ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising

by O'Brien, John

  * * * * * * *

  San Diego, California

  December 1

  Within a day, nearly half of the infected injected with Ebola stumble and fall over in great pain, blood leaking from their eyes, noses, skin, and other orifices. Weakened, they are set upon by the starving masses and devoured. Two days later, those who partook in the feast fall to the ground. Where each one falls, a crowd dives in, attempting to push others away in order to get their share.

  The Ebola spreads from two thousand to ten thousand, which then becomes fifty thousand by the end of the middle of the third day. Gettins eyes the photos on the screen, seeing gaps appear in several places. The epidemic, which is beginning to spread in greater numbers, is taking effect in the middle of the massive horde. However, the leading edge of the infected passes beyond those succumbing to the introduced virus and continue their southward march at the same pace.

  “Sir, you can see that the epidemic is beginning to have an effect; however, with the rate of travel, those massed in front have cleanly passed the ones infected with Ebola,” the captain briefing states.

  “When will they reach the outskirts and the limit we placed on ourselves to bug out?” Gettins inquires.

  “Nine days, sir,” the captain answers.

  “And what do you expect to happen in those nine days?”

  “Well, sir, if we do nothing further, the computer models show the trailing edges simply vanishing. Those in front will be unaffected and will continue moving.”

  “How many will remain?” Gettins asks.

  “I estimate that approximately eight million will survive,” the captain answers.

  “So, the epidemic will only remove five and a half million from the equation?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  “Given those numbers, it might as well be the original thirteen and half million. What about all of those heading out of the San Francisco area?”

  “If they continue with their current rate of migration, it will take them approximately forty days to arrive in the Los Angeles area.”

  “So, they’ll arrive after the Ebola has already died off, giving us an additional seven million to deal with toward the middle of next month.”

  “That’s the way it’s shaping up, sir.”

  “If we were to slow up the leading infected heading out of Los Angeles, is it possible that those carrying Ebola will catch up with them?” Gettins inquires.

  “It’s possible, sir. There’s a chance those stumbling along behind could remain alive long enough to reach them.”

  “In your estimation, how long would we need to hold them up for?” Gettins questions.

  “One, possibly two days. Keep in mind that it’s only a guess, sir.”

  “OK, Captain. Let’s leave those coming out of San Francisco for another time. We need a way to hold the leading edge in place so the epidemic can catch up. If we send in choppers to hold them in place, that will be going against our current guidelines of staying away from the infected. However, I seriously doubt the pilots will come into contact with any body fluids. If we start fires ahead of the infected, the winds will drive them the wrong way and give the infected more clear lines of travel. That may actually increase the rate of migration,” Gettins ponders, thinking out loud. “And nukes are out of the question.”

  “I would agree with those statements, sir.”

  “OK, the question comes down to the risk of sending pilots over the masses or preserving the facilities here.”

  Minutes pass as thoughts cycle through his head, ticking off possibilities. He runs scenario after scenario through his mind, considering worst-case consequences.

  “OK, Captain. Spin up the choppers. Have them attempt to turn the millions around and march them through the epidemic. I want those birds checked and rechecked, maintenance-wise. I do not want to lose anything to mechanical failures. This may be an impossible solution, but I’m thinking that we have to draw the infected back into the viral zone. We have to try,” Gettins states.

  “Aye, sir. I’ll see to the orders.”

  “Thank you, Captain. And get Koenig on the line.”

  * * * * * * *

  Castle Rock, Washington

  December 1

  The forested slopes lie silent, all creatures having fled or huddled hidden within the uppermost boughs of the evergreens. Squirrels crouch in the elbows of the tall firs with wind whispering across the swaying tops. Gray clouds hang just overhead, muting the colors of the once vibrant slopes. A long valley lies below, a ribbon of dark gray cutting through the middle. Once, traffic relentlessly flowed through the basin; thousands of semi-trucks rolled across the pavement with deep-throated roars and the whine of rubber.

  For months, the roadways have stood empty, but traffic of another sort is now moving through. Throngs of people move slowly north where vacationers once traveled. The rumble of millions of feet striking the pavement and a chorus of screams echo up ravines. On top of one hill, a branch snaps underfoot, sending a flock of crows winging for safety. The furred animals huddle closer to the branches, not even barking out their usual warnings and threats. A new predator has entered their domain.

  A winged bird of prey suddenly swoops out of the clouds with a roar of defiance. With outstretched wings, it swoops down the interstate, dropping canisters of death among the intruders. Hundreds of small explosions and flashes of light sprinkle among the massed predators. Jagged metal races outward, ripping into flesh and bone. Partially severed limbs dangle, blood spurting from arteries that fail to seal. Intestines fall from opened torsos, unwinding as they fall to the ground. Blood gushes from nostrils and mouths alike as damage is dealt. All along the leading edge, the predators fall in patches around the flashes of light. Trailing fire, the bird pulls back into the clouds, leaving fire and destruction in its path.

  The created gaps close with the remaining predators as they continue to move north, driven by unknown motivations. The valley is clogged as far as the eye can see, millions shuffling, placing one foot in front of the other. Their hungry eyes burn with their ferocious, relentless intent to propagate.

