Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #97 Life on the farm, Shen is found injured SHTF & TEOTWAWKI

I wake to someone lightly tugging on my braid. The light pulling, which I realize is because Shack is lying on the end, is accompanied by light kissing on the right side of my neck below my jaw. I also have also become aware of something hard and warm jutting into the small of my back. At first I think that Shack has snuck a knife into the bed.

I suddenly realize just what it is of Shack’s that is throbbing against me. His morning erection is nestled in the shallow valley above my hips at the base of my spine. Now aware of his urgent tumescence jutting into my back I can feel the dampness oozing from the tip of his penis.

Shack’s silky smooth Under Armour briefs whispers against my skin as he pulls me closer spooning against my back. His large warm right hand rests on my bare right hip momentary before sliding slowly up my right side. Slipping underneath my white cotton wifebeater tee-shirt, his large warm hand lightly cups my right breast.

Hardening to his touch immediately my nipple becomes very sensitive. Kissing the side of my face, Shack suddenly pinches my nipple too roughly. “Ouch, easy Shack not so rough,” I murmur to him. Turning my head, I kiss him lightly. Ugh! We both need to brush our teeth.

As Shack’s hand slowly slides between my legs, I realize another pressing concern this morning.

“Do not lose this thought, but I have to pee.”

Shack groans at my stated need and pats my right hip affectionately. Kissing me lightly on the lips, he grins at me barely visible in the early morning light. “Let’s hurry,” he murmurs into my hair. Zipping open the warm sleeping bag, I put my feet upon the fucking cold floor.

“Race you to the latrine!” Shack whispers urgently to me.

Sitting on the edge of the bed dressed only in a thin cotton wifebeater tee-shirt, I shiver in the chilly early morning air. The cold hits me hard giving sudden urgency to my bladder. On the other side of the bed, Shack has started dressing while cursing the cold. Just as I stand to grab my trousers, the kid with the Remington pump action rifle bursts into the tent.

The kid stands at the entrance to the tent beside our cot gob smacked open-mouthed. The young kid’s eyes are fixed upon my bare crotch. He is a soldier in reality; anyone who carries a rifle and defends those he loves is a soldier no matter his or her age. I notice that the scruffy-looking pump-action Remington rim fire rifle in the lad’s hands sports a large red Fram oil filter on the muzzle.

I do not remember if the small Remington rifle wore an oil filter suppressor yesterday. I wonder if I just missed the oil filter because of fatigue or is the suppressor is new since I last saw the lad.  I start dressing, Shack doing the same on the other side of our bed.

“Close your mouth kid. You look like a guppy standing there with your mouth wide open. Have you never seen a naked woman before?”

The kid snaps his mouth shut while mutely shaking his head. The kid’s face turns a bright red. I barely hear Shack’s chuckle from the other side of the bed. Sitting on the bed putting my boots on I am reminded of my pressing bladder.

I also am mindful of the fact that Shack and I were about to make love, but were interrupted yet once again. I can still feel our combined warmth from the bed seep through the seat of my pants.

Shack sits behind me on the cot putting his boots on. He lightly touches my back before standing. Donning his jacket and weapons Shack waits patiently for me to finish dressing. My hair is a mess this morning, no less the worse because some horny young man was pulling on it.

I cannot remember which of the Johnsen children the kid is, but I believe he is the oldest boy born to the first and oldest wife. I really should not call the lad a kid because someone who carries a weapon and defends his family is a soldier. These poor kids have to grow up quickly.

While Shack and I are putting our boots on, the kid starts to talk.

“This morning Shen was found in the creek. He fell on a rusty piece of rebar in the water and spent the night laying in the river. Luckily the poor fucker survived the night laying in the freezing water. Doc has got to pull the chunk of rebar out of his leg. He passed out while they cut him free with a hack saw in the river. He’s awake now, and Nguen says swearing, in Mandarin like a pox ridden, hung over sailor.”

The kid spits this glut of information out in a rush. As soon as Shack and I are dressed and armed appropriately, we follow the kid at a quick trot to the medical tent. Running causes my bladder to indicate its displeasure at being denied. When we get close to the tent, we can hear someone grunting in pain.

Entering the tent, we see a soggy and very pale Shen laying on his side. There is blood everywhere – on the floor, the table, and even some of the walls. If it were not for the wooden dowel tied firmly into his mouth, Shen would be screaming while Doc attempts to extricate the rusty jagged piece of rebar jutting from his left thigh just above the knee.

Doc and Terrance and poking the poor bastard’s wound trying to determine the extent of his wounds. Doc and Terrance continue to work on Shen, attempting to remove the piece of rebar. Nguen hovers nearby Shen’s head looking worried. Nguen is rapidly flipping through a dog-eared Engish to Mandarin dictionary.

“Fuck I don’t know enough Mandarin, Doc.” Nguen seems truly frustrated.

“Well then the poor fucker is going to have to have to chance it. I hope that he is not allergic to Sodium Amytal or Sodium Pentothal.” Doc also seems frustrated. He roughly injects Shen in the buttocks with a large syringe.

Within seconds, Shen stops struggling, and a dreamy look comes upon his face. His peaceful look is marred by a large stick tied tightly in his jaws giving him the appearance of a dog. Doc and Terrance work quickly on the injured man. After the two men slice his pants open, we are able to see that the piece of rebar went through the outer portion of Shen’s leg.

