by Dave Lund
Bexar knelt to brace his support arm, his AR-15 raised, the tip of the triangle-shaped reticle in the combat optic holding steady on the tip of the closest skull.
The rifle was sighted for two hundred yards. At one time Bexar would have had to calculate the hold over distance based on how far away his target was, but weeks and weeks after the world ended, the adaptation wasn’t even a conscious thought any longer.
Instead Bexar concentrated on his breathing before reminding himself to scan. Lifting his head slightly off the rifle, he looked left then right, breaking the rule to follow his eyes with the muzzle of his weapon.
“Shit!”
Bexar fell backwards, trying to move out of the kneeling position. On his back and driving his rifle as quickly as he could, he jerked back on the trigger three times before making contact with the corpse less than ten feet away.
“Talk to me, mano.”
“I’m good, we’re good, keep working.”
Bexar clambered to his feet, angry at his lack of attention and quickly engaged the rest of the trailing dead gathering in number. Bexar quickly cycled through a full thirty-round magazine until two dozen dead lay motionless in final death, pools of dark blood surrounding them.
Fresh magazine in his hand, Bexar ripped the empty magazine from his rifle, slapped the loaded magazine into place, his thumb skipping across the bolt release as he stowed the empty magazine. A few weeks ago he would have let the empty magazine fall and not worry about it, but magazines were rarer than ammo now, and he had to keep the ones he had.
The nearest walking corpse was a mere five feet away, most of the macabre face covered by the glowing red triangle in his optic. Bexar squeezed the trigger and nothing happened.
“Ugh!”
Bexar let go of his rifle, jammed his left palm into the chest of the dead woman and knocking her back. The rifle swung by the sling across his body while his right hand fell to the pistol on his hip; the pistol out and up, Bexar began pulling on the trigger while the pistol was still at hip level, stitching rounds up the woman’s torso with no effect until he grasped and supported with his left hand, driving the muzzle of the pistol forward. All Bexar could see was the faint glow of the green dot on the front sight as he pulled the trigger twice, one round entering the woman’s left eye. The back of her skull exploded, the blow back covering Bexar in rotting, pus-filled brain matter. Adjusting slightly, Bexar took aim at the next closest corpse, nearly in hand’s reach, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
Too late he realized that the slide of the pistol was locked back on an empty magazine.
WINCHESTER:
RUE
BOOK 4
Dave Lund
A WINLOCK PRESS BOOK
PUBLISHED AT SMASHWORDS
ISBN: 978-1-68261-141-8
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-142-5
WINCHESTER: RUE
The Winchester Undead Series
Book 4
© 2016 by Dave Lund
All Rights Reserved
Edited by Monique Happy Editorial Services
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.
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CONTENTS
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
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Other Winlock Books You;ll Love
PROLOGUE
March 15, Year 1
Peaceful dust floated in the air as time stopped around them. First, nothing to see except the sky through the windshield, the truck’s engine growling in protest as the horizon rose into view to be replaced by roadway below. The truck shook. Bexar could see each piece of gravel in the median in finite detail, the cracks in the pavement, the sun-baked lane markings. Everything in bright vivid colors. The world around him paused. Jessie, Keeley, Malachi, Jack … all of their faces flashed in front of him, a sped-up movie, the good times and the bad, his wedding, digging Keeley’s grave, it all raced through his mind. The serene peace burned away with hot anger, anger that he couldn’t catch a break, that every time he made any progress he was slapped down by the world in which they now lived. Jessie was alive, she was going to have his child, their second … their only, and now it was all taken away from him … again.
The long brown hood of the truck inched towards the pavement. In the distance Bexar heard yelling; at the last second he realized that it was his voice before time violently snapped forward with a hard scream of twisting metal and shattering glass. Everything went black.
CHAPTER 1
Cortez, CO
March 12, Year 1
“December 26th changed everything. Everyone had plans, everyone had a future, and all of that was ripped from us by assholes like you! I don’t give a fuck about you. I don’t give a fuck about this country; the fucking dead own it all now. All I want is to get to my wife and try to do right by my family this time.” Bexar glared at Cliff.
“What about you, Chivo, after everything you’re going to ride off with this cop for his family?” Cliff turned from Bexar to Chivo.
“My family was my teammates, Cliff. They’re at the gates waiting for me. Think about it as paying up karma for the two decades of duty served.”
“Fine, you guys met the President, you know with our help she can rebuild what’s left. She needs our help, though. Groom Lake is a damned zoo. The Osiris operation plan was to put up the big beacon of hope and I realize now that was wrong. I’ve had to clear that dammed hole in the ground of the dead twice now, and if you go then you’ll have to do it again as well. The problem is that more and more people are showing up. Clint is right, and that’s why the SCC underground complex in Texas is where we go. Locate, organize, and deploy what is possibly left of the military, take the country back one town at a time. Just like Denver, the bunker in Groom Lake is a mausoleum of politics and bullshit, a secure place to house your corpse as it bumps into the walls for the rest of eternity.”
