Solo

by Dan Yaeger

  With that jacket removed from its place, I noticed a keyhole at the back of the wardrobe, all by its lonesome. “Ah, a false wall! You crafty bugger!” I said of Samsonov.

  It was quite exciting and I did a search of the house, not finding the keys I was after. Upstairs, downstairs, checking through drawers and trays and vessels for things: nothing. I was out of luck; almost. Instead of completely giving up, I retrieved a good 15 volt cordless drill from my truck and drilled out the lock. “Oh yeah!” I said as the lock gave and the hidden contents of the compartment were about to be revealed. The panel slid across and I saw a small recess. Peering through the dark of the cupboard, I found ammunition and a weapon as great as the mighty industry of its motherland.

  Samsonov had imported a custom .308 hunting carbine. It was magnificent. He had obviously taken great care with it as it was not new but as good as. Based on the AK Kalashnikov family of firearms and made by the banks of a mighty Russian river, this was as beautiful and dangerous as the Siberian Tiger. “The Tiger”, a truncation of Siberian Tiger was how I thought of it. “Tiger” was good enough for me.

  With a .308 designation, the Tiger meant that Samsonov could hunt with readily available ammo in Australia, while having a taste of home. This was indeed a prize and worth more than garden-variety home hunting arsenal. Samsonov had another compartment above the rifle where he stored ammunition. He had 7 boxes of 20 rounds of ammunition. Each one was 150 grains; perfect feed for the Siberian Tiger, Hunter and Old Man. “Thanks Samsonov, may you rest in peace.” I nodded in acknowledgement at this gift that would keep me alive a bit longer and perhaps take me some way toward achieving my mission and dream for a clean and clear alpine region, full of people again.

  I did a quick stocktake of my gear. Orion and Sumo were pristine after my handiwork in Samsonov’s shed. My two machetes had seen better days despite my efforts. Bob was getting on and may have only a few missions left in him. Ebony had plenty of mass on the blade but the handle needed replacement. “Fine for now,” I concluded.

  “How ‘bout you old fella?” I picked up the old Mauser with the walnut rifle stock. Old Man was given a good clean in Samsonov’s shed; not doing too badly for such an old soldier. Given his history with me and my family, Old Man was more precious to me than the Tiger. Some things were just more important than utility. I lovingly stowed him in the truck but did ponder his retirement. Old Man would make a great friend and reminder on the wall of my home and could be pressed into use again if I ever needed him. In the meantime, semi-retirement seemed the best option. I would mount him on the wall when I got a spare moment at home.

  I went into Samsonov’s shed and considered a last and final check of anything that could be useful. The shed housed plenty of obscure supplies and it took a moment to take in. My brain computed a sub-conscious calculation and then it hit me. Items like a long metal pole, quick-set cement, a brass plate and an engraving-capable multi-tool came together in that formula. I combined this with some rope and a big Aussie flag I took from the holiday park and it was clear: “The samurai,” I smiled. “You will get your memorial at the top of Tanny Hill. “ I would make that right too.

  I packed up and readied the truck for the drive home. A quick scan with my binoculars crossed the valleys in all directions and saw nothing but stillness. All was as it should be. The bonfire that had taken Maeve and her squad had done its work and the ashes just blew into the wind like a forgotten whisper. I started the truck and jumped out of the cab to do a few final things. I put the spare key back and placed some wildflowers on the grave of a family I felt I had come to know a little. “Thanks Samsonov; I found you to be a gentleman and you gave me more than some kit. Go well, wherever it is you are resting.” With a bowed head and a little solemnity, I closed the chapter on Samsonov that day. I turned as I headed for the truck and looked at this home which I had been a guest at for a little while.

  I hoped that one day a family would find this relatively intact home and make it theirs. Maybe someone like me? People, families, children: it would be so nice again. A real community was what I was now after. Even if I realised that dream, I wondered at how long things would last before being back to the frustrated, pressure-cooker of western society like before. A man could dream a little dream though.

  “Back to Tanny Hill to finish things.”

