Surviving Rage | Book 2

by Arellano, J. D.

  “Good morning, Sergeant,” he said, reaching up to wipe more sweat from his brow.

  Steight went over to the man and rubbed against his leg, her tail wagging happily as he reached down and rubbed her head.

  “Morning Sir. We need to go to the briefing room to meet with the President immediately.”

  Looking down at himself, he saw his shirt was covered in sweat. He figured he probably didn’t smell too great, either. “Right now? Can I have a chance to clean up?”

  Mason shook his head. “After, Sir. They want you right away.”

  “Okay…” Reed said, heading for the passenger side of the van. He opened the back and motioned for the dog to get in. She leapt into the vehicle without hesitation, then made her way towards the front, positioning herself between the two seats.

  Reed closed the rear door and got into the front passenger seat. “Any idea why?”

  Mason started the van as he spoke.

  “I think they’ve found someone immune.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Fresno, California

  Standing up violently from his chair, Steve Sommer reached down, grabbed his coffee cup, turned and hurled it against the wall as hard as he could. The cup shattered upon impact, sending pieces of porcelain flying in all directions and coating the wall in a wet sheen of coffee.

  “This cannot happen!” he yelled again, his eyes burning with intensity.

  “Alright, we’ll go to San Francisco and cut them off,” Hank said, putting his hand out in an effort to calm the man down.

  “You’re damn right we will, but do you understand why?”

  Eager to impress the man, Trent spoke up. “‘Cuz you’re the boss.”

  In two strides, Sommer rounded the table and placed his right hand around the man’s throat, pushing up and backward, leaning the man back in his chair until his head was against the wall.

  Sommer brought his face down until it was less than six inches away from Trent’s. “I don’t need a ‘yes man’, you fuck. I need people who believe in the cause.” He released his grip on Trent’s neck and stepped back, then grabbed his gun off the counter and held it as he crossed his hands in front of him.

  “Now which one are you?” he asked.

  Afraid to move forward out of concern for having his movement misinterpreted, Trent swallowed and said, “I’m a believer, Steve. One hundred percent.”

  Nodding, Sommer went back to his seat and sat down, still glowering. He stared at the men seated around him, taking time to meet each one’s gaze, conveying his deep displeasure.

  After several long moments, he spoke.

  “Three years after the end of World War Two, the -” Sommer held up his fingers to make air quotes, “ - ‘World Health Organization’ was created. Any idea where they are headquartered?” he asked.

  Not waiting for a response, he went on. “Geneva, Switzerland, the place where the Geneva Convention was ratified. Why does that matter? Because the Geneva Convention details the rights and treatments that must be given to non-combatants.”

  “Apparently, people were bothered by how Germany dealt with its infestation problem,” he said, shaking his head. “They didn’t like how the Germans got rid of the Jews that had spread throughout the country like a Goddamn plague.

  “I think that’s bullshit.

  “I believe a country has the right to conduct a little cleaning when they’ve got an infestation problem - just like we’re doing now.”

  The men around him nodded in agreement, listening intently.

  “So what’s the point of me bringing up the W.H.O., and what does it have to do with the girl who’s immune?” he asked rhetorically, signalling for Hank to give him another cup of coffee.

  The man did so quickly.

  Taking a sip of the coffee, Sommer looked around at the men again, then continued. He held up three fingers. “Three years after the end of the war, the W.H.O. is formed. Suddenly, the whole world cares about the health of other nations?”

  He took another drink and shook his head. “Anyway, the W.H.O. is quiet for a few years, mostly releasing studies and providing research materials, but then, ten years after being established, it begins working to eradicate smallpox.”

  “That’s a good thing, though, right boss?” Graham asked.

  Sommer held up a finger. “Hold that thought. The W.H.O. does work to eradicate smallpox, and by 1967, nine years after they were asked to get involved, they announce that they’ve accomplished their objective.”

  “World leaders are thrilled.

  “Celebrations are had.

  “Funding is increased.

  “And the W.H.O. becomes a more recognized and respected entity.” Sommer leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table as he continues, his voice taking on an even more serious tone. “In 1977, they introduce something called the ‘W.H.O. Model List of Essential Medicines’, two hundred and twelve medicines that the W.H.O. says countries should consider using for medicinal purposes. The list contains all kinds of stuff: antibiotics, pain killers, dermatological treatments, antipsychotic medication, heck, even stuff to help with diarrhea.

  “But more importantly, they recommend a whole bunch of vaccines.”

  He let his words sink in before he continued.

  “Are you all familiar with the MMR vaccine?”

  From his spot in the kitchen, Hank nodded. “Measles, Mumps, and Rubella,” he answered.

  Sommer nodded. “Exactly. Now, the Persians documented the Measles somewhere around 400 B.C. The Greeks were the first to mention the Mumps, right around the same time.

  “Rubella, though, is very similar to both of these diseases, and for a long time, it was called, simply, German Measles.

  “So why lump it in with the others?” he asked.

  He looked around the table. Each of the men shook their head in confusion, not understanding where he was going with his lecture.

