Remedy Z: Solo (31 page)

It all made sense to me. Samsonov hadn’t come to Australia to escape the Russian mafia or perform mob-style hits; Samsonov was a family man who loved his daughter and granddaughter and moved across the world to be here with them. His son-in-law had brought them to Australia. He was a “somebody” back home and here he had been a curiosity for small-minded people. He reminded me of my father and grandfather; an old warrior who fought for his own. “I guess the song was right; the Russian’s love their children too.” I smiled gently and refocused on securing the house. 

The house had a faint but clearly dead smell about it. I decided to check the living room first and I realised why. In a comfortable chair, Samsonov sat in the same place as where he had blown his brains out two-years before. He was wearing full Russian Army dress uniform and was mostly decomposed. He held an old vintage Russian Marakov pistol in his mouth. “Samsonov!” I gasped, slowly walking over to him. I gently took the pistol from the skeletal mouth and examined it with care. This pistol had been the pride of the Red Army. Samsonov gave himself the honours of a sort of military-inspired ending when it had all been too much. I took the pistol with me, more to secure the room than to loot the item. 

“What would make a bad-arse like Samsonov kill himself, I wonder?” the question was easily answered a short time later.

I went into the kitchen, generally well-kept with spoilt food in all the cupboards; lots of ants and insects still living off the proceeds. Then I heard something curious; a fridge! The oven had lights on and the power-points were proven to be live as I put down an imaginary piece of toast down in a toaster. Samsonov must have had independent solar power! I had hit the jackpot and I hadn’t even found an arsenal, like I had gone there for. 

I raced outside with excitement and found a large solar array and wind-farm that meant total energy independence. While a little dirty and in need of some TLC, this independent power supply was truly a rare find and one I would benefit greatly from for some time. 

But my excitement fell away as I spotted something in the backyard. Three solemn graves lay there; Ben Shepherd, Natalia Shepherd (nee Samsonova) and Emily Shepherd. I checked the pistol I had taken from Samsonov, to confirm my suspicions. 4 rounds were missing and I assumed what had happened: Samsonov’s family were infected and he had had the grim task of putting them to rest. While probably immune, he had had an already broken heart and it was all too much, for anyone. I knew why Samsonov could not have gone on, I could relate to his situation. He had lost everything, like so many of us. I would do my part to make things right. 

And so it was that the puzzle of “whom” that much talked-about and much-maligned resident of Cooleman was solved. 

Like so many others, faceless, nameless people lost to the world-wide cataclysm that had befallen humanity, the Samsonov/Shepherd family were a tragedy. It was a sad story and I wanted to end it with some dignity, like I always tried. Old Samsonov, like a soldier at attention, a silent sentinel, deserved to be finally placed at rest next to his family. His Marakov pistol was a beauty but it belonged with the warrior who had wielded it through countless campaigns and in his darkest hour. It felt right to leave it with him. The sentimental side was coupled with the practical; it took a rare Russian 9x18mm round which I would struggle to find anyway. Samsonov would be honoured in the best way I could.

I went into an outdoor shed and found the battery arrays for the solar power and some tools. 

My home up in the mountains had sat dead and silent like a home from the 1800s. All of the “smart ideas” in home automation had left me with an automated home management system that was delivered through a virtualised cloud computing environment. In short, when the cloud went down, I lost control of my home and access to what little power would have been available on the grid for a short-time thereafter. 

The government had implemented a pervasive, central, solar energy initiative from the 2020s. The target was “no coal by day” by the 100th anniversary of the Snowy Hydro-Electric initiative in Tantangara in 2049. What was interesting about this plan was that it was working if you were a passive consumer who happily trusted the power company and paid the inflated bills. The environment was the justification and did appeared to be a big winner in it all back in the 2020s. Oh and did I mention fat, greedy old men would get rich off this whole central management of power too? And so it was. Individuals were discouraged from having their own solar panels at first and then banned. There were some dubious “accidents” where electrical malfunctions had to be managed by “saviours” from the electric companies. People and their pop politics were moved to centrally managed, large-scale solar farms. Genius unless you have a disaster and everyone loses everything centrally at the same time. I call that a catastrophe. And that’s exactly what happened. People had lost control of their own homes and the power that so pervasively ran them. The power to Australia, and in many places across the world, had died when the people who ran the grid had. The lights were out, information was absent and no-one knew what the hell was going on or how to look after themselves. Some people couldn’t lock doors or close windows; their fate sealed forever. The disaster, driven by Divine had been made complete by humanity’s own design.

