Free ARES Virus: Arctic Storm by John O'Brien Page B

side; another hall opens on the opposite side. The front door slams solidly into the wall. Without hesitation, Brown starts down the hall, knowing that going up will only trap them.
    From directly behind, Brown hears Hayward yell, “Up the stairs!”
    Not stopping, Brown calls back, “No, you idiot! The back door!”
    In his periphery, he spies Hayward’s legs racing up the stairs—his call came too late. Clarke hesitates for a split second, looking from Hayward to Brown. Under the fear the infected, she is sick at the thought of Hayward becoming trapped. The hesitation is only momentary—she runs after Brown.
    The house fills with screams, signaling that the infected have entered hard on their heels. The hall opens into a large kitchen. Skidding to a halt, Brown searches the expansive room.
    Where in the fuck is the back door?
    Brown spots it and runs toward one corner of the kitchen.
    Please don’t be locked…please don’t be locked.
    Ready to crouch and make a last stand should it come to that, he reaches out with his free hand. The knob turns and he flings the door open. He holds it for Clarke, who races past and outside. Brown follows, seeing the infected vanguard pour into the kitchen just as he slams the door closed.
    Hopefully opening doors is a new concept for them , Brown thinks, turning to streak across the nicely trimmed backyard.
    “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