ARES Virus (Book 2): White Horse Read online

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  ARES VIRUS: WHITE HORSE

  Book II of Ares Virus

  A Novel by John O’Brien

  Copyright © 2016 John O’Brien

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without permission in writing from the author. You may contact the author at [email protected]

  Cover art by: Dean Samed

  Conzpiracy Digital Arts

  http://www.conzpiracy.co.uk

  Also by John O’Brien

  A New World Series

  A NEW WORLD: CHAOS

  A NEW WORLD: RETURN

  A NEW WORLD: SANCTUARY

  A NEW WORLD: TAKEN

  A NEW WORLD: AWAKENING

  A NEW WORLD: DISSENSION

  A NEW WORLD: TAKEDOWN

  A NEW WORLD: CONSPIRACY

  A NEW WORLD: RECKONING

  A NEW WORLD: STORM

  Companion Books

  A NEW WORLD: UNTOLD STORIES

  A NEW WORLD: UNTOLD STORIES 2

  A Shrouded World

  A SHROUDED WORLD: WHISTLERS

  A SHROUDED WORLD: ATLANTIS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  It seems like every second book in a series that I’ve read, the purpose of the book was to set up for the next. It’s to make sure that the right people are in the right places at the right time for an explosive and exciting third and final book. I tried to escape this with this book and failed epically.

  As with the last series, A New World, there are characters which were originally supposed to be place card ones, but who ended up rising to the front. And, there are those that I thought would be central to the story that ends up taking a back seat. I really don’t plan for these things to happen; it just does as my fingers are dancing across the keys. Although, dancing is perhaps the wrong word. It’s more like a game of whack-a-mole with my fingers stabbing at various random letters.

  This book was supposed to be the second and final book of this particular series, but the story gained momentum and was ripped out of my hands. It twisted and evolved in ways I originally never intended, but I’m merely a conduit for the tale to be told. I wish I had more control over it, but the fact remains that I have very little. The one aspect I did want was to be about more than one central character fighting to survive in post-apocalyptic scenario. I wanted to portray differing viewpoints and situations and perhaps to give a larger point of view of the fight for survival. While there are individuals trying to survive in a dangerous world, it’s more about a group figuring out the best way to stay alive without making that one mistake that could end it all.

  I lost a lot of sleep trying to figure this book out, attempting to sort through the details while having some sort of coherency. I’m not sure I achieved that, but here’s the story nonetheless. I will say that some of the locations within are entirely fictitious, while others actually exist. Building interiors and such are entirely contrived, so if you’ve been to these places, please take what I describe with a grain of salt…or several.

  I hope you enjoy the second part of this story. If you do, would you be so kind as to leave a review. As I’ve mentioned before, I read every one of them. Your review help me to become a better writer, so thank you in advance.

  Now, on with the story.

  John O’Brien

  Chapter One

  West Point, New York

  October 5

  Sergeant Brown props his boots on the windowsill, looking out over the green fields of the baseball diamond, Daly Field, the tennis courts, and the soccer field. The high vantage point of his current office gives him a good view of the brownish blue-green waters of the Hudson River beyond. The buildings in view and light poles surrounding the fields cast long shadows from the morning sun about to crest. Normally, the parking lots and streets would be packed with arriving academy staff, the walkways crowded with cadets in their sharply pressed uniforms making their way to and from chow, and the occasional jogger running the roadway. However, with a large percentage of staff and cadets reporting in sick with the flu pandemic, classes had been canceled for another day. There’s really nothing for him to do except lean back in his chair and admire the view, slowly watching the shadows change shape and counting down the hours.

  His breath is warm beneath the mask, which everyone was ordered to wear at all times.

  Like that did any good, Brown thinks, folding his hands behind his head.

  But he’s not about to take it off and join the thousands of others who are either occupying beds in the hospital and clinic, or sent home because of the limited space. Both the facilities were quickly overwhelmed, so there was nothing to do but tell those who called in sick to return to their homes or dorms and ride it out.

  Of course I’d be sent here.

  Brown had expected to serve out the remainder of his time in the cushy job he wormed his way into with the ROTC. Instead, he had to fight his way through a horde of infected intent on sinking their teeth into him. After being released from interrogation, he called and tried to get an assignment with another ROTC detachment. However, with classes beginning, all slots had already been filled. If he wanted to extend another year, there were several easy jobs available, but he wasn’t about to do that. It wasn’t that he hated the Army, he was just done with this phase of life and more than ready to move on. So they dropped him at the academy, throwing some obscure job title on a piece of plastic upon his desk and stenciled on the door. Begging and pleading, even offers of his firstborn, didn’t change the fact that he was being sent to West Point.

  I’m being punished. That’s all there is to it.

  He doesn’t remember what his job title is, other than it has something to do with admissions. But his office isn’t even in the admissions building. They’d stuck him in a cave on the upper floor of the library. Every so often, he’d receive a manila folder with papers that needed signing. They had something to do with requisitions, but he thinks that he’s mostly in charge of counting patches.