  Another bird drops from the clouds, appearing with the sleek outline of death. With equally relentless motives, it wings over the horde. The dark canisters drop and tumble in the air, slamming into horde, fire erupting in a long line. Orange blazes flash through dark smoke, spilling outward and plunging forward. Predators are consumed as the sticky fires sweep throughout their ranks. The shrieks of hunger change to screams of agony. Those caught in the gouts of flame become candles, twisting and turning as they are engulfed until they fall to the ground. Black smoke rises, staining the gray clouds. Time and time again, the birds swoop down and deliver death. The large gaps they create are soon filled with those still pushing from behind.

  A new sound slowly intrudes upon the woods, a heavy thumping that begins as almost an imaginary sound more felt than heard. The noise grows louder, as if the very clouds have a heartbeat. From beyond the adjacent hill, large winged insects appear, their angular shape a menacing presence—a new kind of death has arrived.

  They spit fire from their mouths, branches caught in their path snapping under forceful impacts. Evergreen boughs sail to the ground under the onslaught of angry bees. Deep thuds echo off trunks as heavy rounds slam into the ground. Squirrels hug tree limbs or race for new places of safety as the air is turned into a turmoil of branches, splinters, and fir needles. Blood sprays against boles as the bees smash into the predators roaming under the trees. The snap of bones mixes with that of the limbs.

  The buzzing ends and the insects aloft hurl flaming arrows from their arms, the ground erupting wherever they strike. Dirt and branches alike are thrown into the air, the explosion shaking every tree. Startled squirrels fall from their perches, frantically grabbing for other handholds. Below, bodies are decimated by metal splinters tearing through flesh and bone. Blood relentlessly flows from deep wounds; faces are torn beyond recognition.

>   The insects hover over the area of destruction, turning left and right as they look for other prey. After time, they move on, leaving behind bloodied scraps of clothing covering bodies torn apart. In the valley below, the thunder continues.

  The light slowly fades as the sun above the clouds works its way west, the same as it does day after day. The destruction being inflicted on one of its orbiting children is of no concern. After all, it’s a child of chaos itself. The shadows within the valley deepen, becoming dimmer rather than being thrust in the shade of the hills from an open sun.

  Smoke billows all along the basin, obscuring it even further. Charred and shredded remains litter the valley floor, the river flowing alongside the interstate tinged pink. The once pristine forest slopes are now jagged in most places by twisted trunks and fallen trees. A bird of prey sweeps out of the clouds, visible only in segments through the smoke. It races along the freeway, vanishing into the distance without dropping its deathly payload. All along the narrow valley, the hills still ring with the memory of the daylong thunder. Except for the crackle of flames coming from within the basin, silence covers the landscape, draping over the scene of mass destruction. The land will not soon forget the madness that visited this place.

  As darkness slowly covers the landscape, a squirrel peeks out from where it cowers. Below is a tangle of debris and the smell of soot mixed with fir. Wisps of smoke drift out from piles of dirt. Shattered tree boughs, still holding onto the greenery of needles, poke from the mounds along with the bloodied remains of torn arms and legs.

  The squirrel gives a bark that it didn’t dare utter before and scampers down the remains of the tree, heading for the safety of the forested slopes in the distance.

  * * * * * * *

  San Clemente, California

  December 2

  Captain Suthron flies over the long line of infected heading out of San Clemente. The steep hills rising almost immediately from the shoreline cause the millions of them to stretch out in a line for miles, which makes the job of rounding them up difficult. Further east, other crews are attempting to bring the infected back into the viral zone, where the more open terrain makes it a much more feasible option. Here, it’s like trying to round up kittens.

  At first, the leading edge turns around and attempts to follow the four choppers back north. However, the masses stacked along the freeway prevent them from following for any distance. By the time they slowly transit the long line of infected flowing out of the Los Angeles basin, those on the leading edge merely turn around and resume their migration south.

  If they’re to stem the tide, they’ll have to alter tactics. Suthron orders the choppers north. They’ll peel back the infected from the rear line by line. All they need is for the infected to cross over where the Ebola infected ones have fallen or been weakened. If they feed, then they’ll also become infected. They have eight days before the mass reaches the outskirts of their haven. Eight days for the millions of infected below to sicken and die.

  Slowly hovering over the trailing edges, Suthron brings as many as will follow back along their path. Large patches appear in the lines near the middle, evidence that the Ebola is doing its work, but Suthron wonders if it will be enough. The closer he draws to the middle of the horde, the more ragged it becomes. Infected stagger and fall, immediately beset upon. Those that are sick, but haven’t succumbed, drift aimlessly south. As they look skyward toward the slow moving helicopters, he can see blood streaking their faces. They try to lift their arms, but are too weak to do so. He watches as hundreds fall, a continual stream of infected falling to the ground.

  Hundreds is not millions, he thinks, turning around to gather more.

  * * * * * * *

  USS Mount Whitney, San Diego

  December 3

  “We managed to stem the flow in the northern region,” Steven states, bringing Gettins up to speed.

