ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising

by O'Brien, John

  “But…but, I have the sickness inside of me. That makes me a bad person,” Emily sobs.

  “No, Emily, it doesn’t. It makes you a very special one. Like a superhero. See, you may have the key inside you that could make everyone better. You and I can work on that together. Will you help me?” Koenig asks.

  “Sure. But what can I do to help?” Emily asks, wiping her eyes.

  “Be patient by staying here. I’ll need to take some of your blood at times. Together, we can work on making the sick people better,” Koenig replies.

  “OK. Will it hurt? I hate needles,” Emily says.

  “It won’t hurt, I promise. Just turn your head away. You won’t even know it happened.”

  * * * * * * *

  After disinfecting and putting up the pressurized suit, Koenig walks out of the lab only to be met by Hayward and Handley.

  “Is there any way we can just stay with her, sir?” Hayward asks. “It just doesn’t seem fair that she has to be in there all alone. After all, we’re immune, right?”

  “Yes, you both are. But this virus is tricky and we’ve seen how it’s able to mutate. I’m sorry, but the risk is too great,” Koenig answers.

  “So, she’s just going to have to be in there all alone? What if we use those suits and visit with her?” Handley questions.

  “That might be possible down the road. When I get a moment, I’ll show you how to use them and what to do in an emergency. However, the last thing I want right now is for this thing to mutate into the only two immune candidates I currently have. Not only would we lose you two, but we’d also have a brand new mutation to deal with. I just can’t risk it,” Koenig says. “What you can do is find something to stave off her boredom. I’ll leave that in your hands.”

  Back in his office, Koenig leans back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. Although it’s only been two days, he’s already exhausted. He’s been going at it almost nonstop since their arrival, only taking catnaps when his eyes wouldn’t stay open any longer. He just received the news that they lost an entire contingent out west due to the virus being introduced among the Marines. He’s under the gun to come up with something, or that will happen more and more often.

  His mind swirls through thoughts, analyzing what he knows and what he can do to counter the mutation. The autopsy on the infected didn’t reveal anything he wasn’t expecting. The brain swelling was in concordance with the original ARES virus. The differences with the mutation and the original ARES lay in the ability of the mutation to counter the induced coma-like stasis without the introduction of new prey. And then there’s the absence of hydrophobia that’s normally connected with rabies that was also in the original ARS virus. That’s another thing that makes this mutation of the virus nasty, in that the host retains the ability to sustain itself. Finally, there’s the airborne nature.

  The damage done to the body’s systems shows that a cure would be next to impossible to implement. With that in mind, he concentrates on preventative measures in the form of a vaccine. He’ll start with the normal rabies vaccinations, see how the mutated virus responds, and go from there. That will start with the remaining lab animals at his disposal. Seeing as how a cure may be out of the question, there won’t be any need to acquire live infected bodies for testing.

  That will probably make the chief happy, Koenig thinks, pondering the larger question of how to take care of the millions of infected roaming the land.

  “There’s a winter storm sweeping out of Canada that’s due to hit us soon,” Calhoun says, poking his head into the office. “If you still need any live infected, now’s the time to do it. The freezing temperatures will likely kill a lot of them off.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Koenig responds.

  “You don’t need those live bodies anymore? I can only surmise that you’ve concluded there won’t be a cure,” Calhoun states.

  “Considering the damage the virus does to the body, and how intrusive it is, I honestly doubt it. I’m going to be concentrating on a vaccination. If we need live anything, it will be more lab animals, but I’ll let you know,” Koenig replies.

  “Fair enough. I wasn’t looking forward to trying to wrestle any infected to the ground.”

  “Well, we have tranquilizer guns onsite if it came to that, but I wasn’t looking forward to trying to keep them contained,” Koenig says.

  “Speaking of that, how is Emily doing?”

  “As well as one could expect under that circumstances.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “She’s bored and scared.”

