Winchester: Quarry (Winchester Undead Book 3)

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

About The Author

Acknowledgments

Other Winlock Books You’ll Love

PROLOGUE

March 7, Year 1

Jessie knew this was the end, but she couldn’t fail, she wouldn’t fail. The barrel of her M4 smoked in the cold air, shot after shot putting down bodies in the large horde of undead surrounding her. Standing on the roof rack, she quickly changed magazines as the bolt locked back, looking down at what was to be her death altar in the sun. No. I have to live. She depends on me being alive … I’ll continue to shoot until I’m out of ammo, then I’ll fight with my hands and knife until they are all dead.

Another magazine change and another twenty undead lay on the ground, their skulls ruined in a black mass of oozing puss on the pavement. Steam poured from under the hood of the SUV stranded in the road. On the last magazine for her M4, Jessie began counting the growing number of gathering undead against the number of rounds she had left for her pistol. If I can’t win … I have to save the last round for me.

CHAPTER 1

The Mountain Warfare Training Center (MWTC), Bridgeport, CA

December 26th, Year 1

Captain Jason Krapf hated being away from his little girls, especially during Christmas, but the consolation remained that after this round of deployment workups he would have a full week of leave at home, Camp Lejeune in North Carolina, before he and his unit deployed again. Not that he minded; after all, this was the payoff for his hard work—to reach a position in the Marine Corps Special Operations Command (MARSOC) so he could lead his own twelve-member Marine Special Operations Team (MSOT). In reality, Master Gunnery Sergeant Jerry Aymond, better known as Chief, led the men, but Krapf was the officer in charge and had the exceptional privilege of leading some of the best trained, most dedicated, and hardest working men in the Marine Corps into battle … again.

The mountain was colder than he remembered from their last training cycle at the (MWTC). Melting snow by using his personally owned Jet-Boil, the warmed water would reconstitute the MRE: freeze-dried winter Meal Ready to Eat. It had been four days since the MWTC cadre’s Snowcat dropped the team off for their training cycle. The redundant communications using the team’s radios kept them in contact with the Reconnaissance Operations Center, (ROC) as well as Range Control. Besides being needed, as they operated alone on the mountain, taking the radio into the wild was good practice for Staff Sergeant Charles Chuck Ski. Aymond had made him carry the slightly larger PRC-152 radio instead of the small handheld Motorola radios that the cadre used, and that the team could have used as well.

Each man carried a full combat load, although there was no live ammo, but all the ammo weight was simulated with blanks. Although it made the packs slightly lighter than the full live ammo load-out would, it was close, and physically taxing, especially in the high, thin air.

Krapf looked at the wristwatch that was clipped to the front of his armor carrier. Nearly time for the second check-in of the morning and the first team movement of the day. Finishing his mushy MRE, Krapf stowed the trash in his ruck and made his way across the snow to where Ski sat with the radio.

Morning, Captain.

Krapf crouched in the snow, under the edge of the tree cover of their encampment, listening to Ski’s side of the radio conversation. Normally the check-in would take under ten seconds, but first Ski had difficulty raising anyone on the radio net, and once he did, the transmission was cut off.

Captain, Reconnaissance Operations Center stated there is a situation and to stand by for fifteen mikes.

Fifteen minutes? What sort of situation do they have? Their breakfast is late?

No idea, Sir.

Krapf shook his head. This training cycle had been fraught with inconsistent bullshit from all the supporting elements and his own chain of command had swayed back and forth with conflicting directives; at least their training would be similar to their deployment in that regard.

OK, give them five and try again.

Krapf walked off, plodding across the surface of the deep snow with his snowshoes to where Master Gunnery Sergeant Aymond stood.

Chief, Ski had some strange traffic on the net for check-in; was told to stand by fifteen mikes due to some sort of situation. Something is off. Rally up, I have a feeling that once he reaches ROC they’ll want to pull us off the mountain for some reason.

Aymond nodded and left to prepare the team for movement. Krapf looked at his watch again; the digital display was blank. He shook it, which accomplished nothing. Aymond returned. Team’s ready to move.

