The Left Series (Book 2): Left Alone

by Christian Fletcher

  Hollering and yelling from higher above the river bank caused me to jerk my head back into the woods.

  “They’re coming, Smith.”

  “I know. I’ll try and take out the guys on the upper deck with this piece of shit.” Smith leaned against the tree and steadied his aim.

  I wiped the sweat from my face with the palm of my hand and kept a close eye on the tree line, looking for the marauding band of shit kickers, who would probably be armed to the teeth.

  Smith fired two quick consecutive shots. I didn’t see if he’d hit his intended targets.

  “Did you get them?”

  “They went down. I don’t know if they’re tagged. Okay, let’s move. Shit or bust.”

  Smith roughly hauled the duct tape guy to his feet and shoved him forward. My legs felt stiff and aching as I stood up. I ran in a crouching stoop behind Smith. The open ground between the woods and the jetty was a prime spot to be gunned down by our pursuers.

  A voice commanded us to stop from somewhere higher up on the river bank. We ignored the shit kicker’s demands and headed for the jetty. The rasp of automatic gun fire popped in my ears. Chunks of earth and clumps of grass flew into the air around us as we sprinted for the Navy boat.

  The duct tape guy let out a muffled scream and fell into the turf. He rolled on his back with his face screwed up in agony. His right shin was a bloody mess with an open bullet wound.

  Smith pulled him up and carried on towards the boat. I fired a blast of gun fire up the bank without sighting a target, just to try and bide us some time. Somebody returned fire and I swore I heard and felt a bullet whistle less than an inch from my left ear.

  “Slip the ropes and I’ll start the engine,” Smith yelled at me through the noise of gunfire.

  “I’ll try,” I whimpered. I wasn’t used to being shot at by gun crazed gangs and had to admit my ass was twitching like a rabbit’s nose. I’d have swapped my predicament to face a bunch of flesh hungry zombies any day of the week.

  Smith shoved the duct tape guy up the gangway and dived onto the upper deck. I ducked behind a steel bollard and lifted off the looped rope. Orange sparks cannoned off the bollard as bullets hit the steel and ricocheted around the jetty. I took a quick peek around the bollard during a brief lull in the gunfire. A whole bunch of crazy shit kicker dudes, led by Shaved Head, scaled down the river bank, dropping to the ground and firing their weapons every few yards. I roughly guessed we had around one hundred yards between us. The world record for a one hundred yard sprint was around ten seconds. I could more or less double that time to work out how long we had before the gang was on top of us.

  The Navy boat engine roared into life but I still had to release the rope at the stern end. Smith steered the boat away from the jetty and I heard him yelling all kinds of obscenities from the upper deck wheel house. I couldn’t move to the stern bollard, I was pinned down by the rapidly approaching gunfire. Shaved Head and his mob closed in on the jetty, opening up at me with their rifles and hand guns. Bullets rattled against the bollard, chipping away at the white painted steel.

  I rattled off a couple of rounds, dropping the sentry who had earlier punched me in the face.

  “No more ass for you, you fucking rat,” I hollered in pure retribution.

  “Get this fucking boat clear, Wilde,” Smith yelled as bullets clattered against the boat’s hull.

  The Navy boat churned water at the ass end; Smith was trying to break the stern rope using the engine power.

  “I can’t move, Smith,” I shouted in reply. “These fuckers have got me pinned down.”

  “Ah, for fuck’s sake,” Smith screamed. “Do I have to do every fucking thing?”

  He stormed across the upper deck amongst the hail of bullets and marched towards the 20mm machine gun on the forecastle.

  “Eat fucking lead and die, motherfuckers,” he yelled, cocking the gun and swinging the barrel around towards the river bank.

  “Fuck me!” I screamed as Smith unleashed hell in the shape of 20mm rounds on the bunch of shit kickers.

  Blood, guts, brains and bones spattered the river bank. 20 mil rounds were normally used as an anti-aircraft, anti-ship defense. The human body was torn to shreds against such ammunition. The noise of the gun rocked my senses and the sight of the obliteration was like nothing I’d ever seen before.

  The grassy river bank was littered with body parts and bloody pulp. The gunfire against my protective bollard was now nonexistent but a few wayward single shots still rang from amongst the woods, causing plops in the river water.

