by J. Morgan
Now with a frown he continued reloading, not wishing to break the concentration or process, but speeding up to get it done while there was still light outside. Priming went by quickly, knowing the rhythm well and with no real muscle necessary got it done in short time. The powder for each casing was measured one at a time, all to 45gr. Only 21 casings worth and then the bottle was empty; four casings left standing. The one that he picked up from the floor had a hair and some dirt stuck to the thick white lube that was used to make things easier on his die and press. It had been cleaned off, the dirt and hair rubbed off and it was one of the casings that stood without powder.
Bullets were brought out; one sat down on the rim of the neck of a casing, placed on the press with the seating die screwed on which was meticulously adjusted to make sure the bullet was squeezed down into the neck to the EXACT right length. Precision helped matters, for a cartridge with the bullet seated too far out or in the casing could cause malfunctions like a failure to feed due to the bullet getting caught on the inside front wall of the magazine or on the feed ramp or something like that. One at a time the bullets were seated, again not needing much muscle, and finally the small cardboard box about the size of a box for a wedding ring had only 24 bullets left. Next came the crimping die, and so all the casings were crimped, it SQUEEZED the neck down to keep the bullet trapped tightly.
Crimping was most often done, he believed, for ammo expected to be used in self-loading firearms, meaning semi-auto, full-auto, burst, and the like. Those actions were much harder on ammo, and a loosely-seated bullet could move from the violent actions, which could cause malfunctions far more easily than in bolt actions. Still, on VERY rare occasions he sometimes experienced hang-ups with his tried and true No.4 Lee Enfield. When that happened, for expedience and simplicity’s sake, the typical way he fixed it was to bash the back of the bolt with his palm over and over until the top cartridge inevitably loosened itself from whatever it was hung up on so as to be chambered. This caused bullets to go under much strain as they were pressed against the front of the magazine, can even deform the tip of the bullets, but the last thing he wanted was a bullet that wasn’t seated properly and so crimping the bullet in place typically kept them solid.
The 20 rounds were put into 5-rnd clips; three of them will go into his bandolier upstairs while the other one will be left in a pocket of his backpack. At least, that was the plan. Now, those two rounds of .308… he didn’t know what kind of powder it had, so even finding out how MUCH was in it wouldn’t tell him if it was safe to use or not. His gut told him that they were loaded hot; commercial loads, and so was slightly hotter than .303. He trusted the Lee bolt, but one of its downfalls was the nature of its locking lugs; two in the rear and none in the front. The Mauser and Mosin bolts had two forward locking lugs and a rear safety lug making them much more solid than the Lee bolt. That didn’t mean that his bolt action wasn’t safe to fire but using excessively hot ammo could very well cause more wear and tear than needed, particularly in terms of headspacing, so he formulated a plan.
Upstairs, storage closet, damp clothes still left on the couch downstairs, as was his pistol and the keys to the master bedroom. In retrospect that was stupid, but he was just popping up for a moment. Tool kit, a pair of pliers, perfect, and down he went. Pistol and keys were where he left them, M1911A1 was picked up, safety off, slide checked that its barrel had its chamber loaded, it did, and then the mag was checked. Witness holes showed brass in all, so it was 7+1, just as he left it. Safety reengaged and it was returned to the right side of the coffee table.
Left hand grasped a .308, pliers got a firm grasp on the bullet, and so with a twisting motion it was slowly pulled off; the base of the casings against his thigh to help keep it steady, not wanting to spill a SINGLE grain of powder. Eventually, pain stakingly, the bullet came free. Two sides of it were marred by the teeth of the pliers, but that’s ok. The second was treated the same. There, two slightly marred softpoint .308 bullets a WEE bit too small to be properly used in his rifle, and two primed casings full of powder.
The powder of one was measured, half of that was poured into a .303 casing, EXACTLY half, while the other half was poured in a second primed .303 casing. The next .308 casing was given the same treatment so now he had four .303 casings with half a .308 load of powder in them. It won’t be nearly as strong as his typical loads of .303, but for something that requires such little penetration, ‘stopping powder’, and accuracy as a zombie’s brain typically within 50m? Perfect. Four bullets seated and crimped later, a permanent black marker was grabbed in the kitchen.
