“Alright, let’s do this,” he said, grabbing his rifle from the dash, “Get in, kill anyone not already dead, then get out.”
“Sounds good,” Hank replied.
Closing the door to the car, Sommer smiled.
They’d get this done, then enjoy that cigar.
Inside the aircraft, Reed looked over at Steight. “What is it, girl?”
The dog glanced at him, then back towards the giant opening on the side of the aircraft. Her lips pulled back, showing her teeth as she continued to growl, lowering herself slightly so that he haunches were under her. She was ready to leap into action, though the crate would keep her from doing so.
Looking at the agitated dog, Reed knew something bad was coming. Steight had been nothing but sweet since he’d taken her in. She showed him love and affection, nearly bowling his tall, built frame over each time he came back from work to walk her during the day. She’d been good with others, too, allowing them to pet her without showing any signs of aggression.
He’d never seen her like this.
As he heard footsteps approaching, he acted quickly. Fighting off the pain, he rolled back onto his stomach, then reached over and pulled McGhee’s body back on top of his own, using it to cover the splint on his leg. Lowering his face to the deck, he shimmied to the side so that he had a view of the hole in the aircraft through Sergeant Mason’s legs. Looking over at Steight, he urged her to be quiet.
“Damn, this is one big fucking hole,” a man’s voice remarked.
“Yep,” a second one answered. “Stinger missiles do a lot of damage.”
“Awesome.”
Two white men, both with clean shaven heads, climbed through the hole and into the aircraft. Both men were just over six feet tall and fit, but one appeared to be the more muscular of the two. The other one spoke first.
“Fuckin’ a, Steve, you fucked this plane up!”
The man referred to as Steve nodded, barely paying the other man attention as he head moved while he surveyed the inside of the aircraft.
“Check it out,” he said, “a dog.”
Steight growled in response, her hackles rising.
When the first man turned and pointed his gun at Steight, Reed thought he’d made a mistake by hiding. He had no way to stop the man.
“Hold on, Hank,” Steve said, putting his hand out. “Let’s clear the plane first, then come back for the dog.” He paused, staring at Steight. “I might keep her. Been wanting a dog for a while now.”
Lowering his rifle, Hank nodded. “Alright. Whatever you say.”
Steve turned and looked towards the cockpit. “Let me check on the pilots. You check these guys. If they ain’t dead, put a bullet in their head.” He chuckled. “Hey, that rhymes.”
Hank smiled, repeating the words. “If they ain’t dead, put a bullet in their head.” He laughed. “Hey, that could be our new motto.”
“Why not?” Steve replied, smiling. After a few seconds, the smile faded, returning his face to one devoid of emotion. “Alright, be right back.” With that, he turned and began working his way towards the front of the aircraft, climbing up and over the wreckage that had created a barrier between the two areas.
Hank stood in place, looking back at the cargo area for a long moment. Steight continued to growl at the man. Moving closer to the crate, he lashed out with one foot and kicked it. “Shut up, you fuckin’ mutt.”
Glancing first at the two prone forms on the deck of the aircraft, he decided they’d likely perished in the crash, having not been strapped in. ‘I’ll check them next,’ he thought, looking back at the man still strapped in his seat. Hank watched him for several long moments as he tried to determine whether or not the man was still alive. The man’s chest wasn’t moving, was it? Stepping to the man, he brought his left hand up and pressed the fingertips against the man’s neck, checking for a pulse.
It was there.
Stepping back he brought up his rifle and pointed it at the man’s head.
Using only his right leg to propel himself, Reed lunged forward, slamming his shoulder directly into the man’s left knee.
With more power and better form, he would have blown the joint out, tearing at least one, if not all, of the ligaments.
As weakened as he was and having only the strength one leg could provide, the impact did none of that. He did, however, knock the man’s feet out from under him.
The man fell forward, landing on Reed’s damaged leg, sending an explosion of pain through him. Stars bloomed in his vision as his mind sought to analyze the injury.
Finding a resolve he’d developed after spending time with Navy SEALS and discovering that a man had literally guided him to safety as his life’s blood seeped out of him, Reed pushed the pain aside.
Now was not the time to process it.
It was time to fight.
For his life, and the lives of the other survivors of the crash.
He flipped over, pulling his injured leg free, then lashed out with his right boot, aiming it for the man’s head. The man jerked his head away at the last second, saving himself from a devastating blow, but Reed’s boot still made contact, slamming instead into the man’s neck and shoulder, stunning him. The man’s rifle fell from his hand, landing on the deck of the aircraft with a clattering sound and sliding a few feet away on the sloped deck.
Seizing the opportunity, Reed lunged forward, reaching for the rifle. It was farther than he’d realized, though, and his hand came down a full three feet from where the rifle lay. Using his right foot, he scooted himself forward.
Wham!
Pain exploded in his head as the man brought both fists down on the back of Reed’s skull, sending his chin into the deck. His vision blurred as he tried to force his mind to focus.
Wham!
