A NEW BEGINNING (Part 3 & Last)

A NEW BEGINNING  (Part 3 & Last)

by Richard Banks 

He knows you are here and would like to meet you. Would you like to meet him, Tom?”       

         While it would be impolite to refuse, I’m sensing that once we meet Lancelot’s chum there may be no leaving this place. Tom evidently has no such fears and cheerfully accepts the invitation on behalf of us all. We are escorted further along the High Street to a red brick building that was once the administrative hub of the Parish Council. A policeman stands guard at the door and salutes us as we go in. Lancelot leads us up two flights of stairs before pausing at a door bearing the letters ‘Ai-Ai-Ouch’ and a smiling emoji. Lancelot also smiles in a way that is intended to reassure. “Don’t be alarmed,” he says, “there is nothing to fear, he really is a dear, dear friend.” He turns back to the door and administers two careful raps that are immediately acknowledged by a voice bidding us to enter. We do and Lancelot who is now behind us quickly shuts the door and puts himself firmly against it.

         The creature that bids us welcome contorts its long, beak-like face into an expression that is evidently intended to put us at our ease. I’m not sure whether he reminds me of a bird or a reptile, there are bits of both, but my capacity for expressing fear or revulsion is curiously muted.

         “Call me Ouch,” he says, “everyone else does.” The creature reaches out a long, black arm at the end of which a large pincher-like hand grasps our own, raising and lowering each one several times before allowing them to fall limply back to our sides. Having awkwardly observed a ritual with which he seems less than familiar he relaxes his face into an impenetrable blankness. The eyes that sparkled are now becalmed. He bids us sit down on the four chairs that have been set-out for us.

         Ouch has a deep voice that is almost a growl. He could roar if he wanted to but for now he talks quietly, taking care to do so clearly and precisely. In this he may be assisted by a metal disc on his desk that pulsates with the sound of every word. Ouch enquires solicitously about our health which we assure him has been unaffected by the mist. “Yes,” he says, “it is a tragedy, so many dead. It is the plague that can’t be cured, the emerald cloud in space that lays waste to everything in its path. It comes, consumes and continues on. Nothing can stop or divert it. All that can be done is to limit the damage it causes and render assistance to surviving lifeforms. That’s why we are here. Our mission is to help, and as you can see we already have made a small but promising start. But who         are we, you must be thinking; strange creatures indeed if they all look like me.” He gives out what he intends to be a chuckle of amusement. Tom reciprocates with a nervous guffaw. “Well, what can I tell you; we are Carn-a-tuns from the planet Carn-a-tus in a corner of the Universe we call the Golden Spiral. Until recently we were as unaware of yourselves as you were of us but as the mist neared this planet we observed much about it that we could not bear to see destroyed. I only wish we could have done more. Regretfully this village is only one of fifty sites on Earth that we have been able to preserve. But as your proverb says, from little acorns mighty oaks do grow and, with our support, there may soon be many sturdy saplings. As for yourselves I am happy to say that your troubles are at an end. There are 248 good people here, three less than when we arrived. Therefore, there are three vacancies which Lancelot has recommended should be filled by yourselves.”

         “But, what about the others?” I say, in a voice that sounds less than grateful. Ouch seems disconcerted by my intervention. The look of benevolence that has returned to his face momentarily falters but is rescued by the turning-on of his smile; this time it is a wistful, apologetic smile. “They can not be admitted,” he says, “regretfully they would overburden the limited resources of the village. But they will, I assure you, receive all the assistance we can offer. They have already been given the liquid they need and will soon be relocated to a place of safety. They send you their best wishes. I assure you their troubles are very much at an end. Now, as for yourselves I suggest you return to the Green Dragon, have another glass of the landlord’s excellent ale and meet the people with whom you will be billeted.”

