The Ares Virus

by A P Bateman

  Once they had drank their fill, they walked onwards, covering another two hundred yards or so, when Stone stopped and walked towards a clump of trees, almost entirely suspended in perpetual darkness from the canopy of trees above. To the base of the tree was a clump of white spherical objects ranging in size from that of a little league softball to around the size of a soccer ball. He kicked one over, picked it up and carried it back to where Isobel had been watching somewhat incongruously from the more open ground at the perimeter of the rock fall.

  “What on earth?” she exclaimed, staring at the ball with much curiosity.

  “It's a puffball,” Stone said. He took the medium sized folding knife from his pocket and whipped open the blade. He sliced off a large piece and handed it over to her. He did the same with another piece and dropped the remainder on the ground. “Smells like a wet dog, but tastes a little better ...”

  “Only a little?” she smiled.

  Stone took a bite and chewed slowly. He hadn't realized just how hungry he had been. The fungus was smooth, a little chewy in its raw state but well worth eating, especially as there didn't seem to be a drive-thru anywhere nearby.

  “It tastes like Shitake mushroom.” Isobel said matter-of-factly. “You could pay ten dollars a pound in a deli for this stuff.”

  “If say so,” Stone commented flatly with his mouth full. He walked back to the clump of dark trees and skirted around the trunk. The ground was damp and moist and the fall leaves had started to rot into a dank mulch. He found what he had been looking for and chiseled away at the trunk for a few moments. He walked back to Isobel with his hands cupped. “Here, try these.” The fungus was a brilliant white color and perfectly mushroom shaped. She bit hesitantly into it, then put the whole thing in her mouth and chewed. She nodded approval. “Oyster fungi,” Stone smiled. “Same as in the grocers.”

  “This is great,” she said. “I was so hungry after having that water. How do you know all this stuff? The military, right?”

  “Yeah, I've done a few survival courses in my time, that's fair to say. The forest is wealthy in food resources, but what we've just eaten has little carbohydrate, and therefore little in the way of calorific value. But it will suppress your appetite and keep you going for a while at least. And it’s good to soak up all that water in your stomach.” He sliced off two more manageable pieces of the puffball and threw the remainder into the trees. “Here, put these in your bag for later. We'd better get going again.”

  They marched onwards for another twenty minutes, then Stone stopped again. “This ought to do it,” he said.

  They had reached a narrow gulch within the plateau. Below them was steep ground with sporadic growth in trees. The slope seemed to go on forever, out of sight. Above them, the slope inclined heavily, reaching upwards and out of sight. The wooded plateau was approximately one hundred yards wide, no more. And ahead of them, the flat ground narrowed even further.

  “What are we doing now?” Isobel asked hesitantly.

  Stone watched the ground behind him for a moment, and then looked back at her. “We're going to walk on for another fifty to sixty paces or so making as much sign of our presence as we can. Go on, scuff the ground. If a twig or a thin branch is in your way, snap it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want him to find us and I want him to become over confident in tracking us.” He looked at the doubt on her face and grinned. “Just trust me.”

  They walked onwards and made their presence more noticeable. After about sixty or seventy yards, Stone stopped at a crop of young, springy trees. Saplings. They were around twelve feet tall and looked about three years old. “Isobel, I want you to walk a hundred yards further on and collect sticks like these.” He snapped a twig off of a branch and gave it to her. It was approximately ten inches long and fairly straight. “As well as these, about ten in all, I want you to get two more, a little thicker and twice as long. And hurry.”

  She nodded curtly, although a little hesitantly and walked away.

