Infection's Revenge

In the blink of an eye, or in his case, the splitting of an atom, Hanks life changed forever as he learns the reason for the blast. Nine months after the bomb, resources are stretched razor thin as greed, phobias, and self-preservation trump morals, ethics, and civilized humane behavior. No laws and the instinct to survive turns Hank into nomad as he constantly flees the hordes of undead rising in his city, and his own conscience. His choice to delay his entrance in the ministry haunts him daily. Riddled with guilt for not pursuing his goal of ordination, Hank struggles with his rapidly fading ingrained religious beliefs and the stark reality of soulless dead walkers trying to feed on his slow reflexes and choices, but he is not alone in this Godless existence. Within the dark confines of the shadows a new threat emerges. The sickly hiders are opportunists and prey on anything that is available before the cannibalistic dead walking hordes arrive to dominate. Even worse, the surviving normal humans are the greatest threat of all. As world is perched on the brink of nuclear war in efforts to contain the cataclysmic infection, the answer could be where it all started, in outer radius of the blast. Unbeknownst to Hank, the government has its own plan for his future

From the Inside Flap

Saliva is pooling in the corners of her mouth. Hank bends over to look up into her distant eyes. Her tears are brown and thick and he sees red veins appearing and tracing jagged paths across the white sclera of her right eye. Her left eye flashes a bright red splotch and fades to a muted dull pale opaque patch. He's getting too close, and Toby is now standing behind her and waving his gun sideways in an effort get his attention. Hank is transfixed. The situation is so macabre. He knows the danger, but the calm is so surreal. Whitney is almost gone. Hank's mind pulls from his physical being; it's happening so damn fast! Could it be the combination of the dormant virus with the newly introduced active disease? Is it the extended physical activity? Could it be the warmer temperatures? Hank's self-awareness is flooding back to him. He knows he's in the kill zone. The rattlesnake strikes when threatened up close or is stepped upon. How can he back up and not draw her attention? She's trembling and is no longer mumbling. Her pale hands reveal dark veins that throb as the coursing of fluids thicken within them. She holds her gun without purpose, as if directed by muscle memory now. Hank steps backward one step. Whitney stops moving. Her breaths are no longer shallow. Long strands of spittle begin to stream toward the floor. Her eyes are heavily bloodshot, dull, and vacant. Dark mucus fills her tear ducts in the corners of her eyes as the dark, tainted tears slowly start down her pale cheeks. She appears dead, or worse, to have turned.

From the Back Cover

In the blink of an eye, or in his case, the splitting of an atom, Hank's life changed forever as he learns the reason for the blast. Nine months after the bomb, resources are stretched razor thin as greed, phobias, and self-preservation trump morals, ethics, and civilized humane behavior. No laws and the instinct to survive turns Hank into nomad as he constantly flees the hordes of undead rising in his city, and his own conscience. His choice to delay his entrance in the ministry haunts him daily. Riddled with guilt for not pursuing his goal of ordination, Hank struggles with his rapidly fading ingrained religious beliefs and the stark reality of soulless dead walkers trying to feed on his slow reflexes and choices, but he is not alone in this Godless existence. Within the dark confines of the shadows a new threat emerges. The sickly hiders are opportunists and prey on anything that is available before the cannibalistic dead walking hordes arrive to dominate. Even worse, the surviving normal humans are the greatest threat of all. As world is perched on the brink of nuclear war in efforts to contain the cataclysmic infection, the answer could be where it all started, in the outer radius of the blast. Unbeknownst to Hank, the government has its own plan for his future...

