Winchester Undead (Book 6): Winchester [Triumph]

by Lund, Dave

  “Great, babe…”

  “Shut up, Bexar.”

  Bexar looked surprised, not that anyone could have seen his face in the darkness, but he did stop talking. A sharp click was heard followed by the hissing air pressure change as the heavy door slid open. The lights inside the secret second facility were already on. Blood trailed along the floor from where they stood toward the interior, disappearing through another closed door.

  CHAPTER 2

  April 8, Year 1

  Ulm Montana

  “I’m sorry, Colonel…”

  “Smith.”

  “I’m sorry, Colonel Smith, but you’re not authorized to enter this facility.”

  Steve Dorsey, Lieutenant Colonel (USAF ret.) as an Air National Guard fighter pilot, wasn’t authorized to be in the facility any more than anyone else, except that he was personally invited by Major Matt Stone who coached his son’s hockey team. Major Stone of the 12th Missile Squadron manned this flight of Minutemen III ICBMs. Dorsey glanced at the status board; eight of the ten missiles showed a ready status, not that Dorsey could launch them even if he had wanted.

  Dorsey glanced at the duty board before keying the intercom again. “Colonel Smith, which Flight is this Missile Alert Facility assigned to?”

  The colonel showed no emotion, the frustration in his voice purely for effect. “Lieutenant Colonel, the Flights have been dissolved, the 12th Missile Squadron no longer exists, and the 341st no longer exists. Frankly, none of the Wings remain and the entire command structure is in shambles. There are scant few of us left, communications are compromised and no longer function, and I’m here on order of President Lampton to secure the couple of remaining MAFs.”

  Glancing at his notebook and scribbled notes, the transmissions from Groom Lake and the communications via the cobbled together radio all spoke of President Lampton, the first women president. There was no mention of any remaining military forces or even any sort of government structure at all in any of the transmissions. Most of the radio messages alluded to the government taking strides to rebuild and they were asking for people to join them to help. That didn’t sound like anything even remotely as functional as Smith made it sound.

  Dorsey had no idea what the actual protocol was to grant access to the facility. The question about the Flight was a shot in the dark but the best he could come up with. The man he spoke with arrived in an MRAP and appeared to be wearing the correct uniform, as best as he could tell via the low-quality security camera. Something didn’t seem right, but nothing seemed right anymore. Not when he shot down the bomber drones, not when he had to bail out four miles short of the runways at Malmstrom, and especially not when he fought his way back to his house over the following weeks. The only positive of it all is that he found Matt when making a scavenging run on the air base and that Matt brought him back to the lonely MAF south of Ulm.

  “OK, Colonel, park next to the main garage. Come into the Launch Control Support Building and I’ll buzz you through.”

  The gate clicked and whirred as it slid open. “Colonel” Clint Smith climbed into the running MRAP and drove into the fenced-off facility, the gate sliding closed behind him, and parked next to the oversized garage near an odd-looking outsized ranch-style home.

  The Underground Facility

  Bexar laid the survivor on the floor as gently as he could. The man wearing an odd mix of military utilities and civilian clothing was fit and had a scraggly looking new beard. He also did not appear to be breathing. Chivo reached down to check the man’s pulse when his eyes snapped open and he sat up.

  “Shit.” Chivo pushed backward and out of the way just before the deafening boom of Jason’s shotgun echoed through the gray concrete hallway. Jason shook his head and walked toward Erin, who was already beginning to follow the blood trail. Bexar glanced at the man on the floor, his head ruined by the shotgun blast; the corpse wouldn’t get up again. Chivo stood and followed the straggling group. “Come on, mano, the women folk are apparently anxious to keep moving.”

