ARES Virus: Arctic Storm (4 page)

Well, that’s accomplished
, he thinks, wondering if he’ll be caught before he reaches the stairs.

His plan after making it inside is a little more fluid—meaning he’ll wing it, depending on what presents itself. The large stairwell leads to an intermediate landing before turning in the opposite direction to head to the second floor. Brown’s plan at this point is to just run. The slap of shoes on the floor behind announces that it’s his only choice, and that it may be a short-lived one.

He takes the stairs, leaping two and three at a time. Still holding both the wooden staff and handgun, he grabs for a wooden railing to aid his turn at the landing. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his pursuers just a few scant feet behind. Their faces are contorted in what he can only describe as a deep-seated rage. Brown thinks to use his firearm, but to take down five would mean depleting his meager supply of ammo by nearly a quarter. He won’t hesitate to use it as a last resort, but that point has not quite arrived, though it’s quickly approaching.

Halfway up the second flight, with the infected an arm’s reach away, Brown grabs the railing and vaults over it.

“Maybe not such a good idea,” he mutters, sailing down toward the bottom steps.

He adjusts his angle slightly, attempting to land squarely on the steps. Hitting an edge will roll an ankle and send him tumbling, pretty much ruining any further plans. If that happens, the last resort will have arrived. He hits and bends his knees to absorb the impact, the shock of the landing rolling up his legs and back.

Way too old for this shit
, he thinks, looking up.

His five pursuers have stopped and are looking over the railing, growling their disapproval. They then turn and begin running back down the stairs.

“Not brave enough for that maneuver, eh?” Brown mumbles, and turns for the entrance.

He’s gained a little separation, but not enough to have any option other than to keep running. Feeling winded, and with the fall having taken a little out of him, he’ll have to come up with something soon. Brown had thought that his conditioning would enable him to outpace a few college kids whose primary exercise had been raising a beer to their lips.

That may have been a bit of an underestimate
.

He races down the short, blood-spattered hall to the front doors. Turning at the last minute, he hits the doors at almost full tilt, slamming his shoulder as his hip hits the opening bar. The impact sends jolts of pain through his body, but the door flies open. Turning quickly, he puts his hand on the slowly closing door, the hydraulic mechanism hindering him.

“Come on…come on, you fucker…close already,” he chants, watching his pursuers close in.

Comparing the speed of the infected with how slow the door is closing, he knows that he won’t make it in time. They’ll come crashing through before the door is completely shut. This is his only chance, though. If they reach the open area, he knows that he’ll be caught in short order. Besides, he’s already sacrificed the small advantage he gained by jumping over the railing. Putting the handgun through the slowly closing opening, he aims at the nearest one and pulls the trigger.

The crash of gunfire is deafening, but most of the sound is contained within the building. The round slams into the leading infected’s chest, a puff from the cotton T-shirt denoting the point of impact. Blood blossoms from the wound and the assailant spins to the side before crashing to the floor. Several of those speeding close behind the downed attacker’s heels stumble over the falling body. Brown puts his aching shoulder against the door and pushes.

He’s gained a few seconds, and that’s enough. The door closes with a click. Stepping back, Brown shoves the guidon through the handles just as the infected slam into the door. Their faces press against the glass as they try to push their way through, but to no avail. Turning, Brown dashes away, wary of any others that might be closing in on his position, wanting to be far away before they arrive.

Pineville University

September 2

The volume of the shrieks in the surrounding area increases as he draws closer to the parking lot. He doesn’t have much hope that the cadets have made it this far, himself having had to avoid several groups of screaming infected. He hates that he left them on their own, but he doesn’t see that there was much choice.

Approaching the lot, he crouches among the trees and bushes growing along the edge. The lot itself is a tangle of cars, a mass exodus of students and teachers creating the worst traffic jam in history. Even if they manage to link up and get to Clarke’s car, there’s no way they’ll be able to drive it out. However, the vehicles in front should still have their keys in the ignition, and may even be running, providing they had enough fuel to idle for this long.

