“Motherfucker,” I croaked. “How the hell did they survive?” I knew the answer. They’d obviously done what I’d failed to do and jumped through the flames to escape.
I aimed my rifle at the staggering figures and took a couple of pot shots. The gunmen ducked down but the rounds went wildly amiss. They ran beyond the line of undead still staring at the blaze surrounding the motel. The Marshall and the remainder of his guys ran out of range and out of sight.
“Shit,” I barked. A sense of anger and frustration gnawed through me. “The bastard got away.”
“Don’t worry, kid,” Smith said. “We’ve got them on the run now and we’ll go on to finish the job. They’re on the ropes and we’re going to knock them the fuck out. Those fuckers are all dead men walking.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
“There are a lot of people in their camp who need help, Smith,” I said. “Survivors with kids who are starving. They’ve just let them inside the fence but they’re not feeding them. We can’t let them all die.”
Smith nodded. “We’ll do what we can but first we need to finish this. We can’t let that Marshall prick see the sunset. He has to be eliminated, along with anybody who stands with him. This has to end today.” He dropped the water hosepipe at his feet. “Come on, kid,” he gestured to the motel, nodding his head sideways. “Let’s go rally the troops.”
We stomped towards the open fire exit door and entered the building into a corridor. Moisture ran down the white walls and the whole motel felt as hot as hell. Glass chips, lumps of debris and plaster littered the floors. A few figures loitered around, nodding at us as we strolled by. I saw a few dead guys slumped on the ground near to the shattered windows at the front entrance of the building. The prone bodies were heavily blood stained and peppered with gunshots. I recognized one of the deceased as the Scottish guy, Frankie, who’d helped me start up the moped the previous night. My guts churned over and I felt sorry I wasn’t there soon enough to save him. A few guys with sullen expressions on their faces tried to scoop up the dead on make shift stretchers and take them away from the lobby.
I glanced through the windows facing the parking lot and saw the fire still raging outside. The flames engulfed the frames of trucks and cars and dead people.
“What about the fire, Smith?” I asked, as he strode on ahead.
Smith stopped walking and half turned around. He waved over three guys sitting on a table beside the reception room entrance.
“Do us all a favor, fellahs,” Smith said. “Get a crew together and start rolling out those fire hoses and put that motherfucker out.” He jabbed a thumb towards the outside windows at the front of the lobby. “Shoot anybody who is left alive.”
“You might want to take some guns along with you, guys,” I added. “There’s a whole bunch of undead out there but they’re just watching the fire right now. Once it’s out, they’ll come after you.”
One of the guys, with a dark bushy beard audibly gulped. He didn’t even look old enough to shave so how he’d managed to grow the hairy monstrosity on his chin was beyond me. The three of them stood where they were, seemingly unsure what to do with puzzled expressions on their faces.
“Am I speaking fucking Japanese, fellahs?” Smith barked. He clapped his hands twice. “Come on, guys. Chop fucking chop before we all sweat to death in here.”
The three young men twisted and turned before finally deciding to head off in a hurry further down the lobby.
“Go, go, go,” Smith said, flapping his hands in a shooing motion.
The guy with the long beard glanced back at us with a confused look on his face.
“These young kids… Jesus wept,” Smith muttered, shaking his head. He turned towards me. “Happy now, Wilde Man? Moe, Curly and Larry are going to fix the fire problem.”
I sighed. “I can’t remember the last time I was happy if I’m honest, Smith,” I groaned.
Smith smirked and lightly slapped my face. “You’re a real mood sweetener, ‘aint you, kid?”
“I don’t want you getting too excited, Smith,” I sighed. “Somebody has to bring a touch of reality to the party.”
Smith flashed me a quizzical stare. “You and reality are fucking poles apart, Wilde Man. Come on. Let’s go raise a hunting party.” He nodded towards the far side of the corridor beyond the lobby.
