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Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #201 Driving From The Campsite Near Warm Beach, WA #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

I let out a string of Hebrew curse words that would have had my mother, God rest her soul, in tears. Yes, I curse in Yiddish as well as Hebrew, which is still my primary language. When I get really mad I forget English.

My Jordanian mother often reminded me to remember that “whatever you do in life for them (the Jews) you will always be an Arab.” When I left Israel following Amy to the States the Arab communities felt largely besieged and often invisible.

It surprises most people that my primary language is Hebrew. As I am half Jordanian most assume my primary language would be Arabic. I love how beautiful and expressive Arabic is. My mother and I talked almost solely in Arabic. Our household’s primary language however was Hebrew.

Yes Hebrew, the language of the oppressing Zionist state. Though I consider myself Jewish there are many things done by the state of Israel that I disagreed with especially the treatment of Israeli born Arabs. When criticizing a culture which language would you use? The language of the outsider or do you use the language of the majority?

Pissed at a life that robbed me of the woman I loved and my family I let another string of Hebrew curses. I love Shack with all of my heart. I still ache with the loss of Amy. As a Fairfax, VA firefighter I doubt that Amy survived. I pray that Amy is not a walking corpse.

“What,” I incredulously ask.

Looking at Dolcent I realize that I just screamed a bunch of Hebrew at someone who has no idea what I am saying. Dolcent’s eyes are huge as if she is expecting me to strike her.

Trying to reign in both my anger and jealousy I fume silently. I have felt this way before. Amy wanted a more open relationship offering to be ok with me sleeping with the occasional man if I did not mind adding another woman to our bed once in a while or Amy sleeping with the occasional one night stand.

Amy was strictly a lesbian and had never been or wanted to sleep with a man. Amy offered to let me sleep with a man occasionally. I know she was trying to be understanding, but Amy never truly understood my ideal of serial monogamy.

Amy thought that I needed the occasional living dick. As much as I loved her Amy never truly understood that the plumbing didn’t matter, it was who the plumbing belonged to that mattered. Amy and I fought over her idea that while I traveled for work it was ok for me to sleep with someone as long as it was nothing permanent.

Amy felt that it would be ok for us to have one night stands or friends with benefits. I did not want to sleep with a stranger (again) and did not want Amy sleeping around either. As far as I know Amy was faithful to me as I was to her.

Thinking of Shack and Dolcent together hurts. I remember my Plato: Human behavior flows from three main sources: desire, emotion, and knowledge.

Thinking of Shack and Dolcent together is also making me furious, but the hurt is terrible. This is the first time Shack has truly hurt my feelings and it is tearing me up. I try to hang onto some of my anger as I feel tears threaten to spill down my face. Fuck if I am going to cry in front of Shack and Dolcent.

Shack revs the engine bringing my attention back to Dolcent. Ignoring her sexual suggestions I give her an appraising look trying not to let too much of my anger and hurt show.

“How are you going to work with the fuel team, if your change of living arrangements angers some of their men?”

“I may have to appeal to the Colonels otherwise I hope that they will get over any hard feelings. I didn’t feel comfortable sleeping in the fuel team’s tent anymore. I was the only woman not attached and some of the men seemed that meant I was desperate for a lover. They acted like I should be thankful any of them wanted to be with me. Most of them are just horny assholes looking for a warm hole to stuff their little pricks in.”

Luce Irigaray the feminist philosopher suggested in her book This Sex Which Is Not One that woman exists “for the enactment of man’s fantasies, for the fulfillment of his pleasures not her own, unable to say what she wants because she doesn’t know what it is.”

Perhaps Irigaray had a point. Right now I am fairly pissed at the male behind the wheel of my truck.

Shack mutters, “Umm … just a wee bit angry are we.”

Glaring at Shack I wonder whom does he mean Dolcent or me? Shack still will not look me in the eyes. At the front of the convoy the green flashing light signals convoy roll out in five minutes. Relationships, jealousy, sex and anger will have to wait.

Gesturing at the truck I yell at Dolcent.

“Well hurry the fuck up. Jump in we need to get going.”

Honey leaps out of the truck letting Dolcent climb into the back seat. Wasting no time Dolcent joins Shack and Monster in the truck crawling into the rear bench seat. Honey cleared a spot for Dolcent so that she can wedge herself in among our supplies. Standing briefly with me beside the truck Honey lightly touches me on the shoulder and gives me a light kiss on the cheek before climbing back inside the truck.

“Remember, no one fucking calls me Dolly or makes jokes about my tits or lack thereof. Shack you’ve seen my ass so I’ll let you slide for that once.”

“Dolcent while you are sitting in the rear seat, you are responsible for loading magazines and keeping us stocked with ammo and food. You should check with Honey often as she and Monster need frequent snacks.”

“Who’s Monster,” Dolcent asks.

Pointing to where Monster is tucked up underneath the dash on the floorboard I say, “He is.”

“Don’t worry I’ll ask you for snacks and food when we get hungry. You don’t want us to get hungry do you,” Dolcent asks looking as innocently as an infected 13-year-old child can.

“No,” Dolcent gulps her eyes wide.

Perhaps Dolcent did not consider the fact that she was crawling into a truck with two infected members. I try not to let an unladylike snicker pass my lips when I see Honey wink at me.

Shack humming “Hello Dolly” gets the truck moving with the convoy. He smoothly shifts through the gears maintaining our interval without getting too far behind or too close to the Colonels in front of us.

Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #200 Leaving The Campsite Near Warm Beach, WA #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

Shack’s M4 and my AR-15 are loaded with 20-round aluminum magazines of SPIW (Special Purpose Individual Weapon) ammo made by the AAI Corporation. The flechette SPIW ammo is so damned loud even louder than a traditional rifle shot.

SPIW round

My AR-15 usually wears a suppressor, but I am not sure if the SPIW ammo is safe to fire through it so I took it off. If damaged, there is almost no way for me to replace my suppressor I would rather not risk it.

Fired in our guns I am not sure how accurate the SPIW ammo will be. Shack has his M4 on full auto and my illegally converted AR-15 is set on three round burst. The 5.56x45mm AAI ACR flechette with petal-type puller sabot may not be accurate in our rifles.

I hope that a few rounds of flechette ammo may be enough to scare away any attackers with minimal injuries. Flechette’s reputation for lethality is largely blown out of proportion compared to reality. I am not sure why the Colonels gave us the SPIW ammo to use.

I think that the Colonels are concerned over our ammo supplies. Issuing failed experimental ammo such as the SPIW flechette ammo to use, saving the better ammo for when the shit really hits the fan.

Flechette use is nothing new to the convoy. Our 105mm gun-toting Stryker shoots old M546 APERS-T “Beehive” rounds each containing 8,000 eight grain steel flechettes. Poor guys in the MGS have to single load the old M546 shells.

The MGS auto loader will not feed the old M546 shells as they are too long for the cassette. We are also rumored to have some of the prototypes of heavier and improved Beehive rounds, which I bet will not fit in the auto loader either.

Speak of the devil the Stupid MGS computer systems lock up giving the poor bastard three man crew the dreaded “blue screen of death.” While the Stryker guys reset the MGS systems the convoy continues preparations for moving.