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Infection's RevengeBy Daron MalmborgiUniverse, Inc.Copyright © 2013 Daron MalmborgAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-9274-8 CHAPTER 1HANK TRIES TO CONTROL his fast, shallow breathing. Thesmell in the room is deathly dreadful, and putrid. He hatesto take the odor into his lungs but panic and fear overrule hisdiscipline. How close are they? Did they follow me? Come on man,think of a plan! Is this place safe? Scan the room quickly man! Hetries to see through the darkness and the pungent, rotting wallof aroma. The smell of death is always where the danger is. Hismind gushes. A moan from the darkness snaps his attention tothe next room. He knows he isn't alone. He sighs as he listens tothe sounds of movement. Never alone, never allowed peace.The ambient light is diffused through the dirty smallbasement window. Hank struggles to assess his situation.Peering into the darkest part of the room he feels the barrel ofthe shotgun slip between his moist hands. He tightens his gripand pulls it closer to his chest.As he climbs onto the dusty antique desk, it wobbles andsqueaks in protest under his weight. Stabilizing his body, hepresses his sweat drenched back against the cold concrete wall.The shocking temperature difference causes him to wince andsuck in the cool, sickening air. He's learned that breathingthrough his mouth helps relieve his gag reflex from kicking inand signaling his position. His nose stings and mucus flows as itbattles the acidic attack; no doubt, a reaction or an unintendedconsequence of his desire to avoid the assault on his senses. Hiswill is strong as he wipes continuously to avoid allowing theflowing mucus to slide into his open mouth.From above, he hears the echoing groans. The stairwell is anatural funnel that collects and amplifies the hungry, persistentsounds of death, delivering them to him as if a precursor tohis own gloomy future. Thumps against the walls and clumsyfootsteps on the upstairs floor are growing louder. Hank is deadstill. Dammit! Don't move! They can't see you! They cannot see you!They don't know where you are! Please God, I hate this place! Getready, man! Get the blade ready. Make a noise and you're a goner.One at a time, they can only come so fast. You can deal with one ata time! Why does something have to die for something else to live?He gently slides off the desk and leans the shotgun againstit. Slowly, he slips the katana from the sheath tethered aroundhis back. The movements are smooth and rehearsed; he has doneit a thousand times before. As the tip of the long blade rotatesover Hank's head, he feels it tap against something small and soinsignificant to the circular movement, yet so damn importantto the silence he treasures. A hanging light bulb, right where itshould be has intercepted the blade and the repercussions areabout to be revealed. In a fraction of a second Hank hunchesdown and waits for the inevitable. The bulb shatters into largedropping glass pieces. It sounds like thunder as the fragmentsstrike the concrete floor. He sucks in more thick, dead air andposes ready to swing, like a pitcher about to throw the finalpitch of the game.The crackling sound instantly draws the upstairs occupantsto the stairway and within seconds, the bodies start fallingdown the stairs onto their bellies and backs. The neck of thefirst body looks broken and the head is facing backwards. Thelengthy, matted blond hair is pulled away from around the pale,bloodstained neck. The hands writhe in a contorted manner asif the brain stem had been long dead. They swipe at him, tryingto grasp any part of him that is within reach. In the dim light,Hank can see the dead, black blood outlines under and aroundthe cuticles. The contrast against the dull, alabaster nails isfrightening, yet beautifully symmetrical; a Goth poser from lastyear would have been envious of real death's precision.Hank looks through the swirl of sharp broken nails and aimsto swing the blade down hard across the visible but distortedline of vertebras. He swings the blade forcefully. In an instant,the undead woman's right hand falls free and is caught by a foldin the filthy clothing. The blade continues unencumbered andslices through the disjointed neck as it frees the head in a violentspring release. It flips around spraying a pressurized thin line ofdark fluids as it rolls away and rests against the wall. The severedhead's tongue pushes it away and slightly rotates it toward Hankas the eyes roll in their sockets to view him from a distance. Thetongue breaks off and slumps to the floor as the jaw clampsshut in anticipation of the new condition. Moist from the newexposure, the trachea gurgles as the fluids seep from the gapinghole. No longer a threat, the left hand and right stump freeze intheir unusual haunting postures.Hank absorbs it all as his vision narrows. He feels he's losingcontrol of his immediate position. Everything is in slow motion!It's so quiet! That was easy! Who's next? One at a time! Come onyou stinking pieces of ... Hank's internal plea is answeredimmediately. A large man's body slides to the bottom of thestairs and stops at his feet. It faces downward and as it raisesitself up, Hank slams the blade down hard, severing the skullfrom the neck. The dry, leathery arms instantly collapse and thefat body makes a dull thud as it stops moving. The vibrationof the blade suddenly stopping against the hard concrete floorsends electric shockwaves through Hank's arms, the samesensation he felt when he bumps his elbow and the funny bonetwangs internally. He drops the katana in surprise to the tinglingthrough