Winchester Undead (Book 2): Winchester: Prey (8 page)

CHAPTER 17

Terlingua, Texas

February 16, Year 1

“Daddy, I’m hungry.”

Keeley’s little hand patted Bexar on the leg. Bexar lurched awake with a gasp, still sitting in the chair by the door. His dreams were a constant loop of his having to shoot Jack and Will in the head to keep their dead bodies from returning to life. It took Bexar a few moments for his head to clear and to realize where he was and what had happened. The unfamiliar interior of the new cabin confused him before he focused on his daughter climbing into his lap.

“I went potty and now I’m hungry.”

“Went potty in here?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You need to stay inside the cabin unless Mommy or Daddy are with you.”

“I want waffles.”

“We don’t have any waffles, baby. We have some MREs left and that’s just about all we’ve got.”

“I don’t want an RME. I want waffles!” said the toddler, stomping her feet.

Jessie stirred and walked unsteadily into the sitting room of the little cabin suite before kissing Bexar on the forehead.

“How’s your head, babe?”

“Hurts. I still feel dizzy, but at least I don’t feel like I’m going to throw up anymore.”

“That sounds better. Here, take my rifle. I’m going over to the trading post to see if there is anything in there I could scavenge for breakfast. If possible, I want to try to save what little we have left.”

Bexar handed his rifle to Jessie, who took his spot in his chair. He pulled the corner of the curtain back and peered outside, watching for a few minutes before pulling his heavy knife out and slowly opening the cabin’s front door into the cold morning air.

Moving slowly, Bexar scanned the area around him. The bodies of the zombies he’d killed last night still lay on the porch of the Starlight Theatre and the trading post. Walking onto the porch, Bexar stepped over the bodies and stopped at the front door of the store. He tapped on the glass with the butt of his knife. He couldn’t be too careful. He couldn’t risk getting bitten by some undead body he had missed the previous night.

Waiting and seeing no reaction to his noise, Bexar opened the door and stepped inside. The store looked different in the daylight. It had a lot of knickknacks, tourist stuff like gemstones, walking sticks, t-shirts and the like. The store also had a small selection of camping and hiking gear. In the middle of the store sat a small cooler with sodas, bottled water, and Gatorade. Bexar slid the cooler door open. The air smelled stale, but nothing smelled rotten. The sealed bottles should be fine.

From behind the counter, Bexar retrieved two shopping bags and filled them with Gatorade and bottled water. On a shelf near the cooler were some dry goods and camping food, including pancake mix and a handful of small cast iron skillets. Another shopping bag was retrieved and in went the food, skillets, and pancake mix. Next to the camping supplies were some cheap binoculars for sale. Cheap binoculars are better than no binoculars, so Bexar removed them from the package and hung them around his neck.

On the way out the door Bexar saw a small stuffed javelina and some t-shirts. Bexar had never been able to resist buying his baby girl a new stuffed animal, so the javelina went into the bag, as did two t-shirts in her and his wife’s sizes.

Bexar stepped onto the porch and heard the distinct rumble of motorcycle exhaust, the sound coming from down the hill, from the highway below. He glanced towards the road but couldn’t see more than just a small section through the ghost town. Bags in hand, he ran down the porch and through the walkway to his family’s cabin. After startling Jessie by throwing the door open and dropping the bags, Bexar took the rifle from his wife, told her to lock up, and bolted out the front door.

Bexar jogged down the dirt road towards the highway before he stopped and hid behind the crumbled wall of an abandoned ghost town house. The sound of the motorcycle engines grew louder before the first motorcycle burst into view on the highway. Five motorcycles and two old vans drove past. One of the vans Bexar recognized from the day before. The convoy was headed towards the park. At least this time, none of them stopped to inspect his wrecked Jeep.

