Wolves

Wolves

It was almost dark, and he sniffed the air appreciatively. It had been a hot day, and the scent of flowers was heavy on the air, whilst there was almost silence. He could see very little movement, save that of the wolves who were mingling after the excessive heat of the day, getting ready to sleep, and he had no sense of alarm. Not that there were many predators who would have disturbed such a large pack. Not these days.
James Robinson Weekes, the last human alive, stood on the porch way of a large three bed roomed house in Thatcham. Whilst it had been many years since he had heard a human voice, he was feeling content with himself, and that all was well with the world. It was a feeling of amazement rather than fright which gripped him when the first of the chest pains hit him, and he fell to the floor. The dusk turned to real darkness and for while, he knew no more.


I was never going to put this to paper, but in the end, every man seeks his immortality. The only people to read this will be the Lupi, I suspect, for even as the monkeys grow more noisy and bothersome as time goes on, still I feel that they will never outstrip the wolves in their capacity to learn. And I have set them on their path so far….
Where to start? I guess I could start with a story, the story as the wolves tell it now, for all that it is nonsense. I found this written somewhere, somewhere privately, where I guess I should not have found it, and it made me cry. Not only because of how much I have lost, but also of how much mankind has lost. There are no more human voices in the wilderness and never will be again. Only the rasping growl of the Lupi.

The Tale of the Last Human

Many, many moons ago, they say that the Last Human was walking alone across the plain of his ancestors. A Wolf found him there, but was warned away by his dog.
“Dog, why do you warn me? I am not seeking to harm this human.”
“Grrrr, he is the last of his kind, and I will protect him unto death.”
Wolf could not argue with this, but loped behind The Human as he strode across the bones of his people. He was untouched by the disease which had killed them all, although the Wolf could scent a weakness in him. He would bear no sons, even were there a Woman for him to take. Eventually, the Human sat down. The Wolf approached and was again warned off by the dog. He wished he could talk to the Human, but although the Human spoke to the dog, the Wolf did not understand him.
“Please, Dog, speak to your master. I wish to help him to find prey.” For he could tell the Human was dying from hunger, and his pack were hunting buffalo.
“Grrr, Wolf you be and Wolf you shall remain. I am Dog, the one who guards all Humans.”
“Your Human is dying, we can help him.” But the Dog refused.
Just then, Owl flew down to them.
“What is happening here?”
Wolf bowed low to the Owl, who was the messenger of the Gods.
“I wish to help this Human, but his Dog will not allow it. He could speak to him, and tell him I would bring him food, but he does not.”
The Owl looked angrily at the Dog, who whined and got onto his belly. Then the Owl turned back to the Wolf.
“Wolf, I will tell you a secret. Dog cannot speak the Human tongue any more than you can. But because you wished to help the Last Human, when he dies, his language will pass to all of you and your brethren. Use this gift wisely, do not squander it.”
And as Wolf waited, the Last Human lay down and ceased to breathe. And it was as the Owl had said, the Human’s language passed to the Wolves, where it has remained to this day.

I had no idea my flock had progressed so far, to make up stories to tell by the campfire which are not true, or not yet true anyway. I almost feel pride for it, though I fear what this story means : whilst my story shall remain mine, and I intend every word to be written by myself until I cannot write any longer, the Lupi are in charge now. They have the power to change history, to change the future and it no longer falls to them to make the tales oral ones. They can commit them to black and white, to a computer if they feel the need, and who in the future will question that? But of course, you can know nothing of this, patient reader, you do not even know what day it is.
It is July 25th 2030. The weather is still as unpredictable as ever and we have had the hottest summer since records began, although global warming is no longer really an issue. Our mistakes are the wolves’ warning, and they show no particular desire to take up the tools of our folly. They could if they wanted to, but it is enough, I think, to keep them talking rather than growling, to keep them reading rather than sniffing, until they have wrung out every drop of ‘advancement’ Man can offer them, and they can at last turn their backs on him, and forget that he ever stained the planet.
I was once a teacher, many years ago. My delight was in imparting knowledge, to making people’s eyes light up when they understood some complex problem, and it is still a delight today when the only eyes I see are alien. I had a wife and two children : Magda and Susie. My wife had Polish origins, which I once relied on to keep her alive, along with my children, but it proved to be a futile hope. Mischa was her name, a short but stunning blond, whose long hair was often trapped into plaits and coiled on her head. I suspect it was to give her more height, but I always wanted her to greet me at the door when I came home with her hair loose about her shoulders. I miss her. I miss her every day along with my children, although at least the pain has receded somewhat. Today it is bad through biological as well as emotional strains, and I am finding it hard to write through the tears. I guess my heart has been damaged already this week, so even an old injury feels fresher.
So there we were, all three of us, living our lives to the full. My two girls were five and seven, Magda being the oldest, and enjoying life at school. How much they enjoyed the work, I do not know, but at least they bounced out of bed every morning, and raced us to the breakfast table. Their chatter was infectious, their enthusiasm a bright life to the day and I thought it would always be that way.
It was just past Magda’s birthday that we began to hear the worrying rumours on the news. Flu, they said. It’s always flu. It’s always a Pandemic. It’s always out of control, about to wipe out half the world’s population. My wife and I scoffed, we told the children there was nothing to worry about, we joked about it with friends and we made fun of the Politicians who dared to suggest that it was serious. Trouble was, with normal cases of the flu, people got better. Some people didn’t get it. There was always hope. This time it was different. Women, children, men. Healthy teenagers to sick old grannies. Everyone it touched, it killed. It started in the East, and made its way to the West, swiftly and certainly, mantling the globe. We turned Britain into an island in truth, almost starved to death after six months, and then realised we were feeding the country’s population because there was less of it. The Flu had got in, and now it was with us, like a trapped cobra. Wales and Scotland closed their borders, to no avail. Finally, just after everyone wondered if we might have done better to work with each other, it dawned on us that there was no one left. I watched –
I’m sorry, it’s hard to write about that day. I woke to find Magda watching me. I didn’t have to say anything, I just took her in my arms, feeling the fever.
“You’ll catch it,” she whispered. I thought for a minute and then picked her up. She did not object when I carried her into the girls’ room, and sat her on the bed. The girls were sleepy, for the first time they had not got out of bed, and looking into their flushed faces, I knew that we did not have much time. At least we would die as a family. Magda whispered that she loved me even as her hand slipped down from my face, and she ceased to breathe. I could not tell when my little ones fell into eternal sleep, because I stayed there for hours, waiting. Eventually, when the sun rose the next day, I uncramped my body and carefully separated myself from my wife’s corpse. I went downstairs and outside, and looked up at the sky. I remember screaming, “Why?” at the blueness, and the world spinning round me, and the ground hitting me hard on the forehead. I did not get an answer, and after that day, refused to ask again. If God should meet me at the pearly gates, he’s going to have some explaining to do, not me.
When I awoke, I assumed at that moment that I was the only one left in the world. I began the burial of my family some time in the afternoon, as a practical voice in my head pointed out that the weather was too warm to be sentimental. I think there was some thought that I might protect myself still further if the bodies were underground as well, but as it turned out, there was no need. I have no idea why I was immune or why I am still immune. I had hoped that my wife would possess a mixture in her genes to protect the children or that my stolid Britishness would defeat the disease for them, but not so. As I worked though, a car drove past, and slowed to a stop. A man poked his head out of the window.
“Need some help?” I paused, leaning on my shovel, and my voice did not reflect the tears coming down my face.
“No, you’re all right. I need to take my time with this anyway.” He nodded and pulled his head back. He was about to drive off, when he stuck his head out again.
“I don’t really know where I’m going, but London will be a bad place in a few weeks. It would be ironic to survive one plague, and die from another. Do you want me to head somewhere in particular and wait for you?”
“No, I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know whether to leave or not, but I can’t say yet.” In truth, I had made no decision about my future, not even if I wanted one, but I did not want anyone around me at that time. I wonder now if that changed my future, whether I would not be alone now if I had asked him to wait, to stay, for me not to be alone. He may have guessed what I was deciding because he said no more, merely drove off with a hand stretched out in farewell. I waited until the car had gone from view, and then continued with the task in hand. Afterwards, I went inside, cleaned up, made some form of supper and washed it down with several bottles of wine. When I woke up, it was obvious that I had made a bad choice in using alcohol to try to keep myself from thinking, and it was almost the last time I drank. I could barely keep my head off the pillow, or the table or the sofa arm for most of the day and so it was not until the day after that that I made a choice about my life.
The stranger had been right. I obviously couldn’t die from the plague but there was no reason why I could not die from any number of diseases which would start around the dead bodies, not forgetting the numerous rats and other animals who shared the area. I knew of various dogs in the neighbourhood, and whilst they were the soppiest animals I had met, I was well aware that once they became hungry and lost their taste for rotten meat, they would be eyeing up a tasty morsel like myself. During that evening, I made a list, and the next day, made the rounds of the shops and garden sheds which yielded me a number of useful items. Then I picked a place to go. I needed somewhere near a large town, but with easy access to the countryside. Somewhere that I knew, preferably, perhaps with some sort of direct route to the larger towns for the future. I remembered visiting Thatcham, some time back, in order to view the famed Motor Research centre. I had decided that some of my kids might want to see what goes on there, but it turned out to be something to aim at older children, for all that they did get in nice cars on occasions. A budding Jeremy Clarkson there was not in my kids’ midst, and so I reluctantly shelved the idea. What I had been struck by, though, was the ease with which one could get from London to Thatcham and that it had been situated by a canal. Everything a budding survivalist could wish for. I therefore packed all my stuff into a car I found nearby, bigger and more powerful than mine, and set off the next morning. It had caused me a pang at first, to take something which did not belong to me, but my thinking was already in the ‘survival’ zone, and as it turned out, this new car was far superior to my own.
