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The Left Series (Book 4): Left In The Cold

Page 32

by Christian Fletcher


  Jimmy led us through an opening in the fence line and we trudged through the snow, across the open ground and I could see long grass sprouting beneath.

  “This place used to be a sports center, and a kind of arty area,” Jimmy explained. “You can see most of the city if you climb the hills and the Pope came here once, back in the 1980’s.”

  “I bet it was beautiful, back in the day,” Wingate sighed, glancing around the huge, tree lined park.

  We walked along the pathway, moving by some boarded up buildings and what were probably previously carefully tended flower gardens. Jimmy seemed to know where he was going and we followed his lead. We left turned, heading east and I could see the outer limits of the park when Jimmy stopped dead in his tracks. The sun was setting between the trees and the final shards of daylight produced a red glow in the sky.

  “What’s up, Jimmy?” Smith asked.

  Jimmy raised his palm up to us, indicating for us to stop. He crept closer with a worried expression on his face.

  “There’s a whole load of fellas by the park exit ahead,” he whispered. “They saw us coming along the pathway but I saw them duck back and hide behind the trees and the stone pillars around the entrance.”

  “Fellas, what fellas?” Smith asked shaking his head.

  “Guys from the city, probably wide-o’s, wrong’un’s, people we don’t want to meet,” Jimmy stammered.

  Smith sighed and checked his rifle and his handgun were loaded. “It’s damn cold and I’m tired. I’m not in the mood for fucking around. Come on, Jimmy. Let’s go talk to these guys. The rest of you stay here.” He strode forward towards the park exit.

  I was slightly worried Smith was going to go and speak to these guys and deliberately piss them off. “I’ll come with you,” I blurted, stepping forward.

  Smith stopped and turned, glancing at me. “What, you have to hold my hand now?”

  I ignored his jibe and caught up with him and Jimmy. I drew my handgun and checked it was loaded and the safety was off, as we marched towards the gateway. Jimmy held his shotgun at the ready and I hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

  Smith turned on his flashlight and shone the beam around the trees and stone pillars, marking the exit boundary. We saw the silhouettes of some skinny guys scamper around, repositioning themselves while trying to get out of the light.

  “Okay, guys, let’s quit playing fucking hide and seek,” Smith called out, raising his rifle to waist height. “We’re just passing through and we ‘aint going to cause you any bother.”

  We heard a muttering of voices beyond the park perimeter.

  “What’s a fucking yank doing here in Glasgow?” a voice yelled back in a regional accent.

  “As I said, we’re just passing through and looking for someplace to hole up for a while,” Smith replied.

  Jimmy was breathing heavily and almost whimpering in fear. He hopped from each foot, hunching over the shotgun pointed at the trees. Smith turned his head to look at him.

  “Stay cool with that shooter, Jimmy,” he whispered.

  “Okay, stay where you are,” a voice called out, from amongst the trees. “We’ll come out to talk to you but no shooting, okay?”

  “No shooting,” Smith confirmed.

  Two figures emerged from behind the stone pillars at the end of the pathway and slowly approached us. They both carried firearms of some kind, although I couldn’t see what they were in the darkening gloom.

  Smith lowered his flashlight so the beam wasn’t shining in the two figure’s faces. They marched closer, side by side. One was tall and thin and one was squatter and wider. They both stopped a few feet from us, their faces became visible in the diminishing daylight. The taller one wore a black beanie hat and a blue puffer jacket, the squat guy wore a wooly, blue bobble hat and a black combat jacket.

  The taller guy stared at each of us in turn with piercing blue eyes. I noticed he had a few days stubble around his chin but the whiskers hadn’t grown over two scars, running directly from both corners of his mouth up to the bottom of his ears. The squat guy also had scars on his face that looked more like horizontal slashes across the bridge of his nose and his forehead. The squat guy’s dark eyes darted between us and he held a sawn-off shotgun pointed at our guts. The tall guy held what I believed to be a Heckler and Koch MP5 sub-machine gun.

  The tall guy nodded at Smith’s rifle. “M-16, nice piece.”