“Fucker’s lucky,” Terrance comments. “Looks like muscle damage only. I don’t believe any major blood vessels were hit.”

Using a pair of Vice Grips, and a wooden mallet the two men slide the rusty piece of rebar from the poor man’s leg. Shen’s eyeballs roll to the top of his wide open eyes as the metal rod begins to move. Shen screams shrilly through the stick wedged in his jaws and then mercifully passes out.

Despite the fountain of blood that accompanies the removal of the piece of metal, the two medics seem nonplussed. After packing the wound and wrapping Shen’s leg, the two men strip Shen of his sodden and bloody clothes.

Shen is left to sleep on the table covered by a few blankets. There is not really much more that can be done for him right now. Jamal administers a broad spectrum antibiotic, muttering that he hopes he is not killing the unconscious man. At least he breathes better with the stick removed from his mouth.

Someone says behind us “Well that is one crisis taken care of this morning.” I turn to see that Sam has entered the medical tent. I leave Sam talking with Jamal and Terrance and go over to check on Sarah and the twins.

Marie and Jean Johnsen are sitting on either side of their husband Bill, while he talks with Sarah and Gennady. Marie holds a sleeping Thing 2 while Jean holds a squirming, kicking and struggling Thing 1. Jean comments on how strong the little monster is mentioning his well-defined muscles.

The little monster keeps sniffing the air like a hungry dog. I wonder if he can smell Shen’s blood from where he is. The little cannibal’s nose is wider and longer than usual for a white child. The poor bastards trapped underneath Ft. Dix said that the cannibals had a much better sense of smell than most humans. The way the little monster is twisting about, I do not doubt that he smells something interesting.

Autopsies performed on cannibals revealed greater sinus cavity tissue and increased blood flow to the olfactory area. The olfactory bulb, the area of the brain responsible for smell was also enlarged. The reptilian brain, or the old part of the human brain at the base of the brain stem is also enlarged.

Thing 1 does not sleep nearly as much as his smaller brother. Thing 1 also eats almost every hour, screaming at the top of his impressive lungs. I see that at least one of the Johnsen women knit, as a large bag containing knitting needles and yarn lies nearby on the floor. Well at least one of the women have a useful skill.

It appears that both of Bill’s wives are also expecting. We are having a small baby boom within the convoy. Seeing that all is well with the family, I leave the three women and fathers talking. Picking up Shack as I leave the tent we head for the mess and command house after a quick stop at the latrines.

I was almost screaming by the time I made it to the latrine. Damn Shen having to go and get injured. If that man spoke better English or if Nguen spoke better Mandarin we might get some answers as to why he disappeared and how he fell in the damn creek.

Just Shen’s luck to land on a piece of rebar. He is very fortunate that it did not kill him. I am wondering though why he was away from the convoy alone. This definitely drives home the lesson that no one, not even a well-trained Special Forces soldier like Shen should ever be alone.

Some of the other things I wonder are where are Shen’s weapons, and how did he end up in the creek wearing nothing but his PLA-issue BDU’s. I am suspecting some foul play might have had a hand in Shen landing, in the creek. Damn the man for not speaking English!

Shack and I talk quietly while eating breakfast. The topics range from our failed attempt to make love again to the likely disposition of Scarecrow and his lady friend. Shack mentions that he talked to some of the stockade guards this morning while he was getting some Red Bull from the cantina.

The colonels have established a small cantina where soldiers can trade various items. The cantina also issues the beer, soda, liquor and junk food to each soldier in an attempt to keep caloric intake higher.

Normally I would have an issue with a mere 17-year-old drinking Coors Light with his breakfast washed down with Red Bull. As long as the soldier does not become a problem the colonels have promulgated a liberal drinking policy. Beer, liquor and wine may be consumed any time as long as no one gets intoxicated to the point of failure to perform their duties.

Beer and any distilled spirit are safe to drink, since the process involved boiling the water. Until we can get a large supply of fresh water, alcoholic drinks are some of the safest beverages we can consume. Not consuming enough liquids can kill, just as surely as a zombie bite.

It appears that Scarecrow and his lady are sort-of brother and sister. Growing up together in a succession of foster homes, the pair were in and out of trouble from their early teen years onward. Right before the KCAP pandemic, Scarecrow had just been paroled from Connally jail in Texas.

Scarecrow belonged to the Texas Mafia gang. He cooked and delivered meth for the gang. His lady friend while, not a gang member worked as a bartender, selling meth to the bar’s patrons. The soldiers are under the impression that we do not need someone who cooks or deals meth. Bar tending and cooking meth are not critical skills during a zombie apocalypse.

How the pair survived this long, getting up here all the way from Texas is a wonder. Like the vast majority of people (including me), they were not prepared for any calamity. Empty houses killed many people as they had to leave in order to get food, weapons and supplies. Lack of training killed many more people as once they acquired necessities; they were not prepared or skilled enough to use them.

The few places where martial law was established before the zombies overran everything, the government, seized all supplies. The military even took all of the supplies from several of the preppers, including weapons, ammo, food and fuel.

Shack and some of the other lads who survived the collapse of society have told me some terrible stories. Some of the military units towards the end became little better than very well-armed gangs.

As Shack and I, finish our breakfast the Johnsen kid with the pump-action Remington .22 rifle with its incongruous looking Fram suppressor sits beside us. (I really need to quit calling him a kid.) I have half a thought of flashing him my tits and seeing if I can make him blush again.

I wonder just what the young soldier wants this time.