ARES Virus: Arctic Storm (18 page)

Well, that’s just stupid. Why would you drop it so that the care package would be surrounded by infected and impossible to get to? Maybe the rescuers don’t understand that the crazies are drawn to sounds. That has to be it. At least one of my problems has been solved, though. So, I guess it was kind of a care package
, he thinks, shuffling toward the ladder lying on the roof.

He begins shoving the ladder over the edge. He’s hungry and his plan is to make a quick dash in for supplies. Above the chirping, he hears closer screams. Halting in mid-action, Rod watches as several infected round the corner of the closest intersection and race past his house, heading directly toward the noisemaker.

Easy, Rod. Patience, man…patience
, he thinks, hoisting the ladder back to the roof.

The thought occurs that maybe the military are purposely using noise to draw the infected away in order to affect rescues.

That has to be it
, Rod thinks, his spirits lifting: he’s finally alone, and something is finally being done.
Perhaps they did see me…maybe via satellite
.

Rod watches as the black dots of helicopters draw further away. Minutes later, dark smoke rockets skyward, the sound of the blast reaching him a second later. More follow. In a state of semi-shock, he turns in a circle and sees the same happening all around the city. Plumes of smoke lift toward the heavens, the roars from the explosions coming to him one after another, becoming one nearly continuous sound.

“Are they seriously bombing? Why? It can’t be that bad…can it? Even though they’re infected with something, they are still people…Americans,” Rod mutters, incredulous.

His mind is having trouble coming to terms with the fact that things could be bad enough to bomb American citizens. Thoughts race at high speed, often coming back to the fact that this is only one day old, and bombs are dropping.

They didn’t even give it a chance. They didn’t even try.

As helicopters return and begin firing rockets and machine guns, Rod begins to realize that whatever happened is worse than he imagined; so bad that they had to begin eradicating from the outset…that it warranted killing hundreds, if not thousands of civilians in order to keep it in check—that perhaps they do know what it is and can’t afford to let it out.

But, what can it possibly be to bring on such a response? Maybe it’s not that bad and they just can’t respond quickly enough…perhaps it’s just a kneejerk reaction.

Rod replays the images of the infected first sweeping through the area…and those who were bitten rising to join in the fray.

That was like some kind of zombie movie or something. Only, I don’t think they were dead. Were they dead? Come on, Rod…they weren’t zombies. That would be impossible. But, it was something, and something big
.

Rod hears more of the noisemakers being dropped and wonders if he should stay on the roof or get inside. Inside would afford more protection, but with the drastic measures being taken, there may only be one chance for rescue and he doesn’t want to miss it. Smoke drifts on the light breeze, dimming the sun. Lost in his thoughts, Rod doesn’t notice the helicopters again leaving the area.

An explosion bigger than any of the previous ones shakes the ground hard. Rod feels his ass clear the roof before it slams back down. A quick series of others explosions follow, until they are just one continuous roar with sharp punctuations.

Oh fuck! I need to get off here
, he thinks, shuffling and sliding down the roof.

He doesn’t bother halting at the edge to gauge his fall. The explosions are drawing closer and the ground is shaking harder. He sails over the edge, hitting the lawn and rolling. Sharp pangs shoot up his legs as he pushes to stand. A concussive wave hits, seeming to warp his body. He only feels it for a second, not really enough time for it to fully register, before darkness closes in.

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Karen turns the grilled cheese sandwiches, the buttered bread sizzling as they touch the skillet. Waiting for it to finish, she looks out of the window into the backyard where Carly and Angie are immersed in one of their fantasylands. Although only a year separates them, their personalities are worlds apart. At ten, Carly is the one who likes to be in control, dictating who does what and when. Her fairytales have a definitive storyline that must be followed to the letter. Angie, on the other hand, is more free-spirited and likes to come up with things on the spur of the moment.

Karen watches the two of them, Carly standing over her sister and pointing, frustration registering on her face. Angie shakes her head, smiles, and dances away, waving her arms like she is a butterfly in flight. Carly runs after her, talking and pointing, trying to convince Angie to go along with her storyline.

Happens almost every time
, Karen thinks.

She knows the drill. Carly will come up with some fantasy for them to enact, which Angie will initially agree to. Then Angie will embellish and change the story on the fly. Rather than listen to Carly, she will act out her vision while Carly chases after her, incorporating what Angie is doing while attempting to return to the original fantasy. As frustrated as Carly gets with Angie, Karen knows that the two are inseparable. There are plenty of kids in the neighborhood to play with, but they prefer each other’s company.

School will start again soon, for which Karen is thankful. She enjoys being able to spend the days with her two daughters, but they are also a handful. By the time Bill arrives home from work, she’s exhausted and ready to turn over parenting duties. However, she knows that he’s also tired and ready to relax.

Kids need to come with on/off buttons
, she thinks, dishing the sandwiches onto plates.

Calling the girls in, they sit at the table, devouring their meals like two vultures tearing into fresh roadkill.

Okay, maybe not that bad, but I’d be surprised if they chewed twice before swallowing
.

Karen knows that it’s because they’re eager to get back to their play, but she tells them to slow down, reminding them of the painstaking hours she spent cooking the sandwiches.

“Mo-om. You spent like maybe five minutes. They’re only grilled cheeses,” Carly answers through a mouthful.

“Carly, chew with your mouth closed,” Karen states for the thousandth time.

A shrill scream interrupts their lunch. Living close to the college and with a neighborhood full of kids, she’s used to hearing yells. Karen briefly glances toward the front windows before returning her attention to the girls, who are diving into the second half of their sandwiches. Another shriek, followed by others, draws her attention back outside.

