After The Pandemic - Smith: The End of the World (1) (1383 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: After_the_Pandemic Smith
Rating: 1.92 on 29 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2005-05-19 14:42:44 EDT
Related Tales...
ATP - Intro http://www.ubersite.com/m/61238
ATP - Background
-Corrigan http://www.ubersite.com/m/61296
-Variant C http://www.ubersite.com/m/61350
ATP - Smith tales
-Archangels 1 http://www.ubersite.com/m/61513
-Archangels 2 http://www.ubersite.com/m/61755
-Archangels 3 http://www.ubersite.com/m/61985
-Archangels 4 http://www.ubersite.com/m/62289
-Archangels 5 http://www.ubersite.com/m/62570
-Smith in D.C. http://www.ubersite.com/m/64167
-Smith at Sea http://www.ubersite.com/m/64857
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=(1)=
Smith was dreaming.
The girl was calling to him, and he was very close.
He was in a tunnel. It was dark. He was seeing through his fingers. The walls were rough bricks. Moisture seeped and dripped and lent the air a metallic odor.
"Are you the man they call Smith?"
Her voice sounded as sweet as sugar tasted, and sugar was a rare and wonderful thing these days. She had an accent, and she rolled her r's.
She spoke again. "______ Smith?"
"Yeah." She was the only person alive who knew his real name. "You're the one who has been calling to me?"
"Yes. I'm Trina. Trina Klozy. Thank God you are finally here."
"Where are you?"
She made a sound. A sob?
Water dripped. Her voice was soft. Every sound echoed.
"Over here."
He was close. He walked faster, then stopped dead.
There was something in front of him. It was making a sound like an engine. Like an engine wrapped in cotton.
Smith opened his eyes.
"Get off!"
He swatted the cat away. It had been sleeping on his chest and purring.
The cat leaped aside and paused in the doorway of the old barn, watching him.
The moon was low in the sky. The fuzzy tabby was an All Hallow's Eve silhouette, black and orange.
Smith didn't hate cats, no immune hated cats, for they were kin in their resistance to the bug in its many forms. But a stray cat was a hungry belly to feed, and Smith was having a hard enough time finding food for one.
Three months ago, crossing what old signage called the Derbyshire region, Smith had slipped and fallen into a small stream. He'd felt a metal box under one hand
The stream was cool, even on a warm summer day. The box was full of military rations. The rations were dehydrated lumps and powders in vacuum packs which were sealed inside double-layered cans. Stenciled on the outside of the box was 'Day Squad South Liverpool.'
The rations were forty-eight years old.
The Britains had been hit harder than the States, if you didn't take into account big American cities in the northeast. The Britains were a storybook land now, full of wastelands and fiefdoms and sheriffs and bandits and mutations which were once man and animal.
Smith had learned this, and much more, while on the road.
In his travels Smith had been assaulted, chased, and once even accused of plotting a rebellion with two pigs and a goat. He had been attacked by a woggie, a mutant badger the size of a bear. He had also met some kind locals along the way. They spoke strangely, and one erudite wanderer had told Smith that most of the original survivors in the Britains had been from Wales, Cornwall, Scotland, and another large island called Eireland. The English speakers in central and southeast Britain had been all but erased.
The bug had undergone countless wild mutations here. There were few conversions at the time of the pandemic, and many, many deaths. Most of the conversions, man and animal, became neither. They wandered the countryside in a netherworld, unique mutations, alone, dangerous, and hard to kill. Survivors spoke of wild cats as big as a man and as bloodthirsty as a leech...
This was a strange country.
Over the years those survivors who had repopulated the island had come to speak a mishmash of languages, called Gorse.
There was coexistence among leeches and survivors, as long as the humans did not rise above their station in life. They were a food source and beasts of burden, yet they often fought battles for their leech keepers.
There were few conversions these days. The leeches of the Britains were a jealous lot.
Across the land were vassal knights, leeches in body armor who oversaw survivor serfs and made war against each other, all of them pledging allegiance to Lord Daric. Daric lived in the north, in the seat of power, in Edinburgh.
Legend said Daric was seven feet tall and one hundred years old. Legend said he had killed over a thousand men who had challenged his authority. Legend said Daric had a heart as strong as oak and could not be killed.
