Winchester Undead (Book 4): Winchester [Rue]

by Lund, Dave

  “Huh. The more you know, right?”

  “Yup, and knowing is half the battle.”

  Chivo smirked. “The other half is violence!”

  CHAPTER 8

  Coronado, CA

  March 14, Year 1

  Daybreak brought a new flurry of activity from the PLA, helicopters overhead roaring past the compound. Simmons and Jones took turns napping while the other monitored the radio. Chief, Happy, and Chuck were back and taking a combat nap, and Hammer and Gonzo were on the mainland, clicking the transmit button every hour, a non-verbal check-in to verify they were still alive and OK. Kirk, Davis, and Snow were somewhere in or around Halsey Field. With daylight, they should be hunkered down in a good position where they couldn’t be seen, nor could their newly acquired vehicle.

  Simmons sat in the first M-ATV, the engine off with the radio on, volume turned up just loud enough to hear. He checked the time with his new watch. The metal containers that held the SEAL Team’s mission profile gear had apparently protected some of the gear from the EMP. He wasn’t sure how much a watch like this would cost at the Exchange, but Simmons knew it wasn’t the sort of thing that the chain of command just gave out to random motor pool Marines.

  Nearly 1300, should be checking in soon.

  As if on cue, the radio hissed with two short clicks of a transmission followed by a long then short click of another transmission. Both deployed teams checked in on time and were OK. Another thirty minutes and it would be his turn to rest while Jones came on the watch. Simmons held his breath every time a helicopter roared past. On the other side of the building it sounded like small convoys of vehicles were passing and headed towards Halsey Field.

  The distant rumble of heavy jet transporters landing then taking off seemed to be nearly constant. I never knew the Chinese had this sort of capability; how could we not see this coming? Simmons shook his head. There wasn’t anything he could do about the past now, he had to focus on the now and hope for the future.

  The radio’s speaker clicked on. “Dagger-Actual, stand by for SITREP.”

  Simmons shook his head to clear the drowsiness and responded with a single click of the transmit button on the radio, pad of paper and pen in his hand. The next transmission was short, but important. Simmons woke up Jones early to man the radio post while he left to wake up Aymond, who was sleeping in the back of the second M-ATV. Once awake, Simmons handed the short note to him.

  “Well shit.”

  With the curse, Aymond stood and walked inside the building. After checking back with Jones, who was fine with an early shift, Simmons lay down in the back of the lead M-ATV to sleep. He knew he needed to bank as much sleep now as he could; sleep might be a hard commodity in the very near future.

  Granite Mountain, Utah

  Cliff approached the loading docks. By all outward appearances the mountain was dead: no facility activity, no power, nothing. He knew better. Behind a group of large storage pods in front of the right-most entryway, a digital keypad was concealed in a metal box that looked, and was marked, like a telephone junction box. A quarter-turn to the left on the bolt head in the middle of the box, followed by a half-turn to the left while pressing into the bolt, and the whole box lifted up off the rock face. The touch-screen panel behind the box was lit, the numbers appearing on the screen. Cliff punched in a twenty-four-character numeric code before the screen went blank and he pressed his right thumb firmly against the panel. The panel flashed red twice then green before the heavy metal security gate rolled upward into the mountain. Cliff walked into the loading dock area and stood in front of the heavy blast door at the rear of the entry tunnel. The tunnel was shut, secure and locked. With the keypad mounted on the side of the door, Cliff entered another, but different, twenty-four-digit code followed by the thumbprint routine. This time the door hissed with a click before Cliff could open it. He walked into the security area of the first floor and to the secured metal door at the back of the room. Repeating the process with another digital pad and yet another twenty-four-digit code, he opened the door into the archives. Before him were rows upon rows of microfiche catalogued and ready to be scanned for millions of people to use. The Latter Day Saints archives had been used by thousands to build their family tree history. What those people didn’t know was that they were also building their own family tree and history; while interconnecting with distant relatives that some didn’t know they had, the church was retaining all the data, all the family tree information, all the genealogical information that people had researched for free. Even if everyone knew, Cliff assumed no one would really care; there had been far more heinous data-mining operations going on ... or there still was.

