BushcraftUk's own novel.

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Womble

Native
Sep 22, 2003
1,095
2
57
Aldershot, Hampshire, UK
THE WAKE

The last shovel-ful of soil tips off the spade and falls to earth, and I wipe sweat from my face. All that's left now is a patch of bare earth, and I can't even plant a tree there or something - it would only die in the already blustering winter. It was....

No, I can't go there yet.

I walk over to the river, draw a double handful of water up & splash it all over my face - it should be refreshing, but I'm just numb. I don't turn around - not yet - I stare over the water, and watch the clouds gather over the hills. If it's to be done, it should be done before the rain comes; but...

I swore an oath, and it meant nothing.

I'm shaking ever so slightly, the sort of shakes a body gets when it is in conflict with the requirements of the mind. It wanted to move, to walk, to do something - anything! And in my mind I want nothing. No, more than nothing, all I can think of is oblivion.

I made a vow, and they died anyway. All three of them from a fever that I had no answer for.

Yes, the shelter was waterproof, the woodpile kept high and dry, the food sufficient and nutritious; I thought it would be enough. It wasn't. I walk very slowly to the now silent shelter. Everything of value has been taken, either by me or away from me; there is nothing here now except burning memories. So let it burn.

With a practiced ease that a year ago I could only dream about I set a spark to some tinder. It catches, and soon the fire takes a-hold of the wooden frame of the shelter, and I just watch. Within an hour all that is left is a burnt patch of earth which I take care to fully dampen down with water from the river. Then - of course - the rain begins, making even this small gesture futile.

I turn away and start walking, blind to the direction. I shall walk, and walk, and walk. And when I no longer have the energy to walk, I will sit down and wait for the end.
 

rich59

Maker
Aug 28, 2005
2,217
25
65
London
Excellent Womble.

I have been thinking there would be another group of survivors. We have so far suggested the bushcrafters, the addicts, an isolated island somewhere and the rare naturals. I want to add the bunker folk. Government bunkers where top politicians and scientists would go where they could live in isolation for perhaps up to 6 months before supplies ran out. I suppose the odd nuclear submarine crew would also come in this category. They would maintain a civilised life for a while and probably have communications facilities and all be powered on stockpiled fuel. But will it be a safe world when they open the door? What would their purpose be in existing?
 

rich59

Maker
Aug 28, 2005
2,217
25
65
London
The Scientist



Virus specifications:- RNA virus H5eN1. Time from initial infection to first symptom – 2-3 weeks. Initial symptoms – mild runny nose and sore throat, lasting 3 weeks. Aggressive stage – initially fevers, cough, muscle aches, fast pulse, progressing in 100% of known cases to shortness of breath, confusion, coma, fits, bleeding, vomitting and diarrhoea. Death occurs within 3 days of onset of aggressive stage, while in deep coma from lung failure. Infectivity – high. Onset of shedding virus – from 3 days from initial infection and therefore 1.5 to 2.5 weeks prior to the first symptom. Chronic carrier status - incidence unknown but probably very high, only one patient has survived the illness and continued to shed live virus for as long as tested which was 4 weeks. Infective dose – tests suggest that a single inhaled virus particle has a 50% chance of causing the infection and of 10 virus particles 99.9% chance of infection. Mode of transmission – droplets of saliva. A person speaking continuously was measured as shedding 100,000 virus particles in droplets for every "t", "k", and "p" they uttered. Half life of isolated virus particle – 48 hours. This was shortened by UV light, and prolonged by humidity. Availability of vaccine – none proven to work. Trials of the best vaccine so far had prolonged the illness by 1 week but the outcome was the same in the 1347 volunteers so far to have shown to have contacted the virus. Susceptibility – humans, pigs, and 5 of 25 species of birds so far tested.



