Skull Face stopped a few hundred yards up the track and unearthed a small, blue fiberglass rowing boat from underneath some draping willow branches. A pair of plastic oars lay across the two wooden struts running horizontally across the deck.
“The boat will get you across the river,” Skull Face said. “Boat men are sometimes a mile further up.” He pointed right against the tide of the Mississippi.
Smith sighed as he studied the boat. “Well, thanks for your help, boys,” he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. “This is a real dream machine.”
I shared Smith’s apprehension. This piece of shit boat didn’t look like it was even going to float, let alone get us across the river.
Half Face removed the hand axe from his belt and handed it to Smith.
“Go, on your way,” he muttered.
The two guys turned and disappeared into the trees.
“Well, now what?” I sighed.
Smith smashed the axe blade into the willow tree trunk in frustration.
“We keep getting fucked over,” he spat. “First by those bastards on the boat and now by this bunch of weird freaks.”
“What about your backup piece?” I asked.
Smith groaned. “I lost that when we jumped off that fucking roof. What are we going to do, now?”
“Go to plan B?” I suggested.
“Remind me of our multitude of options again, Wilde Man? In all this excitement, I kind of forgot what we were doing.” Smith whirled his arms around and paced in a small circle.
“Take the boat over the river to the highway on the other side.”
Smith sighed and placed his hands on his hips. “You think?” He hissed.
I shrugged. I knew Smith was pissed off and I felt the same way. He was unusually losing his cool. I pulled the axe blade out of the tree and slipped it into the bag.
“We might need it,” I said. “It’s the only weapon we’ve got.”
“Unless we throw this shitty canoe at any zombies we come across. That’s about all its good for,” Smith spat. “Come on. Let’s get this thing onto the water.”
We slid the boat a few feet across the damp soil and into the reeds by the river bank. Spot hopped inside as we pushed the boat further towards the water. Smith and I jumped inside when the water was around our knees. We took an oar each and paddled our way across the expanse of the Mississippi, tacking against the flowing current.
Sweat rolled off me when we reached the opposite river bank. Smith looked hot and pissed off when we dragged the boat out of the water onto the mud beyond the reeds. I was worried a gator might leap out of the water and grab me at any minute.
Spot leapt out of the boat and scurried along the bank before cocking his leg over a tuft of long grass.
We scrambled up the bank and walked onto a flat expanse of dusty ground with a few sparse trees dotted between two parallel roads. No vehicles or buildings were in plain sight and my heart sank, in the knowledge we were in for an uncomfortable trek.
“This is the backwaters of America, Wilde Man. There’s no public transport out here,” Smith said.
“It doesn’t look like there’s anything here,” I sighed. “Those guys who took Batfish could be miles away by now.”
“Yeah, and we’ve got nothing to fight them with either,” Smith groaned.
We started walking west along the highway, keeping our eyes on the river to our right. I guessed the time was somewhere in the late afternoon, although times and dates didn’t mean very much anymore. The only thing that mattered right now was trying to recover our friend from the clutches of the badass boat men. Our situation seemed hopeless. We had one hand axe against all the firepower of the boat men and millions of hungry undead. Somehow, our luck had to change for the better.
Chapter Twelve
Our mood didn’t improve when we were drenched by a brief but heavy rain shower. Smith and I passed the bourbon bottle between us, taking a few gulps to try and ease our stress. Spot trotted along beside me, squinting into the rain.
The downpour stopped a few minutes before we spotted a building a few hundred yards in the distance. I hoped there was a working vehicle we could use near to the building. Walking out in the open was dangerous and time consuming.
A metal sign swung between its stand mounts, creaking as it moved in the breeze outside the gray colored, shutter board building.
“U.S. Post Office,” Smith read the faded sign. “I don’t think any mail has left this place for a while.”
We looked over the property. Heavy, white wooden shutters covered the ground floor windows beneath an overhanging porch and three dark windows were built into the roof. A red pick-up truck stood to the right of the post office grounds. The perimeter boundary was marked by a wooden, split rail fence.
“Do you think that truck will start?”
Smith shrugged. “The battery will be flat if it hasn’t been used in a while. We’ve got no tools and no battery jumper.”
We walked over to the truck and I brushed the dust away from the side windows. No bodies or zombies were inside and Smith cautiously opened the driver’s door. The ignition had no keys hanging from the silver slot. Smith closed the door and we turned back to the post office.
“Shall we take a look inside?”
“All right, there may be a firearm or some food we can take,” Smith mumbled.
We slowly walked towards the post office, warily searching the perimeter for any signs of sudden movement. We didn’t have to wait too long.
I saw something flapping about to my right. Spot growled and strained on his rope leash as I turned my head. An overweight, old guy covered in dust from head to foot and wearing the remains of a red shirt and denims lumbered towards us. For one second I thought he was one of the good guys but he opened his mouth and droned a low, monotonous bleat.
“Give me the fucking hatchet,” Smith ordered.
