Solo

by Dan Yaeger

  ”Hey Tez or Mike? Over.” The radio was squawking again. “Yeah, Tez ‘ere, ovah!. I said, mustering up the right voice and persona for this dialogue. “That fire was pretty fuckin’ big. How many of ‘em did you kill? Over.” I tried to play it down with an attempt at the Aussie tradition of poking fun at someone. “Big? there was only a half dozen of the fuckers,” I said, downplaying things. “Just coz you can’t build a fire or tell how big one is!” I took the piss out of her. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too. Me and them four jail-birds will meet ya there. Maevo over and out.” Maeve replied. I turned the radio off to ensure no-one could use it to triangulate my position or break my cover or work me out. As tempted as I was to continue to play games, I knew that it would only make matters worse.

  I returned to the canoes and began to unload and create the stash I was thinking about. That apple core that I brought with me from home had been on quite a journey of the last couple of days. I wanted to plant it on Tiger Island as a permanent source of food and shelter. I hoped that one of those seeds would grow to provide sweet apples and shade to someone who could enjoy it. I went about planting a few seeds at some suitable points on the island. I set up a tent hidden in some tea-tree. I deliberately picked out a heavy duty “outfitter” grade shelter, semi-permanent and hid it well in the scrub and tea trees. Maeve and her squad would still be on the way to Bimberi for now. I would have to wait it out for a while. In the meantime, I would get the outpost setup. With the basics of a hidden camp established, I emerged from the scrub to see a breathtaking sight. The water was rippling gently, alive with hope and the sky was glistening clear and starlit. I dragged the canoes up into hiding places, turning to look at the natural spectacle. The storm had passed. While the world was dark, it glimmered with hope and I marvelled at it.

  Chapter 14: Ghost-Town Alamo

  In the middle of the night I had woken to see the headlights of the van and the trailbike heading back to Cooleman. They really weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed; no stop to check out the bonfire or shed next to where the bonfire burned. They would be back and I would have to be on my toes.

  After the drone of engines disappeared from range and not a single light could be seen, I went back to sleep, feeling safe in my little outpost on Tiger Island. I slept through the night, keeping as alert as I could and scanning the area with my binoculars at various intervals. Despite the interrupted sleep, I felt refreshed and watched the sun come up. I was feeling alive and well for the first time in a long time. The excitement of the cat and mouse engagement had me on a high.

  With a lazy yawn and a stretch, I sat down and ate some cereal with some powdered milk. I used small travel packs of both items so as not to soil larger containers that could remain sealed. It tasted great and it wasn’t long before I was motivated to get onto the task of finalising the outpost on Tiger Island.

  I spent the morning setting up a small water catchment, weather-station with its own battery pack and solar charging system. Other small scale solar panels and an extra tarp over the tent were also setup. The tarp would increase the life of the dwelling. The lock-box was filled with food, first-aid supplies, general equipment and fishing gear. It was stashed on high ground, nearby the tent in some scrub. I also elevated it on some rocks and covered it in a large, industrial plastic that had been on a canoe. It was locked with the combination lock; 3-0-0-6. The number was one of my favourite rifle calibres and was memorable. More food and items, similar to what was in the lock-box, were stashed inside the tent, along with a dozen average quality fishing rods and lock-knives, lamps and torches, a couple of cots raised off the floor.

  I didn’t eat anything more of the finite supplies and decided that I had done all that was needed for a good little outpost on Tiger Island. The spare canoe was dragged down to the miniature beach, its oars rattled around in the belly of the vessel as the hull dragged on the sand with a characteristic sound. I scanned the area with my binoculars and found the only movement to be that of birds and a few fish moving in the water. It was a delight to see and experience such freedom from the zombies. The ability to move, without fear or encumbrance, was a luxury I was not used to. The safe-haven of Tiger Island had already proved to be worth the effort and I decided it was time to get moving.

  I placed a written note in a plastic sleave on the floor of the tent with a rock on top to hold it in place as much as signify a hand had placed it. The note outlined the location of the canoe I would leave behind and the modest amount of food inside the camp. I did not reveal the location of the hidden lock-box nor its combination. That was my emergency kit and I was satisfied that plenty had been left for others there in the tent. The note also identified the location of the Waystation, including its coordinates, and invited anyone who could make it there to make contact on the first Saturday of every month. I signed it off as “Jesse” with a smiley face. I was happy thinking about making human contact again, not just contact with lurching undead or whatever the Doc’s zombie minions were.

  I left my new hidden encampment at Tiger Island, satisfied it had already proved useful in observing the squad that had been headed up by Maeve. I paddled slowly and rhythmically, enjoying the good weather that had emerged from the dark. All was alive with light; lovely and shiny. I saw fish in the water, their silvery glisten was exciting and the beauty in nature entertained me once more.

  Someone in my predicament found entertainment in simple sights like embers in a fire, a sunset, moonrise or, the gods forbid, a beautiful woman. The fish were in large numbers; teaming with life without the competition of too many people to fish them out. I hoped that Lake Tantangara would once again be a haven for life and the abundant fish would be a sustainable supply to many. Memories of fishing trips to that place resurfaced.