Dr. Jane Caspen, head of the Virology Section in the select few allocated a place in government bunker GB2 at an undisclosed location in Southern England, pondered this statement on her computer screen as she breathed the filtered air for a long time that morning. These details had been collected from 100s of scientists around the world over the previous 3 months. Many of those scientists were now dead. By the time the first bird flue case had been properly diagnosed in Surinam prior to death probably 10,000 people had been infected, 300 in other countries. As every day had past more and more people had been infected. Countries all over the world had mounting deaths. 98% had shut their borders withing 2 weeks, but it was far too late. The cat was well and truly out of the bag. England had been hit early and hard. No one had detected human life outside of the five registered government UK bunkers for two months now.



Her eyes flicked to the computer modelling programme "Little World 4.2" - the best, and fastest in Europe. It had been programmed with highly accurate population databases of every country, island and land mass in the world including age/ sex, rates of growth. She and her colleagues had input detailed estimates of population behaviour, routine travel, projected behaviours, wind and climate details, alongside virus characteristics. It displayed a world map with population numbers at any given day. Over the previous week her computer colleagues had also been able to add bird migration statistics to the programme. The computer gave no reaction to the screamingly mind numbing figures and graphs that it displayed. A click on the mouse moved the map forwards another day. Beyond 60 clicks and the numbers stabilised at about 2,500,000 worldwide. Most in scattered island communities across the Pacific. Another 90 clicks and the screen froze. A message box appeard on the screen "Divided by zero. Cannot have negative total world population, restart programme and re-configure parameters"



Even the isolated communities were vulnerable because of the cross species transmission, bird migration of susceptible species, and the long carrier status of survivors. Some virus could even travel on the wind according to the models. Jane new the computer was not perfect. If you have carriers you can't have a negative world population. That was daft. But the general message was clear.



Jane thought for a while. Then changed a couple of variables. See put the issues to her progammer colleagues. The next day they ran the programme again. Same error! 100% mortality could not be proved statistically. There must be a margin of error surely. She spent another day of precious resources – fuel, food and water, in total 6 months available in the bunker for 50 staff - reviewing all the mortality data. She changed the figure to 99.95%. This time the programme steadied to 5,000,000 worldwide at 60 clicks and steadied to 100,000 at 90 clicks. She rolled it on 5 years - 30,000. 10 years - 32,000.



Was that it? The best estimate? We would survive, and multiply to inherit the earth again? But only just. And in the early years most of the survivors would not make it ultimately or produce children. She looked at how the computer modelled the first 5 years. The shocking truth was worse. The virus was still in circulation and while children were born, they too died of the virus. Only after 10 years from the calamity might the world finally be rid of the virus. Maybe. Based on a lot of guesswork. And if the virus mutated to infect more species then no-one could predict when the virus would finally stop circulating.



She was exhausted. Three months of non stop analysis had come to this. What was the point? Saved from the virus in order sit and watch it do its absolute and total worst. Thank God death was for most probably painless while in coma. No other reason to thank Him.



Her train of thought had run into a wall, so she looked down at what was on her pad. Jane was a doodler. In amongst regular hexagons and other geometric patterns, were flowers and birds. The latter were drawn harshly and with deep pen indentations into the paper. In one corner was written in her own hand "Save the children". She looked at this for a while. Yes. Perhaps she could continue her work if there was a possibility that it could be done.



Jane did another set of searches of the huge database. In the early hours of the morning she came across a report of from three months ago of a new born baby in New Zealand. Born to a rhesus negative mother is was jaundiced and very anaemic. It had received an emergency blood transfusion from its father. Within days the mother had died from the flu but both father and baby were well with no symptoms. Jane checked something. Yes, the father was on a small list of unconfirmed reports of not contracting the virus after exposure. The records only reported on the child up to six weeks so the long term outcome was unknown. But this length of time was suggestive that more than just short lived antibodies had been transferred, and that some factor had stimulated the baby's own immunity.



