by Dan Yaeger
“Kill, you say woman?! You mustn’t! No,” He fixed his eyes on hers and pointed his pen at her. “You mustn’t kill whomever we find! They are our holy grail, they could mean a cure. Keep them alive at all costs you silly girl. But yes refuel that helicopter for another day.” He scolded her for a moment and then moved on. “In fact, I have a better idea,” Penfould looked thoughtful; “Take Squad 2 and 3 to Tantangara and do some reconnaissance,” he said the last word with a poor but genuine attempt at a French accent. “We can assess what is going on there at ground level. You need to be armed. The place is plagued with the gruesome forms of the undead.” He said with an attempt at theatrical flair. With no acknowledgement at his wit and charm, he continued. “Take the squads to Barlow and get him to issue knives and cricket bats. You can have a rifle too. A twenty-three?” Penfould said benevolently and innocently; childlike generosity for a moment. The three experienced shooters smirked at each other and Maeve, least likely to upset the doctor said, “Yeah, I’ll take a twenny-two wiv me.” For all of her lack of class or etiquette, one had to hand it to Maeve for her way with Dr Penfould. She had impressed and taken care with his ego, enough to rise up out of the squads and now live inside the Rock, instead of outside in the tents and the excesses of the junkies.
The Doc took the opportunity to save face and said “Yes, send the squads in those old vans, eyesores that they are, and you use your trail-bike. Fuel them up too.” He passed her the chits she needed for these requisitions. Price, knowing he would irritate Penfould, but wanting to mitigate risk to the mission, added “Best tactic would be let the squads go in first and you stay close behind them. Keep them on the walkie-talkies and give them clear instructions. You’ll be alright.”
Penfould had to have the last word: ”Remember Maeve: capture, but don’t kill unless you absolutely must”. He looked her in the eye and gave a wink. No-one else noticed and Maeve would be on her first mission as a squad leader, possibly issuing a hit, if she read the Doc right. She smiled broadly, revealing her crooked, yellow, shovel-like teeth. She felt very lucky; wet work was normally for the squads, Siro, Price and sometimes Xavier if the doctor wanted murder and mayhem.
The doctor continued, lecturing Maeve as she nodded respectfully “I’ll get Xavier to watch the women while I’m away. He will love that.” Maeve smirked at the Doc, trying to push her luck even further. She hoped she could organise that to harass the women in the Pen. Price and Sirocco looked at each other, knowing the sicko they were referring to. “Man, yo can’t let Xavier onto ‘em,” Sirocco said, thinking of his “girl” who he liked the most. Dimitra or “Dimi” was just a hot little number Siro liked and she kind of liked her time with him, when he wanted it. The thought of the depraved Xavier getting to Dimi pulled at the cage fighter’s heart-strings. “Nah man, let Rob Chisolm do it. He’s a good kid. Not like them bitches will fight or escape.” Sirocco puffed away on the pipe, trying to appeal to the Doc’s sense of hubris.
The Doc nodded, ignoring Sirocco’s lips on his pipe. “No, indeed, I don’t want Xavier. He is an effective terror tool and interrogator but he has no limits and I don’t want him loose on them, no.”
He really meant Samantha or Angela who were exclusively his. The thought of Xavier with either of them made his blood boil. “Make it Rob then. Besides, if we let Xavier in there, he would milk them all dry!” another cliché Penfould moment where you could hear the sound of one hand clapping. The sexual predator that was Xavier Karnovic, direct from Cooleman jail’s worst pool of extreme sex offenders, was nothing a normal person would find funny.
Once he was finished with his self-congratulatory laugh and thigh-slap, his silly moon-face and fat-lipped grin turned dark and the penny dropped about the supplies of milk. Maeve’s comments from earlier had sunk in and, despite how razor sharp he thought he was, Dr Penfould was not the sharpest tool in the shed.
