Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #108 Second meeting with Adventists continued #SHTF #TEOTWAWKI

Brenda places warm wooly socks carded from dog fur upon the table. I have never heard of using dog fur before to knit socks. The Adventists have Australian shepherds, Malamutes, and Huskys. Most of the dogs are employed protecting the livestock although there is great fear that the dogs will be stolen and eaten.

While I examine the soft dog fur socks, Brenda continues piling trade goods upon the table. The dried herbs bunches are snatched by the cooks (greedy bitches) before I could read all of their names. I did catch the names of basil, sage, thyme, marjoram, and sweet cicely (whatever the fuck that is).

My gaze is constantly being pulled away because fucking Barbara keeps messing with her hair. Her constant movement is a distraction that starts to fray my nerves after a while. Glancing at Barbara fooling with her hair, I am able to see Pastor, another young woman and two new Adventist men enter the farmhouse.

Sitting at the large table, the two new men and the woman could not be more different from each other. The largest of the newcomers wears faded denim overalls and could not be more average looking if it were not for the large double barrel shotgun that he carries. The old weapon has seen better days.

The metal of the shotgun is heavily rusted with no bluing left whatsoever. Copper wire tightly wrapped around the barrels and stock holds them together. The wire is right behind where the barrels were hacked off just past the end of the foregrip. More copper wire, this time reinforced with black electrician’s tape, reinforces the butt stock which ends in a stout metal plate.

I am glad that the man’s thick, sausage-like fingers are not on either of the twin triggers. I am also glad that both exposed hammers are not cocked. The man pats the old shotgun and cradles it as if it were a fragile device. A black nylon bandolier crosses the large man’s broad chest.

While most of the nylon bandolier’s loops are empty, those that are filled possess an eclectic collection of shotgun shells of various lengths. Most of the shells appear to be crude home reloads. The shells are probably reloaded with black powder from what Pastor was saying yesterday about their weapon situation.

Shotgun dude wears an interesting brass ring on his right index finger. The large corroded brass ring has left a green stripe around the man’s finger visible through the dirt. Three large prongs on the ring equidistant from each other puzzle me as to their purpose.

I am thinking that the ring is some weapon when Jeff enters the room and drops several, loose 12 gauge shells on the table in front of shotgun dude. The man cracks the shotgun open and utilizing the strange ring pulls the two shells from the gun. I realize now that it is a shotgun shell ring extractor.

Seeing my quizzical expression the man explains. “Shotgun’s too old to have extractors. These damn reloads don’t always eject easy. Ya need to pull ‘em with this ring sometimes. Luckily me boy found this ring. I broke the blade of a very good pocket knife tryin’ to get shells out of the gun. I’m Dougie by the way.” He thankfully does not offer his hand to shake.

Jeff also drops several boxes of shotgun shells on the table in front of Dougie. The shotgun rounds included some of the oddball 12 gauge shotgun shells we have collected over the past month or so. Dougie fills his empty bandoleer loops as fast as he is able. When the bandoleer is full, he fills his pockets.

Our black cook, whose name still escapes me puts a fresh pot of Spruce tea on the table. Through the swinging door to the kitchen I notice that it is occupied by one of the QRFs this morning. After pouring and then sipping some of the nasty tea, Dougie pats the old gun lying across his lap tenderly.

“This was once a fine British fowling-piece. The poor craftsman who made it is probably turning over in his grave seeing its current state. It was originally chambered for the British 2 ½” shell. We took an automotive brake cylinder hone and removed the chamber ends so that the gun can use any 12 gauge shell length now. When we fought those bastard cannibals and the other survivors we used up a lot of our ammo.”

Dougie pulls an oily rag from a pocket in his overalls and lovingly wipes the old shotgun with it. Sitting beside Dougie is an Asian man of medium height and build wearing the remains of a nice gray business suit. I noticed when he entered the room behind Dougie that he is wearing a cheap pair of nylon combat boots that have seen better days. His left boot has a large hole in the toe through which his dirty white sock and dirty large toe nail protrudes.

