Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #53 down for the night in the warehouse with a little less excitement SHTF & TEOTWAWKI

Shack leaps out of his little three-legged stool as if someone kicked him in the ass. He immediately drops to his right knee with his weapon up and ready. Not bad reflexes for a kid.

I pick my one rifle up verify there is still a round in the chamber, and the selector is set in the single position. Flipping the single point sling over my shoulder, I tuck my rifle under my right arm muzzle down holding it by the pistol grip.

More shouting again, although no more shooting this time. I wonder what the excitement is about this time – more skunks?

Our radios are still in the vehicles. I wonder if we should not be carrying some sort of short-range inner convoy communications device. Something to ponder – maybe I will mention it to Nickola and Carol later.

Shack seems content to remain kneeling waiting for either the all clear or further instructions. I walk back towards Carol who is lying in her bed roll on the hard top that covers the bed of the truck.

Carol appears to be sleeping or making a decent show of it at least. I do not want to disturb her if she manages to sleep through the commotion. Just as I turn to walk away. Nikola comes trotting up, dressed in a shaggy Ghillie suit that is a little too small for him.

“Ruth, shooting was for what,” Nikola asks me without preamble in Russian.

“Skunk earlier, not sure about this last shooting,” I mention to him also speaking Russian. Nikola looks excited and probably defaults to his mother tongue when under stress. I do the same with Hebrew. I think in Hebrew, and it is my primary language, with Arabic and Farsi close seconds.

Nikola touches Carol’s shoulder, which immediately opens her eyes although she still looks groggy. Carol smiles at Nikola. “Hi babe, I took some Benadryl, and it really knocked me out,” she says in English.

“I got something for you dorogaya,” Nikola says to Carol in English. “We found pharmacy, mostly looted, although I did find several bottles prenatal pills for you.” So saying he reaches into a small O.D. green duffle bag that he carries pulls a rattling large white pill bottle out of it. He shows the large white bottle of prenatal pills to Carol who smiles at him.

“Did you find out about the billboard people,” I ask Nikola interrupting the tender moment between the expectant couple.

“Did, not good I am sorry say. Everyone died from water lacking trapped by zombies below.”

“You mean dehydration – everyone died from dehydration.”

“Da, that is the word I was meaning,” Nikola says.

“Did anyone search the billboard area,” I ask.

“Da, well provisioned with everything but water. Sutton said one, two maybe three guys were feeb HRT from Seattle. What is feeb HRT?”

“It stands for hormone replacement therapy,” I say with as straight a face as I am able. My attempt at humor gets a complete blank stare from Nikola. I think he knows I am fucking with him, but he is not entirely sure.

My attempt at humor, however does get a snicker from Carol. My humor attempt is a failure; better not quit my day job.

“I am joking – it means the Federal Bureau of Investigation – called Feebs in slang – Hostage Rescue Team. HRT was a Federal paramilitary outfit. Most of those guys were ex-Special Forces mostly Delta and SEALs.”

“Ah, I am familiar with unit like this; we have same in Russia – FSB and MFD. Saw much action in Chechnya and North Caucasus region. This explains weapons and munitions found.”

“Oh, do tell, what goodies did you find?”

“I found a 9mm FN-Browning Hi-Power pistol like yours, and one 9mm SIG P226 pistol. Also, found fat, high-capacity, .45 ACP Les Baer Para-Ordnance pistol that Sutton or Randy claimed. There were other guns and materials but other men carry.”

He reaches into his duffle bag again and digs around for a moment. He pulls out the familiar shape of a Hi-Power pistol with its slide locked back and hands it to me, butt first after making sure it was empty by glancing into the open chamber.

“This pistol is similar to mine, but it is a Mark 2,” I tell him, recognizing the model immediately.

I get the male non-committal shrug. “The FN-Browning Mark 2 is a nice pistol, but it is not threaded for a suppressor,” I say, “But I can use it for parts or as a spare pistol. Mine is marked ‘Pistol Automatic L9A1’ on the left side of the slide, the British designation for the military version of the post-1962 Hi-Power made by FN. My frame is made by Inglis and was an original P35 made during the Second War. Carried by a Jewish Brit OSS officer who married an Israeli woman and later served in the Yamam. Someone fitted a post-1962 slide and barrel to the frame. My Hi-Power was at one time parkerized, but someone did a decent job of bluing it, although the bluing is wearing thin. My pistol still wears the lanyard ring, but when someone fitted the newer slide and threaded barrel, they also added the Mark 2 ambidextrous safety and grips.”

I look up at Nikola and see that I have thoroughly bored him. He is not the first Special Forces guy I have met that was not terribly into guns. Nikola reaches into his bag and pulls three loaded Hi-Power magazines from his bag and hands them to me without a word. Nikola turns his shoulder to me, so I guess the conversation is over. I wonder what else they have found?

Walking back to my little car, I leave the happy couple to enjoy some privacy while Carol is not barking at the earthworms. At my little car, I see Shack is talking to an older, stern-looking, smooth-faced, African-American soldier armed similarly as he is but wearing an altogether different camouflage patterned uniform with tan desert boots.

The black soldier wears a maroon beret under which the smooth sides of his head shine dimly in the pale light. He looks like a stoic African general with his hands crossed on the butt of his weapon.

As I walk up, Shack nods at me and says, “Ruth this is Terrance, a good friend of mine from the early days of the outbreak.”

I nod at Terrance while I put the FN Mark 2 pistol and three magazines in my driver’s seat. I realize that Terrance is not a soldier at all, but an airman as his uniform is that of the US Air Force.

I am not at all familiar with the US Air Force ranking, but I see he has five chevrons on his sleeve, so I think that makes him an E5. I remember someone once told me to count the chevrons. The gray, tiger-striped uniform should have clued me as to Terrance’s branch of service, but I am tired, and my mind is fuzzy.

“Terrance was a PJ with the 304th in Portland that got called up when the world got Kcapped,” Shack says to me. I have no fucking clue who the 304th is, but I know vaguely what a PJ is.

“T-man, here was telling me that one of the guys found a crawler on top of a man lift and shot it,” Shack says.

“Oh, that is what that pistol shot was,” I say with relief.

“Dude, I will catch you later,” Shack says to Terrance who walks towards the front of the convoy after shaking hands.

“Terrance is the last PJ and only Air Force dude with us. The rest of the Air Force guys from Portland, JBLM and Fairchild either did not make it or chose to go it on their own. The PJs were really busy trying to get VIPs (he pronounces it ‘veeps’) out of infected areas at the start of the outbreak. They lost a lot of PJs, poor bastards,” Shack tells me as I sit on my bed roll.

I take off my tan Gortex Israeli combat boots and place them under my car by the driver’s door. I lie down in my bed roll and imagine that it is going to take me some time to fall asleep.

The next thing I know, a grinning, ass hole Shack is shaking my shoulder. “Ruth the sun is going down time to get up. You are not going to like this, but …”