He twisted the gun sideways hard, feeling it come loose from the person’s grip. In the darkness, he grabbed another rock and thrust it forward. It hit flesh and bone hard, sending a shockwave up his arm. He felt the other person’s will give way, but with adrenaline, anger, intensity, and (admittedly) fear running through him, he struck again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And...exhausted as the fight drained from him....no more. Dropping the rock, his senses strained as he tried to determine whether or not the threat was still there.
He heard nothing. No breath, no movement.
He saw nothing. Only blackness.
He smelled...death. Blood, accompanied by the smell of urine and defecation.
Taking a breath, he reached for the flashlight he kept in the breast pocket of his uniform. Turning it on, he directed the light towards his foe.
The young face and body of a preteen girl flooded his vision. His blows had caved in the left side of her face, but the intact right side of her face revealed what a natural beauty that would stop the hearts of men. The undamaged hazel green right eye was left open wide in fear and shock at her acceptance of death at his hands.
Choking back tears, he fought to maintain control of his emotions as his brain tried to process the series of events that led to her death.
He’d never wanted to kill a civilian, let alone a child.
A child?
How could he?
His mission was to find the enemy and to ‘neutralize’ them.
Was she the enemy?
What the fuck?
How?
He stared at the girl’s face, suddenly feeling an inexplicable sense of love for her, as if she were his own child.
Tears ran down his face as he looked at the girl’s dead form.
He’d killed her.
He’d killed a child.
Regardless of the circumstance, he killed this young girl, snuffing out her life with a rock from the ceiling of her own home, filling her mind and body with pain before her will to live was simply snuffed out at his hands.
A voice called out for him, accompanied by pounding feet.
“Sergeant?”
Looking at the prone form of the girl, he swallowed hard. “Yeah!”
Stephenson’s voice floated to him from the front of the small home. “You alright?”
Looking at the girl, his mind sped through a number of possible answers and related scenarios. Most of them led to questions.
One did not.
“Yeah! Hostile back here! Fucker shot at me! I killed the bastard with a rock!”
A pause.
Then Stephenson’s voice again.
“A rock?”
“Yeah! His shot damaged my rifle. I hit him with a rock.”
“Damn! Good job, sarge!!”
Pushing himself upright, he looked towards the dead body of the beautiful girl he’d killed. To her left was a small section of beam that had kept the roof from falling, creating the small, dark space she’d hidden in.
He yanked at the beam, allowing the rubble to fall, covering her corpse.
Hiding the evidence of what he’d done.
He’d emerged from the home a changed man. Struggling to accept what he’d done, his mind had spent hours and hours trying to justify it, trying to find a way to make sense of it.
He’d killed a child.
How would God forgive him?
In the end, he’d used the perversion of a belief to justify his actions.
He told himself it was for mankind. That killing her was necessary for the survival of the species.
The rational part of his mind struggled with this, throwing questions in the forefront of his consciousness, demanding explanation.
The irrational, emotional part of his mind slowly turned his memory of the girl into something else. Whereas he’d been stunned by the sleek lines of her face, her flawless skin, (which seemed impossible in such a harsh environment), and the glimmering color of her eyes, now his mind showed him a picture of a squared-jawed, masculine-looking girl, one whose eyes were filled with rage and a thirst for blood.
American blood.
When his mind revisited the fight, he didn’t allow himself to consider an opponent who was scared for her life, firing the gun out of little more than blind instinct.
He saw a trained fighter, intent on killing the enemy.
He saw someone who’d been taught to hate Americans.
He saw people different from them.
People who didn’t look like them
Who didn’t act like them.
Who didn’t pray like them.
People who weren’t Christians.
More specifically, White Christians.
Feeling the bullet pass by his head, he never even flinched.
Instead, he smirked.
The young boy in front of him simply didn’t understand.
He was chosen.
His foot lashed out again, kicking the gun free from the boy's hands. It smacked against the wall before falling to the ground, sliding out of the stall
Looking down at the boy, he felt his heart racing in his chest.
He was going to enjoy this.
“Leave us,” he ordered.
Graham’s footsteps echoed in the small space as he retreated.
Feeling his penis begin to harden in anticipation, he lowered himself to his knees.
And placed his hands around the boy’s neck.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
San Mateo, California, Within the San Francisco Protective Zone
Gunfire pinged against the side of the Humvee unexpectedly, making the soldiers inside recoil instinctively. The armored sides of the vehicle protected them, but the surprise of unprovoked attack wasn’t something one ever truly grew accustomed to.
“Goddamn it!” Staff Sergeant Todd Nicholson yelled, turning the wheel of the Humvee to the right, away from the gunfire. “What the fuck is it?”
Directly behind him, from his spot under the opening in the roof, where the mounted M2 heavy machine gun was, Corporal Rodriguez yelled, “Five hostiles with automatic weapons, now at two zero zero!”
“Light ‘em up!” Nicholson ordered. Fuckin’ gang members. Avoiding the heavily patrolled quarantine area on the northern edge of the San Bruno Mountain State and Country Park, they’d been testing the integrity of the Protective Zone’s perimeter repeatedly over the last week, and General Armstead had made it clear that the use of deadly force was authorized when attacked.
