So I failed to get this chapter posted yesterday – mea culpa. Still adjusting to a twice a week posting schedule.
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“Shack, two full cases of MREs – really?” I ask.
Handing Honey sitting in the Dodge truck the sealed cardboard boxes which look a little worse for the wear, Shack answers.
“Yeah, uh … Russian sergeant, uh … Duragananotive … or something … ya’ know the one who’s about as wide as she’s tall and sounds like she’s been chewing gravel all day …”
“Dragomirova,” Honey interrupts Shack without looking up from pilfering the two MRE cases given to her and Monster’s care.
Shack briefly looks at Honey, “Yeah, uh … her … uh, … she said that they found an underground storage locker with a large steel door. Others had tried to get in; she said there was evidence of several hammer strikes and attempts with various cutting tools. She had to use explosives to get the door open. For a bunch of religious nut jobs, they had a nice stash of stuff. Anyway, that fireplug-shaped Russian chick …”
“Dragomirova,” Honey helpfully adds again.
“Anyways, uh … yeah her, she said that we are going to scorch earth this place. Know what she means?”
“Shack, she means that we are leaving nothing anyone else could use.”
“Oh,” Shack says, turning to Honey he asks, “Hey, how come you know the name of that beefy Russian sergeant so well?”
Blushing darkly red, Honey drops her eyes to the ground. With her pale KCAP-induced complexion Honey’s red face vividly contrasts with the rest of her skin.
Looking away from Shack and I, Honey mutters, “I don’t … ummm … uh … you know … um … with girls,” while if possible turning even redder.
“Huh?” Shack replies eloquent as ever.
“Shack, dear leave it alone.” Honey gives me a quick glance and a grateful nod but refuses to meet my eyes. I am hoping that Honey does not worry that I am upset about her choice of sexuality.
Without the boys around, it looks as if Honey and I need a sexuality discussion. I am not sure if anyone has ever had a birds and the bees discussion with Honey.
I wonder if I might have a word with sergeant Dragomirova about propositioning a 13-year-old girl. I am hoping that Dragomirova is ignorant of Honey’s true age as she does not look as if she is only 13. If she desires sex with a 13 year old girl, sergeant Dragomirova and I will have a serious problem.
“Ok, anyways, other than a bunch of rusty, useless guns, there was a bunch of ammo, three cases of M33 frag grenades, a case of nearly new M67 frag grenades, and a pile of moldy cardboard MRE cases. Most of the MREs are three to five years out of date, so Doc’s handing them out. You know how the colonels worry about malnutrition becoming a problem.”
Stimulating a ravenous appetite in the infected, the KCAP virus literally drives its host to eat. Doc mentioned that some of the hunger symptoms reminded him of Prader-Willi Syndrome, but without most of the other physical characteristics of someone suffering PWS such as small stature and obesity.
As KCAP infection progresses the virus attacks the host’s frontal lobe, destroying it eventually. Without their frontal lobe the KCAP infected lose rational reasoning.
It is feared that a lack of nutrition increases the KCAP virus’s activity. In those that are merely infected, but not yet a zombie, the fear is that a lack of nutrition pushes the infected over the line becoming a ravenously hungry eating disorder suffering zombie driven by a neurological compulsion.
Without an Eyam phenomenon, so far no one is immune to KCAP. Shack glances at Honey and then Monster before continuing on.
“When I left the Colonel’s tent the explosive dudes were busily taping those M33 grenades with electrician’s tape muttering about “no fucking safety clips and stupid religious freaks.”
Honey asks, “Do you know what they meant by that Shack?”
“Uh, yeah, the old M33 grenades came in fragile wooden cases, packed with straw and sawdust. Down in that buried vault, the humidity and water seeped in reducing the M33 crates to mush. The ordo boys said that had one of the M33s fell just right it would have popped its spoon and gone off. Thankfully, most of the MREs were later additions to the pile as they were on top and mostly out of the small lake in the vault.”
Standing in line in a light drizzle with our two canteen cups we get a healthy slog of oatmeal in one cup. Well, I will say one thing for this religious group; at least they knew how to store food staples. For the truly adventurous there is also UHT white milk. An impervious tomb stone of bannock accompanied by some brown tinged hot liquid vaguely resembling coffee finishes my wonderful morning repast.
I hate coffee, but the liquid is hot and feels good in my hands and warms my body inside. Our morning oatmeal has raisins in it; I suspect also more than one kind of oat. I discover that there are regular raisins, sweet grape raisins, and cranberry raisins in my oatmeal.
Soaking my brick of bannock in my hot oatmeal helps soften it so that I might bite off pieces without fear. I am terrified of having tooth problems. I saw Doc messing around with that antique dentist’s foot drill discovered as decoration in some dentist’s office. No fucking way do I want Doc drilling in my mouth with that damn thing.
Convoy personnel run about erecting tents again and digging out gear they had just stowed. Since we are staying another day, all of the trucks are started and idled for at least an hour followed by basic vehicle maintenance.
The large heavy US Army trucks are started first, followed by the fuel tanker, and the snow plow. Once the heavy trucks are idling the smaller vehicles such as our Dodge pickup are started.
While I am cranking over the old recalcitrant Dodge Shack judiciously applies WD40 into the air intake behind the air filter. While I am listening to the whine of a cold Cummins diesel starting an unfamiliar white male walks up to my open driver’s window. I assume that he is a convoy member, since he is both armed and within our camp.
The first thing I notice is his body odor; it is a cloying stench that sticks in the back of my throat. This man at one time, before KCAP, was quite obese as a great fold of skin hangs below his belt flopping against his legs.
The odoriferous man’s Duct Tape patched faded black US Navy enlisted rain coat has seen better days. Mismatched court shoes cover his feet, protected by black plastic trash bags. Baggy bright clown orange cotton sweat pants held up with a thin braided leather belt peeks out from below his coat.
A ratty slimy green Seattle Supersonics knit cap fails covering his head while allowing stringy greasy bangs of mouse brown hair to fall into his face. Cracked thick eyeglasses with brown plastic frames fight a losing battle against gravity sliding repeatedly down his blade thin nose.
The unfamiliar man carries a corroded 9mm single shot pistol once made famous by the CIA in the 1960s. The so-called “deer gun” was a successor to the Liberator pistol of World War Two, carries three rounds in the butt of the ugly gun.
