An Alien Rescue (3 page)

Here and there, across the land, small groups of survivors organised themselves into little communities, each
one striving to build small makeshift fortresses within soggy swamps or on the edges of lakes, rivers and remote highland lochs. The learned ways of the ancients was making a comeback, with historians showing their true colours in an otherwise lost society by helping to reconstruct crannogs. A crannog is a type of ancient loch-dwelling found throughout Scotland and Ireland dating from about 5,000 years before. Many crannogs were built well out into the water as defensive homesteads and represented symbols of power and wealth in their own day. Present-day settlements became particular about who was allowed to share their bounty as available living space was minimal, especially as crops and livestock were limited. Former salespeople, bank-managers, accountants, lawyers, red-tape loving bureaucrats and similar who pleaded to be allowed in to the small settlements were instantly dismissed and rejected as a useless waste of valuable resources. Previous applicants of the aforementioned types had already proved time and again they were of no use to the new colonies. These officialdom loving characters had no backbone for hard work and even less useful knowledge. These ex-fat-cat, lazy and arrogant individuals, had shown themselves to be an unnecessary drain on strained resources, important supplies of food that were difficult to grow and store. Their easy life had left them unable to work to any degree of effort or to apply themselves in any worthwhile occupation. Those who were deemed to have any sort of use were readily accepted, but always on probation, until they deemed themselves worthy and able to interact with those already accepted. These valuable individuals turned out to be scientific types, teachers of practical skills like biology and botany. Experienced engineers and mechanics were worth their weight in gold and prized beyond measure. Builders were held in great esteem, especially carpenters and joiners whose each and every word was gospel when it came to construction. Military types came and went, unable to follow orders from those they viewed as undisciplined. Most couldn’t use common sense or tact to sort out a dispute, resorting to fighting and violence as a means to getting their own way. Those who did fit in with the crowd were invaluable for their defensive skills, courage and strength. A community felt more secure and happier when they had their own small private army to protect them. Mains electricity was a thing of the past, as were motorised vehicles, piped water, sewage-plants and supermarkets. Animals were a commodity in their own right as they were easy to keep while providing nourishment and clothing, always worth fighting and killing for. The manure they produced helped to nurture the crops into a healthier and greater harvest too. They were herded and guarded by armed guards, where the acceptable military types really played their part well. Recovering fish stocks had started to invade areas where the protected animals once grazed, where fishing wasn’t seen as a sport or pastime anymore. Vegetarianism was a thing of the past, as was tobacco; although a plentiful supply of alcohol could still be found among the many ruins. Sailing boats were some of the most valuable possessions to be owned, powered by the wind. They enabled distant travel, communication and trade by barter, with net fishing becoming common practice. Some individuals and their families took to living on the ocean wave in marvellous looking yachts, where safety from marauding hordes was almost assured when at sea. Scott recalled a movie called,
Waterworld
, featuring
Kevin Costner
as the boat owning lead character. It wasn’t a particularly successful film in box-office terms, but its basic theme had become reality by all accounts. Governments and police forces across the planet had been inundated and overwhelmed with untold levels of crime, before eventually succumbing to more powerful forces of violence than even they could withstand. Weapons made the new masters, and whoever controlled
them
controlled life and property. Murder and mayhem had become as commonplace as felled forests. Tree plantations were decimated like never before as survivors depended on timber for fuel and building supplies. Peat bogs were hastily drained to supply the most northerly populations with a steady supply of slow burning fuel, desolate areas where cold gale force winds and frequent rain persuaded most refugees never to venture. Winters were as big an enemy as was the violence, with as many dying from each. Open-cast coal fields were the new gold mines, with the black stuff becoming more valuable than people. The desperate, with a level of sense and aptitude, attempted to cross the English Channel by whatever means was available. They understood that the further south they could travel the better and healthier the climate would be. Everything from homemade rafts to ballasted bathtubs were tried, anything that floated was seen as a possible means of escape to the continent. A few who considered themselves fit and healthy enough to do so tried swimming, towing whatever they treasured wrapped in buoyant watertight plastic bags. Their bloated bodies were frequently washed-up on the southern-most coasts, alongside the broken wreckage of their own and others’ makeshift and foolhardy vessels. The remains provided small amounts of support to the scavengers who scoured the waterline. Small territorial dictatorships sprang up, with bloody battles being fought over the rights to claim whatever was found. The seaport of Hastings involuntarily returned to its earliest historic beginnings where, once again, kingdoms were either won or lost. It was recognised that southern European countries were the best places to head for, where warmth and forested mountains afforded the best chances of survival. But the unforeseen danger was that bandits roamed everywhere for easy pickings, with peace-seeking and hungry foreigners being the easiest to manipulate and to rob. Across the entire planet, people were being slaughtered like sheep, their remains either fed to fatten animals like pigs or left to rot above ground for carrion. The killers rejoiced in whatever spoils could be taken, savouring the moment before they needed to hunt again.
They
were the new predators.

