“So, do you really think they all froze to death?”
“Did your parents ever mention that you ask a lot of questions?” Brown inquires.
“No. Did yours?” Clarke asks, smiling as Brown looks sharply at her.
“There’s a good chance a majority of them did, or they’re just holed up waiting to starve. As the falling man said to each floor as he passed, ‘so far, so good.’”
Inching toward the downtown area, the divided four-lane highway is easy to follow. Snow-covered houses and trees line the streets as they progress further. The truck wheels move over a bump in the road. Looking in the rear view, Brown sees a partially revealed pair of jeans and shirt lying in the tracks they left behind. The bumps occur more often as they approach downtown, bodies of infected that froze when the cold weather came sweeping in.
The snowfield remains unchanged in front, trackless and solid. Many of the storefront windows have been broken, snow sweeping through the breaks and filling the interiors. At a major intersection, Brown stops the truck.
“Grab your carbine and be ready,” Brown tells Clarke.
“Why? What are you about to do?”
Brown leans on the horn, the honk echoing down snow-covered streets, rolling away from the city and into the hills beyond. At the edge of the street, snow suddenly falls from one of the weighted branches with a swoosh.
“That,” Brown replies.
Listening through the open window, Brown waits for the anticipated volley of screams from within the nearby buildings. There’s only the whisper of wind as it flows through the town. Not even a flock of birds rise, startled by the sudden intrusion. Brown’s heart jumps at a nearby sound, his gaze swiftly turning. He’s just in time to catch a chunk of snow fall from a house, punching into a snow drift with a crunch.
“It doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Brown states after several quiet minutes.
“It doesn’t appear so,” Clarke responds.
“Well, it looks like we may have won the free shopping spree. Shall we?” Brown says, getting the truck into motion again.
Parking along the street near the back lot of the home improvement store, Brown is pleased to see an absence of footprints. The two rolling doors of the warehouse are open halfway, snow drifting across the concrete floor. With only the whistle of wind flowing among the nearby buildings, Brown exits and opens one of the black-painted iron gates, returning to drive the pickup inside the lot.
“Okay, I’m going inside. You remain here near the driver’s side to cover our six. If I yell for you, you jump in and drive away. Head out of town and wait on the highway for an hour if you aren’t being chased. After that, head back to the cabin,” Brown instructs.
“What about you?” Clarke inquires.
“If I yell for you to leave, then it’s probably too late for me. If you won’t make that promise, we don’t go any further,” Brown responds.
“Okay, I promise,” Clarke answers, unsure if she would, or could, actually drive away and leave Brown on his own.
“Conversely, if you see or hear anything amiss, honk the horn. If the infected, or anyone else for that matter, approaches and I’m not out, just drive away. I’ll make my way to you. You know that church we passed on the outskirts of town?”
“Yeah,” Clarke replies.
“That’s where we’ll meet up. Again, wait for an hour, then leave. Oh, and toss out a set of those snow shoes in the lot. You never know,” Brown briefs.
Brown exits and strolls toward the open doors, looking back to see Clarke standing in the bed of the truck.
“Girl just doesn’t listen,” he mutters, edging toward the wall and peering around the corner.
Inside, a couple of forklifts sit in the middle of wide aisles bordered with shelves of wood and other materials. The florescent lighting shows several bodies lying within, some huddled in corners with others sprawled across the hard flooring. Taking his time, Brown nervously peers through the shelving, looking for any sign of movement. Seeing nothing, he cautiously steps into the warehouse, his carbine at the ready and barrel swinging from side to side as his gaze takes in the rest of the interior.
A sudden “ding” nearly causes an unceremonious outpouring of bodily waste. With his heart racing, he anxiously looks for infected racing out of the aisles, eager to sink their teeth into him. He backpedals past the opening. Another “ding” echoes within the vast interior. Looking quickly near the ground at the opening, he sees the small sensor that notifies those working inside when someone enters or exits.
Damn. I can be such an idiot at times, Brown thinks, stepping back inside high over the light path.
The continued silence is a good thing. If there were any infected inside, they would have responded to the sound reverberating throughout the interior. He cautiously approaches the first body lying upon the floor. The body is rigid, the face waxen and the fingertips blackened from frostbite. The other bodies look the same, a few with large chunks removed from their faces and arms. One is completely ruined, its clothing shredded and deeply stained. One of its arms is off to the side and frozen intestines drape from its torso.
The rest of the store is the same, bodies huddled or sprawled throughout. It appears that some of the infected sought refuge from the cold, but the freezing temperatures followed them inside. They gnawed on those weakened or dead in an attempt to stave off hunger, but all fell to the cold in time.
Brown exits and backs the truck up to one of the bay doors, filling the bed with steel poles, plastic sheeting, fishing supplies, heirloom seeds, and just about everything he can get ahold of that will fit in the pickup.
“What about food supplies from the stores?” Clarke suggests.
“I’m not sure anything there will be any good.” Brown answers.
“Why not? Surely they’ll still be fine if they’re frozen, right?”
