MILLER: Iraq vet brutalized over guns in D.C.
MILLER: Iraq vet brutalized over guns in D.C..
This is an interesting article dealing with Iraq Veterans like myself who suffer nightmares and PTSD.
We get treated like we are nut jobs with screws loose about to come loose by the general population any time we ask for the slightest amount of help.
When fellow soldiers get treated like this over something minor, is it no wonder that most vets choose to keep things inside for fear that they are going to get their house ransacked and put in the looney bin against their will?
When the VA shrinks ask about guns in the house, it is none of their damn business, and I refuse to answer the questions. I trust my wife far more with my mental state than I do some under-paid college kid that has no clue what soldiers go through and never served a day in the military.
It takes me a few minutes to decipher the words on the tea soaked piece of paper. Thankfully, the young Asian girl used a pencil rather than a pen. A pen might have smeared or bled out becoming illegible.
Once I read the message again, I ponder how best to disseminate the information. I grab my radio and decide to speak in Russian. I chose Russian because, as far as I know, there are only three of us proficient in that language. I do not know who may be standing around able to overhear my transmission. I do not want to risk an antagonist overhearing my discussion.
“Nikola this is Ruth, please respond.”
A brief silent pause passes and then Nikola’s voice comes over my radio in Russian. “Nikola here, Ruth what is happening and why are we speaking Russian?”
“Because, as far as I know, only the three of us speak Russian. I was unsure who may be around you and might overhear our conversation.”
“Ahh, good idea; what is wrong?”
“I have received information that the families, specifically the women and children, are being held in one of the two houses under duress.”
“I will pass that on, thank you Ruth.”
“Nikola, how is Carol?” I suppose I could have asked that in English, but we were already speaking Russian.
“I am with her now. She is laying in the truck trying to sleep. She is very ill; you know she believes she might be pregnant. Between the illnesses of the pregnancy, even if it is all in her head, the thought of eating dog, and the ipecac syrup she is very ill.”
Jamal sits back down at the table. I look around and see that I made a real damned big mess sliding across the table. Looking down, I see that the front of my clothing is smeared with spilled beer and food. God, I am a mess. I’ve got chilies, chunks of sticky mystery meat, rice and chow mein scattered from my tits to my toes.
“Doc you were saying about the KCAP virus before we were interrupted.” I talk while I try to brush off most of the food detritus stuck to my front on to the floor which is as messy as I am. I notice outside the soldiers are assembling next to the colonel’s VW station wagon.
I note that all the assembling soldiers place themselves in neat rows by height. Definitely the mark of former professional soldiers, the way they quickly line up in formation. I am going to have to work on that because a well tossed grenade would kill the majority of the troops right now.
It looks as if Randy is gathering the force for a sweep. All men are showing up carrying several folded various color pillow cases, their belts and LBVs heavily feathered with white plastic quick zips.
All men have a determined grimace on their faces, as if they expect to accomplish an unpleasant task but one that falls to them because they are the ones that can and will accomplish it no matter how unpleasant.
I note several cases of ammo, lying open beside the assembling men. Looks like the men are going in with full combat load. I note several empty cases of tear gas grenades. All the former soldiers are checking their gas masks which look like the newer Mark 45 gas masks, so they are prepared to use CS gas on uncooperative people if the need should arise.
I am extremely familiar with CS gas. The Israeli police and military forces routinely use CS gas ultra liberally during riots and demonstrations, especially in the Palestinian Territories and the West Bank. You would think as many times as I have been CS gassed that it would not affect me, but that shit still wipes me out for days.
I know Carol is with Nikola; I heard her pitiful retching already, so I know she is out of commission. The wheeled mechanic, of whom I still have not learned her name, is also out for the count as I saw her running hell for leather for the bushes hands over her mouth. I wonder what our current fighting strength is?
Jamal clears his throat and looks at me for a few moments and pulls out his pack of kreteks. Lighting another dark black thick clove cigarette with his lighter, he takes a couple drags letting the smoke out through his nostrils.
“You know, Ruth, I quit smoking before this whole zombie thing blew up in our faces. I know as a doctor just how bad smoking is for your health. But right now I just do not care. I believe that I am more likely to die from a zombie bite and KCAP infection than emphysema or lung cancer.”
Jamal continues. “The virus is really something that defies all scientific logic. If you believe in evolution than you might believe that the KCAP virus has evolved into a higher state. I was called in to attempt to ascertain how the KCAP virus is able to use the dead corpses’ eyes. We know that the zombies can hear within the normal range of human hearing, and they can see as well as any human can. What we were unable to ascertain is exactly how the virus manages to revitalize dead tissue. The heavy threads grown by the virus, we referred to them as nerves or tendrils, completely consumes the ‘lizard brain,’ the base of the spinal column and sends tendrils all through the neo cortex. The KCAP virus forms this fist-sized dense black knot of what used to be base of the brain stem.”
I light a cigarette of my own while Jamal continues his KCAP lecture. Sounds like he has given this some thought and might have given this speech a few times.
I grab the last two sealed cans of Budweiser from the end of the table. I pop the two cans of beer off the white plastic six-pack rings and place one can in front of Jamal taking the other can of beer for myself.
Sitting down, I pop open my warm beer and take a long swig. Bud is about my least favorite of American beers, but right now it is better than nothing. Jamal grabs the other beer and pops it open, as well.
We sit in comfortable silence for a few moments smoking and drinking warm beer in a blown apart Chinese restaurant with spilled food and shattered glass all over the place. God, what a fucked up world.
Finishing his beer shortly followed by myself, Jamal continues his lecture on the KCAP virus.
“Thankfully, any damage causing the destruction of the brain instantly kills the zombie, although the KCAP virus is still very much alive. Destroying the brain of the zombie you only remove the virus’ means of travel and propagation. We found cremating the zombies is the best way to eradicate the virus. The lack of sufficient quantities of fuel to completely burn all of the corpses was a major problem especially in the major metropolitan areas.”
Jamal pauses and I pour him a cup of the very slightly warm green tea. He takes the small cup with a nod of thanks. He takes a few sips of the tea. I follow suit taking a few sips of my now paperless green tea.
“Burning is the best way as the heat and flame completely kill the KCAP virus. You have to get the corpse heated to over 650 degrees F to ensure complete destruction of the KCAP virus. It is a tough son of a bitch. Burying the corpse very deeply after destroying the brain is a successful way to limit the spread of the disease. Robbed of new hosts the virus eventually dies, with a mean life span of about 60 years – we think. Ideally, had the quarantine measures worked, the virus would have run out of new hosts and eventually died out. Microwaving works too if you have a large enough microwave or can chop the corpse into small enough pieces. About 10 minutes on high was pretty effective.”
“So you mean when all the people are gone, then the virus will die out.” Sutton comments. I did not hear him come back in the restaurant I was so wrapped up in Jamal’s story and thinking about zombies stuffed in microwaves. “Ding” zombie done!
Fiction – Ruth’s Story #36 The beginning of the storm within the barricade on Lake City Way
I am startled by the glass windows and doors in front of the restaurant shattering, obviously by a concussion grenade.
Several of the formal soldiers in full battle rattle storm in with the green lasers on their M4 carbines flickering around the room. Nikola among them in full battle rattle, carrying (I note with surprise) a folded stock suppressed AKS-74U-UBN with the BS-1 “Tishina” 30mm suppressed grenade launcher attached underneath the barrel of the stubby “Krinkov” assault rifle.
One of the barricade members starts to rise to my left at the end of the table and Nikola swings to his right immediately covering the fool. “Nyet!”
The individual wisely sits back down in a hurry, so much so that I thought he might fall out of his chair.
I notice when Nikola turns to his right and covers the barricade individual that he wears a large frame 3rd generation Glock pistol on the left side of his LBV.
Seeing Nikola in his full Spetsnaz outfit is impressive, but I was not aware that he had another weapon other than his ‘Threadcutter.”
“Easy Nikola, what is going on?” Jamal seems mildly perturbed like he has gum stuck to his shoe.
Jamal is interrupted by the Asian youths clearing our dirty dishes away. The young Asian girl offers refills of hot water for tea and I gladly accept. The youths act like nothing is going on walking around the 11 soldiers (counting Nikola) standing with M4 carbines pointed.
During the momentary period of silence, the Asian youths refill water and tea as required, and also give out orange-flavored fortune cookies. During this surreal event the soldiers continue to point weapons at the barricade members and I remain sitting on Pete’s chest with my hair pin jabbed in his left tear duct that a fine thread of blood dribbles down his face.
