Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #166 Unexpected meeting outside Baker City #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

Despite the Redhawk revolver’s six-inch barrel, Iain can whip it out quickly. I have seen just how frightening fast he is for a man so large. I know that Iain does not have many of the .44 magnum rounds for his revolver.

I remember the early days of the KCAP outbreak when we treated ammo as an inexhaustible commodity. The days of indiscriminate ammo use are long gone. Every bullet is precious. What little reloading components Iain has stockpiled over the years has dwindled to nearly nothing.

I doubt that Iain will use his pistol unless he has to. Not only is ammo scarce, particularly for his .44 magnum hand cannon, but the shot will be heard for miles possibly attracting too much unwanted attention.

I have a suppressor mounted on my rifle. My ancient Hi-Power pistol wears its trusty suppressor but it is in its sheath on my right thigh. I have no way of getting my pistol without telegraphing my intention to the man.

Iain stops in the roadway, and the man stops about six feet away. The man looks at me and then back to Iain. The man’s oozing face is a plateau of scabs, weeping sores and clumps of pustules matted in small clumps of stringy hair.

The man’s enlarged left eye protrudes grotesquely from his face the milky orb nearly resting on his cheek. His left eye is cloudy with infection. Running down his scabbed face like tears vitreous humour drips from his left eye.

Dressed in layers of rags and blankets so filthy that it is impossible to guess what color they might have originally been, the man appears as a walking bale of rags. Various knots, duct tape, rope, zip ties and various belts secure the mass of rags to the man’s body.

I suspect, due to the way that the layers of rags that sheath the man’s body, that he never removes his garments, if you can call layers of rags clothes. I cannot see his feet or legs from my position but I bet that they are equally wrapped in layers of rags.

I cannot see the man’s hands clearly as they appear as bunches of rags on the reins. Watching as the man pulls on the reins stopping his horses, I fail to see any distinct fingers. I wonder if the man has any fingers at all.

A gentle breeze wafts over us bringing the man’s body odor with it. I nearly gag at the horrendous smell. I am not quite sure that I can adequately describe the cloying stench emanating from the man sitting on the bench seat of the wagon.

Sitting on a bench seat taken from some automobile the man leans forward and spits in the roadway. The bench seat is covered with an old plaid-patterned blanket. To his right lying on the bench beside the man is an ancient model 50 Reising machine gun.

I wonder where the horridly smelling man got the iconic machine gun. I also wonder if the horrible man does not have any fingers how does he load and fire the Reising?

The wooden wagon has a large tarp covered rear. Whatever is underneath the motley collection of blue, green, brown and silver tarps is anyone’s guess. Nothing distinctly can be seen from where I sit, my mare Mary-Margaret paws the cracked asphalt impatiently. Perhaps Mary-Margaret does not like the smell of the man either.

From my distance, I cannot hear what the man and Iain are talking about. I see the man stand up in the wagon and I realize that he is very short – possibly no more than 65 inches tall or so. The man gestures at me and then says something to Iain.

Iain shakes his head and yet the man points at me again. I see the unmistakable signs of Iain getting angry. Suddenly the man turns around and pulls on a long chrome dog leash. From underneath the tarps a beautiful woman emerges.

At first all I can see is a cloud of wavy red hair. Then the woman stands up.

She is the epitome of sex appeal. She has the aura of a confident woman with a sinful body. She stands perhaps five foot eight or so in stiletto heeled, knee-high black leather boots. Her hips and breasts flare out from a tiny waist. Long, thick chestnut hair flows in waves down her back landing in the depression between her ass and her lower ribs.

She has the face of an angel – green eyes, framed with thick, dark red lashes and porcelain skin with a generous sprinkling of freckles. Her lips are perfectly shaped and full – pouty, and red, the kind of lips that make men and women think naughty thoughts.

It has been a long time since I have seen a woman so lovely. Dressed in a short black leather skirt, with a button up long sleeve white shirt, the woman looks frightened and cold. I cannot place the woman’s age but I would bet that she is not over 30 years of age.

The man jerks on the dog chain in turn yanking on the chrome, dog choke collar around the woman’s delicate neck. The man says something to Iain gesturing at the choking woman. The woman, struggling to breathe, drops to her knees beside the man. Face turning red, she frantically tears at the choke collar with her fingers.

The disgusting man says something to Iain gesturing at the woman and grabbing his crotch suggestively. Oh fuck me – a slaver! There is nothing that Iain despises more (other than cannibals) than a slaver.

Iain nudges Joker closer as the man recreates gestures of sexual acts for Iain while pointing at the struggling woman. I guess the man is suggesting that the woman is quite adept at certain sexual acts. Realizing what Iain is likely about to do; I reach behind me and flip the safety off on my Galil hanging on my back.

Iain turns Joker so that the lewdly gesturing man is on his right side.