ARES Virus (Book 2): White Horse

by John O'Brien

* * * * * * *

  The narrow valley is in shadow, the sun having just vanished behind a tall ridgeline to the west. Sunlight still shines on the eastern crests, patches of white showing under evergreen trees and in the folds of rocky outcroppings. Dust stirred up by the eighteen wheels of the semi obscure the following four-wheel-drive pickup driven by Hayward and Handley. They found the vehicle at a rest stop a while after landing and picking up the reefer truck. Brown had wanted to discard the trailer and thought the rest area would be a good place to do so. The lot had been vacant with the exception of the lone pickup, the driver having danced off to another party. It was there that they discovered the reefer was partially filled with slowly thawing frozen food items.

  The drive from the truck stop into the mountains wasn’t nearly as bad as Brown thought it would be. The towns were few and far between, and the interstate wound around most. Those that it passed through were smaller ones. Brown just kept their speed up and they were through before any infected in the area knew they were there. That would have been a different story in the east.

  Colorado Springs had its moments of tension. They knew they were surrounded by hundreds of thousands, and if the highways through it were blocked at any point, they would be hard-pressed to turn the rig around before becoming encircled. The plan had been to relocate to the pickup if that occurred. Thankfully, they had been able to slow enough to navigate the sharp corners without too much difficulty.

  The only time they’d had a serious problem was in the town of Woodland Park, now miles to the south. The road had forked forcing Brown to slow the semi down to a near crawl to navigate the turn. Infected had poured from the surrounding area and nearly engulfed the truck, several actually jumping onto the cab. They were peeled away as he built speed back up. The following pickup had been able to navigate the corner more easily. The mass of infected had continued to chase them until they slowly vanished out of sight.

  The creek following the dirt track widens into ponds and marshland. Brown slows the semi even further, hoping the dust doesn’t obscure vision so much that Hayward plows the pickup into the back end. A lodgepole fence lines the road, leading to a doublewide black steel gate flanked by larger tree poles serving as posts. Black wrought-iron lettering on a top post reads: Rainbow Falls Mountain Trout.

  Brown brings the truck to a halt with a hiss of air escaping from the brakes. He sits before the closed and locked gate, the open areas and series of lakes still visible in the gathering gloom.

  “If any infected show up, we make a dash for the pickup and get the hell out of here,” Brown tells Clarke.

  “I though you said this place was so remote that no one would be around,” Clarke says.

  “It is, but you never know. This is a private fishing club, but it’s rarely used. I seriously doubt that anyone came up here when they became ill. And, it’s a little late in the year for most of the regular anglers,” Brown replies.

  Clarke leans forward, attempting to pierce the shadows. Covered picnic tables surround the series of lakes that fill the basin with tree-covered hills rising immediately to the sides. Several cabins lie almost hidden among some of the trees at the base of the hills. To the left, a large multi-story cabin sits astride a sizeable open area; part of one field is filled with solar panels. The scene fills Clarke with a sense of comfort, of arrival.

  After minutes of idling, there are no screams or other indications that anyone is near. Brown puts the parking brake on with a loud hiss of air. He walks to the gate and swipes a card to unlock it, swinging both sets of steel bars to the side. After both vehicles drive through, he returns to close and lock it. Crossing a sturdy bridge spanning the narrow end of one of the lakes, he pulls up to the large cabin and parks.

  Stepping down, Brown notices Clarke hold her arms around her.

  “It’s going to get colder than this…a lot colder,” Brown comments.

  Clarke shrugs; “So, this is our new home?”

  “Yes. There’s stocked trout and plenty of wildlife. We’ll have to figure out a greenhouse, but other than that, this place will provide whatever we need,” Brown responds.

  “It’s beautiful. I could get used to this.”

  “I’ve always liked it here. My plan was to build my own cabin up here and live out the rest of my days.”

  “Looks like you may get to live that dream. And, you won’t have to build the cabin,” Clarke comments.

