Winchester Undead (Book 2): Winchester: Prey (23 page)

CHAPTER 51

Cortez, CO

February 17, Year 1

Cliff’s consciousness trickled slowly into his mind like a dripping faucet filling a sink; it took him a few moments to realize where he was and where he had been before everything filled with black. Cliff checked his body for injury, starting with wiggling his toes, and made a mental inventory of any major injuries. It took longer for Cliff to realize he was hanging upside down and outside of the aircraft. The sun barely peeked over the western horizon, giving Cliff a little light to investigate his surroundings.

I’m outside of the plane, but I feel the fuselage against me. I’m upside down and swinging. I’m in the safety harness. I think my rifle, my pistol, my gear, and my magazines are still on my body. The plane is nose down in a river or creek or canyon.

Cliff righted himself and felt like the world was spinning. A strong wave of pain rushed over him. He threw up, covering his chest with vomit, realizing that he must have a bad concussion. He gritted his teeth and determined that he might have cracked a couple of ribs, but everything else seemed intact. Cliff was finally able to figure out that he was dangling by the safety harness and lanyard outside of the open tail of the aircraft. Both of the wings appeared to be missing and the front of the plane was missing. Slowly, Cliff climbed up the side of the fuselage before cutting the lanyard and freeing himself from the plane.
At least my rifle is still slung across my body.
Using the light on his rifle, Cliff scanned the ruined interior of the C-130. The pickup was still lashed to the cargo floor but was very badly damaged, and around the truck were the bodies of the PJs. All three of them were dead.

Damn.

Cliff climbed down the net seating to where the mangled bodies lay and was relieved to see that they did not and would not return as the undead. Cliff retrieved the loaded M4 magazines from their gear and did his best to secure them on his body. He didn’t know exactly where he was, but Cliff knew from experience that he would need all the ammo he could find and carry. Cliff went through a mental checklist of gear that he should have on his body and, like a pilot pre-flighting an aircraft, touched each piece of kit to make sure he really had it.

No pistol.

It took a moment, but Cliff remembered holding the pistol and the prisoner on the ramp when the rocket struck. He realized the pistol had been lost and retrieved another one from Rick’s body and placed it in his own holster. The fact that the prisoner had taken an impromptu skydiving lesson didn’t bother Cliff in the least. He had the information he needed from that piece of trash, and had been planning on throwing him off the back of the aircraft regardless.

A few minutes later, Cliff climbed out of the upended fuselage and climbed down to the ground outside. He walked up the trail of ruined aircraft pieces. The remains of the engines still burned in the distance. A hundred yards away he found the nose of the aircraft, part of Garcia’s body, and Arcuni still strapped into the pilot’s seat. The instrument panel was crushed against the lower half of his body, but Arcuni’s arms reached in the air towards Cliff while his teeth snapped towards the meal he so deeply wanted. Cliff raised his rifle and with a single shot released Arcuni to the peaceful death he deserved.

Shelter, water, and food. I need to get away from this clusterfuck and get shelter before every walking corpse in a hundred-mile radius comes to welcome me home.

Cliff walked stiffly up the road and away from the crashed aircraft, realizing that if he hadn’t been
gently
asking his new friend questions at the back of the plane that he would probably be dead now.
There are worse things than death.
Cliff shook his head at the thought. He’d never given up before and he wouldn’t start now.

Darkness filled the sky while Cliff walked into the outskirts of Cortez. Headlights bounced in the distance. They turned onto the street Cliff was walking on and headed towards him at a high rate of speed. Cliff melted into the darkness in an alley on his right, behind a dumpster. Barely peeking out from the edge of the dumpster with his rifle raised, he saw an old pickup truck, with three armed men in the bed, drive by quickly towards the crashed Hercules. Cliff edged around the dumpster and slowly walked in a crouch towards the edge of the buildings. His body began to ache from the beating it had received in the violent crash. He felt dizzy and his vision was blurry on the edges. He needed to rest
. Rest will come when I die ... if I’m lucky.
Cliff took a shallow breath in deference to the pain from his ribs, gritted his teeth, and peeked out of the alley. No more vehicles appeared to follow the first and he didn’t see any undead. He needed transportation like a toddler needs a cookie, so he took another shallow breath and unsteadily jogged back towards the wreckage and the militia’s truck.

Groom Lake, NV

“Try again.”

“Sir, no response, no radio contact.”

“Jon, when will the next bird pass overhead Cortez?”

“Two hours, sir. Their comms could have failed.”