Cheap boots introduces himself as Carmine. Other than some seriously bad breath, Carmine’s other interesting feature is a dark vivid port wine stain that covers most of the left side of his swarthy face emphasizing his dark complexion. When I look closely at Carmine studying his face his left hand covers the port wine stain on his face.

Carmine is armed with a short section of metal pipe about three feet long. Other than his sensitivity to his birthmark, Carmine does not appear to have any irritating habits unlike Barbara who is still fucking with her hair. I cannot understand why the Adventists sent Carmine to us.

The last person is a pale young woman of obviously mixed heritage. Her slightly almond-shaped eyes and wavy hair is so black it appears blue in the sunlight. The young Eurasian lady is slight of stature, but stares at me frankly as I study her. She is quietly poised sitting erect with great posture. She has also not said a word since entering the room.

I will not bore my readers with the details of the meeting after this point, because I admit that I missed most of it as I was drowsy. Our meeting was interrupted at some point when Shack and I were near asleep in our chairs. The petty arguing over how many personnel, weapons, and who gets to take what was enough to test the patience of a saint.

The interruption came as one of the QRF team leaders burst into the room saying that a small recon force of cannibals had tripped several of the booby traps in the fields. Suddenly awake and alert, I note that Carmine covers the Eurasian lady and completely ignores Barbara. Carmine holds the metal rod and pulls a large single bladed knife from a sheath on his back. What the fuck?

As per the convoy battle plan, Shack and I run to radio tent to provide protection while the QRFs deploy. After a short while I do not hear any gunfire and soon the all clear is passed. The night crews grumble and complain as they return to their beds. Shack and I are not so fortunate.

The QRFs reported only finding one dead male cannibal. The pale flesh-eating bastard stepped on one of the mines and blew one of his legs off. His companions must have stripped their dead companion because he was found nothing of worth. We return to the farmhouse.

The dead cannibal is dumped in a field, unburied should the cannibals desire to recover their dead friend. Sitting at the table again Sam and Jamal have a brief quiet conversation. I note that Carmine still protects the quiet Eurasian woman. After getting the all clear, Carmine returns to his seat.

“You do not trust us do you?” I ask Pastor nodding towards Carmine and the Eurasian woman.

“Trust is a dangerous thing these days,” Pastor responds.

“Indeed it is.” My reply sounds even flippant to myself.

“Why do you still not trust us?” Sam asks sounding tired and frustrated.

“You could kill us all.”

“Indeed we could, but we haven’t and we won’t.”

Pastor inhales deeply and then sighs. Taking a sip of the nasty cold Spruce tip tea, he looks at Sam.

“See, I told you it was a stupid fucking idea.” Barbara’s voice grates on my nerves. Maybe it is because I am sick and tired of her constant fidgeting and fucking with her hair. Everyone ignores her.

“In my youth I was a missionary to the Philippines, living on Cebu. I married a Cebuano woman. Lorraine is my only daughter. Carmine is my brother-in-law. We sent Barbara as a decoy because we wanted to see if you would grab her and hold her hostage. I am sorry for the subterfuge, but Lorraine is all I have left.”

I turn to Lorraine. “Lorraine it is nice to meet you.”

“Please, call me Rain,” she says. “My friends call me Rain since Lorraine sounds so formal. I am sorry for the deception. My mother died because she got sick, but from bad water or food not from a zombie bite. Dad and my uncle are very protective, they didn’t mean any harm.”

“Rain your uncle carries himself like an Escrima Serrada master. That sundáng he carries is a beautiful weapon. I appreciate a beautiful bladed weapon.”

“My family on Cebu, Ruth, has taught Escrima Serrada for more than 50 years. My family owns and operates one of the largest and oldest escrima schools in the Philippines. My niece was graduating from high school. I was visiting my little sister and niece when the KCAP pandemic happened.”

“Let’s start with a clean slate. All cards on the table.”

Pastor looks at Sam first in response and then Jamal and nods his head in agreement.

Just as we are getting ready to start one of the guards accompanied by a QRF team member bursts into the room and whispers something into Sam’s ear.

Sam stands up abruptly.

“Fuck me! The cannibals are back!”