ARES Virus: Arctic Storm

Book I of Ares Virus

A Novel by John O’Brien

Copyright © 2016 John O’Brien

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without permission in writing from the author. You may contact the author at
[email protected]

Cover art by: Dean Samed

Conzpiracy Digital Arts

http://www.conzpiracy.co.uk

Also by John O’Brien

A New World Series

A NEW WORLD: CHAOS

A NEW WORLD: RETURN

A NEW WORLD: SANCTUARY

A NEW WORLD: TAKEN

A NEW WORLD: AWAKENING

A NEW WORLD: DISSENSION

A NEW WORLD: TAKEDOWN

A NEW WORLD: CONSPIRACY

A NEW WORLD: RECKONING

A NEW WORLD: STORM

Companion Books

A NEW WORLD: UNTOLD STORIES

A NEW WORLD: UNTOLD STORIES 2

A Shrouded World

A SHROUDED WORLD: WHISTLERS

A SHROUDED WORLD: ATLANTIS

This story was developed from a short story I did some time ago that evolved in my mind into a much longer tale. The original was in an anthology with ten other authors: Brent Abell, Shawn Chesser, Mike Evans, Joe McKinney, Armand Rosamilia, Eric Shelman, Heath Stallcup, Mark Tufo, Jack Wallen, and Jay Wilburn, titled Middletown Apocalypse. The premise was for each author to compile their own story around set parameters; to come up with their own version. Make sure to check it out for some amazing short stories surrounding an apocalyptic event.

The tale within portrays some aspects of the military in an unkind light and I want to say upfront that this yarn is not a depiction of my views in any way. Although events of this kind could happen, please keep in mind that it’s just a story. Some of the locations are entirely figments of my imagination and can be any town or city. The same goes for of any specific military units described.

As with any fictional book, I ask that you suspend a small measure of belief. Viral agents would not be shipped in such flimsy containers, nor would protocols described in the story actually be enacted.

So, enough of what the book is not. Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a…wait, wrong story. There are some nasty viruses that we share our world with, some natural and others manmade. I wanted to have a narrative about what would happen should one of those escape into the populace. Thus, the ARES Virus came to fruition.

I hope you enjoy the first part of this story. If you do, would you be so kind as to leave a review. As I’ve mentioned before, I read every review and only through them, with your own words, do I feel that I can become a better writer. On that note, enough of my babbling. Let’s get on with the story.

John O’Brien

Colonel Koenig scowls at the order in his hands, reading it for the hundredth time. No matter how many times he scans the paragraphs, the meaning doesn’t change.

“Trouble, sir?”

Looking up, Koenig gazes across his large polished wooden desk to the major standing at ease in front of it. For the past couple of years, they have run the USAMRIID facility based in Frederick, Maryland.

“Just more of the same; stupid orders coming from those completely out of touch,” Koenig answered.

“Isn’t that always the case?” Major Skier asks, rhetorically.

“This beautiful piece of work,” Koenig states, flicking a finger at the sheet, “is ordering us to send samples to third-party labs for test verifications.”

Koenig sees Skier’s eyes widen momentarily at the news. It is an expected reaction. The simple piece of paper could have huge ramifications, not to mention the potential for disaster—the least of which could result in the accidental release of the samples stored in the underground laboratories. Some of the stuff they keep isn’t meant to see the light of day. There are a few that, if the public found out, the outcry would be huge. The ‘sainthood’ the country tries to create in the eyes of its citizens would be sorely tested.

“Apparently, some oversight committee on the hill thinks we may be falsifying our results, or maybe they want to validate how their precious dollars are spent. I sincerely doubt the joint chiefs would be okay with this if they had a choice,” Koenig continues, handing the paper to Skier.

“Sir, are we talking about including weaponized viruses in those tests? I mean, aside from the difficulty of transport, there are very few labs capable of handling those materials—let alone having the necessary security clearances,” Skier states, reading through the order.

“I’ve spoken with General Hague at Medical Command. She doesn’t agree with the order, either, but confirmed that it means all of our samples. The verbiage is precise and clear, leaving little leeway. If it was discovered that we left any out, our funding would be closely examined and more than likely cut. With everything on the table, we can’t afford for that to happen right now.”

