Remedy Z: Solo

by Dan Yaeger

  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.

  There was a moment of ease as the engine’s slowed to idle and not a single howl, groan or grunt could be heard. I had just been saved and I wiped the rancid blood from my eyes to see my saviours for the first time. It was a group and I blinked to see through the blur.

  “Are you right mate?” a young, very Australian voice called. With the back of my filthy hands I cleared my eyes and saw a group, a group of seven. They were armoured up and ready for war. These men were like the Samurai of Japanese film legend; heroes. They were all in helmets and trail-biking gear, rocking what appeared to be heavy-hitting 30-30 lever action rifles and some old-school under-over shotguns. It seemed they were in driver and shooter duos on quad bikes, save for the boy what had his own small trail bike and a small bore rifle slung over his shoulder. “Smart lads with a good tactical outfit,” I remembered thinking.

  “Yeah, I’m OK.” I thought I said but wasn’t sure in my daze. Taking his helmet off in the humidity, one of the men said “Geez mate, you have taken out a shit-load of ‘em by yourself! We were hoping to do something similar y’know?” He was maybe 18 years old, dark haired, olive-skinned and lean. He gave a rough and ready smile, as if to say it was OK, which was like a weight off my shoulders. It had been the first contact with people for a long time and I stood there stunned; battle fatigue and disbelief. The helmetless rider patted me on the shoulder. “Good stuff mate,” he looked at me with some concern, but tried not to let on. I must have been an absolute mess to behold. They were all looking at me for a moment, a few nodding as if to acknowledge my zombie-killing efforts. But that moment, where I nodded back in mutual respect, comradery, was gone as the zombies would not let up.

  “There’s more comin’! Too many of the bastards!” another rider said directly, gesturing a gloved hand at the horde of zombies that approached Tanny Hill from the north and from Tantangara. “Bullshit! We’ll take ‘em out. If this guy could do what he done here, we can clear Tantangara- Yep, we’ll get onto ‘em!” another said loudly, through his helmet. There was acknowledgement and, as if they needed something to start their proverbi
al engines, one of the seven whipped them all into action.

  He raised a gloved hand, gripping a rifle in defiance, and quickly followed it up with a “Woohoo!” and a “hell-yeah!”, which everyone repeated in an almost practiced way. They prepared to speed off to engage the enemy once more, without question or regard for their own safety. They looked to the dark haired man, waiting for his lead. He paused and moment and said “You stay up here bro; have a break and come join us when you’re right again.” He nodded at me and gave a smile. He spat on the ground with a forced toughness. He put his fist out, not to punch and I didn’t understand what he wanted at first. He looked oddly at me; then I got it. I smiled at him and nodded, giving him some “knuckles” (like a handshake) just as he expected. Satisfied, with us both nodding like we were two cool guys high-fiving after some teenage exploits, he was off. I felt old, physically and mentally at that moment but thankful.

  That lad, such a good bloke, turned and jumped on the back of that quad bike, ready to go. Engines revved and the combination of shock and injury, coupled with exhaust fumes, made me want to wretch. Just as I thought they were gone in a cloud of dust, they all waited for their leader who waved his hand as if to say “Wait”. The engines eased off a little and I could hear again, I could hear the music still blared.

  “Can ya turn that racket off? You’ve already got most of ‘em. You really done good mate, we haven’t been able to clear Tanny for months! Awesome stuff, bud.” He shouted through his helmet. Then the two-stroke engine roared and revved hard. He had given me an out; I could have turned off that music and stayed on the hill and he wouldn’t have thought any less of me. That was a touching acknowledgement of what I had done.

  There were shouts and farewells and I heard one: “See you soon bro!”

  They were off down the hill. They sped off to lure, intercept and engage the zombies. I was alone again, amongst a pile of zombies, just like that. There were dead everywhere and I stepped over them as I wandered off in a daze. I headed to my four-wheel drive to turn the music off and rest. Nobody was watching and that’s when things, precious things, are lost.

  Chapter 9: The Lost Samurai

  I sat cross-legged on the floor of the outdoor shop, my gun resting across my legs, enjoying that tea. The tea I had brewed was refreshing and calming; assisting in dealing with traumatic memories. Despite standards before the Great Change, this stale tea was amazing. “Nothing like a cup of tea,” I thought, sighing with enjoyment at its taste and warmth. I had been afforded peace and quiet and a successful scavenge in the outdoor shop. “Thanks boys,” I smiled talking to myself and perhaps to the spirits of the fallen. With my own little Japanese-style tea ceremony, cross legged and at peace, this armed warrior’s thoughts went back to the Battle of Tanny Hill on that cool night. “The Samurai.”; I returned to my deep, lucid recollections of the Battle of Tanny Hill as the hot tea filled my stomach and memories filled my mind.

  I was slumped into the driver’s seat and woke with a start. I was still exhausted and fighting the lure of sleep. I wasn’t sure but I thought I had passed out or slept for a spell. I had no idea what would happen next or how long I had been out. I had turned the stereo down but it still played. I sat there, gathering myself and tried to recover enough to get back into things. A bottle of water was retrieved from a cooler on the back seat. I poured out some precious, clean liquid onto an old but clean serviette. I wiped as much of the filth and blood off my face as I could. Serviette after serviette was used in an attempt to get clean-enough to be functional. I needed all the filth and blood and bits away from my eyes which still stung. The soiled pile of serviettes looked like the result of a major medical operation. The smell was terrible and I threw them outside the vehicle. Then I indulged. I gulped that water down like I had never drunk before. It was cool and clean, being happily cooled via power from my solar panels. Having good kit was everything to take you from pure, primal survival to an organised mission with benefits.