“Roger that!” Rodriguez replied. “Cover me!”
“You got it!” Corporal Simmons answered before lowering the reinforced glass of the rear window. The woman’s MP-4 chattered as she sent rounds in the direction of the gunfire. “Fuck yeah! I got -”
Her voice was drowned out by the booming sound of the M2. The area around the gang members erupted as the .50 caliber rounds tore through cars, trash cans, light poles, and anything else the gang members tried to use as protection. Bodies were ripped apart like paper mache, as leather, denim, and even kevlar were no match for the unleashed power of the heavy machine gun. Within seconds, it was over.
The gun wound down slowly as Corporal Rodriguez looked downrange. He counted the remains of all five bodies before he provided his report.
“Threat neutralized, Staff Sergeant.”
“Good job, Rod.”
“One of those was my kill,” Simmons interjected.
“Alright,” Nicholson added, his voice filled with sarcasm, “good job, Simmons.”
Turning the wheel back to the left, Nicholson guided the Humvee in a large circle, turning them around so that they could evaluate their attackers. Though the use of deadly force was authorized when attacked, the requirement to document all engagements that resulted in civilian casualties was a stringent one. The heavy vehicle’s right tire climbed up and over the curb before completing the turn, dropping them back down to th
e street in a jarring thump. Nicholson used minimal pressure on the gas pedal as they descended the hill.
From the passenger seat, Sergeant Willis began giving orders as Nicholson drove slowly back to where the M2 had shredded the bodies of their attackers.
“Simmons, you ready?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” With a pen in her left hand and a metal clipboard holding the required form on her lap, the young woman awaited information. The team had been through this twice in the last week, and each time the outcome was the same.
‘Give the civilians a couple of machine guns and they think they can take on the military,’ Nicholson thought to himself as he listened to the familiar back and forth.
“Date June seventeen.”
“June seventeen.”
“Time of attack zero nine three seven.”
“Zero nine three seven.”
“Attack came from two seven zero.”
“Two seven zero degrees.”
“Five hostiles.”
“Five hostiles.”
“Weapons used by hostiles automatic and semi-automatic.”
“Auto and Semi-auto.”
The two soldiers paused in their documentation efforts when Nicholson pulled the vehicle to a stop.
“Rodriguez, cover us,” he ordered as he stepped out of the Humvee, into the cool morning air. The morning fog had only recently burned off, and the area was still covered in a layer of dew. He’d always thought of the California coastal cities as being warm, sunny, and pleasant, but some of the days he’d spent in the San Francisco area had chilled him to the bone.
Looking around, he found it hard to imagine that the nearby homes had only recently sold for a million dollars or more. Old, small, and stacked nearly on top of one another, the small structures looked small enough to fit inside the bottom floor of his childhood home in Kansas. He wondered what his home looked like now, after the outbreak of the Rage virus had run through their state. During the one conversation he’d had with his mother, his father had already been sick. The next day, there’d been no answer on any phone he’d dialed.
His right boot kicked aside an empty Bang energy drink can as he stepped up onto the curb and looked down at the bodies of the dead gang members. As his eyes settled on the face of a young white woman with cornrows and a face tattoo, he shook his head and asked, “Why?”
Standing next to him, Willis looked down as well. “No idea, Staff Sergeant. Desperation?”
Nicholson shook his head more firmly. “Not buying it. If they come in, they get the food, water, and medicine they need. They just have to go through the quarantine.” Looking up at his squad, he said. “Make sure you’ve got your P.G. on properly before you touch anything.” P.G. was short for protective gear, heavy duty latex and other non-permeable material they wore under their uniforms that was designed to ensure no liquid came in contact with their skin.
“Roger,” the members responded.
Stepping away from the others, he returned to the Humvee while they completed their survey and documentation. Leaning against the hood of the vehicle, he withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. Taking one from the pack, he stuck it in his mouth and lit it, using the zippo lighter he’d found the day before.
“Those things will kill you.”
Looking over at the young woman who’d joined him, he smiled. “Yeah, probably.”
Simply put, Corporal Lisa Zhang was a mystery. A beautiful young woman of Chinese descent, she’d grown up in Los Angeles, where she excelled in school, earning a 4.30 GPA in high school, a nearly perfect score on her SATs, and academic scholarship offers to a half-dozen great colleges.
And then enlisted in the Army.
Her parents had been furious. ‘I was finally eighteen,’ she’d explained to him one day, ‘I was tired of them planning my life for me, and I was finally able to make my own decisions. They couldn’t do anything about it.’
“Of course,” she began, reaching for the cigarette as she leaned back against the Humvee, “there were a shitload of people who didn’t smoke and died of this fucking virus anyway.”
Passing the cigarette to her, Nicholson chuckled. The young woman’s language surprised him at times. “Yep,” he said, smiling.
Taking a short puff from the stick, she suddenly pulled it away from her lips and passed it back. Leaning forward, she peered towards the home across the street. “What is that?”
