Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #60 Leaving the Sammamish River banks and marina behind us SHTF & TEOTWAWKI

To all my faithful readers – thanks for your patience as this episode was due two days ago. I had a major plot change I needed to incorporate and some changes that needed to be written into earlier chapters such as this chapter. I will try to keep the every two days of posting new chapters as best as I can.

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My dark nightmares feature throngs of horrific living dead chasing me. I am unable to run fast enough away from the dead pursuing me as if my boots are full of lead. I cannot clearly see those chasing me, I just see dark, blurry images, but I know that I am running for my life.

Shack shaking my shoulder jerks me awake me from my terrible dreams with my pistol in my right hand. I hate dreams like the ones I was having until Shack woke me. I have awoken in a clammy sweat with my hair wrapped around my face.

My hair is still a little sticky from the conditioner that Shack and I put in it this morning. Mixed with the clammy sweat my hair sticks to my neck and face with irritating resistance.

“Evening Tex, wanna put that pistol down, please,” Shack says to me holding a steaming butterfly wing handled aluminum canteen mug of something out to me. “Peace offering for you.”

I pull my hair out of my face and lay my pistol on my pillow. The long pony tail of my hair has pulled out from underneath my white cotton wife beater tee-shirt. Damp with sweat, I toss my irritating pony tail over my back with an irritated sigh.

Taking the (fucking!) hot aluminum cup from Shack, I take a tentative sip of the beverage which my nose tells me is a different black tea than the orange pekoe I was expecting. I still miss my quiet mornings.

The black tea smells dandy with a hint of anise. Someone has dumped not a little sugar in it which is not quite how I like my tea. I like my tea black, but with a little less sugar usually. I am not complaining though as I gulp the hot tea down. The warmth of the tea feels nice.

“Some of the scouts found a Starbucks across the highway that had some Thai tea and ‘Sugar in the Raw’ packets that someone missed. The scouts also scored some bottled Chai if you are into that stuff.” Shack is talkative again this evening I note as he continues talking.

“You know your hair is a real tactical liability. There was a reason that almost all modern armies since Alexander the Great have insisted on very short hair – long hair is a convenient handhold for an enemy or a zombie in our case.”

Shack continues talking to me while I stand and stretch. I try to smile at him; it is gratifying that he cares. “Shack know this, no one is touching my hair with any kind of cutting device, or they will get shot in the face,” I smile again at him, I did not mean to sound so much like a bitch, and that came out harsher than I meant. I am damned cranky this morning.

I try to soften my tone, God I did not mean to snap at him like that. “Look Shack, my very long hair is my vanity. In a male-dominated occupation, I needed something that reminded the men I worked with that I was still a woman. When I was in the Israeli Army, I had to cut my hair, and I hated it. Evolutionary psychologists will also tell you that long hair is a sign of fertility, but that matters little to me.” I pat Shack on the right shoulder.

“Ruth, I am just concerned that a zombie is going to get a hold of your hair,” Shack says with concern in his eyes. “I don’t want no zombie eating that fine ass of yours.”

“So Shack, you like my ass, do you,” I ask with a coquettish grin. Shack turns bright beat red in the face which is cute. It has been a long time since I flirted with someone.

I pat Shack on the shoulder again, it is amusing that he is concerned; it is touching to have someone care for me after losing Amy and I am enjoying flirting with him. “I have studied military Krav Maga for many years. I know how to deal with someone grabbing my hair Shack, maybe I will teach you sometime.”

Shack nods at me, but I can see he is not thoroughly convinced. He starts to speak again, and I assume he is going argue more about my hair. Instead, he totally changes topics, although I can tell he is not convinced my long hair is a terrific idea.

“They’ve got a hot shower rigged in the metal shed,” Shack says. “Breakfast for the night crew should be on soon. Gabe’s been cooking all day. The SF guys caught a couple of squirrels and a few rabbits today in their snares. The SF guys also shot some Mourning Doves using wrist rockets and marbles for ammo down by the river. Sutton managed to drop a small black tail buck deer with his suppressed rifle. Hell of a shot too in the blackberry thickets, which is the kudzu of the Pacific Northwest, or so I am told. We’ll be eating rabbit, squirrel, dove and venison for a while.”