Supposedly destroyed, after the Vietnam War escalated beyond what a clandestine weapon would prove useful, I have never observed a deer gun except in pictures. The few deer guns evaluated in Vietnam were believed abandoned in that country, but it appears as if at least one returned to the States.
The strange man approaches my driver’s door, I abandon starting the cold Dodge. Grabbing the old, side-by-side, twin exposed hammer, sawed off 12 gauge shotgun hanging on the driver’s widow crank, I quickly thumb back both hammers. Chambered in 2.75” the old shotgun, sawed off just past the front hand guard is a terrible weapon up close.
The left barrel is loaded with a buck and ball shell, while the right barrel is loaded with a flechette shell containing 20 mild steel flechettes. Wrapping my left hand over the barrels of the sawed off side by side shotgun, I keep the weapon just underneath the open window sill.
Tightening my grip on the shotgun I lean into the door bracing myself. The front trigger fires the right barrel if the reeking stranger makes a hostile move he is getting a face full of flechettes. The man gives me a smirk that I suppose he thinks looks seductive.
“I’d love to get in your pants,” he says.
“I have one asshole there now I do not need another,” I sneer.
Filling this morning’s muddy drizzle is debris from the nearby impact. We are far enough away that none of the big stuff hit us, but all the dirt and pulverized rock kicked into the air is coming down with the rain.
Creating a black slimy mess, the raining mud coats everything with a thin, black slurry. With the weather reducing visibility, increasing the likelihood of a crash the colonels decide to stay another day. Hopefully the bad weather keeps zombies and hostile survivors away.
One good thing about black raining, mud is that it muffles the camp’s noise. Even with judicious sounds and light discipline a camp this size still makes considerable noise. Hiding a large group such as this is a fantasy extra vigilance and caution is expected of our snipers and guards.
Increasing the number of guards, while keeping the roaming Scouts in the field, requires everyone, including the colonels, pulling a period of guard duty. Scouts are split between two shifts putting them on a six hours on, and six hours off rotation. No one is exempt from guard duty with the exception of the pregnant, convoy personnel still nursing children, and any child under the age of 14.
Fielding so many people with varying degrees of firearm competency is fucking asking for Murphy to fuck us. I have a bad feeling that something bad will happen, I just hope that it does not affect me or mine.
Breakfast this miserable morning is a slightly more than three years out of date MRE. I have drawn menu #24 Southwest Beef and Black Beans (AKA: south-of-the-border diaper disaster according to the soldier who handed it to me).
After carefully slicing open the heavy brown plastic bag I dump the contents on the Dodge bench seat. Normally we would eat in the chow tent, but our cooks and kitchen crew had already ripped the kitchen and chow tent down in preparation for travel today. The grumbling kitchen crew is putting up the chow tent and the kitchen in this shitty black raining mud.
Shack, Honey, Monster and I decided to eat lunch in our truck. Shack ducks behind the bench ensuring our two 70-something years old tin cans of Educator Biscuit Company, Survival Biscuits are secure.
Each Office of Civil Defense 17 pound tin holds about 1,500 biscuits we have two of them behind the Dodge’s bench seat. I was wrong Shack was not after survival biscuits, he was after something quite a bit better.
Shack retrieved his precious plastic can of honest-to-God Tang. Not quite as good as freshly squeezed OJ, the kids like the Tang. Carefully scooping the precious orange powder so that none is wasted Shack makes one liter desert tan plastic canteens of Tang for Honey, Monster and then himself. I pass on the Tang this morning I want something hot instead.
Neatly folding the brown MRE bag I store it with the others in the truck bed tool box behind the cab of the Dodge truck. A hot trade commodity the heavy plastic MRE bags are used for many things such as keeping gear dry, a waterproof shoe liner, and food storage.
Sorting through the contents of the MRE I separate what I will eat now from what I will snack on while in the truck. Stripping cardboard boxes from meal packs and compacting the bulky MRE results in a decent pile of fire starter for the stove in our tent. For eating later I shove the kippered beef stick with the flour tortillas along with the jalapeno cheese spread into my BDU pants thigh pockets.
I know that shoveling the beef and bean mix into a tortilla is what I am supposed to do and then covering it with the cheese spread, but I do not have time this morning. Shack and I have drawn both guard and radio duty. While waiting for my little trusty Esbit stove heating water for my packaged mocha cappuccino I eat the cold spiced apples in sauce.
Following the advice of Shack and other US soldiers experienced with this MRE, I hand the packaged chocolate and banana muffin top to Monster and Honey for sharing. I had not noticed until this morning, but Monster is now talking similar to a four-year old child. Monster is five months old, and already walks, runs and now talking. Granted, he talks like a child, but damn Monster is growing fast.
Honey raises her eyes when I offer her the MRE muffin top snack. “Bog zaveshchaet delit’sia (Russian – God instructs us to share) I explain. Honey snatches the snack ripping it open before I could even contemplate changing my mind. Not sure if Honey understood or is just too hungry to care.
Watching as the two infected kids eat, I am amazed at how much food these two eat. No that is not correct Shack explains to me that Honey and Monster scarfed down the packaged MRE snack.
With their higher metabolism, the two kids require almost twice as much food as Shack and I. Not only are Monster and Honey still growing, but the KCAP infection increases their metabolism making them hungry all of the time.
Since joining the convoy Honey, has grown at least three inches becoming a willowy, thin young woman with whipcord-like muscles. Watching Honey walk around our truck, Monster piggy back riding her shoulders, I believe that Honey will be stronger than Shack and I put together.
I have watched Honey effortlessly toss our rolled dripping wet canvas tent followed by our sleeping gear into the back of the Dodge truck. Usually it takes three of the guys to toss our rolled canvas tent into the truck.
Monster usually helps Honey cover everything in the Dodge truck bed with a tarp. Since we are not leaving today, the kids have other chores. Monster carries our emptied chamber pot back into our tent. I see some ass hat has painted a yellow smiley face on the bucket with the words “Have a Nice Day” underneath.
Shack hands Honey and Monster a pair of sealed MREs. The two KCAP-infected children eat more than twice what most convoy members eat. I notice that Shack returned from the Colonel’s tent carrying two crates of MREs. Since I have been with the convoy, the Colonels have jealously guarded our finite supply of MREs.
