Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #153 Exploring Around Kayak Point and a Wrecked Krankenwagen #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

We have observed several broken, poor imitation, Japanese swords lodged in some pathetic zombie. The poor zombie is often walking around with the broken blade or sometimes even the whole sword or knife stuck in the poor thing.

A few weeks ago we came across a zombie with a poor imitation Japanese wakizashi thrust through him. The handle was on one side of the zombie, while the tip barely protruded from the other side. After killing the zombie and removing the wakizashi we discovered that the blade was badly bent. Attempting to straighten the wakizashi blade resulted in it shattering into three pieces.

The other evening Shack and some of the Scout lads were sitting around a small fire in front of our tent. Shack was using some “survivor-style” knife with a large fixed blade and a hollow handle containing a lot of useless junk. Shack was making fire-starting feather sticks, not a real hard task for a knife.

The POS knife blade broke, snapping off right at the handle. One thing that KCAP has taught us is that good equipment is priceless. Another lesson was that just because something is imported does not mean it is junk. Case in point – my favorite, Cold Steel Vietnam-era, reproduction antipersonnel hatchet.

My Cold Steel hatchet was made in China. After a good sharpening, the hatchet has served me well. Shack likewise carries a Cold Steel Warhawk, also made in China, which required only a good sharpening to become an excellent lethal weapon. Both tomahawks have survived rough use. Good equipment is priceless.

Speaking of priceless, thanks to Doc, Viri is now armed with a FDE, Kel-Tec SUB-2000 9mm folding carbine. The little carbine takes Glock 17 magazines of which Doc made sure that Viri had several of the extra-long magazines holding 30 rounds each. A little Bushnell red dot sight of some kind sits on top of the small carbine.

I was sure that the red dot sight would prevent folding the carbine when Doc showed me how the front handguard twists so that the red dot sight is on the bottom. I am not that familiar with Kel-Tec firearms. Like most academics, Viri had never handled a gun before the zombie apocalypse.

Shack mentioned under his breath that, “during a zombie apocalypse is kinda late to learn how to use firearms.” Doc suggested better to learn late than never to learn. I helped Viri load her magazines with PMC Bronze 9mm 115 grain hollow points from 300 round tan Spam bags also provided by the convoy.

Viri also carries a 4-shot Sauer Bär pistol chambered in .25 ACP tucked into her more than ample cleavage. The little Belgian antique pistol is rather underpowered, and (in my opinion, anyway) woefully inadequate. The .25 ACP cartridge was never a known man-stopper, and even some of the .22 rim fire rounds have greater kinetic energy.

Still any pistol these days is better than no pistol. Because of the prevalence of people with no firearms experience, the convoy personnel have taken to offering firearms training in the evenings. Sam and Longfeather conduct most of the training, with Sutton and Randy teaching those that show promise, some long-range shooting.

The other female infected survivor, Martha “not fucking Stewart!” is a quiet, mousy little woman. I have not had an opportunity to talk to her, but the mousy woman barely talks to anyone other than those that are also infected with KCAP. It was painful watching the fidgety, infected woman learning how to shoot and load the little M6 Scout rifle chambered in .22 Hornet and .410 shotgun — it was obvious that she had never handled a firearm before.

Loaded with some of the newer .410 self-defense rounds, the little .410 shotgun can be an effective personal defense weapon. Most of the self-defense .410 rounds were designed for the Taurus Judge and Smith & Wesson Governor pistols. I wonder what the ballistics are for the self-defense .410 rounds designed for short pistol barrels when fired in a longer shotgun barrel.

We have taken to referring to the small, infected woman as Mouse because the name suits her. Thankfully, someone has not given Mouse a pistol because the way she missed everything with the M6 Scout, flinching and shrieking every time the weapon bucked in her hands, she would never have hit anything with a pistol.

Shack and I, if we are not on guard duty, have taken to spending the evenings with little Stiva on the beach. Carol is afraid that the tyke will roll into a campfire, so they stay well away from any heat or fire. Sometimes we are joined by Doc and Viri, and even Honey and LM occasionally drop in for a while.

Doc and Viri were quite animated last evening, talking about how KCAP possess a microbial efflux pump that is unusually efficient, and stronger than any other microbial efflux pump found in nature. I have taken to taking notes now when the Doc and Viri go into one of their scientific tirades. I think Doc enjoys being able to argue with someone who understands what he is talking about.

Shack and I aside from our usual guard rotations, also partake in pulling security for the Scouts while they acquire supplies. Shack and I got to protect the Scouts when they searched a rolled over ambulance on its side in a deeply forested area. The old krankenwagen flew off of the road and rolled down the side of the bank towards the river.

Trapped between a small river and a thick line of trees, the ambulance lies on its side, all doors closed tightly. The fuel tanks, emptied long ago by other looters, are a disappointment. However, the huge Cummins diesel’s crankcase is filled with several gallons of motor oil. The ambulance’s position provided easy access to the engine.

One of the Scouts stood beside the engine, and using a sharpened punch, pierces the side of the oil pan. As the viscous, black oil glugged into the catch bucket, other Scouts searched around the old krankenwagen, discovering a corpse mostly ejected through the windshield on the driver’s side.

I run over to watch but I quickly get tired of standing around. I decide to search the krankenwagen’s cab. Dressed in a solid blue jump suit, the ambulance driver was badly cut, his face and arms shredded by the windshield. Wild animals had been snacking on the poor dead ambulance driver, so I was not sure how much of the damage to the poor man was from the crash or from nature.

Searching the ambulance driver’s corpse reveals a wallet full of useless credit cards and a crisp five dollar bill, equally as useless as the plastic. I pocket the money, as it may be useful either as rolling paper or as tinder. I do not bother reading the name on the driver’s license.

A quick search of the corpse reveals three-quarters of a pack of Marlboro Red 100s. I rip off the black nylon rigger’s belt from the corpse dropping it in my recovery sack. A nice, frequency agile Motorola radio with a long microphone handset was still attached to the corpse’s belt. The radio is dead, so I pop open the back of the case revealing a nice set of lithium polymer batteries.

I drop the radio in the recovery sack hanging on my waist. I pocket the smokes for later, my mouth already watering at the thought of the sweet smoke entering my starved lungs. I toss the ambulance driver’s wallet back into the ambulance through the shattered windshield. When I tossed the folded wallet into the ambulance’s cab, something moves inside, thumping around heavily.

Pulling my pistol, I lean over the driver’s corpse looking cautiously down into the dark cab. Something moves inside the dark compartment.