Surviving Rage | Book 2

by Arellano, J. D.

  They were trapped.

  Turning to look behind them, Daniel watched in awe as the women handled their weapons expertly, three of them firing pistols, Ashley firing her high-powered rifle, and Brenna launching arrow after arrow into the mass. He heard screams of rage as bodies were struck by hot metal or the occasional arrow, followed by the sounds of the infected falling to the ground. When they fell, he heard the animalistic snarls of the infected turning on each other, attacking those in their path or the ones that took them to the ground when they fell. The sounds of fists and feet striking bodies repeatedly came to him as well, along with the sounds of fabric tearing as clothes were torn away by clawed hands.

  Still, he knew it wouldn’t be enough. Serafina had only one extra clip for her hand gun, giving her an additional fifteen bullets. Ashley had two more four-round magazines, giving her a total of twelve shots. Assuming the two women with them, who both were firing pistols, had a similar amount of bullets as Serafina, they had a total of 90 rounds for their handguns, 12 for Ashley’s rifle, and 15 arrows in Brenna’s quiver.

  One hundred and seventeen in total sounded like a lot of firepower, but it would inevitably prove to be insufficient. Not every shot was a kill shot, and most would only wound the infected. That wasn’t enough to stop them. They’d continue on, determined to maim and kill, until they were physically unable to move. That required a lot of damage. Most would take three or four hits before falling to the ground. When combined with the complete misses (which were understandable, considering the women were firing upon rapidly moving targets), they’d be lucky to take down one for every five shots.

  Which meant the women would be lucky to take down about twenty-five of the infected.

  And there were easily fifty to sixty of the infected moving towards his and Paul’s position.

  Thinking he could help, Daniel reached behind his back for his gun, only to find it missing.

  ‘Must have lost it in the pond,” he thought to himself.

  Or had he even held onto it after shooting out the glass on the railing?

  He didn’t know, but he did still have the spare magazine in his pocket. At the very least, he could pass it to Serafina, giving her another 15 rounds. At least she’d be able to protect herself after it became obvious Daniel and Paul would be overrun.

  Looking up, he saw Brenna firing arrow after arrow, and he remembered Paul’s broken bow. Leaning against the small car, he looked over at the young man. “You still have your arrows, right?”

  “Yeah, but my bow is broken, remember?”

  “I know,” he said, speaking loud enough to be heard over the gunfire, “but Brenna could use those arrows,” he explained.

  “Okay,” Paul replied. Pulling his quiver from his back, he passed it to the older man.

  Accepting it from him, Daniel checked to ensure the top was cinched up tightly, then held it tightly in his right hand as he slid upwards so that he could see through one of the minivan’s windows.

  Outside was a warzone. Barely ten yards from their position, the infected were fighting their way forward under the barrage of bullets that rained down upon them. Behind the front line of the horde, others were fighting amongst themselves, violently thrashing in a flurry of flying arms and legs.

  They’d be on the minivan in less than a minute.

  Time was running out. He had to get the extra ammo to the women now.

  Moving to the other side of the minivan, he unlocked the sliding door on that side, looked out to make sure no infected had already advanced that far, then slid it open and stepped out.

  “Sera!” he called out. When she glanced down at him, he tossed the spare clip, using just enough force so that it bounced on the edge of the grass at the top of the embankment before sliding forward to stop near where she stood. Pivoting to face Brenna, he tossed the quiver of arrows in the same fashion, this time using the force necessary to land the quiver in a small shrub near the top of the small rise.

  He was in the process of turning to get back into the van when he stopped himself. Turning back, he took in the sight of his wife and daughters, fiercely firing their weapons, each of them standing there, confidently fighting off the infected.

  If it would be the last time he saw them, it would be a good way to remember them.

  Fierce.

  Determined.

  Confident.

  “Dan!” Paul yelled, before reaching out of the van and grabbing the older man’s shirt, urging him to get back into the minivan. Daniel did so, looking through the windows on the other side of the van again.

  The infected were less than twenty feet away now, and still closing in.

  ‘We’re not going down without a fight,’ he told himself.

  “Look for something to use as a weapon!” he yelled, moving past Paul towards the back of the van. He already had something in mind that he could use. Pulling the back row of seats forward, he climbed over them and pulled back the thin carpet mat on the floor, revealing the spare tire. Lifting it from the awkward position he was in, he managed to slip a hand underneath. When he pulled it back, he held a tire iron, one with the lug-sized socket on one end, a flat edge on the other for removing the hub cap. It wasn’t great, but it was something.

  “I found something!” Paul called out from near the front of the vehicle.

  Turning to face him, Daniel saw the young man holding up a molded plastic case with a handle. Paul moved back to the center part of the van and set it on the seat, then opened it. Inside was a set of high-end barbecue tools, including a long fork and a knife.

  “This will help,” Daniel said, nodding. “You take those two,” he added, before grabbing a long-handled spatula. “Make sure you’re covered up,” he instructed, “We’ll be fighting these things up close and personal.”

