Left in the Cold (The Left Series)

by Christian Fletcher

  The armed guys in the back of the pickup truck bed became more animated as the two vehicles sped closer together. They yelled and waved their arms, signaling for us to slow down. Ducky glanced at me with a nervous expression on his face. I felt no fear. I had nothing to lose. Stop the vehicle and I was dead. Smash headlong into each other and I had a decent chance of surviving. The pickup truck was going to come off the worst whatever happened.

  One of the guys fired a couple of shots at us from the truck bed. The first round pinged along the top of the cab roof and the second took out one of the side mirrors alongside my door. The motion of the pickup truck speeding along the rough surface along the access road made it almost impossible for them to aim straight.

  “You sure about this, man?” Ducky wailed.

  I wasn’t sure about anything but I didn’t have a whole lot of alternatives.

  “Certain sure,” I muttered, figuring I had to at least sound like I knew what I was doing.

  Ducky gulped hard but didn’t waver. Sweat rolled down his forehead as he continued increasing the tanker truck’s speed. The armed guys in the pickup yelled some more and fired off a few more rounds but none penetrated the cab.

  I caught a brief glimpse of the pickup truck’s driver. His eyes were wide and I saw him mouth the words, ‘oh, shit!’ before he finally lost his nerve at the last second. He swerved the pickup truck to his right a few feet before a head on, vehicle to vehicle collision occurred.

  The driver had left it a fraction of a second too late to avoid any kind of impact though. The pickup truck veered sharply so it was positioned at a forty-five degree angle to the front of the tanker. The Mack had a big, robust steel fender running along the front of the cab, which smashed into the side of the pickup.

  Metal crunched against metal and I head glass shatter from somewhere on the pickup truck. The white vehicle spun in a semi circle, sending up a cloud of sand and grit. The force of the collision hurled guys out from the back of the truck bed and they hurtled through the air before crashing into the dust on the side of the access road.

  We rocked around inside the cab. I put my hand on the dash to stop myself from plummeting head first through the windshield. The steering wheel lurched in Ducky’s hands but he managed to regain control of the tanker and kept on going.

  “Oh, shit, oh fuck!” Ducky spat. “I’m going to have a fucking heart attack, man.”

  “Just keep going, Ducky,” I yelled. “Get us the fuck out of here.”

  Ducky rounded the junction onto the main road a little too quickly and the truck slewed sideways, sending up a spray of dry dirt and dust as he hit the brakes. He spun the steering wheel and managed to line us up back on the road. I glanced out the side window and saw the pickup truck stranded on the side of the access road. They wouldn’t be coming after us but it didn’t mean they couldn’t still raise the alarm. The guys in the vehicle would possibly have some kind of communication in the form of short wave radios with other people around the site.

  “Head for the gates, Ducky and don’t fucking stop for anything,” I yelled.

  “Ah, man, this is the worst fucking day of my life,” Ducky wailed.

  “Welcome to my world,” I said. “This shit is just a normal day for me.”

  I eventually found my cigarette pack. I lit two and passed one to Ducky who seemed grateful for the smoke.

  “Thanks, man,” he muttered, taking huge pulls on the cigarette.

  The smokes didn’t last long and we tossed the butts out the side windows. We tore along the main road, hurtling by buildings and stunned bystanders. Most of The Marshall’s fighting guys were attacking the motel so the town was left with only limited number of foot soldiers. At least that was something I had to my advantage. Just the waifs and strays and odds and sods, along with a handful of capable guys were left to defend Lajitas.

  I felt as though I could wipe the whole fucking town out but I had to get back to the motel to try and save my friends and my unborn kid. The thought of that child dying before it was even born was my driving force, my total motivation to succeed in what I was trying to do. Nothing was going to stand in my way now. I was that badass motherfucker, these neo Nazi’s worst fucking nightmare. I was Smith, McElroy, Patton, Monty, Churchill, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Mike Tyson, Rambo and Bruce fucking Lee all rolled into one. These dumb fucks with their stupid, outdated mind-sets weren’t going to stop me. Fuck them and their ridiculous, fascist beliefs. I was out to get them now and they better stand by for redemption. I was their Grim Reaper.

