Free Remedy Z: Solo by Dan Yaeger

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.
    My second machete was another home-made one. It was an ugly one that had actually once been a star-picket. It had been heated over my makeshift forge with two of the