The one good thing to come of it, regardless of what reality is or isn’t, is that she has found the strength to put away the needles. She relies on methadone she’s getting from the local pharmacies. The sores on her arms have healed and her figure is not that of the skinny freak who once stared at her from a grimy mirror. She put aside the desire to travel home, instead embracing the world inside of her mind.
Walking up the sidewalk leading to the house, the garbage bags near the street remind her of the effort it took to clean out the place. After realizing that the nightmare wasn’t going to end, she took to the task of creating a better place to live. She threw out the needles, bongs, and empty beer bottles. Rummaging through nearby houses, she dragged furniture along the streets and up the steps. She found curtains, a bed, soap, and other items to make it more comfortable. She thought about moving to a better location, perhaps finding a mansion to live in. However, the house is her last link to what was reality, so she remains until the angels come to take her away from this hell.
Faint rumbles halt her in her tracks. Turning to look over the Seattle skyline, she sees distant plumes of smoke rising into the sky. Thinking it just part of this alien world, perhaps more demons emerging from the gates, she shrugs and moves on. Walking up the steps, she hears a rhythmic beating. Looking upward, she sees several helicopters nearly overhead. They fly through the city; then, they grow smaller, the noise fading into the distance. These were parts of her past reality, which creates a nervous tension. If reality is returning, what awaits her on the other side? Will she find that she’s still in the grimy house, still addicted and looking like shit? Will she find herself confined in a room, having to be medicated for life? She’s really not sure that she wants to return to that reality. Even though demons walk the streets, she feels better in this dream. As she closes the door, she knows that she doesn’t want the old world to return.
Chapter Fifteen
USS Mount Whitney
October 30
“So, the bad news first,” Admiral Stevens begins. “We lost the Essex today. I would have notified you earlier, but I was up to my eyebrows in crises.”
Admiral Gettins stares at the screen before him, his mind trying to process the words.
“By lost, do you mean broken down?” Gettins inquires.
“No, I mean lost, as in lost most of the personnel and the ship itself.”
“Infection?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“We’re…not really sure. I’m going to guess that one of the Marines became exposed and it wasn’t caught. Or, it could have been one of the pilots. I don’t think we’ll ever know, but it had to be early on in our operations. Luckily we’ve kept each ship isolated with regards to personnel, or this could have been a lot worse,” Stevens answers.
This is the one thing Gettins was most anxious about, the infection spreading among the few remaining ships. Once introduced into a population, the virus runs rampant. And by the time it is discovered, it’s too late to do anything about it.
“Keep the other ships on lockdown. Are you sure there isn’t any chance other ships are at risk?”
“As reasonably sure as we can be,” Stevens responds. “It’s possible that the airborne nature of it could infect others, but we’ve kept distance between vessels and we’re on the move, so any fouled air would have been left behind. There aren’t any signs that it is spreading to other ships.”
“And the damage?” Getting asks.
“We were able to save most of the aircraft, which were flown to Whidbey and the crews placed in quarantine. Of the Marines, we lost…hang on…one thousand, four hundred and twelve…as near as we can tell at the moment. We were able to transfer four hundred and eighty plus into quarantine, but we just don’t have facilities to handle that many. So, we put them in vacant housing that survived the bombing on the southeastern section of the island. In all honesty, we will probably lose those Marines as well. We just can’t quarantine them effectively, and if one has it, the others soon will. We’re putting efforts in motion to build a larger facility, but that may come too little too late,” Stevens replies. “Once we saved what we could, I gave orders to sink the ship and to increase the distances between vessels.”
“So, nearly an entire third of the western Marine contingent. That’s why we stressed that it only takes one. Dammit! The commanders out there need to learn that there can’t be any fucking complacency about this. We’re battling enough as it is—this could sink us all,” Gettins storms.
“They’re aware, sir. I had the entire action videoed and made everyone watch it, underlining the number of dead. If anything, it will also make the lowest ranks police themselves as well, but we’re running a fine line here. I don’t want any witch hunts,” Stevens says.
“I know, I know. It just seems like we take one step forward only to get knocked two or more steps back. OK, keep an eye on further spread.”
“Each ship has gone to combat stations with the latches shut. We’re doing what we can, but honestly, it will be a whole lot easier if we can carve out a sanctuary ashore.”
“Agreed. Where are we with that?” Gettins inquires.
“We’ve spent the last two full days combing the areas from Olympia to Everett, drawing the infected to the four predesignated coordinates. We’ve dragged the breadth and length of the Kitsap Peninsula, bringing them to the coordinates north-northeast of Bremerton. And we have them gathered on the southern shores of Victoria. I think we’ve been mostly successful herding a majority of the infected, although the aircrews are tired. Our maintenance crews have also been working overtime to keep the birds in the air. In my opinion, we’re as ready as we’re going to get for delivery. It’s not easy keeping them together once they’re gathered,” Stevens briefs.
“So, we’re still on target for tomorrow?”
