ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising

by O'Brien, John

  “There was smoke and sparks, then more from others farther away, and then it was quiet for a moment, just before the entire place went up. Sorry about that. Oh, it brought the entire grid down as well. Shit, my bad, sir.”

  As the company completely clears the barricade, Jennings hears muted thuds coming from a nearby building. The entire company line turns as one toward the faint sound. Beyond additional security fencing, Jennings sees a couple of silhouetted figures behind windows—some of the few in the entire complex, vibrating from the fists pounding on them. Behind one, an infected suddenly appears and slams into the glass at a dead run. The pane explodes outward from the impact, shards and the infected falling to the hard ground below.

  So much for using doors, Jennings thinks.

  The infected staggers to its feet, and with a scream, runs toward the group of Marines. Others stream out of the opening, trailing behind the first. The captain directs Jennings’s platoon on line while positioning the others to cover the flanks and rear. The infected shriek, their footfalls pounding across the surface. With the sound of ringing metal, they collide forcefully with the chain links of the fence. It bows outward upon initial contact, but holds.

  The middle of the fence between the upright posts flexes wildly. Others slam into the twenty or so infected trying to claw their way through the links. A line of Marines face the temporarily held infected, barrels aimed, poking out of the line like a man-of-war of old.

  The carbines begin firing, the end of the barrels inching upward as rounds stream out. The roar of the weapons adds to the screams of the infected pressing solidly against the fence. Sparks fly from the links as bullets hit, making the infected look as if they’re standing behind a fourth of July show. Fast-moving projectiles strike the infected with solid, meaty thumps. The ones in front don’t fall, pressed in place from behind, absorbing round after round. Blood drops from the chain links as the dead and injured are slowly forced through them like sponges.

  The gunfire falls off, the Marines unsure if they should keep firing. The infected in front are dead enough—more rounds won’t make them more so. The problem is that their corpses are acting as a shield for those behind. The captain directs Jennings’s platoon to reorient to the side, farther along the fence. The infected eventually follow along with them.

  Gunfire again erupts in full volume as the remaining infected jam against the fence, attempting to get to the Marines in their new positions. The dead in the first location slowly slump to the ground as the pressure is relieved. Tracers streak across the space, tearing into the infected pressed once more against the chain links. The scenario repeats itself: Unable to get those behind, the squad takes down the leading infected, and then moves again. It doesn’t take long before the last of the infected are brought down, their torn bodies lining the fence.

  Jennings gazes at the still figures, pondering exactly how humankind reached this point. To him, it’s still very surreal that they have to deal with this; that the world took such a dramatic turn so rapidly. Just a little over two weeks ago, these same people with blood now trickling out of dozens of wounds had gone to work and worried about whether the bills would get paid at the end of the month, were excited driving a new vehicle they just purchased, felt content sitting down to dinner with loved ones. The infected had none of that in their final moments, the virus having driven away any feelings other than rage and a deep hunger. Reloading their weapons, the platoon reforms and begins moving toward the main buildings, leaving this death behind them.

  * * * * * * *

  The brightly lit corridors feel strange with no one walking along their glossy linoleum tiles. The platoon moves forward, the halls just wide enough for two to go comfortably abreast. Approaching each door, four Marines stack and enter from each side, two others behind moving forward to take point before they come to the next set of doors. The platoon is one long snake slowly inching forward.

  Jennings stands next to a door standing ajar with a placard indicating that a break room lies beyond. With a nod from his squad mate opposite, Jennings places his hand against the door and pushes, entering the room in a rush after his partner. The room lies in shambles, chairs overturned against the walls, broken objects on the counter and strewn across the floor. A large glass coffee pot lies in shards, the tile darkly stained by the dried liquid. A microwave hangs by a cord still barely in the outlet and the refrigerator door is swung open, the contents spilled onto the floor, adding to the mess.

  The most prominent aspect of the mess is the two bodies lying on the floor. The motionless figures are mottled, indicating that they died some time ago. One is near the fridge with its arm stretched into the interior and lying on a shelf. The other lies next to the counters, only a couple of feet from tap water that would have saved its life, if it had only known how to use it.

  Door after door reveals one of three things: a ransacked office with debris strewn everywhere, a semi-pristine one that was obviously left untouched, or one with dead infected upon the carpeted floor, dark stains surrounding the bodies and soaked into the fibers.

  Jennings is thankful they aren’t being constantly assaulted. Having had to engage a small mass of infected during their entry, he had feared that they would have to fight their way through the corridors, clearing them one intersection at a time. Instead, there is only the squeak of doors opening, the heavy footfalls of boots rushing into rooms, the quiet chatter of Marines as they make their way further into the complex of corridors and rooms.

  “Fire in the hole,” a Marine calls.