  “That’s a Heckler and Koch MP5,” Smith responded. “Also a good weapon.”

  “Taken from the police,” Tall Guy bragged. “But we are the police here now. We run the south side of the city. All the south side gangs joined together in an army. We’ve more or less cleared it of those walking fuck ups.”

  “You’ve done a good job,” Smith said, nodding. “We haven’t seen any undead since we hit the city.”

  Tall Guy raised his chin. “So what are youse Americans doing all the way up here? You must be military or something, with those weapons and battle clobber?”

  “Something like that,” Smith grunted.

  “He doesn’t look like a yank,” Tall Guy nodded at Jimmy. “Where you from?”

  Jimmy glanced at us nervously. Tall Guy’s expression changed from one of nonchalance to hostility.

  “I asked you a question, you wee walloper,” he barked.

  “It’s okay, he’s with us,” Smith said. “He’s a local from these parts. He’s showing us the way around here.”

  “Is that right?” Tall Guy snapped. His expression turned incredulous.

  I felt my heart beating faster. I sensed the situation was escalating to a bad place.

  “I’m from Govan,” Jimmy stammered.

  Tall Guy flashed him a pained glare. “Oh, she speaks,” he gasped sarcastically. “I don’t know this wee bastard from fucking Adam,” he spat. “You cannae just waltz around my city without my say so. I run the place. You come to me and ask my permission if you want to wander around with loaded shooters. Now, get tae fuck before I execute the fucking lot of youse.”

  I presumed the tall guy was telling us to get off his patch, in differing terminology. I thought I’d try and reason with the guy.

  “We just want to stay one night,” I said. “One night and then we’re gone. It’s cold and it’s nearly dark. We just want someplace to stay for one night.”

  Tall Guy sarcastically made out he was crying. “Ah, please stop, you’ll have me in tears, mate.” Then he crazily wobbled his head. When he stopped his eyes were wide and he looked angry. “Did you not fucking understand me? I know youse lot cannae speak English properly but take the hint and fuck off or I’ll blow yer fucking heads off.”

  “Okay, buddy, just calm the fuck down,” Smith barked. “Now, this city is big enough for us all to just mind our own businesses and stay out of each other’s way. So back off.”

  Tall Guy stared at Smith with a wide eyed glare. He looked totally insane. Smith held his gaze and I thought for a second they were going to shoot each other.

  “Fine,” Tall Guy muttered quietly. “Okay, stay if you must but I warned youse.” He nodded at the squat guy. “C’mon, let’s go.” They both turned and made their way back to the park entrance.

  We stood our ground and watched them disappear into the shadows. I didn’t think for one second the situation had concluded.

  “Youse all won’t live to see sunrise,” Tall Guy yelled, from somewhere beyond the tree line.

  We heard vehicle doors slam and an engine splutter into life, then whine into the distance.

  “What a prick,” Smith spat. He turned and waved the girls forward.

  “Do you think he means it?” Jimmy stammered. “He looked like he was totally off his face to me. Did you see that Glasgow smile scar across his chops? He was a right nutter, him.”

  “Calm down, Jimmy. Be cool,” Smith sighed. “He’s just some survivor with a band of brash kids high on life or high on something, I don’t know. They’re just trying to yank our chain. I seen a million
guys like that back in Brooklyn.”

  I listened to the sound of their vehicle engine recede into the distance and hoped what Smith was saying was right.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  We had to recite and recount the whole conversation we’d had with Tall Guy to Batfish, Wingate and Cordoba. Smith reassured them the guy was only bragging and we wouldn’t see him again.

  Jimmy looked genuinely shaken by our encounter but led us through the dark empty streets to a small inn, situated on the east side of the park. The detached building was constructed of brown stone work and looked dark and empty, standing on the opposite side of the road to some boutique stores, which had all their front windows broken. The damage to the store fronts didn’t look as though it had occurred recently, as piles of snow were spread amongst the old clothing displays.

  We stood outside the inn on the sidewalk, gazing up at the blank windows. I could just about make out the name on the sign.

  “The Pig and Whistle Inn,” I read aloud.

