Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #65 Assault on the FEMA camp, raising Cain with the 1%ers & other fun SHTF & TEOTWAWKI

From my observation spot, I watch to see if our attack goes cockeyed or not. Usually, an attack plan is perfect until boots hit the ground – and then it has a tendency to go all to shite in a lady’s handbag on a rocket.

The late Richard Branson noted “Complexity is your enemy. Any fool can make something complicated. It is hard to make something simple.”

I do not believe Branson was talking about military plans of attack, but his words of wisdom certainly apply. The simplest and easiest attack plans usually are the best. Our attack plan was fairly straightforward, let us see how much and how quickly it gets FUBAR’d.

I watch one of the Ghillie suit dressed SF guys slowly crawl up behind one of the sentries. The poor unshaven, lantern-jawed sentry looks a little worse for the wear and is barely awake. Never liked Caucasian guys with dread locks, just seemed wrong to me for some reason.

Our black leather clad, pasty white boy and his shoulder length, mouse brown dread locks are leaning against the fence with his weapon, either an old CETME or H&K G3, slung over his right shoulder.

The silver and black handle of some prodigious knife sticks out the top of the sentry’s right boot. The sentry’s boots look like cheap Doc Marten knock offs. His boots are badly scuffed and do not look as if they have seen polish since the day they were made.

The glowing end of a cigarette catches my eye suddenly as it flares to life. The cigarette hangs out of his thrice pierced lower lip. With that much hardware in his lower lip, it must hurt like a bitch when he gets punched in the mouth. The sentry’s upper face is hidden by the gray cotton hoodie he wears.

Our sneaky SF fellow crawls up behind the barely aware sentry and pulls a fucking ginormous knife from under his Ghillie suit. The large knife glows eerily green-blue in my NVGs and must have about an 11 inch, partially serrated blade.

Shack beside me, remarks “that is Joseph Longfeather, he is pure Mescalero Apache from the rez’ down in New Mexico. That big fucking knife of his is a Ontario RTAK. Man he is fucking scary good with it. If I saw than mean som’bitch coming at me with that giant fucking knife and a shit eating grin, it would be brown trou’ time fo’ sure.”

This is the first time I have heard Shack use the F word so many times in one breath. Shack must be feeling the stress, as well. We watch Longfeather grasp the somnolent sentry by the mouth, ram his knee into the sentry’s kidney, and yank the sentry’s head back all in one fast fluid, smooth move.

With lethal efficiency, Longfeather slices the sentry’s neck from ear to ear; the blood squirting and pouring out of the sentry’s neck staining the front of his hoodie is black in my NVGs. Longfeather then flips the knife over in his hand with the flick of his wrist and plunges the knife to the hilt in the sentry’s back, the point of the knife erupting in a fountain of black blood just below the sentry’s sternum. Black blood pours over the Apache’s wrist momentarily.

The sentry jackknifes within Longfeather’s arms, as Longfeather rips the knife down in a vicious disemboweling yank, parting the sentry’s shirt and belt. Another vicious rip of the knife out of the body and Longfeather drops the eviscerated, hemorrhaging soon to be corpse on its face. The body twitches a few times, and I see the pale ropes of slashed intestines flopping on the back of the corpse.

Longfeather checks the dead sentry’s weapon, ejecting the magazine and racking the action, ejecting a round from the chamber. Longfeather checks the sentry’s radio putting it in his own pocket. The elder Apache then lays the sentry’s gargantuan rifle against the fence and proceeds with the assault.

I have rarely seen such malevolent savagery with a knife. I feel a little bit of admiration watching the Apache warrior work, dispatching another sentry with ease. Shack was not kidding; the older man is a real fucking terror with a knife in his hands. The reputation of the Apache as brutal, efficient killing machine appears well deserved.

I do not think Shack’s idea of running is the answer to escape the Apache elder. I watch Longfeather whip a small, slim leaf-bladed knife through the air, hitting a walking sentry. Longfeather buries the slim blade to the hilt in the sentry’s left eye. The sentry crumples to his face without a whimper, his M4 rattling to the ground.

With an underhand throw, Longfeather kills another sentry who popped out of a guard tower, burying the throwing knife entirely in the sentry’s palate through the underside of his jaw. The sentry’s rifle and corpse rattle out of the tower, each falling with a thump to the ground at Longfeather’s feet.

I look over at Shack as Longfeather exenterates yet another sentry, reducing them to a bloody butchered corpse. Shack mumbles “told ‘ya” to me as he notices me watching the Apache warrior butcher napping sentries.

