by Dave Lund
BOOM!
Ears ringing and dizzy, Chivo was the first of his teammates on his feet, most of the force of the blast deflected by the large forklift he had been using for cover. A gaping hole remained where the northwest corner of the building once stood, moonlight flooding into the warehouse.
Stealth lost, the teammates checked in with each other, yelling across the ruined warehouse.
“Apollo, clear.”
“Odin, clear.”
“Chivo, clear.”
Zennie didn’t check in. Chivo, in a tactical crouch with his M4 rifle up, moved rapidly towards where the roll-up door once stood. Loud moans of the undead echoed in the large building and radiated through the bones of each of the team members. Chivo found Zennie’s body, both of his legs missing below the knee, his left arm gone, and his neck bent at an impossible angle. “Dammit brother, now what the fuck are we going to do?”
Chivo grabbed his dead teammate and hefted him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry just as Apollo and Odin made it to the blast site. The mass of undead was already stumbling over the brick and debris through the hole that opened the building to the street.
“Contact left!”
“Contact right!”
Odin and Apollo called out at nearly the same time as they began engaging the approaching dead. The staccato sound of the team’s rifles was drowned out by the sheer number of the dead shambling down the street and into the destroyed building, all of them attracted by the loud explosion. Only a quarter mile stood between the team and the relative safety found on the United States’ side of the heavy border fence, but even then they would only be away from this group of zombies and would be on the edge of El Paso. Large cities spelled trouble.
The Special Forces community never left a teammate behind if at all possible, so, trusting his teammates, Chivo let his M4 hang on the sling and carried Zennie’s body on his shoulders. Chivo’s shirt, his plate carrier, and the rest of his gear became drenched in blood. After the previous forty-nine days, the three men were exhausted and could only keep a pace just faster than the dead shambling after them. The team made it away from the destroyed warehouse and to the four-lane blacktop of Bulevar Juan Pablo. Abandoned on the road were a handful of cars and trucks left to rot on the desert highway after the EMP attack disabled them. Rounding the corner of a large box truck, Chivo ran chest first into a walking, rotting corpse. Already off balance carrying Zennie’s body, Chivo fell forward with a loud grunt, knocking the walking corpse to the ground beneath him. Zennie’s body fell over Chivo’s head with a wet thud onto the pavement. Instinctively, Chivo pushed himself up on the undead’s stomach with his left hand, but his hand sank into the rotting flesh while his right hand drew the Glock pistol carried on his right thigh. With a single shot, the undead’s skull exploded into a slimy black mass on the roadway.
Chivo quickly reholstered his pistol and retrieved his dead teammate’s body. “Sorry brother, but we’re at least going to get you back home to American soil.”
The steady rhythm of Apollo and Odin firing their rifles was interrupted only by calls of “Loading!” and “Covering!” whenever either would have to rapidly change magazines. The undead horde behind them was staggering in number and the smell was nearly overwhelming. Flies buzzed like a thick black cloud over the walking undead.
The team trudged over the desert berm and down into the dry river bed of the Rio Grande. Feeling closer to their goal, they jogged up the other side of the riverbank and onto American soil. If they were going to die at least they would die together and on home soil. The three men moved quickly to a large gate used by the border agents for their patrols. Chivo leaned Zennie’s body against the fence and pulled a pair of bolt cutters out of the pack on his back. He cut the links of the fence as fast as he could. There would be no way for them to open the heavy gate, so they were reduced to cutting a hole in the fence and securing it the best they could once they passed through.
Apollo called out “Loading!” and dropped another empty M4 magazine into his dump pouch before reaching to the front of his armor carrier to retrieve another fresh magazine to reload his rifle. His hand swept across the front of his carrier and found no magazines. He was out of ammo. Apollo turned and ripped a fresh magazine off his dead teammate’s gear and quickly brought his rifle back into the fight—none too soon, as one of the walking corpses was only ten feet from Chivo’s back.
“Chivo, you might want to hurry the fuck up. Things are starting to get a little sporty out here.”
“Easy mano, I’m almost done.”
Chivo pushed a three-foot-tall hole in the bottom of the fence open and crawled through before grabbing Zennie’s body and dragging him through with him. Apollo and Oden climbed through the fence with only seconds to spare, the first of the horde of walking corpses only yards behind them. Oden stuck the barrel of his rifle through a link in the fence and continued to drop the undead at the leading element of the horde, while Apollo took four pairs of plastic quick cuffs and secured the hole in the fence as best he could using the plastic handcuffs like zip ties.