Seeing Shack arrive with two sealed cases makes me suspicious.
I am attempting a Wednesday and Sunday posting schedule. Not sure how long I will be able to keep it up, but I am going to give it a serious try.
Warning: incase you the missed the other warnings, Ruth’s Tale contains graphic straight and lesbian sex as well as some graphic violence.
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The only time that I broke my serial monogamy rule was during Amy and my last night of vacation in Puerto Rico. After drinking far too much rum, and way too much drunk dirty dancing, Amy and I met Simone, a dusky wickedly-curvaceous bisexual Puerto Rican woman.
Amy was a far more adventurous and experienced lover. Prior to our relationship, Amy had been in an open relationship with another woman. While in college, Amy was part of a triad (also sometimes known as a thrupple) with another woman and a man.
On our third anniversary, Amy and I exchanged promise rings. My white gold promise ring has a very nice one carat solitaire diamond. My promise ring is at the bottom of my purse which is lying on the floor beside our cot. It still hurts too much to look at that ring so I keep it tucked away.
Our vacation to Puerto Rico was for Amy’s 30th birthday (Amy was a few years older than I was) during which she convinced me to have a lesbian three-way with Simone. In hindsight, had I been sober, I would not have agreed to go through with a three-way.
I vividly remember watching Simone vigorously ass fucking Amy wearing a lube-dripping, wrist-thick, purple, strap on dildo. While I rubbed her back and kissed her, Amy suffered through several screaming orgasms from the bruising, hip slapping, and root-deep ass fucking.
I am not sure how long the three of us fucked. I will always remember that time, as fucking rather than making love as our coupling was rough and aggressive lacking the gentleness of making love.
Amy eventually had me lie in front of her so she could eat me while enjoying her brutal ass fucking. Watching Amy’s face driven deep into my wet pussy each time Simone slammed into her ass was very erotic.
The force of Simone’s thrusts transferred through Amy’s body driving her face into my wet folds, her mouth trying to remain on my clit, setting off several hip bucking orgasms of my own. I am not sure how long Simone pounded poor Amy’s bruised ass. Both women were sweat drenched when Simone finally pulled out flopping on the sweat and cum-soaked bed on her side beside Amy and I.
Wrung out from incomparable mind-blowing sex plus Amy and I was still suffering the effects of far too much sweet rum, neither of us could move. Amy and I fell asleep on the bed where we lay Amy’s head still between my thighs.
Simone snuck out sometime in the early morning, leaving Amy and I passed out in the soaked, trashed, and probably ruined bed. Although we left a healthy tip for housekeeping I have a feeling that queen mattress was ruined.
That morning there were more than a few sheepish looks between Amy and I as if we could not believe we really did a threesome with a complete stranger. Amy also complained she was a bit sore, as she was so drunk that she did not realize how roughly Simone fucked her ass.
Once in a while Amy loved getting fucked in the ass. Amy’s favorite purple dildo disappeared. I always wondered if Simone kept it as a souvenir. I never did enjoy sodomy, but I had used that purple dildo on Amy, although I was always much gentler than Simone had been. If sodomy was something that my lover enjoyed I could do it for my lover, but I did not really enjoy either receiving or giving sodomy.
We were flying back home that afternoon, so we quietly showered and packed our bags. Amy and I learned that flying with a murderous hangover is not fun. As she sat on it in the airplane, I teased Amy a little about her sore bum. With our hangovers, we were glad that it is a short flight from Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport to Dulles.
I freely admit that I enjoyed my only threesome so far. Despite enjoying the threesome, for some reason I still feel guilty. Amy and I never discussed the threesome with Simone, despite talking about how much we enjoyed the other parts of the trip, such as the scuba diving. Perhaps Amy felt as guilty as I did.
I have always wondered if I would do another threesome. I have never been sure if I would do it again, but if I do I want to be sober next time. Most straight men fantasize about a threesome with two bisexual women.
Shack and I have not yet discussed sexual fantasies, and have only briefly touched on our sexual history. I have not yet told Shack of my misdeeds in Puerto Rico. Thankfully Shack likes my ass, but does not appear to want to fuck me there.
Lacking the luxury of a hot shower, and preparatory paraphernalia, today I am not interested in the kind of mess sodomy can create. I really want to avoid as the boys say “shit on a stick.”
Nikola whispering to little Stiva in Russian breaks my ruminations of the past. Nikola with his greatcoat on takes his wife’s arm and the family leaves the radio tent to Shack and I. The remainder of the night passes uneventfully. Barely staying awake, I am thankful when Ben and Randy relieve us.
Shack and I hold hands while walking from the radio tent back to our tent. Shack has been unusually affectionate tonight. I hope that he is not still insecure in our relationship. Wondering if Shack doubts my love despite him being much larger than I am, I yank him against my chest and snog him silly.
Shack and I roughly kiss bruising my lips our teeth clacking together. Over Shack’s shoulder I watch a large piece of burning debris fall from the sky. I assume it is more space junk falling from orbit. Shack and I watch as smaller pieces fall off of the larger piece, burning brightly for a little while after they separate from the larger flaming debris.
The fiery probably man-made comet burns across the sky until Shack and I see impact flashes on the horizon. Whatever that flaming object was it hit hard as we feel slight ground tremors later.
Shack and I spoon in bed with me pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around me. We are too tired for sex again, although the thought is nice. My sex is still damp from our earlier loving. Shack falls asleep first and I follow only a little later.
I try keeping these Ruth posts about a 1,000 words each. Tell me what you think. Is 1k of words too much or too little?
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Sliding underneath the covers I press my cold body against a very warm Shack. Lying on his back, I fit perfectly underneath Shack’s right arm. Shack’s right hand slides lightly down my back, grabbing my ass gently over my panties.
Shack’s fingers slide underneath the waistband gently tracing the crack of my ass. Sliding my left hand down Shack’s abdomen I slowly trace the flat plane of his toned stomach.
A little lower I discover Shack is already naked and hard. Shack gently rolls me over so that I am lying on my back. Kissing me gently, Shack slides my tee-shirt up so that it pools around my neck so that he can gently suck on my nipples.
Shack knows that I have always been self-conscious about my lack of breasts. I am so small that I do not need to wear a bra, failing what the lads call a “pencil test.” My breasts are too small to trap a pencil underneath.
