I do not think that Shack has my proclivity for being able to love a person regardless of their sex. Shack like most young men raised in a predominately male and military environment has a strong dislike of gay people. Some of our discussions in the radio tent during the slow times, especially in the middle of the night when we are both tired, have ranged widely in topics.
Thankfully, Shack the lovely brilliant lad, rigged an old hand crank charging apparatus from a broken emergency radio and spliced it to a broken car A/C charger for my MP3 player. We often sit with an ear bud in one of our ears enjoying the music something I thought I would never hear again. The music helps pass the time although we have to be careful with the music player lest someone else discover our boredom fighting secret.
To remain awake and fight boredom, there is almost no discussion topic that is taboo. Shack asked about my first female lover. I avoided the question, which now as I write I realize was foolish. I am ready to share my body with Shack, the least I could do is let him know my past sexual history.
Shack has been completely honest with me even causing me to blush a few times with some of his teenage sexual escapades. I am amazed what children these days learn about sex, even while they are still technically virgins. At Shack’s age, I did not have even an inkling of what are some of the more adventurous sexual practices Shack has experienced.
I certainly was not letting boys finger me in the back of the school bus on the way home! Computers are highly regulated in Israel, with the state blocking anything that is not wholesome or is critical of the Jewish state. My family, particularly my father, despised computers and the internet, as sources of nothing but porn, filth, perversion and an absence of God.
Despite my father’s feelings, he still ensured that all of his children were at least adept with a computer. I can type quite well, which has come in handy now many years later as I sit in Iain’s bunker transcribing my journal notes from all the little scraps of paper I hoarded. I fear that I may have lost some of my journal notes, but that may be a story for another time.
Sitting with Shack and company in those early days of the KCAP outbreak, it was hard to imagine the imminent changes to our life. It was hard to believe that it had been less than six months since the world died.
Back then there was still sporadic radio traffic from survivors, some of it actually worth listening to. Before they went silent with a deathly finality, the survivors underneath Ft. Dix transmitted the last few data packet bursts.
From the Ft. Dix bunker we learned that mosquitoes are for the most part unable to carry the KCAP virus. Once the virus infects a human host, it begins to grow very rapidly. There are only a few seconds, perhaps as much as 30 seconds, when a mosquito might be able to ingest the KCAP virus.
Because of the KCAP virus’s rapid growth, it greatly limits the virus’s ability to be transmitted by mosquitoes. Even the larger, mutated Asian Tiger Mosquito cannot transfer KCAP after a minute or so because the virus is too large to pass through its thick midgut.
KCAP also has the disturbing feat of being able to trick the body into accepting the virus and not trigger antibodies. The researches underneath Ft. Dix felt that KCAP might have some of the characteristics of shingles. KCAP hides from the body’s defense mechanisms similar to the way that shingles (Herpes Zoster – thank you Doc Jamal) hides.
For some reason that is still not understood (as far as I or anyone else that I could ask, anyway) the KCAP virus does not trigger any of the self-defense mechanisms within the body. An antibody-titer test will not reveal the presence of KCAP.
Other than the radio packets of medical information which really is not much help to us at present, radio has been fairly quiet. The colonels have come in and talked with me on occasion as I am still the titular S4 of this outfit. Sitting with Jeff who assumed the role of bookkeeper and quartermaster, Nikola, Rick and Shack the most pressing discussion is what weapons to give to the Adventists.
Another concern is when to give weapons to the Adventists group. Nikola and I offer a suggestion of half of the weapons and ammo, now, the rest upon completion of the foraging trip to Kayak Point. I suggest giving only the older M16A2 rifles to the Adventists. However, the Adventists group lacks anyone with military experience.
The Adventists do possess quite a few bladed weapons so at least they have some weapons to defend themselves against the zombies. It is the living vultures of the two-legged variety that the Adventists need to protect themselves from. A pickaroon is an excellent tool for killing zombies, but it fares poorly against someone armed with a gun.
We are going to have to train the Adventists how to use military weapons. Training was one of the first things that the small religious group requested. During one of the first trade meetings, they also asked for crew served weapons. I am not all that thrilled about handing over crew served weapons. The Adventists also ask for personnel protective clothing, body armor, grenades and medical supplies.
Nikola mentions that he has a couple crates of fucking ancient Soviet RGD-5 (Ruchnaya Granata Distantsionnaya) grenades that he is willing to trade to the Adventists. He also has a pair of equally ancient DShKM “Dushka” 1938/46 12.7mm heavy machine guns that he is willing to part with. Nikola slyly mentions that he only has a few of the 50 round 12.7mm belts.
If the Adventists intend to attack us with our weapons, which none us believe is very probable, giving them odd, and ancient Soviet weapons with little or no repair parts and limited ammo makes sense. Other than the ammo that the Russians might provide, the Adventists are not likely to find 12.7mm ammo anywhere.
Nikola states that both Dushkas are packed in wooden crates encased in cosmoline. A problem with the Dushkas is that both lack a suitable mounting bracket or even a mount to hold the weapon. Neither machine gun has the typical Soviet two-wheeled trolley which unfolds into a tripod. Nikola ponders how to set up the Dushkas.
Another problem teaching the Adventists weapons handling is going to be noise. With all of the shooting the training requires, the noise attracts too much attention wanted or otherwise. We shelf the training of the Adventists for a while and concentrate on property chores.
The soldiers have been quite busy setting up perimeter defense. Quite an effort has gone into ensuring our early warning and intrusion alarms are effective as well as deadly. In the surrounding woods and brushy areas on the edges of the property, many creative and deadly booby traps are set.
I worry that some poor innocent is going to blunder into the booby traps, but I am told that the way the traps are set and their location, they will most likely only be found by someone attempting to either flank our position or sneak into our compound undetected. I am not sure just how the Russian lads are sure about the wrong person not blundering into one of their traps and getting killed, but there are more pressing concerns.
The sneaky Russian bastards, assisted by our own soldiers including my darling Shack collected an eclectic array of junk. Dead aluminum bodied flashlights, empty colored glass liquor and beer bottles, empty US Army rucksacks, and aluminum crates. The lads pushed abandoned cars alongside the road leading to the farm leaving them in strategic places.
At first I thought the lads had gone daft, until I realized that the points they pushed the abandoned vehicles into are carefully plotted on the artillery grid. The cars are also filled with booby-trapped intruder bait. I was amazed to learn that the little white Toyota Tercel carefully parked half off of the road in the opposing lane of traffic is now a deadly trap.
Next chapter: Just what traps do you think the convoy laid? Is the convoy justified in resorting to guerrilla warfare? What happens if an innocent is killed by one of the traps? Is anyone truly innocent in an apocalypse?
