The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink

by Fletcher, Christian

  LEFT ON THE BRINK

  By Christian Fletcher

  Copyright 2013 by Christian Fletcher

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Christian Fletcher.

  Also by the author –

  Leftovers

  Left Alone

  Operation Sepsis

  LEFT ON THE BRINK

  BY CHRISTIAN FLETCHER

  Chapter One

  Fiery red sparks lit up the cloudless Louisiana night sky. The small Navy patrol boat’s motor churned and whined as Smith steered the vessel along the Mississippi River. I nudged Batfish, who stood next to me on the deck and pointed out the warning flare above our heads.

  I rushed across the deck, heading for the control cabin to let Smith know about the flare. Someone was close and in trouble.

  Smith glanced in my direction as I opened the control cabin door. “There’s a red flare in the sky, Smith. Above the river bank on the right side of us.”

  Smith gazed out and upward through the control cabin window. “That’s a marine distress flare. It looks like it’s coming from that Naval Air Station. I’ll take us in closer to the bank.” He turned the ship’s wheel to the right and slowed the engines so we were at crawling speed.

  We had encountered the remainder of the military base personnel on our way into New Orleans. They had helped us get fuel for the boat and maybe it was time to repay the favor. Last time we saw those guys, they were heavily armed and barricaded in fortified buildings. Whatever was going down had to be bad. Chief Cole seemed to run the show at the base and he had been a great help to us when Smith and I were at rock bottom. We’d been held at gunpoint and threatened by a gang of mercenaries and drug pedaling gangsters on our journey into New Orleans with the intention of searching for Batfish.

  The horrors of the city were behind us now. We headed downriver, towards the coastline. Our ship’s company consisted of myself, Smith, Batfish, two Cajun girls, (who we discovered were named Landri and Mignon) and Spot, the little Jack Russell terrier.

  Plenty of people had willingly and some reluctantly joined our little band of survivors but many had perished at the hands of the undead. The world was a different place now, compared to the relative normality of six months ago. The dead had risen, got up and walked, driven by some kind of fucked up mutating flu. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the walking corpses had developed a craving to consume living, human flesh. One scratch or bite by these vicious, animated creatures was enough to pass on the disease. The recipient would die a painful death within a few hours and then rise as a flesh eating zombie, driven by a seemingly endless craving and hunger for living tissue. The infected showed no signs or memories of their past lives and weren’t capable of coherent speech or any way of communicating. The only sound they made was that dreadful, monotonous moan.

  I’d heard that moaning sound so many times. On countless occasions, I’d felt that awful jolt of shock and fear when you know you are going to be fighting for your life against an enemy whose prime objective is to consume you. I was tired, so tired of running and fighting.

  “Who do you think is sending up the fireworks?” Batfish asked from behind me, jolting me from my inner turmoil.

  I turned to face her in the cabin doorway. “Uhh…we hooked up with some military guys at the New Orleans Naval Airbase on our way up to the city before we came to rescue you,” I explained. “The base was overrun with undead but the military guys kind of helped us out when we were in a hole.”

  The image of Chaplain Michael Brady being torn apart by zombies flashed into my head. The Clergyman had helped Smith and me by introducing us to the remaining military guys, but had paid the price with his life. He was in the process of being ripped to pieces at the Airbase fuel dump before Smith mercifully ended his suffering with a single shot to the head. I silently prayed the Chaplain was now in a better place.

  Smith turned on the communications radio, fixed to a console to the right of the steering wheel and tuned through the maritime emergency channels. Communication systems were virtually useless now in this new post-apocalyptic age but we heard radio static and garbled messages on the UHF channels.

  “We’re getting overrun…time to move out…broken down…fucking zombies everywhere…I’m out of ammo…” Yells and blood curdling screams followed the distorted radio messages.

  “Can you disclose your position?” Smith clicked the microphone and spoke clearly but received no reply. The communication system remained silent.

  “So we’re going in there to help them this time?”

  Smith glanced towards Batfish standing in the doorway. The luminous blue lights on the control panel slightly illuminated one half of his rugged face. I knew by Batfish’s tone of voice she wasn’t crazy about the idea of going into to a zombie infested military base in the dead of night.

  “It may be nothing. Maybe it’s just somebody fucking around with a flare pistol and on the radio, but I think we still should check if those guys are in trouble out there,” Smith said.

  “Okay,” Batfish sighed in resignation. “I don’t think we should take Landri and Mignon with us though. Their English isn’t great and we don’t want any communication problems out there in the dark.”

  “All right,” Smith agreed. “We’ll anchor up near the river bank and take the dinghy over to the other side.” He turned his head to me. “You better try and explain to the two girls what our plans are, Wilde.”

  I huffed in frustration. We’d only known the two Cajun girls a short while but I always seemed to be the chump who had to attempt some kind of communication, most of the time making a complete ass of myself trying to perform a crude mime to help them understand.

  “They seem to like you, Brett,” Batfish encouraged and patted my shoulder.

