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

by Fletcher, Christian

  “You okay, kid?” Smith muttered, staring me straight in the eye.

  I nodded and felt ashamed. What an idiot I’d been for wandering off in the darkness. I only had myself to blame for the current predicament but I had also put the rest of the crew’s lives in danger.

  We stood around a hundred feet to the right side of the C-17. I could make out the dark recesses where the cockpit windows had been smashed. The ringleader still held the M-9 to my head and shuffled around behind me. “Where’s our food and weapons?”

  “All in good time,” Cole answered. “Let’s let the medical team take a look at you first.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed and nobody moved for a few seconds.

  “Rogers, you go first and I’ll keep the prisoner covered,” the ringleader ordered.

  Rogers reluctantly trod forward towards the medics. Smith scowled as he caught the unpleasant stench of aged grime and body odor as Rogers moved closer.

  “Okay, what’s the problem?” Arleta asked. His accent was pure New York City.

  Rogers moved his hand towards the sack hood and slowly pulled it from his head. The faces of the four people in front of me all showed the same horrified expression and I joined them in the silly face pulling competition when I caught sight of Rogers’ facial features.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Rogers looked as though he was suffering from the bubonic plague. The skin on his face was red and blotchy where it wasn’t covered in white, bulbous pustules. His matted hair had fallen out in patches, his lips were dry and cracked and his eyes looked rheumy and yellow. I took a glance at Smith, whose eyes were wide in shock. Rogers’ mouth hung open and his eyes darted between the medics and the ringleader behind him. He looked sheepish and embarrassed by his shocking appearance.

  “What the hell happened to you guys?” Cole asked, incredulously.

  “We were at a place called Porton Down, not far from here,” Rogers explained. “It’s some sort of military base where they research chemical warfare.”

  “You don’t need to tell them about that,” the ringleader cut in.

  Rogers glanced behind him then turned back to Cole, Smith and the medics. “I was working on the site as a contractor when the outbreak started. I used to be a painter and decorator, for fuck’s sake. Look at me now.” He laughed in a phlegm induced wheeze. “The military tried to use some sort of chemical weapons to kill off the walking corpses but it didn’t work and a few months later, those of us who had survived started to look like this.” He pointed at his face.

  “Too much information, Rogers,” the ringleader yelled.

  “Is your skin like that all over your body?” Wingate asked.

  Rogers nodded. “We’re all covered in these boils or abscesses or whatever the fuck they are.” His eyes looked sorrowful as he glanced back at the ringleader then returned his gaze to the medics. “Can you cure us?”

  “Do you know what kind of chemical weapon they used?” Arleta asked.

  Rogers shook his head. “As I said, I was just a painter and decorator.” He turned and pointed at the ringleader. “He might know. He was in the army there at Porton Down.”

  “Any ideas, friend?” Cole barked.

  “What does it matter? I want you to cure us.”

  “Shit, Chief. We’re going to need bio hazard suits on before we touch them,” Wingate hissed. “We shouldn’t even be this close to them.”

  “I heard that,” the ringleader snapped. “No suits, you take a look at us here and now.”

  Now I was worried these guys had contracted some kind of terminal, contagious disease and I had been close enough to them to be infected. I exchanged nervous glances with Smith. He nodded slightly that I interpreted he was telling me to keep cool, he had a plan. I returned the nod.

  “Okay, I’ll take a look at you,” Arleta sighed. He took out a pair of surgical gloves from his medical bag and slipped them over his hands.

  “Sir, are you sure you should?” Wingate warned.

  “Somebody has to,” Arleta muttered. “We’ve all got to go sometime.”

  He moved slowly towards Rogers and studied the pustules on his face.

  “What kind of weapons did they use against the zombies?” Arleta asked, touching the infected areas.