Shack knows that my nipples are sensitive; my back arches when he takes one in his mouth sucking gently. Despite his youth Shack is a generous and caring lover. After teasing my stomach, Shack gently pulls my panties off past my ankles, tossing them somewhere over his shoulder.
Laying his head between my legs Shack gently spreads my wet folds with his thumbs. Shack loves oral sex, once telling me that there is something profoundly erotic and arousing feeling a woman come against his mouth and lips. I agreed with him.
Shack’s love for oral sex began the first time he did it to a former girlfriend. With me Shack’s talented tongue has gotten better. Shack learned and listened going from impatient youth who just wanted to get me wet enough so I could receive him. Like most young men Shack wanted to get in and come as soon as possible.
Shack eats me through three very nice orgasms. While recovering from my last orgasm, Shack puts my legs on his shoulders, sliding slowly inside of me. Shack knows that I get tighter after oral, so he watches my face for any signs of discomfort.
I am wet enough that Shack is able to sink to the root on his first stroke. Putting his thumb on my clit and rubbing gently the way he knows I like, Shack slowly strokes gently and deeply hilting himself each time. As the stars go off while I am pinned to our cot, I lose count of my orgasms.
As Shack nears his own orgasm he bends me over with my legs still on his shoulders until we can kiss. Now that I am practicing yoga again, I have regained most of my old flexibility. My being leaner now also helps when my boyfriend wants to make a human pretzel. Bent nearly in half, Shack groans while kissing me and I feel him shooting deep inside.
Shack’s orgasm sets off another smaller one for me as we cuddle; gently falling asleep wrapped in each others arms. I sleep blissfully wrapped around Shack until a rude alarm on my watch wakes us.
Stepping into the radio tent, I see Nikola (author’s mea culpa note: I’ve been misspelling his first name, this is the proper Russian spelling) working on the guts of a AN/PRC-117F/G radio.
“Nick (I refuse to call a grown man Nicky), how are you familiar with the guts of that radio,” I ask.
His English is getting better, but in his still thick Russian accent, Nikola replies, “Russia have several copies of radio, studied them at school of Spetsnaz. First tour of Afghanistan maternal grandfather sent as Spetsnaz officer of intelligence to PGU KGB seconded. Grandfather talked drunk of earlier versions of radio, much admired by Soviet forces. This radio basket of parts keep other radio alive.”
The infamous Soviet KGB needs no explanation, but the PGU (Pervoye Glavnoye Upravleniye) branch is less famous than it deserves. The First Chief Directorate of the KGB was responsible for many of the evils blamed on the whole of the KGB.
Shrugging, I turn to Carol, who has finished nursing little Stiva. “Carol, I thought you and Nikola had the early morning watch,” I ask turning to the redhead putting on her coat, covering her massive milk-inflated tits.
“Nikola and I swapped with Ben and Randy, who now have the morning watch instead of us,” she replies. Since Randy broke his foot, and is on light duty Sutton is paired with another sniper.
“Why did you swap? You traded a full night of uninterrupted sleep for what?”
Carol blushes a deep red, highlighting the riot of freckles across her cheeks. “Well, you know Ruth when I don’t have morning sickness; I have this really sexy husband …”
If possible Carol blushes even darker while swaddling a sleeping Stiva. Once finished mummifying the sleeping tyke, Carol stands shrugging at me.
“I can only drink so much mint tea for my weak stomach. Brenda says my nausea can be eased with ginger, but we seem to be fresh out. My indigestion could be fixed with peppermint tea and licorice root tea, but we seem to be out of those too.”
Stepping close to Carol so our boys cannot hear I ask her, “Is it for your headaches?” Carol suffered badly from migraines. After Nikola and Carol got together, she used sex therapy for relief. After an orgasm (or a few) Carol’s migraines lessened.
Carol sighs, “Not since having little Stiva, my headaches have gone away.” Putting a hand on her still flat belly, she says, “I hope my migraines don’t come back with this new baby.”
Carol breaks open an MRE chocolate and cinnamon granola bar, quickly eating the treat. Nursing mothers must increase their caloric intake by double or triple. Mothers will be breast-feeding until their children are at least two or three years old.
Nikola wears his post-Soviet Russian Federation tight wife-beater style tee-shirt with horizontal white and blue lines. The tight cotton shirt displays Nikola’s impressive physique. His dark green trousers are less flattering, which is a shame because the man’s ass is absolutely scrumptious.
Nikola might not be as tall as my Shack, but is broader in the chest with thicker arms. Shack has a swimmer’s physique, while Nikola’s body resembles that of a weightlifter. I may be in a committed relationship with Shack, but that does not mean I cannot enjoy looking at other men, and the occasional beautiful woman. I am monogamous not dead.
Shack, I think is a little jealous and perhaps not as secure in our relationship as I thought. I have never had the “relationship talk” with him, perhaps it is time. I practice serial monogamy, and I expect my lovers to do so as well. Amy and I did stray from that ideal once, or alright, several times while on vacation in Puerto Rico. But that was a special case.
The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Night finds the convoy camped in an old religious retreat compound off the side of the road. The ruins of several burnt out buildings surround the convoy camp. Light and noise discipline is strictly enforced.
The few zombies wandering around this old retreat succumb to a few quiet strikes with a hatchet, a machete or other silent killing tool. One of the poor finally dead zombies still had a bible clutched in his left hand. Tossing the zombie corpses off the cliff into the bay solves disposal issues.
Dinner tonight is an interesting stew mix of meat, canned veggies and found beans. Rumor has it that some of the Scouts shot a couple of deer explaining the sudden influx of fresh meat. Rumor also has it that a couple of Scouts might also get themselves shot for trying to keep a deer for themselves rather than turn it in to the convoy.
Walking into Doc’s tent reveals that he misplaced his clothes. He’s standing naked in front of a large full length mirror. Not that I wanted to but I see that Doc is circumcised. Did not think about it before, but I wonder if all Cistercian Christians circumcise their kids.
“Uh, Doc clothes,” I mutter.
Doc does not seem to care the least that he is parading around with nothing on. I am a little embarrassed, but I admit that Doc has a decent body. Everyone is a lot leaner than we used to be before KCAP, so Doc’s muscles are clearly defined.
