Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #134 False start of battle #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WCS

During the planning of this combat, defense mortars, other than the heavy ones, were discarded because of lack of qualified mortar operators. Sitting on the ground with his feet in the mortar pit, Junior pulls the thick mortar tech manual out. He is furiously ripping through the pages giving himself a crash course in mortar deployment.

One of the Russian soldiers, seeing Junior struggle with the mortar runs over. Helping the youth set up the mortar, with either Nikola or I translating when the Russian soldier’s English fails, Junior gets the lightweight mortar erected and pointed in somewhat the correct direction.

Leaving the two men and woman as they prepare mortar rounds and pre-dial the mortar, Nikola and I inspect our defensive positions once more. Then Nikola and I have really nothing to do until combat commences other than watch as the trio sets up the mortar. With no one but enemies to our front it will not matter if Junior tosses mortar rounds too far.

Fuck, I crave a cigarette! Nikola and I watch our respective troops as they work.

“Is very similar Russian 82mm platoon mortar. Alexi best mortar driver in old platoon.” He says with a note of pride. I notice that when under stress, Nikola’s Russian accent gets much worse. I wonder privately if he is aware that his speech changes so much.

“Nikola, where did you get that ancient Polish machine pistol? And where is your Stechkin APS? You Spets lads are never without your favorite machine pistol.”

Noting that Nikola’s ever present brown holster is missing, I wondering if I might already know the answer to my questions.

“Left APS with Stiva’s little mother. She need more than me maybe. Protect son. When stole plane we took from old Soviet general’s secret bunker. General in youth Soviet Spetsnaz advisor Viet Cong. General many years’ service; many skeletons secreted in closets as you say. General stole from VC, printing press plates fake US hundred-dollar money. Positive America similar plates Soviet rubles during Cold War. Now printing plates worthless – money worthless. Only life valuable.”

In silence for a moment we watch our respective troops as they plant claymores, and other command detonate antipersonnel mines around the perimeter. With a combination of Russian and American explosives strung among the trees, I hope any attacking force will be decimated enough forcing them to retreat never attempting an attack again.

Military operational planning details an assaulting force as having as much as a three-to-one disadvantage because the assaulting force has absolutely no cover. We have wired the trees with explosives, turning what little cover the assault force may seek into mined hell.

I would not like to be within those trees when the explosives strapped to them detonate. The thought of all those chunks of sharp wood propelled at speeds nearing the speed of sound make me shudder.

One problem with a force attacking with zombies is that zombies do not care if their fellows are slaughtered. Zombies and other KCAP infected lack any kind of morale, so killing a large number of them does not tend to hinder their attack effectiveness. We will have to slaughter the waves of zombies, surviving long enough to kill the human attackers behind them.

Watching an American soldier placing a pair of claymore mines, one at the base of a tree and another about shoulder height on the tree trunk, I shudder to think of an attacking force having to wade through our trapped perimeter. The soldier’s buddy runs detonation wires with the clackers to their fighting position.

“Fucking hope the explosives are enough.” I mutter under my breath. High-quality explosives are something that we are not able to replace. Sure we can make crude explosives, and even have had some luck making black powder, but good explosives are going to be in short supply quickly.

I know that Jeff worries about the expenditure this combat will cost versus what will be left for the continued trip north this coming winter. Travelling in the winter is supposed to be easier with everything frozen; crossing rivers and other barriers will be easier. Or at least that is what the current “I Believe” button is labeled.

That is assuming that the ice will be thick enough supporting our heavy vehicles. I am not going to volunteer to be in the lead vehicle searching for safe ice. No fucking way! If Rick and the Princess volunteer to take the ginormous snow plow on ice they are crazier than I think they are.

I just hope all of the fucking infected are frozen solid so we do not have to worry about them chasing our ass. Then again if we are dead, then there will not be a convoy to travel north. I have lost track of who is travelling north and who is not as the damn people keep changing their mind.

Nikola seeing the pensive look on my face speaks.

“America not learn from mistake Russia make in Afghanistan. Shame America did same mistake before in Vietnam. Think would learn like Russia, not mistake twice.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Speak English God damn it!”

Waiting for Nikola’s response I look at him. Suddenly the Russian lad standing behind the protective plates of the closest Dushka spots movement in the forest. He screams a warning in Russian.

I yell at the man now enthusiastically racking the charging handle of the Dushka to speak English. Nikola yells back at me that the man does not speak English. Shack yells our contact report into the old AN/PRC-117F Multiband Multi Mission Radio (MBMMR) field radio set.

Shit! We dive for our fighting holes and weapons.