  “After the storm, if the satellites show that it’s safe, I’ll take one of the teams into town and see if we can’t drum something up for her,” Calhoun says. “We’ll also be looking for more fuel for the generator.”

  “I’m sure she’ll greatly appreciate that.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Seattle, Washington

  October 5

  Rachel opens her eyes to the dim room, the only light coming from sunlight peeking through a crack in the blankets draped across the window. She is confused about where she is, but that is more or less a constant state. Most of the time, she only cares enough to know that her next fix is being taken care of.

  Awareness slowly pushes through the fog. The hangover throbs inside of her head, feeling like each pulse is going to push her eyeballs out of their sockets. Rolling across the dirty mattress lying on the floor, she spies a pair of pants and struggles to pull them on, not checking to see if she’s wearing underwear or not. Glancing around the room, she spots a dirty T-shirt on the floor and pulls it on, covering her bare torso.

  I really need to get away from this shit, she thinks, sitting up. But first, just a little something to take the edge off.

  She rummages through the mess covering the floor, pushing aside beer bottles, food wrappers, a bong lying on its side, clothing, and used needles. Several baggies are hidden among the clutter, all empty.

  “Damn it,” she mutters, stumbling to the door and turning on the light.

  Lowering her hand from the switch, she notices teeth marks on her forearm with dried blood surrounding the wound.

  “What the fuck?! This shit needs to stop.”

  She runs her fingers through her long, dark hair, pushing it away from her face. In the light cast by the single bulb attached to wires dangling from the ceiling, she searches again for something to ease her throbbing head. She picks up pieces of trash, looking underneath for something left in the used needles…anything. Frustrated, she stands in the middle of the room, her gaze moving about in circles, hoping that something will magically show itself.

  The smell of the place assaults her nose and churns her stomach. That and the headache are too much. Flinging her hand to her mouth, she darts to the bathroom, standing in front of the toilet until the dry heaves abate. She staggers to the sink, places her hands on the counter, and looks into the grimy mirror.

  The woman reflected on the chipped glass surface isn’t anyone she recognizes. The thin face with dark sunken eyes isn’t hers. The bright green irises that once relished the wonders of the world have dimmed. The luscious dark brown hair is now a tangled, knotted mess much like a bird’s nest. She was once considered beautiful, but the reflection staring back at her carries a mere hint of what it once was.

  There are moments of clarity like this when she wants nothing more than to run away, start a new life, and leave all this shit behind. She’s fairly certain her parents would take her back, but with clarity also comes shame.

  Besides, it’s a long way from Seattle to Southern California, she thinks, wondering who the woman staring back at her truly is.

  That’s the problem she continually faces. Her options are limited; she has nowhere else to go, so she stays lost in the fog of being high until the next moment of lucidity, and the struggle continues. Her gaze wanders down to the bite wound on her bare arm. Then there are the bruises on the inside of her elbows, along with se
veral unhealed wounds. Even between her bare toes, there are the scars of her habit.

  “You need to get cleaned up,” the woman in the mirror tells her.

  She strips and turns on the shower, waiting for the hot water to materialize. She has no idea who pays the bills in this house where she’s been staying, and she hasn’t cared. As long as there are lights, water, and drugs to be had, that is enough for her. Stepping into the curtain-less shower, she doesn’t even remember the last time she ate.

  The hot water pours over her body, initially turning the water swirling around the drain dirty. She rubs her body, cleaning off more grime, the hot water seeming to restore part of her old self. She’s determined to leave this place, this life, though she has thought this many times before.

  I’ll hitchhike if I have to, perhaps find a trucker heading south.

  The thin bar of soap lying on the side of the tub isn’t much, but does a lot for her mental state—the smell of cleanliness. Something she hasn’t felt in a long time. Gathering her clothes, she scrubs as much dirt from them as she can, wringing them out and hanging them over the curtain rod when she’s finished.

  Once her shower is complete, having used up most of the hot water, she wipes the steam from the mirror and looks again to her reflection.