Tearing my eyes from the bloody efficient work of the Apache elder, I watch as the former sergeant is hit with a suppressed rifle shot, his cue ball colored bald head exploding in a black, bloody cloud like a watermelon dropped from a skyscraper.

The leather clad 1%er the sergeant was standing next to is the recipient of a second suppressed sniper shot, his head exploding in a similar manner. I do not believe the motorcycle gang member had fully processed the death of the sergeant when his brain was vaporized.

The wall behind the two head shot men is painted in dripping black gore interspersed with small white chunks of bone. Both men were standing in front of the radio shack and both bullets struck the shack after passing through the brain and cranium of the two nearly headless corpses.

The radio shack’s door whips open to reveal the former private, who is simultaneously struck with no less than four (maybe more) suppressed shots to the upper torso. As the body of the former private is falling, a final finishing round vaporizes his jaw and most of his lower face. The former private’s M4 falls to the ground and discharges into the air with an ear shattering crack.

My radio crackles to life suddenly in my ear making me nearly leap out of my boots. “Mazel tov” is the transmission, my signal to enter the radio shack. I pat Shack on the shoulder. We trot the short distance into the gate, now guarded by a scary as shit Longfeather carrying a MP5SD.

Guarding the gate with Longfeather, is another SF guy in a shapeless Ghillie suit. The second gate guard is carrying a suppressed .308 long-barreled M16 of some variant. The second guard’s M16 has a large night scope fixed to the front hand guard in front of the day optics. I thought we did not have any snipers, but this guy certainly has the gear and manner.

As I ponder the two SF guys, two new convoy gate guards appear from the secondary assault force. Both new men on the gate carry M4s with M203 grenade launchers underneath the rifle barrel. Behind them enter a pair of convoy soldiers who begin setting up a dual M2 HB on a tripod while three more convoy soldiers stack sand bags to provide cover for the .50 cal team.

Behind me streams the rest of second assault force into the compound that immediately fan out to their assigned targets. As I reach the radio shack’s door, I watch several convoy Ghillie suit clad soldier standing in the doorways of FEMA dorm trailers, hosing the dorm trailers with MP5SDs on full rock and roll.

The soldier closest to me with a spraying MP5SD is joined by another convoy soldier wielding a suppressed KRISS Vector. Both soldiers spray the inside of the nearest dorm trailer with ardent enthusiasm. We suddenly hear loud, repetitive shooting that pierces the chill dark night with echoing finality.

I watch the convoy SF soldiers spraying the dorm trailers yell “frag out” and toss grenades into each dorm trailer like party favors. Flash bangs and CS gas grenades are tossed into the other trailers suspected of holding FEMA personnel.

While it may suck majorly (as Amy used to say) to get CS gassed and flash banged it makes it easier for the convoy soldiers to separate friend from foe. We hear screaming and coughing and still the occasional gunshot as the soldiers continue sweeping the trailers.

Gas mask wearing soldiers enter the trailers to separate the freaks and geeks. Orders are to shoot the gang members and anyone who resists. Very quickly the shooting dies down to the mere occasional shot. The wounded are put down like mangy dogs. No quarter is given or asked for. Any 1%er is summarily executed on sight.

Quickly the soldiers start “bagging and tagging” FEMA camp members, former soldiers, and anyone else. Realizing that I have been gawking like a fucking JAFO, I dart into the radio trailer Shack on my heels.

Looking around inside the radio trailer, I see it is a complete bloody mess. One of the former soldiers lies sprawled in a bloody heap over one of the folding tables, a glowing and active IPod 7 lying beside him on the table.

Looking to my left, I see a window with the telltale shattered circle of a bullet hole. One of the snipers shot the radio operator through the window fully vaporizing the top of the poor bastard’s head.

The corpse with the IPod wears a shattered radio headset. I see the wires from the IPod running underneath the radio headset ear muffs. Typical radio operator stunt, passing the dull hours listening to music, tucking ear buds under the ear muffs.

I pull the IPod off of the table and yank the wires from the corpse’s head. Shutting off the Ipod which I note it has nearly a full battery charge, I wrap the ear bud wires around it place it in a military first aid fabric sling and stick it in my pocket. I’ll clean the blood off later.

I tell Shack that I am going to sit down as he drags the corpse outside to join the quickly growing pile of the truly dead. While Shack drags the leaking corpse away, I sit down in the cleanest chair and realize that my hands are shaking badly.

I pull a cigarette and with shaking hands finally manage to light it, drawing the flavorful smoke deep into my lungs. I still hear the occasional rifle or pistol shot in the camp which makes me jump. I sit in silence in the dark smoking for a bit, until Shack returns.