  As the teenager began double checking his gloves, sleeves, Daniel did the same before tucking his shirt into the waistband of his pants again.

  Picking up the spatula, he shook his head.

  ‘Oh boy,’ he said to himself, unconsciously swallowing, ‘we’re going to need some serious fucking luck to survive this shit - ’

  The front passenger window exploded inward, sending glass flying onto the seats as one of the infected began trying to work its way through the opening. Lunging forward, Daniel slammed the socket end of the tire iron into the center of the man’s forehead, stunning him. Shifting his grip on the piece of metal, he slashed forward again, this time sinking the sharp, flat end into the man’s left eye. The end forced its way into the front of the man’s brain, killing him instantly. Daniel pulled the metal back as the man slumped down on the doorframe, partially blocking the opening.

  The rear side window shattered near his back as a woman slammed her head into the glass. Paul responded instantly, slashing the womans’ throat open with the knife. Blood poured forth from her neck as she swung her arms wildly inside the van, trying to reach the young man as he quickly moved away from the window.

  Another man slammed into the woman, pinning her body against the sliding door as he tried to reach inside the van.

  The side window near the back of the van crashed inward before a woman tried to force her way into the van. The opening was clearly too small, but that wasn’t stopping her from trying. Looking down at the floor off the passenger seat, Daniel saw, of all things, a rice cooker. Grabbing it, he turned and hurled it at the woman. It caught her on the right shoulder before smacking against the side of her head, enraging her even further. She thrashed even harder in the opening, dislocating one of her shoulders with an audible pop.

  More hands reached inside the van from the front passenger window as a tall man used his length to briefly grab hold of Daniel’s shirt. Daniel pulled away, turning instinctively as using his left hand to smack the man in the face with what he held.

  Unfortunately, that hand held the spatula. It did little more than slap against the man’s cheek. Turning it sideways, Daniel slashed forward again, using its edge to ri
p through the man’s right eye. The man roared in anger, ignoring the pain as he fought to get into the van. One of the man’s hands grabbed the top of the seat and pulled off the headrest. The man tossed aside violently, inadvertently hitting Paul in the side of the head, stunning him.

  Daniel lunged forward and smashed the man’s left eye with the socket end of the tire iron. He felt the tip sink into the socket, sending the eye back into the man’s head.

  More glass broke.

  More arms reached inside.

  Time was running out.

  Heading west towards Highway 101, Aaron and Phillip flanked Isabella and Logan as they walked. The grizzled Soldier limped as he walked, favoring the leg. Tough as nails, he refused any further help and pushed himself to ensure he didn’t slow them down.

  The sound of multiple guns being fired nearby shattered the silence.

  “What the hell?” Aaron said, turning and looking in the direction of the gunfire. Turning his head slightly, he listened intently. The sound of countless infected screaming with rage accompanied the repeated gunfire.

  “Shit,” he said, shaking his head. Looking at Logan, he asked, “Think you can pick up the pace a bit?”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-THREE

  San Mateo, California

  ‘Thank God for bullet proof vests.’

  Grabbing the first thing he could get his hands on, a spare magazine clip, he flung it at the man’s head, then leapt from his position and threw himself at him.

  Seeing movement in his peripheral vision, Sommer moved his head slightly, twisting it just as the clip arrived at its target. The heavy piece of metal glanced off the side of his skull, surprising him.

  A second later, he was knocked sideways.

  Serrano took the man to the deck, tackling him with the form of a professional football player. As they landed, he pulled his right arm free, then struck forward, sending a devastating blow into the man’s jaw. He felt teeth break free under the power of his perfectly thrown punch.

  With the sound of Reed’s dog barking filling the interior of the plane, he pulled his fist back again.

  A searing pain in his side stopped him in mid-swing.

  Sommer spat, sending loose teeth flying as he sunk the blade of his knife into the man’s side. His instincts told him to twist the blade to do even more damage, but the man slipped away, pulling his body free from the metal edge of Sommer’s knife cleanly.

  Sommer lunged at him, bringing his knife up overhead.

  A knee came up, finding his balls.

  The air in his lungs left him in a rush as nauseating waves of pain flowed through his body.

  Dazed and weak, Reed watched as the men fought each other. Lesser men would have perished in seconds at the hands of men as skilled as they were, but the two of them surged back and forth, each doing damage to the other before taking damage themselves.

  ‘Do something!’ his conscience yelled, demanding action.

  ‘Okay!’ the other part of his conscience answered. Blinking rapidly, he looked around, searching for the answer before finding the obvious one.

  Seeing the opportunity in front of him. Serrano reached for the gun at his hip. The man’s eyes registered Serrano’s intentions. He threw himself forward, pinning Serrano’s arms in place.

  Breathing heavily, the man cursed at Serrano.

  “Fuckin’ Spic,” he growled, bringing his knife upward raising it above Serrrano’s head.

  ‘Shit,’ Serrano thought. With his arms pinned at his side, he was unable to defend himself. He squirmed desperately, but the other man had leverage.

  Reed’s hand found the latch at the front of Steight’s carrier.

