Regeneration
Mad Swine Book 3
Steven Pajak
A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK
Published at Smashwords
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-659-6
REGENERATION
Mad Swine Book Three
© 2015 by Steven Pajak
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by Martin Kintanar
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
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Franklin, TN 37067
http://permutedpress.com
Contents
Prologue: In My Time of Dying
Chapter 1: Friends
Chapter 2: My Immortal
Chapter 3: Time of Your Life
Chapter 4: Enemy of my Enemies
Chapter 5: One
Chapter 6: No Quarter
Chapter 7: I Don’t Care Anymore
Chapter 8: Fortunate Son
Chapter 9: How Many More Times
Chapter 10: Battle of Evermore
Epilogue: Regeneration
About The Author
Prologue
In My Time of Dying
It was a long night; perhaps the longest I have known since this madness began. It is hard to believe that only three months have passed since the outbreak; the life I once had with my wife and kids seems like a lifetime ago. In that short period of time we’d been through so much; we survived the initial outbreak, war with our neighboring community, and a nightmare journey through the worst winter storm I could remember. Well, some of us survived, but many more were buried back at Randall Oaks and several were still out there on the road, where we’d left their bodies.
Old man Finnegan’s dead body and the charred remains of the crazies were certainly not what we expected to greet us upon arriving at our new home after our hard journey. Instead of the weary resting, the injured healing, and the bereaved receiving comfort, we labored to clear the land of the diseased bodies and mourn the loss of our kindred, our new family. I was thoroughly sickened by the thought that I had led my people from the safety of Randall Oaks into chaos and uncertainty.
By midnight of our first day at Finnegan Farms, I stood wearily before the funeral pyre of old man Finnegan and two of his winter workhands, who died defending the farm. The intense heat of the blaze chapped the skin of my cheeks and made my eyes sting; yet a harsh chill still clung to me, deep inside where the fire could not reach. Beyond the flames of the pyre, I could see the other fires, too, dotting the landscape in the distance where remains of the crazies burned to ash. The thick black smoke and the deep orange glare made it appear as though the sky was alit and our world was burning around us.
My eyes closed for a moment as I stood surrounded by my people—so few old friends and some new—shoulder to shoulder, trying to keep warm against the terrible cold. The snap and pop of exploding embers from the fire and the tendrils of its warmth that caressed me had a hypnotic effect. I could almost imagine I was in another place, far away from the death, but Cleona’s voice, sad and sweet brought me back to this place:
The strife is o'er, the battle done;
the victory of life is won;
the song of triumph has begun:
Alleluia!
The powers of death have done their worst,
but Christ their legions hath dispersed;
let shouts of holy joy outburst:
Alleluia!
The three sad days are quickly sped;
he rises glorious from the dead;
all glory to our risen Head!
Alleluia!
Lord, by the stripes which wounded thee,
from death's dread sting thy servants free,
that we may live, and sing to thee:
Alleluia!
The old woman’s voice was like that of an angel; she brought love into my heart and tears to my eyes. Through blurred eyes, I turned to look at Lara and put my arms around her and she returned my embrace. Together we stood in our embrace watching the fire rage and listening to Cleona’s sweet voice. She continued to sing the traditional songs of her people as her husband’s remains turned to ash and his soul returned to heaven.
After Cleona sang, the remaining members of the family shared their eulogies, although I found I could not remain focused on their words. My exhaustion was so deep and my body craved rest. It had been just days since I had fought off the Mad Swine infection and my body was still weak and not fully recovered. It was a struggle to get through the next hour, but I stood my ground in the cold and honored the man I had never met as though he were my own kin.
Later, during the night, we managed to get everyone temporarily settled into the big house. For a while, there was much calamity as folks moved furniture and laid out their bedding and made ready for much needed sleep. The Finnegan’s were fine hosts, even during their mourning, and they made more than a necessary fuss of getting everyone comfortable in their new home.
Lara, Wesley, and I were given a room on the second floor, which I assumed was Liam’s room. I had only known the man for a short period of time, but his death still hit me hard when I thought about it. I should have waited. I should have planned better. I should have been better prepared.
Although I was exhausted, I knew sleep would elude me and that I would simply lay in bed for what was left of this night, beating myself up about things I could not change.
After tucking Wesley in and kissing Lara goodnight, I went downstairs again. In search of a quiet place, I wandered into the kitchen—the only room of the house beside the bathroom where no sleeping bodies lay—and sat at the table. I took notice that someone had boarded over the broken window in the door, although that did not do much to keep the cold out; the old house was still quite frigid. Except for the fever I endured after becoming infected, it seemed that since leaving Randall Oaks I could not shake the cold; it penetrated my bones.
