Bound By Honor: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

by W. J. Lundy

  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

  Bound By Honor

  By W. J. Lundy

  © 2016 W. J. Lundy

  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

  Bound By Honor

  © 2016 W. J. Lundy

  V3262017

  Cover Design by Andre Vasquez Junior

  Editing: Terri King, Brittany King

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Some places, especially military locations and facilities, are intentionally vague or incorrect in layout and security perimeter. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Prologue

  The hunt led him away from civilization, deep into the snow-covered valley. Stopping smoothly, he knelt down to check his back trail. His eyes drifted, tracking the moon through the thin veil of clouds. It would be dawn soon, and he was far from home. There were too many of them and he did not know what he would do if he found them. He searched the thick foliage and tall trees, zig zagging the terrain while looking for any sign of a trail.

  His chest ached and his body was cold. With no time to grab a jacket, he’d been forced to move unprepared in pursuit of the camp’s attackers. He stepped ahead and saw a human track; this one fresh, a heel print in the moist clay of the forest floor. Just ahead, a crumbling of rotted stump where a big boot kicked it then ground it down while the wearer stopped to look around. The young soldier studied the terrain. He knelt down and allowed his eyes to search, starting far out, then slowly sweeping to objects within his reach.

  Grabbing a gloveful of the crumbling tree stump, he squeezed it, allowing the damp pieces to fall between his fingers. He reached out and cut a triangle into a nearby tree to mark his path. The ground flowed up and away from him, the trail following the natural contours in the ground. Most game trails moved that way. Wild animals traveled along paths of least resistance, and after generations of migration, they broke the earth, shaping the routes that he now followed. Recreational hikers probably once used this same path, compacting the clay and smoothing the surface. He suspected the raiders would follow the same route.

  He rose back to his feet and felt the stiff muscles of his broad shoulders. He shrugged, flexing his back, and moved on. Dressed in tanned hides, he had left his worn and faded military clothing in a box months ago. His shirt was thick and well sewn; his canvas pants, soaked in wax and animal fat to make them waterproof. Having abandoned most of the things of his past, all that remained were his weapons. He carried an M9 pistol in a belt and an M4 he had recovered from a dead man.

  Why did they come here? What reason would the raiders have to attack the camp? The people of Camp Cloud always kept to themselves. Nearly a year had passed since the Primal Holocaust; the beasts had moved to the background of their concerns. Hunger drove the Primals and their behavior was predictable—the living were what really scared the survivors; those that wanted what everyone else had. Dan Cloud, who led the group, managed to keep peace with other bands of survivors, trading when they could, but mostly just staying out of the way and hidden in their own remote mountain valley.

  Shane stopped near a downed oak and leaned back, letting his weight rest on his heels. He looked again at the tough terrain. “I should stop now and dig in,” he whispered. “Wait for help to catch up.” They would for sure send a rescue party. He shook his head in frustration. What if they were all dead? What if there was no one coming?

  “Impossible, they couldn’t take them all; his people would come for them. They always come.” Shane knelt again and let his finger touch the edges of a deep hoof print, squeezing bits of the damp soil in his hand. His stomach growled as he recognized the print. A big buck; it would make a fine meal for his fire. He looked up at the sky and saw the rising sun; he had been on the trail too long. He was burning out and losing his edge. He would give it another hour, and then secure shelter.

  Crushed and bent vegetation off the trail reflected the light and caught his eye. Searching the battered weeds, he spotted a strange batch of tracks cutting the raiders’ trail. He knew what they were, and it worried him more than his exhaustion. It was unusual to see Primals this far up the mountain, away from the easy traveling outside the valley. The infected monsters stayed away from the highlands unless they were hunting prey. Something either pushed them, or drew them there; most likely the gunfire from the attack.

  Looking at the tracks, he could see there were at least five of them, and one was a big son of a bitch by the way the worn boot tread pushed deep into the soil with every step. Shane stayed near the ground, listening for any sign they were close. He held his breath, exhaled slowly, and then took it in again, trying to taste the musty air. He did not move, becoming perfectly still. Hiding from the Primals was the same as stalking a deer—to stay hidden, you stayed motionless. Breathing lightly, Shane sat and patiently waited for a sign.

  He looked up at the sky and back at the tracks; the rules were changing with the indication of Primals. He should move to high ground and seek shelter, find a place to hide until he was rested and more alert. He knew it was not good field craft to get arrogant on the trail, and wait until the last minute before finding safety.

  Studying the Primal tracks, he could not tell how old they were; unlike the hoof prints, they could be fresh, a day old, or even older. In addition, the tracks went west, away from him. He swept his hand across the ground searching for more signs, but there was no indication they were doing anything more than passing across the range.

  He scanned ahead and grimaced, testing even his own patience now. He would go just a bit farther, and if he found no sign of the raiders, he would stop and dig in. He would sleep and wait for the men from the camp to join him. He'd marked his path well and knew they would find him.

