by Steven Pajak
Mad Swine: Dead Winter
Title Page
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mad Swine: Dead Winter
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.
Chapter 1
Unplugged
It was still dark when I woke and the first thing I noticed was that it was damn cold. My feet felt like ice inside of my thermal socks and my exposed nose felt frigid and numb. The next thing I noticed was that my whole body ached, especially my back and neck muscles, as though I’d just finished a major circuit of weight training. The sofa was quite uncomfortable. It had been bowed completely out of shape over the last three months that I had slept on it.
Tugging both thick quilts into a more comfortable position and squirming and kicking at them until they tucked just right under my feet, I snuggled deeper into the indent my butt left in the sofa and closed my eyes again, impatiently waiting for my body heat to build back up beneath the quilts. After a while, I pulled one of the quilts up over my mouth and nose. For a moment I felt like I was suffocating, but as my nose began to defrost thoughts of suffocation petered out.
I lay that way for another twenty minutes, until the sun finally rose and spilled in through the cracks of the blinds. I was sleeping later these days, although I was not the only one. The cold winter made many of us lethargic. No one looked forward to going out in the cold, but it was still necessary, even if there was a lull in the fighting. I just didn’t trust Providence, and those things were always just outside our walls waiting for us to venture out. Some had even managed to find a way in; we had to increase our patrols which made us all unhappy.
Sitting up and stretching my neck and back felt good and some of the tension in those muscles disappeared when my body was no longer contorted into the sofa depression. I knew I’d have to start sleeping on the floor soon because this sofa was no longer fit for duty as my bed. Although I reasoned with myself that I slept out in the living room because of the fireplace, I knew I was deceiving myself. After Brian shot my wife Alyssa in our bedroom, I just could not face lying in that bed ever again.
Jamming my feet into my slippers and flipping one of the quilts around my shoulders like an Indian donning a buffalo skin, I stood up and checked the fireplace. A small lump of smoldering wood remained, barely clinging to life. I considered stoking the fire and building it back up but I wouldn’t be here long enough to make it worth the effort. Also, I noticed the depleted stack of cord wood beside the hearth. I probably had enough for another fire tonight but after that I’d be without heat or light.
I’d have to get a wood patrol out there. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one running low on firewood. I didn’t like the idea of sending people outside of the walls one bit. It was dangerous…but it was also necessary. We’d already lost two residents to exposure in their own homes and I didn’t want to lose any more to something so trivial that a few burning logs in a fireplace could have prevented.
Leaving the fire alone, I shuffled my way toward the hall bathroom. I glanced at my watch and noted it was just a few minutes before seven. The Seiko was the only watch I owned. The advantage of the automatic watch design was that I would not have to worry about the battery dying. If it stopped, I simply gave it a few shakes and it was good to go. Without electricity, it was the only way I had of keeping time.
We had lost electricity the third week in December, just six days before Christmas. It was a horrible experience and the first few weeks were very scary for everyone. Learning to live without electricity was difficult even for me and I’d spent much time in the service living without; for the others in the community the loss of power was devastating. Most residents of Randall Oaks never quite realized how plugged in they actually were until cell phones, television, cable TV, radio and internet—which had become second nature to everyone—were no longer viable options of entertainment or communication. Over time they would learn to live without these things, and eventually many them would adapt and overcome this new lifestyle. But for now, they were still learning.
What was most difficult now was learning to live without appliances. Microwaves were sorely missed, as were gas stoves and refrigerators. Washing laundry became one of the most despised tasks and many of the residents—including yours truly—become quite fragrant during the winter months. We were becoming used to the smell, though, and no one blamed anyone else for the lack of hygiene.
I relieved myself and flushed the toilet, thankful that we still had running water. I rinsed my hands in the sink and they quickly became red and numb from the ice-cold water. I could only stand it for a few seconds. I did not completely close the tap, but instead left it opened a dribble in hopes the pipes would not freeze. The water was cold and delicious for drinking, even for tap water. For bathing it sucked, though. It also sucked for washing dishes and laundry. Still, I was thankful; finding drinkable water would have been very difficult. I suppose we could have fashioned rain catches and other devices I’d used in service and had seen employed on any number of survival shows, but to have clean water at your kitchen or bathroom tap was invaluable. And in the summer the cool water would be welcome.
Leaving the cold ceramic tile floor of the bathroom for the slightly less frigid carpeted hallway, I shuffled to my bedroom. Upon entering I automatically skirted the hole in the carpet—where my wife’s blood once stained it and Brian had cut out the offending spot so I wouldn’t have to look at it. In my walk-in closet I picked up a pair of jeans from the laundry pile and performed the very scientific sniff test. The jeans passed. I grabbed a black T-shirt that I’d washed in the bathroom sink earlier in the week—so it was still pretty fresh—and went back into the bedroom.
After grabbing some socks and underwear from a dresser drawer, I tossed all of the clothes onto the bed and started to undress. When I pulled off my sleeping shirt the cold immediately clung to my bare skin and my chest broke out into gooseflesh. Instinctively I glanced at the thermometer—which used to be nailed to the wall out on the back deck but which now sat on my dresser—and noted it was a brisk sixty-one degrees in the house.
