ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising

by O'Brien, John

  With Emily, the virus is kept in check, unable to attach to tissues and push into the neurological systems. However, the virus isn’t destroyed. Her body fights a continual battle. His fear is that ARES will weaken her immune system to the point where it can no longer fight and contain the virus.

  Koenig began working with a cocktail of serums derived from Emily’s, Handley’ and Hayward’s blood. Frustration had risen with each failed result. But now, the slide under the microscope attests to what might finally be a breakthrough. The carefully created mix of serums seems to isolate ARES and prevent its attachment to surrounding tissues. While ARES is fighting that battle, it apparently doesn’t have the capability to mutate, allowing the protein-destroying capabilities from the two cadets’ blood to infiltrate and successfully attack the virus. The next test will be to immunize humanized mice with the cocktail, then introduce the virus. If the mice are able to fight and shutdown the virus, then he’s one huge step closer to finding a vaccine. The only caveat is, like the rabies vaccine, it’s only a passive immunity. Meaning, it will run out over time and boosters will be required. The only true way to combat ARES indefinitely will be to completely eradicate the infected.

  Koenig pulls back, lifting his arms over his head to stretch his wearied body that has been cramped in the same position for hours on end. In the adjacent level four lab, cultures of Ebola are being prepared, monitored by the other technicians who have fully recovered from their ordeal. And further down, there’s Emily trapped in isolation by the virus in her system. With her body in a full-on fight against the virus, it has fought with any serums he’s injected, treating any newcomer as hostile. He hopes that this promising batch will provide an answer for her as well.

  Wrapping up his notes and findings, Koenig instructs the technicians to begin the process of creating vaccines from the serum. He sits with them as a group, carefully going over his notes and making sure each of them understands the exact process. It would be far too easy for the tests to fail because the wrong mixture was used. If that happened, it would take a long while to figure out the problem. After creating enough doses, then the trials can begin.

  Two hours later, Koenig is at his desk, talking with Admiral Gettins. Koenig explains his process and findings, cautioning against too much hope as they’ll still have to conduct many, many trials to verify whether the vaccine is viable.

  “So, can we turn this thing around?” the admiral asks.

  “No, sir. With regards to those already infected, their neurological centers are too far gone. The only ‘cure’ will be the elimination of the virus in its entirety, meaning no more infected. Anyone coming into the community will have to be checked very carefully to ensure that they aren’t a carrier. So far, I haven’t been able to do anything about those who already have the virus. If this works, we’ll be immunized against becoming infected, but the length of time the vaccine works is on an individual basis depending upon the makeup of their DNA. If ARES makes its way into someone where the immunization is weak, it may be able to mutate itself into yet another strain, bypassing the vaccine. We just can’t afford for that to happen,” Koenig briefs.

  “What about the one you have there? What are you going to do about her?” Gettins inquires.

  “Everything I can, sir.”

  * * * * * * *

  Hanford, Washington

  May 17

  A large convoy of trucks pulls out of the large facility, each laden with deadly loads. It’s taken weeks of careful work to remove the nuclear and hazardous materials waste from the plant. Many of the facilities are in poor repair, the storage containers leaking or coming close to it. The stir facilities, which mix the sludge-like mixture of radioactive waste, are on the verge of becoming useless, the pipes circulating the mixture nearly clogged. It’s taken great effort and huge risk for the technicians to “clean up” the waste and load it into better sealed containers. The technicians wrapped in protective gear move the newly sealed containers into temporary storage, waiting for the trucks to return in order to load them up for yet another journey across the country.

  The decision reached, as if there could be a win-win, was to transport the waste into already radiated zones. That will cause the zone to enlarge due to the addition of more waste, but not to a large degree. The “hot zones” will become hotter, but in the current context of the radiation flowing out of the old nuclear plants from the stored spent rods, it’s like comparing a thousand degrees to two thousand degrees. Nothing is going to live through it.

  A group of technicians watch the long convoy leave through the gates, the lead trucks having already vanished from sight.

  “Is that really the last of it?” one questions, disbelieving that their work might actually be over.

  “As much of it as we could find,” another answers. “There’s liable to be more here and there, but any spillage from such a minor quantity will be negligible.”

  “So, what now?”

  “Power is going to be shut down wherever they do that. For us, we’re going home. I can so go for a hot meal and shower.”

  * * * * * * *

  San Diego, California

  July 4

  Jennings sinks his toes into the warm sand, the bright sun overhead beating down on his bare shoulders. The soft roar from the gently rolling surf and occasional screech from a gull adds to the serenity he feels lolling on the beach, the time finally his own.

  After spending the entire winter upon the frigid northern plains, he swore that he’d never again willingly head to where there’s snow. All winter long, the wind howled as it swept out of Canada, ice blowing across the freezing land. The snow drifts became so deep, they threatened to cover the aboveground living quarters. They had to venture out from time to time and there were times he swore he wouldn’t make it back to the quarters, his body freezing until it thawed once spring rolled around.

