ARES Virus: Arctic Storm (11 page)

Lowering his head, Brown watches the man in his periphery, quickly glancing toward the cadets. He notices the two of them staring slack-jawed at the new arrival. His stomach clenches tighter, aware that one can sense when they’re being stared at. He doesn’t know what physics or psychology goes into that process, but knows through experience that it’s true nonetheless.

He gathers their attention by making a sound that carries only to their ears. Using minimal motions, he motions toward his eyes with two fingers, points at the creature, and shakes his head, hoping with every taut fiber in his body that they understand the message. If they’re located at this juncture, it will be all over.

It will be one hell of a final stand, but a final stand it will be
, he thinks, feeling the weight of his sidearm in his hand.

The infected rises from his landing, and continues its run toward the alarm. Two steps later, it comes to a sudden halt and begins looking around the yard. Its head quickly turns in random directions, as if it is searching out something felt but unseen. Knowing that they’ll be seen with merely a glance in their direction, as the bushes are only offering marginal concealment, Brown mentally readies himself for action.

Fire, run, and hope we can vanish quickly
.

Glancing toward Clarke and Hayward again, he notes that his message is understood. The two of them are staring toward the ground, but it’s obvious that they have to mentally force it, as their heads keep rising toward the infected only to inch back down. Another sharp sound thumps against the fence as a second infected scrambles over and lands in the yard.

It’s getting a bit crowded here
, Brown thinks, his heart threatening to beat through his ribs.

The new arrival, a teenage girl, leaps from her crouch and with only a glance at the man standing in the yard, races toward the opposite fence. Jumping onto it, she scrambles upward and vanishes from sight. The man quickly looks to his left and right. With a low growl, he too runs off, disappearing over the fence.

“That was too close,” Clarke mutters breathlessly, her body shaking.

Brown notes Hayward lean forward and tense even more. His mouth opens and a small stream of bile hits the bark. Brown places a hand on Hayward’s shoulder.

“Easy, son. Try to hold it in.”

Hayward clenches a few times, but manages to keep everything down.

The noise of the passing infected are all around as they converge on the blaring alarm. Brown waits for a moment, listening for any stragglers on the other side of the fence. Although it’s difficult to hear much over the combined sounds of the alarm and screams, he doesn’t hear or see anyone. Knowing that both the time and timing is critical, he forces himself to wait a minute longer, mentally counting the slow seconds.

Reaching sixty, he whispers, “Stay here. I’m going to take a quick look. Be ready.”

Inching along the fence, tense and anticipating one or several of the infected to appear, Brown arrives at the knothole. Not wanting to stay in the open a moment longer than he needs to, he peers quickly through to the streets beyond. Shrieks continue to erupt behind him, but all looks quiet down the avenues leading to his location. He doesn’t want to linger any longer, as there is a larger clock still ticking. However, he also knows that if they’re caught in the open here, that timer will become a moot point rather quickly. Seeing nothing in view from a second, closer look, he edges back to their tiny sanctuary.

“If we’re going to do this, now’s the time. If we’re seen, we head into the nearest house, breaking through the door if necessary. Then out the other side and try to get into the home two doors down. You know where to meet if we get separated.”

As Clarke and Hayward make to rise, Brown reaches out a hand.

“This is important. Once we get over the fence, you run like the very hounds of hell are after you. You don’t pause to take in the scenery or stop to tie your shoes. And, if you let an old man beat you, I’m staking you down in a front yard and placing an alarm clock next to you.”

The two cadets stare at him, wondering if the speech is over.

“What are you two numbskulls waiting for? An invitation? Let’s go.”

Without another thought, the three of them scramble over the fence, trying to make a minimum of noise and miserably failing. This is a time when speed is more important than stealth. And unless someone is more than a few feet away, the shrieks and siren just a few houses away cover their noise.

Brown races across the street, briefly glancing in each direction, and doesn’t see anyone along the avenue. Most of his attention is focused on the two cadets attempting to break through the speed of sound as they dash across the pavement. They nearly hurdle the chain-link fence encircling the first yard. Hayward and Clarke pause in the middle of the backyard with their hands on their knees, gasping for air. Brown glances at them and mutters “Idiots” as he continues past to vault over the opposite tall wooden fence. Two simultaneous thumps against the fence let him know that the cadets understood his message.

As Clarke and Hayward catch their breath, Brown huddles against the fence and listens for any sounds of pursuit. Hearing none, he starts to feel a little better about their situation. Although time is still a pressing matter, they’ve made it through yet another encounter.

“We beat you,” Clarke quietly states.

“Who was the first into this yard?” Brown replies, looking over his shoulder.

“We beat you across the street,” Clarke responds.

“Dummy. If you stop while you’re still completely in the open, then you’re not across, are you?”

“No, I guess not,” Clarke says.

Seeing her downfallen face, Brown adds, “But, you did well.”

“I’ll go find an alarm clock,” Hayward says.

“Don’t forget the stakes and some rope,” Brown comments.

“Sorry about throwing up back there,” Hayward says.

“It happens to everyone. But, try to control those actions in the future. Most don’t think about bodily functions causing noise at the wrong time. Try not sneezing when an enemy is only a couple of feet away and you really don’t want to be found. Now, that’s when it gets interesting. But, we’re still breathing. That’s really the only thing that matters.”

“Did you throw up on your first encounters?” Hayward asks, genuinely interested that they may have something in common and that, someday, there was a chance that he could be like the sergeant.

“Uh, no,” Brown answers. “I’m not a pussy.”

“Dammit,” Hayward mutters to the sound of Clarke chuckling.

