Left in the Cold (The Left Series)

by Christian Fletcher

  “Ah, you bastard!” McElroy spat, thumping the steering wheel.

  He tried the starter a couple of times. The motor whined but didn’t fire up. The more times McElroy tried, the whining grew slower and flatter.

  “This fucking piece of shit ‘aint going anyplace, Mac,” Smith sighed. “We can see them now.” He nodded at the dust cloud in the distance. “And if we can see ‘em, we can catch ‘em.” He grabbed his rifle, opened the passenger door and turned his head to the rest of the crew in the back of the RV behind him. “Come on, boys, we’re going to bag us some fucking Nazis.”

  Some of the others around me whooped in a battle cry. Anderson pulled open the side door and we bundled out of the back of the motionless vehicle. Smith and McElroy both jumped onto the roadway, cocking their rifles with determined and mean expressions on their faces.

  This was it. We were nearing the final showdown.

  Our whole crew set off at a fast paced jog that we couldn’t hope to maintain. Smith and McElroy led the charging pack. Although I felt completely exhausted and ready to drop at any second, it was a good feeling to have the upper hand on our enemy for once.

  It wasn’t long before our pace slowed, not for the desire to keep going at our frenetic speed but the heat soon became debilitating. Sweat dripped off my chin and again, my clothes clung to my soaking wet body. A few grunts of pain sounded around me. Smith and McElroy still led as though they were military physical training instructors on a squad run.

  “Keep it going, lads,” McElroy called, half turning around as he ran. “Don’t let a wee, gentle jog get in the way of a gun fight.”

  Somehow, we kept moving forward and although slow going, we were gaining ground on our fleeing foe. The dust cloud ahead still hovered and swirled in the distance and our crew kicked up a small haze of our own. The neo Nazis would see us pursuing them; there was no doubt about that but out in the flat desert plain, hiding was impossible. They were burned, probably one or two of them injured and the shock of the inferno would hamper their retreat. We had the added incentive of revenge and adrenalin to keep us going. Plus we had Smith and McElroy cracking the proverbial whip.

  The blurred image of the fence line marking the boundary of Lajitas town and the low standing buildings beyond shimmered in a heat haze in the distance. I hadn’t realized we were so close to the neo Nazi’s stronghold. The familiar sight added an extra spurt of nervous energy through my system. I didn’t know how many more guys The Marshall had in reserve in the town or what kind of weapons were stored inside that fence line. If the neo Nazis reached their base before we got to them, we were in big trouble. They weren’t the kind of guys to merely slink away into the distance.

  “The town is right up ahead,” I heard myself shout out.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” somebody, probably Smith retorted.

  We were closing in on The Marshall and his crew but they were going to reach the gates to Lajitas before we could stop them.

  “Come on, fellers,” McElroy barked. “Let’s wipe these bastards off the face of the fucking planet.”

  We stopped in our tracks when a burst of gunfire ripped through the air. Semi automatic rounds kicked up puffs of sand all around us and pinged off the blacktop road. I performed a mad kind of whirling dance, shielding my eyes from the dust, waving my arms in the air while turning away from the gunfire.

  “Is everybody okay?” McElroy yelled, when the shooting ceased.

  Despondent murmurs of response came back. I glanced around me. Nobody lay bleeding on the ground so it looked as though none of our crew were hit. But the body language seemed less positive. Anderson countered with a return burst of gunfire from his own rifle.

  “Whoa! Hold on there, Anderson,” I shouted. “Don’t fire blind, man. There are innocent refugees behind that fence line. Families, women and kids who the neo Nazis treat like shit. They are starving to death back there.”

  I couldn’t bear to think of those poor people suffering even more. A stray bullet could wreck one of those tragic families’ lives even more. I didn’t want to live with the thought of any more accidental deaths to those who least deserved it.

  “They got people prisoner in there, Wilde Man?” McElroy asked.

