The Left Series (Book 2): Left Alone

by Christian Fletcher

  Smith mooched around the store, poking and prodding at boxes and racks of items on the shelves either side of the counter.

  I spotted a rack of potato chips and candy bars to the left of the counter. Not the healthiest diet in the world but we had to eat. I led Spot around the counter and pulled down a big pack of chips, opened it and tipped the contents on the floor. Spot snaffled up the potato chips, crunching each one in his teeth. I munched my way through a couple of chocolate candy bars that tasted a little stale but still edible. ‘Beggars couldn’t be choosers,’ as my mother used to say.

  I briefly thought about my estranged parents. I’d had no contact with my mother in London and my sister in San Francisco since the outbreak. My dad had offered me the chance to board his yacht in Battery Park Harbor in New York with disastrous consequences that I firmly pushed to some dark and forgotten corner of my mind. I’d shot the reanimated, undead body of my father through the head onboard that yacht. No matter how many times I’d tried to justify my actions to myself, I always felt a pang of guilt and sorrow. I’d also led the others in our small band of survivors to their deaths in New York City, with false promises of a secure sanctuary away from the zombie hordes.

  “Hey, look at this,” Smith barked, snapping me from my inner turmoil.

  I turned my head, gazing in Smith’s direction.

  Smith held up a bunch of folded papers. “Tourist maps and places of local interest.” He waved the maps and smiled like he’d found a winning lottery ticket.

  I found it hard to be enthusiastic and hoped my gloomy mood would lift soon. Spot let out a loud belch which made me giggle.

  “Go easy with the junk food, you two,” Smith said. “We may have to move out of here soon and I don’t want you two suffering with belly cramps.”

  I took a few packs of chips and chocolate bars and stuffed them into the canvas bag alongside the bottles of bourbon and carton of cigarettes, our accumulation of worldly goods.

  A refrigerator that obviously hadn’t cooled anything for a while, stood to the right of the candy racks. The shelves were half stacked with cans of soda and juice. I took out a can and popped the opener. The sweet soda tasted good, even though it was lukewarm.

  “Any beer in there?” Smith asked.

  I shook my head and tossed him a bottle of juice.

  The shelf next to the fridge contained tacky tourist items, such as key chains and toy plastic alligators and snakes. I found an ashtray with an ‘I Love Louisiana’ logo emblazoned across it. I poured some juice into the ashtray and put it on the floor for Spot to drink. The three of us guzzled our drinks in silence. I noticed the prone body of Smith’s rat lying between the potato chip racks and hoped the rodent’s blood hadn’t sprayed across the packs we’d already eaten.

  Smith pulled a child’s knapsack from a shelf and zipped it open. He put the maps and papers inside then tossed the bag onto the ground in front of me.

  “We need to ditch that cloth bag. It’s too cumbersome when you need two hands free,” he said.

  I picked up the knapsack and took a look at it. The shiny vinyl surface was colored in wavy orange and yellow lines with a picture of a cartoon gator in the center.

  “Seriously?” I protested.

  Smith nodded.

  I transferred the contents of the cloth bag into the knapsack and added a few bottles of juice. I stretched the straps as long as they would go and slung the bag over my back.

  “It suits you,” Smith said, stifling a laugh.

  “I’ll remember that next time you want a pack of cigarettes,” I snorted.

  The banter was brought to a sudden halt when we heard a clumping noise from the upstairs rooms.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Smith immediately scooped up the shot gun that he’d laid on the counter.

  “What was that?” I hissed.

  Smith shrugged and shook his head.

  “I thought you’d checked the upstairs rooms?”

  “Only the one I went into,” Smith whispered.

  The clumping noise stopped and we stood in silence looking at the ceiling as if we could somehow see through the timbers.

  “Do you think we should take a look?”

  Smith nodded and led the way to the bottom of the staircase, situated behind the counter and through the entrance to the corridor to the left. I followed Smith as he slowly climbed the staircase. One of the wooden boards creaked halfway up. The clumping noise started again from one of the rooms. Smith flashed me a worried glance.