  I stopped by the banks of the great Lake so I could collect a few buckets of water for the concreting I would do as part of the Samurai’s memorial. With that done, I drove slowly and carefully, so I didn’t slosh the water around.

  The truck cranked its diesel engine up to the summit of the hill with ease. It was as I had left it. The van was still there and, importantly, the seven helmets were inside.

  My plan was galvanised and I would not muck around for too long. In the back of my mind, people were coming for me. Given the fate of Maeve and her squads, their disappearance was not going to bode well with Doctor Kian Penfould. In reflection, the memorials were making amends activities, the sorts of things someone would do if they were going to die. Subconsciously I think I had come to grips with that, it was just a question of when.

  I was staring upon the site of the stones to commemorate and memorialise the young men, the seven boys I had called “The Samurai”. I gathered more stones in preparation for a flagpole mount and plaque and to turn each single stone into a mound. The work was hard and challenged my aching and fatigued body. I was feeling a little nauseous too and had to take a few breaks as I did the work. I was not sure if this was a manifestation of guilt or the effects of a rough few days. I suspected both. After much effort, sweat and hard work, there was a mound of stones that connected the 7 graves together. In the centre of the mound was a flagpole sporting an Australian Flag. At its base was a brass plaque that told their story. I had engraved it myself, with a little diamond-tipped engraving tool taken from Samsonov’s shed. The plaque wasn’t perfect but I was proud of it, like I was proud of the fallen. I engraved their tale, it read:

  “Here lie the bravest of boys who selflessly gave their lives in the Battle of Tanny Hill. Words cannot thank them enough nor can their legacy go by without acknowledgement.

  On the 23rd day of September 2029, we killed over 400 zombies at the Battle of Tanny Hill and cleared Jindbyne of its zombie horde, now and forever. They fought shoulder to shoulder with me, only to give the ultimate sacrifice.

  These 7 warriors, “the Samurai”, were brothers and cousins; just boys all. They came to the aid of someone they didn’t know to save a life and overcome inhuman terror and fear. Not seeking thanks or reward, these boys fought as men and no greater allies, friends, sons or brothers could one ask for.

  The Samurai – Dane, Corey, Heath, Mitchell, Evan, Braith, and Roley. May they rest in peace.

  With solemn thanks, in-memoriam and on behalf of us all,

  Jesse Stadler – the last man standing.

  I placed their motorcycle helmets on each mound, matching name to place. I stood back and smiled at the result. “No-one will enjoy this place without knowing what you did,” I said, patting each distinct mound of stones and each helmet in acknowledgement.

  It was done, they would be remembered. I hoped others would come here and understand what they did and what it would mean for the region.

  I only shed a few tears this time and nodded in acknowledgement. “Thanks boys: I’m going home. I will come and visit you again some time.”

  I left without regret or a backwards glance. Things were as right as they could be. I had shut out all bad thoughts, being pursued and hunted and focused on the immediate and the positive. That job was done, that debt was paid.

  “On the road again,” I said as that familiar and almost droning diesel-hybrid engine cranked and indicated it was ready to ride. The energy was uplifting; the excitement of coming home, having succeeded in all of my missions, the memorial and an exciting electrical project to stimulate the mind when I got home.

  The gravity of having
my electricity situation solved hit home as the truck snaked on winding roads toward my alpine retreat. The complete set from Samsonov included solar panels, a small wind-farm, battery array, power inverter, spare panels and so much wiring that I could rig everything up to the existing power mains. “Refrigeration, music – a cold drink!” I thought.

  My cabin was a safe haven from the wilds outside; power would just add to effect and creature comforts I could enjoy, away from the horrors and reality. After all of the recent struggle, I was looking forward to going home to relax and recover. I was being optimistic at the time and I would find no such luck.

  The drive ambled in the usual way and the truck worked hard with its load to get up over the hill and bring me home. It wasn’t long and I arrived home with all my supplies and salvage, minus the burden of guilt.