My luggage was surprisingly light, I took a number of my most comfortable clothes, left all the suits and ties behind save for one, and only came unstuck over the small things to remind me of home. Remembering that the whole idea was to go somewhere not too inaccessible, I was tempted to leave a great deal of stuff behind. Then again, should the car break down, should I be left with no transport at all….suddenly some items could not be left. The photo album, for instance. The NetIPods. My throat constricted at the memory of filming and editing those family movies, the laughter of the girls, the smile of my wife. It was strange in those early days, it was as if I could wear out their memories. I thought of them constantly, and got to the point where I could no longer see their faces. In a panic, I would have to get their photos out, and would suffer such torment when I could not get my imagination to bring them in front of me. Later, a few months on, I learned to focus on one aspect which brought them to life again and then there were times when they sat round me at the dinner table, or ran in front of me in the meadows, and wept with me in the long evenings. But all this was to come.
All the rest were knick-knacks, collected over time. A few things were practical as well as sentimental, like the huge torch I had been given and a few books on history, survival and cooking. We had joked about me needing a survival book when I decided to cook, but I thought that the range of ingredients that might be available would be covered by both avenues. In the end, I had a couple of large suitcases, and a couple of boxes, protected with various towels and bedding. The Saab was fairly laden, but would be in no danger of losing too much power.
The roads were unsurprisingly devoid of traffic. In those early days, I had become almost accepting of the fact that there was no one left alive. I guess it was because I was in shock, that I could not make the decision about whether to die or not and also that there had been at least one other who had survived. Despite every day which told me a contrary story, I refused to believe that I was the last human in my immediate surroundings, or indeed in the entire world, and continued to argue mutely that others would be out there, somewhere. My hope stretched out, even as I knew in part of my mind that I would not have to put it to the test. I was toying with the idea that I would not be alive long enough to have it snuffed out. Where the roads were concerned though, I had had some preconceived idea that there would be abandoned vehicles, with bodies lying beside them, or still propped up in the driver’s seat, like some bizarre traffic jam which had lasted too long. In truth, this idea was pretty far fetched. At the time when it would have been unlikely for clean up teams to still be working, people would wake up one morning feeling unwell, stay in bed and be dead by evening. I passed one or two cars with people who had evidently decided to keep moving, no matter what. Of course, the Unipods would have carefully parked themselves anyway, and at least they would have prevented accidents, no matter how sick the driver. But I had not seen these used in a great abundance since their positioning beacons would have prevented the drivers from driving them out of their designated city, and they did not spring to mind as an ideal get away vehicle. Their limited 50 miles an hour did not fill people with a confidence that they would help them to escape the Flu. Then when the electricity failed, they could not be moved anyway. Any other cars, which at one time had filled the streets, full of screaming people trying to drive away from the Flu, had been cleared away, and the people either arrested or had died one way or another. There was a tendency for the police to protect themselves, particularly when it became evident that there would be no reprisals. The complications of trying to keep law and order in a city where people died in a matter of hours became too much for the system. Even swearing at a copper became a shootable offence, I guess many of them had become tired of being spat on in the street, but before they could really abuse their power, they were all dead. Along with everyone else, who eventually were thinned down to the quiet, law abiding citizens who just stayed at home, and then to ones who just stayed at home. For good.
At first, enjoying the journey, I stopped along the motorway at one point, and childishly walked from one side to another, waving at a CCTV camera as I did so. The discipline of motorways had been dinned into me, which was evident from the amount of times I envisioned a car ploughing into me at 80 miles an hour, and the inability I had to shake the thinking that the police would be catching up with me at any moment to test my breath. I was very tired that day, I had driven at a reasonable speed to conserve petrol, but I remember increasingly looking in my wing mirror, searching for some blue flashing lights, and eventually weeping because there was never anything there. It may have been at that point some reality began to reassert itself, but I focused on my journey, and all worrying thoughts faded.
I arrived at Thatcham and immediately realised that the town was the wrong place to be. The houses I saw were crammed together, and I knew that I would need a fair sized garden too, so that I could begin to plant vegetables and attract wildlife. However, to the north, there was the promise of more open countryside, and so it was that I happened upon a small farm which I decided would be my new home. There were fields already planted, so the soil was fertile and I stood a chance of being able to harvest some things this summer. I could probably keep myself going until I had managed to work around the complexities of having a black thumb.
I got out of the car, and stretched my muscles. The cottage sat across the yard from two main barns and there was another further off in the distance. I stood for a moment listening, and was saddened by the lack of clucking. A farm this size would no doubt have had chickens, but they had either left or had died. I would make it a priority to find some, before they all went wild. I looked upwards, and was relieved to find that the roof was quite modern. It made a less attractive picture, but I would be unable to repair a thatched roof, and I would now no longer have the nagging fear of fire
I knew that there would be a great deal of unpacking to do, but for the moment, I made my way into the farm house to look around. Sadly, there was an immediate job before anything else. The farmer had succumbed to the Flu recently, and although he was still recognisable, he was definitely making his mark, in more ways than one. I put off moving his body for as long as possible, but after I had dug a six foot grave, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. I found some old plastic, and some gloves, and rolled the body onto it. I dragged it outside, and managed to heave it into the pit. I apologised as I buried him, and wished I could have made it more dignified for him, but truth to tell, I’d always had a fear of dead bodies, and I was pretty tired of burying people. I went back inside to find that fortunately, he had either lived alone, or had buried everyone else.
The cottage was compact, sturdy, and the windows were small. I had no illusions that I might one day be defending this place against nature or even other people, and I resolved to make a priority the shuttering of the windows. Until the next day, though, the most important things were food and a cup of tea, although I could not at first find any milk. Then I heard the bellowing. When I viewed the twenty two beautiful cows I found in the nearby field, my heart sank. I was unable to use the electronic milking machines, as the electricity had gone off some weeks before. With a lack of a full crew to run the country’s power stations, someone had taken the decision to switch them off. This place may have had a back up system, but whether it was still working, I had yet to discover. I dragged up a stool, and began work on the first cow. I could not feel sorrow for the two for whom I had come too late, whose legs were stuck in the air, unable to fold around the huge belly. The thought of burying them was too much, and I decided to drag them away in the morning, as far as I could. The others, though, were impatient, and crowded round me when I began. I had only once milked a cow before, on a school trip, but I managed to remember the technique. I felt horribly clumsy for the first ten minutes, but it got easier as time passed and I was constantly encouraged by the immediate effect it had on the animals. Once the bucket I had found was full, I had to milk them onto the grass, there would be no way in which I could store and consume milk from twenty two cows before it went off, and I would be doing this every day. The grass in the field was an irregular colour, and I suspected that the farmer might have also been doing this for a little while. I wondered if I should shoot some of them, in order to make looking after the rest easier, but then I decided that I wanted to stay here for a long time, and I would like the company. Their gentle lowing in the evening would make the world seem normal, and just for a while I could pretend everyday things, like going into town would mean seeing people, it would mean shopping as normal.
I spent many days being busy. The farm was not ill-kempt or run down, but I cleared the yard and the area around the cottage so that nothing could creep up close to it without being seen. There was no workable electric generator, so I lit the cottage with lamps and a few candles. I had a fear of fire, and one of my priorities were lanterns and candle holders and fortunately there was a gardening centre nearby.
I found out that the crops were mostly grain, corn I suspected, and had a flash back to my youth when I stripped open the heads to find the kernels inside. I had done this years ago with my grandparents, when we used to walk through the summer filled fields, stepping around the tougher clumps of straw, shiny and brittle and hard all at the same time. I had no idea whether the corn was ready for harvesting or not, and I knew I had to let it dry before getting it into the barn, and there was threshing and milling and…so much stuff to do! Before, I would have dived onto the RadioNet, but now I had to drive to the library, painstakingly research everything and drive back, my head swimming with information about ergomot and pestles and mortars and the fear of mice, and then ideas about yeast and making my bread rise, and how to store it, and whether flour was irradiated to keep the mites at bay. As it turned out, it was not humanly possible to harvest all of the corn, and I never should have tried. Two days I wasted, even with the use of a harvesting machine, trying to get in at least half the field. I nearly decided to find a mill, and grind the whole of the harvest, but in time I remembered that it would be easier to store as seed, rather than flour. And the next day, I went to the local Supermarket to find shelves and shelves of flour, which I needed to use up first. Clearly, my planning was not at its best in the beginning. I did better the next day, finding more garden centres and collecting all the seeds of staple vegetables I could find. Whilst I liked the idea of growing Netherleas Cucumber lettuces or whatever they were called, I felt more at home with trusted carrots and potatoes. I spent the evenings strengthening the doors and the windows so that I could now be shuttered in, which would also be important for winter. I checked out the heating system of my little home, which was a coal fire and an Aga, for which I had to scour several places in order to obtain plenty of fuel.