his limbs. In an eternity to Hank, the long blade createsa metallic alarm, resembling a clapper striking the inside of thebell. So damn loud!In the darkness, he struggles to find the weapon. Hesweeps his arms in front of him with his eyes wide open, heartpounding like an insane drummer, and his breathing is fast andhard. He can taste the smells in the room and he swallows thearomas like a bitter pill. The katana had fallen away from thestairway and Hank reaches deeper into the darkness and deeperinto danger. The adjacent room's occupant is interested in theactivity and moans loudly in approval.The two severed heads bounce slightly, making a clickingsound as their jaws open and close quickly. Hank's mind raceswith unsorted thoughts. Man that's annoying but they're at leastletting me know where they are. His numb and tingling fingersslide across the cold, sharp blade and he pulls back slightly. IfI slice my fingers with stinkbug juice, I'll be screwed and might aswell stay here and I'm not about to do that!With a gentle grip, he lifts the handle of the katana andwipes the cold steel on the fat, fallen stinkbug's clothing. Heslides the glimmering blade into the sheath as he reflects abouthis hatred of cold, dark places. Damn, I definitely hate thisbasement-hiding thing. It's not my preference. At least this one offerssome security, but one thing I know is lingering death is alwaysone staircase or doorway away. Be quiet and listen for more deadwalkers. Get comfortable, might just be here a while. God, it stinksin here.A small grunt and larger push-off from his aging legs helpshim climb slowly back onto the desk as he cradles his shotgunlike a precious baby. He pushes himself into believing this is thebest time for him to willfully retreat into his mind, a kind ofsafe playground where he can't be hurt unless he stays too longand forgets about the harsh, real world.Slowing his breathing, and feeling an uneasy calmness, hedrifts out of reality as he recalls the beginning of this endlessnightmare. Going back in time usually offers more peace ofmind knowing he lived through it and it can't harm him. Hereminisces. Living was nearly impossible so soon after the blast. Theconfusion, panic, and finally greed forced rational people to performcruel, inhumane acts. Shocked survivors huddled together in sheltersor hiding places while they brainstormed theories, or pieced togetherclues, of how apparent dead bodies of friends and strangers wouldpursue and consume anything that moved. Mother would attackdaughters. Grandparents chewed through grandbabies. The mostshocking sights were common until the easy prey were all eaten up orreanimated themselves. People would freeze in physical and mentalshock as if they had been turned off by a flip of the switch. Thecrazy, mad hoards would descend upon them and the live humanswere like cattle in a slaughterhouse with no chance of survival orescape. Some would fight and some would surrender and raise theirheads toward heaven while chanting unperceptively muted cries.The end result always produced dead-fed cannibals or new recruitsand even more competition for all the participants.Hank's memory focuses tightly on the moment the nightanother survivor had succumbed to her wounds in that hellhole.Back then no one knew that bites, scratches or even ingestion ofbody fluids from the walking dead would cause healthy peopleto die a horrible agonizing death. He relives the moment inhis head: Everyone is asleep. The room is quiet. The woman haddrifted off to sleep with the other survivors but succumbed to herinjuries during the night. He feels the stern tug on his jacket. He'sawakened and surprised to see a freshly reanimated corpse crawlingover him. He screams out loud in panic and fear. She looks unrealin her motions. Her eyes are empty and dull while her mouthsecretes drool in thick strands of dark-tainted spittle. In retrospect,he realizes she was trying to commit him to her living dead doomand feed upon his lifeblood.He flinches as he slightly pulls out of the internal hell inhis mind. Why do I keep going back to this? Within seconds he'sthere again. He's fighting for his life. He pulls his shotgun towardher head and the resistance is so great. His arms flinch as he relivesthe drama. The dead woman is so damn strong. Just about there,get the barrel to her head! Please, just find the strength! So strong!OK, open up, bitch! He fumbles for the trigger and finds it as thekick from the gun throws it backward as he sees her head explodefrom the blast. In an instant, the corpse's head turns inside out, foldsinto itself, and is torn into an infinite number of infectious pieces.The moist tissues cling to every surface. They splatter against thewalls, ceiling, and sleeping survivors. He stops breathing to avoidinhaling her deadly mist. Hank shudders, pulls his attentionaway from the horror, and he's out of the memory. He realizesthe end of the memory is always the same. Now he quietly startstalking to himself. "I'd do it all over again to save my life againstthat crazed, dead cannibal. That first bomb shelter looked eerilysimilar to this basement. By now, they all do." He looks aroundand notices the construction, layout, steep stairs, and lack ofavailable exits. He knows it all spells danger. He's uneasy andanxious.The room is quiet now. No movement. The floor aboveis not creaking. No stirring in the next room. No moans. Noheavy breaths. No murderous attempts to take his life. Hewants to concentrate and relax but he knows there is someoneor something in the adjacent room. He feels it and moredefinitively; he smells it.Feeling semi-secure, he again begins to