Winchester Undead (Book 2): Winchester: Prey (24 page)

CHAPTER 53

Cortez, CO

February 17, Year 1

Cliff drove into the outskirts of the town with the truck’s headlights off. In the snow and the darkness, and with no hard intelligence of where The Tribe held its boundaries, he didn’t want to chance being detected. Cliff turned off the main road and onto Empire Street, looking for a place to hide the truck from any roving patrols and to take shelter for the night. In his condition, Cliff wasn’t sure he would be able to fight more than one or two people directly. He needed time to heal, he needed time to recon, he needed food, and he needed time to rest.

He took the next left and drove slowly, scanning the dark homes for one that would give him a place to hide the truck. At the end of the road, Cliff found a copse of trees that would have to do for now. He drove over the curb and through someone’s yard, if that person was even still alive, and parked the truck behind the trees. Cliff climbed out and broke a branch off one of the smaller trees. He walked south back to the road and used the branch to brush the snow across the tire tracks and his foot tracks. There was nothing he could do about the light covering of snow on the road.

A single moan suddenly caught Cliff’s attention. He spun in place to see an elderly corpse tripping through the snow to his left. More moans filled the cold air. Cliff turned and saw another half-dozen undead following the path he’d left driving to the end of the road.

I can’t leave bodies out that would be too obvious for any patrols. I can’t waste ammo. Damnit! I don’t have time for this crap.

Cliff trotted towards the two-story house he was nearest, reached the side of the garage, climbed the wooden privacy fence, reached onto the roof, and painfully pulled himself up. On the roof he was safe, except that more undead would gather the longer he stayed visible. The second-story windows were over the garage. Cliff knocked on the first one loudly and waited for a response inside. Hearing nothing, Cliff broke the glass, punching the muzzle of his rifle through. He would have to gamble that a patrol wouldn’t know if the glass was broken before.

The tactical light attached to Cliff’s M4 illuminated the room, and dozens of lifeless eyes stared back at him. They were the dolls of a little girl whose bedroom he’d just entered, each dressed in a different outfit, but Cliff just thought they were creepy. The bedroom door stood open. Cliff walked to it and glanced into the hallway. No blood, no signs of death, and the house smelled normal. Cliff could only hope that meant the home was abandoned and no former residents still roamed the halls.

Twenty minutes later, Cliff verified the house was vacant; it appeared to have been hastily evacuated as all the dresser drawers were left open, clothes were thrown about, and some photos had been taken from the walls.

In the kitchen, Cliff found a fridge full of rotten leftovers and a can of stew and a can of tuna in the pantry. Luckily both cans had pull-tops, as he had no can opener. In the master bathroom, Cliff found a first-aid kit as well as an expired bottle of Tylenol. Expired or not, Cliff needed something to help take a little of the pain’s edge off.

The garage was full of junk and a small gas grill. The propane bottle felt like it had a little left in it. Cliff returned to the kitchen, gathered the two largest pots he could find, and quietly opened the back door. Moments later, he returned with two pots full of snow. Back in the garage, Cliff pulled one of the small decorative windows off the garage door so he could vent the burning grill, turned on the propane tank, clicked the sparker, and was happy to see flames coming from the burners. Both pots went on the grill and Cliff only had to wait for the snow to melt and then boil.

With fresh water, Cliff knew he could survive; the rest just took time and planning. Tylenol swallowed as well as a full pot of water consumed, Cliff checked that all the doors were locked, lay on the master bed, and quickly fell asleep.

CHAPTER 54

Barnhart, TX

February 18, Year 1

“Look, I know you’re all about going in straight lines, but I’m telling you that you don’t want to go through San Angelo. It’s the biggest town on this damn highway.”

Chivo, who was driving, looked at Bexar riding in the passenger seat.

“Fine, mano, if that’s what you say, but where else can we go?”

Bexar flipped through the map book. “Take a left on 163. We’ll have to go out of our way, but it should be better. Much smaller towns.”

In the back of the Land Rover, Apollo and Lindsey slept. The drive was taking much longer than Apollo had estimated. The fuel tank had been topped off about thirty minutes earlier, and only one jerry can of diesel fuel was left. All the detour sounded like to Chivo was a way to get stranded without fuel. Even though he’d grown up in Laredo, he’d left for the Army at eighteen and didn’t really know this part of Texas very well.

After the last roadblock, Bexar told Chivo and Apollo the story about the roadblock in Comanche where he’d ambushed the townspeople, the same people who would have taken all they had and leave them to die. They had to be careful, but Chivo hoped that the darkness and using NODs to drive without headlights would help give them an element of surprise. It had already. Bexar’s recounting also included the bikers herding zombies to overrun the town, or so he thought. Neither he nor Jack had been willing to investigate the town any further and risk a run-in with the bikers. Looking back, they probably should have forced a confrontation and killed every biker they saw. The Pistoleros had ruined his life.

