Winchester Undead (Book 3): Winchester [Quarry]

by Dave Lund

  The bridge still stood. There were many vehicles on it, but the convoy found it passible—no worse than the drive through the greater San Diego area. Peering over the edge of the bridge as they passed by, the docks and shipyards stood open for them to see in the later afternoon light. Zeds swarmed like ants. It would be a long time until someone was able to offload any cargo or work on any ships. There’s no way we have enough ammo in the U.S. to kill every single Zed. This is so fucked.

  Groom Lake, NV

  Surprisingly, the winding dirt road turned to asphalt as they climbed higher into the mountains. They came to a stop at a gate with signs warning of the use of deadly force; a metal building served as a guard shack. Attached to the guard shack was a note: “Go inside, lift receiver, and dial 973555 to gain access.”

  Erin, now fully awake after bouncing along the dirt road for the past hour, climbed out and offered to clear the building for them. Jessie declined, asking her to keep watch over the FJ while she and her mom took care of it. Jessie left the engine running. Rifle in hand, she opened the door to the metal building, banging on it several times, waiting for a response from any undead. When nothing happened, they went inside and found a single table with an old, heavy, touch-tone telephone sitting in the middle next to a notepad and a pen.

  Jessie picked up the receiver, heard a dial tone, and pressed 973555. Three rings later, a man answered the phone.

  “Groom Lake Operations, how may I assist you?”

  “We are survivors from Texas who were told by Cliff to come here for safety.”

  “Yes ma’am, welcome to Groom Lake. If you’ll use the notepad and pen, I will give you the combination to the lock on the gate. Please make sure to secure and lock the gate after entering; we are trying to keep out the migrating undead population.” The male voice read off three numbers, which Jessie wrote on the paper and repeated back to him. He gave instructions as to where to go once entering the base, and thanked them for coming.

  “That is possibly the kindest person I’ve spoken with, besides you two, since the shit all went down.”

  “Don’t get soft on me now, Jessie. Keep cool. You’ve got us, but we don’t know about these people yet.”

  Once unlocked, Jessie drove the FJ through the gate and waited for Sarah to close and lock it behind them. Continuing on their journey, they followed the road as it descended from the mountains onto the edge of a dry lake bed. Resisting the temptation to drive off the road and onto it, as the man had warned against, Jessie stuck to the paved road, which continued around the western side of the lake bed until reaching a turn-off with a series of large hangars. The rest of the buildings looked downright shabby, which was disappointing to the three of them. They expected the secret base to be high-tech-looking, alien-like. All three of them stared out the windows. Lights on the buildings glowed brightly, lighting up the world around them in a way they hadn’t seen since the attack in December. Reaching the end of the hangars, Jessie turned left towards the last large hangar, as instructed. The big hangar door slid partially open, revealing a small collection of ragged old vehicles parked in a neat row along the side wall. Jessie parked the FJ and turned the motor off. They were here, finally here.

  The three of them climbed out and stretched, each holding their rifle, when a young man with shaggy hair and a thin beard walked out of a door and waved. He wore camouflaged pants and a green t-shirt, a pistol holstered on his hip. Another young man, this one wearing combat gear and holding a rifle, stood alongside of him.

  “Hiya. I’m Jason. Welcome to Groom Lake.” Jason waved again as he walked closer. The other man with the rifle stayed farther back, looking alert, but relaxed, as if this process was routine for him.

  “Welcome. I’m glad you three made it,” Jason said, shaking each of their hands, except Erin, who simply held her rifle and glared at him.

  “OK, well, there is a process as we go underground. First of all, some of our women will conduct a strip search for any signs of bites or scratches. None of you are bit, are you?” When the three of them shook their heads “no,” he continued. “Good. Well, like I said, the women will be conducting a strip search. You can leave your gear up here if you would like, but please bring your weapons and your ammo; you are required to be armed at all times. After your inspection you will have a chance to shower and clean up, and given clean clothes … they’re military surplus, but they work OK … then a general checkup. For the safety of our citizens, there will be a quarantine period for observation of any manifestations of the Yama Strain.”