  I whooped in rebel yell style, which caused Ducky to glance at me with an expression of total unease.

  The fenced exit and entranceway loomed into view and Red, with his crazy beard and man bun hobbled in front of the gates, waving his arms above his head. He was flanked by the two shaven headed guys, who carried their rifles cradled in their arms and I guessed they wanted us to stop. I took a glance at the refugees either side of the road and noticed a slight expression of approval in their faces as the truck sped towards the gates.

  I turned back to look at the scene in front of us. Red seemed increasingly frantic as he flapped his arms in front of the gates.

  “Did you ever like that guy, Ducky?” I asked.

  “Nope, I always fucking hated him,” Ducky replied in a wheezing sigh. “The guy has always been a complete asshole.”

  “Now’s your chance for a little payback,” I said.

  I detected a hint of a smile on Ducky’s face as he dumped his foot harder on the gas. The engine revved louder and the tanker truck sped up. Red’s facial expression turned from anxious to terrified in the split second he realized his life was over. The tanker rammed through the gates, buckling and twisting the metal frames, with Red and his gate guarding buddies caught between the fast moving vehicle, wire mesh and steel supports. I heard the crunch of splintering bone and the shattering of body parts as the truck rolled over Red and his two shaven headed accomplices.

  The world had just become a better place, minus three racist assholes.

  Both gates flew outwards. One buckled on its hinges and swung away from the fence, while the other shunted off its axis and collapsed into the sand next to the fence.

  Ducky kept rolling on along the open road. I noticed a little expression of satisfaction on his face.

  “Yeah, man,” I said and lit two more cigarettes. I passed another smoke to Ducky.

  The first part of the plan was completed, which reminded me of a quote from Eisenhower, who I was thinking about a little while before. The former war hero and President of the United States, affectionately known as ‘Ike’ famously said ‘Plans are nothing. Planning is everything.’ Now came the hard part of my plan. I had to go out and save the rest of my crew.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  I watched Ducky operate the truck while he changed the gears. I knew I’d have to take over driving duties in the near future. His role in the endgame was coming to a finale. At first, I’d have had no qualms in shooting the guy dead but he’d helped me along the way and I felt he didn’t quite fit in with his neo Nazi cohorts. Maybe there was a good guy somewhere inside him. He probably needed to break free from the indoctrinated regime he was hooked up with.

  I kept an eye on the rear view mirrors in case anybody was in hot pursuit of the tanker but didn’t see any vehicles trailing us. We didn’t speak as I mulled over the recent events and Ducky seemed content to continue driving in silence as long as I kept supplying him with cigarettes.

  The familiar sight of the Ghost Town buildings honed into view and the usual cluster of undead milled around the roadside. What drew them to that town was beyond me. Maybe it was the slight memories of what remained of their brains directing them in there in some way. Perhaps the word ‘Ghost’ lingered in their heads and they were drawn to the town in the belief they themselves were ghosts. It was a sensation I’d never want to experience. I hoped I’d never end up a walking corpse but I was sure plenty of people had said that
same thing before succumbing to the undead disease.

  “Pull the truck over alongside the saloon, Ducky,” I said, waving my handgun across the cab.

  “Why, what’s going on?” Ducky asked. The tension was evident in his voice.

  “This is where we part ways, buddy,” I said.

  “Ah, fuck! You’re going to shoot me, man,” Ducky wailed, briefly glancing at me.

  “Just pull over, Ducky,” I instructed, pointing towards the saloon.

  Ducky whimpered as he slowed the tanker’s speed and brought the vehicle to a halt on the roadside outside the building.

  “Listen, man, I didn’t do nothing,” Ducky whined. “I was just a truck driver and a biker before I got involved with those guys. I don’t wish no harm on nobody, man.” He was close to tears and his voice was full of emotion.

  “I ‘aint going to shoot you, Ducky,” I sighed. “But you can’t come with me any further. This whole thing is going to get messy and I don’t want you to get yourself killed because of me. You ‘aint one of those guys. I know that. But I need you to give me a quick runaround on how this gas tank operates.”

