Mad World

By Lee Rutty

A world gone mad: Four weeks after a plague has swept the world  - a virus that unlocks the genetic insanities that lurk in all of us.    

The epidemic affected everyone, the entire human race gone insane. Now the incapable mad - the catatonic, depressed, schizophrenic - are dead. The only ones left are the functional insane. Megalomaniacs, psychotics, those whose insanities are adaptive in this new world, roam the land, preying on the weak.  

A small band of survivors who believe themselves still sane fight for survival and the chance to build a better life.  But are they really sane, or are they just deluding themselves?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dapie Press
• Release date: Jun 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386747888

Lee Rutty

Born in 1963, Lee Rutty had one ambition: to write compelling science-fiction stories and novels. He even put down on his first apartment lease, under Profession: Writer. Real life intervened. He wasn't seasoned enough as a human being or writer to make that happen, so instead he spent 30 years building a family and a career in IT. From code monkey to manager, he clawed his way up the ladder. He hasn't quit his day job, but finally he has re-started his first and dearest dream, and has taken up writing again. Hopefully more seasoned, both as a person and a writer.  He lives in beautiful Cape Elizabeth, Maine. With his wife Alison he has three children: Charlotte, Stuart and Henry.

Book preview

For my family, Alison, Charlotte, Stuart and Henry.

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Most especially, this is dedicated to my daughter, Charlotte. An old soul and kindred spirit, she is my beta reader and staunch supporter.

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She is also a way better writer than I, and you will all be hearing her name one day soon.

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Thank you, sweetie, for everything.

Lovers in a Dangerous Time

Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight

You’ve got to kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight

- Bruce Cockburn

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1

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On the night of May 27th, Kennebunk looked like any other small town in Maine.

Except for the lunatic mob.

Ben took the corner at a dead run and skidded on some road sand left over from last winter. His legs vanished from under him and he went down hard, barking his knees and elbows and hitting his head against the pavement. He rolled to a stop against the curb, seeing nothing but stars.

He heard them before he saw them, and the sound of the mob forced him back to his feet. He staggered away as they came around the corner after him. At first glance they looked like refugees from a Hammer horror film, like they ought to have been surging through the countryside tracking down Frankenstein’s monster or something. They had the torches, the clubs and the murderous rage. Ben could even see a pitchfork.

They had murder in their eyes, and something else besides: madness. You could see it in their faces: every one of them was insane. They screamed, slouched, staggered and sprinted, with slavering mouths, incoherent screams of rage. They raised their fists to the angry stars. They shouted nonsensical syllables with the mad rage of Lear in the storm. One of them carried a pitchfork, yes, and there were clubs and torches too; there were also rakes, brooms and even a dead potted plant clutched like a weapon.

Insane.

Ben ran for his life. He had a good three-hundred-yard lead on them, but he limped badly from his fall and they were catching up. He knew he wouldn’t make it, even if there was anywhere to go.

He spared no attention for the buildings that lined the main street in Kennebunk’s downtown. He’d mapped it all out during the day, before the crazies had spotted him, and there was no refuge. Every window was smashed, every storefront either burned or broken down. Things hung out of some of the windows: splashes of blood, bloated bodies, and gory sheets. Half a dining room table jutted from the second-floor window of the apartment above the Tom’s of Maine outlet store.

He had nowhere to go, and the feral pack behind him would pull him down before he made the corner with Highway 35 at the top of Main Street.

Lights suddenly blazed from a side street, and he heard an engine roaring, getting closer. A canary yellow Camaro flew around the corner, skidding and squealing around. It spun to a stop in front of him, and the passenger door swung open.

Ben made for the car and leaped in, slamming the door.

Behind the wheel was a wide-eyed woman, and she held a gun in Ben’s face. In the dark all he could see of her was a wild mop of hair and the cannon-sized bore of the pistol pointed at him.

What’s thirty-seven times four? she yelled at him.

What? was all he could manage.

Thirty-seven times four or I blow your head off. Her red rimmed eyes blazed at him. Jesus Christ, he was in a car with one of them! His mind raced. Thirty-seven times four?

Jesus, Jesus, thirty-seven times four, that’s, Christ I don’t know, let me think, that would be what, double seventy-four? One forty-eight? One forty-eight!

She cocked the pistol. Who wrote the Declaration of Independence?

What? What are you—uh, uh, Thomas Jefferson!

She pressed the barrel of the pistol against his sweaty temple. Who’s President? she said, her voice full of menace.

President? There isn’t one. He went mad last month like everyone else. He caught the bloodshot eyes again. Uh, except you and me, he added.

Satisfied, she uncocked the pistol and dropped it in Ben’s lap.

Good enough. Better get him.