  An unmarked door sat on the back right wall of the third vault, with another digital keypad. The entire routine was repeated with yet another unique twenty-four-count set of numbers before that door’s lock clicked open.

  So far Cliff hadn’t encountered a single person, living or otherwise. Where he was headed always smelled a little bit anyways, due to how this group lived, but mixed in with the smell of stale pizza, cigarette smoke, and body odor was the sharp smell of death and rotting flesh.

  Frowning slightly, Cliff stepped into the hallway, the automatic lights turning on with his presence. The electrical system was operated by its own generated power, so if there was anything that should have survived the EMP it was this facility. Cliff was puzzled as to the lack of people in the semi-public front end of the Granite Mountain Records Vault. His M4 rose slightly, ready for what the smell of death held in wait for him. Cliff moved in complete silence from one room to the next. The dormitories were disgusting; he had seen cleaner huts in the middle of Third World slum areas. Some of the beds appeared to have large lumps under the covers. Reaffirming his suspicion, Cliff found different young men lying dead in their beds. Some of them with visible bite marks, all of them shot through the head either through aggressive means or by a self-inflicted wound.

  Straining, Cliff tried to remember how many hackers were a part of this unit and the facility. He couldn’t remember exactly, but thirty was the number that kept coming to mind, so Cliff would keep with that until proven otherwise.

  One by one, room by room, all he found were bodies.

  Finally, the main room, like a cross between QuakeCon and Mission Control. It was a jumbled mix of top of the line computer hardware, much of it running custom-coded software that the group had modified from a standard distribution of Linux. In the middle of the room sat a man, rail thin, his head thrashing from side to side. Nearing the man, Cliff saw on the desk next to him two large prescription pill bottles, both which were empty. A notepad had a half-page of instructions scrawled on it. The man sat, ankles and wrists handcuffed to his chair, having died in place then turned after death. His left bicep was wrapped in heavy bandages; blood had soaked through, but now all that was left was final rest for the electronic warrior. With a single shot from his rifle, Cliff gave the man what the first item listed in his note asked for: rest.

  With the note in hand, Cliff sat at station four as instructed. The monitor lit up with a tap of the space bar and, careful to follow the scribbled instructions, he signed in. Passingly familiar with Unix- and Linux-based systems, Cliff understood enough to correctly enter simple commands without much error. Carefully typing, he double-checked the characters on the screen against the note before tapping Enter.

  The screen blurred in a rapid series of commands, a program loading before the screen flickered to show a video, the undead hacker he’d just shot coming to life on the screen. His eyes appeared unfocused, he was very pale, and his arm was already bandaged.

  “Today is March 1st, and if you are watching this then congratulations on living. Chris, Clint, Carl, Agent Johnson, Smith, or whatever name you shady fucks made up for yourself may be … as you can see things went wrong, very wrong. We learned of the attack on December 26th only ten minutes before it was launched. Our theory is that the DPRK didn’t use any of their co
mputer systems during the buildup and they were assisted by the Chinese. Three days before the missile launch we had … well, the entire electronic infrastructure of the U.S. military was attacked. It was very sophisticated, much more than the Koreans have shown in the past. We’ve had their systems fully penetrated for five years, and quite frankly they don’t have the skill or technology to pull off what was going on. It was probably Unit 61398, the Chinese, the PLA. Besides the Russians they’re really the only ones that could do it. I … we are nearly sure that it wasn’t the Russians. Russia is dead, most of Europe is dead, middle Africa and Australia seem to be amongst some of the living, but it appears the submarine cables were sabotaged. All we’re getting from Australia is RF picked up by the orbiting Sauron birds. The radio transmissions are what you would expect, but the country is in crisis. Our estimation is that if the Australians come to help, when they’re able to, there is a good chance everyone in North America will be dead. It’s almost there; we’re getting pockets of RF … fucking Groom Lake is pumping out enough Radio Frequency to cause cancer. The PLA are moving, they know … they know where the facilities are. I’ve … we monitored the communications between Nevada and Texas, I get it, but go dark, man … China cyber-offensive against the underground bases, man, we’ve completely disconnected the systems here so we can hide.”