“Ruth didn’t peg you for a prude,” Doc replies.
“Uh, no but, did not expect walking in here that I would see you prancing before a mirror like a virgin going to her first prom.”
Doc slips on a pair of pants, but does not bother with any other clothing.
“Happy,” he looks at me with open innocent eyes.
“Yeah, whatever,” I so eloquently reply.
“Ruth I was not vainly looking at my sexy body. I noticed that KCAP removed all of my skin tags. I used to have quite a few skin tags underneath my arms and in between my legs. I wouldn’t have thought that KCAP would bother removing skin tags.”
“I do not know Doc, you are the expert,” I reply.
“What brought you in here Ruth,” Doc asks.
“I was headed to bed since I have the early morning radio watch. The Colonel asked me to tell you that those illicit stills that he is not supposed to know about have produced their first batch. He wanted you to go check the product out. Either we drink it or run it in the trucks, he said.”
Doc scratches his head. “I’ll head over to the trucks with the stills. You wouldn’t think that they could produce anything drinkable as much as they shake all day.”
I toss an offhand wave at Doc as I head for our tent. Nicky and Carol have the first radio watch Ben and Randy have the mid watch. Shack and I pulled the morning watch which means we get a full six hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Entering our tent Shack is already lying covered in our cot. Good, that means our damn sleeping bags and blankets will be a little warmer. I hate climbing into a cold bed. I pull a men’s small US Army issue tee-shirt and a fresh pair of panties out of my gear bag.
Today is not our bath day. I strip off and using a little water from one of my canteens, I use my tee-shirt from today to wipe off a bit. Pits, tits (of what little I have) and crotch receive a brief but damned cold scrub. Not as clean as I would like, but will have to do. What I would give for a decadent long hot shower.
Sitting on the edge of our cot, I dress in a pair of panties that before KCAP I would have called “granny panties” and would not have been seen unless dead in them. They are not the silk, French-cut panties that I preferred. I never did care for thong underwear butt floss is not comfortable for long wear.
Both Amy and I enjoyed lingerie shopping both together and alone as a surprise to each other. I would wear thong underwear briefly for Amy’s arousal, not that it took all that much. She liked removing my thong underwear with her teeth, but only after she teased me for a bit.
I see that my old purse fell out of my gear bag when I removed the sleep wear that I am wearing. I open my old purse, wondering why I still bother dragging this stupid thing with me. What the fuck do I need an $800 purse during a zombie apocalypse.
Looking over some of my earlier chapters, I believe that most of my posts were TL:DR for most people. I will try a few shorter chapters and gauge what the readers what from there. Thank you for being patient and waiting until the new chapter.
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From the bushes a flurry of brightly colored paint balls hit the hoods and windows of our vehicles. Following the furious paintball attack six Ghillie suited individuals stand up in the bushes.
All six amorphous blobs remove their head coverings revealing five white males and one black male.
Walking up beside me Shack nonchalantly asks, “Honey, did you happen to notice that all their Ghillie suits are optimized for the dense conifer forests of the Pacific Northwest?”
“Honey, since when the fuck do you call me honey?”
Shack smirks at me with that lopsided grin I love so much. “Really, we have six unknowns stand up in the bushes within knife fighting range, and you are more concerned with what term of endearment I use for you?”
“Sorry, just didn’t expect six assholes so close and then you throw me off by calling me honey. I thought we agreed not to use that word. Since it is what we named Honey who is sitting in the idling truck behind us probably listening to every word we say.”
“You bet I can hear you, but I don’t care if Shack calls you honey, it’s kinda sweet,” Honey remarks from the cab of the Dodge truck.
Behind me Honey sits on the toolbox which the auxiliary fuel tank in the truck bed wraps around. She is busily squish-mixing an MRE packet an MRE flameless heater lies smoking on the tank top beside her. Finished mixing the MRE entrée, she slides it into the heater and then shoves the whole thing back into the cardboard MRE container for warming.
On the floorboards of the truck, through the open passenger door, I see Monster busily shoveling another MRE pouch of food into his greedy mouth. Those two, they probably eat around five to six thousand calories a day. Honey tosses three tiny MRE issue Tabasco bottles in the bushes.
Looking back at the excitement I see the Colonel talking to the sneaky fuckers in Ghillie suits. The men paled noticeably, acting nervous when Doc walks up to them. So the men recognize an infected person.
After speaking briefly with the Colonel and Doc, the six men dash back into the bushes returning shortly with packs. One of the Ghillie-suited men gently leads a shell shocked woman carrying a small child towards the front of the convoy. The Colonel spread the newcomers through the convoy. I notice that each truck the newcomers join is well staffed with senior combat experienced troops.
As the black man jogs past me, I recognize his rank markings. “Color sergeant, what brought you here,” I ask. The sergeant carries a British-issue L85A2 with the L123A2 UGL 40mm grenade launcher attached.
“You are so far the only person to properly address me by rank,” he says to me in a thick British accent.
Not much more than a head taller than me, the black sergeant’s arms are corded with smooth muscle. Pointing at the sergeant’s grenade launcher I ask, “How many rounds you got for that sergeant?”
“Two HE, one buck, one HE incendiary frag, and one thermobaric. Lass, I doubt your colonel is going to be handing the lads and I any ammo terribly soon.” He eyes me critically. I can practically hear the wheels grinding in his head.
“Israeli, correct?”
I nod my head. “Lass what brought you to the colonies?”
“Love; I fell in love with a woman while she was backpacking through Israel. I followed her home and been here since. What about you sergeant?”
“I was here on personnel exchange attached to the 5th Special Forces Group on JBLM. Was only two weeks here, before the shite fell apart. I hope my mum made it, but I doubt it, Lancaster was bad I heard. Wish I would have stayed with my SAS like a good lad.”
The sergeant and I talk for a few more minutes until the convoy is ready to move again. The sergeant leaves with a friendly wave heading towards the rear finding his ride.
Climbing in the truck I glance at the gauges making sure nothing went to shite with the vehicle while it idled for an hour or so. With effortless grace Honey slides through the rear beer window into the middle of the bench seat.
Shack jumps in slamming his door. He thumps his rifle onto the floor earning a look from Monster whose foot is beside it.
“You sure talked to him a long time,” Shack says.
