ARES Virus (Book 2): White Horse

by John O'Brien

  “James, you have a predilection toward guilt. Although you and the labs may have made it, you didn’t make the decision to use it. That was someone else,” Liz said after he finished.

  With a heavy sigh, he gives an overview of the operation that took down the world and his involvement in the decision-making.

  “Oh,” she responded.

  “I could have said no…that the agent wasn’t ready. It would have been my career, but I could have. We cut a corner we never should have.”

  “What’s done is done and there’s no changing the reality of what we have. You made the best choice with what you had at the time,” Liz replied.

  “There’s one more thing,” Koenig said, and told her about Pineville and the initiation of the Phoenix protocol.

  “So, that wasn’t a terrorist attack?”

  “No.”

  “You know, I never thought it was. And, you had been acting a little off…stressed. I kind of figured you knew what was really going on. Is the person who designs a car responsible for every wreck that model is involved in? Granted, that’s a weak analogy, but it’s the only one I can think of. You designed a weapon, much like the auto is a two-thousand-pound weapon if it is handled inappropriately. That’s not to validate creating such a thing. Something like that shouldn’t exist, but we live in an imperfect world. If you were a tyrant who unleashed it on the world…personally made the decision and pressed the button, okay. But you aren’t and you didn’t. If you’re wanting for me to be ashamed of you or to see you drown in your own guilt, you’re not going to get that from me. You’re a good man, James.”

  Koenig stared at her, never having heard her string together so many sentences at once. It didn’t alleviate the guilt he felt for creating such a thing, or for some of his decisions, but he felt a little better for having it out in the open.

  Late in the afternoon, Koenig glasses over yet another highway crossing. Adjacent to and on the near side of an overpass, he sees movement though a thin copse of trees. Adjusting the focus, he sees the distinguishable shapes of RVs parked close together—obviously some kind of RV park. He gets out to get a better angle through the trees. Finding a clearer view, he sees several people kneeling around something on the ground. Their heads bob up and down at intervals, but he can’t see what they’re doing or what’s got their attention. After observing them for a moment, one of the people closest to him rises and walks away. Koenig glimpses a bundle of what he thinks is fur, but it’s bloody and torn. The faces aimed in his direction are smeared in blood, some stuffing pieces of meat into their mouths.

  They’re…they’re eating a dog? he thinks, continuing to look at the grisly scene. But, the question remains…are they infected or just hungry campers?

  Pondering the situation, Koenig comes to believe that they must be infected. If they were normal humans, they would have prepared whatever animal they found instead of kneeling on the ground to devour it.

  Coming to the conclusion that they’re infected, Koenig feels a deep chill run up his spine at the realization that that they’re able to sustain themselves.

  That isn’t anywhere near part of the protocol. The mutation must be deeper than the testing showed.

  Now, more than ever, he wishes that he had been more assertive and called for the testing to be completed before deploying the agent. Had they done that, it would have shown the propensity for mutating in such a manner and he would never have given his okay. As a matter of fact, if he had found out it could do this, he would have destroyed it along with every mention of it. Files would have been deleted and paperwork shredded. He knows that the joint chiefs were eager and saw the opportunity to use it in conjunction with the spill. In all likelihood, they would have ordered the operation to proceed regardless of what he said. And, he would have been out of the loop, possibly out of his job, and wouldn’t have had the access that led to him and Liz being able to escape the mess.

  Liz is right. No use focusing on the past. What’s here is here and we have to survive.

  He had hoped that the widespread mutation would be a short-lived one; that the infected would run around until they starved. At the most, he had figured that they’d only have to stay out of harm’s way for a month or so. There would be billions of mortalities, and they’d have to steer clear of populated areas for fear of rampant disease for a time, but they wouldn’t have to worry about becoming infected themselves. Looking at the infected feasting in the RV park ahead, he realizes that hope is now lost. The infected are eating, and in all likelihood, finding water sources too.

  Putting the binoculars away, he heads back inside the vehicle. Liz’s masked head turns toward him as he settles into the seat and describes what he observed. The sun is settling lower on the horizon and they will have to find someplace safe to hole up for the night. Staring at her phone, Liz indicates that an empty stretch of road lies ahead.

  “But, we’ll have to go over the highway…past the RVs. If we decide not to, we’ll have to backtrack quite a ways to find another road that crosses the freeway,” Liz states. “Or, we could four-wheel it through some fences.”

  Becoming stuck and having the infected find them isn’t exactly what Koenig wants to happen. One little happenstance—an unseen hole, soft dirt, a stump, the fence wrapping around the axle—could quickly end their run to the mountains. So much can happen, so many things can go wrong. His mind cycles through some of the things that could have disastrous consequences. They tick through his thoughts, one after another, until he becomes nearly paralyzed with how many there are. And still he thinks of more. It’s a never-ending list, so many that the odds of one of them happening become a one-hundred-percent certainty in his mind.

  Calm down, James. You can’t afford to let your mind run away like that, he thinks, focusing on the situation at hand.

  “Build up speed and make a quick run past?” James asks, eyeing the road ahead, determining how fast he can safely get by the RV park.

