ARES VIRUS: PHEONIX RISING
Book III of Ares Virus
A Novel by John O’Brien
Copyright © 2017 John O’Brien
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without permission in writing from the author. You may contact the author at [email protected]
Cover art by: Dean Samed
Conzpiracy Digital Arts
http://www.conzpiracy.co.uk
Also by John O’Brien
A New World Series
A NEW WORLD: CHAOS
A NEW WORLD: RETURN
A NEW WORLD: SANCTUARY
A NEW WORLD: TAKEN
A NEW WORLD: AWAKENING
A NEW WORLD: DISSENSION
A NEW WORLD: TAKEDOWN
A NEW WORLD: CONSPIRACY
A NEW WORLD: RECKONING
A NEW WORLD: STORM
Companion Books
A NEW WORLD: UNTOLD STORIES
A NEW WORLD: UNTOLD STORIES 2
A Shrouded World
A SHROUDED WORLD: WHISTLERS
A SHROUDED WORLD: ATLANTIS
Authors Note
Welcome to the third and final book in the ARES Virus series. As I’ve mentioned before, this story began as a short story in an anthology. However, the characters that began that tale wouldn’t leave my thoughts. They begged for their narrative to be completed, showing me what happened after they reached the bunker. I tried moving on, but was continually drawn back.
The first book, Arctic Storm, was entirely character driven, but as I progressed, that changed somewhere in the middle of the White Horse. I kept trying to pull the tale back, but that’s just not how it wanted to be told. The driving force became the story itself; the tale becoming a character in itself. As such, the narrative doesn’t follow a single character as they make their way through the aftermath.
As much as I attempted to divert the course of the book, the events pushed me in other directions. This third book turned out to be much more militarily structured than I ever intended. I understand that some enjoy that style while others may not. I apologize to those that don’t, but the story told itself the way it wanted, and not matter how much I tried to redirect it, that’s not the direction it wanted to go. I have to say that I was surprised by the rise and fall of characters that were prevalent in the first books. Take Emily for instance. She was originally just a place card character for Brown to rescue, but she rose to become a central figure. And, much like Gonzalez in A New World, she became one of my favorite characters to write.
In this book, there are certain weapons which are merely a contrivance of my imagination. You’ll know which ones they are when you get to them. While perhaps not exactly a contrivance, as their existence was a point of fact back in the day, the contrivance is that they’re still operational. However, if I suddenly disappear, well, you’ll know why.
Along those lines, any interior descriptions are entirely made up, but based on my best knowledge. So, please don’t beat me senseless — I’m already there — if they don’t correspond to the real thing. Some of the systems I use in the story and their workings are mostly my imagination as well.
Despite repeatedly beating my skull on the keyboard, I enjoyed writing this series. Especially the part at the end where Brown wakens from his nap to see a Biology student pushing a metal cart across the campus quad. Yes, I’m still annoyed by the ending of The Dark Tower.
Okay, enough of me talking. Let’s get on with the tale. If you enjoy this final installment, would you mind heading back and leaving a review. I will be eternally grateful.
John
Chapter One
Grissom Air Force Base, Indiana
October 16, evening
Jennings stares out the third story window of their assigned dorms. The protective gear they’re required to wear full-time is confining and uncomfortable, even more taxing than the day’s events. The forty-eight hours required after the last sign of infected in the area seems years away—it might as well be an infinity.
Although exhausted, he can’t sleep, only toss and turn. Outside, clouds roll in as the sun sets, promising rain and colder weather. The bottoms of the clouds glow from the dozens of fires still burning in the area. In the distance, blinking strobe lights, along with red and green position lights, of patrolling helicopters move across a darkened sky. Occasional streaks of red stream downward from points in the sky as remaining pockets of infected are uncovered. The airfield is a constant buzz as helicopters bring in supplies, along with periodic roars overhead as more and more jets continue to arrive.
Tomorrow will effectively be a day off as the forces consolidate for the next move against Whiteman Air Force Base. The only activity that will involve him personally will be a rotation manning the perimeter. The first phase of the lengthy operation has been completed. All he has to do is hold it together for a few more weeks and they’ll all get a chance to relax. Of the many books he’s read about apocalyptic events, this is not how he ever envisioned it. In his head, it had always been about small pockets of survivors trying to stay alive day by day. His reveries rarely involved extensive military operations utilizing superior firepower. With a last glance at a gunship firing rockets in the distance, Jennings lays down in an attempt to find dreamland.
* * * * * * *
Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri
October 18
The landscape outside of the helicopter windows is much the same as that they’d left behind: patchwork fields of green and brown with a few wooded hills thrown in to break up the monotony of the farmlands. The covering of clouds dulls the colors to match Jennings’s mood. Although they’d basically had the day off yesterday, he feels nearly as tired as he had after the Grissom operation was complete.
