Regeneration (Mad Swine Book 3) (8 page)

I shrugged my shoulders. “Don’t know.
Sounds logical, though. There’s so much about these things we don’t
understand.”

“That’s the problem. We don’t
understand them, at least not at the biological level. Sure, we
know they hunt by sight and sound. We know their basic level of
intelligence. But we don’t know what makes them tick or why only
damaging the brain kills them. And until we understand them, we
can’t cure them.”

“I don’t think we can cure them, Bri.
I think we know enough about them to know there is no coming back
from…that.”

Now Brian shrugged his shoulders.
“You’re probably right about that. But if not cure them, find
immunity for the rest of us that are left so that we can take this
all back.”

We rode on in silence for a while.
After about twenty minutes, I asked Brian to stop the wagon. He
didn’t need to ask why. He saw what had grabbed my attention. I
leapt down from the passenger’s bench and walked around the horses
to the opposite side of the road where the wheelchair lay upended
with Ray’s backpack still attached to the back of the seat.

I spent a few seconds untangling the
straps and then slung the pack onto my shoulder and paused a
moment, reflecting. Most of what happened is this very spot several
months ago was hazy to me. I tried hard to recall the attack. There
were three of the crazies attacking us from every side. I remember
trying to fend them off with my SKS. At some point, I dropped the
SKS in order to drag Ray away from the creatures.

Turning suddenly, I scanned the side
of the road and started walking back toward the rear of the wagon,
searching for the place I had dropped the rifle.

“What’s up?” Brian asked, suddenly on
alert. He started to stand, but then he sat again when I waived him
off.

“I’m just looking for something. Give
me a minute.”

“The day is wasting, son, let’s get a
move on,” he said. “Not to mention we’re sitting ducks out here.
You see them coming from over there on the right, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I see them,” I said, although
I wasn’t paying attention to what was happening on our right flank,
although I could hear the sounds of the crazies as they drew near.
I was focused on finding the SKS if it was still around.

I don’t know why at the moment I felt
so obsessed with finding the weapon. Yes, it had served me well
since the beginning of the outbreak and had been my most trusted
weapon, but after a long winter, surely the harsh elements had
taken their toll. The fact was, the weapon was probably damaged,
but still, I wanted it back.

“Dude, whatever you’re doing back
there, make it snappy. And watch those woods. Those nasty shits
could be stacked up in there just waiting for a taste of your pasty
white meat.”

“Uh-huh,” I responded absently, my
eyes scanning, taking in the terrain, searching for clues that
might reveal my prize.

About twenty feet back from the
wagon, I spotted the butt end sticking out of the brush and I
almost squealed with excitement. Hurrying down the slight decline
of the embankment, I almost slipped on the innards of a long-dead
creature, probably one of those that had attacked Ray and me during
the white out. Luckily, I was able to keep my balance before
falling into the oozing carcass.

I snatched up the SKS from under a
scattering of branches and soggy leaves and quickly brushed off the
foliage. The wood felt slick in my hands, but thankfully, the thick
shellac held up well to the elements. There didn’t appear to be any
major structural damage to the stock. The barrel and receiver cover
were showing some signs of rust spotting on the surface. My
concern, though, was the inside of the barrel. I’d need to inspect
it later and make sure there was no major rust or pitting.

I pulled back the bolt carrier and a
round spun out of the chamber and fell to the ground. I worked the
bolt carrier back and forth several times in quick succession
noting that it didn’t stick or catch. The action seemed in working
order.

The leather strap was quite damaged;
one end cut and dangled from the sling mount at the butt of the
rifle. The leather had turned grayish and appeared to have
shriveled. No matter though. A sling was easily replaceable. I was
just glad to have the SKS back. I was optimistic that after some
TLC, I could restore her back to battle ready.

A hushed rustle of leaves and
snapping branch alerted me that something was approaching from the
trees out in front of me. My head jerked up as I slowly lowered the
SKS. Through the sparse, bare trees, I spotted the woman several
yards out, slightly to my left. She trudged through the thin layer
of snow, her awkward gait gave her the appearance of
inebriation.