I know I don’t speak much of my hunting trips. It was so hard, going up to the outside of an ordinary house, and knowing what would probably be waiting for me inside. I think I spoke a bit before about the horror I had of dead bodies, and in those early days, I was grateful that I simply seemed to stop noticing them after a while. A few weeks later, I was plagued by awful nightmares about dead bodies shambling up my home, demanding to be buried. I awoke and spent the rest of the night clutching my duvet and a wine bottle. The wine, however, gave me even stranger dreams, ones in which I would see certain items or places, and then these would come true over the next couple of days. I had never believed that I was clairvoyant, but I ceased to drink, in case I dreamt again about zombies and started to believe that they would come to kill me. Most of the time I was too busy, but sometimes I would find myself obsessively looking for people, and I would catch movement out the corner of my eye when there was no one there. Or so I thought. Late at night, as I had a rest by the fire after supper, I would fall to contemplating how I had survived. If I was immune, then obviously there must be others, but we must be so far apart that we had not run across each other yet. And even if we did? Perhaps I had been spotted already, but if the other were a woman, she might be too frightened to approach me. I had to consider my position as well. In the past, I had not been particularly strong, but my new life had toughened me up, put muscles in my arms, and as a stronger deterrent to potential danger, I also had begun practising with a shotgun. I suspected I would never be a particularly good shot, but I at least got used to the recoil, which they never show in the movies. I had driven a long way to find a gun shop, but it had been worth it, also for the flares they had in stock too. During one summer evening, I had travelled to Waitrose and fired off a couple of distress flares, to see if someone would see them. I did not see anyone that night, neither friend nor foe, so I left a note explaining that I would be back in a few days. I figured that if anyone meant me harm, they would assume I was living some distance away. I came back to find the note still there, but no one waiting. And after this, I could not decide if I should be celebrating or despairing : I was at last testing the bounds of my hope that I would ever hear a human voice again. Would that I had the RadioNet! I could certainly build a clumsy old fashioned radio, but how could I broadcast, to get anyone to listen, and would I pick up any broadcasts? I always thought of England as a small place, but as only one person, I could not hope to search every corner of it, even supposing that those few survivors would have stayed alive anyway.
My own life had been enlivened one night. I was awoken to hear the cows bellowing loudly, and I had got out of bed to look out the window. The cows were running around the field, some tossing their heads in panic. Even as I watched, a tawny shape landed on one cow’s back, and I drew an intake of breath as I realised it was a lion. Some safari park, some zoo nearby must have released these animals when the power failed, and they were probably finding the hunting pretty poor these days. I grabbed my gun, and went out as far as I dared. Whilst I had not intended to shoot one of the cows, it did at least distract the starving animals, and they settled down to feeding. I watched with mixed feelings the most regal of all the big cats and his females, two in number, dining not fifty yards from where I stood. He had seen some hard times. There were many scratches on his face, bits missing from his ears, and bites on his back. He was still magnificent. Could I kill him? In the end, I let him go, knowing I was probably storing up trouble for myself but I also wanted to try to let him finish off the smaller predators – no match for him, but who would find me easy prey. Perhaps some of the movements I had almost seen had been a leopard, a panther, a bear, a wolf. Who knew?
Speaking of predators, my fears had come true about the dogs. I usually passed the same hunting pack every day when I drove into town, and I made working out how to manually pump petrol a priority. I did not wish to get stranded whilst I knew that such a large pack existed. There was a huge mixture, a sort of a comment on the affluence of Thatcham, so that the small lap dogs of money mixed with the huge brutish bulldogs of poverty. There was a Great Dane, a Mastiff, seven Alsatians, ten Scotties and twenty five assortments of various brown, white and black jobs, varying in size and power. My herd, now down to twenty, became more important as assets and I spent much time building up the fence, and ensuring not even a rat could get through. The lions had almost done me a favour, since the pack, when it turned up, would probably have not left anything alive if they could have gotten to my cows. It milled around the fencing, desperate to get in, but was thwarted by the fences. And then it was my turn to wait like the cows, anxious, breathless, as I could hear the sniffing and the paws padding round my home, under the door, the scraping, the growling, the scuffles. I couldn’t go to sleep, in case they found a way in, but just as I thought I would have to try shooting them, I heard the roars. The dogs set up a furious barking, and left the cottage. I stood up, and watched the spectacle from the window. The male lion and his two females were like gladiators, standing in an almost perfect triangle. The male roared and shook his mane. The dogs had spread out, and the Mastiff had taken a foremost position at the front. The growling and snarling was terrifying to hear, but the sound when the animals engaged was even more so. I was convinced that the lions would defeat that pack easily, but to my surprise, the dogs’ agility and numbers worked well for them. I remember watching a film where a lion had been attacked by ants, and it reminded me of that. This huge animal, shaking his mane to dislodge a number of the smaller dogs who had latched on, perhaps thinking that it would injure him to bite on it. He was, at first, more irritated by them than anything else. The Mastiff was killed early on, by one of the lionesses, but the seven Alsatians worked as a team on the other, and brought her down. I think that they killed her, but it was hard to tell in the darkness whether there was a final blow struck, or if she died of injuries already inflicted.
Eventually, the animals came to a limping, begrudging draw. The lions withdrew, and the dogs spent some time growling over the dead lioness. I could not watch, the sounds were bad enough, and so I made one last check of the cottage and went to bed.
The morning was bright and sunny, and showed up the carnage well. The area was strewn with blood and parts, but I suddenly noticed a little dog as well, lying on his side, not far from the cottage. I went over, and he growled at me, unsurprisingly. But then he seemed to change his mind, and wagged his tail. I bent down and put out a hand, which was foolish, I know, but I did not want to waste time on being frightened with him. He would either bite me, in which case I would have to shoot him, or he would not. He sniffed me for a while, and then gave me a lick. So I examined him more closely. I suspected that he had been more exhausted than injured, his ribs were showing and he was one of those small dogs which large men look so daft walking. I always assumed that they bought these dogs with the same mentality with which one drinks diet coke with chips. People always say that dogs will make you exercise, and some amply proportioned people think that simply owning one will make you lose weight. It’s kind of a package deal. Rather than torture him any more on what looked like becoming a hot day, I brought him over a large bowl of water, and he struggled up and lapped at it enthusiastically. Whilst he was dealing with that, I found some meat for him, for although the lioness was at hand, I couldn’t bear the thought of him eating her. A strange squeamishness for someone who would be living off live prey soon enough, but she was still a regal animal. I dug a grave eventually, as I also did not want the pack associating this place with easily accessible food. The new addition to the farm was now trotting around with only a few scratches to show he’d been in a fight at all, and I was glad that he seemed to be settling in. I decided to call him ‘Spider’, after the little dog in “The Woman in Black”, and he soon began answering to his name.
Visits into town at least became less of a chore, since with my little watchdog by my side, I did get more warning about danger. He seemed to have no qualms about changing sides, as he frequently gave an almost inaudible warning against his old pack. For some reason, at anything else he considered a danger, he would bark. This caused a few problems at first, since a piece of cardboard blowing down the street was of major importance to him, but of little use to me, and as he learned, so he began to lose interest in such things as time went on. When his old pack was about to show up, however, he would run in, and press himself against my ankles, looking in the direction of their approach as he did so, whining slightly. I also learned; I learned to pack up, and move off quickly. The Mastiff had been replaced by one of those husky types which are beautiful on a lead with an owner, and terrifying when staring at you from behind snarled teeth. A wolf would not have looked more threatening, or so I thought.
And then there were the Alsatians. I don’t know if you reading this will remember the craze which struck in 2023. I’m sure that the dog lover who came up with this mad idea had no real intention to cause the horror that they did, but it didn’t stop thousands of people cursing their name every morning. I think I saw the first device on “Dragon’s Den”, where it was decried most by the RadioNet Mogul, John Brunel. Lady Magenta, whose parents obviously had more money than sense when they named her, was delighted with the invention which only served to put all the other investors off. It was a dog feeding device, which was voice operated. If the dog were hungry or thirsty, the owner could simply speak from the next room and the device would deliver a small amount of food or water, depending on what was asked for. It could be operated by mobile phone, or over the RadioNet, so even if you were on holiday, you could operate it from distance. It caused a few outcries at first, since there were some unscrupulous owners who would leave the dog in the same room as the device for up to two weeks at a time, and would still come back to a healthy dog, but a smelly house. I often imagine the horror, though, of the owner who came back to find that her dog was managing quite well on his own. He was producing a sound which was not unlike the human equivalent of ‘Food’ and ‘Water’. This caused two events, one was that of a now starving but very overweight animal, and that of the concept of “Dog-talk”. People tried to smooth over this new idea, which took off in the animal world like wildfire. Dogs all over the world were taught not only “Food” and “Water” but also words which varied from “Kill” (from the less savoury elements of society) to “I love you”, by those sentimentalists who must have presumed that they would live forever. They may have been reduced to tears everytime their pet told them this, but if the pet went onto a new owner, they were not always so overwhelmed. One wondered what else the animal might have been taught. My feelings on the matter? I was gripped with nausea everytime I heard a dog speak, and soon, most people shared my views. “Dog-Talk” took off fast, many animals learned a surprisingly large vocabulary, although there was almost conclusive proof that they were simply repeating what they had learned, as opposed to using it as a method of communication. The most famous dog, called (unsurprisingly) Churchill, was a saggy jawed Bulldog, who knew over 200 words of “Dog-Talk” and appeared to be using them to ask for items, as well as simply repeating them. Many people tried to pass it off as being almost normal, since parrots and such had been doing the same thing for years without there being any outcry. Oh, but you should have seen these dogs! No one could call it normal, to see a dog trying to shape words with its lips, doing something so unnatural. It outweighed the amazement of when they appeared to be talking, it was so….I can’t seem to find the words for it, ironically, even now. Many people thought I was over-reacting to something which was seen by them, at worst, as being too cute. I think it was an element of the thought of something sentient going on behind those soppy eyes, but with a mind so alien to my own. One of my fears about zombies is that they give off no body language, and this was no better. A body language which I couldn’t translate logically, only by using my baser instincts - I couldn’t cope with that. Anyway, after all the books and the Ipod discs, and the RadioNet portables had been brought out for dogs and their owners (“Bringing you and your pet closer together!”), it all died down, although there were some cases of the dogs passing on the ability to their off spring. Then the whole thing broke out again.