  Brown turns his head toward a knock on his door to see two silhouettes behind the opaque glass in the door.

  “Enter,” he calls out, wondering if he should remove his feet from the windowsill.

  That was pretty much a no-no, regardless of whether he was at the academy or not. He moves his feet down and turns as the door opens. Two cadets in fatigues step through, closing the door behind them.

  “What do you two numbnuts want?” Brown asks, recognizing Hayward and Clarke.

  He knew the two of them were at the academy, having run into the same problem regarding available slots. Still responsible for their end of the bargain, the army sent them to the academy. Although the standards are more rigorous than with ROTC, Brown knows that the two cadets won out on that agreement. Graduating from the academy will help with their careers and they’ll join the ring-knockers club. If Brown was ever happy for anything, he’s glad that the two ended up with a better deal than they’d started with.

  “We just wanted to see what hole they put you in,” Clarke answers.

  “Keep that shit up, and I’ll go dig one for you right now. There’s a cemetery just up the road. Another hole there won’t be noticed,” Brown responds.

  “But you’d miss us,” Clarke teases.

  “I think you’d be surprised at how untrue that statement is,” he replies.

  “Oh, come on. You like us,” Hayward throws his two cents in.

  “Well, you two aren’t my least favorite. I’ll give you that. If those masks had a mute function, I might like you even more. Now, what brings you to this center of power? Are they not serving the right flavor of ice cream in th
e cadet restaurant? Are your pillows not being fluffed correctly at night?”

  “The turn down service is adequate, even if the mints are left slightly off-center,” Clarke says, her voice faintly muted by the blue surgical mask covering her mouth. “Can’t we just come by to say hi?”

  “No,” Brown states.

  “Maybe we’re just bored,” Hayward comments.

  “Well, if that’s the case, I have plenty of things that will unbore you.”

  “Never mind. I don’t want to paint any more rocks,” Clarke says. “Can we have a seat?”

  “Are you asking as to your ability, or my permission?”

  Clarke just stares at Brown, while Hayward begins to stutter.

  “Stop blubbering,” Brown directs his statement toward Hayward. “You’ll just end up hurting yourself. I’m gathering that your visit here is to waste some of my precious time. Sit down,” Brown directs.

  “And your precious time is spent watching the river flow by?” Clarke asks sarcastically as she takes a seat across the table.

  “Yep.”

  “So, do you think this flu thing is in any way associated with, well, what happened?” Hayward asks, settling in.

  “Hush, you fool! That never happened,” Brown sharply whispers, his posture becoming erect.

  “I know, but this flu is everywhere. It has spread like crazy and everyone has it…like all at once,” Hayward comments.

  “Be that as it may, does this look anything like what we witnessed? Do you see anyone running around trying to sink their teeth into others? This is the flu, plain and simple. A bad one, granted, but it’s still the flu,” Brown states, his voice lowering as he glances toward the door.

  “Did you know that Emily was bitten?” Clarke interjects.

  Brown scoffs at her, his thoughts trying to fathom what she is saying.

  “What do you mean, she was bitten? She was with us the whole time, and although we had some close encounters, none of us were actually assaulted.”

  “She was bitten by her mom. At least, that’s what she told her aunt as they were walking away,” Clarke answers.

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Hayward responds.

  Brown has the idea that this is a conversation the two of them have had repeatedly. Which, of course, doesn’t bode well. He told the two of them never to talk about it, even in private. He wonders if anyone has overheard. The campus is crowded and it would be hard to know if any conversation were truly private. One overheard word could create a firestorm that none of them would survive. Spending his remaining days in Leavenworth isn’t what he wants.

  “’I know what I heard,” Clarke emphatically states.

  Without saying a word, Brown rises and walks to the door. Opening it, he pokes his head out and checks up and down the hall. Satisfied, he turns around and closes it behind him.

  “You two need to erase what happened from your minds,” Brown states, jabbing his finger with each word. “I told you that this was off limits—never to be uttered anywhere or anytime. And here you are, not only discussing it among yourselves where anyone is within earshot, but now in my office. Do you have any idea, any idea what could happen if someone were to get wind of where we actually were?”

  The two cadets stare at him with remorseful and scared expressions.

  “I didn’t think so. You two give me an ulcer. I can see that this is burning a hole in your miniscule brains, so I’m giving you five minutes to say what you have to. Five minutes, and then this thing vanishes…forever. Understood?”

  Hayward and Clarke nod.

  Brown sets the stopwatch portion of his watch.

  “Your five minutes begins…now,” he says, pressing one of the buttons.

  “Okay. When we handed Emily off, I heard her aunt ask what a certain mark on her shoulder was. Emily said that’s where her mom had bitten her, and then went off about not meaning to hurt her. Hayward, you heard the same thing and know you did,” Clarke begins.

  “I heard something like that, but I’m not sure of the exact words that were said,” Hayward counters.

  “I think you must have misheard her,” Brown says. “We all saw what happened when the uninfected were bitten. It only took a minute at most before they jumped up and joined the circus. Emily didn’t exhibit anything remotely close.”

