Thor's Hammer

by Dan Yaeger

  I hoped that Jen would agree to help me with my strategy but I needed her to be well for such an endeavour. A two-person team with radios would be needed for what I had in store. With my love, ally and best friend I had also found a partner in crime. When Jen was better, we would work as a team and own Cooleman’s Doc. All those best-laid plans also necessitated a transport plan; I had one but it had some risks associated.

  What had been Jen’s four-wheel-drive, our car, would be the vehicle to get us to Tantangara, where we would then swap to another vehicle. Our next mode of transport would be the van taken from one of the Doc’s squads after a life or death encounter. I had hidden it in a shed and was hoping it was still there, undiscovered. “To the winner go the spoils,” I smiled to myself at the thought of my victory over the Doc’s neo-zombies. The van had plenty of fuel and could get us to the outskirts of Cooleman, or at least close. After my confrontations with a number of neo-zombies, including with a ruthless henchman of the Doc’s named Maeve, Cooleman had been exposed as a hub for the Doc and his crew. Maeve’s deathbed confession that the Doc and his people had been hunting me in order to find a cure was both shocking and intriguing. After being alone in the mountains for so long, Jen and the enclave in Cooleman had rocked my world. I couldn’t hide away any longer; that was becoming more evident by the moment.

  I was ready to fight them again but, deep in my hopes for the world, I also had a desire to assist in a cure. A cure could help them, the region and potentially the world. I couldn’t help my optimism, with Jen at my side, but I knew the Doc was no friend of mine.

  I was keen to get out into the field with her for the first time. “It will be great: exploring together and discovering what’s left,” I smiled, looking at her with happiness. The expedition to Cooleman, as always, held a secondary mission: gathering supplies. Once we’d swapped from the 4 Wheel drive to the van, we’d drive to the outskirts of Cooleman and do our best to conceal the van in the bush, ready to take us back to Tantangara, after our mission was complete. We would trek into town via the bush, and house-hop, scavenging items of opportunity and noting what could salvaged in the future runs with the truck, the one I had found at the holiday park by the lake. The salvage and surveying part of the mission would see us going between the buildings, getting us closer and closer into the town-proper so we could assess what was going on. “Sounds like a plan,” I said aloud, mostly to myself. Again, Jen looked down into her tea and looked to the now sunny window onto the beautiful alpine bush setting outside.

  “Supplies around Cooleman but now we eat,” I thought to myself. I was back to reality and getting some food for Jen and I.

  I made her a breakfast of muesli and some smoked trout and rocket. She only ate half of it which was not a good sign. Although very fit and lean, Jen had a good appetite. She normally ate more meat and fish than any other woman I had ever known. “Jess – I just want to be left alone for a while. Can you go out and do some things and give me some space to be sick and miserable?” She looked up with her big eyes expectantly. “Yes, of course,” I said giving a gentle smile and touching her arm affectionately. “It is a shame you are unwell. I was hoping to go out with you today. Hunting and gathering for food and I was also going to take you to the Waystation and check for contact,” I smiled. It was one of the meet-up days I had written about in the journal / guest book at that little farm, halfway between my home and Tantangara. I invited survivors to come and meet me there but none had ever been there. That being the case, I would not give up. Jen, the Mouse, the Samurai; there were others out there and I needed to keep positive they would come. Hope was everything.

  “It’s a pity but you don’t look up to it,” I said gently, looking into her deep, sore eyes. She nodded but didn’t seem interested in the Waystation, the mission for food and contact or its significance as a precursor to the bigger game; being prepared for Cooleman. She chewed on some skin from the smoked trout and grimaced with an expression I had not seen on her face before. She looked left and right with an air of anxiety and bit her lip in an odd, jittery way. I looked past it and saw love; blind.

  Jen pushed away her half empty plate, lifting her left palm up to that invisible barrier which was human body-language for “enough”. I took one look at the leftovers and then to Jen who nodded at me as if to say I could have them. I wolfed the fish and muesli earnestly. Jen would normally have made some playful comment or just given me a look, one of those smouldering looks. Instead, she looked wayward, as if a million miles away. She reclined again in the comfort of our bed with her back to me. I kept her company a little while longer but realised she was ready to be left alone.

