BushcraftUk's own novel.

[Womble]

FLAT BATTERIES

It's the music I miss the most.

It's all very well having CD players and MP3 players and cassettes, Vinal and so on, but without the plain fact of some mains current or a large selection of batteries, they are just useless pieces of junk. I knew this for a fact as the last of the batteries gave out on my little walkman. I'm a little ashamed to say that the ones I had were stolen from a corner of an electical shop that had somehow not been totally looted - and I'm well aware that someone else might have put them to a better use, walkie talkies, radios... But I like my music, and now it's gone.

I stare at the little device for the longest while, trying to convince myself that the batteries weren't dead, that in a couple of minutes I would be listening again, trransported back to a world that made some sort of sense. But I know, deep down inside, that was it. It seems so stupid, but I've tears in my eyes as I stride towards the river close to the shelter, blinding my eyes as as the cursing blinds my mouth and mind to reason. My arm flings back and a moment later the walkman sails across the water to sink into the centre of the flowing water. It's all so petty, just the smallest thing with no real value at all, but it's also a straw, and my back is already so heavily loaded. It's the past, and I've just thrown it away in a fit of stupid anger.

For more moments I care to count I just stand there, gazing at the water, and then I'm on my knees, head bowed, wracks of sobs escaping from me. I don't honestly know how long I sit like this, but soon I feel a hand on my shoulder. Claire. She'll understand, she know what it meant to me, she'll enfold me in her strong arms and tell me it's all gong to be all right...

*SMACK*

All of a sudden I'm pulled around and her hand connects with my face. There's cold fury in her eyes and she speaks clearly and concisely.

"You. Stupid. Selfish. Man. Get a grip on yourself! Can't you see them watching you? What do you think You've just shown them?"

"But I... I..."

"Shut up! They worship you, can't you see that? You're the only thing they can still believe in anymore. Terry, they're only 5 and 6, they need you to be strong, and capable; the one who can light fires and repair the shelters, the one who tells them stories and chases the monsters away at night... they need you."

I look past Claire; and see Robbie and Sarah, their heads poking around the side of the shelter, confusion and fear in their eyes. All of a sudden I feel very, very ashamed, very small. I look again at Claire, and her expression softens as she sees the haunted look in my eyes. They're her kids, and I'm an outsider, or I was 6 months ago when we first met up during the Long Walk. Her hand rest on my shoulder, and there's understanding in her voice.

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to slap you quite so hard. But We've got to stay positive, you know that. Hell, it was you who knocked that lesson in to me." She looks out over the water, musing.
"Last batteries gone, huh? Well the music isn't gone with it you know. not whilst we remember it, not whilst it's still up there!" With a smile she wraps her knuckles on the side of my head, and I realise she's correct; and wish I'd learnt to play the guitar. she raises an eyebrow and beckons in the direction of the set of shelters that's been home since March.
"Lets see is we can salvage this situation so that the kids don't think you're a raving loony, or - at least - any more of a raving loony..."

Unable to resist the grin that suddenly lights up her face, I take her hand and walk back up the low rise to the shelter. I smile for the kids and they smile back, relieved. Claire's right; if it was just me I could maybe wallow in the luxury of a bit of self pity.

But it's not just me - and self pity is a luxury with far too high a price.

Whether I want them or not I have responsibilities, especially to those who can't look after themselves, because I 'm the one with the skills. I beckon to Robbie and Sarah,and they rush out of the shelter and hug me in the way only young children can. There's tears in my eyes again, but for different reasons.

They've got to survive. They will survive.

I swear.

