Remedy Z: Solo (23 page)

Uninterrupted, I explored the cabins and went through a sort of time-capsule. It was like a last glimpse into the world of holiday-makers. Meals were set out on tables, books had bookmarks in them, marking a place and fresh washing had been folded. Cabin after cabin, each told a story and I felt a sense of closeness to the people and their lives; those that had been there and changed or had been eaten alive. A rare, old-school family portrait particularly touched me; a loving family on a boat, enjoying the good times. The boy was “Spikey”, the name I had given the zombie that had black spikey hair. “Rest in peace little fellow,” I said. “I will remember you as you were not what you became. I hope your ashes became dust and that dust blew in the wind and down to the lake you loved so much. I hope you are there.” A few tears flowed. While I had dealt with the Battle of Tanny Hill in one respect, the Samurai, there was far more I had to come to terms with. It was the loss of a community, a whole way of life; it still took its toll on me. I tipped the photo down, ending the chapter. It would take time, a long time to deal with what I had had to face over the past couple of years. I wished, at that moment, that I could somehow bring back all those that had been taken, or I had put to rest. There was nothing I could do but remember and hope to be good to those I encountered in the future. Despite my feelings of woe at the loss of the people that had once been by the lake, the eternal optimist in me truly believed I would find people and we could help each other in the new world we found ourselves in. “You’ll find them, Jesse,” I told myself.

My sombre, sentimental thoughts passed and survival instincts stirred by way of a rumbling stomach. “Showtime: let’s scavenge,” I said and got about the job at hand. I went back through each of the cabins I had explored. Instead of treating each one like a museum, care and respect, it was as if I was in a supermarket. I took things off the shelves, considered what could be taken, what was too old or rotten or what could help me to survive in some way. The process was uneventful; not a zombie in sight, sound or striking distance. I piled up quite a hoard in front of a cabin I decided to make a temporary home.

In my exploration, I had found a few hundred kilos of canned, dried, packaged and preserved goods and supplies of all sorts. There were vehicles, petrol and diesel in Jerry Cans, fishing gear, knives, tools, torches, garden tools, canoes, boats, clothes, boots and hope. I had even found nailbrushes, yes, multiple nail brushes and more soap than I needed for another year. And, the toilet situation was pretty good too. Hundreds of rolls of real toilet paper and an enormous quantity of office papers that I could use for that as well. 

I noticed a covered truck outside one of the nearby cabins. On a closer inspection of a drawer inside, I found the keys; I had transport! I felt like a kid with a new toy; the truck was a marvellous find that would deliver a huge relief effort to my home and potentially provide a whole new scale to my scavenging runs in the area. 

The truck was filled with most of my find. As I worked to stow everything, I realised there was not need to rush: I had all the time in the world. I decided to delay a day, eat well, sleep well and recover. 

That experience of less pressure, a full stomach and a clear mind was restorative. I sat in a nice, clean cabin and secured the windows and doors. With a gas stove, I cooked a stew by candlelight. It was a meal of corned beef, onions, beans, lentils, chats and mushrooms; from glorious old tins. It was comforting and delightful. After the meal I ate marzipan chocolate with another cup of tea. With a sated hunger and free feeling that I hadn’t had in a long time, I lay in a very comfortable bunk and snored all night, uninterrupted. It was divine- no, it was like old times. 

I woke to a magnificent sunrise after dreaming of engine noises; a dream of my new truck delivering things to people in Tantangara. Casting off my slumber and getting up, stretching, the scene before me restored some of my soul. There were ducks landing on the water and others taking to flight. The light hitting the water, glistening and shimmering was glorious. I truly felt the boys were with me, despite having no true faith in anything spiritual in reality. It was a nice thought. They could have been good friends and I could have been their mentor. We may have found them girls of a similar age and they could have been part of a bright future, days like I felt on that day. But I was alone with the warm sun, splendid scenery and everything to live for. No more regrets, as Dane had said I had done “good”. It only took me a year to realise it and face this place.  