As a writer of post-apocalyptic stories, I look for ideas anywhere. Some of these shipping container homes are amazing. Not quite what I imagine survivors living in, but you never know.
The next few days pass in relative boredom. It has been a while since I was able to write in my journal. I am not writing a daily chronological tale of events anyway. I am also getting worried about our office supplies and the future supply of paper.
The last five days have been hectic. I was able to Nguen back to the radio shack since we lost Shen. Poor Shen is getting worse. His leg constantly hurts; we lack enough pain medicine to keep him snowballed, and now he might lose the leg.
Shen’s leg is infected with the flesh eating bacteria Necrotizing Fasciitis. Now do not think I am some medical wizard to pull that name out of my ass. The only reason I know the name of the bacteria is because Doc Jamal told me. I also had him spell it for me. Doc is worried that he might not be able to take Shen’s infected leg safely without killing the poor bastard.
If Nguen’s shitty Mandarin is correct, Shen states that he would rather die than live after losing his leg at the hip. Doc says that the current conditions in a rough and crude field hospital, taking someone’s leg at the hip is far too complicated. Images from the American Civil War found in old medical books shown to me with glee by Doc and Terrance dance in my mind.
I can imagine the hell that Shen would have to endure losing his leg. Other than Shen’s medical nightmare, the little monster Thing 1 all of a week old is already rolling over and doing push-ups on his own. His brother is still a small bubbly chubby baby. The little monster eats like a fiend and howls like a scalded cat every two hours or so to be fed.
Shack and I swap with Nguen, Carol and Nikola keeping an ear on the radio sets should someone transmit something of interest. There has been little radio traffic of notable worth in the last few days.
I believe there are probably a lot of radios out there that lack power, or just living people to use them. We did receive some more medical information radio packets from the poor bastards underneath Ft. Dix. KCAP is able to infect and use the five types of blood vessels that are in the human body: arteries, arterioles, capillaries, venules and veins.
I am not positive how this latest information will help. Even Doc Jamal was a little less than overjoyed when we relayed the information to him. At the time that I was talking to Doc Jamal, he was talking with another soldier attempting to get a sling psychrometer to work.
The sling psychrometer works by whirling a pair of thermometers on a stick around getting the dew point and relative humidity in the air. Our problem is that the sling psychrometer application on the smart phones is no good as all of the phone batteries are dead. We need to find the old paper tables if we are going to use a sling psychrometer.
The sling psychrometer is marked “Property of US Forest Service.” The colonels in an attempt to locate the proper tables for the sling psychrometer, direct the Scouts to search for USFS ranger stations which might still have the old paper tables. Another might be some of the old lumber companies.
Shack is developing into quite the young man. I have to admit to a conflict in my feelings towards him. Although I am not writing a bildungsroman story, I have closely followed Shack’s growth as a man. I admit that I take some pride in how Shack behaves, but most of that was done long before my arrival in his life.
Although I will never meet Shack’s father, he must have been a wonderful man. I know that Shack misses him greatly despite the fact that he hardly ever talks about his father. It must be painful for him to talk about his father as the few times that I have attempted to steer the conversation about his father he has quickly changed the subject or ignored it.
I know that the older Rogers was a Baptist preacher before the KCAP epidemic. Shack’s father had served in the Army previously as a young man before seeking the cloth. Drafted into the Army during the KCAP pandemic, son and father went through basic, Air Borne and Ranger schools together.
Shack’s father must have been one of the few Ranger-tabbed chaplains in the US Army. Speaking of chaplains, Carol reminded me that Nikola and she are looking for a preacher to marry them. I suppose that either colonel could marry them, or they could just make a general announcement, as some of the other couples have done.
I wonder if the Adventists that we are trading with and meeting in a few days have a preacher among them. I will have to ask the colonels when I see one of them. If I see William, the colonel’s shadow, I may ask him as he might know, as well.
We learned over the last few days that the Adventist group has only a few rifles and a pair of old, double barrel shotguns. They possess no handguns as they felt those were strictly for killing someone. The irony is not lost upon me that killing someone is exactly why they need handguns now.
The Adventists weapons are lacking, as is their ammo supply. Our two groups have not managed a meeting between our leaders, but we have had a few amicable trades in the middle of the old I-531 highway not far from here. We do not possess ammo for most of the Adventist’s weapons.
We did have some ammo for the one Mosin Nagant rifle they possess and their two side by side double barrel shotguns both of which are 12 gauges. Some of the Adventists 12 gauge ammo were black powder reloads, with homemade cardboard wads sealed with candle wax.
While Shack and I were bored sitting in the radio shack alternating with Nguen, Carol and Nikola, we got talking about sex. Like most young men his age, Shack thinks about sex at some ridiculous interval rate. Inquiring as to why Shack was so adept at foreplay I learned some interesting facts about the young man.
I learned that Shack is still technically a virgin. He fooled around some with other girls as he worked his way east, but he has never had proper penetration sex. During the long quiet hours, we sit together; I learn that Shack has had a few interesting interactions with some young girls.
Shack regaled me with several tawdry tales of his earliest sexual escapades which helped pass the time. I begin to see a pattern in the ladies that Shack has fooled around with. Shack is attracted to short, petite brunettes with long hair. It is a good thing that generally I fit that description.
One area where I do not match the general description of the young girls that Shack fooled around with is that there is no way before 18; I was doing any of the things that Shack experienced. I do not believe I even knew how to spell fellatio or what it was before I was 19.
I admit that I had lived a fairly sheltered life before I joined the IDF. Thankfully by the time I graduated from high school in Israel, I had already been taking college classes for nearly two years. By summer’s end after high school graduation, I had earned my first Associate’s Degree.
I was able to defer my entry into the IDF for me to attain my Bachelor’s Degree in Foreign Relations. Thanks to my parents, I grew up speaking 10 languages at home. My father was a stickler for ensuring that all of the children were fluent in the languages he chose. Supper was always interesting as father chose the language that we would speak that evening.
With my international degree and fluency with languages, it seemed a natural fit for the IDF when I chose an intelligence billet. It was not until I graduated from the 20 month hell of the Sayeret Maglan training program that I even started getting physical with anyone. It was also during this time that I learned I was attracted equally to either sex.
Coming next week: More general updates, as well as the first face to face meeting with the Adventist survival group
I believe that I posted about this custom made Mercedes 6×6 ultimate zombie apocalypse survival vehicle before, but this time there are more and better pictures of the interior.
Of course, this is one of those machines that if you have to ask what does it cost and what is the gas mileage, you cannot afford it. Another shock would be the import tariff and how much the bill would be for importing this behemoth to the States.
