To All, I am a regular poster with an addiction to writing. The following story has been demanding to be let out. If it is deemed to be a nuisance and waste of space I will cease and desist. If you want further installments please express yourself accordingly.

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is strictly coincidental.

Y2k Chronicles  Chapter 1  The Horde

April 2000.

Helen heard it approaching long before she could see anything. It was a dull dusty vibration. It filled her with a sense of resignation that was beyond foreboding. After a few hours she heard a distinct rhythm that sounded like drumming. In fact, thats what it was. No fife and drum jauntiness. These were low complex rhythms. Later still she heard the bells. Sweet melodic trillings. Finally she saw them. Their numbers were so huge that it took a moment for her to figure out exactly what she was looking at. It was people, hundreds of them. Walking forward in a line which spread out against the horizon in a vanguard. They emptied into the her little valley and began to fill it.

She let the chickens out of their coop. Grabbed her pack and threw in her sleeping bag, knife, tent. It was already stuffed with lighters, matches, magnifying glass, binoculars, compass and water filter. Along with some energy bars and first aid stuff. She grabbed her 4 yr. old daughter's pack. Marly was asleep still. Helen made a quick sweep of the house. She tried not to think about what she was leaving behind. She found she could let most of it go but the books. So many wonderful books. Perhaps the hoard that was approaching would not see much value in them. She wasted precious time fantasizing about coming back some day with her books still intact. She shivered and shook herself. Buddha was right. Attachment was suffering. But then Buddha neglected to mention that non-attachment was suffering too. Coming abruptly to focus she grabbed a pair of scissors and walked into Marly's room. Marly's long blonde hair was tousled and wild. Streaming and shining in the sun light. Her face was clear and peaceful. Helen really hated to wake her.

Taking a deep breath she gently shook Marly. "Honey, you need to wake up now. We have to do some things today." Marly looked slightly cross. That cherubic face was only placid in sleep. What Marly lacked in size she more than made up for in determination. Helen did not have time for finesse today. "Wake up honey. We have to get moving." Propping Marly up, Helen stuffed her into her walking shoes. With minimal cooperation Helen managed to get Marly dressed. Helen was grateful for the warm dry weather. No telling how long it would hold.

All of a sudden the drums seemed much louder and Helen felt like she had abruptly entered a state of heightened awareness. Looking out the window they were still far enough away that she could not make out individual faces. She estimated it would be another hour before they made it to the house. For a moment, futility almost over took her. All the preparations. All the foods carefully ordered and stored. All the thought and planning and money that had gone into getting ready for this year. All wasted. All pointless. Because a great herd of shuffling hungry people was moving towards her and there was no way to get it all out in time. There was barely time to get she and Marly to a safe place before they descended. She took a moment to be grateful that she had prepared for this eventuality too. Not that she had ever expected those teeming thousands to come up over the hill. She had just planned for as many possibilities as she could think of. It was easy to think of reasons why it could be useful to have a bug-out option. No reason to just pick one.

Marly was beginning to attain wakefulness. "Mommy what's that sound?" Marly looked alarmed. She had always hated low menacing sounds. She ran to the window and saw what was coming. She got very silent. "Marly honey, we are going to have to leave now." Marly ran towards her and they held each other tightly for a moment. Helen stroked Marly's beautiful hair and sighed. Helen took her own abundant chestnut colored tresses in hand and quickly braided them. Trying not to think about what she was doing she grabbed the scissors and began hacking at the woven hair near the nape of her neck. It reminded her of the grisly texture of Marly's umbilical cord. Feeling the long braid come loose in her hand she stuffed it in her pack without thinking. It was one thing to cut it off. It was quite another to leave it to be trampled into dust. She knew it wasn't rational. She didn't care. Ok Marly. Your next. We can grow our hair back another time. "why?" "Because we need to go in the woods now and it will get tangled. We might not be able to wash it for awhile and sometime we might want to pretend we are boys and we can't do it with our long hair."

Helen was overwhelmed by a desire to just grab her daughter and cut the damn hair. She chafed at her self-restraint. However, surviving this was going to be hard enough. Without Marly's cooperation it could well be impossible. Marly looked at her mother and her shorn hair. With out a word Marly turned around. Helen breathed a sigh of relief and simply grabbed Marly's fine hair together and cut through it. They looked in the mirror and saw a young man and a small boy. Amazing what a bad haircut will do for you. For once Helen was grateful for her slim boyish figure. No cleavage - no worries thought Helen and giggled in a sudden spasm of giddiness. Baggy jeans, plaid shirt, ugly but practical hat. No one would exactly peg her as a beautiful damsel in distress.

