ARES Virus (Book 2): White Horse

by John O'Brien

  “Yes. I may not be in my element with it, but it makes me feel better knowing that I’ll have some measure of response should some virus-crazed person come charging out.”

  “How do you even know there’s any gas left? Or, for that matter, that we can pump it even if there is. There may not be any power here.”

  “If that neon Coors sign in the window is any indication, there’s still power here,” Koenig answers. “As far as gas, we’ll just have to see.”

  “You’re going to get us killed, James.”

  “That’s a distinct possibility. When I get out, slide over behind the wheel. If anything happens, get out of here.”

  “And what, genius? Drive for a whole twenty miles and coast to the side of the road? No, if you’re all fired up to do this, then I’m going with you.”

  “No. You’re going to wait in the car until I’m sure that it’s safe.”

  “Guess again,” she comments, reaching into the side compartment to pull out another handgun.

  “I’m serious, Liz.”

  “James, when have you ever won any of these arguments?”

  “Fuck me, woman. Never! But, now is not the time,” Koenig states.

  “Besides, I’m a better shot than you anyway,” Liz states.

  “Since when?”

  “Since the beginning of time. Now, are we going to do this or not?” Liz asks, chambering a round.

  “You’re impossible,” Koenig mutters.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. I said anything’s possible.”

  “Mmmhmmm. That’s what I thought.”

  Koenig takes a deep breath to calm himself both from the conversation and for what may lie ahead. Setting the firearm in his lap, he places the vehicle in gear and puts it in drive. A sheen of sweat lines his forehead and he feels every nerve in his body pulled tight.

  Three dead bodies will do that to a person.

  His senses are so on edge that he can hear the tires crunch over the smallest of stones as he inches toward the pumps. His eyes are glued to the front of the store, ready to throw the gear into reverse at the first indication that someone isn’t appreciative of their visit.

  The Land Rover creeps forward, pulling up to the set of pumps away from the sedan and its previous driver. Koenig thinks of the unwritten rule of the urinals: Always leave an empty one between you. It’s just a thing. He just doesn’t want to be next to the body even though it’s fairly obvious that he won’t be bothering anyone anytime soon.

  “I’m going inside to see if there’s a way to get the pump started. I’m fairly sure there’s a way to set up the register to allow the pump to operate,” Koenig states, putting the vehicle into park.

  “Why not just use a card? If there’s power, maybe it will take it just like it normally would,” Liz says. “I mean, it’s not like someone just turned the banks off when they went home ill.”

  “Um, yeah…I mean, yeah. Why not?”

  Koenig wraps his hand around the handgun in his lap and eases the door open. Stepping outside, a gust of wind sweeps past, his protective gear flapping several times, his scalp warm underneath the rubber straps of his headgear. Keeping a keen eye on the shattered entrance, he walks behind the vehicle. At the pump, he automatically reaches around to his back pocket, encountering the outer layer of his protective clothing rather than his wallet.

  “Dammit all to hell,” he mumbles, tapping on the passenger side window.

  Liz is already holding up a card between her gloved fingers as she rolls down the window. Koenig takes the card, mumbling, “We’ve been married too long.”

  Another warm gust blows through. Scraps of debris swirl through the parking lot, some getting hung up and fluttering against tires before moving on to join others. Koenig watches as one piece of paper catches on the outstretched arm of the corpse. Crossing the lot and highway, the breeze stirs up dust in the fields beyond, sending small eddies spiraling upward.

  Swiping the card, Koenig punches in his PIN and sees “approved” flash on the screen. Jamming the hose in the filler opening, he turns toward another vehicle parked at a nearby pump. All he can see is the outstretched arm extending past the rear tire, still holding a fuel nozzle like it was a last hope. Instead of seeing the tragic ending of a life, one that held dreams, disappointment, loves and loses, he sees a hand, blued by death, grasping the handle. It reminds him of that slogan, “you can take it when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.”

