Solo Page 7

  I was kitted-out and ready to rock; I looked the part too. With plenty of weapons and ammunition, logistically I felt ready to face Tantangara. Mentally, I was not so sure. After what had transpired last time, I would have to face the music there, sooner or later. It would be an emotional return and I knew it. With that moment's thought, I changed my focus to the prospect of being out in the field, trekking and hunting. It was invigorating.

  It was a magnificent feeling: up early on a mission and out the door. I had a way, a peace in how I travelled through that amazing country.

  “Through the bush and ferns, the rocks and moss. The smell of freedom, on the trail; I am home.”

  I had quite a march ahead of me and I would love every minute of it. The smell of the morning freshness, the mist and moisture in the air made everything wet but clean. Anyone who understands the Australian bush would know that “morning bush smell”; and I’m not writing about something crude or dodgy! The smell of eucalyptus and native plants was refreshing and calming. It was truly soothing to my soul like others found aromatherapy or listening to music. Grasses looked like they were covered in crystal, with the beads of morning dew catching the filtered light. I loved mornings and I loved being out in the field to experience all its glory. But I had no-one to share it with.

  The ground was soft and I moved quickly rather than with stealth, crackling sticks and bark underfoot as I moved through bush.

  There was movement and I stopped, lowered my bodyweight carefully and kneeled to get as a sense of things. "Rabbits!" The flash of a few cottontails and their flighty movement gave it away immediately. I had the wrong rifle to hunt these little guys but I would try anyway. I needed a meal and I wanted to stop at a farmhouse on the way. It wasn't just any farmhouse; it was a mid-point between my home and Tantangara. It was somewhere that was well setup for a stop-over and I cared and tended for it like a second home. After the trek and a hunt, I would need some time to secure the house, have a meal and enjoy a good sleep. "Looking forward to it," I thought to myself with a smile. It had good rainwater and kitchen items needed to prepare food. It would mean I could wake early, walk into Tantangara before the sun would tell me it was midday. I had all the time in the world.

  I paused in my kneeling position and brought my rifle up to scan the rabbits. There were two, standing in close proximity and only around 50 meters away. I had a poor quality round that had a home-made tip that I could use on these guys. The tip was steel, made from an old piece of metal cast-off from a machete I had made. The round was loaded without much powder either. This was an economy round that would be used at close-quarters and would hit with less power, but more than enough to go right through without too much trauma on the prized meat. Life was about making-do and this round would do just fine. I loaded Old Man with the round and the rabbits kept feeding on juicy grass and small plants. Two of them were nicely lined up. I got them in my sight, squeezed the trigger. The noise rang through the bush: the once great marketplace of nature had turned from a noisy bazaar to complete silence and a ringing in my ears. I looked through the scope and it revealed two dead bunnies. They were steaming in the morning coolness and all was silent. I retrieved them; nice fat rabbits with good coats on them. I squeezed as much blood out as I could and wiped them clean on the wet grass. This was a great start to my mission. I thought about how nice a rabbit stew would be in the pot over the fire in that little farmhouse at the half-way point. I felt at ease as things fell into place.

  I was learning about the new world and the cause and effect of my behaviour. On that last fateful trip to Tantangara, I had stopped off at another farm house on the way. I hadn't done much to secure that place and I paid dearly for it. "Bad move," I remembered, and swung the bunnies as I casually walked to the untainted stop-over. But like the gentle, chill wind that blew through those hills, another memory of trauma and almost certain death washed over me.

  I was back there again, in my memory from a year before. The other farmhouse hadn’t been locked down nor had it been boarded up. I went in, flopped down in the living room, thinking that no-one was there. The only problem was the “lady of the house” was indeed home. A bullish, tall and heavy-set woman with a floral dress entered the room. In my mind's eye, I thought it was a person; I turned to face her in disbelief. Disbelief turned to horror. This person was wearing a big thick orange bead necklace and the clothing was neat and intact. What gave it away, in a split second, was the gnashing teeth; a rabid zombie that strode in and then erupted like a flaming hell. The unexpected encounter and the sheer shock of what I faced rocked me to the core. I was gripped by fear and earlier traumas. She was so strong and determined to tear me apart; she was one of the greater hand-to-hand fights I had ever had- period. It may have been the exhaustion that impaired my skills, but it was a death by a thousand cuts for that zombie. I punched and elbowed its face in, like I had done to zombies so many times before.

