Solo

by Dan Yaeger

  They looked beyond their melee with the zombies nearby to the horde coming in from the North. I could see them slow down and in a cloud of dust, the young bloke I had spoken to, was running between the other bikes waving his hands and talking. The message had gotten through but we were far from out of trouble.

  At the time, I was not sure if disaster was averted, but I knew I needed to take immediate action and do my part to hold the flank. I would not fail; with every ounce I had left, I would hold the Northern flank.

  Like before, zombies were coming around a gully that held tree cover, up and over the ridge from the southwest of my position. With the music down, I could hear them howling, clicking and screaming. “Zombies communicating?” I asked the unthinkable and then refused to accept it, as I considered them through the binoculars and in vivid sunset light.

  It seemed the zombies mimicked each other; the rhythmic sounds, the communication, was occurring but I refused to accept it at the time. We had been encircled! In such a number, I deduced that they could have come from Tantangara or maybe as far as Dalgety. All I knew is that this force of zombies was overwhelming and my saviours, the Samurai, deserved that I repaid the favour of a saviour who would fight what I had started, to its bitter end.

  I started the engine, full-well knowing that I had only enough fuel for the drive home. That decision, like many others in those dangerous times, almost cost me my life when returning via Svetlana’s Farm on foot. But I had no thoughts of the future, just of acting on the immediate threat. I would hold the hill and stop that flanking manoeuvre while the Samurai broke us out to the northeast. If these were not the last waves of zombies, we would need to retreat. My calculations, while playing General MacArthur, had been proven correct by the passage of time. With a pre-Great Change population of 1,900 in Tantangara, some 100 would have had been immune. These immune would have killed an estimated 800 before being killed or fleeing. I had witnessed the aftermath of battles as I came through on my way to me new home the walking dead had been battled with alpine spirit. Over time, the zombies would have congregated and gone out again on the hunt. Some would have scattered and many would not return: lost aimlessly in the wild. Coupled with other immune people, survivors, and their activities would have perhaps taken out a third of what was left. I estimated that around 660 zombies were in Tantangara. If we were successful and eliminated more than half of those, we would have made an appreciable difference to future use of the town. If my numbers were right, I decided that retreat would not be necessary on that day. I was bitterly correct.

  “Clunk!”; in reverse gear, I floored the pedal and smashed into the lurching, writhing column of hell-spawn. The sound of cracking bones and splitting melons was something that I will never forget. The feel of going over the zombie horde, the heads of the fallen cracking like eggs, was awful but satisfying. Like a war poet once wrote; “the mash, the splendour.” I spun the vehicle around and accelerated forward. “No time to lose.”

  I drove through a large group, perhaps 50 or more and they were laid out. Bodies and parts went everywhere. Blood splashed and spattered the rear windscreen and then the whole car as I did my dirty work. The trouble with this method, while effective, had been that you had to make multiple passes to finish the job; risky business. The grass was fine, but there were small dams, fences, fallen logs and trees to negotiate. “Shit trees!”

  I was tearing around, backward and forward, in the sea of zombie faces I whirled this car about. A roaring engine, crushing bones, splatters and the moaning of the dead made for a hell of a nightmare I knew I would have later. Faces were everywhere. They were on the front of the car, then the back, on the roof, underneath being churned and crushed, beating on the panels and glass chaotically. The noise was deafening. I couldn’t see anything but a mass of writhing undead bodies from inside the car. It was muted, surreal somehow but, the safety of the car and its windows was betrayed by breaking glass. “Oh shit!” I shouted to myself as I swerved to shake those uninvited guests who wanted dinner. Bodies went everywhere but many hung on.

  The next moment and with a thunderous metallic “Crunch!” the vehicle was stopped dead in its tracks and I was stunned and rocked by the impact. I was wearing a seatbelt so I did not fly through the window and the only saving grace was that I was going at a relatively low speed. Instead of being launched like the zombies who had swarmed the vehicle, I stayed in the vehicle and was shaken like a ragdoll. It felt like I was cut in half and hit in the head with a cricket bat; all at the same time. I was dazed but still conscious.

  The radiator steamed at the front and the tree looked like it squarely intruded about a foot from where the bonnet had once finished. Zombies were scattered everywhere. Many were maimed or dying but a few were getting up, getting up to no good as far as I was concerned.

  Without any further need to plan or overthink this situation, I sucked up the pain and cranked the music. I grabbed Old Man and my last boxes of ammunition; “Ready to dance you fuckers?”

  It was my last stand; I had to succeed or we would all die. With rousing music around me, I stepped out of that four-wheel drive, pretending like I was fresh, no injuries and with a mission; kill every goddamn last one of them!

  I strode out with defiance and purpose, firing, reloading and repeating until all those standing or getting to their feet, were dead. I walked up to writhing wounded and hacked their heads off with that jagged, mangled machete. That defiance and the purpose had welled up inside of me, prevailed. I had let out a battle-cry as I finished the last of that grotesque, wounded bunch of zombies. In my arms I had been clutching weapons, raised in the air in victory. In the space of a half hour that felt like just moments, I had run over, shot and hacked over 50 zombies to death. “But at what cost?” I thought, grimacing at my vehicle and, far more importantly, the thought my comrades over the hill. I jumped into the badly damaged four-wheel drive and worked to start it. The hybrid diesel/electric motor coughed and spluttered and eventually started with a dubious engine note that conveyed grinding and, ultimately, serious damage. To its credit, the Japanese engine, like a wounded samurai of great resolve, got itself together as I hit the accelerator. The vehicle responded and pulled back from the tree with a “crunch” which left all sorts of metal and essential parts behind. It was upward, over the hill again to face the rest of what zombies still stood. The four-wheel-drive made an awful noise, smoke and steam going everywhere, and I knew it was done. But I had to forget the normal state of things. That wrecked car would be driven until it couldn’t; I needed it to do that, for those boys.

  “Get your head together; once more you need to play warrior-” I said aloud to psych myself up. The car stereo’s voice recognition system had registered and interrupted me. It said; “Now playing – ” in its emotionless female voice and stated the name of a song that had the word “warrior” in it.

  The unknown music was a rousing tune from an old film I had never seen. The war-cries and Japanese drums stirred the warrior in me. The accelerator was flat to the floor as I let out a war-cry; the vehicle picked up speed like an ancient war-horse.

  Steam spewed everywhere and the engine and electrical system gave out as I crested the hill. The four-wheel-drive’s hissing steam and noxious smoke obscured much of the battlefield ahead. “Where are they? What the hell is going on?” I asked frantically, rolling the dead vehicle down toward the smoky melee at the base of the hill. “Come on! Come on!”

  I urged the car onwards, despite knowing it was a complete wreck and would be lucky to make it down to the fight.

  Trying to get some visibility, I pulled the lever to activate the windscreen wipers. The wipers worked for me and then died but revealed enough of a view to show me a scene from hell. “Hell no! A grassfire must have occurred! I hope they are OK.” I looked onward as I rolled down the hill to a charred landscape. As I got closer, and with my own eyes, I realised that not a soul stood; zombie or human. “No-No-No!” I yelled in despair and my rolling wr
eck, pouring steam and smoke, like its driver, pulled up to the scene of the Samurai’s last battle.

  I raced out and found my friends, my brothers in arms, those who had saved me. They were laid out with zombies all around them and with the smouldering, blackened grass all about. I felt I was in hell on Earth. My worst fears were realised they were fallen and it was on me. I stood there and stared, bubbling a little, my hand to my face in disbelief and grief. I was feeling destroyed at the chaos, the disaster, the victory.

  But one of the Samurai still writhed; my friend with the dark hair and the ready smile. I pulled the helmet from his head and his eyes locked with mine. “Did we get ‘em?” he whispered. I nodded and saw how parched he was. I ran to the car and grabbed water and frantically rummaged to find the first aid kit. I sprinted back to his side. Fumbling with the cap, I poured some fresh, cool water into his mouth. He coughed some of it back with a crimson foam accompaniment. I knew his lungs were gone, he would be gone.

  I began to weep a little, but fought it back. “Yes, you did so well. You and your mates were so brave.” I nodded and got around behind him, to prop him up. I lifted his head and shoulders from the ground and kneeled to support him in such a way that he could no longer see my face but feel the comfort of another separating him from the hard, smouldering ground. He moved his head toward the water and I poured more cold liquid into his mouth. “Nah, they’re me brothers and cousins.” He coughed and spluttered and I thought he may be on the way out. But he held on, as if it was most important to ask the next question. “They’re OK?” He smiled and winced; a long blink. “Yes, mate,” I lied, trying not to lose my composure and whimper. “My olds are long gone- they are everything.” His hand swung outward weakly, indicating his brothers and extended family. “Tell my bro’s that they can have me quad and helmet,” He smiled but bubbled blood with pain. “Yes, mate.” I wouldn’t tell him he was the last of what had been his family, his brothers. And, in one final act of kindness, as if the young man could not have broken my heart any more on that day he said “And you can have my rifle mate…You done good…” I held him there and wept. I looked at his face and saw what was just a boy. He had seemed older before but that face had so few lines of age. He lay there, innocent and tragic. I stroked his dark hair and I said “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re too young. You should be at home with your parents or out with a pretty girl.” I said with tears pouring down like rain. “ You’ve had to survive and lead your family; too early, mate. Your mum and dad would be so proud but they aren’t here…So I will cry for you…Thank you”. His eyes opened weakly, and he smiled. I was unsure if he heard or understood, and with one last gasping breath in and out, his eyes clouded and he was still.

  I would later find out this boy was named Dane. I checked each of his brothers and cousins, not knowing which was which. I looked at these bodies, treated them with care, and noted they were all dead from grievous wounds. I was in disbelief and it didn’t really sink in as I wiped tears and death from my face with the back of my filthy hand. They were all younger than Dane and I realised I had been saved by some boys. “Just boys,” I had cried when I discovered them. It was a tragedy I would never forget. “The Samurai were just boys,” I acknowledged this with a broken heart and teary eyes.

  I checked all of them again, hoping for some life; no miracles other than their bravery. I sat there amongst the dead, zombies and boys alike, hunched, in utter shock and exhaustion. It was some time until I moved from that place.

  I regained myself and all of the boys were checked, yet again. Their helmets and motorbike armour were removed with care. Their mothers had lovingly written their names on the tags of their gear. Dane had done a fine job of looking after his healthy and clean-looking brothers and cousins: Corey, Heath, Mitchell, Evan, Braith, and the youngest, Roley. A mother had once loved them and birthed them into the world in a natural way. A father had taught them to be men when they hadn’t been honoured with the time to be so. It was the unnatural world that took them. The sun set on the day and the lives of the Samurai; I would never forget the battle or them or that day.

  I was succumbing to lassitude and realised I needed sleep or worse may happen. I curled up in my wrecked four-wheel drive, and eventually fell into a deep sleep. I was so exhausted and distraught that I ignored the usual fastidiousness in being safe and secure: I could have been a meal for zombies, if there had been any left. But I was broken and couldn’t have cared.

  I was haunted by nightmares of rotting flesh, jagged teeth and blood, red and putrid black blood. Too much of it; I had seen enough.

  I woke with a start; “Was it just a dream?”

  The scene around me would offer no such comfort. The blackened landscape still smoked a little and the death, those stinking bodies wreaked. It was a sight no-one should ever see. The nightmare continued and it would haunt me.

  The bodies of the Samurai had remained covered, as I left them. It was a good sign that the zombies were truly devastated but it was little comfort. The disaster was complete; other survivors were fallen on my mission and on my account. I shuddered as I gazed on their forms once more. Human life was so precious and in my impatience and selfishness, I hadn’t thought to think of anyone else coming to help. It weighed on me heavily. “You deserve to be laying there, not them,” I was beating myself up.

  I drew back their coverings and they looked peaceful and asleep. I wanted to keep it that way; to never see the rot and awfulness of death touch them any further. I had to do the right thing by them before they lost that look of innocence. After scavenging what I could from the boy’s backpacks, I ate, drank and worked until I had buried them atop Tanny Hill, in deep graves. In the hot sun and with injuries that still bled, I built a rock mound to mark each one of them. They deserved more than that but it was the best I could do. I knew I would return to do what I felt was right. It could never be enough, nothing would bring them back.