  “What if she just carried it, you know, like had it but didn’t have any symptoms? Aren’t there other viruses where people are only carriers without exhibiting signs?” Clarke questions.

  Brown ponders that statement for a moment.

  “Even if that’s true, the people stricken with this flu pandemic aren’t trying to bite others. They’re merely sick. Vomiting, fever, aches. You know, the usual with the flu. You can’t even compare what we saw to what’s currently happening.”

  “Hear me out,” Clarke states. “What if the symptoms are changing from what we’re seeing now? Like, is this just the start of it? I mean, what if this is how someone infected by a carrier initially reacts?”

  “And you’re saying that Emily caused this?” Brown asks, sweeping his arm to indicate the rest of the world. “That a ten-year-old girl was able to infect millions?”

  “Well, no. But, what if there were others…more who were bitten, like her?” Clarke defends.

  “How many do you think escaped that madness? As far as I know, we were the only ones who actually made it out. Even if a few others managed to do it, how could those few infect a world population? Even if what you say is true, and I don’t think it is, I can’t even fathom how many it would take to do something like that. More than a few, I’d say,” Brown counters. “And it’s been weeks since Pineville.”

  “Exactly,” Clarke states.

  “I’ll be honest. I’m usually the first one to come up with some kind of conspiracy, but this is a little too far-fetched even for me. Besides, it’s all kind of a moot point, right. How would you test it? You’d have to wait until something happened, and by then, it would be too late to do anything. Your logic is taking some canyon-sized leaps,” Brown says.

  “We could preemptively leave,” Clarke suggests.

  “And this is where our discussions always lead,” Hayward says, rolling his eyes.

  “So, you’re suggesting that you—we—should just pack up and leave? You know they have a term for that: AWOL. I’m pretty sure the army doesn’t take kindly to that sort of thing,” Brown states.

  A faint scream penetrates through the windows and walls into the tiny office. Brown has grown used to all kinds of noise, both here and at the Pineville campus. The background noise of chattering students and cadets as they stroll through the campus, shrill laughter that rises above a quiet moment, the shouts of senior cadets ribbing the plebes or instructors yelling on the fields, the shouts of those participating in athletics, even screams of pain or fear, which are sure to draw everyone’s attention. But the scream that arose from the quiet campus grounds of the academy is somehow different—shriller.

  Brown edges to the window and looks out over the empty fields. Little has changed. The chime of the countdown alarm on his watch sounds. The five minutes he gave the cadets are up. Brown absentmindedly reaches down to shut it off. Another scream echoes through the emptiness, followed by another. Soon, it seems as if an entire section of campus has risen to arms. A bead of sweat breaks out on Brown’s brow, his stomach clenching with anxiety. He’s heard those sounds before.

  As if a tap were turned on, screams begin erupting from all directions. Brown stands transfixed at the window, wanting some kind of visual confirmation of the thing that he’s certain is heading their way. He lived through one rolling tide of infected and he’s not sure about having to do it twice. He’s not sure that he even wants to try. The odds are certainly against him.

  If Clarke’s right and this is not just contained in one city…, he thinks, leaving off the ramifications as he looks over to the two of them rising out of their chairs.

  He realizes that he’s jum
ping to conclusions. Considering the topic of conversation, the shrieks, and his recent experience, he’s not surprised that his mind immediately leaps to that deduction. He locks eyes with Clarke, who is wide-eyed and trying to look out the window.

  “Do you still think that I’m wrong?” she asks.

  “Fuuuck me,” Hayward comments in a whisper, looking out of the side window.

  Brown turns back toward the window. A massed group, most of them clad in a variety of uniforms, is running through an almost empty parking lot across the street.

  That’s no group of joggers out for a morning run.

  To Brown, it’s fairly easy to determine that those outside are exhibiting the exact same behavior as those groups of infected he ran across in Pineville—the screaming, the erratic running, and the chaotic way they’re bunched up. Thoughts crowd into his mind, erupting all at once, then clicking sequentially into place, like pieces of a puzzle forming a larger picture.

  Clarke’s conspiracy theory has turned out to be not as far-fetched as he thought. What he thought was the flu has turned into the same virus he witnessed back in Pineville. The fact that so many have been affected, seemingly the whole campus judging by the rising intensity of shrieks, means that the virus is most likely airborne. He doesn’t know how long the pathogen can last in an airborne environment, but he’s going to treat it like it’s immortal. The mask surrounding his nose and mouth suddenly seems very flimsy.

  With the worldwide spread of the flu, he has a feeling that this is, or will be, larger than just his surroundings. Either that, or he’s incredibly unlucky. However, the fate of the world isn’t a factor at the moment. What’s important is that he’s once again on a campus in the middle of infected people and has to work his way out to safety. However, if this is larger than the immediate campus, then the idea of safety may not mean just getting clear of the local population. There may not be such a place at all. Although the immediate area around West Point is made up of tree-covered hills and lakes, it’s surrounded by populated cities on both sides.