With all the focus on outlawing energy self-sufficiency, it took a certain belligerence and rebelliousness to go your own way and fight local councils to have your own power. It was a belligerent like Samsonov, who fought for his family that had done so. He had rigged up an independent power system for his home, complete with batteries and wind power for 24 x 7 operations. To my luck and good fortune, Samsonov was one of those people who just had to be different and he not only built his own little power farm, he had oversized it enough to power at least 10-times his needs. One could imagine an enormous wind farm with huge windmill blades and a sea of solar panels. The truth was that the technology had become that efficient that all Samsonov needed for energy independence was solar panels covering his roof, a small battery cupboard in a shed and a small concrete plinth to mount 6 man-height windmills. I inspected the well-stored batteries and marvelled at what this would bring to my life, the world as I knew it. I snapped back to reality; time to dig a grave.

Amongst Samsonov’s tools, I found a pick and shovel. The work of digging an appropriate grave in my condition was hard. The humid day was that characteristic, high-country hot-cold in springtime; I sweated a great deal and my own perspiration mixed with the dirt, scum and blood I was covered with. I was really a mess; Samsonov’s clothes were in better shape after 2 years of decomposition than mine. I dragged the chair outside and tipped poor Samsonov into the hole I had dug for him beside his daughter. I tried to lay him out as best I could and arrange his Marakov pistol in his hand and hat on his head. He looked a little more solemn and at attention and it made me feel better for him. I wrapped the Marakov in a plastic bag for posterity. Along with him and his pistol, I wrote a small note to outline what I believed had happened and placed it in a jar I had found in a cupboard in the kitchen. I signed it off with my full name and a sentimental quote: “We all loved and lost in the Great Change. Samsonov waited two years to be laid to rest here beside his loved ones. He had to do the unthinkable act; putting to rest the infected who were family. I hope we all have the strength to carry on in a brave new world where we could do with a few more like Samsonov. May he rest in peace with his family.” I stood solemnly and paused a moment. I leant on the shovel and wiped some sweat from my brow. I felt good, justified, at ease for a moment. I focused in on the graves and my eyes began to dart. My subconscious was telling me something; nagging at me. Then it hit: I could hear the faintest engine noise.

“The Doc’s crew!” I ran from the grave-site toward the house where I had my kit. I quickly strapped the belt with the machetes to my waist and put my pack on. I sucked on the tube of my pack that was connected to a full water bladder, an attempt at quenching my thirst, as I picked up Old Man and loaded some rounds. “Five good ones, Jesse.”

I ran through the house to the front door and realised the truck was there for all to see and someone to drive off in. All my scavenging and the mission to replenish my supplies to last the next couple of years would be for nought if that happened. While that was my initial focus, I knew the fight was coming to me and I should fear for my life after what I had done to the prior squads and the mischief I had made for these bastards. I ran out the front door and found a good bench-rest position with some old outdoor furniture on the porch. The engine noise was getting louder and louder and I knew someone had seen the truck, followed me and had made the decision to attack. I breathed, sipped more water and sat there, ready.  

Before long, a familiar white van was driving headlong toward my truck. “Maeve and her squad, I bet” I whispered.” I looked through the glass of Old Man’s scope and regarded more former prisoners that appeared to be neo-zombies in the vehicle. I placed the reticule over the temple of the driver. I breathed out, squeezed the trigger gently and felt the contrasting violent kick of the rifle. The bolt was cycled and I caught the brass that was ejected from the chamber and pocketed it. I tried to reset myself and see what had happened. The windscreen was cracked and it was hard to tell if I had killed the driver or just made a statement with the windscreen. My curiosity was answered as the van took a sharp right, hit a pothole and rolled onto its left side with a thunderous crash. It sounded like a giant tin can scraping on asphalt. I could see another one of my adversaries, dazed and confused in the car, on the passenger side. I could see him through my scope, fumbling for the seatbelt-“Bang!” I hit him in the upper-chest and made him slump. The other two were hard to see so I reloaded, put the safety on and drew my machetes. 

I ran over to the van to take care of business. There were a total of four, like always, obviously operating in four-man squads. The first of the remaining squaddies kicked his way out of the van. He was a little guy, with blonde hair and a beard. With tattoos all up his arms, he looked like a hard man who was desperate to survive: and so was I.

