“Jesus, this place looks like a blast from the past,” Smith whispered. “I pity the poor bastards who had to slave away in here.”
“What do you think they made in here?” I asked.
“Smells a wee bit funky,” Jimmy said. “Maybe engine parts or something.”
“Let’s not worry too much about that, right now,” Wingate said. “Let’s concentrate on finding someplace comfortable for a little while. We want to be far away out of this town by nightfall. I want to find a nice place to stay tonight after sleeping on that hard floor in that damn golf clubhouse last night.”
We trod slowly through the factory foyer, glancing in each direction.
“I wonder how these kinds of places simply shut down during the apocalypse,” Wingate said. “Did the last guy left who wasn’t sick just lock up and go home?”
“Does it really matter?” Smith muttered. He still carried the shovel and held it over his shoulder, on the opposite side to the slung M-16 rifle. “It is what it is and there’s nothing we can do to change the past, or the future to much of an extent.”
“That’s a bit of a depressive point of view, Smith,” Batfish said.
“Well, I’ve never been one for trying to polish a turd. I say it as I see it and it’s no point pretending otherwise,” he said.
“Aye, fair one,” Jimmy chipped in. “I have nae felt safe for a long while, even before the whole zombie thing started.”
We stuck our heads into several empty rooms that didn’t hold any furniture inside. Eventually, we found the canteen or dining hall area. The stainless steel serving hatch was pulled down, shutting off the kitchen from the rest of the room and cheap tables and chairs stood empty in uneven rows. Several half full vending machines stood to the right of the serving hatch.
“I could use a cup of coffee, right now,” Wingate sighed, slumping down on one of the chairs. “Okay, Brett, we better take a look at that wound of yours.”
I groaned and slid my backpack off, knowing whatever Wingate was going to do, it was going to hurt. I pulled up a chair and sat in front of her as she fished through her medical bag. Cordoba and Batfish pulled out a few tins of food and sachets of drink flavoring while Smith and Jimmy studied the contents of the vending machines.
I winced and screeched as Wingate redressed my shoulder wound.
“Don’t be such a baby, Brett,” she teased.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I groaned. “How many times have you been stabbed by a damn kitchen knife?”
Smith levered open the front of the vending machine with the shovel and picked out a chocolate bar. He tossed it at me and it landed in my lap.
“You can have a candy bar if you promise not to cry,” he mocked, in a silly high-pitched voice.
“I’m glad you’re all so full of sympathy, I’m really touched,” I countered.
Smith and Jimmy sniggered to each other and began rifling through the remains of the confectionary in the vending machine. Wingate patched me up and I dressed myself back up. It suddenly dawned on me that none of us would survive if we had any particularly bad illness that required ongoing treatment. I hadn’t seen any functioning hospitals for months and companies that made drugs and medicines were probably all deserted and at a standstill. The thought depressed me and I tried to put it out of my mind.
Smith and Jimmy laid the array of candy bars and cookies out on the table next to the vending machine.
“Everybody help themselves,” Smith mumbled, with a mouthful of chocolate.
“Looks like you’re feeling better,” Wingate said to Smith. “Make sure you keep drinking plenty of water.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” Smith rumbled, directing a mock salute at her.
Resting up felt good, allowing time for my aches and pains to subside. The others talked amongst themselves sitting together at a table, as I watched Spot trot around the cafeteria, sniffing the overflowing trash cans and cocking his leg in the corners of the room.
Jimmy and Smith goofed around, much to Wingate and Batfish’s amusement. It was good to see both Jimmy and Batfish laugh and smile and maybe forget the horrors that had recently befallen them. In time, Batfish’s memories of Gera would fade and so would Jimmy’s abuse at the hands of Trevor. The current climate didn’t allow for long reflections on your past and personal life.
Cordoba patrolled the cafeteria perimeter, watching through the glass paneled doors for any sign of hostile movement. Wingate’s laugh was loud and I worried she might attract the attention of the undead outside. I considered telling her to keep the noise down but didn’t want to be the one to kill the moment.
Jimmy tried to translate some Glaswegian sayings so the others could understand what he was talking about. His slang phrases were an endless source of amusement to Wingate.
“Shh – what was that?” Cordoba suddenly hissed.
Everybody automatically ceased talking and laughing.
“What?” Wingate whispered. “I didn’t hear anything.”
We listened intently and heard nothing except the howling wind outside. Then I heard it, a clanking of metal – then a long pained groan.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Spot’s ears pricked up and he let out a single, shrill bark. Batfish grabbed him and sat him on her knee. Cordoba slowly trod to the glass panel door, near to where we heard the noise. She stopped beside the door frame and carefully craned her neck around to look through the panes. She glanced back at us with an anxious expression on her face.
“Zombies, heading this way,” she mouthed.
We quietly grabbed our weapons and stood from our seats.
“Get your gear together,” Cordoba whispered. “It looks like we’ll have to get out of here as soon as we can.”
She had me worried, surely we could easily deal with one or two of the undead but Cordoba looked troubled, which was unlike her. We hurriedly packed our gear and threw on our backpacks as Cordoba slid one of the tables across the doorway. The table legs scudded on the floor tiles and we heard more moans from beyond the doorway.
“How many of them are out there?” I asked.
“Enough,” Cordoba snapped, pulling on her own rucksack. “We need to move quickly.”
“Which way?” Batfish asked. “You’ve just blocked that doorway and that’s the way we came through.”
“We’ll have to find another route,” Cordoba growled.
The glass panel door rattled in its frame. I turned to look and saw a crowd of snarling, seething faces with gray peeling flesh, leering through the panes. They banged at the door and collectively pushed forward. The table blocking the door rocked back and forward. More zombies surged behind the ones pressed against the glass door panels.
“Shit, it looks like the whole number of factory workers are trying to get in here,” Batfish wailed.
“Must be knocking off time for lunch,” Smith groaned. I didn’t know if it was his attempt at some black humor but nobody laughed. He picked up the shovel in his hands and wielded it at the ready.
“We need to get out of here,” Wingate hissed. “That table isn’t going to stay put much longer.”
I glanced around behind us. Two more doors were situated in the cafeteria, apart from the one Cordoba had barricaded. One exit was on the other side of the room, directly opposite the door the zombies were trying to get through and the other route was situated in the far corner of the room. I rushed forward and pushed more tables in front of the barricaded door. Jimmy came to my aid and we managed to move three tables before the door’s center glass panel cracked and peeled out of the frame.
“Come on, we haven’t time,” Cordoba yelled.
Jimmy and I turned from the doorway as rotting hands reached through the broken door frame. We rushed to join the others, who were edging back through the cafeteria. Smith led us towards the exit in the corner of the room and I thought that was the wisest choice. At least we had a little bit of distance between us and the undead crowd.
We bundled through t
he doorway and it led to a wide, upward staircase but no other exit routes.
“Shit, we shouldn’t head up into the building,” I wailed. “We can easily get trapped up there.”
“No choice, kid,” Smith said, mounting the staircase. “We’ll have to try and give that zombie crowd the slip and come back down another way.”
I reluctantly followed the rest of the party up the steps, thinking about how I’d led Julia and Rosenberg upwards through a building in Manhattan. That particular situation hadn’t ended well and I had a horrible feeling history was repeating itself.
The staircase crisscrossed back and forth and we took the first available exit, through a set of double doors. We were faced with a long corridor, a row of doors stood on our right and a line of windows to the left. I glanced outside through the windows and saw we were around thirty feet up from the ground.
“Let’s keep going,” Smith said, pointing to the end of the corridor.
“Don’t go any further upwards, Smith,” I warned. “We don’t want to get stuck on the roof with no place to go.”