My pistol is still jammed under Pete’s chin hard enough to be uncomfortable. If he turns his head away from the pistol in my right hand he will spear himself on the hair pin in my left hand.
Pete’s eyes are wide with fear and he gulps several times. I can feel his pounding heart hammering against my thighs, and his labored breathing pressing against my ass. While I am fairly light, weighing around 100 pounds, sitting as I am on his chest up against his beer gut is not comfortable at all for him and compresses his chest which makes drawing full breaths difficult.
A crash from the back of the restaurant punctuated with the unmistakable short stucco rattle of a very close sub machine gun causes everyone to look up. Pete tenses a minute underneath me and I slowly shake my head no at him. Pete settles down immediately.
Laurel (Sutton) comes striding in carrying a MP5 SD with its stock folded and big fat smoking suppressor. Out of his Ghillie suit, I realize how tall and lanky Sutton is; easily standing 6’ 7” or so. Sutton dressed in full battle rattle wearing and wearing an Eberlestock gun carrying back pack of some fashion which sticks above his back.
When the young Asian girl replaces my empty tea-pot on the table with a fresh full one, I ask her quietly if it would be possible for me to get some of the tea to take with me. She smiles at me and whispers that she will see what she can do.
Walking past Sutton into the back of the restaurant, the young girl returns to the back. I look at Sutton and Nikola. “What the fuck is going on here?”
Nikola speaks first followed almost immediately by Sutton. “The food was liberally sprinkled with something to make us sick. Not sure what it is but many soldiers puking right now.”
Sutton pretty much says the same thing except he said “barking at the earthworms” an American soldier idiom for forceful vomiting, often after an alcoholic binge.
“That was not chicken you ate either.” I dread Sutton’s next words, because I am sure I am going to be sick all over Pete if he tells me I ate a small piece of a person. “That dark meat was actually dog, I think Saint Bernard or Doberman.”
Jamal rises, and now he does look really pissed. He crams his head-gear upon his head and surveys the room. “How long before onset of sickness and what did they put in our food so I can get an antidote made.”
I lean against Pete getting my face really close to his. “Pete you heard Jamal. Tell me what you fed our crew now or I will get it out of you in a very painful manner that you will not likely survive.”
Pete swallows a large lump. “Ipecac syrup – the food was heavily laced with ipecac syrup.” Pete squawks loudly to anyone listening.
“Well that is just great.” Jamal does not seem all that happy and still looks ready to explode to me.
“So what do we do?” Nguen asks quietly.
“What are our options, Doc?” I ask.
“There is no antidote for ipecac syrup; the afflicted are going to have to tough it out. It looks as if we are going to be staying the night anyway. Sutton how is Sam and Randy?”
“Both are green as the grass and have their heads buried in pails when I left them.”
Jamal looks at Nikola. “How did you learn of this?”
“Went to get radio, saw several soldiers puking guts up, figured something was wrong.” Nikola accompanies this little tid bit of information with a shrug.
“Nikola and Sutton take the troops that are not affected and divide them up. I want a security detachment on the convoy immediately and a sweep team to search this barricade starting …I will let you know.”
Sutton looks around the room. “I already placed a security detachment on the convoy, vehicle weapons are manned and both of our towed artillery pieces are manned and ready. The two teams I have front and rear of this restaurant are going to be the search teams.”
“Sutton anyone that is not us is considered suspect or hostile. Start bagging and tagging Baghdad style. Stack them in the street in front of the restaurant. Separate men from women and children from anyone. Be firm but gentle, however any resistance shall be put down immediately. Sam’s SOS and ask questions later order still stands.”
Sutton looks around the room. “Alright you heard the Colonel. Break out the quick zips, the pillow cases and start baggin’ and taggin’ suspects. Get the restaurant secured, we will assemble at the colonel’s vee dub in 30 minutes.”
The men move seamlessly obviously experienced at this procedure. Sutton comes over and puts about a size 14 boot on Pete’s neck. “You and me are going to have a little parlay. Ruth you want in?”
“Sure” I tell Sutton who drops his MP5 to hang on its single point sling from his LBV. From his back he pulls a large thick white plastic zip strip. “Roll over Pete, hands in the middle of your back. If you give us any trouble I can promise you will regret it.”
Sutton nods at me and I lift off of Pete, replacing my weapons. While Sutton zips Pete’s hands together in the center of his back, (I hear Pete grimace at the tight binding pressure of the plastic tie) I see the Asian youths are marched out of the back of the restaurant, their hands secured behind them by plastic ties.
As the pretty Asian girl passes by she smiles at me, and I smile back. As the children pass I notice that while their hands are secured the ties are not nearly as tight as they could be.
A soldier marches the old Asian man out now minus his head-gear. The left side of his smok is splattered in blood which does not appear to be his. He seems angry but defiant. As they pass, the older Asian man sees Pete lying on the floor. “I told you, you stupid son of a bitch, that Karma is a mother fucker!”
I set my chair up right and pour myself some more tea. The tea has cooled now but it is still very good. It is not until my second sip of tea that I realize there is a soaked piece of paper in the bottom of my cup.
Emptying the cup by drinking all of the tea out of it, I pull out the small wet piece of paper, unfolding it to read the neat words written in pencil.
Writing – Help! I am addicted to binders!
Yesterday I wrote how I suffer an unreasonable addiction to Post-it® Notes. Today I will admit to my second writer’s addiction – binders.
I have a vast collection of binders of all kinds, sizes and styles filling several large bookcases in three rooms of my little house. There has not been a three-ring binder that I have not generally been able to use.
Because I love to create and write my own material, I have come to love binders. Most of my rough ideas and notes I keep in various heavily Post-it® Note decorated vertical flipping 6”x 9” steno notepads. I printed a lot of material that I had written in those note books in one of several different word processing programs. (Not sure if my progression through the various word processing programs of old is post worthy, we will see.)
I have mostly your standard three rings (I strongly dislike binders with more than three rings) binders but lately due to over stuffing some of the smaller binders, I have been getting d-ring binders which I find far superior.
As binders wear out, and some of the second-hand binders reach the end of their service life, I am replacing them with larger d-ring binders. I find the d-ring binders do not tend to tear the pages as badly and tend to survive being stuffed to the gills better than the round ring binders. Nothing infuriates me like pages falling out of binder because the page holes ripped out. (My fetish for reinforcing sticky paper assholes may be discussed also at a later date.)
Thankfully, I married a patient and understanding woman who happens to be also a very good carpenter. My wife has actually helped me acquire, improve and better arrange my collection of binders. She is also the main designer and builder of all of the wooden shelves in our house. Because my wife and I are both bibliophiles, my collection of binders is second only to our joint collection of books.
one shelf of many
I have a large collection of note filled pages of and material that I wrote going all the way back to my earliest days of computer abuse (which may yet be another subject for a later post).
Most of my binders are stuffed with material either for games or reference material I have collected for writing and for creating material for games. A lot of the material stored in my binders is also photo copies from various books borrowed from the libraries everywhere I have ever lived. (My love of the local Sno-Isle library system will be discussed in a later post.)
Being the sort of person with a serious creative bent that I am, I almost immediately began to write material for my favorite genres (fantasy and science fiction – also subjects of yet another post). After a while I began to amass a large collection of printed material, because in those dark early days of PCs, document storage was not as plentiful or as reliable as it is today.
You would be amazed at how many 8”, 5.25” and 3.5” floppy discs it took to store documents back then. You would also be amazed at the failure rate of those early marvels of computer storage, and how often they completely lost everything you put on them.
The ease, convenience and inexpensive computing devices available today were a mere dream when I first started writing and collecting reference material.
During the early years of my military career, I had come to play and enjoy certain role-playing games (which is yet another whole post for some later date and yes I am one of those geeks). Before the advent of the Microsoft Xbox, Nintendo Wii, Sony PlayStation® and other console games played at home, people who played games actually had to meet face to face (gasp! human interaction – oh the horrors!) to play games.
I have material printed on noisy monster ribbon dot matrix continuous feed printer paper that is so faded as to be nearly illegible. I have papers printed on a variety of the earliest laser printers, most of which are still quite readable if one ignores the skips and streaks.