  Slowly meandering toward the housing that sits on the thin strip of land that provides a breakwater for the port beyond, he rubs his sore arm. The vaccine administered earlier in the morning is aching and likely to get worse as the day draws on.

  “The soreness will only last about twenty-four hours,” the nurse had stated.

  A distant roar draws his attention. He turns, lifting his hands to shield his eyes, and watches as four F-18s take off from the nearby airfield. They gracefully climb into the blue sky, quickly becoming small dots before they vanish completely. Over the airfield, a couple of gunships wing their way aloft, heading out on patrol.

  The last group of infected was spotted on the 8th of June somewhere in southeast Oklahoma. A mass effort was made when the weather cleared in the interior of the country, teams armed with Ebola delivering their virus-laden projectiles into any gathering of infected they found. The weather cleared out the northern regions; the eastern infected had succumbed to radioactive clouds. The ones in the south had mostly starved by the time the teams arrived, delivering death among those still living. Once the infected finally perished, rescue operations were conducted for the few survivors found in remote regions.

  Turning back to resume his walk, he spies a small figure standing on the shoreline, letting small waves roll past her legs. Smiling, he alters his course to intercept the diminutive figure.

  “Hi, Emily,” he says, drawing alongside.

  * * * * * * *

  Rainbow Falls Mountain Trout, Colorado

  July 4

  The thumping sound growing louder intrudes on Brown’s peace as he sits on the shore watching his line in the waters of the lake. It’s been months since the last time he heard any helicopters in the area, and he supposes this new evidence should give him a measure of joy, knowing that some vestige of humankind still exists. However, he feels a sense of dread. Clarke rises from her position next to him. Shielding her eyes, she looks to the surrounding hilltops in an effort to identify where the noise is coming from.

  The sound of the rotors increases, filling the valley as it reverberates o
ff the slopes. Brown doesn’t move except to cast his eyes to the skies. A dot appears over the top of the ridgeline to the north, growing in size. The transport chopper, the sides lettered “US Marines,” flies down the basin and over the two. Slowly, it settles down onto an open patch of ground.

  “Awww crap,” Brown states, reeling in his line and setting his pole on the ground.

  “Why do you think they’re here?” Clarke asks.

  “Probably to enlist our superhuman abilities in their eternal fight against the darkness,” Brown responds.

  “Well, they can’t be after your brainpower. That’s my area of expertise. What’s your superpower?” Clarke asks, smiling.

  Brown flexes, his large muscles taking on a more defined shape.

  “Fair enough,” Clarke states, placing her own pole on the ground.

  Together, they stroll over to where the helicopter is resting, its rotors winding down. The rear ramp drops and a familiar figure steps out.

  “Koenig, you old bastard. I can’t believe they didn’t shoot you on sight,” Brown says, shaking hands.

  “You mean like you almost did?” Koenig responds.

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  An admiral walks down the ramp, causing Brown’s heart to stop for a moment. An admiral making his way all the way out here doesn’t bode well. His presence alludes to the idea that this trip isn’t merely expeditionary, increasing Brown’s sense of foreboding.

  “Sir,” Brown says.

  “Sergeant Brown, Admiral Stevens.”

  “And to what do I owe this honor?” Brown asks, his brows furrowing.

  “I came out to offer my personal thanks for all that you did, Sergeant. The colonel here told us what you did getting the cadets out of danger. And Emily,” the admiral states.

  “Emily?” Brown asks, his heart sinking a notch.

  “Yes, Emily. The good doctor here let it slip that you were involved in her rescue out of Pineville.”

  “Emily! She made it?” Clarke exclaims.

  “Yes, and the lot of them were instrumental in coming up with a viable vaccine. Of course, with the help of Colonel Koenig.”

  The admiral and Koenig bring Brown and Clarke up to speed with events.

  “The colonel told me that there was little chance of convincing you to return,” the admiral concludes.

  “Does that mean we’re not being enlisted back into the service?” Brown inquires.

  “No, Sergeant. As far as I’m concerned, you did your duty and are officially retired. However, the offer still stands if you’d like to return. I hear San Diego is nice this time of year,” Stevens states.

  “I think I’m good, sir,” Brown replies.

  “Very well. And you?” Stevens asks Clarke.

  “Thank you for the offer, sir, but I’m staying as well,” Clarke answers.

  “Koenig said you would say that. I know it’s not much, but without standing on ceremony, these are for both of you,” the admiral states, presenting two hinged boxes and sheets of paper.

  The two of them open the boxes. Inside each is a silver star, along with the signed letter of commendation.

  “Just promise me that you won’t make them into some kind of lure,” the admiral says.

  “What are you, sir? Some kind of mind reader?” Brown states.

  “All part of my job, Sergeant.”

  * * * * * * *

  The last of the infected population in the US fell victim to Ebola in early June, and the efforts at eradication turned south. By the end of August, the last ones on the North American continent fell. Across the continent, nearly four hundred and seventy-five million lie dead in the streets or sprawled across the countryside. Of the 7.4 billion people who once roamed the earth, less than fifty thousand remained, clustered in the northwest and San Diego.