“Good- ehrm-I mean, no! That is bad indeed! Our milk supplies are terrible! How did this happen?” His contrived attempt at an Oxford accent was lost for a moment and he sounded like a normal Aussie with an Asian background. He shook his head, making sense of it and asking the question more of himself rather than his team. Nonetheless, no-one wanted to answer that question. No-one said a word as his head looked this way and that, left and right, accompanied by a quick burst of mumbling. “Get those cows on the breast pumps tonight, all of them. Give the infants some formula instead of the breast milk. We must boost supplies. We are too low and I can’t risk an outbreak.”
Penfould looked troubled and nervously ran his hand through his hair. His comb-over got a bit ruffled in this movement and he resembled a worked-up cockatoo. Siro smirked at him. The doctor looked at him oddly but ignored it as Siro’s usual insubordination. “Maeve, get the milk from them. I want them eating well to produce. Keep them up all night expressing. You must maximise output. I want an additional 30 units by tomorrow morning.” Penfould was troubled by their dire milk situation and made no attempts to hide this issue or bare this burden alone. “Go now.” He ordered Maeve simply. “But doctor, sir,” Maeve asked. “Do ya want Sam to express as well?” she was hopeful she would deny Sam the attention of the doctor and keep her down as a milk animal instead of being in the proverbial presidential suite. “Don’t be silly,” he looked sinister and smirked, “I will be getting MY dose, direct!” he slapped his thigh and laughed like the once bullied and now the bully prefect of his sick little boarding school.
“Yes, yes. You gentlemen, and I do use the term loosely,” he laughed and looked at them all, seeking approval at his self-appointed wit and charm. “You can also get your doses direct!”
Price and Sirocco indulged him a little and chuckled with a “damn right” and a “you better believe it” to egg the awkward, egotist on enough to make him happy. “Maeve, give these two gents two doses of milk each please. They can have those in addition to the standard dose they get direct tonight. They may even get a little reversal.” He lied. Unaware of the medical impossibility of what Penfould had said, both men beamed at the thought of getting better. They felt like winners for a moment.
“Enjoy yourselves tonight, for tomorrow you are the great white hunters looking to take the Tiger or elephant.” His smirk was almost on cue as he then attempted another poor joke. “Well in your case Sirocco, you are the not so great and not so white hunter! You’re a bit brown really!” Price laughed and Penfould was pleased with himself. Sirocco retorted with: “A bit rich coming from you, man. What are you? Chinese or sumthin’? I’m caramel an’ coffee baby. I had more willin’ pussy than yo’ ever get dog!” Price continued to laugh and they high-fived each other. “I am not Chinese!” Penfould was angry and fumbled on the table, looking for his pipe and noticed it was in Sirocco’s mouth. He was not going to let all of their disrespect go unpunished. It had built-up and an expected volcanic tirade was a stone cold blade, much more dangerous, instead:
“Oh, and by the way,” Penfould sneered, “Make no mistake, I am not a bitch Sirocco. I make people MY bitches. Just ask that bitch on a leash or the cows she lives with,” he seethed and little dried saliva blobs formed at the sides of his mouth. “You may not have a leather dog leash like some, but I have you on a leash, BITCH!” he screamed then nodded emphatically.
Sirocco was going to get up and end the hope of a cure but the click of a pistol cocking made him look down. Just like Siro had taken the pipe unbeknownst to anyone, Penfould had concealed the pistol on a hidden shelf under the coffee table. Two snakes, both with venom, squared off.
“So give me my pipe and fuck off bitch! Get out of my office!” Penfould’s attempts at gentry and Oxford English were gone and he screamed like a child in a tantrum. And Siro listened this time, doing as he asked without a word. He would save this up and keep it for later. It was not for now. He was so close to doing something and yet he was so close to a cure. Hope got the better of him and the stand-off was over.
Siro flicked his head up at Price and they left t
he Doc’s chambers, not giving it a second thought. “Fuck you Doc,” Siro gave him the finger, leaving the room angrily. Price said nothing and hurried after his mate. “What a fuckin’ dick man,” Siro shook his head and walked quickly. He needed to let off some steam and Price struggled to keep up with the fittest of men in the Rock. They moved quickly down the former hospital’s clinical corridors and they ended up at the Bear Pit, as they called it.