There was then a glimmer of hope that with time and resources a way may be found to protect new born babies from the illness. But Jane did not have that time. Already three months had elapsed since "Door Seal". Only 92 days left. Across the world similar establishments had already openned their doors and within weeks contact had been lost as the staff fell ill and died. What she needed was some human guinea pigs who had survived, and she needed there blood. She needed several if possible who might have survived for different unknown reasons. They needed to remain local to the laboratory but not contaminate the staff. And she needed to be in contact with them while taking regular blood tests and swabs. But if she did that she would die unless protected in some way. That left two options. Firstly, to remain in the secure facility and go out in pressurised suits regularly while risking suit puncture and death. But unless new resources could be brought and decontaminated then she and her colleagues could only continue for three months. Secondly to rely on an untried technique during this emergency – receive carefully purified concentrates of survivor's blood plasma – hopefully packed with short lived protective antibodies. These would need topping up on a weekly basis. It would be far too risky to receive a full blood transfusion, like that far off baby had, until much more was known. Also she would need at least some of her colleagues to support her. They would also need the same protection to be able to leave the secure facility or continue beyond the three months. And it could easily all take 6 to 12 months or more to come up with anything positive.



Added to all that was the lack of evidence for two months now that there were any survivors to test, or receive life giving blood samples and decontaminated supplies from. And, would they co-operate?
 

stovie

Need to contact Admin...
Oct 12, 2005
1,658
20
60
Balcombes Copse
It was warm, now the rain had stopped. Occasionally the sun bleached the dead leaves where it broke through the fading canopy. The seasons were changing, and so was the kid.

A cold drip fell onto what was once a fair-skinned face. From out the sleeping bag a dirty hand wormed toward the rolling bead of water. A glimpse of his former self showed through the streak across his forehead. He lay motionless, staring at the light that broke through the leaf litter that covered the shelter. He wanted to cry. Oh! how he wanted to cry.

He turned his head and looked over to the fire. It was dead. Like the leaves. Like the birds. Like.....

He started to cry. He started to cry and didn't want to stop as it felt so good. He had not felt this good for so long. The pain, the fear, the hunger...always the hunger.

How long had it been. He didn't know. It seemed like forever. All the coughing, all the warm smells in the bedroom. And then, the silence.

No one had helped. There WAS no one to help. The village was dead. For all he knew, the world was dead. But he didn't care about the rest....When he walked out the house for the last time, he said nothing. There was no one to say anything to. Mum, dad and little sister. His world, dead.

He walked through the familiar lanes, not thinking, and yet guided by some strange compulsion toward a place where he felt he would be safe. Behind him he dragged the bergen, stuffed with dad's camping gear on his skateboard. It was too heavy to carry, and almost as big as him. It kept veering to one side and tipping its load. Each time, the kid just placed it back on and continued on his way.

"Dad would have lost his temper by now". But there was no one to smile at his remark.

How long it took him to get there, he didn't know. And when he did find himself in the clearing, the sense of safety didn't exist. Just the memories, and the skeleton of their old shelter.

He pulled the zipper on the sleeping bag as quietly as he could. The noise was deafening. He rolled over and crawled out the shelter. His eyes hurt, his nose was running, and he was hungry. He reached back into the shelter and took the firesteel and tinder from the cigar box. He stopped, and looked at the last cigar in the corner. It was dry. "Not how dad would have liked it".

Taking some of the straw that used to be for his rabbits, he deftly caught a spark and blew the bundle into life. Placing it carefully beneath the dry twigs he had kept in the sleeping bag, a magic was performed. Soon, it was as if the fire had never been out.

The warmth made him sadder. He prefered to be cold. The warmth of a fire was where he had always seen his dad at his happiest. But he would never see that again.

Hunger. Always the hunger.