Thanks, Chief. Time check? My watch just shit the bed.

Aymond checked the face of his analog watch. You have ten more minutes.

Gunnery Sergeant Williams, standing nearby, looked at his watch. Hey, my watch is dead too.

The team was beginning to form up where Aymond and Krapf stood next to Ski, who sat on the snow.

Ski, instead of waiting for the ROC, check in with Range Control.

Already tried, but I’ll try again, Sir.

Ski punched in the frequency change and tried to raise Range Control on the radio again. After three attempts, someone responded. Krapf could hear the reply for himself, it being yelled into the mic. Get the fuck down here!

That sounded like small arms fire in the background, Captain.

Chief, saddle up, we’re walking to extract and might have to hump it all the way down.

Krapf looked into the sky; the contrails of the aircraft passing overhead usually gave a good indication of the winds at altitude, which gave them a guess at the weather for the day. Staring at the crisscrossed white trails in the sky, he spotted a large aircraft passing overhead, lower than usual. The shape was unfamiliar to him; it looked like a military aircraft, not a commercial airliner, but it wasn’t one he readily recognized. They were far enough into nowhere that it wouldn’t be unlikely for a prototype aircraft to fly overhead; what was unlikely was that it would happen at night. Thick black plumes trailed the aircraft, looking vile in contrast to the snow-white contrails above. Just as the team began to move down the mountain, they were covered by an oily substance that pelted them from the sky. It fell against the fresh snow, making it looked flecked and dirty. The team looked at Aymond, who looked at Krapf.

Chief, I think this was sprayed by that aircraft.

Like a crop duster?

Bigger ... much bigger.

CHAPTER 2

Big Bend National Park

March 2, Year 1

Jessie sat naked on the bed in her cabin, crying into her hands. The boots she had been wearing, covered in mud, sat next to the door, which was closed and locked. Her M4 rifle lay on the bed in front of her, and her wet and muddy clothes hung in the bathroom. The cabin was the one that she and Bexar had stayed in for their honeymoon a decade before. Now that day felt like two lifetimes ago, the ancient past, like something from a dream half-forgotten. The cuts and scratches on her hands and arms stung with her falling tears.

Oh my poor Bexar, how could I be so stupid?

Jessie raised her head and stared at the rifle. Inanimate, cold ... nothing but a tool for survival, but she felt a pull towards it, the pieces of her broken heart yearning for a release from the pain. One the rifle could give her. No more pain, she thought. A sweet escape from a life of hell; a life that had turned badly. Looking around the small room, Jessie remembered snapshots of her and Bexar together that first week after their wedding. Lazy mornings drinking coffee and making love, afternoons hiking the must see trails around The Basin, followed by evenings sitting on the ground at the trail on the west side of the parking area, snuggling under a blanket and watching the sun set into a sky colored in deep reds, oranges, and purples with a bottle of wine beside them.

My little Keeley, I’m so sorry. I love you so much.

Gradually the sobs slowed and Jessie looked at her rifle again. The broken and melted remains of the Yaesu HAM radio sat on the table next to the bed. Her hopes of reaching out for help dashed, burned and melted by the lightning storms of the day before. Her eyes drifted back to the rifle.

My adult life started here; it should end here.

Jessie’s hands reached for the rifle, the steel receiver cold in her hands. She looked at the cuts and scrapes on her hands and arms, then down her breasts and to her stomach.

Oh God, Bexar! I can’t do this, I can’t do this alone … the last of us still lives, growing inside of me. That has to live; I have to live. I need help.

CHAPTER 3

Superconducting Supercollider Facility, Ennis, TX

March 2, Year 1

Bexar blinked slowly, his eyes reticent to adjust to the dim light. Every thump of his beating heart throbbed through his head in surges of pain.

I don’t know where … a bed. Beeping … I don’t know what’s beeping.

