“Come on…” he whispered under his breath.
‘Stay calm,’ his inner voice reminded him. ‘The shot will come.’
Still hidden from his view, the officer shouted orders from where he stood behind the covered truck.
“Xếp hàng! Già nhất đến trẻ nhất!”
‘Line them up, oldest to youngest.’
The officer’s hand came into view, pointing at other men as the voice shouted out more orders.
“Bạn! Giúp anh ta!”
‘You! Help him!’
Another soldier rushed over to where the first one was and began grabbing the children, pulling them into a line. The children cried loudly as they were yanked around while the men shouted at them, asking them how old they were.
Several of the other soldiers created a column between the military truck and the grouping of children, providing a passageway for the officer to walk through. The men looked outward, their eyes scanning for threats as their heads moved from side to side slowly.
The shooter wasn’t worried. He and Chuck had found perfect cover behind a series of pipes that protruded from the top of the building. Several yards to his right, clothes flapped in the wind, suspended from a clothesline, attracting the eyes and attention of those who looked.
“I’m not okay with this, Ace,” Chuck said, referring to him by the nickname he’d earned in Sniper School.
“Not our mission, Chuck,” he growled, still looking through his scope. His friend’s voice captured his ears, but not his eyes.
“Don’t care, man. I ain’t watching a bunch of kids get killed without trying to stop it.”
The shooter hesitated. Dammit, why did Chuck have to make him think about it? The man was right. No matter how important the mission, they couldn’t just stand by and let this happen.
Down below, the Viet Cong officer’s voice rose in volume as he lectured the children.
“Bạn đã được bảo không đi học! ”
‘You have been told not to go to school!’
“Trường học là nơi kẻ thù sẽ tẩy não bạn chống lại đất nước của bạn!”
‘School is where the enemy will brainwash you against your country!’
“Nhưng bạn ở đây.”
‘But here you are.’
“Bạn không chịu nghe.”
‘You refuse to listen.’
“Tôi không thể cho phép bạn trở thành kẻ phản bội đất nước chúng ta.”
‘I cannot allow you to become traitors to our country.’
“Vì vậy, tôi sẽ phải làm ví dụ về bạn.”
‘So I will have to make examples of you.’
The Viet Cong officer stepped forward until he was even with the first soldier in the column. He pointed at the young boy on the left end of the row. The boy was tall and thin, and at most eleven years old.
“Bạn! Đi về phía trước!”
‘You, come forward!’
“I’m gonna do something, Ace. I don’t care if you’re with me or not,” Chuck muttered under his breath, grabbing his rifle and quietly chambering a round.
“Let me get the shot first,” the shooter replied, “then we rain freedom down on these fuckers.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Chuck said, satisfaction in his voice.
“Quiet,” the shooter commanded.
The voice inside his head took over.
‘Slow breaths.
‘Block out everything.
‘All sound, all smells, the movement of your chest as you breathe.
‘Wait.
‘Focus.
‘When the gun fires, it must come straight back into your shoulder.
‘A straight recoil is a straight shot.
‘Exhale…
The Viet Cong officer stepped forward and raised his pistol.
His head came into the view of the sniper’s scope.
‘Squeeze.’
Red mist exploded from the officer’s head as the bullet found its target, the 7.62 millimeter round ripping through the man’s skull with ease. The man’s body crumpled to the ground as the sniper chambered another round and squeezed the trigger again, putting a round into the man that killed the bus driver. Knowing he didn’t have as much time for accuracy, he targeted center mass, preferring to have increased likelihood of a hit over the need for a certain kill.
Next to him, Chuck’s rifle chattered as he sent bullets down towards the soldiers that had begun to scatter. Two more men fell, one with blood seeping from his back, another with a bullet wound in his leg.
The children ran, rushing away from the soldiers, back towards the edge of the village and the farmlands they called home.
The sniper fired once more, taking down another soldier, before pulling back his rifle and nudging Chuck, urging the man to pull back.
They had to move.
Now.
They’d made themselves targets, not only as men who’d dared take up arms against the Viet Cong, but as Americans. Things were about to get real bad real quick.
“Let’s go!” he shouted, throwing his rifle over his shoulder and grabbing his bag as he moved away from the building’s edge.
“Right behind you!” Chuck replied.
Bullets pinged off the building’s edge as he rose to his feet and broke into a run, heading for the stairwell that led to the roof. They had to get down at least three floors before they’d be able to exit the building through the windows at the rear of the structure, which looked down onto a small field of rice paddies. It wasn’t the preferred exit, but going out through the front exit would be suicide.
The jump down wouldn’t be easy, but at least the water in the paddies would help break their fall.
Pounding down the stairs, he heard the men outside shouting as they regrouped. Orders were given in loud, strident voices as the men focused on finding and killing their attackers.
He and Chuck had taken out the officer and four other men, leaving them outnumbered ten to two.
Not good.
