Aftermath: Stories of Survival in Aotearoa New Zealand

By Jacqui Greaves, Gary M. Nelson, Robinne Weiss and 21 more

Welcome to the End of the World

 

...and more importantly, what comes after.

 

Disasters have occurred around the country and the world, but we're "getting through it", as Kiwi are apt to do. She'll be right. Life moves on, in some form.

Things were bad here in Aotearoa, but in our isolation down under, we've escaped most of the chaos around the world. In fact, we might be the last bastion of humanity on the planet - anybody else home out there? Radio silence. Nada. Zip.

 

This is not, however, just an anthology of disaster stories. These pages are filled with hope in the form of short stories, poems, flash fiction and artwork about what comes afterwards. The contributions are exclusively from SpecFicNZ members and reflect the diversity and breadth of this country we love to call home... even if the edges are a bit torn and tattered. Nothing that a bit of Kiwi ingenuity and some number 8 wire can't fix, eh?

 

This is Aftermath: Stories of Survival in Aotearoa New Zealand.

 

Kia kaha. Stay strong.

 

And remember - we are always stronger together. Kotahitanga.

 

SpecFicNZ member contributions by Gary Nelson / Robinne Weiss / Jill Winfield / Hazel Bergen / Melanie Harding-Shaw / A. Zaykova /  Erica Challis / Jacqui Greaves / Nicky Taylor / Deryn Pittar / Bing Turkby / Barbara Uini / Melissa Gunn /  Trishia Hanifin / Jan Goldie / Miriam Hurst / Jennifer Rackham / Gary Venn / Paul Chapman / Scott Fack / Feby Idrus / Gregory Dally / C. D. Jacobs / Daniel Stride / Octavia Cade

• Language: English
• Publisher: SpecFicNZ
• Release date: Apr 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9780473625924

Book preview

Well, dear reader, I’m always up for a good, long walk, but the sun is high and I’m getting a little thirsty. I think that’s a house up there on the hill, why don’t we drop in and see if they’re up for a little company?

This is Not a Drill

by Paul Chapman

Map_of_New_Zealand_CHRISTCHURCH-413x600

Tradies! Here for two days then they disappear for a week. Deadlines pass by like clouds on the breeze, and yet I can’t fault their work, Dougie and the boys. My new deck is a delight. And now with only the finishing touches left, I’ve been promised to have their undivided attention today.

And blow me down, spot on eight, they’re here: Dougie in the van, his lads crammed into the ute.

I sip my coffee, watching them amble up the path, my mind now turning toward this evening. Me, my wife and several beers on our newly-completed deck and how beautiful it all will look with fingers of dappled sunlight caressing the golden grain of Brazilian Garapa.

Yes, yes. I know. Rainforest. Think of the spider monkeys, or whatever, but it’s not like anyone’s left there to chop more down anytime soon, is it? Besides, Dougie had it left over from another job that went south during the last outbreak. So, I’m recycling, really.

His lads are play-fighting as they approach, pulling hammers from their belts as if drawing Peacemakers. Not a care in the world.

They reach the bottom step before one of them spots the dust cloud beyond the meadow.

‟What’s that?" he says.

‟Isn’t it?" says the other.

‟Nah, I say. ‟Just a nor’wester raising dust in Tai Tapu.

‟No chance, says Dougie. ‟Look at them clouds. Nor’easter all day long.

Can’t put one over on Dougie. He steps up beside me and pulls out his spyglass.

‟A herd, he pronounces. ‟Zombie horde from Lincoln coming up the Halswell Road.

The lads immediately spin back towards the ute.

Dougie sets off after them.

‟Hey, I call. ‟You promised me you’d finish today.

Dougie pauses to stroke his whiskers. I want to think he’s considering my deck, but he’s probably deciding on tool selection. Hammer drill, nail gun, reciprocating saw — now, there’s a bloke who always goes to a job prepared.

My cricket bat leans against the corner rail. Firm grip handle, studded with 175mm decking spikes, a real beaut. I recall the last outbreak, from Motukārara that time. The crack of skull on willow was the ruin of my old deck. Zombie blood doesn’t come out of Radiata, no matter what Bunnings tries to tell you. We had to stain it black bean in the end. My wife loathed the black bean. Loathed it.

Dougie’s almost back to his van. The boys have already started up the ute.

‟Oi, Dougie! I shout. ‟If there’s going to be slaughtering of the undead, can we at least get a bit of tarp over my deck first?

Been one thing after another lately.

I was so looking forward to settling back with a few beers this evening.

I glance down at the luxurious grain on the Garapa. In this morning light it’s a 24 carat promise of better times to come.

‟Second thoughts, Dougie. If you can lead them back toward Lincoln, I’d be most grateful. There’s a drink in it for you."

Oh, dear reader! If only I’d known about the zombies we might’ve been prepared. Never mind, we survived. I too had my hopes for that deck! A cuppa, maybe a snack ... Why don't we head into town for a bit of bustle and pretty lights? I hear they're polishing things up nicely after the ‘quakes.

Lizards and Villains and Wars (Oh My!)

by Scott Fack

Map_of_New_Zealand_CHRISTCHURCH-413x600

‟They’re like giant tuatara," Caleb says. It’s his turn to drive today.

Y’all mean the enormous robot lizards that attacked Christchurch? No. You don’t say.

‟Oh," I replied.

‟Yeah, wicked, eh?"

Yes, wicked. But not the way you mean.

Since Durham Street reopened a few weeks back, we’ve had this exchange carpooling every morning. He points out the huge reptile-shaped automatons with their crimson glass eyes blanketed in dust, their heads napping at odd angles atop crushed buildings, their front feet clawing at ground a smidgeon out of reach.

‟Did you see them? On the news, moving around and that?"

My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

Caleb butts in. ‟Ginormous mechanical lizards. Pew-pew. Crunch."

The final word makes me wince.

He keeps talking. ‟Nothing like that happened in Invercargill, eh. Lucky, I landed a job in the rebuild. Even landed me some cash to help move up here. Choice, eh?"

Snakes of anxiety slither inside my ribcage, constrict around my heart, and numb my insides. They slink up my neck, creep across my brain, and poison my cognitive processing.

I watch the soldiers standing on Gloucester Street as we glide by. Baby-faced guys and girls shiver in camouflage, assault rifles at the ready. Because of the war, they’re the only soldiers we have left on New Zealand soil.

‟Mum’s totally freaking out, he persists. ‟She thinks more’s coming. I’m like, ‘Yeah, nah, Mum. War’s over in Aotearoa. It’s all sorted.’

I manage to think how lucky Christchurch would’ve been had Invercargill kept Caleb, but being a transplant myself, albeit from further afield than Invercargill, that’s a little hypocritical of me.

He continues gabbing. I’ve tuned out.

Even though our closed office door dampens the noise, each hammer strike, each drill bore, each sudden sound in our new premises pulses more adrenaline through my body. My hands clutch my armrests as my colleague Anahera leans forward on her desk across from mine, her hands folded together on the desktop. That pounamu toki of hers dangles from her neck. I drive my thoughts away from the memory surrounding it.

‟The foreman says the brainstorming and videoconferencing rooms are nearly complete, I say. ‟Slowly but surely, we’re getting there.

‟We’re lucky we could walk in and use the front offices as-is. Hell, we’re lucky we could find any space at all with the city being the way it is. Her thumb taps her hand as she scans her monitor. ‟Does he think we’ll have everyone back under one roof by late November?

‟That’s the plan. Our whānau of 76 geeks and gals together again." A bang outside makes me erupt from my chair. I laugh, but it’s not funny.

Anahera looks at me. Her shoulders contain the strength of the limestone outcrops at Castle Hill, her jaw a rising kārearea. Born and raised in suburban Atlanta, I’ve had to learn a great many things Kiwi. I didn’t appreciate the concept of mana until I met Anahera. Mana pours from every pore of the woman.

‟We’re all a little jumpy after … She considers her next word. ‟Everything. My colleague stands up and peers through the floor-to-ceiling windows facing reception. ‟Have you contacted that counsellor I recommended? He’s done wonders for me and my tamariki."

The pythons of anxiety slither along my insides.

She turns around, playing with her silver wedding ring. ‟You’ve been through so much — more than the rest of us, and that’s saying a lot. Having a trained professional to talk about it with will help in the long run."

I folded my arms across my chest. ‟We’ve been so busy keeping the team together while most of us work from home, rebuilding, all of it."

‟I understand. Anahera maintains eye contact, and the snakes inch along inside me. ‟But you need to look after you. At the end of the day, your health is the most important thing. Without it, everything else falls apart. You’ll fall apart.

She’s right, of course. Anahera’s always right.

‟The Australasian theatre of the War of Apostasy ended today when lead Villain Bluebottle and his ultrahuman legions surrendered unconditionally in Sydney. The Villains retreated from New Zealand after their defeat during the Christchurch attack over six weeks ago. It’s estimated the battle caused $20 billion in damage in New Zealand’s second largest city alone, mostly by the large robots created by the Villain named Forger. The death toll stands at 4,247, with over twenty-eight thousand people injured. It remains the worst disaster on New Zealand soil to date."