Movement among the bushes catches his attention and sends his heart racing. From the proximity of the screams, he knows there are plenty of infected about. The continual stress of having to avoid them has left him exhausted and he’s not sure that he has much left. And there’s still a whole perimeter of infected to get through. His plan was to just drive through them, but looking at the parking lot, he’s not sure the outlying streets will be clear and may even be in worse condition.

He catches sight of the leaves of a bush rustling, and then he sees Hayward’s head poke out. He studies him for a few moments, eventually concluding that he hasn’t been infected. Backing away from the lot, he creeps toward the cadet. Nearing what he thinks should be Hayward’s position, Brown gives a soft whistle. Three heads appear almost immediately, their eyes wide with fear that turns to relief at seeing him, the transition almost comical.

The three cadets all try to speak at once to tell their story, talking so fast that none of them makes any actual sense. Brown holds up a hand, instantly silencing them.

“Story time comes later, when we’re sitting around the campfire. Right now, we’re still in the middle of it.”

“Campfire? We’re going to have a campfire?” Mendez queries.

Brown just stares down at him until he turns away, embarrassed.

“We can’t get through that,” Clarke comments, nodding toward the mess in the lot.

“No, but the cars in front might be viable,” Brown responds.

“Fair point,” Clarke states.

“So, what happened to you, Sarge?” Mendez asks as they edge into the parking lot.

“I told you, story time is for later. Right now, we need to get out of here before night falls,” Brown answers.

“What happens when night falls?” Mendez questions.

“Darkness…darkness happens,” Brown replies.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we won’t be able to see as well,” Brown firmly states, concluding that Mendez perhaps isn’t the sharpest tack in the box.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows as the four make their way through the tangle of cars, many of them still idling. Exhaust fumes fill the area. Combined with the heat of the day, the emissions make them all feel light-headed. Brown worries that the gases hanging in the air might affect their mental abilities—something they need fully intact.

Screams, both near and far, carry from both the adjoining residential neighborhoods and from within the campus. Brown gets the feeling that they are approaching the edge of the expanding circle of frenzied infected. They are only halfway to the vehicles near the exit, having had to duck down several times as packs streaked through and past the lot.

Ahead, the shrieks suddenly grow in intensity, causing them to duck again. Brown rises enough to peek through a car window. From the direction of the exit, a large group of infected enter the parking lot and head straight toward them.

“Shit! Ladies and gents, it’s time to move—now!”

Fear instantly crosses the cadets’ faces.

“Where?” Clarke asks.

“The way we came,” Brown answers, rising to make his way as quickly as possible through the jam of vehicles.

“How many are there?” Hayward asks, following behind.

“Lots.”

Reaching the edge of the stalled mess of cars, Brown looks over his shoulder, immediately wishing he hadn’t. A horde is scrambling over and around vehicles like a relentless incoming wave.

They have a little bit of a lead, but Brown understands just how quickly that can diminish. They break into the open and make for the wide pathway leading into the campus proper. Screams and the sound of bodies slamming into and onto vehicles follow in their wake.

The four of them are running for all they’re worth. Brown slows a touch to allow the others to keep up and to be able to maintain some semblance of order, but it’s an all-out retreat. The cadets aren’t far behind, but are strung out in a line. Shrieks from the side catch Brown’s attention. Turning, he sees a smaller group emerge from around a building and race toward them.

They still have some separation from those behind, but that is rapidly closing. The ones to the side have an angle on them. Brown can’t stop to shoot: there are too many. And firing on the run is damn near pointless. The angle the new group takes isn’t the greatest one, but their speed makes up for it. Noticing that Mendez has stopped some distance behind, Brown slows to take some of the infected under fire in an attempt to buy the cadet some time. The fear on Mendez’s face is evident, but it’s also clear that he’s run out of gas and can’t go on. Clarke and Hayward slow when Brown does.

“Keep going, you fools,” he cries, pushing them forward.

The new group, seeing Mendez standing still, alters their path toward him, their screams intensifying, almost eager in response to the easy prey. Brown aims and fires into the group, seeing one clutch its leg and fall to the ground. He keeps firing, noting several bodies drop. He knows he’s depleting his rounds, and that it might be for naught.

