Iain McKinnon - Remains of the Dead

He took a deep inhale and savoured the wafting odours from the mug. It was a good smell, a comforting smell.

The jar he had found in Frank Topalow’s kitchen was almost empty, which no doubt was why it had survived the winter salvaging. Ali wasn’t sure if the coffee was any good or not; it was certainly on a par with the past-its-sell-by-date stuff he’d been used to. It had been a long time since he’d tasted fresh milk or anything other than freeze dried coffee. In fact, it had been so long since he’d had a good coffee it was no longer possible for him to retrieve the memory. But the drink was a calming influence, an island of normality, a source of fortitude.

Ali smiled as he recalled his dad always took his coffee black. Sitting here, the smell of black coffee transported him to childhood memories.

It reminds me of the old country , Ali recalled his father saying once. At the time he thought it odd. Ali didn’t remember anything of the “old country”. All Ali could recall was a hazy memory of a fraught plane flight. He was bored and his parents snapped at him for “misbehaving”. Ali couldn’t remember his misdemeanour, but he could still see his father’s eyes burning with anger as he snatched his arm and dragged him to his seat. His father wasn’t a violent man and the shock of such force had stunned Ali into silence. Looking back it was obvious why his mother and father had been so distraught. But to the five year old boy it had been unfathomable.

He took a bite from the granola bar washed it down with a swig of his drink and focused on the now. The meandering scrawl on the wall looked like a convoluted family tree with branches and sub-branches frantically splitting off and multiplying. Over the previous hour Ali had listed all his options and resources, all the pros and cons, everything he felt he should take into account before making a decision. He’d watched Ray do this numerous times back at the warehouse. Ray loved to use charts and diagrams to demonstrate his point or to support his decisions. Ray had had some kind of middle management job for a corporation before all this. Many of his fellow survivors had sneered at Ray’s pseudo-intellectual approach, but Ali had found it helpful. Today he was glad he’d taken the time to ask Ray about his techniques.

One branch in particular was ringed numerous times where Ali had come to his conclusion. WAIT FOR CHOPPER. Splitting off from that heading was IS IT SAFE? and FOR HOW LONG?

Ali had no way of knowing if it was safe. All he could say was he was safe for now. The how long would depend on what supplies he could find.

“Find vantage point to wait for chopper,” Ali read off the actions points he’d written for himself.

The bedroom in this flat had a wide enough view that he could see most of the plaza, but this was far from ideal. Although he would be able to see a helicopter land, he’d have no way of signalling it from here. And what if it didn’t land? What if it just circled overhead looking for survivors?

Ali looked around at the flat. It was comfortable and pleasant. It was an inviting thought just to stay here for a few days, but Ali knew that he couldn’t. He knew he would have to find a rooftop vantage point from where to keep look out and where he could signal.

“Supplies,” Ali said out loud. “I need supplies. I need food and warm clothing and something to signal the helicopter with.”

He put the coffee cup down and took the last bite from the bar.

He gave a grunt of displeasure as he eased his leg off the stool and stood up. Picking up the marker pen, he confronted the wall.

He drew a thick line off from WAIT FOR CHOPPER.

“Get clothing from flat,” Ali said as he wrote the words down.

“Signalling.” Ali tapped the end of the pen against his bottom lip. He saw himself, pen to his mouth, reflected in the smoky screen of the TV set.

“Ah-ha!” he exclaimed.

He walked over to the defunct media centre and picked up the first DVD from a pile of obsolete disks. The front cover was pink and white like the icing of a fancy cake and in stark contrast to everything else in Frank’s bachelor pad. Ali thought he recognised the attractive woman on the cover from some medical drama but even after reading her name he couldn’t place her.

“Never underestimate the power of a chick flick,” Ali laughed as he looked over at the fishing photo. “You been entertaining, Frank?”

Ali popped open the case with a crisp snap and a glossy leaflet proclaiming “other great titles” slipped free and fluttered to the floor. In spite of the aches, he bent down and picked up the insert and carefully slid it back into the case.

Ali laughed at himself. Some modicum of civilised life still controlled him. He had just spent the best part of the morning looting Frank Topalow’s home, defacing the walls and stealing his coffee, yet he felt compelled to retrieve the advertising material from inside a DVD case. He shook his head in disbelief at his own actions and clicked the central lug, freeing the DVD. He held up the shiny disc and peeked through the hole in the centre.

“Perfect.”

He put the case back down where he’d found it and walked back over to the mind map on the wall.

SIGNAL MIRROR = DVD he wrote in the next branch.

Then he went on, mouthing the words as he wrote them, “Set signal fire-find kindling (easy) & rubber (or something easy that makes black smoke).”

Ali marched back over to the media centre. He plucked the lighter he’d found earlier from his pocket and picked back up the now empty DVD case. He flicked the flame on and held the corner of the case to it. The plastic bubbled and melted like wax, giving off dark wisps of smoke. He took his thumb off the lighter and blew out the burgeoning flame. The room was filled with the acrid smell of burnt plastic.

Ali looked at the now warped and singed cover.

“Sorry, Katherine,” he apologised, reading off the cover. “I doubt you’d have gotten a sequel anyway.”

He turned back to the wall and circled the heading “Food”.

Other than the granola bar he had just consumed, the only other food (if you could call it that) was the body building powder.

Using his pen like a baton, Ali double-checked the case of water. There were ten bottles left, one he’d drank, the other he’d used to make the coffee. The remaining ten would be more than sufficient to last out a couple of days, but the demolished granola bar would never be enough.

“I need to find a safe place, like a roof, for the chopper to pick me up.” Ali chewed at the end of the pen. “But I can’t sit up on a roof for two days without food.”

He paced over to the window and looked out at the zombie-infested street.

“The apartments below will have been picked clean and it’s not like I can go to the corner store.”

Ali spotted the picture of Frank and his buddy wearing green waders with wide grins on their vacation-rejuvenated faces.

“A fishing trip wouldn’t go amiss.” Ali paused. He picked up the picture and smiled.

“Fishing.”

Ali looked out of the gaping hole where earlier this morning a window had been. He scanned the throng of undead below, looking for the zombie he’d spotted earlier today. There was still the smell of smoke on the wind, a remnant of the Molotov cocktails.

From the fourth floor it was difficult to pick out one cadaver from the homogenous group of undead, all dressed in their decay induced uniforms of brown and grey. Then he spotted the familiar soldier, the one in the tattered chemical suit. Ali scanned around the area hoping, the two hadn’t been separated too much by the ebb and flow of the swarm.

Ali smiled. “There you are.”