by Dan Yaeger
I was incredulous for just a moment and then I got my head right. Through the fog of things bringing me down, my focus kicked in and I was going to fight for my life. I remembered thinking "Zombies were never organised like this, and the smile!" Such observations were correct in that split second. They normally shambled about together in a primal way and groan a bit, they didn’t normally wait till a shooter was close and vulnerable or remain silent and sneak up on you like these two had. No matter how this had come to pass, in all of its randomness, I had to deal with it and I could dissect and make sense of the “how” later.
The zombie closest was once a woman, really skinny, weak with thin bleach-blonde hair, a black singlet and skinny jeans; “Skinny”. The furthest zombie was also moving my way; “Blackbeard”. Skinny continued to crouch like a cat while Blackbeard came towards me with speed and intent. Things happened too quickly for the optimum response. In my half-starved state, I was lucky that my brain had triaged a strategy at all.
That old faithful, “Old Man” my rifle, was whipped off a strong shoulder, just in time to blow Blackbeard’s guts out. "Hip-shooting." It more or less halved him with a splatter back toward his friend. "Good, no extra washing!" I thought to myself in the narrative which kept me sane and thinking. The rifle came up again, but this time it wasn't to shoot. The heavy walnut stock impacted Skinny’s face and drove her upper and lower jaw inward with an awful cracking sound, as she pounced.
With a hollow howl, she stumbled backward onto hands and knees and gave me enough time to draw my knife. Its heavy blade came down on the back its skull like a cleaver, splitting it in a number of directions. With that sort of brain trauma, she was gone. Blackbeard, on the other hand, was grasping at my well-travelled boots. He was trying to take the boots from me like I had done his friend. The Bowie was swung around into a stabbing position, a downward motion followed, from standing to kneeling. The extra supporting hand on the pommel gave me all the power and more to finish the job. “Stop…” he loosely groaned but it was too late. The knife entered just above his nose and took the top off his skull. He was done now too. “What the fuck?!” I was in disbelief. “A zombie that had retained some speech?!” I was incredulous and concerned that I had hallucinated due to hunger and dehydration.
Blackbeard had become a new enigma for me to understand. I wanted to know more. “Was he human?! He was probably in too bad a state after the shot, even if he was” I justified. What had happened was completely unexpected. That sort of stress, fear and uncertainty was never pleasant and it always rattled the strongest of people. The soul of a person is never intact after killing something that resembles the form of a human. This is even more the case when what you kill has a voice!
Everything was questioned as a rattled mind raced. "Perhaps loneliness had reached such a point in me that I craved the company of a zombie and had imagined it?" A moment’s thought: "No fucking way. I was totally with-it and I had heard clearly. The bastard spoke!"
Now convinced that what I had heard was real, another noise attracted my attention. A gurgling and swishing sound from around the side of the house was telling and broke my moment of reflection. The threat may not have been over and further investigation and laser-like focus would be called upon, once more, before the day was done. Legs extended, a mind cleared and those legs stalked like a commando. Slow, purposeful actions were undertaken; a reloaded rifle with slow but strong movements, a steady silent movement to the scene of the unknown noise. As the reloading occurred, a casing was left to drop to the ground. I could worry about reloading bullets, cleaning this and that and everything else, later. There was a war on. I stalked, like when I was out hunting deer, around to the side of my cabin.
A kangaroo, the gods only know how, had been mauled by the group. It laid there, its comparatively little arms scratching at its exposed chest and guts that had been spilled on the wet ground. Tail swinging this way and that and its one intact hind leg kicked, almost twitched. Its mouth was mostly open in some strange expression as though it wanted to talk and seek my help. It knew I was different and was not one of the inhuman carnivores that had tried to eat it alive. The movement continued but was more subdued. I patted its head gently and it was not aggressive toward me. There was an understanding that one cannot explain. There was more in that understanding, in that poignant moment, than with the zombie that had spoken. On reflection, I used this as part of the basis to justify having killed Blackbeard; more connection with a mortally wounded roo. Without anything but compassion in my heart, I reloaded my rifle and put a round through its head. It was at peace. It was over.