“Yuck, Shack who the fuck eats squirrel!” I say with a shudder. I cannot imagine eating the furry little gray thieving bastards that raided my bird feeders at Amy’s and my condo.

“We do because we are starving; otherwise we are back to our unappetizing supplies of MREs.” Shack says with a sigh.

“When you are ready,” Shack continues, “the ladies need your help with the Princess to get her ass in to the shed. Seems she smells to high heaven and refuses to bathe. Rick has threatened to do a full-blown code red ‘GI shower’ on her if she does not bathe and change her clothes. Carol and Mal are trying to get her in the shower, but the Princess is pitching a major hissy fit.” Shack seems resigned and thankful that he is staying out of the conflict with the Princess.

I put my boots on while Shack was telling me all of this great news. So the Princess needs encouragement bathing. She is majorly depressed probably and letting herself go in her grief. I grab my toiletry kit from the car as I ponder this quandary.

Doc Jamal might have to inject some happy juice into the Princess to get her operational again. I consider the repercussions of having a doped-up Princess on our hands. I also wonder how much hospital grade antidepressants Jamal possess. Then again, is the Princess worth doping with pharmaceuticals that we are likely not ever going to be able to replace.

Once my boots are on, I drop to a knee and pick up my pistol, magazine and flashlight. Tossing my gun belt around my hips I holster my pistol, and put my magazine in its proper pouch. I put my little flashlight in my jacket pocket. Grabbing my rifle, I sling it over my left shoulder after ensuring that it has a round chambered, a full magazine and the safety off.

I polish off the tea and start to pack my bed roll, when Shack tells me he will store our gear while I go deal with the Princess. Bastard, I was trying to stall before I had to go deal with the spoiled bitch.

Shack starts to put our stuff away while telling me that the day crew has already eaten and showered and now it is the night crew’s turn. I take my empty tea-cup, put it in my pocket and walk away with a shrug.

Just as, I am getting ready to cross the gravel lot, Shack stops me with a quick warning. “The guards and scouts last night reported some kids tooling around on BMX bikes, wearing hard plastic BMX protective clothing and helmets. They were armed with spiked baseball bats, metal pipes, and a variety of machetes and other large bladed knives. Most appear to be, what the colonel’s called ‘wannabe juvenile delinquents.’ Might have been an adult or two with the kids on the BMX bikes, but none came close enough to interrogate. Still undecided if the BMX riders are friend or foe, but I admire their choice of transportation and armor.”

“Thanks Shack I will be on the lookout for kids on BMX bikes. Did they make any hostile actions?” I ask Shack.

“Nah, just some cruise bys and a couple of looky loos. A couple of the SF guys said they were flashing some gang symbols, but I didn’t see ‘em,” Shack says with a shrug while storing our gear for the night’s drive.

Stepping to the edge of the canvas shelter, I see the rain has slacked off, and the skies are partly cloudy with a deep, vivid burnt orange, red hue. Soldiers are taking down the canvas shelter as I stand in the doorway.

I walk across the damp gravel parking lot to the metal shed, and before I even reach the door I can hear the Princess, what is the American term, having a major cow, I think?

Opening the door, I immediately see the Princess standing in the center of a group of people including Mal, Carol, both colonels, Rick and a few of the convoy soldiers. The Princess is screaming at everyone in general. The Princess says some decidedly unflattering things about their likely parentage, manner of conception, and general family standing.

For a distraught spoiled bitch, her grasp and utilization of profanity is pretty impressive. Stepping to the edge of the group of people watching the Princess be a substantial pain in the ass, I bring my rifle off my left shoulder, grab the barrel with two hands and step quickly to the Princess.

Before the Princess or anyone else realizes what I am about, I crack the Princess in the chin with the butt of my carbine with a decent, clean, quick rifle butt chop. Been a while since I practiced rifle butting someone, but I guess I have not lost my touch.

I watch the lights go out in the Princess’s eyes, and she crumples at my feet. Everyone stands stone still, their mouths agape staring at me and the little line of blood where I cut the Princess’s magnificent porcelain chin.

