Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #206 Attacked Again Near Warm Beach, WA #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

Sorry was supposed to have this out yesterday. Too much Easter chocolate (damn Easter bunny!) made me forget. mea culpa

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Finding the smoking aluminum spent case on the seat Dolcent nonchalantly flips it out of the passenger window.

“Nice shooting, but next time try getting your weapon’s muzzle outside of the truck before you shoot,” I say shouting at Dolcent.

“Sorry Ruth there wasn’t time. I saw Honey was in trouble and used my gun,” Dolcent replies with a shrug.

I nod at Dolcent because my ears ring too much for good conversation.The truck lurches when we hit something. Shack has drifted out of the snow plow’s cleared path.

“Watch the fucking road Shack not Honey and Dolcent,” I snap.

“Sorry, but goddammit my fuckin’ ears ring,” Shack says shaking his head. None of us had our brain buckets on with their built-in hearing protection.

“I know babe my ears are ringing too. For a PK (preacher’s kid) you sure blaspheme a lot,” I reply while lightly touching him on the shoulder.

“Damn that girl sure is strong,” Shack says giving me his lopsided grin I love so much. My earlier anger at him is forgotten, but we still need that “serious relationship” discussion.

I agree with Shack. I knew that Honey’s strength has increased, but I did not realize it had risen to the point where she can effortlessly toss a large man’s corpse.

Honey searches the dead man shot by Dolcent with the same efficiency she searched the others.

“Well this is interesting,” Honey says.

“What,” I ask.

Honey walks back to the cab and hands a small pistol to me through the open rear beer window. “That asshole had a small pistol on him. Here look at this,” she says.

The pistol is a small nickel-plated, double barrel, side by side, Rossi with exposed twin hammers. I recognize the twin triggered Garrucha derringer immediately. Sniffing the gun tells me that it is definitely a black powder weapon.

Rossi Double Barrel

“Here’s the ammo.” Honey reaches through the open rear window again handing me seven, stubby .32 S&W lead round nose bullets. With only a few rounds for a pistol of questionable value I would not be in a hurry to use it either.

“Yeah, well you know my dad …,” Shack says continuing our previous conversation interrupted by Honey. Whatever Shack was going to say is cut off by gunfire ahead. Then I hear the unmistakable sound of a rocket and the heavy thud of its impact, but no explosion.

Leaping from the truck I hear another rocket followed by the unmistakable sound of a rocket skipping off of something. I see the fiery streak of the rocket disappear into the trees.

The flashing light indicating the convoy is under attack at this point is more of a joke. No shit we are under attack.

In reply to the two rockets, the gun Stryker ripple fires two near simultaneous three round volleys of 70mm Hydra rockets. This is the first time that we have used the improvised mounts attached to the sides of the gun turret.

Six puffs of yellow smoke with the unmistakable sound of flechette impacts tell me that the Stryker crew fired six M255 warheads.

I am not sure if the warheads were the newer improved M255A1s or the older Vietnam era warheads. Emptying the 16^th Combat Aviation Brigade’s ammo bunkers on Fort Lewis provided numerous Hydra rockets and warheads many of which appeared to have been forgotten.

The haul of 70mm warheads included several experimental warheads never deployed. Experimental warheads recovered that I know of included the M255A3 ATAF (Air-to-Air Flechette) warhead with its heavier hardened tungsten flechettes.

Hydra-70 Rocket Warheads

I heard the gun Stryker crew bemoan that only a few of the RS (Remote Set) fuzes for the 70mm Hydra warheads were found in the bunker. But quite a few of the experimental M261 MPSM (HE Multi-Purpose Submunition) cargo warheads were also recovered. The M261 warhead carries nine full-caliber sub-munitions with a minimum of 500 meters deployment.

We might not be able to use the M261s now, as a land-based mobile platform is not the best launching platform. However, when we have a permanent installation to protect, if we put the launchers high enough, the ability to disperse small multi-purpose bombs could come in handy.

My musings about rockets, warheads and other stupid shit is interrupted by several infected men running at us. The first and closest man has a large machete raised over his head. Flipping my illegally converted AR15 to single round I take a bead on the leading running asshole.

Aiming for his chest I gently squeeze the trigger. At the bark of the shot which is ungodly loud, I see the round whip in a violent arc striking an abandoned vehicle. Fuck! I forgot that I am loaded with short-range SPIWs.