The dogs were already franticly barking. It would take all their training to keep them from running towards the approaching mass rather than away from it with Helen and Marly.

Helen and Marly hiked up into the hills they moved north and east. Helen's goal was the high ridge which separated her land from the National Forest. The valley floor swept out in a wide inviting swath to the west. Helen was reasonably sure that the hoard would choose the path of least resistance and most promise. She had hiked to the ridge with Marly before. It would take 4 or 5 hours with frequent rests but once they were there they could camp and she could decide where they were going to go next.

Hours later they sat on the ridge and looked down. They had weathered the hike fine. It had been hard not to enjoy the sunshine. Marly had picked wild flowers and now their campsite was decorated with a lovely bouquet. Martha Stewart would be so pleased. thought Helen wryly.

Training her binoculars back to where she had come from she watched with amazement. There was nothing to see but dust and people. The barn was a shambles. There was a huge bonfire burning. There appeared to be whole cow butchered and turning on a spit. Helen had no idea where the cow came from since she didn't own any. The entire field and garden was being picked over and dug into. It was like a great herd of locusts in tie dye. Most wore their hair in dredds. Some were bald. The men could be distinguished only by their facial hair.

Inside the house strangers moved like tourists. Nothing was being removed but she had feeling that was because it was already empty. For 2 days the horde stayed and then began to show signs of restlessness. The drummers started to move and everyone else began to shuffle into motility. It took a half a day for them to move on. Behind them the land was a dull and dry as a dust bowl. Not a single green thing was left. Looking more closely she saw that a few of the dull brownish patches were people. Most likely too ill or tired to keep up. Some just sat and stared forward vacantly. Others made odd repetitive motions with their hands. All looked beyond hope or caring. Helen felt a sudden coldness in the pit of her stomach and looked away. She knew there was no returning. Not today. Perhaps not ever.

-- Story Teller (anonymous@for.now), June 13, 1999

Answers

Very Good! More please! Marcy

-- marcy sawyer (marcia@madnet.net), June 13, 1999.

Don't bug out bags, and a "scorched earth" policy go together? Why on earth didn't she burn the place down before leaving. With all of those books she should have realized that's been a fact of life for centuries. Hurts, but then would hurt more to give your enemy sustenence.

-- A. Hambley (a.hambley@usa.net), June 13, 1999.

Yes more please, E-mailed it to my daughters, maybe they will wake up before it is to late. Thanks,Daryll

-- Daryll (twinck@wfeca.net), June 13, 1999.

I agree will Hambley, If I bug out from my farm all I will leave is ash and posion water!!

-- Daryll (twinck@wfeca.net), June 13, 1999.

Yes, write more! I wanna read where Godzilla stomps on the herd. Then Helen falls in love with Zeke, the wild mountain man. Wait, I'm spoiling the ending.

-- Randolph (dinosaur@williams-net.com), June 13, 1999.

Very nice writing style, good impact. You might want to watch out though for those racist remarks that might not have been intended. The part about weaing their hair in dreds. Most Ratstfarians wear their hair in dreadlocks and wear bright tie dyed colored clothing. It was hard to figure out if you meant that as an indication of the ethnicity of the hoarde. I very much like it though. The Mongol hoardes acted in much the same way when overthrowing neighboring countries. There was less organizing and more looting and pillaging in a ubiquitous group that seemed to camp down where ever was convienent.

I like it! Definatly worth a thread's space once in a while! Thanks for the read.

-- (oldyeller@sanfran.com), June 13, 1999.

good observation oldyeller....

Story Teller, that was very good.Thank you. I'm already anticipating the next story...pls. continue.

-- quietly (Quietly@lurking.com), June 13, 1999.

To All I must say this is a new experience. Instant critics! ;-)Thanks for the nice comments.

To Old yeller 'round here all the folks wearing dredds and tie-dye are white Rasta wanna-be's. The used to follow the Grateful Dead from show to show. Now they follow Phish. They wander into our town and beg. I was watching them one day wondering what they would do post TEOTWAWKI.

To others Helen didn't burn down the house because it was too risky. Would have made her own retreat dangerous and might have focused the hoard on herself and Marly. Letting them have the house gave her plenty of time for escape.