Chivo pulled the remaining fully-loaded M4 magazines off Zennie’s gear and passed them out to Apollo and Odin. In a loose defensive circle around their dead teammate’s body, facing outward and watching for new threats, the team took a moment to discuss their next move.
Odin spoke first. “OK guys. SITREP, whatcha got?”
“We need ammo,” Apollo responded.
“We need wheels in a bad way,” Chivo chimed in.
“First I think we need to find a spot to hunker down to see if that horde passes. I’m afraid that even with the fence, more undead from this side will be attracted to the commotion. Besides, we need to take care of Zennie’s body,” Odin replied.
Something clamped onto the back of Chivo’s pants, causing him to jump forward and away from his teammates. Zennie was back and moving but he was not with the living. “Shit!” Chivo drew his pistol and fired a single shot, striking Zennie in the skull.
“Fuck dude, a man can’t even find peace in death anymore.”
WINCHESTER: PREY
BOOK 2
Dave Lund
A WINLOCK PRESS BOOK
ISBN: 978-1-61868-781-4
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-780-7
WINCHESTER: PREY
The Winchester Undead Series
Book 2
© 2015 by Dave Lund
All Rights Reserved
Edited by Monique Happy Editorial Services
Cover art by Dave Lund of www.f8industries.net
and Angela Ortiz of www.amosartstudio.com
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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TABLE OF 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
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
OTHER WINLOCK BOOKS YOU’LL LOVE
PROLOGUE
February 17, Year 1
Chivo lay prone on the side of the mountain, surrounded by trees and desert shrub grass. He should have had his ghillie suit, but there were a lot of things he’d gone without and this would have to be another. It didn’t matter; the mission came first. Without a laser rangefinder or a spotter, he made some guesses for target distances, doped the conditions and dialed in the adjustments on the optic mounted on top of his big rifle. Motorcycles were parked by the cabins, while three white males meandered between the cabins and the parking area. Chivo had no idea what the target of interest looked like. All he knew was that it wasn’t a biker and there was a good chance the target was in this part of the national park.
Three women in various stages of undress stepped out of the middle cabin, the woman in the middle being nearly dragged by the others. She was completely nude with her hands tied behind her back. All three women shook, but Chivo didn’t know if it was from the cold winter air or from fear.
A rifle shot cracked through the cold air, echoing off the mountain walls, followed by another rifle shot and then another. Sounds like an M4, Chivo thought. A man who looked like a member of the motorcycle gang fired wildly with a pistol.
I can’t identify which is the target. I can’t see who is friend or foe. I can’t engage yet.
Chivo panned his rifle to the left, dragging the narrow field of view seen through the rifle’s scope, just in time to see a man with a beard wearing tactical pants and other tactical kit running towards the main parking area from between the long row of cabins to the south. The man with the beard didn’t look like a biker. The man stopped running, knelt and continued to fire an M4 at the bikers. The guy with the beard had to be his man.
Time to get to work, Chivo thought while making some minor adjustments to the scope on his big rifle. Target lined up, Chivo slowly exhaled and gently pressed the trigger to the rear. The powerful rifle barked sharply, filling the air around him with dirt and grass kicked up from the shockwave of the projectile exploding out of the end of the long barrel. Through the scope Chivo watched the target’s head disappear into a red mist.
CHAPTER 1
Little Rock, AR
December 26, Year 1 (before the attack)
Early morning light filtered into the second-story bedroom of the historic home in Pulaski Heights. Only the two golden brown cocker spaniels broke the silence of the morning by wagging their tails against the nightstand. Her children were with her ex-husband and his new girlfriend, skiing in Colorado for Christmas. The kids would have fun even if she was ten years too young for him. A hot cup of tea, a big fire in the fireplace, and a small stack of Jules Vern novels comprised her entire plan for the day.
Both of her dogs’ tails stopped wagging, their attention snapping towards the outside window. Amanda reluctantly stepped out of her warm bed and peeked around the curtain of her window. A dark-colored Tahoe with deep window tint stopped in the circle drive at the front of her house. She stepped into her slippers and pulled a thick bathrobe on while stomping down the stairs. Her dogs happily plodded down the stairs before her, racing to the door. I finally have a single day of peace and quiet and the department is going to ruin it. The dogs barked in response to the stern knock at her door.
Amanda opened the heavy wooden door. “What is so damned important that it couldn’t wait until next week?”
Two men stood on her front porch, both wearing dark suits, white shirts and dark ties. Sunglasses covered their eyes. Amanda looked at their feet. Cheap shoes, hallmark of the FBI. Amanda’s suspicions were confirmed as the man on the right opened a worn leather case which contained a gold badge and a photo ID with FBI emblazoned in large blue letters.
