ARES Virus: Arctic Storm (16 page)

Turning to Hayward, “And make sure to dry your shit out if it isn’t already,” Brown adds, referring to his wet clothing.

Beyond their line of sight, the sky takes on an orange-tinted glow, signaling the end of a day. Helicopters stationed over the city and firing upon anything moving are replaced by others so they can refuel and rearm. Smoke from expanding fires covers the city in a brownish smudge. Fighter bombers return to bombard the areas around the new noisemakers, and the process starts again.

Brown watches Emily remove her blanket poncho and lie next to the fire. She’s out just moments after laying her head on her pack. Staring at the light and shadows that dance across her face, he wonders what they’ll end up doing with her. One of the ideas churning through his mind for after he and the two cadets exited from the city was for them to report back in from outside the cordon. He’d think of some reason for them to have been away and to have been just then returning. Having Emily with them pretty much kills that idea. The three of them have no real connection with her that could be easily explained, and it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that she came out of the city.

We’ll think of something, but that’s tomorrow’s business. Right now, it’s time to recuperate from today’s ordeal
.

Pineville

September 2

Rod Kennison pushes the shingle fork under yet another set of tiles and wipes his brow. Taking an extra day off work, he figured it was the best time to begin the re-roofing job that he’d been putting off for far too long. The music playing in his earbuds from his iPod drowns out most of the incessant scraping. Divorced nearly a year ago, he’s just now getting out and beginning to lead a normal life. It’s been a long climb out of the pit that he’s been in, but things have started turning around. He went out on his first date since his wife decided that she’d prefer being with her fitness instructor, and is looking forward to going out with Chelsey again.

Looking at the progress that he’s made, he figures that he could finish scraping by the end of the day or perhaps early tomorrow. Almost half of the roof lies bare, but the hard work and sun has taken its toll and he’s started to slow down.

I’m so out of shape. I need to get down to the gym
, he thinks, patting a slightly rounding belly that was once the home of a six-pack.

Flinging the beads of sweat from his forehead, Rod looks at the early afternoon sun glaring down from high overhead. Even though the roof is only twenty or so feet closer to the sun, it feels like he’s being baked over an open bed of coals. Several empty water bottles have already tumbled into the dumpster below, but more bottles rest in ice water in a cooler he’s tied off near the chimney.

Maybe I’ll finish this half, then rest for a few hours and start on the other side later this evening after it’s cooled off
, he thinks, setting the scraper down.

With one foot on either side of the peak, Rod ambles across the top of the roof. The gritty nature of the remaining shingles makes his footing iffy at best. There have been a couple of times when his continued presence on the roof was in question. In his mind, it’s about fifty-fifty whether he can finish the job without at least one tumble to the lawn below.

Reaching the cooler, he grabs a chilled bottle of water and leans against the chimney with Tom Petty playing in his ears.

Maybe I should just call someone to do this, go inside, and turn on the Xbox
, he thinks.

As his work has progressed, the roof seems to have grown larger, and he knows that the project has only just begun. Once he clears away the old shingles, he’ll have to replace several of the plywood sheets before he can begin putting down the water barrier and new shingles, which he expects to arrive tomorrow. Luckily, the delivery truck has a crane that will lift the heavy items onto the roof for him. He can’t imagine having to break those down and cart them up the ladder himself.

The thought alone of all he needs to accomplish over the weekend is tiring. Although he enjoys doing things himself—hard work and the joy of accomplishment—that doesn’t mean that he likes the monotony this project entails.

Once he sees progress being made and can actually measure it, it becomes easier. It’s the beginnings that get to him, when it seems likes he’s on a treadmill with nothing to show for his efforts. A treadmill, that’s just how he feels this last year has been—just putting one foot in front of the other, waiting to feel alive again.

The beginning is always the worst part of any project
, he thinks, gulping down more water.

Leaning against the chimney, he removes his earbuds, wanting to hear something other than the music. It’s great while he’s working and needs to keep his mind occupied, but when he rests, he likes to hear the natural sounds around him.

