Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #199 Final Day Somewhere Near Warm Beach, WA #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

The morning’s reward is a lightly mud-tinged drizzle thin enough that the colonels decide we are moving today. Making even walking treacherous a thin slurry of mud covers everything. The thin drizzle removes a lot of the earlier heavier slurry. By the time this moveable feast is on the road the hope is that driving will not be too dangerous.

Yesterday was a nice break in our travels north towards Canada. It seems as if it was years ago that the decision was made to head north for the Canadian salt mine in the Northwest Territories. I hope that by the time the convoy reaches the salt mine that there are still survivors living in the mine.

I also hope that the Canadian survivors accept us joining their community. I fear reaching the salt mine and either having to fight the other survivors or discovering the mine full of zombies.

With the day’s movement cancelled the bathing tent remained in place. Showering and washing clothes every three days sucks major ass. The Colonels rotated everyone through the wash tent without laundry so everyone got at least a somewhat warm shower.

Doc rode herd on the wash tent maintaining order with a thick stick of Hawthorne and a stop watch. Doc yanked anyone overstaying their allotted time out of the shower, tossing the soap lathered offender in the muddy grass beside the wash tent.

The example of one shivering naked mud splattered soap drenched offender was enough for everyone else to mind their manners. With his KCAP increased strength Doc effortlessly hefted the young man holding him helplessly despite his struggles.

No one else wanted Doc grabbing them by the neck and one ass cheek and tossing them in the muddy grass. On the offender the finger shaped bruises stood out starkly against his white skin.

The kid was fortunate that Doc did not go for distance merely tossing him to the grass rather than launching him flying similar to a flopping white lawn dart. I am more than sure that Doc could have sent the offending kid some distance into the air which might have injured him.

After letting him shiver miserably in the muddy drizzle for about an hour Doc, let the offender back into the wash tent. This time the young man listened to Doc’s warning and was out of the shower and dressed in record time.

We have camped in this spot for way too long. This many people in one spot strain our latrine trenches, and the water quality is suffering. After stripping all the retreat buildings and the surrounding land of anything burnable we need to move. Stripped of anything of value it is time to leave the retreat to the zombies.

Ripping apart buildings for firewood for the numerous fire stoves in the convoy reduced the buildings to mere litter strewn foundations. Stoves in the personnel tents such as the one in our tent are welcome during the cold nights. Feeding all of the stoves in the convoy requires a prodigious amount of fuel.

Yesterday the Colonels sent the Gatherers riding in two Deuce and a Halfs escorted by two veteran infantry platoons with two Strykers into the surrounding housing complexes. Tearing apart wooden fences quickly filled one of the Deuces. When the filled Deuce returned an empty one replaced it driven back by the driver, navigator and their gunner.

Tearing apart and searching homes revealed several homes infested with trapped zombies. Killing all of the zombies was done without incident. Once cleared homes were stripped of its wooden furniture, and supplies they were then stripped of any easily obtained wood. Gatherers ripped walls, stairs, porches and decks apart.

Loads of supplies were discovered as homes were being stripped of wooden items. While Shack and I were on guard duty an additional pair of Deuces left camp requested by the Gatherers. Shack and I were no longer on watch when it happened, but mess tent intelligence suggests that the later Deuces returned with food, medical supplies, and booze.

If the Gatherers did return with booze, we did not see any yesterday at meals. I hope that beer was one of the supplies recovered yesterday. It has been a long time since I have had a beer. Shack has bemoaned the lack of Mountain Dew, Monster (the energy drink not the infected kid sitting on the floorboard of our truck), Red Bull, and Rock Star. If such things were recovered yesterday, I hope that we see some of them today.

Raisin infested oatmeal with a tooth-defying bannock brick is for breakfast again. Only this morning a magical Shack managed producing six unused Lipton tea bags. Safely storing the other five precious tea bags I toss one into my canteen cup. I impatiently wait as our little Esbit stove heats water for my tea.

Fueled by three precious 14 gram Esbit solid fuel tablets the stove finally boils our water. After pouring boiling water into our cups not wasting any of the precious burning fuel tabs I warm some water for brushing our teeth and a quick wash.

Shack drinks MRE instant coffee, which I cannot stand. I sip my tea savoring the warmth and the buzz of the caffeine. Would be a little better with some fresh lemon but just having tea is heavenly.

Poor Carol and the Princess are barking at the earthworms again. The two poor women struck with morning sickness look miserable standing in the muddy drizzle barfing their brains out. Carol stumbles back into camp heading for her vehicle without saying anything.

The Princess stops beside me giving me a sickly green tinged look. “Uh, I do not remember pregnancy being this awful. Of course the last time I was pregnant was more than 15 years ago.”

