ARES Virus: Arctic Storm (8 page)

“Over the fence,” he yells to a madly running Clarke.

He knows Hayward has trapped himself, but doesn’t have time to think about it. Right now, all he has on his plate is to extricate himself and Clarke from the rapidly deteriorating situation. Clarke shows she is a fast learner at fence-clearing; she hits the fence on the dead run and vaults over it. Brown thinks that using her hands and feet was merely for show…that she could have probably just hurdled it, the way she went over. The screams intensify as the infected behind them find their way out into the yard.

Brown hits the wooden fence and is instantly over, coming to land in a crouch. Noting Clarke setting land-speed records as she makes for the far gate, Brown quickly glances around, spotting a large storage shed off to one side. Even though they have a small lead, he knows the screaming will draw other infected and they’ll be run down in no time.

“The shed,” he yells to Clarke. “Get in the shed!”

Without missing a beat, she turns in midstride and runs toward it. They almost shoulder each other aside as they crowd through the door. Brown hears the infected slam into the fence a few scant feet away.

“Now it’s time to be quiet,” he says, gently closing the door.

Thoughts of Elmer Fudd enter his head, but he’s too out of breath to even attempt an impression. Finding a small wedge of scrap wood, he jams it under the door. Pointing to a place below a small workbench situated directly beneath the single window, they huddle within the small confines. Screams from the infected grow louder as they manage the fence and run across the yard.

Trying to control his breathing, which sounds to him like a pod of whales all releasing air at the same time, he waits for what is to come next. They’ll run past, loiter in the backyard and enjoy a summer barbecue, or enter the shed. Training his sidearm on the door in case of the latter, Brown waits for the first rattle of the door handle. With the numbers he saw, he knows he may not have enough rounds should the infected discover them. Sure, he’ll have them at a choke point, but once the mag is empty, Brown and Clarke will be the ones choking.

Brown waits, Clarke crouching at his side. Disturbed dust motes dance in the rays of sunshine pouring through the window panes. The interior smells like oil, gas, and sawdust, with hints of fresh soil. Together, the two of them cower below the window.

Infected pour through the yard, casting shadows as they flash past. Running footsteps vibrate the walls and floor. The light coming through the window darkens. Brown feels sweat trickle down his side. From under the workbench, Brown sees the fuzzy outline of a head cast against the floor and far wall. Clarke’s eyes widen even more, her breathing harsh. Brown looks into her eyes, holding them fast to his, and puts a finger to his lips. She nods, and he sees her fear lesson a notch.

The sound of glass shattering mixes with the shrieks permeating the area. Shadows continue to flicker through the window, but they come less often. The stink of his clothes threatens to override the other smells within the shed. After a time, the vibration from the pounding feet fades, and the screams diminish. Slowly, silence descends on the area.

“We’ll wait a few minutes longer, then I’ll go take a look,” Brown whispers.

“What…what about Hayward?” Clarke asks.

“There’s nothing we can do about him at the moment. And there’s nothing to be gained from worrying about what happened. Right now, we have to see to ourselves,” Brown replies. “Are you okay?”

Clarke tilts her head to the side and looks at him, wondering if he was being serious or if she misunderstood the question. After a second, she nods.

Seconds tick by, turning into minutes. Silence still reigns outside, but having witnessed groups of infected run by without a sound, Brown knows this can be an illusion. Inching out from his cover, he slowly rises and peeks out of the lower part of the window. The once immaculate lawn is now matted down in places with the semblance of trails cut through it—mostly from the back fence to the gate. In the yard, there is nothing to be seen.

“I’m going out to take a look. Replace the wedge once I’m gone and wait here. I’ll signal when I return to let you know it’s me…one knock, two knocks, then three, pausing between each one. If, however, the knocks they come rapidly together and are accompanied by me yelling, your expedience will be greatly appreciated,” Brown briefs.

“Are you going to see about Hayward?” Clarke asks.

“I’m going to see what I see.”