  On the video the hacker appeared to flirt with the edge of consciousness and he was becoming more incoherent.

  “Fuck. China tried to appear overrun for the first thirty days after the attack. From the systems we have gained access to, apparently they were willing to kill off up to seventy-five percent of their own people to make their fucked-up plan work. Im—imaginary … fucking photos from space last week show massive activity, clearing the major … army … the dead, using big radar trucks … we … the last ninety-six hours we tried to get into one of their systems … this damned thing, but it was only Dickhead, Sauron, and me alive. Now it’s just me. Since you’re watching me now you have the note … I was bit twelve hours ago, my fever … one oh five … fucking Yama got me. I’ve already had about four mills of Z-bars to calm the fuck down, a handful of Zofran, and now this large bottle of children’s chewable morphine I’ve been eating … heh, no, this is the real shit, but I’m going out on my own damn terms. I hope I don’t bite you!”

  The video ended, the screen returning to a command line.

  Cliff looked at the hacker’s body, his ruined skull pooling blood on the floor, his body still handcuffed to the chair, and frowned.

  “You did well there, guy, but if you were listening to us you should have sent us a message and now I can’t send one either because you pulled everything off line.”

  If the SSC and Groom Lake are the only two facilities left, then that’s what we’ve got. Keep the SSC for command and to isolate POTUS from any further danger; use Groom Lake as a cattle lot for survivors … but if the PLA is still active then the original intelligence assessment might be right, they might be coming to the U.S. … how do I stop an invasion by myself? How do I fight a war by myself?

  A few things were now clear to Cliff. First he had to see the rest of the information and files listed on the handwritten note, maybe the answers to his questions would be found there, but regardless he knew his task was monumental.

  Cortez, CO

  “I’m looking, but the routes I’m finding all involve an Interstate.”

  Bexar’s routes to Groom Lake were traced in yellow highlighter across the pages of the thick road atlas. The truck sat idle in the middle of the highway outside of Monticello, Utah. Chivo flipped through the atlas, looking for another route when he realized that Bexar was driving north.

  “I know, but that’s all I could find. Look, everything due west is a National Park, a recreation area, or similar.”

  “Look here, if we go south on 191, go through … Bluff, hit 163 and … well, there’s a lot of smaller highways, it looks like we pop out on I-15 near some town called St. George. That leaves us with a lot less time on the Interstate; the towns are smaller too.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Well, we can assume they would be.”

  Bexar shrugged. “We’re not in Texas anymore, so I’m flying blind. Whatever you think will work. We’ve just got to get going.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.

  Chivo looked out the back glass of the pickup truck and saw at least a dozen undead slowly making their way towards the sound of the idling engine in the highway. The truck drove away from the approaching group and westbound into the center of Monticello, Utah. Dead stood in the middle of the road, some moving through the trees and buildings around them as Bexar turned left to drive south on Main Street. Gently pushing the truck left and right, Bexar drove around the dead as he got close to each. He was in a hurry to get to Groom Lake and Jessie’s embrace, but not in a hurry to drive into a shambling dead body that could damage the truck.

  Once clear of the town, the truck slowly increased speed until the speedometer showed fifty mph. Besides wrecking the truck, Bexar worried about the fuel consumption and tried to drive as conservatively as he could. What few vehicles were abandoned on the road were easily dodged with smooth driving inputs.

  Both men tired from the constant fight of the post-apocalyptic world, neither spoke the half-hour it took to reach the next town along Highway 191.

  “Who would name their town Bland?”

  “Blanding, and who could blame ‘em mano, look around.”