They’ve stopped showing the footage from Christchurch. The wounds are too deep, too fresh. War porn exhausts people: the regurgitation of the endless flow of images of broken bodies and bleeding buildings, dust-covered debris and wrecked robots. The fatigue even creeps into the news anchor’s baritone voice. Instead, the TV shows images of Bluebottle leaving a non-descript building in thick handcuffs, the blood dried in the creases on his cheek. There’s no rage left in his eyes, only uncertainty. The newsreader segues to the next item.

‟Overseas, the death toll continues to climb in the American theatre of the War. The sheer magnitude of destruction is making it difficult for authorities to determine the exact number of casualties in cities like New York, Washington, D.C., and Atlanta. Estimates range from 15 million to 21 million dead in those three metropolitan areas alone."

My stomach roils as once-familiar places flash on the screen. The battered skyscrapers of New York, now smouldering tall spikes. The Capitol’s broken dome, a hungry maw opened upwards towards the low grey clouds, the remaining recognizable landmark amongst the scorched remains kneeling towards it. Miles of burnt tree trunks dividing Atlanta’s darkened skyline from Stone Mountain’s granite summit on the screen’s bottom.

‟President Harris has confirmed the surviving members of Congress will meet …"

My fingers stumble across the remote, my thumb smacking a dozen buttons before landing on ‟off".

The screen dies.

I cry.

‟Huge robot lizards." Caleb stares at the mechanical corpses littering the CBD. It’s my turn to drive today.

‟Yeah." I focus on Durham Street.

‟I dream about them sometimes."

My mind volleys between the automatons and the flesh-and-bone lizards.

‟Which ones?"

He nods at the metallic elbow peeking above the trees along the Avon. Men in hi-vis vests toil at dissecting the beast until it’s disassembled from our memories. ‟Those. What about you?"

My knuckles whiten. ‟Not if I can help it."

‟Oh, okay." His tone awakens the constrictors within me.

‟They should be in prison, he adds after a few blocks of silence. ‟Those that aren’t dead, anyway.

‟Who?"

He tsks. ‟The mutants who caused this, of course."

I frown. ‟Even the Heroes?"

‟Yeah, mate. Even the Heroes."

‟What for?" my voice quivers.

‟That." He gestures beyond the cones reducing the street to one lane by the remnants of a building vomited across the footpath and into the intersection, the surrounding white tape with red lettering twisting in the breeze.

‟And that." His hand points at another building’s corpse, the surviving back wall charred, more cones and more white tape surrounding it.

My fingers wrap tighter around the steering wheel, numbing further.

We’re beyond the main core of destruction, around the corner from my new work premises, when I pull over to drop him off. As he’s leaving, he leans back into the car, his eyes locked on mine. ‟I’m only trying to make conversation, mate."

My stomach becomes an elevator in freefall. ‟I know."

He looks away. ‟We’re stuck with each other for a while now. Don’t know when the government’s gonna stop this mandatory carpooling thing, eh."

My mouth opens but closes again. Then: ‟I’ll try harder."

‟No worries. Caleb grins. ‟See ya.

I meander towards the takeaway near the train tracks. Lately, making my own work lunch seems a chore. Hell, everything seems difficult. My body and my mind tingle all the time now.

My eyes spy the rump of one mechanical tuatara and the upturned head of another frozen in the Botanical Gardens beyond the Christchurch Outpatients Building and Manawa. As I scan the metallic corpses, a truck rolls by beside me on Antigua Street, the ground shuddering beneath my feet. A series of loud booms trail behind the truck as it hammers across the uneven train crossing. A buzzing pulls the blood from my extremities, my hands cooling, my heart jump-roping.

In my mind’s eye, that chilly, overcast afternoon of the attack replaces today’s clear, bright day. The robots reanimate: broken fragments flowing back onto their spines, their awkward limbs clambering to stand, their bodies rising, their scarlet red eyes aglow. Those eyes. Scanning, scanning, cold and calculating.

Their heads shudder as they turn towards me.

The sky above, the low-rise buildings around, the pavement below press in against me. The pythons of anxiety smother me, choke me.

I need out. I need to get away.

Run, Brendan, run.

My feet launch me past the takeaway and around the corner. My shoulder slams into a burly tradie emerging from the shop, spinning him sideways and pirouetting me into a chaotic downward spiral as gravity latches on. The asphalt peels away the skin on my palms as my body slides into a prone position on the footpath.

The worker stoops beside me and rolls me onto my back. ‟Mate, you okay?"

My elbows and heels press me backwards, away, away.

