Free ARES Virus: Arctic Storm by John O'Brien

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