  “I suppose it’s as good a plan as any other,” Liz answers.

  Putting the Rover in gear, Koenig presses down on the accelerator. The vehicle begins rolling down the dirt road, building up speed. The steering wheel vibrates and tugs under his hands as the wheels hit rocks, grooves, and holes. More and more dust rises behind, swirling in the air currents. As they draw closer to the RV campground, the gaps in the trees become easier to see through. Shapes move past the openings, all heading toward the roadside entrance.

  Koenig sees the running figures and realizes that there are more than he observed through the binoculars…many more. He gauges the distance to the campground entrance, the speed of the vehicle, and that of the closing infected. They’re on a collision course. At the speed they’re going, there might be enough time to stop, put the car in reverse, and back away. Driving in reverse would limit their withdrawal, both in speed and ability to maneuver.

  How far would they chase us? Koenig ponders, realizing that he’s at the go/no-go point and unable to decide on the better course of action.

  “Fuck it,” he mutters, pressing the accelerator to the floor.

  He wanted something dramatic to happen, like the Land Rover leaping forward the same as a fighter jet in afterburner having its brakes released. In reality, nothing much happened, other than the speedometer climbing about as fast as the sun crossing the heavens. The infected still ran on a seeming collision course with the vehicle.

  Koenig steers the car near the edge of the road, wary of the deep ditch to the side. It’s more of a mental move than any real effort to gain a little distance. The entrance draws closer.

  “This is going to be close,” Koenig says, watching the infected pour out of the campground.

  Several hurdle the ditch while most pound through the entrance. The blood-stained faces all have wild expressions; their eyes wide, their mouths open and screaming. The shrieks penetrate the interior. Koenig keeps one eye on the road and the other on the closing horde.

  “Hang on,” Ko
enig shouts.

  Unfearful and seeming not to care about personal injury, the leading infected slam into the side of the vehicle. Liz screams, joining the noise on the other side of the door. Those hitting the fast moving car, momentarily reaching toward the occupants before they bounce off, leave bloody handprints and smears on the glass. Faces are at the window and then gone. The steering wheel jumps under his hand and Koenig feels the rear of the Rover lift as one or more of the infected fall under the wheels. More slam into the side. The vehicle slews to the side, the edge of the ditch grabbing one rear wheel and trying to pull it further into its grasp.

  With his heart pulsing wildly and holding his breath, Koenig turns the steering wheel into the skid, attempting to stay on the road and prevent a spin. The rear wheel remains caught, threatening to pull the vehicle from the road. Koenig straightens the wheel for a split second, attempting to draw the wheel out of the ditch, then turns it back. The ditch lets its potential victim go. The Rover fishtails back onto the road, Koenig fighting the wheel and counteracting each skidding turn. The vehicle straightens and they’re through. Looking in the rearview, through the dust, he can barely make out several infected on the ground, the rest of the horde chasing after but falling farther behind.

  Koenig realizes that he’s been holding his breath and lets it out in one long exhalation, his cheeks puffing. He hears Liz do the same beside him. Slowing the vehicle enough maintain control while continuing to gain distance on the infected still racing down the road after them, he momentarily glances at Liz. The highway they’re crossing passes beyond a window streaked with blood.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I think so,” she answers, her eyes still wide with fear.

  She turns to look through the rear window, the terror slowly leaving her expression as she sees the distance increasing between them and the infected. She watches until she loses sight of them in the dust cloud.

  “I guess we can mark that as a bad decision,” Koenig states. “There were more than I thought and they moved faster than I anticipated.”

  Koenig realizes that he was tired and grew lazy. The choice to power past the infected was because he didn’t want to backtrack, wanting only to reach the mountains faster.

  We can’t afford to make mistakes like that again, he thinks, his heart still pounding.

  “That was a little too close,” is all Liz comments once she gains her breath.

  Traveling the back roads, they arrive at a place that Liz indicated had no houses or sign of habitation for several miles. Stopping, she moves the earth depiction of the map program and enlarges each section, just to make sure. With the sun hitting the horizon, Koenig opens a couple of packets and they spoon down their meal while watching the sun set.

  “We’ll need to find some gas tomorrow,” Koenig states as the tip of the sun on the horizon sends a final flash of light across the land before it vanishes.

  Chapter Nine

  West of Indianapolis, Indiana

  October 7

  Brown wakes and pushes himself upright, brushing the accumulations of sand from his fatigues. The irritating sand inside of his clothes accompanies the feel of his tired, gritty eyes. It seems to have invaded every part of this body like some slow-moving parasite, reminding him of his time in the ‘Stan.

  The night had been relatively quiet, with only a few distant screams invading their tiny sanctuary, much like distant coyote howls. They took turns on guard but there hadn’t really been much to see. With only the stars to light the nighttime earth, the darkness was almost complete. Brown strained his eyes to pierce the inky void, but the night formed a complete shroud. All he could do was listen for the sound of splashing that would surely come from any infected that made their way toward them. Several times the splashes of nocturnal marine animals brought him to instant states of alert, each one sounding like a horde of infected cannonballing into the river. His nerves were taut the entire time.

