Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #154 Shack & Ruth Help Empty a Wrecked Krankenwagen Part 1 #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

I quickly flick on my Sure Fire flashlight. The brief pulse of red light momentarily illuminates the inside of the krankenwagen’s cab. A zombie, dressed in similar clothes as the corpse hanging out of the windshield batters himself against the seat and safety belt attempting to reach me. Entangled in the passenger seat belt, and pinned underneath the passenger seat against the window, the zombie thrashes around in a frenzy.

His thrashing reminds me of a grand mal seizure. The zombie is definitely male, with a sharp-pointed goatee surrounded by a wispy moustache that he probably at one time thought made him look mature. Until Iain, I was not one for bearded men; usually preferring my men (and women) clean-shaven.

Goatee zombie continues to violently strain against the seat and the seat belt restraining him. We are not sure if zombies can see the red or blue lights used by most of the survivors. I do know the infected can see red and blue light.

Crawling on top of the ambulance’s cab, I verify that goatee zombie is trapped inside the cab. I do not need him suddenly bursting from the vehicle now that he has motive. Stupid bastard does not realize that he can open the seatbelt. As I move around the krankenwagen, goatee zombie’s head follows me.

I change pistol magazines for one full of 147 grain, subsonic hollow points. Screwing the suppressor on my pistol, I contemplate shooting through the heavily cracked windshield. I discard the idea, concerned about a ricochet.

Looking around I verify that there is nothing else more pressing than the damn goatee zombie. The last thing I need is a bunch of zombies or worse cannibals, sneaking up on me while I am distracted with dispatching goatee zombie.

Gently racking the slide open, I catch the 115 grain FMJ bullet that pops out of the chamber. I lock the slide open, releasing it when I slam the magazine full of 147 grain subsonic hollow point bullets home. I watch one of the stubby bullets slide from the magazine into the chamber with a resounding thunk.

I cannot mount my Sure Fire flashlight to my pistol, as my old Hi-Power is not new enough to have any kind of rail. Despite lacking a mounted weapon light, I manage holding my Sure Fire flashlight in my weak hand while aiming with my right. I succeed in leaning over the driver’s corpse taking careful aim down at the still thrashing goatee zombie.

Making sure there are no friendly forces near goatee zombie, I gently press the trigger. The pistol coughs lightly bucking in my hand. A neat hole appears in passenger corpse’s head while the back of his skull vaporizes in a frothy fountain of black blood, bits of bone and chunky bits of gelatinous black brains.

The fountain of gore splashes against the passenger window, pooling below the corpse. With a disgusting finality, goatee zombie settles for the last time against the passenger door. Noting the lack of pink brains, I surmise that goatee zombie had been dead for some time. He might have been an early casualty during the initial outbreak.

First responders and soldiers suffered horrific losses early in the KCAP pandemic. Since I was shooting down towards the ground, I did not have to worry about a pass through striking someone friendly. I drop to my knees; the ground is cold underneath my legs.

Pulling my Cold Steel hatchet, I clear enough of the shattered wind shield so that I can reach the corpse without cutting myself on glass. Replacing my hatchet back on my belt, I slide into the cab just enough to reach the corpse.

Searching the corpse reveals an identical dead Motorola radio, a cheap empty nylon wallet, and a nearly full can of Copenhagen dip. His reflective vest holds another, sealed can of Copenhagen, and a cheap, red plastic disposable lighter.

The smell of Copenhagen makes me gag, but I know some of the lads enjoy it, so I drop the cans of dip into my recovery sack. Shaking the lighter, I see that it is about half full. I pocket the disposable lighter.

Searching passenger zombie’s corpse one more time, I discover an ankle holster on the inside of his left leg. “Umm, naughty naughty, krankenwagen boy – not supposed to carry guns,” I mumble. I separate the Velcro, the nylon stretchy fabric flopping on the bottom of the cab as I pull the ankle holster from the corpse.

