Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #180 Lunch time developments in Baker City, OR. #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL
I worry that the clan members assigned to reload the shotgun primers using old phosphorus matches might get phossy jaw. Iain told me that would be nearly impossible, because the exposure limits are still fairly low.
The royal guard’s shields are as improvised as the rest of their weapons. Since ammo and working firearms are so scarce melee weapons have returned to prominence; perhaps Iain had the right idea so many years ago carrying a ginormous sword.
Each guard’s small, round wooden shield, is maybe two-feet in diameter. The front of the shields are reinforced with pieces of rubber tires, and studded with sharp pieces of glass and rusty nails. One industrious guard even studded his shield with several short sections of razor concertina wire.
Each shield has a sharp, central iron spike 10” long well slathered in shit. Iain calls the guard’s shields “spiked targes,” and has worked training the boys in close-quarters melee. Iain also calls Flower’s guards “beef eaters” I suppose in reference to the old British guards.
From what I understand Flower’s guards get the best food and the best of everything. I know that Iain suspects that Flower sleeps with her guards, and that they have fathered all of her children. I do not really give a shit who Flower sleeps with, as long as it does not bother Iain, red-head or myself.
Flower and her guards always remind me of one of my father’s favorite quotes from the Christian bible. “Whoever walks with the wise becomes wise, but the companion of fools will suffer harm.” Proverbs 13:20
Of course thinking of the bible, reminds me of Shack. It is really unfair to Iain that even after all these years together, I still mourn for Shack. I really loved that boy, in a way that I did not realize until he was gone.
Iain and Flower talk a few minutes longer eventually moving away from me. I tuned out what Iain and Flower were talking about anyway. Finding myself alone in the quart yard, I ponder what to do with my time.
Looking around the court-yard it seems that everyone else has a task except me. Obaba is now reading from an old Star gossip magazine covering the early days of the brief Trump presidency.
After securing my weapons, I do a little stretching since that bitch got me all worked up again. By the time I am done and feeling properly limber, Obaba is reading the late Christian Bale’s famously explosive temper tantrum rant in another Star gossip magazine.
I decide I might as well eat my lunch. Leaving the area, I can hear the droning cadence of Obaba’s voice but not what she is saying. At the wagon, I pull the drab green MRE pouch out of my left hip pocket of my field coat. Sitting beside the wagon on the ground, I lean against a wheel.
I quickly read the label. Oh boy, I am in for a treat today. I get to eat a 1982 MRE containing the famously horrid frankfurters meal … AKA the “four fingers of death.”
After gagging down the four chunks of something slightly resembling meat; praying that they will not make a sudden and explosive reappearance from either end of my body, I actually get to enjoy the beans with tomato sauce entrée.
There was enough heat left in the flameless MRE heater after heating the four fingers of death, that the beans are pleasantly warm. The beans, for their age, are not too bad and once enough Tabasco has been added, quite flavorful.
For desert, I attempt gnawing on a John Wayne chocolate fudge bar. I eventually resort to using my knife, chopping the John Wayne bar into manageable chunks so that I can chew them without risk of shattering a tooth.
I brush my teeth using charcoal for toothpaste; what I would give for a tube of any decent toothpaste.
I refill my canteen with grape flavored bug juice using water from the wagon. Iain has left me a note on the wagon water barrel to only drink water from the barrel on the wagon and not to drink any water from the clan’s sources.
I hear Iain’s distinct walking pattern. I still have fairly good hearing despite shooting guns all the time without hearing protection most of the time. Iain rounds the corner of the court-yard entering the stables; his body language tells me that he is troubled by something.
Iain still has one of our solar-powered water quality testers underneath his arm but now it is accompanied by its huge instruction book full of tables, graphs and charts.
Seeing that I have used the water barrel, Iain looks at me and says, “Good, you got my note. Don’t drink any water from any other source, and I fear we may not want to eat their food anymore either.”