         So, that’s what we do, and our fears and uncertainties vanish as we drink the liquid refreshment that is offered us. By the time we are taken to our new homes we are feeling more satisfied with life than anyone has a right to. Am I drunk? I don’t think so. In the morning it may be different, but when I wake up I still have this strange new feeling of carefree contentment. The man whose house I now share seems equally happy with life and when, in the afternoon, he proposes marriage I have no hesitation in accepting - well, it would have been rude to refuse. Tom and Clem have also settled into village life. Tom is the Town Clerk while Clem works for a farmer who has two daughters who constantly compete for his attention. Even by the standards of the village he is a happy man.

         So, it has all ended well, although, of course, nothing has truly ended. Life continues and new things happen that require us to adapt and change. Not that this makes us any less happy. The new things may be good, bad or indifferent but none of them have the power to change the way we feel. We observe and accept everything that comes our way. Lancelot tells us we should be grateful to our benefactors and we are. As long as we have the landlord’s special ale how can we be anything but grateful.

         The Carn-it-tuns are now a common sight in the village. It seems that Ouch and his fellow decision makers have decided that our regeneration should go hand in hand with the village becoming a heritage and visitor centre. Our Carn-it-tun visitors wander about the village observing us at work and play which we endeavour to make as entertaining as possible. Cheese making and straw plaiting is what I do, while others milk cows, plough fields or chase foxes. There is skittles in the Dragon, and Morris dancing in the street outside. Our visitors seem genuinely interested in everything we do and, unable to distinguish between public and private places, often find their way into our homes. They seem most interested in the babies, of which I now have two, and our WCs which are a constant source of puzzlement to them. When they ask, through their translation discs, what they are for I flush away several sheets of tissue and they depart even more puzzled than before. Sometimes they forget to turn-off their discs and we discover that they are journeying on to other visitor attractions: to Factory Land, Marine Town or Coal Valley. Sometimes we hear things we are not meant to know, about the man hunts in the Wilderness Zones and the human zoo on their own planet. Even worse, we now know that far from saving us from the green mist the Carn-it-tuns used it against us to kill and enslave.

         I should be feeling all sorts of strong emotion but nothing can disturb the warm glow of happy indifference that shields me from everything that should trouble me. It is the same for everyone else. For the first time in our lives we have been freed from the tyranny of sadness and anxiety. We lack for nothing. Our situation steadily improves. Children are born in increasing numbers and the land which was dead is now almost back to normal. We have been allocated two new fields while the rest of the land outside the village is tended by huge machines that Ouch assures us will produce new crops, the like of which we have never seen before. There will be some for us, he says, a special treat to mark the fifth anniversary of their coming. We murmur our thanks and raise our glasses to him. Happy, happy, happy! Has life ever been this good?

 

                                              [The End]      

 

                         Copyright Richard Banks                                                      

Personal Wellbeing ~ 21

 
Help!

The Barefoot Medic (needs your help)

I’ve stayed silent too long.  I’ve got false teeth. 

 

I need to use tooth glue (Polygrip) to keep my top plate in place.

 

So, the glue tends to make my mouth dry.  I have type 2 diabetes, so prefer not to suck sweets to bring moisture to my mouth.

 

In the past two years, I tried chewing gum, but it sticks to my top plate and can’t easily be removed. 

 

Then, “Salvation” I found that Wrigleys Spearmint Gum didn’t stick to my upper plate; problem solve!?  Not quite! 

 

Because I’ve increasingly found it hard to source WSG ~ even on the internet?!

 

Does anybody know why I can’t source Wrigleys spearmint gum, or have any idea why it isn’t available? 

 

HELP!

 

Attach answers or send them to Len (Many thanks)

Tylywoch ~ 15

 Tylywoch ~ 15 Ordens Forge

By Len Morgan

He made a decision.   At the end of yet another day, he retired to his quarters, but on opening the door he immediately became conscious of the citrus aroma.   He wedged open the door and retraced his steps to the entrance of the corridor, and walked downstairs to the next level, then the next, and the next…   Twenty levels down he found that all the corridors were identical and empty.   He continued on down after a brief glimpse down each corridor.    He was well into the sixties when he noticed the air becoming humid and foul smelling.   He found himself choking and decided there was nothing to be gained by exploring further.   He felt guilty and a little sad at invading Orden’s private space.   He retraced his steps until the symbols on the wall matched those of his own floor at which point he decided to continue up to the surface.   He realised that Orden was alone, his face was streaked with tears, that whole vast complex was empty, they were alone.   He gazed out at the dampened forge, it now seemed a ghostly place, he wiped his eyes and went slowly down two floors to ‘SUB-2’ returning to his own room, overcome with melancholy.   He lay on the bed and slipped into a natural slumber.   For the first time since his arrival, he slept and did not dream. 

