Winchester: Over (Winchester Undead) Read Online Free Page B

though neither was part of his planned GOOD load-out, he felt they might be needed. He changed into a pair of green tactical pants with a rigger’s belt that held his well-worn Kimber TLE/RL II Pro with a TLR-1 tactical light in a Raven Systems holster. Two spare Wilson Combat 8-round magazines slid into a mag pouch on his left side, and his trusted Emerson CQC-7 clipped to the inside of his back pocket. Bexar slid his custom-made C-M Forge knife into the sheath on his belt, and went back outside to help Jessie finish loading the Jeep.
    Three hours after the massive power failure had hit, Bexar Reed's family pulled out of their driveway and turned north on State Highway 6 towards the group cache site in Maypearl.

C HAPTER 4
     
     
    Virginia Beach, Virginia
     
    Eric had just finished patrolling the beachfront on his police bicycle and begun riding back to the station when his supervisor’s voice came across the radio, instructing all units to return to their designated patrol zones—NAWAS had issued a warning that an attack on the U.S. was imminent. Not sure what sort of attack that could mean, Eric downshifted and peddled back towards his area of responsibility on the beachfront.
    Stopping at the traffic light, Eric saw some people pointing towards the sky. Looking up, he saw a large formation of aircraft overhead. The planes did not look familiar to him; even though he wasn’t an aviation buff, he was used to seeing large military aircraft in the Virginia Beach sky, but these looked different.
    T he contrails trailing the aircraft also looked different, less like contrails and more like what you would see coming from beneath a crop duster. Still watching the aircraft, Eric pulled out his phone to call his wife, but it was dead. “Figures,” he grumbled, angry that his brand new smart phone was already failing. He had given up his trusted “dumb” flip phone for this new phone two weeks ago because his daughter was about to have her first baby, and he wanted to get photos when it happened.
    Then he heard the sound of tires skidding on pavement and the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle sliding on pavement. The traffic lights were all dark, and a motorcyclist was sliding headfirst towards the intersection where a truck had already come to a stop in the middle. A dark, oily mist was falling from the sky, and Eric knew this was going to be a bad wreck.
    Pedaling towards the collision, Eric tried to call Dispatch on his radio and was surprised to find that his radio wasn’t working either. The accident was bad. The motorcyclist was wearing a half-shell helmet but it was obvious that his neck had been broken when he slid headfirst into the stalled truck. Eric knew the rider was DRT—dead right there—by looking at the rider’s neck, which was bent at an impossible angle, but he pulled on a latex glove and checked for a pulse anyway. There was none.
    Looking at the motorcyclist’s lifeless brown eyes, Eric pulled the glove off and tossed it on the ground. “Sorry buddy, what a shitty way to go.” As he began to stand up, he saw the rider’s head move slightly in his direction. Eric had seen enough freshly dead to know that sometimes the body will spasm slightly as it shuts down, but he was startled by the gargling moan that rattled from the rider’s chest. Pausing, he looked more closely at the rider; the head and eyes had moved and locked onto his, but the eyes still looked dim and lifeless. Without warning, the motorcyclist’s gloved hand shot up, and, with incredible strength, latched onto the lapel of Eric’s police shirt, pulling him down to an impossibly wide mouth.
    By standers who had seen the accident screamed as the downed motorcyclist savagely bit into the police officer’s throat, tearing away chunks of flesh as the officer writhed and screamed in pain. They remained rooted in fear as the motorcyclist stood, head flopping awkwardly to one side, and began stumbling towards them.
     
    U.S. Highway