ARES Virus: Arctic Storm (19 page)

Please no…please no…please no
, her intonation changes.

“Mommy?” Angie says.

“Quiet honey,” Karen whispers, continuing to rock her girls back and forth.

Another solid whack against the door causes each of them to jump. All three pairs of eyes are glued to the door and Karen’s rocking becomes nearly frantic.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

Karen watches the door give more with each successive smack. She knows that it’s beginning to break, but doesn’t know what to do. Having witnessed the brutality in the streets, she needs to do something to protect her daughters, but is stymied as to what that is. Her hope is that the police will arrive before the person breaks through the door.

Even sirens…sirens will scare him and make him run…pleeeease!

The shrieks outside fade and the dimming of the sunlight through the windows lessen. However, Karen knows none of that as she stares blurredly through her tears at the basement door.

Bang!

A sharp, loud snap reverberates down the stairs.

Bang!

Karen sees a crack appear, running down the middle of the door.

Bang!

The crack widens.

Bang!

The wood buckles and folds in on itself. Another thump and the door flies open, one half swinging outward on its hinges, the other half falling inward and tumbling down the steps. A man appears in the doorway, silhouetted against the light of the kitchen. At the same time, the basement light reveals his face, blood streaming from his lips and a wild look in his eyes.

He looks down at the three of them and opens his mouth wide, the shriek filling the basement. Bounding down the steps, he races toward them.

“Mommy!” both of the girls scream.

Karen rises and her mind goes blank. She’s only aware of running toward the man.

“Mommy! Mommy! Please stop,” she hears Carly cry out.

She comes to her senses, only vaguely aware. Looking down, she’s kneeling astride a body, its face bludgeoned beyond all recognition. Blood pools around a head beaten into a bloody, pulpy mass, streams of the thick red liquid flowing slowly along the lower contours of the cement flooring. Shards of bone and pieces of flesh, some with bloody hair attached, mix with the gray mess of spilled brains.

Karen looks at what was once a living man, confused. She glances at the hammer in her hand, not comprehending how it got there. Gore drips from the tool, blood covers the handle and streams over her hand. She leans to the side and throws up, adding to the mess.

“Mommy? Are you…are you okay?” Carly asks, her voice quivering.

Raising her head, Karen looks at her daughters. Carly is sobbing where she sits while Angie stares vacantly at the body. She then turns to examine the stairs and the broken door, part of which lies across several steps. Remembering the pounding, the door giving way, and the man standing there, the rest is blank. She drops the hammer, jumping as it hits the concrete with a metallic ring.

“Mommy?” Carly asks.

“I’m fine, baby. Are you okay?” Karen replies, more or less coming back to herself.

“I think so,” Carly responds.

“Angie…Angie?” Karen tries to get her daughter’s attention.

Angie turns her vacant look from the body to Karen without registering any expression. Karen scoots across the floor toward her daughters.

“Angie?” Karen asks, holding her daughter’s face and staring into her eyes.

Life flares back into Angie’s eyes and she begins sobbing. Karen wraps Angie in her arms and holds her close, feeling her little body shake. Seeing her own blood-smeared hands against Angie’s back, Karen adds her own tears.

The three of them huddle on the basement floor, crying. After some time, Karen notes the lack of shrieks. Holding her daughters close, she edges to one of the windows facing the front and peers out. What she can see of the neighborhood reflects the chaos of what has happened. Toys are scattered in lawns, Mr. Brower’s lawnmower sits on his lawn, still running, but no sight of him. Mrs. Kincaid’s minivan is against the tree, also running. Doors stand open with more than a few windows broken.

“Mommy, what happened? Why was that man in our house?” Carly queries.

“I don’t know, honey…I don’t know,” Karen answers.

With no one in sight, and the sound of screaming having diminished, Karen steps away from the window. She still feels that drugs are the most likely cause of what happened, but is confused as to why the police haven’t responded.

Looking at the remains of the basement door, she knows that they won’t be able to hide out here if those drug-crazed maniacs return. Her stomach turns as her gaze comes again to the body. Even if the door wasn’t broken, there’s no way she can keep her daughters here.

We’re going to have to move away
, she thinks, knowing that they’ll all see the image every time they step into the basement.

“Girls, we have to go upstairs,” Karen says.

“But, what if there are others?” Carly asks.

“I’ll check it out first, but we can’t stay here,” Karen states.

“Mommy, you can’t leave us here alone with that,” Carly comments, pointing toward the body without looking at it.

“Okay. But, stay behind me. And don’t look at it anymore.”

Karen notices Angie’s quietness. Even though she seemed to break through her shock, her youngest daughter is withdrawn.

More reason for the need to move. As a matter of fact, we need to leave here as soon as we can…maybe stay at a hotel
, Karen thinks, pushing her daughters behind her as she starts toward the stairs.

She slides past the body, ignoring it as best she can. At the stairs, Karen pulls the half of the door that fell inward down the steps and dumps it over the body. Slowly climbing the stairs, she listens for any whisper of sound coming from within the house. Silence. Long splinters of wood lie on the stairs and at the entrance. At the top, Karen peeks around the corner. There’s no one in sight.

“Okay, there’s no one here. Quietly, into my room,” Karen whispers to her daughters.

They pass by the mostly eaten sandwiches and by the broken front door. Drifting inside, faint shrieks can be heard in the distance, along with the sound of Mr. Bower’s still-running mower. As they slip down the hallway and into her bedroom, Karen begins to wonder if this isn’t a larger crisis than just her neighborhood.

Where are the police?
she thinks, easing her door open.

Shuffling her daughters inside, she notes the bloody handprints on the back of Angie’s shirt.

She needs to change, and that needs to be thrown away
.