It was the Kazakhstan/American war which brought it to a head. This started in 2022, and everyone at first laid good odds on America. However, the foolishness of engaging with an enemy so far away from your country became clear, when often the fighting was thwarted by the simple expedient of the neighbouring countries allying themselves, and denying America access. If America had begun by invading over land, regardless the human cost to their troops, the other countries might have had sympathy, particularly with the tragic story of the 30 cultural exchange students, who were allegedly caught with vast amounts of heroin on their bus, trying to leave Kazakhstan. The Kazakhstanis acted with perhaps more too much force : they shot one student on the bus for trying to use “an aerosol deodorant” on one of the soldiers. They assumed he was trying to pull out a gun, and acted accordingly. The others might have wished that they had tried to do the same after two weeks. The American government asked for proof that they were still alive, and were accordingly sent a video which depicted the quarters in which the remaining twenty nine were being kept. Apparently, they did not even separate the women from the men when the guards went off duty and decided that some free pussy was better than paid for pussy, even if it was attached to a body which had not been washed or fed for a while. The men who objected were now coping as best they could with various broken appendages. The government, I suspect, watched in silence, but the parents watched screaming, which did not end until it could be heard at the White House. Kazakhstan then denied that the video shown was the one they had sent, stood by its laws, and America stood by its usual response. The first planes, though, unfortunately did not always get the borders quite right, and the nearby countries became bored by their empty apologies. Even though the conspiracy theories insisted that the heroin had been planted in order to provoke a war, and that the video consisted of contrived appalling conditions so as to dehumanize the world’s view of an otherwise civilized country, they were not successful in removing all support for the Americans. However the Good old US of A found itself unable to do a great deal of damage, until the Dog Soldiers arrived.
Such a top secret operation took a long while to leak out, but the Kazakhstanis were very eager to get such a phenomenon out to the rest of the world. A small band of American soldiers were dropped into the country with twice as many again of dogs. Each of these dogs had been specially trained, to scout ahead, to kill in silence if necessary and to report back. Rather than the usual, “Timmy’s down a well” scenario, these dogs had been selected for the clearness of their speech, and for their high intelligence. Once again, Alsatians were proving their worth. The inbreeding must have produced some horrors, but I imagine that those were quickly disposed of, and the ones which were a success were quickly trained. The signs of the interference in their development were covered up. The heads, which became larger to encapsulate the larger brain, were not out of proportion as the dogs with both a large head and a large body were selected for breeding. The comparison could be made between an Alsatian of years ago and of one now, and the differences were extreme. It was as though they were breeding the modern equivalent of a Sabre tooth tiger but without the claws, and with an unimaginably high intelligence. The Powers that be did not even need to work out how to make talking easier. They simply bred the ones who spoke with most articulation. At least, I hoped that was what they were doing. As the overall appearance had changed so much anyway, any further tampering via surgery would be difficult to prove without actually examining the dog itself. I could not erase from my mind the shaky RadioPod footage of the image of the dog shouting from a high ridge, “Here! Here!” to a Kazakhstani patrol who were about to come across some badly injured Americans. The Kazakhstanis quickly caught on, though, and refused to give chase after many of their patrols did not return. Some were found dead, but others simply vanished, and judging by the iron control with which the soldiers controlled animals which seemed only dedicated to saving their lives, it was perhaps better not to enquire too closely about what happened to them. The rough gangs of England saw a new opportunity to be like the Americans, and we had an influx of Alsatians, and large dogs, with an increase of illegal dog breeding in this country. The news often had yet another report of people shouting from inside a locked barn, only to have passers-by find various ill-treated dogs in there. The new way of selling “Dog-Talk” was to have them learn gangster talk, and surveys revealed that the top word of 2024 was “bling”, a retro hark back to some years ago. It was dying out though, it began to be illegal in England to teach your dog to talk, people were too freaked by the thought of criminals listening by “Pooch Radio” whilst innocents discussed their financial position with a friend, or about that new car parked in their poorly locked garage and so on. The Americans, though, continued to have some success in Kazakhstan, until they found the Kazakhstanis were training their own dogs and eventually they were forced to make agreements and shake hands. Perhaps that should be paws. The dogs then somehow disappeared, the casualties suddenly being high in number, and the unrecovered bodies being blamed on the Kazakhstanis. The students, what was left of them after “an American bombing raid went wrong” and conveniently “blew up the students who were the most vocal”, were returned, but little sense could be gotten out of them, and no reporters were allowed to sit in on their debriefing. Afterwards, they were sent on a “witness protection programme”, except quite who they were protecting, no one was sure. They were never seen again, quite an accolade to the programme. It remains only to add that to my relief, Spider showed no signs of speaking at all.
This only has bearing at this point because of the trip I took into town without Spider. He was lying by the fire, and I had neglected to get more toothpaste on our trip of that morning. It was not an essential in some respects, but my only chance of delaying tooth decay was by regular brushing and I often had some time in the evenings to make sure I was thorough. So far, it seemed to be paying off. I nearly left it, but then I decided it would only take fifteen minutes, and I was also tempted to actually treat myself to a bottle of some really spectacular wine. At this rate, most of the cheap stuff would only be good for pouring down the sink, so why not enjoy something classy whilst I could? My essential growing did not include wine grapes. I got in the car without that little form bouncing beside me, just the heavy duty shot gun in its makeshift holster. I made sure that with such a jolting ride, the gun was never out of my sight, but also secured so that it would not fall over, or be bounced into firing. I left nothing to chance in those days, not wishing to die some extremely painful death only because of not doing something so simple. I arrived at Waitrose, and did my usual, “Gosh, where will I park?” joke which was a bit lost as the only audience was back home. I found a spot where I could observe the car from a distance, where access would not be impeded and from where I could make a speedy exit. I walked through the back alley to Co-Op, which was not where I was planning to get the wine, but it was less overpowering than Waitrose, where the freezers had been full of food for a while, and the resulting ‘soup’ was cloying in its stench. I sometimes felt I could not breathe in there. Co-Op had gone though the same thing, but had been emptier, and some of the food pinched anyway, so the smell was now down to bearable levels. I was about to push my way in through the door, when I heard a sound.
My instinct was to whirl around, but I did not want to make any sudden movements. I wished for the comforting feel of a little body pressed against my ankle, but I would have to settle for the weight of the shot gun instead. I looked into the glass of the door, searching the reflected buildings, but I could see nothing. Perhaps a pigeon, a rat, a big predator. Then I heard someone saying, “Help.” I guess I should have known. An immediate response from me to that word would have been to assist, but especially coming after the void of no speech at all, I would have walked across fire to save my worst enemy. And yet! My head must have been elsewhere, my senses dulled! I heard the word again, and turned around. I could not work out where it was coming from, no one was making themselves visible – another ignored warning.
“Where are you?” I called out, my voice shaky with emotion. “I can’t see you.” In retrospect, perhaps not the brightest thing to have said, but even now, I still can’t believe that those words were understood.
“Here.” Came a low voice. It seemed to be coming from the overgrown park to my left, quite a distance from where I was standing. I would be a good run from the car if there were trouble from the pack but I couldn’t leave someone without trying to help them.
“Hold on,” I softly shouted back, “We must be quiet, let me work my way over to you.” I moved from doorway to doorway, checking always, making sure that I was the only thing moving in the immediate area. I drew closer to the park, and could make out a shape in the bushes. I moved a little closer, and reached out with a hand to part the bushes. I was suddenly screaming in pain, falling back, my hand ripped open with a savage bite, but my screams were cut off by the horrible figure rising from the bushes. It was one of the Alsatians, its hair matted, filthy, one eye weeping and green in its socket. Its teeth, though, seemed in full working order, as he curled back his lips and almost seemed to smile at me. I watched, prone on my back where I had fallen, unable to get my mind to work properly. Its eye seemed to mock me, fixed on my own, telling me I was in serious trouble. And then it opened its mouth and shouted the one word I had dreaded hearing.
“Food!”
From the bushes, from the streets on the other side came the rest of the pack. I had no time to look at them, even as my mind was still wandering, my body was rolling and getting up, and I was working the shot gun into a firing position. I did not have time to aim, I did not have time to see whether the muzzle was blocked or how many more dogs there were. I blew some apart, I shot off legs, faces, tails – whatever made the dog fall to the ground whimpering piteously, or in its death struggle. I did not notice until I got home that my ears were bitten, and my cheek laid open. I could only fire the gun when I could, and use it as a club when I couldn’t, thinking that one blow would set it off, and then I wouldn’t have to worry about winning any more, and worrying about having to reload all at the same time. Finally, the dogs backed off. They remained in a ring, growling, but growling I could cope with. I raised a gun at one, and immediately heard a noise behind me. I whirled around to find a dog backing away. I threatened him and realised that I was being stalked from behind. I lowered the gun, and the dogs stayed still. I didn’t know how to get back to my car though. It was past an Alsatian and a terrier, both of whom had the same glint of hunger in their eyes, so I was equally afraid of both. The sun was setting, though, and I had no choice but to push my luck. I took a deep breath and walked confidently over to the two dogs. It was like dealing with a gang of bullies. They fell away to either side as I walked up to them, and I carried on, listening for the running feet, the sudden silence which would tell me that a leap was in progress, but there was no sound. An immense fury overtook me, I would not be killed by a pack of mongrels. I gritted my teeth, raised the shotgun, and spun around. Of course, they were no longer there, and my anger dribbled away to fear. Where had they gone? I wasted no more time, but hurried to the car, and drove off. It was not until I was pulling up when I realised that I had forgotten the toothpaste, but the pang of regret that that caused me made me laugh hysterically for some time. It would be back to the village in the morning. Spider was very sympathetic, smelling me intently, and trying to lick my hand. I pushed him off gently, and went to wash it, and to find some disinfectant.