Ben looked up and saw the lead maniac running right at him. With a scream he fumbled the pistol up and fired it out the open window. The pistol kicked so hard it practically jumped out of his hand but he got the man, dead center. Still his momentum carried him on, and he smacked into the rear door, leaving a star in the window and a smear of blood.

Now the woman burned rubber, peeling off up Main Street. But they were in front of them now too; the screaming mob must be drawing them in from miles around. The car didn’t slow, and Ben was sure she was going to plow right through them, but one of them threw a brick or stone that bounced off the windshield. Ben ducked his head as the whole top half of the windshield starred and crazed, but didn’t break.

The woman swerved off to the side, and the Camaro went into a spin. For a wild moment the world slewed to the side and then with a bang and a crunch they fetched up against a lamp post.

Now the mob was on them, climbing onto the hood and beating on the roof. Ben saw that his door wasn’t locked, and punched the knob down. When gnarled hands clutched at him he realized that his window was still open.

Ben frantically wound up the passenger-side window, shoving back an old lady who grabbed at his hair. Why the hell didn’t this thing have power windows, was it some sort of vintage 70s model? A middle-aged man shoved his hand in before Ben could get the window all the way up and his arm got trapped, keeping Ben from getting the window up all the way. He leaned into the handle, cranking the glass up as hard as he could. He heard the man’s arm bones crack and with a howl of pain and rage he pulled back, now trying to get out of the window. Ben eased up enough to let him pull his arm back out and then wound it up the rest of the way.

They were beating on the car with whatever they were carrying or could pick up. The dead potted plant smashed across the windshield, spraying dirt and leaves. The woman ground the gears as she tried to get it into first again.

GodDAMN you! she screamed, forcing the car into gear. The Camaro leaped away from the curb, scattering their attackers like roaches. Dirt and dead plant matter slid over the cracked windshield, making it even harder to see. The wheels bounced and jumped and Ben heard awful crunching sounds as they drove over the fallen and sped into clear street.

But they were going the wrong way now, away from Main Street, burning rubber up Bourne Street. Three wrecked cars blocked the road and the wild woman slammed on the brakes, taking the Camaro into another skidding spin. Ben held onto the door handle, watching a burned-out Honda Civic coming toward him. The Camaro broadsided the Civic on his side, cracking but not breaking his window. The engine stalled.

Fuck! the woman yelled as she turned the key. Fuck, damn and bugger! The starter whined and caught and she threw it into gear. They sped back toward Main Street, back at the mob. This time, though, even the crazies had had enough, and they scattered as the headlights bored down on them. Tires screeched as the Camaro made the left turn onto Main at forty miles an hour. She put it into fourth and they sped into the darkness.

The woman behind the wheel, whose name Ben still didn’t know, took them in a hard left onto Highway 35 and out of town. He could see by the dashboard light that she was grinning, but her teeth were set and her knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

She muttered under her breath, Got you you mad fuckers I GOT you try to fuck with me will you well I’ll fuck you right back and shit on your grave...

There were no street lights, hadn’t been since the world went to Hell a month ago, and the roads were littered with wrecks and debris, but still she kept the speed at forty on the dark country road. The headlights barely kept the road ahead illuminated.

She cranked the wheel around suddenly and they flew between the iron gates of a cemetery. Dead leaves left unraked last fall scattered blood red in their tail lights as she geared down and let the car coast. She took it around a couple of corners, stark headstones strobing in the headlights on either side, until the graves vanished and they were in an open field at the center of the graveyard. She braked hard and killed the engine. With a stiff jerk she pulled up the hand brake and everything went silent.

Ben looked at her, his mind blank, just wondering what the hell was going to happen next. She stared straight ahead, peering into the dark with a mop of hair hanging down and her hands fixed on the wheel. Then she pried her hands free, flexed them, popped the door lock and climbed out.

Still somewhat in a daze, breathing hard from the exertion and the terror, Ben pulled his own lock up and opened the big Camaro door. It swung ponderously open and he stood up stiffly.

The woman came around the front of the car, fairly vibrating with excitement.

"Did you see that, did you fucking see that? Holy shit, I thought we were dead there. What’s your name?"

Ben.

Hi, I’m Hattie. And she grabbed his collar, pulling him into a kiss. She pushed him back onto the hood, pulling his hands up to her breasts. He was too startled to resist.

Still locked in a manic kiss, Hattie unsnapped her jeans and pulled them down, kicking them to the side.

The feel of her breasts under his hands, the terror and excitement of the last ten minutes, the adrenaline fizzing in his blood, all of it got on top of Ben. He wasn’t even aware he had an erection until she clutched at it, fumbling for his belt.