  He continues to stare at the hand, watching as another piece of paper dances across the pavement and wraps around it. The scrap flutters and waves, holding against the appendage as if it were battling a war of its own and reluctant to leave. It puts up a courageous struggle, trying to keep its hold firm until the breeze dies down. The wind, seeing its efforts defeated, sends another gust to overwhelm its valiant foe. With a last strong gust, both pieces of paper are torn free and sweep across the lot.

  Returning to the present, thinking that what he saw was in some way a reflection on life, he looks at the numbers slowly changing on the pump’s screen.

  Stress makes you think the weirdest shit.

  Other than the forearm reaching beyond the wheel, Koenig can’t see the rest of the figure lying on the pavement.

  How fucked up would it be to have your final moments lying on the pavement of some stop and rob in the middle of nowhere? But, we all have to go sometime, and I guess that means somewhere, too.

  He jerks his head around at the sound of the Rover’s door opening. Liz steps out and points her sidearm somewhat toward the store entrance.

  “What are you doing?” Koenig queries.

  “I figure that while you pump the gas, I’ll keep an eye on the store,” Liz answers.

  “You can do that from inside the car.”

  “Don’t you think I’ll be able to respond much quicker if I don’t have to wrestle myself out of the car in this ridiculous outfit?”

  “Fair enough,” Koenig grunts.

  “Who could do that?” Liz asks.

  “Who could do what?” Koenig questions.

  “That,” Liz states, pointing toward the body in the middle of the parking lot.

  Koenig turns his gaze toward the supine figure. The right side of the blue mottled face is shredded, with strips of loose-hanging flesh. It’s difficult to see, even from the short distance, but it appears that pieces have also been ripped from the neck. Surrounding the head and upper torso, dried blood stains are darker against the pavement. The mutilated form isn’t what he expected to see, assuming the people here had died from gunshot wounds. He knows what caused the damage, but remains silent and leaves the question hanging in the breeze.

  Seeing the brutality the infected caused firsthand heightens the reality of what they’re facing. He’s still somewhat in shock, thinking that he’s possibly staring the end of humankind in the face. The end of the world, the end of everything he’s known—just the end.

  Is it only a matter of time before we become just another couple of bodies lying on the ground in some forsaken spot? Am I kidding myself and Liz thinking that we’ll be safe anywhere? The bunker may survive, but what will it emerge into? And, I did this…fuck…I. Did. This!

  A faint echoing shriek drifts across the lot, sending a deep chill up Koenig’s back and raising the hairs on his arms.

  “What in the hell was that?” Liz calls, aiming her handgun toward the entrance.

  “It sounded like it came from inside the store,” Koenig says, not really answering Liz’s question.

  Another scream, this one louder and more intense, erupts from inside.

  “What do you think? Do we have enough gas?” Liz asks, her hands trembling.

  Glancing quickly at the pump, Koenig responds, “Fourteen gallons…good enough for me. Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

  As Liz scrambles to get inside of the car, Koenig pulls the nozzle out of the filler tube and drops it on the pavement. Running around the back of the Rover
, he sees a woman emerge from the shadows of the store and run through the broken doorway. Making his way as quickly as he can to the driver’s door, he raises his handgun and fires toward the charging woman. The report of the gunshot rings loudly across the lot.

  Koenig sees the round slam into the rear window of one of the parked vehicles, starring the glass as the round ricochets into the distance with a whine. The loud noise startles the woman, causing her to slow her race across the lot. That moment is short-lived as she opens her mouth with an ear-piercing shriek and continues.

  That wasn’t even close, Koenig thinks about his shot as he dives into the driver’s seat.

  With gloved fingers, he paws at the keys dangling from the ignition. Looking directly at them, he hears the pounding footsteps of the woman. In moments, she’ll be at the window, clawing her way inside.

  He turns the key and feels the purr of the Rover’s engine. Throwing the shifter into drive and slamming on the gas, the vehicle jumps forward with a chirp from the tires. The woman near the front bumper reaches outward, making an effort to pass through the window of the moving car.

