I decided to have a look for the dog. He couldn’t have ventured far and I had a handgun, a flashlight and a radio on me.
“Smith?” I spoke into the headset.
“What is it, Wilde?” Smith responded.
“The dog has gone missing. Don’t say anything to Batfish yet, she was a bit upset after the crash. I’m going to look for him, talk to you later.”
“All right, but don’t go too far. We don’t know what the hell is out there.”
“I won’t be long; he can’t be too far away.”
“Hey, Wilde?”
“What?”
“Keep your eye out for a bottle of good whisky. We might be in Scotland, you never know.”
“I’ll do my best,” I sighed. “But I’m not making any promises.”
I sniggered. I knew Smith was itching for a stiff drink and I could have done with one myself.
The night breeze blew across the long grass, rippling the tops of the blades like waves on the ocean. I shone the flashlight in continuous sweeps back and forth across the ground, looking out for any signs of movement.
“What the fuck, Spot?” I sighed. “Why do you always choose the worst times to go running away?”
I trudged away from the aircraft across the grassy field, with no clue where I was heading. Spinning around in a circle, I caught sight of the burial party, illuminated by several flashlights at the side of the aircraft. The noise of sympathetic chatter and confused conversation drifted through the night air. I felt like running away from the scene too. Running away from my tainted life and everybody involved in it.
“Spot? Come on, here boy,” I called again. I tried to remain focused and not to allow the escalating feeling of depression get the better of me. I’d just survived a plane crash, for fuck’s sake. Not many people could lay claim to that fact and live to tell the tale.
I noticed a silhouetted clump of trees at the edge of the field and a hill rising into the distance behind them. Surely Spot wouldn’t have ventured that far? Maybe he’d caught the scent of a fox or a mouse or whatever the hell dwelled around this place.
I turned back and saw the aircraft and the faint glow of the flashlights surrounding the grave diggers becoming an alarming distance away. I didn’t want to lose sight of the C-17 totally and thought about turning back. But what would I tell Batfish? She loved that dog and had just been through an exceedingly traumatic experience. I didn’t want to be the one to tell her that our dog, our companion since the apocalypse had started was now missing in action. Spot was no adventurer. He was happiest with us. I made the decision to press on.
An owl hooted from the branches of the trees as I approached. The wooded area was pitch dark and I shone the beam amongst the thick trunks. I still couldn’t see Spot anywhere and called his name again.
For some reason, the woods reminded me of a 1960’s TV show I used to watch when I was a kid. The show was called ‘H.R. Pufnstuf’ and told the tale of a normal boy transported to a strange land inhabited by a big, yellow dragon thing, amongst other weird creatures and a witch called ‘Witchiepoo,’ who lived in the spooky woods. It was kind of a trippy sixties show with the actors donning all sorts of strange costumes and centered on the boy’s talking flute. I had no magical musical instrument or a big guy in a weird costume to help me but I did have a handgun and a radio. Maybe I was simply an evolution of “Jimmy,” the main character who was lost in a strange new world.
I hummed the theme tune to the show as I trod slowly under the canopy of the trees. Something scurried through the long grass to my right. I gasped and swung the flashlight beam towards the source of the noise. A pair of yellow gleaming eyes stared back at me. Thankfully, the creature was nothing more sinister than a big red fox. He nonchalantly turned, waving his white tipped tail at me then disappearing into the night. He looked like the same fox I’d seen on the roadside in Louisiana. Surely he couldn’t have snuck aboard the C-17 somehow?
At least there was some sort of life in this strange new place. The weather felt damp and cold but not as severe as in Canada. Had Remmick and Capaldi got us to Scotland after all? I knew they were talking about landing in Iceland but this place didn’t feel like the volcanic island in the center of the North Atlantic.
We hadn’t encountered any zombies yet but that didn’t mean to say this place wasn’t inhabited by the undead. Maybe we had crash landed on an unpopulated island someplace. I knew mainland Britain was surrounded by a lot of small islands, particularly in Scotland. If our new surroundings were zombie free, that was a good thing, wherever we were.