  “Bye, love.” I said. “I’m going to check our food situation and get you some fresh fruit from the orchard but I’ll just leave it in the kitchen. You can have it later. I might make some noise but it will be me finishing up and heading out for my hunt and gather on the way to the Waystation. Sound OK?” I asked. She put in a little effort to respond and acknowledge; “Bye, Jess.”

  I left the bedroom and went to the kitchen, onto the realities of surviving once more. I took a quick stock-take of our supplies. It was clear that even after a rationed breakfast, we were low on fresh food, especially meat. We had plenty of tinned food from my last mission to Tantangara and Samsonov’s House; not nearly enough or what you could be healthy with. I had learned that surviving off the cheap meals, the easy ones, would result in lethargy and poor nutrition. Those were precursors to illness and my successful survival had hinged on this awareness; fresh meat, vegetables and fruit were essential.

  “It is time for some more meat, rabbit, goat, venison, pig, or if I get desperate, kangaroo.” I thought. Whatever I could bag would be welcome. With someone sick to look after, survival had become a little harder but it was nothing that I couldn’t handle. “I need to get her well and ready for our mission into Cooleman,” I concluded.“Ready!” I said to myself.

  I got into the zone, as I always did, of meticulously getting geared up in my mud-room. The mud-room or “airlock” as I sometimes called it, looked like a school corridor with bags and gear everywhere. It was my kit, for all occasions; ready for anything.

  Maeve’s .22 rifle I had named “Manilla” after the land of its origin, would come with me. I expected that large quantities of rabbits would provide lots of protein and the .22 rounds were perfect for that size of game. But I needed a heavy-hitter for bigger game. Would I bring the Old Man, the Hunter or the Tiger? Old Man for this one. It was a short hunting trip with limited range requirements. Besides I liked having my old rifle with me on treks; like having my dad nearby.

  Onto knives, I moved quickly, excited by a trip out. I unsheathed my Solingen bowie knives and assessed what I had and how useful they would be. Panther and Orion were good; one from inactivity, the other from being honed in Samsonov’s shed. All my other knives, including Soldier, needed some work. I had been too busy living and enjoying life this past week to sharpen and clean all those blades. Sumo was still perfect and I decided to leave him behind for the next expedition. The Chinese knives I had acquired were fair to poor in condition and I dropped three of them into my pockets. They were expendable, lifeless items which I had no connection with but they would be used to the full.

  “OK, Jesse: Orion, Panther and the lock knives are in. Machetes?”

  Bob and Ebony (my nasty home-made machetes) would come with me. That was sort of a given when I went out into the world threatened by zombies. My usual old German Army Flecktarn smock from the 1990s was gone, up in smoke, after my last set of battles. It had been soiled beyond use after battles at the Waystation, Tantangara and Samsanov’s. I looked to where it had once been hung.

  I felt like a wasp whose nest had been moved, I knew it was gone but wanted it, kept going to where it normally hung and found the jacket from Samsonov’s that had taken its place. I lamented my vintage German combat smock, having retired it after so many years of good service, sparing a moment for all
I had been through in that thing. “Good times, terrible times,” I told myself with both nostalgia and traumatic memories of past events. Unlike the wasp, I moved on. I put on an old Australian camouflage shirt over the top of my black T-shirt, pulling up a pair of matching camouflage pants to round out the outfit. I would leave jackets behind; too warm and I only intended to be out for a short time.

  And so it was; armed with machetes, Bowie knives, lock knives and two rifles, decked out in camouflage for the Australian bush, I was geared-up for my excursion. It was a hunting trip which include a fight or two with zombies. Having Old Man, Orion and Panther with me was like having a piece of my father and grandfather with me; powerful, connected. With that reconnection established, an almost a reboot of my mindset, I strode forward toward the front door. The door opened to a trip without Jen; Breathing in deeply, I enjoyed the fresh, cool air and the smell of freedom, nonetheless.

