Winchester Undead (Book 3): Winchester [Quarry]

by Dave Lund

  The civilian atlas was unfolded across the entire dash of the Defender. Bexar traced his finger along a small line that he believed to be the road they were on. I wish we had Malachi’s GPS; that would be handy. All of this high speed gear and they didn’t have a turn by turn GPS system … fucking government.

  “OK guys, good news and bad news. Good news is I think I’ve figured out what road we’re on and we are actually going in the right direction. Bad news is that we still hit I-35 outside of Waxahachie. We don’t, however, have to drive through the middle of town … we’re also really close to where my friends and I had our prepper group cache site.”

  “Anything useful still there?”

  “No, just the two friends we buried.”

  Outside of Lee Vining, CA

  The convoy had traveled nearly fifty miles without incident, until they drove past the middle school on the edge of town. The small town saw tourists for the Mono Basin and it appeared to be a popular spot. Hammer slowed as Aymond keyed the radio. “Going weapons hot—stay tight back there … Ski, light ‘em up.”

  Like agitated workers on strike, a mass of undead crowded the road ahead by a gas station which sat next to the first hotel on the road. The convoy would pass the gas station as they entered the town. In the back of the lead M-ATV, Ski opened fire with the electronically controlled mounted M2. With controlled bursts, the fifty-caliber rounds ripped the crowd of walking Zeds apart, blood, bone … whole pieces of bodies littered the asphalt. Every fifth round was a tracer, shining like a laser arcing through the air, raking fire back and forth, decimating the dead. The rounds also peppered the roadside motel, which began to smoke from the burning hot tracers, catching the building on fire.

  Ryan Hammer picked the spot that had the least amount of bones and body parts and threaded the trucks through the small gap. The handful of undead that “survived” the automatic fire bounced off the fenders and sides of the heavy trucks. The rest of the M-ATVs followed Hammer’s trail through the carnage and the convoy slowly sped back up to a blistering forty-five mph, leaving the hotel and a host of the undead burning in their wake.

  CHAPTER 18

  Cortez, CO

  March 5, Year 1

  The sun sat low against the western mountains. Cliff readied his gear. The school kid backpack held a few bottles of water and some cans of Vienna Sausages that he’d scavenged from the home’s pantry. The dark-colored blanket he used for camouflage doubling as his poncho was worn over his shoulders. With all of his gear on, Cliff conducted a rattle check, shaking back and forth then hopping up and down. The gear moved more than he would have liked, especially the backpack, but nothing clanked and nothing clinked. Gear rattling is not a sound found in nature; therefore it is a tell-tale giveaway that a human is on the move nearby.

  Armed with a ten-year-old Chamber of Commerce map, Cliff picked out a spot to spend the rest of the night and the first day of his recon mission. After climbing out of the window above the garage and closing it behind him, Cliff lowered himself to the ground. The new truck lacked a windshield. He took the time to break out the tail lights, turn signals, and brake lights. He disconnected the horn and drove south towards the heart of Cortez with the headlights off. He needed stealth, not an accidental horn blast or bright red lights glowing in the darkness behind him, inviting unwanted followers.

  The cult member that he had interviewed before the unscheduled skydiving lesson was administered confessed that the cult was based at a school. The other survivors had said that the middle school was where the survivors were located before it had been overrun. He believed they had been at least partially rescued. So that left only a handful of other school buildings to recon. The grade school on 4th Street was as good a place as any to start, so that’s where he headed.

  Hanging back a few blocks from the school, Cliff was disappointed to see that the neighborhoods were mainly comprised of one-story homes—low vantage points. But at least with the trees still bare, his line of sight was better than it would have been later in the year. At the end of Harrison Street, Cliff found a large open lot. He followed the dirt drive southward until reaching a fence line. Ditching the truck among the brush near some trees, Cliff climbed over the fence into the back area of some two-story apartments. To his right, a row of homes stood between him and the front of the school, hiding him well on one side. The sun had set and the darkness gave him more cover than he could have hoped, especially with his shape disguised by the blanket. Sneaking around to the front of the next to last apartment, Cliff gently walked up the metal stairs, as quietly as he could. Back against the wall, he tried the door to the apartment; it was unlocked. He pushed the door open slowly. The living room and kitchen were in view; a card table had been knocked over and blood was smeared on the kitchen wall. Well, shit, he sighed.