“Well, if they froze and stayed that way, perhaps. That is, providing the liquid freezing inside any canned goods didn’t burst open the container. However, those will have gone through the freezing and thawing process several times, thus ruining everything inside. The meats and veggies are surely goners,” Brown states.
“But, won’t the store HVAC systems still be running and keeping everything inside warm?”
“If the windows are broken or the doors left open as with here, then no, the systems won’t be able to compensate for the weather we’ve had. However, the frozen foods section might yield something if the freezer compartments are still operational,” Brown answers.
To their disappointment, each store they visit either has the glass on the frozen food section doors broken or the entire cabinets are tipped over. In addition, all of the windows are shattered as the infected sought refuge within, thus ruining the food on the shelves. However, their trip was a major success in several ways. They have the equipment to erect several greenhouses and the seeds to grow vegetables. It also confirmed Brown’s notion that the infected in the area have frozen, opening up the door for further outings should they be needed. In addition, it provides a wider area of safety for their little haven.
With clouds rolling over the tops of the surrounding mountains, all heavily laden with snow, Brown and Clarke backtrack to their retreat.
Chapter Twelve
Offutt Air Force Base, Omaha, Nebraska
October 28
Jennings glances at his watch, not believing the number displayed in the small date window. On one hand, with all that he’s been through, it’s difficult to believe that nearly an entire month has passed since they fled the Mediterranean Sea and headed toward the eastern seaboard. On the other hand, it seems impossible to fathom that it has only been that long.
He’s been in a helicopter for so long that he barely notices the roar of the engines or the vibration under his boots. It’s gotten to the point that being on solid ground feels strange, his body continuing to vibrate for hours after landing. The feeling is much the same as stepping ashore after an extended b
oat trip; the dock seems to sway and the sailor is barely able to keep his or her feet.
Looking around the chopper, the others in his squad mimic his exhaustion, all hanging their heads and staring at the metallic floor. The past few days in the launch facility weren’t that bad. He was able to clean his clothes, get some rest, and more importantly, have a few hours out of the MOPP gear when his turn came to go below. They set up a sanitation area at the underground entrance and left their gear hanging. Being out of the protective gear was a relief beyond measure.
And the shower, he thinks, remembering the desire to remain under the warm spray for an eternity.
The memory only makes the discomfort of being in the gear again stronger, aboard the helicopter on yet another mission. They had been on their way to the western fleet before being turned around and sent back to the silos. He had thought that with the failure to secure the nuclear power plants, he and the rest of the company were done with missions for a while. They’ve been in the field for over three weeks and he was ready for some downtime. However, they have this one last mission to complete before that can become a reality.
As they sit on the ground to the south of Offutt Air Force Base, waiting for the first strike and diversionary forces to complete their missions, he wonders exactly what the intent of the mission actually is. The journey back to the silos and then to the headquarters of the strategic air command really only leaves one possibility: High Command has decided to deploy some of the nuclear arsenal. To Jennings, that seems a little drastic. After all, any locations they strike will remain uninhabitable for generations, so it doesn’t really make much sense.
And, if they were going to use some of the arsenal, then why deploy to launch control facilities spread across the country? Why not just use the ones gathered closely together?
Although it seems apparent what is about to transpire, that one piece doesn’t fit with the rest. He shrugs, shoving aside his attempts to figure it out. He has one job in front of him and that is to clear a path from the roof down to the central control room within the STRATCOM building. More importantly, to live another day. He can’t allow his weariness to allow him to become complacent.
That’s how you get dead…or infected.
The engines overhead spool up, the crew chief indicating that they’re getting airborne. Jennings feels the wheels leave the ground, the deck tilting as they climb and begin driving forward. In the surrounding fields, many other helicopters rise, the air filled with the thundering roars of rotors taking deep bites out of the air. Like a swarm of insects, the armada leaps into the sky and roars toward the base.
They swoop over plowed brown fields, broken by fine lines of green along a myriad of streams and irrigation channels. To Jennings, the landscape looks a lot like it’s overlaid by a capillary system, the streams looking like blood vessels running through the area. Passing a mid-sized city to the east, the force crosses the Platte River. At points along the river, wisps of smoke rise from where bridges were dropped into the waters, pavement hanging precariously from rods of rebar. The current flows around the obstructions caused by larger chunks of concrete.
The spans along the Platte and Missouri rivers were destroyed to prevent infected hordes from outlying towns closing in on the base. Those would be but a trickle compared to the expanse of Omaha, but every little bit helps. The transition from fields to residential neighborhoods is abrupt, as if there were defined borders. The helicopter drops even closer to the ground, passing over the security fence of the base. As they swoop toward the headquarters rooftop, Jennings notes the large recon aircraft parked on the ramp, along with the specialized E-3 airborne command post aircraft parked in a separate revetment.
The heavy thunder of the rotors increases and the deck tilts to the rear as the helicopter flares to rapidly bleed off its airspeed. Still in a low hover over the rooftop, the rear ramp lowers and hits with a metallic clang. Marines flow smoothly out, pouring onto the roof. As the last boot hits the concrete top, the chopper lifts and roars away, the others in the armada following. The beating of the rotors fade, leaving behind only distant screams of the infected.
