Mad Swine: The Beginning Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE:

  CHAPTER 1:

  CHAPTER 2:

  CHAPTER 3:

  CHAPTER 4:

  CHAPTER 5:

  CHAPTER 6:

  CHAPTER 7:

  CHAPTER 8:

  CHAPTER 9:

  CHAPTER 10:

  CHAPTER 11:

  CHAPTER 12:

  CHAPTER 13:

  CHAPTER 14:

  CHAPTER 15:

  EPILOGUE:

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mad Swine: The Beginning

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE:

  CHAPTER 1:

  CHAPTER 2:

  CHAPTER 3:

  CHAPTER 4:

  CHAPTER 5:

  CHAPTER 6:

  CHAPTER 7:

  CHAPTER 8:

  CHAPTER 9:

  CHAPTER 10:

  CHAPTER 11:

  CHAPTER 12:

  CHAPTER 13:

  CHAPTER 14:

  CHAPTER 15:

  EPILOGUE:

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mad Swine: The Beginning

  Steven Pajak

  Published by Permuted Press at Smashwords.

  Copyright 2012 Steven Pajak.

  www.PermutedPress.com

  Cover art by Richard Yoo.

  Acknowledgements

  This book is dedicated to my brother Brian for allowing me to use his likeness in the novel and for his contributions to the storyline.

  I’d also like to thank the members of AR15.com, Zombie Central, and Essential Survival Guides & Fiction forums, as well as those at SKSboards.com who took a chance on reading this in its early stages of development and encouraged me to finish this for publication.

  PROLOGUE:

  The Beginning

  No one really knows how or why it started. What we do know is that the H1N1 virus—or the damn vaccinations that everyone so anxiously lined up for hours to get—mutated in a bad way. Whether this mutation happened naturally, like the seasonal influenza virus does every year by changing its signature protein, or if it was the work of some mad dictator bent on bringing hell into the world by unleashing the bastardized disease, no one can say for sure. Even now, information about the origin of the disease and its spread across the continents is sporadic at best and filled with guesses, assumptions and fiction.

  If there was an official name to the disease I never knew it. Most people called it “Mad Swine” because it was derived from the original “Swine Flu”. I know that “Mad Swine” doesn’t really come close to properly describing what the damn virus truly is—we’re still not sure and we may never know—but I can’t think of a better or more descriptive title.

  Although it’s not a truly accurate term, people started to refer to the infected as “zombies” from the very beginning. The word “zombie” implies that the infected person has died and been reanimated, but those infected with Mad Swine didn’t die. They’re still alive; they even breathe. They’re just not…human anymore.

  The infected didn’t resemble zombies, at least not in the beginning, and not like any movie zombies that we all reference when we hear that word. In fact, by all outward appearances an infected appeared as ordinary as any other person. They’re not pale or gray, nor do they resemble anything we’d describe as dead-looking. And except for the stupid, confused look that’s apparent on their face when they’re not trying to tear at someone’s flesh, you wouldn’t know they were some fucked up dreg of humanity until they turned on you with teeth bared, seeking your flesh.

  Their seemingly normal appearance worked in favor of the disease and helped spread Mad Swine quickly. I’m sure by now we’ve all heard tales—some of you may even have firsthand experience—of someone sitting at a bus stop minding their own business and reading a paperback when a man in a suit and tie, looking like he’s ready for day trading or on his way to court for a deposition, walks up to the unsuspecting traveler and takes a bite out their cheek. The infected, the “crazies” as I tend to call them, looked so completely normal in the beginning that you let them get close, but by then it was already too late. By then you were either dinner or worse, part of the horde.

  As time progresses, the infected begin to look more like what we think of as the classic zombie: tattered clothing, sunken faces, blood stained, and mottled flesh. Some of them end up looking like road kill after a few months. They become dirty and crusted with blood, brain matter, and other fluids. Some of them sustain severe bodily damage, too, and look like demons crawled forth from hell before their bodies have time to repair. Their advanced and deteriorated state just adds to the Halloween effect.

  Once I saw an infected that looked like he’d been hit by a garbage truck, dragged for a mile over a cobblestone road and then loaded into a meat grinder. His face was literally ribbons of old flesh that dried like jerky. In the socket where his left eye had been, dark flesh and spots of white bone were exposed. His legs were torn and tattered but must have healed a great deal to allow him to walk. His appearance was so shocking and horrific that I killed him instantly rather than trying to evade him. Perhaps my actions were born out of the desire to give him peace, but more likely my reasons were selfish. I just couldn’t bear witness to such an atrocity walking through my world. After I blew his head off with the shotgun he still looked the same as he did before I pulled the trigger. But he no longer walked among us.

  Over time, the stink of them becomes unbearable. The scent of their diseased and deteriorated flesh and the stench of their fetid breath are not the only aromas that cling to them; the world is their toilet. The crazies urinate and defecate as they walk the streets, like guinea pigs trapped in a cage. Their clothes or the tattered remnants that adorn their disgusting bodies become soiled with their body’s excretions. I witnessed an infected man who had shat his pants so many times that the seat of his trousers was distended. Although much of it had seeped down his legs, enough of the excrement had accumulated that he appeared to have an enormous hemorrhoid.