So life went on. By trial and error, I managed to grow crops and shoot wildlife, and I found pigs and chickens. After a year and a half, I was looking at a well stocked farm, which was rarely bothered now by any predators at all. I saw foxes and badges, owls, hawks, buzzards, kites and I think, even an eagle. I did, in the early days, see a couple of zebra and giraffes, but they obviously did not find the place to their liking, or perhaps they were eaten. Of the lions I saw no sign, and the dogs continued to increase and decrease in number, depending on, I suspect, the amount of food they were able to find. One blessing from them was the decrease in the rat population, for which I was profoundly grateful. I took care of the rabbits, often shooting more than I needed and smoking the flesh. Spider took a liking to this, although he was not averse to killing the odd rabbit almost on the sly, and consuming it. I supposed that it would keep his teeth healthy, so I did not try to dissuade him. My only worry now was the future. I could keep going here, I could survive for a long time. But the immediate thought was that eventually the Aga would run out of fuel, and then I would be down to cooking and making hot water by using the wood stove. I hoped that I would not face a winter so bad that this would not be enough. And the long term thought was that I was simply existing. There had been no sign of life anywhere, and I was resolved that I was on my own. My choices were stark. I could travel to the coast, and look for a ship. Whilst I would be worried about attempting to take a large vessel (but also unwillingly to risk a small one on the open ocean), I knew that even beginning some sort of search in France, or Ireland or even the Isle of Wight would be a step towards having hope again. The farm, though, could not be left unattended. Most of my remaining cows had calves, which had taken care of most of the milking, but I had left one to obtain my milk from. My herd had shrunk to five before I found the bull, due to my inadequate knowledge, and some suspect disease which took nearly all of them. The bull was horrible to capture, having returned somewhat to the wild, but having no fear of man. I had snared his horns with a net, which I ended up leaving on them for some time, as he would not allow my hands near his head without some good reason. He refused to believe that the hands so close to his head meant no harm. But having got him, I realised my luck. He was very happy to carry out his duties, and was consistent with his results. It was whilst he was disporting himself that I managed to rescue the net. Most of the calves came easily, I only lost one cow to a birth I couldn’t blunder my way through, and my herd began to grow again. But now, what should I do with my milking cow? How would the pigs and chickens survive? How could I find transport whilst there? I had a few vehicles near the farm which I kept in some sort of working order, but the rest of the cars in Thatcham now defied my rapidly increasing motor maintenance skills, and I knew that cars further away would also have lost their batteries. It would have meant trying to transport a working car on board a boat. After a lengthy debate with myself and Spider, I reached a decision. I would start with the Isle of White, driving down there in my most speedy but spacious car, a Saab 1.9. Whilst it caused me great angst to be carrying petrol in a metal object which could ignite and encase me if I were to crash, I could not risk running out of fuel and not being able to find enough along the way, so I packed a couple of cans. I took the usual shotgun but also a small pistol I had found. It did not have much ammunition, and I was hoping for a larger town where I might find some more. However, it would be difficult. I was not planning to leave my farm for more than a couple of days, and so there would be really no time to search. I was also taking some flares, so that I could attract people’s attention as quickly as possible.
At five o’clock in the morning, I rose, my heart thumping furiously. I woke Spider and gave him some food and water, and packed up my breakfast as I was too excited and nervous to eat anything. I milked my one milking cow, and said goodbye to the other animals. They had a lot of food, but I was afraid that the pigs would eat their lot and then go hungry. I had risked leaving them a large amount of food, so hopefully, it would tide them over. I took one last look at the farmhouse, and got into the car. We bounced our way down the track, and finally hit the road for Southampton.
My journey was uneventful. I could have wished for something to disturb it, but apart from a quick stop off for a comfort break and the novelty of an empty service station, there was nothing. I was wandering along the harbour at Southampton soon enough, Spider bouncing at my heels. It was like any ordinary day, as though I’d taken a holiday, and perhaps I had. I looked for a small boat, of which there were several, but it took many tries to find one which would start. I was a bit stuck, the larger boats would have been safer in bad weather, but I might be reduced to rowing, so I took something slightly bigger than a rowing boat. The water was choppy, but not so bad as to be dangerous. Spider took to the water with excitement, staring over the edge of the boat with glee. I was worried about him, but he seemed surefooted enough, and I had to forget about him as we drew closer to the Isle of Wight. The waves were very bad as we came into the harbour, and although I am a good sailor, I did feel a little queasy. We finally docked, and I found myself wobbling down the pier towards the town.
Naturally, all was quiet. I could not expect there to be a welcome committee waiting for me, but there seemed to be no animals either. A few birds, the odd cat but otherwise a lack of anything living. I wandered around for a while, but realising I was simply putting off what I had come for, I fired three flares into the air, made sure the shot gun was loaded, and then sat down to wait.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but part of me was not surprised at the lack of response. I did try climbing to higher ground and trying again, but there was nothing. Giving up, I raided the shops for useful items like candles, toilet rolls, matches and looked closely at the sticks of rock. I so wanted to eat something sweet, even though this had turned into a cloying sticky pink mess, but I was too afraid of pulling out a filling or of causing a cavity. Besides, there was already a dead mouse stuck to the lower part of the remains, so I was disturbed about not knowing if anything else had tracked across them. Spider went to lick at it, but he left it at my command and followed me as I walked with my heavy rucksack, toilet rolls swinging from each hand, shotgun still clutched in one too. The trip back was no longer exciting, I couldn’t bring myself to be happy about the thought of going to France, I couldn’t see the point of having hope. Ihad the whole of the journey back to stew, and when I pulled up at last at my familiar farm house, I was suddenly gripped with anger and threw one packet of the toilet rolls on the floor. Spider danced around barking as I kicked all the toilet rolls which had escaped from the now split bag.
“F**k you!” I kept half-shouting, half-sobbing under my breath. “Would it have killed you to let there be one person? Just one?” I stopped after a while, because I did not know who I was speaking to. There was no one there. That was the problem.
There was a dark period to my life which I don’t like to think about. It was not as bad as it could have been because the animals needed me, so I got up every morning, and had to even keep up personal hygiene when, after three days of not washing, the cows would not come near me. I spent most of the day staring into space, grappling with some huge dead weight I couldn’t see past. My emotions ran riot, I would cry for no reason, and then be gripped with a huge anger, choking in its intensity. I missed my family. I would find myself huddled in a corner, whispering, “I miss you, I miss you”, almost as though if I could have found a way to say it with enough feeling, they would be returned to me. The words would seem empty when spoken aloud, they died almost before they hit the air and could not convey that cold pit inside me. I found my libido was rampant also, I will not write here what I did in the privacy of my home, but at that time it felt as though it were something evil as well as a relief. Whilst I had paid a token reverence to God, I was to all intents and purposes, an atheist, and sex was an enjoyment, a celebration of bodies, tinged with a primal sense underneath. Now, the need to relieve myself was constant, I would see images of young smooth bodies although strangely it was not my wife who appeared most. It was some dark haired beauty, wanton, lustful, hinting of things I couldn’t imagine, although I tried. How I tried. When morning came, I had to drag myself away from a bed which promised more half-hearted satisfaction. My wife and children appeared to me, but in quieter moments, when I felt the blanket of loneliness wrap around me. They sat before me by the fire when I hunched myself over a bottle of brandy, or followed me like a procession when I paced to bed. My fear of the dark was not so much that there was someone there but that there was no one there. I knew that such thinking was futile, but telling my heart this was another matter.
At first, I couldn’t be bothered to go to town, but eventually I had to, and came across the pack whilst coming out of Waitrose. I stared at them and they growled at me. The Alsatians, still numbering seven, with two of them looking so fat I suspected that they were female and pregnant, looked almost well-groomed in comparison to the last member I had met. I might not have done anything, except that there was a low muttering amongst them. The word ‘food’ began to assert itself, and most began to drool. It was like a headache, a pulse in my head, low down, a growl. All I could hear was “Food, food, food”, and could feel the looks of animals who wanted nothing more than to tear me apart. Spider was making an indent on my ankle, shaking all over. Suddenly I bellowed, “STOP!” and the sound stopped. I dropped the bags, not caring if there were anything breakable in there, and the dogs winced and looked uncertain. I took a step forward. They backed off. I stepped forward again. They backed off. I opened my mouth, and I could not understand the harsh voice which came from it. “Go away, or I will tear each and every one of you apart, and use your limbs as paintbrushes.” I meant it. All I could see was me losing it completely, rushing into the middle of them, and ripping them apart. I couldn’t get my temper under control. I wanted so much to have one last battle, man against nature, reduced to using my teeth and savagery like an ape. And the dogs knew it. As one silent mass, they turned and ran. I watched them go, and the anger subsided. I was shaking, and kept dropping the bags as I tried to pick them up. I made it back to the car, and burst into tears. Spider huddled into to me, and I cried into his fur, almost howling with grief. I didn’t know if I wanted to go home, or find the pack again and let it take me. I was afraid that they would turn on Spider though, the thought of his little body being torn apart was too much, and set me off again. Still sobbing, I started the car and began the journey back.
I think that the almost battle was a kind of release for the emotions which had built up for some time. I woke the next morning with a clear head, and looking back, it was as though I had been drunk for weeks, and had at last sobered up. My emotions came under control again, and I knew that looking forward was not a wise idea. Obviously, forward planning was essential, but learning to take each day at a time was only way to live, and a weight dropped from my shoulders as I practised ceasing to worry about the winter, or the spring after that, or the summer after that, or what might happen to me so that I died. I had spent hours imagining my horrible death from various angles, from falling down something to being caught by mysterious people who suddenly arrived at my farm. In the end, my choice was to live or not to live, and although I might one day decide that enough was enough, it was not today. I whistled as I went out to milk the cows, and generally cleared up around the whole farm. I even smiled and waved at the pack as I went past on my way to town, and felt simply a pang of regret at their answering snarls. As I was later to learn, there is nothing more savage than a domestic dog returned to the wild.
