by Dan Yaeger
I was angry at myself for such complacency. “Damn it Jesse!” I threw my binoculars down at my on chest, the strap landing them hard on my chest. “How the hell did you get yourself to this point?” I felt cornered and the dangerous feeling of despair was beginning to set in. I paced and tried to think what to do next. My predicament and complacency was fuelled by a number of short, stealthy missions into Tantangara that had been successful. But success is a relative thing and each time, I had almost lost my life. I had been lucky and zombies had left openings for escape, were preoccupied or some other phenomenon meant I could get in and out with rewards. It had been terrifying but largely successful, time after time.
That reconnaissance, a prelude to the Battle of Tanny Hill, made me realise there was no easy mission into the town. I was beyond desperate and I would seek desperate measures; my mind ticked over some more.
Seeing the morass, the horde of undead, stumbling and shambling about in numbers beyond my imagination was devastating; no food, no chance. “There’s a plague of them,” I said summarising the insect-like swarm across the landscape.
In a moment, I had been forced to see how wrong I was. My approach and lack of long-term thinking had left me there in a terrible predicament. My own eyes and multiple perspectives proved that all hopes of doing a run, like before, into Tantangara, was impossible.
“What the hell am I going to do now?” I had asked as though someone or something would give me an answer. All I heard was the wind on empty plains and distant groans. My food situation was dire and I had few options. A hunt on the way home or some fishing wasn’t a long-term plan or a strategy. Being somewhat overconfident and overly sure of my abilities, I did something bold, bolder than bold. It was damn foolish and I gambled more than myself. I would stir up a hornet’s nest.
Looking down at the town of Tantangara, filled with its zombie population, I realised they weren’t going away and nor was I.
I sat there and I had an idea that turned into a plan. I couldn’t go in with that many of them lurching and shuffling around and I wasn’t going home starving. My decision and plan had a profound effect on my life, the lives of others and the future of that region.
The only way in, to survive, was go to war. I needed a break-through and something that would end this situation once and for all. “Do or die, Jesse.”
I would have to fight a decisive battle, a rite of passage, like a gauntlet of ancient times to earn the right to get into Tantangara and the treasure it held. Going into the jungle of bricks, concrete, steel and timber of Tantangara town would be like a Vietnam War: a guerrilla war I could not win.
And then the plan hatched without even thinking about it too much. All it took was a bunch of flies that landed on my sweaty clothes. I shooed them away with my hand and they got me thinking; memories and ideas from the past. I lifted my left arm and lured them to my smelly armpit, swatting them with my right. This reminded me of something else I had seen. I had made prior reference to Mao’s strategy for flies and that wasn’t a bad one when it came to zombies. But what was inspiring was a summertime memory of my father using an open, smelly domestic rubbish bin to entice the flies. He would lure them in and swat them until no more came. It was half an hour in the summer heat, swatting flies that couldn’t help themselves. I must say that this was even more insightful than Mao’s approach as it was strategic, calculating and decisive. It involved baiting and killing to an end-point. “No more flies, no more zombies,” I told myself. I would employ the same tactic on that day; “Bait and kill. Thanks dad”, I smiled.
I would lure those zombies, like the flies, out into the open and onto my hill. I would slay them there, out in the open and on my terms and in my way. My interpretation and device for attracting attention: a barbecue, zombie apocalypse-style! There would be music and there would be dancing; dancing dead as they spun off and fell down rhythmically to the music of my rifle.
Sitting on a stump, up near the crest of the hill and chewing on a stem of grass, I felt like General MacArthur with his corn-pipe. My strategy sounded logical and methodical; it would be chaos.
A nearby cow that had only been recently killed had not been picked entirely clean. There was enough rancid meat on it that a smell could be created through cooking. I undertook the grizzly task of dragging her over with my four-wheeler and carving what was left of her up. After that task and barely holding down my meagre breakfast, I built a substantial fire on the crest of the hill and, with a gruesome, giant shish-kebab of rancid beef, I barbecued with the intent to kill.