Scott passed over the English
/Scotland border, noticing the new fence and walls that divided the two countries. Scotland had taken on a new roll at an early stage, it seemed, as the English government had passed away in an instant. The Scottish Parliament hurriedly moved itself into action, recognising the danger it was about to find itself in. The Scots were a population of hardy people, a race who had provided the world with first-rate engineers and scientists from time immemorial.  The proud Scottish Army Regiments that Whitehall had attempted to disband had amalgamated with the country’s police, forming a formidable force to be reckoned with. It was this move that stopped anarchy in Scotland, with new laws quickly voted in to the country’s constitution to help thwart any attempts to overrun those who supported the Executive. Execution was one of the new bylaws, with many being convicted and shot or hung for crimes against the state and its people. The border between England and Scotland was heavily protected on the Scots side to prevent hordes of refugees from crossing. Gangs of immigrants tried to gain access by following aged drovers roads, mistakenly believing the enforcing army couldn’t possibly cover all the land between the two countries. They were sadly wrong, with many bodies left unburied as a powerful deterrent to any who might try and follow the same routes. The black-hooded carrion-crow now thrived in this part of the world, feasting on the dead and breeding like never before. The Scot’s formed new agricultural establishments, one each for the various regions. Each establishment was responsible for growing and harvesting cereals and livestock within their boundaries, concentrating on whatever was best suited for their particular soil. Black-marketeers were publicly hanged in Edinburgh’s ancient Grass-Market area, resurrecting a Dickensian time from the annuls of Auld Reekie, the Victorian-era name for Edinburgh. The same city, with its own castle and elevated city with its centrally situated extinct volcano called, Arthur’s Seat, had become a strong foundation for the survival of the Scottish Clans, a country that moved with the times and did not scare easily. People worked hard for very little, understanding their nation relied upon the strength and will of its population. Oil was still being drawn from off-shore wells, piped to the former petrochemical complex at Mossmorran, in the nearby county of Fife, instead of a much closer refinery. The refinery at Grangemouth was eventually surrendered to the sea, but only after an extensive fight to protect it. Massive concrete bunds had been constructed around the Plant’s ailing perimeter, aided in their fight against flooding by constantly running pumps. The end was inevitable, resulting in an oil contaminated Firth of Forth estuary. The refinery’s life had been long enough to enable completion of the modified Mossmorran project, whose own supply line was by road and rail, across the Forth Road and Railway bridges. The rail bridge had been built during the Victorian era and was a recognised engineering marvel, but the effects of a rising salt-laden sea were taking its toll on the paint-stripped steel. Its future life was in jeopardy as severe corrosion was all too obvious. Fast setting concrete was being added to the bridge’s lower supports whenever an extra low tide would allow but these were few and far between. The transported fuel-oil was stored in a heavily guarded depot, built deep into the Lothian Hills beneath the newly planted fields of ploughed land that had only ever known grazing sheep. Scottish roads were still open, but only used by vehicles on official business or moving supplies and workers. Electricity flowed to hospitals, essential factories and engineering workshops, with the nearby nuclear PowerStation at Torness generating more than enough for Edinburgh’s needs. It too had been surrounded by high and dense concrete bunds to thwart the sea and its tides. Scott was immensely proud to see the successful work and organisation of his countrymen, knowing he belonged to such a potent body of people. His view glazed over as he was drawn away, zooming off at a frightening speed towards the north-west … and back to Skye.