  I shook my head. “Not prisoners as such but they might as well be. They don’t feed them or provide water. Those people are just kept inside the fence with nothing. No shelter, clothes or medical supplies. They work them hard for only a few scraps if they’re lucky.”

  McElroy nodded. An expression of determination and anger engulfed his face. “Come on, boys,” he said quietly, glancing around the crew. “Don’t let a few gunshots put us off. Let’s go help those people inside that fucking town. Even if we do nothing else today and aren’t around to see tomorrow, let’s try and go out doing something good.”

  “Spread out in two man teams,” Smith instructed, raising two fingers to reiterate. “Advance with caution, watch your shots and be fucking careful. Good luck, guys.” He glanced at me. “Wilde Man, you’re my wing man. Hang on to your balls, kid. This could get a little hairy.”

  I sighed and shuffled towards Smith. “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I muttered.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Predictably, Anderson sidled up alongside McElroy and the rest of the crew paired up with a battle buddy. We fanned out across either side of the road in our two man teams and plodded forward in hunched stances, with our weapons held at the ready in a firing position.

  The shimmering heat haze receded slightly as we drew closer to the fence line. Smith and I hunkered down behind a bushy scrub a couple of hundred yards from the gates. I was slightly surprised to see the gates had been replaced back on their supporting structures. The gate on the right was buckled and twisted and barely in place but a big, metal chain wrapped through the center stanchions held them closed and in place.

  A few mashed corpses and some dead zombies lay in front of the gates. The Marshall and the remainder of his disheveled and smoke blackened gang were gathered around the entranceway. Three guys knelt down, facing our way with their rifles pointing away from the town and across the desert. Obviously, the gunmen were waiting for us to show, progressing with our advance. The Marshall stood with his hands on his hips, directly in front of the gates while staring through the wire mesh. Two more guys flanked their leader and wildly shook on the locked gates. One more guy, dressed in charred green combat fatigues and a sleeveless black vest strode purposefully up and down the fence line. He was facing the interior of the camp, with his rifle pointed beyond the wire mesh and yelling obscenities.

  “Open these fucking gates, you bunch of fucking retards,” the guy screamed. “I’m going to personally butcher the whole god damn shitty last one of you if you don’t let us in, right fucking now.”

  I knew the gatekeeper, Red and his two shaven headed accomplices were no longer able to perform their sentry duties. The remains of their corpses were probably the mashed, meaty mess in front of the gates. I wondered who the hell the gunman was yelling at.

  I took a look beyond the fence and saw the refugees had abandoned their make shift shelters. Nobody roamed about the hovels and it was as if the place had been evacuated. Maybe they’d fled into the desert after I’d smashed down the gates earlier.

  A slight movement from the edge of the barn wall inside the compound caught my attention. I watched and saw a few of the refugees taking a peek at the entranceway from the corner of the barn. They ducked back out of sight when the guy in the combat fatigues continued his rant.

  I wondered if the refugees had fixed up the gates to keep The Marshall and his guys out of Lajitas on their return. I hoped that was the case. If my hunch was correct, we had some allies.

  “Do you see those people by the barn?” I whispered to Smith.

  “I see them,” Smith replied. “They’re shit scared of those pricks.”

  “But they can’t get inside the fence,” I said, with a hint of smugness. “Can you hit The
Marshall’s lookout guys from here?”

  Smith flashed me a grimace. “Are you kidding? I could take out all three of those guys with my fucking eyes shut, kid.” He shimmied down onto his belly and took up a firing position, aiming his rifle between a gap in the scrub branches and at the gunmen keeping watch in front of the gates.

  I moved slightly to the left to give Smith a little more room and adopted a kneeling stance, roughly aiming my rifle at The Marshall and the rest of his cronies. Smith cleared his throat and I waited, anticipating the mayhem about to ensue. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to seeing the big guy in the cowboy hat panicking when his crew was picked off one by one.

  It never ceases to amaze me how a situation can flip in the blink of an eye though. A split second after I thought we were on the verge of wiping out the neo Nazis for good, the scenario changed.