The mechanic’s jaw lay nearby in a pool of blood; somehow the roo must have kicked it off in the scuffle. “What the hell was going on?” This was unusual behaviour and I needed to understand what had just happened and what it really meant. The next 15 minutes was spent undertaking recon around my cabin to make sure I was in the clear and safe. My efforts yielded a sense of security and I relaxed, as much as one could as I wavered with hunger.
My mind raced to try and comprehend what had happened. But natural instincts, those needed to survive, kicked-in and my head was righted once more. Back to basics: I desperately needed to eat. I knew that, only after a meal, could I manage to clean and carve my deer and clean-up that mess outside, in that order.
With the physical exertions of the day and the prior three days of hunting, I was pushing my luck. The feeling was there that if I hadn’t eaten quickly, I could really suffer or be compromised. Feeling faint and having a hazy head, there was no doubt as to what was needed. Water, a meal of protein and some fresh food would cure my ills. I would manage all those other things later.
I wearily entered the entry room which I called the “airlock” or "mud-room" of my cabin. Boots were pulled-off, jacket hung and pack slung off my weary back. The rifle and other kit were leaned against the wall. Fumbling on a side-table, I opened a muesli bar and ate it like it was the world's greatest delicacy. It wasn't the solution but it got me out of a hole. A water bottle was retrieved from the pack and the taste; cool, fresh mountain rainwater was heaven. Human again, human enough to prepare the meal I needed.
The “inside shoes” were put on. They were so comfortable and were really some slippers with a tactical tread on them. I found these funny as, when they were likely made, they would have been for someone that was a bit on the paranoid side. I can just imagine the television or Internet ad that would have offered “Home comforts tempered with tactical readiness, just in case the neighbourhood hoodlums think you aren’t ready for an urban pursuit.” (Phrase said with deep, forthright, American voice). What was even funnier is that I had, on one occasion, a need to rely on these tactical slippers when some junkie scavengers had scoped out my home-come-hideout in zombie infested Canberra. They tried to steal a bicycle from out the front of my house and I came out running and wielding a machete. These young guys weren’t fully gone yet (had not succumbed to Divine) and they must have crapped themselves. They literally couldn’t believe some dude had run out of his house in a pair of pyjamas and slippers and managed to run down the runner and the guy on the bike as well. This scenario, as always, made me crack a smile and shake my head. If only I could share it with someone else, it may create some much-needed laughter in this crazy world. It was amazing where the mind would wander when you needed to divert your thoughts and grab a quick laugh to lift your spirits.
Home, just being there, made me feel better. My home was well-lit and sunny in its design and aspect. It brightened the soul, too. The light cloud had cleared and the drizzle had gone. It had turned into the perfect day for a walk, a coffee and good company. That world was just a dream as I walked down the hallway past my bedroom and into the bathroom. A place of cleansing, the bathroom was where I could do the minimum so I could eat urgently. I could take a nice bath later.
I plunged my hands into the basin of water and used a very well-loved nailbrush to scrub the filth and blood from my hands and
forearms. I used Frankensoap as well; an affectionately named conglomerate of all of my previously used soaps rolled into one. I was down to this, my last soap and would have to go and scavenge for this and other items on my shopping list. It was an unwelcome reminder that I would have to venture out further than the bush around my home. I knew it would have to happen and the maximiser in me concluded that I should compile a definitive list of all the items I needed to claim some civilisation and order.
“That little brush could be replaced too,” I thought as I considered whether it actually cleaned nails or made them dirtier. The way it looked, one could be forgiven for concluding the latter. The rules of living and survival had all changed since ’28. I would use something until it ceased to function. Then, when it ceased to function, you would try to repair it and extend its life at all costs. If that didn't work, items were repurposed or turned into fuel for the fire at the very least.