“Okay, we’re back to Plan A. We head down a couple blocks, then cross if it’s clear, and make our way back to the house. Are you two done with your picnic, or should we wait for dessert?”

“It depends on what dessert is,” Hayward replies.

“It’s my boot up your ass. Now, get a fucking move on, Numbnuts.”

For the hundredth time, Brown gazes up at the sun that seems to be speeding across the blue sky. Instead of bringing warmth, it seems a weight on his shoulders. He wills it to stop, but the ball of fire doesn’t care.

It probably has its own problems to deal with
, he thinks, leaping over yet another fence.

A small flock of startled birds take flight at the sudden appearance of the three survivors, causing Brown’s heart to jump. The constant flight and danger has begun to take its toll. Brown finds it difficult to believe that he was relaxing in the sun with a good book just a day prior. The death of Mendez seems like it happened weeks ago, if at all. The past is a blur, the only reality is the next few moments.

Blending caution and speed, the three make their way through backyards, cross the street, and make their way to the girl’s house. Without really knowing how, Brown finds himself in the neighboring yard with the two cadets. A scan of the surrounding area shows it to be momentarily free of infected. Focusing his attention on the upper and lower windows, he looks for some sign of movement. The blank windows with curtains pulled to the sides stare back, empty. The only sounds are the screams of the infected a few blocks away.

“You two stay here. I’m going to scout the front and try the back door. If it’s open, I’ll wave you over and we’ll head in,” Brown says.

Pulling the slide back to check on a chambered round, he’s met with the satisfying gleam of brass. With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Brown slides over the short fence. He’s been surprised that they haven’t run into more dogs traversing the back yards, but they haven’t had to deviate from their path more than a couple of times.

Maybe there’s some homeowner’s association rule or something
, he thinks, edging along the fence toward the front of the house.
Wouldn’t that be something? To make it this far only to be taken down by a nervous Rottweiler?

Crouched behind a small bush at the house’s corner, he looks along the street and into the neighboring yards. A flash of movement catches his eye as a gray cat scampers across a yard and quickly vanishes.

Okay, so maybe the HOA rule only includes dogs.

The scene is similar to every other neighborhood street he’s witnessed. Doors opened, windows broken, several vehicles sitting at angles within the street, the driver doors hanging open, the occasional sprinkler watering a lawn, miscellaneous items scattered haphazardly across yards and pavement.

Brown shakes his head at the indiscriminate nature and speed of the infection. Satisfied that there aren’t any infected in the immediate area, but with the background shrieks reminding him that they are close, he turns back, leaving the chaotic ruin behind.

At the back door, he peers through one corner of the window. Within the expansive kitchen lies a pan with its contents spilled across the wooden floor. As far as he can see inside, nothing is moving. The door proves to be unlocked. A slightly cooler breeze flows past his cheeks as he cracks it open. Seeing more of the interior only reveals more of the same: a mess on the kitchen floor, nothing moving.

Motioning Hayward and Clarke to join him, he cautiously steps inside. The smell of the spaghetti on the floor and the congealing sauce overrides anything else. Brown is tempted to call out, but is afraid of what might answer. On the other hand, if he just magically shows up, he might get shot. If there’s anyone here left alive, they’re sure to be trigger-happy.

“Keep in mind that there may not be anyone here at all, and that we may be dealing with one of the infected,” he cautions.

Holding his handgun poised and ready for use at a moment’s notice, Brown moves through the kitchen. While skirting the spilled food, he notices a darker stain on the floor that he immediately recognizes as dried blood, sending a chill up his spine. Once again, he thinks of abandoning this little side jaunt and hauling his ass out of the city.

This is the kind of shit that gets you killed
, he thinks, staring at a scene that obviously has a story attached to it; one he knows is repeated thousands of times over inside other homes.

He takes another deep breath to ease some of the built-up tension before continuing on. His ears are tuned for the slightest noise within the house: the creak of a board, the whisper of a drawn breath. He expects an explosion of noise with each step he makes toward the corner. The absolute quiet somehow feels worse. The anticipation, the dread of not knowing what’s around the bend—that he could be quickly overwhelmed in such a confined space. Brown glances back to the bloodstain that seems to tell that very story. A second deep breath brings the panic rising inside of him back into an equilibrium of sorts.

Next to the kitchen is a dining room and an opening into the rest of the house. Brown puts his shoulder against the wall at the corner and closes his eyes in order to give his other senses higher priority. He listens and attempts to “feel” his environment. The house is completely silent. Opening his eyes again, he rounds the corner in a fluid movement, dropping to his knees and bringing his sidearm to bear.

He looks to the opposite corner. Seeing nothing with his first glance, he quickly shifts attention to the opposite left corner, then the closer one. Nothing, except the continued silence. It’s as if the house is holding onto its story, at least for a while longer…perhaps forever.

Brown pauses for a moment to take in the room. Open drapes hang beside a large picture window, revealing the chaotic devastation outside. In the room itself, one chair and an end table lie upended. Beyond the open living room, stairs rise from the foyer with barely heard shrieks from the infected drifting in through a half-open front door.

Rising from his crouched position, Brown scuttles through the living room, attempting to minimize his time in front of the window. Near the foyer, splintered pieces of wood lie on the floor from where the door was forced open.

“Close those curtains halfway,” Brown whispers, directing Hayward and Clarke. “But pull them slowly so that the movement doesn’t attract attention.”

While the cadets go about their task, Brown eases the door closed, ever mindful of the stairs at his back. Once completed, the three gather at the bottom of the steps.

“Okay, look. That front door was forced open, and, with the blood on the kitchen floor, it’s pretty clear that we’re dealing with an infected in here,” Brown states.