So now you know some of my background. I would have carried on living like this for many years, I suspect, I was careful enough that I avoided accidents and illnesses for the most part, and food was not an issue, although I often ate a great deal of the same things. I grew heartily sick of carrots and beans, which were the vegetables I produced with regularity and quantity. I did eventually grow such things as Purple Sprouting Asparagus, although what their real names were, I couldn’t be bothered to learn, and to my taste, they were all the same anyway. Funnily enough, at certain times of the year, I lived off high quality steak, which was an extreme luxury compared with the beef jerky I normally carried around. For every cow I killed though, I had to be careful to preserve almost all the meat in some way, and did not get much of an opportunity to taste the stuff fresh. In winter it was easier, but then I went from one extreme to another, to wrestling my meat in from my make shift freezer, only to find it still frozen twelve hours later.
Still, I managed to live, but one winter, the rabbits were less plentiful. Perhaps there was a disease which killed them. I was not too worried, since I also had a thriving pig population as well as some hens, but I knew that if an illness struck my small holding, the rabbits would be supplementing my vegetarian diet. However, I had forgotten about the wilder aspects of the wildlife in the countryside, and was forcibly reminded of it one evening. I had finished the milking, and had taken my usual tour of the fences. I knew that most farmers shut up their animals at night, but I only did this in winter. My thought was that if anything happened to me, I would be haunted at the thought of my animals slowly starving to death. In winter, this was not so much of an issue, as there was too little food for them to consume anyway outside. I was walking back to the cottage, when I was alerted at Spider growling. He was staring at the edge of the nearest field, and I was jolted into stillness. I was being watched by a magnificent wolf. Much wildlife causes me to stop and observe it for a while, but predators were always awe-inspiring. Obviously, these days, I was even more cautious of them, and I wasn’t sure how this animal was going to react. He put his muzzle up to the sky and howled. And he was answered. I had no idea how many there were, but I began to move swiftly to the cottage. I had foolishly left the shotgun behind, it was cumbersome when I was working, and I had become lax. The dog pack was leaving me alone these days, having easier prey in the rats which continued to survive, despite being hunted rigorously. The lions I never saw again, and there appeared to be no other living predators. I had a pistol on me, but when I was nervous or excited, my aim was pretty poor, and I was under no illusions about what would happen should there be a large number of wolves. The wolf watched me as I walked quickly to the farmhouse door but did nothing. I got there, and turned to look at him. From out of the nearby wood, various forms appeared, a pack of about twenty strong, although the animals were thin, eyes looking too big for their skulls, ribs sticking out. One or two shook themselves to loosen twigs and debris from the forest, and staggered as they did so. They all stopped to watch me and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. The wildest of dogs, the cause of fear to primal man. The sharks of the forest. I looked into the pack leader’s eyes, and discerned intelligence there. I looked from face to face, and noticed that one or two were dogs, but of the same build as a wolf. A Labrador, an all-varieties, but both acting with a calmness which suggested that they had survived through being smart as well as their strength. The clear eyes of the wolves seemed to speak volumes of a foreign language. I could almost believe the legends of werewolves, and suddenly, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I slammed the door, and leaned against it, shaking. When I next dared to look, all trace of the pack had vanished. I was not fooled, however, I knew that they would return to seek out the ease by which they might obtain a solid meal. I therefore took to carrying the shotgun, out and ready. Over the next couple of days, I saw no sign of them, but their footprints could be seen all around the fences and the cottage. Spider often woke me up, whining and shivering, but I just took to patting him, and he would settle again. Every so often, I could hear the howls, and resisted the urge to join in. Now I knew why the rabbits were fast disappearing. The wolves’ food had cleared up elsewhere, and they had moved territories. I had known about the Wolf Sanctuary of course, near Bucklebury, but as I had seen nothing, heard nothing, I had assumed that they had died or moved on. It seemed that now, I would have to make room for them in my life, and pray that they would move on in the future.
As time went on, the hunting seemed to get worse. The wolves appeared more frequently, near dusk, and there were fewer of them, and the remaining beasts were thinner, if that were possible. Things had to come to a head, and one evening, I was walking back to the farm when the leader appeared, and trotted towards me. I acted predictably. I swung the shot gun upwards, and pointed it him. He stopped immediately, and watched calmly. When he stayed where he was, I was thrown. I could not simply shoot him. I did not want to risk walking without the assurance of the shotgun, but I could not see properly without lowering it. Eventually, I took to shuffling back, feeling with each step and slowly covering the distance to the cottage. The wolf continued to watch, and just as I was nearing the safety of the solid door, suddenly spoke.
“Food.” It said and then looked over towards my cows. I could only hear that hated word, however, and assumed that he intended to eat me.
“Get out of here!” I shouted, and fired the gun into the air. The wolf looked startled, and ran a couple of steps back to the wood. Then he stopped to watch me again. I went inside, making sure that the door was bolted tight, shaking all over. He wanted to eat me! And he could speak! I remembered the dogs which had been with him, I wondered if they had in some way taught him the most important and familiar word in their vocabulary. But for all the wonder that might cause me, I had a vision of the pack breaking in, of being eaten alive and I stupidly felt that it was unfair. I had survived for so long, how dare these animals think that they could destroy me, they should not be allowed to. As the evening wore on, I realised that I was being foolish, that I lived as this pack did on the rabbits, that if they could, they would probably argue that such a fact was not fair, but they had no choice. So the next evening, although I was a little startled to see the leader re-appear, I was more philosophical in my approach. I simply turned so that he could see the gun clearly, but did not raise it. He came up to about ten yards away, and re-enacted yesterdays’ encounter.
“Food.” And he looked again at my cattle. Open mouthed, I suddenly realised that he might not be focused on me. My herd was now numbering in the thirties, I could easily spare one. Keeping an eye on the wolf, which lay down, his head on his outstretched paws, I opened up the gate, and then the barn, and managed to siphon off one animal. She was without calf, a bit older than the rest, but I did not think that the wolves would mind. I walked her over to the other side of the farm, and dug out the humane gun. The shotgun would probably have been effective, but I found it easier to make a quick kill with the other gun, and it was also silent, so that it did not disturb the other animals. I dropped the cow, and walked back to the cottage without looking around. I almost did not hear the “Thank you” which turned me cold all over, and refused to observe the resulting feeding frenzy. In the morning, there was very little left, but I left the rest in case the pack could find any more on the bones. However, I did not know what to do now. I could not feed the pack one animal everytime hunting was bad, but equally, I did not want them to starve. I was worried for several days, but was not bothered by them again for weeks. I knew that the wolves would not need to eat for a while, but I still couldn’t work out how they were feeding themselves. It was not until I went into town one day, and noticed the lack of rats, and the increased interest of the dog pack. They were starving on their feet, I could almost be confident about defeating them without the gun, but it was too much of a risk. I was struck by the fact that these once domestic animals had been the ones most bent on killing me. Their barely civilised cousins were the ones to survive by co-operation rather than by killing and yet they were not used to Man. Of course, the wolf pack was one at least derived partly from animals that had also lived with people. They must have been used to people giving them food, rather than hunting themselves, although whether wild animals were introduced to the pack or whether they were simply bred at the Sanctuary, I had no way of knowing. But for ‘domesticated’ animals, they were surviving and behaving as wild ones, seeking the woods for shelter instead of using the town’s buildings, only entering the town to seek the rats.
I took a good hard look at the pack before I drove away that evening. It was strange, but I had almost gotten fond of them, and I had to applaud the team work the Alsatians engendered and the ability of each dog to adapt. However, the wolf pack was stronger than them, and more used to the casual butchery of Nature. It was as if the dogs were Neighbourhood watch people dressed in combat gear, trying to act like the SAS. It was a good act, they had to seem fiercer, act more brutally than any dog of their acquaintance. But I suspected it would not be enough to save them in the face of the real thing, that shadow which lurks by the brightly lighted path, the shining eyes in the darkness. Sure enough, a few days later, I noticed that the pack was missing, and it became one more thing which vanished without a trace. The wolves re-appeared the next evening, some bearing bad injuries, the Labrador on three paws, but all seeming to be well-fed. My gorge rose for a moment, after all, I was more familiar with the dog pack than with this one, but the wolves had done me a favour.
“Thank you,” I called out, and the pack watched me for a while. The Lab whined and rubbed his face on the ground, then did that daft rolling thing dogs do sometimes, snuffling and snorting and biting to either side. Then he lay with his head between his paws, and blinked at me.
“Here, boy!” I called, and he looked up, tongue hanging out. There was a vague movement in his hips, and I realised that he was wagging his tail whilst lying on it. Very uncertainly, but wagging none the less. “Do you come?” I encouraged him by patting my thighs. He stopped moving, looked over to his leader and then back at me. His leader took no notice of him, and he got up and began to walk over to me. A few feet away, he looked at me calmly and edged further towards me. Spider went up to him and they sniffed gravely for a moment, until Spider sneezed and backed away. The Lab waited, completely still, as I gently touched the top of his head. Then he swung away, and rejoined the pack, which got up as one, and vanished into the woods.