  Two of our crew had obviously been watching the proceedings from their position. They must have had a sudden rush of blood to their heads or wanted to end the showdown themselves. Our two guys rose from the ditch at the roadside and charged forward towards the gates with all guns blazing.

  “What are those fucking idiots doing?” Smith spat.

  We watched as the two men in our crew fired wildly, all their rounds missing their targets. The Marshall instinctively ducked down and turned away from the gates. The three neo Nazi gunmen already hunched down and in defensive mode, opened fire at our accomplices.

  Our two guys didn’t stand a chance. They were cut down in a hail of gunfire and fell on their backs onto the road. Blood pooled around them and they didn’t stir or cry out in pain. They were both gone.

  The stench of cordite and a few wisps of gun smoke floated across the air after the gunmen ceased shooting. Smith and I stared in shocked silence for a couple of seconds.

  The Marshall stood back to his full height.

  “See, I told you, these guys ‘aint nothing,” he barked. “They just got lucky with one sucker punch back at that motel but they got a real surprise coming to them. Now, hurry it up and get these fucking gates open, will you?” He flicked the chain. “Tear the fucking things down if you have to. I want to get back out there and teach those worthless fucks a lesson.”

  Smith took up his aim once again but our concentration was broken by a rumbling sound approaching from the opposite side of the fence.

  “Now what?” Smith muttered, moving his head away from the gun sight.

  I craned my neck and took a look beyond the gates. An open top, olive green, military style truck slowly drove along the road towards the inside of the gates. Around a dozen armed guys were crammed into the rear of the truck bed and stood as the speed slowed.

  “At fucking last,” The Marshall yelled.

  “Ah, fuck!” Smith groaned. “That’s all we need. Two of our guys are taken out and they bring in reinforcements.”

  I sighed and felt my heart and guts sink so low, as though they were going to fall out of my ass and land into the sand below us.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  “I can still take out The Cowboy before they open the gates,” Smith whispered, re-aiming his rifle.

  “He’s called The Marshall,” I hissed. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. You shoot him and we’re all dead. They’ll hunt us down in that damn truck and torture us before they kill us. We’ll end up at the wrong end of a noose like those poor bastards in the cemetery at the Ghost Town.”

  “We can shoot a few of them before they get us,” Smith said. “They won’t take us easy.”

  The truck rolled to a stop around twenty-five yards in front of the gates. The gunmen began to hop out of the back and onto the road. They held their firearms upwards, with the barrels pointing at the sky.

  “Hey, open these fucking gates, will you?” the loud guy in the combat fatigues shouted. “Where the hell is that asshole, Red, anyhow?”

  “I can take him down,” Smith said, readjusting his aim slightly to cover The Marshall’s animated, prancing activities.

  I saw a sudden flow of movement from beyond the fence. People were massing beside the barn.

  “Wait, Smith,” I hissed.

  “What is it?” Smith grumbled.

  “Shit,” I whispered. “Take a look for yourself.”

  Smith raised his head slightly and we both watched in awe as a whole crowd of refugees streamed in a forceful, jeering mob at the gunmen standing around the truck. A few gunshots rang out but the neo Nazis were unable to stop the seething mass of pissed off and down trodden survivors. Emaciated and unkempt men and women massed on the gunmen, outnumbering them at least five to one. The oppressors were wrestled to the ground and their firearms ripped from their hands. The raucous noise of vengeful hysteria almost drowned out screams of agony and muffled gunshots. The truck driver tried to back up the vehicle but he was soon surrounded and dragged screaming from the cab by the surging mob.

  I watched in morbid fascination as the refugees pummeled, kicked and punched at their grounded tormenters. All their anger, frustration and sense of despair boiled over and emerged in a release of extreme physical violence.

  The Marshall furiously rattled the gates. “No! What are you doing?” he screamed. The guys on either side of their leader flapped their arms, yelling their protests with fury.

