Winchester: Over (Winchester Undead Book 1)

By Dave Lund

After a large scale surprise attack, the mortality rate soars among the population. The detonation of multiple nuclear warheads high in the atmosphere above North America leaves the country in chaos, the EMP destroying all the tools and devices of our modern lives. Following the EMP, the next attack, using Chemtrails, unleashes a virus that steals death from humanity, leaving the dead to rise to hunt the living. An ancient virus, tracing its discovery through modern history and the fall of Nazi Germany, now perfected and released is more powerful than could have ever been imagined. Bexar Reed and his family, along with their lifelong friends and fellow preppers, were prepared for the end of the world as we know it. They thought they were prepared for nearly every possibility, but they never thought the dead would rise to hunt the living.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Jan 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781618687784

Book preview

PROLOGUE

February 13th

Bexar stopped near the creek. Using the increasing density of the trees for cover, he tried to catch his breath.

The go-bag and extra ammo bag weighed down his already-heavy load of pistol belt and chest rig. He could hear javalina on the trail, snorting in annoyance at his presence. He turned, facing the ground he had covered, scanning for threats with his rifle in the SUL, or ready position.

It was amazing how good life had become in Big Bend, and how quickly and drastically that had changed. His best friend and friend’s son lay dead, bullet holes in their heads, fired from his own pistol. His best friend’s wife was also dead, and all Bexar could do was hope that his own wife and daughter were still alive.

There hadn’t been any more gunfire echoing in the mountains, but that didn’t mean they were safe. His family’s only hope was to get to their backup camp, their small cache site, and then hide or run.

Still breathing heavily, Bexar looked back and scanned his six once more before continuing down the trail, hopefully into the waiting arms of his wife and child.

Bexar had always planned for the end, had made extensive preparations for all sorts of eventualities, but nothing like this had ever crossed his mind. If he had only known seven weeks ago what lay ahead for his friends and family, he could have saved them. But now, he had to save himself first.

CHAPTER 1

December 26th

NORAD, Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado

There were so many new protocols, new communication requirements, and new layers of oversight that he wasn’t sure information could actually get out and be useful at all. Why he couldn’t just send a signal up the chain of command, get it approved, and have it shotgunned out was beyond him.

After 9/11, the U.S. Government had pushed through changes, using the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) and the Federal Emergency Management agency (FEMA), to make the timely dissemination of critical information to all the agencies and entities involved faster and more accurate. But Major Wright was frustrated with the bureaucracy. Even after all this time, he found there was a stifling of the flow of information, which put his country in danger and made his job of protecting it that much more difficult.

It was much easier as a lowly fish in the Corps of Cadets at Texas A&M. You had a fish-phone-tree, you got information, and within five minutes all thirty fish in the outfit had the information. It always seemed like a disaster drill as an eighteen-year-old fish, a freshman in the Corps of Cadets. There were countless pushups in the hallway, getting smoked by your sophomore Pissheads—looking back, it was quite possibly the happiest time of his life, even though at the time it was exceptionally hard.

Having attended Texas A&M University on a Reserve Officer Training Corps, or ROTC scholarship, Major Wright was happy that his former squadron in the Corps of Cadets was standing high in the rankings to win the General Moore Award this year. Wright decided at that moment he would put in to take some vacation for once, and go back and sit in The Chicken, drink cold Shiner, and play bones until Rose Colored Glasses played over the bar’s speakers. Maybe he could make some calls and actually get tickets to the usually sold-out home football games.

As Wright sat staring past the glass wall of his office into the bullpen, the group of consoles and computers manned by the airmen, he noticed Airman Jones suddenly become very animated. The young enlisted man waved over Technical Sergeant Arcuni to look at his screen, and whatever Arcuni saw on the screen caused the blood to drain from his face. Arcuni locked eyes with Wright, abruptly snapping him out of his daydreams. Arcuni rarely got excited about much of anything—a former skydiving instructor for the Wings of Blue at the U.S. Air Force Academy, he had developed a steel constitution when it came to high stress and deadly surprises.

Wright stepped out of his office to see what could possibly have made Arcuni and Jones so agitated. Arcuni quickly tapped through a series of keystrokes on his computer, and the console’s imagery appeared on the main screen on the bullpen wall. The screen showed a large flight of heavy aircraft flying over the polar cap towards North America. The aircraft were not using transponders, but the advanced computer identification software used by NORAD for just such an event identified the flight as possibly Chinese Xian H-6Ks.

Recent intelligence reports put the total Chinese inventory of all the variations of the H-6 bomber at one hundred fifty aircraft. Looking at the display, it was apparent that if those numbers were accurate, every one of those aircraft was now inbound towards the continental United States. Wright reached for the handset at Jones' workstation, dialed five numbers, and waited for Colonel Garnett to answer.