“What’s up?” Brian asked, standing
again, ready for action.

“Its fine,” I assured him.

Rather than heading back to the wagon
and moving on as I knew I should, I took several steps forward and
halted just a few feet from where the tree line began. Curious, I
watched the woman as she continued her drunken approach. Now just a
couple of yards away, I could see clearly the features of this
creature.

I was surprised, to say the least.
The woman must have been in her thirties, but by the way her skin
sagged around her jawline and neck, by appearance I would have
guessed she was in her sixties, perhaps seventies. The
greenish-gray color of her skin made her appear mottled,
diseased.

“Matt, what are you doing?”

“Just give me a minute, dude,” I
snapped at him, although my eyes never left the thing that now
stood in front of me.

She struggled through a copse of thin
branches as she broke through the trees, as though they were arms
gripping her. Now just feet away, I extended the SKS out in front
of me and poked her breasts. Although she pushed against the rifle,
I felt little pressure behind it. Gripping the SKS with both hands,
I gave a slight shove and instantly, the crazy feel backward, onto
the ground.

Before my brother could call out for
me again, I said, “I’m fine. Just stay with the wagon.”

“Stop messing around. The others are
getting close.”

“Just a minute,” I said.

As I watched, the thing attempted to
push up, but was having a difficult time supporting her weight.
Again using the SKS, I placed the butt against her chest and pushed
the creature down to the ground. Taking a knee beside her, I
stepped on her right arm, the one closest to me, before she could
reach out and scratch me. Although I was immune to the disease, an
open and infected wound could kill me.

On closer examination, the skin color
of the skin was, indeed, a waxy green, with gray and pinkish
splotches that dotted her face, arms and hands, the only exposed
parts of her body I could see. Her eyes appeared milky around the
edge of the cornea. Clumps of her hair were missing and I could see
that same greenish-grayish-pinkish color where the hair was either
pulled out or had fallen out.

Although she struggled beneath my
grip, it was as if I were holding down an infant or young child; it
took very little effort for me to keep her pressed against the cold
ground. The thing’s skin was slick to the touch, more than just the
clamminess of sweat, as though it secreted some Vaseline-like
substance from its pores. The skin itself did not have the taut
elasticity I expected; instead, a depression remained on the
creature’s cheek where I pushed my thumb against the skin. After
thirty seconds, the depression remained.

“Let’s go, damn it,” Brian said and
startled me. He stood just behind me and was already pulling me up
by my coat.

“For Christ sake, dude, I almost
dropped a load in my pants. I told you to stay with the wagon.”

“What the hell are you doing with
this thing?” He asked. Before I could answer, he cleaved the
thing’s head with his machete. He crouched down and looked up at me
while he cleaned the blood on the dead thing’s clothing. “Were you
asking her out on a fucking date? In about a minute we’re going to
be swarmed by dead meat and you’re over here playing around with
dead things.”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes.
“Let’s go,” I said and made my way to the wagon. The crazies on our
right flank were indeed closer, much closer than I expected. He was
right; this was stupid and could have been a disaster. We should
have left already.

Slamming down onto the bench next to
me, I expected him to start harping on me, but instead, he snapped
the reins and got the horses moving without a word. For a while, we
rode on in silence, except for the echoing sound of hooves
clattering against pavement. The beautiful country sprawled out on
both sides as we continued to roll down Route 20. I no longer
noticed heads or bodies appearing from below the snow.

After a while, Brian finally said,
“You were studying that thing. Weren’t you?”

I nodded.

“Did you find out anything
useful?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have found out something.
You were prodding that thing like you were some sort of mad
scientist.”

I laughed at that. “I can’t draw any
conclusions from looking at one specimen.”

“Just tell me already before I punch
you in the face.”

