The Road to Wolfe (EBOOK)

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Some call them Primitives, people who see them as once being relatives and friends. I call them zombies, because until a cure is developed the only real cure is my blade. They aren’t human, they are the walking dead.
I don't know what wakes me up but over the past several years I've learned to trust my instincts. I tense, slowly reaching one hand for my revolver and the other for my long deadly knife. Both items are resting on the seat next to me and easily reachable. I barely breathe, a weapon in each hand, as I listen intently for whatever woke me up.
Along with several members of my team I'm sheltering inside a downed passenger airplane. Two of my men are supposed to be outside the airplane patrolling, watching for Primitives.
As I blink the sleep from my eyes, I realize the airplane is filled with some kind of smoke. It takes me a couple of heart stopping seconds to realize that it's not smoke from a fire but mist. The plane had gone down near the Rio Grande river, around the time of the Great Fall, and it's a particularly humid evening, creating an atmosphere of fog.
I reach an arm out, using the edge of my knife to tap the man sprawled out in the seat across the aisle. He wakes up with a start, his hand immediately going to the holster at his side. Consciousness comes to him quickly, and he looks silently over at me, his brow furrowing. I lift a finger to my lips indicating that he shouldn't speak. My entire team is trained to keep as silent as possible. Primitives are attracted to noise, which means humans have had to become wraiths when working and moving in a world dominated by the diseased.
"We’re not alone," I whisper to Deacon, my second-in-command for this mission.