Winchester Undead (Book 2): Winchester: Prey (14 page)

CHAPTER 31

Big Bend National Park

February 16, Year 1

Two motorcycles roared into The Basin, past the motels and up the road to the cabins. The riders turned the engines off, leaned the bikes on their side stands, and stood to see Russell walk out of his cabin towards them. DD lit a cigarette, afraid of what he had to tell his club president.

“Well, where’s Buzzer?”

“He’s dead, Prez. Crashed and taken down by walkers.”

“Both of them? What about Mike?”

“No, just Buzzer. We didn’t go past the walkers. We left to come tell you.”

“Damnit! Those assholes are where they found Stinky! You fucking idiots didn’t even get far enough to check. Get everyone out here. It’s time for Church and we’re going to kill that fucking family!”

DD ran towards the cabins. His partner went to get supplies out of the cabin next to Russell’s. Twenty minutes later all the club members and prospects stood in the road in front of Russell’s cabin. There were only fifteen of them left. Some of them smoked and some drank beer, even though it was barely noon, and most all of them were high.

“You take that old 4x4 and put the deuce with ammo in the back. The rest of you bring your rifles and grab some ammo. We’re going to round up some walkers and take revenge. Buzzer is dead. DD, you’re the new VP. Load it up! We ride now!”

The prospects ran to get the M2 out of the supply cabin, along with two heavy green cans full of ammunition and the tripod for the crew-served machine gun, and loaded it all into the back of the Scout that had been Malachi’s. Bexar had left it by the cabins when he bugged out, along with the FJ, but the club didn’t care about the history of the vehicles. They didn’t care about the families who had spent their hard-earned money and time building the vehicles to help with their survival; the club was only going to use them like they used everything else they stole.

The mountains echoed with a dozen old Harleys cranking to life, straight pipes popping loudly. Russell waved his hand above his head and rode down the hill. The rest of the club fell in formation, riding in twos, the Scout at the rear of the motorcycles.

Highway 170

Bexar rolled off the throttle and gently slowed the motorcycle to a stop. He had a flat tire. He must have picked up a nail or a screw or something in the road. After leaning the motorcycle on the side stand, he checked the rear tire, which sat flat against the rim and pavement. The tire was a tubeless tire, so if he had a plug he could plug it, but Bexar still had no idea how he would air the tire up enough to ride.

Bexar opened the left saddlebag, removed the remainder of his fireworks, and dug out a couple of dirty rags and a small glass pipe he recognized as something an addict would use to smoke meth or crack with. He threw the pipe across the road and it shattered with a satisfying crash. At the bottom of the saddlebag was a can of Fix-A-Flat. He shook the can and it felt full. Before the EMP there was absolutely no way he would have used a can of Fix-A-Flat on a motorcycle tire, but he had to get back to his family. Maybe the store in Terlingua had tire plugs and he could still plug the tire when he returned. He rubbed his hand on the tire, trying to find what punctured it, but he couldn’t find anything. He realized that he’d never checked the other saddlebag. Bexar opened it and dug through the contents. He found two dirty t-shirts emblazoned with the Pistoleros’ logo and a zip-top bag full of other bags. In the bags, he could identify marijuana, something that looked like meth, and a handful of different pills. The Norco he recognized, the pill colored yellow with “Watson” embossed on one side. The little oddly-shaped blue pill he could identify as Viagra, but he didn’t know what the other pills were. Bexar chuckled at the Viagra. Maybe he should keep it and see if Jessie would let him try it out with her. But he had no use for the meth or the marijuana. Bexar was nearly falling over with the pain from the bullet wound in his leg and realized he was lucky to find the Norco, a narcotic pain killer. He dug out one of the yellow pills and a bottle of water from his go-bag and swallowed the pill, then stuffed the bag of pills into his go-bag.

Glancing up and down the highway, Bexar didn’t see any movement or any undead, but he didn’t want to stay stranded in the middle of the road for long. He unscrewed the valve cap on the rear tire, screwed on the Fix-A-Flat, tube and pressed the button. The foamy glue hissed into the tire, raising the motorcycle’s rim off the pavement. Bexar pushed the sidewall of the tire with his thumb and decided to add a little more. Happy with how full the tire seemed, Bexar kept the half-used can and returned it to the saddlebag with his fireworks, started the bike, and continued the ride back to Terlingua. The hydrocodone was starting to make Bexar feel a little spaced out, but the brunt of the pain in his right leg was starting to fade.