Next morning Orden woke him with a question. 

“I gather you took a nocturnal stroll last evening?”

“That is so,” he replied.   “I discovered that there are no others, we are alone.   I’m sorry Orden I didn’t know.   Will you tell me what happened to your people?   So many empty rooms, it must have been something disastrous…” 

Orden laughed aloud.  “Don’t pity me human!” he said, “this is not my world, my people do not live here, I'm just one in a long line of custodians.   We were sent here in a time of need, to gather and preserve the remnants of a promising race whose technology outstripped their ability to control it.  When we arrived this was a dying world.   We built this place as an ark, to house the remains of that race, and as many as possible of the other endangered species, that would not otherwise have survived in that changing environment.   We kept them in stasis, in these halls, for hundreds of thousands of years until conditions became more life sustaining.” Orden paused finding it difficult to frame his words.

“Then you let them out?” Jax asked encouragingly.

“No!” he said sadly, in the period they had been in stasis, other life forms had populated the world.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”   Jax asked patiently

 “They are all still in there, at the lower levels, waiting to be released.”

“They may not live very long, the air down there is so foul and badly polluted, I couldn’t get any lower than the 60^th level…”

“It's gone down that far?   A year ago the pollution was in the 50’s.   There is a sensor attached to an automatic unlocking mechanism, on the lower levels.   When the air reaches level 500 the creatures down there will be released lower level forms first the intelligent species are house in the levels below 100.   The upper levels have always been left empty for use by my people, the Jellonans.   If what you say is true, we have less than 400 years to formulate a plan.”

“What would happen if they were not released.   How long could they remain in stasis?”

“In theory they could remain there Indefinitely.” Orden replied.   “But this place has to be kept provisioned and in a state of repair.   It could go on without my input for hundreds of years but if something went wrong…”

“Then I suggest you start working on a way to ensure the pollution levels remain high enough to avoid triggering the release, or you will be responsible for a disaster far worse than that you were originally protecting them from, a clash of epic proportions.   When they emerge, they will expect to reclaim their world, which is what I’m sure you promised them when they were incarcerated here.   With their superior technology they will surely be capable of destroying us.   They would treat us as vermin and do their best to destroy our civilisation.   We could release them a few at a time, transport them to a distant part of this world?” he reasoned.   “How long would they stay there…”

Orden nodded “Two hundred years ago I fixed the sensors to open only on a methane atmosphere, one that could never exist on this world, and would kill all life on the planet.   A crime for which I was censured and sentenced to a further 1000 years as custodian on your world.”

“Congratulations!   For an intelligent being you do the most stupid things.  Why did you have to tell the HM?”

“But, if they are allowed out the Karaxen will destroy your race and the world as you know it.” Orden reasoned.

“Maybe their minds could be altered, to erase the memories of their technology, you could release a few at a time into our communities, we could integrate them,” Jax said. 

Orden shook his head vigorously, his despair evident.  “They are not human, if you saw them you would call them monsters.”

“Transfer them to another planet!”

“Beyond our resources, if it had been possible it would have been our first option.   All planets capable of sustaining carboxy life forms are currently occupied.   This is a problem that must be resolved here on Abbalar.”

“It isn’t that simple Orden, it's a problem of Jellonan making!   You should have left nature to find its own course, hard as that may seem.” He snapped angrily, “now, you will have to bring us up to their level…” suddenly his eye registered understanding.  “You should walk away from the problem now, as you should have done then, but your race is not made that way.” He smiled and slapped the stocky Jellonan on the shoulder, instantly regretting his action, it was like punching a rock face. 

