Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #155 Shack & Ruth Help Empty a Wrecked Krankenwagen Part 2 #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

Faster than you can read these words, Shack lifts his right leg pointing his knee at Beer Gut. Slapping his hand down to the butt of his Serbu shotgun he fires it through the open bottom of his OD green nylon leg sheath.

Shredded by Rhodesian jungle load fired from less than five feet away, Beer Gut’s ponderous girth dissolves in an explosive, frothy cloud of blood, purple entrails and bone fragments. Nearly blown in half, Beer Gut collapses with a quiet moan, his shotgun falling with a loud clatter. Distracted by the sudden demise of his friend, Skin Head mouth agape stands rooted to the spot.

I deliver a vicious, vertical front offensive kick to Skin Head’s right femur. With my weight and strength behind it, the ball of my foot and boot heel hits him just above the right knee. Caught flat-footed with his knees locked, Skin Head’s right leg shatters with a similar sound as if breaking a thick, dry wooden stick.

As Skin Head crumples, I snatch my rifle from his hands. I follow him to the ground. I plunge my Glock fighting knife through Skin Head’s left temple pinning him to the ground. Kneeling beside the twitching corpse, I begin turning towards Leader, flipping the safety off my rifle. I just hope that my rifle is still loaded as I start to aim at Leader.

Momentarily stunned into inaction as Shack and I eliminated his companions, Leader stands frozen to the spot. Realizing his two friends are dead, he frantically paws at the .45 in his waistband. The weapon snags on something. Leader frantically jerks up on the handle of the old pistol.

Somehow he pulls the trigger, shooting himself in the thigh. Leader collapses while uttering a string of blasphemous curses. Covering the wound in his thigh with his hands he vainly attempts stanching the flow of bright, red blood pumping through his fingers.

Shack pointedly aims his reloaded Serbu shotgun at Leader’s head. He takes a moment extricating the .45 from Leader’s waistband. Flipping the safety on the old pistol, Shack slides the old .45 in to his waistband at the center of his back. With the muzzle of his Serbu pressed tightly against Leader’s forehead, Shack pats him down for any other weapons.

Confiscating a small, bright pink Swiss Army Knife, Shack hands it to me without taking his eyes from the wounded man. I am momentarily undecided what to do with the handy little knife. Opening it, I see that it is a genuine Victorinox and is in good condition.

The little knife needs a good sharpening and some oil. I decide to keep it. Later, after a good sharpening and some oil, I will add the little Swiss Army Knife to the Every Day Carry (EDC) lanyard around my neck. Thankfully this is not one of the ginormous Swiss Army Knives.

None too gently nudging Leader’s leg with the toe of his boot, Shack ignores the wounded man’s high pitched screaming. When Shack presses on Leader’s thigh, Leader goes absolutely pale nearly passing out. Pulling his knife, Shack looks at the man who has gone stark still. I can see the red pressure ring from the muzzle of Shack’s Serbu shotgun on the man’s forehead.

In stark contrast to how Shack touches me, with little gentleness or care, Shack slices Leader’s pants leg, flipping open the blood-soaked denim with the blade tip. Careful to keep from touching the man’s blood, Shack probes Leader’s leg with the blade of his knife. Several times the man piercingly screams.

Standing over the weeping man who is now quietly begging for help, Shack looks at me. “Femur’s busted, knee’s busted – round’s probably buried in his knee. He’ll bleed out in a minute or so. His screaming’s gonna attract zombies and cannies. Your call,” he looks at me for a decision.

Looking around, I make a quick decision. “What is his blood type,” I ask. Shack shrugs at me. Pulling a blood type test kit from my LBV, I put on surgical gloves. As I approach the man, Shack presses his Serbu firmly into his forehead, twisting it for emphasis.

Careful not to get any of the man’s blood on me, I take a sample. After dropping the reagent into the test tube, and shaking it the prescribed time, I check the results on the handy included chart.

“This is your fucking lucky day,” I tell the weeping man. To Shack I say, “He is O negative. Doc can use him for a blood bag if nothing else.” Quietly, I think for a moment.

“Shut him up. Do not get any of his blood on you. Put a tourniquet on him. If he survives until we get back to camp, then maybe Doc can patch him up. Otherwise he dies here and we leave him for zombie chow.”

I slip my AR-15’s sling over my shoulder. Nodding at Shack that I am ready, Shack replaces his Serbu in its thigh holster. Pulling a Combat Application Tourniquet (CAT) from his LBV, Shack kneels beside the wounded man.

While putting on surgical gloves he speaks to the man. “This is going to hurt – a lot,” he tells the quietly weeping man. I do not turn away as Shack reaches underneath the man, sliding the CAT completely around his leg.

“You’re lucky I’m making sure your balls aren’t caught by the CAT as your kind shouldn’t breed,” he tells the man shortly before he starts tightening the CAT. Shack has to tighten the CAT significantly to cut off the blood flow. The man screams briefly before passing out. I watch Shack duly note the date and time with a thick, black Sharpie on the man’s forehead. Lucky it was not the asshole with the huge tat on his forehead.

“He still alive?”

Shack bends down to check. Standing back up, “Barely,” he replies as he strips off the surgical gloves. I retrieve my knife, wiping it off on the corpse before sheathing it again. Now that it has quieted down I hear banging from inside the ambulance. I motion to Shack to get ready.

I pat my Hi-Power in its holster still wearing the suppressor. My AR-15 hangs from its single point sling on my back. Pulling my rifle around to my front, I get into the ready position dropping to my left knee. I wish that I had mounted a suppressor on my rifle as well.

The suppressor will reduce the sound of the shot but will do nothing for the supersonic crack of the bullet breaking the sound barrier. No help for it now. If I have to shoot, it will be not much louder than the boom of Shack’s shotgun.

Shack ensures his Serbu is loose in its holster. He pulls a US Army, baseball-sized, M68 impact fuzed frag grenade from his LBV. With one hand on the spoon and his fingers through the pin, Shack nods at me. Here we go.