Past ideas about living and sophistication from the society I had once been a part of, meant that I was always busy as a cottage industry, producing something. Some simple items I would make from scratch. Machetes and knives were a specialty of mine. All you needed was a nice hardened piece of steel. Someone with good control could grind it to an edge, work it with some sort of abrasive until smooth and then use a diamond sharpening block. The end could be pinned, riveted or threaded or shanked; affixed to a handle. I used lots of different techniques and enjoyed it. As I washed my hands and considered all the things I had made, I realised how proud I was of what I was able to achieve on my own.
When I had played “sheriff” and "regulator" to clear the area out, my handiwork had come to the fore. Wholesale zombie killing needed wholesale equipment. I went through a lot of knives, sharpened shovels, pitchforks and machetes. Many of these weapons were used in place of my more valuable or prized equivalents like Orion and another favourite, Panther. His name was given to his pommel; the head of a great cat. They were German-steel blades, forged after the Second World War to meet demand for the American outdoorsmen's market. They were collectors’ items before the Great Change but had far more value being put to use by an old-world frontiersman. I smiled at that thought: "What was I saving them for; the end of the world?!" I laughed and kept thinking.
"I need more blades," I thought. "Maybe Skinny, Blackbeard and the Mechanic have more friends? More zombies would need to be cleaned-up and will take weapons. Will that wreck what gear I have and leave me compromised?" My thoughts had returned to recent events and the unknown ahead.
I continued to wash and scrub my hands with the soap and nailbrush. “Still works,” I reassured myself about the brush’s capability to clean. In former times, people would have just thrown away these soap leftovers and that soiled little brush which I was using to good effect. Humans had wasted so much, including our potential, on a global, catastrophic scale. In the new world of survival, keeping your kit and using it to the end of its utility was the only way to live. Risking your life going into former population centres every time you needed something was the opposite of clever survival. Saving and being inventive and resourceful made the difference between surviving or not and I was surviving.
I washed, relaxing my hands in the cool water as I did. The blood, dirt and soapy water drained away as did many of the feelings of the day’s events. I then washed my face; cool freshness that was invigorating and jolted me back into things. Despite being hungry, the meagre bar and water had taken the edge off and I took a moment to look upon myself and reflect. I looked in the mirror and stared into myself. I saw a fit, strong man: a survivor. A little too lean for his own liking and a little too weathered but still in his prime. With colour in my hair and cheeks and a strength and fitness anyone would be proud of, I didn’t look half bad for a man in his 30s.
With a quick scan, I determined that I was OK and would be. I gazed upon my own image; satisfied with being me. It was strange how in this new world, human nature hadn’t completely died in the human. It wouldn’t have made a difference to my prospects with women whether I was me or the Elephant Man. But as a man and a human being, these things of common vanity, self-esteem and self-worth separated me from the zombies. I held onto being human in the inhumanity of it all. "Lose these little shreds and I was a predator and zombie like the rest." I was better than that and knowing this kept me going.
“Time to eat: how many times was I interrupted from eating today?” I grumbled internally. I went back to my pack and retrieved a very nice venison back-strap for the frypan. In no time, my fire was roaring again and I could smell garlic, shallots and venison. A zucchini from my garden and a potato, pan fried and rolled in oil and rosemary, made a meal that was heaven. Washed down with fresh mountain water from my rainwater tank, the food left me full and recharged, ready to deal with the day’s events.
I sat in my cabin which was once a ritzy, luxury eco-retreat with all the mod-cons. It was a relic of past ideals in a modern setting and, ironically, I was considering past events and how they related to an uncertain future. But I let my mind wander back, as usual, into the past and the reason behind things.
When I had found that haven, a place of sanctuary from the horrors, it had been a dream come true. I had been on the road for a while, teaming up with people, only to lose them to claws, teeth and death. Where I found suitable fortresses, they would soon become surrounded and overrun. One of these places had been the family property at Tantangara. I still felt the shame of its destruction; surrounded by zombies, an old-school lamp fell and a fire engulfed the place. The land was still there but was too close to town, too many zombies so I moved on.
