Remedy Z: Solo Page 12

  Chapter 8: Bangers and Mash

  Covered in sweat at the memories I had been reliving, I scavenged in the weakest of torchlight. The experience of foraging and finding without zombie interference was me reaping the material benefits of the Battle of Tanny Hill, for the first time. I dropped my torch as I fumbled with some old, empty food packaging. The torched bounced lightly and ended up under a display counter. I looked around in the dark and listened, still wary. There was sigh and a moment of realisation that there wasn’t a threat and I could retrieve the torch without attack. It was a rare experience outside of my alpine home.

  Then, as my hand swept, looking for the torch, I found something else; another and another. “Score!” I said aloud. I was staring down at some beautiful sweet chocolate bars and a small bottle of water.

  In that little torchlight I read the labels and found one of the bars was actually a protein bar. With that find alone, I knew that was a bit of a jackpot. These bars were much-needed calories and protein to keep me alive. “Hallelujah,” I said wearily, peeling back one of the wrappers to get into the sweet goodness within.

  I did another quick reconnoitre of the outdoors shop, just to be sure, and concluded it was safe and secure for now. I slumped down on the floor, relaxing a little. I was exhausted and leaned my back against the counter cabinets. All was quiet and I set up a small cup of tea using my little camp stove. Its intense blue flame threw a strange, warm glow about the room.

  With chocolate being washed down with tea, it was one of those blissful, simple moments of life where things just tasted better and was comforting and warm. I really relaxed, feeling better and spared a moment before I went on to remember the rest of my experience at Tanny Hill. After yet another sigh, my memories were back to the battle; a change in time.

  The blue sky was intense and the sun raged as much as the battle between good and evil. I dropped down, impacted on the hard ground and tried to get comfortable in the most dangerous of situations. My mind recalled the memory my impact and all the sweat droplets launch from my face and neck. They fell all around me, as if in slow-motion, like a chalk outline made from drops of mud in the dirt. “The shape of a dead man,” I had thought, somehow jovially.

  I also remembered that last set of rounds I loaded into Old Man and cycling the first round into the chamber. “They’re nearby, Jesse,” I breathed hard and danced the scope around, finding a target. I realised just how close they were. The zombies appeared in my scope like giants, way too large for my liking. “They are so close now!” I remembered having to work hard to keep my cool and shoot straight. I eased on the trigger and felt the kick of the rifle into my shoulder.

  This got me back into a firing rhythm. The head of my target imploded and the former tradesman in his “Hi-Viz” vest would never do any handy-work again, malevolent or constructive. The next assailant was a groaning, fat, bald wretch, so corpulent that I immediately named it “Toad”. It’s funny how my mind had turned milliseconds into moments that would last forever. While I didn’t have time to think up the names, I needed to in order to stay sane and in control. Surrounded by a ghastly horde of those devils turns the toughest people into custard. There would be mess on that day, but no custard.

  I fired and hit Toad in the neck; gurgled in fits, falling into a pool of its own rancid blood. The zombies were within 30 meters and my heart pounded. Adrenaline pulsed through me and my lungs breathed heavier. I cycled the bolt again, feeling the heat come off the rifle and onto the heat of the situation. The next zombie was already wounded and, without thinking, I put a round in its skull. There was a fountain of what looked like barbecue sauce as the filthy former-teenager with unusually long fingernails dropped to his knees and fell backward in an awkward pose. “Nails” was his name and nailed was what he was. What tried to step over the corpse of Nails was nothing short of astounding. I had not noticed earlier, now at close range, I saw a first. “A fucking headless zombie?!” I could not understand how it could function without a head or brain. I would understand that phenomenon after by some grizzly science later on. But I had a battle and some 12 months before that made sense. I had to get through that battle first.

  There was no time to think; “Headless” was coming forward and I wasted no time. I put a round through its middle, to kill it by cutting it in half like the other one I had put away earlier. The last two zombies in that pack were now within 20 meters of me. They were picking up pace and howling, calling to other zombies. This was something I had not seen so intelligently before or at so close a range. I dropped the zombie I dubbed “Ugly Librarian”.