Now if only it came with a coaxial .50 M2. Even better would be a remote weapon system like on the Stryker combat vehicles with options for twin Ma Deuces, a M19, or a Dillon Aero M134D-H.
The vehicle already comes with an impressive array of cameras and security devices. I bet that getting a weapon system tied into the camera system would not be that hard. And hey, if you can afford this Mercedes, then you can probably afford to weaponize it as well.
The young soldier carrying the pump action Remington rifle with the ridiculous-looking Fram suppressor on the muzzle sits quietly for a moment.
“You’re the colonel’s new bitch?” Shack asks through a mouthful of breakfast.
“Huh?” The young man responds. “Oh yes, I am the new messenger and gopher for the colonels.”
“How did you get the gig?” Shack seems mildly interested.
“The last kid got bit in the face by a zombie, so I got the job by default.” The young man takes a deep breath.
“The colonels want to discuss Scarecrow and his broad.”
“Where are we doing this?” I really want to get this mess over with. I need to relieve Nikola and Carol in the radio shack. I also need to talk to Nikola about adjusting the radio watch as we are minus Shen now.
“The colonels want all the senior staff members here in about 30 minutes or so.”
I nod at the young man. “Shack, dear, please would you go and relieve Nikola so that he can be present for this fiasco. Take the young man with you so you do not walk alone. Say, lad what is your name anyway.”
“I’m William, but most people just call me Junior.”
“Nice to meet you Junior. Who is your mother?”
“Marie, Bill’s first wife. I’m the eldest.”
Reading this much later you may wonder why we did not use the GMRS or other radios to contact each other rather than sending a messenger. One of the reasons was that the convoy reduced radio traffic for security. Another reason, again regarding security, was that outside the convoy a messenger usually cannot be intercepted.
We tried to use as much basic radio encryption as we could. There was always the possibility that someone out there possessed very good decrypting gear that could break our rather simple and crude algorithms. Even if our radio traffic could not be deciphered, there was always the possibility that someone out there could find our location by using radio Direction Finding (DF) gear.
It was hard enough to keep the convoy hidden, broadcasting our location every time someone hit a transmit key would not help matters. For security reasons, most of our radio gear was turned off when not in use. Another reason for keeping the radio gear off was power conservation.
Though not talked about much a reason that would become far more prevalent the longer the KCAP pandemic lasted was lack of repair parts. Using the radio geared came with the risk of damaging delicate electronics. Some of the older gear contains vacuum tubes which, unless we can scavenge proper tubes from another piece of gear, are irreplaceable.
The two lads quickly leave the mess hall. I sit alone for a while and linger over a nasty cup of Spruce tip tea watching the chow hall empty. The cooks so kindly refill my cup with more piping hot Spruce tea as I watch the personnel leave for the day’s duties.
I noticed a larger variety of edible choices this morning. There were eatable things available that I had not seen in a long time, such as dill pickles, and some things that I had hoped that I would never ever see again such as the German liverwurst spread commonly called Braunschweiger.
The rye crackers are a nice addition to our diet, and I nibble on several while waiting for the lads to come back. We are encouraged to snack frequently to keep our caloric intake higher. I have noticed in the last day or so sense we have settled on the farm that the colonels are being more liberal with the snacks.
On a hunch, I check the expiration date on some powdered grapefruit drink. As I suspected, the expiration date has passed. Checking some of the other food stuffs laid out upon the table, I notice that all of them are either close to expiration or have already passed their expiration date.
Looking at the assorted snacks, powdered drink mixes, and other assorted treats, I note that no one should be lacking for vitamin C at least. I slip a few of the plastic baggies of the trail mix with M&Ms, dried cranberries and various nuts in my jacket pocket for later.
After a short while, Nikola walks in, grabbing some cold breakfast. I update Nikola on the status of Shen. Nikola makes non-committal grunts with his mouth full of food. The way that he and Carol have been going like hammer and tongs, it is no wonder the poor man is famished.
The colonels sit at the table followed by Jeff and Terrance their permanent shadows and bodyguards. Doc already in conversation with Sam, says that Shen’s wound is painful and having it packed with gauze is very painful. He wants to keep Shen sedated at least until the worst of the pain is past.
Sam nods his assent and starts the general staff meeting. “As you know Scarecrow and his lady friend spent the night in the stockade. They threw themselves on the mercy of the convoy and have agreed to work for their keep. Due to their lack of any appreciable skills, they are assigned menial labor for now. Menial labor probably does not suit them, but we’ll see.”
Sam pauses as the bull cook and her assistants, the cookees, hands out cups of steaming hot Spruce tip tea. “Man that shit’s awful,” Sam mutters at his first sip.
“If Scarecrow and the woman work hard and earn their keep, without too much bitching we might consider moving them up to trusted positions. For now, they are only armed with their handguns and whatever blades they prefer. We’ve taken their rifles and other arms for now.”
After a deep sigh, Sam continues. “Most of the pillheads died when the sources of pills dried up. If Scarecrow was a pillhead and meth cooker, the black woman a bar tender and meth dealer, I just do not see how they can be helpful to the company.”
“Damn got me monologuing.” Sam sighs again and takes another sip of his tea, motioning for a refill. “I really don’t care what people did before KCAP. It is what they do now that concerns me. If they are not going to work, but be a burden upon the company then I need to remove them.”
One of the cookees comes over and refills Sam’s cup. Without asking she also tops all the rest of our cups.
“I’d hate to have to take ‘em out in one of the fields and shoot them. The lady ‘specially.” Sam pauses to drink more tea. “I know it sounds sexist and shit, but hell, there are just not that many women left. There is already grumbling in the camp that Bill has taken two for himself. We have a lot of single men with no companionship. Killing a woman will not sit well with some of the men.”
Sam pauses again, “Now here is the real rub. There is a bunch of Adventists a few pieces of property to the east. They have made overtures to us that they want to meet. They propose a combined trip together to somewhere called Kayak Point for salt, fish and shellfish. However, they lack enough guns and proper training to use ‘em.”
Not hearing any dissent, Sam continues. “We’ve got some damned big pots in the Princess’ laundry that we can take to the coast to boil saltwater. The leader of the Adventists says that there is plenty of dry driftwood at Kayak Point for fire wood. The fire and noise is sure to attract zombies and possible other unwanted attention. Some fresh fish and shellfish would be a welcome addition to our diet. They have some tribal members that are able to help us prepare the catch for storage.”
