Mad Swine (Book 2): Dead Winter (31 page)

I closed my eyes for just a few moments when I heard the door snick open. In the light of the fire, I watched Lara as she crossed the room. She was wearing one of my flannel shirts that fell to her knees…and nothing else. Dropping her bedroll next to the sofa, she spread it out and then knelt beside me.

She leaned forward and kissed my cheek and put her forehead against mine. Her nose pressed against my nose and her fingers slid into my hair and she started to massage my scalp. I longed for her touch, to feel the soft, supple curves of her body beneath my hands.

My lips found hers and we kissed. I slipped off the sofa and onto her blanket. Her breathing grew rapid as she started to unbutton my shirt and pulled it off my body. I tore her shirt away, exposing her milky flesh. By the glow of the firelight, we were lost within each other.

The morning sun was bright, almost blinding against the tundra. For as far as the eye could see the landscape was white, barren, and untouched. It felt good to be out in the cold air again and it felt even better to be on my feet and moving under my own volition.

Snow crunched beneath our feet as we crossed the barren fields, our group stretching out over about an eighth of a mile in front of me. Ian, Maureen and Jenna were out front with Brian, leading our column. From the tail end of our column I could hear Ian’s sweet voice singing an Irish folksong that was punchy yet sad. Jenna and Maureen—and Brian to my surprise—joined Ian in the chorus. I knew they must be really excited to get home, to see their family again. Their excitement was contagious, and soon we were all abuzz as word came down that we were less than a mile away from the main house.

Lara walked beside me now with her hand in mine, our fingers laced together. Wesley and Cody walked in front of us, giving us about ten feet of privacy. The boy seemed happy this morning, as though a weight had been lifted from his small shoulders after our conversation last night. In the sunlight, his sandy blonde hair looked more yellow than brown and I noticed for the first time that he’d grown an inch or two in the last three months. His pants were getting short and his coat was in bad shape, the sleeves falling a few inches short of his wrists. I made a mental note to find some new clothes for the boy.

Ian had taken up another tune as we continued our trek and just a short time later we passed under a large wooden sign that read:

You are now entering Finnegan Farms – SlÁinte

A cheer went up among our ranks. The sound of laughter and applause was enough to lift my spirits even further.

Off in the distance, about a quarter mile by my estimate, the large farmhouse spread out in front of us. The sprawling house boasted a slate gray pitched roof. The siding was a lighter gray and the sun reflected brightly off the white newel posts and window frames. At the front of the two-story structure a single dormer window jutted from the roofline and must have provided a beautiful view of the fields in the summer. Beyond the main home two grain silos jutted up from the icy ground, looming like chess rooks. Several pickup trucks were parked in a neat row beneath the boughs of a massive tree.

We were all so absorbed in the picturesque view that we did not at first notice the bodies until Ian abruptly stopped singing and shouted out. Lara and I ran toward Ian, as did the rest of our party. Free from the weight of a pack and weapons, I ran quickly, my feet hammering the snow, my heavy breath and the pounding of my heart throbbing in my ears. I sprinted past three bodies nearly piled atop one another on my left, their arms and legs askew and their faces soiled with dried blood. These were all infected who had been shot in the head; the ragged holes left by a large caliber bullet were noticeable even as I passed them at a run.

Someone called out that there were more bodies ahead but I was focused on Ian, who let out a strange cry, followed by Maureen’s scream. I bolted past another cluster of bodies about twenty yards ahead; both human and infected lay in the snow in a tangled mess, they blood staining the land a dark maroon. Suddenly Lara gripped my arm tightly and made a sucking sound. Keeping pace, she pointed to the north but I didn’t need her to point out the mounds of darkness that dotted the snow-covered landscape. Fifteen to twenty bodies spread out over thirty yards.

Justin and others had already formed up around Ian and Maureen. As we approached, Lara let go of my arm and turned away from those who had already gathered around. Finally coming to a halt, I doubled over, hands on my knees and struggling to catch my breath. Lara navigated her way toward one of the mounds she’d pointed out just seconds ago before I finally turned my attention back to Ian and Maureen.