Another strike sent his chin into the deck again. Reed felt his consciousness fading again. Somewhere nearby a dog was barking.
“Fucking nigger.” The voice above him growled. He felt his body being flipped over. A second later, hands grabbed his throat and began applying pressure. Above him, the face of the Skinhead pulsated with the throbbing in his skull. Choking as he struggled for air, he brought his hands up and grabbed the man’s arms. Using all of his strength, he pulled outward. The man’s fingers dug deeper into his neck as he fought back, but Reed’s strength was too much for him. The man’s hands slipped away from Reed’s neck, allowing him to breathe once more. The sudden influx of oxygen filled Reed with more strength, and he let out a primal yell as he forced the man’s arms outward.
Seeing the panic in the man’s eyes, Reed knew he had him.
‘Call me a nigger, you skinhead fuck?’ he thought, feeling his anger rise up within him, joining the determination that drove him.
His confidence was premature.
With both of Reed’s hands holding the man’s arms out away from him, he was unable to protect himself when the man’s forehead slammed down into his face, breaking his nose. Reed’s head slammed back into the deck once more.
His vision began to fade.
‘Faster, dammit! You have to run faster!’ Serrano pushed himself harder, churning his arms as his legs powered him across the grass of the golf course. He raced past one of the aircraft’s engines as he raced towards the where the aircraft.
At last, he saw what remained of the plane: a tailless fuselage with one wing missing and one reduced to a short stub.
The sound of gunfire came from inside the aircraft.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTEEN
East Palo Alto, California
While the Scorpion was taunting Daniel from her spot at the top of the stairs, the two men she’d sent to check out the second floor of the giant social media company headquarters were just entering one of the only cool, dark spaces in the building: the server room. Dimly lit with cool blueish-purple low-heat LED lighting, neither man had ever seen anything like it: raised platform floors designed to keep the power cabling out of the way and prevent heat
buildup, overhead metal cable trays that went in seemingly every direction, large vents that pushed out powerful airflow, and most of all, the rows and rows of six-foot tall racks of computer equipment that pulsated green, yellow, and in some cases, red lights.
While the sight of the room was awe inspiring, the noise level was borderline overwhelming. The space was filled with the humming sounds of the computerized machines, the beeping of numerous alarms indicating faults on the servers, the buzzing of server rack fans and, most of all, the heavy gusting noise of air conditioned air being forced into the enormous space.
It was like they’d stepped into another world, one in which computers were the focal point of existence, where man lived to take care of the machine.
Looking around, Jorge, one of the Scorpion’s most trusted deputies, shook his head. “Shit’s crazy, man.”
“I know,” Carlos, the man with him, replied, keeping his rifle pointed in front of him as he walked alongside Jorge. After several long seconds, he added, “You know, my cousin works in a place like this.” Another long pause, then he corrected himself. “I mean, he used to.”
“Yeah? What’d he like to go to college or somethin’?”
“Yeah, like community college or somethin’. I don’t know, but my Tia was always bragging about him. Said he made like, good money.”
Jorge scoffed. “More than you made on the streets?”
The man laughed softly. “Nah, homie. Not even close.”
Walking through the white noise-filled room, they were lulled into a sense of calm, which caused them to let down their guard.
Jorge was in the process of tapping on one of the flashing alarm indicators, when he stopped suddenly and cocked his head, listening.
“What’s up, dog?” Carlos asked, looking over at him.
“Listen,” he replied, remaining still as he concentrated.
Stopping where he was, Carlos tilted his head and listened as well.
Somewhere back in the direction they came, multiple semi-automatic rifles were being fired repeatedly.
“Shit!” Jorge, yelling spinning on his heel to head back towards the room’s entrance. Carlos fell in behind him, running down the aisle of server racks.
Distracted by the dim lighting and constant white noise, they hadn’t heard the infected approaching until they reached the end of the aisle, where they came face to face with no less than twenty former IT Specialists.
Recognizing that there were too many of the infected for the two of them to fight off, Jorge and Carlos turned and ran back down the aisle. When Jorge reached the end of the aisle, he turned to the right, hoping to find another route back to the entrance, but was met with another group of the infected.
His low top white Adidas tennis shoes slid along the surface of the nomex tiles that comprised the false floor before he managed to stop himself. Turning away again, he ran deeper into the server room, followed closely by Carlos. Chased by the screaming horde of infected, they wound their way in and out of the rows of server racks, trying to confuse and slow the infected. The room seemed to stretch on infinitely, a testament to the astronomical computing requirements of the company’s social media platform, but like all things, it did have an end, and when they reached it, they were trapped.
Unlike Mikey and Hector, Jorge and Carlos did manage to fire their weapons, taking down seven of the infected before the remaining twenty-two tore into them.
Unable to keep their guns pointed at their attackers, they continued to fire their weapons out of pure desperation, hoping they’d hit something that would make the creatures that ripped their flesh and pummeled their bodies stop. The bullets sprayed everywhere, riddling the servers around them with holes.