Chivo scanned the road and surrounding area. This little Texas town looked more like an oilfield worker’s camp than an actual town, but some of the greatest civilizations in history had started from humble beginnings.

The next three hours passed in silence, a handful of small towns passing in the darkness. Some looked devastated; others looked perfectly normal, but in no town did they see any signs of the living. Bexar and Chivo counted a total of seventy-four undead that they saw and avoided.

By the time they made the outskirts of Comanche, the sky was growing bright with the tip of the sun peeking over the horizon. Chivo stopped in the middle of Highway 377 and woke up Apollo and Lindsey.

“Bexar says he went through this town before and they had an ambush planned. He also said that the biker gang ran a herd of zombies through the town. To make things more fun, we need fuel. So all hands on deck, guns up, look alive back there.”

Everyone took the opportunity to get out of the Land Rover, stretch, and answer nature’s call. Bexar limped painfully around the back of the Land Rover and climbed into the rear compartment. Ten minutes later, the group drove through the middle of Comanche, Texas.

The street signs along the main road were all missing, the stoplights pushed to the ground and flattened. Windows were broken and the paint was stripped off the first floor of buildings along the roadway.

“Looks like the biker’s herd of undead came through with such force that they destroyed everything in their path,” said Apollo, in awe of the destruction. Across the parking area of the courthouse in the town square sat a white bus. Apollo pulled alongside the bus. “I bet that bus is a diesel. We should siphon while we have the chance.”

“That’s a chain bus.”

Apollo looked in the rearview mirror at Bexar. “What’s a chain bus?”

“See the windows? See how they’re covered in steel mesh? It’s a prisoner transport bus for the Texas Department of Corrections, the state prisons.”

“So?”

“So it was probably full of prisoners at one point.”

Chivo climbed out and retrieved the empty jerry cans from the roof rack. Apollo used the last full can to top off the Land Rover’s tank before carrying it to the back of the bus, where Chivo pried open the fuel door and snaked a piece of garden hose into the filler spout. Moments later, Chivo spit fuel out of his mouth and cursed, but the diesel fuel was transferring to the first jerry can.

Lindsey and Apollo stood guard with Chivo. Bexar, not able to walk very well or very far, leaned against the hood of the Land Rover with his rifle. The sound of a chain scraping on the concrete broke the silence. Bexar turned and saw a large zombie shambling towards him in an off-white jumpsuit. The leg irons tripped the man every third step or so and he fell to the pavement, his hands still handcuffed and the handcuffs run through the metal loop on the leather control belt around his waist.

“Guys, we’ve got company! You might want to speed things up a bit!”

Bexar raised his rifle and fired a single shot, giving the prisoner the death penalty.

Apollo trotted around the front of the bus and began rapidly firing his rifle. “TIME TO LEAVE! WE’RE IN TROUBLE!”

Lindsey ran to Apollo and began firing her rifle. Chivo pulled the hose out of the bus, screwed on the lid of the half-full jerry can, and threw it on the Land Rover’s roof rack. The other cans, still empty, were thrown on the roof. Bexar climbed into the passenger seat; Chivo dove behind the wheel and started the engine. At the sound of the engine, Apollo and Lindsey turned and ran as fast as they could to the open back hatch of the Land Rover and dove. Chivo accelerated sharply, causing two of the empty jerry cans to fall off, banging loudly on the roadway.

“Fuck it, man. Leave them! We’re about to be overrun!”

As they passed the opposite side of the town square, a huge mass of undead bodies shuffled towards the SUV.

“Damn, looks like the herd of zombies the bikers used never left!”

Ten minutes later, the following herd of zombies were out of sight and Bexar was pointing out the gas station he had used as a shooting position and where the roadblock was.

“Hey guys, since we’re going through Stephenville, would you like to stop and meet my friend Flo who runs a little convenience store?”

CHAPTER 55

The Basin

February 18, Year 1

Jessie woke as the cabin began to warm from the morning sun. Her entire body hurt, her ears were still ringing, and her swollen face was very tender to the touch. Jessie climbed out of bed and the room spun; she had to sit back down.

This is going to be tough.

Jessie slowly stood again, steadying herself against the cabin wall. She needed to eat, but couldn’t stomach the thought of eating without getting some water first. She was dismayed to find that the water didn’t work anymore. While Bexar restarted the water system, he’d explained how it worked, so Jessie held a little hope that she could figure it out. If not, then she would drive to Panther Junction and use the hand-pumped well water there.