I laid my head down on the table for a moment, knowing I should rest, but heard movement and looked up. Brian entered wearing his jacket and still saddled with his backpack. A cold air followed him as he removed his backpack and sat down across from me. For a moment, he just stared at me and finally he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a jar, and set it down on the table.
“You should eat, dude, you look like shit,” he said.
Slowly I reached out for the jar and pulled it across the table. It was full of pickled eggs, about eight or ten of them packed into the Ball jar. I opened it, fished out an egg, looked at the greenish color, and brought it to my nose. I winced at the stringent smell of vinegar. Brian smiled at me as he pulled off his gloves.
I bit into the egg, which was actually quite tasty. Besides, as exhausted as I was, my hunger was double and I probably would have eaten raw fish heads in water if they were served to me at that moment. After fishing out a second egg, I slid the jar across to my brother who pulled one out and looked at it. “Looks like snot.”
“Cheers,” I said and stuffed the egg into my mouth.
As we ate from a jar of pickled eggs, Kieran entered the kitchen and sat on the counter next to the stove where he watched us in silence with a bemused look on his impressionable face. Second youngest of the Finnegan boys, he watched my brother and me with eager eyes and listened to our conversations with open ears. He wanted to learn all he could about the infecte
d. He wanted to know especially how to kill them, although it was not the creatures that had taken his father’s life as far as we could tell.
We humored him as we finished off the jar of eggs. Brian told him what he knew about how the infected came to be—of which he knew very little—and how to kill them—of which he knew a lot. Kieran leaned forward when Brian told him about our journey and how the infected attacked us and we fought them off. I expected him to ask about his brother, but he didn’t, and I respected him for that.
“You know, he was bitten by one of those things,” Brian said, pointing his thumb in my direction. “The only person who was bitten and survived. You know why?”
Kieran shook his head vigorously. He stared at me with wide eyes and I felt like he was pulling me toward him, as though I was caught in his gravitational pull.
“Because he’s bad ass. He’s tough as nails. Not even the infected can kill him.”
“Holy shite,” Kieran said with a reverence that embarrassed me.
“I’m not a bad ass—”
“Yes he is. He’s too modest to admit it,” Brian said, enjoying my embarrassment.
I shook my head. My cheeks burned now and the eggs in my stomach sat like hot lead. Before I could respond, Ian entered—more like staggered—into the kitchen. He bumped against the doorframe but quickly caught himself before he could lose his balance. He took a few awkward steps and stood beside the table. In the glow of the lantern, his eyes were red and glazed with tears. He’d been crying or he’d been in the drink; either way, he swayed as though a gust of wind battered him. He steadied himself against the table, leaning against it for support. His eyes took us all in, lingering on me longest. I could tell when a man wanted trouble. I had seen this look in Comedian’s eyes before he shot Charlie more than three months ago.
“If yer so invincible, where were ya when my da was shot like a dog in front of his own home?” Ian staggered a few more steps and then stood swaying. To Brian he said, “You made me believe he was a damn warrior. All I seen, brother, is a sick man who barely made the journey. All the time we spent nursin’ him back to health my da was out there dying!”
“I know it’s hard to lose someone,” Brian said.
“What happened to da wasn’t their fault, brother,” Kieran said.
Whirling on his younger brother, his eyes wide, his nostrils expanding to suck in air, Ian yelled “Fuck off!” and shoved the boy across the room.
Kieran fell backward on his rear and slid across the floor until his back slammed painfully against the cabinetry, rattling the toaster and other kitchen accessories that sat on the countertop above him.
“Ian, that’s enough,” Brian said, standing quickly, ready to engage Ian should he go after his brother.
I hadn’t realized I had also gotten to my feet until Ian turned his rage toward me and charged me. Although I was weary and weak, in his drunken state, Ian was slow and his attack easily anticipated. Instead of tackling me to the ground as was his intention, I simply side-stepped his clumsy sack and watched as he rammed his shoulder and neck into the refrigerator beyond, his knee knocked my chair and another to the floor.
Bewildered, Ian stood slowly and with great effort. He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly as if trying to get his wits about him. When he opened his eyes, his sights were still set on me and he came at me again. When he drew near, he cocked a fist back and swung it, a sweeping roundhouse. Seeing it coming, I ducked under the blow and countered with a left uppercut to Ian’s abdomen, knocking the wind out of him.
He made some sort of guttural sound as he collapsed to the floor, his arms wrapped around his midsection. He flailed his legs and knocked away another kitchen chair as he tried to get up. Rolling onto his back, Ian used his heels to skitter backward until his back was to the base of the cabinetry. He reached back with one hand to grip the countertop and then proceeded to pull himself up. He got onto one knee and then staggered up to his feet. Still bent, with one hand on his abdomen, he sucked in great gasps of air, trying to get his wind back. When he stood tall again, his eyes were red and saliva mixed with blood spilled from his lips.
