Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #139 Discussions with Doc in the medical building & trade issues #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WCS

Walking up the hospital wooden stairs to the second level entrance, I pass the two door guards on duty. The guard rotation changes, and the exact number and location of guards and weapons are known only to four people – Pastor, Sam, Doc and I.

Standing beside a wood burning 55-gallon drum propped on scavenged bricks, the outside hospital door guard is armed with a battered, ancient British Farquhar-Hill .303 rifle. Holding extra rounds for the British rifle, a disreputable-looking brown leather bandolier crosses his chest. From the rifle bandolier hang a pair of olive drab, Russian RGD-5 frag grenades and two US white smoke grenades.

Lying within reach on the stair handrail is a POS Cobray Terminator 12ga shotgun. I know that the near worthless shotgun is loaded with a marine shotgun flare, as that is about its only worth. I do not believe that the guards possess any other shotgun rounds to use in the Terminator.

Even used as a flare gun, the Cobray shotgun is still cumbersome, and unwieldy. The Terminator, a single shot, breech-loading, open bolt firing shotgun was nearly worthless when they were made. Only a zombie apocalypse would give worth to nearly worthless shotgun.

(As an aside – I saw a survivor dressed in an old fishtail parka with an aviator’s fur-lined cap that carried another POS Cobray weapon – a Lady’s Home Companion pistol. Probably the most worthless and poorly conceived pistol ever made, the Lady’s Home Companion chambered in 45/70 is an eight pound beast based on the Street Sweeper chassis. We have seen quite a few survivors pass by heading north, armed with all sorts of different weapons.)

An ancient US Army World War II vintage Motorola SRC-536 radio lies on the stair rail beside the shotgun. I had heard that several ancient radios were recovered from some obscure museum up north called “Spark” or something like that.

Most of the old radios were restored by vintage radio enthusiasts and work perfectly. Nodding at the guard as I pass, I take a moment to look over the camp from my elevated position.

I see that the destructive distillation methanol production has picked up. Once the retorts were built, and the steam system piped, the major concern has been securing enough fuel to heat the feed stock. Somewhere around here is supposed to be a supply of coal.

As I watch some of the men struggle with the large drums of methanol, I wonder how much methanol have stockpiled and is it going to be enough to get us into the Northwest Territories? The interior guard sitting just inside the door on a stool nods at me as I pass.

The large, coal-black guard is dressed in faded solid green US Army fatigues which I have heard referred to as a “pickle suit” by Shack and some of the other soldiers. Scuffed, day-glow green Nike running shoes cover his feet. I have heard that the large man wears size 14 shoes.

A Vietnam-era LBV struggles to wrap around the large black man. Hanging vertically on the left side, handle down, is a very distinct Steel Will Fervor knife with FDE handle scales. The guard is armed with a select fire Iver Johnson Enforcer. The machine gun looks small in his huge hands.

Hanging from an OD green pistol belt, a Canadian-imported Chinese NP-42 9mm pistol rests in a brown leather flap holster. A pair of the limited, Canadian-approved, 10 round magazines hang on the opposite side of the gun from the belt.

Beside the interior guard, leaning against the wall in the corner is a Polish AKML with a NSP-3 scope and bipod with a mounted 75-round drum magazine. Two more AKML drums lay on the floor beside the rifle.

Resting on the floor within easy reach of the large man is another Motorola SRC-536 radio. I do not know this man well, as he is a recent arrival to camp. I have heard that he was once a rather infamous bouncer and knee-breaking collections agent for local loan sharks who was rather infamous in the Seattle night life.

His cauliflower ears, scarred face and hands certainly attest to someone who has had experience with personal violence. The guard smiles at me as I pass, his extremely white teeth contrasting with his bright gold two front teeth, all of which contrasts with his dark skin.

Stepping inside I find Doc playing with ants. “Doc, what is with the ants?” I ask watching Doc drop small ants on a dish with just enough of a bright yellowish liquid to wet the bottom. The small room smells like urine and smoke from the lanterns.

I notice that all the windows are open. The room is freezing, but Doc dressed in BDU pants and a BDU tee-shirt does not seem to mind as he putters with ants in a dish. I zip my coat up fully, shoving my cold hands in my pockets.

“I am testing my urine to see if it still has sugar in it. I studied metabolomics many years ago. I am using ants testing for diabetes, something that the Chinese knew about hundreds of years ago. I have diabetes, and I am running out of insulin pills. I guessed that infecting myself might cure my diabetes. It appears that I may have been wrong.”

Doc falls silent as he and I watch the ants swarm over the urine. “Looks like there is still lot of sugar in my urine as the ants are highly attracted to it. I only have a few days’ worth of insulin left. God my head hurts.” Doc rubs his forehead with his right hand.

We have established trade for medical services. Ammo, TP, and food are the three most common items we accept in trade. I swear to God Almighty, that .22 long rifle ammo; TP and Twinkies are becoming the currency of this new world. Unfortunately insulin is not in ready supply as a trade item.

We have also accepted in trade weapons, survival gear, and various good batteries. Our supply of car batteries is about at maximum, so we have started assisting the Adventists in establishing a bank of batteries tied to several inverters.