  An important difference between zombies and the crazies is that those infected with Mad Swine sleep, at least they did in the beginning. The infected would fall into a deep coma-like slumber at sundown, or shortly thereafter. Casual sounds would not wake them, but loud rackets would rouse them. Although this is speculation, I believe this slumber was an effect of the disease, allowing it to infest the entire circulatory system, to take full control of all organs and tissue. I also believe that during this time the healing process began for the wounded creatures; skin, bones, muscle, and tissue would regenerate while their bodies lay dormant.

  Mad Swine was like nothing we’ve ever seen before. I’m not a scientist and I’m not going to get technical, so don’t expect that I can fully explain this. And don’t think that everything I tell you is the truth, because the fact is, I don’t know everything about it, nor am I truly interested in the how and why. At least not anymore; right now I only care to survive. But here’s what I know: Mad Swine spread through bodily fluids, by contact with infected blood, and through sexual intercourse. Some believe that the disease must have also been airborne for some time in the beginning for it to have spread so quickly, but that has been neither confirmed nor denied. There is probably some truth in that theory, but I spent little time studying the origins of Mad Swine, and instead set my goal on survival.

  Whatever the method, once infected, the host initially showed no outward signs of changing during the first twenty-four hours. However, in the case of the elderly or the very young, newly infected have been known to turn in as few as eight or nine hours. Once Mad Swine took hold in the body, the infection spread with such quickness, perhaps because of thei
r weaker immune systems. In rare cases some infected with Mad Swine continued to survive for as much as seventy-two hours without showing symptoms.

  After infection, the disease first attacked the memory. At first they’d forget the small things, like picking up that roll of toilet paper on the way home from work or telling a coworker that the boss wanted to see them when they were done with their phone call. As the infection continued to incubate, to lock its tendrils into the circulatory system and nervous system, memory loss became much more severe and complete deterioration of the mind occurred rapidly thereafter. Soon the infected couldn’t remember their children’s names or recognize family members and close friends; the mind deteriorated to the point of total devolution, and the infected would forget everything except the most basic of instincts of the human animal—the need to eat to continue to survive.

  One thing those infected with Mad Swine do have in common with the conventional zombie is that a headshot will kill them. Chopping off the head or severely caving in the skull and damaging the brain will do the trick. Aside from these methods, the crazies are hard to kill, because, as a side-effect to the H1N1 vaccination’s mutation, their wounds heal over time. The damn things actually regenerate flesh and broken bone actually re-fuses with frightening speed. A gunshot to the thigh will slow an infected down a bit but within three days the wound will heal. Surprisingly, blood loss, even severe blood loss, does not kill the crazies. The mutated virus drastically increases blood regeneration to a matter of minutes.

  Since the day Mad Swine began to decimate our way of life, I have seen infected hit by automobiles, thrown and dragged, with legs disabled, who still kept coming, crawling their way toward human flesh. Even legless or armless, they continue to live, driven by their mindless hunger. Without fear or pain to inhibit them, the infected were unstoppable. Within a week, small towns were completely overridden. In two weeks large cities fell and entire states were overrun by the infected. With a mere three percent immunity to the H1N1 vaccinations and the overwhelming ratio of infected over humans, there were pathetically few of us left after the first six months.

  CHAPTER 1:

  Egress

  The morning that the world changed started like any other. I was running late again because of the traffic on the Jane Addams. The road crews were working on the same stretches of road they worked on last year. Although to my untrained eye the road looked to be in good repair, it was obviously in need of professional care. Traffic cones, blaring horns and insane-angry drivers had become as much a part of my day as getting that cup of morning coffee and kissing my wife on my way out the door.

  The kids were late to school and received tardy slips again. My daughter complained about it as I accompanied her on her walk of shame down the hall to her classroom. She tried to find a place to hide the pink slip before anyone saw it. Katie thinks our record for most tardy slips in a week reflects badly on her second grade social life. Mark on the other hand was a trooper and simply collected his pink slip from the office attendant and swaggered down the hall like he owned the joint. As a kindergartner, he obviously didn’t yet share his sister’s social awareness.

  Next, I made the commute to work, which was pretty uneventful after the stressful journey on the Jane Addams. After consulting my wristwatch and realizing I was already running twenty minutes late, I skipped my planned detour to Dunkin Donuts. I strode into the office just over a half hour late, but I had the advantage of being the man in charge and no one even lifted an eyebrow at my untimely entrance. I greeted the front desk staff, who kindly buzzed me in, and then I worked my way through the maze of halls and cubicles, nodding a good morning to whomever I passed. I poked my head into the vice president’s office and discussed the usual morning statistics and attendance logs. That was just small talk leading up to a more serious discussion about the latest professional sports games. I had picked my teams well this year and my bracket was the envy of the office.