Some papers were printed on the earliest ink jet printers some of which are nearly as faded as the stuff printed on the early dot matrix printers. (My preference for computer printers and my trials and tribulations with the damned infernal contraptions may be a subject for a later post – not decided yet.)
I have always been interested in recycling and was doing the “green thing” long before it was a concept or fashionable. For some unfathomable reason, I have a lot of my material that is printed on the back of used paper taken from my class lecture handouts, various military service school course instructions, and almost any other suitable white paper I could run through a printer.
It would be nice one day to be able to get rid of those pages of papers so that while reading some interesting fact or idea on one side on the other side I am not looking at the course instructions for operating an Aegis LMS-11 link system.
I have not yet completed an inventory of the contents of all of my binders, but it is a goal that I hope to accomplish someday. I do have most of the spines of my binders decorated and labeled so I have a clue as to what the binder might contain.
With the amazing developments in personal computers and portable scanners, I eventually hope to transfer most of my binder collection into a program like Microsoft® One-Note 2010.
This website www.43folders.com offers some excellent hacks for note pads. Granted his penchant is for the expensive Moleskine-brand note pads whereas mine is for the super cheap steno note pads, but some of his hacks are applicable no matter your preference for note pads or binders.
Any one else have a binder fetish?
Writing – Help! I am addicted to Post-it® Notes!
Looking around my office work place, I realize that I have about a million Post-it® Notes of all kinds, various shapes, sizes and colors. Most of the Post-it® Notes I have are used for marking books that I use for reference in my writing and taking notes in my 20-or so note books when I have an idea.
Before the advent of the wondrous and extremely useful to the prospective, writer Microsoft® One Note 2010 program, I used thousands of Post-it® Notes that are still stuffed in books, magazines, and my collection of deteriorating steno note pads scattered around the house.
I always keep at least one pen and a small note-book with me to write ideas whenever they may strike. All of my little steno notes pads are heavily festooned with Post-it® Notes in a jumbled hap hazard mess that only a savant may be able to discern.
I tend to favor the more traditional square yellow Post-it® Notes but also have ones in fluorescent colors, and pleasant earth tones. I have never found a Post-it® Notes that I do not like as long as it is sticky and has room for my near illegible scrawl.
I have Post-it® Notes made from recycled paper, paper from Earth-friendly eco sources (sugar cane waste, kenaf, etc.), and Post-it® Notes from the most destructive eco destroying companies on the face of the Earth.
I have large 5×9 lined Post-it® Notes for making detailed, long lists, and little tiny Post-it® Notes barely able to hold one line of text.
I know that I am seriously OCD, which has gotten worse since the onset of PTSD, but I still collect Post-it® Notes in an ever-growing collection despite my excessive use of them. I have enough Post-it® Notes that should either the SHTF or TEOTWAWKI, a black swan event, or even another Carrington Event, I still have enough Post-it® Notes to last me for a while. I may run out of reading material though.
Even with the advent of Microsoft’s One Note 2010, I still feather books, magazines and steno note books with lots of Post-it® Notes.
What are your favorite Post-it® Notes?
The inside of the restaurant is decorated in far too much red and gold for my tastes. The dark red carpet is reminiscent of spilled blood, something that I have seen far too much of lately. From the roof hang numerous Chinese-inspired crystal and red tasselled chandeliers with small energy-efficient LED lights that bathe the dining area with a soft light.
A small lacquered red and gold temple sits unobtrusively in the far corner on a shelf. The temple is adorned with several small offerings and is obviously well cared for. In front of the small temple, several burning sticks of incense give a delightful aroma to the room; which complements the smell of the cooking food.
The magnificent smelling restaurant causes my stomach to immediate state its displeasure at being denied for so long.
Carol apparently heard my stomach grumble as she turns around to look at me with raised eyebrows. I give her a sheepish smile and wish that my stomach would be quiet.
A tall, exceedingly thin elder Asian male with a pencil thin, silver-streaked goatee dressed in typical cook’s wear walks out from behind a pair of double red lacquered doors at the rear of the restaurant. His smooth black cap is pulled low on his head. A large Chinese dragon in red and gold thread running from shoulder to wrist is embroidered on each sleeve of his clean, white knee-length smock. He has his hands clasped together in front of his chest covered by his long sleeves in the manner of the Chinese.
He speaks with a slight Asian accent; Chinese I assume. Despite my affinity with languages, my specialty is Middle Eastern languages, so I am not that sure of the Chinese region that his accent would represent.
“Please sit anywhere you would like at the table. Today we are serving General Tso’s Chicken with your choice of steamed white rice or chow mein. Hot green or black tea, coffee, or cool water are your choices for refreshments. There is no ice at present. If there are any critical food allergies, please let me, or one of our wait staff know immediately.”
The long single central wooden table is sparsely furnished with a striking solid red table-cloth and nothing else. Looking from one end of the table to the other, I notice that there are no condiments, silverware, or any kind of decoration on the table.
As I sit at the table beside Carol, with Nikola on her right I glance at our fellow diners. Most appears to be former soldiers from the caravan, with a few Caucasian males of indeterminate age dressed in street clothes mixed in.
As the diners start to settle in at the table, the elder Asian male walks back through the red lacquered double doors. The double doors flutter back and forth reminding me of saloon doors from some of the old classic Western movies Amy was so fond of.
Interestingly enough, I notice that all three women from our caravan are eating at the same time. The female wheeled mechanic is to my left on the opposite side near the end of the table closest to the entrance. Her silver-streaked, mousey brown curly hair has a serious case of helmet hair.
The butt of the female wheel mechanic’s black Beretta M9 in its tan leather tanker holster on her left side peeks above the table occasionally. Seeing the black antenna of her radio sticking out of her left breast pocket makes me realize that shit, I forgot my own radio.
Just as, I get comfortable, Jamal walks in and sits at the table across from me. I note that Jamal did not forget his radio. He places his radio on the table between us and then slides my Motorola radio to me with a nod and a grin. I smile thanks at him and slide my radio within my immediate reach leaving it lying on the table.
Carol and I are sitting beside each other with Nikola on her right. As we sit waiting for whoever is going to serve us, more former soldiers, as well as members of the barricade stroll in. I notice the barricade members are all carrying a civilian general mobile radio service (GMRS) or Family Radio Service (FRS) radios.
Another intriguing thing I note is that the number of barricade personnel in the room is exactly equal to the number of former soldiers from the caravan. Curious.
The GMRS/FRS radios are decent FM UHF radios and most seem to be made by Cobra. Most of the Cobra radios are bright colors with chrome accents although there are a few camouflaged ones similar to the ones they used to sell to the big game hunters.
I wonder what Carol and Nikola think of the radios carried by the barricade people. Nikola says something to Carol and he gets up. His exit seems to alarm some of the barricade guys who watch his exit with interest.
I look at Carol and catch her eye. “Nicky is going to grab the PRC-210 to see if he can pick up any transmissions while we eat.” I nod at her. “Oh.” I wonder why Nikola decided to go get the radio?
Several side conversations are currently in progress as former soldiers strike up conversations with barricade members and with each other. I try to listen to some of the conversations, as all are talking in English, but there are too many conversations going on at once for me to separate all the chatter.
While I try to catch a few tidbits of the conversations around me, the double red lacquered doors swing open again allowing the entrance of three Asian youths, two boys and a girl who is slightly taller than the boys.
The trio of Asian youths, who might not yet be out of their teens, immediately starts taking orders for food. The boys look-alike enough to be either brothers or close relatives; the girl might be their older sister or close cousin.
The young Asian girl has midnight hair so black it is almost blue, braided in a long pony tail that is nearly as long as mine. Her hair is decorated with several jade-tipped hair pins. Seeing her pretty hair pins causes me to take my right hand and verify that my precious hair pins are still in place – they are, God be praised, I would be crushed if I lost my hair pins.
While checking my hair pins, I observe the young Asian girl is already super pretty and the first female from the barricade people who I have seen. When she reaches maturity, she will be extremely beautiful in that exotic Oriental way. Her long sleeve white blouse with green jade buttons and black slacks look lovely on her. The fluorescent red, black soled Reebok sneakers are a little out of character with her clothing.
The Asian young boys are dressed similar to the young girl, but their long sleeve shirts have black enameled buttons shaped like Chinese dragons. The boys wear similar black trousers, but they are wearing different extremely pricey athletic shoes so popular with inner city youths regardless if they play sports or not. The boys have short hair but their hair is similar in color to the girl’s hair.
