ARES Virus: Arctic Storm (7 page)

As he inches his way through the narrow gap between the next vehicles, he watches as Clarke reaches through an open window and pulls out an object.

“Interesting enough for you, Sarge?” she asks, holding up a large dildo.

“If that floats your boat, by all means, stow it in your pack,” he returns.

Brown watches out of the corner of his eye as she contemplates it for a moment, then tosses it back inside, muttering, “Too big anyway.”

Chuckling to himself, he tries the next vehicle and finds nothing. The three try car after car, working their way toward the front, eager to find one that will run. With so many infected, none of them want to walk all of the way out of town. If they can find a means to hurry along that process, all the better. With each shriek that sounds close, they pause, hoping that the scream will fade into the distance. Nothing comes their way, but each time, their actions are conducted with more urgency.

“Sarge, look what I found,” Hayward whispers.

Turning, Brown sees him holding a largish crossbow with several bolts attached to a quiver.

“Well. Look who pulled a gem out of their ass,” Brown comments.

“I have one like it. I wonder if it’s sighted in, and to what distance,” Hayward ponders, holding it up and looking through the fastened scope. “This one has a bit of a higher draw weight, though.”

Brown takes the crossbow and eyes it and the bolts as Clarke wanders over to see what has captured their attention.

“Do you know how to use one of these?” Brown asks.

“Well, sure. But it has a rope cocker, so I doubt that I’ll be able to reload in any kind of hurry,” Hayward answers.

Still holding the weapon, Brown says, “Let’s see what range it’s sighted into. You two walk out about fifty paces and hold up a piece of paper. Make sure you hold still or the test won’t be valid.”

The incredulous look he gets from the two cadets is priceless. They might not find it humorous, but he sure does. Saying things to get the reaction that he’s currently getting can truly make his day. The secret is to make them wonder if he’s kidding or not. However, circumstances being what they are, he’s not able to fully enjoy it.

“I’m kidding. You keep hold of this,” Brown says, handing back the crossbow. “However, know this. If you shoot me in the back of the leg, we’re going to have words. There’s nothing else that we can use here, so let’s keep moving.”

Reaching the parking lot entrance, Brown crouches next to a brick pillar, looking up and down the large avenue that services the campus. As Brown expected, against hope, they didn’t find any usable vehicles. Several cars are parked at angles along the wide street, some of them on the perfectly trimmed grass bordering the road. All of them have their doors open, the drivers having fled on foot in panic or been forcefully dragged from their vehicles. Brown notes dried splotches of blood splattered along the cars and in pools on the pavement. Adjacent to the grass, a line of trees runs the length of the avenue. Although screams continue to erupt in the distance at times, nothing is moving along the road.

“We’re going across the road and into the tree line. We’ll use that cover for as long as we can. Once inside, watch where you place your feet. We need to move as quickly as we can, but our primary goal is stealth. That means making no noise, for those who are verbally challenged. If we come across any infected, crouch down and keep quiet. If we have to run, well, just run. I’ll hold them up as long as possible,” Brown briefs.

Brown takes one last long look down the road. “Go…go now!”

Hayward and Clarke sprint across the avenue, Hayward awkwardly carrying the crossbow, and vanish into the trees. Brown follows once they’re across. Inside the cover of the trees, they begin walking through the brush and across ground littered with fallen branches. Brown slithers through, with the two cadets following as best as they can. To him, they sound like two elephants bashing through jungle on their way to water. Before too many steps, he halts.

“Okay, you two water buffalo. Do you have to step on every branch that you find? I swear you’re going out of your way to find ones you may have missed,” Brown states. “When I said watch your feet, I didn’t mean watch them crush everything underneath. If you find that you can’t put your foot down without stepping on a firecracker, push it aside with the toe of your boots and then step. Don’t go through limbs. Lift them, push them aside, pass by, and lower them.”

Looking properly chastised, Hayward and Clarke nod.

Officers!
Brown thinks, shaking his head.
This is why we have sergeants
.

Eventually the distant screaming fades, leaving the three to march through the trees in silence. Brown slows his pace to allow the cadets to be more careful. There is only the occasional brush of clothing against leaves and “snick” of a branch accidentally stepped on. A couple of times, they flush a startled bird from within a bush. Once their hearts settle, they push on. Some time later, the tree line ends, opening into a residential neighborhood. They’ve made their way out of the campus, but have a ways to go before exiting the city. Brown eyes the sun rising higher in the sky, understanding that he’s still in a race to beat the cordon that he knows is forming if not already closed. Deep down, he doubts that they’ll make it, especially with the helicopter overflights, but he’s going to try like hell. He’d rather die trying than just give up. Giving up is the same as trying to win the lottery without buying a ticket.

Just get through this neighborhood and we’ll be out
.

On the other side of a waist-high chain-link fence encircling a playground, rooftops rise above wooden fences separating the houses. Squeaking swings oscillate back and forth in the slight breeze, the only things moving.

“We’re sprinting through the playground and over that fence into a backyard,” Brown states, pointing his sidearm toward one particular house. “If either of you have any problem scaling a fence, now’s the time to tell me.”

Clarke and Hayward shake their heads.

“Okay, let’s go,” Brown says.

Uneasy about crossing such a wide, open area, Brown keeps an eye roving in every direction as he races across the grass and bark-covered playground. He’s thankful they changed into fatigues and boots prior to setting out, as he wouldn’t like to try this in his Corfram shoes. The slippery bottoms would make this akin to running on a treadmill. His legs would be pumping furiously, but he’d only be doing an impression of Michael Jackson—and not a very good one at that.

