Blood seeps out from under the figures. A few are trying to crawl in her direction, but well-placed rounds halt their encroachment. Parker stares at the nearest body, its once blue shirt stained red. The nametag pinned to the front reads “Wilson.” For a brief moment, she wonders what his life was like prior to the infection.
Was he happy? Have kids? Worry about making his next promotion?
The infected lying on the ground doesn’t seem like a person who once had real emotions, dreamed of big things, dealt with bills. He ceased being anything, as if those things never existed. She finds it hard to come to terms with how fleeting anything truly is; that they could simply vanish just like that.
From the side hallways, the occasional burst of gunfire is heard as the infected in those directions are finished off. Taking one last look at the infected man, she verifies that everyone is OK and makes her report, only to be told to pull back and cover the withdrawal of the forces on the upper floors.
The company commander has decided to pull all of the forces out of the building, the risk to the Marines too great. All of the contacts made were thankfully from a distance, but that could change in a heartbeat if soldier and infected met up at intersecting hallways. Any Marine lost is one that can’t be replaced. Forming a secure perimeter, the platoon commanders and squad leaders are called to a meeting. The operation isn’t over, but they need to find a better methodology.
Some of the initial talk is about how many infected could possibly remain, considering how many they’ve taken down. The consensus is that the number should be relatively small and that they should continue as before, but the captain is hesitant, not wanting to lose anyone unnecessarily. Yes, casualties happen any time combatants are involved, but there are scant few combat soldiers remaining anywhere in the world, and battles of attrition are no longer a consideration.
“Sir,” Parker says, raising her hand. “What about forgetting the upper floors and forming a corridor to the control center for the specialists to pass through? If we carve a path and hold it, then any remaining infected will have to come to us rather than us risking chance encounters.”
“It’s not a bad idea, sergeant, but holding a narrow corridor is difficult. The Allies tried that to break into Germany—not that this is the same, but you get the drift,” the captain replies.
“But, sir, that tactic worked,” Parker responds.
“If you’ll remember, the forces at Arnheim were surrounded and either annihilated or captured.”
“True enough, but they were able to punch through and hold it. We just don’t go a bridge too far,” she says, wondering why they’re comparing an operation that involved armies in times nearly forgotten to the one they’re facing.
“Irrelevant history aside, we need to get to the control room. That’s our mission. The sergeant’s idea has merits. Anyone else?”
In the end, Parker’s plan is the best they can come up with. Using wedges, they’ll try and seal the doors to the stairwells. They’ll make straight for the control room, clearing each room and positioning Marines at each intersection to hold the route open. Once clear, they’ll bring in the technicians to hustle through the maintained corridor and do what they need to do.
* * * * * * *
The control room is a mess. Papers and folders are tossed everywhere as if a tornado tore through the room. Chairs are upended and computer monitors lie on the ground, some casting bluish glows on the floor, others dark. Overhead screens flash information, a central one holding the orbital tracks of satellites. The partially decayed remains of those who manned the control center lie near the exits, scratches etched into the solid steel doors.
Stretched along the hallways behind, Parker knows that Marines are posted at the intersections, protecting the technicians’ route in and out. As the squad passed by their earlier encounter in the hallway, the bodies like deflated balloons, they saw blood smears along the walls that marked their battle and the limits of encroachment the infected were able to make.
Taking care, Parker and her squad moved the bodies to create a lane through which the others could safely navigate. Accidents come in all forms, and the last thing anyone wanted was to trip and somehow become exposed to the toxic air or blood within the hallways. Even though a lane had been created, the Marines still walk gingerly around the dead infected.
A group steps into the control room, glancing at the ruin. Parker notes several shake their heads, but they begin clearing up the mess of computers. Bringing some of the monitors to life, they begin pecking away at the keyboards.
* * * * * * *
Parker takes a seat on a curb under the roofed security entrance on the west side of the base. Inside the buildings, technicians are enabling satellite control. She and her squad were pulled from the building, after having led most of the forays into it, and sent to the perimeter. She supposes it’s kind of a reward for coming up with the idea that was used to get the specialists into the control room.
Or I’m hated and they want me at arm’s length.
The truth of the matter is that her company was swapped out with one holding an outer perimeter, but either way, she’s thankful to be away from the facility. Her first foray into the infected world at Whidbey was anti-climactic, which she doesn’t mind at all. The encounters they had here have left her exhausted, the constant adrenaline eating up much of her energy.
She hopes they don’t have to go into many more operations like this. This small base nearly proved too much for them, and she’s not remotely envious of the job that the Marines going after the power plants have to look forward to. Not only will they have to do it, but they’ll have to do it many times over before the entire operation is complete.
One of the gunships providing cover for her squad darts away, quickly becoming a black speck against the gray overcast sky. Parker stands, wondering if they spotted infected heading their way from the city of Colorado Springs a short distance away—the taller buildings of the metropolis are barely visible above the plains. The surrounding area has the possibility of holding nearly half a million infected. Alerting her squad to take a defensive stance, she stares at the chopper in the distance, which comes into a hover.
Her radio squawks, the pilots calling that a vehicle is inbound.