“All right,” he huffed. “Let’s just try and find a way out.”
“Remember to use the ammo sparingly, if we have to use it at all,” Cordoba said.
“I forgot to tell you, I found a box of shotgun shells in the golf clubhouse,” Jimmy said. “I’ll be okay to keep those fuckers away.”
“You ever fired a shotgun before, Jimmy?” Smith asked him.
Jimmy shook his head. “How hard can it be?”
“Do me a favor, huh?”
“What’s that, Smith?”
“Don’t fire that shotgun anywhere near me or anybody else.”
Jimmy’s face dropped a little.
“The kickback will knock you off your ass,” Smith explained. “We’ll give you a little weapons training when we’re out of here and someplace safe.”
Smith pushed open the double doors at the end of the corridor and we moved into a darkened foyer, with several empty offices facing each other. We stopped moving, glancing in all directions and trying to decide which way to go.
“There must be a way out around here someplace,” Smith hissed.
“Why don’t we follow the fire escape signs?” I suggested. “That picture of that little green running man must lead to an exit route.” I pointed to a sign stuck on the corner of a wall to our right.
“Okay, we’ll try that way,” Smith said.
We followed the route the sign pointed to. The passageway turned at a right angle and we stood at the summit of a downward staircase. We hurried down the steps, following the crisscrossing route. Smith stopped when we could see the ground floor below us and we halted behind him. A sea of gray faces looked up at us, snarling, moaning and reaching up with their hands. We’d come down the staircase right behind the whole zombie throng.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“Oh, shit!” Smith muttered.
The zombies collectively moaned and changed direction, heading for the staircase. I noticed some of them were already inside the cafeteria and no doubt following our route up the staircase behind us.
The first few zombies in line stumbled, tripping over themselves in a rush to get to us. Some began to crawl up the steps on their hands and knees, hissing and groaning at us.
“We’ll have to back up,” Smith shouted above the din.
We turned and headed back up the stairway, stopping when we returned to the empty offices. Jimmy and Batfish went to turn left, back towards the route down to the cafeteria.
“Not that way,” I screamed. “They’ll already be heading towards us up the staircase.”
“Where the hell are we going to go, Brett?” Batfish yelled at me.
I glanced at Smith for guidance.
“We’ll have to carry on through these offices and hope there’s a way down somewhere up ahead,” he sighed. “I’d never have agreed to come into this damn place if I’d known it was crawling with all these corpses.”
“We didn’t have much choice, Smith,” I reminded him, as he strolled by the offices.
I drew my M-9 handgun and made it ready, glancing nervously into the offices through the open doors, hoping no zombies waited to leap out on us.
“You’d better find something else to tool yourself up with,” Smith muttered, lifting his shovel. “We’ll have to use the firearms as a last resort. They’re not much good without ammo.”
“There seems to be a shortage of baseball bats around here,” I sighed, glancing around for something I could use as a weapon.
Jimmy found a metal tool to wind open high windows, Wingate picked up a broken wooden broom handle, which was pointed into a spike. Batfish opened a closet with some cleaning equipment inside. She took a hard, plastic mop handle with a rounded point at the end. I stuck my head through a few office doors and searched for a weapon. The only items I spotted were blank computer screens and the odd stapler. Not much use against around one hundred hungry zombies.
“Still going with the firearm route, huh?” Smith muttered, as we walked by the last few offices.
“I’m still struggling with my shoulder wound,” I groaned. “I’ve still got a few spare magazines full of ammo.”
Smith shrugged. “Your call, kid.”
A single, green colored metal door was situated in the wall beyond the offices. Smith flashed me an inquisitive glance.
“Where do you think that leads to?” he asked.
I shrugged. “No ideas, probably a store closet, knowing our luck.”
Smith depressed the handle and opened the door a crack. He peered through the gap then stuck his head around the door jamb.
“It’s not a store closet,” he said, his voice echoing through the space beyond the door.