  Bexar glanced at Chivo who made a face and shrugged and followed the group to the next door, careful not to step in the blood on the floor. Jessie touched the blood-smeared ID card to a reader on the wall next to the closed door, which opened to reveal a bland-looking office with cheap government furniture and fake plants. What really drew Bexar’s attention was a fake window and outdoor scene painted on the wall. The blood trailed to the right and into what appeared to be a shower facility. Chivo provided rear security while Bexar followed Jessie, Erin, and Jason with a slightly confused look. The showers exited into a large room with supplies. The blood stopped and was pooled by a gray metal desk. White paper wrappers from bandages littered the floor, but there was no sign of the person who left them.

  Chivo began forward toward the tiled room. Erin stepped to the front and touched his arm, stopping him. She held up a hand gesturing to wait a moment. Erin turned and picked up a fake potted plant from near the desk and threw it into the dark room ahead. The loud crash echoed off the tile and was immediately followed by a series of grunts and moans of the dead.

  “Well shit.”

  Erin looked at Chivo and shrugged off his comment. Holding her rifle ready, she waited for the dead to appear from the darkness. Wet-sounding footsteps grew closer until the first reanimated corpse stepped into the light. A man in his 30s, Erin recognized him as one of the work crew they had left in the supply room. Not waiting, Erin fired a single round, pieces of brain and bone speckling the tile as the body crumpled to the floor. More footsteps followed, another corpse approached, ribbons of flesh hanging from her teeth, Erin fired again and another reanimate was downed for good.

  A third shape began to emerge from the darkness, but as it crossed into the light, Erin gasped and stood frozen. Chivo glanced at her and raised his rifle.

  “No!” Erin screamed.

  Chivo stopped and lowered his rifle, a little surprised at Erin’s outburst. She raised her rifle and fired, tears falling from her cheeks to the floor. Erin walked to the reanimated woman she had just put down, fell to her knees, and grasped a cold dead hand. She gently kissed it and gingerly set the hand on the woman’s chest…her mother’s chest.

  Jessie put her hand on Erin’s shoulder. Erin spun and stood, pushing Jessie to the ground and with a blur, a pistol was in her hand, tears streaked across Erin’s face.

  “Your fault! This is all your god-dammed fault! If you hadn’t wanted to fuck with your tent, this wouldn’t have fucking happened!”

  Chivo and Bexar were yelling at Erin, both had their rifles up, but Jessie held up a hand toward them. “Wait.”

  “Erin, I’m so sorry.”

  Erin punched Jessie in the jaw, holstered the pistol, and walked toward the exit, pushing Bexar out of the way as she passed. Jason stood still, mouth open, and looked back and forth from Erin to Jessie and Sarah’s body.

  “Well, don’t just fucking stand there, mano. Go after her, she’s going to need you.”

  Jason turned and jogged after Erin who held a middle finger in the air over her shoulder as she stepped through the door at the end of the hall and back into the main facility.

  Jessie stood and fought back tears before taking a deep breath. “Shit…well, you guys still with me? We have a lot of work to do.”

  Chivo didn’t say a word and simply stepped in front to take point and lead the three of them into the darkness.

  In The Stairwell

  Jason sprinted up the stairs after Erin, quick gunfire echoing down the concrete and steel. He reached the top flight just as Erin stepped through the door and into the main hallway of the first level. Following in her wake, the remaining reanimated corpses that he saw were left in ruins by her quick trigger. Without a word, Jason trailed closely, head on a swivel while he quickly walked, watching for any threats approaching from the rear and any that Erin didn’t see ahead.
However, he didn’t need to; they were moving too quickly for any dead to catch them from the rear and Erin was too switched on to miss any ahead of them.

  Emerging into the remains of the hangar dust-choked the air, the sun was dim through the swirling dirt. Erin scooped up her big .50-caliber rifle from where she had left it on the floor, pulled her shemagh over her mouth and nose and squinted her eyes against the sandstorm. The plane was gone, the Marines weren’t there, not that they could tell; visibility was better measured in inches than miles or even feet. Erin walked with determination, disappearing from Jason’s view into the swirling red mass.

