Remedy Z: Solo (7 page)

I lay some venison strips out on a drying rack I had made from rustic timbers. The meat was liberally salted, thinly sliced and would be great when chewed in the field or put into a soup or stew. It kept really well and was another ancestor connection that I liked; my food and techniques for preserving meat were theirs, despite the long passage of time. I was still connected to people. 

I smoked some meat in the smokehouse (a converted shed) and cleaned up my home, inside and out. 

Preparation was quick and decisive; damn good at it. I ensured my rifle was cleaned and ready and knives were sharped with a stone; alone on my porch in the beautiful Australian Alps with the rhythmic sound of a sharpening stone ringing away. The chimney puffed a little smoke and I was the only human soul for miles around. It was a perfect scene but so imperfect a set of circumstances had gotten me there. With my knives sharpened to a razor's edge, I was ready for my two favourite past-times; hunting and fishing. "Time for a fish Jess," I felt relaxed and calm.

I set off for the river. I loved fishing, at all times in my life. It had been one of those past-times where I had bonded with family and friends. The wonderful thing about anglers was the common-purpose that could knit relationships between male and female, the labourer and the thinker or the old and the young. It was the timeless pursuit that was meant to be a bonding experience. I remembered fishing in a canoe on a dam near Canberra when I was a boy. I had caught some redfin with my father and we came upon a cliff-face that was an amazing formation but was also reflected in the water to create an awe-inspiring sight. It was like the Hall of the Mountain King, its greatness doubled by a second image on a great mirror-like surface on the lake. The water and life had been that still for a moment. That experience and many like it were about life and people. “Being human,” I thought. I went to fish, to clear my mind and feel human again.

The river was cool, flowing nicely and provided the Zen relief I had sought. The sound of the water, the dappled sunlight through the trees, the gentle spring wind and my thoughts of simple things were magic for my troubled soul. I didn’t think much about recent events or what I would do next, I was enjoying the sport and therapy of fishing and the recreation of it all. On the serious side, I fished well and pulled out a rainbow and two big old brown trout from the water. They were great prizes and I felt a sense of elation and excitement to reel them in. First prize, however, really was the inner peace that the fishing brought me. My stomach was arguing the point with me; a few rumbles. With a clear head and the prospect of another full belly, I headed home at dusk; the end of a point in time. I had to get ready for my plan, mission and whatever the future held in new adventures.

I enjoyed gearing up and planning my missions. Getting my kit ready and being meticulous in my preparation was always my approach to my hunter-gatherer world. If I was headed out to a job interview or to my former desk job, I flew by the seat of my pants. On that day and in a new age, preparation mattered and I was a boy scout in my philosophy of being prepared. It’s funny how I was unfulfilled in the easy life back in Canberra. It was boring, predictable, stressful and a bullshit existence. The Great Change had been my excuse for a Sea Change. I wished, many times, that I had given up on the rat-race, rushed mornings, meetings that took your life away and dealing with incompetent people who talked more than took action. I wished I had enjoyed unadulterated nature, the wild and the wild life; it was different with the threat of zombies. It would have been liberating and truly free before the Great Change. While the world was a mess and I was happily away from it all, I was alone and I missed kin and friends. I loved my new job as a survivor and had attained the greatest sense of job satisfaction a man could have. With my new intent to get back into the remnants of civilisation, I had some objectives I wanted to achieve. First I would go to Tantangara for supplies and a vehicle. That plan had been in the works for a little while but I had a new drive, given my recent encounter, to investigate further: a subsequent target would be Cooleman. "Cooleman Duck," I recalled the patch on the Mechanic's overalls. Cooleman, further northeast of Tantangara, was calling; the key to the new type of zombie I had encountered and whatever was leading them. "The controlled and the controller," I nodded to myself, a reminder of my theory of what was going on. 

With the need to get more supplies and the desire for insight, I was not just a modern-day hunter-gatherer; I was a researcher, writer and investigator as well. That thought made me a little more excited about the trip, despite my nerves. Professionally, things couldn’t get much better or more exciting. I was good at what I did and I had energy and drive to see the world outside like I had not had for a long time. Stranger still, I felt more vigour than I had as a young man entering the workforce. It is amazing what a little spark, curiosity and a whole lot of pressure to survive can do. People are never happy when life is too easy.