 

[Greywolf]

Old John hurt, he had never been so ill in his life. The last few weeks were a blur. Surely eating a feral pigeon couldn’t have made him that ill. It had been a lucky catch, it had gotten a little too close and he had wrung its neck before he had realised.
It couldn’t have been food poisoning; the flesh of the bird had been cooked over the fire until it was crisp.
Slowly he slid from his bed and made his way to the communal bathroom. The Homeless shelter was very quiet; none of the usual bustle he usually avoided was there to assault his ears.
As he performed his ablutions, his fever fogged mind started to clear. The bathroom was filthy; this left John on edge and niggled at his senses. The Shelter was kept spotlessly clean almost to a clinical degree, part of the reason John stayed away. He always felt his presence there was a taint on the building, but whenever he was ill or the weather had so bad he had to find a place they would welcome him in like an old friend.
Shuffling back to his room he realised the friendly banter, such a part of the place, was missing. Gathering his few meagre possessions, he headed down to the foyer, the social hub of the Shelter.
The foyer was eerily quiet, a few people were curled up on the sofa and easy chairs, and the TV was on but was tuned to the static ‘snowstorm’. No-one moved as he approached, a quick glance was all it took for him to realise they would never again greet him with a warm smile.
Wandering around the Shelter he found similar scenes wherever he went, even the Shelter’s small soup kitchen was deserted.
John spied the shopping cart the staff used to transport the soup ingredients from the store two streets away. Its battered wire frame patched over the years. Within its basket the dried ingredients necessary to make soup lay.
Life on the road had taught John many things, knowing when to leave was one of them.
He grabbed a few blankets and a small cooking pot dumping them on top of the shopping cart he headed towards the door.

 

[rich59]

Thats great Greywolf. There will be some random survivors from all sorts of backgrounds.

Lovely Womble.


This piece might not make chapter 1, but might be in about chapter 21, but it will be followed by a piece about the city survivor and how he survived the early stages so just take it as it is for now.

"We'll try round the back of the third house on the other side" breathed Bull.

"OK" grimaced Abel rubbing his bandaged hand and clutching the fire iron, while pressing himself against the wall so as to peer out of the window without being seen. He was not used to this. Any of it. For the past 3 years since The End he and Bull had scratched a bold, untidy, careless living on The Farm, lords of all they surveyed. Not a single sign that they shared the entire planet with another human. Why had they gone on this wild adventure? What was so essential about breaking into the Woolwich Army Barracks for the supplies that Bull said were essential when they could have lived their farm life pretty well indefinitely? Now they were in a terrifying, unfamiliar nightmare of an urban jungle. And they were not in control. More to the point Abel was not in control, being ordered about by this younger man. Back at the farm Bull was always so unsure of himself, needing guidance over and over in care of the sheep and kitchen garden. The timid, calf like Bull of the farm had been rolled away to reveal a scheming, alert mind that can only have evolved on the old internet fantasy gaming network.

It was even probable that they were being hunted. Whatever Big Cat that had taken their mule two nights previously in Finsbury Park, leaving only hair and gore, and a bloody trail that they did not have the stomach to follow might still be out there. Bull had carefully tracked back in a large circle one day and thought he spotted a hint of some fresh, large, cat like footprints next to a pond.

"But not yet" said Bull. "We wait till dusk, keep low and move like the wind. But this time keep to the hard surfaces only. I had to go back and wipe out your footmark by the tomato patch this morning remember. And keep those special leather wrappings over your feet to disguise your scent for the first half of the night."

Abel moved away from the window and bent low as he limped to the hall where they had left the remains of their packs. There he slumped to the floor as he took his old trusty plastic flask and downed a small precious mouthful of water.

"At least we should be safe here for a few hours" Abel softly called back into the front room. "The dog packs don't seem to frequent this area, and I declare this house to be a rat free zone, not even any Ghosts. Even if that old hearth rug does pong a bit……. Bull? Bull?" The last in a louder, harsher, more worried hissing tone with just a tad of a hint of panic.

There was no reply and Abel suddenly became aware of a huge, brooding, manacing silence emanating from the room he had just come from. Abel's gut went into a painful spasm and beads of ice cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he slowly shifted his position enough for his eye to catch a glimpse of the other room through the gap between the hinge side of the door and the frame.

