ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising

by O'Brien, John

  Please let this end up being a walk in the park.

  The bodies he expected appear further in, some lying in lunch rooms, others in bathrooms and offices. Some of those who look to have died early on have chunks of flesh torn from their bodies, as those still living used them in a last-ditch effort to stave off starvation. One larger lunch room looks as if someone tossed in a hand grenade, the walls and floors covered in blood with pieces of flesh stuck wherever they landed. The sight sickens him to the point that he nearly throws up, but he forces it back because it would clog his mask—taking it off to breathe could be a fatal mistake.

  Cautiously, the Marines make their way to a secure door separating the building’s wings, the control center waiting on the other side. The control panel next to the entrance denotes a security checkpoint. Access is gained via a small block of C-4. The limited blast reverberates down the wide hallway, causing some of the nearby pictures to jostle and hang crookedly. In a weird moment, Jennings feels almost compelled to go straighten them. Perhaps because he’s in a headquarters building where nothing is supposed to be out of place, or from a superstition that nothing has happened so far and he doesn’t want to upset the balance. It takes a lot of effort, more than he’s comfortable with, to pull himself away and head through the security door with the rest of his squad.

  After leaving another squad to secure the passage, Jennings and the remaining squad head inside. The foyer beyond is much colder than the rest of the building, chilled enough that he is surprised not to see clouds of steam emanating from each exhalation. Past several more offices they enter a large room that has several levels. Rows upon rows of long desktops step their way down to a central area that houses multiple large screens. Monitors glow in varied shades from the desks, with the central screens depicting orbital paths and high-resolution pictures. Several side monitors look like they represent early warning systems, but Jennings feels that he might make better sense of Hieroglyphics.

  Even with the dim lighting within the control room, the bodies near the entrance can’t be missed. Most are gathered at the doors themselves, arms stretched out as if they almost reached safety in their last few moments. More than a few have large chunks of flesh ripped from their bodies, the unmistakable impressions of teeth surrounding the wounds.

  “Damn, did they eat each other?” asks the Marine next to him.

  “It sure looks that way…like the other bodies in the hallways. I guess they probably ran out of food. Cannibalism isn’t unheard of in survival stories,” Jennings answers.

  “Yeah, but still, that’s really, really messed up.”

  “I don’t deny that.”

  “Do you think the infected ate them? Or was it, you know…normal ones?”

  “I have no idea, but if there were people on duty who were sick and they turned, then this place would have been a madhouse. My bet is that these were infected,” Jennings says.

  Ringing the outer area, several glass-enclosed conference rooms look down into the massive main part of the control room. In the center, a large glassed-in office overlooks everything. It’s like every movie he’s ever seen, but on a much larger scale. With the control room being on the ground floor and the tiers of computer-topped desks descending even lower, Jennings gets the idea that there must be another underground installation feeding information here. Surely the headquarters of the US Strategic Forces would be targeted by numerous warheads; surely this place would be survivable, if only for an instant, in the event of a nuclear exchange.

  “Sir, we’re secure in the control room,” the lieutenant next to him radios, jarring Jennings out of his thoughts.

  “Copy that. The technicians are on their way” the captain replies.

  The lieutenant arranges the remaining squad in the foyer to provide an outer security layer. Marines are positioned in the stairwells and at every ground floor intersection, creating a security corridor through which the technicians can come and also retreat should the shit hit the fan. With enough Marines guarding the foyer, Jennings decides that he’ll guard the nearest console, and plops down in one of the seats.

  So far, so good, he thinks, but retracts the thought so he doesn’t jinx things.

  He’s on edge and isn’t exactly sure why. Sure, he’s on a mission surrounded by infected and he’s tired, but it goes beyond that. He usually isn’t one to go in for superstitions, other than a few casual ones.

  Maybe it’s because this is the last mission for the foreseeable future.

  The technicians enter and glance throughout the room, their expressions indicating bewilderment with a hint of awe. They meander from console to console, staring at the screens, then shake their heads before moving on. Several move into the commander’s room, taking seats around the monitors positioned to one side. Time passes with Jennings looking at the strange code on the screen in front of him and occasionally glancing up to the room where the faces of the techs are lit by the glow of monitors.

  “Lieutenant? What’s going on down there?” the captain radios. “Second platoon says that the infected are gathering in greater numbers and getting antsy.”

  “Jennings, go take a look,” the lieutenant says.

  Within the glass-enclosed room, Jennings looks over the shoulders of the techs as they chat among themselves.

  “The captain wants to know how much longer,” Jennings interrupts.

  “We’re not sure. The learning curve is steep; this isn’t the easiest thing to do. We found where we think we need to be and are on the phone with the silos trying to figure out which warheads we need to reprogram. There also appears to be a lock of some kind that is preventing us from coding in coordinates that lie within the CONUS. We’re trying to break through that as well,” a technician responds without turning around.

  “OK, so should I tell him minutes, hours, weeks, or the sun will explode in a fiery blast before you finish?” Jennings inquires.

  “Somewhere between hours and the thing with the sun,” the tech answers.