I stepped aside and leaned against the underside of the van. He hadn’t noticed me and climbed from the windscreen. He was covered in blood, his own and that of others from my handiwork with a rifle. He came through with a cricket bat and, before he could gather himself, I materialised in front of him. Like some grim-reaper with jagged blades and a startling appearance, I arrived to repay the debt he owed. It or he was a strange contradiction of man and zombie. He shouldn’t have been there, seemingly alive and cheating death, trying to kill me. But I was in the combat zone and Justice was swift and savage and I severed his head with a scissor motion courtesy of my machetes. Out the back of the van, another neo-zombie had emerged. He was similar in appearance but bigger with a blonde Mohawk and more heavily tattooed; ink right up on his sneering face and across the neck. I charged at him and he raised a cricket bat to parry. My machete chipped large chunks of wood from his club-like weapon. This guy was no push-over, despite the van’s accident. While these assailants were already hurt, they were more professional than the last squad I had encountered. My mind concluded that these were dangerous criminals that had been in Cooleman jail had probably had more fights than hot dinners; it showed.

The bearded menace facing off with me struck out and his blow landed on one of my blades. The force was heavy and it jarred me badly. I swung my right-hand blade inward and struck him in the ribs. It was a grievous wound, gaping but he fought on. These neo-zombies seemed to have some of the “beneficial” aspects of a fully turned zombie. Pain threshold and being able to endure massive trauma and keep going was one of these hallmarks. We smashed together in a fighter’s clinch and spun each other around, knees and dirty boxing. My machetes had dropped to my forearms by their tether and I pulled him in close to control him. He could fight and resisted, snaking his arms around and trying to gain an advantage. Despite his wounds, he held fought on and I was amazed. I dropped some knees into the wound I had opened up. This stopped his writhing and snaking a bit. I drove in knee after knee, making the bastard grunt. He fell to the ground and I was onto him. Orion came out and plunged into his neck. That awful sound of hitting and penetrating bone demanded more force and I gave the necessary thrust to finish the task. Blood was everywhere. He never made a sound.

Just as I realised what was about to happen next, it was too late. Out of nowhere, a trail-bike came over the hill and the rider hit me with the handle-bars. On the way past, a bat clipped me with a brain shuddering blow; like a black knight jousting a victim. I stumbled and fell, struggling to keep conscious. What looked like a bloke on the bike, dismounted harshly and dropped the bike on its side. The motor cut out. The tall rider walked over quickly with a strange, feminine gate. I was kicked heavily in my ribs and launched backward. “Awww! Nothing girly about that!” I thought. This was someone very strong. “Ya think ya’re fuckin’ smart dontchya.” A coarse and awful gutter voice yelled, muffled by the motorcycle helmet. I was rocked; it was Maeve. The first onslaught was followed up with a barrage of swinging blows from the cricket bat. I was hit again in the head, the body, in the arms and on my shoulders. Those blows smashed me badly. I hurt everywhere and wasn’t sure if anything was broken, despite the fact it should have been. The rider paused for a moment, gassed from the workout and pulled the helmet off. Straw-like red hair and a harsh face worthy of a passenger on the second-fleet stood before me. That view was rough and harsh but it was no bloke.

There was a moment’s pause where I could hear my pulse but not much else other than a ringing. I could see Maeve was heaving for air and assumed I was done. There was another noise that caught Maeve’s attention for a moment, made her duck and look around, just long enough for my senses to return. That pause was all I needed. Woman or not, this was life and death. With my machetes slung on my arms awkwardly and a knife in my hand, I fumbled for my rifle, juggling everything. It was very ungainly, awkward position and I was able to get my rifle into position as she came back. She didn’t work out what I was doing until it happened. The rifle’s repeat, a hip shot was inaccurate but on the money for what I needed. This was my big heavy-hitting round, the 180 grain dum-dum that blew Maeve into oblivion. It hit her just above the hip and rendered her almost completely in half. She landed on her back, gasping still but continuing onward. These neo-zombies were dangerous indeed. I stumbled to my feet and got sorted; machetes sheathed and knife back in its scabbard. Maeve was writhing, gasping and swearing. I came over to this strange being and regarded it, regarded her. I wasn’t sure how I felt it/she should be classified. “So human but infected?!” I thought in disbelief.  I still didn’t understand the neo-zombie condition.