Closing the door, she locks it. Telling Carly and Angie to sit on the bed, she grabs her phone from the nightstand. Dialing 911, she receives a message that all lines are currently in use and to call back.

“What the fuck?” she mutters.

“Moooom!” Carly says.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Karen absentmindedly says, dialing the number again only to get the same recording.

She dials her husband’s phone. It rings…and rings.

“Come on, Bill, answer.”

It goes to voicemail. She dials it again, getting the same. Karen tries his office number to no avail. Trying 911 again, the recording repeats the same message—try again later.

The feeling of panic returns and she feels short of breath. Needing to hear someone—anyone—she dials one of her friends.

“Karen, thank God! You wouldn’t believe what is happening here,” her friend states upon answering.

“Molly! It’s so good to hear…” Karen begins, but is interrupted by the sound of breaking glass on the other end of the line.

“What? Noooo—get out of here,” her friend yells.

Karen hears a thump and fears that her friend has dropped her phone.

“Molly…Molly?”

Screams come through the earpiece, along with the sound of thumping.

“Noooo! Get off of me!” Karen hears her friend screech as if from a distance. “No, please, no!”

A louder scream of terror and pain echoes from her phone.

“Molly!” Karen screams into the microphone.

Another scream. Then more shrieks, screams, and pounding, the sounds rising in intensity, then fading, then gone.

“Molly? Molly!”

Nothing. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Karen hangs up her phone and drops it on the bed, not having the nerve to pick it up again. Folding her hands in her lap, she stares at the blood drying on them, the splashes going all of the way up her arm. Repulsed, scared, not knowing what to do, feeling withdrawn like Angie, she rises.

“Angie, there’s clothes folded on the table. Find a new shirt,” Karen says, pointing absently toward a table by the wall. “I’m going to clean up in the bathroom.”

Without a word, Angie slips off the bed and goes over to the folded clothes. In the bathroom, Karen shuts the door and stares at herself in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes stare back. Drying blood and gore is splashed across her face and on her clothes. She continues gazing at the visage in front of her, not recognizing the person staring back. Her husband isn’t answering, her calls to 911 weren’t taken, and she heard her friend dying. On top of that, there’s a body in the basement that she doesn’t remember killing.

Still in a trance-like state, she removes her clothing and steps into the shower. She cranks the heat high, feeling the hot spray splash against her skin. Pink water swirls around the drain, slowly becoming clear. Small pieces of gore fall to the floor of the stall, trying to hang on as if fighting for their life before being swept along by the currents and disappearing.

Karen washes the stains from her body, vigorously scrubbing her fingers as if she can wash away the images and sounds in her mind. Finishing, she heads into her room and, amid protests from Carly at seeing her naked, dons clean clothes. Seeing her phone on the bed, she swipes it to the floor and lies down, her daughters folding in against her.

The afternoon fades toward night. Karen has moments of clarity, taking the time to venture out to the kitchen to grab snacks and juice for her daughters. Each time such clarity comes, the images and sounds in her mind draw her back into numbness. Deep down, she’s aware of what happened and that no help is coming. She’s barely aware that Bill hasn’t returned home, and realizes that he may have been caught up in it. The sheer magnitude of what she may be facing overwhelms her senses. Her world has shrunk, becoming only her bedroom; the outside of her house is a completely different realm of existence.

She falls into a restless sleep beside her daughters, waking to Carly’s insistent voice.

“Mommy, wake up.”

Opening her eyes, her head feels like it was squeezed in a vise.

“What is it, sweetie? What time is it?” Karen asks, noticing daylight peeking from under the drawn curtains.

“I’m hungry and so is Angie,” Carly states.

“Okay, let’s go find something.”

Karen rolls upright, her legs hanging off the bed. She reaches for her phone and notices it lying on the floor. The prior day’s events come flooding back and she’s hesitant to retrieve it. Shaking her head sends pain shooting through her temples. Nevertheless, she bends to pick it up, knowing that she needs to be strong for her girls.

“Mommy, where’s Daddy?” Carly asks.

“I don’t know, Carly, but he’ll get here when he can,” she answers, discovering that her phone is dead and plugging it into the charger.

She’s still at a loss as to what she should do, but feels sure that the police will eventually get control of things and search for survivors. Maybe the best plan is to remain at the house for as long as possible and wait for the authorities.

There’s no one screaming nearby, so that’s a plus
, she thinks, rising from her bed to brush her teeth.

Seeing her stained clothing on the bathroom floor, she kicks them into a corner. In the mirror, she looks little better than the last time she gazed at her reflection, but she and her daughters are still alive and she intends to keep them that way until help arrives. After finishing, relieved to find that the water still works, and after making sure that the house is clear and no one is still running rampant through the streets, she heads into the living room.

Standing by the open front door, the angle of sunlight indicates that she’s slept into what appears to be mid-morning. In the distance, faint screams drift across the neighborhood and she notices that neither the lawnmower across the street nor the van is running any longer. Closing the door, she places a wooden wedge under it and draws the curtains across the front window. Flicking on the switch, light floods the living room.

She cleans up the remains of the prior day’s lunch and places the dirty plates in the sink. Looking through the window, movement from around the side of the house startles her, sending her heart thumping. Drawing in a quick breath, she ducks out of sight, slowly rising again to peer out.

Three camouflaged figures wearing blankets are darting through her backyard. With the memories of yesterday fresh in her mind, she’s hesitant to draw attention to herself. Other than blood-smeared faces, there isn’t any way she knows how to distinguish the drug-crazed from the normal people. She can’t see their faces, so there’s no way she’s going to let them know that she’s here. The three run across the yard, jump over her fence, and disappear.