Remedy Z: Solo (22 page)

“Yes, yes. You gentlemen, and I do use the term loosely,” he laughed and looked at them all, seeking approval at his self-appointed wit and charm. “You can also get your doses direct!” 

Price and Sirocco indulged him a little and chuckled with a “damn right” and a “you better believe it” to egg the awkward, egotist on enough to make him happy. “Maeve, give these two gents two doses of milk each please. They can have those in addition to the standard dose they get direct tonight. They may even get a little reversal.” He lied. Unaware of the medical impossibility of what Penfould had said, both men beamed at the thought of getting better. They felt like winners for a moment.   

“Enjoy yourselves tonight, for tomorrow you are the great white hunters looking to take the Tiger or elephant.” His smirk was almost on cue as he then attempted another poor joke. “Well in your case Sirocco, you are the not so great and not so white hunter! You’re a bit brown really!” Price laughed and Penfould was pleased with himself. Sirocco retorted with: “A bit rich coming from you, man. What are you? Chinese or sumthin’? I’m caramel an’ coffee baby. I had more willin’ pussy than yo’ ever get dog!” Price continued to laugh and they high-fived each other. “I am not Chinese!” Penfould was angry and fumbled on the table, looking for his pipe and noticed it was in Sirocco’s mouth. He was not going to let all of their disrespect go unpunished. It had built-up and an expected volcanic tirade was a stone cold blade, much more dangerous, instead:

“Oh, and by the way,” Penfould sneered, “Make no mistake, I am not a bitch Sirocco. I make people MY bitches. Just ask that bitch on a leash or the cows she lives with,” he seethed and little dried saliva blobs formed at the sides of his mouth. “You may not have a leather dog leash like some, but I have you on a leash, BITCH!” he screamed then nodded emphatically.    

Sirocco was going to get up and end the hope of a cure but the click of a pistol cocking made him look down. Just like Siro had taken the pipe unbeknownst to anyone, Penfould had concealed the pistol on a hidden shelf under the coffee table. Two snakes, both with venom, squared off.

“So give me my pipe and fuck off bitch! Get out of my office!” Penfould’s attempts at gentry and Oxford English were gone and he screamed like a child in a tantrum. And Siro listened this time, doing as he asked without a word. He would save this up and keep it for later. It was not for now. He was so close to doing something and yet he was so close to a cure. Hope got the better of him and the stand-off was over.

Siro flicked his head up at Price and they left the Doc’s chambers, not giving it a second thought. “Fuck you Doc,” Siro gave him the finger, leaving the room angrily. Price said nothing and hurried after his mate. “What a fuckin’ dick man,” Siro shook his head and walked quickly. He needed to let off some steam and Price struggled to keep up with the fittest of men in the Rock. They moved quickly down the former hospital’s clinical corridors and they ended up at the Bear Pit, as they called it.

The Bear Pit was the room Siro and Price called home. It was once an operating theatre, with a mezzanine view that students could use to observe and learn from doctors operating below. It was far from that origin under the Doc’s administration. It was a large floor-space that had been converted to the two men’s needs and tastes. Up top, it was a bachelor’s living quarters, a bar, fridges and a television with old-school discs and physical media. Down below, the Bear Pit was just that. Siro had set up an MMA training area worthy of any of the best stables. It wasn’t big enough to be world class, but the gear that had been scavenged was of the highest quality. 

With the education sector in Australia having been in overdrive in the 2020s, the hospital had made more money from international student fees and its university affiliation than it did from paying patients. Penfould had hated these rich, privileged students that had been a huge part of regional populations. He felt a sense he was better than them and they didn’t belong, stealing his opportunities and taking away from his specialty. But he controlled the facility and he would preside over things as he wanted.

The hospital was modern in parts and ageing in others. The operating theatre that was now the Bear Pit was a mixture of both.  Tele-health had rendered such learning facilities mostly obsolete, yet it had been one of the most successful methods in teaching young doctors the complexities and realities of surgery. In a world where computer systems had automated plane landings through to medicine, some wise old surgeons persisted in teaching the old ways.