This was the hardest bit. But it was getting easier. He walked over to the boundary of the copse. Several rabbits ran for cover. One tried to run, but was flung around in a frenzy, held by the wire's stranglehold. As he approached, the kid noticed that the creature had stopped struggling. Always the same scenario. As if they were resigned to their fate. This was the hardest bit. But it was getting easier. The neck snapped, and the kid noticed he wasn't shaking anymore. Yes, it was getting easier.

Back at the clearing he placed the rabbit by the fire. He felt in the essentials pouch and pulled out an object that was soft, and familiar. He placed the white rabbits foot on the freshly killed animal, with a significance that was almost religious.

Yes, it was much easier now.
 

rich59

Maker
Aug 28, 2005
2,217
25
65
London
Stovie. Great. Beautiful detail and observation.

Now this kid is hungry. Does bushcraft get you through the winter? Does it get you through to harvest next summer? Would you know how to get a balanced kind of diet including the protein, carbs, fat, roughage, and vitamins and minerals?
 

stovie

Need to contact Admin...
Oct 12, 2005
1,658
20
60
Balcombes Copse
Water. He hated water. Always at home he drank juice. Blackcurrant was his favourite. But water. He hated water.

As he stood by the stream staring blankly at its pointless journey, kid sighed and stooped to drink. It was then that he had an idea.

Running back to the clearing he grabbed a billycan and made for the top of the copse where he was sure he had seen something the day before. Sure enough, there they were. Past their best, admittedly, but still...

He managed to fill the can with blackberries, and fill his hands with thorns. But the pain went unnoticed in his excitement at the prospect of something other than water.

Oh! The simple joy of crushing the berries and adding water. And the taste...was foul. Weak, and bitter. But not nearly as bitter as his resentment. But he drank it, in defiance of his shame at failing to produce something better.

He took up the knife that meant so much to him. Its blade as sharp as the day it was bought over 30 years ago. He ran the edge over the sharpening stone, just as his dad had shown him, and looked at the rabbit. The skin gave way as he slid the blade into the soft belly (not too deep, he had learned that lesson early) and cleaned the guts onto the fire. With careful strokes he slit the skin from around the hind legs and eased the pelt over the back. With a tight grip he pulled the skin one way and the hind legs the other. The skin furled like a football sock being removed after games. The front feet were treated like the back, and the head disappeared under the pelt. He never looked at the head when he cut it away. It was too painful, too close to home, to close to the first time. It still haunted his dreams, the white face, the twitching lid, the drops of blood on the tip of its pink nose. No! he didn't look at the head when the blade cut through the bone.

Kid placed the skinned beast on the flat stone that had become his bench, and drank some more of his juice. It was still bitter, but better than water. If only he had some sugar. He took another swig and tried to remember..."The cottage".

By the blacksmiths cottage at the side of the lane he looked at the rundown garden. There were some vegetables in the plot. Some he recognised, others he was unsure about. Despite his dislike of most things green, he made a mental note to try each one, knowing it was important, but not really understanding why. He remembered his dad saying he had to eat some vegetables, because it was good for him. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

By the garden there was an orchard, and still the apples clung to the almost leafless branches. "Apples I like" he said, and picked one, devouring it in an instant.

And then he noticed them. In the corner of the orchard stood four white clapper-board hives. "Honey" he thought, and smiled like he was in a sweet shop. As he approached he listened for the sound of bees, but it was quiet. He was nervous. He had once been stung on the eyelid while on a school trip, and had freaked ever since when a bee flew by. Lifting the lid he peered in. There were bees, sleepily crawling around, but they didn't seem interested. He reached in and took hold of one of the frames and drew it out. A few bees clung to the honeycomb. Kid knocked them off and closed the lid on the hive. At last, something sweet.

His step was light as he approached the clearing, triumphant with his prize. The sight of the fox turning tail with his rabbit crushed his jubilation. In his fury he dropped the frame and grabbed a stick and chased the theiving animal. But to no avail. It was gone, and so was his dinner.