Colonel, we have a problem.

Brazos County, Texas

After the fifth traffic stop that morning during which the driver had simply yelled at him, Bexar regretted not using some vacation time to stay at home with his family the day after Christmas.

Officer Bexar Reed was what is referred to in the police world as a motor, a motorcycle officer tasked with the primary focus of enforcing traffic law. The last driver who had yelled at him prior to speeding off had been traveling fifteen miles per hour over the posted speed limit, yet he had blamed Bexar for everything from entrapment to ruining Christmas.

While Bexar was getting yelled at for trying to keep drivers safe, his young daughter and wife were at home enjoying a lazy day around the house. Jessica Reed, who everyone called Jessie, was a math teacher at one of the local high schools, so she had the privilege of enjoying a lengthy Christmas break.

Starting his motorcycle, Bexar decided to drop off his tickets at the station and go home. The only people at work today were the required patrol officers and their sergeants; not even the patrol lieutenant had come to work, simply telling the sergeants to call him if something came up.

Bexar checked back in service with Dispatch, then rolled on the throttle for the short ride back to the station. This was the best part of the job—getting paid to ride a motorcycle every day. The weather was cold and sometimes wet, and the summers were beyond brutal with all the required equipment and uniform he wore, but still the ride was worth it. Bexar put up his mental blinders, doing his best to ignore any traffic violations around him with the intent of heading home.

In short order, Bexar pulled his motorcycle into the sally port at the police station, retrieved the few citations he had written that morning out of his saddle bag, and walked into the building to drop them in the lockbox for court. Before leaving, he wanted to check in with the patrol sergeants but found their offices empty. The report writing area was empty as well, although the patrol parking area was full of patrol cars.

Checking the patrol briefing room, Bexar found nearly the entire shift of officers and both patrol sergeants watching a movie on the projection screen typically used for training. Sergeant House, the officer in charge, looked at Bexar and said, Be-X-aR, why’re you still here? Why don’t you head to the house for the rest of the day? Like the county in Texas, Bexar’s name was pronounced Bear, but the sergeant liked to poke fun at him.

Thanks, exactly what I was thinking, Sergeant. Hizzouse, Bexar replied. He could hear House laughing as he walked out of the room and back towards his motorcycle.

Bexar shrugged on his heavy leather riding jacket, pulled on his helmet and gloves, started his bike, and pulled out of the parking lot. He had gone just three blocks when the warbling alert tone coming across the radio filled the speakers in his helmet with a screeching sound. It was the tone used by dispatch for felonies in progress such as burglaries, assault with a deadly weapon, or for other serious situations like an active shooter.

Bexar pulled into a side street and stopped, waiting to hear the call details so he could respond. These were the times he missed a patrol car, just for the Mobile Data Computer. The MDC in patrol vehicles displayed the call information so officers didn’t have to wait for Dispatch’s description. Better yet, officers could tap the screen of the computer and it displayed a map showing the exact location of the call. Bexar had no MDC on his motorcycle, so he had to rely on his memory and his knowledge of the city. Every tool he needed to be the best traffic cop he could be was wired into the motorcycle, pushing the weight of his motor to over nine hundred pounds, but when it came to the tools needed to do routine patrol work, there was simply no room on the bike.

When the alert tone finally ended, the dispatcher, sounding very keyed up, came across the radio and announced, All units be advised, reports of imminent attack on the United States, warplanes en route and expected to cross the border within the hour, authority NAWAS EOC!

It took Bexar a second to remember that NAWAS was the National Warning System. Moments later he heard his patrol lieutenant, who had obviously been contacted at home, direct all units to 10-19 PD, order Sergeant House, the OIC, to call his cellphone, and advise that he was en route to the EOC.

The EOC, or Emergency Operations Center, had been built to endure a variety of natural and manmade disasters, unlike the police department headquarters, which was constructed of glass and was built to look good for the city. It had been some time since Bexar had heard a 10-19 used over the radio; it meant return immediately to a specified location. After 9/11, all but a small handful of police and emergency 10-codes had been outlawed for local law enforcement by DHS. Each police department had their own variation of the 10-codes, so the idea was that by eliminating most of the codes and using plain language to communicate with each other, it would simplify inter-agency communication.

Bexar hadn’t moved. He sat on his idling motorcycle and stared at his radio, not sure what his next move should be. Finally, he looked up from his radio, took his cellphone out of his uniform shirt pocket, and sent a text message to Malachi Laing, his best friend, and Jack Snyder. The text simply read: WINCHESTER.

Tucking the phone back in his pocket, Bexar put his bike in gear and turned on the emergency lights and siren before speeding off. But instead of turning left towards the EOC, he rolled on the throttle and turned right.