I followed on behind Smith as he led me beyond the closed bedroom doors. A bunch of young guys and girls rushed past us, heading in the opposite direction. Some carried Armalite rifles and an assortment of handguns. I noticed The Three Stooges were amongst them. They were obviously the fire fighting and anti zombie crew. Good luck to them and I hoped they succeeded in their mission. We had another, probably more dangerous piece of business to take care of, an arrangement that involved snaring The Marshall and the remnants of his racist posse.
Smith led the way to a large area beyond the corridor that I guessed had been used for a staff rest room when the motel had been functional. A ‘Staff Only’ sign was fixed to the open door. People scurried around tending to gunshot wounded survivors. Blood covered bed sheets and white towels stained red lay strewn over the floor. Some of the victims wailed in agony as they lay on tables or sat on chairs. Other’s who’d been wounded lay unconscious and pale faced. The scene was utter carnage. Wingate was amongst the thick of things, sweaty and busy with her hair tied back in a bunch. She was applying bandages and pads to the guys and girls who needed them.
“Hey,” Smith called from the doorway to Wingate.
She momentarily glanced up at us from her injured patients.
“What?” Wingate barked. “I see you found your little lost buddy. You okay, Brett?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied. “How are you holding up?”
“Ah, nothing a week in a health spa wouldn’t cure,” she snorted.
I knew then that she was okay. Still the same old Wingate with that cut you dead sense of black humor. The Marshall and the neo Nazis hadn’t hurt her in any way. She was talking to Smith again, which was a good sign. Hopefully, they’d patched their differences up after Smith had led last night’s rescue mission.
“Where the hell did Mac go?” Smith asked.
“How would I know, Smith?” Wingate yelled. “I’m not his damn keeper. Now, if you ‘aint going to help us with the wounded in here, you can make yourselves scarce. You two are just getting in the way standing right there.”
“Come on, kid,” Smith said, nodding towards the corridor outside the rest room. “Let’s go. We know where we’re not wanted.”
He and Wingate exchanged a glance and a half smile. I knew by their expressions they were an item again. It was a slight hint of a glint in their eyes when they looked at each that gave them away. I felt glad they were back together and hoped their relationship would last as long as they lived. Somebody deserved to be reasonably happy in these troubled times.
We turned and left the make shift first aid station, heading back along the corridor. I saw a discarded but unopened can of orange soda sitting on a small table. I scooped up the can, popped the tab and poured the syrupy, sweet liquid down my parched throat. The soda was warmish but hit the spot.
Smith turned and watched me drink from the can for a second.
“What the hell are you drinking that crap for, Wilde Man?” he muttered.
Smith was purely a beer and bourbon man with maybe the occasional cup of coffee thrown in. He only drank water as a necessity to survive. I downed the remainder of the soda and set the empty can down on the sill beside a shot out window.
We saw some guys huddled in the doorway of a laundry room. McElroy was amongst them and so was Anderson. The half dozen other guys were all busy reloading rifles and handguns with ammunition.
“Hey, Mac,” Smith called out. “Look who I found.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “Our resident fire starter.”
McElroy glanced over at me from the doorway. “How about you, Wilde Man. That was one hell of a fucking stunt you pulle
d with that gas truck. I take my hat off to you, son. Got us all out of a real sticky assed jam, so you did. Smith and I were your backup men when those fucking eejits had you pinned behind the truck. They totally forgot about us in here so they did and walked right into our sights. Fuck me! What a bunch of amateurs. Anyhow, we’re getting locked and loaded for another attack. You get bet your bottom dollar those assholes will be back to try and finish off what they started. We have to be ready, so we do.”
“You’d do well to get your weapons loaded and get ready to go, Mac,” Smith said. “The big guy got away with a few of his guys. If we hurry we can catch them and take them down once and for all.”
“They on foot?” McElroy asked.
“Yeah, they ‘aint got no vehicles left here but there are still a whole bunch of gas trucks left loaded back at their camp,” I said.
Smith and McElroy exchanged uneasy glances.
“You didn’t tell me there were more gas trucks, Wilde Man,” Smith groaned.