  “You call them zombies?” Rogers laughed. “I didn’t think of that. The military used gas bombs, mainly but they didn’t seem to work. The army held them off to start with, using all kinds of guns but then they just kept coming and coming and eventually we were overrun. A few of us got out of the base and we’ve been living rough ever since. We thought the stones at Stonehenge might have some sort of answer.” He shrugged. “I don’t know like an ancient biblical thing.”

  Rogers seemed to have regained some kind of normality. The way he talked was more logical and coherent than before and I hoped the ringleader would follow suit and put the gun down. My nerves were in shreds.

  “This looks like some kind of radiation sickness,” Arleta muttered. “I can’t do much until I know what sort of chemical was used on you.”

  “Wrong answer,” the ringleader yelled. He stepped to my right side, raising the M-9 to my temple again. “You cure us or I’ll shoot him and then I’ll shoot all of you.”

  “That ‘aint going to happen,” Smith said curtly. “This is your last chance to put the gun down.”

  “Or what, you smart assed Yank?” The ringleader turned his head to look at Smith. I was sure he was scowling under his hood. “I’m the one holding the gun and I call the shots. You’ll do what I say.”

  “This isn’t going to play out well for you, if you don’t drop that shooter,” Smith reiterated.

  I didn’t know what he was trying to do. All he seemed to be doing was riling the crazy guy, which was likely to get me shot.

  “I told you, I’m the one with the gun,” the ringleader roared. “Now, shut the fuck up or I’ll shoot him in the head.” He hopped around, spreading his weight from one foot to the other, as though he needed a pee.

  I wished Smith would be quiet. He was going to get me killed at this rate. Wingate, Arleta and even Rogers, all had worried expressions on their faces. Both Smith and Cole stood side by side, remaining stone wall calm.

  “Okay, last chance,” Smith continued. “You’ve got ten seconds to drop the gun or you’ll regret it.”

  The ringleader swung his gun hand around and pointed the weapon at Smith’s head. “I told you to shut the fuck up,” he yelled. His voice croaked in a high pitched wheeze.

  “Ten…nine…eight…” Smith counted down.

  “When you’ve finished counting, I’m going to shoot you in the face, mate,” the ringleader seethed.

  What the fuck was Smith doing? Maybe he was counting on the fact the guy was shaky and his aim would be all to shit. It was a hell of a gamble.

  The ringleader laughed insanely as Smith continued to count down. I knew Smith was cool in pressure situations but he didn’t seem to give a shit that he had a loaded gun pointed at him. I’d fired one shot from the magazine at the zombie in the woods the previous night, so the guy had enough rounds in the M-9 to shoot all of us dead. Smith, as always, was cool as a cucumber. I caught a brief glimpse in his eye that told me he had a plan up his sleeve.

  “Two…one.”

  I heard the whip of a bullet pass by, a few inches from my face.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The ringleader’s head jerked backwards in a spray of blood through the back of his sack hood. The M-9 flew from his hand as he toppled backwards. Time seemed to run in slow motion while I watched his emaciated body tumble rearward through the morning air. My head spun and I wondered what the fuck had just happened.

  The ringleader lay on his back with blood pooling in the grass around his hooded head. A spiral of smoke drifted into the air around a hole between and slightly above the eye slits. Rogers wailed and held his hands to his face. Arleta’s head turned from the dead body to the aircraft and back again, sever
al times in quick succession. Wingate gasped and crouched down amongst the long grass. Smith and Cole remained stock still.

  I wobbled on unsteady legs, trying to remain upright although all my senses told me to collapse to the ground. One of the hooded freaks went to grab the handgun lying amongst the grass. Smith rushed forward and stomped his boot on the guy’s hand. The hooded freak screamed in agony as his finger bones broke with a cringing snapping sound. Smith delivered a right handed punch that thudded into the guy’s hooded head. It was a blow that any pro boxer would have been proud of. The guy was lifted off his feet and sprawled on his back amongst the grass. Smith scooped up the M-9 and in a crouching position, waved the weapon left and right in a steady arc at the rest of the freaky bunch of guys.