Thankfully, the black nylon ankle holster does not land in the puddle of blood. Pulling the little pistol from the ankle holster I am disappointed with my find. I recognize the little pistol immediately. It is a Smith & Wesson Model 61 “Escort” nickel plated with white plastic grips. The S&W Escort pistols were real POS that jammed all the time.

There is only one, five round magazine. A quick search of the corpse fails to deliver another magazine. Ejecting the magazine from the gun, I notice that it contains five rounds of CCI Mini Mag .22 LR ammo. I slip the Escort’s slide back far enough verifying that there is a round in the chamber. I put the shitty little pistol back in the ankle holster dropping it in my recovery bag.

I am uncertain how the rettungsassistent became infected. I see no signs of bites or other injuries that would cause KCAP infection. I do not have access to all of its body. I am certainly not going to pull it out so that I can figure cause of infection. I leave the poor bastard where he lies.

Wiggling and shimmying my way out of the cab someone grabs my ankle. I scream, echoing in the small space. Rolling on to my back and frantically grasping for my pistol, I feel a large, cool calloused hand grip mine. “It’s me sweetheart,” Shack says. I relax.

Now I feel like a complete and utter fool for screaming like a silly woman. I hear thumping and cussing nearby. I finish wiggling out of the cab Shack guiding me so that I do not hit my head. “What is that banging about,” I ask once I am standing upright.

“They’re trying to get all three alternators out of the engine compartment. These damn ambulances usually come with a pair of mighty powerful alternators. This one has three for some damned reason. Chuck says this ambulance has the 94 amp stock alternator plus two heavy-duty 220 amp alternators. That’s a lot of juice for an ambulance,” he says scratching his head. “Sorry for startling you.”

I kiss him lightly on the lips. Realizing that we are alone while the Scouts rip apart the ambulance, I lean in and give him a good, deep snog. “I am jumpy after I shot the ambulance passenger zombie,” I say by way of explanation. Someone whistles at the back of the ambulance. Holding hands, we quickly walk around to the ambulance’s rear.

Three people with the cool look of predators stand at the rear of the ambulance. The leader is a tall, lanky white man with stringy, greasy brown hair falling over a stained red bandanna tied around his forehead.  Leaning against the hood of our Hummer, the leader wears dirty tight blue jeans and a stained and ripped denim jacket.

With cool consideration, the leader sneers at us. He has his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. Tucked into Leader’s waistband is an old .45 in condition one, with the hammer locked back.

To Leader’s left, is a white man with a ponderous beer gut jutting from his puffy blue nylon jacket. Dirty, ripped blue jeans strain valiantly to contain Beer Gut’s huge ass. An equally straining black leather belt, its buckle facing the ground holds a leather sheath for a large bladed knife easily the width of my hand.

I notice that the handle of the huge knife is a human femur bone. Beer Gut sneers at me as he watches me realize what the handle of his knife is. Beer Gut cradles a camouflaged duck gun in his arms.

To the right of Leader is a skeleton-slender white man with a spiky Mohawk leading into a greasy pony tail on his shoulders. Covering the shaved sides of Mohawk’s head are the typical blue skin head tattoos often gained in prison.

Tattooed in the center of Mohawk’s forehead is a large, rather artful, black, blue and gold Deutsches Kreuz. His large forehead tattoo runs from the bridge of his nose to his hair-line. Visible wrapped around my AR-15, “Skin Head” is tattooed across Mohawk’s fingers in blue ink.

Leader pulls the toothpick from the corner of his mouth. Motioning at Shack with the sodden sliver of wood, he says “Hey, man we’re gonna borrow yo’ woman fo’ some fun. You can have her back when we’re done. You be cool, we don’t hurt her none.”

Fuck! Shack and I were supposed to be on guard! Beside me, I feel Shack tense.

(Author’s note – Before someone yells at me for Ruth’s spelling of moustache – please remember that Ruth is originally from Israel. She prefers the European spelling vs. the typical American spelling of moustache.)