  She’s still thin, but the woman in the mirror tells her, “Much better.”

  Finding a bathrobe, she dons it and opens the bathroom door. Feeling somewhat restored, she’s hesitant to step back into the dirty rooms of the house. However, the nagging pulsating headache demands to be heard. She wanders down a hallway strewn with debris and into the living room.

  The space is much the same as the bedroom. There is a coffee table filled with empty and partially empty beer bottles, a couple of bongs, a mirror with razor blades on the surface, and several needles. She remembers the room always having people in it, either sitting on the dirty sofa with the cushion crushed thin or lying on the garbage-strewn floor. There’s no one here now; she wonders what could have happened to make them all leave.

  Was there a raid? No, they would have bagged all the paraphernalia.

  She shakily crosses the room, looking at the coffee table for something to ease her mind. Finding nothing, she searches through the debris, upending the couch and chair cushions. Hidden in the folds of the couch, she finds a needle with a bit of juice still in it. Rummaging further, she finds a rubber strap.

  Just a little, and this is the last time, she thinks, settling into one of the beat-up chairs.

  Even though she knows about withdrawal, she thinks she’ll be able to just quit cold turkey. But first, she needs to ease the pain in her head.

  “It’ll be rough, sure, but I can handle it,” she states, wrapping the rubber strap around her upper arm.

  As she undoes the strap, she settles back into the chair as the flood of warmth pours through her system. The headache vanishes beneath a wave of warmth. It’s as if her entire body gives a sigh of relief, the stresses of life disappearing. She lightly floats as if sailing atop clouds rather than planted in a filthy and uncomfortable chair.

  After a while, her stomach sends word that it would like a little attention. Rising, she wanders into the kitchen, rummaging through the nearly empty cabinets until she finds a can of chili. Grabbing a bowl from the dish-filled sink, she rinses it out, scrubbing off the old food with her fingers. Doing the same with a spoon, she places them on a rickety table and dumps the can in. A small microwave nearly eludes her abilities, but she manages to put the food in and set the timer. Settling into a vinyl dining chair, she lays her head in her arms to await the ding.

  What is that? she thinks as the sound of the microwave barely intrudes into her semi-conscious state.

  A while later, she startles awake, wondering why in the hell she’s in the kitchen, and how she arrived there. She searches through her mind, giving a sigh of disappointment when she remembers what she did. Looking at the microwave blinking a constant “12:00,” she rises and pulls out the cold food. Spooning the food into her mouth without tasting it, she feels the headache begin to return. Pushing the annoyance away, she finishes and puts on her nearly dried clothes. She doesn’t have any belongings worth speaking of, but piles some stuff into a couple of plastic bags. Not wanting to spend another minute in the house, she walks to the front door, which stands ajar. She swings the door open to a world filled with screams.

  * * * * * * *

  Madness reigns all around as she walks down the neighborhood streets. At first, she was too afraid to step out the door of the house. Then she thought maybe she had taken some bad drugs, or something else was mixed in. Although she doesn’t have quite the high, she did manage to find another small stash, just enough to lift her up a little.

  I just need to let it wear off, she thinks, continuing through the nightmare as she begins her journey.

  People are running through the streets in groups, chasing after others. Rachel watches several times as the pursuers swarm over their quarry. The attackers relentlessly bite those they catch, making Rachel look down at her arm and the bite mark there. As she walks along the pavement, no one racing through the avenues pays any attention to her. She watches as if she’s in a dream.

  Which I am, nightmare or not.

  She continues toward the downtown area, the Space Needle rising in the distance. Once she gets to the freeway, she’ll turn south and begin her long journey home. The houses along the streets complete the scene of total chaos, their doors broken into and windows shattered. Vehicles are parked haphazardly, some in the middle of the street, others actually sitting on lawns with their engines running. Several times, she contemplates taking one of the idling cars, but she fears being arrested.