Suddenly he felt hungry again. Always the hunger. Tears pricked his eyes. He walked back to where he had dropped the honeycomb. It was undamaged. Carefully he picked it up and wiped the dirt from the comb. His finger slid into the gooey, golden treat. He licked his finger, and closed his eyes tight as he remembered...
 

Ahjno

Vice-Adminral
Admin
Aug 9, 2004
6,861
51
Rotterdam (NL)
www.bushcraftuk.com
Dit dit dit - dah dah dah - dit dit dit
Dit dit dit - dah dah dah - dit dit dit
Dit dit dit - dah dah dah - dit dit dit

“Grmbl” Thomas murmeled. “Now what.”

Dit dit dit - dah dah dah - dit dit dit

Thomas woke up instantly, when he realised it was his radio that made the sound.
“Yeah!! Lisa, wake up!! Lisa!! The radio, someone is there!!” he screamed.
“Uhuh” Lisa replied “Ask them if the would like to play ‘The Reflex’ by Duran Duran”

Thomas started with his relpy. In morse code. It was the only way to communicate since he lost his own radio set in that chaotic period 4 months ago.
Thomas and Lisa got through a hard time together. After Thomas returned from the UK to the Netherlands he had the flu. Lisa took care of him, but not for long. She got ill aswell. Both their parents offered to help them out in taking care for them. But they resisted. Their parents where reasonably aged – and as all people know: flu isn’t great when you’re a bit old.

After they got well life went on – untill that pandamic arrived and putt theit lives upside down. People died, including their parents, friends, colleagues and neighbours.
Rotterdam – a city that never sleeps … was asleep after 9 days of luting . No single human being was seen on the streets, that once where so full of live. Death was everywhere, it couldn’t be seen, but the smell said enough. Trash was on the streets, burnt cars on every street corner, plundered stores and a lack off food. There for Thomas and Lisa had to leave the city they both loved and had so much memories off.

They decided to go east. There where some large stretched woods, which escaped the JCB’s, real estate developpers and architect – to plant a new suburb.
At first Lisa had her thoughts about living in the woods, all those creapy crawlers, sleeping on the ground, no shower and most important off all: no decent toilet. Not that there was a working shower within 10.000 miles, let stand a toilet …

Thomas made a list of things they needed: axes, saws, sharpening kit, sleepingbags, sleeping mats, clothing, cooking pots, fire lighting kit, knives, tarpaulins, batteries, first aid kit, etc.
Most of the things he already owned. But he didn’t knew how long they would survive – even if they would survive, if they got rescued or if they would be in the woods to the end of their time – so it was better to be prepared for every eventuality. No tough stories about ‘Carry less by knowing more’, this was the real deal. Live or die, it was as simple as that.
He broke into stores for kit and food, stole petrol for a also stolen Landy.

‘Lisa’s Woods’, as Thomas called it, was an official natural park and at least 4500 acres big. The land consists some wide stretches of sand, dense pine woods, patches with birch, oak and other trees and the odd wild deer, boar, rabbits and squirrels.
In a long flown past it was highly forbidden to live a life in those woods like Lisa and Thomas do. You weren’t allowed to make shelters, or even a fire. Even on private land you had to ask permission to stay on it, built a shelter or light a fire.
Some parts of ‘Lisa’s Woods’ were off limit to the general public, as it was militairy property – but everybody died. Laws didn’t matter anylonger.

Lisa and Thomas where the only two left – they thought …

“It’s Medik!!”. “Lisa, it’s Medik – he’s alive!!!”.
 

rich59

Maker
Aug 28, 2005
2,217
25
65
London
Stovie, Ahjno - OK OK OK! Excellent. The story is beginning to move forward - follow-up, links between a couple of characters.

Keep it coming folks. Plenty of room for new characters or ideas, or could pick up on existing ones. But if you do feel like picking up an existing character it might be best to PM its creator to check it is compatible with anything they might be planning.