  When I finally made it to my own office I found my staff in good spirits. We were caught up on projects and there was so little tension that everyone was able to breathe a little easier. I was even able to extend our admission deadlines a month without the usual groans, protests, and eye-rolling. I passed the student worker desk and was greeted with an assortment of pastries, cookies and fresh banana bread. We’d celebrated Mary’s birthday last week, and everyone in the office had pooled their money and purchased a set of cookware and a bread maker for her. Mary had obviously put our present to good use. I grabbed a napkin and snagged a chunk of the banana bread.

  When I finally reached my desk, I set down my messenger bag, travel mug, and morning sweets. I slipped out of my vest and hung it on the coatrack in the corner of my cubicle. Today I was dressed casually in jeans and a checkered button down shirt. After a long month of attending meetings where almost nothing seemed to be accomplished and the same old arguments were rehashed, I’d finally been able to clear my schedule for a day. With no appointments on my calendar there was no need for my usual shirt and tie.

  After sitting in my chair, I pulled up behind my desk and turned on my computer. As it booted, Mary, my trusted assistant and resident Betty Crocker, appeared in the doorway of my cubicle. Mary’s straight brown hair and fashionable glasses portrayed her as a moody or artistic. She wore a smart white blouse and charcoal gray slacks with light gray pinstripes. Her makeup gave color to her otherwise colorless face.

  “Good morning, boss.”

  “Good morning, Mary,” I replied. Indicating the bread on my desk I said, “I see you’ve been busy this weekend. Did anything exciting happen or was baking the highlight?”

  She chuckled. In ten years I’d never known Mary to be anything but perky and accommodating. Her sense of humor in this horde of cynics in our office was commendable.

  “Just the same old boring stuff, as usual. My weekends are filled with exotic chores and sinful errands,” she said. “I also spend much of my time driving the kids to their various events. Their calendars seem so full these days and they’re just teenagers. By the way, your calendar is wide open today. How did that slip my radar?”

  “You’re slacking.” I smiled at her. Mary, being responsible for scheduling the large majority of my meetings, was certainly aware of my free day. In fact, I’m sure this anomaly was the result of much planning rather than good luck. “I guess I should thank you for the free day.”

  Mary winked conspiratorially. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I know you may think you won the lottery, but I’m sure something will pop up any minute now. You’re going to feel silly sitting down with the Provost wearing that lumberjack shirt.”

  “Don’t jinx it,” I said, logging onto the network. “And I’m sure the Provost would be very jealous of my lumberjack shirt.”

  “Whatever,” she laughed, waving a pale hand at me. “Anyway, coffee’s done. I’ll save you some.” And then she was off to put out some fires before the heat could get to me.

  After logging into Microsoft Outlook to check my email, I finally turned to my banana bread. Having skipped breakfast I was close to ravenous. My appetite was awakened by the sweet smell of nutmeg and other spices. Just as I was about to bite into the moist treat, the office was unexpectedly rent by the harsh and tremendous buzzing of the fire alarm.

  Startled by the intrusive alarm, I dropped the bread onto my desk, watching as crumbs jumped up and spread onto my blotter.

  “For Christ’s sake.”

  More than just a little aggravated, I pushed back from my desk, stood up, and grabbed my messenger bag. Sometimes these drills could last for up to half an hour. My bag was full of things that would keep me from suffering of boredom. The buzzing of the alarm was making my eyes water. I plugged my ears with my fingers and the sound, although still loud and obnoxious, was almost tolerable. In three long strides I exited my cubicle and stood in the aisle.

  “Everyone gather your personal stuff and move to the nearest exit, just like we practiced,�
�� I said loudly, although my voice was dominated by the damn alarm. I turned to Nate and with a bit more gusto added, “Get your side of the room moving! Follow the egress plan. No stragglers, okay?”

  Last year, after another senseless act of violence on another college campus, our university finally decided to launch a safety campaign. The decision was more political than altruistic, but as a result, fancy new egress placards were placed on walls near every office door outlining the best way to exit the area in case of an emergency. Each hallway, elevator and staircase was also outfitted with the crisp white placards with blue lettering. As designated building coordinator, I held a few drills with my staff as part of a larger scale mock emergency that our Public Safety Office had insisted on. I was confident everyone would remember the drills and follow the egress path like cattle.

  With my ears plugged and my sinuses still aching, I watched without amusement as everyone vacated their maze of cubicles and started moving. I could see in their faces that they were displeased that they had to evacuate before morning coffee. Nate was leading our group as planned. As the last of the employees left the office I brought up the rear, peeking down the aisles and into cubicles, making sure there were no dawdlers. Soon we all formed up at the door, like schoolchildren, and in single-file moved out of the office and through our side exit that led to a main corridor and eventually out of our building.

  Our route of egress led us southward toward where Building D and E met, about one hundred feet to the nearest exit and then out into the courtyard immediately adjacent to our office where we’d have a clear view of the quad, the library and the Science building. There we would stand and wait until given the all-clear, at which point we’d file back into the building and get back to business. As we neared our designated exit, a commotion drew my attention. Raised but unintelligible voices could be heard above the din. Someone screamed loudly enough to be heard through my plugged ears.