The lake was a truly magnificent sight and not a zombie anywhere in it or around it. I ate some breakfast cereal for the first time in a long time. I had found some powdered milk and ate box after box of mini-cereals. “Best before: bah!” I thought. Such sensibilities around non-perishable foods were just not on a modern-day survivor’s mind. “Another note for my book,” I thought. I ate and ate; fuller than I had been in years. I cannot recall a time after the Great Change that my stomach was so fulfilled. It was amazing how spirits can be lifted on a full belly. Stretching out like a lazy hound, I left the cabin and did a quick patrol. My rifle, knives and machete were still at the ready but also being rested.

“All clear.” In all directions, my trusted German binoculars revealed that the zombies of Tantangara were largely gone. “Goddamn! We did it Samurai!” I said with a broad smile. I could feel my mood lift and the sense that all was well in this little corner of the world, was liberating. I failed to spot a single zombie on that day. To be out of the confines of my alpine redoubt and to see open spaces, human structures and no zombies was an amazing feeling of freedom. But just as I enjoyed that feeling, it was strange and somewhat unsettling for me. I had found comfort in my paranoia, my routines, process. I was so used to the zombies that I felt some discomfort at not seeing any and not having to fight. Feeling like I would be forever jumping at shadows, I quickly reminded myself not to question that freedom. I shrugged off those regressive feelings and began to relax some more. I had to recheck and vocalise, speak it for myself to truly take it in: “I am near a town and I could not locate a single zombie.” It was a sweet deal and I smiled like I had not for well over a year. 

For me, it was party time. I danced around to someone else’s music, sampled lollies and artificial, sugary drinks and got dressed up in lively Hawaiian shirts and Okinawan-patterned shorts. I laughed at and with myself. Life had taken its fair share and it was giving back on that day.

When I was all partied out, I wandered back to my cabin at the holiday park on what felt like my holidays. “Time for a nanna-nap in a hammock by the lake to finish off my celebration,” I thought. The nap was great and I enjoyed a short spell drifting in and out of sleep. After a half hour I was a little too warm in the sun and again stretched like a lazy hound. I got up with a yawn and gathered the rest of the much-needed supplies. 

Later that morning, I smiled like a Cheshire Cat as I loaded the covered truck with all I needed and more. The truck would be useful for a range of scavenger missions and I would do my best to be careful with it. The truck had less than 50,000 kilometres on it and was pristine, despite no-one having used it for at least a year. After a bit of a dirty start, the diesel engine cranked with a good note and the promise it would be a good workhorse. I turned it off and locked it up. It was ready to go and would provide many months of sustenance. 

It was almost noon and I got changed and did another recon of the holiday park, no zombies anywhere. Feeling safe enough, I stopped for some fishing. All was quiet and all was well. You could easily forget for a moment; but this was a first for me. I was feeling a sense of peace and tranquillity. The demons of the past had, in that short spell of fishing, had seemingly left me.  Just an hour later, I felt mentally refreshed and swung two brown trout in a bucket. I was happy like a little boy making sandcastles again. I went back to what I would dub “Casa Jesse”; my own little cedar cabin by the shores of Lake Tantangara.  The fish had fried up beautifully. I used a frying pan with some olive oil, “Moroccan Spice” and pepper from the cabin. The oil may not have been fresh but a beggar can’t be a chooser as they say. Any beggar would have been ecstatic with this meal. The trout was magnificent by any man’s standards. It was another amazing meal for me, but possibly would have been judged as simple or mediocre food for anyone from the 2020s. Actually, that was not quite true. That trout had been great, that part of the meal was magnificent for any time and on any day.

I ambled around the holiday park and had a more thorough look. Some of the cabins I had given a cursory look held greater stories in the full sunlight. In the light of day I found fingernail marks, blood trails and the other forensic vestiges of the plight of those immune in the park. There were only 8 discernible killings that I could determine. I found the “middens” of bones that had been picked clean by the water’s edge. I assumed people had run there, trying to get away. Again, in the beauty all around me, there was horror in the violent world. 