I remembered hearing stories about soldiers dying of hyperthermia in the caves in Afghanistan. Although hot outside, the interior of the caves could get down below 56 degrees. Soldiers sought shelter from the heat in those caves and never woke up. If not for the fire and double-quilts, I may have fallen into hyperthermia and died. That thought was sobering. I threw on the T-shirt and pulled on my jeans as quickly as possible. I peeled off my old socks which were getting pretty stiff and a bit fragrant. Slipping on the clean socks, I noted holes in the heel of both. If Alyssa, my wife, had seen me wearing these socks, she’d ha
ve been embarrassed. But I no longer had the luxury of shame and she was no longer here to see the holes in my socks.
Alyssa and my two children, Mark and Katie, have been dead for three months now. All of them were taken from me by those things that roamed beyond our walls. Alyssa was scratched and infected by someone while trying to break up a scuffle between two fellow shoppers at the local Meijer’s. She had no idea she’d chosen the morning of the apocalypse to do our family’s weekly shopping. I saw her when she transformed into that which infected her. Brian delivered her from her suffering with one shot to the head.
My children suffered a far more gruesome fate. I shuddered even now when I thought about their small bodies torn apart and how in death their small hands were locked in each other’s grip, perhaps comforting each other while they faced a horror unlike any other. Not one day went by that I didn’t miss them fiercely, that my heart did not ache for my babies. Most nights their faces kept me up well into the night until finally pure exhaustion took control and my thoughts shut down.
Trying now to push the thoughts of my loved ones out of my mind, I stuffed my feet into a pair of boots and laced them up tight. The boots were scuffed and dirty and the laces were chewed up, but they still held together well. I had a few other pairs of boots in better shape that I could have worn instead, but I would save them until the Redwings fell apart. Shoe shopping was a thing of the past. Everything we owned had to last now.
In the kitchen I grabbed my cowboy coffee pot and filled it about halfway with water. I scooped two heaps of coffee grounds into the basket and put the top back on. The little glass percolator would tell me when the coffee was ready. I looked at the range but was too tired to get it going. It had once been a gas stove, but with some slight and ingenious modifications made by Paul Dazzo, a former civil engineer who lived just across the street, it was now set up to burn wood.
Instead of using the wood I would have to burn later for heat, from under the sink I pulled out my battered Esbit pocket stove and set it on the counter-top. I’d run out of the fuel tablets a few weeks ago. Now I used cotton balls covered in Vaseline as my fuel source along with whatever else I could burn. I opened the Ziploc bag that I stored inside the pocket stove and fished out cotton balls, stuffing as many as I could fit into the metal frame of the stove. With a wooden match, I lit it up the wad of gelled cotton. It ignited immediately. I set the cowboy coffee pot on the mini stove and let it do its thing. While the coffee brewed, I scrounged around in the cabinets to find breakfast. Nearly all of my boxed and canned goods were gone. I figured I’d be good for two or three more weeks but beyond that I would be in trouble.
Samantha served one community meal per day at the Command Post, but beyond that we were on our own for breakfast and lunch. I wasn’t sure how much longer Sam would be able to feed us all. More often than not, dinner consisted of soup that was mostly broth with canned veggies and some of Sam’s homemade bread. The stores of food we’d pilfered from Kappy’s Restaurant three months prior wouldn’t last much longer. In fact, I was still surprised our haul had even lasted this long. The meats, fish and poultry had been eaten early on, as well as many of the vegetables, before these precious items had time to go bad.
For a while we tried to supplement our supply of meats by hunting game in the woods to our west, but after only two weeks I had put a ban on hunting parties. Any animals that may have roamed the wooded areas that flanked our west side were long gone. I was uncertain if the disease could be transferred to the animals, and in turn to those who ingested its meat. More than that, when we were outside the walls, the crazies hunted us and they were good at their trade-craft. Surprisingly, their hunting instincts where sharply honed, even if they were inhibited by the simplest of tasks. Not only did we lose two men during a hunting outing, the other man and woman who were with them went through two hundred rounds of ammunition trying to kill three of the things that attacked their friends. We could not afford any more casualties, nor could we waste ammunition wholesale.
After taking too long looking over my food stores, I snagged a box of Frosted Mini Wheat’s from one of the top shelves and poured the remainder of the box into a bowl. I tossed the empty box onto the counter with some other recyclables. I had a pretty good pile going there and I’d use the cardboard as kindling for fires. The plastics and the perishable trash was another story. I knew soon I’d have to take those items to our dumpsite south of the community.
Another dangerous business: trash removal. The days of leaving your full cans out on a Friday before work and returning in the evening to pull in the empties were long gone. We had to take our trash outside the walls and any trip outside the community walls was serious business. Perhaps I’d take my trash with me on wood patrol and kill two birds with one stone.