Stovie - quality stuff with packing in the bushcraft skills there.
 

rich59

Maker
Aug 28, 2005
2,217
25
65
London
…… (He could not remember his name) woke to the sound of birdsong. A thrush was making its joyous melodic bars one after the other. After a couple of minutes a rich and fruity voice came in off the beat – a blackbird. Then a far off crowing could be heard. Over the next few minutes the air grew more and more beautiful – filled with a three dimensional heavenly chorus. The air was cool on his face, but his body was warm and comfortable. He lay on something soft, that rustled a little as he shifted his weight. There was a tang in the air. What was it? Pine? Mint? Heather? He could not decide which. It was pitch dark. through his eyelids. A lazy familiar feeling suffused his body. He was transported back to a scout camp years before, when he would awake before anyone else and revel in that hour before dawn when the world was so pure, so beautiful, fresh for the new day soon to come.



His thoughts slid back to the night before. (Nothing.) Well, maybe just a glimmer of a memory of a campfire. His ears listened out for breathing around him. (Nothing.) He thought about the coming day and what he had planned to do. (Nothing.) No matter. The music of the birds was still serenading him and he drifted back into sleep.



He awoke again. The music had changed. It was still there but more in the background now. No soloists, just the general hubbub of the undisturbed wood. Light was on his eyelids and he new it was well after dawn. The air had also lost its edge. His bladder suggested he should not stay laying in this warm nest much longer and a slight ache in his stomach, a little higher than the bladder chimed in to suggest that breakfast was already a little overdue. Reluctantly he opened his eyes to the green light of the sun on his dome tent and stretched out his hand to his watch. (Not there.) He partly undid the zip of his feather and downe sleeping bag. Bladder came first. He rolled out, noting as he did so that he was laying on a deep layer of bracken and other soft materials. Dimly aware that his kit bag was laying to one side he focused his attention on openning the first two layers of zips between him and a leak. He crawled out onto ice cold (ice included) heavily dewed grass. Slightly surprised that it was so cold against his naked skin he reached out and openned the third zip in the fly sheet before standing up and nipping round the back of the tent and emptying his bladder where no-one could see. (Who?) Thick steam rose. Bliss. Job done he quickly nipped back into the tent, closing all zips, before his feet froze, and toweled them off with the rag he had put there for the purpose.



Now to the other urgent problem. He threw on his clothes, laid across his kit bag, and grabbed the bundle that lay below it. Leaving the tent now he went over to the dark circle 15 yards away, laid down his bundle and openned it. A bone dry pile of dead bracken, leaves and small twigs sprang out, released from captivity. There was also a large bundle of thicker sticks thinner than his fingers and a couple of other bits of wood. ……. (it would come back in a minute he thought) laid out the cloth that had wrapped the bundle next to the fire circle and took a handful of bracken and leaves, crisp and crunchy, in his hands. He rubbed them into bits between his flat palms over the cloth. Then he picked up another handful and did the same. Next he took handfuls of the broken bits off the cloth and rubbed them into smaller bits. He did this again and again until some of it was dusty. Then he took a flat piece of split wood from the bundle and placed it on the fire circle. Next he took pinches of the rubbed material until he had a small mound on the flat wood. Back on the cloth only remained the dust now. This precious dust he poured carefully onto the side of the rubbed mound and pressed it into the side. Then he took another couple of handfuls of the bracken and leaves and put them on the top of the pile. He now reached out for a good handful of the tiny twigs and bound them together with a few turns of some grass stems. He placed this bundle on the very top – gently compressing the pile and stabilising it should any wind come to disturb it.



Nearly done now he thought. He took two more bits of wood from the depleted bundle. One was a long straight smooth rod of elder, about eighteen inches long, slightlty tapering at both ends to a blackened hollowed ring. The other was another flat piece of splt timber from a horse chestnut tree, thin, only about half an inch thick. Along one edge were a number of blackened notches. He carefully inspected them and decided that one had only a little wear. A circular pit could be seen partially transected by the tip of a V shape notch projecting from the edge of the wood. A few feet away was a flat rock, about a foot high. He went over to this and put down the split timber piece. Under the notch he put a dry leaf.