1/2 LOAD
THERE! Finished! A good evening’s work, that! 42 Large Rifle primers remained, 20 bullets, no powder, and all .303 casings were being utilized. The two primed .308 casings as well as two marred .308 soft point bullets were tossed in the same pocket of his backpack as the 2 5-rnd clips and one loose cartridge which were not going to go into his bandolier. The four loose 1/2 loaded rounds of .303, marked as such with marker, would go in the fifth pocket with a clip of proper .303, while a second proper clip of .303 would be used to fill the fourth pocket which he knew already had one in it. So instead of 3 clips going into the bandolier as was previously planned, it would be 2 along with the 4 loose half-loaded cartridges.
Powder scale was dismantled and boxed up. Crimp die was removed from the hand press, as was the seat on which the rim of the casings sat, allowing the .303 British Die Set to be put away along with the press. It wasn’t long until the backpack was packed again. With said pack slung over his left shoulder while holding his pistol in his right hand, two clips and four loose rounds in the other with keyring around his left middle finger, he headed upstairs with his damp clothes on his right shoulder opposite the pack. In the room his pistol was placed on the night stand where it was before. The Aussie bandolier was filled with all pockets loaded except the fifth which was lacking a single round; the four loose weak ones to be saved for any walkers he might have time to deal with in a calm manner at relatively close range. With the pack laid to rest by the door, the pliers were left on the coffee table downstairs because he had enough to deal with at present, which left his damp clothes.
It was late, he’d been busy all day with various tasks, mind was tired, body a little less so but still, he didn’t have the patience to dry the clothes over the fireplace as planned. A brief moment of thinking left him with an answer. The socks, jeans, black t-shirt, and Navy blue hoodie were hung over the rod for the tub’s shower curtain. They likely won’t be COMPLETELY dry in the morning, but by then, it will be a VERY short time on the heat of the stove before they’re ready to be worn. Going downstairs essentially naked in the coolness of the morning was NOT a welcoming idea, but he was too tired to give a shit. Bedroom door locked, into bed he tumbled, and the first thing that came to him was Tiff’s scent which lingered within the sheets. It was difficult to sleep with an erection.
Tiffany was lying in the small bed, in the small bedroom, in pitch black darkness. The lack of a Moon tonight meant that having the curtains drawn on the window did nothing to help sight. She hated him. She hated that she so wanted human contact, and wished that the world was still sane so that there were plentiful people to choose from. Seeing people all day long coming and going, nasty people to judge, attractive people to be polite to, and servers to give shit to if their service wasn’t to her liking; there were people to shit on from a great height and people to try and get friendly with. Richard, under normal circumstances, would have been someone to shit on.
He was tall, which was nice. Those broad shoulders, the strength in his arms, yeah sure those were pleasant features, but as far as she was concerned, he otherwise had very little going for him. He clearly loved firearms, which she had once been quite against. She always voted Liberal or NDP in the Canadian elections, mostly Liberal. The rights of gun owners was the last thing on her mind unless thinking about how ‘safe’ the world would be if somehow the Canadian government could ma
gically snap their fingers and make any and all firearms disappear from the second largest nation on Earth, which in truth it couldn’t.
He was hairy, a bit chubby, and while she had admittedly enjoyed his cock it was far from perfect. If it was up to her, the foreskin would be fixed or gone completely and it’d be a bit bigger, especially when soft. He didn’t like shaving, which was evident because there was plenty of shaving items in the bathroom for both men and women, which reminded her that her legs felt MUCH better now. It was hard not to rub them together to experience their softness. Knowing there would be laundry in the tub, she had cleaned the razor in a bowl of separate water to keep the bath water free of her leg/underarm hairs.