  Ducky breathed out a huge sigh. “Sure thing, man,” he gasped.

  We hopped out of the cab and Ducky pointed to a thick, yellow hose alongside the tanker compartment. He explained how to operate the gas dispenser control panel at the side of the truck. While he was talking, I had to take a few shots at any zombies who got too close. I took in all the information, making sure it was all crystal clear in my mind.

  I looked Ducky straight in the eyes and nodded, once he was through with his spoken details.

  “Okay, I got it,” I said.

  I turned my handgun over, passing it over to him butt first as we stood at the side of the tanker. I knew it was a huge risk but I felt I knew him well enough that he wasn’t going to shoot me. He took the gun with an expression of shock. I rummaged around in my backpack and also gave him a spare magazine of ammunition.

  “You’re going to trust me?” he gasped.

  I nodded. “As I said, Ducky, I don’t believe you’re a bad guy. Take some shelter where you can and get the hell away from this place. You know you can never go back to Lajitas now, right?”

  Ducky sniffed and whimpered slightly. He then lurched forward and grabbed me in a tight embrace. I felt a little uncomfortable but allowed the moment to pass. He let me go and took a backward step.

  “Good luck to you, man and I hope you finish what you started,” Ducky said. He laughed in a snort. “It was certainly a fucking interesting day.”

  “It’s not over yet,” I sighed, thinking about more wasted time.

  “I don’t even know your name, man,” Ducky said.

  “I’m Wilde,” I replied. “Brett Wilde but my friends call me the Wilde Man.”

  Ducky nodded. “The Wild Man. That suits you.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I muttered, turning back to the tanker. “I better get going.”

  “Thanks for everything, man,” Ducky responded, holding out his hand.

  We gave each other a slap of hands before I turned and jumped into the tanker cab. I leaned over and pulled the rifle up so it lay across the front seats next to me. I sat for a moment, watching Ducky run along the pathway beside the saloon. I wasn’t sure whether he’d survive out in the desert alone but he was better off away from living as a stooge to those racist goons. At least he was free to get away and try and make a new life for himself.

  Ducky disappeared around the back of the saloon and a few undead plodded closer to the tanker. I revved the engine and clunked the transmission into gear. It was time to go. Phase two of the plan had begun.

  I rolled the tanker truck forward, bumping the undead out of the way and trying to get used to the feel of the big vehicle. There was no other traffic on the road so it didn’t matter if my driving was a little wayward. I headed on to the motel with a sense of determination and hoped I wasn’t too late to save the day.

  I lit a smoke when I got more confident driving the truck. I picked up a pair of big, mirrored sunshades on the dash and put them on. Now I felt like a proper trucker but refrained from honking the horn. Things weren’t that good yet.

  I turned on the radio but rather obviously, only static blasted out at me. No radio stations existed any more as far as I knew. I tried the CD player and the music filled the cab at a loud volume. It was a tune I knew and it gave me a warm feeling. Creedence Clearwater Revival’s song Fortunate Son reverberated around the cab. I sang along with the lyrics that seemed poignant, even though the recording had been penned as an anti war song against the Vietnam conflict so many decades before the apocalypse had taken hold of the world. The here and now was where the human race had been headed, the undead taking control of the planet. An end to all military wars, period.

  My truck cab karaoke session ended prematurely halfway between the next song on the CD player, which was one of my favorite Creedence Clearwater Revival’s tracks in Bad Moon Rising. I turned the volume down and slowed the truck as I approached the motel. I hoped the song wasn’t a bad omen. I brought the tanker to a halt around the same place I’d first encountered Ducky, a few hundred yards from the motel.

  I lit another smoke, clambered out of the cab and stood in the center of the road to gauge what was going on further ahead of me. I stood beside the gas tanker, smoking my cigarette in my mirrored sunshades, surveying the scene and wishing the worst possible outcome for all those surrounding the motel.

