The Traveller

Part 1

The thick, musky air clings to the dark fur coat. the rough path, wet from recent rain oozes a brown, viscous mud. His boots, a supple black leather, well worn from constant use and stained and scarred from years of walking through harsh and desolate lands tramped and stamped, through swathes of foliage, guarding the thick tree trunk legs of the traveller. His hat, a black canvas Ten-Gallon patched and torn many a time, has a single bullet hole just above the rim over the left eye. Old, with fraying edges the hat seemed to be as old as the traveller. An elderly man, grizzled and wizened, yet still as strong as a man in his prime, with broad shoulders and a stocky build. As he trudges through the forest, the traveller looks about him, and sees the leaves on the trees and the leaves on the ground. A thought plays across his mind. He remembers this place, this wood, in its prime in spring, where the leaves were green and the trees looked not like the dead and dying skeletons they now resembled, but were full of hope for a new year to come. He thinks of a little girl, laughing and tumbling through banks of flowers and ferns and shouting at him to come and play. The memory fades, and he sees again the stunted and ravaged trees clinging on to the dry and dying leaves. The traveller walks a little bit faster.

He carries, upon one shoulder, a bag of army origin, with many compartments and pouches packed full with plasters, duct tape and scissors as well as food, of the canned variety, such as canned tomatoes, bully beef and evaporated milk. This bag, though he carries it so lightly, is his sole means of survival, and losing it would almost certainly mean death. He is almost jogging now, as memories of a time long past jump out at him from every turn. A rock he sees, where once he sat with his daughter on his knee. A great old oak now fallen marks a spot where many a time he would come to be alone, and perch, bird like amongst its decaying limbs. The traveller hurries on past, eyes fixed on the path to come, never looking back, nor to either side. The day is growing old, and the shadows all around him lean in close as if to say "hurry", "faster, faster", the sun is sinking slowly and the light begins to fade, the traveller breaks into a full run, just for a moment and then resumes a more sedate pace, jogging slowly along the track.

A short while later, the man comes across a likely campsite, two sickly trees, small and close together should provide ample support from the elements. The man unzips a compartment of the bag and withdraws a para cord. He ties one end around one tree, pulling the knot closed vehemently and ties the other end to the other tree. He retrieves a thin tarpaulin out of his bag and drapes it over the taut rope weighing it down with rocks and clods of dirt to make a crude tent.

The first stars were just starting to appear as the traveller lit his fire. He sat upon the tree stump of some old tree, one that had lived out its life and died before everything began to turn. It had affected the small animals and insects first. A biological culling of entire species', brought around by the rise in Carbon monoxide in the atmosphere. As the smaller life forms began to die, prey became scarce for larger, carnivorous beasts, and famine ensued. The people had to turn to other means of nutrition. Fruits and vegetables rose in demand. For a decade, this system had worked, but years of intensive growing had taken a toll on the land, and soon after, crop yields began to lessen as the earth became dry and barren. Eventually people began to go hungry and mass hunger set in. Riots ensued and cities and towns began to collapse and slowly empty all over the world.

The man pauses from his reminiscing slowly raises his hand towards his head, and removes the Ten Gallon hat. He lays it down on the ground and takes something out of his bag. An Air Re-purpose Device. A small compact device with a handle and a mouthpiece. Paramount for human survival. He puts the mouthpiece over his mouth and breaths ten, long, deep breaths. The Carbon Monoxide in his bloodstream are forced out by the high concentration of almost pure oxygen. He checks his blood stability with a blood gauge protruding from one end of the ARD and stows his equipment in a dust-proof case. With the current atmospheric conditions, a fully grown male human can last around two hours breathing normally before they need to utilise an ARD. The man puts his hat back on and brings out a box Lucky Strikes. He takes one, lights it and begins to puff into the cool night air.

The next day, having eaten a meagre breakfast of hardtack and a small mug of evaporated milk and after using the ARD to remove the excess carbon monoxide in his bloodstream, the man sets about breaking camp. He stows the tarpaulin and the para-cord in his bag, collects his fire starting equipment and slings it over one shoulder. It is his aim to be in town by even-fall. The morning is crisp and cold, and the traveller's breath mists in the forest air. He has learnt not to inhale too deeply from his time in the army and from wandering these last few days yet the urge to breath in the clean morning air overcomes him and he fills his lungs with nature. During the day the forest has nothing of the macabre atmosphere from yesterday. The traveller almost rues the moment when the trees begin to thin and the roads become visible. Still, he crosses this threshold easily enough and finds himself in open country. The sun overhead and a long, straight road ahead, the man feels boredom setting in. He knows he must be wary, people would do anything for an ARD nowadays, and he tries to stay alert, scanning the nearby hedgerows for any sign of non natural movement.

He sees none.

After a few hours of walking, the man stops and rests in an abandoned petrol station. A few cars remain in the car park and the man smashes the window of one and lets himself in. No keys in the ignition, or the glove-box or any of the other pockets. He didn't think there would be. People don't just up and leave one of their most valuable possessions. It's quite new so would be very difficult to hot wire. Even if he could, the petrol pumps probably don't work, and he never was a good driver. He enters the building and checks under the desk. A Colt Dragoon, old but it would serve in a... Situation. 

He checks the draws in the desk and the cash register. All empty except from a half used roll of duct tape. He pocket's it. He slides the gun into a compartment in his bag. Easily reachable in the event of combat. Most of the isles of food and produce are empty, but he finds an old bag of potato chips under a shelf and a can of coca-cola, unopened. He sits on the low concrete curb and eats the bag of crisps and drinks the coca-cola.He takes out the ARD and measures his blood toxicity level. He can go another hour or so. He's on his way again within the hour.

The Traveller walks at a steady pace for the next four hours, covering around thirty miles of dying countryside. He stops only to breath deeply into the ARD and to eat. Towards sundown the man spies a town in the distance. Probably one of the last occupied towns in the whole of the country. A thin line of smoke rises from the chimneys of a few of the houses, snaking upwards into the sky and getting lost in the atmosphere. The man hastens towards the town. It takes him the best part of an hour to reach the village. And the stars begin to come out.

The man walks through the village gates with his hands held high above his head. A precaution most towns took when welcoming new citizens. Men and women stood on the roofs of buildings and houses aiming guns and crossbows and slingshots at him. He could not help but feel a little nervous. As he walks he sees a woman in a blue dress take half a dozen breaths into an ARD and prick herself with the Blood Monitor. He looks around. From what he can see there are over a hundred people seated in porches or stood on roofs and also a large gathering of people a hundred yards down the street, men and women and children. The traveller realises that most of the town must be here before him.

The houses are old, timber and plaster, the main road that runs through the town is cracked cobbles, coated by a thick layer of dust from the nearby barren fields.This town is old, has probably stood for three hundred years. Such a union would bring people together in the toughest of times. Low brick walls encircle the houses, with small front lawns entirely given over to growing space. A few heads of lettuce and some potatoes were visible in the windows of some houses.

The traveller walked at a steady pace, hands now resting on his broad Ten Gallon. As he walks towards the mob of people, One man, dressed in military fatigues steps out of the crowd. He eyes the Traveller's bag. "Ean?"