“He is rather handsome there are not that many black guys in the convoy,” Honey remarks.
“Jealous Shack?”~
I took some time off writing Ruth’s story improving my writing skills. Looking back at previous posts I see so many areas I should have omitted, moving the story forward faster. I might have a new Ruth chapter by next Sunday the 4th of February.
I am not sure how long Monster sits outside in the rain, but eventually he climbs back inside the cab through what the Americans call the beer window. Monster is dripping wet, but he does not seem to care.
I turn up the heater in the truck diverting most of the heat to the floor underneath the dash where Monster sits on the floor by Honey’s legs. Monster pouts on the cab floor for the rest of the morning.
During the midday stop for lunch and to use the bushes, everyone gets wet as the pouring rain does not slack off. Sitting in the idling truck, Jim calls on the radio checking fuel status. Our truck is at a half tank in the main but the bed tank reserve is full of 110 gallons of diesel.
We eat our midday meal in the truck using the bushes as needed. Shack and I drink luke warm canned beer, cannot remember the brand because it was so unmemorable. One of the new girls who joined us at Warm Beach comes by checking ammo status and doing a personnel check. Everyone has a task in the convoy. No one rides for free.
Shack calls what Dolcent does “counting noses.” I have to remember that the young woman prefers Dolcent and always threatens dire consequences if someone calls her Dolly. It would be interesting to see what happens if someone yells, “Hello Dolly.”
Dolcent’s clothes hang off of her flapping in the wind like a scarecrow. Dolcent was probably quite chubby before she went on the KCAP crash diet. Like most youth these days Dolcent did not get enough exercise and probably had a very poor diet. Dolcent at least had good dental care her teeth are perfect and blindingly white.
Dolcent has a very pale complexion, with kinky brown hair roughly hacked to collar length. Dolcent’s most striking feature is her large, expressive eyes one blue and one brown. I wonder if she is mixed race, but I do not bother asking her. The young woman has a bit of chip on her shoulder, and is rather surly.
Dolcent carries a Hi Point .40 S&W carbine slung over her back. We frequently find Hi Point guns, as the ugly inexpensive weapons were very popular prior to KCAP. Hi Point magazines are not as common.
For such an ugly and heavy weapon, the Hi Point carbine is remarkably reliable. Hi Points are not known to be ammo picky which is an excellent quality these days when you cannot be choosy about the ammo you use.
I am not sure if Dolcent carries a pistol, the long shapeless US Navy rain coat she wears could hide any number of weapons underneath.
Since she joined the convoy most of the times that I have dealt with Dolcent I have had to resist the urge to hit her. From her actions, I believe that Dolcent is perhaps a little immature and has found herself thrust into adulthood way before she was ready.
Lunch today is potted mystery meat mixed with UHT mayonnaise spread on stale high-calorie survival crackers. The survival crackers are from the Office of Civil Defense; the early Cold War precursor to what eventually became FEMA.
We have quite a few cans of civil defense all-purpose high-calorie survival crackers. Rick brought several tins of the survival crackers, stored in the Mercer Island tunnel. The tins of survival crackers were removed from another site, most likely a fallout shelter.
The survival crackers were to be temporarily stored at the Mercer Island tunnel. Fortunately for us someone forgot about the crackers. Rick knew where the tins of crackers were, tossing them in the snow plow when he left.
The chewy, stale crackers are followed by various American MRE snacks. I eat some MRE chocolate chip cookies, washing them down with orange-flavored sports drink from another MRE. The orange drink helps wash the horrible after taste of the UHT mayonnaise out of my mouth.
Shack munches on some dry roasted and salted almonds, washed down with lemon-lime flavored sports energy drink. The convoy is out of Red Bull, Monster, AMP and other high caffeine and sugar drinks. I believe Shack and a few of the other lads are suffering withdrawals.
I watch Honey and Monster wrestle with P38 can openers, dueling bravely with a quartet of 1951 Korean War era B1 and B2 unit food ration cans from an RCI. When the P38s puncture the first can I hear a hiss of escaping gas. I move making sure that I am not down wind.
After lunch, after checking the blade’s edge for damage, I clean and oil my Glock knife thoroughly before sliding it back in its sheath . I used my knife to open some particularly tough plastic MRE packaging.
“Babe, as an Israeli operator why don’t you use a Du Star knife?” I did not hear Shack walk up to me. Standing beside our idling Dodge truck, he startles me a little.
“Well sweetheart Shack, some of the other Sayeret soldiers did, but I prefer the simplicity of the Glock knife. My Glock knife is lighter with a slenderer blade than a Du Star. For most of my clandestine wet work, I found that I could slip my Glock knife between the ribs far easier than trying to cram a thick Du Star blade in the same spot. Shack, where did you learn about Du Star knives? They are not common in the States at all.”
“I saw it in a magazine – here,” he says, handing me a heavily dog-eared, glossy magazine. Flipping through the tattered magazine, I quickly realize that it is aimed at the gear queer crowd who wanted cool tactical douche ware to show off to their friends.
I always hated when, particularly guys, would deck themselves out in expensive tactical douche ware. Most of the shit this style of magazine pedaled were designed to catch the wallet of a pathetic individual wanting to look like a clandestine services operator.
I never understood the assumption that wearing a lot of tactical douche ware with dubious combat worth should impress women (or men, if that is your bent). I suppose the idea is that the suitably impressed would then fling themselves at the gear queer.
One of the many things that I have always hated about Americans was their frequent assumption that money can buy everything. Just because you deck yourself out to look like some super secret squirrel operator draping yourself with expensive tactical douche ware, does not mean that you are in any way shape or form a true clandestine operator.
Most members of the clandestine forces hate the tactical douche wearing gear queers with a passion bordering on obsession. Not only do they look like fools, but they give the uninformed and simple-minded the wrong impression of the members of the clandestine forces.
Most personnel in the super secret squirrel outfits are quiet, humble professionals who do not go around wearing symbols of their elite units all the time. I never walked around with the Maglan symbol on my person unless I was in uniform.
Members of elite units have no need to brag about their membership in a unit or about their exploits. The Americans call individuals that brag (i.e. – lie) about their exploits while in an elite unit a poser, which is a very good description. Extremely few, if any of the posers were actually members of the elite units they purport to have belonged to.
