Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #56 Driving through Lake Forest Park in Convoy SHTF & TEOTWAWKI

I wait in silence for a few moments, other than the rain and Shack’s gentle snoring. Looking at the GPS in my dash, I note that we are stopped beside a huge cemetery to the left.

The rain has finally stopped for the moment, but I see small streams and rivulets in the roadway.

A sudden radio transmission startles Shack. “Everyone take 15. If it starts to rain again, haul ass back to the convoy ASAP.”

“Oh man, how long was I out,” Shack asks.

“About four hours,” I tell him with a shrug of my shoulders that I realize, belatedly, that he cannot see.

I watch a lot of our convoy members meander for the trees and bushes in the cemetery. It may seem crass and disrespectful to do your business on someone’s grave, but the location is ideal, as there is little cover to conceal enemies, be they alive or dead.

Shack goes first while I cover him. After he is done, then I do my own necessary absolutions while he watches over me. Everyone is trying to avoid the rain puddles. I overhear some jokes about the dead rising out of their coffins as if we are in one of the Romero zombie movies.

As we walk the few steps back to the convoy, watching the soldiers come and go, I notice that several soldiers are carrying tin foil wrapped blobs.

Reaching our little idling Smart car, Shack and I note there is two, tin foil wrapped mysteries on the roof of the car.

Shack mutters, “All right tin foil turds!” And then grabs one of the mysterious objects and plops in the passenger seat.

I take the sole survivor tin-wrapped mystery and sit with more decorum in the driver’s seat. I note that Shack has started to peel his tin foil wrapped mystery, revealing a thick square burrito-like object that he proceeds to cram into his mouth.

Watching the horrid table manners of my partner, I wonder if he tastes the food. “Is that any good?” I ask Shack.

“Needs more hot sauce,” he mumbles to me with a mouth full of flour tortilla and God knows what else.

I, with not a little trepidation, peel some of the tin foil off the mystery object and take a tentative bite. I do not mind a little spice, but I do not care for super-spicy food. I never saw the attraction of taste bud torture not to mention my southern end suffers horribly from excessively-spicy food.

I am not foolish enough to want to torture myself and my ass while surviving a zombie apocalypse. Last thing I need is a case of Montezuma with a zombie trying to nosh on my ass.

The warm burrito is not bad, a little spicy but not overly so. The cooked, spiced white rice is particularly good. I love the avocado paste and sour cream in the burrito. The meat appears to be a mixture of probably beef and pork, but I do not care as I am starved. Although, I do not attempt to keep Kosher, I always feel a little guilty knowingly eating pork. If there is a God, I hope he understands.

The sliced black olives in the burrito are a delightful addition as well as some refried beans, but I could have done without the black beans. Never truly cared for black beans, but I am too hungry to complain. I just hope whoever made the burritos understands basic food handling safety processes. Last thing we need is to food poison the whole convoy.

The burrito is much better than another MRE anyway. It does not take too long to get tired of MREs even if you are starving.

I see Nikola and few of the other soldiers trotting back at a brisk run covered in their Ghillie suits. The group of soldiers stop at the colonel’s VW and confers for a little while before the soldiers return to their positions in the convoy.

Nikola walks by my driver’s door, and I roll my window and ask him what was going on.

“Was large Mormon temple up the road to the west. Mormons known for stockpiling so checked out hoping for trade, but temple burnt down. Many dead inside. Like someone boarded people inside and lit fire to church.”

“Here in the States, the Mormons are usually referred to as LDS for Latter Day Saints. Wait a minute. How do you know about the fire and dead?” I ask him.

“Found empty gasoline and kerosene cans, nails, boards and hammers used to block doors. Still too hot to enter building. Someone must have wanted supplies, but they killed everyone and ruined supplies for all. Did find several dead scattered around outside. Perhaps temple people took many of their killers with them.”

“It is a shame some assholes burnt the church down,” I mumble.

“Da, it is,” Nikola replies. “Would have been good to trade with temple but all dead now.”

As Nikola walks back to the idling blue Chevy pickup behind my little car, I note he seems sad. I cannot imagine what he must have seen in the ruins of the burnt-out LDS temple.

I am moderately familiar with the LDS faith. If I remember correctly, Nikola is correct the LDS were noted for stockpiling supplies as a part of their faith – I think. I believe I heard rumors of well-supplied and armed LDS compounds outside of Salt Lake City and in the mountains of Utah, Nevada and Idaho.

While I cogitate about the fate of the LDS church, most of the convoy members have completed their bathroom break and gotten a chance to eat by the time it starts to rain again. I have not been keeping track of the time, but the rain drives everyone back into the safety of the convoy.

We pass several zombies who stand eerily still in the dark rain. I wonder if the fallout affects the zombies?

The convoy starts moving again after a quick head count to ascertain everyone is present and counted. Just after we get moving again we pass a small battery shop on the left that is still burning.

Batteries are going to be a precious commodity in the coming days. I am not surprised to see a battery business reduced to ashes. I just hope whatever idiot set fire to the place at least got all the batteries out before the fire consumed them.