Pushing my way through to the center of the ring they’d formed around our colleague, I dropped down to my knees beside Ian who held the body of an older man, probably in his sixties. The dead man had a shock of thick white hair and skin that was rough and wrinkled from years of work in the hot sun. The left side of the man’s face appeared normal, but I could see through his right cheek where the flesh had been torn away, exposing the white of his teeth. The way Ian cradled the man against his chest while he wept I could only assume the man was his father, the patriarch of the Finnegan clan.

Somewhat shocked by the sudden turn of events, I noticed Brian kneeling in the cold snow beside me, his sad eyes looking on as his friend grieved. Everyone who stood around looked on in numb silence with tears in their eyes. We had not known the elder Finnegan, but he had been one of ours, and so we all mourned him.

Something on the ground glittered in the sunlight and caught my attention. I picked up the object to examine it and discovered it was an ejected shell casing. Upon further inspection, I saw that it was a 7.62 x 39, the same dimensions as the ammunition fired by my SKS or the AK-47 carbine. I shifted my position and started to look around, brushing away the snow to reveal the ground below. I found many more casings scattered about. In addition to the 7.62 x 39 I also found 5.56 and 9mm casings, all popular military rounds. There had been a major battle here, but who had done the fighting?

I showed Brian the casing and he looked at them with great interest. When he looked at me I saw more than anger and fear in his eyes. He looked away, suddenly, his eyes sweeping the landscape as if looking for an unseen enemy. Suddenly he stood, and I looked around, too, trying to figure out what had him so agitated. He started running in the direction of the house and I stood and followed. He was moving so fast that I almost couldn’t keep pace with him. My body hadn’t recovered from my recent bout of Mad Swine and after expending my energy just minutes ago in a full out run I felt winded again after only several yards.

“Brian, wait!” I called out and started to jog toward him again. “What’s happening?”

He stopped suddenly and faced me, holding up the expended shell casings. “The Finnegans don’t have firearms like these. They have a couple of shotguns and a hunting rifle. Someone else shot them up.”

“Who would do that? You said no one lived around for miles.”

“They don’t,” he said and made for the house.

I followed him onto the porch. The front door stood open, the frame around the door was splintered, and sections of the painted wood hung loosely. Someone had forced their way into the house. We entered into a dimly lighted living room expecting to find the house ransacked, but with the exception of an overturned lamp and an armchair that was pushed askew, nothing seemed out of place.

“Cleona! Seamus!” Brian stormed through the living room to the foot of the stairs that led up to the second floor of the home. “Kieran are you up there, man? Talk to me damn it!”

The only name I was familiar with was Seamus, Ian’s uncle who owned the house down the road. I could only guess the others were family members; Brian had said there were eleven members of the family. Completely unfamiliar with the lay of the land, I followed Brian into the adjoining kitchen. Two of the kitchen chairs were overturned and the table was pushed from the center of the room and butted up against the refrigerator. Another door that led out to the back of the house also stood open. The glass window encased in the upper half of the door was missing several panes—the glass shards lay on the wood floor—and thin cotton curtains billowed through the slats.

Passing the sink, I paused and peered outside the window. What must have been a barn—or at least that’s what I thought it had once been—was smoldering to the east. The structure had been devastated by the fire and only portions of the northeast corner still stood; the red paint was marked with thick coats of black charcoal. An unmistakable dark hump of bodies—at least six more—dotted the snow-covered ground just yards away from the decimated structure.

“Look,” I said to my brother, barely able to find my voice.

“No, no, no!” Brian moaned as he raced out of the kitchen and ran in the direction of the bodies.