Oh, great! Survivors. Now we’re going to have to deal with this mess, she thinks, listening to the ensuing radio conversation.
The captain tells the gunship crew to halt the car on the road some distance from the base, and then orders Parker and her squad to investigate.
“Don’t go close and don’t let them get any closer. They could still be contagious, so question them and get back to me,” the captain says.
In the distance, Parker sees a quick streak of red tracers come from the nose of the gunship, striking the ground far in front of the moving vehicle, letting those drawing near know in no in uncertain terms that they mean business.
“Come on you losers, it’s the perfect day for a road march. Let’s go see what the cat dragged in,” Parker says.
With clouds slowly marching eastward across the gray skies, Parker and her squad stroll down the paved entrance road. Weapons are held loosely, but ready to bring to bear if needed. Their heads are constantly swiveling, staring out across the barren scrublands to either side, looking for any sign of infected making their way toward the den of noise at the base.
Some kind of a darkly colored SUV is parked near an intersection, a gunship hovering low to the ground in front of the stopped vehicle. Another gunship circles slowly around, searching the surrounding terrain for any evidence of a trick and to keep a second eye on the car.
As the squad draws closer, Parker sees several silhouettes though tinted windows. She arranges her squad in a semi-circle at a distance around the vehicle to ensure clear lines of fire.
Standing away from the front of the vehicle, she aims her carbine and calls, “Do you have any weapons in the vehicle?”
Through the windshield, she sees
the driver nod, but it’s difficult to be entirely sure because they appear to be wearing a suit of some kind.
“Driver, exit the door with your hands visible,” Parker yells.
The driver opens the door and stands next to it with hands held shoulder high. It’s difficult to tell what gender the person is because they’re wearing the kind of full protective gear often seen in laboratories. Parker motions for the person to step away from the vehicle and calls for the passenger to exit in the same manner. The passenger is wearing the same, but the back seat male passengers exit wearing no protective gear at all…not even a mask. Lowering her weapon, but with her squad covering, Parker steps forward.
“OK, it’s introduction time. Tell us a little about yourselves,” Parker says.
The driver speaks up; the voice, although muffled behind the hood, is obviously male.
“Sergeant, I’m Colonel James Koenig, head of USAMRIID. With me is my wife, Liz, and two cadets we picked up along the way…Hayward and Handley.”
“Why are those two unprotected?” Parker asks, wondering why anyone would be stupid enough to go around without any protection whatsoever.
“They’re immune to the virus,” Koenig answers.
Well, that’s interesting, Parker thinks, but not surprising that there would be some who are.
“Sorry for the treatment, sir. I hope that you understand the necessity,” Parker replies.
“I do, Sergeant. Can we at least put our arms down?” Koenig asks.
Parker looks closely at each one, looking for any weapon bulges.
“That’s fine, sir. Just please don’t make any sudden moves. We’re all a little trigger happy at the moment.”
The man nods and Parker reports in with the captain.
“You said it’s who, Sergeant?” the company commander responds.
“The man says that he’s Colonel Koenig and was—or is, I’m not sure—head of the USAMRIID.”
“Copy that, Sergeant. Keep them at a distance. I’ll get back to you shortly.”
Helicopters arrive at the base, each carrying large fuel bladders slung underneath. In turn, each of the choppers land to refuel. The second force drawing the infected in Colorado Springs must be doing a good job, as there haven’t been any sightings of infected coming their way. Before they all depart, the helicopters of the secondary group will dash to the base to refuel.
Parker responds to a call for her.
“Sergeant, keep them there. A helicopter is being dispatched to pick them up. Let them know that, regardless of their rank, they’ll be placed in quarantine for several weeks.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
A transport arrives and picks up the four survivors, landing them away from the base. When the force leaves, the chopper carrying them will trail the formation back to Whidbey, keeping away from the main group at all times. Their final destination will be the infectious quarantine area established on the northern end of Whidbey Island. Watching them depart, Parker begins the slow trek back to the security entrance to wait for the technicians to finish their programming.
Chapter Eight
In the middle of nowhere
October 20
Emily pedals down the road, her spirits low. Rain pounds from low clouds, heavy raindrops splattering on the pavement and drumming on her coat. Water makes its way underneath the hood and streams down her face. She’s cold, but doesn’t attempt to warm up or wipe the water away. Even though it wasn’t as nice as her first place, the people at the cabin were kind. The lunchroom was cozy while they were all in it; she liked the chatter and stories told with the woodstove crackling in the corner. And, she had a soft bed to sleep in.
Now, she’s back on the road in miserable weather, without any plan other than to keep pedaling. Emily doesn’t know what else to do. She found the help she was looking for—twice now—and each time it led to disappointment. She worries that will happen again if she meets other survivors.
Is it me? Am I doing something wrong that makes the people sick? she wonders for the hundredth time.
She knows that probably isn’t true, but she can’t help feeling that way, considering that it has happened every time. She doesn’t really care if she finds a dry place before the day is out. Emily is beyond caring. Without a plan, there’s only one turn of the pedal after another. Rain soaked, her jeans sopping wet, she rides on through the downpour.