  Rogers screamed and held his hands on the top of his head. His cohorts howled in fright, turned and fled across the field. Cole turned towards the aircraft and waved his arm above his head. Smith bent down and retrieved the radio from the ringleader’s prone corpse. He continued to cover the fleeing freaks as they hobbled away up the hill and depressed the talk button on the handset.

  “Good shooting, Cordoba. You got him.”

  He flashed me an upward glance.

  “Cordoba?” I muttered.

  “Yeah, she took the shot from the cockpit. It was her idea, kid. She’s some shot, huh?”

  “Yeah, some shot,” I muttered, studying the ringleader’s dead body.

  The tension which had gradually escalated to breaking point now ebbed quickly away. My head throbbed as though hornet’s had nested inside my skull, my vision blurred and my body went limp. The real world spun away from me as I lost consciousness. And I bid reality good riddance, hoping my last moments as a living, human being were upon me.

  My eyes opened and the pain in my head had evaporated. I was back home in my messy apartment in Brynston, Pennsylvania. Shit! The whole experience had been some awful nightmare. I laughed. How could I have really believed that the dead would rise and walk the Earth? I’d watched too many horror movies during my late night stupors. And what about that Smith dude? My mind had done some extraordinary overtime conjuring up that guy.

  Today felt like a weekend, I didn’t know why. Saturday, yes. Today was Saturday, a day off from boring work. Today was the best day of the week. I wondered what kinds of shenanigans Pete Cousins, Marlon and I would get up to today. A ball game and a few beers was the norm, all accompanied by plenty of laughs along the way. I’d tell them all about my prolonged dream of zombies and how they both somehow died when the world went to shit. This story would blow their minds! We’d have a good laugh in the bar while I recounted my fairytale exploits as a failed hero. The Manhattan story would have them in stitches.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, tossed my bedding aside and crawled off my cot. The apartment was a state with dirty laundry, CDs and music magazines all over the floor. I’d spend Sunday clearing the place up while nursing a hangover, no doubt. I smiled to myself. I couldn’t remember what I’d done the previous night but geez...that was some dream. Maybe I’d call Samantha, my on/off girlfriend and see if she wanted to come over later. I had the feeling today was going to be a belter.

  I flicked on the TV, opened the curtains and looked out onto the view from my window. Somebody talked on the TV but I wasn’t listening. Something wasn’t right with the outside world, things were too quiet. No cars drove around the streets and no people strolled along the sidewalks. The silence seemed eerie. I caught sight of a lone, hunched figure shuffling down the sidewalk with a bent golf club over his shoulder. The guy looked a bit like me.

  Carson Daly’s voice boomed from the TV and echoed around the room. Why the hell was his show on TV on a Saturday morning and what the hell was he talking about?

  “…hit them in the head and kill the brain…”

  “Hit who in the head?” I spoke out loud and moved to watch the TV screen.

  Carson looked immaculate as usual but his face held a worried expression and he looked genuinely scared.

  “…the dead have risen and began to attack and eat the living, this is no prank…I only wish it was…hope you all stay safe.”

  “No, no, no, this can’t be happening again!” I howled. My hands shook and I turned back to the window.

  The guy holding the golf club stood on the sidewalk below my apartment window, looking up at me. It was me. He had a big grin on his face and began to belly laugh when he saw me watching at him. I felt panicked and trembled.

  “Somebody walk on your grave?”Carson asked from the TV.

  I glanced back at the TV for a brief moment then slipped the window open.

  “What do you want, you bastard?” I yelled at my laughing other self on the sidewalk. “Leave me alone.”

  The guy, who looked like me, prodded the golf club in the air, pointing it at me from five storeys below.

  “Good luck, buddy,” he chimed, in an all too friendly manner. “I’m off to Pete Cousins’ place but he won’t be there. In fact, I know damn well I’ll never see him again.”

  “Shut up and go away,” I screeched. “This is not happening.”

