Skip to content

Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #174 Breakfast in Camp in Baker City, OR. #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

May 15, 2016

We eat in silence. Red-head does not want her beer, so Iain drinks it. I decline a second beer. I vividly remember the first evening after Iain finally took me away from Bobby’s place. Since I was still so very weak, Iain brought his old Ford truck.

I blush thinking of what happened in the back of that old Ford pickup. God, I was such a slut. Well, that and a little drunk. I had not had beer in almost a year, and Iain gave me a couple of cans of beer with our supper. What happened later is another topic for another day.

A touching show of his concern for me; Iain was willing to burn so much precious diesel just to ensure that I made it safely to my new home. Risking the attention that a loud, rattling diesel engine suffers, Iain was quite charming in his dented, rusty, smoking blue chariot.

Even after all of these years, my heart still aches for Shack. I grieve that I have not been able to see Shack’s grave. For a long time, I worried that Shack might have succumbed to KCAP.

Through the long months of healing, when Iain brought supplies to Bobby’s, Iain would always visit me. Iain told me of how he struggled, pulling Shack’s shattered body from the wreck. Crawling back into the wrecked Dodge truck, Iain was very surprised to find me alive, when he had been expecting another corpse.

Iain has ensured, as best as he is able, that I am at peace with how Shack passed. Although, I still want to go and see his grave. Shack was buried by Iain, but it was a few days later, after he returned from dropping me, in a coma, at Bobby’s.

I was mad at Iain for leaving Shack, but he has explained his reasons. Shack was already beyond Iain’s help, whereas there was something that could be done for me. I am forever grateful to Iain for risking his life saving mine.

Iain came to my aid when he could have left me to die. Sometimes, in my darker moments I almost wish that Iain had left me to die beside Shack.

If Iain had not climbed down into the ravine, investigating the wreck, I wonder if infected would have found me before I succumbed to my wounds. Iain has said that the wreck is in a difficult spot, and only someone with rock climbing and rappelling skills can get to the wreck.

The remote location and difficult terrain is one of the reasons that Shack and I were not disturbed in the wreck. Although he will deny it, Iain’s initial foray down the chasm to the wreck was not for altruistic motives.

Iain was searching for salvage, and the wrecked Dodge revealed many useful items that Iain used. Iain was after ammo, fuel, and food primarily, but also anything else he could use or trade. He was not expecting a survivor in the wreckage, as he believed that no one could have survived.

Iain has promised some day we will get over to what used to be Washington State. I will lay some flowers on Shack’s grave when I can. Maybe I will say some words over Shack’s body; perhaps read some of his favorite story. He would like that I think. Every day, I still miss that boy.

At Bobby’s, Miranda and Muriel (commonly referred to as M&M), Bobby’s wife and sister/second wife respectfully, took very good care of me. Best friends since childhood, M&M are nearly inseparable.

I still shudder at the thought of incest between Muriel and Bobby. Their children, despite being the product of incest, are quite healthy and beautiful. I am sure that it is neither the first time nor the last that a brother and sister have hooked up and had kids together.

Besides, as Muriel explained it to me one evening as she fed me – she and Bobby are only half-siblings sharing a mother, but have different fathers. As if that makes all the difference in the world!

Muriel does have one good point though – after KCAP, it is not like there are a lot of nice guys running around to settle down and have a family with. In her later teens when KCAP broke, Muriel never really had a chance to meet a nice boy, settle down and have a family.

Nadezhda, the Russian battle axe bear mother, was mostly responsible for my medical care. Once a highly paid doctor in Mother Russia, in the States she could work only nursing homes and elderly care facilities.

It was Nadezhda who performed surgery on me, and set my bones. For despite two masters and a pair of doctorates in medicine (none recogonized in the US) she could not get certified above certified nursing assistant (CNA).

A bitter, frightening woman with the bedside manner of a hung-over alligator, Nadezhda has the hands of a goddess. Her skills, once sober enough for surgery, amazed even poor, jaded Iain.

