“I’m trying, damn it,” Smith grunted. “The wheels are stuck; the damn brake is seized on or something.”
I tried to help Smith pull the cart through the aisle. The squeaking became more intense and louder the faster we went. I kept glancing between the shelving racks to our right, checking if any zombies were closing in on us. We had one chance to get this damn welding equipment to the loading bay and we’d have to be quick about it.
We moved out of the shadows and into the light beneath the overhead skylights, halfway down the aisle. I noticed the first coverall clad zombie lumbering in our direction. He was soon followed by another half dozen tottering undead. They’d obviously managed to negotiate a way through the carpet of ball-bearings.
“They’re on their way, Smith,” I hissed above the squeaking noise.
“I can fucking see that, Wilde,” Smith snarled. “Just keep going, will you?”
The cart’s wheels were barely turning and we were more or less dragging the damn thing across the floor. I estimated we had another twenty yards to run before we reached the end of the aisle, let alone get the cart around the stack of boxes and onto the conveyer belt somehow.
Every forward step seemed to be a Herculean effort and I felt sweat run down my back. Smith and I grunted and gasped with exertion, the pain in my shoulder returned with a vengeance and the conveyer belt seemed to be getting further and further away. I was beginning to consider abandoning the cart and simply making a run for safety.
“We’re not going to make it, Smith,” I wailed.
“Quit whining and just keep going,” he growled.
We reached the end of the aisle and the leading zombie was around ten feet from our position. Maneuvering the cumbersome cart slowed us down to the same pace as the zombies. Smith drew his handgun and fired off an accurate headshot, dropping the lead zombie. He glanced at me after the ghoul hit the floor.
“This is a last resort, kid,” he said.
A huge crowd of undead followed in the fallen leader’s wake. Some crawled across the floor on all fours, failing to rise to their feet after falling amid the hail of ball-bearings. It didn’t matter, a crawling zombie was still a huge danger.
“Come on, you bastard,” I yelled at the cart, as we tried to drag the damn thing around the stacks of boxes.
The left wheel of the cart snagged against the corner of a cardboard box, stopping us dead in our tracks. We dragged the cart sideways, with much exertion to free the wheel up. Sweat poured down my forehead, dripping into my eyes. Every breath I took was a grunted gasp. My arms and legs felt floppy and had no strength.
The collective moans and growls of the undead boomed between the stack of boxes as we drew level with the conveyer belt. Now came the next problem. How the hell were we going to get these gas bottles onto the belt?
“The cart won’t fit,” Smith hissed. “We’ll have to lift the cylinders out of the cart onto the belt. But keep all the equipment together and don’t damage any of the gear, okay?”
I looked at the equipment lying in the cart. There were two separate gas bottles with dials and valves at the top of each one, different sets of pipes and a welding torch. Shit, the whole thing was a jumble and Smith was telling me we had to keep it all in one piece!
Smith tucked his handgun into his waistband and grabbed the tops of the two cylinders with each hand.
“Lift the bottom of the bottles and put your end on the belt first,” he instructed. “Make sure the pipes don’t get caught up. We’ll have to slide the gear along the belt and one of us will have to go down the slope first and take the weight, while the other one lowers the gear gently down.”
“Fuck, Smith,” I hissed. “This would be a difficult enough operation even if we weren’t being chased by a whole bunch of zombies.”
“Just lift it, will you?” he spat.
I heard the sounds of hands banging on the cardboard boxes behind us as I grunted and took the weight of the welding gear. We struggled but raised the cylinders out of the cart and lowered them onto the conveyer belt. I let my end go too early and the bottles clanked together and one nearly slipped off the vinyl surface but I managed to stop it in time.
“Be fucking careful with this shit,” Smith scolded.
“All right, I’m trying my best here,” I protested.
We clambered up onto the belt, either end of the gas bottles and slid the equipment down the vinyl surface. I pulled the gas containers from the bottom and Smith pushed from the top. Somehow, I’d managed to be the one who was going to take the weight of the cylinders at the bottom of the slope. I glanced over Smith’s shoulder and saw the rotting faces of the undead storeroom workers rounding the maze of cardboard boxes, near to the conveyer belt.
I pulled the bottles harder as I saw the zombies approach. Smith glanced over his shoulder and also saw the undead closing in. He turned and knocked a couple of boxes into their pathway to bide us a little time.
We both gritted our teeth, puffed and grunted moving the damn cylinders. The zombies behind us roared and stumbled through and over the derisory box barricade. I reached the opening to the loading bay, pulling the bottles one handed as I gripped onto the wall edging. Smith shoved the top of the cylinders and I lost my grip on both the bottom of the bottles and the wall. I toppled backward and slid down the conveyer belt, with the welding equipment hurtling after me.
I heard Smith yell something but didn’t hear exactly what he said. I was too busy trying to stop myself being seriously injured by the sliding gas cylinders or falling off the conveyer belt.
Chapter Sixty-Five
I came to a halt on my back as I hit the bottom of the conveyer belt slope. The welding equipment closely followed me and one of the gas cylinders bottom edge slid between my legs and was brought to an abrupt standstill by my groin. I puffed out in pain but managed to stop the rest of the gear from tumbling off the belt.
“You managed to get the gear, Brett!” a voice called from somewhere to my left.
I twisted my head and saw Cordoba and Jimmy standing beside the conveyer belt.
“Where’s Smith?” she asked.
“He was right behind me,” I grunted, trying to maneuver myself into a more comfortable position. “Help me get this equipment off the belt, will you?”
Cordoba slung her rifle over her shoulder and her and Jimmy tried to move the gas cylinders so I could crawl off the conveyer belt.
“They are damn heavy, mind,” I said, rolling off the belt onto the ground.
Batfish and Wingate also hurried over to help move the equipment.
“Where’s Smith?” Wingate wailed, glancing up at the hatch opening above the belt.
I looked back up and was about to repeat what I’d just told Cordoba when Smith burst through the hatch, grappling with a coverall clad zombie. They rolled down the slope, with Smith grabbing the ghoul around the throat, holding the creature’s snaffling jaws away from his face.
Smith and the ghoul rolled off the belt, hitting the floor heavily.
“Fucking kill it,” Smith croaked, still wrestling with the zombie.
The others had left their make-shift, handheld weapons in the back of the truck, where they’d been sheltering. Only Wingate still carried her defensive tool she’d picked up inside the factory. I drew my handgun and moved closer to the grappling pair.
“No, Brett,” Wingate yelled. She rushed beside me brandishing the broken wooden broom handle. “You might hit Smith by mistake.” She waited until Smith pushed the ghoul’s head clear then stabbed the sharp end of the broom stick through the zombie’s left eye socket. Brown blood and a jelly like substance ejected from the wound. The ghoul immediately stopped thrashing around and slumped over on its side.
Smith gasped and hauled himself to his feet, nodding thanks to Wingate in the process. “Come on, let’s get on with this damn job,” he sighed. “There’s a whole bunch of those ugly fucks right beside that hatch up there.” He pointed above the sloping conveyer belt.
“They’ll be right on top of us any minute.”
Between us, we lifted the gas cylinders and the rest of the welding equipment and carried it towards the gates. Smith pulled the welding goggles off his arm and handed them to Cordoba.
“I hope this works,” he said.
“It will,” Cordoba said with confidence.
“How long will it take?” I asked, nervously glancing back at the top of the conveyer belt.
“Once the chain has heated up, it shouldn’t take more than ten seconds to cut through it,” Cordoba explained.
“Yeah, but how long does it take for the metal to heat up?” I yelled, growing impatient.
Smith gave me a nudge that told me to calm down.
Cordoba flashed me a reproachful glare. “When it’s ready,” she spat.
“We’ll keep an eye on that top hatch,” Smith said, almost dragging me away from the gates.