I rummaged in the bag and handed him the hand axe. Smith gripped the handle and casually strolled up to the old guy. The dust covered zombie staggered forward with gathering speed on unsteady legs, moaning in short, low bursts. Smith met him head on, raised the axe and slam dunked the blade into the top of the ghoul’s head. The blade split the undead guy’s skull like a watermelon and brown liquid dribbled from the groove between his eyes. Smith pulled out the axe and swung again, this time in a horizontal arc. The axe blade connected with the zombie’s neck and sliced through the rotten flesh and bone. The head detached from the body and flew through the air before rolling amongst the dust like a hairy soccer ball.
I was halfway revolted and halfway impressed at Smith’s combat skills. The headless body tottered for a few seconds before crumpling to the ground. Smith bent forward and wiped off the brown sludge smeared over the axe blade onto the deceased zombie’s red shirt.
“Did that relieve some stress?”
“Oh, yeah,” Smith sighed.
I wondered how many times Smith had put a hatchet through somebody’s head before the epidemic started. Killing seemed to come easy to him.
“Let’s take a look inside.”
I followed Smith towards the post office building. We climbed the front porch steps and I was grateful for the shade the overhanging roof provided. Smith leaned on the window shutters and cupped his hands around the gaps, trying to peek inside.
“Can you see anything?”
“Nah, it’s too dark and there’s not enough space to see inside. Let’s try around back.”
We followed the pathway that led from the porch to a small picket fence marking the boundary between the store front and the owner’s private property. Smith opened a small gate and we moved towards the rear entrance. A steel plated door stood underneath a small overhead porch to the left of the building. The remains of a long since tended garden lay to the right. Clumps of overgrown grass were isolated amongst dry dusty patches where the plants or flowers had died and shriveled.
A long, one story building with a corrugated tin roof p
rotruded from the main construction of the post office at its far end, making the whole structure shaped like a letter ‘L.’
Smith rattled the door and inevitably found it locked from the inside.
“There’s no way of hacking that open,” he said.
I studied the low level roof.
“If we can get on top of that low level, we may be able to climb up the main roof and get in those top windows somehow.”
Smith nodded. “It’s worth a shot.”
I thought I’d try my hand at scaling the post office outhouse but Smith ushered me back. He slid a rusting, free standing barbecue next to the low building and hopped up onto the grill’s sides. The metal frame creaked under his weight. Spot let out a shrill whine as he watched Smith haul himself onto the corrugated, tin roof. Either Spot wanted to climb onto the roof himself or he was worried. The poor little guy had lost his best friend, Sherman today so I supposed he didn’t want anyone else to come to any harm.
Smith’s boots clanked along the corrugated tin roof. He hacked the hand axe into the asphalt tiles on the main post office building and hauled himself up the steep incline. Spot and I stood in the heat of the sun, watching Smith climb the roof. It was slow going and I hoped the hatchet wouldn’t suddenly dislodge itself from the tiles and Smith would tumble down onto the ground. We couldn’t afford any injuries to exacerbate our shitty predicament.
Finally, Smith reached the ridge of the roof and sat astride the apex summit. He wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand and lit a cigarette.
“Good view from up here, kid,” he called down.
“See anything interesting?”
“Looks like there’s a small town further down the highway, maybe a mile or so.”
“You still want to get inside the post office?”
“Well, I’m up here now, kid so we may as well have a look inside. In my experience, most post offices have some sort of weapon to defend themselves from bandits. Especially in rural places like this.”
“Okay, Smith. It’s your call,” I said.
“I’ll go inside and let you in through the door.”
“Front or back?”
“Whichever one I can get open, kid.”
Smith flicked his cigarette butt into the air and moved his leg over the roof apex so he was sitting on the tiles facing the front of the building. Spot and I walked back around the front and watched Smith shimmy on his backside towards the top of the roof window furthest to the left.
He scrambled around the window frame and crouched on the sill. Spot rumbled and whined and shuffled backwards and forwards. I bent down and ruffled his head to try and calm him down.
Smith peered through the window glass before smashing the pane with the hatchet. Shards of glass tinkled into the room beyond. Smith took out all the jagged edges of the pane before hauling himself fireman style through the open frame and out of our vision.
Spot and I moved under the front porch and waited for Smith to open the door. I found a book of matches on the veranda and slipped it into my back pocket. We waited for what seemed like ages and I lit a cigarette, trying to stall my impatience.
I’d smoked around half the cigarette when I dropped it on the porch in a state of sudden shock. A muffled gun shot rang out inside the post office building.
Chapter Thirteen
“Smith...Smith, are you okay?” I yelled and pummeled the front door with my fists.
Smith sometimes had an annoying habit of going rogue when we faced some sticky situations. I hoped this was another one of those times and he wasn’t lying shot somewhere inside. I had no weapon of any kind; no transport and I didn’t know the area in this hostile environment.
“Shit,” I spat.
Several scenarios ran wild through my brain. What the hell was I supposed to do?
Spot’s ears pricked up and I heard a clank from inside the building. Unless rodents were running amok inside, I was pretty sure someone was moving around in there. Spot let out a lone, shrill bark.
