Viral Hell: Survival

"Cheap wine? Seriously? Three hundred fifty thousand dollar house and you have cheap wine?" said former electrician and engineer Blake Tanner as he rummaged through the refrigerator of the 3 story abandoned house. He continued searching the fridge, holding the thin neck of the wine bottle in his muscular hand as he did so. "Now see? Look at this." He found a beer bottle and held both at equal level at his face, looking at the labels, "You're beer costs more than the damn wine." He put the wine on the counter top next to the fridge, which said 'Whirlpool' written Victorian style in the top left corner of the stainless steel surface. The beer he put in the large cooler sitting in front of the cabinets that held the weight of the counter top, the cheap wine, and the other items from the refrigerator.
Blake stood upright, bent his back, and placed another beer bottle into the cooler. Before he could come back up, the gun slung over his shoulder, an M4 assault rifle, slipped over his broad shoulder blade as the thick cloth sling made a rest on his neck. He straightened up and the gun bounced back, pressing into his stomach. He winced, partly in pain but then rolled his eyes in drab amusement. He grabbed the assault rifle and adjusted the sling to tightly fit the weapon to his back. He pulled the refrigerator door open, as it had closed during his struggle, and grabbed a small bag, one of the microwave-safe ones, and examined its contents. He saw that it was a moldy sandwich, threw it back in, and let the door shut. He took a look around the rest of the kitchen, making a "tick" sound with his tongue as he thought of last minute items.
He took a quick walk around the large house, each room in a mess of items from when he was in them. He held his 9mm Glock in his right hand lazily. When he hadn't found anything else useful that he had missed, he grabbed the cooler, and a large black duffel bag sitting in the dining room next to the kitchen, and walked towards the front door, right holster strap with the Glock flapping open as he walked. He kicked the door open with one leg, and walked outside to the warm spring afternoon.
Blake stood on the small open porch, looking down the street. Several people stumbled around down the road, ones within 50 feet of the house dead. He walked down the short stone walkway, a large spotted stone placed every two feet. He got halfway, and stepped in something soft. He looked down past the cooler in his hands, and realized it was, what appeared to be, a human heart, blood and stringy clumps of loose meat surrounding the still beating organ. He looked at it in confusion, then realized that it hadn't been there on his entry to the house. He dropped the cooler where he stood and let the duffel bag to the ground. Within a second, Blake had his M4 off his back, and was snapping around, gun to his armpit, selector set to full-auto.
He backed off the sidewalk into the grass, examining the ground first, then when he was far enough back, the roof, the black shingles sparkling from the bright sun. He slowly lowered the gun, walked back to the fallen duffel bag and cooler, and stood, looking at the apparent heart. He heaved a sigh, and put the duffel over his right shoulder, dragging the cooler with his left hand, the gun in his right.
After a few feet, he reached the truck in the long driveway, a new looking Toyota Tundra. The brass plate on the wheel cover had the Toyota insignia on top of the black paint job, which shined in the warm sun. He opened the small door of the back seat, and placed the cooler on the floor of the cab. He pushed it over to make room for the duffel bag, and once that was done, he slung the M4 again over his back. He then looked at the house, and remembered he hadn't checked the garage yet. He realized it was open about six inches, and a dim blood trail lead into the opening. He slowly walked at a 45 degree angle to the garage door, and pulled the handle at the bottom.
The door slid silently up. Blake pulled out his Glock, and stood at the opening, dumbfounded at the sight in front of him. Ten feet into the garage, next to a red PT Cruiser, stood two tall dogs. Their skin was bare and mutilated, and showed no signs of hair. Blake guessed they were rottweilers, judging by their size. Now the two hell spawns stood over a dead body, which was missing a leg, the half of the other leg, and both arms. The abdomen was wide open, the internal organs hanging out and spilling onto the cold cement floor. The face was twisted into a horrible expression of terror and pain. Though there was no gender distinction in physical form, Blake could tell by the remnants of clothing and jewelry that this hunk of raw meat lying in front of him had once been a girl, maybe mid-twenties. The two dogs were gnawing on the remaining meat of the spoiled female. Blake stood there, making as little noise as possible, for the dogs had yet to notice about the change in light or the figure standing in front of it, making a shadow less than two feet from them. Blake slowly, almost without movement, started to put the Glock back in its holster to grab his M4. As his arm crept to the halfway mark, he switched his eyes to the Cruiser in the garage. It looked brand-new, besides the thick coat of dust covering its otherwise clean surface. At that moment, he felt a tingle in his nose, as the dust he hadn’t been thinking about was suddenly noticed by his body, and his nose noticed more. He fought all he could, but when his eyes flicked back to the Cruiser, he and his mind forgot about holding his allergic reaction. He sneezed, just as the two dogs started to finish up on the meal, and realize that someone was watching them. Blake recovered from his sneeze, and as he looked back up, his eyes met those of the dogs. The dogs seemed to smile at him sinisterly, and Blake knew it was coming. “Oh, fuck,” he said, and at the next moment, both were charging him, barking and growling as they made their deadly course towards their victim. Before Blake could raise his gun, one of the dogs made a leap for him, crashing into his abdominal area, and knocking both of them to the ground. Blake’s gun flew out of his hands, and he watched, as the dogs’ weight pushed him harder and faster to the ground, the small weapon make a rest on the grass next to the driveway, and his Tundra. He landed hard, the dog on top of him assisting