  “Well, I wish I could say the same here. We’ve been at it for three days. Although there has been some progress, each day that we try turn them around, there’s a greater distance that we have to guide them over. Colonel Koenig is attempting to produce Ebola in greater quantities, but that takes time. And, that’s a luxury we don’t have. We have seven days, and if we don’t do something soon, the infected will swarm into San Diego. We’ll be forced to abandon it,” Gettins says.

  “If that occurs, will you be heading up this way, then?”

  “I’m not sure. I think we’ll have to see just how many make it this far, and if there’s anything we can do to again sweep them out of the area. At this point, I’m holding onto the notion that we’ll have to vacate,” Gettins answers.

  “OK. If we send forces down your way, will that help?” Stevens inquires.

  “I don’t think they’ll arrive in time to do any good. We can’t forget the additional seven million heading out of San Francisco. It may be time to pack up and leave, but we’ll give it everything we have.”

  “We’re fairly secure up this way. I could sent the Nimitz south and begin whittling away at those?” Stevens suggests.

  “OK, but hold off on engaging the infected for the present. We don’t have an unlimited supply of ordinance and I’m going to be expending a lot down this way. Besides, I have something else in mind. While you’re at it, send a few resupplies of ammunition our way. I have a feeling we’re going to be using quite a bit of it here soon. Also, don’t forget that we may have some rogue subs prowling around. The satellites haven’t pinged any via MAD, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there,” Gettins states.

  “On a side note, we weren’t able to get the silo crews back. Weather and icing forced them to return.”

  “Are they supplied well enough to last?” Gettins asks.

  “Aye, sir. They have enough for at least five to six months,” Stevens replies.

  “OK, then my feeling is that we leave them in place and recover them in the spring.”

  “They’re not going to like that, but imagery still shows their area clear. I’ll keep my previous order for them to stand down from protective gear requirements when topside. That should help their spirits somewhat,” Stevens mentions.

  “I’m fine with that. Just keep an eye out. If there’s a hint that even a single infected is roaming in the area, the order goes back up.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll issue the order for the Nimitz and her escort vessels immediately. They should be able to depart tomorrow,” Stevens says.

  * * * * * * *

  North of Oceanside, California

  December 4

  A vast convoy of vehicles leaves Camp Pendleton North and South, having pulled everything they can from the two large Marine bases. In the far distance, screams of the infected hover in the morning air. Come the end of the day, at the infecteds’ current rate of travel, they’ll lose both of the bases. The supplies they carry are needed. Tanks and armored vehicles are strapped to transports, the teams having worked tirelessly since the notice of infecteds’ migration south.

  The line of destroyers and cruisers rides the rolling swells, the morning sun glistening across the vast expanse of the Pacific. All of their five inch guns are trained toward the shoreline in the distance, the steep hills lining the shoreline visible. Unseen are the millions of infected crowded in a sinuous line stretching all of the way from Oceanside to San Clemente. Efforts to turn the infected around have come to a standstill, with the Ebola zone some twenty miles behind the leading edges. Inland, there was greater success, but not enough to completely halt the vast migration.

  The thunder of twenty-five inch guns breaks the stillness of the morning. The water next to each ship quivers under the shock waves. Shells arc through the blue skies, their targets the narrow confines of the coastal highway. Up and down the coastline, dirt and smoke blossom skyward from the impacts. Bodies and parts of bodies are thrown into the ocean and surrounding fields.

  Volley after volley is sent against those threatening the haven they have created. The shoreline be
comes one huge conflagration of heavy shells exploding; a constant thunder of eruption reverberates off the hills and up deep ravines. Cease-fires are issued as jets streak in to deliver cluster bomb munitions and jellied fuel into the masses. When they depart, the roar of the ship-mounted guns renews.

  With the coastline one big mass of billowing plumes, smoking craters, and bodies torn beyond recognition, they shift their targets inland toward the second of the two mass migrations heading toward San Diego. It’s a huge expenditure of ammunition, but time is running out. When the final cease-fire is given, cities lie in ruins with neighborhoods ablaze. Millions of bodies lie mixed in churned soil. As silence returns and firing stations are secured, many think about how those lying dismembered were once family members and fellow Americans. There is no satisfaction in the destruction of a fallen enemy or congratulations for a job well done. There is only a numbness of duties performed.

  Through the smoke, marching over churned ground, infected move through the destruction. The ships return to port to rearm. Come morning, they’ll begin the barrage anew, this time ten miles to the south.

  * * * * * * *

  USS Mount Whitney

  December 5

  “Sir, the two groups of infected are merging in the San Marcos valley, from Carlsbad to Escondido. It appears that the ones inland may follow the path of Interstate 15, approaching San Diego from the northeast. The coastal group will follow Interstate 5 and come in from the north,” a captain briefs Gettins. “They’ll be in the outskirts ahead of anticipation, arriving in two days.”

  “And those behind?”

  “Those have either already succumbed to Ebola, or will shortly. We only have the leading edges remaining. We hit them hard yesterday, cutting their number by at least a quarter.”

  “Leaving us still with nearly six million,” Gettins states.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that, even if we continue at the same pace, we won’t be able to stop them in time?”