Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #173 Iain Returns to Camp in Baker City #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL
I rest my rifle on its bipod, prepared to defend our little corner. My position is not optimal; I have the wagon to my right and the animals to my left. I draw my pistol and attempt to hand it to a dozy red-head who has not come awake enough.
I hear rustling in the grass. Closing one eye, so that the claymores or other mines detonation will not blind me completely, I snug my rifle to my shoulder. I have loaded a full, 35-round magazine of alternating hollow point, soft point and FMJ ammo.
I drag a full mag of SS109, 62-grain, green-tipped, NATO penetrators from my pack, laying it beside my legs within easy reach. I see a tall shadow moving silently through the grass. No mistaking that fucking huge outline, but it looks odd, with a huge lump on his shoulders.
Softly, I hear “here, kitty-kitty” in Iain’s, deep, throaty voice.
I give the proper counter sign, “puki.” Had I responded with “suso,” Iain would have known that camp was not safe and to come in ready for battle.
Mary-Margarot raises her head high and neighs very loudly. Red-head erupts from the blankets, knocking my pistol to the ground and nearly knocking my Galil over onto its side. Thankfully, both weapons are in the safe position, so I do not have to worry about the startled girl shooting Iain.
Cursing the startled red-head in Yiddish “kacken zee ahf deh levanah!” (Go take a shit on the moon), I right my Galil and holster my old Browning pistol. Red-head is staring at a dripping, blood-splattered Iain carrying Mary-Margarot’s little foal.
Setting the little foal down, Iain watches as it wobbly runs over to her mother who neighs loudly again. Mary-Margarot sniffs her foal, snorts loudly and shakes her head tossing her mane.
The little foal scoots underneath her mother, her thin little tail shaking. Nursing loudly, the little foal’s eagerness at teat shakes her mother’s body. I marvel at the simple beauty of the Akhal-Teke horses.
“Used to have to worry about fuckers attempting to steal my horses. Now, I have to worry about assholes trying to eat them as well,” Iain mutters. “I saw the tracks of the little foal. Two assholes were trying to catch it in the yard of an old apartment building.”
I can guess what happened to the two assholes. A pissed off Iain, with over three feet of excellent, sharp Solingen steel is not something I wish to suffer.
Walking over to the water barrel on the wagon, Iain strips off his blood-splattered shirt and white tee shirt underneath. Careless of the cold water, Iain scoops out several handfuls and scrubs most of the blood out of his beard and hair.
Admiring the smooth, muscled lines of Iain’s chest and shoulders, I feel a tingle down below. Even if his shoulders and chest are covered in dense hair, not much thinner than the horses, he is still a fine specimen of a male.
Unlike Shack whose muscles were a product of Army training and exercise, Iain comes by his muscles naturally. I have never seen Iain run, or lift weights for fun. Anytime Iain must excerpt himself, it is for a damn good reason.
“Girl, either shoot me with that pistol, or put it away,” Iain suddenly growls. Startled, I touch the holster on my right hip, ensuring my pistol is properly holstered. Looking around Iain’s naked shoulder I see red-head standing, mouth agape holding a battered Whitney Wolverine pistol.
Using one of the rags from the wagon, Iain dries himself off. Walking towards red-head who appears unsure what to do with the pistol in her hands, Iain gently presses the gun down so that it is pointing at the ground.
Red-head soundlessly drops the small pistol in the pocket of her coat and flops down on the blankets beside the fire. Iain tosses several pieces of wood on the fire, stoking it higher. Pulling fresh clothes from his pack, Iain dresses quietly.
Iain has never been shy about his body. He slips a fresh pair of Levi pants on and a fresh tee-shirt and flannel shirt. Iain does not wear skivvies, preferring to go commando.
I have lots of questions, but I know that Iain will answer them in his own time. “You did a good job setting the perimeter defenses,” Iain mentions. “Next time, might want to set the claymores a little farther apart, otherwise well done.”
Iain kisses me lightly on the lips and whispers, “Don’t worry, her little pistol is full of blanks. I have her ammo wrapped in a blue handkerchief in my coat pocket.” He winks at me and pats me on the ass.
Iain rummages in our cooking and food supplies. “Sun’l be up in an hour or so. If you two ladies want to nap until I get breakfast cooked, go ahead or you can heat water for a quick wash or tea. Me, I want some coffee. Ruth, where is that ground dandelion root coffee I had?”
I hand Iain the dandelion root coffee packet, while I grab our little tea-pot. Filling the tea pot from the wagon’s water barrel, I see that red-head has crawled back in the blankets. With the increased heat from the fire, light steam wisps from the blankets, as the first of the morning’s dew dries.
“Found some young and tender field pennycress. Mixed with some Palmer’s pigweed, it should make a good batch of pot herbs for breakfast. Pulling out our worn and battered, mini bamboo cutting board, Iain slices pieces of salt pork.
Tossing the pieces of salty, dried pork into our well, soot-covered cooking pot, Iain adds the pennycress and pigweed. Adding spinach, arugula, and mustard greens we brought from the bunker, Iain starts making a vegetable broth soup.
While Iain chops carrots from the bunker’s gardens, I use some hot water and a rag for a quick wash. Red-head lies on her stomach in the blankets the whole time watching us. The smug expression on her face reminds me of a pampered house cat.
I resist the strong urge to go over there and smack that smug look off of her face. For some reason, looking at red-head pisses me off. Perhaps, I am becoming jealous in my old age. I change my clothes as well, putting on a fresh white wife beater, a flannel shirt and a pair of tan 5.11 operator pants.
I go commando these days as well, as most underwear by now has long fallen apart. My boots are still in good shape. I take stock of my wardrobe as I strap on my weapon’s belt, connecting it to the OD green, Vietnam-era LBV I wear. It feels good to have fresh clothes on and my pistol back in its holster on my hip.
Finished with my bath, I put my dirty things in the wagon. Joining Iain by the fire, I sit cross-legged beside him. Iain sips dandelion root coffee while I make some peppermint tea for myself.
“I traded with a few of Flower’s scouts for some bread,” Iain remarks as he starts slicing chunks of bread from a dinner-plate sized round loaf. It has been a while since we have eaten bread. The rich, dark brown bread has a nutty flavor and compliments our broth soup.
Without comment Iain hands red-head a bowl of soup and a thick slice of bread. I wish we had some butter, and salt to sprinkle on the bread, but the bread is a welcome change in our diet.
Iain hands me a can of Bud Light. I blush, remembering what happened the first time Iain gave me beer.