  Fighting back tears and devastation, I gently placed their bodies into the earth. It was deep and held some warmth, as if receiving them. With posies of grass and wildflowers for each, I placed these small tributes on their brave chests. It was an emotional and physical ordeal but I endured it to do something right by those boys. I was almost ceasing to function and did what little more I could before collapsing. Any and all additional care was more than owed for those bravest of boys. I took the time to pick some more wildflowers and thistles for the piles of stone that were now the only markers of their lives. I was scarred for life but touched by angels.

  As I piled the last rock on little Roley’s blanket of stone, I breathed hard and with a heavy heart, some more tears came. I wiped the blood, sweat and tears from my face as the day’s sun was high in the sky.

  I vowed to return and memorialise them properly and when I could; it would have to wait but they would not be forgotten. So I stowed their helmets and armour in my wrecked four wheel drive and promised to return in one year, at the latest, to do the right thing. I told each of them, hat off and talking with them as if they were each there. I had made that promise with a conviction that was more like an oath.

  It took a long time to clean up the rest of that scene. With fears of further infection of animals or someone down-wind, I had to burn the bodies. Anything not infected was precious. I didn’t want to jeopardise any more lives; I had been responsible for enough.

  I used a quad bike which still had some fuel to help pile bodies. Each form, each mass was once a person and I lost myself in the sadness of it all. Whether I was lucky or it was through destiny, I had no choice but to go on. Anything else would have been selfish; the cruel paradox of survival. It was night before I had finished and all the fuel was gone in moving corpses and pouring what little was left onto the mound of dead. The funeral pyre, the size of a small building, burned for a full day but it could never truly clean or clear my mind from the memories of that battle and the horror of so many bodies.

  Once the grizzly work was done, I took
refuge in the wrecked vehicle. The sun was setting once again, blood red and shrouded in smoke. I slumped back into that car-seat, for the second time that day. Devastation was everywhere and in my heart. I turned on the device and played a random song. In delirious exhaustion, I said “What’s that song playing softly now? Danny Boy?” Angels would have wept; I did.

  Chapter 10: The Rock

  Dr Kian Penfould sat in his antique chair, with his pipe and tea service in front of him and puffed comfortably. His teak panelled office looked over at Cooleman Private Airport, his airport. He smiled with self-assurance and satisfaction as his “squads” could be seen returning through the main gates of the perimeter where the airfield and its fence adjoined his medical centre-come-fortress: the Rock. Those brutes, thugs, criminals, junkies or just desperate folks ran about doing his bidding like a private army and he loathed their company but loved their work. All many wanted was some home-grown drugs, laced with Divine, and enough of his formula to keep the virus at bay: he was their master.

  Penfould rose from his chair with a grimace and ache, and noticed what he thought was Squad 4 coming in. They were carrying a French antique armoire which he had asked someone to find for him. His eyesight was so poor that he wasn’t entirely sure of its state, quality or authenticity but it didn’t matter really. It looked the part and was another symbol of his power. When it came to French armoires, he wouldn’t have known, despite his pretences. The prize that was being hauled through the gates by two of his worst troglodytes indeed looked the part. He smiled an awful, self-assured smile of satisfaction. The armoire was one of the things he had asked them to find and they had done his bidding, proved his power over them, yet again. “Good, the junkies in Squad 4 can replace the blighters I lost in Squad 1.” he said to himself, smirking. “Mon armoire: j’taime.” He continued to himself with his poor overconfident and incorrect French. He was the wittiest person; one just had to ask him. Others survived in that new world but Dr Penfould was the self-professed saviour of the world who had been working on a cure for the Divine infection. He was so brilliant it had taken him 2 years of snivelling around another doctor who he murdered for his theory on the cure. The theory was not yet proven but Penfould had his chance to rule and be great. Just the promise of a cure had made him powerful. He felt he was special and did not need just survive; he would be indulged, as entitled. This was his time, he was king.