Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #161 Kayak Point Camp Aftermath #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

Despite my wish to see what all the shouting is about, both Honey and I bolt for the hospital tent. Bursting into the tent, we find Doc sound asleep in his cot; LM tucked against his stomach both dead to the world.

Honey and I slip past the sleeping pair into the ward. Shack is sitting up, attempting to solve a much-battered cross word puzzle book. A battered, bright yellow portable US Navy battle lantern hangs from some bright red paracord, vainly attempting lighting the puzzle lying in Shack’s lap.

Shack’s face lights up when he sees Honey and I standing in the doorway. “Hi babes, what’s the only state with two unique words in its name?”

God, Shack is stoned out of his gourd! His eyes have that glassy, emptiness drugs impart.

“Rhode Island.” Doc, holding LM in his arms, answers behind Honey and I causing us to jump.

“Doc, I thought you two were asleep,” I grumble. I do not like being startled.

“We sleep lightly – not sure if that is true of all infected, but LM and I knew immediately when someone came close to us. We were fully awake by the time you passed our cot. We’re both hungry and so is Honey, so we’re gonna grab some chow.”

Reaching into one of the many OD green steel cabinets typical of a US Army field hospital, Doc pulls out several c-ration cans. Doc opens the cans using an old P-38 can opener. He sticks a brown US MRE spork in each opened can.

As Doc hands the cans to Honey and LM, I read the printing on the jagged, opened top. The cans are labeled ‘chocolate, nut roll, c-ration,’ and ‘pound cake’ packed in October of 1970. The ancient contents, packaged when my parents were little children, are dry and crumbly. My stomach lurches at the smells of the old rations.

Doc, Honey and LM eat the ancient rations with relish. Doc, seeing the look of horror on my face, explains. “KCAP appears to give us a little more flexibility in our choice of foods. While no one else in camp could probably consume these way past date c-rations, we can and do, saving the newer food stuffs for the non-infected.”

Smacking her lips, Honey adds her explanation. “But we are not going to be able to survive on these old rations for long. We are going to need some serious caloric intake, and soon.”

A panting out of breath, red faced Junior pokes his head into the tent. “They was hiding in the camp bathroom pits. They climbed out sometime this morning leaving wet footprints in the cement, visible in the daylight. The tribes are trying to find dogs that no one has eaten attempting to find them,” he says in a rush between gulps of air.

“And?,” I ask arching my eyebrows at him.

“Sam says get some sleep he is breaking the Scouts and other volunteers, which there is no shortage of, into groups searching the camp again with a fine tooth comb. Brenda and her crew are canning like crazy getting ready to move to Whidbey Island first. Sam is sending Brenda and all the livestock first to get them out of harm’s way.”

I know Brenda has been canning sardines caught with gill nets in the bay at Kayak Point like a fiend. I get tired of her whining because she is unable to recover ashes for lye. We do not have the time. I guess that Brenda will have to save her soil block makers for starting seeds in garden outside for Whidbey Island.

Brenda is also canning fish at Kayak Point using wood stoves. Trucks full of canning jars, lids, and pressure canners are spread throughout the camp. The preserved food is split between the convoy, tribes and the infected from the beach homes. Fish that cannot be canned is smoked and dried then stacked in boxes for shipment.

Sharing the gathered food causes some grumbling, but Sam attempts keeping a lid on the disgruntled. The current attitude in camp, with the horrific slaying of the small child, towards cannibals and infected in general, is poor at best.

One of the surviving cook helpers drops off wooden bowls containing wood sorrel, wild mint, and dandelion and chickweed leaf salad, sprinkled liberally with pickled nasturtium seed pods. A tasty red vinaigrette dressing covers the greens. The seed pods have a sharp peppery taste without the saltiness of brine. A chunk of cold Indian fry bread accompanies the generous salad.

I break out one of my precious, cold Matcha canned green teas. Shack contends himself with a Monster Mean Bean coffee drink. Shack crosses his legs making room for me sitting at his feet. The cast on Shack’s left shoulder and his injuries cause difficulty for Shack feeding himself.

Setting my meal down I take pity on Shack and feed him. After Shack finishes and lies down, I finish my own meal. Shack is nibbling on MRE cheese and crackers when Honey enters the ward carrying a loaded syringe for Shack. I have heard Shack suck through his teeth so I know the pain is bad.

Honey gently injects Shack with the pain killers kissing him lightly on the forehead afterwards. “He’ll sleep for a while,” she says to me.

As Honey and I watch Shack as he drifts into drug-induced sleep, one of Brenda’s workers ducks his head inside looking for collections. I heard that Brenda got tired of the smell from the overflowing latrines. She wanted to build something called a tree bog.

Note that in this instance the word bog is used in its British slang term meaning toilet. Brenda made a raised structure of pallets that she managed to save from the fires. Within the frame she then tossed saw dust, ashes (after extracting the lye), straw and other dry material in it making a sort of composting toilet.

Brenda planted nettles, lots of willow, mint, black currant, ivy and oleander around the toilet. The plants consume the waste, converting it to plant food. The plants are also supposed to cut smells; we will see how that works.

Someone found a tractor trailer full of 50 pound bags of Effective Micro-organism bran that was originally horse feed. Unfit for animal feed due to the mold and rot, the bran works well as a toilet adjunct.

I am not sure if Brenda’s tree bog will work for so many people, but as we prepare to cross the bay to Whidbey Island, a smaller population might be able to use a tree bog. It would be better if Brenda would construct two or more. That way they could be used without fear of over loading them.

Climbing into my bedroll, cold absent Shack’s warm body, I try to sleep. Eventually I drift off to sleep. I briefly wake as a hot, clammy Honey, slips in against my back. Honey wraps her warm arms around my shoulders, spooning against my back. Honey’s ultra-smooth body nestles against mine.

I drift off to sleep again, but before I do, I realize that Honey is naked, as am I.

I wake sometime later to someone lightly shaking me.

“Ruth, you’d better get up.”