  Knowing that she is just a visitor in this realm created in her own mind, the fear she originally felt recedes into the background. She’s at a movie and might as well watch the show as she ambles onward.

  Nearing downtown, she turns a corner near one of the many taverns in the area. Not ten feet away is one of the larger groups of people she’s seen. The man in front, his shirt stained with blood and his lower face smeared in red liquid, leans toward her. He opens his mouth, revealing red-stained teeth, and screams at her so loudly that she feels the wind from his shriek streaming past her. She freezes in place; her heart almost stops, then resumes with a hard rapid beat. Her nightmare just took on a more personal nature.

  Tears from sheer terror leak down her face, her breath caught in her throat. She knows that she needs to run like she’s never had to before, but her legs won’t respond. Glued in place, she stares at the horde just feet in front of her, their screams reverberating off the buildings crowding the city street. The madness in their bloodshot eyes is that of demons. She calls for angels to swoop down and save her.

  The mass gathered in front rush forward. Rachel closes her eyes in fear, waiting for those stained teeth to sink into her. Her muscles tense with the first brush of a body on hers, then another, and another. Beneath her closed eyes, she hears a thousand footfalls pounding on the concrete sidewalk, feels the brush of bodies passing her, knocking her every which way. In her mind’s eye, she sees the ferocious demon screaming at her as if attempting to devour her very soul. The screams fade behind her, mixing with those rising and falling in all directions.

  Rooted to the spot, she looks up to the sky, wanting to thank whoever is watching over her. Above the tall buildings, a shape darkens the sky directly overhead. An aircraft flies barely over the tops of the structures. Mesmerized, Rachel watches as the commercial jet sinks lower. One of the wingtips clips the top of a building, the large aircraft with its engines screaming lurches sideways. It then skews the other direction, then the nose lowers and the aircraft begins a slow roll, vanishing behind the buildings. A tremendous explosion follows, black smoke billowing into the air.

  She takes these omens as a sign that she’s headed in the wrong direction.

  The fabric of the world is coming apart.


  She turns and bolts back the way she came. She had in mind running all the way back to the house only to find herself completely winded after three city blocks. Oddly enough, it’s the only part of reality to have made its way into her nightmare. She alternates jogging with walking, trying to avoid the packs of demons working their way down the avenues. In the back of her mind, she knows that this is just a bad trip, but she can’t help feeling that the world has split open and hell has issued forth.

  * * * * * * *

  Back at the house, she slams the door closed, settling onto the hard cushions of the sofa. Closing her eyes, she tries willing the nightmare to be over, but the occasional scream continues to penetrate her haven. She contemplates searching for any remaining remnants of something to float away with, but she doesn’t want the nightmare to get even worse. No, she’ll have to ride it out until the drug, whatever it was, clears her system.

  * * * * * * *

  Seattle, Washington

  1October 5

  Rachel walks out of the store, carrying a small basket of supplies. In the last week and a half, things have settled into a routine. The demons still constantly run through the streets, their screams less prevalent but present nonetheless. For a while after she went mad, she saw others like her, the ones who hadn’t been changed into monsters. The nightmare she found herself in never left, but it has become a little more tolerable. She knows that she well and truly fucked her mind up from all the drug use and that none of what she’s experiencing is reality. But, she has to function in it regardless.

  There are times when she wonders if she should find a treatment facility and check herself in. The one time she tried, there was no one there to welcome her. The only people remaining upon the earth are those who rose from the hell’s gate. Although the world she now lives in is almost too alien to continue functioning in, there’s a certain freedom to it. She can do as she pleases without interference or worry, such as walking into a store and selecting whatever she wants.

  From time to time, she wonders if she was indeed committed, and while her mind freely wanders this world, her body is strapped to a bed, confined in a strait jacket in a padded room. Maybe this is all part of the withdrawal and she’ll eventually come out of it. For all she knows, she may be in a coma. Whatever happened, she knows without a doubt that everything happening is a figment of her own mind.