BushcraftUk's own novel.

[Greywolf]

The rattle of the cart wheels gave John a sense of security; it had been his mobile home for two long months since he left the Shelter and headed out of Liverpool. His knowledge of the back streets and alleyways a godsend, he managed to avoid the roving gangs of looters and the bands of sick gathering together looking for someone, anyone to help them. The cries of the dying still haunted his dreams.
His slow progress north had taken him from ghost town to ghost town. Southport once a thriving tourist trap, now quiet and desolate, the fairground rides grotesque in their gaiety. The litter bins once a banquet hall for John, filled with filth. The stalls and fast food stores looted for trinkets and scraps of food, now long empty. John drifted through, the rattle of the cart’s wheels disturbing the gulls feasting on something John didn’t want to see. There had been lots of corpses left where they had fallen. John wanted to bury them, or at least move them so they could have a more dignified end, but his fear of the infection that had laid waste to the population kept him from getting too close. A muttered prayer to any god that would listen was the best he could offer.
The corpses became fewer as the days became weeks, the weeks became months. The carrion birds and scavenger animals, once fearful of man, had feasted on the society that had threatened to wipe them out.
John’s slow progress was in part caused by his caution but as the nights became colder his arthritis made his mornings a slow and painful affair. That combined with pushing the shopping cart over rough ground every night to find a suitable place to hide, only to have to drag it back again in the morning.
He was heading roughly northwards, for no real reason except he knew there would less people there. Less people meant less chance of being seen, less chance of looters helping themselves to the supplies he had managed to secure during his journey. Looking down into the shopping cart he knew he had less of the items he needed and too many luxuries picked up on a whim. He would have to find somewhere to trade or otherwise gain the essentials, winter was fast approaching.
A few miles away he could see a farm, more than that he could see a working farm, the smoke rising from the chimney promised a warm drink and maybe somewhere to sleep. If he could get near enough, folks had become wary of strangers lately.

John closed the gate to the farm track and was about to head towards the farm buildings a few hundred metres away.

Shlock!

The noise terrified him into becoming motionless, it’s self satisfied and deadly whisper made the hairs on his head rise. He knew the sound of a shotgun being closed and half expected to hear a roar of it discharging.

“What d’ya want?”

The voice made John’s bladder twitch and only through shear will did he hold its contents.

“I’m here to trade, that is, if I have anything you need I’d like to trade” Said John, his voice stronger than he felt.

“Best come up to the house then” said the voice behind him “I’ll be right behind you”

With a click he heard the shotgun made safe, but knew it only took a second to change that.

John pushed the cart over the uneven surface of the farm track, often having to pull it back from the deeper ruts and push it forward a different way.
All the way he could feel the shotgun and its owner a few steps behind, just enough to be out of reach.

At their approach the door to the farmhouse opened and a woman stepped out into the yard.

“You’re scaring the old fella, put that gun away and I’ll get the kettle on” her voice made it clear that the gun would be put away.
With a grunt the man moved past John and headed into the house, “You’d best come in” He said as he ducked inside.

John left the cart where it was and entered the farmhouse, his eyes taking a moment to become accustomed to the darkness within. The woman was filling a teapot with boiling water and the man came strolling back in from the other room.
“Well, sit down then” the woman said motioning with her head towards one of the chairs around the large table “The tea’ll take a moment to brew.”
John moved to the table and sat in one of the chairs. The man sat down opposite him and looked him up and down.

“Looks like he’s been sleepin’ rough for weeks, Maggie” Said the man

“Then a good meal and a warm drink’ll do him good, ‘ey Mark” she replied with a wink to John.

“So, what’s your name then mate?” asked Mark “And where have you come from?”

“I’m John, Oh thanks” his reply brought short by a steaming mug of tea placed in front of him. “I’ve been walking since early September, set off from Liverpool…”

He told them about his journey and all that he had seen. How the people had dropped like flies, and how against the odds he had survived.

“… I got sick with it but didn’t die like the rest of them, I dunno?” He said finishing his tale.

“We both had a touch of the flu a few months back. Didn’t we Mark, but we just got over it, lost all the chickens though, a man from Defra came and made us destroy ‘em” Said Maggie

“Yep” came Mark’s gruff reply,” Supposed to be a containment measure, some use that was.” The brooding man took a swig from his tea. Silence ruled the house for a while.

“So,” said Maggie, “Mark says you’ve come to trade”

John jumped as she spoke, near spilling the last few drops of tea in his mug.
“Er, yes. I’ve got a couple of bits on my cart if you want to have a look” said John

He fetched the battered cart in from the yard, and quickly removed the tattered tarp that kept the rain off.
“I’ve got a little bit of engine oil, a couple of litres; I’ve been using it to keep the wheels from squeaking, I’ve got a few odds and ends of stuff I found while I was in Southport, mainly sweets, you can’t beat a bit of sugar before bed” He chatted as he unloaded his goods.