Reaching the fence, he leaps upward, grabbing the top with his hands as best he can while holding his weapon. Pushing off with one foot and pulling with his arms, he vaults over the fence, landing on his feet in a crouch. Brown immediately sweeps his eyes over the yard, covering it with his sidearm. Kids’ toys lie scattered across the finely manicured grass with a large grill standing on a small back patio, and a mower sitting idly to one side. Behind him, he hears Clarke and Hayward slam into the fence and madly attempt to scramble over it. They land beside him after a few moments of scraping their feet on the fence’s wall.

“Our definitions of quiet are worlds apart,” Brown whispers. “The idea was to go over it, not through it.”

Hayward begins to say something, but then stops, knowing there isn’t anything he can really say in response.

“Stay behind me. Don’t stop to play with the toys. We’re going to see what’s happening within these oversized cattle pens,” Brown continues, referring to how he views neighborhood developments.

With sidearm at the ready, and with an eye toward the house for any movement beyond the sliding glass door, Brown creeps to a gate leading from the backyard. Inching it open, he looks out. Seeing nothing, he slithers through and crouches next to the house.

While the backyard looked semi-normal, the streets and housing area beyond are anything but. Like the avenue leading from the campus, vehicles are parked every which way along the road, some driven into yards. House doors lie open or torn from their hinges. Shards of glass from broken windows rest on porches, glinting in the sunlight. In several yards, automatic sprinklers send sprays of water arcing across the grass. The normal and abnormal combine to create a very surreal scene. The only thing missing from the picture is a multitude of bodies lying sprawled in lawns and near the cars, though there are two corpses in the middle of the street with spent shell casings littering the nearby pavement.

Seeing the brass shells, Brown would like to search for additional weapons, but time is the one commodity he doesn’t have at the moment. Movement a couple of blocks away catches his attention. Without a sound, a small group of infected races across an intersection.

Well, there goes that theory. I guess we won’t be able to detect the infected by screams alone
, he thinks, watching the group disappear from view down a side street.

“We’ll keep to the backyards and quickly cross any streets we come to. There are infected about, and we’ll have to cross other fences like the one we just did. Do you think you will be able to scale the next one more quietly? I need an honest answer here,” Brown asks, turning to address the cadets.

Hayward nods and Clarke whispers, “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”

“Good enough,” Brown responds.

The three race across the street and into the shadows. With the sun rising ever higher, Brown feels the warmth of the day taking over. A breeze eddying around the houses and through the yards keeps the rising heat from becoming stifling, but it’s still felt. The sweat from the day’s stress combines with that from the day before, adding a little ripeness to the air whenever they pause. The only sounds that reach them are the “tic-tic-tic” of sprinklers and the occasional “ping” from metal expanding in the sun’s warmth. Each fence they come to is carefully scaled, sometimes with the assistance of various objects found around the yard to aid them—garbage cans, swimming pool ladders, patio furniture. Slowly, they make their way through the neighborhood, at times hiding from small groups of infected they luckily manage to spot first.

Tension builds with each yard they pass through, with each street they cross. As they move further though the neighborhoods, Brown feels as if they’ve already stretched their luck past the breaking point. To him, reality feels thinner, as if they’ve cheated it and shouldn’t have made it this far…that now it’s just a matter of time. In a strange contradiction, each section of the housing area feels harder to pass through—like the very air is becoming thicker. It’s as if pushing against a giant rubber ball: easy going at first, but as the ball compresses, it puts up more resistance. Brown feels they’ll eventually come to a point where they won’t be able to go any further, no matter how hard they strive.

Crouching at the corner of a house, Brown pushes the feeling aside and motions for them to sprint across yet another street strewn with debris from a day and night of terror. Rounding the rear of a car, leaping over a bicycle on its side, and hopping over a curb, movement to the side catches his eye. Less than a block away, a group of infected rounds the street corner. The infected pause; Brown and the cadets don’t. They have won the “who is more surprised” contest, although this is still just round one of the “suddenly running into each other game”: A game in which the three of them can’t afford to lose a single round.

Of course they would decide to come at this very moment.
Brown thinks, kicking his legs into a higher gear.

“Into the house—run!” Brown shouts.

The startled inactivity of the infected is short-lived. With a chorus of screams, they set off after the three. Bounding to the porch in one leap, Brown is tempted to turn to see what kind of a lead they have. However, the shrieks and the sound of pounding feet tell him all he needs to know. If he were to turn, he would be overwhelmed within seconds. Hitting the partially open door with his shoulder, he launches into the house.

A staircase in the foyer leads upward. Ahead, a long hall stretches almost the whole length of the interior with rooms branching to one side; another hall opens on the opposite side. The front door slams solidly into the wall. Without hesitation, Brown starts down the hall, knowing that going up will only trap them.

From directly behind, Brown hears Hayward yell, “Up the stairs!”

Not stopping, Brown calls back, “No, you idiot! The back door!”

In his periphery, he spies Hayward’s legs racing up the stairs—his call came too late. Clarke hesitates for a split second, looking from Hayward to Brown. Under the fear the infected, she is sick at the thought of Hayward becoming trapped. The hesitation is only momentary—she runs after Brown.

The house fills with screams, signaling that the infected have entered hard on their heels. The hall opens into a large kitchen. Skidding to a halt, Brown searches the expansive room.

Where in the fuck is the back door?

Brown spots it and runs toward one corner of the kitchen.

Please don’t be locked…please don’t be locked.

Ready to crouch and make a last stand should it come to that, he reaches out with his free hand. The knob turns and he flings the door open. He holds it for Clarke, who races past and outside. Brown follows, seeing the infected vanguard pour into the kitchen just as he slams the door closed.

Hopefully opening doors is a new concept for them
, Brown thinks, turning to streak across the nicely trimmed backyard.