  I got out of the truck and breathed a sigh; home and safe. I didn’t go inside at first as I had lots to stow in the shed. It was perhaps overkill but I had every manner of tool, device, fishing rod, accessory, knife and outdoors kit you could imagine that needed to be put away. I had also taken another canoe for good measure. I had some rope and pulleys I would use to string-up the small water craft up, up in the rafters of the shed for storage. The canoe would come in handy during the wet season, fishing on the river or on the lake.

  As I strung up the boat, I heard something at the back of the shed. I felt cold all of a sudden and the nape of my neck went up. I was armed, as always, but I was sore and wounded from the battles of a few days prior. I needed some R&R, not more contact and conflict with zombies. I heard more movement and I drew 9-Mil, ready to rock. Then the movement went up into the rafters. I sighed with relief “Playing possum again.” I saw the bushy tail and cheeky face native wildlife staring down at me. A possum; I was happy to see some innocent life. Any real-life was goodness and this possum was a welcome bit of nature I could share my shed with.

  I was still feeling sick and battered, but my infectious enthusiasm about the new electrical system could not be suppressed. I paused for a little while, trying to shake that lousy feeling and rubbing sore muscles that needed some serious work and a bit of stretching and rehab over the coming weeks. I walked around the back of my home and started by setting up the solar arrays and wind farms. The gantry’s simple plans had been drawn-up and parts tagged to make sure it could be set-up again. I joined the dots for the electrical system, but later I would realise, not all of them.

  I retrieved a hammer, wrenches, a cordless drill, a ratchet set and some screwdrivers to get into the job. The hammer was really about banging things into alignment where needed. Like with what I had found with Samsonov, he wasn’t the stereotype people had said. His taste for quality extended to the entire system which was mainly made in Germany. It was quality by reputation and the fine manufacture was evident in how little difficulty I had in setting up the array on the stencilled concrete at the back of my home. I set myself the goal of working through until the sun went down or I had the gantry and solar panels in place. True to form and, quite proudly, I had the gantry set up without a hitch. I stood there and considered my handiwork, drinking a bottle of clear water from Samsonov’s water tank. I emptied the bottle and stared up at a magnificent sky of pinks, purples and blues. I could hear the insects that had come out of their winter’s funk and, almost a metaphor for my soon-to-be established power: there was electricity in the air. The world was alive, buzzing, humming and resonating with life like I had not heard it in years. Nature was a wonderful and powerful thing and it was no surprise that there was some sort of harmony or alignment between man and the natural world.

  But something was not right. As I gazed at the sunset, I could smell petrol, not diesel like my truck. My suspicion was peaked. I scanned all of the houses nearby. I opened them up, checked, hid and emerged as if dancing with some unseen foe or undertaking a drill. The 9-Mil pistol was being whipped around in my clearing manoeuvres like I was a cop. “Nothing.” All was clear but all was not as it seemed or should have been.

  I looked at the road and, in the fading light, I noticed another set of tyre marks “This is not good.” I whispered. “You’ve been sloppy again,” I scolded myself. I followed a trail a short distance and, sure enough, the tyre tracks led me to an unusual, if not peculiar scrub. It wasn’t right. I knew the bush and I knew the introduced pines very well. I knew the form they had taken was as unnatural as the stumbling zombies. I stalked between trees, cover, in my dance again, like a soldier undertaking a drill or practicing manoeuvres. I could not sense; smell, see or hear another person. The smell of the petrol was strong now. I could see the metal of some disc brakes. The trade-off crossed my mind: “Do I go straight in and risk a booby-trap or do I watch, wait and probe some more?” I decided it was unlikely someone of the skills of a survivalist or Viet Cong would be up here. Similarly, I deduced that I had probably been watched, for many hours, while I worked on my solar project. It was strange but I was beginning to think whomever or whatever was here, didn’t want me dead. I stopped my stressful approach and I strode high and proud to the peculiar bush. I was not surprised to find a vehicle hidden there. I was surprised to find it was the truck that had eluded me in Tantangara. Someone knew how to get here or found me in some way. “A tracker? Soldier? Assassin?” It was no time to let my overactive imagination out. I was good at finding animals and zombies and I was coming up blank. There was no sign of anyone; “So where were they?” I asked myself. Then it dawned on me. “They are hiding in my house?!” I felt like the goddamn three bears and I was pretty close to the mark.

