by Dan Yaeger
As I moved through the house, I was reminded that it was in good condition, albeit with a fair amount of dust about. Looking around, the dust had indeed not been disturbed anywhere; no finger marks, footprints or zombie swagger prints or dragging prints. Zombies and people left some fairly distinct marks: "Another topic I need to cover in my book! People need to know what to look for when tracking zombies or investigating a new location. Whether one chose to exterminate or avoid, this was important knowledge." I had a task before bed: to pen those important survival memoirs.
First, it was time for food. I had a couple of potatoes and onions that would go nicely with the rabbit meat; a delicious stew was the order of the day. Some very useable Wiltshire knives from the 1980s and an old semi-transparent plastic chopping block were taken out from sagging kitchen cabinets and put to good work. Like an excited and passionate chef, I was eager and wanting to do my best with the meal. Food was one of those few pleasures that I could indulge in and enjoy. The old kitchen knives impressed me as they sliced through vegetable and meat alike. Under normal circumstances, they would have been taken and used at home or turned into zombie killers. But the Waystation was a place to be kept safe, useful and well kitted out. That was the intent; for me and any soul that turned up there. It wasn’t to be scavenged and picked clean.
As the parts of the meal were cubed, my mind turned to the cooking part. The old gas cooktop was long dead and I would cook over the fire like I would in the field. But the kitchen was not entirely useless; it has the utensils and pots to make the meal what it needed to be. The old aluminium pots and pans clanked about as I removed them from the poor ergonomics of the simple kitchen. But I didn’t care, with no-one else around; I enjoyed the familiar note made by the pots. Those pots took me back to former times and I smiled at the thought; “Hiking and cooking in some amazing places,” I smiled. “Aluminium pots on each and every trip.”
Aluminium had once been demonised as having caused Alzheimer’s disease. While some believed this and bought non-stick pans and stainless steel pans that were overpriced, many didn't care and proved the farce to be what it was. It reminded me of the many first world issues in the indulgent and decadent times before the Great Change. I had heard that this hoopla about eating off of aluminium had been debunked but I never truly checked or knew for sure if it was real or myth. My sense of utility and safety in numbers kicked in when hiking; aluminium was used just fine. My hiking group enjoyed many a meal out of a lightweight aluminium cooking vessel over some 7 or 8 years. Similarly, my brother had been in the army and ate out of alloy mess tins without problems for over a decade. Military servicemen and women would have been the litmus test; my own limited review on a government data hub revealed there were no greater instances of Alzheimer’s disease in retired military personnel than in the retired civilian population. You never know but I was pretty sure that these pots and pans wouldn’t make me forget anything if I used them tonight. “Perhaps a good G&T would do that?” I wished. "I wouldn’t mind losing some of my memories: Svetlana’s Farm, perhaps?"
I rarely indulged in a stiff drink but could do with a memory loss of a number of events. Svetlana’s Farm was just one of them. Whether from some gin or the aluminium pots, I wished I could remove that memory from my grey matter. The hiking memories, however, would be ones I wanted to keep. "Great times and great people," I reminisced, coaxing the diced meat and vegetables into a well-used and well-loved pot. "That was a great group of friends," the thought of them made me feel alone again. Those had been some great times and the thought, those nostalgic moments, reminded me of just how great some of us had had things, leading into the Great Change. It was after that where you could put a big smoking hole in my memory and I wouldn’t have cared too much. Knowing that my entire group of hiking friends had died was a memory that could go. So could the Great Change and the hard times that followed. "Waking up in paradise, up in the mountains with no memory would be awesome, eh Jesse?" While I flippantly wanted to erase such things, the journey had helped chisel away at my character and define me more. For those memories and experiences I resented, I understood they were pivotal in my survival. A great and famous author once said that pain and suffering in our lives are the things that shape people and define their character. I appreciated this and the idea of being shaped by experiences, but not in all ways. Some things were downright awful and would never positively impact someone: rape, abuse, slavery, extreme violence, trauma, horror in general. But having hardships and triumph over adversity were hallmarks of the best humans that had ever been. It was a paradox I would ponder at times.
Freedom was everything to me and some of those painful experiences I had been through had meant losing that. That wasn’t a good thing and didn’t assist in shaping a person positively. If you disagree with me, just look back at slavery: disgusting in every way, on every level. “Hang-on…Slavery….” I wondered. I had a feeling the Mechanic, Skinny and Blackbeard weren’t entirely acting on their own free will. I spared them a moment’s thought and concluded this must have been correct. Someone was controlling them, shaping them, making them do things: slaves of sorts. I wouldn’t know how right I was or just on what scale my fears would be real until later. But I didn’t want to think about my three recently departed zombie friends or slavery or whatever was going on for a moment longer. A man’s stomach was waiting and multi-tasking doesn’t come easy to us blokes. The little, well-loved pot sat over the fire on a metal rod and I watched the flames and coals over a number of hours, relaxing and clearing my exhausted mind.
My stew was delicious. It could have cooked longer but I couldn’t wait. Hunger had taken over and I greedily slurped and enjoyed the meal more than you would expect. With a bowl in hand, I leisurely wandered around the house, eating and gobbling like it was the first meal in a week. I ate and looked at the rolling hills, pausing for a moment to put my meal down onto a window-sill. I looked for movement with my binoculars.
I spotted a distant mob of kangaroos, birds, some far off rabbits and even a fox as the sun fell behind the hills and mountains that adorned the sunset. Despite the horrors, life was still beautiful. I left half of the stew to continue its maturity, to be enjoyed in the morning. I stoked the fire and let it bubble away, giving the flavour time to set-in and magnify the meal’s taste and the experience of eating it. In the meantime, I would take the opportunity to wash myself and clean up the kitchen before bed. I didn’t have any electricity here so the firelight would be my warmth, comfort, light and companion. I felt like those before me, earliest humans, who also used fire to illuminate their world. Fire always held some magic and the dark around such fires allowed the mind to imagine the vast possibilities of the universe. I loved watching a fire and thinking. But first, I would do another ancestor pastime; a freezing wash like a caveman in the river. After a very cold shower, courtesy of the Waystation's rainwater tanks, I was clean and invigorated. My mind and body felt clear and as well as I could ever expect.
It was back to the fire; the cold shower made me appreciate its warmth even more. As I curled up, I continued to write my new book; a chapter on zombie tracking.
As the fire danced in front of me, I was inspired to write about the writhing, shuffling and shambling movement of the zombie. I penned paragraphs on movement style, rough speeds they were capable of travelling and patterns of movement. The fire burned bright and clean and both warmed me after that icy shower and provoked my experiences and imagination to write. The flames were ever-changing and held my attention, captivating and stimulating. The words came to me and the chapter took as unique a shape as the fire that inspired me did. My work would serve any reader well in tracking, hunting and avoiding zombies. In fact, “Hunting, Tracking and Avoiding Zombies” was the title of the chapter. A particular focus had been the “Avoiding” part was how to secure a house. It was a sort of therapy, noting my experiences to paper and I felt better for it. The evening’s work was done and I got up from that warm sofa-bed to
lock things down before sleep.
It was all relatively easy; bolting the door and bringing the old metal Venetian blinds down to obscure the light of the fire. Zombies were attracted to light, smells and noise and any minimisation of sensory stimulus of those creatures reduced the risk of having them upon you.
I setup the sofa-bed in the living room and took some old blankets out of the hall cupboard. I lay down my rifle, machetes and knives close at hand, and watched the fire some more. That lovely, blissful feeling of being warm and full gave me a sense of general comfort: wonderful! In relative safety and peace I curled up on the old sofa-bed in the living room and watched the fire into oblivion.
