ARES Virus (Book 2): White Horse

by John O'Brien

  Jennings clambers through a fence line and climbs the embankment onto the highway, the north-south lanes separated by a grassy median. His platoon spreads out on line, holding the middle. The others spread out left and right. Behind, the company mortars are being set up. The Humvees roll over the fence, two setting up on the pavement, the others mixing in with the platoons on either side.

  Ahead, smoke covers any view past the burning town. Just behind and to the side are the smoldering remains of a trailer park. Jennings scopes the city. The silhouettes of two gunships materialize in the smoke. They turn, facing south. Flashes of fire leave from pylon-mounted rocket launchers, followed by streams of barely visible tracers. The two helicopters then turn and race over the top of the company, their ammunition expended.

  Jennings looks up as four Viper gunships arrive, taking hovering positions along the company line but out of the mortars’ trajectory line. A single chopper emerges from the smoke ahead, moving slowly. It halts to hover, then slowly inches another few yards in their direction. The helicopter is leading a mass of infected from the southern metropolis toward them.

  “Be ready. We have a lot of company on the other side of the town,” Jennings hears over the radio.

  His heart thunders in his chest, not knowing what to expect. He steadies his crosshair down the highway, looking for the first figure to emerge from the smoke. The helicopter drawing the infected suddenly turns and bolts down the highway, thundering overhead as it heads to the rear.

  “We are weapons free,” the company commander radios.

  The first figure emerges, a solitary infected running out of the smoke. Jennings zooms in, focusing. He’s taken aback by what he sees. The frenzied eyes, the madness. The infected’s face twisted in anger the likes of which Jennings has never before seen. The creature he’s seeing looks pure evil.

  “Anytime you’re ready, Jennings,” the platoon commander says next to him.

  The MK20 bucks, Jennings already having started the trigger squeeze before the lieutenant’s command.

  The infected crumples and drops to the pavement. The death seems to be a trigger that launches hundreds of others into motion. Infected pour out of the city from all angles. Jennings had been expecting for them to come nice and neat along the highway, but the infected roar out of the town as though through the open gates of hell.

  The entire company opens fire, tracers streaking across the fertile fields and along the freeway. Bodies in the leading line of infected fall, the ones behind hurdling the bodies or throwing them aside as they run toward the company. Rockets from the gunships race outward with trails of flame, erupting in the midst of the horde. Holes are created from each blast, but are quickly filled with new bodies. Smoke and flame blast up and out from the mortars, yet still the mass of infected stream out of the city, racing across fields and down the pavement.

  Jennings concentrates on one target after another, taking them down with semi-automatic fire twenty at a time before having to replace his mag. Oftentimes, the target he focuses on drops just as he pulls the trigger, other rounds finding their way to the mark before his. Still he continues to fire, finding one face after another. Smoke from the automatic fire drifts above and along the line of Marines.

  The .50-caliber turrets from the Humvees tear huge holes, figures thrown back from the heavy rounds. The roar of one hundred fifty weapons firing on automatic, accompanied by the heavy chunks of the large caliber guns, is nearly overwhelming. Shouts of reloading and commands occasionally rise above the din. Lines of infected drop as if a scythe is sweeping through their ranks. But, they continue to close the distance, the mass more than can be taken down.

  Shells from the gunship’s Gatling guns fall to earth in streams. Falling bodies are quickly overrun by the ones following. Brass casings litter both the road and fields, more being added with each passing second. Empty mags are replaced, bolt releases unlocked. The empties are restored, as they aren’t limitless like before. Gradually, the infected close half the distance, still racing.

  “We’re out and returning,” the gunships call.

  “Pull back…pull back,” the order is given.

  The volume of fire diminishes until there’s only the heavy thunks of the .50 calibers. The company turns and races down the highway, trying to keep ahead of the horde behind them. They pass through the lines of the company behind, running to a location to the rear where they set up, ready to do it all again once the company ahead turns and bolts to the rear.

  Rinse and repeat, Jennings thinks, wandering over to prepositioned ammo crates.

  Runners from each squad gathers boxes for the others to reload. As soon as they passed completely through the lines, the other company opened fire. The Humvees, filled to the brim with ammo, take positions among them. Two gunships settle overhead and begin delivering fire.

  Jennings, along with a hundred and fifty others, tries to catch his breath. Voices range along the line; “That was intense.” “Holy hell, did we even put a dent into them?” “Did you see them go down?”

  It’s not long before the gunships fly away, the other company turning to run. Once through, Jennings and the others start firing into the oncoming horde. The line of infected seems to slow, some stumbling in their tracks. It appears they are becoming winded as well. Some motor on, others lag behind as they gather the strength to continue. The once solid line of infected begins to shatter into ragged clumps.

  The company concentrates their fire into the leading batches of infected, eliminating them before turning their attention to the stragglers. The mortars continue taking their toll on those following, bodies tumbling into the air like ballerinas and parts of bodies sailing among them. A surge comes from the infecteds’ lines as the tired ones recover and race toward the company. The Marines turn and fold through the lines behind them once again.