The Air Force base they’re heading to is situated in a similar manner as the one they’d just left. Three larger towns form a lopsided triangle around the base, with smaller towns and residential areas popping up at nearly every crossroads. The plan is nearly the same as before: drop in along a highway midway between the city of Sedalia and the base. After pummeling the townships, helicopters will draw the infected toward the waiting companies.
Plumes of dark smoke from the morning’s strikes spiral upward from points across the land, merging with the overlying clouds. Bands of rain drift across the plains, obscuring everything underneath as a gray sheet were drawn across a doorway. Jennings observes a string of flashes erupt next to an interstate that cuts through the area, bombs exploding in a once quiet little town. Vehicles and parts of buildings are blown up and out, smoke roiling skyward to add to the other plumes. Jennings watches one car emerge from one of the explosions, vertically rocketing away from the blast and trailing smoke like a fiery incendiary thrown from a catapult.
The ground flashes in a blur underneath as his and the other transports drop low. All around, other helicopters flit this way and that in seeming chaos, but Jennings knows that it is in fact a strictly choreographed dance. Even so, he doesn’t see how so many choppers crowded in one area don’t slam into each other. The crew chief holds up one finger, meaning that they’re one minute from landing. Jennings checks his straps, pats the mags strapped to his vest, and absentmindedly rubs the trigger guard. It’s another mission that will end with complete exhaustion. It isn’t helping that he’s already dead tired at the outset.
The helicopter slows, then stops, and the back ramp drops. Jennings shuffles out with the others, having to drop the last foot into a wet plowed field. All around, other choppers hover just above fields and roadways, dropping Marines out of the back ends.
/> Jennings slogs his way through the field toward the intersection where they are to set up and, climbing the embankment, notices a small sign indicating that the highway he’s about to enter is named “Y.” That’s it, just highway Y.
Imaginative folks, he thinks. But, then again, why not? It’s no different than just having a number.
The company sets up as before. Humvees are sprinkled along the line, most strung along the crossing highway. This time, they’ll be the second company, with another taking the lead. As before, they’ll play leap frog as the infected are drawn out of the distant city. Four gunships swing into position, two on each end of the line. The chill penetrating the protective gear is refreshing. That and the adrenaline coursing through his body keeps him alert even through his exhaustion. He’s ready to get this shit over with.
Sooner started, sooner done.
The waiting for something to happen is often worse than the event itself: there’s no greater enemy than your own mind. Jennings ambles off the road and across the grassy ditch, placing his MK20 on a fence post and sighting in down State Highway Y. In the distance, helicopters float above the ground, firing their Gatling guns and rockets into targets. After firing, they turn to reorient a little closer and fire again. Above the middle of the highway, another chopper slowly crawls along the pavement, leading any remaining infected out of the city.
Taking his eye from the scope, Jennings surveils his surroundings. The smoldering remains of a few demolished farmhouses can be seen across the fields. Parts of the roof and timbers from the walls of the nearest one lie strewn throughout the yards with wrecked outbuildings adding their debris to the mix. Farming machinery has been smashed and lies in twisted, charred hulks. Rows of large, rounded bales of hay lie under coverings, the tarps dotted with shrapnel holes. The advance gunships did their work well, systematically seeking out and destroying everything that might have housed any infected.
As the helicopters drawing the infected slowly nears the leading company, Jennings wonders if any of the farmhouses had any survivors holed up in them before they were blasted into oblivion. He thinks the sound of helicopters in the area would have drawn them out, but the gunship crews wouldn’t have been able to distinguish between the living and the infected. The survivors might have come out and started waving their arms, leading any of the crews to believe they were infected trying to reach them.
That’s if they even took the time to distinguish. This was a fast-moving operation that gave little opportunity to conduct extensive searches. Although Jennings can’t see how anyone could have survived in cities with so many infected prowling the streets, surely there could have been a few in the countryside. Some of these folks rarely ventured off their farms and may not have come into contact with anyone carrying the virus. However, it had seemed to spread almost everywhere. Farmers coming into town for a meal or for a myriad other reasons during the three-week incubation period would most likely have come into contact with at least one carrier. The odds dictated that a random few wouldn’t have, though.
Jennings jerks his thoughts back to the present. Those kinds of thoughts can lead down a very dark road, and this is neither the time nor place for that. He’s sure that once he and the others establish themselves, they’ll conduct searches for survivors; after all, the forces in the west have already sent ships to recover personnel from several remote areas. There will most likely be survivor casualties in the contested zones of operation, but the timetable dictates that they secure their bases and immediately begin operations to make sure the power plants don’t blanket the eastern continent in a radioactive cloud.
Rain showers continue to drift slowly across the plain, the rainfall angling downward. Some of the showers don’t quite reach the earth, evaporating before they come into contact with the ground. Jennings doesn’t give it much thought. Modern avionics and weapons aren’t constrained by clouds or rainfall. But he hopes that none of them fall on him, because being wet and fighting in the rain sucks.
“Lead company is engaging. Be ready,” Jennings hears through the radio.