Silence hangs inside the large, plush office as both men contemplate the potential consequences of submitting all of their samples. There have been rumors in the past that they had weaponized some of the world’s most horrific viruses. It has taken great effort to quell those, and some still circulate from time to time. The stories floating in the cyber world have some truth to them, but they in no way tell the whole story of the biosafety level 4 lab storage contents. Security clearance or not, if they send everything they have, there will be leaks—which is of a much greater concern to the two officers than an accident.

“Sir, not to push the idea any further, but are we talking about sending out ARES?” Skier asks, breaking the silence.

ARES—Area Sterilization of Enemy Forces—was the latest development from the labs. Many names had been tossed around: STENFOR (Sterilization of Enemy Forces), STENCOM (the same, except used against Combatants instead of Forces), ARDEN (Area Denial), and so forth. Dropping the “enemy forces” from the abbreviation, ARES, being the ancient Greek god of war, was cheerily adopted.

Spliced with rabies, the virus enrages those it infects, whose mission then becomes one of propagation—spreading it to others. The trick had been to create a strain hardy enough to infect a large area, yet with a low enough persistence that allied forces could safely move into the area soon afterward. The general idea was that an area could be rapidly infected through an initial contact with the virus or infected saliva. In theory, that would destabilize any populated area. The masterpiece component was that the infected would enter a trance-like state within hours of not finding new victims, allowing friendly forces to move into the area and “clean up.”

The original focus was on triggering death after hours of inactivity, but they couldn’t get that component to work with any degree of reliability. The virus either became unstable or it quickly mutated. The problem lay in the need for the virus to be highly contagious. Developing a lethal virus with a highly infectious nature was easy, but those prototypes either killed immediately or took days to do so. Developing an organism that would cause death within hours while also sustaining the other desired effects had proven problematic. Ultimately, they had to forgo lethality. Once that was removed, the virus became stable and they were able to effectively introduce the trance state.

In order to accentuate a victim’s ability to locate and infect others, genetic components were included to enhance low light vision by altering the mix of rods and cones of the retina. In all, it was a masterpiece of viral splicing, and from a completely scientific point of view, Koenig’s pride and joy.

“That’s a tricky one,” Koenig responds. “The funding for that one comes through the black budget, but if it were ever discovered that we held it back…well, shit rolls downhill, and I’m sitting at the bottom.”

“So…” Skier says.

Koenig sighs deeply. “Yes, send it with the others, but only to select labs. Contact the labs to let them know what’s going on and to set up deliveries. Inform the CDC that we’re transporting live samples. God help us all.”

Skier comes to attention and salutes. “Yes, sir.”

Pineville University

September 2

Charlie looks up as the door to the biology department admin office opens. One of the senior interns pokes his head in and says: “Hey, Charlie. I just had a call from receiving. They say there’s a delivery. Head down and sign for it, will ya?”

“I have class in twenty minutes, man. Can you get someone else?”

“Nah. Just go down, pick it up, and take it over to whatever lab it’s for. You’ll have plenty of time.”

Charlie Nobel sighs dramatically. As the junior member on the team of interns in the biology department, he’s often the go-fer guy. The others who are actually working on their theses always seek him out to run whatever errands they’ve been assigned. As a biology junior, Charlie is a long way from being at their level. As a matter of fact, he’s not really an intern at all, but merely working off part of his tuition grant through the work-study program. The biology staff, not really knowing what else to do with him, made him an intern. He doesn’t get to work on any research, but he is on the periphery and hopes that the knowledge he gains will give him a boost in his classes. That is, if he wasn’t always being sent out for this or that.

As the other intern is about to leave, he turns and adds: “Oh, and it’s at our receiving door, not the school’s main one.”

“Fine. Where do I take it?” Charlie says, exasperated.

“Like I said, wherever it’s addressed to,” the intern states, and leaves, closing the door behind him.

Charlie glances at his watch, seeing the minutes swim past. He’ll be lucky to make it to his class in time. It’s one of his lesser classes and one he’ll pass with ease, but shit, he hates to be late. In his mind, it’s better to not show at all than to be late.