  (Sorry, it was the first name that came into my head and I didn’t have time to rethink it. I liked librarians and had previously killed Hot and Sweet Librarians; they would have deserved the titles in their day.)

  I leapt to my feet, drawing my machete, just in time. Another zombie, once a teenager gave a corrupt groan, beating down with its fists as I pulled the machete from its scabbard. “Such long teeth?” I remembered. He was Dr Teeth. I broke from the flashback and smiled to myself. The revisiting of that place; Tantangara and Tanny Hill was therapy. Every moment I thought through the battle and the horrors it held was lifting a weight off my shoulders.

  I was back there again, in the memory, seeking the therapy and relief that reliving it was starting to bring. I recalled being knocked backward after naming Dr Teeth, but held my footing. With my machete in my right hand, I was setting up for a strike. First, I shoved him back with my left hand and pulled back in time to avoid a set of rancid chompers from digging into my hand. The blade was swung forward in an arc, head-height. There was an awful “cracking” sound of bone as Dr Teeth lost his skull from the nose upward. “Yeah!” I yelled in defiance. I had been so absorbed that I did not notice the music; it still cranked a tune that I was unfamiliar with at the time. It was a musical score from popular films that, prophetically, referred to defending the Earth.

  The battle was far from over but the first group of assailants was done. I had fought off, perhaps cheated, death with that wave of zombies laid low. My binoculars revealed that still they came, from all across the 180 degree of Tantangara and its surrounds. The zombies wanted their free barbecue and the disingenuous chef (me) that had teased them with the smell.

  I got out of the pile of dead and prepared for the next onslaught. I assessed my gear and ammo situation and there was a lesson for me: “Bring more than two rifles next time, genius.” I concluded, shaking my head for a moment before bringing my binoculars up for another scan. What I wouldn’t know was just how close it was to there not being a next time. Hunter had cooled a little, but still too hot to hold and Old Man was damn hot. A drip of sweat off my brow almost sizzled and evaporated before my eyes, proving my suspicions. I stood up and surveyed the scene in all directions, resetting myself for the next onslaught. It was being observant, cool and in command and control that separated me from feeling the claws and breath of zombies on my back.

  The binoculars revealed that a horde of zombies was amassing on the periphery of Tantangara’s centre, southwest of my location. It would take a while for them to wander in from there, “Acknowledged.” As they came, I would monitor them from that great distance to keep in control and be ready to deal with them when they arrived.

  In the meantime, a score of zombies, I estimated the last of them from the cabins and vicinity of the outdoor shop, were headed my way. Unexpectedly, I noticed a group of a dozen zombies coming in from the north. I now needed to watch three fronts; not good. While they weren’t all upon me at once, I recalled thinking “This was going to get interesting.”

  Hunter’s hammer-forged barrel was no longer too hot to touch and I reloaded the magazine of this masterpiece of arms; .308 rounds ready to deal some justice. I lay down in the prone position, calmed my breathing and focused through the scope. With the rousing British Grenadier March playing on, I readied myself to put a Cold Zero onto a cold walker. One zombie was a caricature of a typica
l Australian Bogan. “Bogan”. He had tracksuit pants on, a dirty white singlet, mullet haircut, black shoes and white socks. “He’s still got his fucking baseball cap on?!” I laughed out loud. He was a rancid green-tinged colour and his teeth were a mess like a meth addict. No mercy. His head was taken clean off. His mates were less precisely dealt with but, given the most part of another 2 boxes of ammunition, the score of zombies was dropped. Quite a body count was piling up. They had gotten within 150 meters this time. Turning my attention to the north again, the dozen zombies were at ~200 meters and closing. They were a fast (well faster than most zombies moved) group. There was a platinum-blonde hose-beast in the lead of this group. It had leathery orange-brown skin, that was well rotten, and a sported what looked like a pair of fake boobs. I was trying to keep focused and composed and I found myself laughing with nerves at this strange beast. Funnier still was the “Hollywood smile”. This was another caricature, this time of a the fake-tan “Glamazon” who never understood that having the skin colour of an orange was less appealing than a natural bird with pale skin that was well looked after. I am sure she thought she looked good, even with the amount of sun she had gotten.