I laughed again, because I knew he
would do it. It was fun to push his buttons and watch him get
flustered.

“All right, chill. You know, you
don’t always have to jump right to punching someone in the face.
You have to work your way up to that.”

“Dude, seriously. Your face is one
second away from getting punched.”

“See, now you are showing restraint.
You shall now be rewarded.”

Instead of punching me in the face,
he gave me a hard shot to the shoulder that made me drop the SKS
and grunt in pain. “Asshole.”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “Study
that, Einstein.”

We rode again in silence; Brian had a
smirk on his face enjoying my discomfort, while I sat nursing my
bruised shoulder and ego. After a while, I closed my eyes and
started to dose. I don’t know how much longer we rode on before
Brian reached out and shook me awake. He brought the wagon to a
halt.

“What the hell is this?” he
asked.

Shaking off sleep, I wondered if what
I was seeing was real. Across the two lane blacktop, a huge
trailer, the type pulled by a semi-tractor, lay on its side, its
full length stretching beyond the road on each side. On either side
of the trailer, various trailers, dumpsters and containers were
strung together creating a very long and high make-shift fence.
Actually, border, was probably a better word.

“Where are we?” I wondered aloud.

“We’re just past the Kennel. Reverend
Reggie’s congregation is just to the south. Randall Oaks is just on
the other side of the barrier.”

“Get us closer,” I said.

The horses trotted and Brian halted
them again about twenty feet from the wall. We both jumped down
from the wagon and stood looking at the barrier. From here, I could
see that the containers stretched into the woods beyond for about
one hundred feet, perhaps more. The wall on the right went even
further.

“How the hell do we get around it?” I
asked.

“That’s the point of it,” Brian said
and kicked the trailer. The empty throng sound vibrated along the
trailer and into the containers that butted up against it on both
sides. “To keep those things out. Or to keep someone in.”

“Who put it here, though? Certainly
not Sam and Kat. They wouldn’t have the manpower or resources to do
something like this.”

Before Brian could respond, a sudden
burst of movement came from our left. We both turned in that
direction, startled. From the tree lines and defilade along the
road, a group of men and women—ten or twelve in all—appeared, each
pointing a weapon at us.

Enemy of my
Enemies

“For mine enemies speak against
me;

and they that lay wait for my soul
take counsel together.”

Psalms 71:10

Brian’s first reaction was to raise
his weapon, but I knew my brother too well, and I reached out and
stayed his rifle before he could do something foolish. We were
outnumbered, outgunned, and there was something going on within
Randall Oaks that we obviously didn’t know about. We needed to
figure out what was going on before we got dead.

“No, we don’t want that. Not yet. We
can’t win this.”

Four of the strangers, three men and
a woman approached us, yelling for us to lower our weapons and face
the trailer. We both complied; Brian setting down his rifle and I
removing my belt and letting my holstered pistol and machete down.
Two of the group hurried forward and snatched away our weapons, all
the while keeping their weapons still trained on us.

“Search them,” one of them said.
“Check them good.”

One of the two men who came forward
and grabbed our weapons now shouldered his carbine. “Get your hand
against the wall,” he said and shoved my brother up roughly against
the trailer and began to frisk him, checking for other weapons.

“Take it easy,” I said. “We’re
cooperating.”

The second man, the youngest of this
group, shouldered his rifle and asked me to put my hand against the
trailer. I complied and he began his pat down. When he finished his
inspection, he told me to turnaround.

“They’re clean,” the young man said.
He unshouldered his weapon, although he did not point it in our
direction.

Now, the man who had roughly searched
my brother approached. To me he asked, “Are you alone?”

“We’re not looking for trouble,” I
said, trying to look friendly, non-threating. I wanted to avoid any
stupid misunderstandings that could quickly escalate the situation
to the point where blood was spilled.

Using his rifle butt, he nudged it
against my chest and said, “I asked if you were alone, not if you
were looking for trouble. I’ll ask the question one more time. Are
you two alone?”