two~ Ink

Posted: J July, 2013 in Uncategorized

Food, drink and rest. The tent was small and full of gear and I had tied myself to a tree overlooking it so that I could sleep without getting a nasty surprise while still keeping an eye on one of my caches. Throw a bunch of pine cones around the tent and you have an immediate crunching alarm to wake you.

I had made the decision to hide the UAZ. It was pretty quick for a Russian piece of shit, but was definitely noisy. I had packed it full of meat, boiled water and Shotgun shells. A few PDWs and a G17 rounded out the gear I had decided to trade out. I was looking for DMR mags and some antibiotics. The reality was that I actually had plenty, but wanted to deplete the supply as much as I could. The gear and the UAZ would help me achieve that goal for today.

If bullets were cash, Antibiotics were gold.


Standing in a smoky courtyard, I looked out at the men standing guard…presumably for our protection.

Leaning against the wall of the Church with my arms crossed, I patted my concealed Colt 1911 that was stashed under my left armpit. Weapons weren’t yet taken at the gate, but 45’s were a bit rare. I didn’t want to give anyone an idea to follow me out and trade a bullet for it.

These trading posts were starting to grow. They were for now only in two major cities. Survivors and Clans were finding out that it often beat raiding. Some people had begun to occupy the farms in the area and had taken veggies, eggs and meat to this new market. Hired guns kept the neo-farmers safe and the survivors relatively docile.

Traders Law was simple: No Fights, No Brandishing Firearms, No Murders, No Stealing. Anyone caught was stripped, bound to a tank trap and left for zombies.

After the first few, many remembered the begging, the screams and the smell of what was left. Few broke easily the Traders Law now.

A makeshift bar had been set up. Potato Vodka and Apple Jack was giving way to a type of wheat beer that had been previously brewed in this region. Men were sitting around trestle tables, drinking and eating dried beef. Upon occasion you could hear a silenced weapon dropping a zombie that had strayed too close for a guards comfort.

A loud voice rang out of the small, smelly crowd. “Join US! Join the strongest clan in Cherno! We are recruiting and we can protect each other from that clan of abominations! He pointed at a nearby wall.

 SO, there it was, scrawled on the wall for the world to see. Three rings joined in the middle with what I knew was the Russian word for ‘Virus’. Bright red spray paint was a warning now




Не работают. Вам останется только умереть уставшим

Translated, it meant  “ H1n1” “Virus” “Don’t run. You will only die tired.”

This wasn’t the first time that I had seen this symbol, this bracketed word.  I had often traded with a few of them, and found them to be surprisingly strong and well equipped. My guess was that some of the members are professionally trained. One man had my United States Marine Corps Eagle Globe and Anchor tattoo on his shoulder. Its colors proudly displayed. I didn’t recognize him, but the Corps was far reaching here a few times it seems.  Another of the men was definitely a Southern Boy. Nice enough fellow, easy to talk to and joke with. The other guys like to kid him about some time he did Stateside…something about getting caught with the Sherriff’s wife and his sister.

At the same time.

I guess the joke was that he gave them the best three minutes of their lives.

Many of the men on this fractured universe had now decided to tattoo or brand themselves.  Many people joined together in a bond of unity for protection and camaraderie.  They would find ink and scratch a prison type tattoo into their skin (typically on the back of their gun hand so it would always be visible) to show solidarity, pride of belonging, or to let others know who they were messing with.

Others, I suppose, did it so that if found they would more easily be identified.


It simply told me of affiliations. Some were strong, others simply an amalgam of punk ass kids that could only fight in groups.

Kinda like Yankees.

There were several of the latter variety. I saw spray painted walls that said things like


DNP was the result of a north western warlord that had a few supplies, several trucks and more ammo than brains. They would roll in and spray bullets. Pick up what was left and roll out. Sometimes they shot their own men in what I hoped was friendly fire. They would strip the bodies and leave them for the ever present flies and zombies.

I stay away from them as much as possible. I know where the main camp they have is located and I occasionally raid a weapons cache for ammo when I feel like I am running low, but really they are more a nuisance and a danger to themselves the way they operate. I pop the guard, get what I need and move on.

Another group I see more than I care to is a small but very annoyingly vocal pack of idiots. One in particular seems to favor pink spray paint. I see things like “Ck” and “TKITN” which I am made to understand means ’The Kings In The North’. The ‘Carnage Kids’ clan is comprised of a few individuals that can only fight when together. I know this due to watching in amusement remaining members run as fast as they can when another member falls. Their strength lies in communication and a windbag named George. I have seen him a few times shouting and preening like some over dressed pimp attempting to convince the public that the two-dollar whores that follow him are actually thousand dollar escorts.

The few town squares and trading posts that occur around Cherno and Elektro are often invaded by this self aggrandizing blowhard.  It’s all I can do to not break the Traders Law and rip his throat out with my teeth.

But, I chose instead to watch this retarded excuse for a human strut and shout, and see people roll their eyes and smirk at his antics.

He’s the kind of guy you hate to be stuck in a party with. I’ll have my fill one day and it will be over, but for now, he is content convincing anyone that will listen that he is a God. I let it go, but not for much longer.

The trades were slow, so I decided to pack it in and bug out before someone could get a good position and shoot me out of the UAZ.

It was getting dark. I made my way to the gate and nodded at one of the guards. Interestingly he looked at a man standing by the outside of the side gate.  A sideways glance showed me that the man spun and took off across the street, disappearing behind a broken and painted wall. Small hairs rose on the back of my neck.

“See ya next time” I muttered. “Might be able to get some ammo for this DMR” Misdirection was good. I had a ton of 7.62

“Yeah?”  The suspicious guard responded. “wanna trade it for a AKM?”

“Nah, it was my mom’s…kinda sentimental ‘bout that kinda stuff” I said as I slid behind the wheel of the UAZ. I started the noisy, Russian jeep and ground it into gear.

Stabbing the throttle I jetted out into the side street, turned hard left and then right, intending to get to a safe zone as quickly as possible.

At the last moment I spun the wheel hard and drove through a gap in a small split rail fence and jammed the gas pedal to the floor. The UAZ bucked and bounced up the hill, Cherno fading behind me. It was going to be a twisty, long drive home, but I would not take the chance in someone being able to follow or ambush me.

All at once, someone jumped out from behind a bush. He was armed with a Winchester and pointed the long weapon right at me I quickly spun the wheel, downshifted and throttled up. He was fast, but was no match for almost a ton and a half of steel.

I heard the crunch and scream as he bounced under the tires of the UAZ.

Smiling, I thought to myself “There’s a new tat for ya. It’s a tire tread. Ill sign it SHADOW next time I see you.”

Lights off, NV on, I headed to my safe zone .

Another day in Cherno…just another day.


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