Making his way down to the small receiving door, he opens it and is surprised to see a host of black suits waiting just outside. Several dark SUVs are parked in the small receiving lot. Seeing a dozen well-built men scanning the lot makes Charlie feel as if he’s stepped into some espionage movie.

“Um…” is all Charlie is able to mumble as two of the suited figures approach.

“You’ll have to sign for this,” one states, holding a clipboard. “But I’m going to have to see some identification first.”

Charlie fumbles for his wallet, eventually plucking it from his pocket and handing his driver’s license to the taller, tanned man hidden behind dark sunglasses. Snatching the ID from his fingers, the man begins copying information onto his clipboard. Without another word, he returns the license and signals a man waiting near one of the SUVs.

As Charlie puts his wallet away, a small package is retrieved from the Suburban and brought to the door. Charlie grabs hold of the plainly wrapped package, momentarily taken aback by its weight.

“What’s in here?” Charlie asks, more rhetorically than as an actual question.

The three men silently stare at him for several seconds before turning away without a word. With a hand signal from the man holding the clipboard, the others smoothly climb into the SUVs. Gears are engaged and the vehicles exit, pulling into a convoy formation as smoothly as Charlie’s ever witnessed.

“Well, that was…interesting,” Charlie mutters, looking down at the package in his hands.

To Charlie, everything seemed so official, so secretive. Yet they handed him the package without knowing anything beyond what was printed on his ID. The two ideas seem diametrically opposed to one another. Shrugging his shoulders as best he can while holding the heavy package, he commandeers a wheeled cart and places the package on it.

With time racing by, and his upcoming class looming, Charlie looks at the address label in order to determine where he needs to deliver the package.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Charlie states.

He runs to the receiving door and forcefully pulls it open. None of the vehicles are in sight. Letting the door swing closed, he tromps back to the cart. He stares again at the label, hoping that he read it wrong the first time. Nope. The label still says “Pinehurst Labs”—not the Pineville University lab.

An easy enough mistake, I guess
, he thinks, pondering what he should do.

It’s the other part of the label that sends shivers up his spine: USAMRIID. Charlie involuntarily pulls his hand back and retreats a couple of steps. A package delivered to the wrong lab from the military’s foremost biological research facility. That’s not something he wants to touch with a pole from a state away. He finds himself holding his breath, not even wanting to breathe the air in the same room as the package. Thoughts cycle of weaponized smallpox and other nasty shit. Anthrax? Marburg? Ebola? A list of the nasty agents associated with biological warfare race through his mind, none of which he wants to be remotely close to.

After several seconds of panic, he begins to calm, realizing that whatever is within the package would have some kind of secure containment.

And, surely they wouldn’t transport and deliver such a thing in a plain cardboard package, and to an unknown someone who just happened to be standing at a door…and with only a driver’s license to show
.

Relief comes quickly, rationality taking control of his thoughts again. But, now he’s in a quandary as to what to do with the package. There isn’t a lab on campus to deliver it to, and he can’t very well call the people who delivered it. He could call the USAMRIID number, but he really doesn’t want to go that route. And he can’t very well just leave it in someone else’s hands. He had signed for it, and the delivery crew were some very nasty-looking people that he doesn’t want visiting him again.

Charlie tracks down the original intern and tells him the story, asking him what to do.

“Just take it over to campus shipping and let them deal with it,” the intern says, trying to dismiss Charlie as quickly as possible.

“Are you sure that’s the best idea? I mean, who knows what’s really in there. The USAMRIID handles some pretty serious shit,” Charlie replies.

“You asked my opinion, and I gave it to you. Do what you want.”

Clear that he’s not going to get any help, Charlie heads back down to the small receiving bay. It’s already too late for him to get to class, but missing one isn’t much of a worry. He doesn’t like to, but much worse is the package that he’s been saddled with. Perhaps he should take it to shipping, tell them it was delivered to an incorrect location, and have them take it off his hands. He’ll ask for a receipt in case the suits show up at his house at midnight, but he’s ready for this to become someone else’s problem.