Then there was his attitude… how many times had he brought up that her rifle was pointed at him? How many times had he yelled at her, slapped her… and then last night manipulated his way into her panties?! Now today she did his laundry, and got yelled at AGAIN! Eyes still felt puffy from the tears she had shed. None of this was fair. Pancakes without syrup, trout from a river that only had salt on it for seasoning, and not to mention all the bones in it that she had to deal with. He was able to pick the meat off with ease, even showing her how, but she was spitting out bones through the whole meal. Now she was hungry again. She COULD go into the storage room, get a can of beans, but how to open it? Try to do it with a knife? It’d probably make a big mess, not to mention make her cut herself. He did it as though he’d done it dozens or hundreds of times before; she’d never done it before in her LIFE and had only SEEN it done for the first time yesterday!
He could yell at her, and she had nobody to tell about it, so she could hear the comforting agreement that he was a terrible, sexist, misogynistic prick. Probably doesn’t think the wage gap between men and women are a big deal… she could leave. Not tonight of course; can’t see a THING out there, though there could be a flashlight. Should she go look? Stay away from this pig, that was her best bet… but… she had no guns. No bullets. A whimper came from her, eyes shut closed which revealed just as much to see as when they were open, some fresh tears coming now. She was thirsty but knew he had the clean drinkable water.
“He’s got EVERYTHING...” Tiff muttered sourly, “Typical fucking men… their big guns with their big muscles, ‘ohhhhh look at me, I’m a big dumb caveman, ugga ugga!” She mocked, giving a sniffle; the mockery wasn’t improving her mood. “Dumbass is just compensating for his small fuckin’ dick… arrogant, sexist pig… fuck you, Richard… you misogynistic bastard… fuck you…” It was said low and quietly to herself, too quiet for him to hear across the hall with two shut doors between them, but each word was spat with the poison of a rattlesnake.
Fucker even CAME in her… didn’t even have the decency to pull out… he takes what he wants, abuses it, and kicks it to the curb. The prick locked her out of the best bedroom in the house, leaving her with the little bedroom that didn’t even have a lock on the door. Any moment she expected him to come in and rape her again… if this were the normal world she would have him arrested for rape, physical assault, assault with a deadly weapon because he aimed his rifle at her, battery, sexual assault, and probably ownership of an unlawful weapon!... no wait, he mentioned having a firearm license… still, she was PRETTY damn sure it was illegal to carry a concealed pistol around!
She could go on her forums, spread pictures of him and tell people all the terrible things he’s done; how LITTLE he respects women! Tiff would relish in their agreement of how much he’s a typical gun-toting, backwards, Conservative, knuckle-dragging, woman-hating, piece of shit that should be put to death via lethal injection like so many other men they rag on! He’s probably even a RACIST! Probably says the N-word all the time! Probably even dreaming of raping a black woman at this very moment! Her hands tightened into clenched fists, anger boiling up as the thought of that second moment she laid eyes on him flashed into her head; seeing him there on the trail outside Strathcom after spotting him in the park outside of town.
In her imagination now, eyes open to utter darkness, she seen the flash of the gun being shot. She could see the splatter of blood as he was hit in the chest, arms flailing, dying almost instantly there as he writhed on the ground for a short time. She could kick him in his filthy, stinky nuts after taking his rifle, shooting all the zombies, and feasting on his food which she KNEW he had in there! Just KNEW it even though he wouldn’t give her any! Broke her bag too… searched in it without her consent… he was a dirty, disgusting, filthy rapist. Even now after having showered, he’s still dirty as can be, because someone like that is ALWAYS dirty, ALWAYS undesirable, they’re the scum of the Earth!
Soon sleep came to her as her mind was filled with hatred, hatred to cover and bury the other thoughts. Of being held by him, being told sweet little things during their pillow talk, and feeling his touch that gave such INCREDIBLE pleasure the likes she’d never known. Even his musk, in a weird way, was kind of an enjoyable memory when she was feeling naughty and frisky. The daddy talk, “Mmph…” she writhed there in her little bed, legs rubbing together, “Daddy…” she whispered, face reddening, and suddenly so angry that she had shared that secret fetish with him. Her fist rose, and came crashing down, making the bed shake and squeak from the old springs.