The smell almost killed me, frankly. The stench was enough to choke a dog. But the smell, that god-awful smell, brought the zombies out like my father lured the flies with the bin. After a little while, I got used to it; I was ready, the zombies began to come out to play. I had plenty of ammunition at the time and I had a limited but ready supply of bladed weapons (never enough as I would find) and a few clubs, sharp sticks and lumps of wood setup and ready for battle. Behind me was an old reservoir where I could get my back-up against the wall if I needed to or, run for the hills. I could see past it too; 360-degree visibility. Good options, good elevation and a good position to go to war against the zombies of Tantangara.
The battle for Tanny Hill (as I called it) was about to begin. I plugged the personal electronic device I had found on a prior trip into Tantangara into the car-stereo. With most rugged off-road vehicles, this four-wheeler had a solar panel on the roof that I positioned to take the energy of the sun; to power the music of battle. I needed inspiration and company, but more importantly, noise to attract the zombies here. It would be a veritable feast for their senses.
I had found many personal devices and tablet PCs but the one I used on that day was not password or biometrically protected. It was old kit with old sounds that stirred the warrior ancestors and it would be perfect for this occasion. This device had belonged to someone who had a penchant for film music scores and military music. It was a vault of old and new songs, about times gone-by and fantasy worlds of high adventure. It was the music of warriors and I was just one in a long line and proud tradition.
If I had not earned my right to call myself a warrior or soldier before that day, I would surely do so by the end of it. As the musical collection opened in the device, I saw album covers, film posters and other metadata I was reminded of soldiers, drums and rifles, bearded warriors in tartans, razor sharp blades of the samurai, animal skins, breastplates and woad. The former device owner had rare tastes; he was clearly an interesting man. His photos were interesting too. Battlefields, museums and great monuments; a former soldier who left his heart and many mates on foreign soil I think. His worldwide travels to places I would never see were a wonderful enlightenment into a person and a world that was beyond the freedoms, the solitude, the absence of human beings, let alone kindred spirits, and the horrors I faced. “Maybe he and I weren’t so different after all?” I thought, recalling the memory of the battle and its aftermath.
I hadn’t seen what he had seen, but I had my own reasons to remember and pay tribute to the fallen after that day. That old warrior had spent his time in the lead up to the Great Change on visits to battlefields and war graves. I would later understand his motivations a little better and take a glimpse into his world.
I pressed “play” and the drums got me going and stirred the zombies. Some of the marching music on the device was made up of rousing tunes like Le Boudin, the Radetzky March, the Garry Owen, the British Grenadiers March and Scotland the Brave, to name a few. There were also a range of powerful film scores that gripped and inspired. They stirred both me and the zombies into action; a call to arms as they swarmed about and began to advance on my position.
The music would do what it had for many an army marching into battle; create focus, rhythm and calm. And should I have fallen, it would dull the pain in my last moments, a like a piper’s tune or drummer boy’s beat. For the zombies, it was just noise; like a moth to a flame.
&nbs
p; If the music was good enough for the Highlanders, the Coldstream Guards, the Foreign Legion, or the Hoch und Deutschmeister, I should be so lucky to have it play in my finest hour. I breathed hard and channelled my inner warrior. A horde of zombies began to emanate from the small group of holiday cabins and the outdoor shop below me. “This is it Jesse; no turning back now,” I told myself, steeling myself for what was to come.
Off the banks of Lake Tantangara, from the town and out of the rolling hills, they came in. The zombie barbecue delivered and I saw something quite remarkable; a zombie horde the size of which I had never seen. It was to be an epic battle against hundreds in something reminiscent of a great saga.
“That was a saga,” I smiled sadly but proudly. Such a smile was the first positive expression at the memory of the Battle of Tanny Hill. I sat there in the outdoor shop and experienced its worth; not a zombie around me, attacking me or in sight. The sacrifice had meaning alright and would have for generations.
But I was back there again, in the music and the coming battle. With a rousing, Celtic musical score from a Native American film epic playing loudly, booming, from the four-wheeler, I readied my rifle with a steely resolve. I was a little lost in the music, the remoteness and solitude of fighting the zombies from afar, all alone. I felt like the last of my kind on that lonely hill.