Once the Internet and the worldwide cloud communities that facilitated a worldwide network of data and applications, the old surgeons had been proven right. But it was too late for the world; the casualties outnumbered the capacity to operate and the last of the skilled surgeons turned or became a meal for a zombie.

In a cruel disregard for his own profession and its tried and true methods, the Doc had ordered his squads to move the medical equipment out so he could move his grunts in. The squads had transported such delicate equipment, sometimes with due care and other times dropping milTiger-dollar sensitive, sensor-rich equipment. They took it to the larger, older, district hospital in Cooleman. It was a snub as if to say “screw the old establishment”.

It didn’t make sense in some ways; given Penfould was a fan of empire and the imperial era that predated penicillin, MRIs and a range of other leaps forward in medical science. But he was a hypocrite and had many such contradictions. With all the haptic and holographic surgery systems, scanning and other medical capabilities removed and in storage, Siro and Price had taken up residence. They were given the special privileges not afforded to others and they loved their world there.

But that large room with a mezzanine floor had a new role as the Rock’s elite fighters’ den. It was a bit like when invading soldiers take up residence in a place of art or high culture. It is a way of shitting on the old establishment and its culture. That had been the exact intent of the Doc. Penfould’s two best soldiers behaved in the intended way. The place was nothing like the dignified, clinical place of learning it had once been. There were neon signs, old porn calendars, pin-up girl posters and all sorts of tacky trophies and oddities that had some meaning or rounded out the style. Where a state-of-the-art diagnostic machine once stood proudly, a disgusting old couch mouldered. “The Mooch Couch” stunk of BO and had so many farts pumped into it that when they sat down it reminded them of a boozy night in. Good times: watching movies or a piss-up where they had spent the night downing ales, telling jokes and knocking off the women they picked out for some “R&R”. The Doc had offered to replace that couch, numerous times, but that humble couch was an institution for Siro and Price; iconic.

“Want a beer?” Price asked, stretching out his sore back as he headed to the fridge. The light went on and revealed that icy mist that you dream of when you are hot. “Nah man,” Siro said, throwing down his kit. “I need ta work out. Lemme throw some bombs on da bag and think o’ the Doc’s face.” Price laughed and twisted the top off his ice-cold beer with his armpit, yobbo-style. To top off the scene, he peeled off a ripper fart. “Ooh, eggs.” He commented on the aroma.

Price flopped down on the Mooch Couch and watched his strong, fit mate strip down to his briefs and get into a t-shirt and some shorts. Price patted his belly and said “Better you than me mate. I’m going to watch some porn!“ Price said it emphatically, to attract the attention of his frustrated mate. No response was given as Sirocco Silva, MMA star of a former time, got back to his roots and brooded down in the Bear Pit.

“Your loss on all fronts mate,” Price continued, sipping a beer and giving a big satisfied, over-emphasised sigh. “What’ll it be? Big boobs? Feet? Arse? Whaddaya reckon?” the old pervert said eagerly smiling down at his mate with wide, expectant eyes. His partner in crime must have been in a right mood; no response. “Oh, well. Boobs it is then.” Price pressed a few buttons on the antiquated but very functional disc player. Like magic, he was immersed in enormous mammary heaven. While Price indulged in a little corruption, Sirocco worked drills.

Like a jaguar, he leapt from lying face-down to a squat position, up to his feet and into a fighting stance. He was quick and could get himself up and back to the floor again with talent. He practiced this and hand-stand push-ups against the padded wall. He ran shuttle runs from one end of the pit to the other and did lunges, twisting with a medicine ball. He sweated and grunted and worked off his ills in some form of self-imposed penance.

Just when he thought training would be boring, there was a knock at the door. “Fuck off!” Price said, transfixed on some bouncing boobs. The knock came again and Sirocco ran up the spiral stairs and opened the door. He figured all training and movement, even answering the door, would make him better. Standing there was a welcome surprise: contenders. 

“Hey Siro,” one man from the squads said. “We thought we would see if you would let us train with you now you’re back.” The two men looked at their feet and shuffled, hands in pockets, like boys trying to get in with the cool kids’ club. 

“I thought no-one would ever ask,” Siro opened the door wide and let the two squaddies in. The two men looked at each other and smiled broadly as though they had hit the jackpot. The truth was, they wouldn’t be hitting anything; they were going to be hit, hard.