“Uh, Sam hate to tell you but Adventists do not eat shellfish. Fish yes, but not shellfish. Adventists adhere to the dietary guidelines of Leviticus 11.” Shack seems embarrassed by his knowledge. “Hey, I am a preacher’s kid, it’s part of growing up with a Bible thumping father. I am surprised, Ruth you did know that.”
“The kosher Jews also follow the Leviticus dietary restrictions. I did not know that the Adventists followed similar dietary restrictions. The Adventist church is not that common in the Middle East.”
I do not bother to mention that with all the tensions in the Middle East the last few years; evangelical Protestant churches were not all that popular.
Taking another sip of tea, Sam reaches into a jar of jalapeño pickled whole eggs. Fishing one of the slightly off-white slimy orbs out of the jar, he pops it into his mouth with relish. Chewing thoughtfully, suddenly his face turns red, and he coughs lightly.
“Wow, that’s got some heat to it. Son of a bitch! That’s hot.”
Sam gulps his tea and frantically whistles for more. With amused grins, we watch as poor Sam eyes watering suffers the heat of the jalapeño peppers. After gulping some more tea, Sam coughs a while before his face starts to resume its normal color.
“Some of this food is from them. They also want to trade supplies as well as have need for more weapons and ammo. They have a few .22s, some deer rifles and a couple sporting carbines but they lack any military hardware or the training to use it. We have enough rifles that we can give them some. They know the area, and that would be invaluable to getting us north when we leave.”
Sam drinks more Spruce tea but wisely avoids the pickled eggs. “If there are no objections, I will agree to meet them at a neutral place between our places. Ruth, Nikola, Shack and Jeff, I want you along with me. I am leaving Doc here in command while I am away. There’s a kid on a horse at the gate waiting on our answer. Like us, they limit the use of radios so as not to broadcast their position. I’ll send a note back with the kid requesting a meeting tomorrow. I’ll let you know later what develops. Talk to you later.”
With that, the meeting breaks up. Sam and Jeff head upstairs to the colonel’s office, while Doc and Terrance head for the medical tent. Shack now out of sight of the colonel pops one of the pickled eggs in his mouth.
“Umm, not bad.” Shack mutters. I kiss him lightly on the cheek. “Showoff.”
Shack and I walk from the house towards the radio tent. Because the house is on a slight rise, I can see all the way to the road and the front gate. I have a small folding pair of cheap binoculars in my coat pocket. With the binoculars, I can see the young man on a brown horse with white socks.
The horse shifts nervously, standing by the gate. The young man upon the horse is dressed entirely in blue denim. His denim jacket looks warm and well worn. The boy wears black hi top sneakers with white soles and a civilian camouflage ball cap. White socks stick out of his pants legs, giving me the impression that his pants are a little too short for him.
Nearly as fidgety as the horse, the young man shifts in the saddle. I wonder how long he has been out there. It has not been raining that hard this morning, but they young man appears damp around the shoulders. Faint droplets of water speckle the horses’ coat.
Also, coated in light drops of water is the metal stocked light blue Suomi KP 44 9mm carbine cradled in the kid’s arms. Sam said the Adventists lacked any military grade weapons, so I am betting that the carbine in the kid’s hands is a semi-automatic version of the famous Finnish weapon.
I wonder how many of the 71 round drums the kid possesses other than the one in the gun now. With the stock extended and the longer barrel, the carbine could be fairly accurate despite the poor sights typical of the class of weapon.
I wake to someone lightly tugging on my braid. The light pulling, which I realize is because Shack is lying on the end, is accompanied by light kissing on the right side of my neck below my jaw. I also have also become aware of something hard and warm jutting into the small of my back. At first I think that Shack has snuck a knife into the bed.
I suddenly realize just what it is of Shack’s that is throbbing against me. His morning erection is nestled in the shallow valley above my hips at the base of my spine. Now aware of his urgent tumescence jutting into my back I can feel the dampness oozing from the tip of his penis.
Shack’s silky smooth Under Armour briefs whispers against my skin as he pulls me closer spooning against my back. His large warm right hand rests on my bare right hip momentary before sliding slowly up my right side. Slipping underneath my white cotton wifebeater tee-shirt, his large warm hand lightly cups my right breast.
Hardening to his touch immediately my nipple becomes very sensitive. Kissing the side of my face, Shack suddenly pinches my nipple too roughly. “Ouch, easy Shack not so rough,” I murmur to him. Turning my head, I kiss him lightly. Ugh! We both need to brush our teeth.
As Shack’s hand slowly slides between my legs, I realize another pressing concern this morning.
“Do not lose this thought, but I have to pee.”
Shack groans at my stated need and pats my right hip affectionately. Kissing me lightly on the lips, he grins at me barely visible in the early morning light. “Let’s hurry,” he murmurs into my hair. Zipping open the warm sleeping bag, I put my feet upon the fucking cold floor.
“Race you to the latrine!” Shack whispers urgently to me.
Sitting on the edge of the bed dressed only in a thin cotton wifebeater tee-shirt, I shiver in the chilly early morning air. The cold hits me hard giving sudden urgency to my bladder. On the other side of the bed, Shack has started dressing while cursing the cold. Just as I stand to grab my trousers, the kid with the Remington pump action rifle bursts into the tent.
The kid stands at the entrance to the tent beside our cot gob smacked open-mouthed. The young kid’s eyes are fixed upon my bare crotch. He is a soldier in reality; anyone who carries a rifle and defends those he loves is a soldier no matter his or her age. I notice that the scruffy-looking pump-action Remington rim fire rifle in the lad’s hands sports a large red Fram oil filter on the muzzle.
I do not remember if the small Remington rifle wore an oil filter suppressor yesterday. I wonder if I just missed the oil filter because of fatigue or is the suppressor is new since I last saw the lad. I start dressing, Shack doing the same on the other side of our bed.
“Close your mouth kid. You look like a guppy standing there with your mouth wide open. Have you never seen a naked woman before?”
The kid snaps his mouth shut while mutely shaking his head. The kid’s face turns a bright red. I barely hear Shack’s chuckle from the other side of the bed. Sitting on the bed putting my boots on I am reminded of my pressing bladder.
I also am mindful of the fact that Shack and I were about to make love, but were interrupted yet once again. I can still feel our combined warmth from the bed seep through the seat of my pants.
Shack sits behind me on the cot putting his boots on. He lightly touches my back before standing. Donning his jacket and weapons Shack waits patiently for me to finish dressing. My hair is a mess this morning, no less the worse because some horny young man was pulling on it.
I cannot remember which of the Johnsen children the kid is, but I believe he is the oldest boy born to the first and oldest wife. I really should not call the lad a kid because someone who carries a weapon and defends his family is a soldier. These poor kids have to grow up quickly.