  The livable space on the ball of rock hurtling through space, surrounded by billions of light years of nothing, has been reduced to the western shores of Mexico and the United States, large sections of Canada, and Alaska. Over time, the infected on Hawaii and Guam died out, reopening those paradises to humanity. The infected in those regions of the world not rendered barren by radioactivity eventually reached survivable populations. Australia, New Zealand, and several islands became home to infected roaming in search of food. Expeditions were mounted to introduce Ebola to those regions, eventually eradicating ARES in its entirety worldwide.

  They won out, but at the cost of 7.4 billion people. The Marines and the crews of the Sixth and Seventh Fleets soldiered on, the grief over lost ones becoming more subdued with time. Several refineries were opened, but only to manufacture fuels for the fleets. Solar, wind, and water were utilized for power requirements, the determination made to only allocate fossil fuels to keep the fleets alive for as long as they could. Slowly, the soldiers transitioned into farmers and workers, with several manufacturing plants reopened. Greenhouses were erected as the last vestige of humanity slowly rose back from the precipice.

  Satellites decayed from their orbits, making bright trails across the skies as they burnt up on reentry. Communications were via shortwave. Separated by distance, Admiral Stevens did become King of the North. The ARES virus still sits in vaults on the east coast, but as it is surrounded by radiation, no one will be able to get to it for the next thousand years or more. Over time, it will escape again, but with no one to infect, it will fall dead on barren soil.

  Epilogue

  A woman approaching her later years sits atop a lighthouse, the expanse of the Pacific Ocean on one side, the breakwater and harbor on the other. This is one of the places she enjoys coming to, the solitude comforting. It’s her “thinking and reflecting” spot.

  The waves continue their relentless roll against the shores, not caring about any shore-side matters. She looks to the port, the gray hulls of the combat ships nestled within the berths, many showing streaks of rust down their sides. Some are still active, but most haven’t moved in many years. The same with the nearby airport; the fighters and gunships that held off the tide of infected lie dormant. Far in the distance to the south, large blades slowly rotate atop large white windmills and the sun glares off the sizable solar panels placed in what was once Tijuana. The land is recovering from the searing fires that swept through the metropolis, the scars still visible. The foundations and shells of buildings that remained standing after that assault were bulldozed a long time ago to make room for the wind and solar fields.

  In her life since the last of the infected fell nearly forty years ago, she never married or really became involved with anyone. She has no children, her body unable to produce any offspring. Others are able to, the population of twenty-five thousand in the south nearly doubling in the past forty years. Even if she could, she doubts she would have, preferring to be alone.

  During some of her reflective moments, she misses the freedom of the road she felt as a ten-year-old child. Sure, those times were filled with terror and anxiety beyond belief. But, there were times when she felt utterly free. She could often be found on the crumbling roads surrounding the city, hiking into the recovering hills. There are also times of sadness as she thinks about her parents, dead so many years ago. The hardest part is that she can’t remember what they looked like; can’t pull up their faces in her mind’s eye. That makes her sadder than her memories of them.

  Once, she hiked for several days up north to gaze upon the wasteland that used to be the Los Angeles basin. The journey wasn’t easy, the roads crumbling with trees, shrubs, and grass growing where vehicles once endlessly crossed. She arrived to see the burnt husks of buildings rising amid vines and shrubs, the surrounding hills, still scarred in places from the fires, filling again with the greenery of trees.

  It’s been fifteen years since the two men who guided the last vestige of humankind in the fight to preserve their species died. The man who both created the virus that brought about the downfall and the vaccine that delivered them from it passed away eight years ago, his wife
following him to his grave a year later. In that time, secluded valleys have been turned into farms and pasturelands. Some of the children have been born with immunities to the virus that destroyed so many.

  Instead of the military leadership they once had, they now have an elected governor. The man who found her on the plains, Jennings, now runs the southern shores, along with a council. The area surrounding the city is maintained, but the land beyond is a wilderness. At some point, humankind will expand outward again, but they can only go so far in their current state.

  She often thinks about the large soldier who brought her out of Pineville, and hopes that he made it. Thinking about the stern man, who hid his caring nature behind a gruff exterior, brings a tear to her eyes. She imagines him out there somewhere, bullying the wilds to bend to his will.

  Emily rises from her seated position, her bones creaking in protest. She makes her way down the stairs, hopping on her large three-wheeled bike. She usually walks most places, but riding the tricycle, complete with baskets, brings her joy and peace. Pedaling along the dirt road, she looks to the far-off hills, thinking that perhaps one day, she’ll hop on her bike and just keep pedaling.

  * * * * * * *

  The surrounding trees cast long shadows in the afternoon sun. The two sit atop a ridge, staring out over the wide plains at the foot of the mountains. It’s a place they often come to sit in peace and let the day wash over them. In the distance, the taller buildings still stand, rising above the trees pushing their way through the city streets. Nature is slowly retaking what humankind once vainly claimed as theirs. Far off, a dark mass moves over the summer plains—smaller herds of buffalo that seem to be following old migration patterns.