  I needed the whole bottle of water and could have done with more than the full litre I had rationed. This water and the time to sit was a welcome break and was what I had needed. I was fast concluding: “Today had been a good day.” But that was a premature declaration of victory.

  It had been indeed been a righteous battle with an imminent victory; passage in and out of Tantangara would never be so difficult again. But the day was not yet done. It was afternoon and plenty of fight was left in the zombies around Tantangara.

  I stepped out of the vehicle and retrieved my weapons. The zombies had no interest in rifles like Hunter or Old Man, a machete, or my Bowies, Orion and Panther. The machete was a mess; chunks out of its blade and a fault in the metal that was making itself known. Despite its reported hardness rating and brand name, Machete was more for the egotist than warrior. That stylised machete had done enough of a job in this battle to satisfy me that I could write it off later. I wiped it clean on the filthy clothes of one of the zombies, in the massive pile around me, and sheathed it.

  “OK, you’re ready to get into it,” I slapped my face and shook my head to achieve alertness.

  Binoculars were raised and I glassed in the direction of the dust trails of the four vehicles, ripping around near the base of Tanny Hill.

  The Samurai were quite near to the outdoor shop. They held positions and fired and moved like trained soldiers. They were young men, boys really and I marvelled at their bravery in saving my arse and weighing into the fight. “Like Anzacs,” I smiled. These men, the bravest and hardiest of Australian youth had weighed into every fight they were needed in since Federation. On each occasion and under terrible odds and losses, Aussies had proven their mettle and worth. These young warriors were no different. They threw themselves into the battle whole-heartedly and without regard for themselves. The shells kept pouring out and raining hell on the zombies which withered and perished.

  I had broken the back of the battle but they were mopping it up. I kept drinking water and ate a small muesli bar. It was my last one and I found myself clearing the fog, shock and concussion of war. I was almost ready to get back into things.

  The Samurai pushed forward like soldiers taking a position. They were firing off a hail of bullets and giving each other thumbs up and working as a team. But they were getting in too deep. In retrospect, they had misjudged things and were too near where their enemies poured out and did not have enough of a buffer between them and the unknown. The clusters of buildings, outdoor shop, trees and boats near them were a hive for the infected. They could have used more space and, if I had not been in such a state, I would have recommended they stay with me atop the hill and control from there. 20-20 hindsight is a wonderful thing. I carried my weapons back past a pile of bodies that had to be seen to be believed. Through this monster mash, I wearily walked to the four-wheel drive where I contemplated my next move.

  My mind returned from that memory. I was sitting there on the floor of the outdoor shop, almost a year on, and I acknowledged that there were few days that went past where I did not think of Tanny Hill. I felt a sense of regret that I had not been in more control and commanding that group of Samurai who needed a general and ended up with a Ronin. I knew that I shouldn’t have been so hard on myself but I felt responsible for them. “They were just boys and, damn it, immune!” I thought and shook my head at the loss. They could have been part of something for the proverbial future, tomorrow’s fathers, leaders, and workers - success for the human race. “You know what Jess?” I spoke out loud to myself, “You made them part of something that would mean the success of the human race: Tantangara was decisively clear of zombies thanks to this battle.” This was the truth and I genuinely believed it. Being there, reliving the battle and owning the situation was therapy.

  A great author once wrote that without sacrifice there could be no progress; true and proven. I needed to make sure those boys were remembered. They were true warriors, in the Australian ANZAC tradition and they needed a memorial of their ow
n. When I made my way home after that scavenge, I would make a memorial for them and tell their story. I returned to the memories of Tanny Hill where those good lads fought for all people; their finest hour.

  The seven young men, my samurai, poured a massive rate of fire onto the zombies who were coming from the direction of the holiday park and outdoor shop. In a hail of bullets they had made excellent headway. They had driven around a lot and were enjoying the mobility of their vehicles and staying out of harm’s way. Only just. The more practical, older and wiser fox that I was made began to think. In a moment of revelation my lips whispered “They may not make it; too close and probably low on fuel. They need me.”

  The battle was in its latter part but I was unsure these young men, boys really, had been nagged by a parental figure about how much fuel they needed for what could be a battle for the rest of the day. They also seemed to use an awful lot of ammunition with good effect but not a high degree of accuracy. The philosophy of “one shot, one kill” is a little idealistic but these guys were almost expending the ammunition-to-kill ratio of soldiers in the Vietnam War.

  With all that thinking, I knew I was back in the battle. I continued to glass around me, surveying the countryside and the outskirts of Tantangara. The mob of zombies coming from Tantangara was almost upon them when I realised yet another mob came from the road to the North. But there was yet another mob; I guessed over 100, coming from behind me. “Goddam it! I thought. I could see a disaster brewing and I beeped the horn and flashed the lights. I could see a couple of them take notice, but not think to return to the hilltop where I could have martialled their success and survival. “Come on! Think! look! The zombies are coming in from the North!” I yelled, gazing upon them, in the hope they would make sense of it all.