Terlingua, Texas

Russell signaled the club to stop when they approached the wrecked Wagoneer still sitting in the highway. He shut off his motorcycle and walked to the Jeep’s driver’s door. The corpse sitting in the front seat had a bullet hole in the front of his skull and his lips were missing. Russell knew right then that the body in the Jeep hadn’t been a living person when it was shot, and the walking dead don’t drive. Someone had put the corpse in the driver’s seat.

“You dumbasses! This body was a walker before it was shot and put in the fucking Jeep.”

He looked around and pointed to the small motel a few hundred yards away. “Prospects, go check that motel.” The three prospects left the Scout and moved towards the hotel, pistols in their hands. Russell dug a fresh pack of cigarettes out of the carton in his saddlebag, slapped the pack a few times to pack the tobacco, and lit a fresh smoke. He watched the prospects kicking in the doors to the motel rooms, finding nothing along the way.

Fifteen minutes later, they walked back to the club and to Russell. “No one is there, but there’s two rooms that have been broken into already and there are a couple of dead walkers in the parking lot.”

Russell looked up the hill, scanning for where his rabbits could have run. A small trail of smoke whispered in the wind above the hill. “That’s them. It’s got to be. Prospects, drop the tail gate of the 4x4 and put the deuce together in the back. DD, lead the way. Prospects, follow behind. Let’s get this asshole.”

DD rode up the hill, skirting around a small group of undead who had been attracted by all the noise. The Scout bounced along behind DD’s motorcycle, the thick barrel of the fifty-caliber machine gun sticking past the rear bumper, and the rest of the club followed on their motorcycles.

DD rode slowly, expecting to get ambushed. The road split towards the top of the hill and a few hundred feet in front of him stood a cabin, a light trail of smoke rising from the small chimney. He stopped and shut off his motorcycle, leaned it on the side stand, and stood. DD pulled the M4 rifle slung across his back off his shoulder and pointed the prospects towards the cabin. The curtains by the front door moved. Someone peeked out the window. DD waved at the prospects and pointed at the cabin.

The fifty-caliber machine gun ripped the still air open, chunks of stone exploding off the walls from the force of the large bullets. Some of the club members were firing their M4s at the cabin, the much smaller rounds popping against the stonework, barely audible above the din of the rapid-firing machine gun. The M2 stopped while the prospects tried to clear a misfeed. The sudden silence was startling.

The back door of the cabin flew open and a small girl burst from around the back of the cabin, in view of Russell, running as fast as her little legs could carry her. Russell thumbed his rifle to three-round burst and, leading the running toddler, yanked on the trigger. The girl fell to the ground, tumbling through the dirt, the impacting rounds knocking her over. A woman ran screaming to the girl. The woman made it a few feet and collapsed to her knees, pulling the crumpled little body to her chest, blood pouring out of the limp body onto the woman’s clothes. She screamed in agony, rocking the dead body in her arms. As she brushed her daughter’s hair from her face, the girl’s unblinking eyes stared back at her.

Russell walked to the woman, drew a pistol from his motorcycle vest, pointed it at the back of the woman’s head, and began squeezing the trigger. Then he stopped. He slowly released the slack in the trigger, drew his arm back, and struck the woman in the side of the head with his pistol. Unconscious, she fell over the dead girl’s body.

Russell faced the club. “Toss the house, fucking burn it to the ground, and then get back to camp. Put this bitch in the 4x4 and bring her back. No one else gets to fuck her. She’s my trophy.”

CHAPTER 32

Groom Lake, Nevada

February 16, Year 1

Conference room D-1 was full of people again. Arcuni, joined by Sam Garcia and Ray Johnson, sat across the table from Chris, Rick, and Evan, the newly arrived PJs, who were some of the Air Force’s most elite and highly-trained special operators. Major Ben Wright started the briefing and was quickly joined by Cliff, who walked into the room a little late.