They always marvelled at the coolness of the Bear Pit as they were led inside and offered passage down to the training area below. “Hey Price,” one of them said, trying to muck in with the toughest hombres in the Rock. Price didn’t move other than to raise a middle finger and say “Like I said, fuck off!” The other young squaddie said “Real nice, mate.” Price kept watching his entertainment as the second man disappeared into the Bear Pit’s lower level. Siro ushered them and then followed. 

Siro was not all bad; he helped the guys warm up and took them through drill after drill with him until they could barely stand. They always learnt a lot from him but it came with a price-tag: blood and injury. “Time to glove up,” Siro said simply. They leaned on their knees, panting and nodding, too afraid to ask for more water or a longer break. It wouldn’t have mattered; they were in for a fall. It was then that things turned from tough to worse.

Sirocco “Quick” Silva: undisputed champion again. This time it was a round-two knockout for the first punter and a technical knockout of the other opponent within the first round. He was happier but still a little unfulfilled. He needed a worthy opponent. He would get it.

Chapter 12: Camp Grenada

In the outdoors shop, I sat on the floor and finished the last of the food I had rummaged and put the water into my pack for later. The solids and the cup of tea had hit the spot. I had sat there and made my peace with the Battle of Tanny Hill and what I felt it would take to make things right. “It’s alright now, Jesse.” I was feeling well and tranquil. All was quiet and the peace I enjoyed was amazing. If I had faith, at that moment, I would have had a religious experience. Nevertheless, I could have believed that the Samurai, the boys, had a cuppa with me that night. But I had faith in the truth of what had happened and the legacy that was left behind. I would be never lucky enough to meet those boys again but together we had made a difference. I sighed, calm and well.

Now that the weight of guilt and fear was largely lifted, I made a more decisive plan for myself. I looked down in to the proverbial tea leaves, the dregs leftover, and contemplated how I would make the most of what I could find, the leftovers of humanity. It was a simple plan that would prove, like any, a need to adapt to the ever-changing environment. I drummed my fingers on my enamel mug and nodded my head to a tune that I hadn’t heard in a while. I was feeling good; stronger, settled but not complacent. The plan had taken shape and I felt happy with it as the basis for my next move.

First, I would explore the holiday park. It was nearby and may offer little resistance given it had been the source of many of the zombies in the Battle of Tanny Hill. The holiday park had been full of fishermen and holiday-makers at the time of the Great Change; people with plenty of kit. I knew that the holiday park would be a great honey-hole and was somewhere I hadn’t scavenged before. I listened for a moment, trying to hear the faintest of sounds; nothing. I smiled at the nothingness, the peace, the lack of fear and the hope that Tantangara may once again house a population.

As usual, my mind had momentarily digress and I was back to mapping out my mission into Tantangara for supplies. The second objective was to build an emergency outpost. I would take a stash of supplies, gear and some seeds to plant some crops out on Tiger Island. With high hopes of what could be found at the holiday park, I felt that a vantage point, as much as a place to lay low, would be important in taking back Tantangara. If things went bad, I would be able to escape to a small island, protected by water, and regroup. “Regroup?” I thought, “A funny term to use when you are alone.”  

The next objective was to go into Tantangara and explore the shops and their contents. It was unlikely to yield much but I figured it may have had some vestiges of the past and maybe some traces of people and where they went, who was waiting where. The thought of people and company perked me up again and I looked forward to the idea that others could be out there. I was determined to find whomever I could and help them to survive like I had. 

Finally, my fourth objective was an optional one. Objective 4 was to investigate the infamous Samsonov’s House. I expected that such a person could still be alive or have a treasure-trove of supplies including weapons and ammunition. Even if Samsonov lived and was hostile, I craved human contact: I needed it for my sanity.

With the sun rising and a feeling of a new era about the region, I stepped out of that little store and toward the holiday park. I walked amongst the trees and felt the sense of nature and freedom as the wind gently blew through the little avenues and leaves that danced about. I smiled and felt free for a moment. But that stress and trauma was never far behind; I scanned the area, looking and listening for the nightmarish corpses that lurched around my world. They didn’t come and I returned to the scene of beauty and freedom.