  My survival thus far had hinged on my dogged resolve, not letting your guard down or getting lazy. Patrolling my home was one of the things that had kept me safe and I would do it like any other day as a routine. The patrol took me around the perimeter of my home and the settlement and back to the other cabins: nothing. I listened and heard the usual, familiar sounds of the Australian bush, particular to the high-country. The wind rustled through the tree tops and a Rosella called to it’s mate. “One always has to look beyond,” my grandfather used to say. But I would not understand the risks to everything important to me were so obvious, simple and closer than I had thought.

  I began walking, out toward the edge of the small settlement of cabins. Jen’s truck was now part of the set-up and was parked under a carport adjacent to our house. “Our house, our car,” I had thought, smiling. I was in love with being in love, playing house and having someone in my life. Things had moved fast but I agreed with Jen; nobody in the new world knew exactly how long they had. My philosophy was becoming: “If it feels right, don’t question it”; it wasn’t my usual way and not what had kept me alive until now.

  The “gathering” part of my morning began and I wandered into the orchard and patrolled, making sure any zombie threat would be recognised before finding food. “Nothing; just how I like it,” I whispered as I cleared the small garden shed beside the orchard. Again, I was looking in the wrong places to manage the threats to our future. But then and there, I was satisfied with picking fresh food from the orchard and vegetable patch.

  Taking a shovel and bucket from the shed, I dug some potatoes; a bucket of spuds to eat. “Fruit,” I reminded myself cheerfully as I walked through the orchard and picked a handful of ripe plums and apples, that the parrots had not yet found, and placed them on top of the potatoes in the bucket. The smell and touch of the fruit was Zen: hard work delivering sustenance and food for health and pleasure. I admired the earthy, freshness of the potatoes too; satisfaction in home-grown food. I returned my gaze to the harvested fruit and decided I could do with a bite, then and there. I grabbed two plums; they looked good, not much different and I bit into one. A bite revealed the usual fresh taste and some odd, bitter foulness. I spat it out and bit into the next plum, which was delicious and unmarred. As I ate it, my brain began to process something in the background; an active subconscious and the simplicity of what I was looking at in the conscious. One plum was rotten on the inside from a worm, a parasite, and the other was clean and clear. They looked the same but under the surface, things weren’t what they seemed. It was symbolic and made me think but not with purpose or clarity on the comparison. Without further thought, I picked another fresh one for Jen.

  Still hungry, I ate an apple on the way back to the cabin, enjoying the fresh taste; It cleansed my palate. I felt satisfied with a patrol that proved the location was free from enemies.

  The front-door opened with a dramatic blast of wind and I cleaned my boots on the doormat before going to the kitchen with my bucket of produce.

  I tossed up going to her; to visit Jen once more before going out. I wish I had but no-one knows what happens next in life. The house was quiet and I figured she must have managed to go back to sleep. I decided to leave her be a let her sleep off her wretched illness. So, now I was ready to head out on the trek. I was blind to what I was looking at: love is blind.

  I looked briefly at myself in the mirror in the mud room and saw a man that looked like a soldier going to war. This image would prove prophetic.

  Like so many times before I left my home, our home, and took in the alpine air and the scenic surrounds. The trek was welcome and soon I felt invigorated and alive in the bush, my second home. As always, the fresh air, the smell of the Eucalyptus and native plants was soothing and comforting. “It is all so familiar and safe”.

  I moved briskly, avoiding breaking sticks or making noise that could announce my presence to man, animal or beast. At times I would stalk, following a trail but all such side-visits were uneventful and I was not finding any game opportunities that would yield meat. I did spot the most beautiful pair of Rosellas sitting high up on a branch of a Snow Gum; food for the soul rather than food for the belly. They chirped at each other, nuzzling, preening and then one flew off, leaving the other alone, regarding me carefully down below. “Me and Jen with wings,” I thought, smiling inwardly. Whether it was a short time like a couple of birds or the rest of our human mortal existence, growing old together, I was happy we had met and loved and dared to be together.