“If that was true, Arcuni wouldn’t have transmitted a mayday. Damnit. Damn this fucking new world.” Wright threw his notepad across the room, “I’m going to check on our civilians. If I’m not back in thirty mikes, send someone to come kill my walking corpse.” Wright stormed out of the radio hut.

The two airmen looked at each other. “What do you think?”

“I think they’re dead or will be. No way they can survive on that side of the wire.”

“Try raising SCC again to warn them of the arriving group. According to the memo that the major left, they should be arriving in about eight to ten hours.”

“What the major needs to do is find a colony of hot female survivors in need of companions and bring them here.”

“Hell yeah!”

The two young airmen high-fived.

Cortez, Co

Two men, dressed alike, both stood in awe of the incredible destruction found in the C-130’s wreckage, while another climbed into the upended rear of the aircraft.

“Good shot, Brother James.”

“Thank you, Brother Nick. I didn’t think that the rocket would track that high.”

“I wonder if this is the same plane that attacked our Brothers before?”

“How many other C-130s can there be flying around?”

Both of the men stood facing the furrow of destruction across the ground from the plane’s crash, looking at the part of the fuselage sticking out of the creek bed. The third man climbed out of the tail of the aircraft, which stood twenty-five feet in the air.

Cliff slowly approached their old truck from behind, moving as quiet as a shadow, as fast as the wind. He knelt beside the truck and took aim at the man raising himself out of the destroyed fuselage and squeezed the trigger. The man’s head snapped back and he fell into the plane’s interior. The two other men stood with their backs to Cliff, both believing that their fellow militia member had slipped and fallen. Cliff took aim at the man on the right and pulled the trigger twice. The top of the man’s head exploded in a red mist; the other man turned to face his falling friend with his mouth agape. Cliff fired once and struck the man in the right shoulder before standing and sprinting towards him. The man turned to face Cliff and tried to draw a pistol on his belt, but Cliff shot him in the left shoulder before closing the gap and stroking the man in the face with the butt of his rifle. The man’s nose and mouth filled with blood and he fell to his knees, unable to raise either arm to hold his injured face.

Cliff kicked him to the ground, put his right boot on the man’s throat, and held the muzzle of his rifle just inches away from the man’s face.

“Who the fuck are you people?”

“The Chosen Tribe of Man.” Blood spat from his mouth as he tried to talk.

“What is that?”

“The Prophet told of the end of the wicked, and we are now tasked with populating the Earth with the descendants of the Chosen Tribe to fill the New World with the righteous.”

“The fuck you are.” Cliff snapped the trigger of his M4 to the rear, punching a .223 hole in the man’s forehead.

A damn cult. Well, that explains why they wanted the women and children.

Before leaving the bodies, Cliff checked their pockets for anything useful. Both men stunk as if they hadn’t bathed in weeks, and they had only pocket Bibles in their back pockets.

Cliff checked the truck. It was old, but it started and ran; it would have to do. He needed a bus, something bulletproof like an old school bus, if he was going to be able to rescue the women being held prisoner. But this would have to do for now.

CHAPTER 52

Near Crane, TX

February 17, Year 1

Bexar didn’t really fit in the spare pants and shirt that Apollo gave him, but it was significantly better than being completely nude on a road trip with three people he’d just met. However, he had no boots and no underwear, so they would stop if they found something they could raid. In this part of Texas, Bexar knew that people drove to Odessa or Fort Stockton to shop. He couldn’t believe that he was traveling back towards the Metroplex, not after what it had taken to get to Big Bend in the first place. Now that his daughter and wife were dead, Bexar simply couldn’t bear the thought of going back to The Basin. His best friend, his best friend’s family, and his entire world had been killed there. Anger bubbled from deep in Bexar’s being. He couldn’t believe how stupid he had been to think they were safe anywhere. They should have stayed hidden and run instead of getting into a battle with the motorcycle tweakers.

Chivo sat behind the wheel of the Land Rover. The road to I-20 proved to be impassible, and calling on his experience driving from the Metroplex, Bexar suggested Highway 385 to bypass most of the major cities—although if they had made it to I-20, then they probably would have found him some underwear or at least some boots. Bexar touched the wound on his right leg through his pants and grimaced. The bullet wound was beginning to scab over, but the skin around the wound was becoming very tender and swollen; Bexar was worried that it was infected. An infection like that in the rotting hulk of modern society without modern medicine scared Bexar, who was sure that a major infection would be a slow and painful death sentence. Apollo injected his leg with what he claimed was a powerful antibiotic, but Bexar didn’t recognize the name, not that he would have known what it was anyway.

