The federal government was all set in rolling out this Internet clean feed upon us, though I have little knowledge as to where the issue now sits.

Eighteen months ago, I made my own video on the clean feed issue, and submitted it to Hungry Beast (and they gave me $1000!)

It’s available on the ABC website hungrybeast.abc.net.au/media/clean-feed-clash-perceptions

I thought time I put it on my own YouTube channel.

Here it is in glorious technicolour:

Actually, we made fake wounds. We made fake flesh by mixing flour and water into a dough, and mixing it with coffee for skin tone. I attached it to his arm using Vaseline, smearing the edges down with more Vaseline so that it was a swollen lump on his arm.

I then ran a bread knife through the middle, gashing it open like a large wound.

We made blood using chocolate sauce (the Paris Hilton of chocolate sauces: thick and rich) mixed with red food dye.

I dribbled it down through his fake wound, letting gravity drag droplets naturally down his arm.

All the while we talked about types of blood (venous and arterial) and other things that lie beneath the skin.

And the results:

Oh! The agony!

It really hurts, dada!

Actually, it tastes like chocolate…

I give this after-school activity two thumbs up!

​I wonder how it got so close without us hearing. But then, Sam does have a powerful set of lungs when he’s upset.
The postman was once an averaged sized person, but since Zero Hour the limbs have struggled to change their shape beneigh the work clothes. The motorcycle helmet is still bright red, and sits crooked as the head has began to morph and deform. The fluro saftey jacket is caked with dust and mud, and sometime over the last few weeks it has lost a shoe.
Maybe it sees us, or detects us, or something. Right now it sways in the bright morning sun, dazzled and confused, legs wobbling.
My trigger finger begins to twitch.
Sam knows the drill. For the first time this morning he is still, and lets me pick him off the slide and put him into the seat of the pram. I turn him away from the postman, and reach into the carryall for the earmuffs. They make his head look like two giant pimples have replaced his ears, and they must feel heavy. But Sam doesn’t touch them. He knows the drill.

     I wrap the lollypop in a clean hanky, my sticky trophy for standing my ground and weathering the tantrum. Sam has already scuttled to the metal pipe ladder, and I stand to one side with a guiding hand at the ready. It’s been a few months since he got the hang of climbing this thing by himself, but my guardian angel routine still kicks in ready for the odd misplace foot.
     He scrambles through the second tier of the play equipment to the top of the slide. He went through a phase of throwing himself down the chute with complete abandon and little injury until one day he caught the landing mat awkwardly and hollered for a full twenty minutes. Since then a self-preserving caution has begun to show in his behaviour.
     He sits at the top of the slide, tiny legs and shoes out like rams. He wriggles to escape the friction between his bum and the plastic, and I see his fine blonde hair start to stand as static builds.
     Then Sam sees the Monster.
     Distracted as I am, it’s only through the change in Sam’s demeanour that I follow his line of sight. A hundred metres away, confused by the sun, stands what was once a postman.

     Sam has different levels of “losing it”.
     As I leave the supermarket he is gearing up for a spectacular tantrum. His face is red, his lungs are swelling, and his dummy hangs on his bottom lip ready to escape.
     In a practised move, I lower my bags, hang the rifle in the crook of my arm, and strip the wrapping from a lollypop. With one hand I whip the dummy away, and plug the lollypop in its place.
     “Mfft,” says Sam happily.
     “Make it last,” I say, rolling the supermarket door shut.

     The shopping bags are threaded over my left arm, the torch held in my left hand with the rifle under my right arm. I move the torch beam over the checkout area, past the freezers, and over the start of the shopping aisle. Two rats run past my foot and I relax. Live rats are a good sign.
     I walk quickly to the baby area. From the shelf I pull down two large cans of formula, saying a silent prayer of thanks to the god responsible for this miracle substance. Two packs of disposable nappies, some arse-wipes, and a spare dummy.
     Back to the front of the supermarket, I walk past a lolly stand and grab two lollypops and stuff them in my pocket.
     At the exit I hesitate at the door of the liquor department. The display of clean-skin wines are still there. I look at them for a long time.
     Sam cries outside.
     I turn away, yet my hand grabs a bottle as I exit the store.

     We pass under the Town Hall clock town, its hands forever frozen at the moment the suburb had its final blackout.
     Past the post office and the darkened Library. Only once did I press my face up to the windows and stare inside. I long to be able to clean out the building and access the accumulated knowledge inside, but that day I saw the spun tendrils and gossamer hanging from the ceiling and walls, and deep in the darkness unknown bodies moved. I give the Library wide birth now.
     I am certain that supermarket is as clear as it can be, but I still feel my pulse beginning to increase as I get near the locked roller door. This is the only viable access to the building, the others I long since boarded and blocked up. Nevertheless, the roof is thin, and maybe something found access in the days since the last shopping trip.
     I undo the padlock and heave up the roller door, staring into the gloom until my eyes start to itch. Then from the pram I pull out my torch, several shopping bags, and my rifle.
     At the doorway I turn and wink at Sam.
     “Don’t go anywhere,” I say.
     “Lollipop!”
     “We’ll see.”

     I feel myself relax with relief seeing no evidence of the brawl I thought I heard during the night. The covering and clean-up of the aftermath from the night was a morning job I never relish, not least of which is the added difficulty of doing it with Sam nearby.
     Take the time it takes to normally to a job. Multiply it by five.
     As I push the pram, I find myself yet again musing on What Happened.
     A virus. Reanimating people and stripping them of their humanity. New creatures stalking the streets at night, spreading their curse though their bite.
     Ridiculous.
     I find I am rubbing unconsciously my wrist where a crescent bite-wound received during Zero Hour is still healing. The worry since that night has diminished, replaced by other more pressing concerns.
     Ridiculous, I tell myself again. Totally ridiculous.

     I had not realised how late the morning was until I stepped outside. The street beyond the Fence was bright in the late morning sun. The tall, over-growing grass from the nature strip in the middle of the road is bright green and glistens from the rain just before dawn. The still-damp street is washed of some of the accumulated dirt, though clumps of matted and decomposing leaves are still piled in random heaps. I survey as much as I can see from behind the Fence, a large roll of blankets under one arm in case I need to cover any fallen bodies.
     Satisfied, I unlocked the gate and step onto the footpath.
     Behind me, Sam rocks impatiently in his pram.
     “Dada push!” he commands. “Dada push!”