  “Aye, me ol’ fella used to drink here, now and again,” Jimmy said. “Will this be okay fer youse?”

  “Any place will do at the moment, Jimmy,” Wingate sighed. My back is killing me.”

  “There’s a way in around the back, through a storeroom door that they did nae use. It’s only secured by a wee bolt,” Jimmy explained. “I should know, I robbed the place a while back.”

  Wingate flashed me and Smith a concerned glance.

  Jimmy led the way around the rear of the building and I stood for a moment and let the others go first. I glanced up and down the gloomy street with the spooky feeling we were being watched from somebody in the shadows.

  I eventually stepped off the sidewalk and followed the others inside. Jimmy led us through a dilapidated, snow covered beer garden with scattered tables and chairs lying across the path. He shoulder barged a flimsy looking brown door, set in a recess between an extension to the main building. Cordoba and Smith turned on their flashlights, guiding the way. Spot sniffed around excitedly, pulling Batfish forward on his leash.

  The inn still smelled of stale beer and dampness and Jimmy led us through a storeroom stacked with plastic chairs and tables and a worn pool table. We walked through a corridor to the main bar, which looked as though it was abandoned while still in operation. Half drunk pints of beer were left on the tables and on the wooden counter. The bar room was painted in a deep burgundy color and old black and white photos of Bellahouston Park hung all around the walls. Smith and Cordoba thoroughly searched the area for any signs or presence of the undead.

  “All clear,” Smith murmured, after he’d completed his patrol.

  Cordoba concurred with a nod of her head. “Looks like we’re free of zombies for a while.”

  “I know it ‘aint the Ritz Hotel but it’s a roof over our heads,” Jimmy said.

  Wingate slipped off her backpack and slumped down on a chair beside a table. “Thank God,” she sighed. “Hey, Smith, you fancy fixing me a drink?”

  “Sure, I could use one myself,” Smith muttered, moving behind the bar. “Scotch all around?”

  We all muttered in agreement, shaking off our backpacks and starting to relax a little. We probably had enough food and provisions for a couple of days and the inn seemed a welcome, if temporary sanctuary. Smith poured out six shots of whisky into some glasses on the countertop. I glanced through the sash windows, out onto the snowy street to check if anybody was observing our movements. I just didn’t feel safe inside the inn.

  “We’d better check upstairs first, before we get too comfy,” Cordoba said.

  “Good point,” I muttered. “I’ll come with you.”

  “I’ll show you the way around,” Jimmy said.

  “All right, go for it,” Smith said, handing around the glasses of Scotch. He moved from behind the counter and snatched the shotgun from Jimmy’s hands. “You won’t need that in here.”

  Jimmy led us through the bar, up the back room staircase and showed us around the bedrooms. There were six upstairs rooms, four with double beds and a kitchen and a separate living room. All were left as though the owners had left in a hurry. Dirty plates and glasses were left on the countertops in the kitchen and the bedrooms were left in a jumble of bedding and scattered clothing.

  “Wow, it sure looks like whoever lived here, left in a hurry,” I said.

  “The main thing is, there are no signs of any zombies,” Cordoba sighed. “We’re safe, at least for now.”

  We went back downstairs to join the others and told them the upper floor was all clear and about the room layout. Smith and Wingate chinked glasses in celebration. Batfish lit a few large candles sitting on wall holders on each side of the bar room.

  “Well, I’m done,” Wingate sighed, after downing her glass. “I’m looking forward to a good night’s sleep in a nice double bed.” She hugged Smith’s arm as she spoke.

  I guessed they’d be sharing a room for the night and another of us would have to double up in the same room. I didn’t know how me and Cordoba stood, as we hadn’t discussed our relationship since the debacle at the castle.

  “Yeah, me too,” Batfish sighed, finishing her Scotch. “I need to hit the sack.”

  “We better keep watches, down here in the bar,” Cordoba said. “Just in case those local punks come a knocking.”

  I felt tired but needed some time to reflect on our situation and what had happened over the last few days. “Okay, I’ll take first shift.”

  “What time is it now?” Cordoba asked.