As one of the young boys takes my order for white steamed rice with hot green tea, Nguen the Asian male from the deuce walks in and sits beside Jamal. Nguen attempts to strike up a conversation in what I believe is either Mandarin or Cantonese.
I have heard enough Mandarin and Cantonese to be familiar with some of the words, but mostly I just assume they are speaking one of the two dialects as they are the most commonly spoken Chinese dialects. The pretty young Asian girl giggles at Nguen’s attempt.
“Nguen, are you Chinese?” I ask him.
“No, actually I am a second generation Vietnamese born in America, but I speak a little Mandarin.”
“Badly,” the young Asian girl interjects over her shoulder as she walks away with Nguen’s and my order.
As Nguen and I are talking, a tall, balding Caucasian male, with a ponderous beer belly walks in and sits at the head of the table to my left as if he is the lord of the manor. Dressed in faded tight blue jeans, a white button front long sleeve shirt and a pair of scuffed tan leather cowboy boots, the Caucasian male’s manner is as if he believes himself to be particularly powerful. Arrogance oozes off of him. Smooth shaven with the bright red nose of a heavy drinker, I decide to call the Caucasian male Rudolph.
After Rudolph sits, one of the young Asian boys brings him a plate piled high with chunks of chicken and chow mein noodles. The food is accompanied by a six-pack of 16 ounce cans of Budweiser hanging on white plastic six-pack rings.
Rudolph immediately pulls one of the cans of beer off the rings, pops the top and takes a long Adam’s apple bouncing drink from it. Wiping his mouth with the back of his left hand (since the right is holding the can of beer), Rudolph looks around the table like a lord surveying his fiefdom.
“So Jamal have you given thought to where you are going to stay the night, yet?” he asks. “I still wish you boys would still leave some weapons with us. I really would like a M2 carbine like I had when I served in the war. I read somewhere once that it is supposed to be the best zombie killing weapon.”
“Did you serve in the Pacific or Atlantic?” Jamal asks not bothering to look at Rudolph.
“Most likely Korea as the M2 entered World War II very late,” I interject before I think about opening my mouth. Jamal glances at me, and then looks at Rudolph.
Just as Jamal opens his mouth to reply he is interrupted by the arrival of his food. As the young Asian girl sets Jamal’s and Nguen’s plates of chicken and chow mein noodles in front of them, I take the opportunity to study the man sitting at the head of the table.
One of the young boys sets a small clear plastic beer pitcher of water with four water glasses in between Jamal and I. Jamal immediately pours himself a glass of water.
I immediately recognized his voice identifying him as Pete the barricade leader. He is several years older than Jamal or Sam, I am guessing in his early to mid-70s. His bald dome and the shaved sides of his head peppered with silvery stubble display a dark tan, so he is used to being outdoors.
The way the shirt hangs off Pete it appears that he has lost some weight since TEOTWAKI. I notice the young Asian girl’s clothing is also a bit loose on her, indicating she too has lost some weight. So much for the American obesity problem, I guess TEOTWAKI was good for something.
As I study Pete (AKA Rudolph) the barricade leader, my food arrives brought by one of the Asian boys. The smell of chicken with its spicy sweet sauce piled on a bed of steaming white rice makes my mouth water. Thankfully a fork and a spoon with a nice pair of bamboo chopsticks are laying on the plate, as well. Grabbing the fork, I prepare to dig into my food with relish, already enjoying the thought of the spicy sweet flavor of the chicken balanced by the cool of the white rice.
Shortly after the arrival of my food, the young Asian girl returns carrying a small, pretty blue ceramic tea-pot and a small gray ceramic tea-cup which she sets in front of me. The smell of the hot green tea is delightful.
“Pete, I have given your suggestion that we stay the night some thought, but I still need to discuss it with Sam and the rest of the convoy members. We are not soldiers anymore and cannot order the former soldiers. While most of the former soldiers still think of themselves as soldiers and will take orders if we gave them, Sam and I are not in a position to order anyone. The decision to stay the night or continue travelling will be decided by vote once all crew members have eaten.”
“Sam, that is your cyclops buddy, isn’t that so?”
Jamal grimaces, his lips forming a thin, straight line before he answers. “Yes, Sam has only one eye. He lost his right eye in the service of his country in Vietnam during his second tour, and I will not have someone deride him.” Jamal briefly looked at Nguen when he mentioned Vietnam.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch I meant no disrespect to the colonel. I served in Korea at Chosin where things were pretty bad.”
“My apologies then, I am a little touchy and defensive of my friend.” Despite his words Jamal does not seem terribly contrite.
“So you and Sam have no issues with your boy there who said he is Vietnamese. I saw you look at him.” He says this as he points a stiff left index finger at Nguen.
“Hey man, I am Vietnamese by way of Tacoma. I can speak Vietnamese fluently but I cannot read it. I’ve never even been to Vietnam, man. My family fled the communists, my grandfather came here as a young boy.” Nguen seems as if he is used to being compared to the Communists that now run his parent’s former country.
Pete takes another giant gulp of beer finishing and crushing the can he tosses it in the middle of the table and opens another can, taking a deep drink from the new can. “The family that runs this Chinese restaurant is Chinese. The elder great-grandfather served with Chiang Kai-shek in China during World War II. After the war and the rise of the communists, the family fled to Taiwan and then later to the States. They’ve been good neighbors, and we have tried to spare the family as much as we can. This whole zombie thing really took everyone by surprise.”
“I understand, I was in the FEMA camps for a while and saw firsthand the destruction the KCAP virus causes. Before that, I was called in to assist the CDC in Georgia at Druid Hills, where I watched the total destruction of Atlanta and most of the eastern sea board.” Jamal seems unusually tired and worn down.
“Jamal, you said that you are a neuro-ophthalmologist, correct?” I ask.
He nods his head at me, so I continue my line of thinking. “Why were you called in to the CDC and why were you in the FEMA camps? Seems like a place that your particular specialty would not be needed.”
“Ruth you are correct that, in the FEMA camps, I did not work as a neuro-ophthalmologist, but as a general doctor. All specialists start out as general doctors first. At the CDC, I was called in because of my ground breaking work in optometry bionics as well as some of the groundbreaking studies I had done in understanding how the optic neural network operates.”
While Jamal talks my loaded fork floats in front of my chest wavering around a bit. Looking around the table, I note that not one of the barricade folks are eating unusually fast, and I note that Pete is not eating at all, maybe he prefers beer. Putting my now empty fork to the side of my plate, I sip my delicious green tea and listen.
Wow this shit is spicy; I break out in a bit of a sweat. The heavy-handed chef in the kitchen liberally sprinkled the chicken with the little thin, dried red peppers. I do not see any of our servers, or I would ask for a glass of water. I am a bit uncomfortable as I am not used to food this damned spicy.
“We know the zombies can see, and we know they can hear. Our dissections of KCAP zombies showed this thick patch of black thread like nerves that grew from the basal ganglia and encompassed the amygdala, medulla oblongata, cerebral cortex, thalamus, and prefrontal cortex. Somehow, that defies all logic and science, the virus is able to rejuvenate the part of the human brain often referred to as the lizard brain.
Jamal pauses for a sip of water. “The KCAP virus, we think, is a mutated Chinese Cold War bio-weapon that escaped somehow. The virus shows strains of mutated rabies, Spanish influenza, Ebola, and several variants of other diseases similar to mad cow. We even saw strains of two of the human form of mad cow disease known as variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease (vCJD) and new variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease (nvCJD).”
In between discussions I note that Jamal is hardily shoveling his food down. His chicken is not as liberally sprinkled, I notice, with the little thin, dried, dark red peppers as my chicken is. What the fuck is up with that?
Jamal pauses for a longer drink of water this time, apparently the spiciness of the chicken is getting him too. “The KCAP virus may even be a retrovirus, able to integrate its own genome in to the host’s DNA, which just might explain why the living cannibals, primates and swine are able to survive with the virus for a short time. This virus shows adaptability at being a deadly virus in one host and possibly a retrovirus in another. How it switches we were unable to determine.”
“Jesus, zombie bacon, what is the world coming to,” Pete interrupts mumbling into his second can of beer.
Jamal continues his one-sided discussion. “Our studies at the CDC revealed that the virus is incredibly fast acting, the mean onset time after death is about 72 hours. We hypothesized but were unable to verify that the KCAP virus is actually a living being, we may be looking at a new species, one that is programmed to reproduce by any means. The KCAP virus drives the zombies to bite victims spreading the disease and fulfilling its base drive to reproduce.”
