Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #144 On the road to Kayak Point part #1 #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WCS

I note that Shack has his helmet on “John Wayne style.” Shack continues singing horribly off-key. I never liked Country Western music although Amy was quite fond of it. I always found Country music insipid. I prefer jazz.

Someone even found an old k-pot for Honey. Because of her bald pate, Honey usually wears a bandanna tied around her head. I see the ends of a black and red checkered bandanna sticking out from underneath her helmet. Honey is responsible for the radio while we travel.

LM is gnawing on a chocolate, MRE “John Wayne bar.” Honey sitting cross-legged, is shoveling hot, British MRE fruit and nut muesli into her mouth with a brown, US MRE spoon. Honey’s Franchi SPAS-12 with the stock folded flat against the receiver, is lying on the floor in front of LM, muzzle towards Shack’s legs.

Honey is certainly strong enough, and perhaps resilient enough to recover from the kick-like-an-enraged-mule of the tactical shotgun’s recoil. Due to its complicated manual of arms, picky operating mechanism that dislikes mild shells, most militaries and police passed on the SPAS-12.

A commercial failure, the Franchi SPAS-12 was not that popular other than with those that wanted to be “tacti-cool.” It does look cool, and looks tactical but it is really a piece of crap shotgun. Less than 2,000 were imported to the States. I am not sure where Honey got the old shotgun, but due to its ammo pickiness, I would not carry it.

Fed ammo it likes, the SPAS-12 can shoot fast, and with Honey’s strength and speed, she could probably run the shotgun better than anyone else. Despite its racy looks, and Hollywood fame, the Franchi SPAS-12 is an utter piece of shit, with a difficult manual of arms.

Unaware (I hope, as I have not heard that KCAP infection grants telepathy) of my thoughts, Honey is still busily shoveling chunky fruit and nut muesli into her mouth with relish. The muesli emits the distinct odor of powdered milk, which I utterly despise.

I have never cared for the taste of powdered milk or its gagging after taste. Zombie apocalypse or not, I still cannot gag down powdered milk. Lying in Honey’s lap, a spent US MRE food heater pack gently emits steam rising from the jagged, open top. The poor infected, because of their metabolism nearly continuously eat.

The infected cannot get drunk, and they get cold easily because they have almost no fat on their body. LM finishes his John Wayne bar, grunting at Honey, he holds his hands out to her, black nails towards the floor. Reaching into her LBV, Honey hands LM another chocolate John Wayne bar along with some other, brown plastic wrapped MRE snack.

Pulling an OD green plastic canteen from her web belt, Honey places it between her legs and opens the lid. Using her shiny black teeth, Honey tears open a small, brown plastic baggie; I distinctly smell oranges. Pouring the orange powder into the canteen, Honey screws the lid on tight. After shaking the canteen a few times, Honey hands the canteen to LM sitting on the floor.

Honey, in the two months or so she has been with the convoy, has grown nearly four inches or so. She almost looks me in the eyes now; at the rate she is growing, Honey could easily stand over six feet tall.

There is no heat from the old Dodge diesel engine yet. My feet are freezing; I hope the engine warms up quickly. I wonder how LM will like the heater blowing on him under the dash. I hope that the blankets and towels LM is lying on will be padding enough protecting him from the worst of the road.

Bouncing down the road, Honey finishes her muesli stuffing the empty white plastic package into her field jacket pocket. Honey starts eating a British MRE date and banana fruit bar. Shack opens our old faithful plaid Thermos, and I smell hot tea. From the smell, it must be one of Brenda’s herbal mixtures. At least it is hot, and will help warm my cold body.

Filling one of our odd insulated plastic travel mugs, Shack passes the disreputable-looking cup to Honey who passes it to me. Even snuggled against Honey, I am still cold this early in the morning. The damned sun is not even up yet. Sipping the hot tea, I wish for honey or sugar to sweeten the slightly bitter tea.

Suddenly the convoy behind us slams on the brakes. “Ruth we need to stop,” Honey places her hand on my arm resting on the gear shift. LM looks up from the floor at me as I downshift tapping the brakes. “Wonder what’s going on,” Shack mutters.

I crank the big old truck in a modified three-point turn. Heading back towards the stopped tanker, from Honey’s ear piece I hear the Scouts called in as perimeter guards. We are in a lightly populated suburb of a town called Marysville, but you never know how many survivors, cannibals, or zombies are lurking in the abandoned buildings.

Again from Honey’s ear piece, I hear the reason why we stopped. Goddamn kid manning the machine gun on the tanker fell off the fucking truck. Kid is lucky that the deuce and half behind him was able to swerve and brake without running him over. The rest of the convoy halts.

The convoy forms a somewhat ragged looking laager formation. I hear the colonels screaming that we need to form up quicker if this is an attack.

One of the combat medics from the rear vehicles is with the kid who is lying upon his back in the middle of the roadway. Doc sprints to rear of the VW station wagon. Grabbing his kit Doc looks over the car at the soldier lying in the road. Shack, Honey and I watch opened mouth in shock as Doc flat-footed leaps the length of the VW station wagon. Doc, like a pale-gray preternatural predator with a graceful Rudi jump, leaps over our Dodge truck.

Landing lightly on his feet, Doc does not waste any time, running to the kid with his medic bag.