The music is replaced by the “tick, tick, tick” of sprinklers sending arcs of water across lawns and the sounds of children playing in their imaginary lands, the echoes of their play rising and falling. Occasionally, the brief sound of a passing car reaches his spot on the roof, but mostly it’s the congregated hum of people who have settled into their day.

Several houses down, Rod watches two children run from the side of a house, being chased by a larger kid carrying several water balloons. Squealing as they race across the front lawn, they disappear around the corner. Rod smiles. For one of the few times in a long while, he feels part of something, not just a bystander but actively involved with his life.

Faint screams of a different nature drift above the afternoon activities of the neighborhood. Rod pauses in mid-drink, listening. More shrieks carry on the air, screams that sound surprised, fearful, even panicked. He pushes away from the warm brick, focusing in the direction of the screams, trying to see through the branches of several trees growing along the side of the street.

Thinking that one of the kids in the area has been hurt, he begins to slide, shuffle, and step toward the ladder, the aluminum top protruding above the eaves. More screams join the first, these louder and more intense. He pauses at the ladder, looking in both directions down the street.

Whatever that is, it’s getting close, isn’t it?

Some of the adults still at home glance from their windows; others actually step out into their lawns to see what the shrieking is about. Children stop their play and venture from their backyards. Watching the nearer corner, he sees several kids along with two adults run into the intersection, looking back over their shoulders. Their obvious fear is engraved into his mind, sending a chill up his spine. Hard on the heels of those running are ten or more adults and children, intent on catching those just ahead. Rod watches in shocked horror as those fleeing are overtaken. One by one, they are swarmed and vanish under a tide of bodies.

The struggle is short-lived, and the attackers soon rise, leaving bodies lying on the pavement. Eyeing those standing in their yards and in the streets, the assailing group disperses, racing toward whoever is nearest. Rod is frozen by the appalling scene, his mind unable to take in what he’s seeing. Numbly, he continues to watch as the bodies left lying in the street, bloody marks on them clearly showing, rise. With ear-piercing screams, they too race toward those immobilized by shock. Other groups arrive, flooding the neighborhood with their presence and unending shrieks.

All at once, the neighbors begin to react with their own screams of fear. Mothers grab their children, or call to them, dropping whatever they happened to be carrying. Several people further away run to vehicles parked in driveways, herding their children quickly into seats. They back out of driveways, but are too late—they are overtaken and pulled struggling from their vehicles. Up and down the street, people are overpowered under a seemingly endless stream of attackers. Assailants run through open doorways, break through windows, and smash into those doors that remain closed. Moments ago, the neighborhood was filled with the summer sounds of children playing and lawns being mowed, but now, it is a place of screaming horror.

What in the serious fuck?!
Rod thinks, sickened by the carnage below.
Are these fuckers on drugs? Did the water get contaminated by another act of terrorism? What could possibly turn a human into this kind of monster?

He is shaken from his stupor as several attackers see him squatting on his roof and race toward him.

“Nope, nope, nope,” he mutters, grabbing hold of the ladder and starting to pull it onto the roof.

One of those below grabs the ascending ladder, attempting to pull it back to the ground, and hopefully Rod along with it. The faces of those gathered below are smeared with fresh blood, their clothing and hands stained red.

Rod pulls with all of his might, his feet slipping on the gritty surface of the roof. The one that he’s playing tug of war with has the added bonus of gravity on its side. Rod momentarily considers letting go, but he won’t be able to get off the roof if he does.

“This is mine, you motherfucker,” he yells.

Pulling upward as hard as the slope of the roof allows, he slips a few inches, digging in his heels. But it’s no good, and he slides again.

The blood-spattered figure below has his arms stretched upward, yanking on the ladder to pull Rod down. Rod, in desperation, uses gravity and the creature’s own strength to his advantage, and suddenly pushes down hard. Not expecting such a maneuver, the one below is taken by surprise, the bottom rung slamming into the bridge of his nose. Blood sprays outward from the impact, adding to that already on its face. Stunned, it lets go of the ladder, which Rod then quickly pulls upward.