  The loud guy in the combat fatigues shoved the barrel of his rifle through a gap in the wire mesh fence and took aim at the refugees. The three guys on lookout also turned to view the melee occurring inside the compound.

  I couldn’t even contemplate successfully hitting a target at the distance we were from the fence line. However, Smith shuffled left, readjusting his aim. He fired once and the loud guy in the combat fatigues dropped to the ground after the back of his head exploded in a mass of blood, brain and small fragments of bone.

  The lookout guy on the left of the three heard the shot and spun around. Smith re-aimed and fired again. The lookout guy dropped his rifle and clawed at the huge, blood spurting wound in his throat, while he toppled backwards.

  “Come on, kid,” Smith said, hauling himself up and flashing me a wink. “Let’s go end this but leave The Cowboy until last.”

  “It’s The Marshall,” I growled, shaking my head.

  I tried to stem the sense of euphoria I felt building within me. The situation wasn’t quite over yet and I knew from past experiences that a near victory can always be snatched away at the last moment.

  We moved forward quickly in a running but crouched stance, keeping our rifles trained on the gates. The two remaining lookouts turned when they saw their comrade lying on the ground beside them. Fear was etched all over their faces.

  I followed Smith’s zigzagging maneuver but the gunmen saw us approaching. I aimed and fired but my shot sailed high. Firing on the run was a difficult enough procedure as it was and accurate aiming was nigh on impossible.

  One of the lookouts fired at us as Smith and I rapidly closed down the ground between us. The round zipped close to me and sent up a puff of sand a few inches away from my right foot. Now we were out in the open and there were no hiding places or cover of any kind. We couldn’t go back. This was either death or glory.

  Both the remaining lookouts took aim as Smith and I hurtled towards them. Smith and I aimed our rifles in the hope we might get lucky. I was a little wary of the refugees behind the fence line so I wasn’t going to fire in a wild, aimless burst.

  Time seemed to slow down as we dashed onward. I saw the mean glare in the lookout men’s eyes and the hateful grimaces on their faces. I realized that when somebody is shot and slain in close combat, the last face they will ever see is that of their killer, not somebody gently comforting them through their last living moments. I didn’t want to die under the gaze of a spiteful and malicious executioner, who would enjoy watching me gurgle my final, wheezing breath.

  The Marshall continued to rock the gates backwards and forwards on their supports, screaming at the rioting refugees inside the compound beyond. H
is two henchmen began to turn and went for their side arms in their hip holsters when they saw Smith and me hurtling towards them.

  The lookouts followed our zigzagging maneuver with their rifle barrels, training left and right. I knew any second they’d take a shot and just hoped their aim wasn’t that good.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  I winced when I heard a couple of gunshots fired. I felt no pain though and kept on moving forward with Smith still beside me. We weren’t hit. Was it a miracle we’d just witnessed?

  The two lookout guys both jolted sideways and blood spurted from gunshot wounds to their chests. They let their rifles drop to the ground and their faces contorted in pain. Both men fell sideways in unison and landed on the ground. They rolled onto their backs gasping for breath.

  I glanced to my right and saw McElroy and Anderson approaching from the opposite side of the roadway on our right flank. Both their rifle barrels smoked slightly as they slung the weapons over their shoulders. They took out their handguns from holsters strapped to their shoulders. Worthy shots from each of them I thought.

  The endgame wasn’t over yet though.

  The two guys, standing either side of The Marshall raised their handguns. I felt like a machine running purely on instinct and adrenalin. In one fluid movement, I dropped to one knee and took aim at the guy on the left side of The Marshall. Without hesitation, I squeezed the trigger, releasing one round. My shot from around twenty-five yards was perfect. The bullet slammed home, exactly in the center of the gunman’s chest. He rocked backwards, his torso crashing against the gate and a growing circle of crimson stained his grubby white t-shirt. He slid down the wire mesh and came to a stop in a sitting position with his mouth hanging open and a final, confused expression on his face.