Nothing had changed. Bull was still standing where he had last seen him. The chairs and rug and windows were unchanged. No, there was a difference. He could just see Bull's face, but he was ashen, pouring sweat and staring helplessly across the dully lit room at…. What? Furniture? The fire? The rug??? No. No. No. That wasn't possible. It must be Abel's fevered imagination that traced out a shape that did not quite fit. But, but, a lean and threadbare hungry looking white tiger just could not be there. That could only happen in stories. And it surely could not be crouching ready to spring at Bull.

It should have sprung. There should have been a mighty, heartbreaking, sickening death of Bull together with any shred of hope Abel might have still held of continuing this strange existence, this strange White Knuckle. But what actually happened was that the front door bell went. "Brrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrrr" and a voice called out "ANY ONE AT HOME?" And then the tiger did spring. But, it had altered its pland and there was a huge crash as the it broke the glass as it made a desparate but ultimately successful leap to escape the room.

"Wow Bull. If you hadn't called out and made that loud noise you might be catmeat by now" Abel blurted - amongst nervous and rather hysterical laughter. He was shaking like a leaf. "At least we know now why there aren't any rats or Ghosts in this house. I wonder how it gets in and out"

"I didn't say anything." Bull growled, still transfixed to the spot. "I don't suppose you could hunt out a kettle or something and a drop of water while I open the front door. I think we have got guests. And judging by that accent I think you had better break out the scones and butter."

Abel was not normally slow of mind. But for three years the only other person in his existence had been Bull. The idea that there could be another person, another human being, another surviver outside that door only slowly formed itself in his mind. When it did finally materialise it was not pleasant. It did not fit. It felt like….. like a migraine weighing down one side of his skull, obscuring his vision, renewing his feeling of nausea that had only just begun to clear.

Bull might have been quicker on the uptake, but he also was struggling with the idea of meeting someone else. Even as he was walking to the door in a trance, another part of his brain was saying "Hide, kill, defend, capture, don't open the door". But the sureal situation had created an overpowering, hypnotic state for all the world like it was a Sunday afternoon and the vicar had come to tea.

The old yale lock worked without any complaint and the door opened with only a modecum of heaving on the handle and grating, grinding and jarring as the stuck door was prized open to the consternation of the resident spiders.

Bull was long of black hair, tied back with a bark braid. His lean, well weathered face and chin was framed with a scrawny beard. He was dressed in goat skin jacket and a cow hide kilt. His feet were bare and callused and he had a bark pouch slung over his shoulder carrying his fire lighting kit and knife. A old metal water flask hung at his side.

The man standing squarely on the door step was quite clearly an angel. He had the most ceraphic smile. He was dressed in a blinding white smock. He was clean shaven, had a rounded well fed face and paunch and wore a golden circlet on his well cropped head. Two other features made the impression unarguable. One was the two large wings apparently sprouting from the back. The other was the 11.4mm calibre Thompson Submachine Gun he carried and pointed at Bull's heart. (What do you call an angel with a machine gun? Anything he likes.)

One might be hard pressed to say which of these two survivors was best adapted to their new world. My money (which is of course now completely worthless) is on the guy with the bigger gun. But my half pound of beef jerky is on the guy who has someone watching his back. My prayer is that it is the one with a generous, peaceful heart who wins out.

 

[bilko]

Sam was squatting on the tarmac in the middle of the multi storey carpark. She was tapping the center of a puddle with a stick and watching the ripples distort her reflection. She didn't like to look at herself much but the ripples seemed symbolic to her. She watched as they got bigger and dissapeared at the end of the puddle leading her eyes out into the blue sky far away from this place.

She heard laughing some distance behind her and looked over her shoulder. Basha, the leader of the gang was flicking his tongue out at her and grinning. He made her feel dirty He had offered her protection in the gang under one condition; which she hadn't yet fullfiled. Sam used to be pretty, she used to be a model on her way to the top. But that's when she started using. Only coke at first to keep things in perspective, but youv'e never got perspective when you start down that road. Before she knew it she was taking every drug she could lay her hands on.