“Oil’s good” said Mark, “and so is that” he was pointing to an unopened packet of novelty balloons. “I can use them to keep the birds off when I plant”

John had picked them up at the last second when he was leaving a looted store in Southport, he thought they might be useful for holding water, but his plastic bottles hadn’t failed him.

“What d’ya want for them?” Mark asked

The question hung in the air between them for a moment...

 

[stovie]

I enjoyed that Greywolf. What next?????

 

[arctic hobo]

Rich59, I believe I saw something similar on the discovery science channel. There was also a show on super volcanos and they were looking at one in particular that erupted 10s of thousands of years ago. They stated that the estimated population on the Earth was into the millions, maybe 100s of millions, but I don't remember exactly. Anyways, after the eruption, the population had a steep die off to about 15,000 people. I would think that these people must have been in the same general location, so that the survivors could come together into groups larger than 50 persons and would have to live in close proximity to other such groups for trade and finding mates, to keep inbreeding at bay.

Twists and turns that can take place in each storyline are endless.

It's a little-documented but fascinating area of speciation. Unfortunately, it is one of the most potent natural means of extinction. Because all animals in a species are of one stock, they are susceptible in just the same way as clones GM crops are. I forget, it's a type of leopard or tiger, it is dying out despite all efforts to save it, due to just this kind of speciation. Because the timescales tend to be millions of years, theories abound as to all aspects of it. Some people say it is rubbish because all humans are from a tiny stock - others that humans evolved at roughly the same time in more than one area, and were similar enough to interbreed. Who can say?

 

[rich59]

It's a little-documented but fascinating area of speciation. Unfortunately, it is one of the most potent natural means of extinction. Because all animals in a species are of one stock, they are susceptible in just the same way as clones GM crops are.

So, the human race is vulnerable to a flu epidemic because of our lack of variation?

 

[ronsos]

Auld Jimmy sat down trapped in the room in his nursing home despite all his experince,knowing he could never leave untill Ronso finished a 6000 word essay by next week .....

 

[Eric_Methven]

I've just heard that the Irish Government have taken steps to combat a possible outbreak of bird flu.

They've banned hen parties!

Eric

 

[running bare]

"CLASSIC" eric

tom

 

[Hawkeye The Noo]

Two months earlier

"After forty days Noah opened the window he had made in the ark and sent out a raven, and it kept flying back and forth until the water had dried up from the earth." The book of Genesis 8:6-7.

Little did anyone know that it would be decendants of that bird that would provide
the cure, saving all species of birds from extinction on the planet. At least two
of each kind. Was it parasites on the feathers, a miracle who knows? The four know, for they each carried a pair of these birds to remote areas of the globe to release them.

It was relatively easy to get to their destinations, transport was still fully in
operation but the return journey would take years as in a matter of weeks time turned back several millenia.

Why did they survive? What was once a curse has become their salvation.
The four were albino, somehow all albinos had a natural immunity to the virus.
These four were special; born in Israel and named after the archangels.
Michael arrived in siberia, Gabriel in Patagonia, Uriel in Nunavout and Raphael in Dalriada now known as Argyll in the west highlands of scotland. Raphael however was known to others as Vincent; never Vinny, always Vincent and he was watching them.

The Dalriadan survivers knew they were being watched and were cautious.
With eight of them and two huge dogs it was easy to guard the entrance to Hells Glen for their newly appointed laird.

 

[Womble]

Was one of the dogs called Cerberus and the other Garm?

 

[Hawkeye The Noo]

Hells Glen just kept decending, its narrow steep sides crowded with forest. Thick old unkempt woodland where little light managed to penetrate
was the norm untill the land leveled out around the marsh that acted as a moat for the tower house. There was little arable land for livestock to graze on.
Highland cattle were usually ginger but the majority here were the rarer black variety, more belicose in their handling. The bull with full spread of horn
was a law unto himself, at least he knew the hand that fed him but woe betide the stranger. The feral dog packs rarely ventured here now since the bull and
his sons had already gored a few.

Salvage was the immediate future, there was no need for bushcraft at the moment. There were so many cars lying around and empty houses like brick built cashes in the villages and hamlets.It was disrespectfull to take from nature when there was so much to utilise in the present. Nature was only now getting the opportunity to recover from the last few centuries. The Dalriadan survivors found purpose in keeping busy; stockpiling tins by sell by date stripping houses bare and driving all cars to disused quarries that would become their graveyard. They would play our part in helping nature to clear up humanities mess. Befor the winter arrived there would be enough stockpiled for the next 2-3 years. Time enough to practice and train the others in bushcraft before the hardest times arrived. time for nature to make a start at recovery.