Taking advantage of the unexpected delay, we arrange our new supplies. Setting some snacks and two of my old green army surplus canteens in the bottom of the passenger door, I ensure that water and snacks are within my reach.

The Dodge cab doors are stuffed with old US Army flak jackets and civilian grade three body armor along with steel plates bolted from the inside and then welded. The extra weight in the doors required strengthening of the door hinges.

Suddenly Dolcent shows up carrying her gear. Shack leans out of the truck yelling at Dolcent.

“Yo’ betta get your narrow ass in this truck or you’re hoofing it.”

Dolcent wastes no time putting her gear in the bed of our truck. Walking up to the passenger side Dolcent stands there looking expectant at the truck cab. Monster looking up from his spot on the floor near the gear stick smiles at Dolcent.

With Dolcent standing beside the truck Shack cranks the Dodge’s Cummins engine over. The cold beast of an engine fails to start so I hop out of the truck leaving the passenger door open. Grabbing the can of WD40 from underneath the passenger seat, I walk around the truck.

I hear the clunk of Shack popping the hood of the Dodge from inside the cab. For someone as short as I, I have to climb on the Dodge’s front bumper so that I may lift the hood far enough to insert the hood prop.

I broke Shack of being a gentleman and lifting the hood for me as he needs to focus on security while I assist getting this beast started. Honey watches my back while I am occupied underneath the Dodge’s hood.

Removing the air inlet from the turbo, I signal to Shack to crank the engine. When the engine starts turning over, I spray WD40 into the turbo’s intake. After a few seconds of a continuous stream of WD40 the old Cummins starts with a rattle and a huge cloud of black smoke.

Shack gently increases the idle of the old diesel. Dropping the hood, I walk back to the open passenger door where Dolcent is standing.

Shack leans towards the passenger side asking, “How’d you know we’d say yes?”

“I was hopeful. I know that Ruth is a fair woman who wouldn’t say no just to spite me.”

I wonder why I would want to spite Dolcent. As far as I know the child has never done anything to me. I wonder if I missed something.

“Does the fuel team know that you are riding and bunking with us now?”

“Uh, actually Ruth, I sorta slipped away. I hid my gear in the bushes before the convoy loaded up, so all I had to do was grab it and run.”

“What would you have done if we had said no?”

Dolcent turns bright red, blushing furiously.

“I had sorta hoped that my offer to you and Shack would sweeten the deal. I’ve been with Shack before, so it’s no big deal. Ruth I hear you like boys and girls. I’ve never slept with a woman, Ruth but if you allow me to stay and if you teach me, I’ll try my best to be pleasing in bed. Otherwise I don’t know what I will do.”

Dolcent licks her lips suggestively. Crossing my arms, I glare at Shack. The kurevnik never told me that he and Dolcent fucked. I wonder just when the two of them last screwed each other. Now I know why Dolcent was afraid I would not allow her in the truck.

I wonder if Shack and Dolcent are fucking behind my back. The thought of Shack with someone else makes me so mad that I am almost sick to my stomach. Amy never liked how jealous I am it was one of the reasons for our many fights.

“We hate in others what we hate in ourselves” – paraphrasing Marian Keyes. Amy claimed not to be jealous, although we had some grand fights about other women and men.

“Oh really. Shack abi gezunt dos leben ken men zikh ale mol nemen. Later you and I need a fucking talk.”

For his part Shack looks guilty and will not meet my eyes. I know that Shack does not speak Yiddish or any other language other than English, so swearing at him is pointless. Fuck that ben-zona!

Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #199 Final Day Somewhere Near Warm Beach, WA #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

The morning’s reward is a lightly mud-tinged drizzle thin enough that the colonels decide we are moving today. Making even walking treacherous a thin slurry of mud covers everything. The thin drizzle removes a lot of the earlier heavier slurry. By the time this moveable feast is on the road the hope is that driving will not be too dangerous.

Yesterday was a nice break in our travels north towards Canada. It seems as if it was years ago that the decision was made to head north for the Canadian salt mine in the Northwest Territories. I hope that by the time the convoy reaches the salt mine that there are still survivors living in the mine.

I also hope that the Canadian survivors accept us joining their community. I fear reaching the salt mine and either having to fight the other survivors or discovering the mine full of zombies.

With the day’s movement cancelled the bathing tent remained in place. Showering and washing clothes every three days sucks major ass. The Colonels rotated everyone through the wash tent without laundry so everyone got at least a somewhat warm shower.

Doc rode herd on the wash tent maintaining order with a thick stick of Hawthorne and a stop watch. Doc yanked anyone overstaying their allotted time out of the shower, tossing the soap lathered offender in the muddy grass beside the wash tent.

The example of one shivering naked mud splattered soap drenched offender was enough for everyone else to mind their manners. With his KCAP increased strength Doc effortlessly hefted the young man holding him helplessly despite his struggles.

No one else wanted Doc grabbing them by the neck and one ass cheek and tossing them in the muddy grass. On the offender the finger shaped bruises stood out starkly against his white skin.

The kid was fortunate that Doc did not go for distance merely tossing him to the grass rather than launching him flying similar to a flopping white lawn dart. I am more than sure that Doc could have sent the offending kid some distance into the air which might have injured him.

After letting him shiver miserably in the muddy drizzle for about an hour Doc, let the offender back into the wash tent. This time the young man listened to Doc’s warning and was out of the shower and dressed in record time.

We have camped in this spot for way too long. This many people in one spot strain our latrine trenches, and the water quality is suffering. After stripping all the retreat buildings and the surrounding land of anything burnable we need to move. Stripped of anything of value it is time to leave the retreat to the zombies.

Ripping apart buildings for firewood for the numerous fire stoves in the convoy reduced the buildings to mere litter strewn foundations. Stoves in the personnel tents such as the one in our tent are welcome during the cold nights. Feeding all of the stoves in the convoy requires a prodigious amount of fuel.

Yesterday the Colonels sent the Gatherers riding in two Deuce and a Halfs escorted by two veteran infantry platoons with two Strykers into the surrounding housing complexes. Tearing apart wooden fences quickly filled one of the Deuces. When the filled Deuce returned an empty one replaced it driven back by the driver, navigator and their gunner.

Tearing apart and searching homes revealed several homes infested with trapped zombies. Killing all of the zombies was done without incident. Once cleared homes were stripped of its wooden furniture, and supplies they were then stripped of any easily obtained wood. Gatherers ripped walls, stairs, porches and decks apart.

Loads of supplies were discovered as homes were being stripped of wooden items. While Shack and I were on guard duty an additional pair of Deuces left camp requested by the Gatherers. Shack and I were no longer on watch when it happened, but mess tent intelligence suggests that the later Deuces returned with food, medical supplies, and booze.

If the Gatherers did return with booze, we did not see any yesterday at meals. I hope that beer was one of the supplies recovered yesterday. It has been a long time since I have had a beer. Shack has bemoaned the lack of Mountain Dew, Monster (the energy drink not the infected kid sitting on the floorboard of our truck), Red Bull, and Rock Star. If such things were recovered yesterday, I hope that we see some of them today.