Jamal’s monologue is broken by Pete opening another can of Budweiser, tossing the second crushed, empty can in the center of the table.
“The baser functions of the human ‘lizard brain’ are to survive, reproduce, and although the zombies eat flesh they are unable to digest it. I have seen zombies that have exploded from internal rot and body gasses, still eating, the bloody chunks of raw meat falling out of the gaping hole in their abdomen. Since the KCAP bodies still rot and decay in the normal manner, there is no Romero-esque miraculous preservation, the virus has to infect new hosts to continue to propagate.”
Jamal is interrupted by his and my radios suddenly transmitting rapid fire repeating Morse code: -..—-.-..– which repeats so fast it takes a few moments for me to translate the message. I am a little rusty in my international Morse code, but thankfully they teach all Mossad agents and all Spetsnaz operators international Morse code.
Once the message sinks in and everyone is staring at Jamal’s and my radios, I leap on to the table scattering dishes everywhere in my best “slide for home” feet first dive like a missile straight at Pete. I draw my pistol while diving across the table.
Once I reach Pete, I wrap my legs around his chest pinning his arms to his side as if I am giving him a dirty lap dance. I then in the same fluid move jam my pistol muzzle under Pete’s jaw hard enough to cause him to choke and spit nasty warm Budweiser on my face. I am sure he heard me flip the safety off as I brought the pistol to bear; the safety on a Browning Hi Power makes a very distinct sound.
The impact of my body into Pete causes us both to topple over with Pete landing on his back with me astride him. The landing winds Pete a bit, and his face turns red as I press the muzzle of my pistol none too gently into the soft spot behind his jaw under his chin.
“What the fuck is going on Pete?” I pull one of my long hair pins from my hair and place the needle-sharp point near the tear duct of his left eye. “Want to look like Sam” I offer to him while pressing the point hard enough against the corner of his eye that a small drop of blood forms around the point.
The Top 50 Excuses For Not Prepping by Michael Snyder, The American Dream May 21, 2012
Michael Snyder The American Dream May 21, 2012
With the way that things are heading in this country, it is not surprising that there are approximately 3 million preppers in the United States today. What is surprising is that there are not more people prepping. The economy is rapidly falling to pieces, the national debt is absolutely soaring, the earth is becoming increasingly unstable, a major war could erupt in the Middle East at any time and the fabric of our society is coming apart right in front of our eyes. We have become incredibly dependent on technology and we have become incredibly dependent on our economic system. If a major natural disaster, a killer pandemic, an EMP attack (Natural-the sun or man made) or the imposition of martial law caused a significant transportation disruption, America would literally change overnight. We live during a time of tremendous global instability, and yet most people still see no need to start prepping at all. Most people just continue to have blind faith in our leaders and in our system. But what happens if our leaders fail us? What happens if our system collapses? What are they going to do then? Will you go to the FEMA concentration camp?
The number of preppers in the United States today is steadily increasing, but the vast majority of people out there still see no reason to start getting ready for “the end of the world as we know it”. Most people just assume that things will always somehow get better or that they will somehow be immune to whatever calamities are heading our way. Most people always seem to have a “good excuse” for why they do not need to prepare.
The following are the top 50 excuses for not prepping….
1. “The U.S. Economy Is The Greatest Economy On The Planet – There Is No Way That It Could Ever Collapse”
2. “Once Barack Obama Wins The Election Everything Will Be Better”
3. “Once Mitt Romney Wins The Election Everything Will Be Better”
4. “When Things Get Really Bad The Government Will Take Care Of Us”
5. “When Disaster Strikes I Will Just Steal From Everyone Else That Has Been Busy Preparing”
6. “The Rapture Will Be At Any Moment So I Don’t Have To Worry About Prepping”
7. “The Economy Has Always Recovered After Every Recession In The Past And This Time Will Be No Different”
8. “The People That Are Running Things Are Very Highly Educated And They Know Exactly What They Are Doing”
9. “Wal-Mart Will Always Be There”
10. “Our Politicians Are Watching Out For Our Best Interests”
11. “The 2012 Apocalypse Is Almost Here And We Are All Doomed Anyway – So Why Even Try?”
12. “Preppers Do Not Have A Positive Mental Attitude”
13. “If An Economic Collapse Comes I Will Just Go On Welfare”
14. “There Are Some Things You Just Can’t Prepare For”
15. “Prepping Is Too Expensive”
16. “We Are Not Like Other Countries – U.S. Cities Are Designed To Withstand Major Earthquakes”
17. “I Need To Save Up For Retirement Instead”
18. “The Stock Market Has Been Soaring So Why Worry?”
19. “I Don’t Have Room To Store Anything”
20. “Prepping Is For Crazy People”
21. “I Don’t Believe In Conspiracy Theories”
22. “All The Food I Store Is Going To Go Bad”
23. “I Would Rather Spend My Time Watching American Idol”
24. “All The People Who Freaked Out About Y2K Look Really Foolish Now, Don’t They?”
25. “I Don’t Want To Look Like Those Idiots On ‘Doomsday Preppers’”
26. “An EMP Attack Could Never Happen”
27. “There Will Never Be A Nationwide Transportation Disruption In The United States”
28. “Instead Of Being So Paranoid, I Would Rather Just Enjoy Life”
29. “If Society Falls Apart I Wouldn’t Want To Continue To Live Anyway”
30. “There Will Never Be Another World War”
31. “I’m Too Lazy To Grow A Garden”
32. “If You Assume The Worst Is Going To Happen Then You Don’t Believe In America”
33. “Deficits Don’t Matter”
34. “I’ll Always Be Able To Get A Job In My Field”
35. “If There Is A Financial Collapse All Of My Debts Will Be Wiped Out So I Might As Well Live It Up Now”
36. “If Things Hit The Fan I Will Just Go Move In With My Relatives Who Have Been Busy Prepping”
37. “Those That Believe That There Will Be Massive Riots In American Cities Someday Are Just Being Delusional”
38. “My Spouse Would Think That I Have Finally Lost It”
39. “I Don’t Know Where To Start”
40. “I’ll Just Deal With Problems As They Arrive”
41. “I Don’t Have To Prepare For A Natural Disaster – That Is What FEMA Is For”
42. “We’ll Never See Martial Law In The United States”
43. “I Don’t Want To Scare My Children”
44. “Once I Get Rid Of All My Debt Then I Will Start Thinking About Prepping”
45. “My Relatives Already Think That I Am A Nut Job – I Don’t Need To Make It Any Worse”
46. “If People At Work Find Out That I Am Prepping It Could Hurt My Career”
47. “If There Really Was A Good Reason To Prepare They Would Tell Us About It On The News”
48. “People Have Been Predicting Doom And Gloom For Years And It Hasn’t Happened Yet”
49. “The United States Is The Greatest Nation On Earth – There Is No Way That It Could Collapse”
50. “I Don’t Plan On Becoming A Card Carrying Member Of The Tin Foil Hat Brigade”
Ruth’s Story #34 – Going to eat Chinese food within the barricade on Lake City Way surrounded by a zombie horde
“You should be careful of startling people Doc, especially when that someone is standing next to a machine gun with the safety off.”
His eyebrows rise, “That is an AR15, not an assault rifle. I may not know much about guns, but I know the difference between an assault rifle and a semi-automatic sporting rifle. Although, Sam did say there was something not kosher with your rifle.”
“Generally you would be correct Doc, but see; I have this little highly illegal replacement four-position fire control group (FCG) installed in my rifle that essentially turns my POF AR15 in to a select fire M16 with full auto and three-round burst capability.” Jamal’s use of the word kosher was rather intriguing.
“My carbine has an adjustable flat-topped gas block installed at rifle length, preventing the rifle from being over-gassed. With the suppressor mounted, and the gas block adjusted accordingly, my rifle runs much cooler and cleaner with less crap blasted back into my face and the breech of the weapon.”
“For a very petite woman Ruth, you pack some serious weapons. Yes, Sam and I looked through your things while you slept. No, I did not drug you although it was considered. We also looked at your pass port; your last name does not sound Israeli although your pass port is.”
“My father is Lebanese my mother was Israeli; my last name is Lebanese.” I am a little perturbed that they dug through my purse. Now I have an itching to verify the contents of my purse. I wonder if they found my “CIA letter opener” in its secret slot. One of the nice things about carrying a custom designed purse made for the Mossad is its ability to hide all kinds of useful items from the average person.