Vincent sat and watched these survivor admiring their industry. Then he closed his pale pink eyes relaxing, taking in all around him absorbing the concentric circles bumping off of him. His birds were released and their healing would begin. The virus had almost emptied the planet of humanity but the healing would now begin. It would take centuries but at least it had begun. These decendants of the Noahic Ravens would draw other birds to them one pair at a time and the healing would spread.

 

[JimH]

Was one of the dogs called Cerberus and the other Garm?

"Cursed" albinos, to boot, at the world's end. Bring on the howling runesword, says I...

All good stuff, guys.

Jim.

 

[rich59]

Hell's Glen

Ahh. Hawkeye - some well written fantasy I see. Keep it up. Not sure that the story lines will meld together too well with some of the other stuff but who said we were all writing the same novel?

I did a check on the incidence of albinos in the UK and it is 1 in 17,000. So that might leave 3000 albinos immune to the flu.

 

[arctic hobo]

So, the human race is vulnerable to a flu epidemic because of our lack of variation?

Sorry, no, I didn't mean that. I was referring to the genetic makeup of the human race after such an epidemic wiped nearly everyone out (not that it will! never fear!). It isn't only due to clone problems - scientists aren't sure exactly what it is, but they do know that it happens for sure.

 

[Eric_Methven]

BUMP!

Anyone still interested in continuing this?

Eric

 

[Eric_Methven]

70 years on.

Medik sat alone on a grassy hillside. He was very old, in fact he was the last of the Old Ones - those who had known life before the disdaster. He frequently forgot things these days. His sons had grown, married and died old men themselves. His dear wife had passed away nearly twenty years before. Medik thought the thoughts of old men and nodded off every so often. He knew not the passage of time any more. One day slipped into the next, one year seemed like any other. Medik awoke again slowly and wondered where he was. He looked around and through misty eyes saw the gentle slope below. He saw the huts of their village and heard the children playing. One of the children brought him his lunch. The child approached with reverance, cautiously as if afraid of the frail old man.
"Who are you?" asked Medik.
"I am Jack, Oh great one" said the child.
"Jack? My Jack? But my Jack is grown up." said Medik.
"Not your Jack" said the child nervously "Your Jack was my Grandfather."
"Ah!" murmoured Medik. "Then you must be my great grandson".
"One of many as you well know Sir" said the child.
Medik looked at the child as if seeing him for the first time.
"How old are you Jack?"
"I don't know Sir" said the boy, "I have seen as many summers as there are fingers on my hands - I think".
"You are ten years old then " said Medik.
"I have brought you meat and salad Sir".
Medik looked down at the wooden bowl offered to him and saw finely chopped roast venison and an assortment of vegetables. They chopped his food fine for him these days as his teeth had long since gone. Medik was grateful that the village looked after him well in his old age.

Medik ate silently as the boy sat at his feet and watched him.
"What's that you have there?" he asked.
"It's my bow Sir, as you well know." said the boy.
"Let me look at it."
The boy handed Medik his bow. Medik handled the bow and saw that it was not a toy. It was made from straight grained ash wood and was strung with a strong nettle string.
"Can you shoot well?" he asked the boy.
"Aye Sir. Well enough to put that meat on your plate." the boy replied, pride in his voice.
"You shot this deer?"
"Aye Sir, as you well know".
Medik looked at the quiver hanging from the boy's belt. "Let me see one of your arrows."
The boy drew an arrow and handed it over. He was positively glowing with pride.
Medik examined the arrow and saw that it was long and straight and had been fashioned from some hardwood sapling. It was fletched with turkey feathers and had a metal broadhead point that was razor sharp along both edges.
"Tell me how you made this." Medik said.
The boy told the old man that he and his brothers and cousins regularly made bows and arrows for the hunt. He told him how they used a knife to cut the saplings for the bow and whittle down the belly of the bow until they could just bend it in a slight curve. He told him how their sisters and mothers retted nettles in the spring and spun the fibres into thread. It was this thread that was braided into bow strings. He explained how they cut smaller saplings for the arrows and straightened them over tha fire by passing them through a piece of antler with a hole drilled in it. They used the antler as a lever to bend the arrows this way and that until they straightened perfectly.