Grayson County, Texas

Malachi Laing, still in his underwear, sat in front of his computer in the home office he had built. He always found the holidays tiring, but this year he was also the on-call IT administrator for a large web-based business outside the Dallas area, so he found himself even more tired and annoyed than usual.

Frustrated, Malachi was actively fighting off, and trying to fix, the damage from a series of DOS attacks against his company’s enterprise servers. If he couldn’t get this situation handled, he would have to make the drive into the physical office, ninety minutes away.

Fully engrossed in his task, Malachi nearly didn’t hear the ding from his cellphone telling him he had a new text message. He assumed it was yet another executive telling him there was something wrong with their e-mail, but was surprised to see it was from Bexar.

Stunned, he read the one-word text over and over again, his mind not fully accepting what he saw. Picking up the remote, he turned up the volume on the big LCD TV mounted on the wall, which was as usual tuned to Fox News. He was just able to catch the end of a report from the lawn of the White House, … officials recommend sheltering in place, stay indoors …

Malachi didn’t hear the rest of the report. The remote fell out of his hand as he quickly stood, yelling, Amber, get The Bags, it’s time to go, fucking WINCHESTER!

Arlington, Texas

Jack Snyder was tending to his winter garden with his wife Sandra while their seven-year-old son Will played in the yard with the new toys he had unwrapped the previous morning for Christmas. A few years earlier, Jack and Sandra had begun learning what many in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex considered old-world skills, with the idea that the modern conveniences enjoyed now would someday be gone. Their first project was to start a simple garden, which had grown to take over most of their backyard. From the back porch, Jack could hear the chime of a new message on his cellphone, but decided to ignore it; the office could wait until tomorrow. But Will jumped up and ran over to retrieve the phone for his dad; since he was too young to be allowed to touch the phone without supervision, Will looked for any opportunity to play with the phone without getting in trouble.

Dad! called Will. It’s from Bexar and it says ‘Winchester’ like the gun. What does that mean?

Jack dropped his trowel and ran inside to turn the TV to Fox News. He knew that if Bexar called Winchester, something big was going down.

CHAPTER 2

NORAD

In quick order, Colonel Garnett had sounded the alarm up the chain of command, and the two Air National Guard F-15C aircraft patrolling the northwestern corner of the Continental United States had been rerouted to intercept the new threat just identified by Major Wright.

16,000 ft. above Wyoming

Lieutenant Colonel Dorsey had retired from active duty in the Air Force four years ago, but had since joined the Air National Guard and was assigned to the 186th Fighter Squadron, which flew out of Great Falls International Airport in Montana. Although it was a long drive from his home in Kalispell, Dorsey didn’t mind so much, because he was still able to strap into his high performance fighter aircraft and enjoy his first love, flying. Today he was on station with his wingman Major Futch, making lazy laps around the northwestern region of CONUS, the CONtinental United States.

Dorsey and Futch weren't just colleagues. Out in the real world they were also good friends, often spending hours hiking together around Glacier National Park. For Dorsey, after thousands of hours in the cockpit of an F-15, it was easy to let his mind wander, and he found himself wishing for the thaw after the long winter that would see the reopening of Montana’s beautiful Going-To-The-Sun Road.

Dorsey was brought crashing back to reality when the controller’s voice abruptly broke through the silence in his helmet, directing them to fly north immediately, over the Canadian border, to intercept a large flight of possible Chinese heavy bombers. Snapping the wings to the left, pulling back on the control stick, and pushing the throttle all the way forward, Dorsey and his wingman were now rocketing straight towards a possible threat to their country.

Dread began building in the pit of Dorsey’s stomach. Usually, if they were sent to intercept another aircraft while on patrol, it was typically a private pilot who had violated a Notice to Airmen, restricting an area of flight privileges. Today, Dorsey was sure he would be intercepting enemy aircraft. Not only were he and Futch about to see their first air combat since serving in the first Gulf War, it would be the first time either of them had to engage an enemy so close to home.

The White House

The President sat at his desk in the Oval Office, reading over a bill he was hoping to introduce soon, one that was rumored within the political circles of Washington, D.C. to grant amnesty to any and all persons who were currently in the country illegally.

Chris McFarland had heard the bill being planned and discussed long before this day, and it really bothered him. The consequences of such a bill being passed into law seriously jeopardized the security and sanctity of the United States. However, as an agent of the Secret Service, and as the head of the Presidential Protection Detail, not only could he not talk about what he knew was coming, there was also nothing he could do about it.

Listening as a series of standard check-ins were conducted with all the agents currently on duty, McFarland began walking towards the Security Command Room to get a cup of coffee when a single word was heard firmly and clearly over the radio, and any thoughts of coffee instantly disappeared.

