Remedy Z: Solo (16 page)

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 otherwise 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.”

My lungs were burning, saliva had congealed on the corners of my mouth and the mix of blood and sweat coated me in a sticky but greasy film, head to toe dirty. Only someone who has experienced battle can understand exactly what I had felt at that moment. It was a moment where emotions and sensations were paramount. Calm, breathing deeply and almost sure of my imminent death, I reconciled that I would earn a passage to Valhalla that day or survive against all odds.

“Guts and glory,” I told myself. But I was terrified at the same time. I would not run another meter; holding fast and breathing rhythmically in that last moment to get oxygen to light the fire and fury of what I would unleash.  I watched on, in a moment, as my brain processed the situation.  A dozen zombies were almost on top of me, bunched up now in a group, shambling , groaning shaking and snapping at me; hell on Earth, up close and personal.        

I took a quick glance around me to see what other threats were upon me, as though it could be my last. Human survival instinct is truly indomitable. I was surrounded by a sea of them; a few dozen zombies breathing right down my neck. Death was almost assured. “Why the hell did I need to know what was coming?” I had questioned,  in that moment, which I thought could have been my last.  With that instinctive survival-driven glance I surmised that at least 50 were coming from Tantangara and another 50-odd were coming from north of the fishing store. I felt a sense of despair but I did not give up; the die was cast and I would die another day. I would not be sacrificed, but others would be forfeit instead. I would always carry guilt and gratefulness for that act, to the last breath.  

Out of nowhere, the ripping motor sounds of two-stroke engines erupted in a cacophony of sound and distraction. I fought on and could not see who or what had arrived. Someone had joined the fray, the melee of it all. Someone was saving my arse. 

Machete in my right hand and Panther, my Bowie knife, in the other, I used the knife to guard and the machete to hack. And hack I did. Three spurted blood and dropped down to my feet; no mercy and they were chopped to bits. Teeth closed down on my outer thigh, claws at my chest. Two of them were on me and, like predators trying take down a wilder-beast, I was food and they aimed to bring me to ground to complete the meal. I stayed remarkably calm and my experiences and instinct carried me onwards to despatch my assailants. Panther the Bowie Knife was used in a stabbing action down toward my chest, splitting a skull of zombie that had once been a tall, sinewy bald man with a red scarf and retro hat. “Nice try , Dick.” I named him after an actor from an all-singing, all-dancing kid’s movie from a long time before. That film had been a chore to watch and review when I was in school. I would have killed, literally, to be back there again, watching that crappy film amongst other people again. But my mind’s wanderings were not going to get me out. ”Y’know Dick; I hated that movie!” I yelled, as I pushed the dead “Dick” off me and smashed the machete across my body, cleaving the skull of “the Biter” that was chewing on me. I was kicking arse, naming zombies, keeping humour, calm and sanity; back in form, back on mission and feeling a mix of hope and raw courage again. The music from the car played on, the stirring sounds of Scotland the Brave” belted out; an appropriate presence was made. 

Gunshots were ringing out around me, scores and scores of rounds were being discharged. “I’m not alone?! Thank you, thank you, and thank you!” I yelled in relief and jubilation as I pushed out with a front kick and doubled a zombie over, chopping into its skull with my machete. I looked around a whirl of dust, a mob of zombies and blanket of complete sensory chaos did not reveal my saviours. I could only give that a short moment before I was into the melee once again. Another zombie lurched forward at me as something that felt like a sledgehammer hit me from the side. Despite the massive impact, I kept my feet and instinctively lashed out with Panther. The big butcher’s blade savagely jacked through a thick arm of what had once been a body builder or power lifter. Seemingly devoid of body hair, this bald brute was a pit-bull of a man. “Pitbull.”

It surged forward again, lunging with such extreme force that he knocked the two zombies at his side, to the ground. Me too. Impacted by a mix of fists, bald skull and shoulders, my legs gave out and I was down on the greasy blood covered grass and dirt. The ringing pain and shock to my body made me feel ill. Things were unclear, hazy now. I had dropped Panther but had managed to keep control of my machete on account of the leather throng that was instinctively wrapped around my wrist. Pitbull came at me again, his terrifying face snapped and roared down on me. He was trying to eat at my neck, face and chest with the voracity of his namesake. The machete came up from the side and imbedded in his thick skull. No change in behaviour or circumstance. A huge fist rained down on me in a club-like blow. The two zombies on the ground were hauling themselves my way now. I was being pummelled repeatedly and I could taste my own blood now. Things were hazy and I was going to have to clear my head and get out of that mess or die. More hammer-fist strikes came my way, my right hand came up to shield me as I fumbled around, looking for Panther, my absent friend. Somehow, I found him and, like Thor’s Hammer, Panther was in my hand again; loyal to the last. I felt the distinct antler handle pressed into my hand as I knew this was a one shot to survival. Just as I felt a mouth biting at my neck, the sickening feeling of the teeth penetrating my skin, my blade came up savagely into Pitbull’s jaw and I sliced brutally away from me. Pitbull was done, his neck opened up in a new smile and a waterfall of rancid blood covered me and stung my eyes. I rolled to one side, blinded by blood and the fog that still rocked me. I hacked around me, swinging wildly and without sight. Engine noises were all about, “maybe I would make it?” I thought. A sudden, unexpected but familiar sound of rifles and shotguns erupted; “Bang! Bang! Bang!” and a following ”Bang! Bang! Boom!” and I stumbled and lurched, like a zombie. I was lucky whomever had saved me didn’t slot me like I was one of the undead the way I was looking and going.