Raisin infested oatmeal with a tooth-defying bannock brick is for breakfast again. Only this morning a magical Shack managed producing six unused Lipton tea bags. Safely storing the other five precious tea bags I toss one into my canteen cup. I impatiently wait as our little Esbit stove heats water for my tea.

Fueled by three precious 14 gram Esbit solid fuel tablets the stove finally boils our water. After pouring boiling water into our cups not wasting any of the precious burning fuel tabs I warm some water for brushing our teeth and a quick wash.

Shack drinks MRE instant coffee, which I cannot stand. I sip my tea savoring the warmth and the buzz of the caffeine. Would be a little better with some fresh lemon but just having tea is heavenly.

Poor Carol and the Princess are barking at the earthworms again. The two poor women struck with morning sickness look miserable standing in the muddy drizzle barfing their brains out. Carol stumbles back into camp heading for her vehicle without saying anything.

The Princess stops beside me giving me a sickly green tinged look. “Uh, I do not remember pregnancy being this awful. Of course the last time I was pregnant was more than 15 years ago.”

The rest of the morning passes quickly as the convoy loads up we have gotten good at getting everyone moving and loaded within three hours. The Colonels want to reduce that time, but I am not sure that is possible.

While loading the truck I talk with all of my charges together about adding Dolcent to our truck. We agree that we can make room for her in the rear bench seat. A blushing red Shack whispers in my ear that Dolcent offered to service him and I orally if we let her join the truck.

Dolcent does not have to blow either Shack or I to join our truck. Storage room is a concern as we will have to move gear so Dolcent can sit in the back seat. Shack talks to some of his friends in the Gatherers.

A Rhino-Rack alloy roof rack from a wrecked Nissan Pathfinder is welded to the roof our Dodge truck. The black roof rack comes with a wide LED light bar on the front that the light wheel mechanics manage connecting to a new switch on the dash.

Also connected to a new dash switch smaller square LED lights on the roof rack illuminate the sides of the truck. While the incredible amount of light the new roof light throws forward is great I worry that the new side lights will make us that much more of a target.

For a change, I am letting Shack drive this morning. Shack jokes that he never got his driver’s license. Shack scoots the bench seat back joking about short people driving and that he can finally stretch his legs out. At six feet four inches, Shack towers over me and has the legs to drive the truck with the seat scooted as far back as it can go.

Sitting in the passenger seat for a change I wait for Monster and Honey then climb in after. Honey has her little S&W 2214 pistol tucked in the small of her back. Never a popular gun, the condition of her little pistol reminds me of a cop’s old throw down weapon.

Honey’s sartorial style favors low-rising hip-hugging jeans, and midriff baring crop tops so the butt of her little pistol is obvious from the rear. I am not staring at Honey’s ass, but I have to agree with Sashka that Honey does have a sweet ass.

Anyway Shack, Honey and Monster do not feel the cold as do I, so they favor light tee-shirts while in the truck. I wear my men’s small US Army M65 field jacket with my IOTV over it while in the truck. Even though we ride with the windows closed and the heat on the truck is cold to me especially pressed against the door.

There are two greenish brown spam cans on the passenger floor board that were not there before this stop. The black Cyrillic writing on the metal cans identifies them each as 1980’s Romanian-made 86 grain 7.62×25 Tokarev ammo. Each of the sealed cans holds 1,224 rounds.

Gifts from our Russian friends perhaps?

Sitting on the dash is a new weapon to the truck’s arsenal a folded wire-stocked Czech Sa vz. 26 SMG in 7.62×25 Tokarev. I am quite familiar with that particular Czech designed submachine gun. The SA vz. 26 was never popular in Israel, although sometimes it was used by clandestine units or so I heard.

The SA vz. 26 was popular on the African continent and with many of the former Soviet states. The Czech SMG’s bolt is locked open with no magazine. Beside the Czech SMG lie six of the 32-round magazines Duct Taped together in pairs.

When Honey dons her LBV (she is yet still too small to fit the newer IOTV ((Improved Outer Tactical Vest )) such as Shack and I wear) I spot 12 more of the taped-in-pairs 32-round magazines in her LBV’s magazine loops. Lying on the floor beside Monster is another Czech SMG identical to the one sitting on the dash. I wonder if Monster can handle the little Czech SMG or is that Honey’s spare?

Sitting in the passenger seat, I am responsible for ammo and weapons so I do a quick inventory. Shack keeps a clipboard with our truck’s current inventory. Pulling the pencil from my braid (it is so nice to have clean hair this morning, Honey is getting quite good at braiding my hair) I look over our ammo state. I quickly add the new Czech ammo and SMGs to our inventory.

The truck’s grenades are securely held hanging on improvised loops underneath our legs. My visual inventory reveals 11 grenades with six of the newly discovered M33s, two old Mk 2 pineapples, three smoke grenades (one red American M18, one green British L83A1, and a white American M18).

Hanging on the passenger door are 90 rounds of green tipped 5.56 NATO loaded in US surplus aluminum 30-round M16 magazines. Hanging in a separate loop is one aluminum 20-round M16 magazine wrapped in orange tape loaded with 5.56 NATO tracer. Hanging in another separate loop is one US surplus aluminum 20-round M16 magazine wrapped in black electricians tape loaded with black tipped armor-piercing 5.56 NATO.

Below the rifle magazine hangs four Beretta M9 magazines loaded with 60 rounds of 115 grain NATO nine millimeter. Because Shack is driving he and I swap the pistol magazines stored in our doors. I hand him the M9 magazines while Shack is handing me my British Hi-Power magazines from the driver’s door.

Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #198 Camp Activities Somewhere Near Warm Beach, WA #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

The man mumbles something as he wanders away. Shack leans around the hood of the Dodge.

“Who the fuck was that?” Shack ask as he holsters his pistol.

“Just some horny asshole, dear. Forget about him. We need this truck running and then we need to do our basic maintenance before our guard rotation.”

Just as I am getting worried about the battery level in this old truck, with a cloud of black smoke the Cummins engine cranks to life. We idle the truck for an hour, while we are cleaning out the garbage from the truck and perform other basic maintenance.

Dolcent swings by checking on our fuel level. Shack and Dolcent talk for a little while, and I get the impression that Dolcent is interested in Shack in more of a personal level. I try not to be jealous; there are only a few women in the convoy as men still outnumber us.

After Dolcent rides off on her bicycle, Shack is unusually quiet. I want to pry, but give him some space as he is obviously thinking on something that Dolcent said. I am curious as to what Dolcent could have possibly said to make Shack so pensive.

We clean the truck in silence. Even the usually talkative Honey is quiet. Living in our truck results in a level of grime and filth that I had never imagined. Honey found some undiluted Simple Green in a closet on the compound. Using a little of the pine tree-smelling cleaner, we scrub the doors and dash of the truck.

One thing not lacking is the surplus of extra clothes we use as rags. Tossing the dirty rags in the bushes after we are done makes me feel a little guilty. Our truck certainly smells better.

Shack finally explains what Dolcent wanted. She is not happy working and living with the fueling team and wants to join our truck. She will still maintain the fuel logs, but she does not wish to sleep with the fuel team anymore.

