ARES Virus: Arctic Storm (2 page)

Pineville University

September 2

Siri gives Charlie an address and directions to Pineville Labs. Following the female voice, he finds himself proceeding through the middle of the city. With his windows down and enjoying what he can of the nice day, he turns down the music in order to hear Siri’s warning of an upcoming turn. The warmth of the day, though not overly hot, is making him a little light-headed. He barely heard, or for that matter understood, the last instructions. Once he gets the package sitting on the passenger seat delivered, he’s heading to his one-bedroom apartment and cranking on his Xbox.

This has already been a wasted day, might as well make it complete
, he thinks as Siri issues a direction.

That’s the last conscious thought he is able to understand. His head suddenly swims and an overwhelming dizziness takes hold; he unknowingly presses down on the accelerator as his head slumps forward. The car lunges into the busy intersection where Charlie had been waiting at a stop light. He doesn’t feel the collision with the bus coming from the side street.

The Honda Civic crunches under the impact and is sent spinning across the intersection, where it collides nearly head-on with a lamp post. The sounds of squealing metal and shattering glass cause the pedestrians waiting to cross the street to turn toward the noise. Many look, only to see their death rapidly approaching. Six people are caught by the careening vehicle before it slams into a post with a solid crunch. Four of them die instantly, while the other two lie bleeding on the ground, their deaths taking a few minutes longer.

Several others are hit and thrown backward, the sound of their bones snapping lost beneath the screeching of the bus’s brakes. The smells of oil, gas, anti-freeze, and burnt rubber permeate the intersection. The sound of squealing tires stops, replaced by screams from the wounded and the terrified witnesses. Ruined bodies dot the corner, blood smeared on the concrete sidewalk.

Charlie’s airbag deploys, but it only cushions an already lifeless body. The package leaves its seat and is launched through the broken windshield upon collision. Sailing through the air, on its second fall of the day, it hits the side of a building with a solid
thunk
. Bouncing off the concrete wall, it skips down the sidewalk. If anyone was listening, they would have noticed the changes from solid thuds to ones that sounded much more fragile.

Many of the people packing the sidewalk, each on their own errand and buried in their own thoughts, fall within seconds. To those watching, it looks like a row of dominoes falling. That is, until they rise again, and the real screaming begins.

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With a blanket spread beneath him, Sergeant Brown sits on the expansive lawn of the school commons, relishing a little time in the sun with the smell of summer still in the air. Tearing his eyes away from his Kindle, he looks up from the book he’s reading. He’s six books into a series about night runners that he started on his last tour, and is appreciative of the time he has to himself. Looking over to the far side of the large commons, he catches sight of a young lad wheeling an aluminum cart, like those you may find in a library. Brown notes where the young man’s attention is focused, and smiles.

Oh, to be young again
.

Feeling relaxed, he’s content to merely watch the lad follow the young woman. Only part of his mind is actually watching the two, the rest is absorbing the day. Brown’s attention perks up as he notices an upcoming collision—one of the shirtless students is madly streaking to catch an overthrown football, his attention on the ball and not on where he’s going.

This is going to be quite a surprise for both of them
, Brown thinks, a warning from him virtually useless at this distance.

The two collide, one going at full speed, the other practically standing still.

“Oooh! That’s going to leave a mark,” he cringes, seeing the two bodies go down in a flurry of limbs.

The metallic sound of the cart tipping over and hitting the concrete pathway drifts across the commons. Sergeant Brown sees both of them stand, and continues watching to make sure that everyone is all right. The lad brushes himself off, uprights the cart, and studies the package he was carrying. Shaking his head, the boy replaces the package, turns around, and begins retracing his route.

That package could have contained the lad’s science project—something he had been working on all term and was on his way to deliver for a grade. Brown thinks how that boy’s day may be ruined by that one moment in time, one that he never saw coming. A collision not of his making, turning what promised to be a fine day into a disastrous one. He’s had the same thoughts when he’s observed people along the side of highways following a collision, how their day and perhaps the next couple of weeks were ruined just because of a singular moment in time. How they looked forward to getting home and putting their feet up at the end of a long day and now are stranded on the side of the road with their vehicles in need of repair.

The excitement over, Brown returns to his Kindle. The day is warm and damn near perfect—one of those days to be spent reading and then napping under the sun. Having spent the last several years stationed overseas in Iraq and Afghanistan, he’s long past the point of being sunburned. Much of the contentment he feels is because of this assignment with the ROTC program, his last post before retirement. Yeah, he’d take this assignment any time. There’s only paper to push—no sand to clean out of every orifice just to find more immediately taking its place. Under his short-sleeved army shirt, sweat trickles down his side and he feels the rigid weight of the ribbons pinned to his chest.

The weight of years in the army
, he thinks, swiping to a new page and losing himself again in the book.

Brown periodically looks up while reading and scans the area, a force of habit. During one such moment, a short time after the incident, Brown notes one of the footballers drop to the grass. One moment he’s standing around, chatting with his buddies; the next, he slumps to the ground. Sergeant Brown wouldn’t have given it a second thought, except for the way the guy fell so suddenly. Brown has witnessed many guys go down from the heat in the desert, and this guy fell in a similar way.

Placing his Kindle on the blanket, Brown rises to go help. Two steps toward the boy, he sees the same thing happen to several others within the commons; they just fall to the ground in place. It’s as though a hand reached down and began arbitrarily plunking over toy soldiers. The boy who first fell thrashes for several moments and then rises, screams, and begins ferociously attacking the lads who were bent over him.

The same happens to all of those who fell… others who were out enjoying the day with him. Every one of them rises with screams and locks on to the nearest person, tearing into them with intense savagery.