The group closes in on Mendez, who tries to flee at the last moment. He goes down under a tangle of bodies. Mendez’s head pokes out from the bodies piled on him. He reaches his hands out, attempting to claw his way from under the pile. Brown is close enough to see the pain and fear written on Mendez’s face, to hear the first bites and rending of flesh. Unable to scream through the searing pain, Mendez looks directly at Brown, pleading through the waves of agony. Brown takes careful aim, and fires.

Sparking, the bullet strikes the pavement just in front of Mendez’s head. It ricochets upward and impacts underneath his eye, driving into the brain. Blood sprays across the pavement and Mendez slumps to the ground, vanishing under a swarm of bodies. Without a word, Brown turns to resume his flight.

The group behind has substantially closed the distance, and the rest of the uninfected will join Mendez’s fate if they don’t do something soon. Brown catches up with Clarke and Hayward; together, they run past several buildings before Brown directs them toward a near one. His legs feel rubbery and his mind is spent. His breath is coming in gasps. They can’t go on for much longer, and it’s the only thing he can think of. Out in the open is no good, so that only leaves inside.

The volume of shrieks from the horde vibrates in his skull and threatens his very sanity. Not wanting to, and remembering mentally warning a small group of three he watched being pursued against this very thing, Brown looks over his shoulder to assess the situation. The pack on his heels looks very much like some of the movies he’s watched: a large, snarling pack, blood smeared across their faces and staining their clothing, all intent on sinking their teeth into him.

The peaceful eight-hour day that he expected his ROTC assignment to be has turned out to be worse than any combat tour he’s ever had to endure. Brown finds himself wishing he were in the ‘Stan at the moment. Racing up the steps, Brown notes, humorously, that the lettering above the entrance indicates that they’re about to enter the Biology department. He also notices Clarke still clinging to the single wooden pole left to them.

It worked once
, he thinks.

With the horde only fifty feet behind, the three of them throw the doors open and dash inside. A hallway runs the width of the building with several corridors branching to the sides.

“Quickly, head toward that,” Brown says, barely able to catch his breath as he points to the exit at the far end of the hall.

They start running, the sound of their boots pounding on the floor and echoing down the empty hallways. None of them can go much faster than a swift jog; it’s all they have left. Behind, doors open and screams reverberate down the corridor, overriding the sound of their running. It spurs them to greater efforts, but at the expense of any remaining reserve.

Brown feels the burn of his lungs needing more air than he can give them, of his muscles needing more oxygen. He hasn’t had a drink in quite a while and it’s only a matter of time before his legs cramp and seize.

Just a little farther
.

With the sounds of pursuit hard upon them, they crash through the exit doors.

“Quickly, put your shoulders into it,” Brown directs, pushing against the doors.

Rage-filled faces span the width of the hall, each one intent on catching up to its prey. Brown doesn’t see why the walls don’t crumble to dust from the intensity of their screams. The doors close and Brown snatches the guidon from Clarke’s hands, ramming it home between the enclosed handles. The infected pound into the doors. The wooden pole bends outward, but holds.

“Let’s go,” Brown says, trying to catch his breath.

“Where to?” Clarke asks.

“There’s a FEMA shelter not far from here. It’s well stocked and it will give us time to breathe.”

“I’m all for that,” Clarke states.

“Do you have enough juice to make it a little further?”

“If I have to,” Clarke responds.

Hayward merely nods.

“Okay. They’ll figure out how buildings work soon. We need to move.”

The three head down the steps, leaving the screaming horde of infected to mercilessly but ineffectively beat on the doors. Brown keeps the group moving quickly but warily. He leads them to a small, concrete building that doesn’t look like much.

“Huh, I pass by this every day,” Hayward states. “I thought it was a utility building of some kind.”

“Well, it’s not,” Brown replies.

Taking out a set of keys, he sets one into the lock of the heavy, steel door.

“Are those issued to staff?” Clarke asks.

“No,” Brown answers, turning the key.

“Well, where’d you get it, then?” Hayward queries.

“Never mind that. Just be glad that I have it.”

Brown pushes the door open, reaches to the side, and flicks on a bank of switches. Lights flicker and then come on fully, revealing a wide set of stairs leading down to another steel door.

“I suppose you have a key for that, as well.”

“Yep,” Brown answers.