NanoWriMo 2009 - Fic 1
Nov. 1st, 2009 09:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deathpixieIt's November, and while many of my friendslist are doing the [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com], the National Novel Writing Month, I'm going for the other version, [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com], NanoWriMo. 30 short stories, one per day throughout November.
Here's my first.
For post-Halloween, a zombie story. Written in the style of Max Brooks' World War Z, one of the interviews that didn't make the final cut.
We meet at the fenceline, while Taylor McIntyre is on patrol duty. 'Fence' is a typical Australian understatement for twenty-feet high concrete wall that surrounds the island state, topped with barbed wire. There are lookout points every five kilometres and two-man teams walking the walls between, always on the alert.
Taylor is like many of his generation - short and wiry, bearing the scars of a lifetime of war. He speaks slowly and deliberately, as if he's used to silence. Given the isolation of his particular lookout point, that is likely.
"Every so often, you'll get talk about the war being over, about taking the fence down. Then we get another deadie washing up on the beach, sometimes a pack of them, and the talk dies down again. As it should.
"We had things easier than the mainland, in the early days. Tasmania's population's always been small compared to the space, and a lot of it's hard terrain, mountains and steep valleys. Cold too, 'specially when the climate started changing, that first winter. It made it easier for us to survive those first few years. The deadies couldn't physically overrun the island, got trapped in some pockets, and when the snows came, they weren't going anywhere."
Taylor chuckles, a humourless sound, and continues:
"We lost contact with the mainland about nine months in. That's when the rationing started. We grow a lot of our own food, but the weather made it important for us to be careful, store more for the winter. A lot of folks sort of expected some kind of rescue, for the blokes in Canberra to call out the army and pull a John Wayne... that lasted as long as the television signal.
"Second winter, we realised that survival wasn't enough. Sure, we could relocate to the remote parts, go up high where they couldn't get to us, but it wasn't living, it was just biding our time, delaying the inevitable. There was a history teacher, Malcolm Turnball... he used to teach Aboriginal history at the high school in Launceston. It was him that mentioned the Black Line. Old idea of (Lieutenant-General George) Arthur's, back during the Black Wars. They grabbed every able-bodied man and made a human chain across the settlements, capturing every Aboriginal they came across. Of course, back then it was a bloody failure, but for us, against something as slow as a deadie, especially in the cold? It was worth a shot."
He flexes his hands as he speaks, eyes distant with remembrance.
"That spring, summer and autumn, we got our shit together. Built the fence, since it didn't make sense to clean the place up and then let them walk in off the beaches. That alone was a big job, bigger than the Snowy River scheme in New South Wales and that took 25 years. Mind you, having the dead walk and trying to eat your brains is a bloody good motivator." Again that chuckle. "Once the fence was up, not what we've got now, a more temporary thing, we recruited every man, woman and child that could handle a weapon. Trained 'em, day after day. Then once the snows had been hitting for a week or two and we were sure the bastards were deep-frozen enough to be managed, we started the drive. The Dead Line, is what it's called now. A human chain of bloody near every person in Tasmania, walking down from the north to the south, killing every deadie we came across. Then when we hit the southern coast, we turned around and went right back again. Took us a few runs, but within a couple of years, we could reasonably say the place was clean. Not a deadie to be found, except in the really remote areas. Those are left to the bush patrols - they'd go in with dogs every couple of weeks, stay out, come back with at least a couple of kills. These days, they go in maybe once every couple of months. Eventually, they won't need to go in at all."
There's movement down on the beach below, a flock of seagulls hovering over something crawling up the sand from the high tide line. Taylor hands me his binoculars and through them I see a zombie, only one arm and the upper torso intact, clawing its way towards the 'fence'. While I'm looking, Taylor unslings the gun on his back and takes careful aim. The gunshot echoes and the zombie lies limp. A perfect headshot.
"I'll report in in a mo'," hs says, in the same tone as he used to talk about the Dead Line. "Give a location and a retrieval team'll come get rid of it." He pats the concrete of the wall we're standing on, almost affectionately. "And people say it's time to move on."