  The light was fading fast and I didn’t want to be chasing around this creepy building in total darkness. We reached the top of the staircase and trod slowly over the bare wooden floorboards. Three closed doors stood to our left and one open door stood to our right.

  “Which bedroom window did you come through?” I hissed.

  “The one on the far left,” Smith replied. “Whatever is rattling around up here has got to be in either of the first two rooms.”

  “What’s through that open door?” I pointed to the room on the right.

  “That’s just a small bathroom. I already checked that out.”

  The knocking noise started again, causing Spot to bark in frenzy. I quickly picked him up and held his jaws closed. Something began pounding on the central door. The handle jerked up and down but didn’t open. Whatever was in there couldn’t get out. The pounding and the handle movement ceased and we were left in eerie silence.

  “Shall we just bypass this and get the hell out of here?” I suggested.

  The abandoned post office was starting to give me the shits. Smith ignored me and moved slowly towards the door. I considered this search a waste of time. We had gathered a few useful items and needed to get back on the trail of Batfish’s captors.

  Sweat trickled down my back in the dusty, humid landing. Smith put his hand on the door handle and turned it. The door didn’t budge. He felt around the lock for a key. Nothing protruded from the keyhole.

  “Stand out the way, kid,” he mumbled.

  I gripped Spot tightly so he wouldn’t suddenly bolt and stood to the left of the door frame. Smith took a couple of backward paces then charged at the door, lifting his left leg. His foot connected with the center of the door panel with force. The wood cracked and splintered and part of the coving fell away from the frame under the impact. The door flew open inwards. Smith leveled the shot gun so the muzzle pointed into the room.

  “Doesn’t seem to be anything in there,” he whispered. “Maybe it was just one of the friendly neighborhood rats.”

  Smith flashed me a smile and I nodded back, more in relief than at his attempt at humor.

  Something flashed through my line of vision by the door frame. A figure emerged from the gloom, screeching and hissing. The hunched specter took us both by surprise. Whoever it was had lurked in the shadows inside the bedroom.

  I yelled in shock and staggered backwards. The figure flew at Smith, knocking the shot gun muzzle towards the ceiling. A brief orange flash and a boom attacked my sight and hearing as the shot gun discharged. Pieces of wood and drywall plaster showered our heads from above.

  The figure made growling noises and lurched again at Smith. The two of them wrestled for a second before they both went over, Smith on his back and the wailing creature on top. Smith held the shot gun horizontally a few inches above his chin. He jammed the side of the barrels underneath the creature’s snapping jaws.

  My senses returned after briefly being deafened and blinded. The creature was obviously in an animated state and used to be an old woman, who had probably handed out candy to the local kids. In the present state, the old woman had mad, frizzy gray hair that stuck up in matted tufts. The remains of an old shawl draped around her bony shoulders, flapped around as she wrestled with Smith beneath her.

  “Get this piece of rotting shit off me,” Smith hollered.

  I reached for my Glock in my shoulder holster as a natural reaction and realized in a confused, split second that I
didn’t own the hand gun any more. Shit! What was I going to do? Batter the old woman zombie to death with my cartoon kiddy knapsack? Smith had the shot gun and the hatchet, the only weapons we possessed.

  Spot wriggled in my grasp, trying to break free and attack the ghoul. I raced into the bedroom the zombie had emerged from, briefly worrying that a second ghoul maybe lurking inside. The room was semi dark and stunk of stale piss and mold. I frantically searched for anything I could use as a weapon.

  “Take your time, Wilde,” Smith screamed from the landing. “I’ve got all day.”

  I looped the handle of Spot’s leash over the bedpost so he couldn’t move too far away. He gnashed and snarled at the zombie and strained on the leash when I put him on the floor. The old wooden bed would hold him while I searched for a weapon.

  I spotted a vanity table in the corner of the room. An oval dressing mirror sat on top of the table.

  “That’ll do,” I muttered to myself.

