Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #177 First Morning at Flower’s place in Baker City, OR. #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

In the morning, I awake pinned between Iain and the fucking cold wall. Sleeping on a scratchy, lumpy and, I think, bug-infested mattress is difficult enough as it is without sharing it with a ginormous, hairy Neanderthal who takes up the vast majority of the little twin mattress.

I slept poorly. Between being pinned against the wall, and not able to move hardly at all it was difficult to stay asleep. My arms and legs are sore from days of riding. I also have a woman’s pleasant soreness, the result of some enthusiastic love-making with Iain.

I enjoy the cowgirl position for a variety of reasons, but mostly because it lets me set the pace. I can tease Iain, and myself, something that I cannot do most of the time. Because of space limitations, Iain was not able to move very much, putting me in the driver’s seat.

Usually, I am content letting the man lead, guiding our lovemaking. With a woman, I prefer to lead. Last night Iain let me lead a rare event. Iain is so much physically larger than I, so much so that a lot of the more common sexual positions just do not work for us. I love traditional missionary intercourse; there is something about a hot cock thrusting into my vagina that is satisfying in a very primal animalistic way.

Unfortunately, Iain is just too damn tall; our bodies do not align correctly in missionary. I stand barely five foot two in my bare feet. Iain towers over me, easily seven-foot six, perhaps taller.

I spent most of the night wedged between Iain and the cold brick wall, so one side was quite warm, while the other side was freezing. Iain’s wooly-sock clad feet stick out of the bottom of the little twin bed. If someone should burst in the door too fast they might run right into Iain’s feet.

While Iain is asleep, I know from experience just how lightly he sleeps. His right hand rests on the floor near the black leather and wire wrapped hilt of his sword. I have seen just how fast Iain can awaken, and employ that sword.

In these tight spaces, Iain probably would not even bother taking the sheath off the massive sword, using its weight and size as a battering bar. The heavy black leather sword sheath has a weighty metal tip, made of the same fine German Krupp steel as the blade.

Even with the sheath on, that sword is a fearsome thing. In Iain’s hands, I have watched the sheathed sword crush skulls, shatter arms and legs and pulverize collar bones, shoulders, and necks.

Prying myself off Iain’s left side, I crawl over him and stand, shivering on the cold cement floor. I am doing what the German’s used to call “Donald Ducking.” I am still dressed in my boy’s medium white wife beater tee-shirt, a same sized Merino wool long-sleeved thermal top and my usual, button up, gray 5.11 brand heavy cotton long-sleeved shirt.

It was far too cold last night to strip completely, so I just removed my bottoms. My feet are freezing. Standing in the center of the room I am glad that I left my socks on my feet.

Shivering, I reach underneath the bed. Fumbling around in the half-light, I finally find the chamber pot. Carefully pulling the disgusting old kitchen pan out from underneath the bed, I am careful less I slop the nasty contents on the floor.

Some asshole painted the chamber pot bright blue with a large yellow happy face in the center. “Hav a nic day” is scrawled in runny, green paint underneath the happy face. If I had some red paint, I would be tempted to paint a bleeding bullet hole in the center of the chamber pot’s happy face.

Taking the lid off the chamber pot, I nearly gag at its foul stench. I quickly use the chamber pot while holding my breath. After emptying my bladder, I shove the chamber pot back in its spot underneath the bed.

I pull my pack out from where it leans against the wall. A dented blue porcelain covered wash basin lies on the little battered cupboard in the corner of the room. There is a fine scum of ice on top of the wash water this morning. I contemplate a quick wash. I do not want to bother waiting while heating water.

Wiping myself with yesterday’s tee shirt, I grimace at the smell of my body. At one point I never would have dreamed going days without a bath, or at least washing my hair at least once a day. I still have to wash my hair at least once a day or I feel really nasty.

