Progress for Survival (Part 3)
I'd overlooked something.
These were humanity's ancestors. Naturally, their only methods of hunting and self-defense were screaming and throwing rocks.
So of course, they were already experts at hurling things.
"Waaah!!"
"Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!"
The bola spread through the group like a fad in no time. Even these clumsy hands could make one easily enough, and using it was simple—just whirl it around and let go at the right moment.
And the results showed up immediately.
"Chief! Got another one!!"
"Here too!!"
"Ours is bigger!!"
Staring at the two antelopes piled up before me—both with cracked skulls—and a crocodile I couldn't even imagine how they'd caught, I thought to myself.
'These guys... they really are humanity's ancestors.'
The moment they got a ranged weapon, they started laying waste to everything around the jungle.
"Stop! Hunt more, it'll rot!"
I scolded them like that, but they just said to eat it before it rotted and kept on hunting. That middling intelligence was backfiring here.
'Dopamine addiction's been with us since the beginning, huh...!'
The problem was, by the time I realized it, it was too late.
"Chief! More over there!"
"Catch it! Catch it!"
"If it runs, we lose out!"
"No, we won't lose out!"
My shouts meant nothing. The moment they spotted something moving, they whipped out a bola.
Whoosh! Thwack!
Whoosh! Boom!
And thanks to their hunting skills improving way too fast, failures were rare now. What the hell was with that insane adaptability?
One knocked a bird from a tree. Another snagged a turtle's leg by the water and dragged it in. Just moments ago, a wild boar that had been peacefully resting toppled over without even a squeal.
I stared blankly at the scene and muttered.
These were the same guys who'd been trembling in fear of predators just yesterday? They were going wild now.
"...Scary little shits."
Then one of the old males nearby nodded with a pleased look.
"Thanks to Chief!"
'That's not a compliment!!!'
In a place where nature killed people, not the other way around, I had no intention of preaching environmental protection.
But at this rate, the local prey would run out. They were chucking bolas at anything that moved out of sheer novelty now, but in a few days, every animal around would flee at the sight of us.
And we'd be the ones starving then.
I'd always thought civilization began with grand epiphanies. Turns out, no.
'To stop overhunting, we need rules.'
What a utterly hopeless reason.
I scratched my head furiously, then finally bellowed.
"Everyone, gather up!"
They pretended not to hear at first, but when I grabbed my spear, they came scampering over in a panic. They still hadn't forgotten how I'd chased off the Megantereon with it.
I looked around at them, putting on my most solemn face.
"No more hunting whenever you want."
"Why?"
"More catches are better, right?"
"Full belly if we eat lots!"
"Too much! Can't eat it all, it rots!"
When I said that, one of the older ones nodded.
"Rot stinks. Draws dangerous ones."
"...Ooh."
Their eyes turned serious in an instant. Concrete stench beat abstract ideas every time.
I seized the moment.
"Catch too much, can't eat it all—stinks, bugs come, get sick."
"Sick?"
"Belly hurts. Vomit. Shits. Might die."
The whole group stepped back at once. Perfect effect.
They might not grasp sickness yet, but they knew from experience that weird-smelling food meant bellyaches and possible death.
"So from now on, big hunts only when I say."
"Say?"
"Chief has to say?"
"No if Chief says no?"
"Yeah. No."
A brief silence fell.
I braced for complaints, but surprisingly, they all nodded. Made sense on second thought.
This group was used to hierarchies. "Chief says so" was way easier than rational rules.
...Felt kinda iffy, but if it worked?
Then a young male in the back shot up his hand.
"What if we catch without permission?"
I pondered, then uttered words that would underpin society's foundation.
"Get punished."
"How much?"
"A lot."
"What's 'a lot'?"
I glanced around and pointed at the crocodile we'd caught earlier.
"Tonight's dinner: the grossest parts."
The group erupted.
This world's first punishment was stronger than expected.
For reference, gross parts meant testicles, bladder, intestines, etc.
"No way!"
"That's too much!"
"Not liver!"
"Why's liver gross? Tasty."
"You eat it then!"
"No!"
Watching the chaos, I was convinced.
Yeah. Laws start in the gut.
And so, by accident, I'd created humanity's first hunting restrictions and penalties.
...Of course, I had no idea those rules would spark new problems before the day was out.
"Chief."
Caesar sidled up slyly, eyes gleaming oddly.
"Small stuff okay without permission?"
"...What?"
"Really small. Tiny bit."
Peeking behind him, five rabbit-like critters with busted heads were stacked like a hill.