It was a surreal experience. As the drums of the song boomed, it inspired me to pull the trigger and pluck a zombie from existence and get on to do the same, again and again, in steady succession. The first dozen were easy prey to my gun. I had my father’s rifle, Hunter, and Old Man which was what I had learned to shoot on. Hunter was a 2010 vintage rifle, a grey plastic-fantastic stock, had a 5-round magazine and a hammer-forged barrel. Hammer forging was something Thor himself would have done if he would have had need for rifles. It involved belting smooth barrels/rods of steel over a threaded mandrel with great industrial hammers. By imprinting the barrel with force rather than casting it in extreme heat, a more accurate, resilient barrel was the result. Hunter had stunning quality and accuracy that I would rely on in what was both my finest and darkest hour. “Click, clack,” the rifle’s action was as smooth as silk as I dealt death to the zombies.
Interchanging between Hunter and Old Man, both rifles would have been red-hot on a number of occasions during that day. While not worn out, Old Man’s barrel had become smooth after so many rounds, Tanny Hill aged him significantly.
For the Battle of Tanny Hill, I had ensured a supply of most of my clean ammo and was already buoyed in early success of luring them out and taking them down. Hunter was the primary weapon of choice and, fired from down the spout of that death-spitting rifle, the battle progressed well. Music lifted the spirits and bullets rendered them low.
It was a new box of ammunition as I scanned the area and saw a sea of the zombies coming toward me. I knew, at that point, that the battle was far from over. The first round out of that new box was a sweet hit; upper chest. That impact took out so much of the zombie’s neck that there was no hope for it surviving such a mortal wound. “Click, clack,” I imitated the rifle being reloaded. I prepared to fire again. The scope I had on this rifle was one of the best; engineered in a precision workshop near Vienna, Austria. I could see so clearly, these beasts, at the ~250 meter range. The next shot, I pulled, flinched or something. No good for my line of work, which was killing zombies. The shot had hit way too low but the zombie was essentially cut through the middle, severing the spine. It was a writhing mass that wouldn’t last long. “Odd,” I thought. “Dying from a hit that wasn’t the head?” I didn’t have time to puzzle over it; I set my sights on the next one.
The next shot ruthlessly impacted the upper skull, a really good hit. No follow-up needed there. I ejected the clean, copper casing and, out of habit, caught it in mid-air. It was somewhat of a challenge to my approach. As the zombies rolled in, in such terrible numbers, I realised I was running out of time. “No time for keeping spent cartridges or mucking around: just kill mate,” I said to myself.
The shots rolled on. Keeping me company and telling warrior tales of the past, the music continued and kept me on a cadence for dropping enemy. The jubilant Radetzky March was the next piece of music. It lifted me and gave me a sense of success and hope as I took on another tranche of walking dead. As a child I had once been in Vienna, and saw a historical re-enactment group of an ancient elite military unit of the Austrian Empire. They had played that very march, re-enacting the music of empire and of a regiment that had been the best of the best, the pride of Austria. I remember my grandfather pointing them out and saying “your ancestors had fought amongst them, Jesse: Austria’s best and bravest soldiers.” I recalled seeing photos of rock-hard men sporting medals but no smiles. They were forged in battle; adapted to war but lost to life’s joys. I would get a small taste of their world and the legacy of battle and I could only hope to be half as good as those men on that day. My mind was back there once more.
The horrors just kept coming as I tried to stay cool and work my rifles interchangeably. They lurched and dragged their feet, reaching for me, despite being hundreds of meters away. I kept firing, rhythmically and methodically, as a dozen more came out from the cabins at the holiday park. Two boxes of ammunition later, I had taken down around 30 zombies. From Radetzky to Le Boudin, it was regimental, clinical and effective killing which would make any soldier proud. But this battle was far from over. My hit rate had been pretty good so far and, other than some finishing work later, I was pleased with the result. I had another eight boxes of ammo with me and was ready to stay the course and complete this bait and kill exercise. The only question was: “Do I have enough time and bullets before they are on me?”