After placing yesterday’s dirty underwear in one of our precious black plastic garbage bags, I dress in my last clean pair of underwear. Redressed in my thermal underwear top, 5.11 shirt and pants and with my old boots on, I feel somewhat better.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I try not to disturb Iain. I wrap my head in my last, clean, blue and white Star of David kaffia. I tuck my braid down my back underneath my old, O.D. green field coat. Tonight, I will have Iain help me wash and rebraid my hair.

Reaching over Iain, I lightly kiss him while grabbing my pistol belt. Grabbing my Galil, I leave Iain snoring while I head for the kitchen intending to grab something hot to drink. I rarely eat a lot in the morning, but some hot tea sounds divine.

In the hallway outside our room, I pass a different guard carrying the same battered, Winchester model 1893 sawed-off shotgun.

I peek into red-head’s room and see that she is passed out on her face, butt naked. Her blankets are crumpled around her, accentuating rather than concealing her beauty. I cannot see her face, as it is obscured by a cloud of red hair, but I can hear her light snoring.

“Man, I’d love to tap that ass,” slips from behind me on a cloud of foul breath.

Spinning around, I realize the hall guard has pressed himself nearly against my back. Lice crawl in the thick tangle of limp, greasy hair lying on top of his head. The infested hair is so dirty that I cannot determine the proper color. His nose, severally broken at least once in his short life, is squashed to the left.

Hot, fetid breath wafts over my face again. I nearly gag. Mouth breather is missing three of his front teeth. Dressed in ratty clothing, far too small for him, he barely reaches my shoulders. I wonder if mouth breather’s shortness is from malnutrition or young age.

Placing my left hand on the sawed-off shotgun, I push down on it gently while backing him against the wall. Gently pinning mouth breather against the wall, I put on my best “come hither” smile while quietly sliding my Glock fighting knife from its sheath.

Slamming my body against mouth breather, pinning the shotgun between us, I lightly jab the tip of my knife into his balls. The boy’s deeply set, mud brown eyes shoot wide open, threatening to pop out of their sockets. Covering his mouth with my left hand, I try muffling mouth breather’s screams.

“You fucking touch her and I will cut your little dick and balls off. Then I will shove them so far up your fucking ass, you will be able to fucking taste them. Do you fucking understand me?”

I ask that last part while giving mouth breather a good shake while twisting my knife a little. The pinned boy vigorously shakes his head.

“Do you really,” I ask, twisting my knife a little more. “Are you absofuckinglutely sure?”

The boy shrieks again, spittle drips from my hand running down my arm. Mouth breather nods his head so violently, that I am having trouble hanging on to him. Some of his shrieks escape my hand. I worry that he might attract attention – the unwanted kind this early in the morning.

I also worry the boy might try to use the shotgun, if he remembers that he has it. A combined palm-heel strike immediately followed by a stiff arm bar strike separates mouth breather from the shotgun. The quick combination of strikes stuns his sternum, causing mouth breather to involuntarily gasp.

I knee kick the boy in the sternum, slamming him against the wall, and driving the air from his lungs in a foul explosion. I warily watch as mouth breather slides to the floor moaning and cupping his wounded genitals.

I realize that I am not his immediate concern. A tomato-sized pool of blood stains his pants, but the bleeding does not appear excessive. I keep an eye on him; wounded vermin are often the most dangerous.

With shotgun in my left hand and knife in my right hand, I step over the moaning boy. Bending down, I wipe what little blood there is on my knife off on his shirt. Sheathing my knife slowly, I look around checking if anyone witnessed this little altercation. Satisfied, we were alone this early in the morning; I wish to resume my interrupted quest for tea.

After ensuring that a round is not presently in the shotgun’s rusty, corroded chamber, I drop the shotgun muzzle first in to the sobbing boy’s lap. Turning my back on mouth breather, I walk away in search of the kitchen. I am keenly aware of how quiet it is in the hallway.

Straining my ears, I listen for the tell-tale clack-clack of a pump shotgun being loaded.