Several members of the fuel team pressure Dolcent for sex; she is tired of sleeping in fear that someone will force her. We have room in our tent, but our truck even with the extended cab is getting crowded. I will have to think on letting Dolcent join our truck.

Shack agrees and the next time Dolcent checks our fuel level Shack informs her that I will think about it for a while. I want a talk with the other members of our truck before I make an impetuous decision. I will even ask Monster, since he is talking now if he would mind another rider.

Our guard rotation was an exercise in mind numbing boredom while standing in the mud-filled rain. By the early evening the mud content of the rain slackens perhaps we are through the worst of the debris kicked up by the close impact.

At supper that night Dolcent sits with us rather than the fuel team. There are some dark looks from some of the members of fuel team as Dolcent sits beside Shack. I understand Dolcent’s reason for wanting to leave the fuel team. As the only officially unattached female in the fuel team Dolcent is under a lot of pressure.

We eat mostly in silence concentrating on filling our bellies with hot food. Dolcent leans into Shack and whispers something in his ear that turns him bright red. Dolcent gives me a nod and leaves our table quickly when she is done.

Supper is a thick hot stew of mixed meat (including hot dogs) and vegetables accompanied by fresh warm bread. The mystery meat is a little stringy and only God knows what it used to be when alive.

We eat a lot of things now that I never would have even considered as food. Squirrels, groundhogs, prairie dogs, raccoons, opossums, crows, ravens, starlings, pigeons, grackles, marmots, and even the occasional dog found its way into our stew pots.

Our Gatherers use slingshots with marbles and ball bearings as ammo. Harvesting birds using shotguns attract too much attention and uses our finite ammo supply. I understand that UHT or MRE peanut butter spread on the toe of a Gatherer’s boot is a good way to lure pigeons in range of a slingshot.

Seagulls and raccoons are fortunate that they taste so bad that we avoid eating them except in the direst of times. So far every raccoon we ate has been a fight to keep in my stomach. Rabbits are hares are so rare as to be nonexistent in our meals. We stew almost all of our meats so as not to waste any protein.

The thick slices of warm brown bread are heavenly. We splurge and spread some of our carefully hoarded small patties of butter on our slices of bread sprinkling them with a little salt. God the warm bread and butter melts in my mouth. All of us are a lot leaner than we were before KCAP.

The men and women look good with the softness of the former world melted off of them. Men such as Shack put on as much as 20 pounds of lean muscle. I worry that we may go on short rations.

I have lost the extra weight in my hips and my breasts are one again small enough that a tight men’s small tee-shirt is enough to cover and support my tits. I am practically flat chested again, but Shack does not seem to mind. With smaller breasts, my nipples are more sensitive and responsive when Shack and I make love.

I did manage to speak with Starshina 1st Class Dragomirova concerning sleeping with Honey. Alexandra Dragomirova prefers to be called Sashka. Despite her gruff exterior and the profanity, I find Sashka to be a nice woman ignorant of Honey’s age.

Sashka will apologize to Honey but I get the distinct feeling that she still wishes to sleep with her. The sergeant gave me the eye a few times, but I am with Shack and not interested in sharing him. Chow tent intelligence implies that Shaska is not interested in men at all.

A lot of the members of our convoy have adopted polyamory because of the shortage of women. Group marriages are not uncommon, and a woman sharing several men is also common. Monogamous couples such as Carol and Nikola and Shack and I are not as common.

Older members of the population requiring medicine to live have died as have many of the infirm. Some of the first casualties were older members of Congress and the Senate. Several older lawmakers dropped dead once they ran out of modern medicine.

Modern medicine kept a lot of people alive who should have died a long time ago. KCAP wiped the weak and infirm from our population. Unfortunately, because of several factors more women have died than men, leaving women in the minority.

Our radio watch is a repeat of the previous night’s, but this time we have the 2000 to 0000 watch. Relieving Ben and Randy, who quickly leave for their cots was done in near silence. In turn we are relieved by Nikola and Carol carrying a sleeping well-bundled Stiva.

Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #197 Day Camp Activities Somewhere Near Warm Beach, WA #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

So I failed to get this chapter posted yesterday – mea culpa. Still adjusting to a twice a week posting schedule.


“Shack, two full cases of MREs – really?” I ask.

Handing Honey sitting in the Dodge truck the sealed cardboard boxes which look a little worse for the wear, Shack answers.

“Yeah, uh … Russian sergeant, uh … Duragananotive … or something … ya’ know the one who’s about as wide as she’s tall and sounds like she’s been chewing gravel all day …”

“Dragomirova,” Honey interrupts Shack without looking up from pilfering the two MRE cases given to her and Monster’s care.

Shack briefly looks at Honey, “Yeah, uh … her … uh, … she said that they found an underground storage locker with a large steel door. Others had tried to get in; she said there was evidence of several hammer strikes and attempts with various cutting tools. She had to use explosives to get the door open. For a bunch of religious nut jobs, they had a nice stash of stuff. Anyway, that fireplug-shaped Russian chick …”

“Dragomirova,” Honey helpfully adds again.

“Anyways, uh … yeah her, she said that we are going to scorch earth this place. Know what she means?”

“Shack, she means that we are leaving nothing anyone else could use.”

“Oh,” Shack says, turning to Honey he asks, “Hey, how come you know the name of that beefy Russian sergeant so well?”

Blushing darkly red, Honey drops her eyes to the ground. With her pale KCAP-induced complexion Honey’s red face vividly contrasts with the rest of her skin.

Looking away from Shack and I, Honey mutters, “I don’t … ummm … uh … you know … um … with girls,” while if possible turning even redder.

“Huh?” Shack replies eloquent as ever.

“Shack, dear leave it alone.” Honey gives me a quick glance and a grateful nod but refuses to meet my eyes. I am hoping that Honey does not worry that I am upset about her choice of sexuality.

Without the boys around, it looks as if Honey and I need a sexuality discussion. I am not sure if anyone has ever had a birds and the bees discussion with Honey.

I wonder if I might have a word with sergeant Dragomirova about propositioning a 13-year-old girl. I am hoping that Dragomirova is ignorant of Honey’s true age as she does not look as if she is only 13. If she desires sex with a 13 year old girl, sergeant Dragomirova and I will have a serious problem.

“Ok, anyways, other than a bunch of rusty, useless guns, there was a bunch of ammo, three cases of M33 frag grenades, a case of nearly new M67 frag grenades, and a pile of moldy cardboard MRE cases. Most of the MREs are three to five years out of date, so Doc’s handing them out. You know how the colonels worry about malnutrition becoming a problem.”

Stimulating a ravenous appetite in the infected, the KCAP virus literally drives its host to eat. Doc mentioned that some of the hunger symptoms reminded him of Prader-Willi Syndrome, but without most of the other physical characteristics of someone suffering PWS such as small stature and obesity.

As KCAP infection progresses the virus attacks the host’s frontal lobe, destroying it eventually. Without their frontal lobe the KCAP infected lose rational reasoning.

It is feared that a lack of nutrition increases the KCAP virus’s activity. In those that are merely infected, but not yet a zombie, the fear is that a lack of nutrition pushes the infected over the line becoming a ravenously hungry eating disorder suffering zombie driven by a neurological compulsion.