  Cliff reached under the blanket and drew his knife. He kicked the door frame a couple of times, making enough noise to attract the undead but quietly enough not to be heard from the street. As Cliff had guessed, a moan erupted from the back of the apartment, followed by a walking corpse crashing through the hallway and into the living area. The poor bastard must have been significantly obese before he died and reanimated, because he was now a massive pile of rotting shit. Before the fat corpse could stumble out onto the porch, Cliff closed the distance and plunged his knife into its skull, which split open like a ripe melon. The knife pulled out of the skull with a wet slurp as the now truly dead corpse fell to the carpet. Thick black pus covered the knife blade and Cliff’s hand. Maggots crawled through the mottled and hanging skin, making the mounds of rotting flesh ripple with movement. Cliff shut and latched the apartment door then threw up on the carpet. Goddammit, these things are getting worse. Cliff had to leave the body where it was. First of all, he didn’t want to touch it; and secondly, if he pulled it outside it would be obvious that someone was in the apartment, and stealth was his only ally in Cortez. He continued down the hallway. The back bedroom’s window faced north and the school could be seen through the bare trees.

  Cliff pushed the bed away from the wall and flipped it up on its side to get it out of the way. He raised the window shade slightly, just enough for the spotting scope’s field of view to be unobstructed. Then, he retrieved the card table from the kitchen, along with a folding chair, and set up for a long night and day of recon. Assuming that the cult had at most a limited number of NODs, they would probably only be active in the daylight; but then again, he hadn’t expected them to have a shoulder-fired rocket that would take down a C-130 either.

  With his small notepad in hand, pen ready, Cliff propped up on the table with the spotting scope. The blanket was draped across his body and to the front of the scope, breaking his form in the shadows, just in case one of the nuts with the cult was trained in counter-sniper techniques. He sat and waited patiently for signs of movement.

  Highway 396, CA

  The endless desert mountains were punctuated by an occasional home, farm, building, or business, but the monotonous drive continued on and on at forty-five mph. It had been five hours since the convoy left the MWTC, and the sun was hanging low to the west. The only excitement after Lee Vining was that the men wanted to take the turn off for Mammoth Mountain to see if any of the resorts were still up and running. They knew the answer, but to an enlisted Marine, there is always some glimmer of hope, especially when passing a ski resort. There had to be some possibility of civilization, or he would lose his mind. Both Bishop and Big Pine, Indian reservations, passed by with hardly a whimper, only a few Zeds for the convoy to weave around, some bouncing off the trucks as they passed. They were getting low on fuel and it was quickly nearing time to set up a secure location for resting during the night. Aymond had toyed with the idea of hot swapping drivers and rolling continually, but everyone needed a break. Even the guys who had no other task during the past day except riding in an M-ATV would need a reprieve from the noise and vibration, not to mention it would do them good to get out to stretc
h and move around freely.

  When Highway 14 split off of 395, the sign pointed left for China Lake. China Lake! How could I have forgotten about China Lake? … Probably because you’re not a naval aviator, dumbass. The convoy passed another sign, showing the direction for the Inyokern Airport, a civilian field. Aymond shook his head and keyed the radio. “Dagger Actual, Dagger Two, Dagger Three, over?”

  “Two, over.”

  “Three, over.”

  “Dagger Actual … we’re going to pull into Inyokern Field to bivouac. Eyes up and continue to follow, over.”

  “Two, clear.”

  “Three, clear.”

  The convoy took the exit off of 395 and drove into the small desert town. The area appeared completely deserted; not a single body in sight, no burned-out buildings, nothing to indicate anything was amiss. Makes sense. If I was a civilian who lived next to a large naval installation and an EMP hit, I would head to the installation for help and shelter. The convoy passed through the town without incident and turned onto Airport Road. The road ran past several fenced-off driveways leading to the small hangars; Aymond was looking for a way through one, but at the end of the road they found yet another gate. He keyed the radio.