The thought returning to her as she imagined being in his arms again, being close with him, naked with him, their bodies natural and open to one another, and was disgusted even with herself that she wanted to go and knock on his bedroom door; wanted to fall asleep in the security of his presence. She went to sleep weeping, unable to stand or even understand the conflicting emotions and thoughts within her, ignoring the heat building between her legs at the thought of him.
The next day was uneventful. More pancakes after he got the fire going to finish drying off his clothes, more water boiled to drink, and he cleaned his rifle in the living room with the pull-through rope in the buttstock and the bottle of gun oil in his backpack. After that, he disassembled the pistol to inspect the parts and check for any dirt or wear/tear. As expected from the less than 10 year old firearm that’s seen less than 1500 rounds fired, it passed his amateur but experienced inspection with flying colours. They barely spoke; she thanked him for her meal with very little emotion or enthusiasm, or indeed without any sign that she was truly thankful other than the words being said. At least she cleaned the dishes out at the river, which was nice of her, and he thanked her earnestly for it.
Worried that Charlie and Denise might be found semi-dug up one morning from scavengers, and also not knowing if the smell of decaying flesh can get through 2.5-3 feet (a meter or less) of soil, he went ahead and piled more dirt on the grave from nearby. Richard essentially made a second hole for no reason, just to further cover the resting place, and spent quite some time patting that mound of dirt down with the back of his spade just to try and compact it more. He still had not gotten around to putting a cross on their ‘grave pan’.
A wandering walker was spotted around the early afternoon so they went into the house, locked the doors, and watched it from the windows as it came closer from the west. Out of the woods it would seem, going southeast, passing through the flat valley and eventually getting far enough away to no longer be a threat of attraction via sight or sound. Unless of course he would fire a shot or something INCREDIBLY loud such as that. While they were cooped up in the house, waiting for the lone threat to pass, they finally spoke for real to one another for the first time since yesterday evening. “Why don’t you just go out there and shoot it?”
“If I shot every walker I ever seen, I’d have ran out of ammo long ago…”
“Then stab it with your thing!”
Fighting the urge to make a sex joke involving contracting a disease via engaging in necrophilia with the undead, he tried to make sense to her. “Why don’t you go stab it? No really, think about it; you march out there, face-to-face with that mean, ugly, hungry, sti-… TRULY stinking son-of-a-gun, and try to stab through its skull and into its brai
n. Isn’t that a scary thought to you?”
It stumbled in the distance, clothes tattered, shoulder-length black hair a mess; it was difficult to tell its gender. They watched on at a sharp angle, looking southwest from the west-facing window in the living room. “Well… but you’re bigger than me, though.”
“That I am, but a bite is a bite, and it would be the end of me just as quickly as it would be the end of you. Right now we’re avoiding it; it’s going to wander off and hopefully decay. Rot, to the point of being useless. We’re saved the hassle.”
“Eh… I still think it’d be better if you killed it.”
“You say it like it’s just some harmless bug in the house that you want me to get rid of. That thing can kill.” The conversation was quite good natured, friendly, even though her opinion differed from his and vice versa.
“You’ve killed them before, though.”
“It doesn’t really get easier, Tiffy.”
“Don’t call me that…”
“Tiffy.”
“… are you suuuuure you don’t want to go out there and try to kill it for little old me?” After a pause, looking at him with distain, her features lit up with mock cuteness; eyelashes fluttering, backs of her finger held up to her cheeks to portray innocence. A bit overdone perhaps, but comical all the same, and its inclination was obvious; go and risk your life because you annoy me.
“’Little’?” He mocked, though meaning it playfully. “Lose 15 pounds and you can call yourself litt- hey!”
She had shoved him rather hard, making him knock over a picture that was on top of one of the bookshelves in the living room as they had been peering southeast from. “Hmph! Serves you right! You have a lot to learn when it comes to how to treat a lady!”
