Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #207 (Fixed) After the Attack Near Warm Beach, WA #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

 

I totally messed up this post and then had to rewrite a large chunk or the next few pages. I will hopefully get back on the Wednesday and Sunday posting schedule again.

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Reaching the snow plow reveals the Princess and her daughter, Jenny with Junior in tow running at us. “There’s a fucking missile in the driver’s door touching Rick’s side,” the Princess screams at me.

Jenny is weeping quietly Junior’s arm around her. Jenny’s Ithaca hangs over her back while Junior’s M4 hangs from a single point sling across his chest. Running around the snow plow to the driver’s side I see the tail section of a RPG sticking out of the snow plow’s driver’s door.

The Princess suddenly turns a sickly green and dashes into the bushes retching loudly. Jenny still weeping breaks free of Junior’s arms and runs after her mother yelling, “Mom wait up! I’ll hold your hair. You know dad hates it when you get puke in it.”

It does not escape my notice that Jenny now calls Rick “dad.” I am happy for their little family unit.

Leaning gently on the mounting steps of the snow plow I talk to an understandably rattled Rick. Faint wisps of smoke rise languidly from the rocket tail. Everyone is keeping well back from the snow plow. As Sam comes running up I yell at him. “Do we have any fucking EOD trained folks in the convoy?”

“Not that I know of why,” Sam asks.

“Because there is a fucking dud RPG that slammed through the up-armored snow plow driver’s door and it is touching Rick in the side. He’s afraid to move fearing it might set off the warhead of the rocket,” Junior replies.

A few of the Combat Engineers come over and take a look at the RPG decorated snow plow door. There is a lot of hand gestures and yelling, but finally someone drives the pins out of the door hinges removing the snow plow door.

“You’re good,” the Engineer tells Rick giving him a thumbs up. Once I see the other side of the door I realize the shooter’s mistake. Thankfully someone forgot to take the safety cap off before firing the round.

“We’ll have to find you another door Rick,” Sam tells him.

“Fuck the door,” Rick replies. “I need to change my fucking underwear.” Rick jumps from the snow plow’s cab and walks gingerly towards the snow plow dump bed. After talking to one of the passengers in the bed briefly, Rick pulls his pack from the snow plow cab.

“First dump truck we come across we need to snag some parts off of it anyway,” Rick replies looking back at Sam. “This old girl was beat up before and she is really taking a beating now. Something in the transmission is making an odd sound. We going to need to take the plow off and do some serious maintenance or we are going to be fucked one of these days.”

Rick heads into the bushes to change clothes. He passes the Princess and Jenny coming out of the bushes. The Princess looks wan and shaky, but is at least mobile. Rick kisses the Princess on the cheek (yeah I would not have kissed her mouth either until she brushed her teeth either) before walking deeper into the bushes to change clothes.

Walking carefully with the rocket transfixed snow plow door the engineers head towards the rear of the convoy. Sensing movement to my left in the far distance, I turn and see several flechette shredded vehicles. Rolling on the ground among the perforated vehicles are several wounded, flechette decorated infected men.

A helmeted head pops out of the air guard hatch on the gun Stryker. “Hey why did you use flechette warheads,” I ask yelling at him.

“Because I hit the wrong fucking buttons that’s why. I also accidentally fired two of the ATAFs (Air To Air Flechette),” the soldier yells back at me.

About a half mile away a shredded shit-brown El Camino with a fifth wheel hitch towing a cattle trailer sits beside an equally shredded early model light blue Honda sedan. Shack joins me with a couple of our Scouts slowly walking toward the carnage.

On the way I check the load in my AR-15; good I am still loaded with M885 green tipped ball ammo. I would like to use some of the newer M855A1 ammo, but that is reserved for special use.

Most Common 5.56 NATO Bullets

Several dead infected men lie on the asphalt. With my pistol I make sure that they are truly dead. “Leopards again,” Shack asks raising his eye brows. I nod at him. He and the two Scouts follow my example putting one round in the head of each dead person ensuring that they are truly dead.

Honey follows a little to my right using her little Smith and Wesson 22 rim fire pistol ensuring the infected are truly dead just as I am. I hear Honey swear. Looking over I see that Honey is clearing a stovepipe jam in her pistol.

I am using some of the steel-cased Fiocchi 9×19 NATO 115 grain FMJ ammo on the infected. This is crap ammo and I do not trust it in combat. This particular lot of ammo was rejected from military service as being too slow per requirements of the contract. Occasionally, one of the rounds stovepipes in my Hi-Power.

The Scouts head right towards a small, red Toyota pickup. Maybe the flechettes were not such a bad idea. The way that the men and vehicles are shredded indicates that the Stryker’s improvised laser ranging system worked fairly well.

I am not sure if the proximity head in the ATAF warhead sensed the vehicles when it detonated.  The ATAF warhead proximity fuse is designed to send the majority of the flechettes in the direction of the target.

