But that was when I had fallen into a sleep-state. For the most part, I lay awake, thinking of this new type of zombie; the Tom Wrights and Rebecca Falconers and what they were, who they were working with and what they were working toward. Organisation meant some purpose, order, enforcement, rules, structure – civilisation. It was an incongruous concept that zombies were working to the beat of some drum. Appealing to their addiction to flesh, yes, addiction, someone was controlling them or placating them. These thoughts milled around in my mind in fitted sleep. I reasoned and debated with myself until I succumbed to lassitude.
“Morning, glorious morning, again,” I said aloud, sitting upright and stretching. I was alive for another day and slept, uninterrupted until late. It wasn’t a very refreshing sleep with the churning sea of thoughts and concepts that was rocking my world. I went outside, putting on gum boots and a coat that was for life around the cabin. My cabin coat was in good condition, very warm and didn’t have the character of my military coats and smocks that were standard wear for hunting, fighting and scavenging. These more domestic clothes enabled me to create a clean world for myself when I wasn’t in the dirty business of being a modern-day survivor and hunter-gatherer. I walked over to the remnants of the bonfire; it had done its work. A pile of ash, whites, greys and a little charcoal and embers were left. To start with such a large mass of wood and bodies to get to this was always a little amazing. The ash made good fertiliser for my vegetable garden which I needed to tend. After an hour of shovelling ash and tending my garden, I walked to the small orchard and my olive grove. Ironically, the veggie garden, orchard and small olive grove were overgrown and unkempt when I had arrived. The eco-retreat where I lived had once had been a farm-stay and “harvest your own” venue. With people becoming lazier and lazier, this novelty had been let go some time in the 2020s. During the winter, I had pruned and tended the garden, taking learnings from a gardening book that someone had kept for show on a bookshelf in my cabin. That book had meant life. I was never much of a dedicated gardener before the Great Change but now it was one of those hobbies that kept me connected with the cycle of life and what was normalcy. It was also quite utilitarian as it described a means to live and live well.
A couple of apples and plums were my harvest for the day. It was early in the season so more would not come in great abundance until a few weeks later. The prospect of fresh fruit was making me drool like a zombie. I hadn’t eaten fresh fruit for a while. I bit into the apple; it was juicy fresh and sweet. “Heaven.” I thought.
The plum was a little under-ripe but also had a fresh flavour that offered a vitamin-rich sensation on my taste-buds. All was good in the world at that moment. This would be my first harvest after the work I had put in to cultivate the mess I had found when I had arrived. After yesterday’s exertions, I needed some meat as well. I felt like fish today. I had a last piece of trout stored in the cellar where I kept fish and meat. After that small piece of trout, the cupboard would be bare, as they say.
It had been a cold, harsh winter with slim pickings in hunting, fishing and gathering. I had not prepared too well and had only worked out pickling, storing in jars, salting, smoking and preservation of food along the way. These old ways were ironically new to me. But what I was used to was hunting and it had yielded success and survival, yet again. The deer meant all the venison I needed for a time. But that meat needed some preparation. That last piece of prized, smoked trout did not and I enjoyed it in one fell swoop.
By former standards, the piece of smoked trout was not much of a meal; to me it was a feast. Gourmet as it was, it was perhaps 100 grams or less. Protein was at a
“Morning, glorious morning, again,” I said aloud, sitting upright and stretching. I was alive for another day and slept, uninterrupted until late. It wasn’t a very refreshing sleep with the churning sea of thoughts and concepts that was rocking my world. I went outside, putting on gum boots and a coat that was for life around the cabin. My cabin coat was in good condition, very warm and didn’t have the character of my military coats and smocks that were standard wear for hunting, fighting and scavenging. These more domestic clothes enabled me to create a clean world for myself when I wasn’t in the dirty business of being a modern-day survivor and hunter-gatherer. I walked over to the remnants of the bonfire; it had done its work. A pile of ash, whites, greys and a little charcoal and embers were left. To start with such a large mass of wood and bodies to get to this was always a little amazing. The ash made good fertiliser for my vegetable garden which I needed to tend. After an hour of shovelling ash and tending my garden, I walked to the small orchard and my olive grove. Ironically, the veggie garden, orchard and small olive grove were overgrown and unkempt when I had arrived. The eco-retreat where I lived had once had been a farm-stay and “harvest your own” venue. With people becoming lazier and lazier, this novelty had been let go some time in the 2020s. During the winter, I had pruned and tended the garden, taking learnings from a gardening book that someone had kept for show on a bookshelf in my cabin. That book had meant life. I was never much of a dedicated gardener before the Great Change but now it was one of those hobbies that kept me connected with the cycle of life and what was normalcy. It was also quite utilitarian as it described a means to live and live well.
A couple of apples and plums were my harvest for the day. It was early in the season so more would not come in great abundance until a few weeks later. The prospect of fresh fruit was making me drool like a zombie. I hadn’t eaten fresh fruit for a while. I bit into the apple; it was juicy fresh and sweet. “Heaven.” I thought.
The plum was a little under-ripe but also had a fresh flavour that offered a vitamin-rich sensation on my taste-buds. All was good in the world at that moment. This would be my first harvest after the work I had put in to cultivate the mess I had found when I had arrived. After yesterday’s exertions, I needed some meat as well. I felt like fish today. I had a last piece of trout stored in the cellar where I kept fish and meat. After that small piece of trout, the cupboard would be bare, as they say.
It had been a cold, harsh winter with slim pickings in hunting, fishing and gathering. I had not prepared too well and had only worked out pickling, storing in jars, salting, smoking and preservation of food along the way. These old ways were ironically new to me. But what I was used to was hunting and it had yielded success and survival, yet again. The deer meant all the venison I needed for a time. But that meat needed some preparation. That last piece of prized, smoked trout did not and I enjoyed it in one fell swoop.
By former standards, the piece of smoked trout was not much of a meal; to me it was a feast. Gourmet as it was, it was perhaps 100 grams or less. Protein was at a
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