in the impact. The beast on top of Blake snapped at him, and it took all his strength and willpower to ignore the pain of the fall, and the collection of blood on the cement under his head, and still keep this monster on top of him away from his face. The once-upon-a-time dog nearly got his nose, but Blake still held him off. He felt the other Canine start to tug on his jeans, and kicked as hard as he could muster. His leg met resistance, and then there was none as he heard the dog give a yelp, and fly back four feet off to the right into a wall stud. Blake watched out of the corner of his eye as the beast still moved slightly, but did not get back up. He refocused all his attention to the one snarling over him. Its eyes were white with no pupils at all, but Blake could still see the lust for blood in the Canines’ eyes as it constantly tried to dig its teeth into his face. Blake told himself that he was not going to let it end here, and showed the most slight hint of surrender. For a moment, the dog seemed to telepathically say “What are you doing? Don’t give up!” then roll off to the right as Blake turned his whole body to the left, then used all the force in his legs and hips to roll right hard, and send the dog in that same direction. Blake landed on top, his hands holding the Canines' front paws, shins on its hind legs. Blake thought the sight looked comical, but he had no time to laugh, for the beast still snapped at him, even as its fragile legs cracked under his weight. Blake thought of a plan to kill the animal, and came up with an idea. He rolled the animal onto its stomach, and pulled out the six inch knife out of the sheath attached to his right calf. The black blade cast a shadow on the concrete as Blake brought it down on the Canines' head, digging it in to the hilt. Blood ran everywhere, half-dried liquid covering Blake’s hand, forming a thick layer on his rough skin. The dog lifted its head a little, and roared. The sound was deafening. Then it crashed down to the floor, dead.
“There is no reason that should have happened,” Blake said to himself. His white lab coat hung to his knees, stains from various chemicals and mixtures plastered over the front. The lab surrounding him consisted of test tubes, all with various chemicals, each propped up on thin metal stands. The white brick walls, lined almost to the back wall with metal desks, had posters of various topics, from the human body to the Periodic Table. From the back wall out to about 10 feet, stood large metal shelves, each with various chemicals, herbs, and medicines lined up in neat rows. On the left wall, from the front of the room, was a big plate of bullet-proof glass, behind it a small room which contained a hospital stretcher and various equipment. Through the center of the monstrous room were more metal desks, a small opening between them for easier access around the lab. Blake paced back and forth through the middle of the lab, thinking about the days earlier happenings. The dogs mainly, and how they hadn’t responded, or noticed, he was there, and how the one had roared before dying. None he had faced had ever done that.
The body of the Canine, the one Blake had kicked, lay on an operation table in the small back room, paws hanging off the sides of the cloth sheet. Straps pressed into its nose, abdomen, and tail end, extending to both sides of the table. The whole thing was trapped behind the bulletproof glass. Blake walked over to the glass, and looked through it at the screen that was monitoring the Canines' vitals. When he had kicked it, and sent it into the wall stud, it had just knocked the beast out. Blake sighed and unlocked the half-dozen locks and bolts to open the glass. It opened smoothly, and Blake stepped in, shutting the glass behind him,but not locking it. He stepped next to the beast on the table, picked up a needle, and stuck it in its side. It took about ten minutes to get enough fresh blood to have an accurate reading on its cellular structure. He put the blood on a slide, slipped it into his microscope, and held his eye over the cup shaped lens. The infectious cells overran the entire image, showing only the red background of the regular blood. No white or red blood cells were visible. Though he expected this, for he had seen it dozens of times, it still amazed him, even after a full year, every time he looked at it. Then he saw something unusual.
A noise behind him caught his attention, and he swung around. The Canine was now awake, struggling under the thick straps. Blake only stared, unmoved by the beasts ferocity and futile efforts. After a few more seconds, it seemed to give up, then roar like the other one had.
At this, Blake stepped back, opened the drawer next to him, and pulled out a gleaming Desert Eagle. He pointed it at the animal, and it soon stopped. It lay back down, and its vitals went flat. The jagged green lines now were flat, the steady beep now constantly sounding. The Canine was dead.

Blake stepped out the door of the lab. A black bulletproof vest was in his left hand, M4 in his right. He stepped out onto the hardwood floor, standing in the hallway. The white walls were blank, nothing but scratches here and there covering the plain surface. A tall, wide locker stood at the end, secured with a built-in keyed lock, while the metal door stood unscratched. The outside covering was cold and smooth, but reflected no light as Blake walked to it. He stood in front of the safe, pulled out a key from his pocket, slipped it in the lock, twisted it, and pulled it out. He opened the safe to reveal several guns lined up vertically across the back, held in place by hooks. Above them, small metal drawers occupied the remaining space. Blake opened one of the drawers, reached his hand in, and came out with two M4 clips in his hand. He slipped those through the small cloth straps on his belt, and closed the drawer. He opened another, and came out with some clips for his Desert Eagle, which had remained in the holster on his right hip since the incident with the Canine. He put those clips in the small clip holders on the Desert Eagles' holster. He set the M4 down, slipped on the bulletproof vest, and slung the M4 over his shoulder. He reached into another drawer, and came out with a handful of keys, connected by a large keyring. He closed the locker, secured the lock. He walked up a carpeted staircase above the lab door