by Dan Yaeger
The youths came forward and fronted on him with terrible boxing styles, bouncing around like idiots. They were the sort of fuckwits that were the toughest kids at a barbecue when bullying younger kids. These bullies were malingerers and cowards when the chips were really down.
My father was certainly no equal of theirs. He was way beyond their collective imaginations. Unafraid, dad welcomed the opportunity for justice. He bellowed: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You come to my home, attack my son and now you attack me? Show some respect- how dare you!” His face said it all; he was red, fiery and going to war like Thor with his hammer.
And it was on. As the melee erupted in front of me, I turned from miserable to happy. I mattered, dad proved I had mattered. I smiled with pride as my father laid out three strapping apprentices with extreme force. As they lay on their backs in pain, tasting their own broken teeth and blood, my father spoke. He said “If I ever see you near my home or son again, I will fucking kill you. “One of them then had the audacity to say “Are you threatening me?” Again, the line was crossed and a proud, good man had to set things right.
My father kicked him in the balls before the sadist could get up and said “Why yes sunshine, I am. In fact, that’s a promise. Now get out of here before I put you in hospital or in the ground.” They had been savagely humiliated and put in their place; they were nothing by their own hands.
As they gathered themselves up and fled like whippets, with their tails between their legs, I stared at the kid who had started all this nonsense; fear and humiliation were in his eyes now. I learned that it doesn’t pay to dehumanise people on that day. They crossed a line into a world of total disrespect and I decided, in that moment, that I would redouble all efforts to treat others with dignity. That was, until such a time where someone proved they didn’t deserve it like those fuckers. Then it would be “no mercy.”
My father had done a number on them and they more than deserved it. It was a good life lesson for me. After the trouble was over, my father checked me over, smiled at me, gave me a big hug and said he was proud of me. He told me to be better than those morons, better in every way. “Be smarter, be stronger, be tougher, be a survivor and most of all, be brave. Just when you think you will give up, with anything in life, push yourself further and it will make all the difference”. Those wise words, the pride and the love of my father, stayed with me. He helped shape me into the man, the warrior and the survivor I had become.
I never saw those boys again. Word got around that “Jelly Jesse” was a “Psycho Stadler” and I was feared and respected for my humble efforts against those dickheads. They had underestimated me and my father. In fact, that incident had brought me the confidence to get into mixed martial arts in a big way. I wanted to be like my father. I smiled and shed a tear for that memory as I found a key to Samsonov’s House in the pot plant. “Thanks Dad,” I said aloud, smiling through the emotions. “I wish you were here.”
With key in hand, I glanced around to make sure no-one would ever catch me out on a doorstep again; clear. I called out a “hello”, cautiously and, without an answer, respectfully wiped my feet before I went in. I would respect Samsonov’s home like I hope others would respect mine. People may have disrespected and created rumours about this guy; I realised I needed to draw my own conclusions.
The front-door opened up to reveal a home with a warmth and comfort I found surprising. This home was stately in its décor and furnishings. This house was not what I was expecting from some reputed Russian hit-man or killer. There was fresh wood panelling and stone walls like a cross between a 1920s hotel and an exclusive ski-lodge. Trust me, it worked. It was precise timber panelling and tiling; true artisanship that had become impossible to find on the open market. Samsonov had done the work himself, by hand and with hand tools. There was a grandfather clock, black and white marble tiles on the floor. With a French-styled table, sporting curved leonine legs, there was an amazing vase of crystal, shaped in a large, elegant shape that was reminiscent of a pinecone or multi-layered flower. The crystal was of an extremely high-quality; the light projected through it with both a prismatic rainbow and a yellow and orange glow. Despite the long-dead flowers in the vase, I could see that the home had once had a woman’s touch. I wasn’t expecting that.
What was interesting was the mix of Federation to 1920s furnishings mixed with European and a distinctly Russian influence. The tiled floor had a Caucasian rug leading from the foyer into another room toward the back of the house. The wall also sported such a carpet; ornate and decorative. It was, in my humble opinion, an original piece of some Russian or Cossack design. It had lots of lively colour but the giveaway were the little windows with warriors on horseback with carbine rifles, curved swords, tall black fur hats and long moustaches. I looked at the stern but proud faces of the warriors depicted on the carpet and concluded this was an equally proud home.
I felt a warm glow that was both physical and mental; light came in from a skylight and a warm glow emanated from the vase, carefully placed in its designated position to catch the light and do magic with it. The room did feel warm as well and I would later learn why.
The foyer made way for a staircase leading upstairs and a corridor back to what appeared to be a kitchen and meals area. There was also a door to the right, into what I guess would be a living area. “Hello?” I called again. There was a pause without a response.
“I mean you no harm and just want to trade,” I confirmed my intentions with a calm and even voice. There was no answer as I walked cautiously into that home and saw unexpected pictures everywhere on the staircase. I was cautious to keep scanning around me for danger while I took a glimpse into Samsonov’s world; a pictorial history of his life.
There were photos of a young special forces soldier in what I thought must have been Afghanistan in the 1980s. He had photos of himself in other military theatres and a host of pictures of him being decorated in medals. There was a photo of a little girl and a young woman that I surmised must have been his wife and daughter; he was happy. He had made a chronology of his life, from left to right up the stairs.
The next event was clearly a funeral and with that, the photos didn’t feature his wife anymore. His broad smile and youth were gone. There were more military honours, including one of him being decorated by a blonde-haired, very tough former Russian President. As the photos progressed, his daughter seemed to grow up and she looked to be an athlete of some sort. He still had a smile of pride in the photos but I could tell he was a man with a broken heart; I knew that feeling.
Like her dad, Samsonov’s daughter was highly decorated, but not for war. She had competed in an Olympic games and took a number of honours there. The photos then featured another Olympian, an Aussie, without any medals. This young man did have a prize though; Samsonov’s daughter and he smiled with the same beaming expression Samsonov himself had once had. Further photos of a wedding in Australia (gum trees seen in the back-drop) and the birth of a little girl made it all clear. Samsonov’s broad smile was back but his youth and fighting days had well and truly marched on.
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 gasp
ed, 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 reti
cule 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.