SPIW Flechette Round

Dropping the SPIW loaded magazine, I yank a 50-round drum from my vest. Slamming the drum home I aim and fire again, knowing that the SPIW round still in the chamber has no chance of hitting machete asshole.

As I expected, the SPIW flechette flies wildly to the right, but miracle of all miracles it actually strikes the asshole behind the machete fucker in the right thigh blowing it completely off. Minus a leg that fucker drops flopping and screaming to the asphalt. Thrashing on the ground while grasping his shredded thigh he futilely attempts stopping the hemorrhaging.

Now empty of the close range only unpredictable SPIW rounds, I aim again at machete fucker who is now far too close for my liking. I double tap machete asshole in the chest and then I put one in his head, and one in his hips.

‘Alright Ruth, double Djibouti Shooty,” Shack yells from the other side of the truck.

“It is called a double failure drill, you non-PC asshole,” I shout back at him. He ignores my non-PC jab knowing that I am teasing him.

The green tipped M855 rounds punch through machete asshole dropping him to the ground in a boneless bloody flop. The smell of gunpowder, shit and wet leafs hit my nose. One of my rounds through machete asshole struck the fucker behind him in the stomach.

The fucker with my round to his stomach rolls on the asphalt. He might be out of the fight, but to make sure I put a round through his head. Shack shooting from the other side of the truck drops another shithead with a three round burst from his M4.

Honey leaps from the truck in a gymnastic forward flip. Landing on her feet, Honey runs along the convoy towards the snow plow. An infected man tries grabbing her as she passes; he is too close for her to get her little 2214, so she pulls her SOG SEAL knife from its thigh sheath.

Honey is one of the best Krav Maga students that I have ever taught. She honors me, her teacher, by furiously striking with her knife. In a flurry of hits to the infected man’s body she disables and kills him.

Faster than a normal human, she slices both of his femoral arteries. Rolling the knife blade up in her hand she plunges the razor-sharp blade to the hilt into his groin. She slices him vertically between the legs (also ensuring that he will never father children should he survive) to the bottom of his breastbone. The steaming, bloody mass of his guts rolls from his body in a shit-smelling deluge.

Honey steps out-of-the-way of the loose guts. Flipping her knife and reversing it in her hand so that the blade runs along her forearm, as the man falls she stabs him once in both kidneys. With a gasp the man falls to the ground rolling into the fetal position.

Honey leans over the dying man and wipes her blade clean on his clothes. Pulling her little S&W 2214 she puts a round through the man’s left temple. Shack jumps at the gunshot from Honey’s pistol.

Honey was running to the aid of the Colonels, but they have things well in hand. Their station wagon might not be the easiest thing for two over six-foot tall men to get out of, but they were able to drop any infected near them.

It looks as if the attack failed. Honey is calmly walking back to our truck while thumbing loose .22 LR rounds from her pocket into her pistol magazine. Finished reloading, Honey tucks her pistol back in the small of her back.

Honey stops for a quick search of the man she violently stabbed then executed. Finding nothing of use she leaves the dead man where he lays.

An infected man steps from the blackberry bushes and grabs at me. Fucker is so close that my rifle is pinned, so I drop my AR15 on its single point sling. I step back within his arms.

He is too close for anything fancy. I rip my pistol out putting a pair of 115 gr. NATO FMJs into him about four inches below his belt buckle. A spray of dark blood and gray bone chips accompanied by the smell of shit assaults my nose as he rolls over me.

While the dying man is leaning over I put a round under his jaw through the soft palette. I did not get the round quite square in the middle. The round explodes the right side of the man’s face turning most of it along with his right frontal lobe into a black, bloody spray mixed with dark chunks of bone.

When the infected man hits the asphalt on what is left of his face, I put a round in the back of his head. Walking over with my pistol out, I put a finisher round into the head of each infected man. Shack looks at me with a questioning look on his face.

“Shack, there is an old jungle saying: ‘It is never safe to assume that a leopard is dead until it has been skinned.’ Well, in this case it is never safe to assume the infected asshole is dead until you blow its brains out. Let us see what kind of mess required six 70mm flechette rockets, plus two other unknown rockets.”

We head for the snow plow leaving Honey, Monster and Dolcent watching our idling truck.