Getting kicked out of the agency was rock bottom for her and that's when she finally managed to crawl into a clinic and get locked down for some cold turkey. She pulled back the jacket sleeves on her wrist and caressed the red puncture marks from countless needles. Why her? if she hadn't been a junkie then she wouldn't have been locked down. She remembered the panicked screams of others in the clinic when the flu took hold. The screaming seemed to last for ever, untill one day she woke up and it was quiet.

She tapped the puddle once more and stood up throwing the stick over the wall to the 3 stories below.

------------------------------------
Corr!, you could go on forever with this stuff
Well, there's another character for you if you can find a use for her.
Or not

 

[bilko]

Just got to say Rich that your stuff is quality. You can tell i don't read much though .

 

[rich59]

I think that's good writing and imagining Bilko. You have also picked up on a problematic issue for the survivors - sex. In our challlenging new environment contraception isn't going to be easy to come by for all. So sex leads to baby's and without modern medicine that is a risky business. I wonder if the macho males would continue to be free wheeling hunters and gatherers, able to function moderately independantly. At the same time the necessity for support in childbirth and infant rearing (or even just plain common survival sense) might drive women to create larger, more cohesive social groups.

Would people choose to have children under the circumstances? Would they get the choice or is biology too strong to prevent it.

You have also brought out one of our first "bad guy"s - Basha.

Several of the writings so far have tried to explore what is going on in the heads of the survivors through their behaviour.

--------------

A note on writing. I haven't written any fiction since school essays 30 odd years ago. The couple of bits I have done on this thread started with just a general idea and a starting point. A lot of what went down on the screen evolved as it was being written and I had no idea what would come out when I started. I don't know how other people write, but may be I could encourage others to do the same - make a start and see what happens.

 

[running bare]

I reckon that when all the sections are put together and in chronological order. somebody should put it up for publishing who knows maybe even a tv series or film :You_Rock_

tom

 

[The Joker]

Remember us all wont you, at the prem of your book signing

 

[gaz_miggy]

this is taking a very dawn of the dead tipe feel with addicts as zombies just looking to find there next fix from anything they could find( dose that included bushcrafters blood?)

 

[gaz_miggy]

lol ray mears could apear from somewere and be like superman lol with a big BC on his chest

 

[Tony]

Guys, I think this is a great thread, it's fun and creative. But please don't put any bad language or dodgy content into it, having *****'s doesn't stop people understanding what you mean, it's just bypassing the rules on no language on a family forum. I'd appreciate it if you would keep this in mind.

Cheers

 

[rich59]

Tony

Thanks Tony for the guidance note. I had already edited out in my mind things like graphic descriptions of death and so on, and I don't think sex scenes would pass muster. I will be more careful in future. It does lead one to think how to express intense feelings after a near death experience in acceptable language. A challenge for the literary (or not so literary) mind. I'll see what I can come up with

gaz_miggy

1) Dawn of the Dead? Hmm - It does suggest an idea that some people might through desparation be driven to extreme or unusual behaviour. Could there be something special about bushcrafter's blood? Well, of course there is isn't there in this story. They carry precious antibodies against the killer virus. Anyone want to write a scene on this?

2) Ray Mears Super Hero? . This I got to see! However, I think that any personal reference would need Ray's permission. In all (well a little maybe) seriousness the idea is well within the scope of the plot. But not Ray (unless he wants it that way). The following brief sketch of a scene or scenes comes to mind:-

In the early days after the population crash a couple of survivors get into difficulty. From the local woods a saviour appears who ........... lights the fire.......... catches the fish.......... replaces the tool ......... keeps them warm in freezing weather ..... (or whatever) who is a stranger and sooner or later leaves again. This gets handed on as a story to others, and over time similar events also occur and a form of belief system might build around this. Maybe even 200 yrs later this scene could be re-enacted.

