place to put a key but I had a moral and personal sense of duty to another soul who may stumble on the Waystation and use it as a place of refuge. I reconnoitred the house at close range, right around, sneaking about and peering through windows like an old peeping Tom. It was overkill; too much reconnaissance but I needed to do it. “Nothing,” I was satisfied I could not have been more meticulous in my approach.
The door clicked and creaked and I entered the house and the smell of dust and old timber. It was another familiar smell, like the old coast house that reminded me of books, family and safety. I looked to the simple side table, the pens were in the same place as where I left them and the beckoning journal which implored people to leave the details, was empty. The journal had no additional entries in it other than my last one about a year ago. I penned a new entry, simply writing: “The same as before, Jesse Stadler”. Disappointed, I had to get on with checking the place from the inside before I could get on with eating and resting.
As I moved through the house, I was reminded that it was in good condition, albeit with a fair amount of dust about. Looking around, the dust had indeed not been disturbed anywhere; no finger marks, footprints or zombie swagger prints or dragging prints. Zombies and people left some fairly distinct marks: "Another topic I need to cover in my book! People need to know what to look for when tracking zombies or investigating a new location. Whether one chose to exterminate or avoid, this was important knowledge." I had a task before bed: to pen those important survival memoirs.
First, it was time for food. I had a couple of potatoes and onions that would go nicely with the rabbit meat; a delicious stew was the order of the day. Some very useable Wiltshire knives from the 1980s and an old semi-transparent plastic chopping block were taken out from sagging kitchen cabinets and put to good work. Like an excited and passionate chef, I was eager and wanting to do my best with the meal. Food was one of those few pleasures that I could indulge in and enjoy. The old kitchen knives impressed me as they sliced through vegetable and meat alike. Under normal circumstances, they would have been taken and used at home or turned into zombie killers. But the Waystation was a place to be kept safe, useful and well kitted out. That was the intent; for me and any soul that turned up there. It wasn’t to be scavenged and picked clean.
As the parts of the meal were cubed, my mind turned to the cooking part. The old gas cooktop was long dead and I would cook over the fire like I would in the field. But the kitchen was not entirely useless; it has the utensils and pots to make the meal what it needed to be. The old aluminium pots and pans clanked about as I removed them from the poor ergonomics of the simple kitchen. But I didn’t care, with no-one else around; I enjoyed the familiar note made by the pots. Those pots took me back to former times and I smiled at the thought; “Hiking and cooking in some amazing places,” I smiled. “Aluminium pots on each and every trip.”
Aluminium had once been demonised as having caused Alzheimer’s disease. While some believed this and bought non-stick pans and stainless steel pans that were overpriced, many didn't care and proved the farce to be what it was. It reminded me of the many first world issues in the indulgent and decadent times before the Great Change. I had heard that this hoopla about eating off of aluminium had been debunked but I never truly checked or knew for sure if it was real or myth. My sense of utility and safety in numbers kicked in when hiking; aluminium was used just fine. My hiking group enjoyed many a meal out of a lightweight aluminium cooking vessel over some 7 or 8 years. Similarly, my brother had been in the army and ate out of alloy mess tins without problems for over a decade. Military servicemen and women would have been the
The door clicked and creaked and I entered the house and the smell of dust and old timber. It was another familiar smell, like the old coast house that reminded me of books, family and safety. I looked to the simple side table, the pens were in the same place as where I left them and the beckoning journal which implored people to leave the details, was empty. The journal had no additional entries in it other than my last one about a year ago. I penned a new entry, simply writing: “The same as before, Jesse Stadler”. Disappointed, I had to get on with checking the place from the inside before I could get on with eating and resting.
As I moved through the house, I was reminded that it was in good condition, albeit with a fair amount of dust about. Looking around, the dust had indeed not been disturbed anywhere; no finger marks, footprints or zombie swagger prints or dragging prints. Zombies and people left some fairly distinct marks: "Another topic I need to cover in my book! People need to know what to look for when tracking zombies or investigating a new location. Whether one chose to exterminate or avoid, this was important knowledge." I had a task before bed: to pen those important survival memoirs.
First, it was time for food. I had a couple of potatoes and onions that would go nicely with the rabbit meat; a delicious stew was the order of the day. Some very useable Wiltshire knives from the 1980s and an old semi-transparent plastic chopping block were taken out from sagging kitchen cabinets and put to good work. Like an excited and passionate chef, I was eager and wanting to do my best with the meal. Food was one of those few pleasures that I could indulge in and enjoy. The old kitchen knives impressed me as they sliced through vegetable and meat alike. Under normal circumstances, they would have been taken and used at home or turned into zombie killers. But the Waystation was a place to be kept safe, useful and well kitted out. That was the intent; for me and any soul that turned up there. It wasn’t to be scavenged and picked clean.
As the parts of the meal were cubed, my mind turned to the cooking part. The old gas cooktop was long dead and I would cook over the fire like I would in the field. But the kitchen was not entirely useless; it has the utensils and pots to make the meal what it needed to be. The old aluminium pots and pans clanked about as I removed them from the poor ergonomics of the simple kitchen. But I didn’t care, with no-one else around; I enjoyed the familiar note made by the pots. Those pots took me back to former times and I smiled at the thought; “Hiking and cooking in some amazing places,” I smiled. “Aluminium pots on each and every trip.”
Aluminium had once been demonised as having caused Alzheimer’s disease. While some believed this and bought non-stick pans and stainless steel pans that were overpriced, many didn't care and proved the farce to be what it was. It reminded me of the many first world issues in the indulgent and decadent times before the Great Change. I had heard that this hoopla about eating off of aluminium had been debunked but I never truly checked or knew for sure if it was real or myth. My sense of utility and safety in numbers kicked in when hiking; aluminium was used just fine. My hiking group enjoyed many a meal out of a lightweight aluminium cooking vessel over some 7 or 8 years. Similarly, my brother had been in the army and ate out of alloy mess tins without problems for over a decade. Military servicemen and women would have been the
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