Regeneration (Mad Swine Book 3) (2 page)

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.

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.

During the growing season, the bunks
were full with seasonal workers that helped keep the farm running.
During the winter, only three of the workers had remained living in
the dorm. Carrie and David had come down from Canada to backpack
across the U.S., but they ended up taking jobs on the Farm and fell
in love with the Finnegan’s and the lifestyle, and stayed on. The
other winter resident, Ernesto, was an immigrant from Mexico who
was working to save money to bring his family to the United States.
During the winter, they helped with the livestock and other farm
chores, and in return, they were given room and board, and a
monthly stipend.

Now, only Carrie remained as a
resident in the dorms; David and Ernesto had died with Old Man
Finnegan the night before we’d arrived, killed by a small group of
men who had come to the farm in search of food and supplies.

To the west, between the main house
and the quarters was another single story rectangular structure
that served as a kitchen and cannery. Although half the size of the
quarters, the kitchen was large enough to accommodate a team of
chefs, and was equipped with stoves, ovens, walk-in freezer, and
several refrigeration units. There were also two pantries, which
stored much of the canning that Maureen and Cleona did for the
family. The large prep area consisted of three large stainless
steel tables that formed a U shape at the center of the room. At
the opposite end of the kitchen, double swinging doors opened up
onto a large dining space with two twenty foot tables flanking each
other. Instead of individual chairs, long benches served to seat at
least forty diners. Just outside the kitchen stood a smokehouse and
root cellar.

Further to the west lay the remains
of the original barn, which the family had outgrown many years ago.
The original barn, before it burned, was used primarily for the
family’s personal storage and garage where the Finnegan brothers
worked on their motorcycle projects. To the north, the new barn
stood, a massive structure nearly ten thousand square feet. West of
the new barn—built about seven years ago to meet the growing needs
of the farm—were several additional structures, including a large
machine shed, granary, and corn house.

To the east was a patch of land that
Maureen called the garden, where the family grew lettuce, carrots,
potatoes, onions, cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes, and herbs and
spices for their own consumption. Flanking the garden was a large
greenhouse that stretched across an open field, beyond which stood
pastures and fields on which they grew various crops, sprawling as
far as the eye could see before the land gave way to thick
shrubbery and woods that surrounded the farm.

Further west, beyond the sheds, stood
more fields and the access road that meandered around the vast land
that eventually intersected with a main rural route. Opposite the
road were residential homes with small patches of pasture and
fields, but nothing on the scale of the Finnegan farm.

Winter at Finnegan Farm was as close
to typical as possible to what farmers do during the winter in
Illinois, or so Lara told me. She’d spent most of her time
shadowing Cleona and Maureen, the matriarchs of the family.
Although there was no need to reconcile books or paperwork any
longer, there were logs and notes to study as they began to
consider next year’s crop cycle. There were the basic farm chores
as well, like cleaning and maintaining the equipment, caring for
livestock, and tracking inventory. Winter was also a time for
repairs, when farmers finally had time to mend fences, paint the
barn, and make small repairs around the house.

This winter, we were busy making the
repairs that would save our lives. Although the vast property was
fenced, the four-foot wood frames were not formidable enough to
keep out the infected. The harsh temperatures and thick snowfall
early in the month had kept the infected activity minimal. However,
as the temperatures became mild, the crazies had become more
active, like bears waking from hibernation and seeking out their
first meal. One morning we awoke to a few of the infected wandering
around in the garden, which enraged mama Cleona as she swore the
creatures would poison her soil.

Lara came up with the idea to dig
trenches outside the fences, pits that the infected would fall into
before reaching the fence. The pits needed to be deep enough that
the crazies could not easily climb out. Kieran later contributed
the idea to wrap barbed wire around the tops of the fences as an
added defense, hopefully, snaring a crazy and trapping it before it
could make it over onto our side of the field.

So it was during that warm stretch
when temperatures reached mid-thirties and lower forties when Ian
demonstrated how to use the backhoe. Over a period of five days, we
spent twelve-hour shifts digging the ditches around the farm—which
was much larger than I expected. At first, we used the machinery,
but later there was concern about fuel consumption, so we continued
to dig with shovels to conserve precious fuel that would be needed
come spring, when it came time to plant new crops.

At the same time we were digging
ditches, we were also raising a new barn on the ashes of the old.
The new barn was more than just symbolic; it would be used as a
place of gathering and learning, space that would be much needed
now that Randall Oaks had joined the family. Come spring, we would
be adding to our ranks when Kat, Sam and those who remained at
Randall Oaks would also join us.

More than just building, fixing, and
maintaining, there was much to learn about farm life which was a
lot harder than many of us expected. Although we still had the hard
days of planting and harvesting ahead of us, just basic chores of
everyday life on the farm took getting used to. Waking up before
the sunrise, learning to work with equipment, feed, and livestock
was a new experience for all of us, but the Finnegans were
excellent teachers and were accustomed to working with those new to
their lifestyle.