  “Not quite the circumstances I envisioned, but yeah, I couldn’t think of a better place to be.”

  “Well, we made it yet again.”

  “That we did…that we did.”

  Chapter Ten

  Mediterranean Sea

  October 7

  Admiral Gettins stares out of the window, the vibrations of the helicopter all but unfelt. Phosphorescent wakes stream behind the remaining ships of his task force as they make their dash out of the Mediterranean. Moonlight reflects off the surface of the sea, creating dancing sparkles of light. In the distance, the darkened hulls of the vessels abandoned to the infected sit bobbing silently on the swells. The tide will eventually sweep those ships onto beaches, run them aground in shallows or reefs, or bash them against rocky shores, stranding them forever.

  The sight of so many lost ships makes Gettins sick to his stomach. At a time when they need every person and resource, the loss is almost too much to bear. The thought of all they have to do, and with the clock running, is overwhelming. The urge to turn the armada toward a resort island and just give up is strong…to just camp on the warm sands and slowly let humankind fade away. He only had seventeen months until he was going to put in his retirement papers. Now it looks like the only retirement he’ll get is when the first shovel full of dirt lands on his face, if he’s even that lucky.

  Although some aspects of the world have become less risky, the fall of civilization removed any restraints it facilitated. Some survivors may see that as freedom and opportunity to fulfill whatever agenda they might have. Even though they haven’t heard a word from other governments or whatever vestiges might still be remaining, that doesn’t mean that they aren’t around. Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. And being stuck in such a confined space doesn’t make him feel any better. Looking in the direction the fleet is traveling, he studies the thin darkened coastal outlines of Sicily to the north and the northern coast of Libya and Tunisia to the south, peeking above the sea. Seeing them reminds Gettins of just how narrow the western stretches of the Mediterranean are.

  He’ll feel a measure of relief once they pass the Strait of Gibraltar and enter the Atlantic proper. Of course, that will also mean running through the gauntlet of submarines that were usually posted near the entrance. When he decided to extricate the task force from the area and join up with the George Washington, messages were sent to the few attack submarines remaining. They were to race to the strait and scout the passage. At the moment, two are patrolling without having reported any contact.

  It could be that the Russians recalled their fleet ships, Gettins thinks as the helicopter descends toward his flagship. I need to contact them ASAP so some situation doesn’t get blown out of proportion. Their remaining forces are likely to be as trigger happy as ours.

  A bump rocks the helicopter as it settles on the deck of the USS Mount Whitney. Upon exiting, Gettins is immediately surrounded by several staff as he quickly strolls across the grated steel surface.

  “Sir. You are requested in the CIC,” one officer states, yelling in his ear above the sound of the helicopter winding down.

  “What is it?” Gettins asks, his anxiety increasing.

  “I’m not exactly sure, sir, but it looks like Iran launched into Israel and they retaliated,” the office replies.

  “I didn’t think anyone was left in those regions. At least, no one responded to our calls,” Gettins says.

  The officer merely shrugs his response. Stepping through a door, Gettins replaces his cranial with his ball cap and proceeds to the Combat In
formation Center.

  “Admiral on deck,” the Marine on guard calls.

  All within the room turn their heads, but no one comes to attention. The CIC is considered a tactical watch area. Coming to attention would take them from the primary duty of protecting the ship and maintaining situational awareness of the force. The call is merely an informational notice to all hands within the room. The officer in charge of the combat center makes her way over to Gettins.

  “What’s this I hear about an exchange? Is it nuclear?” Gettins asks.

  “Sir. As near as we can tell at the moment, someone gained control of the long-range missiles within Iran and launched fourteen into Israel. We’re not sure who ordered the strike, just that they launched,” the officer states.

  “And let me guess, the Israelis retaliated by going nuclear,” Gettins interrupts.

  “I’m afraid that’s what it looks like, sir. The Israelis have only launched one bird so far.”