  I stumbled over some clothes and shoes on the bedroom floor and fell into the dressing table. Makeup and bottles of perfume clattered over and smashed to the floor. The stench of mold and old bodily fluids was temporarily masked by the pungent odor of the fragrance. For some reason, an image of my long dead Grandma popped into my head. Maybe she wore the same old lady type scent?

  I shook the image from my thoughts, glad that my dear old Grandma wasn’t around to witness the horrors of modern day life. Smith grunted and groaned out of my line of vision, obviously still trying to throw old Granny zombie off him. She must have possessed some strength in her afterlife to give Smith a worthy battle of force.

  Ignoring the pain in my side where I’d collided with the dresser, I hauled myself to my feet and grabbed the vanity mirror. I wrenched it from the fixings, causing more items to clatter to the wooden floor. The mirror was heavier than I thought it would be but that was a good thing. I hoped the combination of wood and glass was heavy enough to crush Granny zombie’s skull.

  Spot still snapped and barked in frenzy as I stepped over him and rushed through the bedroom door. Old Granny zombie still wrestled on top of Smith in the middle of the landing. I gripped the mirror at one edge and swung it towards the ghoul’s head. The impact caused a clumping sound, like I’d whacked an old, spoiled watermelon. The mirror shattered and showered Smith with shards of glass.

  Granny zombie lurched sideways and fell off Smith and rolled into the shadows. Smith jumped up and quickly brushed the glass off his chest and out of his hair. He flashed me a furious glance as I shrugged holding what remained of the mirror.

  Smith gripped the shot gun, reloaded and stood over Granny zombie then fired both barrels into her head.

  “Dirty motherfucker stunk of shit,” Smith gasped and spat onto the headless corpse. “Thanks for your prompt assistance,” he said to me. with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  I dropped the shattered mirror to the floor and went back into the bedroom to retrieve Spot.

  “Did we really need to release that old fart from the bedroom?”

  “Forget about it. Let’s get going,” Smith muttered.

  I knew Smith was shaken and he knew I was right. Granny zombie had taken us both by surprise and nearly cost us our lives.

  We moved back down the stairs in silence.

  “Have you got any more shells for that thing?” I asked, pointing to the shot gun.

  “There’s a box of them in the store under the desk. I put a few in my pocket but we’d better take the whole box. I guess health and safety went out the window when they boarded the place up. Firearms and shells are supposed to be kept in a locked cabinet.”

  “Luckily for us they weren’t locked away.” I said.

  Smith moved back into the store to retrieve the box of shot gun shells. I waited in the doorway, glancing nervously up the staircase. I wasn’t sure if there were any more of the undead lurking in the bedroom we didn’t open. Smith returned a few seconds later holding a small box. He reloaded the shot gun and stuffed the box into my kiddy knapsack.

  “Let’s see if we can find a key to that vehicle out front,” Smith said.

  I followed him through the corridor and into the kitchen. The back door still hung open, shedding dwindling daylight across the floor. Smith and I searched the kitchen for any kind of vehicle keys but didn’t find any. We moved out of the kitchen to the left of the back door, along another short corridor. Smith stopped when we came to a closed door that led to the low level, one storey part of the building.

  “Do think this could be the garage?” I asked.

  Smith shrugged and tried the door handle. The door creaked open slightly and Smith readied the shot gun. We didn’t need any more nasty surprises. Smith pushed the door open with his foot and we gasped in revulsion at what we saw inside the room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I counted six bodies hanging by their necks from the rafters in the garage. Thick rope was knotted around the throats of four kids and two adults. They swung gently, causing the ropes to creak against the wooden rafters. Decay had already started to rot the flesh on their hands and faces but I guessed they hadn’t been dead all that long. Swarms of flies buzzed greedily around the bodies and the sour stench of dead flesh wafted towards us in the doorway.

  “Mass suicide,” Smith whispered. “Why?”

  I didn’t know if he was asking my opinion or talking to himself.