The men and vehicles shredded by the flechettes stopped their charge at the convoy in their tracks. We do not bother counting the dead infected. The Gatherers will come behind us once it is clear and strip the dead of anything useful.

The Gatherers will also drain the fuel tanks of the cars, as well as the crankcases and strip any usable car parts. Other than some leaking antifreeze from the Honda sedan and the El Camino, none of the vehicles are dripping motor fluids.

The Scouts clear the small pickup. It was partially shredded, but also partially sheltered behind the El Camino and its trailer. The small truck’s driver is dead and the infected passenger seriously wounded with a right arm hanging outside the door that is little more than shredded raw meat. I wonder if the infected man struggling in the passenger seat could heal from his wounds?

A rifle shot echoes and the wounded man’s head explodes splattering his dead companion in a gory eruption of black blood, pink brain chunks and gray bone chips. I guess I got my answer; no he is not going to heal. Movement in the Honda catches my eye.

Two passengers in the back of the Honda are slightly wounded and pinned in the destroyed car. Both men are dressed in heavy black biker leather feathered with more than a few flechettes. The heavy leather stopped most of the flechettes from lethal penetration. Due to their dead comrades in the front seats and the damage the car sustained the two men are trapped.

I motion for Shack to go around to the passenger side of the shredded little blue Honda while I take the driver’s side. Shack trots around the obliterated front of the car the hot engine still clicking and hissing steam rising from the perforated bonnet and radiator.

Flechettes litter the ground rolling under our boots. Flechettes were never that effective of a weapon which is why I would not have used them in this case. I can tell the difference between the two types of flechettes fired by the Stryker crew.

Of the 4,800 60-grain flechettes most of them bounced or struck at oblique angles failing to penetrate. Of the 1,170 120-grain tungsten flechettes from the two ATAF warheads most of them also bounced or glanced off.

I am impressed though with how many of the heavier tungsten flechettes shredded the four vehicles. Damage would have been far greater had the gun Stryker crew fired HE warheads instead.

The Scouts clear the El Camino. The driver is dead, having suffered the brunt of the flechette barrage. The passenger in the center of the bench seat is slightly wounded, as is the passenger leaning out of the shattered El Camino passenger door window.

The two Scouts flip their M16 A2s to three-round burst. Quickly dumping a couple of three-round burst into each wounded infected man, the Scouts ensure the two infected men are truly dead. A single rifle shot rips across the street and the El Camino’s driver’s head explodes in a gory splatter inside the car.

Shack’s M4 does not waver while he quick times into position covering the car. I lean over looking at the trapped infected man sitting behind the dead driver. The quite large man strains against the front seat attempting to break free of the car. I am impressed that such a large man stuffed himself into such a tiny car.

Despite his efforts and I am sure prodigious strength he is wedged in place. Leaning a little farther over I get a good look at his ugly mug for the first time. His heavily prison tattooed face grimaces at me. “You are well and truly fucked,” I said to him.

“Bitch I will show you fucked when I get out of this car,” the trapped infected man yells at me.

“I do not think so buddy,” I reply shooting him through the Aryan Nations symbol tattooed in his forehead. The Fiocchi NATO 115 grain FMJ punches a neat hole through his forehead making a wet slap when it impacts the Honda sedan’s rear window.

I quickly clear a stovepipe in my pistol. Fucking nasty cheap Fiocchi ammo. We cannot be too picky about what ammo we shoot. If I had my rathers, I would not use this shitty ammo, but in a zombie apocalypse you cannot be ammo choosy.

Shack likewise dispatches the prison tattooed infected asshole on his side of the car with his M4. We do not need to shoot the driver or passenger as there is not much left of their upper bodies other than pulverized dripping meat.

One of the Scouts runs back to me her eyes wide with fear. Poor girl she must not even be 18 yet and having to survive a zombie apocalypse. I hear the occasional rifle shot ahead as her partner Scout armed with an M4 ensures the infected are truly dead. Never leave a dangerous enemy behind you.

“Ruth, Jimmy sent me to tell that the fucking rusty cattle trailer is full of zombies,” she tells me breathing hard. “It’s chained and locked so they can’t get out, but that’s not what I was mainly sent to tell you.”

“Well what is it girl, spit it out,” I tell her.

“There is a fucking huge luxury RV behind the cattle trailer with a dude dressed like Jesus;” (she pronounces Jesus as he-sues in the tradition of her Hispanic heritage). “He wants to talk to who ever is in charge and he’s made some sick claims,” she replies calming down a little.

The other Scout, Jimmy, joins Shack and the girl. “All the infected other than in the ginormous RV are dead. The RV is locked and they are staying inside. She tell you what the Jesus-looking dude said,” he asks.

“Not yet,” I reply.

“Dude thinks he’s some kind of fucking post-apocalyptic white wannabe Jesus. Got the robe, stick and beard thing going. He says that all of our women belong to him now and we’re to give them to him,” Jimmy answers.