I couldn’t remember if I had or not but the reality of their concern suddenly hit me.
“We have to stop those guys before they get back to their base,” McElroy said.
“Otherwise they’re going to come back and flood this whole place with gas and then…ka-boom!” Smith finished the horrific scenario.
McElroy exhaled a long sigh. “Come on, fellers. Grab what weapons you can. We need to go now.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
McElroy, Smith and the other half dozen guys hurriedly armed themselves with loaded rifles, handguns and as many spare magazines as they could carry. I grabbed another handgun; a standard 9mm Beretta, from the top of a laundry machine and slipped it into my empty holster then grabbed some spare ammunition.
We ran down the corridor, weapons and magazines rattled on us as we moved. I pushed away the sense of fatigue, trying to stay focused and not disheartened by the thought of going back out for another long trek through the desert.
“Do we still have any working vehicles?” McElroy asked.
“Only that wreck of a bus that we ditched back down the road,” Anderson replied. “That’s only if those neo Nazi pricks didn’t shoot it up or if Wilde here, burned the poxy thing out.” He flashed me a repugnant grimace, which I thought was a little uncalled for.
I let the moment pass as we hurried along through the lobby. Anderson had never liked me that much. He’d made that fact pretty obvious. Whatever, who gave a shit? We had bigger fish to fry.
We rolled into a single file as Smith led the way to the fire exit door at the side of the motel. We scurried out into the open and the heat of the fire and the scorching sun hit me like a smack in the face. I squinted in the bright daylight, waiting for my eyes to refocus.
The Three Stooges, AKA Curly, Moe and Larry or whatever their real names were, plus a bunch of other guys and girls busily sprayed the flames with the hose Smith had left outside the door. I glanced around and saw more fire hoses spreading out from the building’s doors and windows, like long red tentacles spawning from the motel interior. Several groups of youngsters operated the hoses and sprayed the flames at a distance. They weren’t totally dumb as they’d managed to lure the undead from the roadway and into the blaze at the front of the motel. Zombies staggered into the fire, burning like hay stuffed effigies before collapsing into charred heaps beneath the flames.
Smith led the way through the gap in the ring of fire and we all leapt over the black, smoldering patch on the ground. We jogged to the roadway and took a left turn beyond the motel boundary.
“If that bus is fucked up, those Nazi bastards are going to gain more ground on us,” Anderson protested, as we dashed along the blacktop.
“And if we don’t ride the bus, they’re going to be a long way ahead,” McElroy responded. “I know what you’re saying, Anderson but the pressure is on to catch up with them, whichever way it goes.”
Anderson grunted something I didn’t hear. I knew what he meant, though. It was difficult running in the heat while lugging loaded weapons and ammunition weighing you down. I was dog tired but had to keep going. I could rest when the whole situation was over. I’d be resting for a hell of a long while if it all went badly wrong.
We continued on, the intense afternoon heat causing us to slow our pace. The RV was still in place where Smith and McElroy had left it following the rescue mission the previous night. The vehicle was covered in sand and rust, some of the windows were smashed, bits were missing from the bodywork and several bullet holes had pierced the panels. The damn thing looked even worse than I remembered it. The RV had really been worked hard and just seemed to radiate a vibe that it was going to fall to bits at any second.
Smith and his crew hadn’t bothered to lock the doors or even take the keys out of the ignition. Obviously, they’d simply dumped the bus and hurried back to the motel with Wingate in tow before the neo Nazis could catch up with them.
McElroy jumped into the driver’s seat and tried the starter. The engine spluttered and the starter motor whined in protest. The whole vehicle shook from side to side, the engine cranked into life but sounded incredibly clunky as though the nuts and bolts holding it together were shearing themselves loose.
“Okay, everybody get in,” McElroy yelled, over the rattling din of the vehicle engine.
Smith slid back the side door and gestured with his head for the whole crew to get inside the rear area of the bus. Some of us rather reluctantly clambered onboard the clattering machine.
“Come on, hurry it up,” McElroy barked impatiently.