“Why the fuck are you all standing around, staring at me for?” I sling my rifle over my shoulder and gesture at Mal and Carol. “The Princess smells like raunchy pussy. Help me get her out of these nasty clothes and scrubbed,” I tell the two women.

The boys mumble something and walk off. Carol and Mal each grab one of the Princess’s arms while I get her feet. We carry the stunned Princess into the curtained off bathing area in the corner of the metal building. We unceremoniously drop the Princess on the floor flat on her back.

Once in the bathing area, Mal and Carol start to strip off their own clothes after hanging their weapons on a convenient peg board. Now naked, Mal and Carol bathe themselves while I deal with the Princess. How the fuck did I end up on Princess detail?

The bath consists of a hulking old galvanized livestock watering tank, a garden hose and a jerry-rigged three burner propane heater. The propane burners underneath the stock tank heat the water. The natural water convection causes the warm water to rise through the hose curled in the tank. The water pressure is nonexistent; more of a trickle, but it will be gratifying to have hot water.

I flip open my SOG Pentagon Elite II knife. I begin slicing the clothes off of the Princess. I try to be careful not to nick the Princess, but I do scratch her a few times. My Jewish aunt Esther on my father’s side of the family would have called the Princess a shiksa goddess for sure. For an old broad, she is not too bad-looking, if only she would care for herself a little more.

The Princess must have been wearing the same clothes since the outbreak or there about. It is a shame that I have to slice her fashionable, hip hugging, low slung Stitch’s Lunar Chekore Sexy Bootcut jeans. Must have cost her a pretty penny at the store, Stich’s jeans are not cheap.

Her silk, hot neon pink thong underwear, is also shredded by my knife. The thong underwear is beyond saving and totally unpractical for a zombie apocalypse anyway. I swear (a lot, I do), who wears a thong during a zombie apocalypse – really! I notice in passing that the rug does not match the drapes. The gray in the rug is not dyed out, and I can see her lighter roots starting to show.

After I slice the once extremely nice Jimmy Choo black suede wedge boots off her feet, the Princess starts to wake up. She is groggy but quickly realizes she is naked from the waist down and that I am attacking her shirt with gusto. The Princess starts to rise and struggle so I kneel on her neck, which stills her, near instantly.

I slice the Yoox white silk long sleeve blouse and exceptionally delicate white silk underwire bra off the Princess as she starts to wail extremely loud. God this woman stinks!

“Hold still you bitch or I am going to slip with this razor-sharp knife,” I tell her with not a little bit of malevolence. “Maybe we get to see how much saline is in these very fine tits you bought,” I tell her as I tap the firm underside of her bare, left breast with the tip of my knife. Her tits are impressive and must have cost a lot. I admire the craftsmanship. Whoever did them did excellent work.

The threat of her getting sliced instantly stills her. “You cunt you hit me,” she spits at me from underneath my left knee.

“You are lucky. My first thought was to shoot you and just be done with it,” I tell her as I rip the remains of her blouse and bra off of her. “Now get your fat ass in the shower with the other ladies or I will hit you again,” I tell her tossing the shredded remains of her clothes in a pile on the floor.

I lift off of the Princess’s neck and stand, watching the Princess as she stands, as well. I start to remove my own clothes watching the Princess out of the corner of my eye. As I expected, she tries to take a cheap shot at me, trying to slap me across the face with her open right palm. At least the Princess did not try to hit me with her left hand with its massive sparkler on her ring finger.

I spin with her attack, duck underneath her extended right arm and knife punch her, not nearly as hard as I could have, deep in her soft solar plexus with my right hand. With a winded whoosh, the Princess drops to her knees holding her stomach with both hands. I think for a moment while I remove the rest of my clothes, that she might vomit from the choking sounds she makes. I suppose no one has ever punched the Princess before.

Despite being a decent looking older broad, she has a soft midsection. I noticed scars from a tummy tuck which makes me wonder how much plastic surgery this woman has undergone.

I hate to be cruel, but I suspect it is better to be cruel now and try to shock the Princess out of her grief. Now that, I am naked as well; I place my right index finger underneath her chin and make sure she is looking directly in to my eyes.

