Aftermath, p.1
Aftermath, page 1
Contents
Title Page
Introduction
This is Not a Drill - Paul Chapman
Lizards and Villains and Wars (Oh My!) - Scott Fack
100% Pure Earth - Robinne Weiss
Godzone - Feby Idrus
Healers - Gregory Dally
Thirty-Four Days - C. D. Jacobs
The Night of Parmenides - Daniel Stride
Portobello Blind - Octavia Cade
Earth's Children Lost - Hazel Bergen
Lilt - Gregory Dally
GAC ATG ATT ACA - Melanie Harding-Shaw
Windy Wellington - A. Zaykova
Great Pacific Garbage Patch - Erica Challis
Bounded By Rivers - Jacqui Greaves
Pumpkins - Nicky Taylor
Thermal Images - Deryn Pittar
Whakatikatika - Bing Turkby
Boy-Boy - Barbara Uini
Leaving Ōrua (The Last of the Estuary's Sun) - Gregory Dally
Feels Like Heaven - Melissa Gunn
After the Deluge - Trisha Hanifin
Maybe Just the Stars - Jan Goldie
Flipsides - Miriam Hurst
Watching the Water - I. K. Paterson
Best Mates - Gary M. Nelson
Aftermath
About the Contributors
AFTERMATH
Stories of Survival in Aotearoa New Zealand
SpecFicNZ: Speculative Fiction New Zealand
Edited and narrated by
Gary Nelson
Jill Winfield
Robinne Weiss
Aftermath: Stories of Survival in Aotearoa New Zealand
Edited and narrated by Gary M. Nelson, Jill Winfield and Robinne Weiss
First published in 2022
ISBN 978-0473625917 (print)
ISBN 978-0473625931 (Kindle)
ISBN 978-0473625924 (epub)
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.
Cover design by Jennifer Rackham
Interior artwork ‘Auckland Burning’ by Gary Venn
NZ Map by Antigoni, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Interior typesetting by Gary M. Nelson
© Individual authors and artists retain copyright to their respective contribution.
This is a collection of speculative fiction stories, poems and artwork by members of SpecFicNZ. The authors may have drawn their inspiration from real people and true events. However, all characters and events in this publication are used fictionally, and the editors take no responsibility for the accuracy of the author’s research or the liveliness of their imaginations.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher.
Works contributed by the 2021/2022 SpecFicNZ Core and the Aftermath editorial team are donated and unpaid, including: Robinne Weiss, Jacqui Greaves, A. Zaykova, Gary M. Nelson.
Thank you to Glenys Daley, Te Reo Māori proof reader and Grace Bridges, proof reader
Reprints information
"GAC ATG ATT ACA” by Melanie Harding-Shaw, first published in Little Blue Marble 2019 - Climate in Crisis, Little Blue Marble, 2019.
“Healers” by Gregory Dally, first published in takahē, 2020.
“Lilt” by Gregory Dally, first published in Catalyst, 2017.
“Leaving Ōrua” by Gregory Dally, first published in Tarot, 2021.
“Portobello Blind” by Octavia Cade, first published in the anthology Defying Doomsday, edited by Tsana Dolichva and Holly Kench, published by Twelfth Planet Press, 2016.
“Great Pacific Garbage Patch” by Erica Challis (tehanu) in Lemon&Lime: lemonlimefic.com, 2021.
Introduction
We Begin at the End
Greetings, dear reader. Welcome to the End of the World, or to be more precise, what comes afterwards. There are plenty of stories of loss and disaster in these pages, but also of hope and joy in the shaping of new lives in the aftermath of great disasters and the ending of things. Kiwi are well-known for being resourceful and resilient, and that theme is thoroughly reflected in the following pages.
As you dust off your travelling bag to journey with me, make sure to bring something along to fix up a cuppa, and tuck away a few snacks to share with your fellow survivors. It may be the end of the world, but it’s never polite to show up empty-handed when you go a-visiting.
I hope you pick up a few things as we touch on the many lives in the pages that follow. As hard as things may be, hardship and challenge can only be truly overcome when we survivors work together.
Remember: things are just things; they can be replaced or re-made. It is the people of Aotearoa New Zealand, all of us working together, that make us stronger, no matter what happens.
Welcome to our collected stories of survival and beyond. It is my pleasure to be your guide as we navigate around what’s left of this beautiful land we call Aotearoa — New Zealand.
Kia kaha. Be strong.
He aha te mea nui o te ao?
He tāngata, he tāngata, he tāngata.
—
‘What is the most important thing in the world?
The people, the people, the people.’
— Māori proverb
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
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
"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 fro
"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.
