STEEM-POCALYPSE SURVIVAL GAME CONTEST - Day 7 Round 2

The sound of raging white water slowly dwindled as the pair of desperate men ran as fast as they could with packs on their backs. They didn’t lack for motivation, for while the gunfire that had woken them from a sound sleep was now some way behind them, it was a reminder that the area was not a safe place to tarry. They pushed on as hard as they could, dripping sweat and panting like an old time bellows at a forge.

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But their legs and a good dose of fear could only take them so far, and eventually they slowed to a stumbling walk. Still not wanting to stop and rest, they pushed their battered and exhausted bodies even further. Neither one wanted to be the first to call a halt, but both were wishing the other would.

It was already early afternoon when they eventually stopped. The old man’s legs gave out and he slumped to the ground and sat there panting with his eyes closed, leaning against the pack, still tied to his back. Hearing his father go down, the son stopped and turned the check on him, concern written all over his face.

“Thank God for that” he muttered, dropping his pack to the ground with a whump. He left it where it fell and stumbled over the check on his father. The man’s face was red from exertion and he was shaking with fatigue.

Sinking onto the ground beside him, the younger man fumbled with the buckles to get the pack off. It was a difficult task, not helped by his father being unable to lift his arms any more. The more the son struggled with the pack the more concerned he became. His father had been uncharacteristically quiet through the whole proceedings and when he gently lay the older man down so he could rest, his ministrations were not met with any resistance.

Beyond exhausted himself, the son lay back too, just for a moment, to catch his breath and try to find some reserves of energy to keep on going.

The sun trekked across the sky intent on its own business, and not bothered by the two men basking in its warmth.

Evening found the men a bit more rested and once again on the move. The trials of the day left them both unwilling to talk much louder than a whisper, and they were constantly scanning the trees for any sign of movement. As the shadows deepened and the woods began to whine to the sound of a million blood sucking insects, the men stopped by a small stream.
Still without conversation, they picked at the bank of the stream, pulling sticky black mud from the water’s edge. This they slathered across their exposed skin in an attempt to create a barrier that would deter the mosquitoes.

A damp corner in the buttress of a tall tree would serve as their campground for tonight, and as the men settled in for the night, the son shuffled about trying to get comfortable. His hand pressed down and found something soft and squishy that wriggled and writhed against his fingers.

“Oh gross” he muttered, wiping his hand on the side of his pack.

“What’s gross?” asked his father.

“We chose to camp on top of a worm farm.”

“Can we eat them do you reckon?” asked the old man, hopefully.

The son sighed. “Yes. Bear Grylls’ recipe forty seven – barbequed worm. You get a fire going, and I’ll see how many I can catch.”

Grunting as he rose once more, the father diligently set to getting a cooking fire going while his son scraped at the ground around the campsite, picking up as many worms as he could find. It was not the best meal they had enjoyed in the great outdoors, but it was far from the worst. And right now anything that could fill their grumbling bellies was a bonus.

All that was left to do, was to lie down in the shelter of the tree and try to get some sleep. It seemed a long time coming, but when it did, both men were dead to the world.

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STEEM-POCALYPSE SURVIVAL GAME CONTEST - Day 7 Round 2 - the Kiwi's story

Stories in this series

Check out my stories here on Steemit

Running Deer

Charlie Rabbit

Little Peppers Adventures

Dark Angel Regiment of the Space Marines - Mission Files

Other stories

Also don't forget to check out my Dad's blog