The noise seemed to come from the back of the building. Spot and I hurried around the side and back through the gate between the picket fence. The back door stood halfway open. The interior of the building was dark and uninviting. I could make out shapes of bulky right angles, maybe boxes or kitchen closets. I slowly put down the canvas bag by my feet.
Spot’s hackles rose on his back and he growled, low and long.
I looked around for a weapon of some sort. Anything that I could defend myself with. The only thing close to hand that resembled an item of combat was a thin, bamboo cane still stuck in the ground at a sloping angle. I pulled the cane from the dusty ground and held it out in front of me as though it had miraculously turned into a rapier sword.
A sturdy figure loomed from the blackness and stood in the doorway. I recoiled in shock for a fraction of a second until I blew out a sigh of relief.
“Have you turned into Harry Potter now, Wilde Man? Are you going to whip me to death or turn me into a frog with your magic wand?” Smith mocked.
I tossed the cane back into the unkempt garden.
“I heard a gunshot in there.”
Smith moved out of the gloom and into the sunlight. I noticed he was carrying an old style, double barrel shot gun.
“I found this inside.” He lifted the shot gun slightly to show me. “It’s not exactly top of the range in modern warfare but it beats a hatchet in a game of who can kill each other first from ten yards.”
I’d never heard of Smith’s game and wondered if he’d ever played that particular party piece for real.
“Who were you shooting at?”
“Only a rat. I got a little spooked in there in the dark. I found the shot gun under the counter, then I saw something moving in the corner. Turned out, it was only a damn rodent munching on some old candy bar.”
“So you shot it with a shot gun? Wow! That’s a bit extreme.” I shook my head and reached for my pack of cigarettes.
“When I was a kid growing up in Brooklyn, we used to get overrun with fucking rats at times. I hate the creepy little motherfuckers.” Smith shivered and pulled a horrified face.
“You hate them worse than zombies?” I asked, lighting my smoke.
Smith shook his head. “At least you can see zombies coming. Rats just sneak up on you out of the dark.”
“Rats don’t sneak up on you,” I scoffed, blowing out smoke. “They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”
“Whatever, it still doesn’t take away the fact that rats are sneaky little bastards.”
I sniggered and flicked my ash. Unearthing Smith’s phobia was a new and enlightening source of amusement.
“Do you know rats can survive without food for fourteen days? And they don’t have a bladder, so they’re constantly pissing and shitting themselves.” Smith babbled waving his free hand around and pulling a serious face like he was trying to convince a court room to pass the death sentence on the whole of the rat population. “They can also jump six feet into the air.”
I giggled at Smith’s unfounded sincerity, not knowing or caring if his facts were true or not. The rat species would still inhabit our planet long after the human race died out.
“We had rats in London too,” I said. “When I was growing up, we used to see them running around the tracks in the underground train stations.”
“Fucking exactly.” Smith’s voice pitched a few octaves higher than normal. “Those fucking things spread the bubonic plague in Europe in the 1300’s, wiping out most of the human population.”
“So?”
“Well, duh! Look around you, Wilde!” Smith shrieked, waving his arms like a windmill. “History seems to be repeating itself, don’t you think?”
I knew what Smith was getting at but his logic seemed a little skewed.
“Rosenberg said this epidemic was a form of flu. Swine flu and bird flu mutated into some kind of fucked up virus. That doesn’t have anything to do with rats or the bubonic
plague, Smith.”
“How do you know that for sure?” Smith pointed at me with the end of the shot gun.
“So you’re saying this whole zombie apocalypse was caused by rats?”
“I’m just saying it’s a possibility.” He shrugged and thankfully slid the shot gun behind his head and horizontally along his shoulders.
I shook my head.
“That’s probably something we’ll never find out in our lifetime,” I muttered. “Are we going to have a look through this post office or stand out here all day arguing about fucking rats?”
“All right.” Smith nodded and turned to the back door.
The afternoon sun began to dip towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the garden. Smith led the way into the back of the post office. I guessed the former owners lived at the rear of the store and in the upstairs rooms.
“Is there any food in the store?” I asked. “That fish soup or whatever the fuck it was left a bad taste in my mouth.”
“Yeah, it was fucking disgusting. I think there’s some soda and candy. I didn’t have time to take a real good look around.” Smith led the way through the gloomy corridor towards the store.
An overwhelming stench of damp and dust hung in the air.
“You were in here for ages,” I argued. “What’s upstairs?”
“Empty bedrooms. Nobody seems to have been here for a long time.”
“Maybe they just moved on at the start of the outbreak.”
“Well, if it was me, I’d have stayed put here,” Smith said.
The corridor opened out into the store front, around twenty square feet in size. Sunlight squeezed through the gaps in the wooden shutters, allowing just enough light for us to see our way around.
Free standing racks of post cards flanked the front door and the counter stood directly in front of the corridor. I imagined the hubbub of noise and chatter that once echoed through the store. Local people talking about the weather, the hurricanes, tourists and the cost of stamps, groceries and gas. All gone forever now.
The Left Series (Book 2): Left Alone Page 6