I was elated that evening. I had made contact with other living beings that had not immediately attacked me. It was still a worry, for without the same rules of behaviour as a human, as soon as the food ran out, they would no doubt turn to thoughts of eating me. As if I did not have enough to do to survive! However, since they had responded to my efforts to be friendly, there was a chance we could survive together. As their leader had already spoken, I wondered how much more he could be taught, and resolved to try to find some “Dog-Talk” tools. There had been so many bits of merchandise, not all had involved a need for electricity. Although RadioNet had become a staple of every household, not everyone could afford to subscribe to every piece of spin off software, and someone came up with some cheap solutions. Ironically, these often showed more clearly whether the dog were ‘speaking’ or not, as they relied on a very visual response from the dog. The Needs-Jigsaw, for example, started life as some bold pieces of plastic, on which were written various words. The dog needed to speak the word to the owner, who would then give him the corresponding bit of plastic. The dog would then finish the game by placing the piece in a required space, which was titled with something to do with the object. So the “Food” shape would be dropped next to the word “Water”, and vice versa. The person who invented this (I forget her name) was delighted when that took off more than the RadioNet stuff, until they brought out its equivalent on there. It became a status thing before that though, some owners proudly displaying their dog’s ability. I did not point out at too many dinner parties that the dog could be associating the shade, the smell – anything other than the word, and probably still did not understand what the words meant. And so it went on. The first dog to go on “Britain’s Got Talent” might have won, had it not been up against “Dog-Talk” phobic Brian Cowell, who buzzed him immediately, and would have shot him by choice. All this aside, I planned to base my initial observations on the work already done, and then progress to the point where direct communication would be possible. I did not grasp then just how complicated this could prove, nor how little our two worlds would have in common beyond the initial needs of food, water and shelter. However, I was filled with energy, filled with the belief that I would one day be sitting down with the wolf pack, talking over concepts of art, music and philosophy. How deluded our dreams can be.
The next morning was bright, but still cold. I had intended to do my usual run to town, but whilst there was a toy shop there, I did not think that it would stock the sort of thing I needed. In light of this, I headed for Newbury, brightened by the thought of going somewhere new. Being not as familiar with it as Thatcham, though, I was unprepared for the appearance of another well-organised dog pack. There were only eleven dogs, mostly mongrels, flea-bitten and scraggy. For all that, they did look recently well-fed, and I had seen deer wandering through the town as well as the usual rabbits and rats. Squirrels too would have provided nourishment, in fact some of the dogs may have been living better lives now that they had with their owners. I had, of course, travelled nowhere without the shot gun, and got out of the car, showing it off clearly. My aim had improved greatly, since even though excitement or fear affected it, I had also learned to worry when it was necessary and to be calm when it was not. I suspect that this saved me from ulcers and further depression as well.
The dogs seemed to realise what I was carrying and responded in time honoured fashion, by snarling and barking. My relief was short lived when one of them began to shout something at me. I could not make it out at first, but he was hollering, “Die! Die! Kill! Kill!” in a low bark, and several of the other dogs joined in. Did they know what it meant? Did they understand what they were saying, or did they simply become used to those words being associated with food? I cursed the people who had believed that if their dog shouted something fierce, they would look big. I would have loved to have dragged them here right now, to listen to this horrible repetitive noise, like a drum beat, like something so primitive I could not describe it. I raised the shotgun and aimed at what appeared to be the pack leader, who snarled and leapt to one side. He evidently knew what the gun was, and I wondered how, considering that the people he probably would have belonged to would have been more likely to have been carrying pistols. However, I was only a short distance from the pet store so I advanced through the pack and shouldered open the door. I made sure it shut behind me, and blocked the exit. Then I moved slowly forward through the smell of rotting flesh, ignoring with practise the corpses of some animals which had died when no one came to feed them. Some of the cages bore evidence of the desperate inhabitants; it was clear that a few had made it outside, hopefully to freedom. The parrot, though, lay on his back, his pathetic skeletal feet curled up tightly.
I passed an aisle stacked with tins of dog food and was suddenly struck by an idea. I shouldered the shot gun and grabbed some of the tins. Luckily they had the ring pulls, as I did not usually carry a tin opener with me. Looking around, I spotted a wheelbarrow and stupidly I filled it to the brim with dog food cans. I realised my mistake the instant I lifted the handles – and then dropped them quickly. The cans, whilst not weighing much on their own, were massively heavy when combined. I threw out half, and tried again. Heavy but manageable, so long as I did not have to hurry, and I had a plan for that. Next time, I would bring the car up closer and fill it almost directly from the shop. I left the wheelbarrow where it was, closer to the door, and moving on I eventually found what I was looking for. The packets of plastic toys were dusty but the contents were as good as ever. I grabbed three, thinking it was best to have some back ups. They were awkward to stuff into my rucksack, because I had gone a little mad over Spider. He was to have a new collar, a selection of tasty new dog foods and some of those marrowbone chews. I got the backpack on my back eventually, and turned towards the door. I did not recognise the sound at first, being unused to the more exotic pets. It seemed like a low, husky hiss. I slowly turned, and caught sight of the alien head coming towards me. I now understood that not all the smaller pets had escaped. They had no doubt ended up in this one’s belly. Fortunately, the boa constrictor was not overly large, and I was not particularly afraid of snakes. He was not poisonous, so I had no need to worry about obtaining anti venom. However, he still possessed a magnificent set of teeth, and I knew that even if he only latched onto my arm or leg, the resulting injury might be enough to make me vulnerable to other predators. Even the wolves might not be as friendly if they had a notion that I was weak. I was loath to shoot the animal though, was this to be the only answer when confronted by them? He had probably found an exit hole, he was probably still able to hunt but for some reason he was coming after me. I grabbed a metal stool from behind the till and banged it on the ground. The snake flinched at the vibrations but seemed undeterred. I picked up a broom and poked it at him, but he still came on. I almost fell over the wheel barrow, and turned to grab the handles. The tins shifted about, threatening to tip the whole thing over. I started to wheel it towards the door, hearing the snake make its way across the floor behind me. I did not dare to turn and look back. I reached the door, turning the wheelbarrow slightly and letting it down in one fluid motion. I cleared away the debris with swift swipes of my hands and wrenched open the door. The sunlight dazzled me for a moment, and I threw up my hand to check for the dogs. They were still waiting, and I fumbled for a tin. Ripping off the lid, I launched the contents of the tin at the pack. They split and growled, and then when they smelled what it was, rushed in, slobbering, whining, snapping, fighting. I risked a look back. The snake was nosing its way after me, but I still had a little time. I opened a few more tins, and scattered the inside mess either side of me. Then I took up the wheelbarrow once more and trundled for my life. The dogs were completely uninterested in me. They were either eating as quickly as possible, or they fighting each other, and so although I was sweating and breathing heavily by the time I got to the car, I was able to load it up in a fairly calm manner. The snake had evidently decided that I was too much trouble, or perhaps it had fastened on one of the dogs. I did not care.
Returning home, I opened a few of the tins and spread the contents on the ground, in as tidy place as possible. It was getting dark, and I had heard some howling in the distance. Sure enough, some shadowy figures slipped out of the wood, and began to sniff around the meat. The leader did not appear to think much of the food, but the two domestic dogs tucked in with relish. Seeing them enjoying it so much gave the signal to the other wolves, which then came up to join in. Soon, most of them had had at least some sort of food, although I was sure it would not have been enough to satisfy all of them. Hopefully, their hunting had not been bad, they did at least look better fed. They settled down after a while, some curled up tight, sleeping, and others lying down, lazily raising their heads now and again. I felt almost pride that they felt safe here, and happy about visiting. I grabbed a large bowl, and put more dog food in it, and carried it outside. Placing it some distance away from the many watchful eyes, I put next to it the sign for “Food”. An easy victory, perhaps, but I gambled the leader would certainly not have seen the sign before. Then I retreated to see what they would make of it. I made sure I was clear of the windows, and was in fact sitting on the floor, my back to the door, when I heard something trotting up to the cottage. There was a plastic clatter, and then a low voice said, “Food”, and the creature trotted away. I stood up and cautiously opened the front door, catching a glittering glimpse of the eyes as the wolf turned back to look at me. I looked down and saw the sign on the floor. First communication. I picked up, and gripped it tightly in jubilation. I watched the pack as it finally got up and vanished into the wood.
The rest of the evening was one of the best I had spent in the cottage. I sat in the middle of the sitting room, listening to a scratchy rendition of Bach’s piano concerto on a wind up gramophone. How small our pleasures become in a world of nothing! Spider came over to sniff my backpack excitedly, and I slowly opened the lid to take out his new collar. He was a bit uncertain at first, and chewed it a couple of times before he was happy for me to put it on him. I had found a compass with which to scratch ‘Spider’ on the small metal disc, and he did look very smart. I then gave him one of the marrow bones, which went down better, and he ran off to a corner to crack it open over the course of the evening. I began to run the dates over in my head, and realised that it was now October, nearly my birthday. I was to be 42, an age of no particular significance, but one I felt should be planned for. I talked over some ideas with Spider, who seemed happy about all of them. However, I reluctantly abandoned the trip to the Bahamas, the cruise down the Nile and the Hot air ballooning. The Rally day also seemed rather unwise, even if I could have found a car to smash up. Swimming? Not in any of the pools, unless I was prepared to clean one out, fill it up and endure the cold water. Scuba diving would have been fun, but without any proper knowledge of what I was doing, ‘drunkenness of the deeps’ would probably have been likely. So I got out the maps. It was striking to think that these were no longer set in stone. What once was known, certain, was now fluid and ever changing. I thought of that poem I had read in a comic book by Alan Moore :-

Find me a dead cloud
And a sharp piece of science
Let me see the skeleton of weather
And let me map all the maps that have been mistaken for the world
And learn by heart the timetable of dice.
And in our clutching, self invented dance steps see
An accidental grace, a choreography.

From the instant the map had been drawn, it was immediately wrong, and now there was no one to draw the new maps. The Earth was ever changing, never stagnant, even the buildings would be altering their shape over time, plants growing over them, the walls falling away. Cliffs would be crumbling, coastlines altering and all the while I remained a fixed point, a pivot, my temporary chains imposed by my life. What came after? I was not sure whether to wish for oblivion or something more. Certainly, rebirth as a human was now out of the question.
