Winchester Undead (Book 2): Winchester: Prey (10 page)

CHAPTER 22

Terlingua, Texas

February 16, Year 1

The moon provided a surprisingly bright light. Bexar left Jessie and Keeley in their new cabin so he could try to find a vehicle that still ran after the EMP. Bexar walked slowly in the moonlight, holding his AR-15 loosely, tired and letting most of the weight rest on the padded sling. The last two days had been incredibly hard on Bexar, and he simply didn’t have the energy or focus to be as vigilant as he should. Fifteen minutes was all it took for Bexar to walk around the back of the Starlight Theatre, hoping to be lucky enough to find a working vehicle close by. Bexar really wished he still at least had the hand-cranked shortwave radio with the hope of hearing some updated news. It would simply be too much to also wish for the HAM radio stowed in the metal cabinet on the top of Emory Peak.

An old F-100 caught Bexar’s eye, but it had been abandoned for a long time and quite obviously had not run for even longer. Bexar, giving up hope of finding anything close, turned and started to walk down the hill towards the highway. He didn’t remember seeing any usable vehicles the previous night, but he wasn’t really focused on looking for one either. Thirty minutes later, Bexar was in the parking lot of the bar and grill he’d passed by the first night, steam rising off his head in the cold winter air. An old Jeep CJ sat in the parking lot, which raised Bexar’s hopes, but when he opened the hood he found the owner had performed an engine swap. A new fuel-injected V-8 wouldn’t work now. If only the owner had kept the original equipment. Shaking his head, Bexar gently set the hood back in place. In the dark windows of the restaurant behind him, the shadows moved. Bexar didn’t want to excite the zombies trapped in the restaurant or have to deal with them tonight. He felt like he was on the edge of a nervous breakdown and he wasn’t sure he could take any more problems.

Bexar continued down the hill and was standing across from the small hotel nearly to the highway when he heard the thundering pops of motorcycles riding in fast from the north.

“God dammit,” Bexar whispered to himself. He jogged to a horse trailer parked in the sand near the hotel and lay prone on the ground, his rifle pointed towards the highway. He didn’t want to risk running up the hill and being seen. Bexar hoped the bikers would just pass by their location. He lay motionless, frustrated that he couldn’t get away from the damn bikers and get his family to safety. Adding to his anger was the sight of his lovingly built bug-out vehicle, the Jeep Wagoneer he’d owned since high school, sitting on the road in front of him, totally destroyed from the wreck. The sound of the motorcycles continued to grow louder, and then Bexar saw the headlights appear over the hill and approach his wrecked Wagoneer. Bexar took deep breaths, exhaling through his nose while trying to keep his heart rate and mind in control. He was nearly sure that if the bikers turned the motorcycles off, they would be able to hear his heart pounding in his chest.

The two riders stopped by the Wagoneer and appeared to be talking, but they left their bikes running and Bexar couldn’t hear them. Bexar stopped breathing when he saw the older biker with a long beard point up the hill towards the ghost town and his cabin. The riders turned and began riding up the hill towards him. Bexar’s right thumb pushed the safety on his AR down and he smoothly pressed the trigger. One of the motorcycles swerved sharply, the rider falling off before the bike fell and slid in a shower of sparks on the pavement. The second rider skid to a stop, drew a pistol, and fired wildly in the direction he thought he saw a muzzle flash. Bexar began snapping his trigger sharply, firing the AR rapidly as the biker turned and left in a full throttle cloud of dust and fury of sound. Bexar felt a sudden burning pain in his right thigh. With all of the adrenaline flowing through his body, it felt like someone snapped a rubber band against his bare skin. Bexar thought he saw the bike shudder and swerve, but the rider remained upright and rode over the crest of the hill back towards the park at a high rate of speed.

Bexar stood and walked to where the downed biker lay on his back, his face bleeding from road rash and clutching his shoulder where blood oozed around his fingers from the bullet wound. The biker began to speak but Bexar fired a single shot into the man’s face. The heavy crimson blood flowed out of the hole in the man’s skull, painting the pavement. Bexar was too angry to show mercy. Angry that the bikers ruined everything. Angry that the bikers killed his friends, and angry that the bikers made him flee and hide his family. The motorcycle lay in the sand on the side of the road, still running. As Bexar walked to the bike, the pain in his right leg grew in intensity, each step resulting in a painful limp.