  I remembered when I was a boy, the thought of coming to Lake Tantangara and fishing was great fun and excitement. It did have its moments, often interspersed with boring periods. Whether it was making conversation with friends or extended family or just sitting, waiting for the fish to bite, I would have traded everything to be back there again. I took it all for-granted. One thing I had been right about was that there were too few fish back then. There had been government spawning programs to try and boost numbers and support more sporting fisherman to come to the region and support the economy. There were restrictions on the number of lake-specific licenses that were issued and the size and weight of the fish you could take. But humanity was always about excess and every yobbo with fish sonars and other over-the-top gear took more than their unfair share. For a little kid with an old-school rod, on the shoreline, the hours of trying to attract one of the few fish left in the lake meant boredom and tedium. But somehow it was fun and the embellishment of memories and time made it even greater. After pondering this memory of my childhood, I wandered if the Great Change was in fact some sort of great correction that would mediate and limit the excesses of the past once we came out of this mess and established civilisation again. “Without struggle there is no change, Jesse,” I said to myself, considering that premise. That was too deep a thought and I shut it down in the hope that I could talk intelligently about it with someone one day. For better or for worse, my dreams would come true.

  After a continued, slow and steady paddle, I crossed glistening waters, under blue skies and made it back to the holiday park. The familiar hiss of the canoe on the sandy short was a welcome reminder that I was on the mainland. It was also like some great spirit telling me to be quiet and check the place out. I drew my rifle and stalked around, checking the place meticulously. After another, final patrol and visual check around the perimeter, I listened, crossed in various intersection points; a full tactical sweep. My binoculars scanned the wider area, as far as they could see. “Nothing. Thanks boys,” I found myself saying. Tantangara was far more accessible and was almost cleared of zombies a year after the battle of Tanny Hill. I was feeling the pride and thanks for the Samurai and myself. With a relaxed walk, it wasn’t long before I
was back inside Casa Jesse (my cabin at the holiday park) to eat some food and rest after 24 hours of paddling and fighting.

  I sat there and ate some hearty soup from the tin, not wanting to waste any more gas to cook it. As I ate the stewed meat and vegetables, I thought about my next move. As always, my plan held some risk but pushed the limits. I needed dramatic progress. I reconsidered my situation on a full stomach and ended up at the same outcome as I had on Tiger Island. My ammunition situation was getting worse by the day and I needed to score new supplies. This was especially important as I thought that I would be encountering the Doc and his neo-zombies, an unknown enemy, sooner than I thought. Instead of heading back to my home with that truckload of supplies, I decided to go to Samsonov’s House first.

  Samsonov, the notorious Russian resident who lived on an original property just outside of Tantangara, was my hope at getting more weapons and ammunition. Having heard about this “crazy Russian gun-nut”, I thought Samsonov’s was the place to go to improve my chances. The outdoors shop and gun store in Tantangara had already been raided. My eclectic supplies from farmer’s houses in the region didn’t match my kit; old calibres, rusty rifles, poorly smithed actions, basic gear for culling animals or shooting the occasional fox or rabbit. I was hopeful that I would find a range of firearms puzzle pieces at Samsonov’s; ammunition and kit that would fit together.

  As previously described, I had heard about Samsonov while I was in Tantangara, before the Great Change. While visiting the family property, I was fishing for farmers who might let me hunt deer or goats on their properties. There was always a man from the land who was up for a free beer and I obliged. After a little foamy social lubrication, a local bloke had told me deer hunters had become hated because of this poacher called Samsonov. After the yarn was spun, he let me down gently that there was little or no chance of hunting on anyone’s land in the region. He still accepted the free beers and I put it down to a bit of a waste of time. I had never thought the story would be of use to me, beyond a passing yarn and entertainment. In the new world, the story of Samsonov got a whole lot more interesting; a potential stash of gear, supplies, guns and ammunition. An effective hunter must have had effective gear.

  I even pondered the idea that the old Russian may still be alive. “Maybe even a friend?” I asked. “Don’t get too optimistic,” I told myself. “You may end up with someone wanting to take your guns or shoot you in the arse!” I made myself smile at the remote chance that Samsonov may still live and live in ongoing belligerence. “If only.” I smiled. I could have used a friend, no matter how crazy.

  I fished that afternoon and cooked another trout, accompanied by a canned vegetable feast. Tinned mango for dessert was something I savoured. Mangoes would not grow in these climes but the wisdom of the past had provided me with a flavour I could have only dreamed of in that time and place. I lay in a hammock, resting and desperately trying not to sleep and relaxed for an hour. There was the sun, the cool, gentle breeze and that blissful feeling of teetering on the edge of sleep in a semi-lucid cat-nap. Then I heard it. There was always something; breaking my relaxation.

  An engine. From a great distance, across the lake, I could hear a vehicle. I got my usual kit together and I was ready to hide first and fight second. My tactic would be to stay in my cabin, Casa Jesse and lay low. It was a good thing that I hadn’t cooked that soup.