Medik looked at the arrow head and asked the boy how he made them.
"We hammer out the shiny disks, as you well know Sir." said the boy. "We find the disks in the old town. There are a great many of them."
Medik looked more closely at the arrow had and could just make out a faint trace of a head. He tried to remember but couldn't place where he'd seen the face before.
"We use the white queenies for deer and the brown queenies for rabbit and other small animals.
Medik remembered when he heard the boy refer to the arrow heads as queenies. They had a picture of the queen on them. Some of the memories returned to him. Of course, he thought, they have bypassed the stone age and gone straight to using metal. They were using ten pence pieces and two pence pieces of which there must have been millions in drawers and banks and houses - just waiting for someone to put them to use once again, although for a totally different puropse.

Medik remembered how in the years just after the disaster he had given up on trying to get civilisation back on it's feet by holding school for the children, and instead had taught them how to fashion bows and arrows with minimal equipment. The children had resented schooling and had taken to archery with great enthusiasm. Medik knew he had to teach them all he knew about being self reliant and dedicated his working years to spreading his knowledge as widely as he could.

He remembered with sudden clarity how they had had to abandon their houses. Most had been uninhabitable but some had been cleaned out and used for a number of years by some of the survivors. Many had no chimneys though and the occupants lit fires in firepits in the middle of the living rooms to keep warm in the cold of winter. To evacuate the smoke they had knocjed holes in the roofs, and after a few years the water got in and started causing rot in the structures. Eventually all the old homes had to be abandoned.

Medik, and some of the others built timber framed houses with wattle and daub walls and thatched them with grasses and heather. The smoke filtered through the thatch from a central hearth and they learned to live a comfortable but primitive lifestyle.

He handed the bow and arrow back to the boy and finished his lunch. Yes, they looked after him well.
"What do you know about the old days?" he asked the boy.
"Only what the elders tell us Sir." he said.
"Who do you think I am then?" asked Medik.
"Why Sir, you are the creator. You made everything there is. The elders taught us that if it hadn't been for you none of us would be here today."

Medik was shocked at this revelation. Surely these children didn't think of him as a god. It showed him though how ideas can so easily be twisted and changed in a short period of time. He was reminded of years before, when he and his family were searching for other survivors. It was ten years after the disaster, at a time when they still counted the years. They had approached a settlement and were stoned by the occupants. These people were all wearing long robes and had called themselves God's chosen. They chased away outsiders and thought they had been spared by devine intervention. Medik had realised that the dominant male there had also been a religeous fanatic and the society had formed beliefs around that. They could just as easily have formed into devil worshipers or any other specialist sect.
"The only reason they say that is because I showed your grandfather and your father how to make things for themselves. They passed the skills and knowledge on to others."
"Yes Sir, as I said, you are the creator. You are our salvation. As you yourself well know. You know everything!"

Medik decided to let it go. He was too tired to try to explain these days.

Medik opened his eyes. He had dropped off again. When he awoke the boy had gone. He wasn't sure if he had been talking to him earlier that day, or perhaps another day. Another year even. The time just drifted for Medik.

He watched the village from his chair on the hillside. The houses were built in a circle around a central meeting place. Smoke drifted through the thick thatch in most of them and he knew that the women folk would be busy with daily chores that didn't change from day to day. He watched the young men. They all wore thir hair long. Hand crafted leather shoes on their feet and all of them without exception wore jeans with copper rivets. They had found a warehouse long ago with thousands of pairs of Levis and Wrangler jeans and had enough for everyone for many more years, and plenty to trade with as well. On their upper bodies they wore linen and nettle fibre shirts and a waistcoat of deer skin. Every man had his knife in a sheath on his belt. The knives were known in the tribe as bushies, although Medik could not remember why they had been given this name. Every man also had near at hand his bow and quiver of arrows. Medik was pleased with what he saw and he knew he had done a good job over the years.

 

[Eric_Methven]

I'll take that as a no then!

Eric

 

[spamel]

I read the whole of this thread and I think there are a lot of talented folk on here. It was nice to read some really interesting stories and it gives a fair idea of how things could pan out if it all went horribly wrong. It would be nice to know that bushcraft would continue and hoodies would dissapear!

 

[JonnyP]

Eric, that was a superb read mate, I loved the relationship between elder and gr grandson, if only it was like that now. Have you any more.................Jon

 

[Womble]

endings are just beginnings...

Time to write some more...

 

[rich59]

Hey Eric,

Nice one,

Spring and Summer seem to be pretty busy for me, but I will have a thought to some more contributions.

Anyone think we might submit what we already have to a publisher? Clearly an unfinished product but if they thought it had some or many parts that could work into a real novel then who knows?

In fact, if bcuk is now into publishing magazines then may be novels could be included too!!!