I escaped only with what I could carry, too many times to remember. But not at that place; the alpine retreat I called home. The cabin I lived in was the best situated dwelling amongst the group of 12 that formed a village of sorts. I called them cabins but they were really a cross between a mountain chalet, a log cabin and a modern home. One was mine and the others lay vacant but intact. It truly was a haven.
I lazed on a very comfortable leather couch when clean but I still had work to do. At the moment, I pulled up a cane chair that I used if I was a bit filthy. The polished floor, high-ceilings, timber beams and stone hearth was a dream-home for anyone of my outdoorsy nature. I kept the place clean and tried to keep order in my little home which I felt was indeed the haven I needed from the chaos on the outside. The stag antlers over the hearth and the rifles on the wall were coupled with some retired knives and a family sabre from ancient Prussia (rescued from the family property).
It was a man cave of the highest standards and I had found and made this home my own. Of the historic accoutrements, I had to be reminded of times before and of where I came from. My relatives had fought with distinction in many wars over the years and this bit of a tribute-come-shrine was to channel the ancestors to give me strength in those dark times. "Dark times for the world on such a beautiful day here in the Australian alps." That is, if you ignored the blood and gore outside. “It’s time to go out and face it, Jesse.”
I ventured out again, sporting my hunting clothes. They were not just for deer-stalking but for bloody and dirty work. The job I had in mind was just that; working with dead zombies and a gored kangaroo: a goddamned mess!
As a general modus operandi, rifles came out most of the time when venturing into the wilds. Around the cabin, blades were usually enough swagger but given the day’s events, Old Man came with me. I reloaded my old Mauser rifle and left it, safety on, leaning against the cedar wall of my cabin. Orion, the trusty bowie knife was also close, on my belt with the fastening stud undone. Orion was there to protect me, like a good friend who "had your back", for any up-close and personal encounters. I wouldn’t need these protections after all. I was free to do my work.
First thing was first, the bodies of the kangaroo and the zombies needed to be dealt with. I could only assume the roo had been infected with Divine and any person or animal who, in-turn, ate its flesh could be subjected
to it. I had heard reports in the early days of ’28 of animals being infected and turning. I cannot say that I had ever seen an animal behaving like a zombie but I would not rule out that they could have carried it. I wanted to ensure I played no role in the spread of the scourge, that virus from the worst of nightmares. With plenty of timber and fallen logs on the land there, a large fire was easily made. Flames were always a great way of getting rid of the infected and infection. The challenge was enough flames to do the job with swift and savage effect, while trying to limit the smoke and size of the fire so that enemies, living or dead, wouldn’t zero in. After what I had seen earlier, I was not sure if I needed to exercise a new caution and precautions. "Were they zombies-or? Stop! Of course they were!" I told myself. "Don't change a damn thing!" I reminded myself; stick to the plan.
I dragged the roo onto the bonfire-cum-funeral pyre, putting this majestic creature in pride of place. This was some 150 meters from my house. He was a big boy and made for heavy work. I am glad I hadn’t wasted more water on getting clean. In lifting him after his journey through the mud, I was covered in filth again. I was sentimental about honouring a fallen animal if I could. Especially since I didn’t need to carve him up for meat, I wanted to send him to the kangaroo heaven, the afterlife, Valhalla or Elysium or wherever, as intact so he could bound on. I didn’t really believe in that stuff, but wished I could. Some ceremony, culture of some sort, differentiated me from nature’s own creations and the monsters we faced in the brave new world. While the kangaroo was given some reverence, the zombies would be dealt with differently. They were enemies; garbage to be disposed of.
The bodies hadn’t been out in the elements long enough to stink more than usual; a distinct road-kill meets extreme body odour. In short, they ponged. None of these zombies had the raw sewage smell that you could find with the saddest of cases, though. Given the wounds, exposed flesh and humidity, the smell was expected to be worse. I was a little unsure why the smell wasn't worse. Feeling lucky for the lack of smell, I got on with it.