Footsteps thundered in the stairwell below them as men made their way up the stairs, seeking them out. Reaching the second floor landing, he broke right, heading for the series of windows. With no time to open them, he pulled his pistol and fired at the two windows directly in front of them, shattering them, just as they reached the end of the hallway.
Without hesitating, he leapt through the opening. Gunfire cracked behind them as their pursuers opened fire on them. Bullet singed the air around them as they dropped from view, miraculously avoiding being hit.
Water splashed around them as they landed, skidding briefly before coming to rest on their backsides.
“Move!” he shouted, lunging to his feet and moving to his right, towards the backside of the building.
At the very least they needed to limit the number of people that would have a clear shot. Staying close to the building would force the men to lean out of the window and turn to the right, effectively limiting the number that would be able to shoot at them.
Water flew upward as they sloshed through the paddies, working their way towards the nearby jungle. Bullets zipped through the air, sending up small plumes of water as they impacted the space around them.
Feeling his boots soaking through, he silently cursed the situation. Once a man’s feet were wet, he was in trouble. Jungle rot was real, and it was debilitating.
Sudden fire burst from his right side as a bullet tore through him, making him falter.
“Gotcha, Ace,” Chuck said, grabbing him and propelling him forward before he could stumble again.
Within seconds they entered the jungle, where they dodged left and right through the trees, trying to put distance between them and the men who chased them.
His side burned as he ran, throwing off his gait, making him keep his right arm close to his side in an attempt to stymie the pain.
“Gotta get to the river!” Chuck shouted as they reached the
top of a small hill..
A split second later a metallic clicking sound echoed came from near Chuck.
The earth erupted underneath him as bits of metal were sent outwards with incredible force, vaporizing the man instantly. The metal flew outwards, shredding the bushes and trees around the man before several pieces tore through the shooter’s back, embedding themselves deep into the muscles around his spine, causing him to lose the feeling in his legs. He stumbled and fell, tumbling as he descended the hill, feeling trees and stray branches smack his face and body.
‘Any second, I’ll hit another mine and it’ll be all over,’ he thought as he fell, still unable to feel his legs. Through dazed eyes, he watched as his legs rotated above him, then came down under him, all the while oblivious to any pain that was caused by the impacts.
Bullets zinged by, tearing tree leaves and ripping through trunks as they missed their target.
When his descent finally came to a stop, he was face down in the mud, a few feet from the river’s edge.
He heard the voices of the Viet Cong soldiers getting louder as they made their way down the hill, working their way through the thick foliage. Rounds continued to tear through the trees as the men above him kept firing their weapons, desperate to hit their target.
Barely conscious, he dug his hands into the mud and pulled himself forward. He was a powerful swimmer, and if he could get to the water, he’d have a chance of escape. Straining from the exertion, he dragged his useless legs through the mud until his upper body was in the water. The current pulled him sideways, dragging his body through the mud before pulling him out into the open water.
In seconds, he was carried away by the river.
Pain overwhelmed his senses, forcing consciousness away.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Inside the Protective Zone, San Francisco, California
The large man’s deep, baritone voice boomed in the room, echoing off the walls.
“Absolutely not!”
Fiery eyes accompanied the voice, burning holes into the other man as the big man clenched the edge of the table. Below his torso, a map of San Francisco was taped down. On the map, several locations were circled. Each circled point was annotated with a short annotation describing what the location was.
The largest location circled on the map was around what was previously known as San Francisco General. In true military fashion, it was now simply known as the Medical Facility, and further reduced to MF on the map.
Four locations, strategically chosen for their geographic location, were labeled WD, followed by a number. WD1 indicated the North Water Distribution warehouse, WD2 was the East Water Distribution warehouse, and so on.
Likewise, there were four warehouses bore the annotations FD followed by a number, indicating the multiple Food Distribution warehouses that had been set up.
Housing buildings were marked on the map as well, but with the growing population, they’d been given a three digit number. The first location was Housing 001, labeled H001, the second H002, then H003, until, currently, the most recent addition had been labeled H008.
Other locations stood out as well: the Armory was labeled AR, the Fire Department was aptly labeled FD, and four locations, all previously used as High Schools, were labeled ED followed by a number. The Education Departments were used to provide schooling for any child between the ages of 6 and 16, if desired. Attendance was not mandatory, and as such, many people chose to keep their children home out of fear, but for those who did attend, teachers were there, providing education and a sense of normalcy.
The biggest location on the map was the location they were currently in, a five building complex labeled HQ. The outer buildings, which faced south and east, were where the security forces operated from. Watch rotations were coordinated, weapons were checked in and out, ammunition was stored, and operational briefings took place there. Beyond that were two large towers, which housed all of the military personnel currently in the Protective Zone. The last building, an eight story monolithic structure covered in mirrored glass, was the Operations Center. Intelligence Briefings, strategic planning sessions, and communications with leadership (including President Martinez) took place inside the large building.