He pushed into the Oval Office with four other agents, practically picking up the President and hustling him out a secret exit to the right of the desk. As the President began to protest, McFarland said, Mr. President, we are under attack. You must evacuate!

In less than thirty seconds, McFarland and the other agents had emerged with the President onto the White House lawn, where they were met by one of the Secret Service Quick Response Teams. The QRT did not look like the other agents, who were wearing specially tailored suits—the QRT were dressed all in black with a full tactical load-out, looking to the casual observer like a police SWAT team. In reality, they were much more highly trained than most police department SWAT, even the fabled LAPD teams.

Forming a protective formation around the President, the group moved quickly towards the Marine helicopter just landing on the lawn, and as they placed the President inside sans salutes and ceremony, the rest of the First Family were also escorted onto the helicopter. McFarland followed the President inside, buckling the seatbelt of the POTUS while talking into his radio to coordinate with the Secret Service team standing by with Air Force One, which was starting its engines on the tarmac at Andrews Air Force Base. Less than twenty minutes after the code word had been spoken, McFarland smiled as the wheels of Air Force One left the runway. He had successfully evacuated the President.

Northern Montana

Lieutenant Colonel Dorsey scanned the sky ahead of the nose of his F-15C while pushing the fighter as fast as it would fly towards the incoming flight of heavy bombers. Before making the Canadian border, Dorsey was told by one of the controllers that the bombers had split into three groups: one headed for the West Coast, one flying towards the center of the country, and the last group flying towards the East Coast. Dorsey and his wingman, Major Futch, changed their flight path to intercept the group of bombers headed towards the West Coast.

Twenty minutes after the change in direction, Dorsey looked at the display and the data from the AN/APG-70 radar, confirmed a lock, and was given clearance to engage the bombers. The plane shuddered as, one by one, he launched the entire complement of AMRAAM (Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missiles) loaded onto his plane that morning. He heard Futch over the radio informing Control that they were Winchester, having spent their complement of missiles, but to Dorsey's surprise, Control ordered them to continue to engage with the plane’s mounted 20mm Gatling gun until other air assets could reach the threat.

Surprised but willing, Dorsey and Futch continued towards the bomber threat. Approaching the flight, Dorsey pushed his fighter high above the large formation of bombers, and dove the plane with the sun at his back. Pulling up and away from their first engagement with the 20mm Gatling, Dorsey keyed his mic. Did you see any windows?

No, not a one, replied Futch. Couldn’t tell what it was, but there's something under their wings. Looks like the spray unit under a crop duster. Also, those pilots either have balls of steel, or there aren’t any pilots at all; not a single plane moved position, course, or speed.

Okay Major, Dorsey responded, I’m coming back around. I’m going to come in slow and from behind the flight. If they're drones, let’s take our time and make each round count.

Over the next few minutes, Dorsey and Futch were able to down twenty aircraft, but another forty bombers remained in flight, never changing speed or direction as they continued south towards the major population centers of the West Coast. Out of ammo and dangerously low on fuel, the two pilots changed course towards the refueling waypoint, where a Boeing KC-135 Stratotanker was on station and waiting to give them enough fuel to get home and re-arm.

What neither of them saw was that, as they pulled away to refuel, the modified H-6 bombers began releasing a chemical spray from the apparatus under their wings, leaving a deadly trail in the sky to fall to the ground and onto the people below.

NORAD

Major Wright was monitoring the three flights of Chinese bombers over the country. Each flight had been engaged by various fighters and all had reported the same thing. The H-6 bombers appeared to have been modified to fly as drones, and they all appeared to have some type of spray apparatus under their wings.

One fighter pilot on the East Coast had just reported that the bombers had begun spraying some sort of substance into the air, when Technical Sergeant Arcuni yelled across the room, Major, missile launch detected off the coast of California!

Twenty miles off the Southern California coast

Lieutenant Commander Boyd moved the collective of the Eurocopter HH-65 Dolphin he was piloting towards the projected path of a speedboat headed towards the coast. A fishing vessel had radioed a sighting on the Coast Guard frequency, and his Dolphin helicopter had been sent to intercept. The technology war between the Coast Guard and drug smugglers was at a fevered pitch, with drug smugglers now using high-powered speedboats to run drugs, boats that could outpace the ships currently in the Coast Guard inventory. But his Dolphin could keep up with the speedboat, and once they found the boat, could disable it with the mounted 50-cal machine gun.

Boyd smiled, but wasn’t overly excited. This was the third intercept this month, and he could only expect more with the new year.

A large missile suddenly erupted from the blue ocean directly in front of his flight path. Boyd pulled hard aft on the cyclic and yanked the collective into his