We drive the rest of the day in the pouring rain. Impeding our travels north are the numerous abandoned vehicles. Sometimes blockages are so severe that we are forced to backtrack and seek another route. GPS is worthless, and maps are near impossible to find.
Turning this many vehicles around, especially the larger vehicles such as the HEMTTs, the snow plow, and the fuel tanker takes considerable time.
It is during one of these turn around fiascos, that we are suddenly and viciously attacked.
To my readers, sorry that it has been so long since I posted another chapter in Ruth’s story. I will try to be more consistent with posts as long as nothing radically changes in my life again.
*********************************************************************
“I returned to school three years later, but this time I attended Bar Ilan University transferring to Oranim my last year attaining my Master’s. I was short-listed for advancement to major, but I was burnt out in Mossad. On paper I was still IDF, but was permanently attached to Mossad.”
“That was bad?”
“Like most clandestine outfits, Mossad eats their young. Like I said I was burnt out, and bad too. I have done some things that made it difficult to look at the woman in the mirror. I have done some fairly horrible things. Our Muslim friends do not have exclusivity on terrorist acts. Ask any British soldier stationed in Israel after the Second World War. I had a close school friend in Shin Bet, sort of Israel’s version of the FBI, who wanted me to transfer to her unit.”
“Did you transfer to Shin Bet?”
“Never tried. While I was on leave awaiting orders for Mossad I stayed in Jerusalem, mostly in the old part of the city. I was standing in the square, looking at the Temple Mount, wondering if I might enter since I am half Arab. No one would know that I am not Muslim, unless I told them.
I was digging in my purse for my hijab when this blonde bombshell walked up to me and said that she loved my purse. The first thing that struck me is that she badly needed a shower, and the second was that she carried a huge backpack for such a small woman. Amy was barely five-feet tall.”
“I met Amy while she was backpacking through Israel. It was an immediate, powerful attraction. Amy said later that she could not think of anything other than complementing my purse to start a conversation with me. I was not aware that Amy had been watching me for a while as I wandered around. Amy; God the body on that woman; curvy like a country road, with tits that made me look like a boy.”
“I like your tits.”
“Pervert – of course you do. I invited Amy back to my hotel room offering her a chance to shower and launder her clothes. I am usually a somewhat cautious person, not given to impulsive behavior. In my hotel room Amy dropped her pack, and started to strip with a lack of self-consciousness that I envied. With her back to me as she headed for the postage stamp sized bathroom, she kicked off her boots and shimmied out of her pants. Leaving her clothes in a pile, I was surprised that Amy went commando. When she stepped into the shower, I was also surprised to see that the rug matched the drapes.”
“So Amy was a natural blonde and not a bottle blonde. You were not staying in a good hotel? I thought Jerusalem has some nice hotels.”
“It does or rather did. I was being thrifty as I was still living on a captain’s pay, so not exactly flush with more money than I knew how to spend. I noticed that Amy had some serious muscles underneath those luscious curves. Amy’s back and shoulders rippled with taught muscles. Her back was gorgeous, pale like fine porcelain flaring into an ass that you would not believe. Other than a hiker’s tan, Amy was incredibly pale.”
“Sounds like a beautiful woman, and that you loved her.”
“I did so much; probably more than I ever told her. I followed Amy into the bathroom saying some inane things trying not to stare. I was not even sure that she liked women. Here I was practically panting at the sight of her naked, climbing into the shower. The water started and I turned to go to the bedroom. I was grabbed from behind by a wet Amy and yanked fully clothed into the shower landing on my ass. Despite such a small shower, we managed without breaking anything.”
“So love at first sight? And she did like women.”
“Something like that I guess and yes, Amy liked women. Amy had a bad break-up so she went backpacking around the world to get away. I had not been in a relationship since just before the second Palestinian War. Amy and I were inseparable after that. She cancelled the rest of her trip, staying with me at my apartment in Tel Aviv. By the time she had to return to the states or lose her job as a city firefighter, I had resigned my IDF commission, and followed her. I ‘found’ a job with a private security counseling service company, which was just another Mossad front company.”
“So that is how you came to the states. I always wondered.”
“Yes, love brought me to the states, but I was still Mossad, and still worked for Israeli interests above everything else.”
We fall silent as Honey enters the tent carrying tonight’s delicious repast. To prevent vitamin B deficiency we have been eating a lot of canned tuna lately. This meal is a lot of canned tuna with a few different kinds of pasta, with some canned veggies tossed in the mix. At least the bread is fresh, hot and we still have some real butter.
In my old life I would have shuddered at the amount of calories in the butter and bread. I sprinkle salt over the butter on the bread. Right now the bread and salty butter is the best thing I have ever tasted.
The next day we break camp, and get the convoy moving. Warm Beach was a nice stop but we have a goal. We are heading north on back roads heading for a town called Anacortes. Almost all of the bridges on the highways were blown by sappers, or bombed by planes.
Finding a whole bridge on the highway is almost unheard of. In a futile attempt to slow the spread of KCAP, under martial law all of the bridges, including the floating ones were destroyed. The lack of bridges in addition to all of the abandoned cars, make the highways nearly impassable.
The monster snow plow clears most of the smaller vehicles from the road does a good job, but it cannot clear larger vehicles like semi’s. We worry about the snow plow, because if it breaks down and is not repairable, it will seriously hamper our movement.
Our move north is slow; slowing even more when we have to backtrack or divert around obstacles. It does not help that the snow plow has to stop frequently to let Princess either dash to the curb side to pee, or puke her brains out.
I almost feel sorry for the Princess. Her damn fault for getting pregnant. I wonder if Carol has to do a similar sprint for the curb once in awhile. I may ask Carol how she is feeling.
Later that morning the cab of our Dodge truck is filled with an awful stench. All of us immediately roll the windows down despite the pouring rain. Looking around in the cab, while keeping one eye on the road I try to see where the awful stench comes from.
Underneath Honey’s legs, I spot Monster attacking an old olive drab and rust ration can with a P-38 can opener. The stench wafts up from underneath the dash of the truck. We all complain while Monster gleefully crams his mouth full of a 1964 Vietnam-era B-2 ham and lima bean C ration. Fucking disgusting.