Without an Eyam phenomenon, so far no one is immune to KCAP. Shack glances at Honey and then Monster before continuing on.

“When I left the Colonel’s tent the explosive dudes were busily taping those M33 grenades with electrician’s tape muttering about “no fucking safety clips and stupid religious freaks.”

Honey asks, “Do you know what they meant by that Shack?”

“Uh, yeah, the old M33 grenades came in fragile wooden cases, packed with straw and sawdust. Down in that buried vault, the humidity and water seeped in reducing the M33 crates to mush. The ordo boys said that had one of the M33s fell just right it would have popped its spoon and gone off. Thankfully, most of the MREs were later additions to the pile as they were on top and mostly out of the small lake in the vault.”

Standing in line in a light drizzle with our two canteen cups we get a healthy slog of oatmeal in one cup. Well, I will say one thing for this religious group; at least they knew how to store food staples. For the truly adventurous there is also UHT white milk. An impervious tomb stone of bannock accompanied by some brown tinged hot liquid vaguely resembling coffee finishes my wonderful morning repast.

I hate coffee, but the liquid is hot and feels good in my hands and warms my body inside. Our morning oatmeal has raisins in it; I suspect also more than one kind of oat. I discover that there are regular raisins, sweet grape raisins, and cranberry raisins in my oatmeal.

Soaking my brick of bannock in my hot oatmeal helps soften it so that I might bite off pieces without fear. I am terrified of having tooth problems. I saw Doc messing around with that antique dentist’s foot drill discovered as decoration in some dentist’s office. No fucking way do I want Doc drilling in my mouth with that damn thing.

Convoy personnel run about erecting tents again and digging out gear they had just stowed. Since we are staying another day, all of the trucks are started and idled for at least an hour followed by basic vehicle maintenance.

The large heavy US Army trucks are started first, followed by the fuel tanker, and the snow plow. Once the heavy trucks are idling the smaller vehicles such as our Dodge pickup are started.

While I am cranking over the old recalcitrant Dodge Shack judiciously applies WD40 into the air intake behind the air filter. While I am listening to the whine of a cold Cummins diesel starting an unfamiliar white male walks up to my open driver’s window. I assume that he is a convoy member, since he is both armed and within our camp.

The first thing I notice is his body odor; it is a cloying stench that sticks in the back of my throat. This man at one time, before KCAP, was quite obese as a great fold of skin hangs below his belt flopping against his legs.

The odoriferous man’s Duct Tape patched faded black US Navy enlisted rain coat has seen better days. Mismatched court shoes cover his feet, protected by black plastic trash bags. Baggy bright clown orange cotton sweat pants held up with a thin braided leather belt peeks out from below his coat.

A ratty slimy green Seattle Supersonics knit cap fails covering his head while allowing stringy greasy bangs of mouse brown hair to fall into his face. Cracked thick eyeglasses with brown plastic frames fight a losing battle against gravity sliding repeatedly down his blade thin nose.

The unfamiliar man carries a corroded 9mm single shot pistol once made famous by the CIA in the 1960s. The so-called “deer gun” was a successor to the Liberator pistol of World War Two, carries three rounds in the butt of the ugly gun.

Supposedly destroyed, after the Vietnam War escalated beyond what a clandestine weapon would prove useful, I have never observed a deer gun except in pictures. The few deer guns evaluated in Vietnam were believed abandoned in that country, but it appears as if at least one returned to the States.

The strange man approaches my driver’s door, I abandon starting the cold Dodge. Grabbing the old, side-by-side, twin exposed hammer, sawed off 12 gauge shotgun hanging on the driver’s widow crank, I quickly thumb back both hammers. Chambered in 2.75” the old shotgun, sawed off just past the front hand guard is a terrible weapon up close.

The left barrel is loaded with a buck and ball shell, while the right barrel is loaded with a flechette shell containing 20 mild steel flechettes. Wrapping my left hand over the barrels of the sawed off side by side shotgun, I keep the weapon just underneath the open window sill.

Tightening my grip on the shotgun I lean into the door bracing myself. The front trigger fires the right barrel if the reeking stranger makes a hostile move he is getting a face full of flechettes. The man gives me a smirk that I suppose he thinks looks seductive.

“I’d love to get in your pants,” he says.

“I have one asshole there now I do not need another,” I sneer.

Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #196 Stuck For The Day Somewhere Near Warm Beach, WA #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

Filling this morning’s muddy drizzle is debris from the nearby impact. We are far enough away that none of the big stuff hit us, but all the dirt and pulverized rock kicked into the air is coming down with the rain.

Creating a black slimy mess, the raining mud coats everything with a thin, black slurry. With the weather reducing visibility, increasing the likelihood of a crash the colonels decide to stay another day. Hopefully the bad weather keeps zombies and hostile survivors away.

One good thing about black raining, mud is that it muffles the camp’s noise. Even with judicious sounds and light discipline a camp this size still makes considerable noise. Hiding a large group such as this is a fantasy extra vigilance and caution is expected of our snipers and guards.

Increasing the number of guards, while keeping the roaming Scouts in the field, requires everyone, including the colonels, pulling a period of guard duty. Scouts are split between two shifts putting them on a six hours on, and six hours off rotation. No one is exempt from guard duty with the exception of the pregnant, convoy personnel still nursing children, and any child under the age of 14.

Fielding so many people with varying degrees of firearm competency is fucking asking for Murphy to fuck us. I have a bad feeling that something bad will happen, I just hope that it does not affect me or mine.

Breakfast this miserable morning is a slightly more than three years out of date MRE. I have drawn menu #24 Southwest Beef and Black Beans (AKA: south-of-the-border diaper disaster according to the soldier who handed it to me).

After carefully slicing open the heavy brown plastic bag I dump the contents on the Dodge bench seat. Normally we would eat in the chow tent, but our cooks and kitchen crew had already ripped the kitchen and chow tent down in preparation for travel today. The grumbling kitchen crew is putting up the chow tent and the kitchen in this shitty black raining mud.

Shack, Honey, Monster and I decided to eat lunch in our truck. Shack ducks behind the bench ensuring our two 70-something years old tin cans of Educator Biscuit Company, Survival Biscuits are secure.

Each Office of Civil Defense 17 pound tin holds about 1,500 biscuits we have two of them behind the Dodge’s bench seat. I was wrong Shack was not after survival biscuits, he was after something quite a bit better.

Shack retrieved his precious plastic can of honest-to-God Tang. Not quite as good as freshly squeezed OJ, the kids like the Tang. Carefully scooping the precious orange powder so that none is wasted Shack makes one liter desert tan plastic canteens of Tang for Honey, Monster and then himself. I pass on the Tang this morning I want something hot instead.

Neatly folding the brown MRE bag I store it with the others in the truck bed tool box behind the cab of the Dodge truck. A hot trade commodity the heavy plastic MRE bags are used for many things such as keeping gear dry, a waterproof shoe liner, and food storage.

