Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #160 Searching the Kayak Point Camp #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

The sight of the slaughtered child causes me to retch, something that I would not do again until I come across a similar scene many years later with Iain.

Longfeather kneels in the rocky sand. Placing the back of his hand near the fire pit, he feels for warmth. “Fire pit’s still warm. This was recent. Maybe an hour or so ago.”

Doc studies the remains carefully. I wonder what he is thinking while looking at the small, butchered carcass. Hunger? Envy? Disgust?

“Blood has not coagulated, less than 30 minutes, I would guess. Meat was ripped off, half-cooked at best. Impatient and in a hurry. Choicest parts eaten first – buttocks, thighs, and calves. Then arms, chest and some organs. Parts with the highest caloric worth eaten first, partially satiating their hunger.”

Doc looks at the Scouts. “Anybody ID the child yet” The Scouts all shake their head no. Two Scouts appear carrying a wool US Army blanket. They drape the blanket over the dead child, covering the horrific sight.

“Fucking cannibals,” someone yells in the crowd. “Let’s kill them all!”

“Now hold on,” Longfeather says studying the tracks in the sand. Despite not shouting, the elder Apache’s quiet words carry over the assembled mob.

“Doc – wait a minute – you said their, as in more than one. Then you agree with the tracks I see coming from the water. Someone was injured; I can see the drag marks and the blood in the rocks. Someone dragged a wounded person from the bay, by the looks of the marks; the injured person has two shattered legs.”

Longfeather falls silent as he looks at the tracks some more. “It appears that two people survived the helo crash; one badly injured the other perhaps less so. As Doc was saying, the infected’s metabolic rate requires a higher calorie diet – much more so when healing from injury.”

Sam silent until now looks around the gathered crowd. “Leaders and sergeants, you know your people. Rouse everyone in camp, everybody goes armed. Load for bear. If we have infected in the camp eating our people we need to remove them now. You know your people, find anyone that you do not recognize and bring them to the command tent – alive!”

The gathered crowd busts up with everyone heading for their respective part of the camp. Sam and Doc leave for the command tent while community, tribal and convoy leaders with the convoy sergeants, and squad leaders shouting orders. Longfeather as our Command Sergeant Major takes control of the situation.

Radio traffic crackles as the all guard personnel posted on the edges of the old park are told of the situation. It takes a few minutes, but eventually everyone is dressed, armed and standing on the beach, their backs to the water in a long, ragged, single file line. Most carry flashlights or lanterns. Not a torch or pitchfork to be seen — amazing.

Longfeather lifts a megaphone to his lips. “All right people this is what the squids call a FOD (Foreign Object on Deck) walk down. We’re going to walk in a loose line across the whole park. Leave no crevice or hole unsearched. Make sure you remain visual contact at all times with the person to either side of you. Anybody you discover hiding – call out, and the Scouts will secure that person for questioning later. Let’s get on with it – we are all tired and short of sleep.”

I find myself standing between Nikola and Carol with little Stiva swaddled deep within Carol’s Navy pea coat. Longfeather, with the Scouts spread out in a loose line, walks in front of the FOD walking people. The line stops often as people enter tents, shelters, look underneath boats and canoes, and search vehicles.

Occasionally a shout goes out as someone is found sleeping or more often than not, drunk and passed out. The drunks and sleepers are unceremoniously dumped out and searched. As the night wears on, we search the old park bathrooms, and administrative buildings.

While standing outside the burnt out remains of the Park Ranger’s home, Nikola produces a thermos from somewhere in his great-coat. He pours Carol a healthy cup and then pours me a cup as well.

Holding the chipped blue enamel cup in my hand, I am grateful for the warmth seeping into my hands. Sipping the hot tea with milk, I realize Nikola has liberally spiked the tea with alcohol — probably vodka. The warmth of the hot tea and the alcohol washing through my core is a blessing.

Nikola for his part is happy sipping from the Thermos directly. While there are a few cows and goats in the camp, I suspect the milk in the spiked tea is sweetened, condensed milk from a Russian IRP.

Nikola opens and then gives Carol a can of peaches in heavy syrup from an American MRE. I decline a can of Soviet-era smoked sprats in sweet tomato sauce. After opening it with a can-opener-cum-spoon, Nikola tears into the tinned sprats with gusto.

I nibble on one of my last packages of peanut M&Ms from an American MRE. Nikola and Carol each eat a Soviet-era bar labeled “chocolate ration” in neat, black Cyrillic letters on the white paper wrapper. The black hammer and sickle emblem of the former Soviet Union is clearly marked on both chocolate ration bars and the empty can of smoked sprats.

The night passes with little excitement. We finish the FOD walk down just as the sun rises over the waters of the Puget Sound. Most of the people disperse, many to go to sleep as I should be. I sit on one of the many tree stumps dotting the former park.

Nibbling on a stale, Hostess apple fruit pie in a waxed paper wrapper, I am lost in my thoughts when Honey walks up. Sitting on the ground at my feet, Honey eats a warmed packet of muesli from an Estonian MRE.

After wiping the inside of the muesli package clean with her fingers, she pulls a small strawberry and honey squeeze fruit pocket from an American FSR (First Strike Ration). Honey loudly chugs the squeeze fruit pocket.

Smacking her lips from the sticky sweet fruit pocket; “they didn’t find the two infected responsible for the attack,” she says without warning. “They’re still loose in the camp.”

Honey hands me our much abused plaid colored Thermos. Opening the Thermos, I inhale deeply of the steam rising from the contents. Ah, chamomile tea sweetened with some of Brenda’s precious honey. I gratefully sip the hot tea, feeling the warmth seep into my core, while Honey talks enough for the both of us.

After a slight belch which she politely covers with her hand, Honey continues. “The colonels are going north of the park to talk to the infected in the old beach homes. The improved park perimeter fence made of telephone poles, trees, tires and old cars was finished a few days ago. The perimeter snipers are armed with thermals. The colonels don’t think they could’ve gotten out. They’ve got to be here, somewhere.”

Suddenly, shouting erupts from the center of the park near the old bathrooms.