Winchester Undead (Book 5): Winchester [Storm] Read online

  Kirk spun the remote turret that commanded the mounted M2, a 50-caliber machine gun, forward. Next to the heavy automatic weapon were the sensors and camera. The Marines in contact were instructed and knew to deploy IR strobes that the rest of the MSOT could see with their NODs, or night optic devices, assuming that these Chinese and Korean forces were like the ones they’d fought in California, without any night-vision capability. The problem was that unlike the previously contacted units, this PLA unit was operating at night.

  SSC, Ennis, TX

  Amanda jogged past her chosen MRAP in the cold tunnel, the overhead lighting casting hard shadows. If not for her familiarity with the tunnel and daily workout routine, she would have been concerned with all the dark spaces, but in the weeks that they had been in the secret underground facility not a single walking corpse had threatened them.

  No, my threat is from a single walking man...I can’t believe how stupid I was.

  Frowning, Amanda quickened her pace, sweat falling from her face, steaming in the cool air. Upon reaching the paved-off wall at the end of the tunnel, beyond which lay the publicly known section of tunnels that had been filled with gravel and water; she turned and began her jog back to the main facility. What started off as a one-mile jog with more walking than jogging weeks ago was now a steady five-mile run. Amanda, who was now in the best shape of her life, felt fear and uncertainty fall away from her thoughts. With each footfall, her plan became clearer, and her resolve strengthened.

  Tomorrow morning, tomorrow is the day.

  A faint smile slipped through her mask to her face. Passing her chosen MRAP, she ran her fingers along the hull as she passed.

  Foreign and domestic...

  The oath of office...Clint had sworn her in as President, with video-conferenced witnesses from Groom Lake...but the oath, a blur at the time, still resonated in her mind.

  Foreign AND domestic...domestic, created by the Presidents before me...the Constitution...back to the basics...the basics.

  The plan she’d made secretly from Clint’s eyes, due to her burgeoning distrust of him, had to happen. She would make it happen, and it would begin in twenty-four hours. The list of items she had prepped scrolled through her thoughts, and she checked items off the list as she visualized the memory of placing each into the MRAP for her journey.

  Groom Lake is well stocked. I just have to get there. All I have to worry about is ammo, fuel, and some food and water; the rest they will have in their stores.

  Reaching the makeshift pull-up bars, Amanda stopped and caught her breath before jumping up and hanging from the athletic-tape-wrapped steel bar.

  Groom Lake, NV

  Jake sat in the mess hall slowly sipping at his black coffee while he read the Alien Dispatch, which was the Groom Lake newspaper of sorts. Every other day, the front and back printed sheet of copy paper was produced for all the residents. Containing what little news they had, the rest of the copy was full of stories, jokes, and a surprisingly engaging serialization about “what really happened in Roswell.” A few people griped that the paper and copier toner used to produce the paper was a waste, but besides beans and bullets, the facility had a surprisingly large cache of office supplies. Which made a little sense in contrast to the square footage given to office space, cube farms still smeared with the dried gore of the original undead outbreak in the facility that Cliff had singlehandedly cleared.

  It really seemed like Cliff should have returned by now.

  The thought hung in Jake’s mind as he watched a trio of women walk into the mess hall. Earlier than the usual crowd; only a few dozen people sat in small groups across the expansive room. Her husband too...Cliff, her husband, and the other guy; the ragtag rescue party’s radio traffic was weeks ago. Jessie was barely beginning to show her pregnancy, which Jake found to be a strange juxtaposition of visuals: a pregnant woman with tactical kit and a rifle. It was one he wasn’t accustomed to seeing but realized that it was the current and their future in their post-apocalyptic life.

  Even in contrast to the other survivors, those women have an intense vibe radiating in every direction.