  “Not to rush you, but the infected gathering at the entrance may be operating on a different timeline. And, they may not be the greatest worry if the captain truly gets pissed. I’ll relay your well-defined timetable for completion,” Jennings says, radioing the information to the lieutenant.

  “We don’t have hours, lieutenant. The infected gathered outside are already so dense that they’re blocking the sunlight. I suggest a well-placed boot in the right places,” the captain replies after hearing the progress.

  “Aye, sir.”

  More time passes with the lieutenant checking often on the progress, giving both hard looks and ones of near desperation. He knows the techs are working as quickly as they can, so he holds off on delivering his boot, but judging by the radio traffic from second platoon stationed on the ground floor, things are growing progressively worse.

  “The glass is cracking…oh shit, they’re in,” second platoon radios.

  “Hold in place,” the captain orders second platoon. “Lieutenant, you need to get out of there now!”

  “Move it,” the lieutenant orders.

  The technicians in the office all look in his direction but don’t rise.

  “Did I stutter? I said move it, unless you want to be served for dinner.”

  That spurs them into action. Moving like star running backs, the technicians race out of the office, joining the rest of the squad waiting in the foyer.

  “Techs in the middle. Two fire teams in front, one behind. Second platoon and the other squads are holding the route open. We have friendlies out there, so watch your fire. Now, move it Marines!”

  The scramble of boots on the hard floor echo off the solid walls, the jingle of equipment adding to the sudden din. Passing through the outer security door, the intense volume of gunfire rises above everything else. Gaining the main hallway, the Marines run through the squad left at the intersection, their eyes looking from their teammates to the battle near the entrance.

  “We can’t
hold, pulling back into the stairwell,” second platoon radios.

  “You have to hold for first platoon,” the captain calls.

  “We were nearly overrun and had to, Captain. If we stayed, we’d be dead.”

  At the third squad, Jennings skids to halt. Ahead, the hallway is filled wall to wall with infected, their screams shaking the corridor. Seeing the group of Marines, the volume of shrieks within the corridor rises to an incomprehensible level. The Marines quickly transition online and begin delivering fire into the densely packed horde.

  Under the intense fire, the front wall staggers and drops, some slumping to the floor, others falling back into those behind. The falling bodies vanish into the midst of the pack as the infected push forward through the storm of fire. As before, along the highways, Jennings feels like he’s firing into an oncoming wave. His bullets remove some of the water, but fail to diminish the force behind it.

  “How many infected are there?” the lieutenant radios.

  “Thousands,” the second platoon commander answers.

  “We can’t hold them here. First squad, start falling back, but keep up the fire…second and third squad, fall back to the foyer with the techs.”

  Jennings walks slowly backward, him and three others firing short bursts into the advancing mass of bodies. Infected fall to the floor, the ones behind stumbling over the corpses, but the wall continues to close. Their screams are so loud, they drown out the gunfire.

  “Reloading,” a Marine to the side calls.

  As one, the four of them step past four others who begin firing. In order to keep up a constant volume of fire, the squad forms into three lines. The front one firing, the next in line ready to take over, and the last one reloading. Step by step, they withdraw, but the infected manage to close the distance. The incoming tide is only a heartbeat or missed reload away from rapidly swarming over the squad.

  Blood splashes on the walls, only seen for seconds before it is hidden by the wall of bodies. Jennings, again in front, moves his aim point from one infected to another, not registering whether his bullets are kill shots or not. He only sees them drop out of his line of sight. Soon, he’s just firing into the midst in an attempt to slow the steady flow.

  An intersection opens to the side, allowing Jennings to get an update on their progress. They don’t dare turn and run toward the other two squads setting up at the security door. The horde will be upon them before they take their third step.

  “We have this, keep up the fire and don’t panic,” Jennings yells, stepping through the line behind and reaching for a full mag.

  With the hall only able to hold four abreast, and that a tight fit, they have to be careful when transitioning through each other to avoid having their masks inadvertently pulled away. With the numerous infected, the air is sure to be contaminated, and it would spell certain doom were they to breathe that poison.

  “We have you, pull back,” the lieutenant orders.

  Without hesitation, Jennings turns and races through a line of Marines waiting just outside of the security door. It takes a little time for the entire squad to go through the door one at a time, the fire team positioned in front of it buying time. Not stopping in the outer foyer, Jennings and his squad head into the control room they left only moments ago. With the outer security door having been blown open upon their initial entrance, it won’t hold for long. The control room is to become a sanctuary where they can gather their breath and plan.

  The outer fire team hustles through the door, Marines grabbing the handles to more rapidly pull the control room doors closed, and to hold them closed.

  “Secure those,” the lieutenant orders.

  The infected slam into the other side, sounding like someone hitting the metal doors with a sledgehammer. Pulling paracords from their packs, the doors are tied off. On the other side, the infected pound against the entrance, trying to force their way in.

  “We’re back in the control room with all present and accounted for,” the lieutenant reports in.

  “Are you secure?” the captain asks.

  “As secure as we can be, sir,” the lieutenant answers.

  “And the techs?”

  “They’re here as well.”

  “We’ve had to pull back to the roof. Is there a way to get to the roof from your position?” the captain queries.