  The sharp blast from the C-4 packed into the steel security door reverberates down the long hall. Smoke roils from the doorway in the wake of the rolling concussive wave as the door swings open. Jennings is the first one through, searching the corners of the control room. The orders they were given were relatively contradictory. They were to clear the building, but to be careful about firing inside the control room. Jennings isn’t sure how to accomplish that feat if there are infected within, and he’s not willing to save a control panel at the expense of his own life. If he sees infected, he will apologize later for whatever he might break.

  The room is filled with infected, but luckily they aren’t of the live kind. Several bodies lie near the doorway, some with their arms stretching toward the exit. Others are slumped against nearby walls. The infected weren’t able to get by the security doors. With all of their clawing, Jennings would have thought that one of the card swipes would have been accidentally run through the machine on the wall beside the door.

  The lieutenant radios that the control room is secure. Along the passageways, Marines hunker down at intersections, keeping the lanes clear. Another squad moves up to relieve Jennings, whose squad is ordered to the plant entrance to provide perimeter security. On his way out, he is passed by the technicians making their way into the building.

  * * * * * * *

  Jennings sits on one of the concrete barricades lining the entrance road. He’s thankful that this first operation against the power plants proved to be a fairly easy jaunt. It’s a far cry from the hectic hours spent taking down the infected pouring from the outlying cities during the base securement phase. He had expected more of the same, only confined to narrow hallways. At least in the open he could see better and the engagements were at a larger distance, for the most part. They were nearly overrun during that last sortie; the tactic would have been much easier inside a building. While keeping an eye on the tree lines across the open fields, he also watches the gunships circling the plant. He goes alert as a pair of them suddenly swings to the side and race across the fields with an air of determination. One of the noses tilts as it’s rapidly brought into a hover, while the second circles.

  “You’re not going to believe this, but there’s a kid on the road riding a big tricycle,” one of the pilots radios.

  After having to repeat himself to a bewildered captain, Jennings and his squad are sent out to investigate.

  Knowing that the
gunships have advanced avionics that will spot an infected long before he does, he nonetheless keeps one eye on the distant tree lines. The moment you let your guard down is the exact time that shit will start. However, his other eye is on the diminutive figure who is in fact sitting on a large three-wheeled bike. Baskets in front and behind are stuffed full with items, making it look like he’s approaching a homeless person.

  With the hood of the jacket thrown back, it’s easy to see that it’s a young girl on the bike. The items in the baskets, the heavy winter jacket, and the scratched bike all tell a story. Jennings looks around, searching for sign of a nearby home from which she could have ridden. Although not entirely sure, he guesses that her parents succumbed to the virus. What he can’t guess is how the little girl could have survived for weeks in the aftermath. The girl shies back and sinks into her coat at the approach of the platoon. As the rest of the Marines halt at a distance, Jennings continues forward.

  “Jennings! What are you doing? The captain said to keep our distance,” the lieutenant states.

  “Sir, she’s just a little girl and looks like she needs our help,” Jennings returns, continuing toward her.

  “You’re…you’re not going to shoot me, are you?” the girl asks, obviously frightened.

  “Of course not. Why would you think that?” Jennings asks.

  “The soldier before said that…” Emily starts, but then stops, remembering the man’s admonishment to keep Pineville a secret.

  “What soldier?” Jennings queries.

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter,” Emily answers.

  “Alrighty then. I’m Mike,” Jennings introduces himself. “What’s your name?”

  “Emily.”

  “Well, Emily, where did you come from?”

  “Springfield,” Emily replies.

  Having studied maps prior to deploying on the current operation to the power plant, the town doesn’t ring any bells.

  “Where is that?”

  “Um, that way, I think,” Emily responds, pointing in a generally northern direction.

  Out of curiosity, Jennings pulls out a map and begins searching the area for a town of that name. His fingers trace further northward, looking. Not finding a city denoted as Springfield, he tracks even further until he finds it near the edge of his map.

  Good Lord, he thinks, calculating the distance.

  He looks from the map to the girl on the bike, thinking it impossible that a little girl could have traversed so far on a bike, and for so long. The most unbelievable part is that she had to have gone through some of the towns indicated on the map, yet she made it alive. If what she is saying is true, then she had to have started out when the shit hit the fan. Over two weeks riding a bike through hostile territory.

  Surely she must be mistaken, or there’s a closer town with the same name.

  “Big city?” Jennings asks.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty big. My aunt and uncle lived there. I never saw the whole thing, but my mom used to drive me up there from Pineville and it looked pretty big to me. It looked a lot bigger riding out, though,” Emily says in a flurry of words.

  Realizing she mentioned Pineville, she gasps and puts a hand over her mouth. The soldier isn’t paying attention to her, but looking at his map.

  Jennings looks around the big city and finds Pineville to the south. I’ll be damned.

  “Are you hungry?” Jennings asks.

  “A little,” Emily replies.

  “Look, we kind of have to stay here, sorry. But, I have some food in my pack. It’s not the best, but it’s food if you want some.”

  “It isn’t vegetables, is it?” Emily asks, her head tilting.