  Stone worked fast. He snapped off some thin branches and worked them into size. Then he took out his folding knife and with its razor edge, he whittled at the thin end of each one until he had a sharp tip. He placed them on the ground and took off his suit jacket. He had long since loosened his tie, but he removed that as well and dropped it on the ground beside him. He cut away at the lining of his jacket and removed a piece of silk around two feet square in size. He sliced this into strips and placed them beside the sharpened twigs. Next, he found a suitable branch belonging to one of the young trees and tested it for both strength and pliability. He took the knife and cut a thicker piece of branch and shaped it to his requirements. It resembled a sharp peg around nine inches long. He turned it on its end and split it in half lengthways. He then cut another strip from the lining of his jacket and sliced it into thin strips. He tied each strip together using a double reef knot until he had a length of makeshift cordage approximately six feet in length. He picked up the spikes and held them between his teeth, as he tied them singularly onto the branch with the strips of silk lining. When he had completed this, he tied his necktie in a loop, hooked it around the thin end of the branch and tied the cordage to the loop. He fed this back and around the trunk of a young tree and then doubled it back on itself. Time was ticking by, and he kept checking in all directions for the gunman. He took the two split pegs and pressed them into the ground about a foot apart. He then tied two slipknots in the cordage at a similar distance. He eased the length of cordage towards him, using the tree trunk as a block and tackle, and eased the slipknot around the first peg. He secured it, then tentatively repeated the process with the second, making the necessary fine adjustments with the angle of the pegs. He hesitantly released his grip on the cordage and the pegs held the sprung branch firm.

  Isobel looked up expectantly as Stone jogged near. He slowed up and nodded approvingly at the bundle of sticks that she had collected.

  “Great,” he said. “Keep hold of them and follow me.”

  They jogged across the flat ground another two hundred paces and as before, they made good use of the mulch and fallen leaves to alert their presence. They rounded a corner with a rock fall on one side and a sheer drop on the other. It was a natural funnel before the plateau widened out on both sides. Stone stopped running and looked around the ground.

  “Here's as good a spot as any.” He looked down the slope, and then above them, high up the mountain and nodded. “Perfect.” He dropped to his knees, removed his tattered jacket and started to dig with the blade of the knife. Once the soil was loose, he extracted it with his bare hands and mounded the earth into a tidy pile. He loosened enough earth with the blade of the knife, and then handed it to Isobel, handle first. “Here, take this. Sharpen both ends of the sticks. Hurry now, I don't think we have much time.” He turned back to the hole and continued to excavate a perfectly round hole about two feet across and a foot or so deep. He used one of the sharpened sticks to dig with, then scooped the soil out with his bare hands. He then took the sticks that Isobel had sharpened, and one-by-one, stuck them firmly in place two inches apart. Each spike was nestled at a downward angle, stuck in the walls of the hole, spiraled around until the pattern of sticks met. The points of the spikes almost touched. He looked up at Isobel and held out his hand. “Take off your jacket and give me your blouse,” he ordered.

  “What?”

  “You heard, just do it,” he snapped. “Hurry!”

  She did as he asked. The air was getting colder and she shivered as she stood there in just her thin, lacy bra. Stone looked up, and then looked away again. She put her jacket back on and zipped it right up to the neck. Stone took the sheer blouse and folded it carefully. He took the two longer sticks and laid them on top of the hole in the form of a cross. He laid the folded blouse on top, and then carefully held the edges of material in place with a scattering of earth. He smoothed out the rest of the pile, and then gently sprinkled leaves over the blouse. When h
e had finished, the construction was completely untraceable. He stood up and nodded, satisfied with their efforts.

  “What now?” Isobel asked. She shivered, stood closer to him.

  “Now?” he said. “Now we find a good place to hide, and we wait.”

  FIFTY FIVE

  Tom Hardy stared blankly at the table. The remnants of an early dinner, prime Virginian ham and eggs lay on the plate in front of him. The plate had been too hot and the broken yolks had started todry hard. There was grease on the plate too, and the remnants of the once delicious meal now looked as uninviting and unappetizing as one could possibly imagine.

  He was staring into space, his cell phone held loosely to his ear, his brow perspiring profusely.

  “Are you there, Hardy?” The voice was one of concern, broaching on panic. “Can you hear me?”