It might be pushing it too far though to have BC or BCUK on the clothing! I suppose he could be called Buck either in reality or mythology - the saviour in all things basic, earthy and practical but can't spell his own name?


[You have here an example of how my mind works. One idea sparks another. So I would encourage people to post wacky or humorous thoughts or impressions as they can stimulate the story.

There is a thought coming now on how Tony's comment can help the story along. Within the story there are vulnerable people who need protecting from "too much information" of other's harrowing experiences]

 

[Eric_Methven]

Oh! This is getting Soooo..... good! I tend to write mine in MS Word (as I did with my other novel) and edit it round a bit until I'm happy with the contents then post it. It's just the way I work, and it works for me. I'll do more when I get back from the North Meet this weekend. I'm really busy until then. It's fantastic so far though.

Eric

 

[RovingArcher]

I hope you don't mind that I chime in.

The cool morning was so quiet, I could almost hear the stars as they fell into the dawn. My wife Gaye was sleeping peacefully for the first time in many months and I hated to disturb her, but we needed to check our traps, both on land and in the small lake nearby. Not to mention that it was our turn to put up the morning feed for the people and they would be arriving soon after prayers of the new sun.

The water was boiling and recently gathered and dried mint waited in the pot to become tea. The corn pourage was hot and would soon be ready to eat. As I poured the water over the mint, I could hear old Chief Roberts flute, wailing it's soulfull song for his wife and children, who had died a few months earlier. My good friend David and his daughter could be heard as they readied for the day and Katherine Grey Eagle, a local medicine woman, could be seen in the distance as she made her way to our camp to help with breakfast. As she drew near, I could see the cooked venison and fry bread that she held tightly in her frail arms.

There were only 6 of us left in the whole of the world. At least, that is what we thought. It wasn't long after I had returned from a visit to the UK that people started getting sick and a few short months later, all were dead except for those that cared for me when I first became ill. I was just starting to recover when those caring for me started needing my help.

When the dead were lying everywhere in the streets and there was no one to bury them and no place left to dig a hole, we left the cities and the towns to the scavengers and returned to the land that was recently known as a wildlife ranch, but was once the hunting grounds of our people.

As breakfast slipped away and the sun rose high into the sky, David and I talked while skinning out a doe that I had killed with an arrow from my bow. We spoke of moving camp away from the lake and near the base of a mountain nearby so we could be sheltered from the worst of the coming storm season. We knew this was something that must be expressed in a group meeting, which we held every other night in the community sweat lodge.

After cutting the meat of the doe into slender strips, we hung them on a tipi shaped rack and built a smokey fire in the center of the rack to keep the bugs away from the meat as it cured and dried into jerky. I took a couple of choice pieces of the meat and hung them in a tree a few hundred yards away to honor the crows and also so they would not steal our meat. As I made the short walk back to our shelter, I thought about all of those people I had met at the Scottish moot, that seemed to be from all over the globe and wondered if any had survived this sickness that seemed to swallow up everyone it touched.

 

[jamesdevine]

Adding the elements from other countries and cultures is a good Idea. An event like this would not be isloated problem, but globe some countries would do better then others. Maybe an island closed it's borders and stayed safe and contiued on technologly growing as normal. Creating a different seemingly better off tribe.

Just a thought.

James

 

[rich59]

RovingArcher

Very welcome to have you contributing. More. Excellent stuff, bringing out the spiritual nicely.

----------------

Having just watched "Grand Designs" cover the building of a hand crafted nearly 100% natural wood and straw and clay cottage I can see such a project easily taking up a chapter of this novel.

 

[Razorstrop]

Ok heres my addition to this little 'project'.
Setting the scene a little, time has moved on from the initial outbreak, survivors have formed various groups, some embracing the new way of life, others trying to rebuild what faded away when the outbreak came. It's not just the bushcrafters and drug addicts who have survived, as with all diseases there are always those who are naturally immune........................