I woke to the dimness of the room, feeling completely refreshed. With all the old blinds closed, I had slept till late. I looked at my watch, the one I had acquired from Blackbeard; it was 8:12am. I had slept too long, longer than I had expected but didn’t care too much. Something had disturbed me and I would not realise what had woken me and with what gravity it would affect my world until a short time later. I yawned and stretched, warm, rested and hungry at the smell of that stew which had stewed away most of the night, gaining flavour with each moment. Life was as good as it could be when you are alone in the zombie apocalypse. But was I alone?
Such a restorative sleep was what I needed to start the day; prepared for the big and dangerous trip into Tantangara. I looked over to the fire and saw it barely live. “Ah, just embers and ash. It’s lazy like the man who had built it.” I thought to myself with a smile. I was feeling good and prepared to face my demons in Tantangara. I stoked the fire a little.
The blackened aluminium pot that held my breakfast was still too hot to handle. A good sign the food hadn’t gone bad and was still edible. Was it edible? “Very much so,” I concluded with a taste and satisfaction. Breakfast was even more delicious than dinner; the stew was at its peak of flavours and juiciness. It was what the Vikings would eat in Valhalla. I ate every last morsel of it and, despite still being a little hungry, I felt pretty good for a day of exertion ahead of me.
Putting my pot in the kitchen, to be washed, I lazily stretched and used the taps to fill the pot with water. I would let it soak for a bit and wash it in a half hour or so. In that moment I had a plan of how I would do things and a few moments later that would all to change. I went to the window to look out on the scenic landscape. With the pull of a string and a “creaking” sound, the blinds revealed my world was upside-down again.
What was a beautiful scene the day before had quickly become a scene of death and horror. The view from the Waystation was surreal, but real nonetheless. It was a reality check and reminder of the type of world I lived in: I was not prepared for it.
A marching horde of zombies was lurching all around on the grassy meadows surrounding the Waystation. I slowly pulled the string on the blinds, returning to seclusion from complete exposure. “No sudden moves, no more sound, no more fires and no more cooking meat.” I knew what I had to do: lay low. "This day could be a long one," I said bitterly as my eyes darted around, trying to make sense of my safety or vulnerability in that old house. After a slow, silent reconnoitre of the house, I returned to where I started without incident. The house was still secure.
Concluding I was still safe inside, I looked out from those old, thin and distorted window panes and considered the small groupings that added up to so many lurching dead nightmares, all about. I had never seen anything like it, not since the last trip to Tantangara. “But I provoked that?! This is just random?” No way. Something significant must have stirred up their collective interest. I can only assume such a population, and from the direction in which they were coming, were the remnants of the populace of Tantangara that I had fought so hard to exterminate. They stumbled and lurched and dragged their feet, on the way to some location near or at Tantangara. Something was or had happened to grab their attention and drive them from their bored stupor, to travel all the way here.
Ironically, I had covered the roaming patterns of zombies in the prior night’s writing session. The last commentary, which stated: “While they have predictable patterns, zombies will always surprise you. Stay careful and never get complacent.” I had been both prophetic and broken my own rules and the thought of it made me feel stupid. I grimaced at the thought. My mind raced, trying to cover everything and make sense of what had caused the formulation of a zombie group of such great number.
I needed to know what had triggered this horde; this was totally unusual. Zombies are creatures of opportunistic instinct. They would not be on their way here without some prompting or sense that there would be hosts or protein or some spectacle which captivated and confused their over-taken consciousness. It was a long way for zombies to venture and I would soon see why.
I glassed the zombies with my binoculars and concluded they were “normal” zombies, not like Skinny, Blackbeard and the Mechanic. They were all shapes, ages, sexes, races and sizes. A veritable cross-section of the once multi-cultural, diverse Australian society I had lived in. “I loved that place and took it for granted,” I lamented things as my fate looked more grim by the moment.
The small clusters of slavering zombies formed a much larger herd or horde, with no specific or obvious way for having sorted themselves in this fashion. Unlike being an Australian in a diverse culture before the Great Change, I wanted no part of what I saw now. It was horror; overwhelming terror with teeth, groans and stench of road-kill. That awful smell began to infiltrate the Waystation and it inspired fear, caution and the expectation of a coming battle.