Although the headlight was smashed and the gas tank now had a large dent in it, the bike appeared to be rideable. If it weren’t for Keeley and the gear, he and Jessie would be set for transportation. Bexar flipped the kill ignition switch off before pushing the motorcycle upright. With a deep breath, Bexar switched on his flashlight and looked at his right leg. His pants leg was soaked in blood.

Bexar looked up the hill and wasn’t sure he could walk up it. He sat on the motorcycle, started it, and rode up the hill to the cabin. Careful to park the motorcycle out of view behind the cabin, Bexar limped to the front door and softly knocked four times. “Jessie, it’s me.”

The door latch clicked open and Bexar limped into the cabin.

“Oh my God, Bexar! What happened?”

“Help me get these pants off. I think I’ll be OK.”

The wound on Bexar’s leg appeared to be a grazing wound. Thankfully, they wouldn’t have to worry about a round lodged in his leg. He and Jessie used a washrag from the bathroom and the med kit to clean the wound as best they could. Jessie squeezed about half a tube of antibiotic ointment into the wound and pressed the white cloth hard against his leg before wrapping duct tape around the makeshift bandage.

“Thank you, baby. There were two of them. I killed one, but the other got away. I’m not sure if I nicked him or what, but I tried.”

Outside the cabin, they heard the unmistakable sound of the moaning walking dead.

“God dammit. If things weren’t bad enough, all of the noise brought us more fucking zombies.”

CHAPTER 23

Near Terlingua, Texas

February 16, Year 1

The highway was pitch black. Without a working headlight only the moonlight glowing off the asphalt lit his way. Being so remote, the road would have been just as dark before the end of the world, but that fact was lost on Buzzer. His right hand pinned the throttle of his old Harley all the way back, the motor spinning as fast as it could, but the world around him moved slowly by. For three days, Buzzer had not slept, smoking more meth when he started to crash. He was quickly running out and wasn’t sure when the club would be able to cook more, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered was that he was going to kill that asshole, but first he had to get Russell and some more men for the fight.

While near El Paso, the club had raided every pharmacy they found, taking large bags full of Vicodin, Viagra, Xanax, and pseudoephedrine. The pseudoephedrine was used to cook meth. The rest was just to party.

The old Harley sprayed oil out of the top of the motor, the valve cover having been caught by one of Bexar’s widely fired AR rounds. The spraying oil drenched Buzzer’s left leg, but it was also coating the rear tire of the motorcycle in a thick layer of oil. Nearing Study Butte and the turn for Highway 118, Buzzer flew up on a large gaggle of undead shambling westward, following the path he and Mike had taken earlier. Buzzer pushed on the handlebars and felt the rear end of the motorcycle slide out from under him. He grabbed a fistful of brake lever, but it was much too late. The oil-slick tire slid out from under the motorcycle, violently throwing the motorcycle on its side. Buzzer’s right foot caught under the crash bars. The motorcycle slid into the walking corpses at seventy miles per hour, knocking them off their feet like bowling pins, which could have been funny if the sparks from the sliding motorcycle hadn’t caught Buzzer’s oil-soaked pants and motorcycle on fire. Bodies bounced off the motorcycle and over Buzzer.

Eventually the motorcycle slid to a stop, Buzzer’s right leg shredded from the grinding asphalt and his left leg on fire from the oil. Punctured in the crash, the gas tank caught, and Buzzer burst into flames, trapped under his motorcycle as the undead approached. Buzzer screamed as the dead, unfazed by the fire, bit into his body, ripping away chunks of flesh while he burned. Ribbons of burning flesh hung from the zombie’s mouths as they began to catch fire as well, the burning fat popping amidst Buzzer’s screams until eventually he lost consciousness.

Groom Lake, Nevada

Cliff escorted the three new arrivals to the large cargo elevator that descended underground to the first underground level, where there was a heavy blast door that secured the main entrance to the facility. The door stood open and they were greeted by an angry looking Major Wright, who stood next to the door holding an M4 rifle.

“Cliff, we’ve had an outbreak. I believe we have it contained to the bottom two floors. It started in the lab. I think Lance might be trapped or dead.”

Cliff’s face showed no emotion or reaction to the news, but his anger raged under his disciplined demeanor. Lance was the only remaining scientist associated with the Kali Project–the only person who had a chance at deciphering what the Chinese had engineered from the ancient virus. Cliff’s mission to help stop the spread of the Yama Strain was over, leaving his underground facility in the wilds, like Fort Apache, to give aid to anyone needing it. The secondary plan, the absolute worst case, was now in effect.