“I think delaying any further won’t result in more infected being gathered. The aircrews are already reporting that some infected are beginning to adapt to the presence of the helicopters and are wandering away,” Stevens states.
“OK. Considering it gets dark early, let’s commit to a 1500 Pacific time on target. That will mean a launch time of around 1445 Pacific. Are we still looking at three warheads on the coordinates north and south of Seattle, two each for Tacoma and Olympia, two for Bremerton, and three for Victoria?” Gettins inquires.
“The infected are gathered within the parameters for those numbers,” Stevens answers.
“OK. That will deplete half of our available arsenal.”
“Understood. However, it’s worth it to get us off these potential death traps we’re sailing on.”
“Agreed. OK, I’ll leave the coordination in your hands. Strike tomorrow, then hold up for forty-eight hours before reconning the area. Then we’ll analyze any further actions. Hopefully we don’t have any more disasters before then,” Gettins says.
“Yeah. I’d rather not deal with that again. Did you get the Montana team’s report that they found the infected eating each other?” Stevens asks.
“I followed that. I assume that’s an attempt at sustaining themselves. The satellite footage shows the infected beginning to push out of the populated areas. Even though their numbers have decreased, I suppose that it’s too much to hope that they’ll just starve to death,” Gettins responds.
“I wish. However, we do show the first big arctic storm heading south out of Canada. Hopefully, the freezing temperatures will eliminate those in the northern climates. That will open up options for us, should this operation be unsuccessful.”
“Well, launch tomorrow and then wait and see. I hate being in this position, but we don’t have many other choices,” Gettins states. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
* * * * * * *
West Seattle, Washington
October 31
Captain Ian Mathews hovers over the waters of the Sound, exhausted from three long days of pulling the infected from the suburbs and downtown areas to th
e west Seattle waterfront. In the distance, he sees several black dots slowly wending their way from inland, each dragging a small group of infected behind. At first, throngs gathered behind the choppers, the masses crowding the streets and stretching far to the rear. For the past day, it’s been mostly regathering infected who wandered away from the collection point, along with a few stragglers.
In order to relieve having to hover for hours at a time, the attack and transport helicopters switch positions. Once they scour the area and bring the infected in, they change it up, the gatherers becoming the ones holding the infected in place. While still monotonous, it did break up the boredom a little.
On Mathews’s last run, the streets surrounding downtown Seattle stood bare, the wind whistling down empty avenues, debris swirling in the cross currents. Sidewalks that once held throngs of shoppers and lunchtime crowds stood vacant. The windows of the tall buildings reflected the sun peeking through scattered cloud layers, the once busy offices now housing unoccupied desks full of uncompleted projects. The Space Needle rose, the rotating restaurant and observation tower a reminder of the civilization that once inhabited the city. On the city’s waterfront, the giant Ferris wheel on the end of a pier sat unmoving, the carriages swinging with each gust that blew through. All in all, it gave off a terribly empty loneliness.
The scene changed as he flew toward the hilly peninsula of West Seattle. There, the streets became filled with hordes of infected, the masses filling every available open place. Hovering over the bay, he sees the horde is so large that the weight of those behind push the ones in front into the water, the foremost ones forced in over their heads with no way to return. Hundreds of bodies float south on the incoming tide, with more being added each minute. In the water, all along the leading edge, infected splash and churn in an attempt to keep from being submerged. However, the weight of those behind, attempting to get at the helicopters, proves too much to overcome. To Mathews, the frothing water all around the Peninsula looks like some strange rip tide or a feeding frenzy of piranhas.
“That’s the last load arriving. Ten minutes until it’s time to make tracks,” Mathews’s gunner states.
Glancing at his watch, Mathews sees 1435 displayed. In ten minutes, the missiles will leave their silos from the northern Midwest states and sail upward, trailing fire. Once out of the atmosphere, they’ll release their warheads, which will reenter and plummet earthward, hitting the masses gathered fifteen minutes later. Even though they were briefed that the lethal range of each neutron warhead is just under a mile, Mathews plans to be much farther away. Then, he’ll debrief and turn in to catch up on the three days of lost sleep.
The choppers bringing in the last of the infected fly over the mass and continue past, their tasks finished. The order comes to leave. As one, the attack helicopters rotate in place, lower their noses, and pick up speed, leaving behind the horde reaching out to them.
* * * * * * *
Rainbow Falls Mountain Trout, Colorado
October 31
Sergeant Brown trudges across the thigh-deep snow, the snowshoes crunching on the virgin drifts. The high gray overcast skies promise more of the wintery white, but for now, the visibility is nearly limitless. Several snows have come in the past days, completely covering the cabin’s basin and freezing over most of the lakes. He and Clarke have had to journey up the creek, casting their lines from snowy banks into the turbulent waters. As they were designed to do, the waters hold plenty of fish, which has become their mainstay for food. This trek out is to see if they can find tracks of elk in the area to supplement their diet. As he clears the crest of the ridge and halts, he hears a crunch of snow behind him.
“Is this a race or something?” Clarke says, halting next to him.
