Regeneration (Mad Swine Book 3) (16 page)

After a while, I walked to the rear
of the building and joined Brian. He sat on the hood of one of the
parked cars smoking a cigarette and watching the crazies jostle
each other in the confines of the horse trailer. I was suddenly
aware of the horrible sounds the cursed things made, almost like
the buzzing of locusts that just drove you nuts after listening too
long.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

Brian tossed his cigarette in the
direction of the river, hopped off the hood of the car, and grabbed
the red fuel can from the ground. Following behind him, we walked
to the horse trailer. The wet, guttural sounds that emerged from
the infected grew more intense as we drew closer. Horrible, mottled
colored faces pushed against the bars and mangled appendages
reached out toward us and the hungry creatures mindlessly trampled
and pushed each other against the steel.

After taking a knee and uncapping the
can, Brian stood a couple of feet back and began to slosh the amber
liquid into the openings, dousing the crazies. Their ugly moon
faces, now glistened with fuel, turned and tracked Brian as he
worked his way around the death trap container. Arms and hands
reached out for my brother, their starving bodies working to grab a
scrap of living flesh to fill their bellies.

Having used almost all of the fuel
dousing the creatures, Brian poured the remainder down the side of
the trailer, letting some pool on the ground near the hitch. He
tossed the empty can and I cringed at the sound of the metal
container as it struck the cold blacktop. Above the clamor of
infected sounds, I could not hear if other crazies out there,
alerted by the sound of the can, were closing in on us.

Turning in a circle, I scanned the
area, but I saw no threat.

Beside me, Brian pulled out a
crumpled pack of Doral cigarettes and tapped out a bent smoke into
his hand, then stuck it into the corner of his mouth. After
replacing the pack into the chest pocket of his coat, he produced a
small box of wooden matches, and carefully selected one stick.
Instead of lighting it, he rolled it softly between his
fingers.

“Look at their stupid faces,” he
said, not looking at me, but rather studying the infected. He
looked on for a several seconds as the things continued to make
their noises and reach out uselessly between the steel bars.
Finally, he looked at me and asked, “Why don’t they eat each other,
huh? Why doesn’t that stupid cow of a woman right there just turn
to the guy next to her that looks like Gary Busey and just take a
bite out of his stupid face?”

“They’re not cannibals,” I said. I
started to rub my hands together; the temperature was beginning to
drop again now that the sun had gone down.

Brian shook his head. “Don’t be
stupid. They eat human flesh. They’re cannibals.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t
have an answer and I wasn’t in a mood to mess with my brother. I
had enough of today and I wanted to get back to the farm, settle
down beside a nice fire, have a decent meal, and spend some quality
time with Lara. But that was still a day away, at least, perhaps
longer. For right now, I’d settle on being back behind the walls of
Randall Oaks and catching up with some friends I’d missed for the
last three months.

“Stop asking questions and do this,”
I said.

The night suddenly smelled like
sulfur and burning wood when Brian struck the match. He touched it
to his cigarette and puffed on it until the cherry burned bright
red. He tossed the match toward the puddle of fuel, but it blew out
before it landed.

“That was intentional,” he said and
laughed when I punched him in the chest.

“Hurry up, dick, or I’m leaving
without you.”

To further my bluff, I turned and
started back towards the front parking lot where the horses were
tied to a light pole, the very same one where I’d smashed the John
Deere lawnmower the day I met Kappy. That seemed like a lifetime
ago, but it had only been six months. As I walked, I heard the
sound of the fuel igniting and suddenly my shadow sprung out in
front of me as the light from the fire blazed bright behind me. I
did not pause to look back. I’d seen enough carnage today.

I Don’t Care
Anymore

The damage caused by the attack was
substantial. Thirteen dead. Twenty-seven wounded, eight of which
were in critical condition and would most likely die before the
night was over. Structurally, Randall Oaks was still strong, save
for the gap in the outer perimeter where the truck had barreled
through the barrier leaving it damaged beyond repair. Charred and
bullet pocked shells of vehicles, patches of the road and walls
scorched and sooty. The bodies of our fallen lined the road near
Harper’s Knoll, while the remains of the crazies burned in the
fields across, their burned flesh giving off a rancid odor and
filling the sky with thick black smoke.