“Look mano, I’m not saying you’re wrong, just that you’re an asshole. Getting Bexar to his pregnant wife is the right thing to do.”
Bexar peeked out the slit of a window visible from the fortifications Cliff had made to the house. “Guys, the sun is already getting low. The debate is useless. We have two trucks, we have two directions. Split it and get.”
Cliff nodded, staring at Bexar. “Just like that? Fine, but slow it down. We leave at first light. Traveling at night is stupid. We’ll have time to split the gear and prep the trucks … Chivo, you’re making a mistake, you know. Let the cop drive to his family and share their tomb in Groom Lake. Come with me, we can use a guy like you.”
“You’ve known me for a long time. Hell, you fucking taught me, but I’m telling you that we need
to make things right for Bexar and his family. We do one then do the other. What’s the rush? Why one or the other? The country is already dead, and a few extra days won’t change that.”
Cliff turned and walked out of the room without another word.
Coronado, CA
Michael Happy, Chuck Ski, and Peter Snow lay prone in a defensive position in the tall brush of the overgrown golf course. Happy faced towards the interior of the island, face painted and strips of ratty burlap hanging off the suppressor of the M4 SOPMOD rifle. He watched carefully, breathing slowly, ears straining to hear the first snap of a twig, swish of grass or any other indication that danger approached. Ski and Snow faced towards the mouth of the bay, suppressed M4 rifles ready to be deployed. Their primary weapons were the two spotting scopes mounted on low tripods and draped with the handmade ghillie suit each wore. The three of them were part of the remaining members of the Marine Special Operations Team, or MSOT, which fought their way across California to San Diego to find ruins overrun by the dead and their country being invaded by Chinese and Korean forces.
Off shore, four large Panamax ships sat in anchorage, the Chinese flags fluttering lazily at each of their sterns.
“Are there even cranes for the CONEXes in the harbor?” Ski spoke in a hushed whisper, not so much a spoken phrase as much as a really loud thought.
“Maybe one or two. I thought this was where new cars were driven off the ship, that they used Long Beach or somewhere else for ships like those.”
Not even ten feet away, Happy couldn’t hear the conversation; the shadows grew long across his back as the sun set out to sea. An hour after sunset the three of them would slither back to the wrought-iron fence that separated the naval base from the public beach, where their unconventional transportation, three bicycles, awaited. Assuming some punk hasn’t stolen them. Happy’s mind flashed to the image of a Zed riding a bicycle, which was both hilarious and, for some reason, terrifying.
“Maybe they have some sort of other plan to unload the containers?”
“I doubt it, those cranes are fucking huge.” Snow used his spotting scope to watch the decks and bridges of the anchored ships; he couldn’t see what Ski was viewing, but on a small waterproof notebook he made quick notes about the number of men and what they were doing.
The sun slid into the ocean, the sky glowing red as if in protest to the night. The ear pieces each man wore for their radios clicked once. Ski keyed his mic twice as a silent response. We’re still alive, we’ll be home soon, have dinner waiting for me, dear.
Dinner. Another night, another MRE, bang out a couple hours of sleep and rotate into site security while another patrol heads out for the night shift. Ski sighed.
Another heavy jet roared low over the mainland, landing to off-load at San Diego International Airport. More jet engines spooled up as an empty jet bounced down the runway and back towards China, they assumed, to return with more men, materials, and all the things they needed to stop.
“Why the civilian airport. Why not the Naval Air Station?”
“Fuck if I know, Ski.”
SSC, Ennis, TX
“Clint, honey, I understand, but we can’t live underground forever. We’re going to need to establish safe areas, places for agriculture, industry … it won’t be overnight. Hell, we’re basically back to hoping a blacksmith is still alive, but those are the things this nation needs if we’re going to reclaim it for the living.”
“I don’t disagree, but that isn’t your job, Madam President …”
“Oh now I’m ‘Madam President’? Perhaps I should go put a bra on.”
“No, Amanda, Christ, that’s not what … Damnit, look, I love you, but you are the President of the United States. You don’t go establish safe zones, you go visit the safe zones after we have them established.”
“We who, Clint? Who is left? We have one little enclave of people out in Nevada; they have contact with what, a few hundred people? How many people are left to do the job for us? They don’t exist anymore. They are up there on the surface, doomed to a fate worse than death, because at least in death it is over.”
