Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #124 Powder River trout fishing, sex and a brief flashback #SHTF #TEOTWAWKI

Iain took me trout fishing this morning in the Powder River. I had never been fishing before.  While I would not call my fishing a rousing success, we did manage a nice fried trout lunch beside the river. I lost more trout than I caught, which seemed to amuse Iain to no end.

The old highway is crumbling and falling apart. Trees now grow through cracks in the asphalt. Grass covers quite a bit of the roadway. We spooked a few mule deer munching on the grass in the center of the highway. In a few years, you will not be able to tell even there was a roadway there.

I fell on my ass in the river that also amused Iain much to my frustration. Now soaked and cold, I was not interested in fishing anymore. Iain decided to risk a fire, both as a way to dry my clothes, and to cook lunch. We have not seen anyone else in years, but we cannot be too careful.

We had to be careful with our fire. With the old highway 84 immediately above our heads, Iain was conscious of his choice of fire location. Using a shovel Iain dug a small depression in the bank, placing the fire in the hole limiting its light exposure.

I asked Iain once why he did not use one of the small ultralight twig and pinecone burning camp stoves once popular with backpackers and preppers. He shrugged and said that it was just something else to fool with which took up too much space in his bags. He would rather carry more ammo than some fancy hippie wood stove.

When starting the fire Iain’s choice to use charcoal brought from the bunker rather than found wood, of which there was plenty, limited the amount of smoke produced. Because of my wet clothes, we did use some of the wood lying about as we quickly exhausted the charcoal supply.

Iain always chose the driest wood possible breaking it into small pieces. He was careful not to dump too much wood on the fire at once limiting the amount of smoke produced. While we have not seen anyone in years, we are always careful. Iain worried that even the little amount of smoke from our tiny fire and even the smell of our cooking lunch might draw unwanted attention.

After lunch, we laid in the sand against the bank near the fire. Iain banked the coals, so we had a nice warm spot. Iain had wanted to use hardwood that produces better coals, but there is very little hardwood beside the river.

Snuggled up against Iain, wrapped in an old plaid wool blanket, lying on a few other old wool blankets I was suddenly aware that I was nude from the waist down. Iain, of course, did not miss this fact, his large hand slid over my ass cupping it in a way that was all too familiar.

Making love is a great way to warm up. By the time, we finished my clothes were mostly dry if a little smoky smelling. While I dressed, Iain the crazy idiot waded into the river for a quick scrub. Man is a fool to wade naked into that frigid water.

He seemed to enjoy his frigid plunge, the steam pouring off of him when came out. Iain is the warmest man that I have ever been with. I do not mean his personality either. His body seems to radiate heat like no other man I have ever known.

Iain is also the largest man I have ever been with in all respects. At seven-foot five inches tall and about 355 pounds, he is a massive specimen of a man. I am only five foot two, so he towers over me. His waist is flat with thickly sculpted muscles. He might not have a six-pack, but there is very little fat on him. His arms and legs are thickly corded with muscles as is his shoulders.

His muscles are not the bulky kind that gym rats used to pride themselves with, but rather the smooth muscles acquired naturally. With his great shaggy beard and thick body hair, as he emerged from the river he looked like some nude prehistoric Neanderthal.

Iain asked if I wanted to take a quick dip in the river. No thank you I will wait until I can heat some water back at the bunker. I have already taken a dip in that river and did not wish another. I just got warm.

After dressing and repacking the hobbled horses who were contentedly munching on the tender grass on the river banks we rode out of the river ravine. We spent the late afternoon selecting a useless (his words) neutered male goat for butchering.

Back in the bunker later that evening after a meal of spicy goat stew with fresh soda bread, I sat at my desk with a hot cup of tea. I started looking over my notes of my early days with Shack and the convoy. It is hard to believe how many years have passed since those days.

I am no longer a young woman as I was when the KCAP pandemic broke. The small crow’s feet around my eyes and the gray in my hair, still worn long to my waist, attest the fact of the passing years. Iain looks much the same as always.

Looking up from my notes, I open the computer document where I have compiled my journals. I see a note written in the side margin on the first page that the German state health department at Düsseldorf tried to keep the infected people out of hospitals to restrict the spread of KCAP.

A note under the one about the Germans reminds me that the WHO also recommended keeping the infected at home. I remember the early days of the KCAP outbreak when as much as a third of the population tried to flee.

The Boston-Washington Corridor was once the most heavily urbanized region of the US with approximately 75 million people living in the northern suburbs of Boston, Massachusetts, to the southern suburbs of Washington, D.C. in northern Virginia. The eastern seaboard of the US alone had 165 million people living along the coast.

The US quickly found itself overran with infected. Programs designed for epidemics or pandemics never started because most of the personnel either were killed, infected or unable to reach their destinations.

The FBI’s multi-billion dollar SIOC (strategic information operations center) was never used properly because only a few of the critical personnel actually made it to the center, which by then it was already too late. Placing the SIOC in the center of D.C., meant the critical agents had to brave traffic in order to reach it.

The few agents that did man the SIOC lacked the expertise needed to respond to such a catastrophe. The FBI lost most of its expertise in biology in 1969 when the US terminated all biological weapons programs.

Finding themselves dealing with a hungry tsunami of infected the agents at the SIOC could do little but watch the wave subdue everything in its path. Thinking of waves of infected, I am suddenly transported back to the early days of the convoy just after the last attack on the farm.