  Glamazon was hit in the neck and the head came off and rolled. The body kept walking, much to my surprise, for another 5 – 10 meters, only to drop forward, still and lifeless like it should have been. Glamazon’s group was dealt with and I had now gone through five and a half boxes of ammo. Yet still they came. Another small group emerged from the cabins and caravans and lurched toward my position. At the time, I recall fearing I would run out of ammunition and my game would be up. My accuracy was beginning to lag too; the rifle had too many rounds through it. Perhaps my heart-rate and the growing sense that I had bitten off more than I could chew was at play. My gut instinct was correct; I was in for the fight of my life.

  The rifle was bloody hot to touch and it needed a good break and a thorough clean. I worked quickly using some gun oil and a flexible snake-style cleaner to scrub the barrel clean from the inside. With a rag, I gave it a general clean to stop the rifle from fouling further. I needed accuracy again if I was to keep these perversions of once human form from me. Each bullet needed to count.

  As I cleaned rifles, I heard groaning, multiple groans in unison, from all directions. “They were fucking calling each other!” I gaped as I looked around. On all sides, I was being encircled by a wide band of warped brothers. They wanted to come and take me and the barbecue, the proverbial hamburger on the hill. They aimed to encircle me, I was sure of it. I had missed a group that were coming from behind my approach. I felt sick to the guts in the realisation that my control of the situation had fallen apart.

  I returned to being agitated, stressed and sweating in the outdoors shop. The memory was awful. The memory of that moment of realisation, On Tanny Hill when I was all but done, outflanked, made me shiver on that cool night. Despite sipping a hot tea, I shuddered once more and then wiped some of the beads of sweat from my brow. I got up, trying to keep myself from dwelling on things, and poked around in the outdoor shop. I was reaping the benefits and sacrifices made at Tanny Hill. It was quite cathartic to be back there, on the anniversary of the last visit, returning to a place I had ostensibly cleared for future benefit.

  I was there to collect on that hard work and get something out of that bloody mess. I was gathering a pile of potentially useful things as I continued to recall the Battle of Tanny Hill. The therapy, reliving each moment continued as I went about my work. Flashback.

  Back on the hill, I glassed the scene with my binoculars; hope shattered and disbelief had well and truly set in. From a copse of trees, behind my firing position, came a group of zombies that was at least thirty strong. The other directions also offered a few dozen assailants, spread-out and hell-bent on a feed at my expense. The zombies behind me were coming in fast and I decided to deal with them first. In a curtain of lurching monstrosities that drifted back toward the Waystation, they came. My rifles were too hot to fire without doing significant damage. It was one of those rare occasions where material goods were put ahead of my own safety. But I knew that if I wrecked my rifles then, I would suffer down the track.

  That awful chill that one gets from an adrenaline surge coursed over me. I acted fast and picked up a heavy lump of wood, a natural club, and a spear-like stick to complement my knife and machete. Oh yeah, and I grabbed whatever courage I had and gulped it down. I ran toward the frontal edge of the zombie curtain channelling ancient warriors in my blood. There was a battle-cry, the music spurred me on.

  They were at the reservoir now; a good place to draw them in and take them down. My plan was working, despite the surprise group. I had to stay on plan; quick, decisive and mobile. “You can’t get bogged down or cornered,” I told myself intensely with nerves running on high. They emerged from around the reservoir and I strode forward with gusto.

  The train-wreck occurred and I smashed into the leading edge of the zombie procession. I had skewered the first zombie with my improvised spear. Through the gut and out of its hunched spine, it was pinned to the ground, immobilised and bleeding. To my surprise, it appeared to die. I stomped down with my worn old boots and crushed its skull like a gardener would a snail, just to be sure. “Yeah!” I yelled. I was working myself up to fight my biggest hand-to-hand combat since New Bolaro. But guts and gusto aside, there was fear. I was still human. It was what set me aside from the zombies and the killing, the carnage of those who resembled me, who had once been just like me. It was hard for the mind or soul to take.