talk as if he knowshis new roommate behind the Dutch-style door. He hopes, justonce, that the other side will talk back. The top half of the dooris open; the bottom is closed. If an intelligible response can beheard, it will.His voice is low and sincere. He persists in his quest forconversation. "I want to talk to you, and I'll understand if youdon't respond; just let me vent a little. I don't know ... Whatcan I say? I thought I had a pretty good handle on right fromwrong, good from bad, real from surreal, or an obvious badfake. Looks like I missed the mark on that one." He scratcheshis face and the rough facial hair stubble. There are no newsounds from the main floor above but he continues to listenanyway.He hears the feet shuffle behind the Dutch door separatingthe two rooms. The light is barely enough for him to see theshadow of the figure pass by the door opening. He's lost in aprogressive thought. How nice it would be to turn the light onif it would only work. He's almost lost the instinct to reach fora light switch every time he walks into a room. Deep inside heknows he's holding out hope for the past but it is as dead as hisnew audience.He starts talking again in a low voice. "The past had somany perks. I miss everything: Electricity, comedy, sex, bathing,red meat, friends, family, and civility." He pauses as he recallscivility. Civilization has collapsed and with it, communication.Survivors don't even attempt to use proper English anymore andwe've digressed to basic communication, or `survivor-speak.' Hankknows the infection has closed the book on hope, progress, andimprovement for his kind. "It's just another kick in the testesand a score for death's persistence."He recognizes he's talking through his daydreams andcontinues. "Listen Man, I know you can hear me. I'll makesure of it." The foot shuffling is more intense with the increasedvolume of his voice.He seems amused at the voice-activated commotion. "Calmdown man, we have time. Time. Yep, we have time. You shouldtake the time to understand the situation we're in. This didn'thappen overnight. It might have taken years or even decades toorchestrate. I'm going to try to figure it out though. What doyou think?"A fresh batch of stench streams toward him. He complainswith a disgusted tone. "Man, that's bad. Hey, you rememberwhere you were that day? Oh man, I do. That will probably bethe last thing I remember, God willing ... God ... Oh yeah,God. Where does he come into the equation? Simmer downand we can reason that out shortly. I was about to relate myrecollection of that short, beautiful, impossibly busy day."He twists his back slightly. "I never really cared for mowingthe lawn. I bitched about having to do it because that Kentuckybluegrass grew so fast. I don't blame it, knowing how muchwater I would dump on it every day, just like clockwork. Kindof a pun, get it? My sprinkler timer would come on rain orshine. If it was thirsty, I gave it a drink, even when it wasn't.Not so funny now. I'm so damn thirsty now, I tell you what.How about you? Yep, sometimes I can see it in your dried outugly eyes. You're thirsty alright, maybe for some fresh squeezedliving Hank juices I bet.Where was I? Oh yeah, mowing that tall cool grass on thatsunny Sunday morning. My biggest fear was stepping in dogcrap or not having gas for the mower. It was so damn simpleback then. No gas? No problem. Big freaking deal! So damnsimple back then. Who'd we piss off?"The sound of a falling object startles him and he lungesforward while raising his shotgun. He struggles to see in thedim light but finds it impossible. Only slight movements canbe seen. A deep exhalation and moan with a sound of renewedactivity originates just beyond the door.Again he settles on the desk with his back against the walland chews a toothpick with thought. When the noise is gonehe starts his verbal diatribe again. "Oh man, my mind is a wall.Being alone is so damn hard. Trying to remember the facts ...well, that will always fall casualty to reality. You're good therapythough. Listen up. So, anyway, do you want to hear or not?Settle down or I'm done here!"Irritated, he continues. "Where was I? Oh yeah, everySunday that mower would pull me around that yard, row afterlush green row. I hated it at the time, but I'll tell you what, I'dgive my left earlobe to see it again and roll around on it. Closeyour eyes. Do you smell it? Oh yeah man, there it is. You don'thave to be so difficult you know. You can humor me just a bitand stop trying to ruin my memories!"Hank begins to be frustrated by the inconsiderate behaviorof his new confidant—just a door and a lifetime away—but hestill can't stop trying to get his thoughts out. He feels the needto force the issue. (Continues...)Excerpted from Infection's Revenge by Daron Malmborg. Copyright © 2013 Daron Malmborg. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

About the Author

Daron Malmborg has been in the aviation safety business for over thirty years. He is also an internet ordained minister and performs weddings for friends in a most unique manner. He is a first time author and has finally placed in writing the stories he has conveyed to friends and family for years.Daron is a hard-core Harley rider and so is his wife. They each ride their own bikes an meet people from all around the world and he is always ready to tell a story or three.Daron lives in the Salt Lake Valley with his family.Stay tuned: The next book is cranking through the machine and should be available soon. Visit Daron at infectionsrevenge.com, daronmalmborg.com. or facebook.com/infectionsrevenge.

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