In some reverence, I placed flowers at each site where I followed the trails of the fallen and the zombies that had given them such a horrible end. It was a mark of respect that had made me feel better. Those 8 murders were pretty consistent with the number of zombies that had come from the holiday park and the overall possible capacity of the park; around 100 people. Again, it was somewhere between 7-12% of any given population that had been immune. I noted this down in my new book as a factoid that I would work to review and add to the rest of the numbers I had gathered and was gathering. Through the horror, I tried to salvage knowledge. All my thoughts, ideas and experiences could create insight into the zombie apocalypse. I wrote about it, keeping the bones of the long-dead holiday-makers company for a while, by the peaceful lake. Coming back to Tantangara had seemed so horrible and yet it was paradise on Earth, despite still holding horrors of the past. I walked through long, unkempt grass, back to my cabin. I sat down for a cup of tea and enjoyed the sounds of the little wind-powered waves crashing on the bank.

With so many supplies and so much gear at the holiday park, it was the perfect catalyst to remind me it was time for the next phase in my mission. I would go to Tiger Island and establish a safe-haven, plant some crop-yielding vegetation and create a little outpost, just in case. It had been a plan for a long year.

I dragged two canoes out from a boat shed near a boat ramp. I slowly and carefully filled a canoe with a range of things including fishing rods, non-perishable goods, a couple of tents, knives, tools and some spare clothes. That feeling of needing to rush and being stressed was something I could shrug off. One of the four-wheel drives had a large lockable galvanised toolbox which fit nicely into my plan; a weather-proof cache and refuge should I ever need it on Tiger Island. Tiger Island was a strategic point for many reasons. The zombies certainly weren’t there and people who weren’t friendlies would not think to go there and it offered great visibility around the entire region. It was a strategic point of great importance in securing the area. “That set of binoculars from my cabin need to go out there too,” I thought, mentally running through all the things I could do to get things going. I needed to get the basics right first and establish some kind of presence, and then I could return and hone my little outpost to a good solid hideout.  

I needed that weatherproof box to house things out on Tiger Island so I decided to unload it. The lock on the lock box was easy to crack and I found some great gear. I found myself reverting back to my pre-apocalypse ways and hating on the former owner. Like so many yobbos I had never befriended, the guy who had owned that truck/ four-wheel-drive had made his combination “6-9-6-9”. I shook my head and mumbled “fuckwit.”

I kept the lock and changed the combination; ready to be used out on Tiger Island. After finding so many useful things in that lockbox, I decided to have a closer look in that truck. I sat down in that truck and the smell of stale farts emerged from the seat; not all time capsules are good ones. 

I noticed a photo tacked to the dashboard, very old-school. Most people had screens on a rolling sequence of their top 20 pictures. This guy wanted to be like someone from his past. The picture was of a man and his girlfriend or wife. “Is that-no? Hi-Viz?!” Another zombie from Tanny Hill was sharing the vestiges of his life with me. His girlfriend also appeared to be familiar. I remember thinking that “She was as orange as his Hi-Viz top - no wait – it’s Glamazon!” Glamazon was another zombie that fallen on Tanny Hill. It was like looking at photos of old friends. Somehow, looking a photo of them during better times made me feel better.

I had never had much to do with guys like Hi-Viz, but I appreciated his quasi hospitality; in his place and looking at a small time-capsule of his world, his pick-up truck. I felt bad for my earlier “fuckwit” comment but would be proven right.

He had a B&S Ball Brochure in his glove box. Inside were a secret black-book of girls’ names and numbers, some porn magazines (old school) and many stickers over his vehicle. He had some classy decals (not) which I shamefully chuckled at. I took humour in the sort of person who seriously put these things on their vehicle. Some examples were: “no fat chicks”, a Ned Kelly with crossed pistols, “Such is Life”, “RIP – Brodie – 2005 – 2025…, “If you can read this then get off my arse!”, and the silhouettes of busty women on their knees about to service a cowboy silhouette with a dong as big as his depicted arm.  I stole his pornos and hunting magazines, ashamedly, but felt a little less bad for having ended him. “Thanks, some good reading Hi-Viz. You really were a fuckwit,” I thought. Hi-Viz would have loved that banter. That guy was a real dick; but takes one to know one I guess. I read the magazines, for the articles, if you know what I mean. I felt like a lazy teenager again. The sun was starting to enter its last phase of the day, a great day for renewal and remembering what was. After a quick scan of the area and a patrol, I surmised that all was at peace. I almost forgot what era I was in.