  Koenig sees her face clearly, every nuance, every line firmly etched into his mind. Her wide, bloodshot eyes emit a ferocity that he’s never before witnessed. Dried blood surrounds her mouth and is streaked across her cheeks. Dark splashes coat her forehead and nose like a disease. Her blue and yellow summer dress is deeply stained from copious amounts of blood. The scream that issues from her mouth doesn’t sound like it could come from anything natural. Koenig drives past the woman, hoping to hell that the seal on his mask holds.

  Racing out of the lot, Koenig turns onto the highway toward the nearby city, not with any plan, just a frantic response to escape from the infected woman: a fifty-fifty choice. Had his mind really been engaged, he would have turned away from the populated area.

  Looking in the rearview, he sees the woman enter the highway, racing after them.

  “Is that woman on drugs? Is that what happened to those people back there?” Liz asks.

  “No. And, when we get through this, we need to have a lengthy conversation,” Koenig answers.

  A second of silence ensues.

  “James? Is this…is this…did you...” Liz stammers.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Koenig interrupts.

  Turning back toward the front, what lies ahead startles him and he slams on the brakes, throwing Liz forward into the dash.

  “What the fuck, James?!” Liz bellows.

  Liz seldom swears, but when she does, Koenig knows to duck and cover…or flat out run. However, his attention is so focused on what lies past the windshield that he barely registers her outburst.

  “Was that there before?” he asks, pointing toward the city.

  Ahead, two pickup trucks are parked across the road with people in the beds and to the side, all pointing rifles at them. Glancing in the rearview, he sees the charging woman drawing close.

  “James?”

  “Roll up the windows,” Koenig says.

  “How is that…”

  “Just do it. That woman is still chasing us.”

  “Oh,” Liz replies, pushing a button on the door handle.

  “I don’t have a good feeling about…” Liz says.

  A flash from the bed of one of the trucks, followed by a sharp report, interrupts Liz’s comment. Koenig flinches, expecting to see the windshield cave in and shards of glass race toward his face. Of course he knows he probably wouldn’t hear the bullet that killed him, but science and physics have nothing to do with the moment.

  Seeing nothing of what he expected actually transpiring, he glances in the rearview. The woman charging down the highway is nowhere to be seen. Looking in the side mirrors, he sees her lying face down in the road, the back of her blonde hair now a pulpy crimson mess. Blood pools under her face and streams along the uneven surface of the pavement, just another victim of the downfall lying in the middle of nowhere.

  “Attention, you in the car,” a voice calls out, obviously using some kind of megaphone or loudspeaker, drawing both of their attentions. “I know you aren’t one of them, driving and all. But, you may still be one of them infected and not know it. You aren’t welcome here. There’s a road a few miles back. I suggest you turn around and use it. This is your only warning. Oh, and you’re welcome for the help.”

  “James, I think we should take them up on their suggestion,” Liz states.

  “I’m on it,” Koenig says, putting the Rover in reverse.

  Turning around and heading back the other direction, Koenig glances first at the woman on the pavement fading in the rearview, then toward the gas station. He knows they’ve been lucky getting this far, but now the virus has taken root and lines have been drawn. He wishes he were one of those survivalist types, that he knew more than he does.

  Well, that’s neither here nor there. We’ll just do the best that we can and hope that’s enough.

  “You know,” Koenig says to Liz, “we may have been going at this all wrong. I’m thinking we should use the interstates. If there are small towns that are surviving like this one, they won’t be overly welcoming. Granted, they’ll probably be few and far between, but interstates are usually separated from the cities to an extent. We may be able to race through them and it may be easier to find fuel. I don’t know. However, we may only need one or two more fill-ups until we get to the Rockies.”

  “And then?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. We find some place to hole up…don’t ask,” Koenig states, holding up a hand to forestall Liz’s anticipated question. “I don’t know exactly where. I’m hoping it will be obvious, that we’ll just know.”