  “Dagger Actual. Gonzales—check in, over.”

  “Go, Chief.”

  “You and Snow take the bolt cutters and get us a way in.”

  A few moments later Gonzales and Snow strode past the lead vehicle and to the gate. With a few cuts to the chain link, Snow slid through the hole in the fence, opened the control box to the gate, flipped the release handle over and pulled the gate open. The convoy drove into the field. Gonzales tied the middle of the hole in the fence back together using 550-cord; Snow slid the gate closed and flipped the lever over to engage the security lock.

  Driving across the ramp, Aymond called Stop to the convoy in front of an old WWII-era Kodiak hangar and keyed the radio.

  “Hammer and Happy, you’re with me to clear the hangar. Ski and Davis, recon south for hostiles and supplies. Snow and Kirk, you two take north.”

  No one responded, but they didn’t need to. By the time Aymond stepped out of the lead vehicle, the divided groups were already headed in their assigned directions. Ryan Hammer and Mike Happy formed up with Aymond.

  Ten minutes later the Kodiak hangar was clear, nothing found inside except a handful of aircraft and tools. The North team returned, but Ski and Davis weren’t back yet. There had been no gunfire or radio calls, so unless they had both had an aneurism at the same time, they were probably okay.

  “Aymond. Ski and Davis—what’s the hold up?”

  “Chief, found something. We’ll be back in two mikes.”

  From the other side of the small rows of hangars Aymond heard an engine cough to life, and black smoke billowed into the air above them. A moment later an absolutely ancient-looking fuel truck slowly pulled around the side of the hangars, driving towards the rest of the team. Davis drove as Ski hung off the running board. Dark, oily exhaust filled the air behind the lumbering truck as it ground to a halt beside the M-ATVs.

  Ski jumped off the running board. “Chief, this thing is full of Jet-A. That’s jet fuel—that’ll run in the M-ATVs, right?”

  “Yup, good find. You’re now in charge of the fueling detail. And turn that fucking thing off before it fills the whole desert with black smoke, telling everyone in the area someone is on the airport.”

  Ski turned towards Davis and made a cut sign across his throat. The motor shut off and the area fell silent. The black smoke dissipated in the wind.

  Near Alpine, TX

  The dust storm finally abated, but it cost Jessie a lot of driving time. She reached the southern end of Alpine, Texas, just as the sun was beginning to set. Stopped again in the middle of the highway, Jessie had the road atlas unfolded across the entire dashboard before finally pinpointing her location. I have to drive through the middle of town, but do I want to do it now or in the morning? Maybe I can find a spot to sleep tonight … or maybe there is an ambush waiting for me. Jessie sighed, pushed the unfolded map into the passenger’s seat and, with a deep breath, put the FJ in gear and drove into Alpine. She didn’t know much about the town except that Sul Ross University was there. Following the road signs, Jessie turned left after the tracks, drove through the middle of town, then turned right and back onto 118 traveling north. Undead moved aimlessly through the town’s center; Jessie didn’t count them, but guessed there to be at least seventy. The shambling corpses turned to follow her SUV as she passed. Jessie took a turn onto a side street and drove slowly for three blocks, nearly idling the truck while in gear, letting the walking cadavers just start to catch up to her then making sure that they made the turn behind her vehicle. Once she had become the leader of a macabre parade through the neighborhood, Jessie sped up, turned left and then left again, and headed back to 118, hoping that she was able to shake her undead tail. On the north end of town, she slammed on the brakes. A squat metal building sat to her left with a sign that read, “Road and Bridge Department.” Perfect, she thought.