Lindsey slept on the pile of bags beside him. On the surface, Bexar knew that she was attractive, but his mind ached in grief and even just riding in the SUV with this woman he’d just met caused sorrow to overwhelm him. Bexar really wished he could have a stiff drink.

The night was still dark and Bexar had no concept of what time it was or how long he had been asleep. The Land Rover lurched sharply to a stop, waking Lindsey with a gasp.

“There’s something blocking the road ahead.”

Apollo, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, flipped his NODs in front of his face. “Looks like a truck or a cargo box or something.”

“Hey mano,” Chivo called over his shoulder, “since you’re still laid up, how about you drive, Lindsey holds security for you, and we’ll recon whatever this is.”

Bexar looked surprised that they were asking him to participate, even high on whatever painkiller they kept injecting him with. “Sure, you got it.”

“OK, stay here, stay dark, and I’ll flash twice with my tac-light when it’s clear. If I flash rapidly, that means flip on the headlights and haul ass to get us for a hot extract.”

Nodding, Bexar agreed and climbed over the front seat to take the driver’s spot. Lindsey climbed into the passenger seat and held her M4 at the ready. Neither had the night vision devices that the other two had, but they could still see a little in each direction from the starlight.

Apollo and Chivo both walked into the desert perpendicular from the road and opposite from each other, neither of them needing to speak about their plan from the years of combat action they shared. Quickly, Lindsey and Bexar lost sight of the other two and could only wait patiently, hoping that the blockage ahead was nothing.

With no watch, no music, and no radio contact with the other two, time seemed to stand still in the inky black of the desert night. It felt like an absolute eternity, but in reality, only five minutes had elapsed from when Chivo and Apollo left the Land Rover to when the first muzzle flash and sharp staccato beat of an M4 being fired broke the desert peace.

The muted thumps of a pistol being fired also mixed into the symphony of war being played out on the other side of the windshield. The muzzle flashes slowed, and just as suddenly as they had begun, they stopped. Bexar stared at the darkness, wondering if something had happened to the other two, when a flashlight flashed twice in the distance. Bexar slowly drove forward, unable to see very far in front of the SUV. A half-mile later, Bexar saw Apollo and Chivo kneeling in the middle of the road facing opposite directions with their rifles raised. Bexar stopped and the two of them climbed into the back of the Land Rover, both smelling like cordite.

“All right, mano, flip on your headlights and drive. We need to move quickly, because I don’t know if there are any more where that came from.”

Bexar flipped on the headlights and toggled the high beams on. On the road ahead of him lay a half-dozen men, all shot in the head. Driving around the bodies, Bexar brought the Land Rover around the roadblock that turned out to be two semi-truck trailers offset to create a kill zone for ambush. Past the trailers were piles of clothes, shoes, and other items. Off the road to the right, a headlight beam lit a scene that Bexar recognized instantly. In the light, Bexar saw that a cattle pen had been erected and, standing in the pen, clawing at the SUV as it drove past, were two dozen completely nude zombies. Instantly Bexar realized what had happened at the roadblock. People were robbed of their belongings, then killed and discarded as walking corpses. It was more than Bexar could fathom.

Bexar slowly shook his head. “What the fuck is wrong with these people?”

Chivo stuck his head over the front seat. “I don’t know, but when we saw that we decided we didn’t want to find out. Oh, I got you these. I hope you like them.”

Chivo handed up a pair of worn Red Wing work boots, sized twelve wide. They were a bit large for Bexar’s feet, but shoes that were a little big were much better than no shoes at all, and he put them on while he drove. Apollo seemed to think that where they were going would have supply stores and that he might be able to be properly clothed and outfitted again, but until then this was still better than being naked.

The destruction in the town was staggering. Like a movie about a nuclear war, Bexar thought. Around them, even in the middle of the night, they could see that many of the homes and businesses lay in ruin. And here and there in the middle of all the destruction, they’d see a home standing like nothing had happened and the residents were only away on a vacation.

Apollo tapped Bexar’s shoulder and pointed behind them. “We have a bunch of friends joining our parade. You might want to speed it up a little.” Bexar looked in the side mirror and couldn’t see any detail, but saw movement in the shadows. He focused on the road ahead and sped up.

“Chivo, how many more gas cans do you have?”

“Three. Five gallons each.”

Bexar nodded. “After we lose our tail, we need to stop and top off.”

As they left town, the eastern horizon faintly glowed orange with the impending sunrise.