“We have identified two groups of survivors that are close enough to a proposed flight path within the Herc’s range. The first group is located north of Amarillo, Texas, in a town called Dumas, and are requesting an evac. They are in no danger of being overrun, but they are out of food and nearly out of water and have no means to resupply themselves.”

Wright tapped the keyboard and the slide refreshed with a tight overhead view of a small airport.

“This is the Dumas Municipal Airport. They are currently en route to the airfield and are instructed to shelter in the Quonset hut located here.” The view zoomed in, showing an old half-barrel-shaped Quonset hut hangar near the larger of the two runways.

“The group is labeled Texas-Bravo-19, or TB19, and contacted us on a civilian HAM frequency a week ago after picking up our blind broadcasts on the shortwave frequencies. We have not informed them, however, that the undead group Zed-Alpha-2, or ZA2, is approaching from the south. Our estimates have the leading elements of ZA2 reaching Dumas in approximately twenty-seven hours. So for their survival, it is imperative we have an immediate evac.”

Wright tapped on the keyboard and the next slide came on the large screen, showing a wide view overhead with a red blob labeled ZA2.

“Current estimates is that ZA2 contains approximately three hundred thousand walking corpses. The latest imagery shows a path of destruction left in their wake on par with an Old Testament locust plague. Quite literally, everything in its path is completely destroyed. If we can’t rescue these ten people and the four children, they will not survive. Any questions?”

No one spoke, so Wright clicked to the next slide in his PowerPoint presentation.

“The next group, designated Colorado-Alpha-2, or CA2, is located near the Four Corners region in a town named Cortez, Colorado. Their group contains approximately forty members and some children. Their numbers have fluctuated and we haven’t been able to find out why. They claim to not need extraction and are only in need of weapons, ammo, and some food. Johnson, have you prepared their requested items?”

“Yes sir, forty-eight cases of MREs and ten thousand rounds of XM193 are on pallets and plastic wrapped for transport. A crate of M-16A2s is also loaded.”

Wright clicked to the next slide, which showed a zoomed-in high-resolution overhead image. “This is the municipal airport in Cortez, Colorado. This group has access to a truck that was unaffected by the EMP and will meet the plane here.” Wright pointed to a turnoff from the taxiway on the north end of the hangars. Offload the cargo and remind them they are welcome here and they will be more secure as well. Any questions?”

Wright pointed to Arcuni. “Mr. Arcuni, if you would, cover flight ops, and Rick will follow up with the tactical and medical briefings.”

SSC Facility, Bardwell Lake

Amanda awoke with a start. The privacy curtain on her metal bunk blocked out the low light in the large room, which was lined with identical bunks and lockers. The room was so still and quiet that she started to imagine noises. Only the faint humming of the HVAC system could be heard. It would take her some time to get used to sleeping safely again. In fact, she might not be able to enjoy a deep sleep again for the rest of her life. Johnson’s old M4 rifle lay on her right side. Amanda gripped the rifle before sliding open the edge of the heavy privacy curtain. She didn’t see any movement in the room, just row after row of empty bunks.

Amanda slid off the bed, already dressed in the new ACUs that she and Clint had retrieved from the storage room the previous night. She’d thrown her old clothes in the trash promptly after taking a very long and hot shower the night before. She slid the ammo carrier over her head. It was much heavier than it had been in a long time, now that all of the M4 magazines were full of ammo for the first time in weeks. She slung the rifle and walked towards the large restroom to brush her teeth and enjoy using a real toilet again. Amanda looked in the mirror and couldn’t believe how old she looked. Forty-two years old and she didn’t look a day younger than sixty. The weeks on the road had left her face hollow-looking and too thin, even though before the attack she would have been happy with all the weight she’d lost.

A few minutes later, Amanda found Clint sitting in the cafeteria, the smell of hot coffee filling the room. His rifle was propped against the table while he ate an MRE for breakfast.

“What’s the plan for today, guy?”

“Well, first we’re going to finish breakfast, and then I’m going to the communications room and attempt to get our coms online.”

“Who is left to talk to? I thought the EMP would have disabled all the radios.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Besides, there are other facilities similar to this one. Chuck and I weren’t the only two members of the project. We should find the Denver facility up and running, and if we’re really lucky, they’ll be able to evac us and fly us there to join them.”