  “Has there been any activity on either side since the exchange?” Gettins queries.

  “Not that we’ve seen, sir. Our attempts to contact either side have gone unanswered. We’re monitoring the situation, but at the moment, it seems like a one-off exchange.”

  “I suppose that’s a good thing. We have increased security on the Libyan side in case there’s anyone left over there with ideas of glory. Keep me posted,” Gettins says.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Walking to the communication center, he thinks how lucky they are that they’re out of range of anything the Iranians have. Given that they have the capability to launch, he holds no doubt that they would have targeted any Americans within range.

  Thankfully, our ships were well away from Iranian shores.

  However, they have the Russians and Chinese to contend with. In addition, there is the remote possibility that North Korea could send their subs into deeper waters, providing they had any that were still active. As secluded as they had kept their country, they were still devastated by the virus. No one that had the remotest contact with others was spared. He makes a mental note to thoroughly go through the document sent from the mainland detailing what they knew about the viral agent. They’ll need every bit of knowledge in the coming days and weeks.

  After managing to contact the Russians, Gettins sits on the edge of his rack, rubbing his head. Exhaustion is about to overtake him, but he needs to contact Admiral Stevens, the commander of the soon-to-be-consolidated Seventh Fleet. Kneading his scalp, feeling the closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair, does little to ease the forming headache or alleviate his tiredness.

  He’s kept his five-foot-ten frame in shape, but he feels there’s nothing he could have done to prepare him for the shit storm he’s been thrown into. The future of humankind rests on his shoulders, and he can ill afford to make any mistakes at this juncture. It’s not that he feels like some kind of savior or martyr, nor Atlas, but he’s in charge of some forty-five thousand sailors and Marines scattered across two oceans. And that’s it…no replacements, no reservoir to draw from if things go south. Forty-five thousand against what? Seven-point-two billion plus?

  Over time, that number will shrink, but so might theirs. It’s his job to minimize the losses on his side while managing to eke out a long-term survival solution. Luckily, he has good people whom he can rely on. All of them are professionals, and if they do it right, they can carve out a place for themselves. They just have to get through the next few weeks unscathed. And they need to get those damn nuke plants under control. If they don’t, then the real estate they can use will get drastically smaller. He’s already written off Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. There’s nothing he can do for the hundreds of reactors there, and he doubts there’s anything anyone else can do either. Most are beyond the reach of any surviving naval force. Some fallout may eventually drift to the western shores of North America, but not in life-threatening amounts. If they can get the central and eastern plants shut down properly and successfully move the spent fuel rods, they may have a chance.

  Gathering the last of his energy, Gettins connects with Admiral Stevens. The screen shows a haggard man he barely recognizes.

  “God, I hope I don’t look like that,” Gettins comments.

  “I only look like death warmed over. You look like you’ve been in a long engagement with him,” Stevens replies. “How are things on your side of the world?”

  “It looks like Iran and Israel sent each other a parting gift,” Gettins states.

  “I saw that. Well, that part of the world was most likely going to be gone anyway,” Stevens says.

  “True enough. I just worry how many others may have access to nukes.”

  “Let’s hope that number is zero. If not, then this may be a short ride. I mean, I don’t think the Russians or Chinese will do anything, as they most likely have their hands full as well. The North Koreans or Iranian boats don’t have the capability, so I think we’re okay in that regard. Assuming you managed to contact the Russians, how did that tea party go?” Stevens asks.

  “They’re in worse shape than we are. They have the Kiev operational and are looking along the eastern seaboard for a place to set up shop, but they don’t have anything as yet. My guess is that they’ll have to go for a port as they don’t have much in the way of assault craft. While we didn’t hug and make up, we agreed to a truce between us. Neither of us will do anything that could spark an altercation. Our paths shouldn’t come anywhere close to each other,” Gettins briefs.

  “Does that mean that they’ll ‘address’ the ‘fishing trawler’ currently crawling up our ass?” Stevens queries.