The Bear Pit was the room Siro and Price called home. It was once an operating theatre, with a mezzanine view that students could use to observe and learn from doctors operating below. It was far from that origin under the Doc’s administration. It was a large floor-space that had been converted to the two men’s needs and tastes. Up top, it was a bachelor’s living quarters, a bar, fridges and a television with old-school discs and physical media. Down below, the Bear Pit was just that. Siro had set up an MMA training area worthy of any of the best stables. It wasn’t big enough to be world class, but the gear that had been scavenged was of the highest quality.
With the education sector in Australia having been in overdrive in the 2020s, the hospital had made more money from international student fees and its university affiliation than it did from paying patients. Penfould had hated these rich, privileged students that had been a huge part of regional populations. He felt a sense he was better than them and they didn’t belong, stealing his opportunities and taking away from his specialty. But he controlled the facility and he would preside over things as he wanted.
The hospital was modern in parts and ageing in others. The operating theatre that was now the Bear Pit was a mixture of both. Tele-health had rendered such learning facilities mostly obsolete, yet it had been one of the most successful methods in teaching young doctors the complexities and realities of surgery. In a world where computer systems had automated plane landings through to medicine, some wise old surgeons persisted in teaching the old ways.
Once the Internet and the worldwide cloud communities that facilitated a worldwide network of data and applications, the old surgeons had been proven right. But it was too late for the world; the casualties outnumbered the capacity to operate and the last of the skilled surgeons turned or became a meal for a zombie.
In a cruel disregard for his own profession and its tried and true methods, the Doc had ordered his squads to move the medical equipment out so he could move his grunts in. The squads had transported such delicate equipment, sometimes with due care and other times dropping milTiger-dollar sensitive, sensor-rich equipment. They took it to the larger, older, district hospital in Cooleman. It was a snub as if to say “screw the old establishment”.
It didn’t make sense in some ways; given Penfould was a fan of empire and the imperial era that predated penicillin, MRIs and a range of other leaps forward in medical science. But he was a hypocrite and had many such contradictions. With all the haptic and holographic surgery systems, scanning and other medical capabilities removed and in storage, Siro and Price had taken up residence. They were given the special privileges not afforded to others and they loved their world there.
But that large room with a mezzanine floor had a new role as the Rock’s elite fighters’ den. It was a bit like when invading soldiers take up residence in a place of art or high culture. It is a way of shitting on the old establishment and its culture. That had been the exact intent of the Doc. Penfould’s two best soldiers behaved in the intended way. The place was nothing like the dignified, clinical place of learning it had once been. There were neon signs, old porn calendars, pin-up girl posters and all sorts of tacky trophies and oddities that had some meaning or rounded out the style. Where a state-of-the-art diagnostic machine once stood proudly, a disgusting old couch mouldered. “The Mooch Couch” stunk of BO and had so many farts pumped into it that when they sat down it reminded them of a boozy night in. Good times: watching movies or a piss-up where they had spent the night downing ales, telling jokes and knocking off the women they picked out for some “R&R”. The Doc had offered to replace that couch, numerous times, but that humble couch was an institution for Siro and Price; iconic.
“Want a beer?” Price asked, stretching out his sore back as he headed to the fridge. The light went on and revealed that icy mist that you dream of when you are hot. “Nah man,” Siro said, throwing down his kit. “I need ta work out. Lemme throw some bombs on da bag and think o’ the Doc’s face.” Price laughed and twisted the top off his ice-cold beer with his armpit, yobbo-style. To top off the scene, he peeled off a ripper fart. “Ooh, eggs.” He commented on the aroma.
Price flopped down on the Mooch Couch and watched his strong, fit mate strip down to his briefs and get into a t-shirt and some shorts. Price patted his belly and said “Better you than me mate. I’m going to watch some porn!“ Price said it emphatically, to attract the attention of his frustrated mate. No response was given as Sirocco Silva, MMA star of a former time, got back to his roots and brooded down in the Bear Pit.