  Tom Hardy looked up from the plate. He picked up the napkin and dabbed the sweat from his beaded brow. He left a little dry egg yolk on his cheek. He felt light headed, faint. He sipped a mouthful of water and looked around the diner. He was sure onlookers would think he was having a coronary. He attempted to pull himself together as best he could, but he felt flummoxed. “Yeah,” he replied. He coughed, cleared his throat. “What the fuck do you mean?”

  “I mean the flash drives are blank,” McCray said sardonically down the phone line. “Whatever the fuck you have here, it isn't the next super virus, nor is it the next miracle cure.”

  “Now listen, McCray ...” Hardy growled into the cell phone. “Don't even think about fucking me over. Don't even think that you can go it alone. I will fucking break you. Now once again, for the record. In case you made a silly mistake. Are the drives OK? Were you mistaken? Last chance.”

  “I 'm not stupid, Hardy. I have a fucking Masters and a PHD. I know when a USB stick contains the formulae for a virus, and I know when I'm listening to music downloads and looking at somebody’s photo album.”

  “What?” Hardy was perplexed, his heart had started to race and he could feel the palpitations fluttering inside his chest.

  “I mean the drives looked the same as the others. The only make we use at the facility. Only the bitch must have swiped a few for personal use,” McCray explained curtly. “I slipped the drive into my computer and all that’s on it is Isobel Bartlett’s personal photos and some music.”

  Hardy shook his head in desperation. “What about the other flash drive?” he asked.

  “Same. And essays for a paper she’s writing. Nothing to do with ARES or APHRODITE.”

  “Oh fuck!” Hardy loosened his tie. “All right. Stay put. Go to work as normal and don't change a fucking thing in your life. Got that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. I'll be in touch and we'll have to work out a plan for damage limitation. Now, there is a slim possibility that I can get to my associate before he gets to Isobel Bartlett. I just need to get off the phone and make a quick e-mail.” He hung up the call and got up from his seat and walked towards the door in a trance.

  “Sir!” the waitress called after him. “Sir, you haven't paid your check!”

  Her words fell upon deaf ears as Hardy walked out the door and towards his car in the parking lot. A couple of large men in mechanics overalls got off their stools at the counter and followed him outside. Hardy reached the car and opened the door.

  “Hey, numb-nuts!” One of the guys called. “Little lady in there's saying you haven't paid your tab.”

  “Yeah,” the other guy chipped in. “Got a fancy car and all, but you can't make your damn bill?”

  Hardy was aware that the two men were shouting at him, but he couldn't think why and at that moment, he simply didn't care. He knew that he could send an e-mail to his associate's web enabled smartphone and if he could do that in time, he would still have a shot at obtaining the drives. He sat down in his seat and thumbed the screen of his iPhone.

  “Got a fancy damn car, and a fancy damn cell phone, but he can't make the fucking check?” one of the guys said loudly. “How about we get ass-wipe here to take a look at his priorities? That nice girl in there works for tips, pal.”

  “Yeah,” the other guy sneered. “And I bet he has good medical insurance. How about giving him the chance to claim on his policy?”

  The larger of the two men caught hold of the door of the car and pulled it open. Hardy glanced up. He had a decent signal and was halfway through his email.

  The larger man punched him square to the ear and Hardy squealed loudly. It was an agonizing blow, to which he cupped his ear and grit his teeth. One of the guys grabbed at the iPhone and Hardy struggled to keep possession.

  “Wait, I have to send an urgent ...!” He didn't finish the sentence, as both men set upon him with raining fists. The cell phone dropped out of the car and onto the ground. Hardy was pulled from the vehicle and kicked a couple of times, then witnessed the final humiliation as one of the guys stamped a work boot onto the screen and wires, silicon chips, the battery and other components spilled out onto the ground and scattered in all directions.

  “That will teach you, corporate dick.”

  “Yeah, and maybe you won't run out on your bill again.”