The stars were vivid in their millions overhead with no city lights to wash them out, but a red haze overhung everything in Ben’s vision as he grabbed at Hattie. They rolled off the hood onto the grass, her on top. She pulled his pants open as he ripped her shirt aside.

It was short, frantic and volcanic. Hattie screamed her own climax, her head thrown back, her voice echoing off the crypts and statues.

As the red haze faded and reality crept back into his senses, Hattie rolled off Ben and collapsed to the ground, flat on her back.

Adrenaline fucks are always the best, she said.

Ben crawled away from her until he backed up against the car. He slumped there, totally spent and very confused.

What the fuck was that back there? Thirty-seven times four?

Had to be sure, she panted. None of those whack jobs could answer those questions under stress.

That’s insane, Ben said.

She glared at him. Wanna rephrase that, Sunshine?

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2

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Ben had no idea how long it was until dawn. He’d lost his watch weeks ago.

The Camaro’s trunk was remarkably well stocked. Once they had calmed down she pulled out camping gear and a box of canned and dried food. He was amazed: a tent, sleeping bags, a Coleman stove and lantern, matches, cans of fuel and an amazing assortment of food.

They had done a silent tour of the graveyard, looking for wandering crazies, and were satisfied that other than the ubiquitous stray dogs and cats and a dozen or so unburied dead they were alone.

They didn’t want to risk a fire this close to a town that was so stirred up, so they heated Puritan Irish Stew over the camp stove and tucked into it with gusto. Afterward Hattie put on an old enamel kettle and filled it with water from a gallon jug. The water was the only thing that wasn’t perfect: good clean water was hard to find these days. Most municipal water supplies were down, bottled water was getting scarce and the bodies choking every stream and pond made them unsafe.

I already put some Campden tablets in when I filled the jug, Hattie said. Now we’ll boil it for good measure, and the tea’ll cover any off tastes.

So, with a belly truly full for the first time in ages and a cup of hot sweet tea in his hand, Ben had reclined against a log they’d scavenged from the graveyard, amazed at how content he felt.

They didn’t say too much over the stove and dinner, just murmured comments and pass the salts. But the looks said a lot. Ben kept catching her watching him; when he did she would smile shyly and go back to what she was doing.

Before tonight Ben had been convinced that he was the only sane man left alive in a world gone totally mad. He’d lived the last month in constant terror, surviving moment to moment, always on the run from the madness that had gripped the world. He had scrounged what he could, often forcing down spoiled food hoping that he wouldn’t get sick from it, sleeping in burned out houses and wrecked shops. Now here it’s the middle of the night, I’m sitting beside a camp stove with a belly full of stew, in a graveyard for Christ’s sake, with a woman who saved my life and then screwed me royally, who I’ve only known for an hour, and she smiles at me demurely like Rita Hayworth. Funny old world.

He’d gotten a bit better look at her by the light of the camp stove. She had a massive mane of thick blond hair, now matted with weeks of not being washed. It hung in great waves over her face and she seemed to be constantly pushing it out of the way. He wondered briefly why, if she couldn’t care for hair like that in the new world, she didn’t cut it off. The firelight was kind to her features as well. By the yellow flicker she was quite lovely; Ben knew he wasn’t seeing the grime and bruises that must be there, if she’d lived the last month on the run like him.

He suddenly became acutely aware of how he must look. He hadn’t shaved or washed in weeks and he suspected he was a mass of cuts and bruises. He could smell himself. His clothes were filthy and coming apart at the seams. It seemed to him that he’d lived the last month in a bewildered daze and was only now waking up.

After cleaning up the meal they had put the tent up by the light of the camp lantern, turned low to remain unseen from outside the graveyard. Hattie spread out the two sleeping bags and they doused the stove and crawled in.

At first, they just sat in silence. Ben could barely make out Hattie’s silhouette. She sat cross legged on her sleeping bag with her head bowed. Her hair hung in sheets around her as she worried her fingers idly together. She heaved a sigh and Ben became convinced that she was crying softly. And suddenly the weeks of loneliness, the starvation for simple human contact overwhelmed him and he felt his own eyes burning with tears.

Tentatively he reached out for her in the dark. She came into his arms in a rush, like she’d been waiting for a sign from him. They clutched each other there in the tent, holding desperately to the only other sane person in the world. They cried on each other’s shoulders until the heaving sobs subsided.

God, I thought I was all alone, Hattie whispered in his ear. I never thought I’d see another living soul. Never mind that the crazies were alive, he knew what she meant. They didn’t count. They were animals, Romero zombies wandering the ruins of the end of the world.

Me too, he said. Alone.

Her head came up and he knew she was looking him in the eye, if only he could see it in the dark. No more, she breathed, and kissed him.