“You obviously served in the IDF, and we are guessing the Mossad as well did you not? Sam and I construed that you are likely an Israeli agent. We are concerned about your back ground Ruth, and we assumed that you are still Mossad by your weapons. We would like to know with whom we are travelling.”
“Yes, Jamal I was in the Mossad for a number of years. Then I went to work for a private intelligence consulting firm after living in the States for a while. I’ve actually worked under contract with a private subcontractor from some of the US Government’s alphabet agencies for a few years now. I still have contacts and friends in the IDF and Mossad, or at least I did.” Aharon immediately comes to mind.
I get some raised eyebrows at that statement.
“So you mean if I had a mini-Uzi, a Tavor and a Jericho 941, you would have considered me a rouge agent? Is that why you gave me a trunk full of anti-tank weapons? Who the fuck gives an anti-tank missile and LAWs rockets to someone they do not know?”
For my little tirade, I get a shit-eating grin in response.
“I had to be able to defend myself, and occasionally a target needed eliminating that I could get close to with my skills. Sometimes the opportunity presented itself, and I took it.”
Getting no response, I continue my diatribe, “I grew up speaking Arabic, English, Hebrew, Farsi and Yiddish. Most of the time in the IDF and later the Mossad, I was a translator and intelligence analyst. While I am pretty good at the dirty, physical aspects of the intelligence field, that was not my main calling. I can pass myself off either as an Arab or a Jew so I can work easily within either society although I am a little dark skinned for a Jew and a little light colored for an Arab. While the ultra-Orthodox Jews may disagree, and despite my Arab heritage, I still consider myself first and foremost a Jewish Israeli. I was vetted very carefully because of my Arab heritage, and it took a long time for me to gain my position in Mossad. The Second Lebanese War of 2006 finally gave me that opportunity.”
I was actually in Sayeret Maglan during the Lebanese War, but he does not need to know that. I did not join Mossad until after the war.
“You have some serious weapons for an intelligence analyst and translator. I am fairly intelligent, but I suspect that you have a particularly scary-high IQ. Carol and Nikola informed me that you speak Russian perfectly, even with a proper Moscow accent. Nikola also said that you recognized his AK rifle, which is rather rare and uncommon outside of the former Soviet Union. How do you remember all this material and how are you able to speak so many languages?”
Silence falls for a minute as we watch our comrades walk to the Chinese restaurant in that strange hunched over shuffle. The former soldiers, trying not to be spotted by the zombies massed against the barricade, hustle to the restaurant.
While the zombies might not be terribly smart, and individually they are not much of a threat, in large groups they can be quite deadly. The zombie horde presses against the barricade, and by their sheer amassed weight alone is able to bend and move sections of the barricade.
Jamal reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a pack of Djarum Black clove cigarettes. Seeing the clove cigarettes which have been banned from importation in to the US since 2009, causes me to wonder how the former colonel obtained the illicit cigarettes. We are close to Canada, maybe the colonel traveled to Canada for his prohibited cigarette purchases.
Kreteks (proper Indonesian term for clove cigarette) have always smelled terrific, but I dislike how they make my lungs burn. Most of the cigarettes like the colonel is smoking has more tar and nicotine than the Marlboro Red “cowboy killers” that I am smoking. Jamal lights his kretek with a long skinny, chrome single blue flame lighter and takes a long drag.
Jamal takes another long drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke out slowly though his nostrils. I notice that he cups his cigarette between thumb and index finger, rather than the common two finger pinch style that most people use including myself.
“So how are you able to remember all of this material? Your ability to recall facts and figures has been noted by several members of our party.”
Silence falls between us for a moment as we smoke our respective cigarettes. Glancing behind, I notice that Carol and Nikola are listening with rapt interest although they are trying their damndest to appear uninterested.
I consider how best to answer Jamal’s question. I finally decide a little honesty would not hurt too much in this situation.
“Doc, early in my teens I was diagnosed as possibly having Hyperthymesia. Would you happen to be familiar with this mental condition?”
“I am somewhat familiar with the concept of Hyperthymesia, but psychology was not my specialty.”
“Well Doc that turned out not to be quite an accurate diagnosis, because although I have some of the OCD characteristics, and a lack of certain inhibitions typical of a person with Hyperthymesia, I did not fit many of the other factors. An MRI revealed an enlarged temporal lobe, caudate nucleus, and hippocampus, but I still did not fit the Hyperthymesia model completely.”
Jamal interrupts me, “You said this was in your early teens, did you not?”
“Yes Doc, during my teens I was a somewhat problematic child for my parents. The death of my mother in a suicide Hamas bus bombing when I was 14 did not help either.”
“I am sorry to hear of your loss,” Jamal does seem saddened to learn of the death of my mother. It is an old wound that I have borne for many years; I miss my mother terribly, I wish we had not fought so much before she died.
“I was later diagnosed as having an eidetic memory with near perfect recall which is probably as close to correct of diagnosis as I can determine. Although the term eidetic memory is somewhat misleading and not widely accepted in the field of psychology, it is a fair description of my mental abilities. I always just thought that I possess an excellent trained memory rather than some savant-like ability. I have always had a natural affinity for languages and am able to learn new languages fairly fast. Although, I think I have reached my limit of languages.”
The four of us lean against my little car watching former soldiers come and go from the Chinese restaurant. Nikola finishes his cigarette first, dropping the butt on the ground and stomping on it. I follow suit a little bit later while Jamal is still about half way through his kretek.
We continue to watch the former soldiers come and go from the Chinese restaurant as they finish eating. Sam, with the hulking Laurel beside him, comes walking up to us chomping on a wooden tooth pick in the right corner of his mouth. “Let’s start getting the second half of the crew fed, and then look at getting out of here.”
Carol and Nikola start walking towards the Chinese restaurant holding hands. Both are openly wearing M9 side arms. I decide not to take my POF AR15, and lay it across the driver’s and passenger’s seats in front of my little Smart car.
Sam continues, ignoring the passing of Nikola and Carol. “That damn zombie horde shows no sign of wandering off. Randy thinks we may need to cause a diversion to draw the zombies away. While you are eating, we will gather some options for causing a diversion. When the crew is done eating I want to get everyone together and discuss our options and next actions.”
Looking at the top of the deuce, I notice that Sutton is no longer in his perch, I assume he is eating.
With my LBV on and my suppressorless pistol hanging from the belt, I decide that I am armed sufficiently for all but a heavy assault. I consider taking off my field jacket, but I am still a little cold. Taking off my field jacket, I would also have to readjust my fucking LBV to fit me without the jacket on.
I do, however, strip off the heavy Scottevest jacket as it is a little too warm and bulky, tossing the jacket on top of my rifle while the two former colonels talk. Under the premise of checking my boot laces, I make sure my little Ruger LC9 is still firmly strapped to the inside of my left boot.
While checking my boot laces I also make sure the CIA letter opener is still secured in its slot in the inseam of my right pants leg near my ankle. My entire collection of CIA letter openers are made of Zytel, a fiberglass reinforced nylon, and all were made by the A.G. Russell™ knife company.
Based on the old, all steel Sting 1A from the 1970s, the CIA letter opener with twin stiffening ridges and a deep blood groove, is an excellent clandestine knife that can pass undetected through metal detectors. I have sharpened all of my Zytel weapons using 1,200 grit automotive wet-dry sandpaper.
While my CIA letter openers may not cut through heavy clothing and would not be my first choice of weapon to use in a knife fight, as a backup or emergency weapon they can be quite handy as long as you are aware of their limitations.
Using a CIA letter opener as a stabbing weapon, aiming for soft spots like the abdomen, groin, eyes and throat can be an effective weapon in an emergency, or when you might need a weapon but know that you are going to be searched by a metal detector.
I also have a Zytel Cold Steel 92HC Honey Comb in my purse that I will never use on my hair. The handle separates from the comb part revealing a marvellous cruciform dagger that I have likewise sharpened with 1,200 grit automotive sandpaper.
The Cold Steel 92HC dagger has the same limitations in close quarters battle (CQB) as the CIA letter opener. The 92HC dagger will not slice but as a stabbing weapon aiming for the typical soft points of the human body, might do in an emergency when no other weapon is available.