  The hangar doors rattled loudly as Erin pushed one open wide enough to squeeze into the interior. Jason caught up just as she did, dirt and sand erupting into the space behind them. Inside, Jason saw the small yellow plane, the pilot and his dog, the woman who was supposed to be the president, and one of the Marines. The dog trotted toward Erin, stopped short, and sat watching her cross the large space. Amanda tried to talk to her, Erin’s middle finger her only reply. Jason jogged to climb into the passenger seat of an old rusting four-wheeled drive Suburban before Erin shifted into reverse.

  The tires chirped on the painted concrete. Jones raised his rifle and started toward the big SUV, but Amanda held up her hand. “Let her go, Jones.”

  Jones looked at Amanda then at the young man and woman who climbed out of the Suburban to push open the hangar door far enough to drive through.

  “Mr. Jones, once they’re gone, would you and Andrew please push the door close?” Amanda had to practically yell over the rattle of the storm.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The taillights disappeared into the storm and the hangar door was pushed closed behind them.

  In the Suburban

  Erin slowly drove in silence. Now free from the underground facility, her shoulders began to relax, the anger and determination fading from her. She stomped on the brake and put it in park. With her head on the steering wheel, Erin took some deep breaths.

  “Would you drive?” Erin whispered.

  Jason nodded and they traded seats. He could barely see the end of the hood, much less any further, but he put the selector in drive. “Where to?”

  “First, the tent.”

  Slowly Jason drove, hoping he was going the right way. Erin slid next to Jason on the bench seat, wrapped her fingers in his, kissed the back of his hand, and laid her head on his shoulder, heavy tears falling onto his shirt.

  The storm was disorientating. Jason felt like they were tumbling down a cliff, but it was just the winds gusting and pushing the big four-wheel drive. Some patches weren’t as dark as others and he would get short glimpses of where they were. He was driving the correct direction, but it was slow going. Without clocks and no way to see the sun, they had no idea how long it took, except that it felt like a trip that lasted hours and hours. To his surprise, Jessie’s tent was still standing, shuddering in the wind. Jason parked with the passenger door nearly touching the door flaps. They climbed out and into the tent.

  “All the ammo, all the MREs, we take everything,” Erin yelled over the wind-shook tent noise.

  “What about Jessie? What about the tent?”

  “That bitch can get more from where she is and fuck this stupid fucking tent.”

  Jason arched his eyebrows. Just a few hours before, during the attack, Erin had nearly sacrificed herself to protect Jessie and her unborn child. Things were different now and he didn’t know if it would remain that way.

  “What then?”

  “Then we leave.”

  “To where?”

  “I have an idea, but first we load up this shit, top off the fuel, and go before the fucking Marines get back.”

  Jason wasn’t sure about Erin’s plan but he was sure about sticking with her.

  Papoose Mountain

  What little evidence was left of the PLA recon team was likely destroyed in the massive dust storm. The storm slowed and the air began clearing. Visibility was finally beginning to return to normal. Aymond sat silently in the armored truck, sweltering with the top hatch closed, doors closed, and the engines off. There were no recovery trucks available; if the M-ATVs ingested dust, they could lose another truck and they were already down to two. The radio crackled.

  “Chief, the uh…President Lampton is requesting the team returns, over.”

  “Requesting, Jones?”

  “It isn’t really a request, Master-Gunns.”

  Aymond showed no emotion or reaction. “Roger.”

  After a brief pause, Aymond keyed the radio. “OK, guys, dust off the trucks. Time to head back.”

  Dirt and sand covered the big armored trucks, but after deployments in Iraq, Afghanistan, and elsewhere in the Middle East, the members of the MSOT were ready for such things. The men climbed out with a couple of stiff brushes to begin cleaning off the engine intake, radiator, mounted weaponry, and windows. The remotely operated turret received the most attention as the optics and sensors needed the extra care. Ten minutes later, the team was traveling north, past the remote radar sites and following the road around the mountain back to the hangars on the dry lake bed.

