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Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s Story #188 Stopped For The Night at Warm Beach #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WROL

September 25, 2016

Before going to the communications tent, I swing by our sleeping tent. Grabbing my field coat, I turn to leave. Sipping on a cool can of beer, Carol is sitting on her bed, little Stiva sleeping beside her swaddled in his snuggly.

Hand over her mouth, suddenly Carol leaps up, running to the chamber pot. I hear her retching violently. I manage a careful grab holding Carol’s coppery red hair out of her way, while she continues projectile vomiting.

Watching her carefully, I ease a shaking Carol back on to her bed.

“Are you alright?” My question sounds damned stupid the minute it leaves my mouth. Of course she is not alright; she is puking her guts up.

Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Ruth shakes her head at me. I notice how pale and haggard she looks.

“Thanks Ruth, but there is not really a cure for what ails me. Not unless you shoot that horny Russian bastard that got me pregnant again.” She smiles wanly at me, taking the sting out of her words.

“I’m gonna have Irish twins,” Carol says, patting her stomach. “I haven’t lost my postpartum fat yet, and already that asshole has knocked me up again. I’m going to be breastfeeding for years. Afterwards my tits are going to flop around like a bird’s wings. I’ll have to tuck my tits into the top of my pants and secure them with my belt. Forget about a damned bra.”

“You know how this happens, don’t you?” Again, damn I have hit the fucking stupid switch and it is stuck in the on position.

“Yes, Ruth I am fairly certain that I know how this happened. I let that jerk husband of mine stick his dick in me again. Only I hoped that since I had given birth only about four months or so ago that I couldn’t possibly get pregnant. Just you wait until Shack knocks you up.”

I shrug. “Sorry Carol, will not happen. I had cervical cancer at 25, and had to have a complete hysterectomy. Still have the romper room, but the kid factory is gone.”

Carol looks absolutely horrified. “Oh God, Ruth I am so sorry. Here I am feeling sorry for myself, blabbering about being pregnant again. I am such an ass.” She lightly touches my arm.

I hug her tightly. “You can touch me you know. I am not going to jump your bones, just because you touch me. It does not rub off.”

Carol’s face turns a brilliant shade of red, highlighting her freckles. “Oh, uh Ruth it’s not that. I just have not had a close girlfriend in a long time, and don’t want you to mistake anything.”

“You can be friends with a gay girl, and not expect her to mistake anything for more than friendship. Unless you put me in a lip lock, and start ripping my clothes off, I am unlikely to think that you want to get into bed with me.”

“Damn, woman when she does that please, oh please let me watch.” Fuck, I had not heard Shack come into the tent. Carol whips her half-empty can of beer at him splattering beer all over the entrance of the tent and the vestibule floor.

“Easy girl, no need to waste good beer,” Shack teases easily ducking the hurled can.

Shack walks over, and places his hand on my shoulder. I lean into his hand, enjoying its warmth. Shack has a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon 12 ounce cans underneath his arm.

“Ready to go relieve the comm shack crew?” Shack asks me.

I need to go see Nikola anyway, and Shack and I are supposed to take three hours of watch in the radio tent while the crews change out and eat. Our turn in the radio tent is not until early in the morning, during breakfast.

Slipping into my field jacket, Shack and I walk the short distance to the radio tent in silence. Nearing the tent, we can hear the drone of the hand-cranked generator and something else that I cannot place.

Entering the tent I see that Nikola is working on one of the Degtyarev DPM light machine guns. Several of the distinct 46-round, pan-shaped magazines are spread around him on the table. Nikola is carefully inspecting the feed lips of the notoriously problematic magazines.

The magazines that he is not happy with and ones that continue jamming the DPM with red, aluminum dummy ammo are being honed by Nikola with a fine Arkansas stone lubricated with 3-in-1 oil.

“Machine gun is fine, but magazines piece of Soviet shit,” Nikola mutters. Sometimes Nikola tries to act like he is so ghetto, but he is about as ghetto as the Prince of Wales.

Shack looks to see what Nikola is doing. “How’d you get to keep the 3-in-1 oil? I thought all of this stuff was supposed to get dumped into the fuel tanks of the deuces?”

Nikola shrugs. I see Walter is cranking steadily on the generator handles. Shack lost at the rock-paper-scissors, so he gets the first round cranking on the gen set while I man the radio. Honey enters the tent, while Shack takes over the gen set, keeping the handles moving steadily.

Monster toddles in on his chubby little legs and our radio tent crew is complete. Although Monster really cannot do anything, he never goes anywhere without Honey. For the four of us in our truck, we are practically mishpocha.

Monster plops on the tent’s canvas floor at Honey’s feet. Reaching into her duffel, Honey pulls out an OD-green, Korean War vintage, B-3 candy and crackers unit from a Meal Combat, Individual.

Monster fishes out his paracord neck lanyard from which hang a P-38 can open and a small neck knife. I am not sure giving the toddler a knife was such a good idea, but the can opener made sense.

While Monster attacks the B-3 can with his P-38 can opener, Honey drops a dark brown plastic package in his lap. Giving up on the recalcitrant can, Monster attacks the easier snack first.

Monster rips open the vintage, brown US MRE bag like a kid on Christmas morning. Shit you would not believe the kid just ate about an hour ago. Pulling out a chunk of aluminum-foil wrapped, enriched chocolate and toffee candy, Monster breaks off pieces offering some to everyone in the tent. At least Honey has taught the kid to be polite, which is good since Monster only listens to Honey.

Nikola and Walter decline, but I nibble on a small piece. For something dated October, 1980 the candy is slightly oxidized, but still good and tastes somewhat like a Heath bar. After consuming the chocolate candy, Monster again attacks the B-3 can.

“You asked me to come here to check something out?” I ask Nikola.

Da, listen to this, do you understand or recognize this language?”

Oh, God, yes I recognize the language, but I thought that I would never hear it again in this lifetime.

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