Of course, either Zytel weapon would be useless against a zombie because they have no fear of injury and do not feel pain. Stabbing a zombie in the eye with either Zytel dagger and actually penetrating to the brain through the skull requires an inhuman amount of force.
The only thing that might give away my Cold Steel 92HC dagger is the fact that I have wrapped the handle in a delightful interwoven pattern using two separate pieces of O.D. green and red 550 seven strand paracord. I drilled a hole through the base of the 92HC dagger/comb handle to facilitate the attachment of a small O.D. green 550 paracord monkey fist, as well.
Both the monkey fist and the paracord wrapping on the handle make an easy and unobtrusive way to carry a shit load of paracord with me should I need it. I also have a blue and white paracord survival bracelet on my key chain with a stainless steel shackle which is also in my purse.
You just never know when you might need some paracord to tie someone up, make a garrote, or fix your slinky tight-fitting bare shoulders evening dress because the stupid spaghetti straps were not made to survive Krav Maga CQB fighting.
Although the sight, of my suddenly bare tits surely distracted my male opponent enough for me to knock him unconscious when he came to as sudden of a stop as the appearance of my tits. Of course, I do not recall Aharon teaching the “flash your tits to distract your male opponent” Krav Maga technique, but it was certainly effective in that instance.
Closing the Smart car’s door while musing about the contents of my purse and unordinary martial arts techniques, I see Laurel has joined the conversation with Sam and Jamal beside my little car. This is the first time I have heard Laurel talk.
I overhear Laurel (AKA Randy, or Sargent Major) and Sam talking about the men in the barricade armed with newer compound hunting bows that were apparently obtained by raiding several pawn shops. Some of the firearms apparently also came from raided pawn shops.
From the two former soldier’s discussion, it does not sound as if this group were well prepared with weapons and supplies before the SHTF. I wonder how the barricade defenders managed to erect the barricade, which is no small feat of urban survival engineering.
Walking behind Carol and Nikola to the Chinese restaurant, I join a small group of former soldiers coming and going from the restaurant. Nikola opens and holds the door for Carol and I for which we thank him. Nikola nods at us and follows us inside the restaurant.
Ruth’s Story #33 – Stopped within uban survival engineered barricade on Lake City Way surrounded by zombies
“Hopefully we took the fight out of them.” Jamal sounds concerned.
“I regret the earlier unpleasantries. I wouldna blamed you if you had just left after the way we treated you folks. (There is a slight, silent pause.) Well, I’ll go in the house after lunch and getch ya two full boxes of .300 Win Mag. Seems the least I can do since you guys really put the hurt on that gang.”
“We would appreciate it, specialty ammunition is going to be difficult to obtain.”
“Yeah I bet. That big ol’ bolt action Barrett rifle your boy carries, it’s one of those new fancy multi-caliber doozies ain’t it?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“That gang of ass holes been hitting us a couple times a week; they done some serious damage to the barricade. They are one of the reasons we collected all the heavy fencing from nearby businesses. A little creative urban survival engineering comes in handy. This whole KCAP virus thing turned out to be a real doozie of a black swan. Well enough chatter, let’s get the rest of your convoy inside the barricade so we can close the southern gate before we get run over by zombies.”
Sam transmits, “Everybody hear that, if you are not already within the barricade, get your ass inside now, so the barricade can be closed. Call out when you are inside the barricade.”
Reaching inside the little Smart car, I grab my radio. “Ruth inside.”
“Carol and Nikola inside.” The thick Russian accent on that transmission lets me know it was transmitted by Nikola.
The Humvee with the 240 on its roof, the last vehicle in our little convoy, comes careening up beside my little car and the blue GM diesel pickup. Accompanying the brief trip is a profuse cloud of black smoke billowing out of the Humvee’s vertical exhaust stack and the throaty roar of its GM turbo charged engine. The woman driver slams on the brakes bouncing the standing ex-soldier manning the 240 around. I hear the standing soldier swear profusely while he gets bounced around.
“Wheeled mechanics inside. Last vehicle in convoy; all vehicles clear of the southern gate.” Not sure who transmitted that message, the voice was neutral enough to be either male or female.
Another faintly transmitted message overheard in the background is probably the barricade leader talking on a radio. Shortly following the completion of the overheard discussion, a large diesel engine to the south starts.
I partially observe the closing of the southern gate, which is comprised of a large articulated Metro bus, as it moves back into position. For better or for worse we are inside the barricade.
“I hope they will not bother you again. Getting strafed by a dual .50 and a pair of belt fed automatic weapons should be enough to make anyone reconsider. Was that all of the gang members?” Jamal seems intrigued, eavesdropping on his conversation, Jamal’s remark breaks my observation of the southern gate.
“Regrettably no, that was a raiding party, or an attempt at testing our defenses again. There are plenty more ass holes out there.” The way the barricade leader emphasizes “plenty” makes me wonder if he means that more than one gang exists which have been bothering the barricade defenders.
“I have a worry that someone may attempt attacking you to possess the weapons which we are taking with us. They probably have at least one observer nearby. That last shot into the little white car was most likely a Raufoss round. Word gets out you have that kind of firepower, might attract all the wrong sorts of attention.” Jamal seems genuinely concerned.
“Yeah maybe perhaps so, but then again might keep the ass holes away. Well, it looks as if you folks are stuck with us for a bit. ‘Till the zombies clear the northern gate anyways.”
“Jamal, Sam, this is Sutton, do you want me to take the high ground and see if I can spot the observer and take ‘em out?”
A moment of silence passes. “This is Sam, stay where you are, the observer has probably left by now. However, everyone keep your eyes open. If you see someone that looks like an observer watching our position, shoot them. I’m OK with SOS (Shoot on Sight) and ask questions later.”
Silence falls again as I watch a few of the former soldiers walking around the vehicles. Everyone is obviously armed with M4s, M9s and other weapons in obvious sight. Still using my stupidly pricey Steiner binos, I finally spot Sutton sitting behind the optical sight for the dual .50 gun mount on top of the deuce.
Wearing his Ghillie suit pulled up covering himself and the gun mount’s camera, Sutton almost blends into the truck. The zombies do not seem to realize that there is someone on top of the deuce. I zoom in on Sutton and realize that he is using a remarkably similar pair of binos with which he is scanning the tops of the buildings surrounding us. Leaning over the camera system for the dual .50 Sutton is resting the binos on it to steady his optics. So, I have spotted Laurel where is Hardy? Maybe he is eating.
Sutton has a pair of honey comb antireflection lens covers attached to the objective lens housing of his binos. I see him range several buildings, writing things down with a pencil in a note book. I cannot see what Sutton is writing, but I would bet anything he is making a range data card. Sam said, I thought, that no snipers were coming with us. Sutton is acting unusually “sniper-ish.”
“Where did you guys get all the concrete?” Jamal says suddenly changing topics and making me look away from my observation of Sutton on top of the deuce. Looking around the interior of the barricade I see indeed that there is certainly a lot of crude concrete poured around the foot of the barricade.
“There used to be a huge concrete plant a few miles east of here. You’ll pass it on the right if you stay on Lake City Way. We helped ourselves to several trucks full of concrete.”
“I’d say more than a few trucks.” Jamal comments wryly.
“Yeah we were busy for a while. Thankfully, one of our guys used to work for the concrete company and knew how to operate all the machinery. He knew how to mix the concrete in the truck for the hardest concrete we could pour. Eventually we ran out some things like fly ash, whatever the hell that is, so we just had to do with what we could get.”
Looking around the inside of the barricade, I see the large solid slab of concrete which forms the base of the barricade that the ex-colonel is referring too. Not pretty, but an effective way to hold the crude fencing and provide security. Looks as if the barricade people scavenged all of the lumber that they could find with which to make a concrete form; in which they set the fencing and other barricade material in to the wet concrete. Setting the scavenged fencing material, cut up shopping carts, heavy chains, and about anything else that they could jam into the wet concrete makes an effective, if fucking ugly, barrier.
They certainly will not get any awards for pretty work, but the mounded concrete makes a highly effective deterrent and solid anchor for the fence. They poured the concrete high and thick enough to deter all but the heaviest vehicles. Or zombies armed with explosives.
The concrete fence footing is nearly waist high to me, square vertical faced on the interior with a sloping exterior. The sharp exterior slope might stop most vehicles, except for those with the highest ground clearance.