Men and women—all unfamiliar to
me—rushed across the grounds, performing duties, pitching in where
needed. Their faces, some covered in soot or blood, all looked
exhausted, but they did not slow down or stop, not even for a
break. I had not seen so much activity since we’d been attacked by
Providence.

The triage center was a series of
large outdoor tents, like those you might see at weddings. Cords
with sheets or blankets hung over them served as walls, separating
the patients and the operating areas. I sat on a wooden chair in
what I dubbed the waiting room. I was awaiting news on Kat, but
Ravi had yet to make an appearance. She was not doubt busy saving
lives. Alone for the moment, I started to doze, but I found it
difficult to sleep with the moans and cries of pain from behind the
curtains.

After twenty minutes, I left the tent
and went in search of Phil and Brian. Instead, I found Sam, or
rather she found me. She was winded, as though she’d been running.
Taking hold of my arm she said, “Come with me, I want you to see
something.”

“What is it?”

“Just come, it’s important.”

Still in her grip, I followed her.
Instead of leading me toward the trailer where I thought Brian and
Phil might be, Sam led me in the opposite direction, past Harper’s
Knoll, toward my old home. We stopped in front of another tent,
this one a family size tent that could easily sleep eight. She held
the flap open and I stepped inside.

A single folding table stood in the
center of the tent. Sam led me to the table and smoothed out the
large poster-like sheet. It was a map of the city and outlying
areas. My eye immediately found Randall Oaks and Providence on the
map. Providence had been circled in red with a large X through it.
Randall Oaks was simply circled in red.

My attention now piqued, I studied
the map more thoroughly; lots of blue circles with red X’s crossed
through them. The circles and X’s seemed to follow Randall Road
from the east, moving westward, then moving slightly north,
stopping at Providence, and then heading west again. The trail of
circles continued northwest leading up to a relatively large red
circle, much larger than the rest.

“Where did you get this?” I
asked.

“Phil found it at that place,” she
said. I knew she meant Kappy’s. “What is it?”

I did not answer. That large red
circle. I did not have to read the small black text to know it was
Finnegan Farm. There was a series of smaller circles within the
larger circle, and they each were labeled: corn, squash, apples,
cabbage, pumpkin. The main house, stables and barn were circled on
the map. Beside the main house three dates were written: January
2014? February 2014? March/April 2014?

At the top of the map, I saw
something that made my stomach drop. A circle around the number
59.

Standing quickly, I turned to Sam.
“Where do they have the woman?”

“They have her in the trailer. She’s
with Brian and Phil right now. Why?”

With shaking hands, I tried to fold
the map, but almost succeeded in tearing it.

“Here, let me help you,” Sam said and
took the map from my bumbling hands. “Will you tell me what’s
happening?” she asked and held out the rolled map.

“Not now,” I said, snatching the map
from her grip. I turned and bolted out of the tent and dashed
across the road to the trailer. In less than thirty seconds, I
slammed up the wooden steps and burst in, taking Phil and Brian by
surprise.

I pushed past both men, ignoring
them, and I knelt down in front of the woman who was seated in one
of the wooden chairs. Her wrists were bound to the chair with
shoelaces, as were her ankles. She wore a pair of filthy jeans that
were a size or two large. The gray pullover sweater was soiled,
torn in places. Her dark brown hair was greasy and smudges of grime
dotted her left cheek and chin.

Without a word, I grabbed her face
with my right hand, my thumb and fingertips digging uncomfortably
into her flesh. She struggled at first to break free of my grip,
not knowing what I was trying to do, but I was stronger than she
was, and I managed to turn her head slightly and tilt it back,
exposing the tattoo I knew would be there.

“Recognize that?” I asked my
brother.

Brian leaned in for a closer look,
although I was sure he knew what he was looking at from where he
stood. He did not need the journal to help him remember.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” he said.

