by Lund, Dave
Advance Praise for Winchester: Triumph
“If you shook this book, gunpowder and testosterone would fall out.”
—Chris Philbrook, Author of Adrian’s Undead Diary
Also by Dave Lund
Winchester Series
Over
Prey
Quarry
Rue
Storm
A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-210-1
Winchester: Triumph
Winchester Undead Book 6
© 2019 by Dave Lund
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by Dave Lund of www.f8industries.net
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Permuted Press, LLC
New York • Nashville
permutedpress.com
Published in the United States of America
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About The Author
PROLOGUE
Ken made the most out of the shallow defilade. He had to; it was all he had. Lying flat on his stomach, dirt and rocks fell from the sky above. Disorientated, the shockwave of the explosion made the ground ripple under his body, making it feel to Ken that he was both weightless and falling at the same time. Hundreds of yards away, he was still close, much too close to the fighting. The hard snap of rounds passing just inches above his head brought back memories of his youth and the thick jungle air of Southeast Asia. They were shooting at him with the same kind of rifles as they had in his war. Ringing deep in his ears prevented Ken from hearing much of anything else after the last mortar round hit so close. Slowly at first, sounds of battle grew from a distance place to fill his ears, before his mind caught up and the bone-sickening crunch of an armored truck taking a direct hit ripped through the tinnitus and snapped the reality of the battle back to Ken’s immediate focus. The violent screams of mortar fire fell away from Ken’s ears and toward the fortified farmhouse.
Taking a chance, Ken glanced up from what he was sure to be his shallow grave to see a lone man in the distance stand in the ruins of the farmhouse, destroyed by the barrage of falling steel and explosives.
The man wasn’t in a uniform; he wasn’t one of the damn invaders. Dirt kicked up around the man’s feet, rifle rounds trying to find their true mark. Looking left, Ken saw another approaching armored personnel carrier (APC); there had been so many before. A roof hatch opened and a helmet barely poked through the hole. The helmet came up a little further, scanning the battle, pointing and shouting.
Must be an officer.
Thousands of Zeds shambled through the middle of the chaos, the movement and noise disorientating their dead and rotted minds. What remained of the numerous APCs lay in ruin, most of the Zeds were still moving, nauseous black smoke filled the scene, and dozens of Zeds were on fire as a result of the battle. The flames danced on their bodies until enough flesh had burned that the bodies collapsed, still twitching and writhing. Ken looked back at the officer in the hatch of the APC in time to see blood arc through the air from the hole that once was his head and neck, a distant thump of a heavy rifle following seconds later. The body fell into the open hatch, blood still spewing as the APC accelerated sharply. Dismounted soldiers were trying to make their way toward what was left of the driveway that went up the hillside.
“Oh fuck, holy shit…” Ken took some deep breaths, screwed his eyelids shut, and tried to slow his heartrate to focus his thoughts and make a plan. Too many years had passed since Vietnam, but deep in his mind lived the warrior he had been. Slumbering and long dormant, Ken’s anger burned hot, scorching the substance of his being. It felt detached, like he could see the battlefield in an overhead view. Only a few seconds had passed, but they might as well have been days or weeks for how time felt. It was time to get to work, it was time to win, and nothing else mattered.
Ken leapt to his feet and ran toward the battle, screaming in rage.
CHAPTER 1
April 8, Year 1
Amanda, hands on her hips, stood in front of the ruined MRAP. Jones uneasily stood next to her, shifting his weight back and forth and nervously scanning the area around them for any new threats. Andrew and Oreo walked in between the hangars, exploring the above-ground facilities at a place Andrew never dreamed he would see and live to tell the tale.
“It would take me a week if I had all the parts, if I had my tools, if the fucking Zeds weren’t crawling out of this hole in the ground…uh, excuse me, I mean, I apologize for the language, ma’am.”
“Fucking Zeds, Jones, I agree.”
Amanda glanced over her shoulder at the remains of the destroyed hangar, the charred hole in the ground where Chivo and Bexar had joined the ragtag-looking group to re-enter the Groom Lake facility after the attack. The light coming from the entrance wasn’t noticeable any longer in the midday sun. Looking back at the MRAP, the sun and sand-blasted tail of a crashed C-130 rose over the dry lake bed. In the distance, a dark red cloud churned across the desert.
“Ruins, everything here is in ruins.”
“The west coast is worse, ma’am. Zeds everywhere, a lot of stuff burned and destroyed. We would need thousands of trucks like that radar truck to zap all of them.”
“Or we need one truck and an unfathomable amount of time. We’re short on Chinese-built radar trucks, Jones, society is short on time, and we’ve been invaded. Yet here we stand waiting.”
Amanda glanced at the small yellow aircraft, her mind turning.