“Ian, go get some rest,” Brian said.
Kieran had recovered from his brother’s attack and approached with his hands out in front of him. “Come on, brother, let’s get some shut eye. You’ve had a hell of a day, aye?”
Taking a boxer’s stance, Ian’s eyes never left mine. His red-rimmed eyes bore into me as though he were channeling all of his hatred.
“Stay out of my way, boyo. I mean to kill this gobshite.”
I squared up and said, “Crack on you chiseler.”
Kieran sucked in his breath at the insult and as if on cue, Ian came at me again. This time, instead of side-stepping, I met him, our bodies striking like linebackers. I felt one of his hands reach for my neck, but I tucked my chin, foiling his grip. I got my arms around him, and hooked a leg behind his, bringing us both down to the floor, hard. I didn’t want to hurt him, but instead wanted to tire him.
Our tangled bodies rolled and thrashed on the floor, each of us scoring shots with elbows and knees. Our struggle continued for what seemed like long minutes before Cleona entered the room, her strong voice rising above our own muted grunts.
“Deireadh leis an troid. Stop this now!”
For a moment we froze before finally breaking apart; although there was blood, neither of us was really hurt. Cleona moved gracefully into the kitchen and stood between us; her son and I both towered over her, yet I felt a twinge of fear in my belly, just as I did when my nona raised her voice at me as a child.
She placed a hand gently upon my chest and looked up at me; her soft blue eyes stared into my own. “I am sorry for this. You are a guest in my home. This is not how I raised my children.”
I shook my head but before I could speak she turned to her son, her soft eyes hardened as she bore into his bloodshot eyes. Ian did not look away, hell he couldn’t. After a moment of silence, she said, “Honor d’athair’s cuimhne. Tá tú náire dó le do ghníomhartha.”
Cleona, deceptively small, appearing frail but more powerful than she let on, took her son’s arm and briskly they turned and left the kitchen.
I turned to Kieran for an explanation. He stooped down and righted one of the kitchen chairs that had toppled during my scuffle with his brother. He seemed suddenly more somber, no longer the inquisitive, wide-eyed boy of just moments ago.
“She told him to honor my father’s memory. She said he’s an embarrassment to my father.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling awkward.
“You didn’t do anything. He was looking for fight and found it.” Now Kieran’s lips cracked a smile. “It didn’t go the way he planned, aye?”
I couldn’t help but smile. Kieran was a charming young lad. His thick mane of brown, wiry hair, those solid green eyes, and his sense of wonder were sure to make the ladies swoon. In a year, he’d be off to college and up to his neck in women. Or he would have been, before things changed.
“We really should hit the sack,” I told him. “It really has been a hell of day.”
He nodded and bent to pick up another chair. “G’night,” he said as he passed me; he gave my brother a high five. His boots thudded as he ascended the stairs. He was bunking with Ian, having generously offered his room to Brian and several others.
“Thanks for your help,” I told my brother when we were alone again.
“His beef was with you, little brother, not me. Besides, it was a fair fight.”
I couldn’t argue with that. In the morning, I was sure Ian and I would be friends again. Brian and I finished tidying the kitchen. I rinsed the cup from which I’d drunk and placed it in the wire dish rack beside the basin, then filled my canteen with water from the tap in case I was thirsty during what was left of this night.
In the living room, men and women slept scattered along the cold wood floor; blankets, quilts, and sleeping bags provided a bit of warmth. The
fire crackled and projected flickering shadows on their faces, along the walls and blinds, and up on the ceiling. These weren’t permanent arrangements. In the morning, we’d sit down with the Finnegan’s and hash out our arrangement.
I was so exhausted and I knew I could sleep now; it was time for my body to shut down, to rest and recover. I’d survived the biggest blizzard to hit the Midwest in more than twenty years; I’d fought off a horde of crazies and survived the disease that had killed my family and friends. And I had just had a knock-down brawl with an Irishman. Tomorrow was another day. Hopefully it would not be my last.
Chapter 1
Friends
The first month on the Finnegan Farm was a whirlwind and some of the busiest work I’d ever done. The long days filled with work and very little time for sleep reminded me of my time in Army boot camp so long ago. I had not been so exhausted since then. On the farm, though, we woke earlier and I found the work harder.
Our first order of business was to tour the houses and buildings around the main house and begin assigning quarters to the Randall Oaks residents. Behind the main house—a sprawling two-story farmhouse with wrap around porches—were two smaller structures. The first of the structures served as quarters for seasonal workers, as well as interns from the local community college’s agricultural programs who worked there for experience and class credit.
The building was a rectangular structure that ran perpendicular to the main house. At least two thousand square feet, there were ten rooms with two bunks per room. With its own bathroom and showers, the quarters reminded me even more of boot camp, but it was perfect for us.
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