Hauling it hand over hand past the halfway point, the ladder tilts and then lands on the roof with a metallic clatter. He grabs each rung within reach and pulls the remaining length of it onto the roof, until no part of it is left hanging over the edge. Below, several of the assailants screech and futilely reach toward him, some trying to scale the very walls. He backpedals away from the eave, more careful of each step than before. The gritty roof still threatens to send him into a slide over the edge, only this time, instead of a sprain or perhaps broken bone, death awaits.

But, is it really death?
he thinks, inching his way to the roof peak.
Those who were attacked didn’t die, I don’t think. Instead, they rose up and joined their attackers. So, did they die? No. So, what happened then?

His thoughts stray back to the idea that something was put in the water…or, if not, then from some similar source.

This looks like some kind of infection that is spreading. Or, it could be drugs. But, what drugs go viral like that?

Screams continue to fill the neighborhood. Crazed people race in and out of houses, joined by others. A group of them have gathered on both sides of his house, all shrieking and trying to get to him. With the sun continuing to radiate heat, Rod realizes that he’s trapped on his roof for the foreseeable future. He keeps expecting to hear the sirens of emergency vehicles responding to the mayhem, wanting more than anything to see lights flashing at the end of the avenue.

Surely someone knows about this and is on their way. They’ll probably set up a blockade to seal off the area, then clean this shit up. Trapped is better than being infected with whatever this shit is
.

Sitting on top of his roof, Rod realizes that his best bet is to stay put until things get sorted out. He wishes that he had brought his cell phone up with him, but he was afraid of dropping it. Trying to get a signal on his iPod, he can’t get it to connect to his Walmart router. If he sees anyone—police, medical personnel, news choppers, anyone—he’ll get their attention so they know that there’s someone here who needs help. And also so he isn’t confused with those crazed psychos running through the streets. Being stranded on the roof should give an indication that he’s not one of them.

Thinking that he may be in for the long haul, he crawls across the peak and settles himself next to the chimney. He grabs another bottle of water, thankful that he went through the trouble to drag them up, and takes a big gulp. His nerves are shattered and his hands are still shaking, but he is able to breathe in relative safety, and he calms to some degree. The situation feels surreal, like he’s watching a movie instead of really experiencing it. He feels dissociated from the devastation surrounding him.

Looking across the neighborhood, splashes of blood dot the streets and the walls of houses. The vehicles parked haphazardly in the street have smears of blood streaking their sides and windows. Toys, torn clothing, pans, and other debris litter the lawns and pavement. With the exception of the group still frantically trying to get on the roof, the attackers have moved on. Screams continue to arrive on the afternoon breeze, but as the minutes pass, they grow fainter. It’s like a sudden summer storm came racing through, sweeping up all before it, and then moved on. Rod feels stranded by a rolling tide, floundering in its aftermath, alone and barely afloat.

Staying out of view from those below as much as he can, he settles in. The afternoon grows late, and he still has yet to hear sirens or see any sign that someone is dealing with whatever happened. He bakes in the direct sunlight, holding large tiles of the roofing over his head to shield himself as best he can.

Draining another bottle of water, he tosses the empty plastic container into the cooler. Earlier, he tossed one over the side of the house, but that caused the group hovering below to come to life, their screams echoing through the now empty neighborhood.

I guess I won’t do that again,
he had thought, startled by the reaction.

The empties float on the cool water, the ice having already melted. The ones still full bob just under the surface. If he has to, he’ll fill the empty ones from the melted ice.

After a while, the ones gathered around are calmer. He doesn’t hear them shuffling from the front to backyard, or vice versa. Nor can he hear any growling. The screaming ceased hours ago, and it seems they only become aroused when they’re startled or when they catch sight of someone…or something.

Once, he watched several of them take off after a cat prowling near the house across the street. The feline’s reaction was instantaneous. With a big “Nope,” it hissed once and literally turned tail and ran. The few infected who ran after it weren’t daunted by the speed at which it vanished, but chased after it around the side of the house. Rod has yet to see anything of those who left.

Shrieks carry faintly across the houses, coming from a distance. The afternoon drags on without any indication that anyone is responding. For a moment, he wonders whether any of this is real—whether it’s a dream, a nightmare, or some kind of weird post-divorce depression that drove him off the edge. He pushes aside the disorienting thoughts. Bizarre as the situation is, it’s real.