“OK, Ben, how many?”

“Eight if you count the specimens that Lance kept in the lab,” said Wright, just now noticing the three newcomers to the facility. “Who are these guys?”

“Sir, we’re with the 66th Rescue Squadron. This guy stole our plane so we hitched a ride with him.”

“Well, welcome aboard. We are in need of medically trained people, so it would seem.”

Cliff looked at the PJs. “If you guys wouldn’t mind giving me a hand, we need to take care of this problem before it gets any worse.”

Once Arcuni and Garcia walked past the heavy blast door, followed by the airmen who were providing above-ground security, Wright pushed the big red button on the inside wall. Hydraulic rams pushed the door closed, and heavy steel pins pushed outward into the steel and concrete doorframe with a resounding deep thud.

Cliff guided the trio of Air Force special operators to the south stairwell and began making his way down the stairs. “The bottom floor is a research lab. They were working on the Yama Strain, which is what caused all of this, since before the attack.”

“So there’s a cure?”

“Not yet, and now it doesn’t seem like there will be if Lance is dead.”

On the landing above the second to the bottom level, the floor above the lab, Cliff found an airman standing with an M4 pointed towards the heavy metal fire door. The new arrivals could see dents pushed through from the other side of the door. The sound of pounding fists from the other side of the metal door resonated in the concrete stairwell, punctuated by the muffled moans of the dead.

Standing at the top of the landing, Cliff spoke to the young airman. “Greg, when I give you the word I want you to open the door, sprint up the stairs, and stand behind us. Got it?”

“You want me to let them out?”

“Yes. We need to put them down, and the stairs will give us some safety. They usually trip on the first step and have to crawl up the rest of the steps.”

Greg gave Cliff a look of disbelief, but nodded and walked down the stairs to the door.

“Guys, hold fire until the first one trips on the stairs. We need to let the first few out of the doorway so they don’t jam up, making us go in after them. Also, head shots only please.” The three PJs each responded with a thumbs-up.

“OK Greg, now.”

Greg pushed the door handle down, turned, and sprinted up the stairs to stand behind Cliff and the other three. The door exploded into the stairwell, the first walking corpse falling forward from the door suddenly giving way. The second undead stepped through the doorway and tottered towards the stairs only to trip on the first step.

Cliff fired the first shot, a single shot, and the corpse on the stairs stopped moving, its head cracked open by the M4 round. Rick fired his rifle, as did Chris and Evan. Four undead lay dead for good in the stairwell, skull fragments and black rotted brain matter covering the painted concrete.

“Greg, after we go inside secure the door. We’re going to clear the lab before doing secondary searches of each level.”

Greg replied that he would and followed the four men down the stairs, careful not to slip in the oozing black brain matter that lay on the floor.

“OK guys, lab level. There should be four more if Wright correctly accounted for everyone. Beyond the landing are some offices followed by a slightly open area that leads to the lab’s sealed doors. I had to clear this damned place by myself the first time and the way to do it is like we just did. Give the undead a path, make some noise, and let them come to you. It’s too easy to get swarmed if you try to enter and clear a room fast.”

The metal fire door on the bottom and last landing also had dents from the inside, but this time there was no banging on the door and no moaning dead to greet them.

“All right, stand easy for a minute. Let me get the door ready and then come back up the stairs with you.”

Cliff walked to the door and pulled a large rubber doorstop out of the cargo pocket of his BDUs before quietly opening the door. He propped the door open with the door stop, trotted up the stairs next to the PJs, and used the muzzle of his rifle to bang on the pipe-metal handrail of the stairs. The stairwell resonated like a gong, and out of view on the other side of the open doorway, moans immediately erupted in response.

The first zombie that shambled through the doorway was Lance, part of his right forearm missing. It appeared that he wasn’t a recently killed undead. His left eye hung out of his face, held on by parts of rotting flesh, and part of his lips were missing. Cliff fired a single shot, putting Lance down for good. Three more undead staggered out of the doorway into the stairwell, each put down with single headshots by Cliff.

“Damn. Well, you three do a sweep of this floor and the next, then get Greg to show you to your bunks and get some showers. On the way, stop by the storeroom and get some new BDUs. You guys smell like ass. Meet me in conference room D-1, Delta-One in ninety-mikes. We’ve got to discuss some stuff with the rest of the crew.”

The PJs looked at a clock on the wall and mentally counted off their ninety-minute deadline.

Cliff didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and jogged past Greg, tersely saying, “Stay put,” as he passed.