Behind the ruined house, Bexar stayed kneeling, scanning the road and the area with the binoculars for another ten minutes before standing to walk back to the cabin. That was when the first undead man teetered into view on the highway below. Quickly Bexar knelt behind the crumbling wall as the faint moans of the undead reached his ears. Trying to count the walking corpses as they passed, Bexar saw men, women and children, some of them grotesque, some of them obviously rotting, but some of them looked like freshly dead bodies. Dozens passed by Bexar’s wrecked Wagoneer. Another ten minutes passed before the stream of undead began to relent. The carrion smell of rotting flesh wafted in the air, noticeable even up the hill away from the road where Bexar knelt. As slowly and as quietly as possible, Bexar turned and walked out of view from the road in a crouch before jogging back to the cabin to tell Jessie what he had seen.

Keeley sat on the bed in the back room, wearing one of her new t-shirts and playing with the plush Javelina.

“We’re still not safe here, but I don’t think you’re in any condition to attempt to walk anywhere yet,” Bexar told his wife as he mixed the pancake mix in an empty water bottle.

“Bexar, I don’t think it would be smart for us to try to walk anywhere. We need to find another vehicle.”

“Yeah, I agree, but I have no damned idea where we’ll find another vehicle that still runs. The Scout and the FJ are still in the park, but good fucking luck getting back there and getting them back from the bikers.”

Jessie frowned at her husband. “I bet someone in this little town has an old Jeep or Bronco or truck or
something
that still runs. Surely. I mean I don’t remember seeing a bunch of shiny new trucks here last time we visited a couple of years ago.”

“OK. You’re probably right. I really think I should wait until dark to go looking. I don’t want to get caught out in the open if the bikers go by again.”

The small fireplace in the cabin already had a pile of dry woodchips in it, waiting for the next guest to check in, so Jessie started a fire to chase the chill out of the cabin and to cook the pancakes.

CHAPTER 18

Groom Lake, NV

February 16, Year 1

Cliff, Arcuni, and Garcia had loaded the truck the night before. Their heavy packs mostly full of ammo lay in the bed of the truck, along with six five-gallon jerry cans full of gasoline, filled from the facility’s fuel bowser, which had also filled the truck’s fuel tank. The single-cab truck would be cramped, but they decided it would be best if they all rode in the cab together. The freezing temperatures on the high desert had more to do with that decision than any grand plans or tactics. Cliff, leader of the expedition to Nellis, designated himself the driver. Garcia sat passenger, and an unhappy Arcuni sat wedged in the middle on the bench seat. He was the only person who could fly the plane, so he sat in the most protected “VIP” seat for the trip.

The concentration of undead on the surface of the base above the underground installation was light, and each member of the team had the chance to “warm up” their rifles by putting down the dozen zombies they encountered before driving across the dry lakebed. The wrecked C-130 that Arcuni and his fellow airmen had used to flee Peterson Air force Base lay dormant in the distance where it had originally come to rest. Retracing the road that Cliff had used to drive over the mountains and into Groom Lake when he first arrived, the trio emerged onto NV-375, the Extraterrestrial Highway, and turned right.

The open desert highway was practically devoid of signs of life from before the attack, the group only passing four abandoned vehicles on the road before they reached the small town of Crystal Springs. Cliff kept the truck at sixty miles per hour to conserve gas while in the barren expanse of open desert. He watched the sand blow across the roadway ahead of the truck. As they passed through the town, Cliff slowed and drove around three reanimates standing in the middle of the road. The undead turned to follow the passing truck, the first movement the walking corpses had seen in weeks, but the truck soon passed out of view. Beyond the town, Cliff turned onto US-93. This road was also mostly deserted, except a few more abandoned vehicles, but the highway was still easily negotiable. The small town of Alamo passed without incident and Cliff was thankful that this trip was not like his last, and that he also had people to talk to while driving.

Nearing I-15 the road became clogged with abandoned and burned-out cars. Cliff slowed and drove the truck onto the sandy sides of the highway off the pavement, undead meandering through the parking lot of cars that was the highway. A destroyed truck stop lay in their path before they could turn onto I-15, and the SATINT he’d reviewed indicated that there was a high concentration of undead in the area. Cliff wanted to pass through as quickly, quietly, and safely as possible. He did not want to chance another collision with a walking corpse like on his previous road trip in Colorado.