  Serrano watched as the knife flashed forward, coming down towards his head.

  Seeing the blade’s descent he used everything he had to throw his body sideways.

  The blade scraped against the slide of his skull, peeling hair and scalp away. Pain tore through him.

  “Motherfucker,” the man said, bringing the blade up once more.

  Reed threw back the latch to the carrier, unlocking it.

  “Protect.”

  Seventy pounds of hypercharged muscle and teeth slammed into Sommer, knocking him off Serrano. The blade flew from his hand. An open, drool-filled jaw lunged towards his neck.

  He brought up his arm to protect himself.

  The dog’s sharp canine teeth sunk into the muscles of his forearm.

  He screamed.

  Relentless, the German Shepherd’s instincts took over as it swung its head back and forth violently, ripping and tearing the muscles in Sommer’s forearm. Muscles and flesh tore in Sommer’s arm. He felt blood splattering his face and neck as the dog’s teeth remained locked onto his flesh.

  In desperation, Sommer threw a fist towards the dog’s neck. It smacked into the dog’s muscles, eliciting a yelp from the canine.

  The dog’s teeth released their grip as it fell away.

  Using his feet, Sommer propelled himself backwards, away from the dog. Rising to his feet slowly, he held his bleeding left arm in front of him as he drew his gun and pointed it at the dog.

  His peripheral vision alerted him once more. He swung the gun towards the other man just as the other man pulled the trigger on his weapon.

  Serrano’s Sig Sauer barked three times as he sent all three rounds into the man’s chest, knocking the man backwards and out of the hole in the side of the aircraft.

  He heard the heavy thump of the man’s body hitting the ground.

  Looking down at his abdomen, he saw the telltale sign of a deadly wound there as blood bloomed across the fabric of his uniform.

  Lowering his head to deck, he tried to conserve his energy.

  “Doc…” he called out, his voice a weak version of its normal self.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FOUR

  East Palo Alto, California

  ‘They need you, Richard.’

  Richard Singletary blinked at the sound of his wife’s voice in his head. She’d been dead for five years, and though there’d been numerous occasions where he’d found himself speaking aloud to her as he puttered around his apartment, she’d never responded.

  Nor had he expected her to.

  ‘What?’ he asked the voice in his head.

  When the voice returned, a low, soft humming sound accompanied it, similar to the background sound that comes from electronics when they’re on but not playing music. ‘They need you. You have to help them.’

  ‘But my legs. They’re…’ embarrassed by his weakness, he couldn’t finish the thought. He knew his wife understood. Linda had seen this happen several times, though it had been at least twenty years since the last time it had occurred. As he’d aged, he’d slowed down, like everyone does, and as he had, the likelihood of sudden, jarring movements decreased dramatically. Still, it was a tough affliction to accept, even more so in front of the woman he loved. Even if she weren’t actually here.

  ‘You’re still strong, Richie,’ her voice replied, soothing him with the warmth and love he remembered so fondly.

  ‘But how?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ll find a way,’ she answered, refusing to give him more. ‘But you have to hurry.’

  ‘I - ‘

  ‘Hurry, Richie.’ The humming sound cut out. She was gone.

  Struggling, he forced himself into a seated position. ‘Damn, that was hard,’ he thought to himself. Knowing what he’d have to do next, he steeled himself. It would be even harder.

  “Pass me my shirt, there, will ya, Jason?” he said, pointing to his flannel shirt, which Jennifer had helped him remove in an effort to deal with the excessive heat in the back of the armored truck.

  The young boy did so, sliding the neatly folded shirt over to him. Using his core, he held himself upright as he put one arm into the shirt, then the other.

  “What are you doing?” the boy asked.

  Richard raised his chin and pointed towards the rear door with it.


  “I’m going out there.”

  “But...I thought you were staying with us.”

  “I know, but look: with that door closed, you’re just as safe with me as you are without me.”

  Jason nodded slowly, understanding.

  “There’s not much I can do, laying here on my back.”

  “I know, but...why are you going out there? You can’t even walk.” the boy protested.

  “Don’t go, Uncle Richard,” Olivia chimed in, fear showing on her face. The girl clearly felt safer with an adult present, which was understandable. Nevertheless, Richard was both comfortable in the fact that he’d be leaving the children in a veritable fortress, and resolute in his decision.

  His wife had waited five years to speak to him.

  He trusted her throughout their lives together.

  There was no reason not to now.

  “I’ll be right back, Ollie,” he said, offering a smile.

  “You promise?” the girl asked, her eyes as round as saucers.

  “I promise,” he replied, nodding.

  “Okay…”

  “I still don’t understand how - ” Jason began, shaking his head.

  “It’s okay,” Richard said, cutting him off. “Just help me to the door, then hand me my rifle. Once I’m outside, close and lock the door.”

  “How will I know to let back in?” he asked.

  “I’ll knock three times, like this,” he began, tapping his knuckle on the floor of the cargo area three times sharply, “then pause, then tap one more time,” he did so, striking the floor once more.