Dry cereal wasn’t too bad with the frosting on top. I swallowed it down without giving it much thought. My stomach was satiated for the moment. Each day my body is adjusting more to limited rations. I would actually have welcomed some of the MREs we soldiers were always grumbling about. Compared to dry cereal, the MREs would have been like gourmet meals.
The coffee was done. I poured it into my favorite Chicago Bears mug. Unfortunately, I had nothing to add to it. I used to be a cream and sugar guy, but now I had to settle for black. I shuddered to think that soon coffee would be another distant memory as well. Thoughts like that one disturbed me. There were so many things I’d taken for granted when the lights were on, so to speak. I never considered not being able to stop and pick up some coffee grounds or milk. Toilet paper had been the first thing to go. I dreaded having to take a shit now. I’d been wiping my ass with sheets from my wife’s severely outdated O Magazine. For the first time in my life I had paper cuts on my backside.
The coffee was bitter but I drank it anyway. Whatever was left in the pot I’d take to Ray Colon over at the command post. He liked my coffee; in fact, he was the only one with the taste for my swill. It was probably the one thing that he didn’t bitch about. Well, my coffee and his dog, Cody. He loved that dog more than my coffee, but just by a little.
After I finished most of my coffee I poured the rest into the cowboy pot. These days nothing could be wasted. I went to the fireplace and took up my poker. I stabbed at the smoldering embers that still clung to life, separating them and their combined heat. I banked the embers by dumping ash on top of them.
At the closet I pulled on and zipped up a dark green fleece sweater. I wrapped a black scarf around my neck and slipped into my quilted arctic Carhartt coat. The elbows of the dark brown coat were stained but the shell was unmarred and holding up nicely to my work and the elements. Finally, I slipped on a pair of work gloves. They weren’t ideal for the cold, but they protected my hands well against cuts and scrapes…as well as fingernails.
Although I’d been scratched a number of times by different crazies over the last three months, I’d never been bitten. Of the men who were on our only supply mission at Kappy’s, I was the sole survivor; the other brave men were now resting peacefully on Harper’s Knoll. My immunity to the infection was legendary around the community. I had to constantly remind people, however, that I was not immortal. Bullets, knives and various other weaponry could still penetrate my flesh, spill my blood and otherwise put me in the ground. Still, I was the logical choice for most missions outside the walls and I never shirked my duty in that respect.
I grabbed the cowboy coffee pot and went down the short flight of stairs to my front door. I put the coffee pot down long enough to retrieve my weapons. I undid my belt loop and slid the sheath of my Esee Junglas onto my right hip, and secured the scabbard to my leg with a length of cord. With my left hand, I grabbed up my Gränsfors Bruks splitting maul. Its thirty-one inch handle gave me good reach and the five and a half pound head, which was currently covered with a thick brown leather sheath, was devastating against flesh and bone.
My SKS rifle leaned against the wall beside the door and I longingly eyed my most trusted weapo
n. It had served me well in the early days of the outbreak. Although I still had some ammunition for it, I had given strict orders that no firearms were to be used without my consent or in the case of extreme emergency. In fact, I had ordered everyone to turn in their rifles and shotguns, as well as their ammunition to the CP. Only posted guards and patrol leaders would be allowed to carry firearms, and only with a limited supply of ammunition. If they needed to shoot, they’d have to aim carefully or risk running out of rounds.
The war with Providence had put a large dent in our already meager supply of ammunition. Residents taking pot shots at the shuffling and moaning things outside our walls, either in frustration, anger, or both, also played a role in depleting our stores. Now, the majority of residents who left their homes carried impact weapons. This required a whole new methodology of training. Taking over for Brian, Katherine had done an excellent job in preparing people to use knives, clubs and other improvised weapons. After the war, Kat was a changed woman and I felt guilty about what she’d been forced to become. But I used her skills and her newfound coldness, regardless. And there was no one else I’d rather have covering my back; I trusted her completely with my life.
Turning away from my SKS with a sigh, I opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. The winter cold attacked my exposed flesh immediately and without mercy. My nose and ears felt the first bite of the below zero air. Immediately I set down the coffee pot and splitter and tugged my watch cap out of my coat pocket. I snugged it down over my head and ears with satisfaction.
Thick flakes of snow tumbled out of the sky. It was a light dusting but the snow was starting to stick a bit on the ground. We had recently recovered from fairly heavy downfall just weeks ago. We’d managed to clear the sidewalks and streets with little effort; another advantage to our gated community is that our association owned its own machinery for maintaining the grounds. The arsenal of vehicles at our disposal included two plows attached to two large Ford F150 pickup trucks, one Cat Mini-dozer, and several riding mowers with flatbed trailers to tote rakes, shovels and other gardening necessities. The downside, however, was that we used up the remaining fuel cleaning up that last moderate winter storm. If the snow continued to fall and accumulation was more than two or three inches, we’d have to rely on manpower and shovels to dig ourselves out. That would cost a lot of energy. I’d have to allow double rations for those who took up a shovel and Samantha would be beside herself.