.-…-. 

During his stay with Orden, he mastered many scientific methods besides metallurgy;  Fluidics, Chemistry, Physics, pure and applied Mathematics to name a few.   Frequently on encountering a seemingly insurmountable problem, he’d sleep on it.   The mild sedative in his room, inducing a deep meditative state, in which he was able to commune with the Hive Matrix a vast network of sensitives through the universe; enabling him to seek out answers to his questions.   As the days and weeks passed, he became more adept at this form of communication and his problem solving abilities improved by leaps and bounds.   Atomic theory and pure mathematics Quantum mechanics were no longer the confusing brick walls they had appeared when he'd first arrived.   Towards the end of his stay, he was able to grasp and solve abstract theoretical problems as easily as the practical ones.   He completed his final tasks swiftly and with the ease that comes only to the young.   On the eve of his departure, Orden presented him with a plain wooden box lined with a plush quilting, on which lay a thin spike like blade with a hollow crystal hilt filled with an opaque golden fluid.

“You must not loose this or any of the fluid within.   Present it to Terrek on your return to Hartwell, he will know what to do with it.” 

That night, his dreams were particularly vivid, it seemed that through the Hive Matrix (HM) the whole universe was there to witness him taking a solemn oath to all…

.-…-. 

He broke fast, the following morning and bid Orden a sad farewell, making his way back to Hartwell and Terrek.   He was conscious of all he had learned, an enormous amount, but the final act of ‘being made’ was still to come, and would take place back in Terrek’s forge; two and a half years had passed in his mind since he left;  just six weeks had elapsed in real time.   He was now sixteen, and had at last come of age.  

(To be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

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       

Breakdown 

By Sis Unsworth

I often think back through the years, my memory stretches far,

When petrol was much cheaper, but so few owned a car.

So understand in those days, a car ride was a treat,

Neighbours were quite envious, if you drove out of our street.

One sunny Sunday afternoon, a knock came at our door,

we rushed to open it at once, and uncle Jim we saw.

An old blue van with windows, he pointed out with glee,

“I am the new proud owner, that van belongs to me.”

Uncle Jim said with a smile, “I’ll take you for a ride,”

so Mum, Dad, Nan and me, we all just climbed inside.

Then Nan sat with uncle Jim, next to the driver’s seat,

he’d have to pick up, Lil and George, who he’d arranged to meet.

I felt so proud as we drove off, I hoped our neighbours saw,

I waved to Mrs Jones, who was standing by her door.

Then we picked up Lil and George, who lived just down our way,

I did feel quite excited, it was a special day.

Uncle Jim said with a smile “I’ll drive down to Thorpe Bay,

and pick up Auntie Alice too, her house is on the way.”

We knocked at Auntie Alice’s, she went back for her hat,

that was when Jim noticed, one tyre had gone flat.

You'll all have to jump out, so I can change the wheel.

The thought that we had broken down made me feel quite ill.

But Uncle Jim soon fixed the tyre, and we started off again,

then when we got to old Thorpe Bay, we had some heavy rain.

We’ll wait here till the rain stops, Uncle Jim did say.

But then the dark clouds emphasised, that it might rain all day.

“Or maybe we should head for home,” he said with heavy heart.

But when he tried to drive us home, the engine wouldn’t start.

Uncle Jim then tried again, then added with a frown,

“I don’t think this will get us home, it seems we’ve broken down.”

Uncle George said, let me try, but he didn’t have a clue,

so Auntie Alice jumped out then and headed for the loo.

Uncle George looked inside, he frowned and scratched his head,

I think that me and Lil will go, into that pub instead.

Nan, Dad, Mum and me, were still inside the van,

A very sad faced uncle Jim said, “I’ve done all I can.”

Auntie Alice then came back, from her visit to the loo,

heard Lil and George were in the pub, so she went in there too.

Still the rain was pouring down, and Nan began to moan,

”I wish I hadn’t come now, I should have stayed at home.”

Uncle Jim got angry, he said “I’ve done my best.”