  The game trail wound around and dipped into a ravine. At the bottom, he lost the raider tracks. Shane stepped back, eased into the thick underbrush, and then walked a half circle, looking for signs in the denser foliage—something that would indicate where the men jumped the trail. He found a broken branch, and a place where the grass bent in a different direction from that surrounding it. Shane froze, hearing the snort of a deer, and then a cry, followed by the sounds of bare fists pounding flesh. He edged away. The soldier knew he was in trouble.

  Crouching low, he stalked back deeper into cover, trying to find a secure position to hide. Ahead, he spotted the flurry of activity at the same time he heard the low scream of an Alpha Primal. The Alphas were a special breed of infected that led the packs. More dominant, they somehow retained a human survival instinct and an ability to organize and direct what would—at first glance—appear to be a chaotic mob.

  He watched as more of the screaming things joined the Alpha. Somehow, they had managed to corner the buck. The Alpha was already on it, attacking and lunging with fists, as others leapt at the deer, trying to drag it off its feet. Shane sympathized with the majestic animal, using its antlers to ward off more attackers as they joined in against it. He wanted to help, but this was not his fight. The deer was unable to flee, but refused to go down, even with the Alpha and several more holding it and swarming against it.

  The soldier gripped the rifle tight, wanting to use it to put the animal out of its misery, but knowing that he could not. He lowered his head and backed away. He heard a loud exhale and a branch break behind him. The blood drained from Shane’s cheeks. His muscles tensed, knowing he was in
for a fight. He had pressed his luck too far. More leaves crunched to his rear, and he heard the sounds of feet rapidly beating the trail. Shane spun just as the first of the Primals leapt at him.

  The young soldier rolled to his left, raising the rifle and getting off a single shot that knocked the first of his attackers away. His brain ran a sub-conscious count as they passed through his vison. Five, one already down. He raised the rifle to his shoulder as more closed the distance. He pulled the trigger, nothing; the carbine was jammed and he knew he would not get another shot off. He reached out and grabbed the barrel then swung with a two-handed grip, connecting with the next Primal and watching its jaw explode as it kissed the rifle stock. Two down. Shane tumbled forward and found his feet already scrambling ahead.

  He was running for the ridge now, desperate to reach high ground. Swinging the rifle as he ran directly up the trail, leading the way with its stock, he connected straight on with the faces of his attackers. Three—no, four down. The deer behind him winced and whined, finally falling to the ground in a crash that sent the Primals into a frenzy.

  Shane swung the rifle again, catching another. Although that hardly knocked it off course, the creature’s neck snapped as its head wrenched to the side. He lost his footing and flew off the trail into a heavy thicket, a Primal tackling him from the side as they tumbled. Where did that one come from? He twisted as he rolled, entangled with the writhing Primal. Thorns snagged at his clothing and tore away at his skin. His head collided with the ground, causing a bright flash as his vision dimmed. Shane lost his grip on the rifle and fought to free his fighting knife from the scabbard. His own hands feeling clumsy, the muscle memory took over as his brain powered down.

  Their roll stopped with him on the bottom, the short-barreled M4 hopelessly out of reach. The crazy mashed its open jaw into his left shoulder, biting deep. Shane screamed in pain as he drew back the knife. He smashed the blade down hard and drew back. Swinging again, he arced his arm and swung down with his right hand, delivering deep blows to the creature’s back; shoving the metal into the Primal’s lungs, twisting the hilt and searching for its heart. The Primal convulsed and shuddered a long, gurgling breath into the soldier’s shoulder.

  The dying beast’s weight settled heavy, pressing Shane to the forest floor. Pinned to the ground with only his right arm free, he let his head drop back. He heard the creatures down the ridge ripping the deer apart. He could feel his warm blood trickling down his neck and seeping toward the small of his back. As his vision faded and closed in, the dense trees above swam and rotated, he waited for more of them to mass on him. They would come, and he would not be able to fight them. He blinked his eyes, looking into the fading light.

  He could not move his head; it was pinned to the side with his cheek pressed against the cold earth. Shane could smell the creature; the copper tang of the blood combined with the stench of the Primal filth caused his stomach to roil. He clenched his jaw, trying to hold back the retching. Fighting to calm his thoughts and to remain silent, he wondered why they had not attacked him yet. Maybe I’m already dead. Maybe Ella is already dead; maybe they all are. Why did I come here? Why did I think following the raiders would make a difference? He fought the temptation to quit as his body settled into the cold ground.

  He tried to focus his ears only to hear the low groans and feasting sounds as the creatures consumed the buck. His stomach twisted. Dizzy and losing blood, he fought off the growing bile as his vision continued to blur. His shoulder ached with sharp pain. His head burned at the base of his skull where he hit his head in the fall. He struggled to breathe, the weight of the creature pressing on him. His vision tightened and closed up, his peripheral sight gone. Using the last of his strength, he attempted to roll the Primal off him, failing to budge it.

  Shane took low breaths and fought to keep his eyes open. Listening to the Primals below, he was ready to face death; there was nothing left to do, his mind and body numb. Not wanting to be conscious when they attacked, he hoped he bled out before they came for him. He was tired. His thoughts clouded and ran together; he felt the cold ground below him. It’s okay, I’ll just rest for a bit. He released a long sigh and let his eyes close.