  When they arrived, Jones was outside cleaning the PLA truck the best he could. Some of the other Marines stopped to help while Aymond continued to where Amanda was helping Andrew push the yellow Aviat Husky back onto the ramp.

  “Aymond, thank you for returning. I believe the rescue party that went below may need some help; what can we do?”

  “Ma’am, my team can take care of it. You, however, should stay topside. What is your goal for all of this? Even if we clear the entire facility, the area is not secure and the cleanup would take a significant amount of time. Perhaps we can find you a more safe location instead?”

  Amanda’s eyes narrowed slightly. She understood the reluctance in letting her come along with his team, but after all she had been through, president or not, she was tired of the mansplaining. This was the story of her professional life and even in the horrific world of a post-apocalyptic society at war, the prejudice remained. I should have put Clint in his fucking place and then much of this could have been avoided.

  “Master Gunnery Sergeant Aymond, take your men below and secure the facility. This location is vital to the survival of the United States government and her citizens. Further orders will follow.”

  Aymond stood unmoving, deciding if he was going to believe what the others had said. Worried that he was aligning with a charlatan war chief, that the remnants of a more legitimate government remained, he weighed his position with what he knew to be true. Even if she isn’t the president, this is a top-secret facility…even the fucking PLA tried to destroy it.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Aymond turned and made a circle over his head, calling the team to circle up on him.

  “Gentlemen, what do you think? Is she the president or not? She’s ordering us to clear the underground bunker.”

  A series of non-committal grunts followed.

  “Chief, president or not, fuck it; this is dreamland. I want to see if there are any aliens down there.”

  After the chuckling subsided, Aymond continued, “Thanks, Gonzo, I do too, but we also know that the fucking PLA tried to destroy this place and the people here, so it has to have some sort of tactical advantage or they know something that is dangerous to the invasion forces. That alone makes me want to clear the bunker.”

  A couple of thumbs up and some nods were the silent response.

  “Jones, you and Happy stay topside, form a defensive position, protect our trucks and the Chinese radar truck. Without those, we’re mostly fucked. The rest of you gear up; we go below in five mikes.”

  A mix of “hoorahs” and “kill” were the positive responses, and the team split from the loose huddle and began the preparations. The control tower to the southeast w
ould have been an obvious choice for an observation post, but limited to only Jones and himself, Gonzo opted to lay out a loose semi-circle with the radar truck as the centerpiece. He didn’t want to get stuck in a position with no maneuverability and no responsive help on tap if they were attacked by the invasion forces or surrounded by a swarm of Zeds.

  Gradually, the rest of the team formed up with Aymond at the burned-out facility entrance. “OK, slow and steady. There are possible survivors, there is the civilian team from earlier, and we can be sure there are Zeds…”

  “And aliens.”

  Aymond glanced at Snow, who smirked. “And maybe aliens. The point is we move slow, steady, and methodically. If we need to rearm, then we hold our position and send runners; however, we are going to put down every damn Zed so we have no surprises. We have no idea how many people were inside, how many are still alive, or how many Zeds there are. If it’s completely fucked, we’ll pull back and reevaluate the suggestion from Ms. Lampton.”

  The team stacked up. Hammer took point and the team entered the facility with determined purpose.

  The Surface

  Amanda watched the Marines disappear into their mission then glanced at the two who remained on the surface. They were a few hundred feet away and appeared to be setting a defensive position. She walked back to the small yellow plane.

  “Mr. Pruitt, you mentioned other survivors before…could you tell me about them, please?”

  Andrew looked at Oreo who was rubbing his head against Amanda’s leg and receiving a happy ear scratch for the effort.

  “Uh, what would you like to know?”

  “Let us start with some general information. If you had to guess, how many people have you met?”

  “Probably a few hundred in all.”

  “Any military units?”

  “Yes, well, no. I mean, I saw some but after encountering some less than friendly types who were in military uniforms, I tended to give them all a wide pass. So I’ve seen some convoys and groups and stuff, but I didn’t really talk to them.”