My mood lifted. I felt optimistic for the first time in months, even though I was alone and trudging through a spooky wood in the darkness.
“Come and play with me, Jim, come and play with me and I will take you on a trip far across the sea,” I sang. “H.R. Pufnstuf, he’s your friend when things get rough, H.R. Pufnstuf, can’t do a little ‘cos you can’t do enough.”
“Nice singing, buddy,” a voice echoed through the trees.
I immediately stopped my cover version of the Pufnstuf theme song, gasped in shock and swung the flashlight beam around to the source of the voice. My alternative self leaned against a tree trunk with his arms folded across his chest and a malevolent grin on his face.
“Oh, shit,” I sighed. “What do you want?”
“Why are you always so pissed when I show up? I’m you, after all.”
“You’re not me. You’re a damn hallucination I could do without, right now,” I groaned.
My alternative self moved towards me. He was dressed like a 1950’s biker with slicked back hair in a D.A. style, drain pipe denim pants, big black boots and a black T-shirt with a “Motorhead” logo in white lettering emblazoned across the center. His face was gaunt and pale and he looked skinnier than me.
“What’s with the biker look?”
“I’m playing out your fantasies. You’ve always wanted to look like this, right?”
“Maybe,” I admitted.
He smiled and wagged his finger at me. “Don’t forget, I know all your inner secrets. Like the fact you’ve got the hots for that Cordoba chick. Mmm…she’s nice, I approve.”
“Ah…shut the fuck up,” I groaned and turned away from my own mocking face.
I continued on my journey through the trees but my other self followed. Small, fallen branches and twigs snapped underfoot as I stomped through the undergrowth.
“I think she likes you as well,” he carried on, pursuing me through the woods.
“Fuck off,” I spat, not wanting to be mocked by a figment of my imagination.
“Aw, don’t be like that, buddy.” My alternative self giggled as he spoke. He certainly knew how to push my buttons and get me riled.
I stopped, turned and shone the flashlight fully in his face. “Why do you always have to show up when things are getting better for me? You always appear at the worst times, you motherfucker!”
“Ooh! Harsh words, pal.” His face still possessed a sarcastic expression even though he blinked in the light beam.
“Get fucked,” I hissed and turned to carry on.
“Stop, wait a second,” my alternative self whispered. “I heard something.”
“I’m not falling for your stupid, childish pranks,” I hollered, walking further away from him.
“No, seriously, I heard footsteps coming this way.”
Something in his tone made me stop walking. I listened and heard it too. A crunching sound of breaking branches beneath heavy footsteps grew louder as somebody approached.
Chapter Forty-Six
I drew my Beretta M-9 handgun and shone the flashlight around the bases of the trees. The beam picked out a pair of scuffed, black shoes and gray flannel pants. I angled the flashlight upwards and saw a male zombie approaching, around twenty feet to my right. He wore a tattered, matching gray flannel jacket with a blood stained, yellow shirt beneath. The shirt buttons had been torn away, revealing several bite marks on his flabby c
hest. His face was set in a horrific grimace and crusted blood surrounded his mouth. My best guess at his age was around fifty years old, as he had thinning gray hair and a double chin. So much for a zombie free zone.
“Shoot the bastard!” My alternative self squawked behind me.
“All right, calm down, you girl.” It was my turn to mock. “Are you scared or something? Pissing your pants, are you?”
I clicked off the safety and raised the M-9, aiming down the barrel. The shot echoed through the quiet woods and the zombie’s head jerked once then he dropped to the ground. One shot, one kill. Sweet.
“Hey, you’re getting quite good with those guns, buddy,” my other self chimed. It sounded like false flattery.
I turned and glared at him. “I’m the one that has to deal with this shit on a daily basis,” I growled. “You just hide away most of the time, inside my fucking head.”
“Ah, fuck that shit. Listen, I want to show you something.”