He spits over the wall onto the sand.
"Not bloody likely. We worked too bloody hard to make Tassie clean - we're not going to let that go to waste."
Here's my first.
For post-Halloween, a zombie story. Written in the style of Max Brooks' World War Z, one of the interviews that didn't make the final cut.
We meet at the fenceline, while Taylor McIntyre is on patrol duty. 'Fence' is a typical Australian understatement for twenty-feet high concrete wall that surrounds the island state, topped with barbed wire. There are lookout points every five kilometres and two-man teams walking the walls between, always on the alert.
Taylor is like many of his generation - short and wiry, bearing the scars of a lifetime of war. He speaks slowly and deliberately, as if he's used to silence. Given the isolation of his particular lookout point, that is likely.
"Every so often, you'll get talk about the war being over, about taking the fence down. Then we get another deadie washing up on the beach, sometimes a pack of them, and the talk dies down again. As it should.
"We had things easier than the mainland, in the early days. Tasmania's population's always been small compared to the space, and a lot of it's hard terrain, mountains and steep valleys. Cold too, 'specially when the climate started changing, that first winter. It made it easier for us to survive those first few years. The deadies couldn't physically overrun the island, got trapped in some pockets, and when the snows came, they weren't going anywhere."
Taylor chuckles, a humourless sound, and continues:
"We lost contact with the mainland about nine months in. That's when the rationing started. We grow a lot of our own food, but the weather made it important for us to be careful, store more for the winter. A lot of folks sort of expected some kind of rescue, for the blokes in Canberra to call out the army and pull a John Wayne... that lasted as long as the television signal.
"Second winter, we realised that survival wasn't enough. Sure, we could relocate to the remote parts, go up high where they couldn't get to us, but it wasn't living, it was just biding our time, delaying the inevitable. There was a history teacher, Malcolm Turnball... he used to teach Aboriginal history at the high school in Launceston. It was him that mentioned the Black Line. Old idea of (Lieutenant-General George) Arthur's, back during the Black Wars. They grabbed every able-bodied man and made a human chain across the settlements, capturing every Aboriginal they came across. Of course, back then it was a bloody failure, but for us, against something as slow as a deadie, especially in the cold? It was worth a shot."
He flexes his hands as he speaks, eyes distant with remembrance.
"That spring, summer and autumn, we got our shit together. Built the fence, since it didn't make sense to clean the place up and then let them walk in off the beaches. That alone was a big job, bigger than the Snowy River scheme in New South Wales and that took 25 years. Mind you, having the dead walk and trying to eat your brains is a bloody good motivator." Again that chuckle. "Once the fence was up, not what we've got now, a more temporary thing, we recruited every man, woman and child that could handle a weapon. Trained 'em, day after day. Then once the snows had been hitting for a week or two and we were sure the bastards were deep-frozen enough to be managed, we started the drive. The Dead Line, is what it's called now. A human chain of bloody near every person in Tasmania, walking down from the north to the south, killing every deadie we came across. Then when we hit the southern coast, we turned around and went right back again. Took us a few runs, but within a couple of years, we could reasonably say the place was clean. Not a deadie to be found, except in the really remote areas. Those are left to the bush patrols - they'd go in with dogs every couple of weeks, stay out, come back with at least a couple of kills. These days, they go in maybe once every couple of months. Eventually, they won't need to go in at all."
There's movement down on the beach below, a flock of seagulls hovering over something crawling up the sand from the high tide line. Taylor hands me his binoculars and through them I see a zombie, only one arm and the upper torso intact, clawing its way towards the 'fence'. While I'm looking, Taylor unslings the gun on his back and takes careful aim. The gunshot echoes and the zombie lies limp. A perfect headshot.
"I'll report in in a mo'," hs says, in the same tone as he used to talk about the Dead Line. "Give a location and a retrieval team'll come get rid of it." He pats the concrete of the wall we're standing on, almost affectionately. "And people say it's time to move on."
He spits over the wall onto the sand.
"Not bloody likely. We worked too bloody hard to make Tassie clean - we're not going to let that go to waste."