  “Do you mean like a giant neon sign with a pointing finger?” Liz asks.

  “Something like that,” Koenig replies.

  “Now, about this conversation?”

  * * * * * * *

  Out of sight from those in the road and away from any sign of civilization, Koenig pulls over to the side and unfolds the map. Any nearby alternate route will just take them back toward the city of Clinton, and they are a long way from Interstate 70. Although he wants to travel along an interstate, that means they’ll have to go through the heart of Kansas City. With the metropolis likely to be infected with numbers in the hundreds of thousands, they’ll have to be meticulous with their protective measures. The air will be teeming with the virus.

  There are alternate routes that would intersect with 70 on the far side of the large city, but each would involve traveling through towns like the one they were chased away from. If there are others like the group they just encountered, they may not be kind enough to give a warning shot. Without any information, there aren’t any right choices.

  Liz is quiet in the passenger seat, although she frequently looks into the rearview, fearful that the people in the trucks may follow them. The only sound is the purring of the Rover’s idling engine. Koenig traces lines along highways with his finger, trying to find the “most right” solution. Several miles to the north is a highway similar to the one they’re parked on. Following that route, he finds that it ends directly south of Topeka.

  If we follow that, then head north, we can connect with a freeway that circumvents Topeka and intersects I-70. From there, it’s a straight shot without going through any large cities, he thinks, his finger moving on the paper. Then, near Denver, we swing down, go around Colorado Springs, and into the mountains.

  Satisfied that he has the best solution, he shows the route to Liz just in case something happens and she has to drive it. Once in the Rocky Mountains, well, the plan becomes much more fluid. Meaning, he doesn’t have one and they’ll look for that magical arrow pointing to where they should go.

  “Rather than overworking your brain cells, you could have just used Google Maps, James,” Liz states. “Plus, it shows every road and dirt track. We don’t necessarily have to take any major roads or go through towns.”

  Koenig stares at her with his jaw h
anging. He looks from the map to Liz, to the map again. Then, he gazes at his phone sitting on the console.

  Seeing his expression, Liz responds, “It’s okay, James. It’s not your fault. It’s a proven fact that women are smarter.”

  Koenig is frankly amazed that he didn’t think of that in the first place. He ignores her jibe and retrieves his phone. Getting a signal, he pulls up the program and sets the parameters. Of course, the app gives them the most direct route, taking them down roads that connect with the interstate. He disregards that and zooms in. Liz was correct, every single dirt track past every farmhouse is depicted if he zooms in close enough. It will take them extra time, but it might be easier to find fuel at the remote farmhouses. There won’t be that many infected in any one such place, and they should be able to handle them easily enough.

  “Okay, change in plan. We’ll take the remotest routes that don’t dead end. I know these suits are irritating, but we’ll have to keep wearing them whenever we’re on the move. We don’t know exactly when and where we’ll meet up with any infected, and the air around them is toxic. We’ll take short breaks when we’re certain that it’s safe to take a breather.” He chuckles at the pun. “You navigate, I’ll drive. Our goal is to get to and around Colorado Springs.”

  They travel along dirt roads with open farmland on both sides broken only by lines of trees following creeks. Individual houses are built a little distance away from the loosely paved tracks, some obvious farmhouses with barns and vehicle sheds, others normal residences. On the dirt roads, dust rises behind the Land Rover. Koenig doesn’t like the fact that it advertises their position, but they haven’t seen a single person since backtracking away from Clinton.

  Liz is careful to select routes that will allow them to cross any highways they encounter. At each, Koenig halts some distance away and surveys the major road through binoculars. He had thought it paramount to reach the mountains quickly, but since taking the back roads, he isn’t really sure why other than to reduce some of the stress.

  During the drive, Koenig tells Liz all about the virus and his involvement. She doesn’t say a word, only nods at the appropriate moments. Koenig expected her to be shocked, but she knew what he did, if not the details.