The barrel on Hunter was fouled, hot and needed a break. I switched rifles to Old Man. With a “click clack”, I proceeded to empty 4 boxes of ammunition through Old Man, my trusty old rifle, in what became a very decisive part of the battle. The first box had been spat out with some class; roughly 8 of 10 shots had killed or maimed a group of zombies that appeared to have once been senior citizens. “I wonder who they were and what they were doing here?” I thought as they were ended. I lost my focus and thought for a moment. I refocused and glassed the area and noticed that a larger group had come from the holiday park and the campsites, north of the outdoor shop.
The next wave of zombies was a diverse bunch of people; around forty in number. I regarded them with minor concern, as the numbers, all about, seemed to magnify. The day was getting hotter and the sweat and rancid, black blood poured. As the numbers of shambling undead increased, I again realised I would have to work quickly; faster. The next group was moving faster than most I had seen, despite having a half a dozen stragglers that I would take out last. Through the scope, its crosshair’s indicating the point of impact; thirty five salivating horrors headed my way. I reset my position and stretched out my left arm a little as it had been baring much of my rifle’s weight. I was feeling a bit too hot, a blazing sun and blue sky will do that to you. With time being in short supply, I decided to keep shooting instead of shedding a layer of clothing.
“Here we go,” I mumbled as I got into the prone position and cycled Old Man, ready to fire. With a little more pressure, a hot and fouled barrel and the older rifle, my shooting wasn’t as accurate at distance. Old Man wasn’t Hunter but I figured that, as the zombies closed in range, my hit rate would increase. That judgement was wise as the zombies rolled forward, within 100 meters of my position. I took a dozen of their number, then doing in the rest with another box of ammunition.
The group fell apart as if some invisible child were playing with action figures, laying them out one-by-one. “Yes, like a child. A child?!” I couldn’t believe it.
I looked upon a monstrosity that was once a boy. I looked at him through the precision glass of the scope, in disbelief. I was a little stunned and perturbed; it rocked me. I had not had to take out a child-zombie since New Bolaro. I placed the scope reticule over h
is jet-black, spikey hair and squeezed the trigger. What was once, was no more. I paused momentarily and looked at my awful work. “I am so sorry,” I thought. “I wish you had a chance like me, I wish it didn’t have to be like this mate.” I said aloud. I had to convince myself that zombies were no longer human, like I had always thought and always knew. Unfortunately, humans are visual creatures and with a conscience and a conscious. I would have nightmares about that moment and that terrifying battle for the following year or more. “Spikey” visited me in my sleep some nights. He wasn’t angry but I had to face him and talk to him in my dreams. The memory, the flashback to the battle continued; I was sweating as I searched the shop and relived that which I had buried for a year.
Back on the hill, back in the battle. “Shake it off, mate!” I slapped myself across the face a little like a prize-fighter about to touch gloves. I got back in the game. I scanned the scene again; focus was everything. The straw-coloured hills behind me, 180 degrees around were free and clear as nature intended. What was coming my way was indeed unnatural, nothing like nature intended there. The zombies marched on as the marionettes of the corporate evil and moral bankruptcy that had created them. I dropped another two with a violent shockwave that tumbled them to the ground.
As I cycled the bolt to reload, the internal magazine of the Mauser clicked up, barring the bolt from closing. As a true military rifle, I couldn’t cycle the bolt forward without a round to feed into the action. Time was ticking and these beasts were upon me, around 50 meters. I used a stripper clip to hurriedly feed the rounds into the internal magazine, a sort of quick-load device and approach. “Nothing like pressure to make you work fast,” I thought. I noted a remaining 6 zombies and 5 rounds in the rifle. “This is going to get ugly; hand-to-hand combat.”
With a shiver at the thought, I returned from my memories and was back to the outdoors shop and my search there. With just that little shining light, I recalled that the battle for Tanny Hill had been far from over. It was a sobering metaphor that my battle, for survival and for humanity, was far from over. I was alone but not entirely in the dark; a little light.