“What am I missing?” Phil asked as he
crowded in behind Brian to get a look at the mysterious tattoo.

Brian turned to him and put a hand on
his shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was low, “That’s the same
tattoo the dude who shot Kieran had on his neck. Same place.”

I released my grip on the woman’s
face, and now I roughly gripped her thighs tightly with both hands.
Applying pressure, not enough to cause real pain, but hard enough
to let her know that I would hurt her if she didn’t cooperate, I
said threateningly, “Tell me about the maps. Tell me what the
circles mean. Tell me what the dates mean.”

“What maps?” Phil asked.

Ignoring him, I said to the woman,
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

For a moment the woman simply glared
at me behind her brown eyes. My fingers tensed, ready to apply
pressure, but fortunately, hurting the woman was not necessary.

When she spoke, there was no tension
or bitterness in her voice. “I’ll tell you what you want to know,
but only if we do this the right way.”

“I’m all ears,” I said.

Tammy looked casually around the
room, taking in each of us, her eyes holding on my brother longer
than the rest. “Can I have a cigarette, darling?” she asked
Brian.

Brian pulled out his crumpled pack of
Doral’s and gingerly tapped one into his hand. He approached Tammy
and slipped the filtered end of the cigarette into the corner of
her dry lips and then lit it for her.

She took a deep drag of the cigarette
and blew out the smoke in a harsh sign. “Thank you, darling.” Her
eyes rolled to me now. “Do you mind?” she asked and wiggled her
wrists against her bonds.

From my pocket I pulled out my pocket
knife and flicked it open. As I touched the sharp edge to the
string that held her to the chair, I looked at her and said, “Do
something stupid—”

“Don’t worry, sweetie, I’m going to
behave just fine. I’m not into pain,” she said. Then she addressed
Brian, “Unless you want me to be.”

Brian stared at her, his face
emotionless, as I cut her bonds. True to her word, she did not
attempt to escape. She took another drag on the cigarette, and then
plucked it from her lips between the two fingers on her right
hand.

“So, I was telling these gentlemen
about how the five-niner’s operate before you barged in here like a
boss. Shall I continue, or do you want to talk about the maps? This
is your show, darling.”

“Start at the beginning,” I said. I
pulled up the other chair and sat in front of her, our knees
touching.

“Well ain’t this cozy?” She winked,
tilted her head back, and let out a cloud of smoke. “It’s quite
simple actually. Alvin said it just came to him one night when we
were lying in bed.”

“Who is Alvin?” I asked.

“He’s our leader. Crazy as bat-shit,
but smart like a fox.”

* * *

Alvin Stone, a successful executive
who owned one of the largest construction companies in the
Chicagoland area, was also, as Tammy described him, bat-shit
crazy.

He was diagnosed while in his
mid-twenties with a chemical imbalance of the brain. Although
treated by a psychiatrist and prescribed antidepressants, Alvin
often found himself wanting to end his own life and in fact
threatened to kill himself on several occasions, both at work and
at home with his family.

One year ago, just prior to his
diagnosis, Alvin was arrested for threatening to kill a neighbor
whom he swore was a demon hiding in human skin, but the charges
were dropped when the neighbor found out about his illness.

When Mad Swine infected most of the
populace, Alvin saw the apocalypse as an opportunity. After running
out of his medications, his eyes were suddenly open, and for the
first time, he saw the new world that had emerged, and he knew that
with it must come new rules. This new world would require
violence—vicious and gratuitous at times—to make the masses fall in
line and to survive the demons that lived within human skin.

The first time he killed a man was
two days after the outbreak. He killed his neighbor—the same one
that had not pressed charges when Alvin threatened his life—by
stabbing him to death with a hunting knife. He told his wife that
he could see the demon beneath the man’s flesh and he was simply
ridding the world of evil.

From that point forward, killing had
become a way of life for him, as easy as slipping on a coat. He
killed men who spoke against his ideas; he raped women who stole
scraps to feed their children. He created monsters from men who had
never done harm to another person before the outbreak; he showed
them the fun side of the new world.