  Just 6 months ago, I would have been over-joyed to hear an engine and I would have naively flagged down the driver. Now, I was very wary and suspicious after my last encounter. “Who or what is it this time?” I peered out at the road with my binoculars. The car came down my way and I got a clear view. It was not the van or trail-bike Maeve had attached to her squad. This was an older-model four-wheel drive and it appeared to be deliberately slowing down, stopping and starting again. “They are scanning the area.” I said, not knowing who “they” were. The vehicle made a 3-point turn and disappeared into Tantangara. “Fuck!” This put a spanner in the works. “Do I go and risk another encounter with the Doc’s people to get the supplies from Samsonov’s or do I get in the truck and head home? Are they another group; good people?” The question was mediated by my mission. Going home, hiding up there and surviving another year or two would not cut it with me anymore. I would brave this person or people in the four-wheeler to get to Samsonov’s house. This was all part of the mission to expand out of Tantangara and restart my little part of the world. To do that I needed to take some risks and meet people.

  My broader plan was to create the Tantangara and surrounding region as a safe-haven for people to live and thrive, not just survive. The sacrifice of the Samurai would not be in vain. If I was going to make that happen, I needed people, first and foremost, but I also needed gear, particularly weapons. The Doc and his people were not going to go away without a fight. They had proven that. The Doc’s people were expanding and exploring into my territory and I needed to make it safe before I brought others into the area. With that thought, it reaffirmed my resolve to explore Samsonov’s House; the best for the immediate and the future.

  I waited a couple of hours and surveyed the town of Tantangara with my binoculars. It was a ghost town but there were no undead. I listened to the sounds around me and I could not pick up an engine like I had before. It was my opportunity and I went for it.

  I drove quickly but carefully from the holiday park up into Tantangara. The windy road hit the roundabout, and into the shopping centre district in the middle of town. I had come too far for where I was headed but I wanted to see what the centre of town looked like. This curiosity was a blessing and a curse. I had never made it there in the past, with the sea of zombies that used to wander the area. Prior scavenging missions had seen my stay away or quickly on the run from overwhelming zombie forces. This time, it was very different. The Battle of Tanny Hill had made such a significant impact.

  In my gut, I knew the diversion into the centre of Tantangara was a mistake. But I just couldn’t resist seeing the town again. I looked with some sort of wonder at civilisation, the vestiges of my culture and people. It was as if I thought I could go through some time tunnel, given there weren’t any undead and I could just meet people. It was indeed a mistake that almost cost me everything.

  I pulled into the car park and parked across a number of spaces with abandon. I enjoyed that feeling; it appealed to the rebel in me even though society as I had known it was gone. I got out of the truck slowly and carefully, so as not to make too much noise. There was silence and not a single person or zombie anywhere. Human habitation without humans is eerie and reminded me of a documentary I had once seen on Chernobyl.

  Tantangara could have had tumbleweeds rolling through it. Silence, save for the wind.

  Just when I thought I was alone, I saw something move. It wasn’t tumbleweed. I thought I saw some something or someone retreat into a courtyard where ski shops, cafes and other retailers had once done their trade. The movement was quick, like a scurrying motion which was uncharacteristic of zombies. Around the entrance to the courtyard was litter, bleached bones, bones that had been picked clean. Everywhere, the signs of murder, blood and mayhem could be seen. The distinct stains where pools of blood had been were accompanied by blood spatters on sandstone walls and some scenes where the wounded were dragged away. “The last stand.” I concluded.

  The place was a mess, having been extensively looted and all packaged foods that had been consumed were strewn about the place. That little shopping arcade looked like it had been the scene of a major defensive effort by the population. There were bloody hand marks, human remains, mostly scattered bones and the smell of death still in the air. Dozens, maybe a hundred or more had died in this place. I shivered and stalked inward, looking for that which had darted off. “Hello?” I called out. I had already been seen and whomever, or whatever, had made that dashing movement, knew I was there.

  I emerged into another courtyard, a second wing to where shops and cafes had once been. At first g
lance, the courtyard was tactically good. It had entrances that could be cordoned-off and a thin main entrance, which I had entered from, which could easily be defended. There were fewer dead in this wing and some ramshackle but sturdy fortifications still stood. It was a small fort really; “The Alamo.”

  As I got deeper in, I realised this was the scene of the very last stand of the immune of Tantangara. As the Divine-infected hordes surrounded them, they retreated further in and had sought refuge in this place. And barricaded it was. I pulled some boards off the walls and pushed some old beer kegs (full) and other obstacles out of the way so I could get in there. I heard sound, footsteps a short distance ahead of me. I was determined to check it out and was unsure whether I would find a person, a zombie or one of the Doc’s neo-zombies. I reconciled that if I was going to clear this place, I did have to mop up or make friends, come what may. I unslung my rifle and unfastened the studs that held my Bowie knife and my machetes in their scabbards. I loaded my poorest quality rounds, all four of them into my trusty rifle, Old Man. I was ready for close-quarters action. I stalked past the dismantled barricade and was surprised at what I found. “They had won?!”