  “What is the Yama Strain?”

  “That’s what makes the dead reanimate. We’ll explain the whole back story later, if you’re interested … most people want to know. The citizens also have some theories as to why we were attacked. The military personnel, mainly Air Force, treats us very well and with a lot of respect … strictly careful to adhere to the Constitution … anyone have any medical conditions we need to know about?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Jason smiled wearily, his lips quivering slightly. “Congrats,” he mumbled, his mind going back to the day they had arrived at the base, his young wife killed and reanimating in the big cargo plane. She had wanted children so badly, pestering him non-stop, but he had been scared to make the leap.

  “Well, grab what you want to bring with you and come with us below.”

  CHAPTER 34

  March 11, Year 1

  Coronado, CA

  The scene on the other side of the bridge stood in stark contrast to what the mainland held. Mostly untouched by the fires, the palm trees stood tall and green, giving way to memories of friends, meetings, and training held on the base. The well-manicured lawns in the medians of Orange Avenue needed to be mowed, badly. But tall grass was of no concern to the convoy as they bounced back and forth over the median, dodging abandoned vehicles and the undead. With Aymond in rear position now, it left the lead vehicle the only one with any amount of stored ammo ready. However, the grenade launcher was really something Aymond wanted to save; it seemed like extreme overkill for the groups of undead in their path, and would create other problems, like fires, things they wanted to hold off on dealing with until absolutely needed.

  The beachfront resort looked like it’d served as a temporary shelter; sheets were stretched across the exterior wall and hung from shattered windows with “HELP” spray-painted on them. Scanning the buildings with his binoculars, Jerry saw they were much too late to give any help. Zeds fell from the open windows as the convoy rattled past, attracted by the rumbling diesel motors. The two corporals in the Humvee had been a concern, but they reported they were fine at every radio check-in request. The soft body of the old truck couldn’t take the abuse, compared to the armored M-ATVs, but hopefully their journey would be over soon and the truck could be left behind. However, the more he saw, the more hope drained from his thoughts. Aymond grew angry at the wanton death, the brutal destruction—all brought upon his country by foreign forces.

  The yachts and sailboats sat in their slips, most of them looking to be in decent condition; assuming that the owners had maintained them, they had only been abandoned for a few months. I imagine that they’ll start to fail and sink, but for now they sit, bobbing in the waves … if we could find two with good sails we could sail to North Carolina … but that would suck. The Panama Canal can’t be still operational; that would be a long, open ocean voyage. Fuck.

  The convoy rolled to a stop at Rendova Road, the brick and rod iron fencing still strongly intact.

  “Ski, Hammer, see what you can do about the gate. We want to be able to secure it after we enter.”

  The lead M-ATV pulled alongside the fence, and his two Marines climbed out of the back hatch and over the brick pillars next to the gate, bolt cutters in hand. A few moments later, the pins were pulled out of the concrete and the gates swung open. The convoy drove beyond the fence and reset the gate behind them. They were now protected from the civilian side of the island, be
tween the fence and the beach, assuming the entire fence was still intact.

  Rotating through various frequencies, Aymond tried to establish contact with any remaining military personnel in the area using both UHF and VHF channels, but with no luck. Around the buildings and onto Trident Way, the convoy stopped again. All the Marines dismounted near a series of buildings enclosed within another fence and set a security perimeter while Aymond gave a quick mission plan, although they already knew what it was.

  “Clear the buildings, secure everything inside the fence, get the trucks inside. Immediate mission objective is finding survivors and rearming the M2. Further resupply will be evaluated once our FOB is established.”

  A series of low “Hoorahs” was the response, and the team got to work. The two maintenance corporals were tasked with convoy security, each of them standing on the roof of an M-ATV, picking off Zeds as they shambled near the team.