The Audi TT sat upside down on the northbound carrage of the M6,a high speed blow out caused the car to skid and hit one of the derlict vehicles by the roadside causing it to flip, spin in mid-air and land with life stealing impact.
John McAdden knew he was dying, his stay on this earth was rapidly coming to an end, and all he could think was " I've been so wrong"

The Remanant,so called because they believed they were the last remanant of the old world and all it stood for, were the rulers of all that was left after the great outbreak, at least in thier own minds. They strived to recreate the things that had gone, the government, the police, law and order, by any means necessary. The whole world had gone to hell and they were going to drag it kicking and screaming back to what it once was. It was John McAddens job to facilitate the change as smoothly as possible,getting other groups to merge with them, or remove them. McAdden had identified two very different key groups, one who could be persuaded and another who could never be found.

The Crafties, bushcrafters, kept themselves to themselves hiding in the forests and woods, living like animals in the wild, eating things they found and creatures they killed. He'd shot a few recently as they dared to venture into the Remanant's land, one of them was still alive when he went to loot the corspes "We were only tracking deer..." That was all of the explanation he needed before he put that Craties flame out permanantly.No better then vermin he thought, before he continued his looting.John McAdden hated the Crafties and everything they stood for and would not rest easy until all of them were driven far back into the trees where they came from, they had no place in his new world and nothing of any worth to offer to the Remanant. The Druggies were not much better either, though at least they didnt hide away, plus if you had what they needed, a Druggie would do anything you needed them to............including hunting Crafties.

" I've been so wrong"
McAdden had no pain in what was left of his legs,and he was getting very cold. Melded into the front of the car after his crash landing they were reduced to a pulp of flesh, blood ,bone and steel.His ribs wounded him with every breath, if he had one left unbroken he would have been very surprised. His wallet contained over £1500.00, he had collected any cash from every body he found. Back at the Remanant Manor house there was a further £300,000.00 all neatly stacked, worthless to him now.His boot had a shotgun, a rifle and a pistol all neatly packed and ready to use, all of absolutley no use to him in his current state. The glass on his Rolex was shattered and the hands all missing, time had as much meaning as the watch had value.None.

"I've been so wrong"
The Crafties had it right, they knew, they knew the way forward. Their way of life was the right one, they valued the world they lived in as it was, they didnt need back all that had been lost. Everything he and the Remanant had was ,in reality ,useless. All the efforts they had put into sourcing food, fuel , weapons, all those hours in meetings deciding on how they could empower themselves to be the single most important organisation on Earth, all for nothing. The world had decided it had enough of all that and sent the outbreak to in one fell swoop restore the status quo to what it should be and what it should always have been.

"I've been so wrong"
Life was draining from McAdden's broken body, he hadn't long left, and those final seconds were to be filled with regret.
"I've been so wro....


Ready for feedback
Garry

 

[RovingArcher]

I enjoyed the read. The scenario is one that I can invision happening.

 

[rich59]

Another great contribution there Razorstrop.

This reminds me of Saul/ Paul of the new testament - rooting out the fledgling Christian religion until he was struck down by enlightenment. Paul survived his "divine" intervention and was converted to the other side's cause.

A query Razorstrop. What was it that converted John to know he was wrong? Any chance that he could have slightly less serious injuries and survive with a little help from one or other of his hated targets? That would certainly authenticate his conversion. It would also allow an interesting narrative by an observer over the life of the Crafties or Druggies. Maybe I am getting too biblical here and your outcome is just as valid. I'm just musing.

Or, was the cause of his crash more sinister - sabotage?

 

[Greywolf]

I think Rich59 is right, Razostrop you gotta carry on... get him saved

Would he return to 'The Remanant' and act as a go between?

Would he remain with the 'Crafties' and become a convert?

Would he tell the 'Crafies' about the plans 'The Remanant' have?


You gotta write MORE!

oh, go on.... please


Greywolf