Oreo ran to Amanda and Jones, stopping with a muffled bark, nudging the president in the thigh. Amanda looked at the dog, which looked back toward the underground facility’s main entrance. Close to a football field away there was movement, someone stepping around the destroyed blast door. Jones glanced to the direction that Aymond and the rest of the MARSOC Marines had left in the remaining M-ATVs then back at the blast door.
“Hey, that’s…”
A single rifle shot pierced the unnervingly quiet air. By the blast door, a lone head snapped backward and fell backward to where it had come. Jones looked at Amanda who stood with her rifle shouldered. She slowly lowered the rifle’s muzzle and scanned the area before lowering the rifle and letting it hang on the sling across her chest.
“Shit…that was close to 100 meters. Uh, good shot, Madam President.”
Amanda didn’t show any reaction, but her mind smiled that she would impress a Marine with a well-placed shot. Oreo ran off and she watched the dog, noticing Andrew running toward them waving his
arms, yelling and pointing. The wind grew stronger out of the north, but neither Jones nor Amanda could understand what he was trying to say. They looked at the yellow plane, Andrew’s plane, which he was pointing at.
“Oh shit, Jones.”
Beyond the plane, across the dry lake bed, the red cloud was closing fast and she realized it wasn’t a cloud; it was a churning mass of dirt and sand.
“Jones, secure your truck!” Amanda yelled after Jones who was already running toward the open and activated Chinese radar truck. Andrew ran past Amanda, yelling, “give me a hand!” Amanda sprinted behind him to his aircraft. She followed Andrew’s lead of kicking the tire chocks from under the large tundra tires of his aircraft.
“Push on the wing strut!”
Amanda pushed. Andrew pulled and held his side firm, spinning the plane toward the second and mostly intact hangar on this flightline. One of the large sliding doors was open, and once the plane was rolling toward the hangar, Andrew sprinted to the hangar doors, which weren’t open far enough for the wing to fit. “Just keep pushing” was all he yelled as Andrew pushed hard to open the hangar door.
Pushing, Amanda was gaining speed. As this was her first time to push an aircraft around, she was hesitant but jogged along with the plane, not sure how it would stop. Andrew ran back to his plane and pushed hard. Just as the tailwheel skipped across the hangar door tracks, he yelled, “Pull!” and grabbed the wing strut. Amanda and Andrew’s feet slid on the painted concrete hangar floor as they slowed the aircraft to a stop. They ran to the hangar doors and began pushing them closed just as Jones skidded to a stop inside the hangar.
Papoose Mountain
The PLA cargo aircraft popped and groaned as it still smoldered on the desert floor in the distance. After finding the runway and hangars, Aymond and the rest of his Marine Special Operations Team drove to the top of the mountain that stood in between their location and Groom Lake. Tire tracks and a few remnants of some sort of MRE-style meal they hadn’t seen before was all they found, but it was obvious that the mountaintop had been used as an observation post.
“Chief, look at that,” Gonzo said, pointing toward the northeast.
The rest of the remaining team members, eight total including Master Gunnery Sergeant Aymond, were forming up by the trucks after searching the immediate area for any other clues or information about the PLA that had been there.
Aymond looked at Gonzo and followed the pointed finger. “Haboob…well shit.”
“Load it up. Let’s get down to the desert floor and use the mountains as a break. If it isn’t too bad, we’ll head back to Jones’ location and hold tight.”
One last time, Aymond scanned Groom Lake with his binoculars, pausing to look at where he had left Jones and the supposed president. The forward edge of the closing wall of dust washed over the lake bed and the hangars. If Jones was still out, if the radar truck was still there, or even if the little yellow plane was still there, Aymond couldn’t tell.
The M-ATVs made it a few hundred yards down the dirt road toward the desert floor when the trucks rocked hard from the strong wind. Visibility dropped quickly to nearly zero from all the churning dirt and sand.
The Underground Facility
Jessie glanced at her watch; they had been below ground for nearly three hours and hadn’t made it halfway into the facility. The first two levels were still overrun with the dead, no survivors were found, and the small group of the would-be rescue party had no choice but to secure the fire doors to clear the reanimated dead later. It was quickly apparent that if any survivors were to be found—if Sarah was to be found—Jessie, Erin, and crew would have to move quickly, trying to contain the outbreak by amputating the overrun infected areas from the rest of the facility.
“This is really different than the facility in Texas.” Bexar wiped his face with the T-shirt he wore, which was soaked from the stress and exertion of the morning.
“It’s older, mano. This one was begun in the 1960s,” Chivo whispered in response.
“Turn here,” Jessie whispered to Chivo, who remained the point man of their motley crew. Jessie followed, directing the group; Bexar was third in line followed by Jason and then Erin at the end, providing rear security for any of the undead that decided to trail along. The lights were still on, which was a blessing that Jessie didn’t expect to last. A man staggered out of an open door, the front of his shirt drenched in his own blood, pieces of his neck missing, bite marks on his arms and face. Chivo’s single shot echoed in the tight hall, more of the undead thumping against the closed and secured doors behind the team.