After Monster finishes the 70-plus year old ration, Honey tosses the offending can out of the passenger window without splattering Shack with lima bean goo. Honey’s aim is pretty good as she hits a shambling zombie in the side of the head.
I threaten to toss Monster out of the truck as well. Monster climbs out of truck cab like gray monkey. He sits in a pout in the bed of the truck on the bed tool box in the pouring rain. Honey climbs into Shack’s lap and yells at Monster to come back in the cab and to get out of the rain.
Monster pointedly ignores Honey.
“Honey let him pout; he will come back in the cab when he gets hungry and wet enough.”
Honey gives me a dirty look.
“Yes, that is Ladino, also known as Judaeo-Spanish. I am not fluent, but I can get by. Although, I am quite a bit rusty.”
Sam, Nikola’s partner in the com shack while Carol is still nursing, pipes up. “If only we had the equipment to interplex the comm systems, we might be able to create a phased receiver wave.”
“English, damn it, English. I speak nine languages more or less fluently, but techno-babble is not one of them.”
“It’s not a very good signal,” Sam explains.
“Here, try,” Nikola hands me the handset.
I try as much as possible to remember what few words that I can in Ladino. Despite my best efforts the transmission does not change.
“It is a broadcast, not a live operator,” I tell Nikola.
“What’s it say?” he asks in a grunt.
“From what I can understand they are survivors living on the old Poveglia Plague Island, Italy. There are a lot of words that I do not recognize. They are living in the old lazaretto from the turn of the 18th century.”
“So?”
“Hey, you asked me to translate, not read their fucking minds, and determine the secret of life.”
Shack, puts his hand on my arm, “Easy baby.”
Arching my furry eyebrows at him, I give him the glare. He knows that I hate to be called baby. If he starts making Patrick Swayze puns again; I will hit him – hard.
Just then, with a blast of cold air Wilson crashes inside the tent waving his Smith & Wesson 76 submachine gun around.
“Ruth this fucking thing is jammed again …” is about all he gets out before I stride punch him on to his ass, knocking the wind out of him.
As Wilson lies gasping for breath on the floor of the tent, I rip the S&W 76 out of his hands. As I do so, I notice out of the corner of my eye Nikola holstering his Stechkin. Ripping the magazine (which I notice is fully loaded) from the gun, I throw it on the table.
A live round is jammed between the feed lips of the magazine and the chamber. Working the bolt, I drop the jammed round on the floor. I toss the empty machine gun on the table.
“Wilson, the next time you do something so fucking stupid with a weapon, I am going to let this big fucking Russian shoot you.”
If it was possible, Wilson would have blanched whiter than he already is. Nikola crosses his arms, defining his impressive chest and biceps, highlighted by the blue and white striped, short-sleeved telnyashka tee-shirt he wears.
“Wilson, I told you that if this thing jams, use your pistol.” Wilson carries an old Beretta M95, precursor of the famous Beretta Model 92 series of handguns. Wilson was assigned to the Scouts, but failed because he just cannot follow basic instructions.
Shack refers to Wilson as “too stupid to die.”
Demoted to guard rotation, I believe Wilson is lucky to be still alive. His little sister Anne has hyperacusis and must wear ear phone-style hearing protection at all times.
Waving my hand at him, I shoo Wilson back to his post. “Go back to your guard post. I will have someone take your gun apart again and see if we can figure what is causing it to jam all the time. I will have someone return it to you tomorrow after woman’s bath day.”
With a huff, Wilson limps from the tent back into the pouring rain. Popping his jacket collar up, he dives into the wet night. Poor kid, I would not want to walk laps in the pouring rain around the camp’s perimeter either.
“Ruth, have Mossad stamped all over you. The ‘straddle fat horse’ stance is telling. When I GRU, you had impressive dossier. Intelligence was specialty not wet work, but never shied from killing. I know you Duvdevan, IDF counter-terrorist special operations unit.”
I shrug at Nikola, “Does not mean shit now.”
Shack, Honey, Monster and I all settle into our four-hour radio watch positions. Honey and Monster man the generator, steadily turning the handles while I listen on the headset.
Ripping apart the S&W 76 is not hard, and in a few minutes I have it broken down to its main pieces.
“What’s the story of this gun?” Shack asks.
“During the Vietnam War, the SEALs adopted the Swedish K SMG, finding it a good, simple gun for the harsh conditions in South East Asia. For some damn reason, Sweden imposed an arms embargo thereby depriving the SEALs of the Carl Gustaf M/45 (Swedish K) SMG.”
“Is ‘cause Sweden dislike American forces Vietnam,” Nikola explains.
Ignoring Nikola, I pause as I field strip the crudely made weapon. “There are no serial numbers on it, and someone did not take time to fit it together very well.”
“Smith & Wesson started making a nearly identical clone called the Model 76. The Model 76 saw limited combat service in Vietnam with a few Special Forces outfits. Eventually S&W ceased production of the original weapon in 1974. For a while, you could buy demilled part kits, which is most likely what this illegal, full-auto only piece of shit was made from.”
Nikola picks up the S&W 76 magazine noting the white-painted tips of the 9mm bullets. “Explosive tips, go in small, come out large. Take much with them along way.”
I recognize the bullets as explosive, but wonder where that little shit got such rare 9mm ammo. We only have the one magazine, I wonder if we should also check his other magazines. As far as I know, the convoy does not issue explosive tipped ammo.
Nikola shrugs, dropping the magazine back on the rickety folding card table, he gathers his things.
Nikola kicks the green canvas tool bag we keep in the radio tent. “I fix tomorrow. Leave on table for me.” I am more than happy to leave jury-rigging the S&W 76 to Nikola.
Fitting, filing and sanding the various parts of the shitty S&W 76 is not something that I really have the skill for or something that I want to do. I have never really liked working with metal, so I will leave that to the boys.
Nikola turns to leave; he still has the sallow pale complexion all too common to most Russians. I wonder if his son inherited his father’s complexion. With parents so pale, little Stiva will most likely be very pale as well.
“Spokoynoy nochi,” (good night) Nikola says as he leaves the radio tent.
“Priyatnykh snov,” (sweet dreams) I reply.
While Monster and Honey keep the hand-cranked generator running slowly but steadily Shack and I take turns listening on the radio head set. Sometimes transmissions are so faint that you can barely hear them even with headphones on.
allensrepositoryofstuff 