He’d tried to get it started; now he’d like to have a rest.

Aunt Alice came back from the pub, to say she’d lost her hat.

George and Lil both came back, George tripped and fell down flat

Lil tried to help him up again, with help from uncle Jim,

They got him to the old blue van, and we pushed him in.

Then we tried to get some sleep, as we had to stay the night

We heard someone knocking on the door, it gave us all a fright.

So uncle Jim peered outside, then gave a second look,

It was a policeman standing there, opening his notebook.

“Are you the owner of this van?” He said both loud and clear,

“you cannot park here overnight, so move it out of here.”

Uncle Jim then explained, “the van it just won’t go.

The policeman said "I’ll take a look or else I’ll get a tow,"

popping the hood he checked it through, said with a cheerful grin,

“If you want to drive this van back home, then put some petrol in!!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

 

A NEW BEGINNING  (Part 1 of 3)

by Richard Banks

Without Conner there would be no hope. He is our leader, our guide and mentor. He has rescued us from despair. We are battered, traumatised, but despite all that has happened we have survived and daily grow in our resolve to keep going and never give up.

        He tells us that this is the year zero of a new age. He has freed us from the prison of memory; right now there is only the present and the future. There can be no looking back, the measure of our lives is to be found in each new day; if no worse who knows it might be the start of better. The green mist that covered the land is slowly rising into the sky. Its poisons hatched it may, one day, drift off into space. At present, it is a shroud through which the sun glimmers but never shines. Although it is July the weather is cold and leaves flutter down from the trees.

        Today we have twenty miles to walk. We journey towards Halmouth from whence the radio transmissions of a ferry company can sometimes be heard, incomplete snatches of conversation between crackles of static electricity. There is a ship at sea, maybe more. This may be the nearest thing to normal that still exists. Elsewhere radio and TV stations no longer transmit, the internet’s down and there’s been no gas and electricity for over two weeks. More people have died than survived. There is widespread panic and a breakdown in law and order. Nowhere is this worse than in the Cities and larger towns and no one goes there who doesn’t need to. In the villages through which we pass whole communities have perished and there is no one to stop us from breaking into shops and taking whatever food we can find. We avoid conflict, but do what we have to to survive; nobodies lives are more important than our own.

        After three hours we come to Little Hallop where there is a medieval church and a teashop with a garden that only a few weeks ago sold cream teas to a constant stream of visitors. Today the buildings remain undamaged, as they do elsewhere, but no living person remains. We come across two bodies outside a public house, otherwise, the villagers are in their beds where they perished with the coming of the mist. For now, no one has an explanation for what’s happened. How some folk have survived when most have not is only one of many unanswered questions. Maybe those still living only have a stay of execution, time alone will tell.

        On the main street, we find a grocer’s shop. To our relief, the door is shut and bolted. Everything that was inside when the mist came down is still there. Conner rings the bell. When no one answers he forces open the door and we go in. The shop is gloomy and instinctively Laura reaches out for the light switch which, of course, no longer works. The freezer has also ceased to function and an unpleasant smell is seeping out from within. We fill up our backpacks with tins and bottles from the shelves and are in and out in less than twenty minutes. The sooner we are back into open country the better, we are not the only ones scavenging for food. If we are spotted by another, larger group they may take all that we have.

        Conner leads the way. He has a compass and map that keeps us clear of the main roads and towns. Three weeks ago he was a school caretaker doing odd jobs for his more affluent neighbours, a former squaddy whose martial skills had no place in civilian life. Now he is our Chief. The world has changed and the future hinges on people like him. The twelve survivors he leads are now as irrelevant to the new world order as he was to that which preceded it; Tom was a stockbroker, Ellie a buyer for a fashion house, Laura a florist, and the others, including myself, computer gazing administrators. In case you’re wondering, my name’s Kate. There are also three children, the youngest of whom is eleven.

      A motorway bars our way. Devoid of its normal traffic it is used only by bikers who have taken over the petrol stations and prey on anyone who isn’t them. While the pumps still work the road is their racetrack and the roar of their machines can be heard day and night. This evening is no exception.