  “They’d given up, I guess. Maybe Grandma upstairs got bit and they decided to end it all.”

  Smith scanned the room then turned to me.

  “What are we doing here, Wilde?”

  I didn’t know what Smith meant but sensed some kind of emotion in his voice. He couldn’t crack up. We’d never get Batfish back if Smith was going gaga on me. I shook my head. Smith’s eyes were wide and his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

  “These people just said – ‘Fuck it! We’re going to die anyway so we might as well get it over and done with and all go together.’ Pop probably strung the kids and Mom up, and then stretched his own neck.”

  I glanced on the ground at the corpses’ feet. A step ladder lay on its side underneath the male guy. Smith was probably right in his macabre summary. Whatever had happened here didn’t end well for this poor family. Maybe Pop cracked up and just wanted an end to his family’s misery.

  “Why are we still alive and kicking, kid? Why us?”

  I knew what Smith meant. Maybe it was a curse to still be living through this constant nightmare and maybe the easiest route out of it all was to follow this family’s example. Get the fuck out of an irretrievable situation. I brushed my hand over my face, trying to regain rational thought. The gruesome scene was upsetting us both and the best thing was to get moving back on the road.

  “Do you see any vehicle keys?” I whispered to Smith.

  He scanned the hooks and shelves around the garage walls.

  “No, I don’t see nothing.”

  I noticed a pink scooter parked in the corner on the right side.

  “What about that?” I pointed to the scooter.

  Smith turned and gave me his incredulous look again.

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s a mode of transport.” I shrugged. “My sister used to have one. We always used to have to push start it in the winter because the battery drained in the cold.”

  Smith screwed up his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. I knew he was stressed as the situation wasn’t panning out well.

  “Okay, go and get your fucking hairdryer and we’ll see if we can get it going.”

  I nodded and handed him the loop of Spot’s leash. Curtains of spider webs brushed across my face as I slowly made my way through the garage towards the pink scooter. I kept my gaze away from the hanging bodies and tried to ignore the stench of rotting, dead flesh. A pair of barn-style doors, bolted from the inside stood to the right of the scooter. I pulled open the bolts at the top and bottom and pushed the doors open. Sunlight and fresh air w
elcomingly blazed through the open space. I gripped the scooter handle bars and pushed it through the open doors. Luckily, the key was still in the ignition switch between the handle bars. Smith held his hand over his face to prevent the stench attacking his senses and followed me outside.

  “Can you start that piece of crap?” Smith asked.

  “I’ll give it a shot.”

  I turned the ignition key but the engine didn’t even turn over.

  “The battery is dead as a doughnut. We’ll have to try push starting it.”

  Smith sighed in frustration and held the shot gun over his right shoulder. He turned and pushed the garage doors shut with his foot so we didn’t have to suffer the sight and stench of the dead family.

  I wheeled the scooter through the gate and out into the post office parking lot. I bypassed the decapitated corpse of the dusty dead guy, who was attracting the attention of a swarm of flying insects.

  The scooter had a basic gear system, neutral and drive. The memory of trying to start my sister’s shitty excuse for a bike, years ago on the iced up paths during winter in Brynston, Pennsylvania, made me smile. I held in the clutch and clunked the gear shift on the left handle bar to drive. My dad had told me that my sister managed to get to Alcatraz Island when the outbreak first started. The old prison would have been a safe haven for a few days but not somewhere she could have sustained an existence for long. The whole communication system throughout the world had broken down some time ago, so there was no way of contacting anyone from our previous, normal lives.

  I felt sad and missed my sister. I missed our old family life when we were briefly happy and all together, sharing birthdays, Christmas dinners, Thanksgivings, St. Patrick’s Day and other celebrations. Our house in Kilburn, north-west London had always been full of drunken uncles, flirty aunties and old family members having too much to drink and stumbling on the way to the bathroom. My parents hadn’t been together for long but I always reflected on those few years of bliss with warm, happy feelings. Emotions I hadn’t experienced for a long time now.