  “I would assume so. We set a time for exclusion zone enactment to give any vessels ample time to extricate themselves. That should be in a little less than two hours. If they’re moving away, leave it be. If they elect to disregard our warnings and remain in place, send a stronger message,” Gettins answers. “If they ignore that, turn them into toothpicks.”

  “And the Chinese?”

  “No response from them. I think they’re in a worse place than any of us, if our imagery is correct. They have a very small contingent of vessels still under power. From the satellite footage, it looks like they may be going after Taiwan or some of those islands they created. Be careful, you’re almost neighbors with them at the moment. They’ll surely have some of their submarines out. While I don’t think they’ll try anything—we have far greater firepower—they may try to sneak in a punch. We can’t take anything for granted,” Gettins states. “The Brits and French are searching along their respective shores for survivors and a secure area. That’s about it for the world.”

  “I’ll breathe a little easier after we get out of these cramped quarters and into the open ocean.”

  “You and me both. It’s a little claustrophobic here.”

  “So, is the plan still the same? You go after the nuke plants and we go to Petersen to get satellite control? After we establish forward bases,” Stevens queries.

  “Yeah. We need to move fast on our side. Once the grid goes down, we’ll only have a matter of hours. And we still don’t know what to do with the spent fuel rods. We can’t exactly just take them to Hanford or any other depository. Those locations require power and will be facing the same problems. That’s another issue facing us,” Gettins says.

  “We could bundle them up and drop them on some ice shelf until we get things under control. Or, we could put them on a shuttle and launch them,” Stevens suggests.

  “Yeah, like any of us has the first clue about launching a fucking shuttle. It would more than likely do a one-eighty and crash on us,” Gettins says.

  “Well, that would end the problem.”

  “I’d prefer to go in my sleep with a harem around me.”

  “If you figure that shit out, send me an invite. What about throwing all of that junk into one of our subs and scuttling it over a deep trench? One that has little to no current?” Stevens asks.

  “I’ve thought about
that, and it may be the best solution given our time constraints.”

  “Okay, nuke plants and Petersen. What are you thinking about after that party?”

  “Well, we won’t be able to take back the country. At least not yet. Even if the infected can’t really fight back in the same manner, we just don’t have the resources to take out some three-hundred-plus million of them. Aside from nuking them, that is. But, that would pretty much defeat our purpose. We’d pretty much expel ourselves from the mainland worse than any nuke plant meltdown ever could.

  “We’re kind of in a catch-22. We can’t directly assault too many places because we can’t afford the losses that may entail. But, if we don’t take over some of the oil fields, refineries, and manufacturing plants, then we’ll trickle back into the Stone Age. So, we’ll have to focus on the more important objectives. We’ll have a year’s supply of fuel available before the reserves go bad, so oil fields and refineries in potentially remote locations. Then we look at manufacturing. Of course, that will require power either on a grid or local basis. That means northern Canada and Texas. We have to establish a supply flow substantial enough to sustain us. If we can get a carrier into port, we can use the onboard power to potentially get a limited grid online.

  “What would be nice is if those infected conveniently starved or just dropped dead. That may happen in the northern latitudes as we get into winter, but it doesn’t appear that they’ll do as we want in the southern climes. I’m having some of the staff keep an eye on their movements and ability to survive. What are they eating? Are they drinking? That sort of shit,” Gettins briefs.

  “Could we take out whatever supplies they’re using to survive?” Stevens queries.

  “It’s possible. But, that could also mean taking out what we’ll need. I just don’t know enough at this point. We have a lot to do and we have to avoid spreading ourselves too thin. Whatever we do, it will initially have to be on a regional basis. Or something we can set up remotely. I see localized clearing operations giving us some room to breathe. Our greatest danger is having infection spread into our ranks. Above everything else, that is our first priority. Let’s get our first objectives accomplished and then we can look past that. The landscape may have altered by that time,” Gettins responds.