I had to keep quiet, keep cool and carefully ready myself to get the hell out. I hoped they had not come in this general direction due to the smell of my fire and cooking. It would mean life would be almost impossible. A man had to eat and, unfortunately, so did zombies. However they ended up there, I could see that they had caught my scent much as the rabbits’ movement had caught my attention the day before. Sometimes I looked at humankind and wondered just how different the zombies were, if they were just as destructive as man had been to the planet. But such pontificating was for quiet times, not when you are about to be knee deep in a sea of shit. And I was in such a sea that was for sure.
I continued to cautiously scan the scene, from window to window, and from various vantage points. There was no discerning what was attracting or directing the zombies to the Waystation until it was upon me. “Is there a noise or smell I can’t pick up? What the hell is going on?” I thought. Then it was clear. A helicopter, like I had seen a ghost, flew in from the North. It reached a good height and flew right over the top of me; hovering. “I’m really not alone?!” I thought. A number of options crossed my mind in that instant. I concluded that the chances of me flagging the pilot down, being rescued and being in the company of someone of good intentions was increasingly unlikely through to impossible as I considered the dimensions of the situation.
“Hold tight: keep calm and stay with the mission.” The zombies followed it with their stupid gaze and movements and lurched in the direction of the Waystation, following the path of the helicopter. “Fuck! Thanks a milTiger you arsehole!” I thought, angry, shocked and in disbelief.
It was all clear: they had seen the smoke, flown around to reconnoitre and disturbed my sleep. When I woke, they were circling the perimeter of the area, far enough for me not to pick up the sound. Upon their return, they whipped up the last of the zombies in the area, right on top of me.
“Bastards!” I yelled in rage, almost involuntarily. That someone knew that this someone was living up in the mountains and making a go of survival. Naïve hopes could have been that the pilot didn’t see the smoke or were good people. Either was unlikely. But the optimist in me, a trait inherited from my wonderful mother, persisted. I held some hope that things would be alright. My cool returned.
“I can’t worry about that now,” I told myself. I had to park that whole new world of possibilities and get onto managing the marching horde of zombies that no
w centred on my location. They were on a collision course to sweep through the Waystation and take me with them. “They would definitely smell something, they would surely make attempts on the house and I need to be ready.” I was trying to keep my nerve with a horde of walking, deadly killers surrounding my position.
So I went to pattern and got geared up. That process always got me into the meticulous headspace needed for zombie killing. I got kitted-out with haste, bordering on being frantic. I was a rat in a trap and I knew it. The horde of zombies boiled around in their hundreds and I was now ready for them. “Absolutely badarse,” I told myself, getting psyched up. In a moment of getting ready for war, my mind was ready to face anything.
It was on! I unsheathed Ebony, ready for battle. I lifted the binoculars up with my free hand and watched on, hoping for something, anything to happen. I was met with a rhythmic drone. I could only recall one other occasion where I saw zombies out in such open terrain, so close and in such numbers. It was quite a spectacle; much like accounts of great battles I had read about in books, online or in a great-grandfather’s war diary. Like so many in similar situations before, I hoped it wouldn’t be my last fight for I was ready to hold onto life, kicking and screaming until the end. “May the Valkyries take me!”
The zombies reached the Waystation and began to bang on the walls, then a door and, what were initially the odd thumps on the building, became a downpour. It was a sound of violent zombie intent that resembled hailstones, the size of tennis balls, falling on the house from all directions. I put my binoculars down, almost symbolically, touching them with care. I left them there; “This won’t be precision work,” I concluded. In that moment, I lost all hope of survival and resigned myself to a bitter end, but I would fight. I was at peace with it all and would not give up: “I will fight for every last minute, until my dying breath, yes sir. No mercy for they will show me none.” It was almost a prayer.