  That first zombie that I speared at the reservoir had once been a very pretty, young woman. She had thick, long, auburn hair, high cheekbones and a full breast. Her green skin had once been soft and white and would have made a grown man cry. This grown man certainly felt like doing the same but for other reasons. That zombie, in its residual loveliness was somehow innocent; still in a pretty floral dress as though she was on the way to a party or having a cup of tea in the garden with friends over. She had been lovely once and I was her grim reaper, putting her to rest and restoring the natural order of things after such an unnatural change had ruined her. My immediate reaction was a feeling of loss and regret. My mind wandered in that split second and I only pulled myself out of that trance in time to survive. I glanced at the face for a moment, a mistake; another indelible mark that would later haunt my dreams for 12 months or more. “Florence”: she was still so human and for that I held regret and in some way, I didn’t know her or the others but I lamented all of them. All of those who fell were part of the great tragedy that day and every day since the Great Change. But more tragic things were to come. There wasn’t time for names or any reverence; this was the cold, hard brutality of battle. I had to suppress the thoughts of what was once human and its story, a person who deserved remembrance. But now was not that time. I had to keep my head right and get on with the job. The mind always tries to digress in hardship. It is that human condition that separates the dead from the living; we experience emotions, thought and instincts. Being able to balance those sometimes conflicting aspects of the human mind meant survival.

  Achieving focus and calm would prove increasingly hard in that battle. The next in line was upon me and I swung my club upward, smashing the skull of something that had once been a small man in a fine wool suit. His white shirt was so dirty and soiled it actually looked like some sort of brown camouflage. “Percy” the gent one could imagine sipping port and playing Canasta. His once expensive Swiss watch was smashed and scratched and scarred. Material waste that was a function of the awful human waste of this damned plague. He and his finery were another tragedy like Florence. “No time for thoughts, or names, time to get on with it.” I thought.

  The club was swung wildly, sickening “thuds”, dropping the walking nightmares one-by- one. “Wooooo! Yeah!” I shouted, wiping blood from my face and brow while crushing another skull with my boot. Battle cries, sickening death sounds and music rang about the otherwis
e silent lake valley. My wooden club had finally splintered and broken as I had smashed the skull of a zombie against the reservoir wall. Time to change my approach; “Think quick!”

  The reservoir wall was serving as a great channelling structure and solid wall to squash zombies against. Without the club I was at a disadvantage and I was fatiguing from such heavy fighting. The side of my body had been taking the burden of working up against that wall and it needed a break. The once-clean reservoir wall now looked like it was spray-painted red, vandalised by graffiti artists as if in a Western Sydney train station. Like graffiti, ancient Roman or 21st century hood, it would tell a story to anyone who would look upon it. There was a break in the curtain of zombies, giving me enough time to retreat back toward the top of the hill, my four-wheel drive (which was another mitigation and escape route) and the music that still boomed.

  I needed to catch my breath. I was in great shape but, like some of the MMA fighters I had once watched live and on-screen, even the fittest fighters eventually get gassed. I was there; gassed and I needed a break. Even a short pause is enough when you are fit. But I needed to get the hell out of there. “Go to the car or get the rifle?” – I made the wrong choice but lady luck was with me. The run took more air from me and I leaned down, snatching up Hunter, my trusty .308 rifle, spinning around to face the monstrosities I ran from. Hunter’s super-accurate hammer-forged barrel was cool again and that weapon was whipped to my shoulder. Using my sling to strap my arm taught, I dropped to one knee and loaded my rifle quickly and carefully. The half dozen zombies I had felled at the reservoir had formed a pile and slowed the procession of zombies. It bought enough time to have 20, precious meters on them. I shot fast and furiously, round after round, a whole box of ammo until they were just a dozen, a goddamn dirty dozen. They were so close, I could smell them worse than my rancid barbecue. With a resolve to fight, I placed Hunter down in a fluid movement, breathing hard and pulling my machete from its sheath. I experienced rawness in the throat and lungs and a sting in my eyes from the salty drips from my brow. I bellowed an involuntary war-cry in defiance, once more unto the breach. It was as if to say: “I will not give up.”