  The leapfrogging continues, the lines of infected surging at times, flagging at others. Jennings is exhausted, the running and adrenaline taking its toll. All along the lines, others show their fatigue. They’ve folded northward in increments, the lines of infected still solid. Thousands of bodies line the sides of the road from the town north, but more still come. He drops another figure in his crosshairs as the order to cease fire comes. Down to his last mag, he doesn’t know whether to be thankful or curse. The order means yet another sprint to the rear. The company’s run to the rear is now more like a fast trot. Behind their compatriots, they fall into an exhausted line.

  His mind has long since lost track of time. He only goes through the motions he knows instinctually, reloading and making sure he’s fully stocked, sipping water through the tube in his mask. He’ll go on until he falls to the ground. The company ahead breaks their line and folds back, each Marine passing by looking as exhausted as Jennings feels. In his tired state, he’s confused by the order to hold their fire that comes down the line.

  * * * * * * *

  Hills of West Virginia

  October 15

  Lieutenant Pritchard presses hard on the brakes, holding her screaming hornet at the end of the runway. She pushes the throttles past the detent and into full afterburner. The fighter noses down, eager to be set free. Releasing the brakes, the jet surges forward, the center lines racing underneath faster and faster. The airspeed indicator rapidly climbs, the end of the runway drawing close nearly as quickly. She pulls back on the stick, the nose rising and gear leaving the ground just prior to the end. Grabbing for the gear handle, she raises it, then the flaps. This is her third sortie of the day, and each time she’s wondered if she’ll get airborne before she runs out of runway.

  The first flight had been against hordes of infected gathered by helicopters in the fields surrounding the air force base. The second had been against a town to the south. Each return to the target zone had been filled with more and more columns of smoke as other super hornets delivered their ordinance. Slowly, as one flight after another made their bombing runs, they were clearing out the infected in the
area. This time, they would be providing support to Marine companies who landed some time ago.

  The transit from the outfield to the base was the same, the radio filled with traffic. As she and her flight ingressed, she gave her call sign, number in her flight, and their ordinance. She was directed into a holding pattern southeast of the base. They wouldn’t stay long, as they didn’t have a lot of fuel to loiter. She’s amazed at the planners, having to figure out departure times and missions for a variety of aircraft scattered across a dozen fields. Pritchard smiles at the image that forms in her mind of a bunch of nerds gathered in a dark basement.

  As she circles, she is struck by the sheer number of smoke columns. It seems like the entire plain is on fire, yet each plume its own individual one, set apart from the others. They all surround an open clear area, the base itself. She acknowledges as her flight’s call sign is radioed, calling again as she hits their initial point, inbound to their target.

  Behind her, the others of her flight take their spacing. She races above endless fields, turbulence from the fires occasionally rocking her aircraft. The sun is a brown orb ahead as the rays attempt to pierce the pall of smoke. The screen picks up her target as the EWO in back zooms the camera in. A host of infected are marching near the outskirts of a burning town north of a larger one to the south. The picture shows a wide swath of bodies littering the ground behind the gathered horde, thousands upon thousands, covering nearly every square inch of earth. Craters dot the landscape behind, filled with bodies. It’s a warzone that Pritchard has only seen in pictures. And she and her flight are about to add to it.

  The cluster bomb units drop, her fighter feeling much lighter and more nimble. Over her shoulder in a climbing turn, she watches as winks of light march through the ranks of infected. In thirty second intervals, three more passes are made over the horde from her flight. She informs combat control that they’re clear and they start their return to their interim base to refuel and reload, ready to do it all over again.

  * * * * * * *

  Grissom Air Force Base, Indiana

  October 15

  Jennings nervously eyes the line of infected closing in. The order to fire hasn’t come and they’ll be hard-pressed to extricate themselves if they wait much longer. After all, they are only running, as are the infected, so there aren’t any separation gains. If they wait much longer, they won’t make it through the company behind and certainly won’t give those Marines time to fire effectively.

  A roar brings his attention back from his thoughts. A jet streaks over the horde, one container falling from the wings, then another.

  Oh, I see.

  The canisters break apart, small objects being flung away and down. A string of eruptions roll down the gathered horde, flinging bodies into the air. Right at the tail end of the explosions, another loud roar streaks over, releasing another set of canisters. The thunder of explosions rolls across the field, the Marines cheering. It’s like seeing the cavalry appear at the end of a hard fight that could go either way. Smoke roils above the mass of infected as a third roar announces another jet. After the fourth races past, the rolling barrage of explosions having ceased, the order to fire is given. Tracers streak across the field into the remaining infected. Two gunships arrive overhead, adding their rockets and chain guns to the mix. At long last, Jennings sees through the horde. Those remaining still run mindlessly toward his company, the line severely diminished.

  The two companies continue leap-frogging, but the end is in sight. An hour later, the last infected drops to the ground, the field and roadway smoking and littered with the dead. Jennings climbs into the helicopter, more exhausted than he’s ever been in his life. A fresh company rolls out to take their place. With the sun nearing the western hills, he crawls into a tent set up close to the small West Virginian runway and collapses, sleep taking him before his head hits the ground.