“Get the keycard from around his neck; we’re going to need it.”
As the team crept forward, Chivo stopped for a moment and cut the keycard free, handing the bloody plastic card over his shoulder to Jessie who wiped it on her pants and put it in her pocket. Continuing, they stopped at the closed doorway to the next Groom Lake “town.” The team formed a security perimeter and Jessie tapped on the door. The small LED light over the RFID lock shone red, which indicated that the door was locked. Jessie tapped on the door a little harder. Expecting the heavy thuds of the dead, she was surprised to hear the quiet tap of a response.
In a hard whisper, Jessie spoke with the man on the other side.
“Only about half our town, but we’re secure. We strip-searched each other for any bites and everyone is clear.”
“Is Sarah with your town?”
“No.”
“OK, good job. Shelter in place until I release you; we’re still in lockdown.”
“What about Jake?”
Jessie looked at the bloodied keycard in her hand.
“Jake is dead.”
Groom Lake
The hangar rattled, the doors shook, and dust and sand floated in the still air inside the cavernous hangar. Jones, Andrew, Oreo, and Amanda walked slowly in the dark shadows; shining lights, they searched their temporary shelter for anything that could be useful. A ragged collection of vehicles that wouldn’t have even been found on the shadiest of used car lots before the attack were parked along the south wall. The western wall, the other end of the hangar, was a work area with tools, parts, and equipment secured behind a fenced-off section with a locked gate. Jones found a side door for pedestrian traffic on the south wall. Next to it was a panel of light switches, which to everyone’s surprised worked, bathing the hangar in the humming orange glow of a gymnasium as the lights warmed up.
The middle of the hangar was wide open with guidelines and sections, walking paths and markings on the painted floor. Andrew looked around with a little disappointment. “I was hoping to find a UFO.”
Amanda laughed and said, “Tell you what: if we find one, you can keep it.”
Oreo appeared unconcerned, his tail wagging, ears up, walking lazily beside Andrew.
“These cars look like hell.”
“They still look better off than your ride, Madam President.”
“Jones, would you just call me Amanda or Lampton or something less formal?”
“Uh, yes ma’—um…Amanda.”
“And you’re right…you’re a mechanic, look through the vehicles and find the best one; I’m going to need a replacement.”
The Underground Facility
“Fall back!”
The stiff staccato sounds of multiple AR-15s and M4 rifles being fired rapidly accented the crack-boom sound of Jason’s pump-action shotgun. Enraged moans of the dead grew louder with the advancing horde. Blood-soaked teeth gnashed, eyes gazed completely without emotion, and cold hands clawed at their clothes. The group was now in full retreat, a body hanging limply over Bexar’s shoulders as they retreated through the relative safety of the hall.
Prior to disaster, the group paused at one set of the cafeteria doors while Jessie tapped the door and waited for the reply. The double doors were secured by a sturdy leather
belt, tying the door handles together. A panicked crying whisper pleaded for help in response. Chivo untied the belt as the soft crying grew to sobbing interrupted by a loud crash and screaming. Now free, the doors burst open, knocking Chivo to the ground, trapping Jessie behind an open door.
Jason and Bexar pushed against the doors, trying to stop the eruption of death-like fingers in a dam, the relentless push of scores of reanimated dead quickly overcoming them. Chivo pushed against the shoulders of a dead woman, her olive drab T-shirt slick with dark blood, her teeth snapped at his hands, but he finally got a foot between him and her. Kicking hard, she fell against the following fellow dead which were crashing over a makeshift protective wall comprised of cafeteria table and chairs.
Chivo rolled away from the doorway while Jason pulled Jessie to her feet. Bexar grabbed the shoulders of the survivor and dragged the man free of the feeding frenzy before pulling the man onto his shoulders. Jessie took the new point position; Erin held the rear, rapidly firing through one and then another magazine of ammunition, rotating her short-barreled rifle with each rapid magazine change. A ballet of death at her fingertip, the rifle rotated forward with her left hand, catching the bolt release as she took aim, bracing the forestock, and firing. Each squeeze of the trigger was another head ruined, another reanimated body falling to the ground.
“Move your ass, girl! El cucuy is closing!” Chivo yelled as he fired past Erin.
Erin turned, flipping him off as she ran past, rejoining the group as they retreated, following Jessie as she moved quickly through what appeared to be an endless maze of look-a-like bland office hallways. Panting, sweating and slick with blood, Bexar had difficulty holding the survivor on his shoulders. Jessie stepped into the open door of a dark janitor’s closet, Jason and Erin crowding in with her. Bexar abruptly stopped at the door, Chivo bumping into him before pushing the both of them, along with the unconscious survivor, into the closet, pulling the door closed. A hand caught between the door and door frame bent with a loud crack. Chivo pushed the door open with a hard shove before shutting it again, the reanimated corpse on the other side falling to the ground.