Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #122 Aftermath of the battle on the farm #SHTF #TEOTWAWKI

A few hours after the fighting ceased, once most of the clean-up was completed enough so that some normalcy (if it could ever be called that) returned to camp Sam, held a staff meeting beside the burnt-out remains of the farmhouse.

As the staff sits down to hold a meeting, the cooks handout warm BBQ Spam sandwiches. The cooks have become adept at cooking a kind of flat bread. The bread such as it is might not be the prettiest or the tastiest bread, but it works.

I grimace as I am handed a dripping Spam sandwich. I am not sure what brand of BBQ sauce is dripping over my fingers, but it is somewhat too sweet for my tastes. As I perform a very un-ladylike stunt by licking my fingers, another cook offers a choice of either a can of warm beer or hot tea.

At least the tea quality has improved since the Adventists joined us. I take the warm can of beer placing it my coat pocket. I sip my tea between bites of dripping Spam sandwich.

Sam begins the meeting once everyone is seated and served.

“We got hit hard, but not as hard as we could have had those assholes waited long enough to truly discover our defenses.” Sam takes a bite of his BBQ Spam sandwich pausing to wash the dry bread down with a swig from a warm can of Coors Light.

Talking around a mouthful of Spam, Sam continues. “Fuckers knew exactly what to bait the hook with. Knew that we would take in a group with kids. Well, at least we still have the kids. The loss of adults is going to hurt both groups.”

Turning, Sam looks at Doc. Sam takes another bite of his sandwich looking thoughtful. I nod my thanks as the black cook hands me another warm, dripping BBQ Spam sandwich accompanied by another warm can of Coors. I note that the sandwich bread is missing little divots probably where the cooks cut mold from the bread.

The cook continues to hand sandwiches to the staff as Sam continues. While the cooks hand out sandwiches to any who request another, Carol and Nikola join us.

Nikola carries his swaddled child in his arms. Carol looks tired but ungodly happy. No woman who just gave birth should look that damn happy. She is even crying for Chrissakes!

Nikola pulls down the swaddling revealing a red, freckled cherubic face framed by a mop super fine fiery red hair. The baby possesses a small red button nose over a thin-lipped mouth. I assume that the child’s eyes are blue; I wonder if the eyes will remain blue or change to another color.

Puffing out his chest while walking a little unsteadily, Nikola shows around his baby. I suspect that the new father has already been celebrating the birth of his child.

“Present I, son of mine, Stephen Nikolovich. We call him Stiva.” The proud father hands his sleeping infant son to his mother. Carol sits with her son and promptly puts him to nursing. Well swaddled, and nestled against Carol’s breast, Stiva waves a small chubby hand in the air, visible occasionally through the gap of Carol’s naval peacoat.

Carol refuses a Spam sandwich with a brief shake of her head but takes a can of beer, gulping it down in one shot. Nikola takes two Spam sandwiches placing them in his chair. When Carol finishes, the first can of beer Nikola gives her another. While nursing, Carol sips the second can of beer.

From the immense deep pockets of his huge, fuzzy gray Astrakhan great-coat, Nikola produces a sealed bottle of Starka vodka. Tossing the vodka lid into the small campfire we are sitting around he offers a traditional Russian toast, in the form of a poem, to his son.

“I wish you to be always happy,

I wish you a great mood,

I wish you to never know sadness,

I wish you all the kindness in your life,

I wish you to never be sad,

I wish you to start your days with a smile,

Like on this Birth Day!”

After the poem, Nikola takes a large swig of the vodka. Handing the bottle to Sam, Nikola wobbly sits down in his chair. I think perhaps the new father has started celebrating well before the birth of his son.

Sam mumbles a pleasantry before taking a polite sip of the vodka. The other members also mumble brief pleasantries before taking a sip of the vodka and passing the bottle.  I am the last to receive the bottle of vodka, Shack handing it to me while he coughs at the burn of the alcohol.

In keeping with the father’s Russian toast to his son, I repeat an old bawdy Russian toast that I heard many years ago.

“Let me raise a toast for the well-known word that consists of five letters starting with letter “P”.

The word describes what people of all over the world think of. It is written in every possible place in words and pictures. It never kills, but on the contrary increases the population of the globe. It is what every woman thinks about and wants very much for herself, and for her daughters, for her husband and for her sons. It is what every man wants to preserve as long as possible.

Stiva, may you have “Peace” always.”

I take a healthy swig of the Starka vodka enjoying the smooth taste. I offer the bottle to Carol, who gently shakes her head no, so as not to disturb her nursing son. I next offer the bottle to Nikola, who takes it in his left hand. He sits quietly watching his son feed taking an occasional healthy swig of the fiery liquid.

We all watch in silence as the boy lustily feeds, the new parents quietly holding hands. For a few moments, the only sounds we hear is the little boy nursing. Sam turns to look at Doc again, but this time looks at Jeff as well.

“So Doc and Jeff, how bad were we hit?”