  As usual, I was armed and ready for whatever came at me. However, I wasn’t prepared for what came next. I crept toward my house, stalking carefully and with a heightened sense of danger and risk but I was drawn in. I normally would have had the patience to wait it out and stakeout my own home for as long as it took. This was different, I could feel it.

  As I approached, I was not sure what to expect and I was intrigued, excited and scared all at the same time. I would not do “the stalking”. I was being stalked; waited for. The front door rattled and abruptly opened revealing a double-barrel shotgun, an old-school side-by-side. It poked out from the obscurity of the house. I could not see who was wielding it. I stood there and realised I was just in range of that weapon and may survive a shot. I dropped quickly to my belly, unslinging Old Man and was ready to shoot. My heart pounded and I put the crosshairs on the door, where I imagined the person’s body to be.

  Then I heard something as alive and as beautiful as all of the nature and life that was around me: a woman’s voice.

  “Easy cowboy, is this how you treat all your guests?” It was strong but gentle, alluring. I realised it wasn’t the Alamo; or was it? The door opened a little further and the silhouette, firelight from behind her, it jogged my dazed mind. It was the same shape, the same person who had saved me at the Alamo. She emerged from the shadow of the doorway, bold and beautiful with good height a fit body, a pretty face and wavy brown hair past her shoulders. She was wearing my dressing-gown and I could see all that. Our eyes met and she regarded me without fear but a little amusement.

  “I was expecting the three bears,” I said with a wry smile, still lying on my belly. She smiled back and said ”Me? Goldilocks? Sure I am. Aren’t you going to thank me?” she asked with a sassy smile. I was about to ask “For what?” but then I realised she was indeed my saviour, a Valkyrie that had saved me at the Alamo. I cracked a broad smile, still on my belly and in the dirt and said, “Why yes ma’am, given half the chance I will.”

  Chapter 17: Bird of Paradise

  It was awkward but exciting. I had so many questions, so much to talk about but I didn’t know where to start or want to overwhelm her. I got out of the dirt, kept my eyes on her and dusted myself off. I felt no danger and put Old Man’s safety on. I slung the trusty old rifle over my shoulder, still with my eyes fixed on her. If the woman who stood in front of me had wanted me dead, she would have done it
when I least expected. Topping me would have been easier while I was working on the solar kit. The task would have been as easy as a quiet walk up and, “boom”, with that shotgun of hers.

  “Hi there,” I smiled genuinely, trying not to leer at her. The usual immediate chemistry test was there; she flashed me a lovely smile in return and I felt a spark. “Thanks for saving my life back in Tantangara,” I continued. “You’re welcome. Both times,” She said, also feeling awkward and not knowing whether to smile, or what, or not.

  I didn’t overthink things and walked up my stairs, looked her in the eyes, gave a smile and a nod and stepped past her through the front door. She wasn’t afraid or intimidated. She was as excited and interested in this rare person as I was. The airlock was as I had left it with my range of gear available, minus the kit I had taken with me to Tantangara.

  I had returned without my German combat smock and other clothes that I had burnt at Samsonov’s. Those items had been with me since the Great Change and exodus from Canberra and I had held some sentimentality for them. She regarded me with interest as I laid down my rifle, pistol and day-pack. I was lost in thought for a moment and pondering the concept of loss and gain. “Old things sometimes go and most surely new things appear,” I said aloud, to myself, as I put Samsonov’s Loden coloured fleece top and the Aussie Special Forces jacket in place of where my Flecktarn smock and other tops had once gone.

  “Sorry? What was that you said?” the lady began to follow me in. “Sorry, I am not used to people and have been talking to myself for over a year now.” I smiled warmly into her blue eyes. She put the shotgun down and leant it in a corner near the door. I was shocked that she was so quick to lay down her arms. I had to stop myself from over-thinking and considering if I was about to be ambushed by others.