Life was going to get a whole lot more complex and be far from easy. The euphoria I felt was much like a soldier being excited, volunteering for a war that would be over by Christmas. There would be way more to it than a simple trip into Tantangara. My plan would open new doors and new worlds of possibility. In fact, a new world was to open, a Pandora’s Box of sorts. But I wasn’t to know what was going to happen back then, and I did what I always did; finalise a plan and get into action. I had a plan of where I was, where I was going and some ideas if things went FUBAR on me. The march from my home in the mountains down to Lake Tantangara was about 20km through the bush. If you went via a trail, across cleared, open country, it was an extra 3 clicks. Whichever way I went, the last 5 clicks would be in open country on trails, out in the open or on a sealed road. "It depends," I pontificated to myself. Whatever fate would throw at me on the day would dictate the route. I was free to choose a way that suited best. My map and compass gave me the option of the slower but more protected and safer bush hiking. 

Another consideration was people. While I wanted to encounter people again, boy did I ever, my experiences had been mixed in the past. While I yearned for human contact, I had a sense some survivors were just as predatory as the zombies. "Think about that too, mate," I said to myself as I considered the map. I plotted an emergency route which I knew reasonably well. It is one thing to just know, it is another to plan. Planning didn’t take long and I was decisive in making the plan real and workable. I had a couple of FUBAR options. First was to take the bush route to Tantangara or home, if the roads had heat from zombies. There was an old farmhouse that I had cleared and secured around halfway between here and Tantangara I could hole up there for a while if needed. Second was to have an escape route to safety. If needed, I could get to the old holiday park by the lake, just near junction of the main road and the road that led into national park. There were many canoes and watercraft there that could be rowed out to Tiger Island. I could hold out there if things got too hot or it was too hard to get into Tantangara. Tiger Island had a great vantage point to observe from but I hadn’t provisioned it or set up a base there yet. I planned to get something to store a stash of provisions there, a tent and some fishing gear. I also had an apple core and would try to plant an apple tree on Tiger Island. It was pretty inhospitable but life was persistent. An apple tree may just make it and provide life to someone in the future. "Maybe me?"

The third option was Samsonov’s House. Samsonov was a local man who, by the account of every local farmer you talked to, had scoffed and scorned at. From some part of the former Soviet Union or the Russian Federation or perhaps just Russia, Samsonov was reputedly a former Russian soldier, assassin, bodyguard or something else that was dangerous. Rumour had it that Samsonov had some heat on him from a deal gone bad, a falling out or maybe he knew too much. That rumour extended to legend that he had fought his way out of Russia, and gone as far as he could to lay-low. Tantangara in Australia was a good a place as any and far enough from Russia that he could be free from whatever danger clipped at his heels. Local people including shooters, hunters and farmers knew him well, too well. Samsonov was maligned as a notorious poacher and would ignore fences, boundaries, rules or people’s instruction. He would hunt where he liked and people were a little scared of him. One such trip where Samsonov got himself into trouble saw a local jackeroo hospitalised with broken ribs, a broken jaw and concussion thanks to some Russian Sambo. But those sorts of small town stories were often embellished. On a ski trip up to Bimberi, before the Great Change, I had heard all about it from a local property manager who I bought a beer in the bar. This guy freely gave details about Samsonov, the whole story and the various embellishments, I am sure.  He had also given a description of the house which was fairly unique and not far off the main drive through the town. I knew the house and would go there to see what I could find. A guy like Samsonov was bound to have some good kit or be someone that may have survived. He could be someone I could trade with at the very least. I hadn’t seen anyone in a long time and the prospect of meeting a dangerous old Russian warrior was actually a good thing.