While Shack and I are putting our boots on, the kid starts to talk.
“This morning Shen was found in the creek. He fell on a rusty piece of rebar in the water and spent the night laying in the river. Luckily the poor fucker survived the night laying in the freezing water. Doc has got to pull the chunk of rebar out of his leg. He passed out while they cut him free with a hack saw in the river. He’s awake now, and Nguen says swearing, in Mandarin like a pox ridden, hung over sailor.”
The kid spits this glut of information out in a rush. As soon as Shack and I are dressed and armed appropriately, we follow the kid at a quick trot to the medical tent. Running causes my bladder to indicate its displeasure at being denied. When we get close to the tent, we can hear someone grunting in pain.
Entering the tent, we see a soggy and very pale Shen laying on his side. There is blood everywhere – on the floor, the table, and even some of the walls. If it were not for the wooden dowel tied firmly into his mouth, Shen would be screaming while Doc attempts to extricate the rusty jagged piece of rebar jutting from his left thigh just above the knee.
Doc and Terrance and poking the poor bastard’s wound trying to determine the extent of his wounds. Doc and Terrance continue to work on Shen, attempting to remove the piece of rebar. Nguen hovers nearby Shen’s head looking worried. Nguen is rapidly flipping through a dog-eared Engish to Mandarin dictionary.
“Fuck I don’t know enough Mandarin, Doc.” Nguen seems truly frustrated.
“Well then the poor fucker is going to have to have to chance it. I hope that he is not allergic to Sodium Amytal or Sodium Pentothal.” Doc also seems frustrated. He roughly injects Shen in the buttocks with a large syringe.
Within seconds, Shen stops struggling, and a dreamy look comes upon his face. His peaceful look is marred by a large stick tied tightly in his jaws giving him the appearance of a dog. Doc and Terrance work quickly on the injured man. After the two men slice his pants open, we are able to see that the piece of rebar went through the outer portion of Shen’s leg.
“Fucker’s lucky,” Terrance comments. “Looks like muscle damage only. I don’t believe any major blood vessels were hit.”
Using a pair of Vice Grips, and a wooden mallet the two men slide the rusty piece of rebar from the poor man’s leg. Shen’s eyeballs roll to the top of his wide open eyes as the metal rod begins to move. Shen screams shrilly through the stick wedged in his jaws and then mercifully passes out.
Despite the fountain of blood that accompanies the removal of the piece of metal, the two medics seem nonplussed. After packing the wound and wrapping Shen’s leg, the two men strip Shen of his sodden and bloody clothes.
Shen is left to sleep on the table covered by a few blankets. There is not really much more that can be done for him right now. Jamal administers a broad spectrum antibiotic, muttering that he hopes he is not killing the unconscious man. At least he breathes better with the stick removed from his mouth.
Someone says behind us “Well that is one crisis taken care of this morning.” I turn to see that Sam has entered the medical tent. I leave Sam talking with Jamal and Terrance and go over to check on Sarah and the twins.
Marie and Jean Johnsen are sitting on either side of their husband Bill, while he talks with Sarah and Gennady. Marie holds a sleeping Thing 2 while Jean holds a squirming, kicking and struggling Thing 1. Jean comments on how strong the little monster is mentioning his well-defined muscles.
The little monster keeps sniffing the air like a hungry dog. I wonder if he can smell Shen’s blood from where he is. The little cannibal’s nose is wider and longer than usual for a white child. The poor bastards trapped underneath Ft. Dix said that the cannibals had a much better sense of smell than most humans. The way the little monster is twisting about, I do not doubt that he smells something interesting.
Autopsies performed on cannibals revealed greater sinus cavity tissue and increased blood flow to the olfactory area. The olfactory bulb, the area of the brain responsible for smell was also enlarged. The reptilian brain, or the old part of the human brain at the base of the brain stem is also enlarged.
Thing 1 does not sleep nearly as much as his smaller brother. Thing 1 also eats almost every hour, screaming at the top of his impressive lungs. I see that at least one of the Johnsen women knit, as a large bag containing knitting needles and yarn lies nearby on the floor. Well at least one of the women have a useful skill.
It appears that both of Bill’s wives are also expecting. We are having a small baby boom within the convoy. Seeing that all is well with the family, I leave the three women and fathers talking. Picking up Shack as I leave the tent we head for the mess and command house after a quick stop at the latrines.
I was almost screaming by the time I made it to the latrine. Damn Shen having to go and get injured. If that man spoke better English or if Nguen spoke better Mandarin we might get some answers as to why he disappeared and how he fell in the damn creek.
Just Shen’s luck to land on a piece of rebar. He is very fortunate that it did not kill him. I am wondering though why he was away from the convoy alone. This definitely drives home the lesson that no one, not even a well-trained Special Forces soldier like Shen should ever be alone.
Some of the other things I wonder are where are Shen’s weapons, and how did he end up in the creek wearing nothing but his PLA-issue BDU’s. I am suspecting some foul play might have had a hand in Shen landing, in the creek. Damn the man for not speaking English!
Shack and I talk quietly while eating breakfast. The topics range from our failed attempt to make love again to the likely disposition of Scarecrow and his lady friend. Shack mentions that he talked to some of the stockade guards this morning while he was getting some Red Bull from the cantina.
The colonels have established a small cantina where soldiers can trade various items. The cantina also issues the beer, soda, liquor and junk food to each soldier in an attempt to keep caloric intake higher.
Normally I would have an issue with a mere 17-year-old drinking Coors Light with his breakfast washed down with Red Bull. As long as the soldier does not become a problem the colonels have promulgated a liberal drinking policy. Beer, liquor and wine may be consumed any time as long as no one gets intoxicated to the point of failure to perform their duties.
Beer and any distilled spirit are safe to drink, since the process involved boiling the water. Until we can get a large supply of fresh water, alcoholic drinks are some of the safest beverages we can consume. Not consuming enough liquids can kill, just as surely as a zombie bite.
It appears that Scarecrow and his lady are sort-of brother and sister. Growing up together in a succession of foster homes, the pair were in and out of trouble from their early teen years onward. Right before the KCAP pandemic, Scarecrow had just been paroled from Connally jail in Texas.
Scarecrow belonged to the Texas Mafia gang. He cooked and delivered meth for the gang. His lady friend while, not a gang member worked as a bartender, selling meth to the bar’s patrons. The soldiers are under the impression that we do not need someone who cooks or deals meth. Bar tending and cooking meth are not critical skills during a zombie apocalypse.
How the pair survived this long, getting up here all the way from Texas is a wonder. Like the vast majority of people (including me), they were not prepared for any calamity. Empty houses killed many people as they had to leave in order to get food, weapons and supplies. Lack of training killed many more people as once they acquired necessities; they were not prepared or skilled enough to use them.
