KB's Log: SOUTH AFRICAN ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE, #4

By Lee Herrmann

When KB is sent to the Mpumalanga bush as punishment, she never imagined it would turn out to be a lesson in survival. Strange reports are surfacing from cities and when a helicopter falls from the sky, it brings a deadly message: The Zombie Apocalypse is here.

Getting back to civilization turns into a fight for survival, as KB, together with seasoned ranger Dzunani and spoilt city boy Bryan, not only battle flesh-eating Zombies, but are stalked by a new threat…

From the author that brought you Journal of a South African Zombie Apocalypse, KB's Log is a first -hand account of the outbreak of the Zombie Apocalypse in South Africa from the perspective of a ragtag group of survivors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tall Tales Publishing
• Release date: Sep 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9780639829210

Lee Herrmann

Lee Herrmann was born and raised in South Africa. He has always had a fascination with zombies and has numerous contingency plans for the eventual apocalypse. Therefore, while he waited, it made sense to write a book about zombies in South Africa.  He has a great love of by comic books, movies, television and popular culture, and cites his zombie favourites as 28 Days Later, Dawn of the Dead and The Walking Dead. He currently works in a near-zombie environment as a Content Manager for a big corporate firm in Johannesburg and has had a varied writing background including copywriting, writing for web, radio and magazines. He is also the author of the mystery title, The Manservant Mysteries. Lee lives in Pretoria with his wife Dina, and two sons, Max and Nik. Every Saturday night he can be found going to the movies with his best friend Steve-Dave. 

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For Dina, Max and Nik.

Thanks for always joining me on these rides. It’s always more fun when you’re with me.

For Steve-Dave.

Keep returning those video tapes.

September 21

––––––––

No phone. No TV. No music.

Just sitting in the middle of the bush with this dumb journal and pen. Not that I don’t like the bush, but I’d rather be here on my own terms. I wish Mom were here and not in London. She’d at least have talked Dad out of banishing me to the wilderness. Somehow he thinks this is a good idea - leaving me out here to think about what I did. This journal was his idea. ‘Character building,’ he said. He even told them to keep an eye on me so that I don’t get into any more trouble.

Uh-oh, they’re looking at me now, so I better pretend to be busy...

Blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah

blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah

blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah.

Writing in this stupid book.

Blah blah.

Blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah

blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah.

This sucks.

September 23

KB’s Log: Day 3.

I’m still here.

I spoke to Dad on the radio today and asked if I could come home. No surprises – he said no. He must still be pretty angry at me. I asked him when Mom was coming home, and he mumbled something about another two weeks. He seems as happy as I am about her being away again. I wonder if he told her that he sent me out here. I bet he didn’t, because she’d get pretty angry at him. She was never too crazy about me spending so much time in the bush.

‘It’s not what little girls should do, Karabo,’ she’d say. She’s the only one I allow to call me Karabo. Everyone else calls me KB. It’s cooler, I think.

It had been quite a while since I’d been here. In fact, now that I thought about it, it had been three years. I would spend weeks with Dzunani and although Mom always gave Dad that look, he would let me stay as long as I wanted. Dad always says that it’s important that everyone learns how to live in the bush, like our ancestors.

‘You never know when we might have to do it again,’ he’d joke.

But over the past few years I haven’t really wanted to spend any time out here, despite getting more than a few invitations from Dzunani when I came home on holiday. So being here by force made things a bit awkward.  

Today we went to fill the watering holes and check the northern fence perimeter because Dzunani had heard rumours of poachers operating in the area again. We spent more than an hour, in silence, checking one stretch. Dzunani used his big hands to tug at the wire in case any sections had been cut, but we found no signs of tampering.

Sifiso doesn’t speak to me unless he has to. He seems to like ordering me to get the firewood, often calling me ‘princess’. He says it just loud enough that I can hear him, but soft enough that Dzunani doesn’t pick it up. But I don’t care... he’s a moron. All he can talk about is football (his precious Kaizer Chiefs) and wanting to catch poachers.

I think he has some issues with aggression, so I find it’s best to ignore him.

He came back this afternoon acting strange. Well, actually just more annoying than usual. He mumbled about ‘things’ not being ‘right’ and told Dzunani that he had seen a jackal scare off one of the lionesses. Dzunani said that he must have been mistaken; or that the lioness must have been injured – jackals don’t just scare off a lion - it’s not the natural order. Sifiso tried to argue, but eventually decided to go and sulk outside and smoke his smelly cigarettes instead.

Idiot.

September 24

KB’s Log: Day 4 (I think).

I was hoping that we’d go home today. I’m getting seriously bored now. I get it. Punching people is bad. Lesson learnt! I’ll apologise to Abby and Mrs Morgan and take whatever punishment they dish out. It’s okay being out here for a while, but now I’m starting to miss those little conveniences like TV, ice cream and air conditioners.

