Authors: Dan Yaeger
Remedy Z: Solo (32 page)
“Yyyyyooooou,” Maeve said with a heavy chest. “FUCK!…Fucked us ‘round for daaaaayyyyyssssssss.” She was almost gone and began to ramble. I didn’t waste any time taking her back on track. I slapped her to stop the swearing and babbling. She smiled up at me as though she liked it
Shocked at myself and at her reaction, I demanded some answers before the grim reaper took her.
“Maeve: what does the Doc want with me,” Like a good soldier she replied honestly. “You… gonna bring the…cure. You-you… aren’t sick
I stumbled around for a few moments, hurting badly and needing some air. I was overwhelmed by the heat, my injuries and revelation. I fell to my knees and slumped backwards in a daze.
“You are a Tasmanian Tiger,” I whispered to myself as I lost consciousness for a moment.
Perhaps only a few moments had passed and I was conscious again. I drank some water, loosened my collar and got composed again. I wasn’t sure if another wave was coming but I searched the bodies. It was about all I could muster. Filthy hands rifled pockets; the chits were in there, on cue, all signed and stamped by Doctor Kian Penfould.
Maeve and her squad had crude knives, mostly Chinese lock-knives, in their pockets. I took them anyway; you can never have too many knives. There were a number of cricket bats that I figured would be handy too. I threw this plunder in the back of the truck. Maeve had a .22 Magnum rifle that was made in the Philippines: “Manila”. I cycled the bolt through; a bit rough but it was working well enough to show me some potential. “Nothing a good clean won’t fix,” I thought positively as I scanned it some more. It was a cheap rifle that needed some TLC. The barrel was OK and the timber was in a poor condition but such a rifle would be useful for rabbits given its calibre. Maeve had 100 rounds in her flannelette shirt pocket which I took off her dead, dying hands quite happily. I looked down at Maeve and regarded her again. She must have been in her late twenties and was a rugged individual. She epitomised the sort of hardy frontierswoman that you would have expected to find on the Oregon Trail, in Africa or here in Australia. She was another misguided individual who could have been working toward renewal rather than destruction or whatever evil plans the Doc had in store for the longer-term. I didn’t feel the reverence when taking a natural life but I did feel a sense of pity or compassion. Maeve’s young years were hidden behind a weathered face that had many lines of hardship and scars from a tough life. She had marks where a frown or scowl had occupied her face more often than the smile that should have adorned the face of a woman of that age. “You must have been a sad case,” I shook my head and hoped she could find peace, wherever she had gone.
I dragged and piled bodies and all the twigs and debris I could find in the far corner of Samsonov’s yard. I found some 2-stroke mower fuel in the nearby shed and lit them up with some matches out of my pack. I paused and breathed; aches, pains and a little dizziness from the hits to the head. I needed a moment or could have passed out again. The weather was humid and turning hot and I was bathed in sweat, grime and rancid blood as I watched the twigs and leaves and gum-tree branches ignite on the fire. The blaze went up as though Samsonov himself had thrown a Molotov cocktail on from the netherworld. A small grass-fire caught on beyond the bonfire’s intended circumference and I retreated back to the porch to watch it do its work. A chapter finished. I could see Maeve and the other neo-zombies peal and cook and char as the burning process took hold; a cleansing process.
Thinking of cleansing, I realised just how much I was a mess. My clothes were now blood-stained rags. My old German combat poncho, shirt, hat, jeans, socks and jocks were regulars in my daily wear but this was the end for them. I had to let these items go; they had done their work and I have maximised their use and value since retrieving them from my home in Canberra during its last days. My shirt was also so soiled and slashed, that it resembled the sort of clothing one of my zombie adversaries would wear. Body odour was the last of my concerns, but also a problem. The main issue with smell emanated from the rancid zombie blood. Along with the blood were, tears, slashing and cuts that meant they were not only soiled but had begun to fall apart. I looked like a hobo and hoped Samsonov had some clothing about my size. I stripped naked and hosed myself off courtesy of Samsonov’s tank water. It was so cold and refreshing and I drank some of it as well; cooled and soothed as it went down. My whole body had been put through a lot and I was beginning to feel all of it, the whole bloody lot of it in one fell swoop. This was the post-battle fatigue I had come to know coupled with minor head injuries (I guessed) and a good solid, full-body beating from Maeve. The cold water soothed and took the swelling away as I stood under the shower of cool, fresh droplets. I looked through the stream of water and saw a glint. “Must be the water and my soft head,” I concluded. The truth was, I didn’t have my wits about me or the fortitude to do anything else but hope I was right.