  The neo Nazi army was still in place, encamped and encircled around the gunshot scarred building. The scenario was as I’d hoped. The Marshall, being the sadistic bastard that he was, hadn’t moved forward to wipe out everybody inside the motel. Instead, he wanted to prolong the battle, ensuring the people inside suffered as much tension and grief as humanly possible before he sent his army onward for the final assault. He wanted them to suffer inside that motel. I imagined them all inside those rooms, hoping for the best but knowing what was to come. The inevitable last stand.

  I was there to change all that.

  I even laughed to myself at the callousness of my own mind and my devious plan. I briefly wondered if I’d gone totally insane. My alternative self flickered into view alongside me for a few seconds but didn’t fully materialize. Maybe I’d fallen so far down the path of madness that not even my other self could reach me anymore.

  Whatever. As long as my kid was born alive and healthy and had a slight chance in life. That was all I cared about.

  The neo Nazi army was taking things easy now. They occasionally rattled off some gunfire at the motel but they seemed nonchalant, drinking from bottles of beer, smoking cigarettes, chatting and laughing between themselves. They knew they had this battle won and were basking in their victory before the final push to mop up the survivors inside the building. Like a cat playing with a half dead mouse. The Marshall was at the center of all the celebrations, bare chested but still wearing his cowboy hat, high fiving his troops and taking long slugs of beer. He didn’t know it but he was going to die today. I was going to make damn sure of that.

  I flicked my cigarette butt away to the side of the road. It was time to go to work.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  I heard a few groaning noises before I climbed back into the truck cab. I turned and saw around a dozen undead stumbling along the road towards me. Even better. I hopped into the truck and leaned over the seats, opening up the compartment below the dash. I wanted to change the CD as I felt Creedence Clearwater Revival might have a negative vibe to my plan. A lot of the CDs were all Country, which I didn’t much care for but one album stuck out. I pulled it out of its case and swapped it for the Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Greatest Hits CD in the player.

  George Michael sung Praying For Time through the cab’s speakers and it seemed the perfect song for the moment. I rolled the tanker forward at a slow speed.

  The neo Nazis seemed to be full of their own self congratulations to notice me as I br
ought the truck to a stop on the roadside at the edge of the motel parking lot. I slid out of the cab and sauntered around the side of the tanker. I removed the yellow hose and flung it behind the rear of the vehicle. I checked it was still tightly attached to the tanker at the other end.

  Somebody yelled, I didn’t know if it was at me but I took no notice. I opened the control panel and set the gas dispenser to unload ten gallons at a time, in ten second intervals. Hopefully, that would work out enough. I set the timer on the meter to start its flow in thirty seconds time.

  I jumped back into the cab and hit the repeat button for George’s first song on the Listen Without Prejudice album. I waited a couple of seconds before moving the truck into the parking lot, weighing up if it would take me thirty seconds to reach the neo Nazi army’s vehicles. I checked the side mirror and saw the yellow hose bouncing around and trailing along the rear of the tanker. I moved my rifle closer to me so it lay sideways along the seats for easy access.

  Two guys dressed in black combat fatigues and carrying rifles across their shoulders strolled across the parking lot towards my truck. The guy on the left casually flapped his hand in a motion that I understood he meant for me to stop the vehicle. They obviously thought I was one of their guys come to join the victory party. I didn’t comply. I speeded up and their expressions turned to shock and concern. The guy on the right lowered his rifle to his hip and roughly aimed at the windshield. They both yelled something at me but I didn’t hear what they said.

  I continued on, speeding up through the parking lot. The two gunmen yelped and tried to move out of my path. I swerved slightly, driving right at them. The guy fired his rifle and I heard glass smash. He’d taken out one of the front head lights but that didn’t matter. The situation would be well and truly over one way or another, a long while before darkness fell.

  The guy tried to readjust his aim but he was too slow. The big steel fender slammed against his body, shunting him across the weedy blacktop surface. The second guy froze; his brain seemed unable to comprehend what was happening. I drove the truck right at him and he didn’t even attempt to move out of the way. The cab rocked slightly and I heard a crunching noise when the truck ran right over him. Two down, a shit load to go.