Burned bodies lay in grotesque positions on the road, unmoving. Parts of their bodies were missing, devoured by the undead, buzzards, or other animals; Cliff wasn’t sure. With the truck stop on their right, Cliff abandoned any hope of keeping the truck on the paved surface and turned towards the open desert. Nearly one hundred yards into the desert they were able to avoid most of the shambling undead, attracted to the truck from the highway by the noise and movement. The truck bounced across the access road and bounded up the on-ramp onto I-15 before turning to travel southbound. Most of the morning was already gone, the sun sitting directly overhead, but they were near their destination. The truck stop could be the easiest adventure they had on the trip, as Nellis AFB sat on the edge of Las Vegas and the SATINT was very clear that the entire city was a complete loss, overrun by the undead.

Arcuni and Garcia nervously press checked their M4s, both verifying that their rifles were loaded and the selector was still on “safe.” Without any distractions, both of them fidgeted nervously while the conversation faded to silence. Cliff fought to keep the truck’s speed above forty miles per hour, but that was proving difficult as they neared the Las Vegas Motor Speedway and took the exit for NV-604.

Cliff drove the truck back and forth across the highway, dodging abandoned cars and the shambling undead. “OK, the gap in the concrete barriers should be up here on the right. Garcia, do you have the bolt cutters ready?”

“Yeah, boss.”

“Arcuni, you ready with the zip ties?”

“Sure, but I don’t see how the zip ties could hold the fence if enough of them press against it.”

“It might hold, it might not, but it should slow them down enough to give us time to complete our mission. Regardless, it’s better than doing nothing and hoping they don’t follow us in.”

Cliff glanced in the rear-view mirror, then pointed over his shoulder. Arcuni twisted in his seat and looked out of the truck’s rear window. In the near distance he saw a large number of undead stumbling and following the passing truck. In the truck they far outpaced the dead, but the dead would eventually catch up when the truck stopped.

Garcia pointed. “There!”

Cliff slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel. The truck drove across the highway onto the sandy shoulder and stopped directly in front of the chain-link fence that ringed the air base. Concrete K-barriers lined the inside of the fence to prevent someone from driving onto the base, but, using the SATINT, Wright found a spot that had a gap large enough for the truck to drive through. Garcia jumped out of the truck, followed by Arcuni. Arcuni’s cargo pocket bristled with large zip ties. He provided security with his M4 while Garcia used bolt cutters to cut the fence. Quickly, the fence was cut free and pulled out of the way for Cliff to drive the truck through. Once through, Arcuni and Garcia made quick work of putting the fence back in place, zip ties through each piece of the cut chain-links.

They both climbed back into the cab and Cliff drove forward, the truck bouncing through the short distance into a parking lot and then onto Ellsworth Avenue. The large tail of the C-130 rose above the buildings to the south. Cliff drove to the edge of the flight line, where another chain-link fence was in their way. Garcia made quick work of this fence, but since they were on base, the fence remained cut and unrepaired.

The C-130 sat in front of them with no visible activity around it. No APU was in sight, but Arcuni didn’t mind. As long as there was enough fuel on board to make the quick hop to Groom Lake, they would be fine. The aircraft could start under its own power and there was plenty of fuel for the plane in storage at Groom Lake. He only had to get it home safely.

The truck stopped by the open tail ramp of the cargo plane and all three of them climbed out. Garcia stayed by the truck and provided security, his M4 at the ready. Cliff and Arcuni cautiously walked up the cargo ramp towards the cockpit. They found the aircraft empty. Arcuni sat his rifle on the co-pilot’s seat, climbed into the left seat, and flipped the master switch on. The dash lit up like a Christmas tree. Turning on a few more systems, Arcuni found the fuel tanks more than half full, and as long as the engines would start they could easily make it home to Groom Lake.

Arcuni smiled at the whine of the starter motor as it spun up the turbine of each motor in sequence. The clicks of the igniters were followed by the deep
fwomp
sound of the fuel igniting before being drowned out by the whining turbine motors and large propellers beating through the air. One by one, each engine started. Cliff looked out the open tail ramp of the cargo plane to see Garcia waving frantically before he turned, raised his rifle and fired through a full magazine very rapidly.