Smith had set a pot of stream water over a fire, wondering if anyone had ever tried to do the same with this fearful Daric and his heart of oak. When the water got to boiling he moved the pot to one side and dumped in the contents of one packet. He stirred brown granules and tiny multicolored chunks with a spoon.
He had let the pot simmer for a bit, and then he had taken a taste. It was good. Some kind of stew with lots of meat in it. Smith had set to, figuring he would either wake up in the morning with a full belly or he wouldn't wake up at all. Even odds. He survived, and managed to make the contents of the metal box last three weeks, but they were the last decent meals he would have for some time.
The memory of that stew made his stomach rumble.
He sat up in his bedroll and made a face.
Laid out in a line beside his duffle bag were seven plump mice.
There was little wild game to be had now. Most of the free-ranging animals were either leeches or mutants, and Smith wasn't about to eat either. He ate fowl when he could catch it, birds being immune to the old sickness even though folklore said the pandemic had started with them. Catching birds was hard work though, and with bullets in very limited supply he had to resist the urge to shoot every one that flew buy.
Vegetables were another matter. Thousands of carefully-tended gardens had spread seeds from one end of the island to the other, and for years lettuces and onions and roses and mint had grown wild. The loss of human life had been great early in the Pandemic, and the much of the countryside had not been touched by man in over a generation. Smith figured that as recently as a decade ago you could have stopped just about anywhere on the road and found the fixings for a good salad at your feet. The fiefdoms were once again controlling these valuable food sources along with whatever game had survived and was edible.
Still...
Smith opened his duffle, pushing maps and clothes out of the way. In a cloth bag he had a few plants he had collected as he walked north along a crumbling lane of the A1. He had a large courgette, a dozen spring onions, and two bruised squash. If it hadn't been for the help of a worn copy of the RHS Good Plant Guide, found in a Shipley bookstore a few days ago, he wouldn't really have known what to look for. Some parts of the countryside here were as overgrown as the forests in the American northwest. He knew a lot of edible plants, but the book helped him identify them by flowers and leaves. He had never had to dig them out of the ground before, having gotten them through barter.
The cat was still in the doorway of the barn. The barn was outside the ruins of a city called Durham. Dawn was coming. Smith could light a fire.
'C'mere," he said.
The tabby came closer, stopped and sat just outside arm's reach.
"You were busy last night," he said, gesturing at the mice.
The cats followed his hand. It made a noise, an abbreviated and muffled meow.
Smith took that as a yes.
He found his dented pot and walked into the barnyard. There was a very old pump here, and likely a spring below, because a little hard work brought forth fresh water.
Smith made a fire and set the pot over it on a folding wire frame. He set aside a few veggies, and then pulled his knife out of his boot and grabbed one deceased mouse by the tail.
It would be a lot of work for a little meat, but he had a craving for stew again.
*
Smith belched, making room for a last mouthful of stew. Pigeons fluttered in alarm up in the rafters of the barn. He chewed tender chunks of mouse with his eyes closed.
The tabby was dozing in the sun, sleeping off a full stomach of brains and eyeballs and entrails, although Smith had tossed the small livers and hearts into the stewpot along with the tiny bits of meat he had found.
Smith rinsed off his pot, bowl, and utensils, filled his canteen and packed his duffle bag and bedroll. It was noon. Time to hit the road. He strapped on his revolvers.
He slipped his arms through the straps of his long duffle bag and walked across the barnyard to the small road that would take him to the ass-backwards interstates they had over here, and paused.
The tabby was looking at him, half asleep.
"Gotta go," Smith said.
The tabby rolled over and showed its white underbelly. This was no feral cat.
"Balls," Smith said. "I shouldn't be doing this."
He walked back to the tabby and saw a considerable number of nipples.
"Hello, Miss," he said.
He scratched warm cat belly and then scooped up the tabby, placing her between his duffle and the back of his neck.
By the time Smith was a half mile from the barn the cat was asleep again, one limp paw tapping his shoulder with every step.
*
Smith's fingers were moving. The right hand counted six...seven. The left had counted nine. His pockets held sixteen rounds for his guns.
In Derbyshire he had broken into an intact house at the end of a burned out row in a village with no name. He found no food or other usable supplies. There had been black and white pictures on the walls. A robust, broad-chested man in an uncomfortable-looking uniform raised pints of beer, stood beside small airplanes with a circular insignia, and posed in greasy coveralls.