I just want to go and take a long, hot bath and binge-watch The Voice.

We’ve been at the main ranger station all day – only Sifiso went out on the quad bike briefly. Well, we call it the ranger station, but it’s really just an old farmhouse that was on the property when Dad bought it. It was basically in the middle of the original farm, putting it at about 150 km from our house and the main lodge. It was a bit dilapidated, but we had it fixed up. It’s mostly used by Dzunani when he’s out here keeping an eye on things; I think he loves the fact that there’s no cell phone reception or Wi-Fi out here.

He intentionally hasn’t put in a TV, so no satellite and no Netflix. I never really noticed all those years ago, but it’s really small. It only has two bedrooms – I’m sleeping in the one and Dzunani and Sifiso share the other. It’s one of those old, sturdy houses with thick walls and a stoep that runs all the way around. All along the walls are old wooden benches that you can sit on and stare out into the faded green of the hot bush.

In summer we’d sleep out there on fold-out beds. You could hear the beetles buzzing and insects humming in the warm, dry air. Inside, the kitchen is a big square, with a solid wooden table and chairs in the middle. It’s where I’m sitting right now. In the corner is one of those old wood burning stoves, that’s why I’m always sent out to get firewood. Something I’ve also only noticed now is how musty this place is with dust always blowing in, and there is gecko poo everywhere! I don’t know why, but it freaks me out to think that that there could be poo in my bed, so I shake the blankets out five times before I get in.

Yuck!

I asked Dad recently why he doesn’t upgrade the house... get a microwave or something, but he told me that not everything in life needs upgrading. In the next room I can hear the two-way radio crackle.

It’s our only way of communicating with the lodge, but it’s old and often cuts out in the middle of a conversation. Earlier Dzunani was chatting to someone on the other end whose voice I didn’t recognise. He kept his voice low, but I could make out something about riots. There was no doubt in my mind that it was just another protest about service delivery or another sabotage of Eskom – it’s always the same depressing stories on the news. The radio rests on an old dresser with discoloured brass handles and is complemented by two old, brown couches that are worn at the arms and squeak loudly when you sit down or even just adjust yourself. I think I just realised... I don’t like this place!

While I was having breakfast this morning (pap... always pap!), Dad called on the radio, but he didn’t want to speak to me. From the kitchen I overheard Dzunani talking softly to him, in a similar fashion to last night. I couldn’t hear everything, but the conversation sounded strained. Apparently there seems to be some sort of trouble in Johannesburg – it was all over the news. Dzunani asked if it was political, but Dad didn’t know. I heard him say the police were being called in to calm the situation and that Dzunani was to keep me out here a little longer... in case things got out of hand and the violence spread to Mpumalanga. That’s when the stupid radio cut out again.

Dad worries too much. Every time there’s a protest or the crime statistics come out, he starts questioning living in South Africa. Sometimes he talks about selling the game farm and moving to Kenya or Malawi. He says it’s safer there and we could easily buy another farm and the tourism is just as good as here. Then Mom reminds him of all the hard work he put into our farm: finally getting the land, building the lodges, getting the permits and buying all the animals. I was just a baby when he started this venture, but apparently Dad invested everything to get the game farm off the ground. Mom says it was a tough time for him and he had to fight a lot of battles to do it right. Dad is obsessed with ‘doing things right’. No shortcuts. No favours. No dishonesty. He believes in going out of his way to help others and always says, ‘Where you can help someone, you must help. If more people came to realise that, the world would be a much better place.’

When Dzunani came into the kitchen, he didn’t say anything. He just glanced over at me then headed out the door to work on the borehole. He’s hardly spoken to me since we’ve been out here. It feels strange because we used to talk all the time... but I’ll admit, I’m not sure what we’d talk about now. I guess it was easier when I was younger. I’d be out here with Dzunani for a week or more. As usual, Mom wouldn’t be too thrilled about it, but I’d be so excited she’d always give in, giving Dzunani the same lecture about girls being different to boys. I always got the impression Dzunani wasn’t Mom’s favourite person – I don’t know why.

The time would fly by and I’d always beg to stay longer. We’d track the animals and he’d tell me stories about them, like how the lion got its roar, or why the giraffe had such a long neck. I’m still not sure if they were true, or if he made them all up, but I loved hearing those stories. When we weren’t talking Dzunani would be humming – always the same tune. And by the time I went home it would be stuck in my head for weeks!

I once asked him what he was humming – he said it was an old family song. His father sang it to him, and his grandfather sang it to his father. No one had ever written it down or recorded it... it was always just something they knew and remembered. Those days were so long...we’d climb trees