  Jake tried not to stare as they walked between the tables. The women were armed, but everyone was armed at all times as a standing rule. The rifles, magazines, and tactical gear weren’t what set them apart from the rest. It was their bearing, their focus, and even the way they walked that screamed of an intensity that the others didn’t have, except for Cliff and the lost Para-Rescue Jumpers. They were similar, except they weren’t pregnant. Fading inward to his thoughts, Jake didn’t realize at first that the women were walking toward his table.

  “Morning, Jake, we have a question.”

  Blinking and returning to the present, Jake set his coffee on the table. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

  “We said good morning and that we have a question.”

  “Well, good morning to you, Jessie, Sarah, and Ms. Erin. What is your question?”

  “Bill told us that no one has fully explored the facility. The weather topside turned miserable yesterday, bad sandstorm across the lake bed, so we think the underground facility should be explored to create a map of sorts.”

  Jake nodded. Jessie was correct in that none of them knew the full layout of the facility, where every door went, what every room was, only that Cliff said he had cleared the entire facility and that it was safe. So far he was right, except Cliff wasn’t here, and so now they had no idea.

  “You’ll need a full access key card.”

  “That’s why we’re talking to you.”

  Jake pulled the lanyard over his head, which held his ID card with his photo printed on it like some high school student, and handed it to Jessie. “If you find a door that won’t open for my ID, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Jessie put the lanyard around her neck. “Any hints before we get started?”

  Jake described the layout of the facility as far as he understood it. “The labs are all the way down on level seven, but who knows. Cliff told me there was only enough food for two hundred people to survive on for a year, but he was wrong, well, not wrong but not right. There’s enough MREs in the supply level to feed that many for perhaps longer than a year, but the dry storage we found is what we are eating now.”

  “Which will last how long with this many people?”

  “The estimate is nearly five years, and we have fourteen hundred thirty-nine and a half residents,” Jake said with a smile, glancing at Jessie’s stomach.

  Erin stood turned away from the table, listening to the conversation while watching for any threats that could approach the group. “How’s that work out with all the bunk rooms?” she asked.

  “Those weren’t bunk rooms. Those rooms were all office spaces, cube farms, and, before you ask, I have no idea why, but strangely the supply cache had all the collapsible bunks and bedding. It was almost like the planners guessed that something like this would happen.”

  “I’ll bet it wasn’t a guess.”

  Jake sighed. “Probably not. Supposedly the labs on seven were working on the problem we currently have. I can’t remember what Cliff called the project name, but there was only one of the scientists still alive when he arrived. His name was Lance, but he was killed in a lab accident.”

  “Like he blew up?”

  “No, Erin, he was bit.”

  Saint George, UT

  “Sure, but that’s a big what if.”

  “I know it is, mano, but we’ve got to try. I mean we owe our lives to these guys. We repay that debt and the pop smoke, though first, I need to get my rifle.”

  “If it survived the wreck.”

  “Sure, Schrodinger’s cat, right? It neither survived or was destroyed until we open the box.”

  “You have issues, dude.”

  “My biggest issue is your lack of balls and being a pussy ab
out your leg.”

  “Hey!”

  Chivo smiled, their whispered discussion before the rest of the house woke up being exactly what they needed. A plan, a means, and a bad attitude; everything required for success was put into motion.

  “So get Angel, his guys, the horses, and we boogie down to the crash site and then come back. Then I can recon the other group. Kill those fuckers, find new wheels, and we get you to Area 51.”

  “What if we don’t find new wheels?”

  “Then we steal the horses.”

  “That’s how you get hung, guy.”

  “I’m already hung, so what?”

  Bexar smirked and shook his head. “OK, fine, Señor Machismo, so what’s your timeline?”

  “Five days? Seven tops. If my rifle survived, then I can simply put the other group under from across town. If it didn’t, I’ll have to improvise.”

  “More napalm?”

  “Hell no, well, maybe, mano, you never know. We have to stay loose, improvise.”

  “Why do I feel like every time you improvise, something blows the fuck up?”

  “Remember, smile, be kind...”

  “...and be ready to blow everyone the fuck up?”

  “Exactly.”