Gently Bexar turned his head, the disposable paper pillow case crinkling beneath his ear. An eternity passed before his eyes focused on the shape beeping in the dim light. A monitor, lines spiking with each thump of his heart. Suddenly, with a whirring noise, a tightness formed around his right bicep. Confused, Bexar looked at his arm, which was strapped to the side rail of the hospital bed. An IV stuck out of his wrist, taped to his arm, and the tightness was from a blood pressure cuff. Bexar looked back at the monitor, his awareness slowly dawning.

A hospital? What the fuck happened?

Bexar looked left and saw a drawn curtain hanging from the ceiling. His head throbbed and he began to realize that his right leg ached badly. He tried to sit up but couldn’t achieve more than just raising his head off the pillow. He calmed himself and took note of his situation. I’m nude, there’s a tube running out of the end of my dick, and my right leg is swollen, bruised and wrapped in a bandage, and hurts like hell.

The stuck on-pads for the heart monitor tugged at his chest hair and two straps ran across his torso, binding him to the bed. As the pressure cuff began to inflate again, Bexar reached across his chest and pulled the Velcro apart, letting the cuff fall off his arm. The monitor sounded an alarm, showing no blood pressure. Bexar saw a dark-haired woman step through the curtain. She wore camouflage pants and a t-shirt, the pistol grasped in her hands raised and pointed at Bexar’s face.

Whoa, drop the weapon, lady!

The woman lowered the pistol and smiled, holstering it on her right hip. She walked to the monitor then turned to speak to Bexar, who was suddenly self-conscious about being nude.

Officer Reed, welcome back to the land of the living. We thought we lost you there for a while, but I’m glad to see you awake.

I don’t understand. I don’t know where I am.

Officer, you were shot and the wound was badly infected by the time you arrived. We had to cut away some of the infected tissue and muscle then start you on a heavy round of antibiotics. You had severe dehydration, walking pneumonia, and a few other issues. You’ve been in a coma for nearly two weeks. She looked at her watch. Thirteen days in all.

I don’t remember getting shot. What happened? Where is this place? Am I in Houston or Temple? This doesn’t look like any of my local hospital rooms. Who are you? Could I get some clothes, please?

You’re in a safe, underground facility. Chivo and his team rescued you from Big Bend National Park during a battle with a renegade gang of survivors. They said you regained consciousness during the drive, but the blast was significant and we figured you had at least a concussion … we were concerned you would have some memory loss.

Oh fuck. Bexar stared at the bland white acoustic tiles of the ceiling, remembering the battle, burying Keeley, and seeing Jessie.

What about Jessie—where is my wife?

You were the only survivor from the blast.

No, I saw her; I saw her being dragged out of a cabin.

I’m sorry.

Bexar frowned at the woman. You didn’t answer my question. Who the fuck are you? What underground facility? Groom Lake? Where’s Cliff?

The woman’s eyes appeared weary and compassionate. My name is Amanda Lampton, and we are not at Groom Lake …

Amanda was cut off by a man who stepped into the room, Madam President, Wright is on the SATCOM … they think they found Cliff.

President Lampton turned and walked out of the room.

Glad to see you made it, mano.

Bexar looked confused.

The name’s Chivo. I’m part of the team that pulled you out of the park.

The spark and expectancy drained from Bexar’s eyes. Chivo had seen the look before, in battle, with men he had fought with. In Vietnam they called it the thousand yard stare.

Hey mano, let’s try getting you up and around. But first we need to pull this thing out of your tube snake. I’m not going to lie; it’s going to sort of suck, but you’ll feel better once it’s out and we get some clothes on you. Generally speaking, it’s best not to have your dick sticking out while talking to the first female President, Chivo said with a laugh.

CHAPTER 4

Mountain Warfare Training Center

March 2, Year 1

Four men entered the large room and shrugged out of their modular tactical vests, which carried their heavy armor, ammo, and gear. Sweat-drenched shirts clung to their chests. Riggers belts worn on their Marine Corps Combat Utility Uniforms (MCCUU) held holstered pistols. The current standing order was that every Marine shall be armed at all times; it was put in place by Captain Krapf before he was killed on a patrol three weeks prior.