Sorting through the contents of the MRE I separate what I will eat now from what I will snack on while in the truck. Stripping cardboard boxes from meal packs and compacting the bulky MRE results in a decent pile of fire starter for the stove in our tent. For eating later I shove the kippered beef stick with the flour tortillas along with the jalapeno cheese spread into my BDU pants thigh pockets.

I know that shoveling the beef and bean mix into a tortilla is what I am supposed to do and then covering it with the cheese spread, but I do not have time this morning. Shack and I have drawn both guard and radio duty. While waiting for my little trusty Esbit stove heating water for my packaged mocha cappuccino I eat the cold spiced apples in sauce.

Following the advice of Shack and other US soldiers experienced with this MRE, I hand the packaged chocolate and banana muffin top to Monster and Honey for sharing. I had not noticed until this morning, but Monster is now talking similar to a four-year old child. Monster is five months old, and already walks, runs and now talking. Granted, he talks like a child, but damn Monster is growing fast.

Honey raises her eyes when I offer her the MRE muffin top snack. “Bog zaveshchaet delit’sia (Russian – God instructs us to share) I explain. Honey snatches the snack ripping it open before I could even contemplate changing my mind. Not sure if Honey understood or is just too hungry to care.

Watching as the two infected kids eat, I am amazed at how much food these two eat. No that is not correct Shack explains to me that Honey and Monster scarfed down the packaged MRE snack.

With their higher metabolism, the two kids require almost twice as much food as Shack and I. Not only are Monster and Honey still growing, but the KCAP infection increases their metabolism making them hungry all of the time.

Since joining the convoy Honey, has grown at least three inches becoming a willowy, thin young woman with whipcord-like muscles. Watching Honey walk around our truck, Monster piggy back riding her shoulders, I believe that Honey will be stronger than Shack and I put together.

I have watched Honey effortlessly toss our rolled dripping wet canvas tent followed by our sleeping gear into the back of the Dodge truck. Usually it takes three of the guys to toss our rolled canvas tent into the truck.

Monster usually helps Honey cover everything in the Dodge truck bed with a tarp. Since we are not leaving today, the kids have other chores. Monster carries our emptied chamber pot back into our tent. I see some ass hat has painted a yellow smiley face on the bucket with the words “Have a Nice Day” underneath.

Shack hands Honey and Monster a pair of sealed MREs. The two KCAP-infected children eat more than twice what most convoy members eat. I notice that Shack returned from the Colonel’s tent carrying two crates of MREs. Since I have been with the convoy, the Colonels have jealously guarded our finite supply of MREs.

Seeing Shack arrive with two sealed cases makes me suspicious.

Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #195 Night Watch Somewhere Near Warm Beach, WA #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

I am attempting a Wednesday and Sunday posting schedule. Not sure how long I will be able to keep it up, but I am going to give it a serious try.

Warning: incase you the missed the other warnings, Ruth’s Tale contains graphic straight and lesbian sex as well as some graphic violence.


The only time that I broke my serial monogamy rule was during Amy and my last night of vacation in Puerto Rico. After drinking far too much rum, and way too much drunk dirty dancing, Amy and I met Simone, a dusky wickedly-curvaceous bisexual Puerto Rican woman.

Amy was a far more adventurous and experienced lover. Prior to our relationship, Amy had been in an open relationship with another woman. While in college, Amy was part of a triad (also sometimes known as a thrupple) with another woman and a man.

On our third anniversary, Amy and I exchanged promise rings. My white gold promise ring has a very nice one carat solitaire diamond. My promise ring is at the bottom of my purse which is lying on the floor beside our cot. It still hurts too much to look at that ring so I keep it tucked away.

Our vacation to Puerto Rico was for Amy’s 30th birthday (Amy was a few years older than I was) during which she convinced me to have a lesbian three-way with Simone. In hindsight, had I been sober, I would not have agreed to go through with a three-way.

I vividly remember watching Simone vigorously ass fucking Amy wearing a lube-dripping, wrist-thick, purple, strap on dildo. While I rubbed her back and kissed her, Amy suffered through several screaming orgasms from the bruising, hip slapping, and root-deep ass fucking.

I am not sure how long the three of us fucked. I will always remember that time, as fucking rather than making love as our coupling was rough and aggressive lacking the gentleness of making love.

Amy eventually had me lie in front of her so she could eat me while enjoying her brutal ass fucking. Watching Amy’s face driven deep into my wet pussy each time Simone slammed into her ass was very erotic.

The force of Simone’s thrusts transferred through Amy’s body driving her face into my wet folds, her mouth trying to remain on my clit, setting off several hip bucking orgasms of my own. I am not sure how long Simone pounded poor Amy’s bruised ass. Both women were sweat drenched when Simone finally pulled out flopping on the sweat and cum-soaked bed on her side beside Amy and I.

Wrung out from incomparable mind-blowing sex plus Amy and I was still suffering the effects of far too much sweet rum, neither of us could move. Amy and I fell asleep on the bed where we lay Amy’s head still between my thighs.

Simone snuck out sometime in the early morning, leaving Amy and I passed out in the soaked, trashed, and probably ruined bed. Although we left a healthy tip for housekeeping I have a feeling that queen mattress was ruined.

That morning there were more than a few sheepish looks between Amy and I as if we could not believe we really did a threesome with a complete stranger. Amy also complained she was a bit sore, as she was so drunk that she did not realize how roughly Simone fucked her ass.

Once in a while Amy loved getting fucked in the ass. Amy’s favorite purple dildo disappeared. I always wondered if Simone kept it as a souvenir. I never did enjoy sodomy, but I had used that purple dildo on Amy, although I was always much gentler than Simone had been. If sodomy was something that my lover enjoyed I could do it for my lover, but I did not really enjoy either receiving or giving sodomy.

We were flying back home that afternoon, so we quietly showered and packed our bags. Amy and I learned that flying with a murderous hangover is not fun. As she sat on it in the airplane, I teased Amy a little about her sore bum. With our hangovers, we were glad that it is a short flight from Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport to Dulles.

I freely admit that I enjoyed my only threesome so far. Despite enjoying the threesome, for some reason I still feel guilty. Amy and I never discussed the threesome with Simone, despite talking about how much we enjoyed the other parts of the trip, such as the scuba diving. Perhaps Amy felt as guilty as I did.

I have always wondered if I would do another threesome. I have never been sure if I would do it again, but if I do I want to be sober next time. Most straight men fantasize about a threesome with two bisexual women.

Shack and I have not yet discussed sexual fantasies, and have only briefly touched on our sexual history. I have not yet told Shack of my misdeeds in Puerto Rico. Thankfully Shack likes my ass, but does not appear to want to fuck me there.

Lacking the luxury of a hot shower, and preparatory paraphernalia, today I am not interested in the kind of mess sodomy can create. I really want to avoid as the boys say “shit on a stick.”

Nikola whispering to little Stiva in Russian breaks my ruminations of the past. Nikola with his greatcoat on takes his wife’s arm and the family leaves the radio tent to Shack and I. The remainder of the night passes uneventfully. Barely staying awake, I am thankful when Ben and Randy relieve us.

Shack and I hold hands while walking from the radio tent back to our tent. Shack has been unusually affectionate tonight. I hope that he is not still insecure in our relationship. Wondering if Shack doubts my love despite him being much larger than I am, I yank him against my chest and snog him silly.