  The MSOT Marines split into two, four-man teams to begin clearing the buildings; as large and as many rooms as there were, it would take some time for primary and secondary searches. This wasn’t a fast-moving movie version of a tactical entry; the Marines moved with purpose, but methodically and carefully.

  Two hours later, the sun setting over the ocean, the buildings were declared clear and safe. A total of thirty-seven Zeds had been put down, but no remaining survivors were located. There was evidence of a standoff in which some survivors were likely overrun, judging by the presence of spent brass casings and the large pile of permanently dead Zeds outside a conference room. Inside the room were cases of MREs and dozens of empty green ammo cans.

  The MREs were carried out to the trucks. The Zeds, all Navy men from The Teams, were placed in the conference room of their last stand. A small American flag stapled to the outside of the door was the only token of respect the Marines were able to give to their brothers.

  In the storage units of the fenced area were mission prep containers, containing each SEAL team’s members’ individual go-bags for different missions. All the gear had been meticulously maintained and carefully stored for a rapid departure. Each of the teams had been responsible for urban environments for operating, but each of the four Teams housed here was assigned to different areas of the globe, their gear reflecting those needs. Aymond doubted they would need the arctic gear of SEAL Team 5, but all the gear that had been used up, lost, destroyed, or simply not on hand when the attack came while they were on the mountain at the MWTC, they now had access to once again. This included ammo, dive gear, and demolition supplies. The HALO gear was probably destined to remain in its boxes for all of eternity; they hadn’t seen a single aircraft since the second day. Also, Aymond couldn’t imagine a need for them to skydive into a location for tactical purposes now.

  The low rumble of heavy marine diesel motors stopped all the Marines in their tasks in the yard. Being on the ocean side of Coronado, the beach was only a few hundred yards away. The same infamous beach used in the BUD/S Navy Seal indoctrination training.

  “Gonzales, Hammer, Happy, Ski, get to the beach, and find out what they are.”

  The four Marines jogged to the gate and out towards the beach. Explosions rumbled from the east.

  “Simmons, Jones, you two stay here, keep security, keep hidden. I don’t like what’s going on and we need to remain invisible until we figure out what the fuck this is all about.”

  “Aye, Chief.”

  “Snow, Davis, Kirk, with me.”

  Aymond keyed his intra-team radio. “COMSEC, hour checks, two clicks to return, four clicks for QRF, how copy?”

  A single click of the radio was the answer given and the one that Aymond wanted.

  The Beach

  Ski held his hands low, squatting, a practiced team movement. Happy, Gonzales and Hammer each took quick action to be boosted up for the climb onto the roof of one of the training buildings along the edge of the beach. Hammer reached over the edge and helped Ski onto the roof. Staying flat, they inched towards the ridgeline. Happy took first watch, pulled the shemagh off from around his neck, and draped it over his head and face, holding the binoculars to his eyes, using the dirty brown scarf as an impromptu blind. Normally, they would have dug in and covered on the beach, but they had to secure themselves from the Zeds, so the roof was their refuge.

  Four large Panamax container ships rumbled towards the mouth of the harbor north of where they held watch. Ski whispered the descriptions and markings as he could read them, identifying each ship as a Chinese flag carrier. Not military vessels; the sight of the four ships was very peculiar. The trip for a container ship to traverse the Pacific Ocean typically took about a month, tops, sometimes much quicker than that. The captains would therefore have left long after the attack on the United States; they would have known about it before they sailed.

  In the waning light, and possibly due to the absence of tugs and harbor pilots, the four large ships stopped short of entering the harbor, and secured at anchorage.