“Fine, but not yet. Wright said they established contact. Cliff and what is left of the rescue team will be back soon. That’s their job. Your job is to lead, my job is to help you do it and keep you … keep your sexy ass safe so you can lead.”
CHAPTER 2
Groom Lake, NV
March 13, Year 1
“Bexar, my Bexar is alive?”
“Yes, but he’s in Colorado.”
Jessie sat on the cot, tears streaming down her face. She was still in the new arrival quarantine area, where she had to remain until she was allowed into the main section of the compound. During that transition, a woman who introduced herself as “Brit Sanchez from the Mayor’s office” came to visit with her, explaining how the facility worked and gently finding out what skills Jessie had and could contribute. She’d also brought the good news.
Jessie wanted to believe Bexar had to be alive. She’d never wanted to stop believing and now it was true, her Bexar was coming home. “When will he arrive here?”
“I don’t know. They made contact with us and we have no way to communicate with him or his team.”
“His team?”
Brit nodded. “He was attached to a Special Forces team sent to rescue Cliff after he was shot down in Colorado.”
“Shot down, like in a plane?”
“Yes.”
“But how …”
She held up her hand, stopping Jessie. “I really don’t know. The operations side of the facility keeps to themselves and we only know what Jake or Bill tells us. The Air Force guys are nice, but they keep to themselves … you said you were a teacher before?”
Jessie wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Yes, I taught Algebra and Calculus at the high school.”
The woman smiled. “That is great. We don’t really have many children who fit that age group or need right now, but could you teach adult education courses in the subjects? Jake, and the major agrees, that all of us should take time to learn as much as we can, that we’re responsible for passing along all our knowledge to the next generation.”
“Sure, yes, well that makes sense.”
Sarah sat on the cot across from Jessie, watching the conversation and smiling. Her friend had finally been given the good news she deserved. Sarah looked over at her daughter, Erin, who sulked in her spot across the room. Sarah wasn’t sure why the change, but Erin hadn’t been herself since they arrived, not that she had really been her old self before they arrived either. Her little girl’s eyes were cold, sharp like a cobra’s, guarded. She looked like a hardened combat vet even though she wasn’t even old enough to get a driver’s license.
Coronado, CA
“Chief, we don’t know why those big container ships are even here, but Ski brought up a good point: I don’t think they have the right kind of cranes to offload a ship like that here.”
Master Gunnery Sergeant Jerry Aymond, referred to as Chief by his team, sat at the table cleaning his M4 while listening to the patrol report, the sound of cargo jets landing and taking off a constant in the distance. Snow flipped through his small green notepad, and then looked up. “Not a single man was armed.”
Aymond looked up. “What?”
“On the container ships, none of the men I saw were armed. They had no guards posted, nothing. From what we could tell they were just Merchant Marine. If they’re PLA they weren’t even in uniform. Don’t they have a dock here?”
“Several, including the berths for cruise ships.”
Snow looked at Ski. “A dock for the cruise ships? Shit if I know, I was never able to get enough time off to go on a cruise.” He smirked at Aymond.
Aymond ignored the jab. “Assume they have a way to offload those ships. What are we going to do to deny it access to the harbor? And gentlemen, let me remind you that every one of those planes is full of people with gear who want to take our c
ountry from us. Sure, it’s full of Zeds, but fuck’em, it’s still ours to have.”
CHAPTER 3
Cortez, CO
March 13, Year 1
Snow dusted the town overnight. Bexar stamped his feet, cold. He longed for Texas. No, not Texas, but the life we had before in Texas … I need my wife, I need to hold her in my arms and ask for forgiveness. If I had planned better, if we’d had a better bug-out plan Keeley would be alive. So would Malachi and Amber, Jack, Sandra, … no, damnit, you don’t know that. Breath, focus.
Two houses down from Cliff’s makeshift fortress, Bexar walked up to the front door and absentmindedly pushed the doorbell, turning to stand at the side of the doorframe, his finger covering the peep hole. He stood for a moment before realizing how ridiculous this all was. Like he was still a cop doing a knock and talk at a drug house. Bexar shook his head and checked the door handle. It turned and the door opened easily. The flat scent of stale death oozed out of the cold house. Pistol holstered and rifle slung, Bexar held his heavy hand-made CM Forge blade and decided to take Cliff’s advice.
Cliff. Fuck that guy. If we hadn’t talked to him on the radio, if we didn’t try to flee we might all still be in The Basin and living the good life eating javelina and mule deer. The last guy who pointed a weapon at me is still in prison … maybe. Bexar thought about how bad it would have been locked in a prison when the EMP hit followed by the virus. Using the butt of the knife handle, he tapped solidly on the open front door and took three steps off the porch, waiting past the broken and missing porch railing.