“Oh, Smith, I need your lighter,” Cordoba said.
He tossed her his Zippo and we trudged back towards the conveyer belt. We could hear the zombie’s moans and growls coming from the storeroom above us. Smith and I began shifting the boxes, building a makeshift wall around the bottom of the conveyer belt. It wasn’t much of a defense but it could buy us a few vital seconds in our escape attempt.
We stacked the boxes as high as we could reach and heard the first zombie tumble through the opening and down the slope.
“Shit, they’re coming down,” Smith grunted. “Let’s get back over to the gates.”
We rushed by the motionless trucks and the intensely bright light generated by the welding torch briefly blinded us.
“Whoa,” Smith groaned.
I turned away from the light and saw the others huddled beside one of the trucks with their backs turned to the gates.
“How’s she doing?” I asked. “Those zombies are getting into the loading area. We haven’t got long before they’re all over us.”
“She’s doing her best, Brett,” Batfish scolded me.
Smith grabbed his backpack from the rear of the truck and handed me mine. He took the rifle from Wingate and stayed on guard at the corner of the truck bed, studying the pile of boxes we’d constructed.
I felt nervous and agitated and I hopped from foot to foot. I took a pee against the truck’s front wheel to try and alleviate my tenseness.
The crack of rifle fire further heightened my tension and I rushed alongside Smith. Several zombies had burst through our crude box wall and staggered across the loading bay towards us. Smith picked a few off a few ghouls with headshots but more were tumbling through the opening at the top of the conveyer belt.
I rushed back around the side of the truck and took Cordoba’s rifle from Batfish, then returned to the vehicle’s rear corner alongside Smith. More zombies barged through the boxes, knocking down the hastily built barricade.
“That wall didn’t keep them out for long,” I wailed.
“Just pick your shots,” Smith grunted. “Don’t waste the ammo.”
“Got it,” I snapped, raising the M-16 to my eye line.
We fired a few single shots at the zombies who gained the most ground towards us and also shot at the ones who circled around the other trucks. We didn’t want them sneaking up on us from our flanks.
“How’s that damn chain looking?” I yelled, turning my head back to the gates.
Somebody muttered some kind of answer but the words were lost amongst Smith’s gunshots and the increasing level of noise from the approaching zombies.
A big cluster of undead surged forward and although we picked off the few leading the charge, we couldn’t take them all out at once.
“Shit, we’re done,” I squawked.
Somebody tugged Smith and I from behind and for a second I thought a zombie had crept up on us from our rear. I let out a fearful screech and turned my head. Jimmy stood behind us yelling something in his Glaswegian accent. I glanced over his shoulder and saw the metal gates standing open with the chain and the welding torch steaming in the snow on the ground. Batfish, Wingate and Cordoba were gathered beyond the factory perimeter outside the gates, waving us towards them.
“She’s done it, Smith,” I yelled. “We’re out of here.”
Smith twisted his head and saw the open gates. “Let’s go,” he screamed.
The two of us turned and followed Jimmy through the factory gates and out into the side street. We were free but now we had to negotiate our way out of this forsaken town.
We’d run a few yards from the gates when Smith stopped and turned.
“What are you doing, Smith?” I yelled.
He raised his rifle and aimed back at the factory gates. I thought he was trying to shoot a few more zombies in some futile attempt to diminish their numbers. He waited until the first few undead appeared in the gateway then fired one shot. A huge explosion erupted, followed by a plume of orange flame shooting towards the sky. The gates were torn from their hinges and collapsed across the entranceway.
“That ought to slow them down a bit,” Smith muttered, as he turned around.
“What did you do?” I gasped, as Smith caught me up.
“That’s why we had to be careful with the oxyacetylene bottles,” he said. “One spark the wrong way can cause an explosion like that.” He jabbed his thumb back at the carnage behind us.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Wingate and Smith studied the map and guided us through the back streets towards the outskirts of the urban, industrial area. We only encountered two more zombies on the road out of town. Smith dispatched them both with the remaining couple of rounds he had in his M-16 magazine. We weren’t in the mood to hang around the narrow streets any longer.