Removing the block wedged under the door, Brown steps outside. The illusion of the infected moving on proves to be just that: an illusion. He clearly hears sounds of others in neighboring yards. Cautiously, he peeks around the shed to find that the yard he’s in is empty of infected. Looking back in the direction they fled from, he spots Hayward lying on the roof of a two-story house to the side of a dormer. Even from a distance, the fear in Hayward’s eyes is apparent.

Brown catches Hayward’s attention and puts his finger to his lips. Edging over to the fence separating the two yards, Brown looks though a small knothole. Several snarling infected are aimlessly milling about. At intervals, some growl louder and run around the sides of the house toward the front at the arrival of others. It seems to Brown that they know prey is around, but can’t locate it. As things stand, he knows there will be no way to get to Hayward.

Although the yard he’s in is clear at the moment, with the amount of infected roaming around, it won’t stay that way for long. If Hayward is to stand any chance of getting away, Brown will somehow have to distract the infected. Backing away from the fence, Brown returns to the shed and signals Clarke. Inside, he locates two large wrenches and tells Clarke to bar the door again behind him.

“I’ll be back shortly. Be ready to run,” he whispers.

“Is Hayward okay?” Clarke asks.

“For the moment,” Brown answers, stepping back into the yard.

Brown checks that the yard is still clear and adjusts the wrenches and weapon in his hands so that they don’t clink together. He then softly steps back to the knothole in the fence. The scene in the other yard remains the same: Some infected walk aimlessly while others snarl and suddenly dart forward. The screaming in the area has diminished, leaving growls in its wake. Infected still leave the backyard at a run while others arrive from the front, looking like a crowded Easter egg hunt with kids frantically searching for the few remaining.

Setting his handgun on the grass, Brown steps back and heaves one large wrench at an angle toward the street on the other side of the house. The wrench arcs into the air, turning end over end, and sails over the roof of one of the adjacent houses. Without waiting for the first to hit, he launches the second one over the roof of the house on the other side. Both vanish below the roof line.

With his eye to the knothole, Brown hears the first wrench hit the pavement with a ringing clatter. It skips and hits a car with a loud metallic crunch. All of the infected turn as one toward the sound. From the second wrench, a loud crunch of metal indicates a direct hit on a vehicle’s hood, roof, or trunk.

The yard erupts with a chorus of screams and quickly clears as the infected race around the house in search of prey. Retrieving his sidearm and backing up, Brown locks eyes with a very frightened Hayward, motioning for him to hurry and climb down. The roof extends so the eave is only about ten feet off the ground. Half sliding on the loose grit of the shale roof, Hayward manages to stop himself close to the edge. Rolling onto his stomach, Hayward extends his legs over the edge. With nothing for him to grip onto, the grit begins to win their battle of “king of the roof.”

As he goes over the edge, rather than letting gravity do its job and land him on the ground, Hayward flails and reaches for a handhold. His fingers come into contact with the gutter and he grasps hold of it, seeking a more gentle approach to the lawn.

No, no, no, you idiot
, Brown thinks, watching the whole process.

Meant to hold a few pounds of water at most and certainly not a fully grown adult, part of the gutter pulls free with a screech of aluminum. With Hayward still clinging to the edge, it bends toward the ground with further squeals of protest. Landing awkwardly with pieces of gutter on him, Hayward launches upright. A rise in the volume of screams from the front of the house signals that the infected also heard Hayward’s grace in motion.

I’ve never witnessed anything more stupid in all my life
, Brown thinks, watching Hayward streak for the fence.

The sound of Hayward hitting the fence rivals his descent from the roof. He makes it over and lands with a thump. Taking one last look through the hole, Brown sees infected pouring into the back yard on the other side of the fence. Knowing once again that they won’t be able to outrun the infected in the area, Brown grabs Hayward by the arm and steers him as they both run for the shed.

No time for pretty knocking signals
, Brown thinks as he passes the shed’s window.

“Open it, open it, open it!” Brown yells.

Rounding the corner of the shack, the door opens. In their rush to get inside, Brown and Hayward knock Clarke backward. They hear the noise of the infected vaulting over the fence just as the two of them stumble inside. Cracks of splintering wood tell of the fence’s demise.