“The mechanics have found two fucking ginormous Caterpillar generators, so we should have light soon as they get them cranked up. Rest of the convoy is enroute, if you missed the rally call.”

Shack and I both startle as Nikola dressed in a Ghillie suit sticks his head in the door. Nikola has the hugely pregnant sister grasped firmly in his left fist by her right biceps. “Is looking for Doctor Jamal,” Nikola says. “Mamochka is to bring to him.”

I have noticed that when Nikola is under stress; his English gets choppy and interspersed with Russian words, such as the Russian endearment term for mother. The tall Russian soldier’s face is covered with dark grease paint, and his light hair is tucked underneath a tight-knit cap.

I see the mighty pregnant sister is wearing a skin-tight leather S&M halter top, a leather silver spike studded micro skirt, and spiked black leather knee-high “come fuck me” hooker boots. Her shoulder length blonde hair is a frightful mess surrounding her pretty head in a pale halo.

The pregnant sister looks like Nikola ripped her out of bed while she was sound asleep which is probably not too far from what actually happened. I note the sister is not resisting Nikola, but the much larger man is not being gentle with her at all which seems out of character for him. I wonder what happened while he retrieved the sister.

I do not know where the Doc is and say so. Shack chimes in saying “the Doc is in one of the larger FEMA tents with Terrance the PJ looking at the medical supplies. They also found a whole bunch of lab geek stuff they are poring over. Apparently this FEMA camp was doing some KCAP research in the early hours of the outbreak.”

Nikola nods his thanks, and suddenly my NVGs get wiped out as all the lights come on inside the trailer. Flipping my NVGs up and shutting them off, I take my helmet off and toss it on the table.

“Looks like the mechanics got the Cat gen sets running,” Shack says; thank you captain obvious.

A quick search of the radio shack finds nothing of worth but ancient PRC-77 radios, no crypto or any other ComSec (Communication Security) gear. There is one HAM radio, and a pair of base station civilian CB radios.

I find stashed under the tables, an ancient AT&T STU-3 phone set with an archaic RS-232 port. I thought all the STU-3s were discontinued and removed from service shortly after 2009 or thereabouts. The STU has its crypto key still in the port.

I am totally surprised to find an old STU-3 phone here. I remember Shack saying something about KCAP research being done in this camp. Maybe the STU-3 phone was for sending and receiving classified information. But why a STU-3? Why not use one of the newer Orion secure telecom sets?

I notice a ISDN (Integrated Services Digital Network) router connected to the STU-3. What the hell? An ancient, discontinued piece of junk encrypted phone, and an ancient ‘net connection just does not make sense. I wonder what Doc Jamal has been able to discover.

I lift the handset on the STU-3 and verify that as I suspected, it is dead. Just to check I turn the crypto key to see if there is any change. Nope dead, as I figured it would be. I wonder if this is old equipment that was in storage and never upgraded to the newer equipment.

A large rack of near military grade FMRS (Family Radio Service) radios line the back wall. All radios are accounted for, and all are charged. I am not familiar with the model, but by their high-definition camouflage coloring, I am suspecting that they are high-end civilian models aimed at recreational hunters.

Shack and I wrap up the charging stations and all the radios as the convoy could always use more radios. While Shack starts carrying the radios and chargers out of the trailer, I continue my search, hoping to find the user’s manual to the FMRS radios.

Just as, the sun starts to come up, Shack, and I get the radio shack gutted of anything of value. I never did find a user’s manual for the FMRS radios. The presence of the STU-3 and the ISDN line still baffles me.

Shack and I search for hidden or secreted compartments and did not find anything. Using some convenient chopping tools, we punch several holes in the walls and floor looking for secret compartments. I was hoping for a safe, and as Shack is hauling the last load of gear to the convoy’s truck I find the damned safe buried in the floor under the flimsy file cabinet.

I am sure that I am going to have to get explosives to rip the safe open. Much to my surprise, the safe is unlocked. I turn the handle and open the safe to reveal – nothing. Absofuckinglutely nothing!

Leaving the empty safe open, I help Shack carry the last of the gear from the radio trailer. As we stack the radio gear to load on to a truck, Nikola comes walking up minus the pregnant sister this time.

I note Nikola’s Threadcutter hangs from its sling over his right shoulder. I wonder how many of the unique and possibly impossible to replace 9x39mm rifle rounds he used in the assault.