“Your loss on all fronts mate,” Price continued, sipping a beer and giving a big satisfied, over-emphasised sigh. “What’ll it be? Big boobs? Feet? Arse? Whaddaya reckon?” the old pervert said eagerly smiling down at his mate with wide, expectant eyes. His partner in crime must have been in a right mood; no response. “Oh, well. Boobs it is then.” Price pressed a few buttons on the antiquated but very functional disc player. Like magic, he was immersed in enormous mammary heaven. While Price indulged in a little corruption, Sirocco worked drills.
Like a jaguar, he leapt from lying face-down to a squat position, up to his feet and into a fighting stance. He was quick and could get himself up and back to the floor again with talent. He practiced this and hand-stand push-ups against the padded wall. He ran shuttle runs from one end of the pit to the other and did lunges, twisting with a medicine ball. He sweated and grunted and worked off his ills in some form of self-imposed penance.
Just when he thought training would be boring, there was a knock at the door. “Fuck off!” Price said, transfixed on some bouncing boobs. The knock came again and Sirocco ran up the spiral stairs and opened the door. He figured all training and movement, even answering the door, would make him better. Standing there was a welcome surprise: contenders.
“Hey Siro,” one man from the squads said. “We thought we would see if you would let us train with you now you’re back.” The two men looked at their feet and shuffled, hands in pockets, like boys trying to get in with the cool kids’ club.
“I thought no-one would ever ask,” Siro opened the door wide and let the two squaddies in. The two men looked at each other and smiled broadly as though they had hit the jackpot. The truth was, they wouldn’t be hitting anything; they were going to be hit, hard.
They always marvelled at the coolness of the Bear Pit as they were led inside and offered passage down to the training area below. “Hey Price,” one of them said, trying to muck in with the toughest hombres in the Rock. Price didn’t move other than to raise a middle finger and say “Like I said, fuck off!” The other young squaddie said “Real nice, mate.” Price kept watching his entertainment as the second man disappeared into the Bear Pit’s lower level. Siro ushered them and then followed.
Siro was not all bad; he helped the guys warm up and took them through drill after drill with him until they could barely stand. They always learnt a lot from him but it came with a price-tag: blood and injury. “Time to glove up,” Siro said simply. They leaned on their knees, panting and nodding, too afraid to ask for more water or a longer break. It wouldn’t have mattered; they were in for a fall. It was then that things turned from tough to worse.
Sirocco “Quick” Silva: undisputed champion again. This time it was a round-two knockout for the first punter and a technical knockout of the other opponent within the first round. He was happier but still a little unfulfilled. He needed a worthy opponent. He would get it.
Chapter 12: Camp Grenada
In the outdoors shop, I sat on the floor and finished the last o
f the food I had rummaged and put the water into my pack for later. The solids and the cup of tea had hit the spot. I had sat there and made my peace with the Battle of Tanny Hill and what I felt it would take to make things right. “It’s alright now, Jesse.” I was feeling well and tranquil. All was quiet and the peace I enjoyed was amazing. If I had faith, at that moment, I would have had a religious experience. Nevertheless, I could have believed that the Samurai, the boys, had a cuppa with me that night. But I had faith in the truth of what had happened and the legacy that was left behind. I would be never lucky enough to meet those boys again but together we had made a difference. I sighed, calm and well.
Now that the weight of guilt and fear was largely lifted, I made a more decisive plan for myself. I looked down in to the proverbial tea leaves, the dregs leftover, and contemplated how I would make the most of what I could find, the leftovers of humanity. It was a simple plan that would prove, like any, a need to adapt to the ever-changing environment. I drummed my fingers on my enamel mug and nodded my head to a tune that I hadn’t heard in a while. I was feeling good; stronger, settled but not complacent. The plan had taken shape and I felt happy with it as the basis for my next move.
First, I would explore the holiday park. It was nearby and may offer little resistance given it had been the source of many of the zombies in the Battle of Tanny Hill. The holiday park had been full of fishermen and holiday-makers at the time of the Great Change; people with plenty of kit. I knew that the holiday park would be a great honey-hole and was somewhere I hadn’t scavenged before. I listened for a moment, trying to hear the faintest of sounds; nothing. I smiled at the nothingness, the peace, the lack of fear and the hope that Tantangara may once again house a population.