The few places where martial law was established before the zombies overran everything, the government, seized all supplies. The military even took all of the supplies from several of the preppers, including weapons, ammo, food and fuel.
Shack and some of the other lads who survived the collapse of society have told me some terrible stories. Some of the military units towards the end became little better than very well-armed gangs.
As Shack and I, finish our breakfast the Johnsen kid with the pump-action Remington .22 rifle with its incongruous looking Fram suppressor sits beside us. (I really need to quit calling him a kid.) I have half a thought of flashing him my tits and seeing if I can make him blush again.
I wonder just what the young soldier wants this time.
Gathered in the center of the farm-house in what must have once been the dining and living rooms, many angry members of the convoy are gathered around the battered Scarecrow and his sidekick. There is too much shouting, and angry gesturing for me to get a grip on what has happened. I am momentarily tempted to foolishly shoot the floor getting everyone’s attention.
I decide, however, that emotions are running too high to risk gunfire. Thankfully, I have one of the little maritime compressed air fog horns in my LBV. The piercing honking of the small air horn deafens everyone momentarily. It also successfully shuts everyone’s mouth for a moment while causing many people to cover their ears.
Climbing on the coffee table in the center of the room, near Scarecrow, I whistle a few times to get their attention. Shack shoves his way through the crowd to join me, but he remains standing on the floor. It feels weird to be suddenly slightly taller than Shack.
From my vantage point, I attempt to ascertain just what the fuck all the shouting is about. Immediately several people start to talk at once, so I have to silence them all with my air horn again. After the blast of the horn dies, I choose a random convoy member at random and ask him what is going on.
“Uh well, Ruth, these two (gesturing at Scarecrow and his companion) were attempting to leave in the red diesel van stuffed with gear.”
I ask Scarecrow if this is true. He does not respond. By pointedly not looking at either Shack or myself, I am fairly positive what the other convoy member said is true. Thankfully, Scarecrow’s plain black lady companion is not so bashful.
“We do not really fit in with this group. You got us out of the naval station and for that we thank you. But we want to leave now with the van and some supplies.”
At the woman’s response, there is more shouting, and I am tempted to blast the air horn again when the colonels walk into the room. Most of the assembled group come to attention, including Shack.
Sam proceeds to give the assembled group a stern look. Placing his hands on his hips like a disapproving father, he paces around the center of the room. After completing two laps around the coffee table upon which I stand, he pauses in front of me, hands still on his hips.
“We don’t force people to remain in the company against their will. Anyone that wants to leave needs only to ask either Doc Jamal or myself.”
Sam turns and looks at the pair. After a moment’s pause he states to them, “Since you did not injure anyone or damage equipment during your theft and flight attempt, I will let you leave unharmed. You will not, however, take the van stuffed to the brim with supplies. You will be given three days provisions, weapons as such you carried when you joined, and some cold weather gear.”
The black woman starts to protest, and Sam holds up his hand to silence her. “I understand that you and Scarecrow do not wish to work and that you lack any gainful skills. If you do not work you do not eat it is as simple as that.”
Sam turns and gestures to a pair of burly soldiers. “Put them in the stockade for the night. In the morning if they still wish to leave they can.”
Sam turns and leaves the house followed by Doc Jamal. The two burly soldiers clamp leg and arm irons on the miserable looking pair. The couple is dragged out of the house, the chains jingling lightly upon the floor protesting their treatment the whole time.
Shack and I eat quickly so that we can return to the radio tent. We do not see Shen, whom may or may not be chasing the cook. The once heavy-set black cook, the supposed object of Shen’s desire, is serving supper beside the other two cooks and their guard.
Our meal tonight was especially delicious. The fish was light and flaky. Mostly the main attraction of the meal was that it was something different. I never realized how boring our diet would become once the SHTF and TEOTWAWKI hit – literally.
I do not know where they got the sugar and salt for the fish, but it was delicious. The dill I was told by another diner was found along the creek same place the fish was caught. Shack par for growing boy not yet 18 years old, shovels food into his mouth like the starving youth he is.
To drink tonight, we have either orange or cherry flavored GI “bug juice” (as the lads refer to it), nasty hot Spruce tip tea, and beer or wine if you so choose. The convoy has to change our routine a little bit to account for the personnel now instead of being on 12 hour shifts are now running three eight-hour shifts.
We possess a pair of the old smart electrochlorinators, but we do not have enough salt to run the damn things. We have enough batteries for power, but we are critically short of salt both for preservation and everyday use. As if we did not have enough problems with zombies with the munchies, we also lack sufficient fuel to boil enough water for drinking.
Without safe water, we will perish despite the zombies. Some of the lads have talked about attempting to brew our own beer or wine. Brewing not only purifies the water, but also creates a nutritious and delicious beverage. While we still have several bottles and cans of various alcoholic beverages, eventually those will be exhausted.
I watch Shack suck down another fruit punch flavored Four Loko. I understand from some of the local lads that that particular brand of fortified drink was banned in Washington state. Some of the lads, including Shack, refer to the very sweet highly alcoholic beverages such as Four Loko and Mike’s Hard Lemonade as “date rape in a can.”
While Shack slurps through another 32 ounce Four Loko can, this one margarita flavored, I sip on my large Mason jar of red wine. In the basement of the old farmhouse the lads found several dusty cases of Mason jars. Some were still in good shape while others had rusted through the lid.
The red wine also from the basement of the farm-house appears to be of various qualities. Some of the wine is quite good while some of it is similar to Mad Dog 20/20, or so I am told. Whatever the vintage, the alcohol content is quite high.
I am told that some of the old Mason jars held preserves which are still good. The viable food will be added to our food supply. The spoiled food was dumped in the latrine, and the glass jars recycled. Beside the Mason jars, buried in the dirt of the basement were several long expired rotten cardboard boxes of Datrex 3,600 calorie food packs.
The lads call these Datrex bars “John Wayne bars” although I am told that the newer bars are much better than the older ones which earned their justifiable reputation. Each box contains 18 individually tin foil wrapped 200 calorie chocolate flavored bars. Although they are expired by more than 10 years, there is some consideration that the bars might still be good.
After eating, Shack and I walk back to the radio tent. Passing the old farm-house, Shack gives me that sly grin with a head toss to the spot of our furious make out session. The heat upon my face causes me to glad for the darkness so that Shack cannot see me blush. We hold hands until we step into the radio tent.