“Madam Secretary, I am Agent Smith and this is Agent Johnson. Would you step outside, please? I’m sorry, but you will need to come with us.”
“Excuse me? Come with you for what? It’s the day after Christmas, nor am I dressed.”
Agent Johnson removed his wool overcoat and held it out for Secretary Lampton. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you must come with us. You can wear this for now. We already have a change of clothes waiting for you, as well as an overnight bag.”
“You have what for me already? I demand to know what is going on and will not step a single foot outside of my home until you tell me what it is.”
“Madam Secretary, Babylon Shield has been initiated. You must leave with us immediately.”
Amanda’s eyes went wide. “We are under attack?”
“Yes ma’am, as we speak. And we have no time to waste.”
United States Secretary of Agriculture Amanda Lampton stepped into the frigid air, taking Johnson’s proffered overcoat, and shut the door behind her. Agent Smith climbed into the driver’s seat of the still-running Tahoe while Agent Johnson held the back door open for Secretary Lampton.
Once seated, Smith put the Tahoe into gear and accelerated sharply while flipping two switches on the SUV’s dash. The siren wailing from behind the Tahoe’s grill, punctuated by the flashing hidden emergency lights, shattered the affluent neighborhood’s peace.
Agent Johnson turned in his seat and pointed to a duffel bag on the back seat. “Ma’am, in the bag you will find a change of clothes. Would you please get dressed?”
“Now? In here?”
“Please.”
Amanda opened the duffel and found a new pair of tan cargo pants, a black t-shirt, a sports bra, panties, socks and a pair of running shoes, in addition to a sweatshirt and a North Face jacket. Smith was driving extremely fast and the Tahoe bounced sharply, making it difficult for Amanda to get dressed. It wasn’t until she lay down in the back seat to pull on the cargo pants that she realized that the bra and panties were her own. That realization was a little unsettling, but she decided that questioning how the agents had retrieved her own under clothing could wait. Besides, these two field agents would have no idea.
Sitting upright, Amanda realized they were already on I-630. She saw the speedometer’s needle hovering near ninety miles per hour. Agent Smith drove very aggressively, sweeping across the Interstate onto the inside shoulder to rocket past two large semi-trucks driving side by side in the two inside lanes. Amanda cringed at the sight of the Tahoe’s mirrors nearly scraping the semi-truck and the concrete barrier on the other side. The Tahoe continued to weave through traffic, the heavy SUV rolling from side to side with each gut-wrenching near miss.
The SUV suddenly lurched forward. Smith had stomped hard on the brakes before releasing to turn, barely making the exit ramp for I-30 South. Once on the ramp, the SUV accelerated hard. Amanda bounced against the interior of the Tahoe, her head hitting the side window before she could steady herself in the seat long enough to latch the seatbelt.
Everything in the Tahoe became quiet. Only the sound of the tires rolling on the pavement vibrated through the interior. Smith slammed the gear selector to neutral while turning the ignition key on and off rapidly to no effect, before stomping on the brake pedal with both feet while pulling on the steering wheel.
The anti-lock brake system had disabled with the rest of the vehicle. All four tires began to skid across the pavement. The Tahoe bounced across a raised median, narrowly missing two other vehicles, which were rolling through the intersection out of control. Amanda’s seatbelt locked her into her seat and the last thing she saw before the Tahoe launched into a drainage ditch was the same commuter plane above them, its tail pointed straight down, falling.
CHAPTER 2
Cortez, CO
December 26, Year 1
Jake and Sara relaxed in their home on the south end of town, a fire burning fiercely in their living room fireplace. Both sat on the couch in thick cotton robes with mugs of coffee steaming on the tray table between them. Sara intently read a book on her iPad, feet curled under her body. Christmas was always the best time of year. Although they didn’t have any children to build the Christmas spirit with, Sara was able to enjoy her break from her middle school students. Science and teaching were her passions, although she was often frustrated by the fifth graders she taught. Jake typed on the MacBook perched in his lap. He had no Christmas break, but he also had no real job. He worked as an independent journalist, author and photographer. That meant he had the opportunity to be sent to the far-flung reaches of the world for an assignment, but that also meant his working hours were much less defined than most people’s. While not on assignment, at least, he worked from home. Though Sara enjoyed the arrangement, she often wished she could reclaim the formal dining room of their home from the stacks of Pelican cases holding tens of thousands of dollars in professional photography equipment.