  Lost Bridge Village, AR

  Oreo nudged Andrew, waking the pilot from a comfortable sleep on the sofa near the fireplace. Once Andrew sat up, Oreo walked to the back door and sat, tail happily swishing back and forth across the tile.

  “OK, buddy, sniff it out first though.”

  Andrew pulled his boots on before unlocking and opening the back door, stepping onto the back porch with Oreo. Muzzle in the air, Oreo sniffed the air before deciding it was safe to go out into the grass for his morning constitution. The eastern sky glowed with the coming sunrise. When they stepped back into the house, Warren was in the living room, stirring the white coals in the fireplace before setting a blue enamel kettle on the glowing embers.

  “Good morning, Pilot Andrew and Oreo.”

  “You’re up early, Warren.”

  “If you have the chance to grow into an old man like myself, you’ll find that early is normal. Besides, we need to get started early so we can meet up with the others by the lake.”

  “And do what?”

  “Welp, ‘ole Tom used to be one of the radio hams, I’d bet he’d want to look at the plans you wrote down yesterday. Then we find someone you can barter with for some gas-o-leen. Once Mary wakes and after breakfast, we’ll head on down there, but for now I want you to tell me whereabouts them other survivors with the trade days were located.”

  Yuma, AZ

  The hard fast thumping of the big M2 tore the air apart around the M-ATV. Nothing else sounded like one, and there was a reason why Ma Deuce has seen every war the U.S. has officially and unofficially fought in since John Browning designed it in the early twentieth century. Roughly five hundred rounds per minute ripped through all that stood in front of it in the practiced short controlled bursts fired by Kirk.

  Twilight was beginning to break into dawn, removing the MSOT advantage of night optic devices. One of the APCs lay in ruin on the bridge; another had fallen off into the river after trying to evade the third, which lay burning to the north, blocking any escape the PLA forces had wanted to take. At least two dozen of the dismounts lay in ruin on the bridge in view. It was unknown how many were killed in the downed armored vehicles, but Aymond knew one thing for sure: there were nine more APCs, a radar truck, and some of the PLA bodies were starting to get up again. Quite undermanned and underarmed to be a true quick reaction force, the arrival of the second M-ATV helped Hammer and Snow break contact and gain some ground while the PLA’s attention was diverted. It was all taking too long. They were stuck in a drawn-out battle, something they could not keep up for much longer.

  “Hammer, kill the radar truck if you can, over!”

  “Roger!”

  Another 50-caliber round tore through the air, this time from the east, center punching the big rectangular antenna of the radar truck and rendering it useless.

  “Good kill!”

  Small arms fire thumped against the armored hull of the M-ATV.

  “Chief, we’ve got to get moving or we’re not going to have much of our ride left!”

  Aymond nodded, his face set in stone, no emotion showing, just the hard eyes of an experienced operator thinking through a problem.

  “Hammer, Snow, Happy, haul ass east on the eight, rendezvous at the Avenue 3E bridge, how copy?”

  “Uh, Chief, Happy has the truck and is on the west side of the bridge.”

  Aymond grunted, the first outward sign of any emotion given during the battle. “Clear copy, Hammer. Happy, pop green smoke to pull attention away from Hammer and Snow, and then get north to Hammer and Snow. I don’t care how you do it, just do it, how copy?”

  “I’m clear, Chief, green smoke going out the door now, moving!”

  “Kirk, one more burst, and then stop until I tell you different. Jones, get us moving back south. Go slow at first. We’re going to rabbit them through town to our rendezvous point. Everyone clear?”

  Various grunts and noises of positive affirmation could be heard among the Marines overcrowding the already cramped interior. The big M2 fell silent, and Jones sat stationary, the truck facing the north. Without the added benefit of the electronically zoomed display that Kirk had at the remote turret station, the APCs on the bridge appeared tiny. Slowly, green smoke began rising into the desert air to the west.

  “Chief, it looks like they’re splitting the mounted patrol into two groups.”