Smith had checked the house from top to bottom. There was nothing here for him... except a toilet upstairs. It was quite clean. Holes in the walls and roof had let runnels of rainwater in over the years, and half of the heavy white lid on the toilet tank had been broken away, the end result being that the tank was full, and ready for use.
It had been a very long time since Smith had used a flush toilet. He usually just squatted in the woods.
Smith collected some yellow newspaper pages from a bedroom closet and went into the bathroom. He closed the door and pushed the little locking button in the doorknob. He dropped his pants and chuckled. The wall beside him was mostly gone. Smith rolled a flimsy with bartered juana and smoked and shit and watched a spring rain fall down. When he stood and flushed, the sight of papered turds being whisked away made him cheer.
It was when he bent to pull up his pants that he saw it. Under the bathroom sink. A warped board, and something behind it. He moved the board aside and saw a burlap bag. Inside the bag was a case, and inside the case were two very old revolvers smeared with heavy grease. There was a box of shells as well, but they were discolored with age so Smith stayed clear of them. No. 2 MK1 was stamped on each of the revolvers. With a few strips of leather he could make sling holsters for them. They were crude, certainly not Smith & Wesson's, but they would load .38s and Smith was sure he could find some of those somewhere.
Smith had been wrong. Shells were hard to come by, and he only ever found a few here or there. He would have to apply them judiciously until he found some more.
The barn was miles behind him now, and he was walking at a good pace. He was just thinking how pleasant the uneventful nature of the last few days had been when he was attacked by what was called a jordy in these parts.
The jordy (back home it would be a muncher) shambled onto the road. It was naked and sexless, its groin a patchwork of chewed flesh.
The jordy tried to speak. "Broon-broon!"
That was pretty much all munchers said over here. 'Broon-broon,' over and over again. Smith had no idea what they were trying to say. For that matter, he had no idea why they were called jordys.
The tabby sat up on his duffle and hissed.
Smith felt cat spit land on his right ear.
The jordy ran at Smith. He raised both arms, reaching for the sides of his duffle and the leather scabbards sewn onto each side of the long canvas bag.
When he brought his hands down the left was holding three feet of an old walking stick. The smooth wooden grip fit his hand perfectly, and the sharp broken end made the cane a handy stake. In his other hand Smith held a Persian Kindjal which he has found in the ruins of a pub, an old, pitted sword with a two-foot blade.
Smith planted the sharp end of the cane in the jordy's sluggish heart. It stopped dead, staring at its chest. Smith waited a beat. When the jordy looked up at him in confusion ("Broon?") he lopped off its head.
He wiped sword and stake clean in the grass and then continued on his way. The tabby wasted little time slipping back into sleep.
User Reviews
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2008-06-29 15:26:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by zakalwe (user info) at 2005-09-25 15:07:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
ahaha, geordies. what next, scouser leeches?
I really like the idea of Edinburgh Castle becoming a seat of power again. scary to think that society could fall so far to make that a stronghold again.
Submitted by Falconer (user info) at 2005-07-28 18:45:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Supreme_Overlord (user info) at 2005-07-21 22:35:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
shite
Submitted by notyou (user info) at 2005-07-13 13:03:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by mbstateside (user info) at 2005-05-24 12:25:12 (#)
Ranking: 2
I think I'll take long weekends of work more often if it means I come back and find both you and Caes have posted new chapters.
----
I was just thinking the same thing, except I won't take long weekends. I'll just read them at work as usual. Great stories guys.
Submitted by Jungle_Jimanee (user info) at 2005-06-03 11:25:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
nice sword
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-05-24 14:47:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by nrduncan (user info) at 2005-05-24 14:26:12 (#)
Ranking: 2
From here (Thanks google):
http://tinyurl.com/97vfq
Or for the lazy:
Geordies are the inhabitants of the northern England city of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Geordies are often perceived by outsiders as friendly, somewhat unsophisticated folks, usually fanatical soccer supporters who like their beer. A rather unflattering Geordie stereotype is the outrageously politically incorrect (but likable rogue) comic strip character Andy Capp, drawn by Reg Smythe.
If you've ever tipped back a Newcastle Brown Ale, you've sampled the favorite drink of Geordies, known to them as "broon."