      We arrive just before sunset at the top of an embankment that slopes down to the road. To our left, a few minutes march away, is a bridge to the other side but any chance of a safe crossing is dashed by the sight of three men on the far side. We duck down behind some bushes. Conner observes them through his binoculars and confirms that they are armed; there is smoke from what may be an encampment. We have no choice but to wait until dark, move further down the road, and cross it on foot. There are six lanes and two hard shoulders, plus a fence on the central reservation between two crash barriers.

        We stay hidden watching the bikers roar by. In the course of the next hour, there are ten of them, the roar of their engines audible for seventeen seconds before they pass. If we start to cross when the road is quiet we will, most likely, reach the other side without mishap, providing we can find a way past the fence. When it is dark Conner sets off with a pair of bolt cutters to see if he can cut a way through. If he is seen by the bikers it will not go well for him, but he keeps close to the ground as they pass and in the darkness is unseen. He returns with the news that he has been successful but that the gap he has made is only wide enough for two people to squeeze through at the same time. His plan, therefore, is for us to make six separate crossings of two persons. He will be the last to go, alongside Alan, a retired banker, who being the oldest in our group will struggle more than most to make it in time.

        We wait until the next biker thunders by and as the sound of his machine fades into silence we listen out for the next one. When there is silence Bill and Judy begin their dash across. The rest of us watch as they scramble over the first crash barrier and through the fence before fading into the darkness. When twenty seconds have elapsed we assume they are safely on the other side. We listen for the approach of another bike but when nothing is heard Ellie and Clem set out. They are over the first barrier when the next rider is heard, but by the time he is past they have surely made it to the other side. The bike just gone is still audible when the sound of the next one can be heard. We wait until it has passed before Andy and his son make their move. When they are up to the fence and the road is still quiet Tom and Val follow on. For over a minute there is silence. Then the next cyclist roars by and I set-off with Laura. We are scarcely through the fence when the sound of the next bike can be heard. We have seventeen seconds to complete the remaining distance. It should be more than enough but Laura who is gasping for breath is struggling to get over the second barrier. I pull her over it and as she tumbles to the ground her backpack falls from her shoulders. We snatch it up and drag it along between us. We are close to panic but keep going, throwing ourselves down on the grassy slope of the opposite embankment. As we do so the headlights of the motorbike light up the tarmac over which we have just passed.

        We establish contact with the others who have already crossed. Everyone is OK apart from a few cuts and bruises. Only Conner and Alan remain on the other side. What has been difficult for forty-something Laura will likely be worse for Alan. No doubt this is why Conner is making the crossing with him. Another bike whizzes by. In the silence that follows I picture them starting off but almost immediately the next bike can be heard. They have seventeen seconds at most to get across. I start counting. On ten I think I hear them scrambling over the first barrier. The fence should take them only a second or two more. On thirteen I catch sight of their dark shapes struggling over the second barrier. They have three lanes and the hard shoulder to cross; they are not going to make it. I hear Conner’s voice saying to go back. If they lie down flat on the central reservation any possibility of a collision is avoided and they may not be seen. But for one of them logic no longer applies; he breaks free of the other man and runs as fast as he can towards us. He is halfway across when he is caught up in the headlight of the bike that a split second later ploughs into him. The cry of terror that precedes the collision is followed by the thud of metal on flesh and a shower of sparks as the bike overturns and somersaults down the road. There is shouting from the men on the bridge, more shouts as the petrol tank explodes, and then a quieter voice we know only too well. It is Conner. The rest of us are numb with shock but he is calm, in control. In his mind the only thing that matters right now is what happens next and that is to get as far away, as quickly as we can. “We’re all here,” I tell him. All, that is except Alan. That bit I don’t say, and as we scramble up the embankment he is already no more than collateral damage. More than ever I want to survive, the only thing that matters right now is me.

 [To be continued]

  Copyright Richard Banks      

 

       

 

                         In a Foreign Land 

Removed at the request of the Author.

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