“Get turned around and get taxiing!
 We
’re going to have to clear the way and we’ll meet you at the end of the runway!” Cliff yelled over the sound of the engines before he ran towards the back of the plane, where Garcia was rapidly firing through another magazine of ammo.

The ramp rose about a foot off the ground. Arcuni watched over his shoulder to see that Cliff had exited before slowly letting the brakes out and steering the nose wheel hard left. To help make the tight distance, Arcuni pushed the right engine’s throttles forward, rocking the lumbering giant into a sharper turn. The helipad was simply not designed with the intent of turning an aircraft like a C-130 around, and the nose wheel dropped off the pavement into the hard-packed sand while turning. Movement out of the right of the windshield caught Arcuni’s attention. Three undead were running out of the hangar towards the plane, and he hoped they wouldn’t get close enough to catch one of the spinning props. It took him a minute to realize that undead do not run; they can’t run. Those must be survivors.

Sand blew across Cliff and Garcia, pushed by the aircraft’s propellers. Even ducking their heads into their hands, their exposed skin was being blasted raw by the blowing sand. Once the worst of the prop blast subsided, Cliff and Garcia’s rifles were up and they were rapidly engaging the growing numbers of walking corpses shambling across the sand and from the other buildings along the flight line.

“Garcia, you drive the truck. Keep us in front of the plane. We’ve got to clear a path. I’ll take the bed and shoot as we drive. Keep it smooth—”

Cliff was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a rifle round snapping through the air as it passed in front of his face. Cliff turned and saw an undead airman fall to the pavement just ten feet from where he stood. On the right, three men in full tactical kit and desert uniforms were running towards the truck.

“Garcia, get in the truck! We’ve got to go. They can join us if they want, but we don’t have any fucking time to talk about it.”

Garcia climbed into the truck just as the trio of new arrivals passed by the wingtip of the C-130. Cliff waved to them to climb into the truck as he jumped into the truck’s bed. He turned, faced forward, laid his rifle on the roof of the truck’s cab, and began firing at the quickly approaching horde.

Garcia drove slowly, watching the three new guys run to the back of the truck in the mirror. The truck bounced, followed by Cliff pounding on the roof of the cab, so he sped up. He could hear four rifles being fired rapidly.

Cliff looked at the man next to him, pointed to the three ALICE packs in the bed, and yelled “AMMO!” over the deafening noise of the C-130 taxiing behind them. The new man nodded, knelt, and began passing out loaded M4 magazines to his teammates. The truck crossed onto the main flight line and drove straight; the C-130 turned and rolled towards the end of the runway. Garcia kept the truck creeping along at a smooth pace, just faster than walking speed, the four men in the bed of the truck burning through ammo alarmingly fast.

The approaching undead horde appeared to be in the thousands, staggering from around the hangars and buildings onto the flight line ahead of them. Behind the truck Cliff heard Arcuni running up the engines of the C-130, preparing for maximum power for takeoff. Cliff turned and looked at Arcuni high above the runway through the windshield of the big plane and made a big circling motion in the air above his head. Arcuni nodded, pushed the throttles all the way forward, and released the brakes. The C-130 lurched forward and began rolling faster on the runway.

Cliff pounded on the roof of the truck, leaned over to the open driver’s window, pointed, and yelled “CATCH THAT FUCKING PLANE!” Garcia nodded and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The men in the bed of the truck gave up trying to engage any other threats and just grabbed ahold of the truck as tightly as they could to keep from being thrown out. The truck’s tires squealed in protest of the high-speed turn as Garcia pushed the truck from the taxiway onto the runway and slowed, the C-130 barreling towards them. Just before the nose of the plane rumbled by, the power and force of the plane shaking the truck, Garcia pinned the gas pedal to the floor and swerved behind the passing plane. The cargo tailgate of the C-130 stood open, nearly touching the tarmac speeding beneath it. Quickly the truck gained on the aircraft, closing the gap between the truck and the tailgate. With a jolt, the front tires of the truck bounced onto the ramp and the truck skidded to a halt in the cargo hold of the aircraft. The front bumper of the truck crashed against the forward bulkhead just as the plane leapt into the air, the cargo ramp closing behind them.