  * * * * * * *

  Grissom Air Force Base, Indiana

  October 16

  Sergeant Jennings steps through the perimeter fencing of the correctional facility that is located in a corner of the base, of all places. Smoke still fills the plain, rising from smoldering ruins all around. The only infected found in the area are on base, and those structures are protected from bombing by order. Thus, the Marines are on the ground again, searching through the hangars and buildings. His platoon’s task is the correctional facility, which has better groomed fields than any other headquarters base he’s visited.

  Although, it’s beginning to look a little ragged, he thinks, eyeing the buildings.

  The platoon spreads out on line, the buildings of the facility organized in two oval patterns converging on each end. Light poles are strung around the double fence perimeter, with two guard towers overlooking the site. Any infected outside were dealt with via the gunships, leaving the interior of the buildings. However, that doesn’t mean anyone isn’t still going to be vigilant outside. Enough of them have been overseas to know not to take anything for granted.

  Jennings is still tired from the day before, but the twelve-hour coma he went into helped considerably. He eyes the buildings, their windows and doorways shaded by overhanging roofs. Several infected have gathered at a window in one of the central buildings, hammering on the glass with little to no effect.

  “Sir. It looks like we have some voyeurs,” Jennings says, pointing.

  “Shit. I was kind of hoping there wouldn’t be any left alive.”

  “They don’t look far from death, to be honest,” Jennings states.

  Those staring out and clawing at the glass look like they can barely stand, their scraping only going through the motions.

  “Still. We only need one accident and we’d be done for,” the lieutenant says. “Do you think a claymore would go through the wire-embedded security glass?”

  “Only one way to find out, sir.”

  “If it opens a hole into the interior, there’s a chance that more will come out.”

  “True enough. However, they’ll also be funneled, so as long as we have ammo, we should be good,” Jennings comments.

  The use of a claymore against the structure doesn’t go against the preservation of the base logistic systems. Those mostly referred to preventing damage to the fuel, ammunition, and electrical systems.

  “Who has a claymore with them?” the lieutenant calls.

  Several Marines raise their hands and the lieutenant grabs one.

  “Me, sir?” Jennings queries, the lieutenant handing the claymore to him.

  “Why not?”

  “Would ‘because I’d rather not’ be an appropriate response?”

  “No, Sergeant, it would not,” the lieutenant says, smiling.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Jennings says, grabbing the device with its associated wire and clacker.

  He strolls over, anchoring the legs into the soft soil near the window. He adjusts the angle, nervous at the infected just feet from him, their screams muted not only by the thick glass, but also by of their apparent nearness to starvation. As he twists the wire into place, he glances at the five standing nearby. Three are in deeply stained guard uniforms, one in slacks and a button shirt, the last in a blouse and skirt. It’s difficult to define any one color on the civilian clothes, as stained as they are.

  Five pairs of eyes stare down at him with the same ferocious rage he recalls seeing yesterday. With mouths wide open, they press against the window, yearning to get at Jennings. He thinks it’s like a shark tank in an aquarium, with great whites pounding against the glass repeatedly to get at the onlookers. Their hands and faces create streaks on the glass, turning the panes nearly opaque.

  He continues looking at them, kind of mesmerized. The five on the other side of the glass were once people like him. They had loved ones, longed after goals, yearned for the weekends when they could do their hobbies. They fretted over seeing their paychecks, rolled their eyes when they saw their parent’s number on their phones. All of those emotions and feelings wiped
away by the tiniest of organisms, leaving behind only a deep-seated hunger that can’t be satisfied, perhaps an anger so deep that it overrides everything else.

  Jennings unreels the wire as he walks backward, glad to be away from the five infected. He connects the clacker, handing it to the lieutenant, who waves away the gesture. With a shrug, Jennings yells “Fire in the hole” and presses in quick succession.

  The blast rolls over the top of the roof, the bushes behind the device stripped clean. A squad kneels, carbines aimed at the cloud of smoke, ready to fire should any infected emerge. The smoke clears. The window has vanished, now only an opening in the thick walls. The walls themselves are scarred from ball bearings slamming into the concrete surface with tremendous force. With his rifle held ready, Jennings advances to the side to get a better view.

  The bodies have been shredded, now little more than tattered, bloodstained clothing. The walls of the room in which they stood are pockmarked with streams of red running down the surfaces. Shards of bloody glass are scattered in an arc around the opening. Not only did the hundreds of ball bearings, driven by a block of C-4, slam into the bodies at close range, but the shards of shattered glass tore them into hamburger.

  “Well, that was demonstrative,” the lieutenant states.

  “Holy fuck,” several other Marines comment.

  The platoon carefully works its way through the buildings, using C-4 to blow open locked doors. Within every cell of every cell block, dead infected lie on the floors, their fingernails torn and bloody as they tried to claw their way out.

  With the afternoon sun peeking through layers of smoke, Jennings’s group is the last to report in. The base buildings have been cleared, most of the infected within having succumbed to water deprivation. Hunter teams continue to prowl the countryside and will do so until not a single infected is found. For now, though, the base is theirs.

  * * * * * * *