NEW BEGINNING (Part 2 of 3)

Richard Banks

 More than ever I want to survive, the only thing that matters right now is me.

        We continue on across open country, single file behind Conner who is navigating by the stars. We can barely see the ground beneath our feet as we struggle to keep up with him but no one falls behind. When the bikers find out what has happened they may well come after us but for now there is no sign of them. At daybreak, we take cover in a wood and bed down for what Conner calls a re-coop, two hours at most. There should be bird song and there is – the unanswered cooing of a single pigeon. The insects have fared better and although the ground is covered with their dead there are many still living.  How long they may do so now that the ground is almost devoid of living vegetation only time will tell. Who or what is responsible for the green mist we know not. If it be man, a calculated act of aggression, a normal life may, somewhere, be continuing but if the cause be something beyond man the insects may well see us off the Planet. ‘Survival of the fittest’ said Darwin, and for now, they seem in better shape than ourselves.

        More than ever our dreams are the stuff of nightmares and no one is sorry when Conner says it’s time to move on. But first, we make a fire and heat up some food from the tins we carry. Conner insists that everyone tips something into the one cooking utensil that we have and stir it all together. It’s a total mess but it’s food, it’s warm and we gulp it down like the hungry people we are.

        We are on the march for only minutes when Laura looks up at the sky and excitedly tells us that there’s a patch of blue sky above. The green mist continues to disperse. Our spirits rise. We are less than fifty miles from Halmouth where something like normal life might still be found. If so there may be ships and boats that will enable us to reach countries less damaged than our own. Are there such places? The world’s a big place we reason, surely there must be somewhere better than here.

        Immersed in our thoughts we are not as vigilant as we should be. As we reach the ridge of what was once a field of barley we come across another larger group in the dip below. There are at least thirty of them and one of the men fires a shotgun into the air. It is a warning, come no closer, and we don’t. If they are running short of food they may well try and steal ours. Conner tells us to back off. If they come at us we are to run back the way we came. We have the downward slope behind us. By the time they get up to where we are now we may be too far off for them to continue after us.            

        In the stand-off that follows we take stock of each other. They look much the same as us, ordinary people in their dirty, tattered clothes that once they wore for the doing of ordinary things. One of them takes a few step towards us. He spreads out his hands to show he is unarmed and motions for one of us to meet him halfway up the slope. There is something familiar about him that I can’t quite place, then I do. Behind the dirt and the beard that wasn’t there before its Hoskins, district counsellor and owner of the County Gazette. “It’s OK,” I say, but Conner is already on his way down. They talk for nearly fifteen minutes and shake hands before returning to their followers.

        Conner tells us that they too are headed for the coast, in their case to a private mooring where Hoskins has an ocean-going yacht. Only he has the security codes that will allow it to function. There’s room for two more. However, he doesn’t want just anyone. They’re looking for people with the practical skills they don’t already have, people good with their hands who can make and repair. If normal exists anywhere in the world they will find it, or so says Hoskins. Bearing in mind that the boat will be largely dependent on the winds that blow this may take some considerable time but compared to the chaos that probably awaits us it’s the dream ticket. What’s depressingly obvious is that none of us are the sort of useful people that Hoskins needs, that is all but one, but he’s back with us. We watch Hoskins and the others depart and refocus our thoughts on getting to Halmouth. We should, says Robbie, be there in less than two days. He points to where we are on the map which he notates with the compass reference that will get us there. From now on, he says, it’s a straight line.

        We continue on until dusk, have supper, and bed down for the night. Having been up all the previous night we sleep well, too well, and it’s 7am before anyone wakes up. Normally Conner is our alarm clock, organising us for the day ahead, but this day he’s nowhere to be seen. On the ground where he was lying is the compass and a stone under which is the map. There should also be a note explaining why he has abandoned us but that’s only too obvious. While we hate him for the choice he has made, loyalty and altruism are the indulgences of a bygone age.

        We need a new leader and when Tom says he once did map reading in the boy scouts he’s elected. If when we get to Halmouth some vestige of the old order remains his City links could well prove useful. Maybe, I’m thinking, Conner’s defection was the best thing to happen at the best possible time. This is no more than wishful thinking but I say it to the others with all the conviction I can muster. Anyway, I add, we’re too near Halmouth to give up now. What we find there will be more important than losing Conner. On this, we are all agreed.