  I swear that I must have cracked the skull into so many parts that it would have had more pieces of bone than in a whole, barbecued lemon sole. While I smashed and cracked, I just couldn’t crush the all-important brain. She kept coming and pummelled me with fists the size of roast chickens. That “next time”, I was stalking and scanning the area like a commando.

  Getting closer to the farm, something made me nervous again and I felt the ominous presence of past horrors returning to haunt my memories. "She won't be there Jess," I told myself with a whisper. "Just walk on by," I glanced up at that farmhouse of horrors, its ragged sheer curtains waving at me in the gentle wind, through broken windows. The visible windows had been smashed as I wrestled and danced with my partner all around that little farm house. The damage was unbelievable and it was as though a wrecking ball had been through that place and then a murder had happened.

  That zombie, what had once been the big woman in the floral dress, was strong and beating down on me, clawing at my skin and flesh like no other ever had. The melee had circled around the house and returned to the living room. I let the terror get the better of me and I fought in a scared and guarded way. The threat to my life was real and terrifyingly up-close and personal. That sort of fight scars you a bit. Unlike sniping zombies from a distance, the up-close, personal fight where you can smell your opponent’s breath, hear their teeth click, feel the intense hate and see their eyes took its toll. I had to tell myself that it was just training; "Snap out of it Jesse, it's just training."

  My martial arts training had been turned into instinct through so many sessions and a few amateur bouts. Like a dangerous opponent that I would have faced in the ring, so many years before, I swept those stout zombie legs. I had mentally come to grips with the battle and was determined to live. It fell to ground from that well-practiced leg sweep and I jumped on top of its waist, into a full-mount position. From there I pummelled down with hammer-fists, punches and elbows and the beast exploded into a flurry of violent movements. That awful sensation of having your skin slashed; it clawed at my arms, chest and face with long fingernails. I pulled one arm backwards in a Kimura arm lock and popped its shoulder out. That beast sunk its teeth into my forearm with a howl. I wasn’t sure how as I had smashed the teeth, upper and lower jaw into so many pieces. "Maybe it was the jagged bones rather than teeth?" the memory was vivid and it had all happened so fast. All I did remember was that it bloody hurt and I had to get those jaws off me. Like some juiced-up Soviet or Bulgarian swimmer from the 1980s, this man-woman was a beast and I had fought her standing, fought her to the ground and I was trying to incapacitate her any way I could. I did another shoulder pop, straining with all my might and dripping sweat onto the wild-eyed mess that had once been (I was sure), a very lovely farmer’s wife: just an incredibly strong one.

  I had learnt a valuable lesson that day; always prepare and bring too many knives and too many rounds of ammunition. Two days before that awful melee, I had been involved in an epic battle that lasted an entire day. It was such an epic that it was followed by a da
y of clean-up. In that battle, I refrained from saying the name I had coined for that event, I had lost so much materiel. The equipment casualties were vast and I was then ill-prepared for the trip home. It was that trip home where I met the zombie form of the farmer's wife. I had gotten complacent and let fatigue and fear take over from steely survival. But that was almost rock-bottom for me. Those two combined events resulted in the second-worst time of my life. The worst you ask? I cannot say; a tale for another time when I can.

  It was a learning experience, that awful fight. I would never allow such things to happen again; I was a fastidious, hardened warrior that was always well-prepared. I was still in that memory, at Svetlana's Farm. The flashback rolled on and I was back there in my mind, rolling around with that awful beast in the living room for another few moments, I dislodged a brick from the fireplace and used it to crush her skull.