We now hear the rumble of large diesel engines and see the convoy vehicles rolling through the gate. Carol’s blue Chevy pulls up near the radio shack. Carol leaps out of the truck before it is even fully stopped and body slams into Nikola’s arms obviously exuberantly happy to see him alive and unharmed.

Carol’s exuberant kissing and hugging of Nikola gets the Spets soldier’s face paint all over her face. Carol does not seem to mind though as they exchange sweet words in Russian. It must be gratifying for Nikola to have someone who he can converse with in his native language.

After a tearful Carol wipes her face, smearing the smudges of dark grease paint more, Nikola and Carol help me load all the radio gear into their truck. They have become the de facto custodians of the radio gear.

About the time that we four get the radio gear stashed, the sun is almost fully up, and we start to see the first zombies arrive. In mere minutes, there is a small crowd of shambling undead around the gates. The zombie’s eerie silence is only exceeded by their stench as a faint breeze brings with it the cloying miasma of death.

The FEMA camp gates are closed tightly and doubly secured with chains and heavy padlocks. After quick head count and radio check ensure that all convoy members, BMX kids included, are accounted for and inside the gates.

Work parties are assigned during breakfast that consists of MRE oatmeal (cinnamon apple for me, peaches and cream for Shack), hot instant tea or coffee (Mountain Dew for Shack) and lots of MRE sugar cookies.

A large supply of chocolate and vanilla UHT (Ultra-High Temperature processing) milk is discovered in one of the FEMA supply trailers. The little eight ounce aseptic plastic pouches of UHT milk are liberally passed around. Despite the grimaces and the awful taste, most of us choke down at least one. Some of the masochists manage to choke down two or more pouches of the awful UHT milk.

Someone also found 14 cases of stale Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies. Unfortunately, they found the Girl Scout cookies after we had already gagged down the UHT milk. There are 12 boxes of cookies in each case and 28 cookies in each box.

The Girl Scout cookies were all stuck together by the melted chocolate, so most of us ended up eating the cookies as a solid lump. The cookies are a welcome distraction from the cloying after taste of the UHT milk. I need a cigarette to get finally the horrid taste out of my mouth.

While I am smoking with a few of the other convoy guys, word comes around that the 1%er guarding the pregnant sister killed one of our convoy members. The dead soldier explains Nikola’s anger.

After breakfast, a quick burial is held for the slain convoy soldier. The soldier is buried under the goal post in the middle of the dry, dusty stadium wrapped in a thread bare, gray Army wool blanket.

It is a shitty fact of our current life, but the dead body is stripped of any useful items. Survival means being selfish, and we cannot spare the gear to bury the dead soldier. At least they left his tighty whities and a solid brown Army tee-shirt on the dead soldier.

Shack shows his PK roots giving a lovely, heartfelt eulogy for the slain soldier, reading from a large King James Bible with gold filigree on the edge of the pages. Shack quotes Psalm 23 at the end of the burial from memory.

There were not a few tears shed over the slain soldier. With such a small group of people, any loss hurts. After the burial, the convoy crew disperses to go about their assigned duties.

As I walk between Shack and Nikola with Carol on his left arm, I note in the center of the camp are 14 men and three women, all former soldiers. These kneeling unfortunates are bagged and tagged with cloth pillow cases over their heads. Thick heavy zip ties hold their hands behind their back and keep their ankles crossed, as well.

Beside them are two other former male soldiers trussed the same way. I wonder why the separation of the two soldiers from the other 14. I also note the two separated male soldiers have been stripped to their tighty whities, a tee-shirt and boot socks.

I do not have long to wonder about the doomed 16 as I hear them referred to as in passing. The colonels, now sans Interceptor vests and Kevlar helmets, call a convoy staff meeting.

The colonels have taken over the large green medical tent in the center of the field. Jamal and Sam are still straightening the enormous tent out but have established it as the point of command. The gang controlling the FEMA camp used it as their communal tent, so I suppose it makes sense in a way that the colonels take it over.

The interior of the towering heavy, dark green canvas tent is well-lit with old high pressure sodium lights. It is still chilly even this late in the morning, so several small propane heaters are running scattered around the tent, just enough to take the chill off.

Once the convoy staff gathers around the long communal table, the colonels without preamble, mention that they believe a summary execution of the two former soldiers, who were the lieutenants of the former sergeant and private, is warranted.

The colonels want to hold a brief trial for the other 14 soldiers as they did not appear to have been directly involved in slavery and exploitation of the FEMA camp personnel. The convoy staff is in general agreement, with no nay votes and no abstentions.

A general convoy meeting is called in the center of the camp shortly after 09:00.