I stumbled, all wet and awkward, toward the house and sat on the porch and watched the fire do its work. My former sniper position had been useful in anger and at rest; I sat naked and burnt-out, trying to gather myself. I knew that was just a taste of a coming storm, a tsunami perhaps, but I had to lie there and recover. Sitting, despite the danger, felt good. I soaked in that feeling and realised that I needed to get myself properly cleaned up, dressed and warm. I walked through the house and upstairs for the first time, looking for the bathroom. It was a nice, renovated bathroom in that Federation style. “A nice shower to sooth my wounds would be fine,” I thought, looking at myself in the mirror. I noticed little spots all over my neck and back; wounds. I felt like they were splinters and upon squeezing, a little ball of metal popped out! I felt a cold feeling of adrenaline and realised what had happened; someone must have discharged a shotgun at the Alamo. With that feeling of cold and strangeness, I realised that I was not alone. I pondered the situation and concluded that “If that person had wanted to kill me, I would be dead.” This watcher was a friend. I found some tweezers and painfully removed each little shot imbedded just below the skin. I bled some more on that day.
There was a nice face-washer and shaving set, Samsonov had good taste. “Thanks mate, I will put this to good use.” To my delight, the water from the hot tap was hot; an instantaneous electric hot water system. I shaved, used the toilet and clipped my hair in a sort of renewal. I checked outside via the large, old-style window which swung open on the world, without a fly-screen, but all was clear and no following attack would come on that day.
Samsonov and his home was nothing like I had envisaged. I resolved to never judge a book by its cover and would pull up others when they did so in future. “Others?”, I thought. “I should be so lucky.” But I would find that I was guilty of this sooner than I thought. In the meantime, I was feeling lucky but happy with the place I was in. It is amazing what the body’s own pain medication will do for you.
“Damn that hot shower will be good!” I thought. I was wounded, shocked and battered: but optimistic and excited. “Strange days, nothing is as it seems.”
Chapter 16: Homecoming Queen
The next day was spent creating some simple fortifications and snipers’ hides; watching for following attacks. The anticipation of another attack and confrontation was beginning to get to my nerves. To my great surprise, they never came. After watching as far as I could from Samsonov’s, to the main roads of Tantangara, I did not see a single vehicle, person or zombie. Not even the zombies could give me a sense of normalcy!
It was a strange day and I retreated into the spare room of the Samsonov household where I slept. My sleep was solid and did not cease for over 10 hours. My body had been battered and needed me to recover. It was a gamble; the enemy could have been on top of me in that 10-hour timeframe but the body told the mind not to care. Survival is peculiar like that.
I woke to another great high-country day that started cool and sunny and would end muggy and hot. The day was productive; when not patrolling and scanning for the Doc or his people, I spent time documenting and dismantling the power system. Both of which were procedural and became tedious toward the end of the day. When I wasn’t working I was resting and living off food I found in Samsonov’s kitchen, supplemented by what I had in the truck. What the Old Russian soldier had left in his cupboard was a mixed bag, some good tins and freeze-dried items and some things that were spoiled, writhing with moths and weevils. Even the moths and weevils were eaten in an attempt to maximise my food resources. “Good protein,” I thought as I ate a small quantity of insect larvae. It tasted disgusting but I swallowed it anyway.
Over those days I recovered from some of my wounds and worked at dismantling and patrolling. There was still no sign of the Doc, his people, the zombies or anything else. The isolation and lack of obvious threat put me on greater edge. During some of the downtime, I completed a thorough search of the house. To my utter disappointment and desperation, I found nothing of an arsenal or armoury. The best weapon Samsonov offered was a hand-made Japanese kitchen knife. Sitting alone in a drawer, the knife was instantly recognised as unique, amongst simple dull cutlery. With an ornate, folded blade and wooden handle made of multiple woods, a beautiful piece. The finest of hand-made Japanese blade-art, that knife must have cost Samsonov a fortune. Anything that required actual physical work in the 2020s cost more than mass produced equivalents by up to 10 times. The Japanese knife had a broad, fat blade with some Kanji characters (probably the maker’s mark) and I called him “Sumo”.