I moved closer and peered in through the door behind him. Some sort of metal roller chute joined to a conveyer belt stood in the small, bare concrete walled room. The motionless, three foot wide conveyer belt disappeared through a large, square shaped hole in the wall to the right on a downward angle.
“What the hell is this?” I gasped.
“Some sort of delivery chute, I guess,” Smith said. “Maybe they used it to send mail or whatever they manufactured in this place down to the floor level below us.”
“Shame it’s not running,” I sighed. “We could use it to get down the levels.”
“We still can,” Smith said, grunting as he hopped up on the conveyer belt. “We’ll just have to crouch down when we pass through any small spaces.”
“It may lead us to a dead end, though,” I griped.
“Anyplace is better than here,” he said.
“What are you guys doing in there?” Wingate shrieked at us, poking her head through the door. “Come on, we need to find an exit route instead of goofing around.”
Batfish, Jimmy and Cordoba also pushed their way into the small room.
“We may have found an exit route,” Smith argued, bouncing on the conveyer belt. “We follow this bad boy down as far as we can go.”
“What?” she screeched. “That’s damn suicide. We can’t see where the hell we’re going.”
“Got any better ideas, doll?”
We all glanced around at each other, hoping somebody would come up with an alternative plan. Nobody did.
“All right,” Wingate sighed. “Come on. Let’s all go and get ourselves killed carrying out Smith’s goofy escape plan.” She held out her hand for Smith to grasp and climbed up to join him on the conveyer belt.
“We’ll all have to take it steady on here,” Smith instructed. “We don’t know where it leads to and it’s not going to be easy to turn around and go back the other way if we run into any trouble.”
“All right, Smith,” Batfish scolded. “Come on, let’s go, already. Those things are going to be coming up that staircase behind us any minute.” She picked up Spot and shoved him back into his harness.
Smith led the way, crouching and stepping through the square shaped hole. Wingate fo
llowed him and Cordoba and Batfish climbed up onto the conveyer belt after them. I allowed Jimmy to go next, waving him onward. I was going to be following up the rear. Well, somebody had to be in that position.
I watched Jimmy step through the big, square hole and went to follow him but hesitated, for no specific reason other than apprehension. At least we were heading in the right direction but I couldn’t help thinking we were making the wrong move somehow.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
I forced myself to clamber through the square hole at the end of the conveyer belt and found myself in some sort of dark machinery workshop. Blinds covered the windows and the dim sun from outside provided only just enough light to see. I saw the silhouettes of the others in my party, gradually plodding along the belt in front of me. The conveyer belt looped around in a circle next to the wall, following the workshop’s perimeter.
Silent lathes and empty work benches stood, dotted around the large, open plan floor space and the air stunk of machinery oil and singed metal. It wasn’t hard to imagine the place when it was fully operational. The noise of grinding machinery and the banter of the workers would have been raucous throughout the workshop.
“Mind how you go on the metal roller parts between the conveyer belts,” Smith called back, interrupting my daydream.
Smith and Wingate ducked through another opening through the wall at the far end of the workshop. I followed the path behind the others and watched as they disappeared one by one through the gap. Jimmy vanished from view in front of me and I went to follow him through the hole.
I trod on one of the metal roller sections and hadn’t heeded Smith’s warning. I was too busy caught up in my own thoughts. My foot shot forward in front me and I lost my balance completely. I landed on my back on the side of the roller belt then tumbled off onto the workshop floor. Pain raced through my body and I felt the cut in my left shoulder split open again under the impact of the fall.
I lay still for a few seconds, waiting for the worst of the pain to diminish and biting my bottom lip. It was all I could do to remain silent with the agony I felt. I expected Jimmy to poke his head back through the opening to check on me but he didn’t. The rest of them were obviously fixated on where they were heading, not what was behind them.
The Left Series (Book 4): Left In The Cold Page 28