Shack and I roughly kiss bruising my lips our teeth clacking together. Over Shack’s shoulder I watch a large piece of burning debris fall from the sky. I assume it is more space junk falling from orbit. Shack and I watch as smaller pieces fall off of the larger piece, burning brightly for a little while after they separate from the larger flaming debris.

The fiery probably man-made comet burns across the sky until Shack and I see impact flashes on the horizon. Whatever that flaming object was it hit hard as we feel slight ground tremors later.

Shack and I spoon in bed with me pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around me. We are too tired for sex again, although the thought is nice. My sex is still damp from our earlier loving. Shack falls asleep first and I follow only a little later.

Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #194 Camped At Night Somewhere Near Warm Beach, WA #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

I try keeping these Ruth posts about a 1,000 words each. Tell me what you think. Is 1k of words too much or too little?


Sliding underneath the covers I press my cold body against a very warm Shack. Lying on his back, I fit perfectly underneath Shack’s right arm. Shack’s right hand slides lightly down my back, grabbing my ass gently over my panties.

Shack’s fingers slide underneath the waistband gently tracing the crack of my ass. Sliding my left hand down Shack’s abdomen I slowly trace the flat plane of his toned stomach.

A little lower I discover Shack is already naked and hard. Shack gently rolls me over so that I am lying on my back. Kissing me gently, Shack slides my tee-shirt up so that it pools around my neck so that he can gently suck on my nipples.

Shack knows that I have always been self-conscious about my lack of breasts. I am so small that I do not need to wear a bra, failing what the lads call a “pencil test.” My breasts are too small to trap a pencil underneath.

Shack knows that my nipples are sensitive; my back arches when he takes one in his mouth sucking gently. Despite his youth Shack is a generous and caring lover. After teasing my stomach, Shack gently pulls my panties off past my ankles, tossing them somewhere over his shoulder.

Laying his head between my legs Shack gently spreads my wet folds with his thumbs. Shack loves oral sex, once telling me that there is something profoundly erotic and arousing feeling a woman come against his mouth and lips. I agreed with him.

Shack’s love for oral sex began the first time he did it to a former girlfriend. With me Shack’s talented tongue has gotten better. Shack learned and listened going from impatient youth who just wanted to get me wet enough so I could receive him. Like most young men Shack wanted to get in and come as soon as possible.

Shack eats me through three very nice orgasms. While recovering from my last orgasm, Shack puts my legs on his shoulders, sliding slowly inside of me. Shack knows that I get tighter after oral, so he watches my face for any signs of discomfort.

I am wet enough that Shack is able to sink to the root on his first stroke. Putting his thumb on my clit and rubbing gently the way he knows I like, Shack slowly strokes gently and deeply hilting himself each time. As the stars go off while I am pinned to our cot, I lose count of my orgasms.

As Shack nears his own orgasm he bends me over with my legs still on his shoulders until we can kiss. Now that I am practicing yoga again, I have regained most of my old flexibility. My being leaner now also helps when my boyfriend wants to make a human pretzel. Bent nearly in half, Shack groans while kissing me and I feel him shooting deep inside.

Shack’s orgasm sets off another smaller one for me as we cuddle; gently falling asleep wrapped in each others arms. I sleep blissfully wrapped around Shack until a rude alarm on my watch wakes us.

Stepping into the radio tent, I see Nikola (author’s mea culpa note: I’ve been misspelling his first name, this is the proper Russian spelling) working on the guts of a AN/PRC-117F/G radio.

“Nick (I refuse to call a grown man Nicky), how are you familiar with the guts of that radio,” I ask.

His English is getting better, but in his still thick Russian accent, Nikola replies, “Russia have several copies of radio, studied them at school of Spetsnaz. First tour of Afghanistan maternal grandfather sent as Spetsnaz officer of intelligence to PGU KGB seconded. Grandfather talked drunk of earlier versions of radio, much admired by Soviet forces. This radio basket of parts keep other radio alive.”

The infamous Soviet KGB needs no explanation, but the PGU (Pervoye Glavnoye Upravleniye) branch is less famous than it deserves. The First Chief Directorate of the KGB was responsible for many of the evils blamed on the whole of the KGB.

Shrugging, I turn to Carol, who has finished nursing little Stiva. “Carol, I thought you and Nikola had the early morning watch,” I ask turning to the redhead putting on her coat, covering her massive milk-inflated tits.

“Nikola and I swapped with Ben and Randy, who now have the morning watch instead of us,” she replies. Since Randy broke his foot, and is on light duty Sutton is paired with another sniper.

“Why did you swap? You traded a full night of uninterrupted sleep for what?”

Carol blushes a deep red, highlighting the riot of freckles across her cheeks. “Well, you know Ruth when I don’t have morning sickness; I have this really sexy husband …”

If possible Carol blushes even darker while swaddling a sleeping Stiva. Once finished mummifying the sleeping tyke, Carol stands shrugging at me.

“I can only drink so much mint tea for my weak stomach. Brenda says my nausea can be eased with ginger, but we seem to be fresh out. My indigestion could be fixed with peppermint tea and licorice root tea, but we seem to be out of those too.”

Stepping close to Carol so our boys cannot hear I ask her, “Is it for your headaches?” Carol suffered badly from migraines. After Nikola and Carol got together, she used sex therapy for relief. After an orgasm (or a few) Carol’s migraines lessened.

Carol sighs, “Not since having little Stiva, my headaches have gone away.” Putting a hand on her still flat belly, she says, “I hope my migraines don’t come back with this new baby.”

Carol breaks open an MRE chocolate and cinnamon granola bar, quickly eating the treat. Nursing mothers must increase their caloric intake by double or triple. Mothers will be breast-feeding until their children are at least two or three years old.

Nikola wears his post-Soviet Russian Federation tight wife-beater style tee-shirt with horizontal white and blue lines. The tight cotton shirt displays Nikola’s impressive physique. His dark green trousers are less flattering, which is a shame because the man’s ass is absolutely scrumptious.

Nikola might not be as tall as my Shack, but is broader in the chest with thicker arms. Shack has a swimmer’s physique, while Nikola’s body resembles that of a weightlifter. I may be in a committed relationship with Shack, but that does not mean I cannot enjoy looking at other men, and the occasional beautiful woman. I am monogamous not dead.

Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #193 Camped Somewhere Near Warm Beach, WA #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

Shack, I think is a little jealous and perhaps not as secure in our relationship as I thought. I have never had the “relationship talk” with him, perhaps it is time. I practice serial monogamy, and I expect my lovers to do so as well. Amy and I did stray from that ideal once, or alright, several times while on vacation in Puerto Rico. But that was a special case.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Night finds the convoy camped in an old religious retreat compound off the side of the road. The ruins of several burnt out buildings surround the convoy camp. Light and noise discipline is strictly enforced.

The few zombies wandering around this old retreat succumb to a few quiet strikes with a hatchet, a machete or other silent killing tool. One of the poor finally dead zombies still had a bible clutched in his left hand. Tossing the zombie corpses off the cliff into the bay solves disposal issues.