In the light of the rapidly dying fire in the building, several zombies see and hear our convoy pass and start to give chase. However, once, the zombies get outside the light from the fire where they can no longer see, they just stand still waiting for sun rise.

I know the zombies can still hear our convoy because I can watch their head swivel as the noise moves. Without light to see, the zombies remain frozen in place.

I notice the blue Chevy pickup behind my car is swerving a lot more than it needs to and notice that, for the first time, Nikola is driving. Well, he appears to be doing an Ok job at driving, but wait what is this?

I feel my face get flushed and hot. I quickly look at Shack and see that he is rummaging in our cooler behind the seats to get two cans of beer for us. Shack is also not wearing NVGs, so he probably cannot see what I see.

I see the top of Carol’s head bobbing in Nikola’s lap, and he looks decidedly distracted. Either she is puking in his lap or is performing a presidential act. I suspect the later. I have never received or given road head, never seen a real necessity for it, but I suspect in trying times one must make do.

I am so distracted by the performance behind me Shack startles me by tapping my arm with the warm can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. “Dude, pay attention to the road,” he tells me as I take the beer and drive with my knees while I pop the warm beer can open.

Other than a little swerving while I open my beer, I think I am doing a pretty decent job, despite the distraction. I wonder what Shack’s response would be if he could see what is going on behind us. Would he be shocked?

I heard a rumor once, probably an old wives’ tale that ingesting the sperm of the person who got you pregnant is supposed to help cure morning sickness. Maybe Carol was seeking a cure to her morning sickness, since she has suffered horribly from it.

Sipping our warm beers, Shack and I ride in silence for a while. Carol must have finished her task, as I see her sitting up, leaning against Nikola’s side. Nikola has his driver’s window cracked and is smoking a cigarette with a decidedly smug look on his face. The lucky bastard. Nikola has to cup his cigarette to keep the flare of the fire from wiping his NVGs.

We suddenly come into a largely residential area of 522 now called Bothell Way NE. Our progress slows some as the number of abandoned cars increases. The convoy has to do some backing up and back tracking a few times to get around several large, multivehicle collisions colloquially known as a pile up.

A particularly large and onerous traffic pile up consisting of several tractor trailers, a few metro buses, and numerous cars took several hours and the use of two HEMTT winches and the exothermic torches to clear. While the crew cleared the roadblock in the pouring rain, the poor bastards were in MOPP Level 4 (Mission Oriented Protective Posture – acronym pronounced as “mop”).

That means they had on full NBC (Nuclear Biological Chemical) suits and gas masks on while clearing the roadway. From the looks of things, several of the soldiers were adept at wearing the cumbersome and stifling NBC suits while clearing the road block.

High probability a lot of these soldiers are Afghanistan, and Iraq veterans so they would be well-versed in working in the various MOPP levels. The colonels were also in full MOPP regalia and monitored the soldiers, shifting soldiers out for breaks.

Soldiers rotated through several over-watch positions to keep the zombies from attacking the work crew. A few zombies had to be put down, but most zombies were trapped in vehicles and were of no immediate threat.

The sides of the third HEMTT with a few tarps and pieces of canvass were utilized as a staging and decontamination area. All in all, the soldiers, for working in some of the worst conditions imaginable, did a remarkable job of clearing the roadway.

When the roadway was finally clear the first, early rays of sunshine were just beginning to peek over the mountains through the scattered rain clouds. Soldiers scrambled to stow all the gear and get medically cleared by Jamal and back to their positions so the convoy could move.

Just before, we got moving again, an unknown soldier dressed in full MOPP gear passed out tin foil-wrapped breakfast burritos from a tarp-wrapped steaming plastic bin. Our choice was either bacon and egg or chorizo and egg. Shack chose chorizo while I took the bacon.

As the convoy started to move again, while munching on the breakfast burritos, I wonder where we are going to stop for the day. I note on the GPS in my dash that we are at the junction of State Route 104 and SR-522. We had to clear the intersection to get through where the two highways meet.

To the left are a massive shopping mall area and the remains of public library that still smolders in the early morning. What is left of an Albertson’s grocery store is just to the south and east of the smoking ruins of the library.

The flame-gutted grocery store no longer smolders, unlike the library. I suppose the library had more flammable material inside.

Judging from the sheer amount of dead (both walking and immobile) scattered in the parking lots, the number of police and emergency vehicles, this must have been a scene of pure chaos a couple of days ago. I wonder at the sheer amount of destruction and panic that occurred in this area as we drive past.

We drive for only a few minutes more as the day steadily brightens. The rain has finally let off, although there are large, evil-looking puddles everywhere. Large black streaks stain every building and vehicle.

We suddenly pull off the road into a small park to the right. I pass the flame scorched and bullet-ridden sign that reads, “Lyon Creek Waterfront Park.” I wonder what kind of night we will have in the park. It surely will not be as restful as the previous night.