There are numerous sections of metal fence posts, rebar and other scavenged straight metal pieces with mushroomed tops. The metal pieces and the damage that they portray makes me figure the barricade builders drove the pieces of metal through the asphalt into the ground to help anchor the concrete.
I know little of construction, but it would seem to me that the deeply driven metal pieces somehow connected to the barricade would make it a lot stronger. I would worry about an attack breaking the concrete loose from the asphalt. Maybe the barricade builders had the same concern and pounded the metal stakes down through the asphalt pouring concrete around them anchoring the barricade base.
Wonder what they used to drive the metal fence posts? The tops of the metal fence posts look like the usual metal tee fence posts that are the bane of every Israeli farmer and orchard owner. Driving the three feet to eight feet tall fence stakes in to the hard ground of Israel is a real chore that is not relished by anyone, especially in the summer heat of Israel.
Topping the barricade is a copious amount of rusty razor wire. The razor wire is held out on angled metal brackets similar to what you see on fences around high security places. Underneath the razor wire are coils of nasty barb wire from which hangs all kinds of tin cans, CD-ROMs, and any other noisemaking junk. I even see several small brass bells like you see on domestic pets, and some of the bells with clips like you attach to a fishing line.
Speaking of fishing line, I see lots of fishing hooks tied securely to stout monofilament line hanging around the barricade interwoven in the razor wire. It appears that there was no shortage of nasty barbed fishing hooks or fishing line. It takes me a few moments to determine the purpose of the fishing line and hooks until I spot the destination of the fishing lines.
It appears that should someone attempt to climb through or cut the razor wire, the chances are pretty strong that they are going to get several fish hooks stuck in their body. The enormous fish hooks and razor wire are high enough off the ground that the zombies do not get tangled in the wire or fish hooks. I would hate to be the one attempting to sneak through the barricade with all of the rusty razor wire and rusty fish hooks hanging in its top. With the lack of modern medical care, tetanus is again going to be the nemesis of the living.
All the noise making junk and the razor wire I bet are to give warning of living invaders attempting to slip over the barricade. The razor wire, fish hooks, and barbed wire certainly should be a deterrent to any fool that attempts to climb over the barricade. The barricade builders went all out creating an effective urban survival area since they chose to remain and reinforce rather than bug out.
I wonder if this urban survival barricade was planned or a spur of the moment thing. This much material took some real planning to collect and assemble. Someone had to be really familiar with the area and know what was available. It was nice of their neighbors to let the barricade builders take their fences, concrete, heavy machinery, tools and whatever else it required to build the barricade. I wonder how many of the barricade owner’s neighbors resisted the plundering and are no longer among the living?
Was the barricade builder’s SHTF, TEOTWAWKI, or black swan (a term I have not heard used in a while) plan based on their ability to steal and kill their neighbors? Or did they assume that their neighbors would be dead or would have fled by now leaving the contents of their homes and businesses up for grabs?
A slight breeze brings with it the unmistakable cloying smell of putrification.
A disturbance to the north causes me to look that direction. Looking through my Steiner binos, I see hundreds of zombies pressing against the northern portion of the barricade. While the zombies themselves do not make noise, the sheer weight of so many zombies pressing against the barricade makes a lot of noise.
The weight of the zombie horde is enough to rock the articulated Metro bus that forms the northern gate. I wonder what keeps something from crawling underneath the Metro bus into the barricade. They must have blocked the underside of the bus somehow.
Sheet metal, which looked like old galvanized steel roofing panels, covers the outside of the Metro buses. The panels appear to be holding even with a zombie horde pressing against them. My binos reveal that many of the windows in the bus are cracked, but most of the windows seem to be holding despite the zombie horde.
The zombies are not smart enough to climb the barricade, and they are not able to crawl under the bus either. Living attackers might be able to climb the barricade or figure out how to climb underneath the bus. How the barricade members keep a living raider from getting in to one of the Metro busses and driving it out of the way, I wonder?
It might be a serious risk having a large Metro bus that forms the gates since someone could just jump in it and drive it out of the way. It could be a fascinating experiment to test the barricade defenders by seeing if I could start a Metro bus and possibly drive it away clearing the gate. Not that I would have taken a bus, but I wonder if the barricade defenders have considered the possibility. I hope the barricade defenders have a way of disabling the Metro buses so they cannot be driven by an unauthorized person.
I spot and note several dented and broken areas in the barricade, hastily repaired that appear as if somebody attempted to ram a vehicle through the barrier. It appears that the barrier has held so far. I have to hand it to the people that made this barricade; it is fucking large, impressive and equally ugly.
The Garmin GPS system in my little Smart car displays just how large this impressive barricade truly is. From where I am sitting, I can only catch glimpses of the western and southern portions of the barricade.
The barricade totally encloses the triangular shaped block with the dry cleaners in the precise north eastern corner to the southern corner where 12th Avenue North East joins Lake City Way. The northern section of the barricade runs westbound along Northeast 80th Street to the corner of 12th Avenue North East. At the corner of 12th and NE 80th streets, the barricade runs east along 12th Avenue NE until it merges with Lake City Way again.
The barricade is a massively impressive feat of urban survival engineering. A sudden radio transmission by Jamal halts my musings about the barricade.
“Here are the rest of the medical supplies we promised. Make sure you administer them sparingly. There is several schedule three medications in the med kits. If you can, get some medical books by raiding a library, pharmacy or book store.” Jamal seems genuinely concerned, must be the doctor in him. That whole “do no harm” thing.
“You know with the barricade closed, the zombies are more of a nuisance than a threat. We have found that as long as everyone stays out of sight, eventually the zombies will wander off.”
“So you are going to ignore the zombies?” Jamal seems surprised.
“Yah for now, with your whole convoy inside the barricade, the zombies are not a threat to anyone. No sense wasting resources on things that are already dead. We have a couple of black powder cannons that we can load with chain, cable and grape shot. The cannons loaded with either grape or chain, really wipes the zombies out. The tricky part is making sure the two cannons loaded with the cable or chain fire nearly simultaneously. We can probably start making our own black powder here pretty soon, but no sense wasting the little black powder we have until we need to use it. Your idea of raiding a library and a pharmacy for books sounds pretty good.”
“Do not forget a book store either.”
The conversation tapers off, and I hear another indistinct conversation. It sounds as if the barricade leader’s radio has several people on their channel, as well. The barricade leader’s conversation is too faint for me to hear clearly.
“My name is Pete, by the way. That was my wife and sister in law, and they say that we would like to invite you and your men to eat lunch with us in the Chinese restaurant. You might as well eat with us, since you obliterated the attackers who brought the zombies, and you are not going anywhere for the moment. You are not in a hurry are you?”
Jamal’s voice comes over the radio. “Sam you catch that?”
“Affirmative, half the crew eats now then the other half. Shut down everybody. We are parked for a while. Everyone follows the same rules we had in the camp.”
One by one the vehicles are shut off, and I reach in and shut my little car off. The sudden silence seems eerie. Occasionally a zombie rattles the barricade or gets tangled momentarily in the barricade thrashing around for a while.
Soldiers, correction former soldiers, start getting out of their vehicles. A few young Caucasian males each armed with a modern compound bow of some kind with attached quivers full of brightly-colored arrows and dressed in street clothes, walk over and start gesturing and explaining that the guys need to stay behind the vehicles when they walk to the restaurant. That way the zombies will not see anybody and hopefully they will be gone by the time we are done eating.
Looking behind my car while I stand beside my little car and stretch, I see Carol and Nikola walking towards me.
“Ruth, Nicky and I are going to eat with the second shift, would you join us?”
“Sure,” I mumble while digging for a cigarette. I notice Nikola likewise digs a cigarette out. Breaking off the filter, he tosses it on the ground. I light my cigarette and then light Nikola’s unfiltered cigarette with my Zippo. Leaning against my little car with Carol between us, Nikola and I enjoy a momentary respite.
I glance over and see that the four mechanics and the M240 gunner are playing “rock, paper, scissors” to see who goes to eat first.
I ponder how best to spend my time until it is time for me to go eat. Why the hell did I agree to eat second shift? I should clean my weapons, but my cleaning kit is packed in the bonnet of my car. I do not want to pop the little car open and show the world what goodies I have.
I consider walking to the passenger side of the car and then remember that we are playing hide and seek with a gigantic fucking zombie horde. With a shooing motion of my hand, I make Carol and Nikola move down my car, clearing the driver’s door.
I am startled by Jamal standing a little too close to me.