‟Kei te pai koe? It’s okay. It’s me, Caleb." He puts his hands up.

The stinging in my palms and my body’s dull pain pull me back to reality. The sky retreats, blueing as it does, the buildings and street withdraw, and my lungs fill with air again. No robots anywhere. Sitting up, I pull my knees to my face and wrap my arms around my shins. And then? And then I start to cry.

Caleb guides me onto the footpath back towards work. He nods over his shoulder, saying, ‟Kia ora," to all those who helped.

The fried food aromas from the takeaway make my stomach groan.

‟Mate, you didn’t get your chips," his face shows mock-concern.

‟I know. More grumbling from my torso. ‟My tummy knows, too.

We look down the street. The parched Port Hills bisect the urban sprawl from the cloudless sky above. The blue atmosphere is purer than the one hanging over the American suburbia I grew up in. Well, what remains of those suburbs, anyway.

‟Don’t y’all need to get back to work?" My cheeks warm again. His care and concern overwhelm the normally independent me.

‟It’s okay. The site’s the next block over. His smile broadens. ‟It’ll take me like a minute to get you to your office then back to work. He pats me on the shoulder.

We approach the intersection across from my office, and Caleb bangs the crossing button with his palm. The light changes, and the pedestrian signal head trills. We cross.

A few paces later, I point at work — at the carpark full of vans and trucks, a tide of tradespeople ebbing and flowing from the building, and we round the corner.

Entering through the propped-open doors, we arrive amongst a sea of workpeople drifting through reception. Anahera emerges from our office, rushes over and looks at my bandages. ‟What happened?"

‟He took a pretty bad spill. Nattering about robots or something. Caleb nods at my hands. ‟Reckon the fella needs to rest those bad boys for a few days.

Anahera takes my hands into hers. She examines the dressings, turning my palms to different angles, before she looks me in the eye. ‟It’s been a rough few months for you. Why don’t you take some time off?"

I sniff. ‟All y’all need me."

‟I’m sure we can handle a few days without you." It sounds more condescending than she intended. Or maybe I’m taking too much to heart.

‟Work’s all I have now."

‟Let’s Uber you home for the day. I try to protest, but she adds: ‟You’re not going to be typing with those hands today anyway. It’s best to let these — her hands hover over mine — ‟and this — one hand moves over my heart — ‟and this heal. Her finger points at my forehead. ‟We need you well. That’s more important than anything else."

That wisdom’s why we all love her.

And she’s right, of course. Anahera’s always right.

‟Pew-pew. Pew-pew. Arrrrgh! Thunk. Boom!" Caleb’s acting out the attack like he’s entertaining a bored six-year-old. While driving using his palms. We’ve been honked at seven times so far. Fun times.

The workers in hi-vis vests pace on the mechanical tuatara’s head, pointing at various protruding appendages. I’ve been home the last few days, and progress still seems slow dismantling the beasts. But the surviving trees this side of the Avon are budding, so at least Mother Nature is making some headway.

Caleb notices me scanning the view. ‟You should take a photo, eh."

Okay. I’ll bite. ‟Of what?"

‟The robot."

‟The robot. My tone comes flat. ‟Why?

‟For your whānau. Back in the States." He leans forward and glances up through the top of the windshield as we approach and its head looms larger, its glass eye analysing us.

‟I can’t."

His attention returns to me as he frowns. ‟Why not, mate?"

My eyes fall upon the soldiers at the cordon on Hereford Street. Guys and gals of war, sure, but they’re only children. Kids in camo clutching assault rifles.

‟Because they’re dead. My voice grows raspy. ‟All of them are dead.

When turmoil dominates my mind, home materializes in my dreams.

My brother, my sister, and I — as kids — dash through the woods in the valley behind our house. The boundary between the two transforms suburbia’s orderliness to nature’s wildness; clean-cut lawns slope down at a steep angle to a chain-link fence, a chaos of trees and rotting leaves, earth, and beasts slinking through the decay beyond.

We find the creek, but its bed is cracked and dry. A boom rattles; loose leaves twirl downwards. I look to my siblings, but their flesh greys and starts to flake away as embers replace their eyes. Leaves on trees smoulder. Cinders dance on an inhaled breeze for several seconds and then pause.

Such peace and stillness in that moment.

Tree trunks suddenly sway and bend as the wind exhales, rising to a gale. The thinner trees snap, their crack-crack-crack echoing throughout the basin.

My siblings frantically scan their surroundings in their final, frenzied moments as their extremities fall away and embed themselves in the ashes deepening on the valley floor. Their mouths gape open but no sound escapes; their bodies, the trees, the entire suburb of