  “No, no. It isn’t vegetables,” Jennings replies, chuckling.

  “OK.”

  Jennings relates Emily’s story to the lieutenant, who then reports it to the company commander. They’re told to hold in place, waiting for another helicopter to arrive to pick her up. Jennings heads back to the checkpoint to rummage through his bag, returning with some food and candy bars. Emily makes a face as she bites into the large dry cracker in the MRE package.

  “I told you it isn’t the best,” he again chuckles as the two of them sit together by the side of the road.

  Emily feels relieved, a heavy weight lifting off her shoulders. She thought that she’d be on the road until she either froze to death or starved. There’s still a nagging insecurity in the back of her mind, thinking that somehow she got those others sick. She hopes that the soldiers don’t get that way as well, but she doubts that they will with the masks and other protection they’re wearing.

  That part was a little scary, she thinks, remembering how they looked like aliens when they approached her. But, the man is nice, just like the other soldier. Although, this one is nicer.

  Chapter Nine

  Nuclear Power Plant

  October 20

  Jennings sits on the shoulder of the road just a couple of feet away from Emily. The late afternoon sun does little to ease the chill around the power plant. Glancing at the young girl, who can’t be much older than ten or eleven, he’s still amazed that she made it so far. Watching her pick through the packaged food, she seems oblivious to the marvel of her survival. There seems to be a certain strength inside her, an awareness, something almost animalistic, but when she looks away, he sees only a scared little girl who is relieved to find help.

  Glancing back toward the plant and its tall, angular buildings, he wonders whether the others are going to be this easy. He hopes so—the entire operation has been exhausting. Other companies were loaded up and dispatched to other plants, but there aren’t enough technicians available to hit all of them in just a couple of days. That means that they’ll be doing this for a while to come; each day holding the same until they are able to secure each and every plant.

  It’s not over by a long shot. But, we rescued this girl who looks like she was close to the end of her rope. This is a good day…a positive aspect amid so much destruction.

  A flurry of radio traffic catches Jennings’s attention. He stands and stares at the power plant grounds, expecting to see a horde of infected pouring out of the fence line. Telling Emily that he’ll be right back, he strolls over to the rest of the platoon, all of them looking expectantly toward the buildings.

  “What’s up, sir?’ Jennings inquires.

  “The inside crews reported the lights flickering, and then the generators kicked on,” the lieutenant answers.

  “That doesn’t sound like a good thing,” Jennings replies.

  “No, it doesn’t. The captain said that the technicians reported that the plant went offline due to a power outage,” the lieutenant mentions.

  “Is this thing going to melt down?” Jennings asks, his heart jumping with the news as he wishes he were miles and miles away from the power plant.

  “I don’t think they work that way, but what in the hell do I know. We’ve been told to hold in place,” the lieutenant states.

  * * * * * * *

  USS Mount Whitney, off the eastern seaboard

  October 20

  Admiral Gettins stands in the CIC, listening as reports come in. They sent the first crews out to begin getting the nuclear power plants under temporary control until they could find a way to safely remove the spent fuel rods. The operations started well, until the northern forces began reporting that the power plants were going offline. Having just gained satellite control, it has taken time to get verifiable reports as to what exactly is going on.

  As he’s waiting for something definitive, he ponders what they’ll do if they lose the battle with the power plants. In his mind, he reorganizes plans, but each time he has to start again. They won’t really have anywhere to go—it’s difficult to come up with a plan when there isn’t anything to plan toward.

  “Sir…sir,” a voice intrudes upon his thoughts.

  “Yes, go ahead,” Gettins states, pulling back to the present.

  “Sir, it’s verified. T
he entire eastern grid has gone offline. It looks like the fires in the larger cities proved too much, or a switch somewhere needed attention, only there wasn’t anyone to set things right. It appears that some of the central circuits were damaged or overloaded. The automatic rerouting of power failed with too many lost circuit paths. It was a domino effect that brought down the entire eastern grid,” the officer reports. “The good news is that the western grid appears to be holding up.”

  “For how long?” Gettins asks.

  The officer shrugs; “Unknown, sir. Technicians currently at the power stations have looked over the grid maps. It appears that there are two interconnections with the western grid. In their estimation, if we can get to those two plants—one in eastern Montana and the other in eastern Wyoming—we may be able to shut down the flow of power to and from the east. According to them, that’s our best bet to preserve the western grid from any catastrophic loss due to the failure of the eastern section of the country.”

  “Very well, thank you. I’ll be in the conference room. Get Stevens on the line,” Gettins orders.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Gettins sighs as he sits in the leather chair, waiting for the screen to flare to life. He’s upset that they didn’t get a good run at containing the power plants. If they were only a couple of plants from finishing the task, they could charge outward like cavalry coming to the rescue. As it is, he has forces scattered across the middle of the continent, and it’s going to be a nightmare pulling them all back. They achieved a lot in the past few days, but it’s all for naught. They’ve lost the eastern part of the United States. Gone…just gone.