  I nodded, stepped out of the control cabin and made my way across the deck towards the hatch leading to the compartments below. Spot wagged his tail and I ruffled his head as I approached the living quarters. The two girls sat, half-dozing across the bench seat in the cramped crew room. They immediately awoke as I entered the cabin. Maybe they were subconsciously alerted to any sudden, looming movement. I attempted to explain in basic mime actions we were planning to go ashore but wanted them to remain onboard the boat. Their dark eyes were wide with fear and confusion once more.

  I’d rescued the girls from a small house in New Orleans, along with Batfish and couldn’t really refuse to help them escape, even though they were an unnecessary burden. I forked the fingers of my right hand towards my eyes and pointed at Spot, hoping they understood my meaning to keep an eye on and take care of the small dog.

  Landri, the taller of the two girls nodded in comprehension. She stared deep into my eyes, her pretty dark skinned face was full of apprehension and she grabbed my hand tightly.

  “You will…come back, Brett?” she stammered in broken English. “Not leave us here.” She shook her head, her jet black hair swishing at the sides of her face with the motion.

  I smiled and patted her hand. “Of course we’ll be back. We won’t leave you here.”

  I tried to sound convincing to somehow reassure the girls they wouldn’t be left to fend for themselves. To be honest, my words didn’t even sound convincing to myself.

  Chapter Two

  Smith drop
ped the anchor and he and Batfish were lowering the sea boat by the time I resurfaced on the upper deck. The night breeze felt warm and ruffled my unkempt hair as I sauntered towards the stern, where the sea boat was housed. Smith sat in the boat and Batfish operated the winch, lowering the small craft in jerky movements to the dark river water. The sea boat and rear end of the Navy boat was illuminated by a bright spotlight pointing downwards at a forty-five degree angle.

  “Batfish is certainly no winch person,” Smith admonished from the sea boat. “Try and move the lever in one smooth movement.”

  Batfish muttered under her breath and briefly glanced towards the night sky.

  “Do you want me to take over?” I offered.

  “No, Brett. I’m perfectly capable of lowering a winch,” she shrieked at me.

  I sniggered and took a step back. “Okay, go right ahead.”

  Batfish wasn’t the type of girl who stood back and let people step in and do things for her. She was a feisty female who wouldn’t be bossed around, particularly by men.

  Eventually, Smith uncoupled the support hook as the sea boat splashed onto the river’s surface. “Nothing like a smooth landing,” he groaned, wiping droplets of water from his face with his sleeve.

  “You got the weapons and ammo, Smith?” I called down to the sea boat.

  “No, I haven’t loaded up yet. The handguns and ammunition are in that box in the control room.”

  We’d managed to acquire a cash box loaded with dollar bills, several handguns and plenty of spare ammunition before we’d embarked at the New Orleans dock. I nodded and went to retrieve some weapons from the box. I loaded two Beretta M-9 handguns and put some spare 9-mm magazines into the side pockets of my cargo pants. Batfish wasn’t keen on guns but I decided I’d better take one for her, given the dangerous circumstances. I chose a smaller handgun for her, a Kel-Tec PF-9, which was lighter and easier to handle than the Beretta. The Kel-Tec also used the same 9mm caliber ammunition as the Beretta.

  I double checked the safety catches on all three weapons and slipped them into a small shoulder bag, along with a couple of spare boxes of 9-mm rounds. I briefly wondered if I should have left the Cajun girls a handgun but decided against it. It took me a long time to get used to handling a loaded weapon and it could do more harm than good if you didn’t know how to use one properly. I hoped we wouldn’t be too long ashore and I could fulfill my promise of not leaving the girls for any great length of time.

  I remembered we had a flare pistol ourselves in a drawer by the ship’s wheel. I opened the storage compartment and took out the flare pistol. It was still loaded and I pondered whether to take it with us.

  “What the hell?” I muttered and tossed the pistol into the sack.

  I put a flashlight into the bag as well as some extra packs of cigarettes and some small bottles of water then slipped the strap over my head and made my way to the sea boat.

  Smith had flashed up the engine and drawn the sea boat alongside. Batfish climbed through the wire guard rails and hopped down into the sea boat. I carefully lowered the shoulder bag down to her and followed her route into the small vessel. Smith turned the boat around and steered the short distance across the water to the river bank. I dished out the handguns and spare magazines after we’d secured the sea boat’s head rope to a thick tree root, protruding amongst the long grass on the marshy river bank. Batfish pulled a pained expression on her pale white face, but reluctantly took the Kel-Tec handgun.

  I turned on the flashlight but held my hand over the bulb end to stem the brightness. Dark silhouettes of a tree line loomed further up the river bank incline and I was worried the shadowy copse could be hiding any number of undead attackers. I listened for moans or any sounds of breaking twigs.

  Batfish puffed and panted next to me as she struggled to negotiate the steep incline. The long grass was damp with night time dew and gaining a foothold was difficult. Smith was a few paces ahead of us. The big guy powerfully strode up the bank like he was on a Sunday afternoon ramble.

  “I don’t like the look of those trees at the top of the bank, Smith,” I hissed. “It could be teeming with zombies in there.”