While relieving Nikola and Carol who were not, thankfully, fucking again when we returned, Shack and I have little to say to them. After the expectant couple leave, Shack and I settle into chairs preparing for a long night. Shack takes the first shift on the charging handles keeping our battery bank nearly at full charge.
After a while sitting in the quiet radio tent I realize that while eating we did not see Shen. I wonder where he is? Grabbing one of the civilian General Mobile Radio Service (GMRS) radios, I contact the perimeter guards inquiring any of them has seen Shen. At the negative replies from the guards, my concern for the well-being of Shen deepens.
Shen’s fate will have to wait until morning when there is enough light for a search. I am hoping that nothing has befallen Shen. Personally I do not particularly care for Shen but he is a good soldier.
The remainder of our radio watch passes uneventfully. One of our old AM radios has ancient Civil Defense (CD – a white triangle) Control of Electromagnetic Radiation (CONELRAD) marks at both 640 kHz and 1240 kHz. I did not expect any traffic on the ancient CD frequencies, as it was dead long before even my grandparents were born.
Shack and I are relieved at 0300 by a sleepy Nikola and disheveled Carol. We note the disappearance of Shen, but agree that there is nothing to be done until the morning.
Shack and I strip and crawl into our bedroll. It is times like this when I am snuggled up to Shack that I feel almost safe. Shack and I are far too tired to fool around. I drift off to sleep lulled by his soft snoring.
Next chapter: We learn Shen’s fate and if Shack and Ruth are finally able to make love.
Shack effortlessly lifts me off of the ground wrapping my legs around his hips. My ankles cross and lock behind his trim waist. Grinding his groin against mine, his hips slam against me. He is so much taller than me that he easily covers my body with his.
Our tongues intertwined; Shack slowly slides one hand underneath my jacket and shirt. After a languid fingertip search across my ribs and stomach, his hand finds my left breast, gently cupping it. My large brown nipple hardens immediately at his touch sending sparks of tingly pleasure coursing through my body.
Crushed between us, my AR-15 and his M-4 get rudely shoved out-of-the-way with an irritated huff. Fully cupping my left breast in his large, warm hand he occasionally pinches my nipple lightly between thumb and forefinger. The unexpected change from rubbing to pinching sends sparks of pleasure shooting through me.
Rubbing my distended nipple across the calloused palm of his hand, while gently squeezing my breast, his hard mouth presses against my lips, bruising them. My breasts may be small, but they are very sensitive. Lightheaded from Shack’s furious make out session I ride his strong thighs, my legs clenching.
Supported by him completely off of the ground, I float in a heady pre-orgasmic state. I wrap my arms tightly around Shack while furiously kissing him, trying to suck his tongue fully into my mouth. Grinding my pelvis against the hard length of his penis, I delight with the heady friction.
“I am going to come,” I pant in Shack’s ear, licking his earlobe with the tip of my tongue. I do not usually talk during sex. There is something about Shack that brings it out of me.
It has been a very long time since I have had an orgasm. I suppose that I could masturbate. I was raised, however, that masturbation was a sin. It is hard for me to break that religious upbringing. The few times that I have masturbated, I have always felt horribly guilty afterwards.
After being with someone who I loved, masturbating just did not complete me in the way that I needed. I am not sure that I can accurately describe in words why I so hate masturbating. Amy loved masturbating. She tried several times for permission to allow her to watch me masturbate.
Despite my ability to love a person regardless of their sex, I have never been very sexually adventurous. I know that people with my proclivity to love either sex equally are often lumped in with the freaks and perverts, but I was never terribly sexually audacious. When we started dating, Amy was significantly more experienced than I.
I always enjoyed watching Amy masturbate. I never dared to let her watch me. Amy was always so beautiful when she came; perhaps that is why I get a distinctly guilty pleasure out of watching Carol. It seems silly now, maybe I should have allowed Amy to watch me if only for her pleasure.
I try to remember the last time that Amy and I made love. It is with great sadness that I suddenly realize that I cannot remember the last time that I made love with Amy. Amy was someone who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, not being able to remember our last lovemaking suddenly hurts.
Shack breaks my sadness and sudden stillness by unbuckling my weapons belt. He catches my belt against his thighs ensuring my weapons remains close. His fingers inside the waist of my BDU pants are cool from the late afternoon air. Loosening my pants Shack slides his right hand delicately between my legs lightly skimming his fingertips over my smooth mons Venus.
Cupping me in his hand, I feel one of his large fingers as it slips maddeningly slowly between the damp smooth folds of my sex. Shack’s slightly rough fingertip unerringly finds my hard little button of pleasure. With expert short delicate strokes, Shack brings me to a shuddering orgasm.
Thrashing against Shack’s buried hand, I come harder than I have in a very long time. My orgasm is nearly painful in its intensity. Drenching Shack’s fingers buried deep in my sex; I scream my pleasure muffled by his mouth.
I relax in the gloriously warm shelter of Shack’s arms enjoying the little aftershock shudders of pleasure still coursing through my body. I am dimly aware of his fingers still buried deep inside my wet sex. After a few moments, his warm fingers begin to trace lazily the edges of my swollen, and tender nether lips.
After torturing me for what seems like forever, he begins to strum my hard clit again. I grasp his belt ripping it open. Lowering his fly with one tug, I pull his underwear aside. Shoving my hand inside his shorts, I grasp his firm yet pliant erection. Gently squeezing his penis I lightly stroke the tip feeling the wetness of his pre-come. Shack is circumcised, so it is easy for me to lightly stroke his frenulum.
I begin to softly stroke him, while Shack’s fingers are still busy between my legs. Too quickly I rocket towards orgasm again, when we are suddenly bathed in a piercing bright light.
“Hey, you two! Go get a room!”
Shack suddenly whips his hand out of my sex as if he was a naughty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar – literally. He firmly presses me close against the cold hard siding of the house covering my nakedness with his bulk. I slowly pull my hand out of his pants.
“Dude! Go the fuck away!” Shack is justifiably angry.
“Awlright, man, don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
Sheltered by Shack I can only hear the laughing soldier walk away into the deepening darkness. After the cock blocking soldier leaves, Shack leans back giving me some room. Looking deeply into my eyes, he brings up his right hand; the fingertips wet with my come. He puts his Ruth flavored fingers deep into his mouth.
Smiling at me while sucking on his fingers, he groans at the taste. He makes a lewd face while exaggerating sucking my come from his fingers. I know the flavor of my come very well. Amy often described it as tasting light and buttery. I wonder if Shack would agree with Amy’s assessment.
“You taste good Ruth. I always knew you would.”
Shack kisses me lightly on the lips. I can taste myself on his lips. I smell myself faintly on his breath. Suddenly bashful, Shack eases my feet to the ground, catching my belt so that my weapons do not hit the ground.
