Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #167 Unexpected meeting outside Baker City Part #2 #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

With a sibilant, evil hiss Iain’s sword sweeps from the sheath on his left hip. In shorter time than it takes to read these words, Iain’s sword cleaves the scabrous man’s head from his shoulders. Great gouts of blood fountain from the man’s severed neck splashing the wagon’s side and bench.

As the scabrous man’s severed head bounces on the cracked asphalt like a discarded volley ball, Iain turns Joker avoiding most of the blood gushing from the headless corpse. Morbidly, I watch as the severed head rolls in front of my mount’s hooves, the eyes still blinking.

I hear a thump and see that the twitching headless corpse has fallen from the wagon’s bench and lies in the cracked roadway where it continues spasming for a little while, settling on its side. Distracted, I did not realize that I had loosened the grip on my filly’s lead.

Spooked by the smell of blood the filly breaks from my hold, tearing down the road. My mare whinnies at her daughter, but to no avail as the young filly is gone in a flash of hooves disappearing in the morning mist.

“Shit!”

“Don’t worry about your filly Ruth, she is just spooked. The filly is very young, and has not had a lot of time to run. When they are young the horses love to run. She probably just needs to run a little. We’ll find her up ahead munching on some grass beside the road.”

I appreciate Iain’s calm assurance, but I worry about the filly being loose. Packs of feral dogs are frequent in the abandoned cities, Baker City is no exception. I have noticed that with the passage of years, the feral dogs are reverting back to their wolf ancestry, getting larger with every generation.

Iain drops his reins on Joker’s neck. Joker is trained to stand still when the reins are dropped on his neck. Iain pats Joker’s neck and climbs from the horse’s broad back into the wagon’s blood spattered driver’s box.

After wiping his sword off on the filthy rags covering the driver’s bench seat, Iain inspects the sword’s blade. Satisfied everything is ok with the broadsword, Iain pulls a small blue and gold aerosol can of WD40 from his jacket pocket. After lightly spraying the blade, Iain sheaths his sword with another sibilant hiss.

Watching Iain with eyes wide the poor, blood spattered red-headed woman has remained frozen in place. Iain steps over the rag-covered bench seat so that the woman is now kneeling at his feet. With his left hand resting on the hilt of his sword, Iain – all seven feet three, inches of him – is an intimating sight.

Inhaling I am about to speak, suggesting that Iain may not want to loom over the poor, blood-spattered woman, when she suddenly moves. Grasping Iain’s fly she starts unbuttoning his pants. Momentarily stunned by her actions, I stay sitting on my horse, mouth open.

Iain must have been startled by her actions too, because she managed to get two buttons of his Levi 501s undone before he reacts.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Iain shouts pulling back from the woman slapping at her hands. Iain cannot go very far lest he fall out of the wagon. The woman leans forward bringing her arms together underneath her breasts, pushing them together and up towards Iain.

She has way more tits than I do. Gob smacked by her actions, Iain stands there, mouth agape looking at the white creamy flesh of her remarkably deep cleavage. A light dusting of freckles accents her deep, creamy cleavage, her dark areolas just visible underneath the tops of her bra.

“I thought you would want me,” she purrs. She has a slight burr in her voice, Scottish I think, but she has worked hard to lose her accent. Her accent probably comes back when she is nervous or excited.

“Get up,” Iain grabs the woman’s upper arms and shoulders. He jerks her bodily off the wagon floor. “Stand,” he commands in a tone that brokers no compromise. Frightened, the woman stands woodenly in Iain’s arms.

Rigid with fright, like a fence pole, Iain lifts the poor woman by her shoulders setting her standing on the cracked asphalt. “Ruth, watch her. If she moves, shoot her as if she is a terrorist from back in the day.” As I place my hand upon the butt of my pistol, the woman’s eyes widen.

I nod, understanding Iain’s reference. I have told Iain, the first person that I have ever completely confided in, the whole story of my service in Israel, including Mossad.

I was a different woman back then – brutal and cold.

Once I nailed a keffiyeh to a male Hezbollah informant’s skull using short, self-tapping screws. Mossad was famous for using power drills for torture. I preferred the Tucker telephone – I had finite control, my subject tended to survive longer and it was neater. I hate blood in my hair, particularly other people’s blood.

While in Mossad, I attended the US Army’s SF pistol school. Very few graduate that school due to its tough curriculum. My American instructors said that it is one of a few US Army schools teaching proper use of a pistol.

I shot terrorists on sight. My idea of a warning shot is through the forehead. I am ok with a rifle, but I am scary good with a pistol. It is not bragging when you can back it and prove it. Even Iain admits that I am the best with a pistol he has ever seen. I still dry fire practice every day.

Most US Army doctrine focuses on rifle or carbine use – the pistol seen as a secondary or “oh, shit” weapon. I enjoyed the SF pistol school, graduating first in my class.

Shack often saw center-of-head shot zombies – my trademark. In the rare instances that I missed, he would teasingly scold me. I never did tell that poor boy how I got to be so good with a pistol.

Iain’s brief whistle brings me back to reality. I glance at the red-head, making sure she has not moved. She has not moved from where Iain set her down. Leaning against the wagon side, the woman is pointedly avoiding the dripping blood.

Iain has disappeared into the covered back of the wagon. I wonder what he has found. I hear something tear – sounded like fabric.

“Iain,” I call softly, imagining a bevy of beautiful women in the back of the wagon.