Columns of smoke rise across the base and surrounding neighborhoods, evidence of the preceding gunships. Jennings watches as the transports and gunships grow smaller, becoming small black dots before vanishing altogether. There won’t be any gunship backup or support on this one—the noise would only attract attention. They don’t have enough firepower to subdue the base and surrounding metropolis as they did with the other bases, so they’re relying on speed and the integrity of the building. Satellite photos indicated that the security doors of the headquarters building were still intact. The forces entering will rely on that to keep out any nearby infected that escaped the attention of the gunships.
“This isn’t a sightseeing trip. Form up and let’s get this done, ladies,” the company commander radios.
Several maintenance huts dot the top of the building, entryways giving access to the floors below. Jennings gathers with the rest of his company by the nearest one, ready to enter. Three of the company platoons will enter and hold the three floors of the building, with his platoon heading through the cordon to make their way to the central control room. Once secured, the technicians will proceed through and do their magic. Gathered to one side is a second company that will provide a reactionary force if required. A third sits at the ready to the south.
Even through his protective gear, Jennings hears screams from the infected as they close in on the building. He hopes that the ground level entrance doors provide the hoped-for security. Diversionary forces placed to the northwest of the city can’t hope to hold the nearly half-million infected thought to be in the area. If those doors give way, the operation could go south in a hurry, the company swallowed up like it was never even there.
The small explosive charge sends a trail of smoke shooting away from the metal door, the sound echoing across the rooftop. Before the ringing fades, the first platoon swings the door open and races through, the gathering of Marines growing smaller as they’re swallowed by the portal. One by one, each of the other platoons enters and heads down to their respective floors. They don’t have enough manpower to clear each one, so they’ll set up a perimeter around the stairwells to keep the pathway to and from the rooftop open.
Jennings enters; the concrete-enclosed stairwell is loud with the sound of boots echoing off the hard surfaces. Although they’re trying to keep sound to a minimum outside, this operation is more about speed than stealth. Every minute they spend in the area is one more for the infected to gather and potentially break through the security to gain entrance to the building. If that happens, they’ll be hard-pressed to do what they came to do.
Whatever that is, Jennings thinks as he descends through the ranks of Marines guarding the upper floors.
The platoon passes through the Marines holding the ground-floor stairway, becoming the leading edge of the operation. From here, they’ll navigate the halls to the wing holding the control center. Stepping into the main hall, Jennings looks toward the front of the building, seeing several infected gathered before the series of entrance doors. Their hammering on the thick glass is more felt than heard, rage-filled faces pressed against the panes leaving smeared trails of saliva and dirt. The stained uniforms are a reminder of how far they’ve come from the perfectly pressed and tailored dress that once roamed the headquarters. Seeing the uniformed infected hammering to get in leaves Jennings a little disconnected, as if the thick panes of glass are shielding reality from an alien world outside.
Away from the entrance, the overhead florescent lights reflect off the highly polished linoleum tile. Pictures of bombers in formation and rockets lifting off from silos line the walls. With a deep breath, Jennings readies his M-4 and starts off down the wide hallway. He listens for the sound of footfalls making their way toward his position, but there’s only the soft hum of the building’s mechanical systems.
Even though th
ey’re supposed to be quick, Jennings and the rest of the platoon take their time as they make their way along the walls. They check each of the doors leading into offices and conference rooms, both open and closed. The open offices contain evidence of a mass exodus, papers and office supplies strewn about the rooms. As he keeps watch in the hall while rooms are checked, he imagines the panic that must have engulfed the hallways when the infected first made their appearance. Uniformed staff racing down the corridors, their eyes full of confusion and fear, not knowing exactly what the danger was until it was too late. Or, walking quickly down the halls without knowing where to go, screams echoing down the hallways from all directions. Personnel who made it to work through the sickness must have come across their comrades, who then charged at them with maniacal expressions. The blood smears along the walls and dried splotches on the flooring attest to the outcome of those encounters.
At the first intersection, brass shell casings gleam under the bright light, evidence of the security forces unsuccessfully attempting to stem the tide. Peeking around the corner, Jennings sees several decaying bodies littering the cross hallway. The sleeves and pant legs of the uniforms are shredded, with bone showing through flesh that has been eaten away. Leaving a squad in place, the rest continue past the branch.
Blood splotches appear more numerous the further into the building they go. It looks like someone entered with a paint bucket and started flinging it randomly with a paint brush. Jennings wonders where everyone went if the outside security doors are still holding up. He thinks it’s possible that they could have exited and had the doors shut behind them, but surely some must have remained inside.
The silence within is almost unbearable; his nerves are drawn tight with anticipation. With each step, he nearly wishes that something would happen to break the tension. He thinks that it’s not a matter of if, but when, and he wishes the “when” would just get it over with. However, that is balanced by the deep desire that nothing happen at all.
ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising Page 16