The entire vision shook Scott to his foundations; the frightening scenes he had just witnessed or hallucinated caused his
kneeling body to sway a little too far. The imagined sight of watching the hostility and sometimes futile courage of the many who toiled the land appeared to have weakened him. He keeled over with a dull sounding thump as his centre of gravity crossed his threshold of balance. The suddenness and force of the impact was totally unexpected as the rock and grit smacked him in the face like a Prize-boxing punch, snapping him out of the semi-dreamlike state he was in. He regained his senses with a series of curses and spitting-out dirt. He tasted sea salt from the muck as it dissolved in his saliva before hitting his taste-buds. Struggling to sit upright, he shook his head as if to assist the return of his senses. Rubbing dirt from his face, he felt for any damage with sensitive fingers, regularly checking his fingertips for evidence of blood. Thankfully, there was none. Fully regaining his composure, while carefully scraping what felt like gravel from the corners of his eyes with a finger nail, he recovered from what he considered a momentary daydream or lapse of sanity. The awful and horrendous sights he’d seen forced him sit still and silent in mesmerised contemplation. The visions of death and destruction had seemed so real and horrifying in their futuristic implications, wishing with all his heart it was only a silly daydream. The sights and the sounds of all he had seen were too horrible for any mortal man to bear, but what could have caused him to see such a vision, he wondered. Having collapsed in a seaward direction, before sitting up in a dazed state, the cliff was much less than a metre away. The realised sight of the edge’s closeness and the lengthy drop beyond persuaded him to crawl away on his hands and knees, putting some immediate distance between it and him. This was all about his imagination going off at a tangent, he considered. Tiredness had made him feel confused, he guessed. "I'm a silly sod sometimes," he joked with himself.

The sea’s swell was heightening as the tide had
turned, where an increased sound of crashing waves could be heard as they hurriedly splashed between the wreck’s twisted ribs.

A thought entered his head, almost as quickly as the blink of an eye. He wondered,
if global warming could reach such heights, might the vision he just experienced become factual?
He understood that any areas of inhabited land at or close to sea level would find itself beneath rolling and advancing waves, leaving any displaced community to locate somewhere else. His knowledge of the world and its growing population struck him like a hammer on an anvil, his head reeling at the thought of millions upon millions of people crossing a forever shrinking land surface, all trying to survive the advancing tide of transgressing seawater. It would take much more than a Dutch boy sticking his little something into a leak to keep the rising levels at bay, he thought.
If King Canute couldn’t do it, we’ve got no chance,
he humorously thought. He imagined a sandy beach with a magnificently dressed and bearded idiot sporting a shiny crown sitting on a throne. With an outstretched arm, the King repeatedly commanded the tide to turn, failing miserably as the water reached his royal toes. Scott smiled with a short-lived grin, raising his knees to meet beneath his chin. He continued spitting while resting his head, feeling dirt grind between his teeth. The idea of a submerging surface, a shrinking land with a lot of refugees seeking refuge had never occurred to him before, so why should it now? The green and cold looking sea with its white-mane crested waves rolled peacefully across the bay’s width. Bright orange buoys bobbed helplessly between the waves, marking the position of lobster and crab catching creels on the sea-bed. It was a sight of peace and tranquillity, a picturesque view that focussed gently on his retinas. How could such a sea cause so much widespread misery? He sat for longer than intended, eventually rising to face the prospect of packing his belongings and setting off for home, but only after another expedition around the area. He didn't find any fossils but met a Bristol University lecturer who had taken a group of students on a field-trip to Skye. After an interesting conversation, where the tutor agreed there weren't any interesting fossils to be found there, Scott headed back to his campsite.