  “I can see you’re not following, so let me ask this question: how are vaccines created?”

  “Got this one, Steve,” Trent said, smiling. “They have some of the dead virus in ‘em, so your body can develop immunity.”

  Sommer nodded. “Yes, that’s good, and close enough for our conversation. So a vaccine designed to fight off something that was first discovered in Persia - which is now Iran - would have what kind of traits associated with it?”

  “Persian?” Graham asked, feeling slightly more confident.

  “Exactly. And the Mumps vaccine?”

  “Would have Greek genes in it,” Randall said, shaking his head. “Son of a bitch.”

  Sommer sat back in his chair watching as realization came over the men’s faces.

  With the exception of Trent, who looked around, confusion showing on his face. “What?”

  “These fuckers create vaccines and they introduce other races into your bloodstream, changing your blood, and probably affecting your children’s DNA.” Randall said.

  “Dang it!” Trent said, smacking the table. “I knew that Twenty Three and Me was wrong!”

  Sommer put up his hand, making them all fall silent. “In the Seventies, the W.H.O. - the same group that was formed right after World War Two, in the same place where laws were passed limiting how a country could deal with their internal problems - added the MMR vaccine to its list of ‘essential medicines.’”

  Leaning forward again, he looked at them and said, “They’re watering down the White race.”

  He let the words simmer for a minute, then finished.

  “And now our so-called government wants to introduce a Goddamn Mexican’s genes into the entire population.”

  He shook his head. “Not on my fuckin’ watch.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Central California

  The old truck rumbled and shook as it grudgingly made its way up the 5 North. In the driver’s seat, Logan rubbed his eyes as his mind worked through the possible scenarios regarding why Joe Reilley had taken Isabella.

/>   Was he a pervert?

  Was he a psycho, intent on harming the girl?

  Or was he trying to hold her for ransom?

  Whatever the man’s reasons, his actions were unforgivable, and with that said, one thing was certain: Logan was going to find him and make him regret hurting Logan’s friends and kidnapping Isabella.

  There could be no doubt.

  He estimated that the man had a three, maybe three and a half hour lead on him, one that was probably growing as the newer and well-maintained Prius outpaced the old, beaten down, farm truck, so he did the only thing he could do:

  He refused to stop for anything other than fuel.

  He’d stopped once for that reason, adding more gas to the truck’s big tank by siphoning it from an overturned SUV, taking the opportunity to drain his bladder, but other than that, he’d been driving nonstop since leaving the ranch.

  Fire burned inside him, and it would continue to burn until he got his hands on Joe Reilley.

  Preferably around the man’s neck.

  It was just after four a.m when he’d heard Serafina’s desperate calls for help coming from the front of the house. Jumping out of bed, he’d ran through the house and onto the porch, not bothering to put on his boots before stepping outside.

  He’d found Serafina was near the front steps, holding her husband’s body across her lap, cradling his head in the crook of her arm. Light from the lamp on the front porch reflected in the tears that streamed down her face when she looked up at Logan.

  “Why?” She’d asked, shaking her head as she looked back down at her husband’s limp form.

  Sensing movement behind him, he’d spun around just in time to see Paul roll over on the ground before managing to rise to one knee.

  Logan rushed over to help him, hoping that the young man would be able to provide some kind of information about what had happened and, more importantly, who’d done it.

  “You alright?” he’d asked, reaching down and firmly placing a hand on the teenager’s back, keeping him where he was. “Go slow. You might get dizzy.”

  Paul nodded, remaining where he was. Looking down at the ground, he said, “Almost had that bastard.”

  “Who?”

  “Joe. Son of a bitch attacked me.” With Logan’s help, Paul made his way to feet on unsteady legs. Shaking his head, he looked at Logan. “I got him in the ribs at least twice, so he’s hurt, but...the fat asshole just knocked me down…”

  Logan’s eyes noticed the marks on the young man’s neck. “He choked you out?”

  “Yeah, I thought he was going to kill me.” Looking past Logan, Paul’s eyes widened. “What happened to Daniel?”

  “Looks like he was hit from behind.”

  “What about the girls?” Paul asked.

  “Shit!” Logan turned and ran into the house, crossing the living room in long steps before throwing open the door to the room the girls were sleeping in.

  The space between Ashley and Brenna was empty.

  Isabella was gone.

  Ashley’s and Brenna’s snores filled the room. The two were deep in slumber, which made Logan suspicious. Turning on the light, he went to the bed to check on them. Both appeared fine, though they barely stirred at his intrusion or the introduction of light.

  Turning away, he headed back to the front of the house, where he found Paul trying to help Serafina move Daniel inside. Grabbing the man’s torso, he helped them move the man inside and onto the couch.

  Serafina sat back on the floor, still in shock over what had transpired. “I don’t understand…” she began.

  “Isabella’s gone,” Logan said flatly.

  The woman leaned forward and rested her forehead against the edge of the couch. “It was Joe, wasn’t it?”

  Logan nodded. “Yes.”