  Clarke is sitting in the helicopter, her drowsiness obvious as she looks over at Brown. They’ve had little sleep over the past two days and Brown knows that can lead to taking dangerous shortcuts. They’ve come a little over a third of the way toward Colorado, but still have a long way to go. Today will hopefully see them cover another third.

  Two more days and we can get some real sleep. Or, we’ll die and be able to rest then. Either way, sleep will be involved, so I’m good with that.

  Hayward and Handley stir from their stupors, immediately going for bottles of water. Hayward begins trickling water over his head.

  “Hey, numbnuts!” Brown says sharply. “Save that water. If you want a bath, use the river.”

  Hayward grunts and takes a large swig.

  “As a matter of fact, everyone needs to bathe before we go. We’re going to be crammed together all day and you already smell like a herd of walruses,” Brown states.

  “In your clothes,” he adds, seeing Clarke’s eyes widen at the mention of bathing.

  “Sarge, what do walruses smell like…and how do you know?” Hayward asks.

  “Put your nose to your pits.”

  Hayward chuckles, thinking Brown is kidding.

  “Go on,” Brown says.

  Hayward takes a tentative sniff.

  “Like that. Only, I think you’d actually offend a walrus.”

  With the sun fully rising over the trees lining the shoreline, they wade into the river and do their best to wash away the stink. Fear adds its own smell to the normal body odor. The chilled water is refreshing, but doesn’t completely wipe away the exhaustion. The four open sandwiches, warm after sitting out for so long. Handley begins going over the sectional charts, looking at their route to the next chosen airport.

  “We have another viable airport that seems relatively remote,” Handley states. “After that, though, we start running out of options. We’ll be hitting the Midwest and there aren’t many fields that have the right fuel. Those that do are too near large cities.”

  “I don’t know much, but I gather that we can’t just try and locate another one that uses a different fuel?” Brown queries.

  “No. Most helicopters have jet engines. Those that have piston engines are way too small, and even if they weren’t, we’d be hard-pressed to just stumble upon one,” Handley answers, looking up from the map.

  “And I suppose a regular airplane is out of the question?”

  “Ha! I may be able to get one airborne, but getting it back down is a different story. I’m pretty sure they call those events ‘crashes.’ If we were to try to fly a fixed-wing aircraft, we’d just be motoring directly to the scene of an accident,” Handley responds.

  “That would put a dent in my sunny disposition. Very well, we’ll get as far as we can and find some ground transportation.”

  * * * * * * *

  The stop at Columbia Regional Airport went without a hitch. The helicopter was refueled and more food gathered. Endless fields pass underneath, spirals of smoke rising from several cities near and far. The endless hours of vibration, noise, and nothing to see but acres of farmland is wearying. Brown tries to focus on the upcoming end to their helicopter tour of the eastern US, but finds that his attention keeps wandering. They need to find ground transportation, but every time he attempts to come up with a solution, his thoughts slowly grind down to numbness and he just stares at the land passing below.

  Spots of white in an otherwise empty field of grass catch his attention. He nudges Handley, points at the objects, and indicates his desire to get a closer look. As they draw closer, Brown observes large tents in the field next to a highway. A wide swath is cut through from the highway, leading to an area where vehicles of all types are parked. Many are lined together in neat rows while others seem more haphazardly arranged. There isn’t a single infected that comes forth as they circle.

  “Put it down where you can. I want to take a look,” Brown says over the intercom.

  “What? Land there? Why?” The questions fly from all t
hree cadet’s lips.

  “Perhaps I’m intrigued and want to take a look. Maybe I’m just bored. Besides, I have to take a leak. It’s either land or I’ll hang it out the door. With the downdraft and the wind whipping around, I’m not entirely sure where it will end up. Your choice,” Brown answers.

  “I’m good with landing,” Clarke comments, her nose wrinkled behind her mask.

  “That’s a lot of cars. What if there are infected?” Hayward questions.

  “There aren’t. If there were, they’d have shown themselves by now,” Brown responds.

  Handley brings the helicopter to a hover away from the gathering of tents and vehicles. The chance of debris being sucked up is too great to land closer. Strands of grass bend outward from the rotor wash, making it easy to see the ground below. The chopper settles to the ground.

  “Is this where we’re going to pick up our ground transportation?” Handley asks.

  “How much further is this thing going to carry us?” Brown responds.

  Looking at the fuel gauge, Handley answers, “We have about another two hundred miles of fuel left.”

  Brown pauses in contemplation. “We’ll push on, then. We’ll find something we can use ahead, so we’ll be able to cover more ground in the same amount of time. I want to reach the cabin by the end of the day tomorrow. It gets dark early on this side of the mountains.”

  Brown hops out and takes care of business away from the blasts of air. He gazes across the several yards of field separating him from parked cars and tents. The sound of the helicopter drowns out any other, but he doesn’t see anything moving. Most of the vehicles parked askew have their doors open, looking like people attempted to flee before being overtaken.

  With all of these cars, there has to be something useful.

  Buttoning his fatigues, he scans the rest of the surrounding area. There’s only perpetual fields without a building in sight. He returns to the chopper.