“What was that?” Carly asks, setting her sandwich down and rising.

“Finish your sandwich,” Karen says, herself rising while pointing Carly back into her seat.

She walks to the living room window. Leaning over the couch, she pushes one side of the drapes farther to the side. Karen expects to see a group of kids playing tag or something like it; maybe one rode his or her bike into a tree. At worst, considering how intense the screams are, she’s afraid that she might see one of the kids hit by a car, but she didn’t hear the telltale sound of tires screeching. Startled screams of terror increase in intensity. Gazing out of the large pane of glass, the scene before her is the last thing she expected to see.

People she doesn’t recognize are running rampant across lawns, down the avenue, and into neighboring houses. They are swarming over everyone in sight and pulling them to the ground. Karen watches as the Johnson kids are taken down in their front yard, a group of people piling on top of them only to abandon them moments later, the two bodies covered in blood and left lying on the grass. Mr. Brower is mowing his yard across the street and looks up at the last moment as others plow into him. Mrs. Kincaid is pulled from her car as she backs out of her driveway, her minivan slowly rolling backward across the street, coming to a stop against a tree. Everywhere she looks, madness and chaos has taken over her neighborhood.

Karen stands transfixed, her mind not able to comprehend the reality of what is happening in the street outside. With a gaping mouth, she observes the strangers who have invaded her neighborhood run into houses, either through open doors or by breaking windows. She looks over at the two Johnson kids in time to see them rise from the grass and, with a loud scream, join the others.

Drugs? From the campus maybe? Is this bath salts, like what happened in Florida?
she thinks, mesmerized and unable to pull herself away, her kids and their lunch forgotten.

“What is it, Mommy?” Angie asks, pulling Karen from her stupor.

Two drug-crazed teens dash across her lawn just in front of the window, their sudden appearance startling her. Seeing her at the window, they pull up short, nearly sliding on the trimmed grass. Both open their mouths and shriek, the intensity vibrating the glass just inches in front of her nose. The two start running for the front door.

With a frightened shriek of her own, Karen launches herself away and toward the dining room.

“Both of you, into the basement,” Karen calls to her daughters.

“But, we’re not finished with lunch,” Carly says.

“What’s going on, Mommy?” Angie asks at the same time.

“Never mind, both of you. Into the basement, now!” Karen emphatically states.

Seeing Karen’s panicked expression, Carly and Angie jump out of their chairs. Carly stares at the remains of her sandwich, pondering whether she should grab the last piece to take with her. Two nearly simultaneous heavy thumps against the front door move her decision over to the “just run” side.

More loud bangs reverberate inside as shoulders hit the door. As the three of them race through the kitchen, Karen has an arm behind each girl as if the act will magically push them faster. It’s a protective measure that all parents subconsciously take in times of fear. It provides a barrier between the danger and the child, while also ensuring that they don’t stray away from the path.

Passing the kitchen window where she watched her daughters playing only a short while ago, she sees a group of four or five people run by. Within the group, she recognizes the Johnson kids, blood smeared on their lower faces with darker splotches on their clothing. Karen’s heart is already beating wildly; other than the singular goal of getting her and her daughters into the basement, she isn’t able to hold a coherent thought. Even though she’s already witnessed horrors beyond compare, the sight of the two kids—kids she’s known for years—threatens to overwhelm her.

She stumbles, nearly knocking over Carly and Angie. The sight of her two daughters gives her enough strength to continue.

Basement…basement…basement
, the litany runs through her mind.

Thuds continue in front, each one sounding a little more hollow than the last. Reaching the basement door, she throws it open. In her panic, she nearly shoves Carly and Angie through the door, but remembers the stairs that begin immediately beyond.

“Hurry, but watch your step,” she says, turning on the light switch.

“Mommy, what’s happening?” Carly asks.

Karen knows that her oldest daughter is terrified, because she never calls her “mommy” otherwise. Angie always uses that term, but Carly thinks that it makes her sound like a baby.

“No questions, just hurry,” Karen answers.

The kids start down, their footfalls on the wooden steps echoing through the unfinished basement. Following, Karen closes the door, alarmed that the door locks from the other side.

How can I lock it? What can I do? They’ll be able to get in. Help me!
She directs the last thought to anyone or anything that will listen.

She thinks of using something to wedge the door closed, but realizes that it won’t work from her side. Her mind searches for something—anything that will hold the door shut—but can’t come up with a single thing. She hears a crash as the front door gives way. With tears streaming down her cheek, she turns and descends.

At the bottom of the stairs, she sees a hammer sitting on top of Bill’s work bench and instinctively reaches for it. Footsteps pound on the ceiling overhead. Gathering Carly and Angie, Karen huddles with them on the basement floor.

“Mommy, there’s people in our house,” Carly states.

“We have to be very quiet now. Not one word,” Karen says.

Holding the hammer, Karen wraps her arms around her girls, staring upward at the closed basement door.

“Shhh…shhh…shhh,” she whispers, rocking the three of them back and forth.

Running footsteps continue overhead, heading this way and that. The light showing through the narrow basement windows flickers from time to time as people race past. All the while, shrieks, both loud and faint, resound throughout the neighborhood. Through it all, Karen rocks her two daughters, carrying on with her mantra. Overhead, footsteps head toward the front door and cease. A minute passes, Karen tense. Another minute.

The pound against the basement door comes as a shock, even though she was half expecting it. A jolt of electricity runs through her body and Angie emits an involuntary shriek. Karen’s heart is racing, beating like a machine gun.