Nope…nope…nope
.

Brown has been in enough situations and has enough training to recognize the signs of some kind of toxic agent. His mind immediately recalls the boy with the overturned cart. Looking across the expanse of the commons, he sees the building from which the boy emerged. Engraved letters carved over the entrance denote the Biology Department. That cements his theory.

Someone created some kind of toxic agent and was carting it across a crowded area—fucking moron!

The attacks multiply as the commons fills with screams of fear, agony, and aggression. Other shrieks erupt from various directions across the campus; some far away, others closer. Without another thought, Brown turns and runs, leaving his Kindle, blanket, and the attacks behind.

He knows that he needs to exit the area immediately, but his mind wars with what that means: to get off campus or hold to his responsibilities. Duty wins, and even though it’s just an ROTC assignment, his place in the event of emergency is at headquarters.

“Well, fucking A,” he mumbles, slightly altering his path to make for the ROTC building.

His Corframs don’t give him the best traction, but adrenaline propels his muscular six-foot three-inch frame with enough speed to give Jesse Owens a run for his money. Screams near and far stir the once calm air, the tranquil day transformed into one of violence as if a switch had been thrown.

Two people, a male and female, enter the commons near Brown, and upon seeing him, alter their path to an intercept course. They fly across the lawn with almost inhuman speed, their mouths turned back in grimacing snarls with streaks of blood flowing down their chins and smeared across their cheeks. At the ends of their madly pumping arms, their fingers and hands are stained bright red.

The two have a good angle on him; there’s no way he can turn to get away from them. Seeing an upcoming fight, Brown slows as he knows there’s no way defend himself at a dead run. That would turn into a tackle and wrestling match, and he’d be at a disadvantage against the two of them. Side by side, the two race toward him.

Almost at the last minute, he steps to the side of the leftmost attacker. The man tries to stop and make an adjustment, but only manages to reach out an arm and throw himself off balance. His speed and momentum carry him past. Brown turns with the passing man and slams his massive fist into the back of the assailant’s head, connecting with the lower side of his skull. Coupled with the momentum, the punch sends the man flying through the air, until he hits the ground with an “oomph” and slides to a stop; he doesn’t rise.

The woman stops her mad race, pivots on one foot, and lunges at Brown. Ready for this move, Brown punches straight out, slamming his tightly curled fist into the bridge of her nose. Her head rocks backward as blood forcefully squirts from her nose, mixing with the dark streaks already covering her lower face. Not content to merely throw one punch and see what happens, Brown is now in full battle mode. He jabs sharply with his left, throwing his shoulder behind the strike. Mentally targeting her spine rather than just her throat, he feels the cartilage of her esophagus give way. Trying to draw breath through her ruined throat, the woman’s chest heaves with effort. Blood streams from her nostrils and she slumps to the ground, her hands grabbing at her neck. Not wanting to prolong his stay in this suddenly hostile environment, Brown turns and leaves the woman violently thrashing on the ground.

Screams echo off the walls of the buildings and emanate, barely heard, from within every structure. Arriving at the ROTC headquarters building that sits nearly adjacent to the commons area, Brown pauses a moment to catch his breath before climbing the wide steps. Smeared blood covers part of the glass on the inside of the heavy set of double doors. He hesitates, knowing that entering the building will shorten his line of sight and his ability to react, thereby limiting his options. He always hated having to go into buildings in Iraq and Afghanistan: anything could be around the next corner or in the next room.

And there are far too many corners
, he thinks, pulling the door open with a sweat-slickened hand.

He steps inside, the coolness of the interior a stark contrast to the heat outside. The sweat on his cheeks enhances the chill. The door sweeps closed behind him, shutting off the shrill screams coming from the campus. He listens for any sounds within, but there is only hushed silence. The cold air isn’t the only contrast between inside and out.

Trying to keep the clop of his shoes on the linoleum floor to a minimum, Brown edges along one wall to the open stairwell situated in the middle of the floor. He keeps fumbling at his side and searching his pockets for a weapon that isn’t there, hoping that one might magically appear. This situation feels like one of those nightmares of standing in front of a group, completely naked and having just emerged from the chilled waters of a lake.

Still slightly panting from his run across campus and climbing the overly large steps, Brown arrives at the third floor, which houses the Army ROTC detachment.

I’m certainly not in the shape I used to be
, he thinks, looking down both directions of the hallway in front of him.

Sprays of drying blood line the walls, the thicker splashes slowly dripping down the surface. Smeared streaks of the same coat the floor. There isn’t a sound, nor is there anyone in sight. Cautiously stepping into the hall, he walks by an open door leading into one of the classrooms. The iron smell of blood fills the room and seeps out from the open doorway. Inside, dark and drying liquids cover desktops, walls, and the floor. Stained papers are strewn everywhere and binders sit amid overturned tables and chairs. Having witnessed several similar scenes, it appears as if a grenade had been tossed into a crowded classroom.

Sergeant Brown walks past the classroom and opens the door to his office, afforded to him as NCOIC of the detachment. Ignoring the streaks of blood splashed across the opaque window and the drips covering part of his stenciled name, he steps inside and closes the door behind him. It’s been his sanctuary amid the chaos of the cadets, and he feels that now with the chaos reigning outside.

He walks across the small office to look through the window. It offers a good view of the commons and the carnage happening below. Muted screams filter into the office as the figures below continue their mad scramble. Some are being chased, others are in pursuit. Those hounded are soon caught and brought down, only to rise moments later to join in the pursuit. Red gore and torn-up lawn mar the once pristine commons.