  Chapter 1

  2 years after the fall.

  The Outpost, Free Virginia Territories.

  The door slammed shut, blocking the cold wind from entering the room. Snow swirled around the big man and gathered at his feet. Wind whistled as it entered cracks in the ancient building. The large, broad-shouldered man stomped his feet, knocking snow from his worn leather boots. He turned and stripped a heavy fur coat from his shoulders before hanging it on a hook behind him. A slung MP5 sat tucked against his body in a handmade, deer hide holster. The air in the small room was dry and stank of filthy bodies and wood smoke.

  A hunter sat alone in a dark corner, draining the last of his whiskey from a yellow-stained mason jar. He watched the large man move to the plank wood counter that ran along the back of the room. The other hunters in the room barely lifted their heads to acknowledge the entrance of the big man. He recognized him. He knew who the big man was; a good friend once, but one he’d neglected in recent times. Brad tried to think of how long it had been. It was the dead of winter now, and he was certain it had been summer when he’d last visited Camp Cloud down the valley near the mountain lake.

  Brad preferred the outpost to Camp Cloud. This place was remote, high in the wilderness. He liked the seclusion of it, surrounded by tall pines and pressed into rough terrain. He kept telling himself this place was only a temporary stop on his way home. He looked down to the floor beside him and his already packed belongings then back up, watching the big man move across the room toward the bar. He wondered why the man was at the outpost; people from the Camp rarely traveled here.

  Only a few others stayed in this secluded spot, the most distant position on Dan Cloud’s property. The ones that lived here were hard types, those that had lost too much and did not like the constant reminders of the families they tried to forget. The men here gathered lumber and hunted for meat and furs. Some of them, however, just wasted away, hoping that one day, things would go back to the way there were before. The days before the fall. Days before the Primal virus took hold and destroyed civilization.

  There were only two things on the menu in the old trappers’ cabin-turned-tavern: salted venison and whiskey. The big man pressed against the counter and chose a jar of the latter. Then, he leaned back and searched the shadows. Tired, weary men occupied several of the tables; men looking for a spot to escape the brutal cold.

  The big man’s eyes scanned the darkness before settling on Brad. He smirked and turned back to order a second jar before approaching the table. He wended his way through the space and into the corner. He kicked a chair away from the table with a boot and sat down, placing the jars in front of him then sliding one across the table.

  “You look like shit,” the big man said.

  Brad smiled, reaching across the table and taking the offered mason jar of homemade whiskey from his old friend. “I’ve been better,” he answered. “What brings an unemployed SEAL all the way out here to Bachelor Town?”

  Brooks shook his head. “Here on business.” The man paused, seeing a stuffed rucksack with a rifle strapped to the top near Brad’s feet. Brooks dipped his chin in the direction of the pack and said, “You going somewhere?”

  Brad shrugged and sipped his whiskey. He had been planning for some time to make his way back home to Michigan. For the last week, he had spent the morning packing his gear, but only making it as far as the tavern. After a few drinks, he would change his mind and end up spending the rest of the day hunting or cutting wood. “Maybe,” he said.

  “You oughta move back to the main camp. No reason for you to live out here like this.”

  “This place suits me fine—just fine. I can hunt and fish. And hell, the booze isn’t bad,” Brad said taking a long pull from the jar. He finished it in a single swallow then rais
ed his hand to the barkeep for another round.

  Brooks laughed and shook his head. “You know you still have a chance with that girl, if that’s what this is all about.”

  Brad’s eyes grew big. “Who? Chelsea?”

  “Yeah—what other girl could there be?”

  Brad ignored the comment, flipping the empty jar upside down and pushing it away from him. He could feel the sweat on his back, the heat from the whiskey warming him even though it was the middle of February and the room was barely fifty degrees with a fire blazing in the wood stove. The bartender replaced the jar with a new one. Brad took it and sipped this time before placing it back on the table. “So how is she? Still with Shane, I imagine.”

  Brooks laughed again, his tone noticeably irritating Brad. The big man drank from his own jar and looked Brad in the eye. “She was never with Shane. Shane is like a brother to her; like a brother to all of us. Is that why you came out here? After all the shit we’ve been through, is that what you’re hiding from?”

  Brad looked away. “I assume you made the trip out here for something more than to pester me about my living conditions.”

  The big man nodded and stroked his long beard. “Sean sent me. We have Rangers in camp; they’re putting a patrol together and need our help.”

  “Rangers? Texas or Army?” Brad asked.

  “Texas.”

  Brad grunted and took another pull from the jar. After the fall of the government during the Battle of the Meat Grinder at Washington D.C. and later following the death of the president, the nation broke up into small, defensible regions. Most of what was once considered the traditional state leadership went north, taking surviving remnants of the National Guard with them. These small groups helped to reinforce Ohio, Indiana, northern Wisconsin, and Michigan, with parts of western Pennsylvania, forming a geographic safe haven. This new Mid-West Alliance used the Great Lakes and the Ohio River as natural barriers, and eventually were able to purge great regions of the infected Primals.