  The two men whooped and patted backs and high-fived their way back inside the diner and were greeted by a smiling waitress who poured them both coffee and offered them a free dessert.

  Hardy pushed himself up and sat back against the rear wing of his BMW. He cupped his throbbing ear with his hand and dabbed a handkerchief against his bloodied lips. His ribs ached and his heart had sunk. He knew it was too late, knew he was finished. He had grown confident, too confident by half. He had unleashed an unfailing, unrelenting assassin on the only person to know the true identity of the drives, and in doing so, had cut his own lifeline prematurely. He had not only signed his own death warrant, he had rolled it up and delivered into the bargain.

  FIFTY SIX

  He had followed their tracks, grown used to the anomalies in contradiction of nature and compensated accordingly. Isobel's tracks bore the most success and in focusing upon her disturbance upon the ground, he had anticipated their route exactly. They were heading towards Deal. That much was obvious. They had chosen a simple and certainly the easiest route, skirting the mountain and using the relative flatness of the plateau to make the quickest progress across the terrain. He could speed his own progress, anticipate their path more and more and take a good look for confirmation less often. He estimated they had a seven hundred yard lead on him and he was sure that he was gaining ground all the time.

  At a point near the most recent outcrop of rocks he noticed the tiny scattering of debris. It was white and flaky and looked like tufts of cotton candy. He looked around and noticed the large growth of fungi in the darkest stretch of wood. They had taken time to eat and rest. The fools! He was sure that he was ever closer now, ever gaining on them. They had become complacent and that made them ever more predictable.

  The trail became increasingly easier to follow, progressively more noticeable. Part of this he put down to his acute skills, honing themselves in the theatre of practice. The other part, he put down to their amateur complacency. He kept the rifle held loosely in both hands, able to bring it to action in a split second. He was ready for them, but somehow he knew that the kill would not be as entertaining or fulfilling as the hunt. They were scared and they were too gutless to fight. He would have thought more of the Secret Service man, but then again bodyguards were reactive, not proactive. They were trained to protect, by whatever means and that usually meant standing their ground momentarily to react to the threat and then retreating to safety with their charge. The VIP was the most important thing and running from any conflict generally meant keeping them safe from harm.

  This Secret Service agent was not proving to be a worthy adversary and he would let him know just what a letdown he had been before he killed him.

  He stepped through a thin vale of trees, pushed some branches aside then saw the flash of the branch
and felt the searing pain to his waist. He screamed vehemently, resonating an agonizing holler through the forest. Part of the scream was audible in the echo around the valley.

  The branch had swung back with considerable speed, but he had been quick in his reactions, partially blocking it with his arm. Two spikes had impaled his forearm, piercing completely through the flesh to the other side; another two had spiked his stomach and groin but were mercifully shallow wounds because of the angle of his arm holding the branch out from him. He panted for breath, tried to process the information in his mind and comprehend what had happened. He was in shock, nearing nausea, but still he fought against the situation, and started to walk backwards. The spikes left his abdomen and groin, but he was held fast by the spikes imbedded in his forearm. He dropped the rifle to the ground and took a large combat sheath knife from his utility vest. He sliced through the bindings and dropped to the ground, the two spikes still stuck in his arm. The pain was insurmountable. He quickly reached for the bottle and took the last of the remaining pills. They were fearsomely strong and he already had a dose in his system. He chewed on them, clenching his teeth and enduring the pain by controlling his breathing. He wrenched the first spike out of his arm, then grit his teeth together firmly and pulled at the second. It held fast, but he forced and wriggled it and it lost purchase and slipped easily out. He was verging on blacking out, but hurriedly undid his utility vest, allowing it to hang open and tore at the shirt under his overalls. It wouldn't budge, so he cut at it with the knife and tugged out a considerable length. He wrapped it hastily around the wounds and tied the knot as best he could with one hand. It was tight, acted like a makeshift tourniquet as well as a dressing.