  Smith stopped and studied the tree line, twenty yards above us.

  “You know I have a sixth sense about these things,” I reminded him. For some unknown reason, I’d gained a kind of inner radar that could sense imminent danger from the undead.

  “All right, we’ll scoot around the tree line and head for the road on the other side of the fence line,” Smith whispered.

  I remembered how many of the undead had followed us to the Airbase last time we climbed up the river bank. Smith and I would both be dead or zombies ourselves right now if we hadn’t been saved by Chaplain Brady on that day. He’d ushered us into a building away from the frenzied, braying horde of undead.

  We changed direction slightly, trudging through the long grass at an angle away from the clump of trees. I kept my hand over the flashlight beam but my fingers twitched, ready to pull the Beretta out of the back of my waistband at any sign of an approaching zombie.

  Pale moonlight shone through the treetops, casting an eerie glow as we reached the top of the river bank summit. Insects chirped amongst the grass that covered our feet and stood almost knee high. I felt sweat roll down my back. Something felt wrong.

  “I don’t like this, Smith,” I whispered. “I don’t feel safe.” I nervously glanced around us. The tree line was behind us and we ducked through the remains of a dilapidated wire fence running parallel to the river. Flat grassy ground merged into the darkness on the other side of the fence.

  “When was the last time you felt one-hundred percent safe?” Batfish sighed. “Nobody knows what’s around the corner.”

  “The road we followed last time was not far from the fence,” Smith said, slowly walking across the flat ground. “If we can pick up that road we can follow the route to the Airbase.”

  Another red flare exploded in the night sky, causing us to quickly turn and gaze upwards into the illuminated blackness.

  “They’re really going for it, whoever is sending up those flares,” I muttered.

  “Never mind the fucking flares,” Batfish shrieked. “Look across the field!”

  I glanced at her then turned my head to where she pointed. A sea of pale, grimacing undead faces were illuminated by the flare. The zombie horde stumbled through the long grass across the field towards us.

  Chapter Three

  “What the hell do we do?” I hissed. My guts churned like a washing machine and I felt the familiarly unwanted sensation of fear and panic pulsing through my body.

  Smith drew his M-9 from the back of his waistband. “Don’t fire unless they get too close. Try and save the ammo. If we move quickly enough, we can outrun them.”

  I sighed. Not another long, drawn out chase. I was done. I’d had no proper sleep for a long time and my arms and legs ached with fatigue from climbing the river bank. Smith just seemed to keep going like some kind of damn machine. I didn’t know what kind of physical state Batfish was in, but she probably had time to rest while incarcerated in that small house back in New Orleans.

  Not for the first time, I thought about putting a bullet in my own head as I drew my Beretta. One little hole in the side of my skull would put a permanent end to my perpetual suffering. A nice, long eternal sleep. No more running, no more fighting. No more Brett Wilde. Game over. End of story.

  Dalliances with suicide soon evaporated from my mind when Smith bolted through the grass to our right. Batfish followed and I took a slow jog behind them, the flashlight and the M-9 in my hands. Smith was much bigger and fitter than Batfish and I. He was an ex-marine and an ex-New York cop turned gangster, so his three chosen professions required a high level of fitness. He was big and powerful with a special knack for survival. Even though he was in his early forties, he could still have given any teenage college jock a run for their money.

  Batfish had been overweight when I first m
et her in a shitty little Pennsylvanian town called Brynston, which seemed like a million years ago. Now, she was lean and reasonably fit. The black-dyed, Gothic-style, bobbed hairdo had been replaced by long, brown locks tied back into a pony tail. She wore a short black jacket and black denims with a pair of black work boots that would have been more suited to a construction worker. Smith and I still wore our military combat fatigues, which we’d acquired last time we visited the New Orleans Airbase.

  The spare ammunition magazines weighed heavily in the daypack on my back. I couldn’t keep up with the other two, who weren’t carrying anything but the clothes they stood up in. I took a quick glance over my shoulder and saw the undead crowd had changed direction and was still in pursuit. We headed north, searching for the highway, which would lead us to the Airbase. A few more zombies closed in from our left, moaning furiously in the moonlight.

  Another red flare illuminated the sky and the late night pyrotechnic show seemed to be attracting the whole undead population south of New Orleans. I thought about the thousands of grim, rotting faces pressing against the wire mesh fence line on the outskirts of the remainder of the city. We’d inadvertently destroyed that protective barrier and let the hungry hordes pour into the city. I briefly wondered if Lazaru, the gangland boss who ran the city and his henchmen had successfully repelled the zombie invasion. I seriously doubted it. There had simply been too many undead to handle.

  “Come on, Wilde,” Smith hissed at me. “Move your skinny ass quicker.”

  The grimace on Smith’s pale white face was evident in the moonlight. His spiky black hair ruffled in the night breeze.

  “Easy for you to say,” I grunted in reply. “You haven’t got an arsenal on your back.”

  “Quit whining, will you. Give me the damn bag if it’s too much for you.”

  Smith and Batfish waited until I caught them up. I nervously glanced to my left and saw more zombies approaching from the fields.