“What, exactly?”
“It’s a surprise, buddy,” my other self whooped. “It’s going to be like Christmas.”
“I seriously doubt that,” I scoffed.
“Come on, follow me,” he said, leading the way through the trees.
I hesitated for a moment, then tagged along behind. Surely, I wouldn’t lead myself into a bad situation. He asked me if I remembered certain amusing scenarios back in Brynston, when life was normal. I chuckled at one particular anecdote, when my pal, Pete Cousins had wrecked his shower. He’d had a skin full of beer one afternoon and decided to take a shower before venturing out for the evening. Losing his balance, he’d tried to grab the curtain to steady himself, but only succeeded in wrenching the shower drape from its fixings and fell in an ungainly heap onto the floor, just as his roommate, Marlon and I entered his apartment. We didn’t let Pete live that down for a while. Good times.
Some huge, fallen tree branches lay at odd angles across a clearing. We walked all the way through the woods and the trees became sparse. My other self led the way through another grassy field and up an incline. The landscape flowed into the darkness on the other side of the hill. I shone the flashlight across the field and saw a roadway running horizontally between two banks.
“So, we are someplace near civilization,” I mused.
“We’re near one of the earliest monuments of civilization,” my other self said, turning to face me. “Come on; let me put you in the picture.” He continued walking through the grass.
The first shards of daylight peeped over the horizon and the weird, faint brightness of twilight slightly illuminated the landscape. I turned off the flashlight to conserve the batteries and followed my alternative self across the field. We crossed over the vacant road, without any sounds or sight of traffic.
We walked up another slight incline and the sun began to show itself, a fiery orange glow in the distance. The faint rays silhouetted huge, rectangular shapes, positioned in a circle in close proximity to us. I stopped moving and stared at the ancient stones. I now knew exactly where we were and it wasn’t Scotland.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“That’s Stonehenge,” I whispered. “I remember my Dad bringing us here when I was a kid.”
“That’s right, buddy,” my other self said. “I remember it too. We had an ice cream and a soda that we found more interesting at the time. It’s quite a sight in the early dawn, ‘aint it?”
“It sure is. Quite a sight,” I muttered. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge. Somehow, the ancient stone monument represented mankind. How old civilization was and how rapidly it had died out.
I couldn’t remember which county Stonehenge was situated in but recalled a two hour car journey from London to get there. I did know the monument was down in the southwest of England someplace.
We moved closer to the circle of huge rocks. I rubbed my hand against the porous surface, my mouth hung open and my mind raced in awe. I wondered how the ancient people who constructed the monument would react to the world today. Maybe they had endured a zombie plague in the past but hadn’t recorded the event. I trod slowly inside the circle and spun around, marveling at the ancient stones.
“Wilde? Where the hell are you?” Smith’s voice crackled through the headset.
“Ah…not too far away,” I replied.
“Well, we’ve found the dog. The little guy came running back to us through the grass a few minutes ago.”
“Okay, that’s great news. I’ll be back soon.”
Something moved in my peripheral vision. I briefly thought the movement was my alternative self but quickly realized he’d vanished back to hallucination world when I turned around. A figure skulked in the twilight and rapidly approached me as I turned to face them. I reached for my M-9 but was struck on the head by something hard and solid before I could react.
I felt giddy and tumbled to the ground, briefly catching sight of a figure, with what looked like a brown sack over his head. I felt the cold, damp dew of the grass around me before everything went black.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Intense pain pulsed through my head and I struggled to open my eyes. I blinked several times, forcing my eyelids to open. My head felt as though my brain was doing its best to try and burst my skull from the inside. My mouth was dry and my throat felt as though I’d been swallowing wads of sandpaper. Memories of being attacked by a masked assailant flashed through my mind. Where the hell was I? I went to sit up but couldn’t move. Maybe I was now paralyzed after receiving such a vicious blow to the head. I wondered who the hell the guy that hit me was and more importantly, why did he hit me?