Satisfied that he has come to a solution, he wheels the cart through the building and outside. The sun beams down on trimmed and landscaped lawns with wide walkways angling through them. The brick buildings, some with ivy growing up the sides, add to the pristine nature of the day. Pineville carries the last vestiges of summer, with only the slightest hint that rain, snow, and cold weather are just around the corner. The leaves on the majestic oaks and stately maples have turned, some falling to begin covering the freshly cut green lawns with golds and reds. The smell of freshly cut grass lingers in the air, carried on the lightest of breezes. In all, it’s one of those perfect days in which students suddenly take ill from their classes to enjoy the day outside of classrooms.

On the lawns, several students sit on blankets or on the grass itself, immersing themselves in a book or their own thoughts. Off to one side, it looks as though a teacher has decided to conduct class outside, with a group of students all sitting in a semi-circle. In other places, Frisbees sail through the calm air; one group is gathered in a circle playing hacky sack. In addition, Charlie sees shirtless guys tossing a football, their skin glistening with sweat. His attention, however, is primarily drawn to the women. Clad in tight shorts with blouses to match, they walk along the pathways on their way to and from their classes.

He wheels the cart onto one of the side paths, catching up with and following closely behind one such pair of shorts that has caught his attention. Everything else fades as he watches her walk, hoping that the slightest hint of a butt cheek will show below the tight hem. His thoughts fall away from his task as he watches her ass swing back and forth, immersed in fantasy.

The collision takes him by surprise. One moment he’s enjoying the scenery; the next, he feels a tremendous jolt and he’s flying through the air. With a grunt, Charlie lands on the edge of the concrete path, feeling a sting on his arm as it scrapes along the rough surface before sliding into the grass. The metallic sound of the cart being upended accompanies the sight of a football nearby, wobble-rolling away on the lawn.

“You all right, dude?” a voice asks from behind. Rolling onto his back, Charlie sees a well-toned shirtless guy standing over him.

“Sorry about that,” the man says, extending his hand to help Charlie to his feet.

Charlie brushes himself off, trying to remove the grass stains from his clothes, and looks at his arm. A large scrape has removed the upper layers of skin on his forearm, surrounded by several less severe scratches. Red-tinged plasma oozes from the wound and Charlie feels a burning sensation associated with the injury—one he’s well acquainted with, having played soccer for most of his life.

“Oh, shit, man. I’m really sorry,” the man says upon seeing the abrasion.

“It’s all good. Shit happens,” Charlie returns.

“Well, dude, again, I’m sorry,” the man says.

Charlie nods his reply, barely noticing Craig as he turns to gather up the football. Instead, Charlie is focused on the upended cart with the package lying on the walkway next to it.

Fucking seriously?!
he thinks, wondering if his day could get any worse.

The woman he had been following stands on the pathway, having stopped to see what the commotion was behind her. As he appears to be okay, she gives him a smile and turns to resume her walk. Charlie wonders if her smile was flirtatious, a “perhaps-I’m-interested” one, or maybe she was only being nice and making sure he was okay. He never had been good at reading women. His heart beats rapidly from nervousness, and he wonders whether he should approach her and introduce himself. The sway of her hips and her long brunette hair grows smaller. With a deep, longing sigh, Charlie returns his attention to the cart.

He rights the cart and picks up the wrapped package, noting that one corner is dented inward.

Crap, crap, crap! I hate my fucking life
.

With his arm still burning, he contemplates what to do next. The shipping department may not take a damaged package. They may tell him to just bugger off, that they aren’t taking any liability for it. Charlie looks at the label again, searching for the address of the lab where it was supposed to be delivered.

Of course there wouldn’t be one. Well, this day is wasted already. I’ll fucking take it there myself and tell them it was delivered this way.

Turning around, he wheels the cart toward the lot where he parked his ten-year-old Honda Civic. As he pushes the package back across the park-like expanse of the large quad, the wheels squeak as if the cart is injured as well. What Charlie can’t see, nor anyone else for that matter, is the invisible cloud
 
fumes trailing behind him, coming from the dented package.