We trudged through the snow, bypassing small towns heading towards the city of Glasgow, from the west. We decided to search for a hotel, inn or someplace suitable to hole up for a few days or maybe longer. Smith pointed to the map and suggested we follow the train tracks for a route towards the city. We joined the railway track south of Glasgow Airport and north of the town of Paisley. Batfish released Spot from his harness and let him run free on his leash. The little guy looked relieved to be let loose for a while.
The route took us unhindered, further towards the city. We decided to head south, where some golf courses were detailed on the map.
“We should be there round about now,” Smith said. He glanced around our surroundings with a confused expression on his face. He held the map in his hands and followed the railway route. “This doesn’t much look like Hawkhead or Crookston, where we’re supposed to be.”
The light was fading rapidly and by the sound of things, we were totally lost. I glanced around and saw a gray housing tower block to the left and a brick station building a few yards in the distance.
“Let’s go up to that station house,” I said, pointing the way. “At least it’ll give us some idea of where we are. Any ideas, Jimmy?”
Jimmy looked around but shrugged. “It all looks so different like this. I cannae tall where we are at all.”
We followed the track to the station, warily looking out for any hostile attackers.
“We better find a place to stay soon, you guys,” Batfish groaned. “It’s getting dark and the temperature is dropping rapidly.”
Smith hopped up onto the station platform and wiped the snow off the sign with his free hand. “Cardonald,” he read aloud and turned to look at Jimmy then gazed back down at the map.
“Cardonald, you say?” He looked at the sign in front of Smith. “Oh, aye, I know it. I’m not too far from home. There’s not much around here in the way of accommodation, but there are a few guest houses around Bellahouston Park, which isn’t far from here.”
“Sounds perfect, Jimmy,” Wingate said. “Let’s hurry, I’m getting cold.”
“Cold or not, we still need to keep our wits about us,” Smith rumbled, crumpling his map back into his pocket. He seemed pissed off because he’d got us lost but it didn’t really matter where we ended
up, in the grand scheme of things.
“Do you know the way from here, Jimmy?” I asked.
He pointed across the station platform. “Aye, we can cut through the cemetery, follow the Paisley road a wee while and then we can cut through the park.”
“Lead the way, my good man,” I said, gesturing with my hand.
He smiled and turned, heading across the railway tracks and up the bank. We followed behind, turning every which way and listening out for the moans of the undead.
The sun began to set as we walked through Craigton Cemetery and the snow covering the gravestones made them unreadable. A tall, concrete cross stood amid the icy cemetery, as though it was a monument to the many people who were never going to be buried. The wind whipped through the open ground blowing ice and snow into our faces. We exited the cemetery beneath the growing shadows of the high rise housing apartments and turned left, heading along the main road.
“It seems too quiet,” Smith muttered. “A built up area like this should be crawling with zombies. I don’t like it.”
“Jesus, you don’t like it when zombies are after us and now you don’t like it because there aren’t any zombies around?” I said, shaking my head. “There’s no pleasing you, Smith.”
Various stores with metal shutters pulled down over their fronts, dilapidated looking warehouses and empty, brown brick houses stood on either side of the main road. A few long abandoned, snow covered vehicles littered the road and some were dumped askew on the sidewalks.
We’d walked east for a few minutes when the row of buildings on our right ended and gave way to a line of snow covered trees, standing amongst a vast expanse of open ground on the other side of a railed fence. Snow laden hills rose across the landscape in the distance, behind the tree line.
“This is Bellahouston Park,” Jimmy said, pointing to our right. “We’ll cut through here to see if we can find a nice place to stay. I know there are, or were a few hotels in the south of Bellahouston but things might be a wee bit different now.”
The Left Series (Book 4): Left In The Cold Page 31