OK. He placed one tip of the elder in the circular pit, steadied the board with his foot and started to spin the drill between his flat hands. After a few seconds he paused to briefly lick one palm before continuing. He spun a bit faster. His hands slid down the stick and he paused just for a second while moving them back up before continuing again. After nine or ten passes down the drill like this a feint curl of smoke began to rise from the socket. If it was a dry afternoon he would have pushed harder and spun faster straight away. But this morning was damp. Take it steady while the wood dries out. For five or ten minutes he dawdled over the task as the smoke intermittently rose. The smoke became bluer. Then he made a decision. NOW. He put more pressure into the work, he spun the drill faster. Copious smoke now rose, winding round the drill. A pile of dark brown dust collected rapidly in the V notch. New stuff smoked as it collected – pushing out like a sausage. After 4 passes he had to stop. But he knew it was done. He took the drill out and stood back, panting slightly. Smoke was still rising from the notch and getting stronger. Then, like the dawn that he had missed, a tiny glimmer of orange appeared. It enlarged. Still breathing a little heavily he lifted out the leaf with its precious live coal and carried it over to the fire circle. Carefully he tipped it onto the flat piece of wood, next to the dust collection on one side of the pile and gently pressed it into the side of the heap. He then laid down on the cloth wrapping and slowly breathed onto the still glowing coal. Not too fast. Let the heat drive out the last shades of damp in the dust, just like with the drill. After a minute he blew a little harder. The glow spread into the dust collection, and smoke began to rise. He blew again and again, each time harder, and each time the orange glow spread and more and more smoke billowed up. It was a damp morning! Just when he thought he would need to add more bracken, flame appeared. Not like a match, like a conflagration. The whole heap burst into flame that spread straight into the bundle of twigs. The larger dry wood then went on and then more small damp wood kept outside over night, followed by larger. Within just minutes of the coal first forming he had a hot fire.



While this was burning through he went over to the rope tied to a tree, untied it and let down his larder. Slightly gamey meat cut from a rabbit caught the day before went on green holly skewers. Next went on some slices of giant puff ball.



Back at the fire these were put over the heat where the flames had died down.. Minutes later he tucked in.



Time at last to think. The Journey must continue. He would get over the ridge today and maybe over the next before making camp again. He would take some of the cooked food to eat as a cold lunch.



His name. His name. His name. For days he had been sidestepping this. But now he would at least try. He thought that there might have been a time when there were people in this land. He thought he might have known some of them, lived with them, raised a family. But he could not remember. His mind always slid over it. Those rose hips looked ready to pick. He would harvest some . No. Back to the name thing. It was hard. It was tearingly hard. Much easier to enjoy the sun. No. Try again. Where had The Journey started? When? Why? His Name? His Name? …… Nothing. Any clues? He looked down at his shirt. Grubby and torn, it sported four letters. Read from above – was it KUCB? Turn that upside down. BUCK? BCUK? "I'll call myself Buck then." he said out loud. "Buck." That sounded a good name.







 
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rich59

Maker
Aug 28, 2005
2,217
25
65
London
Buck is an enigma. Obviously he has post traumatic amnesia. One could guess at some terrible personal crisis that has torn him away from his past. May be he has some terrible guilty secret to add to the trauma of loss that has pushed him over the edge. He is only comfortable in the present, the here and now, revelling in experiencing the natural world, living in harmony with his surroundings, relying only on himself his skills and simple tools. He is in a sense almost the embodiment of bushcraft and he is locked in it. As his past is a mystery so perhaps is his future. Is there an end to his journey, or will he wander indefinitely.