The second time they made love was really like it was their first time. That other mad adrenaline-fueled fuck didn’t count; but it had leeched out all the mad passion. Now they explored each other slowly, tentatively, all shy and new.

Wild dogs bayed distantly.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms as the sky outside brightened.

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3

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When Ben woke up he was alone in the tent. He sat up naked on the sleeping bag, yawned and scratched himself. He gave his dick an idle flick, grinning. Twice in one night was pretty damn good for a man pushing forty, even back when the world made sense. Things were looking up.

He pulled on his underwear and jeans and crawled out of the tent flap. The air was heavy. Judging by the sun it was past noon on one of those rare hot spring days in Maine. Usually it rained for weeks solid; the weather had been mild and mostly clear the past month. Some compensation for the end of the world he supposed.

Ben reached up and gave a mighty stretch, feeling his joints crack. He’d slept well but at his age a night spent on the ground left him stiff and sore. And the nightmares were back. He’d had them more frequently in the last couple of weeks. Last night’s had been the scene in Frankenstein, where the villagers hunted the monster in the woods, torches and pitchforks held high. Only he had been the monster and the mob had been the crazies from Kennebunk.

Some compensation for the great sex, he supposed, and smiled to himself.

The sun felt good on his bare back and chest. With his arms up he could smell himself again, and grimaced. If he meant to keep company with a lady, he couldn’t stay this ripe. It had been weeks since he’d noticed his own stink, much less worried about it, and it felt good to think of civilized concerns again.

Hattie stood by the car watching him. Morning, Sunshine, she called. He smiled at her and rubbed his arms, trying to work out the kinks and bruises. Now he was coming fully awake he felt how beat up he really was.

Ben walked off a few paces looking for a place to piss. He didn’t want to take a leak on the open grass where they might be walking, but there was nothing else around but headstones. He wasn’t that far gone, that he could piss on someone’s grave. That brought a smile, as he remembered a fair few people whose grave he would like to piss on. But they were all gone now, dead or mad.

He settled for a sapling that stood beside a row of Jordans. He scanned the names and dates as he pissed. This was an old graveyard, a lot of the dates he saw went back to the 1700s. Those stones, eroded and green with age, had nevertheless made it all down the long centuries to today with careful care from generations of relatives and attendants. He doubted they’d get much more care for a long time.

When he got back to the camp he got another shot of old time civilization.

Is that coffee? he said, hardly daring to say the word.

Sure, Hattie replied, looking at him quizzically.

Ben sat on the ground beside her.

You’ve been handling this a whole lot better than me I see.

Why?

Ben looked at her again, looking her up and down frankly. His impressions of the night before had been accurate. Her hair was outrageous, thick and blond. If it hadn’t been so filthy and matted it would have been a luxurious mane. But other than that, she was in much better shape than him: not many visible cuts or bruises, clothes not clean but in good shape, nice layer of body fat showing that she’d eaten ok. She looked to be about his age, and she looked really nice. Pretty, trim figure, full and rounded breasts. He suspected that back in the old days she would have been drop dead gorgeous, and well out of his league.

Another compensation for the end of the world: he’d scored with a cheerleader.

Your clothes. The car. Food. And mostly because you’re not shocked at the smell of coffee.

Been rough on you, has it?

Ben snorted at the understatement.

That your car? he asked.

Her face darkened momentarily, but she nodded. Yeah. Had it for years. I’d probably be dead without it. You got a hideout? she asked.

I did for a while, Ben said. Until it got overrun. That was what, maybe two weeks ago? I’ve been pretty much running ever since. They’ve wrecked everything for miles.

I spent a week in a motel, Hattie said.

Ah, luxury.

Sure. Until the generator failed. I got most of this stuff at the Kittery Trading Post.

Ben smiled. He hadn’t been down to Kittery in years, places like that creeped him out. But the thought of Hattie outlet shopping through the chaos was a kick.

Thanks for last night.

She smiled and looked away. No problem. We gotta stick together, those of us as are left.

"Yeah. I always thought the world was full of nutjobs before."

It was, Hattie said.

They ate a hearty breakfast. Stale bread was fine if you toast it over the stove flame. Add to that some powdered eggs, Power Bars and several cups of coffee and Ben was in nirvana.

A little while later the coffee worked its accustomed magic on him.

I need to, uh, take a walk for a minute, he said.

Hattie grinned at him, then went to the Camaro’s trunk. She popped it open, reached in and tossed Ben another priceless artifact of ancient days: a roll of toilet paper. He looked at it dumbly, as if she’d casually tossed him a hen’s egg diamond.

By the time he got back, grinning and feeling fine, Hattie had packed everything back into the yellow Camaro’s magical