  Aymond nodded. “Kirk, give them a few more bursts to keep their attention.”

  The only answer given was the sound of Ma Deuce sending 50-caliber freedom prizes to the newly welcomed guests of America.

  “Jones, pull forward about half a click. Then, Kirk, open up again. If they don’t take the bait, then we’ll have to drive back, motivate them a little, and then disengage and haul ass.”

  The heavy truck lurched forward more nimbly than would be expected before the tires chirped to a stop on the baked asphalt. The heavy machine gun opened fire again, and the staccato notes of return fire hitting the armor welcomed their presence.

  “OK, turn us around and haul ass. Kirk, give our friends one more burst after we get moving, and then keep an eye on our six. I’m not really sure of the top speed of those APCs, but I want them kept close enough to feel like they’re winning, but far enough away that they don’t hard-kill the truck.”

  “Aye, Chief.”

  Jones shot forward, turning the wheel and bounding over the center median before slowing and speeding up again like someone trying to entice the fish to bite the bait on their line.

  “We have six of the nine in pursuit, Chief.”

  Aymond nodded and keyed the radio. “Three unaccounted for, Hammer.”

  “Roger!”

  Jones drove south on Business I-8 and into the heart of Yuma. “Chief, this is going to go right by our FOB.”

  “Yeah, I know, Jones. Assuming this works, we’ll go back for the radar truck and our gear. If it doesn’t, then we’ll have to improvise a bit.”

  Internally, Aymond cringed. Improvising wasn’t something he preferred to do. He planned and tasked, with plans to back up other plans and plans to back the back-up-plans.

  “Save your ammo, Kirk, as long as they keep up the chase.”

  “Got it, Chief.”

  Jones swung the big truck from curb to curb, dodging Zeds and abandoned vehicles in the road. Aymond watched the road signs go by, trying to imagine the layout of the town he used to be familiar with.

  “Jones, left now!”

  Jones ripped the steering wheel hard left, the big M-ATV leaning on the long travel suspension, tires squealing on the pavement.

&nbs
p; “Sorry, I remembered what street we needed when I saw the shopping center.”

  Jones shrugged, the classic shrug of an indifferent grunt just doing what he’s told.

  “Chief, they made the turn.”

  “Good, Kirk, maybe they think we’re trying to shake them.”

  “Uhhh...maybe, they’ve sped up and are gaining on us now.”

  Aymond keyed the radio. “Snow, SITREP.”

  “Situation is we’re rolling; the report is that we didn’t toss smoke because Hammer left the APCs with glory holes for the Zeds to fuck them through.”

  Aymond nodded. The smoke was a diversion; he was hoping to make the Chinese and Koreans believe there were more of them, or that air support was coming in to chew them up. Anything, as long as it distracted them long enough for the Marines’ play to unfold and disappear.

  “ETA?”

  Happy keyed the radio. “Call it five mikes, five clicks.”

  Aymond didn’t have to say be careful; running one hundred kilometers an hour or roughly sixty miles per hour on the Interstate would have been slow last year. This year it was ludicrously fast while trying to dodge Zeds and vehicles.

  “Jones, speed up and then take Pacific southbound. Try to keep it at about fifty clicks.”

  “Roger that, Chief.”

  The M-ATV sped up slightly before braking hard to make the right turn onto Pacific Avenue.

  “Take it to Business 8 and turn left, and then we’re going to go left on 3E, clear, Jones?”

  “Clear, Chief.”

  Aymond looked at his watch and then at the map in his head, calculating the time for their path and Happy’s path. This might just work.

  “Happy, when you get to the bridge, park it, set a hasty ambush, and check in.”

  “Clear, good copy.”

  Aymond’s overloaded truck swung left back onto Business I-8, running alongside the north fence line of the air station. As they passed the end of the main runway, the intersection of Avenue 3E was in view. Discipline kept Aymond from keying the radio to request another situation report. He knew the SITREP would come when it came; he had to trust his teammates.