No, I'm not from the UK.
--
We have a winner.
Funny. I was just writing out the same basic thing for the next installment...
Submitted by nrduncan (user info) at 2005-05-24 14:26:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
From here (Thanks google):
http://tinyurl.com/97vfq
Or for the lazy:
Geordies are the inhabitants of the northern England city of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Geordies are often perceived by outsiders as friendly, somewhat unsophisticated folks, usually fanatical soccer supporters who like their beer. A rather unflattering Geordie stereotype is the outrageously politically incorrect (but likable rogue) comic strip character Andy Capp, drawn by Reg Smythe.
If you've ever tipped back a Newcastle Brown Ale, you've sampled the favorite drink of Geordies, known to them as "broon."
No, I'm not from the UK.
Submitted by mbstateside (user info) at 2005-05-24 12:25:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I think I'll take long weekends of work more often if it means I come back and find both you and Caes have posted new chapters.
This was another great addition .I laughed out loud when I read about the mutated badgers and referring to the Munchers as Jordys (It's actually spelt Geordies, not sure if you did that on pirpose to represent the words corruption over time or not) was classic. You've obviously met a couple of them.
Keep em coming.
Submitted by Benny (user info) at 2005-05-23 23:07:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Great stuff. You tell an amazing story.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-05-22 00:08:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Ahh... the Tick. Now that was a work of art.
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-05-20 23:01:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Jack, that was great. I love your style. The way you describe things makes reading about even the simplest of things extremely entertaining. I particularly liked the way you handled the cat.
In the immortal words of the Tick: Mandingo! I grok your mouth-music.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2005-05-20 17:06:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
For that matter, he had no idea why they were called jordys.
_____
bahahaha!!!
18 flavours of awesome, as usual.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-05-20 00:07:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Bird flu virus mutating, posing bigger threat-WHO
Reuters
May. 19, 2005 - The spate of human bird flu cases in Vietnam this year suggests the deadly virus may be mutating in ways that are making it more capable of being passed between humans, according to a World Health Organization report.
http://abcnews.go.com/Health/print?id=771490
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-05-19 22:38:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Hopefully a UK reader will see the relationship between jordy and broon,
Uh... what the fuck happened to my perfect +2?
I shall sulk and chain-smoke in my impotent rage.
Submitted by horse87 (user info) at 2005-05-19 19:43:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-05-19 19:26:51 (#)
Ranking: 0
Similar.
Mine is all beat to shit. It was definitely used.
The one in the photo is a little too clean.
--
Used on what?
..or should that be 'on who'?
BTW,I was just thinking....wouldn't it be funny if ITM was on Ubersite?
Then, you could use it on him!
Submitted by horse87 (user info) at 2005-05-19 19:33:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
"Broon.."
What...? 'Brains' said with a Scottish brogue?
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-05-19 19:27:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by indoninja (user info) at 2005-05-19 15:03:59 (#)
Ranking: 2
Does Jordy or Broon mean anything?
--
YES it does, but I'm hoping somebody will make the connection without me having to say. It's just some goofy wordplay.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-05-19 19:26:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by horse87 (user info) at 2005-05-19 17:36:05 (#)
Ranking: 2
Hey, is that sword in the picture the one that I think it is?
--
Similar.
Mine is all beat to shit. It was definitely used.
The one in the photo is a little too clean.
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2005-05-19 19:21:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
thats good reading.
don't stop
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2005-05-19 19:12:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
thrilled to see this.
Submitted by runswithscissors (user info) at 2005-05-19 18:20:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Yes! Keep it coming!
Submitted by Yes (user info) at 2005-05-19 17:59:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
So, so awesome.
Submitted by horse87 (user info) at 2005-05-19 17:36:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Hey, is that sword in the picture the one that I think it is?
Submitted by garcon_fou (user info) at 2005-05-19 17:21:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
just what I needed
Submitted by HadToBeDone (user info) at 2005-05-19 16:51:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Wicked, Dogg.
Submitted by dodahdave (user info) at 2005-05-19 16:39:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Why does this only have 2 ratings?!
This is excellent.
Submitted by indoninja (user info) at 2005-05-19 15:03:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Does Jordy or Broon mean anything?
Submitted by Mop (user info) at 2005-05-19 14:58:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Woo