Which was where Major Kincaid had found the man who towered over him.
“Yes, General Armstead. Understand. It’s just - ”
“It’s just nothing, Major!” The man thrust his finger down onto the map, bringing it to rest near a long, curving line that extended from the edge of the San Francisco bay to the Pacific Ocean. “See this line? This is the edge of what we can protect. Anything more is beyond our capacity. Understand, Major?”
Kincaid nodded. “Yes, General. My apologies, sir.” At least he could tell Sergeant Nicholson he’d tried.
The big man’s face softened. “Look, Mike, I understand, okay? We hate to see our fellow citizens suffering. We want to help them, we want to protect them. Shit, it’s what we signed up, for, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
The General shook his head. “But right now we’re on the ropes. This damned virus has kicked our collective asses, and we’re just trying to make it to the bell so we can go to our corner and regroup.”
Kincaid was confused. “Are those boxing analogies, Sir?”
The General, who’d won every boxing match he’d fought in during his time at Westpoint, shook his head, looking at the smaller man. At five six and maybe a hundred and forty pounds, the Air Force Major was barely more than half his size. At six foot six and two hundred and forty pounds, he was used to being the biggest guy in the room, but he should have realized the smaller man wouldn’t necessarily be a boxing fan.
“Yes, Major, those are boxing analogies. I’m just saying we’re barely hanging on, and we need to focus on that. Once we start to recover, to regain our strength, we can consider doing more.
“For now, we’ll focus on maintaining what we’ve got.”
Major Kincaid nodded. “Got it, sir.”
“Good, now - ”
The door to the room burst open, slamming into the wall. A middle aged dark haired woman in Army Fatigues entered the room, breathing heavily.
“What the hell, Colonel Woodworth?”
“Sir,” the woman began, pausing to take a breath, “we just received a radio call from someone who’s uh… well, he’s got someone who’s immune.”
The General’s mouth dropped, as did Major Kincaid’s.
“That’s great news, Colonel.” Armstead said, nodding.
Unsure of how the man would respond to the caveat, the Lieutenant Colonel looked away from the man’s gaze. “There’s a catch, sir.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center, Virginia
Another typical Northeastern U.S. morning greeted Jonathan Reed as he set out for his daily five mile run. Even at 6 a.m., it was in the high 50s and humid, and he knew by the time he was done, he’d be drenched in sweat.
Trotting next to him, Steight looked up at him happily, tail wagging as he kept pace. The dog loved running, and as Reed had increased his distance over the last few weeks, his companion had, too, happy that she was included in the morning routine.
Reed slowly increased his speed, lengthening his stride as he covered more and more ground, letting his well-conditioned muscles propel him onward as his mind raced. He was frustrated at the feeling of helplessness as they waited for someone immune to find their way to one of the Protective Zones.
Out of desperation, they’d tried taking samples from scores of people and testing it against the virus, trying to find someone who was unknowingly immune, but every attempt had failed. The Rage virus took over quickly, agitating the cells in a frenetic fashion that was, quite simply, downright terrifying.
Steight darted ahead of him, her nails scratching the pavement loudly as she tore after a rabbit, but as always, she pulled up after seeing the rabbit dart away. She never truly went after any of the small ani
mals, always choosing to break off her chase after they were sufficiently scared, and Reed was convinced that’s all it was: reminding the other animals that she was there.
Steight waited until Reed caught up, then looked up at him as she fell back in alongside him, her tail wagging happily.
“Good girl,” he said, as he continued on. He felt sweat start to form on his forehead and temple as he climbed one of the small hills on the base, his feet hitting the surface of the street in perfectly measured strides.
Glancing towards the dried sports fields off to his left, he wondered how long it would be before another game was played there. Would the world return to normal when the cure for the virus was found, or had too much damage been done to the country’s sense of togetherness?
People had turned on one another out of fear and anger, as evidenced by how the previously unvaccinated, who still remained in the quarantine area out of safety concerns, had been treated by their fellow survivors on the base. When faced with challenges, the human psyche needed to have an enemy, someone or something they could blame for their bad fortunes.
Pastors blamed the devastation caused by hurricanes on the existence of same-sex couples.
People blamed entire religions for the actions of a few extremists, starting wars that killed tens of thousands of people.
The poor blamed their economic situation not on the greed of the rich, who blocked every attempt to increase the federal minimum wage, but on other poor people, namely immigrants.
Would people blame the advances of modern science for the outbreak?
Would they suggest that the attempt to cure the incurable had been both foolhardy and reckless?
Steight barked suddenly, breaking Reed’s train of thought.
Looking up, he saw one of the white government vans parked up ahead. Sergeant Mason stood next to it, waiting patiently as Reed approached.
Reed slowed his stride as he approached, wondering what it was that brought Mason out here. He brought his left wrist up and pushed a button on his watch, ending his run as he slowed to walk.
Surviving Rage | Book 2 Page 42