  Wingate was the only one with a working time piece and she glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly six pm. Shit, it feels much later than that.”

  “Okay, we’ll do four hour watches,” Cordoba said. “If you do until ten pm, Brett. I’ll cover from ten until two am, then we need another volunteer to do from two until six.”

  “I’ll do it,” Jimmy said, raising his hand like a school kid in class. “I don’t sleep much anyway.”

  “Okay, guys, that’s a rap,” Cordoba said, draining her glass. “Let’s all hit the sack.”

  I nodded a goodnight as the others collected up their gear and made their way to their rooms. Smith left me his M-16 rifle and placed his last spare magazine on the table in front of me. Cordoba didn’t seem to be paying me much attention so I guessed I’d sleep on the living room couch once my shift was done. I sipped my Scotch and gazed out of the window onto the snowy street, running through the day’s scenarios in my head.

  The whisky tasted good. I enjoyed the burn down my throat and the warmness in my guts. I decided I was going to spend the next four hours getting totally drunk. I got up, moved around the counter and grabbed a near full whisky bottle from the top shelf. I sat back down, poured myself another shot then drank it in one gulp. I poured myself another.

  “I thought you were supposed to be keeping a watch over your friends, not drinking yourself stupid.”

  I glanced up and saw my alternative self behind the counter.

  “What do you want?” I scoffed.

  “I’ve just come to warn you.”

  “Warn me about what?” I spat.

  “Be very wary. The natives are restless.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  My alternative self sighed and smoothed back his hair. “The harbinger of doom rides in a black chariot.”

  “You’re not making any sense,” I sighed. “Now, leave me alone. I want to get drunk.” I downed my glass and poured myself another shot.

  “I wouldn’t keep downing those shots, if I were you. Oh, I am you…so stop it. Keep your wits about you.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anybody, let alone a hallucination of my own character. I ignored my other self and carried on sipping the whisky. He kept talking but I didn’t listen. My mind quickly became a fuzz, warmed by alcohol and the feeling I was relatively safe from the cruel world outside the four walls surrounding me.

  An hour must have ticked by when my eye lid
s and my head became heavy and I couldn’t drink any more.

  The sound of a vehicle engine awoke me. I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep. I was supposed to be on watch and I’d nodded off. My mouth tasted shitty and my head ached right through my temples. Shit, what time was it? I rubbed my face and looked at the clock behind the bar. It read ten fifteen but I wasn’t sure if the clock was still in working order. My other self had vanished back to hallucination land or wherever he came from. At least I didn’t have to listen to his warbling.

  I glanced out of the window and saw a black Land Rover parked at the end of the street. It was the only vehicle not covered with snow and the tail pipe looked like it was smoking. What the hell?

  A shadowy figure passed by the window, moving at speed. I scooped up the M-16 from the table in front of me. What the hell was going on now?

  I rose from the table, knocking over my half filled glass. I checked the rifle was locked and loaded and ready to fire then ran back and forward across the bar room, glancing through the front windows for any sign of movement.

  The figure flashed by the window again, this time to my left. I hurried across the bar to try and catch a glimpse of who was outside.

  “Get out of here,” a voice commanded from behind me.

  I turned and saw my other self standing behind the counter again. For the first time since I’d starting having these visions, he looked genuinely scared and concerned. His face was pale and his eyes were wide.

  “What?” I stammered.

  I turned back to the window when I heard the sound of glass smashing. One of the panes in the sash window was completely broken and something rolled into my foot. I heard the sound of running footsteps and the Land Rover accelerated away with a plume of white smoke trailing behind it.

  “Is that the best they can do?” I said, laughing. “Throwing a brick through the window? You fucking pussies!”

  “Get out!” my alternative self yelled.

  I turned to him, shaking my head and feeling mightily relieved that all the tall guy, or Scar Face and his team could muster was a harmless act of window smashing. I continued laughing as I looked down at my boot. I was going to pick up the rock or stone or whatever the missile was and place it on the bar. My laughter immediately ceased when I saw the projectile. It looked like a chunky, cylindrical piece of black piping but it had rows of holes running in neat, vertical lines down the outer casing.

 

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