Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #156 Shack & Ruth Help Empty a Wrecked Krankenwagen Part 3 #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

I crack open the ambulance doors ready to slam them shut again. I am not sure what I was expecting. What I was not expecting was for Chuck and the other Scout tumbling and leaping out of the back of the ambulance yelling like fools.

“Where the fuck ya’ been,” Chuck yells in a rush as he bursts through the open doors.

Other than two thrashing zombies well secured to a pair of gurneys, the ambulance is empty.

“Well, that’s anticlimactic,” Shack says wryly, putting his grenade away.

“What the fuck happened,” I ask the other Scout from the ambulance. I see that he is a much older white male, whom the other Scouts call “Gramps.” I have heard of this man, and seen him around camp, but I have never had a chance to meet him. Gramps must be in his late 70s if the tales of him once being a Selous Scout are true.

Gramps appears to be a bit long in the tooth for Scout work, but so far he has kept up with the much younger men and women. I notice Gramps carries a much battered Uzi, the grip safety taped down with black electrician’s tape. Despite the Uzi being distinctly Israeli, I have never cared for the weapon.

I wonder where Gramps found the heavy little machine gun. From the size of the bore, I bet his Uzi is chambered in 9mm Luger. Gramps carries the Uzi with the breech closed. Trying not to be too obvious, I look closely identifying that the selector switch is placed in full auto.

Assuming that the inserted magazine is fully loaded, all Gramps has to do is rack the slide back and squeeze the trigger. I also note that the Uzi does not have the ported barrel of the later generations, which supposedly helped retard muzzle climb.

“Those three assholes snuck up on us and shoved Chuck and me in the back of the ambulance with the two zombies,” Gramps replies. “We didn’t even have time to shoot or anything. I guess they figured the zombies would kill us and then they could get our gear easy. We barely escaped being bitten by standing on the lower gurney.”

We watch the two struggling zombies strapped in the back of the ambulance. As we stand there, two grease covered Scouts from the front of the vehicle join us. The dirty Scouts carrying three alternators and several automotive belts, green canvas tool bags strung over their shoulders stare at us for a moment.

“What the fuck’s everyone standin’ around for,” one of the greasy Scouts asks.

We cannot help it, as Shack, Chuck, Gramps and I all burst out laughing.

“I don’t get it,” one of the greasy Scouts says, “What’s so fuckin’ funny?”

After calming down and taking a short break for snacks and necessary breaks in the trees, we start emptying the ambulance. Shack and I help the lads unlock the gurneys from the krankenwagen. Using a length of rope and a come along we yank the gurneys from the ambulance.

We debate if it is worth killing the two zombies, who are both dressed in US Marine MARPAT fatigues. Shack and I agree that we do not like the idea of leaving two servicemen trapped in such a hell. Shack suggests setting the two restrained Marine zombies beside Leader, who still appears to be unconscious, or dead – I care not, whichever it is.

The two Marines are well secured to the gurneys. Both were severely injured, with several bites, scratches and ragged bloody holes. Blood soaked bandages cover both of the Marine’s torsos, shoulders and arms. Because the men were fellow soldiers we decide, by a show of hands to put them out of their misery.

Since I have a suppressor on my pistol loaded with subsonic ammo, we decide to use it. I shoot the first Marine zombie in the head. Chuck, having lost the coin toss, shoots the second. A quick search of the bodies reveals nothing of worth. It is a shame that these two Marines would die with no one even knowing their names. They did not even keep their dog tags.

We dump the Marines in a hastily dug trench, covering them as much as we can. We have neither the time nor the luxury of a proper burial. I hope wherever the Marines are now that they are at peace. I turn to leave but, Shack our resident PK (Preacher’s Kid), quietly quotes Revelation 21:3-6. While Shack speaks we remove our head-gear.

It is the first time that I have heard Shack quote scripture. It is amazing to me that the elder Rogers, has fallen so far from loving father and Army chaplain to the monster we faced not even a month ago.

We all mumble a quiet Amen when Shack finishes. After strapping my helmet on, I kiss him lightly. Shack helps settle my unruly pony tail back in place down my back underneath my field jacket. I need a haircut to remove some of the dead and split ends. Maybe next bath day I will ask Carol and Honey to trim my hair.

We walk back to the ambulance holding hands silent with our thoughts. After the burial we strip the two dead predators. Pointing at the dead Mohawk while looking at me Shack asks “Is this dead asshole a skin head or a punk? Only stupid neo-Nazi asshole I’ve ever seen with hair.”

Chuck interjects, “Who gives a fuck? He’s dead – so ya’ can’t ask him now. Maybe ya’ shoulda’ asked him before Ruth staked his ass to the ground like a tent.”

“It was his head, not his ass.”

“Whatever, Shack the fucker is still dead. Dead is dead.”

We work in silence for a few minutes. Shack points out that dead Mohawk also has ‘skin’ and ‘head’ tattooed on his knuckles in blue ink which I had seen before. Stripping the slender man reveals a large Totenkopf tattoo in the center of his chest and a large swastika covering his stomach.

While I provide security, Shack finishes searching Mohawk. The only thing of worth is a folding black-handled knife that Shack discovers, with an enthusiastic “sweet.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a Rat Worx MRX full-sized chain drive auto knife, Ruth. It’s a very expensive knife. I am not sure how this dirt bag got one, but I betcha’ he didn’t buy it.”

“He probably stole it.”

Shack presses the button. With a healthy snap the clip-pointed dark gray blade locks in the open position. He hands it to me. Being a fan of auto knives myself I admire the knife. My SOG Pentagon Elite, which may not be as expensive, but suits my purposes. I close the knife carefully, handing it back to Shack who slips it into his LBV.

Chuck turns towards Beer Gut’s corpse. Bending down he reaches for Beer Gut’s camouflaged duck gun. Suddenly Beer Gut rolls over pining Chuck’s arm to the ground. Beer Gut’s large fleshy face whips up and clamps its teeth on to Chuck’s left wrist, twisting his head like a dog worrying a bone.

Chuck screams.