        Tom’s first decision as leader is that we should have a huddle like the rugby team he supports. While we’re hoping his subsequent decisions will be of some practical benefit we do as he says: eleven smelly, bedraggled people clinging to each other as the morning dew begins to evaporate into steam. There’s an unaccustomed warmth on our heads and when hug over, we look up at the sky we find it more blue than green and the sun almost bright enough to dazzle. “It’s over,” says Laura, and although nothing could be further from the truth the world seems a kinder, better place. Within half an hour we are ready to go and Tom takes his place at the front of the line.

        The morning continues to improve and in the warm glow of a rising sun our change of leader no longer feels like the disaster we first thought it to be. Tom’s boyhood ability to read a map and compass seems unimpaired, and when he says we will be in Halmouth by the evening of the following day his confidence that he has got it right rubs off on us all.

        All goes well until the afternoon when Ellie declares she is almost out of water. In the unexpected warmth of a near summer’s day we have all been drinking more than usual. Bill and Judy are also running short, and no one has more than half a bottle left. Tom shakes his head in annoyance and says they should have told him earlier. Then he checks his own supply and finds himself running short. It’s almost funny, except that it’s not. Would Conner have let this happen? I can’t be the only one thinking this but everyone keeps their thoughts to themselves. Fortunately, a solution is not too far away. In the valley below, three miles to our left and slightly back is a village where bottled drinks can surely be found. There and back will cost us the rest of the afternoon, but with only open country in front of us we have no other choice.

        We cover the distance in an hour but any hope of a quick in and out is ended by the sight of two overturned cars blocking the road through the main street. We drop down behind a hedge and observe. On the level ground at the base of the valley, between cars and a village, a man with a shotgun is talking to another man in army combats. Behind them, an elderly woman exits one of the shops and unhurriedly crosses the road to a Tesco’s convenience store. Apart from the barricade, everything looks like a normal, sleepy Sunday in a rural backwater. Is it Sunday? We don’t know, we have long lost track of days and dates and, since Robby departed, we’re not even sure of the time. Here in the village, the clock in the church tower is showing five minutes to four, and judging by the arc of the sun it’s as right as makes no difference. At the top of the tower, a Union Jack flutters in a freshening breeze and in the fields behind the church the same breeze ripples gently through a field of ripening corn. At four the clock chimes and three children leave the church and are lost to sight in the deep shade of a yew tree.

        This is what normal used to be before the mist. Below our feet and in front of us the grass is green while that behind us, like everywhere else, is either dead or dying. On the other side of the village, we observe the same sharp division between green and brown. That which lies in between shouldn’t exist, but it does, eleven pairs of eyes can’t be wrong. Tom justifies his election by coming up with a plan. He, Clem, and myself will go down to the village and request the bottles we need. If they refuse he will say that he has fifty armed followers who are prepared to take them by force and shoot anyone who tries to stop us. Even if they don’t believe him they are unlikely to risk it happening? If we each take an empty backpack we can load up with enough bottles to keep us going for three more days. We stay hidden for as long as we can before coming out onto the road within plain sight of the men on the barricade. A startled shout signals we have been seen and we stop while Tom does his ‘we come in peace’ bit by waving his handkerchief above his head. We resume walking and although the man with the shotgun puts it to his shoulder he also points it down at the road. He is joined by several other men who come running up from the village. We get within twenty feet of them before they order us to stop. If Tom ever needed to win friends and influence people this is the time. What he says in the next few minutes may well decide whether we live or die. But things are definitely on the up. Tom recognises one of the men who just arrived. Not only do they know each other but they are in the same Lodge. Once they are through making odd signs at each other we are escorted into the main street like honoured guests. The thirty bottles we request is the least they can do for us and while someone is sent off to fetch them we are taken into the Green Dragon for a pint of the landlord’s special brew. Our host, whose name is Lancelot, continues to live up the best traditions of chivalry by insisting that we shower in the guest rooms over the bar.

        We reassemble downstairs feeling like Royalty if that still exists. Then Tom asks the ‘how’ question and Lancelot’s self-assured bonhomie becomes altogether more thoughtful. He repeats Tom’s question back at him as though he’s playing for time in which to construct an answer. “How is everything normal here when the rest of the country is anything but? A good question,” he says, “although we’re not the only place like this. You see we have been fortunate, so very, very fortunate, we have a special friend, a benefactor who is also our protector, our guiding light. Everything we have we owe to him. He knows you are here and would like to meet you. Would you like to meet him, Tom?”

[To be continued]

 Copyright Richard Banks