  Bexar took a left in the middle of town, following the road signs for the highway.

  “Maybe it was someone’s name?”

  “Like what, Richard Bland? Hi, I’m Dick Bland and I want you to enjoy my wonderful Blanding.”

  “Well when you say it like that it sounds dirty, but still. Annnnd now we’re out of the town.”

  “And if everyone would look to their right, you’ll see Blanding International Airport and Used Tire Center.”

  “Look kids, Big Bend, Parliament.”

  Both of them smirked.

  “Chivo, have you been to Groom Lake before? How safe do you think it will be inside?”

  “Contrary to what you may believe, even though I worked for a three-letter agency I didn’t get to go to all the cool places. I have no idea, but if it’s like the one in Texas I think it’ll be quite the resort compared to this bullshit.”

  “I’m going to sleep for days after we get there.”

  Chivo shook his head. “You won’t, trust me I know. When you spend too much time outside the wire your sleep gets jacked. I bet it takes you two weeks to relax enough to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time, and even then you’ll still be half-awake listening for danger.”

  “I’m still going to try, I’m exhausted.”

  “I get it mano, believe me I do. The difference between me and the other guys in the Army that didn’t end up with the SF tab is all right here.” Chivo tapped the side of his head. “There will always be guys who are stronger, faster, more talented, better at everything but this. The best, the pipe hitters out there giving away freedom one round at a time, they are tough here. Not that movie machismo bullshit, but being able to focus on a task, function at a high level no matter if they’re hung out, hung over or have been awake for seventy-two hours straight and never quit.”

  “There’s no way I would have made it.”

  “You’re making it now, mano, and this is some of the hardest shit I’ve ever done. It’s constant, there is no safe house, there’s no cavalry, no air support, no reaction force. It’s just you and me, one mistake and then it’ll be one of us or none of us.”

  White Mesa, Utah came and went in a blink of an eye. No dead in sight, barely big enough to be labeled as a town. The green sign on the highway gave warning that the pair was quickly approaching Bluff, Utah.

  “I wonder why they named it Cow Canyon?”

  “Another one of your names, Chivo? I’m Richard Cow but everyone calls me Dick Cattle.”


  Chivo shook his head and another small town passed outside the truck windows with only a few undead showing up to greet them as they passed. Outside of town the small sign pointed south at a small road indicating another airport.

  “While you were learning all your Special Forces stuff did you ever learn how to fly?”

  “Nope, how about you?”

  “Never have. That’s too bad because how much better would it be to ditch the truck and fly cross-country to Groom Lake?”

  “That’s what got Cliff into that bind in Cortez.”

  “That’s what saved those people too, well, except for the others.”

  “Well mano, we can’t wish for what we can’t have, so we keep on with what we’ve got.”

  “At least we’re making good time, maybe we’ll make it there by tomorrow.”

  “Well shit, you had to say it out loud, didn’t you.”

  Groom Lake, NV

  Jessie sat at the table in the cafeteria. Sarah and Erin sat with her, the flat colorless world of corporate America transplanted underground. On the walls were a half-dozen poster-sized photographs, all of them patriotic scenes of epic proportions. The Lincoln Memorial, the raising of the flag at Iwo Jima, a majestic bald eagle with large snowcapped mountains in the background. The only two colors added to the white-roomed world were red and blue.

  Erin poked her spoon at the stew. Jessie and Sarah ate happily; even though the stew was bland it was hot, it had some sort of meat in it, and it was better than they’d had before.

  Sarah looked at her daughter. So far there had been no other boys or girls her age, at least that they had seen. Erin’s world had been ripped apart, her father was gone, and now she sat in a sterile world full of strangers far underground. Football games, fall weather, parks, quiet mornings in the deer stand with her father; all of those were gone forever. One tear and then another streaked across Sarah’s face. She dropped her spoon into the half-empty bowl of stew and wiped the tears with her palms, taking some deep breaths. Jessie walked around the table to sit next to Sarah and wrapped her arms around her.