In the silence, Shack allows me to dress quickly while he buttons his fly. Suddenly timid in each other’s company we walk holding hands to the medical tent. At the medical tent, Shack’s hands are tended quickly by Terrance. While Terrance tends to Shack, I check on Amy and the twins.
The little boys are fast asleep as is their mother, so I watch them quietly for a few minutes. I do not wish to wake any of them as sleep is precious to a new mother. While watching the twins, Gennady returns carrying supper for his family. For such a young man to step up and accept responsibility for children that are not biologically his says much for his character.
The caring father is still watching over his sleeping family, cleaning his Stechkin APB pistol as Shack, and I leave the medical tent. Terrance glopped Neosporin ointment to avoid infection and then bandaged Shack’s hands with sterile wrap.
I hold on to Shack’s hand now resembling a prize fighter’s as we walk into the house, and its festering maelstrom. Shack beats me to the punch.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
This post is great for killing writer’s block.
“It is really hailing out there hard now,” the youth says. “My older brother and I did pretty good this morning shooting rabbits. We hope to get a few more. Oh, by the way, supper tonight is something called sugar spiced fish. It’s some fresh salmon we caught in that creek marinated in sugar, salt, and dill. Sounds ok.”
Finished loading his rifle, the youth ducks back outside into the driving hail. I have never tried sugar spiced fish before. But as he said, it does sound good. The fish has to be better than some of the other things we have tried to eat. Most of the convoy is ultimately sick of reconstituted peanut butter.
Shortly after the Remington armed youth departs, Nikola returns carrying a pair of plaid plastic Thermoses. Flopping into a folding metal chair next to Carol, he pours hot Spruce tip tea for everyone. Sipping the shitty tasting hot tea, I choke on it as Carol punches Nikola lightly on the shoulder loudly announcing that thanks to him she is still dripping. God, the woman, has no filter between her mouth and brain.
Looking at me, Carol blurts out, “You know this guy actually wants to marry me. I mean really, the whole shebang. Priest, rings and everything. He’s Orthodox but says that any priest will do.”
Nikola for his part wisely remains silent donning headphones and fiddling with the radio tuning knob.
“Looking for Latakia again?” Carol asks sweetly. Nikola nods his affirmative, sipping his tea. I am somewhat familiar with Latakia, Syria as it was the home of Russia’s largest foreign electronic eavesdropping facility. Anyone of worth in the intelligence community should be at least passingly familiar with Latakia.
Latakia is one of post-Soviet Russia’s worst kept secrets. I had not heard that Nikola was familiar with the old Russian base or that we had contact with it either. I watch Nikola fiddle with the radio dials for a while. I wonder what prompted Carol to ask her question. Carol, never one to remain quiet, answers my question.
“Nikola was able to talk to Latakia for a little while last night. He knows a few of the people there from his days in the Russian Navy. From the poor bastards stuck there, we learned a little about what is going on in the Middle East. Near the Med, the zombies are very bad. In the heart of the desert, the zombies cannot survive. The heat and lack of water kills the fucking zombies but not quite as quickly as we would like.”
Carol glances at me and then at Nikola. Carol raises her red bushy eyebrows at Nikola, who shrugs at her. Obviously the couple is considering something concerning me. After their last little performance and Carol’s admitted hedonistic leanings, I worry what they might be.
“Ruth there is no real easy way to tell you this. Latakia said that, most likely it was Iran, which had taken the liberty of dropping a small tactical nuke upon Tel Aviv. Someone again most likely Iran, also dropped a neutron bomb upon Jerusalem. Latakia did not have any more information about Israel. I am sorry.”
I am shocked but had been expecting something such as this to happen for some time. Most Israelis understood that it was just a matter of time before one of the Arab countries surrounding our home acquired a nuke. I had already assumed that all of my family in Israel was already dead.
At my shocked sigh, Carol picks up the same trashy romance paperback novel she has read several times by now. Any book or magazine is of interest now as there is no TV or other electronic media to provide visual pablum. Minus electronic entertainment, kids who would have never touched another book in their life once out of school are suddenly voracious readers.
Any book or magazine is valued, from the classics to any trashy romance novel or adventure epic. The lads are reading the poems of Homer the Iliad, and the Odyssey as well as Shakespeare. I have been trying to get through a battered ancient paperback copy of The Quest by Wilbur Smith. The book just has not grabbed my attention, so I am looking to trade for something more to my liking.
I admit to not being much of a reader until the zombie apocalypse hit. Now I try to read something just to pass the quiet hours. Suddenly devoid of electronic entertainment reading has resurfaced as a major interest. Shack suddenly steps into the tent carrying the hand cranked battery charger.
“Man it smells like pussy in here,” Shack remarks; mister tactful. Carol blushes prettily, and then ducks her head behind her paperback book while Nikola does not even bother to acknowledge Shack’s comment. Shack drops the charger on the floor extending its legs so that a sitting person can crank the handles.
One of my least favorite chores is turning those damn handles. It is a necessary evil so that we can keep our purloined bank of automotive batteries charged. Shack hooks up the battery terminals to the charger. Grabbing the yellow Fluke meter Shack then checks the battery bank power level before muttering to himself and flopping into a chair.
Shack is obviously tired. He smells of wood smoke and sweat. I notice that Shack’s knuckles are split and torn from his fight with Scarecrow. Stretching almost to my limit I touch Shack lightly on the arm.
“Come with me bubele let us go get those hands taken care of.”
Turning to look at both Nikola and Carol, I decide on a course of action whether they like it or not.
“I am taking Shack over to the medical tent. Then we are going to grab chow. After we eat, we will come back to spell you guys so that then you can eat. And for the love of God, try not to be fucking again when we come back, please. Oh, and has anyone seen Shen today?”
Standing behind me Shack mutters, “Fucking?”
A prettily blushing Carol speaks from behind her book. “Shen has been chasing that black cook for a while. You might see him while you are eating. Just look for a horny Chinese guy with his tongue hanging out and a hard-on.”
I pull Shack from the radio tent by the hand. Proceeding across the muddy compound heading for the medical tent, we walk silently holding hands. Suddenly Shack grabs me by the shoulders. Yanking me into the shadows beside the red brick chimney underneath the eaves of the white farm-house, he pushes me into the corner.
Shoved against the rough wooden house wall, I feel the cool, gritty wooden planks of the house siding against my back. Shack crushes my lips with his swallowing my groans of pleasure. His ardent kissing sends shivers through my body. Shack’s kissing has improved significantly as he proves keeping me pinned to the wall.
Next chapter: Will Ruth and Shack finally make love?