Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #90 Moving to the farm first day, and a fight SHTF, TEOTWAWKI, KCAP

Our fellow radio companions are working on erecting the radio tent when Shack and I pull up beside them. The next several hours are spent setting up the remainder of the radio gear. Once all of the radio gear is on-line and verified our sleeping tent is filled. Shack somehow acquired a few rather large and heavy black and white felt blankets.

Carol, Nikola and I help Shack hang the first heavy black felt blanket with its rather gaudy white Siberian tiger print vertically. Shack then produces another pair of blankets, one with a tiger nearly identical to the first blanket, and a third with a large vertically leaping unicorn.

Dividing the sleeping tent so that the lovers have some privacy is a smart idea. After we get our sleeping arrangements settled, we drag all of our gear into the tent. Despite my near overwhelming desire to climb into our sleeping bag, I assist the installation of the radio gear and tuning of the radios.

Shen and Nikola want to fly the helikite radio relay again since there is enough wind to carry it aloft despite the lack of helium. The frequent cobalt blue lightning strikes the helikite frequently so we have to ensure the damn thing is well grounded. It is a shame that we cannot harness all that electricity.

While we have made sure that the radio gear is working, the rest of the convoy has relocated to the farm. The old three-story (counting the basement) farmhouse is now the mess and command tent. The Princess’s laundry sits in the backyard, beside the water pumping windmill.

The near constant breeze in the valley keeps the windmill ticking away. From the scorch marks upon the fan blades, visible in orange light of the sun rise, I assume that the poor windmill is a frequent victim of the frequent lightning storms. Between the metal windmill and our poor helikite, we are going to see lots of lightning.

Someone has gotten an at least four-inch water line running from the stock tank hooked to the windmill pump and the Princess’s laundry. From the smoke pouring out of the trailer, it appears that the Princess has her laundry and shower facilities running full tilt. I worry that the smoke pouring from the laundry will alert someone to our presence.

No place for the ablutophobic in a zombie apocalypse. These days lacking modern medicine shirking your personal hygiene can be deadly. I notice that the lads have been busy tearing apart any nearby wooden structure for fuel.

The Princess’s laundry and shower facilities are well stocked with fuel. As the sun rises I note also that there are several woodlots nearby that the convoy probably has earmarked for harvesting. At least the cold weather has cut down on the damn mosquitos.

The Asian tiger mosquito had gotten terrible in Maryland. The little bastard’s range, supposedly due to global warming, was expanded up through the Caribbean and then into the South Eastern US. The Asian tiger mosquito spread some nasty diseases into the US.

I got to take a brief nap before I was woken with screams of a fight in the house. As I slammed on my boots, and whipped on my pistol belt I noted the lack of gunfire. Running into the house full tilt with my AR-15 at the ready – I am unprepared for the sight that the parting crowd reveals.

Shack is astride a supine and bleeding Scarecrow trying valiantly to pound the taller man’s head through the bare hardwood floor. Scarecrow’s plain black lady friend, clear signs of Caucasian ancestry in her face, stands with her arms crossed beside the two men.

I grab Shack’s thick, corded muscle right arm before he can slam the nearly unconscious Scarecrow’s head into the floor again.

“Shack! What the fuck!”

“This son of a bitch had the hubris to offer to either purchase or rent you.”

“And for that you nearly killed him!?”

“He’s not dead, yet!”

Shack whips his arm out of my hands and stomps off. I can feel the waves of fury roil off of him as he shoves through the crowd. Just as Shack’s broad back disappears through the crowd, the colonels appear with Sutton and Randy both bearing brightly colored non-lethal riot shotguns.

Someone drags the nearly unconscious Scarecrow from the building escorted by Doc Jamal. Looking around, the Sam and the two sergeant majors quickly dissipate the crowd, most now that the entertainment is done, have gone back to eating. I slide up next to the black woman in the chow line.

“So what happened?”

“Your boy moves fast. I’ve seen few men, that size move so fast. You’d think because of his size Shack would be slow.”