I shimmied along the floor space, trying not to breathe in the diesel fumes flooding through the interior. It was a tight squeeze with all the other guys and weapons poking everywhere. I took up my usual residence in the seat behind the cab. Smith shoved the last guy through the doorway, slid the door closed then hopped into the front passenger seat.
“Hit it, Mac,” Smith said, leaning on his rifle and pointing at the grimy windshield.
McElroy accelerated away from the roadside but the bus coughed and the engine died.
“Fuck it,” McElroy spat.
Everybody lurched forward as the vehicle ground to a halt. McElroy tried the starter and miraculously, the engine fired back up, gaining a round of sarcastic and subdued cheers. He kept the revs high and drove the bus into the center of the road. The RV seemed to be struggling and moved at a crawl.
“How much gas do we have in the tank?” I asked, leaning over the back of the cab seats.
Smith leaned towards the dash gauges. “Not much. In fact, the needle is in the red zone.”
“We just need this thing to get us over the ground for a few more miles,” McElroy said. “The big shit heap won’t do more than twenty something miles an hour though.”
“It’s quicker than walking, Mac,” Smith sighed. “And it’s faster than The Cowboy and his goons will be moving.”
“It’s The Marshall,” I said, correcting Smith.
“What?” Smith snapped.
“It’s not The Cowboy, he’s called The Marshall.”
Smith flashed me a grimace. “I don’t give a flying fuck what the guy’s name is. I don’t care if he’s John fucking Wayne himself. I’ll be calling him ‘Dead Motherfucker’ by the end of the day anyhow.”
“Okay, man,” I muttered and slid back into my own seat. “Just saying.”
We crawled along the road at unbearably slow pace. The bus didn’t seem to want to carry on with the journey and shuddered several times as though it was going to peter out in a cloud of smoke and steam. The interior was stifling with the fumes and heat and the stench of sweat.
It took forever to reach the Ghost Town and I took a glance outside through the side windows. A few undead still shambled around between the buildings but I didn’t see any sign of Ducky. Perhaps he’d got lucky and was long gone by now. I didn’t catch any kind of a glimpse of the wolf pack either. They had simply vanished into the landscape someplace. Those animals were the
real heroes of this harsh, hostile environment.
The Ghost Town receded into the distance behind us as we chugged along the road. We smoked cigarettes and glugged water in silence, intently watching the barren scenery outside for any sign of movement. The whole crew seemed twitchy and as though they were itching to hurtle into combat and exact their revenge.
I felt as though every mile we crawled forward, we were closing in on our prey.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The Marshall and the remainder of his gun totting bully boys had seemingly disappeared into the desert. There was simply no sign of them and I wondered how they have possibly gotten so far ahead of us. Maybe they’d dived for cover amongst the Ghost Town ruins when they heard our rattling RV approaching. The scenario of the neo Nazis hiding out and watching us roll by, then doubling back to the motel and wiping out everybody left there rolled around my mind. My chilling thoughts were abruptly shattered when Anderson, sitting directly behind me yelled in my ear.
“Look, guys, there’s a bunch of zombies up ahead,” he shouted, pointing over my shoulder towards the windshield.
We all leaned forward, crowding the space behind the cab. At first, I couldn’t distinguish anything out of the ordinary across the desert plains. After scanning the horizon, I finally caught sight of what Anderson was jabbering about. A dust cloud hovered above a small crowd of shuffling figures a few hundred yards further up the road.
“That ‘aint no fucking zombies,” Smith growled, tossing his cigarette butt out of the side window. “That’s those fucking Nazi pricks.”
“Let’s finish the bastards off,” McElroy yelled, stamping his foot hard down on the gas pedal.
The bus seemed to have other ideas. The sudden rush of gas flowing into the carburetor forced the engine to cough and splutter. The speed reduced further before the rattles and rumbles cut out completely. The bus rolled harmlessly along at a walking pace before coming to a stop in the middle of the road.
Left in the Cold (The Left Series) Page 23