  After a quick toilet break and a drink, I continued on my trip. A cool wind gusted through the bush; unsettling and unpredictable. “I should have brought that coat,” I thought. The clouds had closed in quickly and threatened a downpour, but only managed a little drizzle. I marched on through rolling hills and swaying alpine bushland that whispered cautions. The rain fell lightly and I was sweating through the sultry ferns and moss, toward my destination. Before I knew it I was in the familiar tree-line that heralded the Waystation’s meadow. “Home again to my second home,” I thought. I liked that place. I was distracted, thinking about Jen, worrying about her, and was not as thorough in my investigations as I usually was. But no zombies boiled out of anywhere. I glassed the area for zombies and game. “Game on.”

  The meadows and cleared land around the farmhouse revealed some relief: meat.

  Four little rabbits hopped across the fresh dewy grass near the edge of the tree-line. They would be a great source of protein for me and Jen. They were close and the low velocity ammo wouldn’t go much further anyway. I was also conscious not to disturb a nearby mob of kangaroos; I owed them from last time when they had averted a zombie horde. I was sure it was the same mob, a silver-furred leader of massive physique, and would make sure they were unharmed and not to disturbed.

  I got into a comfortable position, planning to shoot the four rabbits in quick succession. Before they worked out what was going on, I would have meat for Jen. “Jen could probably eat two by herself!” I joked to myself, remembering her appetite for protein. Then my mind wandered, pondering her appetite for protein and what it reminded me of “like those buggers she saved me from at the Alamo”, I thought. “Focus,” I told myself. I breathed out and held the rifle into my shoulder from a prone position at the edge of the bush. I was wet from the ground, flies buzzed past my face and the sun, was at the wrong angle. Shooting never afforded ideal conditions and good shooters learned to ignore or overcome such interferences and obstacles. Crack! Click-clack, Crack! Click-clack, Crack! Click-clack. The fourth rabbit sped off into the bush before I could get a bead on it. Three shots, three dead rabbits. “A squad of them, like one of Maeve’s,” I thought. I lay there and paused. My thoughts were unsettled and numbers and situations brewed like a cauldron in my mind.

  “The squads, four in a squad, but I killed three outside my home,” my mind raced as something in the natural world provided a revelation into the unnatural. I stopped, took my focus, my mind off the reticule and the quest for meat. Something more profound, beyond that of the natural and primal was troublin
g me and it needed to be revealed. “Zombies don’t eat each other; a zombie could walk into another group and be left alone,” I recalled the Alamo; a flashback of the silhouette.

  The mob of kangaroos, my friends, sat there looking at me blankly. They had not moved as if they knew I had no intent to harm them. They regarded me as if “it”, something was self-evident and, naturally was obvious. Life, natural life was what they were, how they were. One of the kangaroo’s pouches had a joey inside. He would be in there drinking his mother’s milk, keeping free from sickness and- illness. I had that moment of revelation one has followed by the immediate sense of what was once hidden, now obvious.

  “Milk! She said milk! Mother’s milk! Her leaking breast?! She is drinking her own milk!” I had that nape of the neck feeling, the feeling of horror and awareness of what was going on. As I said it all, again, it solidified and so did my plight.

  Out in the rawness of nature, observing all that was natural and as it should be, the penny had dropped. “She’s one of them; she’s infected!”

  In that prone position, alone and distraught, I dropped my head into my hat, into the dirt and lay there, crying. I wept like a child at the realisation. My eyes were opened and a clouded judgement was brought into clarity once more. Like only a hunter and shooter know, I had to recheck my surroundings. “Focus,” I breathed with great difficulty and with a broken heart.

  I glassed the area again with my binoculars and checked the Waystation like I ought to have before I shot. I had been blind and should have looked, listened and “opened my eyes”. I had missed what was going on, just as I had with Jen. As if a cruel joke from the gods, I saw the packet of chips was missing from the letterbox. Then I saw it: the unnatural mound, the shape of a helicopter, half obscured in brush cover and netting near the opposite tree-line to me. Now I could see; all was revealed. “There are shapes in the windows of the Waystation.”