As far as Zeke the mountain man goes time will tell.....

-- Story Teller (anonymous@for.now), June 13, 1999.

first lesson you taught is that storing in house isn't safe- may be a big hole under the haystack or something- with just enough out to be a decoy. these are just starving people, which doesn't mean they aren't dangerous- but if one has to leave, why burn? One of the things most spoken of , by the preparers I know, is their hope for a better life, a greater sense of community and caring for others. Who is going to start, and where and when? Either you live it or you postpone it, and if you do that the time to start wwill never arrive. But, yes, I wait the rest eagerly.

-- rachel windsong (windstar@nnorthcoast.com), June 13, 1999.

Starving people ARE dangerous. That's the point. Got matches?

-- A. Hambley (a.hambley@usa.net), June 13, 1999.

Hambley and Daryll,

Survival in a meltdown (Lucifer's Hammer?) requires cold reason with little left for sympathy or vengance. Along these lines, I believe that, unless the mob is truely huge, a year's supply of beans, rice, oats, and wheat whould likely take days to cook and would satisfy even a large crowd. Your supplies might slow down poachers enough for you and your neighbors to escape.

Of course, this approach could also be viewed as selfish by some, since the supplies might sustain the mob in a march to the next town/victims. The question is, then, would you destroy your supplies and sacrifice your family to the angry, hungry mob if you knew the result would be mob dissolution? Or would you use the supplies to buy time for your escape if you knew the next town would then have to face a stronger mob?

Story Teller, thanks for the story. It has given me something new to ponder. I am constantly amazed by this forum and its regular participants.

Sincerely,

-- Uhm... (jfcp81a@prodigy.com), June 13, 1999.

More,please for our enjoyment.Very good writing.

Also this may give us all ideas about what to do, like in this case ,have more hidden caches around! Maybe leave something that would harm a lot of them, like bad (poisoned?) beans cooking slowly and aromatically on the stove?

-- sue (deco100@aol.com), June 13, 1999.

Oh okay Story Teller, I know who you are talking about, the dead heads. Not the grateful dead fans, the kind of people who just follow in a group and everyone is really dirty and scuzzy looking. We'd call 'em ravers back in Saugerties, NY when they came to the Woodstock reunions . They also hung around on the corner of the festival having their own whacko festival listening to heavy metal bands, Primus, Slayer and generally acting violentlly bizarre. They have only began showing up in the last few years and they are very disruptive. What threw me off is when you mentioned the men being distinguishable only by facial hair coupled with the dredlocks. Rastas are taught not to shave facial hair so they resemble the Lion of Judah, whom Jah wants us to look like. So I thought that was another indication. But anyway these "ravers" as I know them are definatly no Rastafarians. The religion and the hippie wanna-be get confused because of the use of marijuana and the brightly colored clothing. The two are very dissimilar. I know you meant nothing by the visual references. Keep up the good writing, waiting with baited breath for Chapter Two.

-- (oldyeller@sanfran.com), June 13, 1999.

You need to add way more action. Like guns. And mudwrestling.

-- King of Spain (madrid@aol.com), June 13, 1999.

to the author, Ifeel like I know you. Looking forward to the "rest of the story".

-- Betty Alice (Barn266@aol.com), June 13, 1999.

In response to Daryll: who wrote:

I agree will Hambley, If I bug out from my farm all I will leave is ash and posion water!!

-- Daryll (twinck@wfeca.net), June 13, 1999.

Not only scorched earth, but as many of them that I could pop off at a half a mile through some very expensive sights. Oh, and not to mention all the nice little, shal we say, 'surprises' left behind.

Groups of people have no more right to the private property of others merely based upon their numbers and their wants.

If they want mine, they will have to pay with their lives.

-- Paul Milne (fedinfo@halifax.com), June 13, 1999.

I don't seem to get the touchy feely response. I think I'd start shooting the LOOTERs at the riflemans quarter mile (500 yds). Since they were on foot and I would be using ball ammunition I think I might be able to turm the HERD. At any rate, they would be much reduced in numbers. At that rate I think I would be able to shoot the reqired number.On flat ground with non expanding ammunition, WELL that might be an option.

-- nine (nine_fingers@hotmail.com), June 14, 1999.

Chapter 2 is now posted above.

-- Story Teller (anonymous@for.now), June 14, 1999.