The woman and I slide down the chow line. We get two scoops of some meat based goulash over white rice. The cooks have been fortunate. There were several dairy cattle that were suffering from mastitis. This dairy was a Mennonite dairy so none of the cattle were treated with hormones.

Even then, the poor cows needed to be milked. Cows treated with hormones produce more milk, which can cause mastitis sooner and more severe. I know shit about cattle, but some of the lads grew up on farms. A few years ago we probably would have turned our noses up at eating these cattle, but protein is too scarce today.

Unless we decided to start snacking on our fellow-man, we need to eat protein. We are still trying to preserve our MRE supplies for later, so we are forging as much as we can. We are far off the beaten path on a large farm.

I sit down next to the homely black woman and try to talk to her again.

“I need to know what happened. It is just not like Shack to go Postal on someone like that.”

“Your boy must really love you; else he’d not go bat shit crazy like he did. Your boy is fast – damned fast. Scarecrow did offer to either purchase or rent you and made some crude suggestions. He’s got needs, you know. Besides you are a beautiful woman and I can understand his attraction to you. There are a limited number of women available and Scarecrow and I are not like that. His suggestion might have been in jest. His humor is hard to understand unless you know him well.”

“Shack did not take it as a joke. For him to react like that, Scarecrow must have made some fairly rude or suggestive comments for a while. Knowing Shack he probably gave Scarecrow an opportunity to shut up before punching him.”

I do not want to contemplate that Shack might be unstable. The black woman and I eat in silence for a while. After completing our lunches, the black woman and I have a quiet smoke together.

“I love Scarecrow like a brother, but he is not the sharpest tool in the shed. Some of the other survivor groups we encountered, to deal with the shortage of women, and surplus of men had various ways of solving the issue. One group shot all the excess men. Another group auctioned the women to the highest bidder. We’re new here and tryin’ to fit in. I’ll talk to Scarecrow and make sure he avoids any suggestion of sleeping with you.”

“I will talk to Shack as well.”

The woman and I finish our smokes in silence. I am still tired, but I will survive the day. I hate shifting from nights back to days. Still in silence we walk over to the medical tent to check on Scarecrow. Looking much worse for the wear, Scarecrow is sitting vertically on one of the beds being tended by Terrance.

Behind Scarecrow and Terrance is the still recuperating Sarah and her constant companion Gennady. The twins are doing well, although Thing 1 (the KCAP kid) now three days old, is a screaming little monster. Finding a dairy farm was fortuitous for the children.

Regrettably milk from a cow might not be the best thing to feed a new-born baby. Our problem lies with the fact that Thing 1 can drain both of Sarah’s tits and then scream for more. Goat milk is supposed to be better, but there are no goats on this farm.

None of the other pregnant ladies are lactating yet, so Sarah is on her own; for now. Gennady is attempting to have Sarah feed one tit to each child and then slake Thing 1’s (I still hate calling the twins things) hunger with cow’s milk.

Thing 1 has the cannibal’s supercharged metabolism and already has gained almost a pound since birth. The poor baby does not understand why his tummy screams for food, but it does and he screams in response. Sarah and Gennady are fortunate that their oldest child has inherited his father’s robust constitution.

We are unsure if the KCAP child will lose his black fingernails and toenails. If he does not lose the thickened and hardened nails, I do not know how we are going to keep him from scratching other people. The little guy has left some nasty welts on Sarah’s tits with his nails now, when he gets older and stronger I cringe at the thought of the damage he might do.

The not so beautiful black woman goes to the beaten Scarecrow, and murmurs some words too low for me to hear. With one eye nearly swollen shut, split lips and at least one tooth busted loose, the tall lanky man really looks as if he should remain in medical. A blood-soaked, large, white medical gauze bandage covers the back of the beaten man’s head.

The pad is secured to his head with tan Ace athletic wrap. After Terrance ensures the bandage will remain in place the lanky man stands unsteadily on his feet helped by the plain black woman. The pair give me the slightest of nods in passing and disappear into the sunlight outside the medical tent.