“Your tiny legs need to step more lively,” Brown replies, gazing across the eastern Colorado plateau. “And if you’d quit tripping all over yourself, perhaps you’d be able to keep up.”
“These snowshoes are too wide. I’m beginning to think you gave me these on purpose,” Clarke responds.
“Now, lass, why would I do that?”
“For the simple enjoyment of seeing me fall over repeatedly,” Clarke answers.
Brown looks over and smiles, having given up using the masks they arrived at the camp with. They haven’t sighted any infected in the area and the cold has surely taken care of any wandering the woods. If they venture close to any populated area, they’ll again don them.
“I knew it! I’m right, aren’t I?”
Brown shrugs.
“You’re impossible sometimes, but you already know that,” Clarke says.
“Only sometimes? I think I recall you accusing me of always being difficult. That was what, only two days ago?” Brown states.
“You left me to climb out of that drift on my own.”
“You climbed out, didn’t you?” Brown shrugs.
“See? Impossible.”
“So, why did you stay? You could have left to hero it up with the others,” Brown queries.
Clarke pauses, contemplating the question.
“You know. Pineville was hard enough; we barely made it out of that one. The trek across the country showed that the infected are everywhere and that they’ll probably be around for the foreseeable future. Honestly, I didn’t know if I had it in me to continue dealing with them. Besides, I like it here. It’s beautiful, the kind of place I always imagined retiring in—although perhaps not as soon as this.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you did,” Brown says.
“So that I can provide for your amusement?”
“That too.”
Brown unslings the rifle he’s carrying, scoping the nearby tree lines and ravines. He knows that the elk and deer will head to the lower elevations, using the ravines as their route of travel. They’re also creatures of habit, using the same paths over and over. This trip out is more of a scouting expedition than an actual hunt.
He again looks out over the snow-covered fields far below. The buildings and streets of nearby Colorado Springs are covered in snow and ice, large icicles draping from the overhangs of the structures. It’s late afternoon and already the streetlights are creating glares on the frigid avenues. Lights emanate from many of the building’s windows, indicating that power is still flowing into the city. He can’t imagine too many infected could still be alive in the frigid temperatures, but surely some have sought the warmth of the buildings.
“We should be heading back. As it is, we’ll barely make it before it gets dark,” Brown says, glancing behind at the shadows covering the backsides of the hills. Their valley below is already shadowed by the mountains to the west.
“What’s that?” Clarke says.
Brown glances back to see her pointing to the east. In the far distance, barely noticeable, several pillars of flame with a thick trail of white smoke slowly rise into the sky. He watches as they climb upward, vanishing into the overcast layers.
“Well, fuck,” Brown states.
“Are those…are those what I think they are?” Clarke asks.
“It surely looks like someone decided on that option, whether through desperation, laziness, or stupidity,” Brown answers.
“Surely they wouldn’t use them if they thought they had any other choice,” Clarke says. “They must have thought through the ramifications.”
“Maybe. People do some tremendously stupid shit sometimes.”
“Where do you think they’re heading?”
“I have no fucking idea. Hopefully not close.”
“Do you think the fallout will affect us?”
Brown shrugs.
“So, what are we going to do?”
“Head back for some fish. I think it’s your turn to cook tonight.”
* * * * * * *
West of Seattle, Washington
October 31
“What are you doing?” the gunner asks.
“We’re far outside the fallout area and this is a once in a l
ifetime opportunity,” Mathews says, continuing to spin the gunship around.
He hovers above the forested slopes of the Olympic Mountains, looking eastward toward the shores around Seattle. It took them ten minutes to travel twenty miles away, the snowy peaks of the mountains all around them. Several other Vipers pull alongside, each maneuvering to get good angles.
The time on his watch winds slowly toward the moment of impact. Faint streaks of light arc above, appearing and vanishing in mere seconds. Everything hangs still as if time itself is holding its breath. Suddenly, four small flashes of light appear over the hills, disappearing quickly. Mathews sees a small shockwave radiate out from the flashes, then nothing except a few plumes of smoke that drift upward from fires that start in the area immediately around the explosion.
They hover for a full minute, expecting something else to happen.
“That’s it?” the gunner says.
“It appears so,” Mathews answers.
“I was expecting, well, a little something more.”
“That was a little anti-climactic. Let’s go home,” Mathews agrees, turning the helicopter around and heading back to the boat.
* * * * * * *
Seattle, Washington
October 31
The distant explosions and smoke plumes that rose above the city skyline stopped nearly three weeks ago, but for the past three days the helicopters have returned in force, constantly flying over the city. Instead of zipping overhead like before, they barely seem to be moving. In their wake, massive groups of the demons follow. Like before, the return of the helicopters makes her anxious. She wonders if these remnants of her old reality, pulling the demons along in their wake, aren’t some part of her mind actualizing a treatment she is undergoing; reality trying to exorcise and pull the demons from her head. It could be that she’s responding to the treatment, which is both promising and scary. She’s comfortable in her world, but grows lonely from time to time. And with the loneliness comes the cravings.
ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising Page 22