“Either you get in that shower now, or I will choke you out and drag your unconscious body in to the shower. If you make me drag your unconscious, fat ass in to the shower, as God is my witness, I will shave your head,” I tell her with an evil grin.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she hisses at me. “Oh yeah, try me,” I tell her and flip the blade of my SOG knife open again, holding it in front of her eyes. The large, partially serrated, shark tooth tipped, Pentagon Elite II knife blade snaps open with an evil click. God above, I love spring assist open knives! “This knife is plenty sharp. Sharp enough to shave your scalp to any degree that I give a shit about.”

We stare at each other for a moment before she gets up with a petulant huff. I slap her right ass cheek hard with my right hand. She walks angrily, stomping her not so little feet with another huff into the shower which Mal and Carol have just vacated.

I drop my closed knife in my toiletry kit with a shrug to an open-mouthed Carol and Mal and join the Princess in the shower. I direct her to stand beside me, as we have to share the garden hose nozzle.

The Princess and I shower in silence; she sullenly looks at me occasionally. In the harsh late evening sunlight, the extremely pale Princess makes my skin look decidedly dark, almost like I am mulatto. My body wash certainly makes her smell better.

The Princess finishes her perfunctory shower and gets out joining Mal and Carol who are dressing. I linger in the shower for a few more moments, at least until the propane runs out. I undo my hair collecting the small arsenal of hair pins and bobby pins from my hair.

I get my hair washed best as I can, shivering in the cold water, and leave the shower shivering in the cold air. The Princess gets dressed from a tan plastic grocery sack of clothes lying on the floor. I wonder if they are her clothes. The clothes fit her well enough, so I suppose they were her clothes.

I pull my change of clothes out of my toiletry kit and dress without fuss. Tossing the wet midnight curtain of my hair around, as best as I can, I get dressed in ordinary desert tan khaki five pocket trousers. I remain topless for now.

Pulling my Spec-Ops desert tan rigger’s belt out of my dirty pants, I shove it through the loops of my pants. I sit on my ass to pull US Army issue green wool boot socks on and then I put my desert tan Gortex Israeli combat boots back on.

I take my dirty clothes and shove them in my toiletry kit. I am going to have to wash clothes soon as this is the last of my clean clothes.

At least the Princess’s clothes are more practical this time, even if she is wearing white cotton granny panties and what has to be the most unflattering bra known to woman. The ordinary jeans are a little long on the Princess but fit well enough for a woman who is nearly six-foot tall. I am only 142 cm tall, so she looks gargantuan beside me. The black canvas Converse sneakers and white cotton socks are probably the cheapest foot wear the Princess has worn in a long time.

I spend a several minutes ferociously brushing my hair. Mal and Carol, who are now dressed, help me braid my hair in to another tightly braided pony tail. The two ladies use the hand full of bobby pins I had. After the ladies are done braiding my hair, I wipe dry and replace my lethal hair pins at the very crown of my braid.

I pull another basic white cotton men’s small wife beater over my head pinning my braid down the center of my back and cover it with a long-sleeved plaid shirt which I do not tuck into my pants. I prefer to leave my shirt untucked. I do, however, tuck my still wet braid underneath my wife beater shirt down the center of my back. The tip of my pony tail lands just below my ass cheeks.

Speaking of ass cheeks, I had noticed my glaring red hand print on the Princess’s ass cheek. I guess I hit her a little harder than I intended.

Carol is beaming all smiles and as usual awful chatty this evening. Carol has started to show a little bit of a baby bump and is all a twitter.

“Mal, do you have any children,” I ask.

“No, I never did have any kids,” she says with a sigh. “I was married once, but we never had kids. I suppose it’s too late now,” she says.

I wonder what happened to Mal’s husband, but I am not going to pry as it seems painful to her. I wonder if Mal’s husband died in the zombie apocalypse or did they split before the KCAP outbreak. Does not matter and none of my business anyway.

Now that, all four of us ladies (I use that term loosely for the Princess) are dressed, we grab our toiletries and head back to rejoin the rest of the convoy.

We did not mean to, and no once consciously ordered it, but we walk three abreast with the Princess flanked by Mal and I with Carol behind her. Maybe we each assumed the Princess might try some shit before we rejoined the rest of the convoy.

It is nearly fully dark now, and the convoy is ready to roll through the night. What will this night hold for us I wonder?