  Serafina punched the couch with her fist. “I knew it!” Muttering under her breath, she shook her head in frustration. “Creepy son of a bitch…”

  Standing there, Logan felt filled with both frustration and agitation. His heart pounded in his chest as he stood there, his eyes moving from Serafina’s frustrated form to Daniel’s unconscious one, and then to Paul’s bruised face and neck.

  He had to do something.

  Barely a week ago, after the loss of Wendy, the woman he’d hoped would become his fiancee, he’d settled on caring about nothing and no one. His decision to join the Alvarados on their trip north was partially based on convenience and partially based on doing the right thing.

  Even so, he’d never planned to find friends and grow to care about the people he’d be traveling with.

  But it’d happened, and now someone had hurt them.

  He hadn’t been able to save Wendy.

  He wasn’t going to allow himself to be put in that position again.

  Stepping away, he made his way back out onto the porch, crossed it, and walked to the remaining Prius. It was the one Daniel and Serafina had been riding in with the girls. Assuming they’d keep their map in the same place he and Paul had, he opened the glove compartment.

  ‘Bingo,’ he said to himself, grabbing the folded piece of paper and turning away from the car. Stepping quickly, he rushed back inside and over to the dining room, where he spread the map on the large wooden table in the center of the space.

  Rising from her spot on the floor, Serafina crossed the living room to join him at the table.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Figuring out where he’s going so I can catch the bastard,” Logan replied, leaning closer to the map and placing his finger on a spot near where he assumed they were: west of Naval Air Station Lemoore, east of the 5 Freeway. Standing up momentarily, he said, “I’m going to assume he’ll head to the Protective Zone. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy that could make it on his own, so he’ll want protection.”

  He leaned forward again and began tracing his finger westward on the map as he spoke: “So he’d most likely travel this way...then get on the five, heading north.”

  “He could continue west along the one ninety-eight, then head north on the twenty-five…” Serafina offered as she leaned over the table, pointing out the route she’d indicated..

  “Yeah, he could, but he probably doesn’t know that route.”

  “Probably true,” she agreed before adding, “and if he doesn’t he wouldn’t have any idea it’s an option without seeing it on the map.”

  “Yep, and at this hour, to look at the map he’d either have to stop - something he won’t want to do, or try to look at it while driving, using the dome light, which would be challenging.” Logan continued tracing his finger along the 5 freeway, moving it up the map. “The question will be when he finally has to head west. He could take the one fifty-two or the one thirty to the one oh one, or take the five eighty.”

  Serafina stood back up and crossed her arms in front of her. “I think one of the first two makes the most sense. Heading up to the five eighty would take him through these cities and across one of the bridges. That seems more difficult than heading through San Jose.”

  Logan nodded. “Yeah, that would be tough.”

  “Which one he takes, though, is hard to say.”

  “So I’ll have to catch him before he gets there,” Logan finished. Turning away from the table, he went to a small chair near the front door and sat down. He grabbed his boots from the floor near the door and began putting them on, lacing them up tightly.

  “I don’t think we should move Daniel,” Serafina stated, shaking her head as she looked over to where her husband rested on the couch.

  “You take care of him.” Logan replied as he stood up. “I’ll get Isabella.”

  Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he pressed down on the accelerator.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Foster City, California

  Rising 135 feet above the surface of the San Francisco Bay, the San Mateo-Hayward bridge extends 7 miles, connecting the San Francisco Peninsula with the East Bay area. Built in 1967 an
d widened in 2003, the bridge is the longest in California and averages 93,000 commuters per day.

  On this day, however, it was quiet. The cars jammed along its length sat quiet, covered in sea salt from the bay and soot from various vehicles that had burned after colliding with one another in a mad rush to leave the city.

  The Eastbound lanes were blocked by a massive pileup on both the San Mateo side of the bridge, at the entrance to the span, and on the Foster City side, where the impatience of drivers had resulted in a tangled mass of vehicles. What was first bad was made exponentially worse when larger vehicles simply tried to ‘bulldoze’ their way through the smaller trucks and cars, resulting in those vehicles (and in some cases, their occupants as well) getting stuck under the frames of the larger vehicles.

  At first consideration, one might assume that the Westbound lanes wouldn’t have suffered the same fate, and to some extent that assumption would be accurate, but those lanes were impassable as well, after desperate drivers chose to go against traffic in their attempt to flee the city. Head-on collisions are catastrophic in nature, and after the first few impacts sent glass, metal, and pieces of molded plastic into the other lanes, the collisions multiplied.

  Smoke still rose from the bridge, ascending into the otherwise clear skies as the Scorpion and her crew looked on, waiting for Bang to return.

  To her left, Clint leaned against the large white SUV they’d arrived in, dressed in the tight white tank top and white jeans he preferred. His dark skin glistening under the sun as he bobbed his head in time with the music he listened to through his Beats by Dre headphones.

  On the other side of her, Manny sat atop a late model Ford pickup that had been abandoned by its owners. Wearing a vintage Black Oakland Raiders jersey and long black shorts, he was reaching down past the long white tube socks that nearly reached his knees to wipe dirt away from his black Converse All Stars.