Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #121 Battle for the compound #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF

I was supposed to post this chapter last night but did not get around to it. Mea Culpa

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The past day has been one of chaos and bloodbath. Shack and I after breakfast and quietly making love, were sound asleep when the sound of gunfire woke us. The sound of machineguns causes me to cringe thinking of all the zombies the noise is going to attract to our position.

Diving to the floor from our bedroll in a tangle of arms of legs we wiped the sleep from our eyes attempting to get an idea of the direction of shooting. Shack and I manage to get our pistols in our hands. I sweep the tent with the muzzle of my Browning Hi-Power while Shack yanks his Serbu Super Shorty from its holster.

Carol, panting like a blacksmith’s bellows, bursts into the tent carrying a suppressed, smoking USAS-12 shotgun. The shotgun balances precariously on her prominent stomach. I notice that the drum in the weapon is half empty. She carries an open-topped O.D. green canvas satchel from which the tops of three more USAS-12 drums protrude.

“Get the fuck out there we are under attack!” She turns to leave.

“Where you dozy broad!” I shout at her retreating backside. Despite her advanced pregnancy, she still has a fine ass. Damn hormones! It must be all the regular sex that I am getting. Shack and I have had intercourse for a few days now. The damn boy in incorrigible. I forgot how virile horny 18-year-old boys are. I am a bit sore but not in a bad way.

“Anywhere, we are surrounded,” Carol shouts as we scramble for clothes and weapons. Carol waddles out of the tent, letting the entrance tarp flap behind her.

“God help us! A pregnant woman with a fully automatic 12 gauge shotgun. Shit must be bad,” Shack mutters.

As we finish hurriedly dressing, I kiss him lightly as we grab our rifles and head for the battle. It has been a while since I have been dressed in full battle rattle. I had forgotten how much all of this shit weighs.

We exit our tent into chaos. Soldiers and civilians are running everywhere; the old farmhouse is completely engulfed in flames, and there are zombies everywhere.

Shack and I work our way to the radio tent, to find Nguen and Junior in a pitched battle with invaders. Dressed like motorcycle gangsters from a low-budget horror flick the enemy is at least easy to identify.

Coming from the side, we were able to shoot the motorcycle-gear-wearing attackers. Checking on Nguen and Junior we hear screams from inside the tent. Shack and I leap into the tent discovering that Carol has gone into labor. Nikola, kneeling beside a prostrate Carol, is frantically calling on the radio for either Brenda, Bettina or Doc to come assist him.

Shack explodes out of the radio tent. Following Shack, I turn to look at Nikola and mutter “mazel tov.” Nikola is too busy to respond, so I quickly catch up to Shack. We are standing in the center of the compound backlit by the brightly burning farmhouse, when Rick in the up-armored snow plow careens to a stop beside us.

The Princess opens the passenger door, shouting for Shack and I to climb into the dump bed. The Princess does not even bother to wait and see if we are going to follow her suggestions when she slams the door shut. As Shack and I awkwardly climb into the truck, we join two other soldiers already in the dump bed.

One soldier is dead with a bullet to the face while the other is frantically reloading a MK-19 40mm grenade launcher. Shack assists the Mk-19 loader while I take stock of our situation. Our dead comrade is beyond help, so I drag him to the rear of the dump bed. We have plenty of ammunition, when I see something that perks my interest.

I notice that the middle half of the tailgate has been cut, and a narrow, horizontal door fashioned. Kicking a cloth tarp covered lump near the tailgate in the gloomy and stuffy armored dump bed I swear briefly in Yiddish. Where the fuck are the lights?

Pulling the tarp off reveals a beautiful sight. A pristine desert tan GAU-19/B mounted in a sliding pintle mount gleaming with fresh oil. Sitting on a wooden 5.56 NATO ammo crate behind the minigun, I kick the tailgate door open. Grasping the twin paddles, I notice the little green light for ready.

With the sunlight coming in from the open hatch in the tailgate, I refamiliarize myself with the loading and care of the minigun.

Thank God that the Israeli army used US weapons mostly. Looking at the weapon platform and magazine, by looking at the witness marks, I find that I have a full ready canister containing 7,000 rounds of 12.7×99 (AKA – US 50 BMG). Next to the ready canister is a standby canister filled with a mere 5,000 rounds.

Sliding the triple barrels out of the firing port, I search for a likely target. It does not take me long. Spotting a few motorcycle gangsters taking cover behind one of the wrecked vehicles near the gate I squeeze off a short burst. I walk the gun across the old Pontiac, guided by the fiery track of the tracers.

Satisfied when the men disappear with the vehicle burning merrily I release the trigger. Looking at the rounds in the feed chute, I see that the crafty lads have loaded this weapon with a variety of rounds. I recognize Armor Piercing Incendiary-Tracer (API-T), High-Explosive Armor Piercing Incendiary (HEIAP), incendiary, and ball cartridges.

I realize that this is an old Humvee GAU-19 probably firing about 1,300 rounds per minute. I remember that this weapon takes about a half of a second to reach full firing rate. I note that the bed floor has a hole cut into it so that the spent shells and links fall through the bottom of the bed on to the ground.

As Rick drives the snow plow around for another pass, I see that the battle is over. I occasionally hear the Mk-19 chunk as it tosses a grenade or three. There are some pockets of fighting, but even those are quickly winding down. I see several motorcycle gear wearing men running for the asphalt.

I twist the minigun to cut them down when suddenly I realize why they were running as the MGS Stryker runs them over. I watch as the driver spins the blood-spattered Stryker around, whipping it in a tight turn mowing any survivors over, turning them into a bloody pulp.

I see one of our other Strykers roar by now carrying an FN M3M heavy machine gun in a remote-controlled mount on the roof. As things settle down I note that Shack is operating a Single Channel Ground and Airborne Radio System, (SINCGARS) radio set mounted to the passenger side of the dump bed. In the gloomy dump bed, I can barely see him having an animated discussion with someone on the radio.

My ears still ringing he gives me the OK hand sign with a questioning look. I respond to Shack with a thumbs up to let him know that I am OK. Shack talks briefly with the standing soldier manning the Mk-19. I feel the snow plow lurch into motion again as we drive around the compound.

Our gate is smashed, the barricade has some major holes in it, and it looks as if we expended all of our booby-trapped vehicles. From what little that I can see through the narrow minigun port the damage does not look too bad.

In the next few hours I would be proven to have been so horribly wrong.