Chief, three new walkers in the camp—all put down and dragged to the burn pile.

Aymond looked up from the map section in his hands. Any new signs of survivors?

No, nothing. This place is fucking dead; it’s us and only us.

He nodded in response. Get some chow, switch out your socks, and take your rest before relieving the watch.

Aye, Chief.

Aymond surveyed the guys in the room, each of them maintaining and cleaning their gear before lying down to rest for a few hours. All top level communications had been down for sixty-six days. Only during the first day, the day of the attack, did the MSOT get any information from the chain of command. The team walked off the mountain that day to find pandemonium. It would have been his fifth deployment, the second with this team, and his first as the team’s Chief, the top enlisted man on the team. Only eight men of the original fourteen remained, including himself.

If we stay here we’ll die. If we leave we’ll die. But if we leave we might find other survivors; we might have a chance to help someone.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy coin, his team’s challenge coin, and set it on the desk. Always Faithful, Always Forward.

We have to go.

Aymond looked at the map and flipped through the pages; sunlight filtering in from the high windows was the only light in the room. The generators ran dry of fuel on the thirteenth day after the attack, or as they were calling it, Z-Day.

Z-Day. Fucking zombies … out of all the things to give a single fuck about in this world it had to be zombies.

He set the pages against each other and lined them up, tracing a line south towards San Diego. Aymond unfolded an old California driving atlas that they’d found in an abandoned vehicle near the camp housing and traced the route with his finger.

Dammed near five hundred miles … five hundred miles. Three fuel stops if we can keep things rolling well … but it never rolls well; I have to plan for five stops. How long will that take? How long will I be able to keep the guys safe?

Hammer. Get your ass over here!

Ryan Hammer left his half-assembled M-4 on his cot and walked to the Chief’s desk.

Ryan, get your squad and sweep the immediate area then pull the sentries. Have everyone in here in an hour for a team meeting. Everyone.

Hammer nodded, quickly assembled his M-4, and left to carry out his orders.

CHAPTER 5

SSC, Ennis, TX

March 2, Year 1

Chivo helped remove the catheter as gently as they could, which was still an exceptionally uncomfortable task for Bexar. Not solely because a section of tubing was being pulled out of his penis, but that another man was holding his dick while pulling a tube out of it, and Bexar could only grip the bedrails and grit his teeth. Eventually he was unhooked from all the monitoring equipment and freed from the hospital bed. Chivo pointed to a chair with a pile of clothes. Brand new ACUs, Riggers belt, t-shirt, underwear and socks, and a new pair of boots. His green blanket poncho and shemagh sat on the table next to Bexar’s AR-15, his pistol, big CM Forge knife and his go-bag. All of his gear appeared to have been cleaned and the pistol and rifle were loaded with a round in the chamber.

Chivo helped Bexar stand and shakily take the few steps to the chair where his new wardrobe awaited.

Thank you Chivo … means goat, right? That can’t be your real name.

It’s real enough, Chivo replied with a hint of a smile.

Bexar had to use the table to steady himself while dressing, threading the nylon belt through his belt loops.

Wait, I remember now, you cut through my heavy SOE belt. This thing is a piece of crap.

Well mang, this will have to do. We did save your ass, you know.

Bexar gave Chivo a half-hearted smile. A few moments later the stiff new boots were laced tight, his pistol holstered on his hip, and the big knife on his belt. Bexar slung his AR across his chest.

Standing rule, Chivo said, you will always be armed. Keep your shit clean, keep it loaded, and keep it on safe or holstered and always be ready.

Ready for anything, ready to work, play, etc. … yeah, got it.

Whatever, just try not to overdo it. The stitches in your leg are still healing and a shit-ton of good it would do you to pop them now.

Chivo handed Bexar a large plastic bottle. Bexar turned it over and read the label: Norco?

Yeah, take two now and use them as needed. Just don’t take more than four a day and you’ll be healed up soon.

