Skip to content

Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #151 KCAP Infected Arrive at Kayak Point and An Unexpected Encounter #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

June 7, 2015

The infected walk into the chaos like they are above it all, and offer no outward appearance of concern. The small group of infected led by a large older male. They are lightly armed. Of the three men and two women, only the two largest men carry firearms. The smaller male and the two women carry various bladed gardening tools, pressed into service as weapons.

The largest male carries a battered, full fenced receiver, AR-15 rifle with attached carry handle and Vietnam-era skinny handguards. The rifle has the traditional pencil-thin barrel and I would bet that its twist rate is 1-in-12 or 1-in-14. A single gray metal magazine is inserted into his weapon.

The smaller male carries a sawed off, nondescript, imported over-under shotgun which might be a 20 gauge or other smaller gauge of shotgun. No handguns are evident among the infected.

Dressed in casual street clothes, the only similar clothing among them is a cotton hoodie. I swear the damned hoodie is the unofficial uniform of the Seattle area. Randy and Sutton says that it is because of the cooler and damper weather that so many chose to wear a hoodie. A hoodie is also something that is easy to don or remove should the weather change, which it does often in this area.

Things are tense for a moment, until some men and women with tribal, ethnic appearances come over and start passing bowls of steaming food around. It is harder to attack someone when you are holding a turned wooden bowl of steaming food. Food is far too precious now to waste it attacking someone.

The smell of the food in the bowl shoved into my arms makes my mouth water. I inhale deeply smelling the steaming pile of food in my bowl. It smells wonderful. Stirring with my handy, brown plastic MRE spoon, it appears to be a pottage of peas and beans with small chunks of reddish meat. Several small squares of slightly yellow bread lie on the edges of the bowl.

Our hands now full of food, everyone seeks someplace to sit. Shack and I wander over to some of the larger logs on the edge of the asphalt sitting with our backs to the water. The timing of our arrival appears fortuitous as we are in time for the evening meal. Directly behind us is the single pier jutting out into the water.

Shack and I are joined by Brenda and her two husbands. The infected wander off to sit by themselves on the playground equipment in the center of the park area. Behind the infected is a small latrine building emitting an awful smell when the wind shifts. I would not wish to eat so close to such a rank smelling building, but the infected do not seem to mind.

The smell causes Brenda to gag, coughing into her hand. One of Brenda’s husbands pats her back. She looks at me sheepishly. “I may be pregnant,” she says with a weak smile, as if I need an excuse for her to be ill at such a foul smell.

We fall silent concentrating on eating. We notice that Doc, Honey and LM join the infected eating in the playground. Shack raises his eyebrows at this, but there is really nothing we can do so we continue eating. Sam eats while standing talking to a tall man with a long ponytail streaked with silver.

I assumed that the small semi-round pieces of yellowish, puffy bread were tortillas. I am confounded by their taste and study the piece of greasy, puffy bread in my hand. “It’s Indian fry bread,” Brenda explains at my perplexed expression.

“Huh,” is my intelligent reply.

“According to Navajo tradition, fry bread was created when my people were forced to move to Bosque Redondo, New Mexico. The Navajo used supplies given to them by the US government, when the land would not provide traditional Navajo food,” Longfeather explains. I did not see him approach, so engrossed was I in eating.

Nodding at us, Longfeather sits down in front of us, cross-legged his food perched precariously on his legs. “For many Indians, but more so for those who were forced off of their traditional lands, fry bread connects the present to one of the most painful periods of Native American history.”

Falling silent Longfeather digs into his food with relish. Despite being rather bland, the pottage is filling. I find myself emptying my bowl, wiping the dregs out with my last piece of greasy fry bread. The food brings calm to the camp. Looking around I realize that among the separate groups, they have arranged themselves so that their areas are distinct.

In the center of the area, running along the water between the single pier and the asphalt around the playground is a large open area. We are assigned, unfortunately being the last to arrive, the area closest to the foul-smelling latrine buildings.  The next few hours are spent setting up our tents, and other gear.

One surprising change is that the radio gear will remain packed. We are not keeping a radio watch while here and will use only the man portable radios and not the base radio sets. Shack and I, along with the rest of the usual radio crew are assigned guard rotation.

Doc, Honey and the infected confer with Sam and the stocky man with dark narrow eyes, a fixed sneer, and jet-black hair worn in a ponytail to his shoulders. After the meeting, the infected return to the houses to the north. I note now that infected are now carrying several firearms given to them by the convoy.

The largest woman now carries a purple nine millimeter Sccy pistol in a black nylon Uncle Mikes holster. The Scouts recovered the unique Sccy pistol from a dead zombie a few months ago. There is only one magazine for the Sccy pistol so I hope that she is careful not to lose it.

The other infected now carry Hi Point pistol caliber carbines and several Hi Point pistols. The Hi Point pistols and carbines are rather common, because they were so cheap. Unfortunately, repair parts and extra magazines for the Hi Points are rather rare.

As I watch the newly armed infected leave, the stocky man with dark narrow eyes, a fixed sneer, and ponytail of silver streaked jet-black hair to his shoulders walks up to me. Facing me with a sneer, he place his hands on his hips.

“So you’re the bitch that was killin’ my men.”

Advertisements

Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: