STEEM-POCALYPSE SURVIVAL GAME CONTEST - Day 8 Round 1 - the Kiwi's story

trevor.george (67)in #steem-apocalypse • 7 years ago

Another beautiful day in paradise dawned, spreading a warm glow across the countryside. Birds woke and filled their air with a sleepy chorus. The usual daytime bugs dragged themselves out of bed, got their kids sorted, kissed their wives and headed off to work. Some would not make it back home in the evening, but such was life in paradise.

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Two rumpled forms slowly stirred from their roost in the base of a large tree, slapping and waving at the bugs as they dodged through traffic on their way to work. Most made it past the unexpected hazard of flapping limbs, but some did not, leaving families without a bread winner, and in some cases, wee bugs without parents. Those poor bugglets, now orphaned, stood very little chance of surviving beyond a day or so.

Oblivious of the damage they had caused, the men struggled to their feet, feeling cold and damp and sore. Bodies, hard used and pushed beyond comfortable limits, now chose to play the union card and refused to work. Joints went on strike and didn’t bend, while muscles went out in sympathy and refused to help.

Like wooden marionettes, the men tottered from their shelter looking for a patch of sunlight to warm themselves up in. A small bank offered a place to sit for a few moments and collect their thoughts while their bodies unfroze a little.

The warmth from the rising sun was like a balm, easing away some of the stiffness and pains, but not all of them. Neither man would be running anywhere today, even if the shooting started again.

The pair said nothing and made little noise beyond the odd hacking cough and half whispered curse. Too tired for banter, too sore to try and lighten their mood, the men slowly picked themselves up, wrestled their packs onto their backs and slowly set off on another longs day’s march.

The weather continued to grace them with clear skies and little wind. In many respects it was a glorious day, one that was perfect for picnics and frolicking in a lake or river. But frolicking days were long gone for these two, and while they would love to sit down to a nice full picnic hamper, none was on offer. So they trudged on, just grateful that it wasn’t raining.

As the day wore on into the morning they found themselves walking through a veritable forest of weeds. This area had obviously never heard of Monsanto, and the free range, organic weeds were growing to their full potential, all without the help of man.
Sparing little thought to the plants in their way, the men began pushing through the forest, doing their best not to flick themselves or each other in the face.

They had been in this weed grove for about five minutes when the son swore and stopped. He gingerly reached out and grasped a leafy stem and peered at the tiny hairs that covered it. Without his reading glasses it was difficult to see exactly, but he could feel the true nature of the plants surrounding him.

“It’s bloody stinging nettle!” he exclaimed “Arrrgh!” He began scratching is bare arms and stomping the plants around him in frustration. By the time his father arrived, he’d made quite a small clearing in the forest and was in the process of removing his pack.

His father looked on for a second then took off his own pack and dropped it on the ground. With a groan he eased himself down, using the pack as a seat. He too began scratching at his forearms as red welts began to form all over them.

“So what does your mate Bear Grylls say about stinging bloody nettle?” asked the old man grumpily. “Can we eat it?”

“No we bloody can’t” spat the son. “Mr. Bloody Grylls says the best thing is to not walk into a bloody forest of the bloody stuff. Because it itches like bloody crazy! Arrgh!”

He flopped down onto his own pack and sat staring at the ground. Every day was getting harder and harder. Every day they had less sleep, less food, more pain. How much more could they take? How had his father survived this long?

The old man had a few surprises up his sleeve for sure, and it was dawning on the younger man that he might even outlast him on this quest. Where he got the will and the reserves to keep on going, the son had no idea. He was just glad that he did. Facing the challenge before them alone, was not something the son wanted to contemplate.

He sighed deeply, and inhaled the scent of crushed leaves and fresh earth. His face took on a thoughtful look as he reached out and plucked a young leaf. He rolled it between his fingers watching as the juice stained the tips green. He rubbed the juice across a patch of skin dimpled by many little spikes puncturing his flesh and delivering a painful dose of toxins. He half expected nothing to happen, and half expected something bad would. He was surprised as the pain and itching subsided from the area he rubbed, and the more he rubbed, the more of his arms became free from the itching sensation.

With renewed purpose the young man reached out and grabbed more leaves, quickly crushing them.

“Here dad” he said. “Rub this on your arms. It takes the sting and the itching away.”

His father looked dubious, but took the crushed leaves and rubbed his arms, coating them in the green juice of the plant. “That’s better” he said. “Anything else we can use this stuff for? There’s enough of it growing here.”

Memories flooded back into the son’s mind as his enthusiasm returned. “Yeah there is.” He said.

“We can eat it, we just have to crush the leaves first, and they’re actually really good for you.” To demonstrate he picked a couple of younger leaves, folded them over and twisted them in his fingers. The bundle was then carefully deposited in his mouth and chewed, as if it might suddenly spit fire.

“Tastes a bit like spinach” he said. “Not bad. Better than the worms.”

Still dubious, his father decided to wait for a while and see if there was a delayed affect, before chomping on his own greens.

“We should strip some of this down and make some rope and stuff” said the son around his mouthful.

“And how do we do that, oh Master of the Foliage?” asked his father.

The son demonstrated what he had seen done in a video somewhere a long time ago, and soon both men were engaged in making lengths of rope and storing them in their packs. After spending days and nights running for their lives, it was a pleasant and peaceful interlude that did a lot to mend their frayed nerves and set their minds at ease.

“I wonder what else we can find around here that’s useful” said the father once they had a good bundle of rope stored away.

“Let’s have a look’ said the son cheerfully.

Lurking on the edge of the nettle forest, several plants took note of their movements and waited. Should the men come their way, they were ready, with a toxic brew that would see them fertilize the soil and feed the plants for the coming year. Silently they waited, gently beckoning the men closer with their leaves, as if disturbed by the soft wind.

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