Bexar did as he was told before dropping the pill bottle into his go-bag. The levity of getting him out of bed and dressed fell away from Bexar like a curtain had been drawn. Keeley, Jessie, his whole family was dead. Malachi is dead. Jack is dead. All the people whom he loved, all the people he’d promised to protect were dead. Bexar took a deep breath, fighting back the urge to cry. Push it down, bury it deep … sorrow, love, and pain are luxuries that are no longer afforded in the new world.

Bexar limped behind Chivo, out of the infirmary and into a brightly lit corridor that could have been the hallway of any corporate office in America. Ten minutes later Bexar was shown where his bunk was and where the mess hall was located. The tour ended in the command room where the President, another woman, and two other men he didn’t know stood. All of them wore mismatched military clothing, they were all armed, and they all huddled around a large glass table top that looked like a computer screen.

CHAPTER 6

MWTC

March 2, Year 1

The remaining members of the MSOT huddled around the Chief’s desk; nearly half the team had been killed. The near thousand people who had lived and worked at the training center were all either missing, dead, or reanimated dead, which were put down for good by the few still living.

As you know, our recon patrols have found that we are practically isolated and abandoned. Comms don’t appear to be down, as far as we can tell, just that no one is answering on the other end of the line. Also, I’m sure you know by now that Chuck picked up a piece of a BBC shortwave broadcast yesterday that was a news report about the attack and the rising dead. We don’t know how old the report is, but we do know it is on a recorded loop. My point, gentlemen, is that we are done with the previous directive to shelter in place. Without contact from any in our chain, or anyone at all, for that matter, we need to seek them out, rescue if need be, and set a base of operations at a location we can maintain longer than this facility. My first choice is to point east and head home, but Camp Lejeune is the wrong direction for immediate information. Therefore, Twentynine Palms is our destination. If it is overrun, we will then proceed to Camp Pendleton. Then, if need be, The Recruit Depot and keep heading through to find any remaining Special Operations Command (SOCOM) elements at Coronado. However, I want each of your opinions and agreement on our plan of action.

Aymond looked at each of his men individually. One by one they nodded approval. The last man, Chuck, summed up the team’s feelings: Zero fucks left, Chief. Let’s roll.

Good. Wheels up in forty-eight hours. Put together the three best M-ATVs we have—pull parts off the others if needed. We have to assume that we are completely on our own, simply because we are. We are going to have to fuel at least three times if we roll all the way to Coronado, and there will be no fuel depots, no bowsers. We will be improvising, gentlemen, so creative solutions that work are to be expected. Assuming that the EMP affected the rest of the country, there will be no power but there will most likely be plenty of abandoned vehicles. With three trucks we’ll need nearly one hundred and fifty gallons of diesel for each fuel stop, if we run them dry. However, with zero support we operate with a reserve, never less than a quarter of a tank.

Each of the men stood with the small notebooks they kept in their utilities pockets in their hands, taking notes.

Hammer, you’re in charge of food. Assume worse case. Let’s call it fifty miles a day or less and we have to go all the way to Coronado, so ten to fourteen days on the road. Also assume that each stop is looted, overrun, or otherwise not a resource. Include needed water for each man and be sure to count it against the vehicle’s allowed weight.

Roger that, Chief.

Ski, you’re still on comms. Check the intra-team commo and the 150s in the trucks. Bring spare parts, batteries … be creative.

Ski smiled with a thumbs up.

Holmes, take care of your long rifle needs first, then you’ll still continue the role of team armorer. Spare parts, spare weapons—use your best judgment. What do we have mounted on the M-ATVs?

Tom flipped through his notebook, I know we have two M2s, one M240, and an MK19. We might have a MILAN or BGM-71, but I’ll have to double check that they’re still operable.

Check on them. How do we stand for ammo on the crew weapons and ammo for each man’s personal weapons?

Roughly forty thousand rounds of XM193, another twenty thousand rounds of 9mm … if the crates are full we have fifty thousand rounds of fifty cal and roughly two thousand rounds for the MK19. I never looked for any of the TOW missiles since they weren’t needed.

"Check on them. Ammo first, water second, fuel third, then food, in that order. The rest we’ll figure out as we need. The rest