  “Well, maybe it is, maybe it ‘aint. But I’m going there anyway. I might kill a zombie on the sidewalk in a minute with this golf club or watch some pudgy faced guy do it. I haven’t quite decided yet. Then I’m going to meet up with a guy called Smith, that’s not his real name by the way, and we’re going to go off on an adventure together. We meet a whole bunch of people on the way and it all ends in tragedy but I’ll survive, don’t worry about that. We try all kinds of crazy stuff and go to New Orleans but…”

  I’d had enough of the guy’s ranting and shut the window then turned the TV to a music channel. An old video of the rock band Black Sabbath flashed across the screen. Ozzy sung about paranoia. Shit! I knew how he felt.

  My cell phone rang from somewhere under a pile of dirty laundry. My ringtone of The Rolling Stones song, Satisfaction conflicted with Black Sabbath on the TV. I grabbed the controller and muted the TV then fished through my unclean pants for the phone. The caller I.D. on my cell was Pete Cousins.

  “Pete, you bastard,” I growled, answering the call. “I’m never drinking with you again. Well, not on a school night anyway.” I heard myself talking as though I hadn’t said the words.

  “This ‘ain’t Pete Cousins, you asshole.” I recognized the voice immediately. It was that Smith guy. “Time to wake up and get with the program, kid.”

  “Fuck off,” I spat down the phone. “You’re not real. I don’t know you.”

  I heard a groaning sigh of exasperation before I terminated the call. I closed the cell phone and hurled it against the wall. The plastic shell shattered against my “Combat Rock” poster of the band, “The Clash.”

  The silence in my apartment was forbidding. Voices in my head began whispering. “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?”

  “Shut up!” I screamed.

  The image on the TV had changed from Black Sabbath to Katy Perry spraying white foam from her bra. I remembered Pete had a fixation with Katy and said he was going to date her one day. I recognized the music video but couldn’t remember which song it belonged to.

  The fucker inside my head whispered one word in a low, slow gravelly tone.

  “Z-o-m-b-i-e.”

  My head span and my stomach convulsed. I felt the overwhelming urge to throw up. The bathroom door to my right seemed a million miles away but I rushed towards it, all the same. I held my hand to my mouth, attempting to stifle the puke while I bundled through the door.

  The windowless bathroom was dark so I flicked on the light above the sink. The dim light blinked on but I didn’t recognize the small, cramped bathroom. Shower water splattered inside the cubicle, I saw the silhouette of somebody standing in there through the white curtain.

  I breathed heavily, gulping down the
vomit and tentatively stepped towards the shower cubicle. I raised my hand to the curtain and my skin seemed to shimmer between black and white in the dim light. I felt the dampness and heat of the water running from the shower as my hand gripped the material. Who the hell was it in my bathroom? I flung the curtain back and a naked female gasped as she turned to face me. Briefly, I admired her body and glanced up to her face. I immediately recognized Julia’s stunning blue eyes. Her expression of shock soon changed to a sexy, inviting smile.

  I relaxed…everything seemed okay.

  Julia beckoned me into the shower cubicle and I complied, oblivious of the hot water soaking my T-shirt and boxer shorts. She embraced me and I responded, relishing the feeling of her soapy, smooth skin.

  “Who’s a naughty boy, Brett,” she giggled and touched my lips with her finger.

  This was the way things were supposed to be. I’d obviously met her recently and we were in the start of our relationship. The sweet beginnings of a beautiful future together. She drew her head closer and I took in the scent of the soap in her hair. I closed my eyes and let the water cascade off my face. Julia gently kissed my lips and it felt perfect. I ran my hands down the side of her torso and felt something rigid, like a stick.

  I opened my eyes and looked down; shock and panic flooded my mind. Julia’s ribs protruded from a huge, gory split in the side of her body.

  “What the fuck?” I wailed.

  I glanced at her face. That once beautiful appearance had been reduced to a mush of bloody, red pulp. Her eyes were swollen almost shut and her mouth was a mess of blood and broken teeth.