  "That living room; what a mess!" the chaos I remembered, after getting myself up off the ground, stunned me almost as much as the zombie had. I smiled for the first time about it. The farmhouse at Svetlana's Farm had all but been destroyed in the struggle. Svetlana had taught me to bring more than one knife and make sure that I never wander into a location that isn’t tightly locked-down and expect to just chill-out and lay back. “That was so full-on,” I thought, chuckling to myself. A very nice and wise teacher of mine in college had once said “Disaster plus time equals humour.” She was so right.

  There; I was back to my senses and approaching the farm that was now the alternative location for a stop-over. As I neared the outer fence, I looked back at Svetlana's Farm. Having revisited the memory, faced the image of the house, I concluded I was still a little scarred from the experience but would be fine. "Take one step at a time, Jess. First, face your demons at Svetlana's Farm, second, Tanny Hill." My dealing with old wounds was far from over. I stared at the location that would remain in infamous memory for me. Seeing Svetlana's Farm reminded me that the fresh, unadulterated place I wanted to rest needed to be checked and checked again before going in and relaxing. From a distance, all was neat and in order; heavenly. It was in stark contrast to the sight of Svetlana's farm, a haunted house. It was such a paradox and just a few hundred meters apart. That paradox was the lesson I would never forget; never get tired and never get complacent.

  But all felt well as I turned to face what had become my second home; "The Waystation". There I would sleep easy, perhaps a little too easy. Sometimes it is what is outside that you need to fear, not what is inside. Another lesson would be learned.

  Chapter 5: The Waystation

  Through my faithful German binoculars, the neat little farmhouse appeared to be as I had left it. I stalked through the long grass and a mix of stinging nettles and Lucerne Hay. The wind swayed the hay and, as I stepped carefully and looked carefully, I could see waves of gold, in order and without a break in their pattern. I did a full circle around the perimeter of the wider property; a meticulous reconnaissance. I concluded the welcoming little abode was safe. I breathed a sigh of relief as I got closer to shelter and safety; but I kept my wits about me this time. I had arrived at the Waystation, unscathed and with rabbit meat; life was good.

  The name "Waystation" was given to the property as it reminded me of an important book from my teenage years. The wooden entry had wrought iron letters “Sim--” written across the arch. With the remaining few letters missing, I liked to think it said "Simak"; a great sci-fi author. Clifford Simak had penned or typed (on a typewriter) a book that I loved called “Waystation”. Given this farmhouse was a mid-point between my home and Tantangara, I thought of it as a little Waystation like in the book. In his book, Simak had depicted a lonely main character that patrolled the Waystation with a rifle. I felt much the same. That character protected the Waystation and kept it running as an interstellar spaceport-cum-embassy of sorts. He was on a mission to connect people and fight dangerous unknown evils; so was I. The name worked on a number of levels and it stuck.

  The book, thoughts of reading it and discussing its story and concepts with my family over tea and cake were warming reminders of the past. They were good memories; togetherness, time to think and grow together. “I miss that togetherness,” I sighed, hoping that someone may have responded to my “guest book” and invitation to meet at that little outpost. I held out little hope at that time and reflected on the past. I had read the Waystation while on a rainy trip down to the New South Wales South Coast. We were lucky enough to have a family beach-house there; many summers and winters to get away from city life and rejuvenate and disconnect from the grid. On a stormy evening of rain and an off-shore lightning show, I read that old sci-fi book from my father’s collection. Books were old-school and most people either had no patience for them or rarely read more than blogs, tweets, posts or e-mails. I hate to say it, but the world got a bit dumb and unimaginative, leading into the Great Change. You can’t argue that virtual worlds and alternate realities are indeed imaginative (if original) but it was the realm of so few who designed these things which others, less imaginative, had consumed. Most people had become imagination consumers, not dreamers who dared to dream new ideas. That was just part of what had been wrong with the world. To not have to think or to create theatre in the mind was easy. Imagining, dreaming, and thinking were what made people great; such thinkers were largely gone. Nothing much had been left to the imagination.