Dinner tonight is an interesting stew mix of meat, canned veggies and found beans. Rumor has it that some of the Scouts shot a couple of deer explaining the sudden influx of fresh meat. Rumor also has it that a couple of Scouts might also get themselves shot for trying to keep a deer for themselves rather than turn it in to the convoy.

Walking into Doc’s tent reveals that he misplaced his clothes. He’s standing naked in front of a large full length mirror. Not that I wanted to but I see that Doc is circumcised. Did not think about it before, but I wonder if all Cistercian Christians circumcise their kids.

“Uh, Doc clothes,” I mutter.

Doc does not seem to care the least that he is parading around with nothing on. I am a little embarrassed, but I admit that Doc has a decent body. Everyone is a lot leaner than we used to be before KCAP, so Doc’s muscles are clearly defined.

“Ruth didn’t peg you for a prude,” Doc replies.

“Uh, no but, did not expect walking in here that I would see you prancing before a mirror like a virgin going to her first prom.”

Doc slips on a pair of pants, but does not bother with any other clothing.

“Happy,” he looks at me with open innocent eyes.

“Yeah, whatever,” I so eloquently reply.

“Ruth I was not vainly looking at my sexy body. I noticed that KCAP removed all of my skin tags. I used to have quite a few skin tags underneath my arms and in between my legs. I wouldn’t have thought that KCAP would bother removing skin tags.”

“I do not know Doc, you are the expert,” I reply.

“What brought you in here Ruth,” Doc asks.

“I was headed to bed since I have the early morning radio watch. The Colonel asked me to tell you that those illicit stills that he is not supposed to know about have produced their first batch. He wanted you to go check the product out. Either we drink it or run it in the trucks, he said.”

Doc scratches his head. “I’ll head over to the trucks with the stills. You wouldn’t think that they could produce anything drinkable as much as they shake all day.”

I toss an offhand wave at Doc as I head for our tent. Nicky and Carol have the first radio watch Ben and Randy have the mid watch. Shack and I pulled the morning watch which means we get a full six hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Entering our tent Shack is already lying covered in our cot. Good, that means our damn sleeping bags and blankets will be a little warmer. I hate climbing into a cold bed. I pull a men’s small US Army issue tee-shirt and a fresh pair of panties out of my gear bag.

Today is not our bath day. I strip off and using a little water from one of my canteens, I use my tee-shirt from today to wipe off a bit. Pits, tits (of what little I have) and crotch receive a brief but damned cold scrub. Not as clean as I would like, but will have to do. What I would give for a decadent long hot shower.

Sitting on the edge of our cot, I dress in a pair of panties that before KCAP I would have called “granny panties” and would not have been seen unless dead in them. They are not the silk, French-cut panties that I preferred. I never did care for thong underwear butt floss is not comfortable for long wear.

Both Amy and I enjoyed lingerie shopping both together and alone as a surprise to each other. I would wear thong underwear briefly for Amy’s arousal, not that it took all that much. She liked removing my thong underwear with her teeth, but only after she teased me for a bit.

I see that my old purse fell out of my gear bag when I removed the sleep wear that I am wearing. I open my old purse, wondering why I still bother dragging this stupid thing with me. What the fuck do I need an $800 purse during a zombie apocalypse.

Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #192 Still On the Road Between Warm Beach & Anacortes, WA #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

Looking over some of my earlier chapters, I believe that most of my posts were TL:DR for most people. I will try a few shorter chapters and gauge what the readers what from there. Thank you for being patient and waiting until the new chapter.


From the bushes a flurry of brightly colored paint balls hit the hoods and windows of our vehicles. Following the furious paintball attack six Ghillie suited individuals stand up in the bushes.

All six amorphous blobs remove their head coverings revealing five white males and one black male.

Walking up beside me Shack nonchalantly asks, “Honey, did you happen to notice that all their Ghillie suits are optimized for the dense conifer forests of the Pacific Northwest?”

“Honey, since when the fuck do you call me honey?”

Shack smirks at me with that lopsided grin I love so much. “Really, we have six unknowns stand up in the bushes within knife fighting range, and you are more concerned with what term of endearment I use for you?”

“Sorry, just didn’t expect six assholes so close and then you throw me off by calling me honey. I thought we agreed not to use that word. Since it is what we named Honey who is sitting in the idling truck behind us probably listening to every word we say.”

“You bet I can hear you, but I don’t care if Shack calls you honey, it’s kinda sweet,” Honey remarks from the cab of the Dodge truck.

Behind me Honey sits on the toolbox which the auxiliary fuel tank in the truck bed wraps around. She is busily squish-mixing an MRE packet an MRE flameless heater lies smoking on the tank top beside her. Finished mixing the MRE entrée, she slides it into the heater and then shoves the whole thing back into the cardboard MRE container for warming.

On the floorboards of the truck, through the open passenger door, I see Monster busily shoveling another MRE pouch of food into his greedy mouth. Those two, they probably eat around five to six thousand calories a day. Honey tosses three tiny MRE issue Tabasco bottles in the bushes.

Looking back at the excitement I see the Colonel talking to the sneaky fuckers in Ghillie suits. The men paled noticeably, acting nervous when Doc walks up to them. So the men recognize an infected person.

After speaking briefly with the Colonel and Doc, the six men dash back into the bushes returning shortly with packs. One of the Ghillie-suited men gently leads a shell shocked woman carrying a small child towards the front of the convoy. The Colonel spread the newcomers through the convoy. I notice that each truck the newcomers join is well staffed with senior combat experienced troops.

As the black man jogs past me, I recognize his rank markings. “Color sergeant, what brought you here,” I ask. The sergeant carries a British-issue L85A2 with the L123A2 UGL 40mm grenade launcher attached.

“You are so far the only person to properly address me by rank,” he says to me in a thick British accent.

Not much more than a head taller than me, the black sergeant’s arms are corded with smooth muscle. Pointing at the sergeant’s grenade launcher I ask, “How many rounds you got for that sergeant?”

“Two HE, one buck, one HE incendiary frag, and one thermobaric. Lass, I doubt your colonel is going to be handing the lads and I any ammo terribly soon.” He eyes me critically. I can practically hear the wheels grinding in his head.

“Israeli, correct?”

I nod my head. “Lass what brought you to the colonies?”

“Love; I fell in love with a woman while she was backpacking through Israel. I followed her home and been here since. What about you sergeant?”

“I was here on personnel exchange attached to the 5th Special Forces Group on JBLM. Was only two weeks here, before the shite fell apart. I hope my mum made it, but I doubt it, Lancaster was bad I heard. Wish I would have stayed with my SAS like a good lad.”

The sergeant and I talk for a few more minutes until the convoy is ready to move again. The sergeant leaves with a friendly wave heading towards the rear finding his ride.

Climbing in the truck I glance at the gauges making sure nothing went to shite with the vehicle while it idled for an hour or so. With effortless grace Honey slides through the rear beer window into the middle of the bench seat.

Shack jumps in slamming his door. He thumps his rifle onto the floor earning a look from Monster whose foot is beside it.

“You sure talked to him a long time,” Shack says.

“He is rather handsome there are not that many black guys in the convoy,” Honey remarks.

“Jealous Shack?”~

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