The call pulls him out of his meandering thoughts. He checks his mag and ensures a round is chambered, sighting in down the road once again. He can’t see much past the lead company’s line, but can see the gunships open fire. Red tracers race downward at angles. Fire flashes sequentially from wing pods as rockets streak outward trailing flame and smoke. Light gray smoke hovers around Humvee turrets as heavy caliber rounds chuff into what Jennings can imagine is a huge line of infected following potential prey.
Looking along his own line, he watches the other members of his company readying themselves. Bolts are drawn back and Humvee weapons are swung around, but pointed skyward lest an accidental trigger pull send a round into the backs of the leading company. Gunships swing further outward, getting better angles to fire once the lead company falls through their position. It’s going to be another long day of planned retreats to thin out the mass heading their way, until every one of them lies dead in the fields and along the state highway named Y.
The company ahead turns as one and begins their run across the fields and along the road. The Humvees remain for a moment longer, slowly traversing backward and delivering fire into the midst of the horde to slow them down. The gunships do the same, slowly moving back while delivering rocket and Gatling gun fire. Jennings’s company makes lanes to allow the other company to pass easily through.
He sees tired, scared, and determined eyes through the masks as the company passes by him. The clop of boots on the pavement and the jingle of weapons and gear rise momentarily above the firing Humvees and helicopters. Then they’re through, and it’s his company’s turn to thin the herd.
Zoomed in, Jennings sees the same expressions he’d seen at Grissom. Grimy faces etched with rage, hungry with anticipation and need. The gray light of the cloud cover only adds to the grim scene. The dense line of infected covers every inch of the highway and pour out from the woods to the side. Those in the fields become momentarily hung up on fence lines, only to be pushed through by those behind. The company and supporting fire open up.
Through his scope, Jennings watches as the leading lines stagger and fall. Blood splashes in the air, splattering on those following. He centers the crosshairs on one only to see it spin to the side as a .50 caliber round smashes into its shoulder, shredding the joint in a spray of blood, a severed arm falling limply to the ground.
Moving the barrel a fraction, he pulls the trigger as the crosshair centers on one face among thousands of others. It explodes behind a mist of red. Jennings quickly transitions to another target, finding one face after another in quick succession. Semi-automatic 7.62mm rounds blaze across the fields and highway, sending one infected to the ground after another. He doesn’t take time to verify hits, just delivers round after round into his targets.
The volume of gunfire erupting along the line is deafening. Tracers streak across the fields, intersecting with the wall of charging infected. Explosions from rockets and mortars create holes in the lines that follow, sending bodies tumbling through the air. The relentless wave of bodies continues to surge forward.
Jennings slams a fresh mag into the well, shoving the spent one in a pocket. The radio call comes to disengage and retreat. The tracers, which once filled the decreasing space between the company and leading line of infected, quickly taper off. The company then turns and runs toward the rear company positions. Behind, Jennings hears the chunk of the heavy machine guns as the Humvees try to buy some time. He races through the line, his eyes certainly showing the same exhausted yet determined look he saw in those before him.
Taking up position to the rear, Jennings’s perspective has been narrowed down to scant yards on the fields of Missouri. Where he was thinking about the operation in terms of weeks, now he counts down the minutes until the next engagement. He knows that this is being repeated along other highways, but his reality is only the wet, muddy fields immediately surrounding him. Rep
lenishing his ammo, he sets up near a fence just outside of another demolished farmhouse. Breathing heavily, he’s not sure how many more runs like that he has in him.
The process becomes an earnest rinse-and-repeat action. The gunships providing covering fire are replaced as they run out of ammunition. Jennings thinks that it’s too bad they don’t have B-52 formations delivering strikes.
This would be cleaned out in a hurry.
Of course, he knows that there’s no way any of them this close to the lines would survive should the tons of bombs begin hammering into the horde. There’s a reason why the minimum safe distance is one thousand yards.
Jennings zooms in on the action to the front, waiting for their next turn. With his eye to the scope, the spatter of a rain drop on his arm surprises him. It takes a couple more before he realizes exactly what it is. Looking back over his shoulder, he sees the gray wall of a rain shower bearing down on the company.
The ground splashes with large raindrops, a few at first either sent as a warning or as a test. They hit the pavement, the force breaking the single drops into a dozen smaller ones, spraying outward. Jennings hears the patter on his gear, then the deluge hits all at once. The gray curtain closes around the company, the view of the world narrowing to just a few yards. The drumming of thousands of drops hitting the ground drowns out the firefight up the road. The shower passes, leaving behind wet Marines, soggy fields, and glistening roads.
Jennings settles behind his scope, turning on the thermal setting. He opted for that scope in consideration of the smoke obscuration the last time. In the rain shower slowly moving down the road, he picks out the heat images of figures moving through it.
“Hold your fire. Marines coming through,” the radio calls.
The thermal shapes materialize into soldiers, wet from the rain, streaming back from their firefight, running to continue the leap frog maneuvers. The company passes through, leaving only wet fields stretching to the sides and the pavement vanishing into the gray wall ahead.
ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising Page 1