“We’re about to have company, and lots of it,” Brown states, closing the door and shoving the block of wood under it. He kicks over a gas can near the entrance, spilling some of the contents across the doorway.

“Under the window, and be quiet.”

Breathing heavily, Brown points his handgun toward the door, aiming chest high. The smell of fuel instantly overrides all other odors in the shed. Screaming shadows pass through the light coming in the window as the infected race by. Feeling his heartbeat throb in his temples and along his neck, hearing it pulse in his ears, Brown waits for the first crash against the door—something he’s certain is coming.

Screams fill the air around them, and there’s barely a moment when the light isn’t shadowed, but the impact doesn’t arrive. The crash and tinkle of falling glass shards tell of additional windows being broken, but nothing tries breaking into the shed.

Well, what now?
Brown thinks, knowing he’s surrounded and that time is a rapidly increasing issue.

He doesn’t have enough rounds to fight his way out, yet they can’t remain in the shed indefinitely. At some point, they’ll have to do something rash in order to extricate themselves. While the three of them are sitting and waiting, there are others beyond the city that certainly aren’t. The chances of a cordon sealing closed grows with each passing second. Seeing the behavior of those that were surrounding Hayward, Brown guesses that the nearby infected won’t soon be leaving of their own free will. And, given their current circumstance, there’s no way to create a distraction.

A few more minutes pass, and still no pounding arrives at the entrance. The screams begin dying down, replaced with snarls that are muted by the shed’s walls. However, their situation hasn’t changed. There is still no way to get out.

“What’s that?” Hayward whispers.

Brown is about to glare him into silence when he picks up on the faint sound of a helicopter. The beating of rapidly spinning rotors grows louder, eventually overriding the growling of the infected. The pitch of the blades changes and there’s a rushing sound as the helicopter passes quickly, low overhead. Then, the “whump, whump” of the rotors begins to fade into the distance. Screaming again erupts in the yard outside, accompanied by the pounding of footfalls that vibrate the walls of the shed. Those also dwindle away as the infected find a new sound to chase.

A few seconds later, Brown and the two cadets are left in silence, the strong smell of gasoline in the air. Waiting for several moments to pass, Brown signals for Clarke and Hayward to stay still, and slowly rises. Peeking out of the window, he verifies that they are indeed alone. Looking as far to the sides as he can, he sees only the ruined fence, trampled grass, and remains of the house’s broken windows and doors.

He’s hesitant about stepping outside, as there may be other infected trailing the helicopter’s path, which may mean that there are others heading directly for them. However, the way is clear for the moment.

“Okay, it’s clear outside. It looks like we may have a chance now,” Brown whispers. “When we leave, we’re angling off the flight path of that chopper, but still making for the outskirts. The rules remain the same: Stay close and keep quiet.”

Turning to Hayward, he asks, “Where’s your crossbow?”

“I dropped it,” Hayward answers.

“Dropped it? Why’d you do that?”

“Well, it was in the way of scrambling out of the upper window, and I was in kind of a hurry, so…”

“Okay, lesson learned. Don’t get yourself in a position where you can get trapped like that. And don’t stray, no matter what great idea might come up in that pea-brain,” Brown interrupts.

“Trapped? You mean like in this shed?” Hayward says.

“Listen, Numbnuts. If it weren’t for your gazelle-like grace and your obvious athleticism, we wouldn’t have had to…never mind. Just get your ass ready to move.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

Easing to the door, Brown opens it and pauses. The silence isn’t as complete as he thought within the walls, but the screams are distant. The breeze has picked up, stirring the curtains beyond the broken windows of the house. Motioning for the two cadets to remain, he steps outside and peeks around the corner. The back fence is in ruins, not having withstood the assault of so many infected. Looking past the tangle of boards, he half expects to find some still within the adjacent yard. At the very least, he expects for some to return, having given up on chasing the fleeing helicopter. There aren’t any signs of them, though, only the aftermath of their presence.