All three objectives, Tantangara, a spotting outpost on Tiger Island and Samsonov’s, were all possibilities and all three could be workable into my mission. My primary objective was to go “shopping” (scavenging) and get another haul of supplies and see if the hard fighting in Tantangara had been worth it. Another secondary mission, in addition to Tiger Island and Samsonov’s was to try scavenge, meet someone, trade or find weapons and ammunition or perhaps get a working vehicle. I could do a range of things with a working vehicle and I needed to prepare for a road-trip to Cooleman to see where these seemingly sentient zombies were coming from. So I decided Cooleman was another mission after this one. The mission was not just from a curiosity or planning perspective; I needed things to survive. I wasn’t truly self-sufficient up in my mountain redoubt. There were many supplies that could help: food, a generator, a jerry-can, ammunition or medicine. I could scavenge a lot more if I could fit it all into a conventional vehicle. Bigger things of opportunity like water tanks, machinery or other targets of opportunity were also on my shopping list and I would look for some kind of truck to transport those. "Take what you can get."

I had it; a main mission, options, targets of opportunity. It was a clear but flexible plan that got me prepared, warmed up if you like, for the bigger mission to investigate Cooleman. It was time to get dressed for success.

Chapter 4: Be Prepared

My well-worn German Army surplus Flecktarn smock went on over a t-shirt, flannelette shirt and a pair of khaki-coloured jeans. Fresh socks and old worn-in boots were a good combination; blister-free feet. A camouflage hunting cap and some leather gloves were last items on, but essential kit. I was well equipped to deal with the changeable weather in the Australian Alps. Fastening all the zips, studs and Velcro were familiar sounds that reminded me of many a trip out. 

Preparations would continue with the rest of the essential kit that had become a standard fit-out. The backpack was refitted and resupplied, including with some reloaded ammo. Ammo was extremely important and my technique for using ammo to the very end of its life would have been seen as dodgy in former times. It was utterly dangerous but less so than facing zombies without firepower. Ammo was at a premium and I never had a great stockpile of fresh ammo or powder to have the luxury of playing it safe. Every round had to count. For zombie-infested towns like Tantangara or Thredbo, I would take 20 rounds on a bandolier across my chest and possibly a sleeve of 10 rounds on my rifle's stock. I would keep the same or equivalent load-out in my pack. My chest sported the diagonally slung ammo belt and I counted it out. 

“Two fresh factory rounds of one-fifty grains, six once-reloaded rounds in the same grain, two fresh factory one-eighty grain rounds, my heavy hitters,” that was my longer-range load out. Following those 10 "good" rounds, the other ammunition was progressively worse. Each round had a declining casing quality, quantity of powder and quality of the tip. The last two rounds were usually embarrassing. They had hand-crafted projectiles of as close to 180 grain for heavy hitting. These were usually reserved for close range as they may not hit the side of a barn at 50 meters. These battered old casings looked like they were dug up relics and filled with the dubious leftover shavings of powder from more precision reloads. While dangerous and crude, they thumped any target at 20 meters. They were effective and survival was about being effective, not pretty. Wasting ammo could cost me my life. My ammo preparation was but one example of my meticulous preparation and my grandparents' “maximising” coming out in me.

"Ok, the pack is good," I said to myself, stowing ammo and food with the rustle of water-proof fabric and the sound of fastening cords. I was onto another essential; blades. Knives were important, and when it came to zombies, machetes were even more so. I had a home-made machete that was razor-sharp on its leading edge and 15mm thick on its blunt edge; more like a cleaver than a machete and it was coming out to play. Its handle was made from some local gum-tree timber and was wrapped in some old foam and strapped with leather throng. This one was a butcher. It was made from some scrap metal I had salvaged from an old Japanese car. The iron was good (not great), heavy and expendable. I could sharpen that weapon, and had, a hundred times and it kept a good enough edge and had enough meat on it to keep going. Again, it worked but wasn't pretty. That machete had started its life looking much more like a cleaver than a machete but, with countless battles and sharpening, the blade dwindled away. In the past, zombies had come thick and fast into towns; you needed something like this hacking-machine to act as your utility weapon. “Pig Iron Bob.” I didn’t just name zombies, by the way.