  Jessie drove into the open gate, got out, closed the gate behind her, then parked with the metal structure blocking the view of her vehicle from the road. She scanned her surroundings and saw three pickup trucks and two large silver fuel tanks on stands at the back of the property. First the building. Jessie tried the door and found it unlocked. She slowly pulled the door wide and propped it open with a rock. She banged on the door a few times, then backed up and waited by the front of the FJ with her rifle braced on the top of the vehicle’s hood. Soon a man in camouflaged coveralls lumbered out, a dead man, a walking corpse. Jessie let him clear the doorway before firing a single shot into his forehead. His skull exploded backwards before he hit the ground. She waited, counting slowly to one hundred. Nothing else came out of the building. Five minutes later, she was confident that the small office space was clear. The covered equipment area housed front loaders and backhoes, but those were of no use to Jessie. The five-hundred-gallon tank at the back of the property with “UNLEADED” painted in stencil was, though. Jessie used her gas cans to top off the FJ’s tank, then refilled the cans with gas from the gravity-fed tanks. Jessie checked the trucks parked at the back of the property. All three of them had red gas cans in their beds, all three about half-full. Not wanting to chance bad fuel, Jessie poured the contents out and refilled them from the large fuel tank. She lashed them on the roof rack with the others, parked the FJ by the office building, grabbed her bag, and went inside for the evening, looking forward to a meal of MRE surprise washed down with powdered Gatorade.

  Outside Waxahachie, TX

  Bexar stood on the roof rack of the Defender, the binoculars to his face as he surveyed the scene at the intersection with I-35E. In the fenced-off businesses’ lots on either side of him, walking corpses clawed at the fences, trying to reach him and the rest of the team. After close to five minutes, Bexar climbed down and sat in the passenger’s seat.

  “As far as I can see … they’re all on the northbound side of the Jersey barrier. Well, most of them; there are a few on this side, but nothing like the other side. Also, looks like the access road goes up and over the Interstate instead of under.”

  “What are the other options?”

  Sitting in the very back, on top of a case of MREs, Lindsey spoke up. “What if we just follow the access road on this side and see if it gets any better up the road? Maybe if we get out in front of them we can outrun them.”

  Bexar shrugged as a sign of indifferent support.

  Chivo put the Defender in gear and turned left, heading the wrong way on the access road. The handful of vehicles left in the road didn’t pose a large risk for the team, as the SUV was easily able to drive around them, swerving once into the grass for a bit before continuing north. The mass of walking corpses off to their right was staggering. Thousands and thousands of them marched silently northward, death’s soldiers ready to bring the war to whomever they found. Some
lunged over the concrete barrier between the lanes of travel as they passed, but the team drove too fast for any of the dead to catch up. Bexar, following the map, directed Chivo onto the Interstate, ignoring a Do Not Enter sign on the exit ramp. More vehicles littered the roadway here, causing the group to slow. Twice the undead grasped onto the hood of the Defender, only to fall off as they tried to crawl towards the windshield.

  Exiting via an on-ramp, Chivo followed the access road around and up onto Business 287. The road, a small highway, had only a few undead in sight. The tension in the Defender fell away as they drove further away from the horrible march of dead.

  Bexar traced his finger along the map. “We’ll meet up with the regular 287 in a few miles, and thank God we’re away from that fucking horde of corpses.”

  Chivo nodded. “That explains why we haven’t seen more of those things walking around until now. It’s like they’re attracted to one another; they all seem to move in the same direction. Weird. It would suck to be stuck in that mess—you’d be lucky if you had a chance to kill yourself before being ripped apart.”

  Chivo piloted the Defender onto US 287, continuing northwest towards Colorado. Apollo snored in the back of the SUV. Now that they were away from the mass of undead, he needed to nap so he could take over driving for the night shift.

  CHAPTER 19

  Cortez, Co

  March 6, Year 1

  Cliff finished the bottle of water then pissed into the empty bottle. Screwing the lid on tightly, he tossed the urine-filled container over by the upturned mattress. So far, he’d been correct in assuming the movement would be light at night. There appeared to be a few patrols out, but there wasn’t much else. Unless his hunch was wrong; maybe there wasn’t much activity at all and the high point of the day was right now. He wouldn’t know without watching for longer, which was the point of conducting the recon, but the meth he had found on the other cult members meant that they would be really unpredictable, possibly staying awake for days on end before crashing. One guess he did get right was the location of the school the cult was operating out of, unless, of course, they were using more than one.