The rest of the morning passes quickly as the convoy loads up we have gotten good at getting everyone moving and loaded within three hours. The Colonels want to reduce that time, but I am not sure that is possible.

While loading the truck I talk with all of my charges together about adding Dolcent to our truck. We agree that we can make room for her in the rear bench seat. A blushing red Shack whispers in my ear that Dolcent offered to service him and I orally if we let her join the truck.

Dolcent does not have to blow either Shack or I to join our truck. Storage room is a concern as we will have to move gear so Dolcent can sit in the back seat. Shack talks to some of his friends in the Gatherers.

A Rhino-Rack alloy roof rack from a wrecked Nissan Pathfinder is welded to the roof our Dodge truck. The black roof rack comes with a wide LED light bar on the front that the light wheel mechanics manage connecting to a new switch on the dash.

Also connected to a new dash switch smaller square LED lights on the roof rack illuminate the sides of the truck. While the incredible amount of light the new roof light throws forward is great I worry that the new side lights will make us that much more of a target.

For a change, I am letting Shack drive this morning. Shack jokes that he never got his driver’s license. Shack scoots the bench seat back joking about short people driving and that he can finally stretch his legs out. At six feet four inches, Shack towers over me and has the legs to drive the truck with the seat scooted as far back as it can go.

Sitting in the passenger seat for a change I wait for Monster and Honey then climb in after. Honey has her little S&W 2214 pistol tucked in the small of her back. Never a popular gun, the condition of her little pistol reminds me of a cop’s old throw down weapon.

Honey’s sartorial style favors low-rising hip-hugging jeans, and midriff baring crop tops so the butt of her little pistol is obvious from the rear. I am not staring at Honey’s ass, but I have to agree with Sashka that Honey does have a sweet ass.

Anyway Shack, Honey and Monster do not feel the cold as do I, so they favor light tee-shirts while in the truck. I wear my men’s small US Army M65 field jacket with my IOTV over it while in the truck. Even though we ride with the windows closed and the heat on the truck is cold to me especially pressed against the door.

There are two greenish brown spam cans on the passenger floor board that were not there before this stop. The black Cyrillic writing on the metal cans identifies them each as 1980’s Romanian-made 86 grain 7.62×25 Tokarev ammo. Each of the sealed cans holds 1,224 rounds.

Gifts from our Russian friends perhaps?

Sitting on the dash is a new weapon to the truck’s arsenal a folded wire-stocked Czech Sa vz. 26 SMG in 7.62×25 Tokarev. I am quite familiar with that particular Czech designed submachine gun. The SA vz. 26 was never popular in Israel, although sometimes it was used by clandestine units or so I heard.

The SA vz. 26 was popular on the African continent and with many of the former Soviet states. The Czech SMG’s bolt is locked open with no magazine. Beside the Czech SMG lie six of the 32-round magazines Duct Taped together in pairs.

When Honey dons her LBV (she is yet still too small to fit the newer IOTV ((Improved Outer Tactical Vest )) such as Shack and I wear) I spot 12 more of the taped-in-pairs 32-round magazines in her LBV’s magazine loops. Lying on the floor beside Monster is another Czech SMG identical to the one sitting on the dash. I wonder if Monster can handle the little Czech SMG or is that Honey’s spare?

Sitting in the passenger seat, I am responsible for ammo and weapons so I do a quick inventory. Shack keeps a clipboard with our truck’s current inventory. Pulling the pencil from my braid (it is so nice to have clean hair this morning, Honey is getting quite good at braiding my hair) I look over our ammo state. I quickly add the new Czech ammo and SMGs to our inventory.

The truck’s grenades are securely held hanging on improvised loops underneath our legs. My visual inventory reveals 11 grenades with six of the newly discovered M33s, two old Mk 2 pineapples, three smoke grenades (one red American M18, one green British L83A1, and a white American M18).

Hanging on the passenger door are 90 rounds of green tipped 5.56 NATO loaded in US surplus aluminum 30-round M16 magazines. Hanging in a separate loop is one aluminum 20-round M16 magazine wrapped in orange tape loaded with 5.56 NATO tracer. Hanging in another separate loop is one US surplus aluminum 20-round M16 magazine wrapped in black electricians tape loaded with black tipped armor-piercing 5.56 NATO.

Below the rifle magazine hangs four Beretta M9 magazines loaded with 60 rounds of 115 grain NATO nine millimeter. Because Shack is driving he and I swap the pistol magazines stored in our doors. I hand him the M9 magazines while Shack is handing me my British Hi-Power magazines from the driver’s door.