Fiction – Ruth’s Story Part 10

I definitely need a bath! Splattered as I am with dried zombie crud, and six days of sweating in these clothes I need to desperately get some new clothes on.

I grab the nice soft shemagh from the red nylon Kelty backpack and spread it on the floor. I use it to stand on since I do not desire to stand on the carpet in this room. The snail trail of gore on the floor from where I killed Williams out the door gives me the creeps.

In my rational mind, I know it is silly but it still gives me the creeps and makes my skin crawl. There is no way I am stepping in that goop with bare feet!

Jumping on the counter, I sit on the side with my legs dangling over and begin to unlace my boots. Starting with my right boot, I drop my sock on the floor and place my right boot beside me. I start to unlace my left boot and remember that I have an ankle holster with the little LC9 stuffed in it strapped to my left leg.

Leaving the little LC9 where it is, I unstrap the ankle holster and place it on the counter with my right boot. Taking my left boot off, I drop my dirty sock on the floor with its mate, and place my boots neatly together on the counter. I yank the Beretta from my waistband and place it on the counter next to my boots.

Hopping off the counter, on to the decadently soft shemagh I stand and start to unbutton my shirt. Tossing my shirt on the floor is out of character for me as I am usually a very neat person.

These clothes are a write off, and I never intend to wear them again. Standing shirtless in a semi dark room in SeaTac Airport, lit by a little flashlight is not something I ever figured to do, but hey not like I thought zombies would ever rise either!

As I undo my belt and unzip my pants, I contemplate the last few days. My tearful parting from Amy, as she joined her firehouse and the total chaos here in the airport has really taken a toll on me.

Slipping my pants off my hips I toss them in the corner – God in heaven I stink! I do not care for underwear – “going commando” is the term I believe the Americans use.

Reaching inside my purse I grab my spare hijab out and dipping it in the – damn! – hot water I give myself a quick whore’s bath. Pits, tits, ass and crotch. Shameful use of a beautiful piece of fabric, but I need to clean up before I attempt to sleep.

The hot water does a world of good but I really wish I could let down and wash my hair. My hair is a bit shorter now after Amy helped me cut it a few months ago. I grab the braid and from what I can feel for the most part it is still tightly braided. It does not feel too fuzzy although a few rogue hairs have escaped.

My hair tickles the very bottom of my ass, but if I take it down I will look like a yeti. I do not wish to fool with my hair right now even though what may be in it makes my scalp crawl. My hair once a luxury and my vanity may become a problem.

What little water is left in the Flash has cooled considerably, so I decide to dump it over my head to rinse. Well that felt really good although I have gotten the counter all wet and have created a small puddle on the floor.

Reaching into my rolling carryon bag, I grab my desert khaki BDU pants and slip them on. I grab my black Tactical Tailor rigger’s belt, and slip it through the loops in my pants and cinch the belt tight enough to keep my pants from sliding.

I decide a fresh pair of socks is in order and grab my own merino wool and silk blend socks. Still topless, I put my boots back on and but leave them loose. Since I am going to bed fully clothed, I want to be comfortable but ready for action should the need arise.

I also replace the LC9 in its holster on my left ankle just above my boot. As I strap on the little pistol I contemplate my pistols. Should I unload the LC9 or the Beretta? I would much rather use my Hi-Power which I am much more familiar with than the Beretta. Another factor in favor of my Hi-Power is the ability to use the suppressor, which the Beretta lacks. Hmmm, quandary.

Standing I decide to put my shirt on. It’s a man’s small, old-pattern desert camouflage, pale tan BDU shirt but it is light and comfortable. Also it is dark enough that if I sweat through it, my nipples do not show through which is a major embarrassment!

Now fully clothed, I decide to retrieve my Hi-Power and its AAC suppressor, screwing it firmly in place. I rack the slide on the Beretta, ejecting the round on the table. Ejecting the magazine from the Beretta, I thumb the 9mm rounds on to the counter. I also empty the two Beretta magazines from Williams’ duty belt.

Once all forty-five 9mm rounds (I counted) are on the counter, I place the empty Beretta 92FS and its three magazines in my rolling carryon. I may be able to trade the old Beretta later to someone.

Loading my old and somewhat beat up Belgium-made Browning Hi-Power magazines (which only hold 13 rounds each) I ponder my next move. I remember the National Guardsmen mentioning they were from the new Snohomish armory. I wonder how far away that is from here? I need a map!

I have three full magazines for my Hi-Power and about a half magazine with one loose round. I ram a full magazines home and drop the slide chambering a round. Flipping the safety on the Hi-Power I consider how I am going to carry my stuff. I eject the magazine and thumb the last loose 9mm round into the magazine. Now I have one in the pipe and thirteen in the magazine.

I lay my Hi-Power on the floor beside my mattress. The full FN magazine and the half magazine go in the pockets of the Scottevest. I briefly consider unloading one of the LC9 magazines. Maybe tomorrow.

I zip my carryon bag closed, toss the sodden shemagh and hijab over one of the luggage racks to dry and finally turn off the poor Surefire E2L. Laying on the floor on my improvised mattress of papers and discarded clothes, I pull the huge Scottevest jacket over me.

I almost immediately start to drift to sleep. I can still smell the chicken, and just as I fall asleep I remember an American Ranger Krav Maga instructor and sparring partner that served in the Bosnia campaign back in the 1990s with the US Army.

I remember him talking about the Serbs finding hidden pockets of resistance by the smell of food cooking. I hope nothing smells my food and finds me as I doze off.