With a new friend (Sumo), I jumped from task to task; on the solar array and then with my blades in Samsonov’s shed. I worked, honed and prepared the blades on the grinder. With oil, solvents and sandpaper, I cleansed the blades and pondered my next move. There was more sharpening and blade cleaning. Sparks and ideas flew as I thought about what I needed to do next. My mission would need to be more flexible, adaptable, with folds and redundancy, like the Japanese blade. Without thinking, responding to my environment and limited knowledge of Japanese blades, I had an idea to modify Sumo to create something even more useful to me. “Don’t over-plan, just feel,” I told myself and I went with the idea. I was either going to innovate or ruin an artwork. The ultra-hard blade received some refashioning and the reasonably blunt, curved nose was refashioned into a Tanto-blade point: ready to kill. I kept Sumo modern but in line with his DNA; the belt sander did its work to smooth him back to a nice lustre. All my knives and machetes looked good again; Sumo fitting in nicely. While more like a ninja, the name stayed. Sumo would become a well-used part of personal kit over the coming days. Walking into that shed, I would never have known what was going to come out. But it all worked out: spontaneous and adaptive actions. As I patrolled the property and retired to the guest room, I pondered the need for me to be more spontaneous, to not think things through too much. In need of some company or contact, sentimentality kicked-in and I wandered over to Samsonov’s grave. I apologised for messing with his blade but assured him it was now a very proud, deadly weapon I would use to save people like his family. That silent moment at the grave-site was somehow soothing and I returned to the house with a new weapon, a new idea for how I needed to be and intent to return home the next day.
“Go with things, Jesse,” I said to myself before that place somewhere between thought and sleep.
On the 3rd day, my last day there, I strode back from an uneventful patrol of the property and into Samsonov’s house. It was another great morning in the mountains.
Over a deliberately limited breakfast, I concluded that I had had success in Tantangara, on Tiger Island and at Samsonov’s. What niggled at me was not achieving my primary stipulated objective of having acquired many new firearms and matching ammunition. The memorial to the Samurai and experiencing a largely clear town in Tantangara should have been enough but I wanted it all.
It had been a monumental outing after having been away from it all for a year. “OK, Jesse,” I smiled to myself, “You did alright. It’s time to go home and work on a Plan B for new guns and ammunition.” I was at peace with that. My ultimate goal to clear the area, find out what was going on in Cooleman and bring others to safety had not changed.
I decided to have one last shower (a cold one given the solar array was in my truck) and take all the clothing from the house. Clothing for wear and for rags were invaluable and Samsonov’s family would not be needing any of theirs. That snap decision, to shower and get the clothes, would almost surely save my life.
On that final pass through the house, looking for clothes, I struck gold. The warrior’s home held one last secret and it was as if I had earned the right to its worth; respect and dignity restored to his family.
After a shower I had looked for some clothing. Samsonov, true to his Russian roots, had a marvellous piece of Russian engineering hidden away at the back of his antique wardrobe.
Samsonov had some nice brand-name clothes; many of them fit well-enough that I took them. He also had some stylish outdoor clothing that was utilitarian and fashionable; versatile, well-made clothes for hunting or living. I was the best-dressed man in the zombie apocalypse!
There was also a nice moleskin coat which was good enough; beggars can’t be choosers. Despite his reputation, all that Samsonov had left of his military days were memories, photos and the uniform and Marakov he was buried with.
I noticed a jacket on a hook at the back of the wardrobe. In the gloom of the second evening (without power), I had missed it. It was a combat jacket of the Australian Special Forces, in the old Australian Camouflage pattern. Such a coat was retailed in military shops before the Great Change, but was now an invaluable find. I whipped it out of there and tried it on. With some adjustments using the internal toggles and cords, it was a perfect fit. I smiled from ear to ear.