I think he might encounter others during his journey and we might see how he and they cope with that.
 

rich59

Maker
Aug 28, 2005
2,217
25
65
London
Anyone who was on the recent North Meet feel inspired to put a recent experience into this story? Later in the outline plot when a gathering of the scattered bushcrafters - perhaps co-ordinated by Medik - will probably occur there could be some well observed descriptions of people coming together, demonstrating things, sharing stories etc.. Flint knapping, leather working and bow drilling in the rain sound memorable and inspiring to some.
 

Grooveski

Native
Aug 9, 2005
1,707
10
53
Glasgow
While many water supplies could function for decades on their own, others collapsed almost immediately. Unexpected silt piles formed in places where heavy flow should have carried particles safely between filter stations, leaf buildup was just as effective at blocking grills as it had always been. Some reservoirs filled quickly, reaching levels where excess had to be channeled off.
Mechanical gates clunked open and closed and would continue to do so until rust or floating logs rendered them inoperable but trouble struck quickly were systems which relied on power sat patiently waiting for the order to open until long after the reservoir walls eroded and washed away around them.

"What am I doing here?" Gary thought, standing in the doorway of the corner shop staring at the shelf where the peanut butter used to be.....
....before the panic buying, before the looting, before the couple of nightmare weeks he himself had rummaged through this and surrounding stores. At first he'd been accompanied by other sick and dying people but the last few days had been the worst - since emerging from bed he'd met just five people. Five on the first day, two of those again on the second, none today. All had been deep in the throes of the disease.
"No peanut butter. There'll be plenty in other places, surely?" A glance out across the road at a row of houses was enough to set off a twinge of nausea at the thought of entering the home of someone who hadn't survived. The street was a row of tombs, backed up against another row of tombs. The sudden image of the city as a sprawling cemetery had him on his knees and moments later cursing the loss of the first solid food he'd been able to face during the recovery.

While picking his way between broken display cabinets to the doorway behind the counter he heard dogs bark. Three or four of them causing a right old ruckus. Not close, but not far and not a very friendly sound to his shattered nerves.
In a gloomy little toilet he rinsed his mouth, splashed his face and was about to have a long drink when the water pressure dropped to a trickle. He shrugged to his reflection and was about to make a comment when he remembered cracking a joke to the mirror in his own bathroom that morning, and the unnerving feeling it had given him that he better not get into the habit of talking to himself. Instead he peered at his face, noticing the improving complection and keeping a weather eye open for signs of mental instability.
"Nope, no more nuts than usual" he grinned after a moment. The grin faded... "Hmmm, no more nuts".

Wandering home, listening to the dogs(further away now) and wondering where peanuts were grown, he gazed up at the beginnings of a beautiful sunset.
The tombs rose up in great towers towards the scarlet sky and hugged the hillsides of the valley below him as he walked towards the steps to his own. Fishing for keys, wondering why he'd bothered to lock the door, entering and lighting the first of many candles which he hoped would fend off a darkness seldom seen in a city .

Water ran with enough force as he filled a kettle, but a shrill whine ran through the plumbing from somewhere high in the building. Gary looked out of the window, realising that in five years of living there he had no idea where the nearest stream that might be drinkable was.
"Time to get out of town, you think?" he asked the reflection in the dark window.
A gaunt, worried looking man holding a candle in a glass looked back and tried to raise a smile.
 

rich59

Maker
Aug 28, 2005
2,217
25
65
London
Grooveski - Excellent writing there. Beautiful linking of the wider picture with the individual experience, and the portrail of Gary as knowing nothing more than one would expect of an average survivor.

To the readers - I know from the count on the thread that loads of you are reading this thread. Why not log a simple comment or two? I don't know about the other writers here but I personally found that when I have written something it is like putting yourself on the line and takes energy and time. Once one has posted something it is really heartening when somebody makes a positive comment, makes it more worth while. So do keep posting encouragements folks, even just a couple of words. Thanks.
 

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