After a while, the rain lets up and then stops entirely. The clouds move rapidly down the valley, the hillsides rising to vanish into the gray. A sudden flare of light on the pavement in front nearly blinds her. With one hand, Emily looks up to see the blue sky through ragged holes in the clouds. A ray of sunshine streams down through one of the holes, mist rising from where it strikes. Seeing the sunlight, Emily’s spirits rise just a little.
As if blown by a high-speed fan, the clouds break up and sunshine fills the valley. Small banks of mist drift through the trees on both sides, and the rumble of the river next to the road replaces the roar of the rain.
Still cold, Emily turns a corner in the road and the narrow valley widens. Far ahead, Emily sees a wide plain, much like the one she left behind. The difference is that this one isn’t so barren, but punctuated by large stands of trees. She rides to where the pavement begins a descent, zig-zagging in order to make the decline less steep. Feeling a little better and pleased to get out of the mountains, Emily pedals, coasting down the hill, constantly braking in order to keep her speed under control.
At a viewpoint pullout, she edges her tricycle over and pauses to dig a sandwich out of her tarp-protected backpack. Munching on the sandwich, she gazes out over the plains. Movement far away catches her attention. Black dots dart across the landscape, much like those she saw over Pineville. There are buildings near where the helicopters are buzzing with a tall concave tower rising above all of the others. Taking out her binoculars, she sees a large plume of steam issuing from the tops of the wide, tall stack.
The army, she thinks, looking at the choppers flying around the facility. Surely everything will be all right with them here.
She still hesitates, remembering how the big soldier avoided the helicopters when they were escaping her home town. However, they also stand for hope…the little she has left.
They won’t shoot a kid, she thinks, putting her stuff away and continuing her descent. I hope.
At the bottom the hill, Emily keeps her eye on the black dots. She doesn’t know how to get close to them, but if there are buildings, there must be a road. The chill forgotten, Emily takes the first off-ramp and continues taking roads that lead in the direction of the tall stack emitting plumes of steam.
* * * * * * *
Nuclear Power Plant
October 20
Having just landed in a field outside of the power plant, Sergeant Jennings walks up an entrance road that is lined with concrete barricades. Gunships dart across the surrounding grounds, keeping an eye out for any stray infected. The few vehicles in the expansive parking lots billow black smoke into the air, remnants of the work of the attack helicopters. Bodies lie in contorted positions around the perimeter, the large caliber rounds from the chin turrets tearing into the soft flesh of the infected after having drawn them out from the central area.
After having endured two onslaughts of infected hordes while securing the bases, Jennings and the rest of the company are nervous about having to go into a heavily populated facility. Each sound or hint of movement brings barrels swiveling. Jennings looks at the central plant where tall, boxy concrete structures rise without a window to be seen, making it look like a fortress.
Which it is, in a way, he thinks, also noting a heavily fenced area protecting numerous transformers and electrical lines atop steel pylons.
Outside of the fencing, huge steel towers run away from the power plant, carrying the electricity generated to supply the grid. The job is to clear the site so that technicians can come in and do their magic. Jennings imagines there are a hundred di
fferent things that can go wrong with a plant like this, but was told the automated systems keep it online for the most part. If the plant were to lose power from the same grid it sends energy to, which Jennings thought was rather odd, then the reactor will scrub, shutting down the process. The danger, however, is that the water flow to the cooling ponds would also be halted, thereby allowing the spent fuel rods to heat up quickly and cause an explosion, which would leak radiation.
He and the others are there to ensure that the plant has a continual source of power, regardless of what happens to the grid. Several engineers attempted to explain what they were going to do, but it was like listening to radio static. He understood most of the words well enough, just not in the particular order they were being expressed. The bottom line is that Jennings and his platoon are to clear the control building interior so the technicians can go in to chant and wave their wands; at least, that’s how he understands the process.
The large concrete tower rises above everything else. Steam billows from the stack, contributing to the illusion of being something forbidden. The green fields and trees, all bathed in sunlight after the rain clouds moved away, present a landscape of serenity in contrast to the stark and angular buildings of the facility that hide the violent forces being contained within their thick walls.
Passing the security entrance, they enter the power plant grounds. Even inside the complex, each location is surrounded by its own additional fence. To Jennings, that suggests that there were differing levels of security for the personnel. Considering the intense forces at work inside, it’s remarkably quiet within the compound. There’s only the faint beating of helicopters prowling the perimeter and their own boots scuffing across the hard surface.
Tall, thick concrete barricades separate some of the outer buildings from the actual interior, which houses the reactor facility. A couple of narrow walkways allow entrance through the wall, the company having to wait to take turns entering. The company nervously continues. If they encounter a group of infected, they’re on their own. The gunships won’t be able to provide support in the event of an engagement in order that the facility be preserved. The same goes for the Marines; they were told not to fire indiscriminately. However, if the shit really does hit the fan, then they need to do whatever is necessary to extricate themselves. They are irreplaceable, the plant is not—although the power plants in general come in a very close second. Jennings wouldn’t want to be the commander standing in front of the admiral, attempting to explain how one of their rounds struck a transformer.
ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising Page 11