Jessie put on her rifle, press checked the chamber to verify a round was ready to go, unlocked the door, and gingerly stepped out into the sun. The bodies from the previous day’s battle still lay where they’d fallen. She was fairly sure that there weren’t any walkers left, but she couldn’t be sure. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the bright morning light and she took the opportunity to scan the cabin area for any movement. All she saw were two mule deer grazing on the north end. Slowly, Jessie walked down to the parking area and continued to the north. Where the trail intersected with the cabin area was a service road and the first water tank. The fence gate stood open and after walking around the tank, Jessie found two dead bikers, each with a hole in his skull.

Maybe Bexar did this?

Jessie looked at the small shack that covered the plumbing for the tank. One of the valves looked scratched up and the scratches looked fresh and had no rust. There wasn’t a wrench that Jessie could see, just a long scrap piece of metal. She tried to push on the valve with the scrap metal, but the valve wouldn’t budge. Jessie slowly walked down to the Scout in the parking area and found that Malachi’s canvas tool bag was still tucked under the passenger’s seat. The only tool that looked like it might work was a big pair of vise grips. Jessie went back up the short service road and barely got the vise grips to lock closed on the valve. She pushed and the valve wouldn’t budge. Jessie picked up the piece of metal and began swinging at the vise grips like a baseball bat, striking the back of the handle with each blow. Slowly the valve started to turn, and a few hits later, the valve turned ninety degrees. Jessie heard water rush into the pipes. A few taps on the tank with the vise grips and the tank sounded full.

If that didn’t work, I don’t know what will
.

Jessie walked back to her cabin and tried the sink. After a few moments of sputtering air and gargling sounds, water rushed out of the faucet. Satisfied, Jessie locked the cabin door, propped her rifle against the toilet, and took a cold but very satisfying shower.

CHAPTER 56

Groom Lake, NV

February 18, Year 1

Major Wright sat in conference room D-1 once again, this time without Cliff, but attended by Jake from Colorado and Mike from Texas, the elected leaders of each group. The civilian rules were laid out in a simple single-page document. It contained basic rules like no theft and no assault, and the general needs for a civilized community. The second page showed a duty roster dividing the workload of the facility. Simply built, once again, but dividing the tasks of cooking, cleaning, and maintenance across a few teams of people rotated on a schedule. It was important that there were skilled people in each group, including one who was an experienced radio operator. Quickly the conversation turned to Cliff.

“Jake, the last transmission was a
mayday
transmitted only once by Arcuni. We’ve completely lost contact since then. We won’t have another satellite pass over Cortez for three more hours. I don’t know where they were when that call went out, but that’s the place we’re going to start.”

“If something happened and the plane crashed, I hope my guys’ wives and children weren’t on it. I hope Sara wasn’t on it. The Tribe was bad enough. I don’t want to see what else could happen.”

“Your group aren’t the only survivors we’ve contacted who have had troubles with rogue groups trying to plunder like warlords. There’s a group in Texas that was overrun by a motorcycle gang.”

“Did you fly to them as well?”

“No, it’s classified.”

Mike slammed his hand on the table. “Classified my ass! There is no more classified. If you haven’t noticed, we’re in the goddamned Area 51. Everything has gone to hell. Who are you worried about, the fucking Soviets? It isn’t 1980 anymore, guy.”

Wright took a deep breath and sighed, shaking his head. “You’re right. I know you’re right. OK. A group of formal Special Forces who work for a joint CIA and DEA taskforce fought their way back to the United States from central Mexico. They intercepted the other group and eliminated the biker gang, but found and saved only a single survivor. They are en route to another facility similar to this one in Texas. Same one our new President is at.”

“OK, what then?”

“Quite frankly, I don’t know. Cliff had his own plan that fit his mission parameters. He didn’t tell me what the entire plan was or even what all the assets were.”

“Where in Texas?”

“Outside of Dallas.”

“There’s a secret base outside of Dallas? How did they ever build it?”

“I have no idea. Cliff didn’t go into it. Besides, it doesn’t matter.”

Jake said, “Dallas to Cortez is only about a fifteen-hour drive. Could they go after our kidnapped members?”

Wright shook his head. “I have no idea. We’ve had no contact with them since yesterday, and I don’t even know if they survived the trip to the other facility.”

“So you’re just going to give up?”

“No, we’re going to be patient. First, we have to figure out where the plane is, if there are survivors, and if your people were on that plane. As of right now, we don’t know enough to act.”

“Well that’s not good enough!” Jake stormed out of the room.