At the window I remained for long moments, probably in shock, my mind reeling from the sudden turn of events. From behind the glass I watched as Brian approached the mass of burned bodies and started to lift each body. Grabbing the first of the corpses by its arm, he dragged the lifeless body away from the pile, and then he returned and pulled the next. I continued to watch him from the window, finally realizing as he pulled away the third body, that he was looking for Cleona, Seamus or Kieran, the names he’d called out just minutes ago.

Still somewhat shocked, I gathered myself together and exited the kitchen, stepping back out into the mild winter morning. Brian had already checked the last of the bodies and as I approached he ran into the center of what remained of the barn and peered around desperately. Only two of the walls of the structure remained; the other walls had been burned down almost to the ground. Under our feet the ground was blackened and it looked as though someone had spilled gallons of thick crude oil on the ground, giving it a sludgy consistency.

Even as I stood beside him, Brian whirled around toward the house and was on the move again. He stopped at what appeared to be a storm cellar, its thick concrete casing hidden by the snow. He grabbed the two iron handles, one on each of the two doors that covered the entrance, and pulled, pulled, pulled, but the doors must have been secured from the inside.

Ian came bolting out from the opened kitchen door, stumbling down the steps and falling to the ground.

“Ma! Ma where are ya, Ma!” he shouted. He got quickly to his feet and started toward the bodies near the barn, but when he heard Brian’s voice, he quickly changed direction and sprinted toward my brother, slipping again but falling down beside Brian.

Both men began to hammer on the doors relentlessly with their fists as they called out the names of the missing. Ian’s voice had grown hoarse as he continued to call out for his mother. As I watched him slam his fists against the thick wood my heart sank for the man.

I stupidly stood by, watching idly as the two men battered their bodies against the unyielding door. It wasn’t until I heard the anguish in Maureen’s voice when she asked me if her Ma was dead did I finally break free from the dulled effects of shock. Without answering the poor woman, I ran frantically toward the direction of the barn and started to sift through the rubble, digging through the sooty, oily earth with my bare hands, looking for anything I could use to help pry open the cellar.

It was blind luck that the piece of charred metal bar tore into my skin, gouging my flesh painfully. Ignoring the pain, I jumped to my feet and staggered back toward the two men.

“Move!” I shouted and pushed both men aside. With a ferocity that surprised me, I attacked the doors with my improvised pry bar, at first gouging the wood and merely bending the handles.

I savagely battered at the doors for another minute or two before finally using my head and approaching the problem from another angle. Instead of battering my way in, I managed to get the pipe between the concrete frame and the jamb of one of the doors and put all of my weight into it. Brian and Ian piled on suddenly, providing more leverage, and with a ripping sound one of the doors finally split, the wood giving out against our combined weight.

Ian jumped down into the cellar, landing heavily below, and Brian followed him down into the darkness. I barely noticed Maureen slowly making her way down into the cellar as I collapsed against the rim of the foundation and stared down into the void after her. From somewhere down there I heard voices of women and men, though I could not discern how many were down there. Ian’s laughter came to me clearly, and I knew that his mother must be alive, she had to be.

Dropping the metal pipe, I sat up on the concrete lip of the shelter and stared down at my hands while I tried to control my breathing. My hands were covered in the thick black soot, but they might as well have been covered in blood; I felt like I had the blood of too many on my hands.

All of my decisions over the last three months had suddenly come back to haunt me. How many people had died under my command? There had once been over a hundred souls living in Randall Oaks the first week after the Mad Swine infection changed our world. A month later less than half that number still survived. Two months later, there were less than thirty.

From the storm cellar, the remaining Finnegans began to emerge. Men and women of various ages came forth, dirty and weary but joyous to see the rest of their clan. Maureen laughed and cried at the same time as she hugged her kin, each in turn, as they emerged from below. Ian came last, escorting an elderly woman I could only assume was the Finnegan matriarch. His arms surrounded her and he was hunched over, speaking to her in whispers; she was stone-faced, expressionless. The Finnegans were raw with mixed emotions. They were shocked by the tragic loss of the members of their clan, but excited and grateful for those who’d survived whatever had transpired on this land.