One day, as Nadezhda examined my wounds, clutching her ever-present bottle of bathtub vodka, I asked her why she tried so hard to ensure I healed. Tossing her greasy, shoulder-length, mousy-brown hair, back from her face, Nadezhda peered down her small, pudgy nose at me.

Once a very obese woman, Nadezhda great folds of loose skin flop around as she moves with as much agility as a great, drunk, pigeon-toed ostrich. Possessing a small head perched, grape-like on her wide shoulders, Nadezhda pale-blue piggy eyes glare at all she surveys.

Taking a swig of her rot gut hooch, Nadezhda belches. Tucking her bottle underneath her left arm, I was blessed with the twin competing aromas of Nadezhda’s body odor and her rotting teeth.

She shrugs, and patting me on the face says, “You die; I get earful from wolf. I no like wolf.” She left in a cloud of body odor, flapping her arms about muttering in Ukrainian. To this day, I have no fucking idea what she meant.

On the way home from Baker City, I want to stop at Bobby’s place and visit. It has been too long since the last time we dropped in. I want to ask M&M about some of the things I think I remember while I was healing. I want to make sure that I get my memories written down correctly.

I am not vain enough to think someone will actually read this trifle, but you never know. I also find writing my ideas and thoughts down therapeutic.

No one was sure if I would survive the coma. Iain, having seen many injuries on the battlefield, was doubtful I would survive. Iain said once, that he considered snapping my neck, euthanizing me, rather than subject me to the months of pain that healing required.

While I was in a coma, my broken arm, leg and ribs were set as best as they could be, given the situation. I am still amazed that they were able to trepan my skull and relieve the pressure against my brain. I can feel the circular lump in my skull underneath my hair.

Sometimes my hair brush will catch on the bumps underneath my skin, reminding me how lucky I am to be alive. I still do not know if the Convoy left Shack and I for dead, or if Monster and Honey survived the wreck.

Perhaps Monster and Honey survived the ambush and were able to rejoin the Convoy. The infected are hard fuckers to kill, and can survive much worse than us mere “normals” can.

I fervently hope that Monster and Honey survived the ambush. If Honey and Monster did not make it back to the Convoy, I hope that they at least survived and were able to find some place to live.

Shack was obviously dead. I probably appeared to be in no better shape. Iain came upon the wreckage of our truck, he thinks a few days later.

Iain saw the smoke and heard the gun fire but he did not see anyone else other than Shack and I in the vehicle. Because of the narrow ledge the truck fell on, looters had been unable to get at the truck. Thankfully Iain is a skilled rock climber and could repel down to the wreck.

How the hell Iain managed to get me in a coma, and most of my things out of the truck up a sheer cliff I will never know. When I ask Iain he just shrugs and kisses me.

Once I came out of the coma, and understood what had happened, I was very depressed. I badly wanted to die as I floated in and out of consciousness. If it was not for Iain visits which I came to eagerly anticipate, much to my chagrin, and the comfort of Bobby’s group I might have considered suicide.

Another person that drove me from my bed and to heal was Tito, but in a more perverse way. I hate that little Latin fucker with every fiber of my being. There are not many men that I am taller, and unfortunately, Tito happens to be one of the few.

One of the worst cases of Napoleon Complex, I have ever seen, Tito is one of the most disgusting little fuckers I have ever met. After nearly a year of healing, both mind and body, I was more than ready to leave Bobby and his group.

How I fixed Tito, is best left for another day. Let us just say that little asshole gave me plenty of incentive to heal, probably more than any other person.

Bobby and his group actually discussed infecting me with KCAP, so that my chances of healing would improve. Thankfully, I was aware enough at the time to vehemently deny any desire of ever becoming infected.

Iain was against the idea from the onset, and was even threatening to carry me out of the old cement plant if they even considered infecting me on purpose. I woke to a four-way screaming match between M&M, Iain, and Bobby.

Enough ruminating on the past, for now.

 

Advertisements

Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: