling it closed.
“Fuck!” He muttered, shaking his head. In his mind, he reasoned that the black guy and the Filipina probably exuded the worst smells, being from a lesser race.
Once he’d regained his composure, he stood and brought his rifle back in front of him. “Let’s check the back area.”
The two men moved to the rear of the store, sweeping their lights as they went. When they reached the swinging door behind the meat counters, they paused, gathering themselves before entering in tandem.
“Well, shit.” A voice called out from their left.
They swung their lights and guns in the direction of the voice and found a large, burly white man, covered in tattoos. His head was clean shaven, the only hair on his head that of a thick moustache and beard. In his large arms was a small, Asian boy, who struggled against the man’s grasp. The man held a gun to the boy’s head. Nearby on the floor, the bodies of an Asian couple lay face down.
“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this,” the man growled. “Put down your guns or I blow this kid’s head off.”
Sommer scoffed, keeping his rifle trained on the man. “Why the fuck would I care what you do to that fuckin’ gook?”
The man’s face broke into a huge grin. He released the boy, who stumbled backwards. As the boy regained his balance, the man shot him in the chest, sending him flying backwards into the shelving. The boy’s corpse flopped to the ground heavily, coming to rest near the bodies of the others.
The man turned back to them, holding his gun at his side. He looked down at the bodies near his feet. “Caught these fucking chinks trying to take my shit. I was in the middle of carving them up when I heard y’all enter the store.” He looked back at Sommer and Williams. “Thanks for letting me finish my business. I hate these yellow bastards.”
Sommer smiled as he lowered his gun. “No problem. Name’s Steve Sommer. This is Hank WIlliams. Yes, like the singer.”
The other man nodded. “Graham Walker. Pleasure to meet ya.”
Sommer went on to explain who they were and what their mission was. The man listened intently, nodding as he took in the information. When Sommer finished, he smiled.
“Sounds fuckin’ awesome. Hell yeah, I’ll join ya.”
Sommer looked over at Hank. “Whaddaya think, brother, do these three add to our daily total now that Graham here’s part of the team?
Hank shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
“Alright, the new record is sixty-two. That’ll be tough to beat, but with hard work, dedication, and the right opportunities, I think we can do it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ventura, California
The sun was near the horizon when Serrano and his group reached the outskirts of Ventura, puttering along in a van that was on its final leg. Not wanting to get into the main area of the small city in a van that could literally quit on them at any moment, Serrano had everyone looking for possible spots to hide out in for the night. He’d given them a number of choices, which he listed in order of preference: small homes, churches, and libraries/government buildings. He recognized that only the first would have the amenities most of the group was used to, but their available time and search area were both limited. He made it abundantly clear that if they got within ten miles of the city center without finding a suitable home, they’d stop and backtrack until they found a suitable church, library, or other government building to hole up in for the night.
“How ‘bout that one?” Aaron asked, pointing at a small, single level home.
Slowing the van as much as he could without stopping (Serrano was fairly sure that if they gave the van the opportunity to quit, it would gladly take it), Serrano looked ahead and to the left, where the small home sat just behind an elementary school on a road to the right. Like many other homes in the Southwest, the small home had sand-colored stucco and a red tile roof. At some point the front yard may have had a lush green lawn, but now it was a mixture of weeds, crabgrass, and bare spots. An old, faded grey Nissan Sentra sat in the driveway, covered in dust in cobwebs. Next to it, a much older Ford truck, covered in even more dust and cobwebs and lacking wheels sat on cinder blocks.
Turning the wheel, Serrano guided the van carefully onto the narrow street where the house sat. He allowed the vehicle to coast a bit, his foot hovering above the gas pedal, ready to stomp down should the van exhibit any signs of choking out. While he understood that the drive had been challenging, the van’s reliability had taken a nosedive after they’d unexpectedly hit a massive pothole in the middle of the road. Admittedly, he couldn’t blame the manufacturer for the van’s inability to recover from the damage inflicted to the underside of the van, but it was certainly frustrating.
Giving the home one last once-over, nodded.
“Looks like it might work,” he said before pulling the van over to the right, stopping the vehicle next to the curb. Exhaling in measured relief, he turned the key in the ignition to the off position, silently praying that the vehicle would start again should they need it to. In his mind, he knew that should the need to escape arise, they’d likely be doing it on foot.
With that in mind, he grabbed his AR-15 and exited the vehicle, his eyes surveying the far side of the street as he made his way to the other side of the van, where he opened the door
to let his passengers out. As they filed out of the vehicle slowly, he felt his confidence in their ability to escape on foot drop when Damien stepped out of the van, his tremendous weight causing it to rock back and forth on its springs.
The group naturally gathered around him, waiting for instructions. Glancing at Sarah, he noticed that though she was still refusing to make eye contact, she was close enough to listen to him. As he looked at her, he wondered if the grudge she obviously held against him was permanent or temporary.
His eyes lingered on her face as he considered this, and in that moment she felt his gaze upon her. Reflexively, she turned to look towards him, catching him staring at her. She scowled before turning away angrily.
‘Great,’ he thought, kicking himself internally, ‘now she thinks I was checking her out.’ Taking a breath, he looked at the group gathered around him. The driving had made him tired, reducing his readiness, so he decided to delegate some of the necessary tasks.
“Aaron, Phillip, clear the house. Make sure you cover the backyard as well.”
The two Marines grinned widely as they received their orders, happy to have earned his trust, happy to execute a task without his personal oversight.
As they moved out, Serrano found himself moving over to lean against the van so he could rest. His bones were tied and weary, his mind flighty and unfocused. As a SEAL, he recognized the vulnerability that fatigue introduced. He needed rest, and he needed it soon. Forcing himself to stay focused, he continued to watch the street as he waited for the two men to return.
After almost ten minutes, the Marines returned, nodding as they approached.
“All clear,” Phillip said, nodding slightly. “Whoever lived there left some time ago. The kitchen’s clean and the beds are made so I’m guessing they left and never came back.”
Shaking his head, Aaron added, “Yeah, but with that known, I’d be afraid to open that fridge.”
Serrano grinned. “Alright. We won’t do that, then.” Looking at the group, he raised his voice slightly. “Okay, this is it. Let’s get inside, off the street.”
Phillip and Aaron led them up the narrow sidewalk and into the small home, with Phillip entering first while Aaron held the door open. The inside of the home was dim, lit only by the rapidly setting sun. The drapes at the front of the house were shut, but the men knew they needed to keep them that way to reduce their exposure. With the house facing east, opening the drapes at the rear of the home would help a little, so they opened those to allow some of the meager light in, which was only enough to illuminate the kitchen area.
With the living room still dark, Serrano told the others to stay put, then took out his flashlight and made his way to the kitchen, where he found the door to the attached garage. Stepping into the dark space, he cast the light around until the beam landed on what he was looking for: a camping lantern.
Grabbing it, he returned to the kitchen, where he rummaged through the drawers until he found a book of matches. He took the lantern and the matches to the living room, set the lantern on the small coffee table, and lit it, bringing warm light into the dark space. The living room had a small, yellow couch with dark reddish flowers, a solid beige corduroy-covered recliner, a small wooden oval-shaped coffee table, and a 35-inch flat screen that rested atop an end table against the wall.
Sarah and her kids went to the couch and sat down, while Jennifer insisted on letting her grandfather take the recliner. Looking around, Serrano saw the seating shortage and grabbed two of the chairs from the nearby dining table and brought them into the room. After closing the front door, Aaron followed suit, bringing two remaining chairs. Realizing they were still short one, Serrano was about to lower himself to the floor when Damien stopped him.
“Slow your roll, there Chili,” the big man said, smiling. Looking at the wooden chairs, he shook his head. “I’m not sure them chairs could hold half my ass, let alone the whole thing.”
Unable to help himself, Serrano chuckled. “Let me take a look around, see what other options there are.”
Damien held up his hand. “No need. Imma check out the kitchen, see what they got. I’m starving and I'm a pretty good cook. Let me see what I can rustle up, alright?”
Serrano smiled. “Sounds good. The gas should still be on if you need it. No pressure, since there likely isn’t anything fresh, but I’m pretty sure everyone here would be thrilled to have a hot meal for a change.”
Standing up from the sofa, Sarah asked, “Can I help?”
The black man grinned. “Absolutely, but that kitchen looks pretty small, so don’t be surprised if you get bumped around once or twice.”
Sarah smiled. “It’s okay, I won’t mind.”