  Where was Jules Verne or those of his ilk in the lead-up to the Great Change? They were long dead; as were the dreams and hopes of man. Typically, those that read used a personal device but I had been one of the few teens that would read actual books. After the Great Change, so much knowledge was lost and people were so focused on survival, I am not sure how many of us were left and how many of us were dreamers. “Keep dreaming Jesse, the world will need it, others will appreciate it,” I smiled to myself reassuringly, looking at the Waystation and waiting for any sign that I should respond to. All was quiet.

  My memory took me back to the stormy night in the beach house where I had picked up Simak's Waystation and had given it a try. The book drew me in and was as electric as the lightning show out at sea. I remembered the air, the humidity and the balmy night where I could not sleep without knowing more of that story. It was exciting and inspired me to pick up more old books during the long rainy hours of that trip. But of the books I consumed, it was Waystation that had left an indelible mark. I read it cover to cover; loved it. It was different, old and unique. Such thoughts and ideas were timeless, visionary while curious and antiquated at the same time.

  While Simak died well before I was born, I was able to bridge space and time and have a connection with him and his story. For that I was forever thankful as an open mind that dreams is a gift that spans the generations. I could only hope to guide young folk to ancient wisdom in the future. What I shared with Simak was a timeless dialogue of sorts, without any technology or techniques. It was one of many experiences, the magic of books, which I shared with my family. We often talked about books and our interpretations on things and how we felt the author succeeded or failed. "Good times," I smiled.

  The Waystation was a nice old cedar home that was weathered but remained in good condition. It was a small house, sheltered on the side of a hill but offered great 360-degree visibility, including out to Svetlana’s farm. I shivered involuntarily as I looked out on it again. The Waystation was a good little outpost and I could survey the area and spot threats well in advance of their arrival. Other than a little more zombie traffic than my more remote alpine home, that little cedar house would have made a good home for perpetuity. "Perhaps it would be a home again someday?"

  I sighed as the memory of family, sharing things like books with them, was gone. I was alone with my thoughts yet again. "I would give almost anything to have that sort of conversation or share a coffee and chat with someone,” I said aloud. I realised my vocalising thoughts could be dangerous so I kept it to an inner monologue until I had done a sweep of the house.
“Is there anyone I can find that will talk to me about books?”

  A rare find would be a person; even more unique would be a reader. I concluded that finding people first was about the self, finding a reading person was just frivolous and self-indulgent thoughts. I stopped thinking about my distant past and approached the Waystation. While acting with caution, I took a moment to admire the pleasing character and rugged beauty of the place. It returned calm and I reminded myself not to forget or repeat Svetlana's Farm.

  “Let’s go on in, Jesse,” I said.

  My circulation was in full-steam and I was feeling good and confident. “Waystation: all quiet, all clear,” I thought as I lowered my binoculars, once more before entering. The tell-tale checks were there; any smoke out of the chimney? No. Has the branch I laid up against the door been moved? No. Has the small packet of chips been taken from the letterbox? No. All clear indeed.

  I walked up the steps to the farmhouse and kept my wits about me. All was as it should be. I took the key out from its hiding place, under the mat on the porch. Yes, indeed a cliché place to put a key but I had a moral and personal sense of duty to another soul who may stumble on the Waystation and use it as a place of refuge. I reconnoitred the house at close range, right around, sneaking about and peering through windows like an old peeping Tom. It was overkill; too much reconnaissance but I needed to do it. “Nothing,” I was satisfied I could not have been more meticulous in my approach.

  The door clicked and creaked and I entered the house and the smell of dust and old timber. It was another familiar smell, like the old coast house that reminded me of books, family and safety. I looked to the simple side table, the pens were in the same place as where I left them and the beckoning journal which implored people to leave the details, was empty. The journal had no additional entries in it other than my last one about a year ago. I penned a new entry, simply writing: “The same as before, Jesse Stadler”. Disappointed, I had to get on with checking the place from the inside before I could get on with eating and resting.