My eyes fluttered fully open and I was staring up at a cloudless blue sky. I didn’t know how long I’d been unconscious for but the chill and freshness in the air told me it was early morning. A damp chilliness seeped through me and I realized I was lying on my back on a cold, slab like surface. I went to sit upright once again but heard a metallic rattle and felt the cold restraints of a thick chain around my wrists and ankles.
I glanced left and right. My arms were outstretched by my side and the chains wrapped around my wrists had been impaled with huge nails into the rectangular block of solid rock on which I lay. I peeked down towards my feet and saw similar chain restraints around my ankles. I took a fleeting glance around my surroundings. The rock was situated in the center of the stone circle and several hooded figures skulked amongst the vertical standing slabs. The figures wore brown colored, hessian sacks over their heads with eye holes crudely cut from the material. They also wore the remains of tatty, filthy clothing that virtually hung from their skinny bodies. As far as I could tell, they were all males of some description.
Who the hell were these weird people? They couldn’t possibly be members of the undead. Zombies had no lateral train of thought and certainly weren’t capable of chaining people up.
One of the hooded figures stealthily approached me. He crept towards the rock in a crouching position, carrying what looked like a wooden pick axe handle. Fuck! Was he going to whack me around the head again? I couldn’t take much more of a beating. The bastard had already knocked me out once.
He stopped a few feet from the rock and seemed to be studying me. His head beneath the sack was cocked at an odd angle and I heard heavy breathing from inside the hood. He still stood in a crouching, stooping position, holding out the wooden club towards me. His hands were black with dirt and the fingernails looked gnarled and broken. I felt fear and panic rising within me as I pulled against the chains.
“Who are you? What do you want?” I spat. “Why did you fucking hit me?”
The figure made a confused sound that resembled a muffled, “huh?” He glanced back to his cohorts, who looked on from near the upright stones.
“I mean you no harm. I came from America but my plane crashed around a mile away from here,” I tried to explain. At least he wasn’t beating me with that damn club any more. “We were trying to get to Scotland.”
T
he other figures crept closer and a rough head count told me I was dealing with around a dozen of them in total. They stopped and stood around the rock in a half-circle, silently staring down at me. I wanted to call Smith on the radio to come and save me but my headset was gone and more than likely, my M-9 handgun too.
The sound of their labored breathing seemed eerie and I wondered if they were sick or diseased and hoped their illness wasn’t contagious.
“Illness, terminal illness, cancer, heart disease, Ebola, typhoid, malaria, gonorrhea, diarrhea, fucking bubonic plague. Who’s going to treat you if you catch any of those?” The voice rasped again inside my aching head.
“Why did you come to the stone circle?” The figure holding the club spoke for the first time that I’d heard. His voice sounded hoarse, as though he’d smoked far too many cigarettes but his accent was definitely some kind of regional, native English. “Why did you come here?”
“I was looking for my dog,” I blurted. “I saw the stones and wanted to take a closer look.”
“Stonehenge is a sacred place of the ancients,” the figure croaked. “The ancients have shown us a sign by bringing you here. The ancients want another sacrifice to end the plague and our suffering.”
Shit! What did he mean by that? Were these weird bastards going to kill me as some sort of sordid gift to their guiding spirits? They began to emit muffled chanting sounds and the figure who spoke moved around small circular movements.
I was sure this scenario wasn’t happening. Maybe the whole situation was simply a figment of my warped imagination after that blow on the head.
The gruff chanting grew in volume to a raucous crescendo and another hooded figure produced a huge, knife from inside his ragged jacket. The blade was rusty and around six inches long. He danced around, waving the knife, slashing the air in awkward sweeps as though he was practicing killing actions.
Surely my life couldn’t end like this, after all I’d been through? Nobody knew where I was and no liberating cavalry was going to roll over the hill to save me. Why the hell had I followed my other self through those damn woods? The bastard had led me to my demise at the hands of some strange, local tribe. I had to save my skin somehow.
The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink Page 22