“What?”
“There, near the house,” she said, pointing.
It took him several seconds before his eyes found what she was pointing at. A small piece of pink fabric was stuck on the edge of the fence that led to the home’s backyard. Nearby on the ground at the base of the fence was an old, tattered doll.
Nicholson shrugged. “An old doll? Seen a bunch of those.”
Zhang shook her head, standing up and stepping forward. “No, in the backyard. The dog house.”
Curious now, Nicholson stood up and looked towards the wooden dog house. Near the edge of the opening, another piece of pink fabric, much smaller than that on the fence, flapped lightly in the wind. The interior of the little structure was dark, but as he watched, something moved inside.
“A dog?” He offered.
Corporal Zhang’s eyes remained locked on the dog house as she shook her head again. “Not unless that dog’s wearing an outfit. I saw a flash of color.”
Flicking his cigarette away, Nicholson took a deep breath. “Alright. Guess we’d better check it out.” He walked over and grabbed his MP-4 from inside the armored vehicle. “Willis, we’re gonna check something out. Finish up the report and we’ll be right back.”
“Copy that Staff Sergeant.” Willis replied, still focused on documenting the scene.
Nicholson looked up at Rodriguez, who was still manning the .50 cal, and nodded. The man nodded in return.
“I got you, Staff Sergeant.”
“Thanks.”
Nicholson’s eyes met Zhang’s. “Let’s check it out.”
Zhang brought her weapon around from her back and took hold of it. “Roger that,” she said, nodding.
Nicholson led the way across the street, turning his head slightly as he looked up and down the street. He knew Rodriguez was keeping a close eye on their surroundings, but he wasn’t about to ignore his habitual tendencies in favor of complacency. Reaching the edge of the street, he stepped up onto the sidewalk, watching the dog house as they approached the home’s metal fence, which was designed more for decoration than security, with simple white powder-coated metal bars mounted vertically on top and bottom horizontal support bars.
His boots crushed grass and weeds as he led them across the home’s small front yard and to the fence. Keeping his right hand near the trigger of his weapon, he reached up and tested the gate. It was latched closed. Leaning to the side, he looked back to where the latch sat inside its slot. There was no lock on the latch, so he reached over and pulled back the top part, opening it as he nudged the gate open with his foot. Stepping through, his eyes quickly glanced around the backyard, looking for threats, before returning to the dog house. It was bigger than he’d first thought, clearly designed for a large dog to rest comfortably in. In front of the dog house, a pair of empty bowls sat in the grass.
Pausing, he let the gate rest against his shoulder until he felt Zhang take hold of it. Moving closer to the dog house, he saw movement within, a slight shift that elicited a creaking sound from the wooden structure. Leaning down, he could clearly see the dark fabric of a blue jacket.
Sniffling sounds came from within the dog house.
Stepping back, he took hold of his rifle with both hands, keeping his trigger finger close to its home as he gave instructions in a firm, clear voice. “Alright, come on out of there.”
A soft voice called out from within.
“Please…”
It sounded like that of a young girl, but Nicholson wasn’t taking any chances.
“Come on. Out. We won’t
hurt you if you obey our instructions.”
More sniffling, accompanied by a second voice as whispers were exchanged from within the wooden structure.
The voice called out again. “Promise?”
Nicholson nodded as he replied. “Yes. If you have a weapon, toss it out before you come out. As long as you’re not armed, we won’t view you as a threat.”
There was a long pause, accompanied by quiet whispering inside the dog house. Nicholson glanced at Zhang and raised his eyebrows. She met his eyes and gave a slight shake of her head as she kept her rifle trained on the dog house.
There was a slight scrape before a small object flew out of the wooden structure.
It was a meat tenderizer, about six inches in length and made of stainless steel.
“That’s all we have!”
Nicholson relaxed, then motioned for Zhang to move back a bit. Lowering his voice, he said, “Maintain cover, but give us some space. I think it’s just kids.”
Zhang nodded. “Roger.” She backed away and to her right, maintaining watch on the front of the dog house.
Nicholson lowered his weapon. “Alright. Come on out.”
More scraping came from inside the dog house before a foot emerged, followed by a leg, then the rest of a young black girl. Dirty from head to toe, the girl looked to be about ten years old, with dark, skin and tightly curled hair that was a mess. She wore a light blue t-shirt that showed a graphic logo for the Disney movie “Frozen” and a pair of recently torn blue jeans. Looking up at Nicholson with scared, brown eyes, the girl asked, “Are you gonna arrest us?”
Feeling his heart melt, he shook his head and kneeled down. With his right hand, he motioned for Zhang to lower her weapon.
Looking in the young girl’s eyes, he said, “No, sweetie, we’re not going to arrest you.”
The girl shifted on her feet nervously, looking downward as she did.
“Is there someone else in there?” Nicholson asked.
The girl nodded.
“Why don’t you have him come out?”
“Okay,” the girl said nervously before leaning down and speaking into the opening. “Come on, Lebron.”
Surviving Rage | Book 2 Page 31