  The Harbor

  Aymond and his team jogged south around the buildings, along Trident Way, dodging Zeds as they passed, sometimes simply pushing them down on the run before one could take a bite. Leaving the pavement and running out onto the beach, the Marines passed the training stations in place on the sand for the BUD/S classes: the pull-up bars, ropes, and the obstacle course. They ran out onto the narrow southern section of Coronado before crossing the roadway to crawl out onto the eastern beach. The four of them formed a loose circle, each of the members facing outward, lying flat on the sand so they could hold security and stay hidden, then began figuring out where the explosions came from and what they were for. The binoculars that Aymond had weren’t a strong enough magnification for this purpose, but he could see smoke and debris in the air across the harbor on the mainland side, north of their position, on the other side of the Coronado Bridge.

  Explosions erupted northeast of Aymond’s location. He rolled to his back and saw an aircraft passing high overhead, the contrails giving away the location. Even with the binoculars, it was hard to tell what sort of aircraft it was; twin engine with swept wings, very large, most likely a heavy bomber. The rolodex of aircrafts in Aymond’s mind flipped through hazy images of aircraft that matched a similar model, part of his long ago Force Recon training workup. He couldn’t remember the name of the aircraft, but was sure it was an old Soviet design, or maybe Chinese.

  The Beach

  The explosions surprised all four of the Marines on the roof of the small building. The air-grinding sound of large, turbo-prop aircraft engines replaced the rolling sound of the bombing run. Into their view came a tight formation of what looked to be strangely shaped C-130s. They approached from the west at a low altitude, passing north of the watch. Happy rolled to his back, keeping the aircraft in his binoculars as they flew past the harbor. Barely visible in the setting sun, round canopies sprouted by the hundreds in the air behind the aircraft. Happy keyed his radio twice, clicking on the frequency the “return to FOB” signal. It was answered with two clicks; they were in trouble, serious trouble.

  The Compound

  Ski and his team made it inside the fence and under cover before Aymond returned. Within half an hour, two of the team members lay under tarps to keep them hidden while giving security from the rooftop of the main building.

  Sporadic gunfire could be heard in the distance, barely audible across the harbor. Aymond rallied his team together to compare notes of their very quick recon patrol. The sound of large jet aircraft turning “base to final” for landing whined loudly overhead as they passed.

  “Things we know: One, we suffered a major attack on CONUS. Two, the spraying aircraft appeared to be Russian or Chinese. Three, the bombing runs were made by Russian or Chinese heavy bombers. Four, there are four Panamax container ships flying Chinese flags in anchorage at the entrance to the harbor. Five, paratrooper mass drop happened across the harbor, most likely at the civilian airfield, and six, my guess is the heavy jet traffic overhead
is strategic airlift.

  “Things we don’t know: Everything. Right now, I’m assuming that this is a hostile invasion force and we are vastly outnumbered. Give me your thoughts, guys.”

  “Chief. Use darkness tonight to traverse the harbor and conduct recon on the airfield.”

  “My thoughts too, Hammer. Anyone else?”

  “We mine the Panamax ships now, before they have a chance to enter the harbor and offload what is likely the invading force’s long term resupply … probably more ships en route already. Isolate their supply chain and end it.”

  “Good, Kirk. I want you to prep that mission with your fire team. Hold off on launch until we verify hostile intent with reconnaissance across the bay.”

  “Chief, we need to tell someone about this.”

  “Who, Ski?”

  “I don’t know, Chief, but we need to figure out a way to contact someone.”

  “Yes, I agree. Start coming up with something that will work, but for now, we need to focus on our immediate threat.”

  “Kirk, prep your mission to the freighters. They’ll most likely sail into the harbor after dawn, but instead of leaving a deep water harbor open for their use, I want to shut them down at the mouth, by North Island. If it is an invading force, we can’t just annoy them, we have to fuck them and take away supply access.”

  “Aye, Chief.” Kirk walked off to the containers holding all the gear boxes.

  “Hammer, put together your fire team. Put your mission together; at this point we have to assume it is just us and only us on this one … check the gear. If the MK 25s are in working order, use the rebreathers and a CRRC, if any of the motors still work on those rubber boats. Worst case, get one of the fucking BUD/S Zodiacs and paddles and make it happen tonight.”