The leadership that ran the social media giant had considered the possibility of multiple servers going offline, and, since every minute offline resulted in lost revenue, they’d prepared for the loss of servers by building in redundancy.
What they didn’t prepare for was Jorge’s decision to take as many of the infected as he could with when he died.
After expending the last of his bullets, he tossed his gun aside and pulled a grenade from his jacket pocket. Pulling the pin out, he discarded it as he faced the mob.
“Come get me, you fuckin’ pendejos!!”
Seconds later, something that hadn’t happened in over twelve years occurred: the social media giant went offline.
This time for good.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN
East Palo Alto, California
Daniel had less than a second to wonder if he’d remembered the layout of the lobby correctly before he felt the impact.
Water flew into the air as he landed in the shallow koi pond, breaking his fall. His arms shot outward as he tried to stop himself from sinking before realizing the pool was barely four feet deep when his butt hit the bottom.
Worried about the younger man, he lunged over to where Paul lay and pulled him off to the side of the pond, bringing his head up to rest against one of the rocks on the pond’s inner edge. Needing a moment himself, he brought his own head down and placed it against the adjacent rock.
He was so damned tired.
If he made it out of this, he could see himself sleeping for a week.
But first, he needed to survive.
Taking a breath, he brought his head up slightly as he reached over and shook Paul, trying to wake him. The teenager groaned in response, which was a good sign.
“Come on, buddy,” Daniel whispered, not wanting to attract the attention of the infected that were still above them. He could hear them still fighting with the woman and her gang, screaming with rage as they clawed at the three of them. Gunfire sounded occasionally as the infected were repeatedly hammered with bullets. Shells from the rounds rained down into the pond splashing quietly in the far end of the pond.
Daniel felt an odd grabbing sensation on one of his fingers and looked down. One of the Koi, a big, fat, white one with bright orange splashes on it, was trying to snack on his finger. It and the other fish in the pond had likely not been fed for several days.
Daniel pulled his hand free, then reached over and shook Paul again, this time succeeding in waking him.
“Wha-?” Paul asked, his eyes still unfocused.
Daniel put a finger in front of his mouth, then pointed above them, where the fight raged on. Paul blinked, then nodded slightly.
The last gun fired once more, then stopped. The sound of it falling away from the hand of its owner came to them as they listened. The countless infected above them continued to scream with rage as they continued to pummel their victims, but soon grew bored with the effort.
Their boredom became Daniel’s and Paul’s problem as the group slowly and clumsily made their way down the steps, snarling and growling as they did.
Some of them tripped and fell, either tumbling down the steps and injuring themselves, which angered them even further, or tumbling into those below them, sending a group of them down the stairs in a flailing mass of arms and legs.
At the bottom of the stairs, the accumulation of bodies turned violent, characterized by clenched fists, swift kicks, and gnashing teeth. Looking up over the pond’s edge, Daniel evaluated the situation: there were seven, maybe eight of them (it was hard to tell with the intensity of the fighting that was taking place) at the bottom of the stairs, and he could hear the footsteps of countless others descending the steps. Looking to the left, he estimated the front door to be at least fifty feet from where they were. To climb out of the pond quickly, then outrun dozens and dozens of the infected, crossing a wide expanse of cluttered tiled floor while soaking wet was not an appealing prospect. He was bleeding in two places, both of which would seriously limit his ability to run. It wasn’t a good proposition.
Not at all.
They could stay there and wait, which, in the short term was good, since they were both exhausted, but eventually the infected would get bored of fighting and begin searching the lobby for
victims.
“Shit,” he whispered quietly, lowering his head again. Glancing over at Paul again, he saw the young man’s eyes were wide as he looked back at Daniel. The kid knew the two of them were in trouble, and he was looking to Daniel for encouragement.
‘Think, Daniel, think,’ he told himself, looking up at the ceiling as he hoped for divine intervention.
It would be hard to call it that, but intervention did, in fact, come.
In the form of a loud explosion somewhere on the second floor. Walls and windows shook, sending bits of broken glass to the floor as the explosion rocked the building.
The infected reacted immediately, forgetting about each other and anything else that had distracted them. Screaming, they rushed towards the second floor landing, some running up from the first floor, others descending from the third, where’d they still been beating the unmoving forms of the gang members who’d chased Daniel and Paul.
Daniel breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the mob move away from the lobby, disappearing down the second floor hallway, screaming in fury as they fought each other as they made their way towards the source of the noise.
When he was fairly certain they were gone, he looked at Paul and said, “Stay here.” With water pouring off of him, he slowly climbed out of the pond and stepped down onto the tiled floor. His left leg nearly buckled underneath him as pain shot up from the gunshot wound. Like the wound at his side, the bullet had gone straight through him, but this one had bored through the biggest part of the thigh muscle, carving out a half-inch diameter tunnel through his leg. And it was bleeding. Badly. He hadn’t noticed the blood flow when he was in the pond, but now it ran down his leg, thinning as it came in contact with the water that coated him. He needed to stop the bleeding, and he needed to do it quickly.
Surviving Rage | Book 2 Page 73