  Standing next to the lieutenant, Jennings stares at the darkened ceiling some forty-plus feet overhead. A search along the walls doesn’t reveal any way to reach the top.

  “No, sir,” the lieutenant reports, coming to the same conclusion. “There’s no way up.”

  “I hate to tell you this, Lieutenant, but the bigwigs want those missiles programmed. I’m guessing it’s pretty important for what they’re planning. If you’re secure, get those techs back to work. And don’t worry, you aren’t being sacrificed. We’ll figure this out.”

  The doors shake from the pounding, but they hold. The lieutenant sets the technicians back to work, but their attention often strays toward the entrance. A full search of the room reveals that the sealed doors are the only way in or out. Regardless of the captain’s assurance, Jennings doesn’t see any escape. They’re likely to become like the dead infected moved to one side, dehydration eventually overcoming the trapped platoon.

  Squads are rotated near the entrance doors, alertly guarding them in case the infected on the other side breach the secured portals. The two sets of double doors set apart provide chokepoints that a small number of Marines can defend. However, without any other exits, if a breach happens, they’ll only be able to hold until they run out of rounds. Then, it becomes a matter of time. Knowing that, each Marine guarding the doors is ready for the faintest indication that a breach is imminent. The techs in the office return to their attempt to reprogram the warheads sitting atop the missiles.

  To Jennings it seems that, even though they may accomplish their mission, there’s a pretty good chance they may not make it out. It’s not fear, although he’d rather not be bitten or torn apart, but a likelihood that has to be faced. Waiting for his turn guarding the doors, he strolls around the immense control room, searching for another way out. Taking three slow circuits around the facility doesn’t yield an answer to their dilemma.

  His anxiety won’t allow him to be still, but pacing only increases his abiding worry. He forces himself to sit on one of the desks near the front. Looking upward across the tiers of desks in the dim room, he sees the faces of the techs reflecting the glow from the monitors. The squad facing the doors shifts their stances without taking their eyes off the doors while the other Marines either form into smaller groups or relentlessly pace just as he was. The constant pounding on the entrance doors mixes with the screams and reverberates throughout the facility.

  Although Jennings knows that everyone outside is trying their best to figure a way out for the trapped platoon, he isn’t carrying the delusion that they’ll actually be able to do much without putting the company as a whole at great risk. With so many infected inside the facility, gunships aren’t the answer. The attack choppers were able to draw some outside where they were gunned down, but judging from the perpetual shrieks on the other side of the doors, a great many remain.

  The fact that the entire defense system remains in place and is functioning without people around seems surreal. It feels like they dropped into an alien world with the technology still working. However, the bodies piled to one side are a reminder that they aren’t on an alien world, but trapped within a nightmare on their own.

  Staring at the Marines in the room, Jennings wonders if they’ll hunker down or go out in a blaze of glory. He pushes the morbid thoughts away. There are a few additional options, though they would require putting the others in their company at risk. He knows they won’t be left hung out to dry. That’s just not what Marines do. Jennings knows that he’d put himself at risk to help another, but these are also different times. Without any way to replace those lost, they’d have to weigh the risks
of putting an entire company at risk in an attempt to save a platoon.

  Fucking screams are getting to me and fucking with my head, Jennings thinks, wishing he could plug his ears against the noise. Whatever they’re thinking about doing can’t be done until the technicians finish up.

  Pushing off the desk, Jennings walks up the steps of a central aisle. He can’t pace without his stomach clenching, but sitting still results in morbid thoughts. However, being trapped in the control room doesn’t leave many other options. He joins the lieutenant just as one of the technicians in the office lets out a “whoop.” The tech then abashedly covers his mouth, trying to undo his involuntary shout. Following the lieutenant to the office, Jennings walks into the room filled with excited chatter.

  “Well,” the lieutenant says. “I take it you have good news?”

  “Aye, sir. We were able to finally break through the lock that was preventing us from setting coordinates on home soil.”

  “So, how much longer?” the lieutenant asks.

  “Why? Is there somewhere we’re going?” a tech sarcastically asks. “Oh, shit, sorry, sir. Shit.”

  “At ease, sailor. If I fell apart every time someone was sarcastic, I wouldn’t be much of a Marine, now would I. However, if it happens again, I’ll be forced to pull your arms from your body and beat you with them. Understood?”

  “Aye, sir…sorry.”

  “Now, let’s erase the last ten seconds, shall we. How much longer?”

  “We’ve identified the correct missile warheads, and with this breakthrough, we’re putting in the coordinates handed down from HQ,” the tech answers.

  The lieutenant sighs loudly. “That’s a fine answer; however, it didn’t answer my question. Let’s do this again, and I’ll make it easier. How many times will the big hand go around the dial before you’re done?”

  “Twenty minutes, sir,” another tech replies.

  “OK, that’s what I was looking for.”

  The lieutenant radios the company commander with the news.

  “Lieutenant, we can’t get down to your floor; we’re blocked on the rooftop. We’ve tried drawing them out with the choppers, but the infected seem to have an attraction to you and won’t be pulled away. We even tried landing a platoon near the entrance to pull them away, but they had to withdraw. We’re still looking at options. Can you hold for a bit longer?”