'Why does their smarts only evolve this way?!'
Humanity's first loophole. First act of cunning law-dodging. Clutching my throbbing head, I looked skyward.
In the end, I had to decree a harsh addendum: "Anyone hunting without permission, tied to a tree all day." Only then did the indiscriminate bola frenzy stop.
But the problem wasn't fully solved.
Meat was overflowing.
Even with restrictions, once permission was granted, they'd bring back two or three beasts effortlessly thanks to that cheat weapon called the bola. The real issue wasn't full bellies.
"Chief! This stinks!"
"Yesterday's rabbit—color's weird!"
"Bugs! Tons of bugs!"
The crisis I'd feared was unfolding. This was East Africa's jungle. Sure, open savanna was nearby, a cool stream too—but the Ice Age was over a million years off, so it was hot and humid as hell.
Any meat left out got swarmed by bacteria and bugs in seconds.
The thrill of hunting faded fast; now they pinched their noses, milling around the rotting piles. Too wasteful to toss, too scary to eat after my "sickness" warning.
I ordered the spoiled meat dumped far from camp and pondered.
The solution was dead simple.
'Fire.'
The driving force that evolved us to Homo sapiens, a power we'd never abandon even in the distant future.
Just grilling it would boost flavor, sterilize, kill parasites, aid digestion. Less moisture meant longer storage; smoke it and hang in shade, even better.
Making it was easy too. Flint was everywhere—iron-rich rocks for strikers. Worst case, rub dry sticks.
For a paleoanthropology grad student, this was child's play. Experimental archaeology demanded using period tools in real conditions.
But the real hurdle wasn't that.
Earliest fire use was Homo erectus at best. These folks were fresh off the Australopithecus split—I'd be advancing human history 500,000 to a million years.
Evolution might accelerate... or stall here forever.
And above all, fire was dangerous. Too dangerous.
Instincts hardwire that fear in creatures. Humans casually wielding it would be the anomaly.
Probably why fire-fearing humans survived.
What would these guys do seeing fire? Hope they don't torch the forest.
But flip it: I'd already invented the bola a million years early. History was screwed anyway.
After much thought, fire's benefits outweighed the risks by miles.
Spilled milk. Hell, they were already bulldozing the ecosystem with bolas.
Better boost survival for sure. Stop rot, cut disease, repel night predators.
That alone justified it.
And crucially—
Smack!
I slapped my nape again.
"Agh, shit...!"
Opening my palm, a blood-gorged tsetse fly was smeared.
Tsetse flies.
These bloodsucking bastards had tormented me from my first Africa trip with Professor Park to now. Tough shells resisted swats, bites stung like needles, and they spread every disease under the sun.
Mud coating helped, but in this dry season, it flaked off quick.
Smack! Smack!
"Fucking hell—"
As I flailed, a nearby young male's eyes lit up.
"Chief! Fighting again!"
"What?"
"Tiny winged monster!"
They started fake-slapping air to "help" the great chief. I watched their idiocy, then sighed in resignation.
Fine. Light a fire. Screw evolution and history—incense first, or I'll die.
Starting a fire's easy with the right trick. No iron rocks nearby, so friction it was.
I gathered bone-dry grass into a nest-shaped tinder bundle, wedged a sturdy dry stick between my thighs. Used a stone tool to carve a straight shallow groove in another stick's center. Placed a pointed twig end-on in the groove, gripped tight with both palms, and rubbed hard.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Steady speed, steady pressure. In the primal jungle heart, only the dry rasp of wood echoed.
The playful group hushed, gathering to watch the chief's weird ritual.
Soon,
Sss...
A nutty, acrid scent of charring wood rose, thin white smoke wisping from the friction spot.
"Ugh...?"
"Cloud! Chief makes cloud!"
They pointed excitedly, buzzing—but I ignored them, focused on fingertip feel. Critical moment.
Amid black sawdust, a tiny red ember glowed shyly.
Carefully, I transferred it to the grass nest. Cupped it in my hands like a precious egg, breathed gently, steadily.
Foooo...
Oxygen fed it; red glow spread through dry grass, intensifying. Then,
Whoosh!
Fierce red flames erupted in my palms, heat blazing. Arm hairs singed, but I ignored it—set it in a cleared spot, added fine twigs.
Thick logs first kill the fire. Build with fast-burning twigs, then logs once roaring.
Moments later, I gazed at the crackling red bonfire, rubbing blisters on my palms.
2.5 million years BCE. Humanity invented fire.