Damien snorted. “You say that now, but wait ‘til three hundred and fifty pounds of Damien knocks you backward. You might feel different.” With that said, he turned and made his way into the home’s small kitchen, waddling in his usual side-to-side way as he walked. Soon after, Serrano and the others heard cabinets opening and closing, along with muttering that sounded positive at times, and negative at others. In the end, the big man’s voice came through clearly.
“Yes, we can work with this. We can most definitely work with this.”
Gently pushing past Sarah, Damien stuck his head around the corner and looked towards those in the living room.
“I gotta plan for dinner, but it’s gonna take about an hour. Is that okay?”
The group nodded in unison, giving them their unanimous consent, assuring him that they were fine with waiting. Jennifer, who’d already hit it off with Sarah as the only other woman in the group, was sitting with the two kids, talking to them softly as she kept them occupied, while Richard was dozing off in the recliner. Aaron had returned to the front porch to maintain watch, while Phillip was on the steps behind the home, guarding the back entrance.
Rising from his chair on weary legs, Serrano made his way across the living room and into the small hallway that led to the bedrooms. To the left, the master bedroom stood dark and empty, a queen-sized bed sitting in the middle of the floor. Walking into the room, he looked over and saw a small bathroom connected to it. Turning on his heel, he made his way back into the hallway where he found another bathroom centered between two additional bedrooms. Each of the other rooms held small, twin sized beds, covered in old flowered bedspreads.
No matter how he looked at it, several of them would be sleeping on the floor that night.
Pausing in the farthest bedroom, he reached up and scratched the stubble on his chin as he thought. After a few seconds, he looked at the room again. There were few personal effects in the room.
Guest room.
He strode to the closet and opened it, revealing stacks of extra blankets and sheets next to several extra pillows.
‘Perfect.’
Reaching into the closet, he scooped all of it up and made his way back to the living room, where the smells coming from the kitchen were so enticing his stomach instantly lurched before growling loudly.
He set the bedding in the corner near the front door before returning to his seat, where he bent down and unlaced his boots. Removing them, he felt bad for those in the room, knowing that the odor that permeated from his feet was strong, and unforgiving musk born from unforgiving boots that refused to breath regardless of the effort the manufacturers put into trying to make them lightweight and breathable.
Serrano leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, intending to rest them for a bit.
An hour later he was woken by the sound of Damien’s booming voice.
“Almost ready!”
Snapping awake into a full state of readiness, Serrano sat forward quickly, his eyes moved about the room, evaluating everything and everyone. Realizing there were no threats, he allowed himself to relax in his chair for a moment before reaching down and grabbing his boots. He REALLY needed to wash his socks, but he saw no way to do so.
‘Unless...” Standing from his chair again, he went back to the b
edrooms, entering the master first. Crossing to the dresser that was set against the wall to the right of the bed, he opened the top drawer.
Bingo.
Rows of balled up white tube socks sat inside the drawer in front of him. Based on the home’s decor, he’d determined the home’s owners were elderly. Based on his experience helping his grandfather through the later years of his life, he knew that the elderly had issues with circulation in their lower extremities. Because of that, they preferred long tube socks, socks that no one else would wear - unless, of course, they wore tall combat boots.
Holding his arm close to his chest, he scooped up every pair of socks in the drawer, ten in all, and returned to the living room. Knowing that a person’s feet could be their weakness whether they realized it or not, he divided the tube socks into five piles, giving himself the extra pair, since he was the leader. ‘There’s gotta be some benefit of taking on the majority of the responsibility,’ he told himself, while knowing that he’d give the extra pair up in a heartbeat should someone need it desperately.
The point of the socks was not only to provide relief. The point was also to make the other men think about the need to take care of their feet. It was easy to focus on what you looked at every day (your arms, your hands, your torso, your face in the mirror) but it was also easy to forget that the things that kept you upright - your feet - were actually kind of fragile, and because of that, they held the power to make even the strongest men vulnerable.
A loud slurping sound came from the kitchen, followed by “Alright! That’s pretty damn good!” Then a pause, followed by, “Oh shit!, I mean shoot! That’s pretty darn good, I’m sorry…”
Sarah’s voice followed. “It’s okay, Damien. After everything they’ve been through, a little cursing ain’t that bad.”
Surviving Rage | Book 2 Page 25