Shaking off such melancholic thoughts, I spread the map out, and examined it. Down in a place called Beale, there was a park which had contained animals such as wildebeest and antelope. I thought a day’s hunting would suit the bill nicely, and would only require a bit of organisation as it was not far. There might be more dangerous animals there, but this simply added to the excitement. Then, in the evening, there would be a huge barbeque, to which I would invite the wolves. Of course, they would no doubt turn up anyway, but I wished to keep the illusion of being a host. The next time I was in town, I picked up some banners, a card, and some ingredients. The flour would be my own, patiently milled from grain I had grown. The butter was also mine, although I hated making it. Too much like hard work, it was the one thing I ate sparingly. Sugar supplies were still good, but I wasn’t sure what would happen when I ran out. I vaguely speculated about beehives, but as I used sugar so little anyway, I felt I did not worry over much. Today, though, I needed enough for a cake, and only felt a pang about the fact that I could not make chocolate. None the less, the cocoa powder still gave a taste reminiscent of the stuff, and I was not going to use too much icing.
I awoke that morning feeling little twinges of excitement. It was still dark outside, I wanted to leave early, and I crept downstairs as though there were other people in the house. I went into the sitting room to look at the pile of presents. I took up the first one, the contents of which I would have probably guessed, even if I hadn’t wrapped it the night before. I tore off the paper, and ran my hand lovingly down the barrel of my brand new rifle with telescopic sight. I had had to drive a far distance to find one but it was good to discover a new source of ammunition. I had brought back a few packets with me, and opened those up too.
“Thank you Spider,” I said, bending to pat him on the head. “It’s beautiful.” He wagged his tail furiously and licked my hand. I opened my card next, and for a moment, just a moment, tears started in my eyes to see the familiar words, “Happy Birthday”, for all that they had been written by me. I proudly stood the card on the obsolete television and stood back to admire it. Then I went to make breakfast. A proper hunter’s breakfast, eggs, some slices of smoked bacon, and some mushrooms, followed by toast and a mushy apple stuff which wasn’t really jam or marmalade. At least the apples were naturally sweet. The last time I had tried making jam, I had used syrup, and to this day, I don’t know if syrup is a proper alternative. Certainly the resultant mess was either too runny or held the spoon upright. Perhaps I was just useless at making jam, using sugar had much the same result.
Fortified, I grabbed my new gun, whistled to Spider and went outside to the car. It was cold, still frost on the grass and my breath puffed out before me. The moon was bright, rendering the world exquisite. There were no lights anywhere, and the stars were heavy in their presence. It felt like the world was encased, within another ball of blackness and pinpricks of light. I could have stood there all day, but there was also the feeling of loneliness and trepidation. When I was young, it was a treat to be somewhere where it was as though there were no one else. It was like playing at being homeless – you cannot imagine its true horror until you have been in the position of having nowhere to go. I felt it was retribution on me – “Be careful what you wish for”, this wanting to enjoy the solitude and yet knowing that it would last for ever. I was also apprehensive about the drive, for all that it was not far. I have never liked driving, and even though this car was powerful, it could still break down anywhere, and be beyond my abilities to fix. I carried a lightweight bicycle, I had no illusions about my fitness, but it would still be better than walking. I slid into the cold seat, feeling my pulse in my throat. The car roared into life and we set off, Spider looking eagerly out the window. There were a few more cars on the road, with the skeletons sill in the seats. I supposed that the clear up crews might not have been down here as often, and so these were the last of the defiant sick. They had got no further than the man who had stayed in his comfortable bed, but I hoped that they felt as though they had done something. I wove through them, and kept on going.
I drew up outside the park gates, which were standing open. There was no sign of movement, for all I knew, the animals had all left or been killed. I drove down the long drive way and drew up by the turnstiles. I grabbed my stuff and locked the car door – habit, I guess. I had to scoot over the turnstile but at last, I was in the Park proper. I was saddened to see the pathetic skeletons of so many animals. The Meer cats’ enclosure was one I had enjoyed on another visit here, and although not all of them would have died from thirst or hunger, I suspected many of them had. The bird cage looked almost festooned with cobwebs. The delicate white skeletons lay over the ground, surrounded by the most beautiful feathers, the shimmering iridescent colours turning almost white when my torch shone on them. The story was the same for the most part : where predators had managed to get in, the smaller animals’ bones had been strewn around the cage. The larger carnivorous animals had more than likely died of hunger, and the animals brave enough to try and feed on them had not started soon enough to avoid the meat rotting first. Thus their bones were left mainly in position. I was jolted by the realisation that I was in effect, visiting a zoo of corpses. Spider was not at all fazed by the sights around him, he was soon off, nose down, eagerly following the myriad of scents which were around him. I could hear him jingling quietly amongst the bushes, which were just coming into focus, the darkness fading in the dove-grey light which was getting stronger. I walked on, knowing the larger enclosures were at the back of the Park, and that there would probably be nothing living in this part at all. Eventually I broke free of the cement paths, and followed a hopeful sign proclaiming “Antelope”. I crouched down a bit and crept up to the edge of the fence, in case any animals had survived. There was no wind, but I knew that their sense of smell was probably well developed. I peered over the fence, and espied a couple of animals grazing, well off into the distance. As I looked about, I could see various other forms, all herbivores, no doubt keeping together for mutual survival. The grass was shorn, and the trees bore evidence of eager teeth. Although the animals probably bred prolifically, there were still only a few of each species, and I guessed they had reached the limits of how much the grass could sustain their numbers. There was a large pond in the enclosure, which had been kept topped up by rain water. I could see no bodies, and any injuries looked old, so presumably all the predators had moved on or had died. One antelope took my fancy, as he was close, but he was a male in the prime of his life. I suspected he was probably the alpha male of the group, and indeed I did not see any other males of the same age. I decided a female would be better, and the chances were high that none were pregnant. I looked about, and could see another small group at the end of the field, under a tree. The light was improving all the time, and I didn’t have much to waste. It was a little like shooting a fish in a barrel, but I thought that I could live with that. I took up position, and looked down the sight. The antelope’s head could have been in front of me, the sight was so good. The soft beige hair blended into the white, and the dark smears of charcoal were in stark contrast. She had huge eye lashes, they looked as though they had been individually painted with the best of mascara. I chose my spot carefully, and gently pulled the trigger. She went down instantly, the others scattering, and I know I had hit the target perfectly. Spider, who had been waiting in whining eagerness, bolted off to examine my prey. I came over to find him gently licking the bullet wound, and he looked up sheepishly as I arrived.
“Yes, you know you’re not supposed to do that, “ I said absently. I bent to look at the animal. It was then that I became aware of the feeling of being watched. I glanced up, trying to be inconspicuous, but I could see – there! A movement! Knowing that I would be seen, I raised the gun and peered through the sight. Something was moving in the trees. I shook with excitement, it seemed too purposeful for an animal, and I continued to scour the wooded hill for more signs. It seemed an age before I caught sight of life again, this time a little further up the hill, and I assumed I had simply missed the creature’s movements. I could make out a colour, one which did not seem natural, a red colour as that which one might find on a T-Shirt. It could be – No, I mustn’t jinx it. I lowered the gun, and was torn between leaving the antelope, and missing a chance at human company. Then I thought that since I would not that far away, I could probably scare off anything which arrived with the rifle. Thus comforted, I started up the hill. The many months of constant exercise made the journey a comparatively easy one, and I was soon nearing the place where I had caught sight of the lone figure. I carried on more cautiously, wondering if I had been heard, if the person was hiding or getting ready to fight.
“It’s all right, I won’t hurt you. I would just like to talk, I haven’t heard a human in…Oh…over five years now.”
I had not expected too much from my voice, but I continued to talk softly, peering around trying desperately to see who was here. Then I was thrown forward onto my face, shouting out, trying to reach round and not shoot, a feat in itself. Something dislodged itself from my back and bounced around until I could see what it was. A chimpanzee. It was wearing the remnants of a bright red T-Shirt, a testament to the workmanship that anything of it remained. I have to confess, close up, the colour was in fact very faded and dirty, it had definitely looked better from a distance. The chimp sat and looked at me, whilst chewing absently on a stick. It held it out for a moment before snatching it back. I looked at him and laughed, saddened that it was not a human being, but charmed by the presence of this small bundle of black hair. He seemed happy to see me, and came a little closer, pausing on three legs to reach out with the fourth. Suddenly, his manner changed. He looked upwards, gaped in fear and ran for the nearest tree. I got my gun ready, not being a fool. He continued to look into the trees, behind me, but made no noise. I thought back to what little I could remember from wildlife programmes, and was puzzled as to why he did not give an alarm call of some sort. I soon realised why. Through the trees came three baboons, two fully grown and one youngster. They saw the chimp, and screamed at him, whilst he cowered into the tree. The baboons were followed by an assortment of monkeys. I stared at them. I knew little about monkey behaviour, but I was convinced that one monkey group would not mix with another, that they were fiercely territorial. And yet here were various types, all sitting close to one another. What could have changed them so? To this day, I can only assume that lacking the numbers of a normal size troop, they had put aside their differences. The effort of a fight has to be taken into account when one monkey squares up to another and in this respect, having one, maybe two of each species would have required them to be even less aggressive. Some of the monkeys numbered into double figures, but their size would have made them no match for the larger primates. Particularly as the baboons would no doubt have enjoyed the meat. Presumably this mixed troop began as a few evenly matched primates making way for the smaller ones who began to live on the outskirts. I wondered if monkeys cross bred. In the meantime, I was faced by the unattractive proposition of being attacked by three very agitated baboons. Evidently they were disturbed by my presence, and angry at the chimp for daring to fraternise. The chimp was to be no use, he was sitting with his hands over his eyes, cowering. The baboons continued to scream, showing off their large canine teeth, and I had time to envision the amount of damage they could do to me in a short space of time. I remembered an episode of “Top Gear” I had seen, where James had been more afraid of baboons than lions. I was beginning to see his point. However, I stood there, they began to quieten down, so I remained perfectly still. I knew I was dealing with a creature of high intelligence, it depended on whether they saw me as a nice meal or not.