  “Are you going to release that rope or do you want me to do everything for you, Wilde?” Smith yelled.

  I coughed amidst the cloud of cordite. “Okay, I got it,” I croaked.

  I moved across the jetty to the stern and unleashed the rope, tossing the looped end onboard. I glanced back at the gory mess on the river bank before I hopped onboard the Navy boat. Not for the first time, I realized Smith was a psychopath but was glad he was on my side.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The duct tape guy rolled around the upper deck in agony. Blood oozed from his leg wound. The expression in his eyes implored me to help him. I held the M-16 gun barrel at his face, not showing or feeling one iota of sympathy.

  I felt like blasting his fat, ugly face off his skull but I knew Smith wanted him alive. This jerk was our key to Batfish’s whereabouts. I bent forward and ripped the duct tape from his mouth.

  “What’s your name, you piece of shit?” I screamed.

  The guy didn’t answer, just wailed in agony. Anger burned inside me. I wanted to beat this guy to a bloody pulp.

  “I asked you a question, motherfucker.” I kicked the guy in the ribs and resisted the temptation to smash the M-16 rifle butt in his face.

  “They call me Headlong,” the guy croaked.

  “Who’s fucking “they?” dickhead? Your ass fucking, faggot buddies?” I wanted to torture this guy badly. Stamp on his fingers and his balls. Life was hard enough to survive without pricks like this still breathing. This piece of shit was a waste of air as far as I was concerned.

  “Hey, kiddo! Don’t waste him yet,” Smith shouted at me as he strolled onto the deck. “We got to keep this jerk alive until we get to New Orleans.”

  “They were going to fuck me up the ass, Smith,” I hollered. “Fuck knows what these disgusting, ass raping motherfuckers have done to Batfish.”

  “Hey, hey, hey! Calm the fuck down,” Smith hissed, showing me the palms of his hands. “I need to steer this boat back to the yacht but I need you to be calm, okay?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek until it hurt, staring at the pathetic creature that said his stupid name was Headlong. “Okay,” I spat and nodded in agreement.

  I knew Smith was right but I was sick of worthless fucks making my life more difficult than it needed to be. I spat three times in the stupid guy’s face but wanted to stomp his skull with my foot.

  Smith gave me a warning glance as he made his way back to the wheel house. At that moment, I didn’t give a fuck what Smith thought of me. He wasn’t the one locked up in that shitty cell with all the ghosts and guilt that I had to endure. I all honesty, I knew Smith didn’t give a shit who lived or died. He was going to save Batfish or kill anyone who stood in his way because he enjoyed the thrill of dangerous situations. That was all. I was along for the ride, becoming more pissed off with each unrewarding, blood spattered, death filled day.

  I needed a cigarette and to get away from everything for a while. I mooched to the stern, leaving the asshole still squirming in pain on the deck. Smith steered the boat back along the river to where we’d moored the yacht. I sucked hard on my smoke; the tip became a glowing, red arrow in the fading sunlight. I flicked the cigarette butt into the river when the yacht came into view.

  Tippy stood on the upper deck of the yacht aiming the pistol at us as we approached. Smith stepped out of the wheel house and gave her a wave. She dipped her head and I recognized
the relief of her body language.

  Smith slowed the Navy boat to a crawl and drew alongside the yacht. My vision rippled and I felt I wanted to die. Drops of rain flecked my face as I glanced to the heavens and let out a loud, frustrated scream.

  “That motherfucker’s crazy,” Headlong wailed at Smith as he stepped from the wheel house. “Don’t let him near me.”

  “Shut the fuck up, asshole,” Smith grunted. He flung a rope onboard the yacht. Tippy hooked the lopped end around one of the yacht’s bollards.

  “Are you going to help or stay pissed off with the world forever?” Smith asked me.

  “I think I’m going to be permanently pissed off with the world and every shitty person who’s left in it,” I replied, with a sneer.

  Smith sighed and pulled the ropes around the bollards so the two boats were close together.

  “We’ll take this boat, Tippy,” Smith called out. “It’s faster and better armed. Grab all your gear and toss it onboard.”

  Tippy nodded and flashed me a worried glance. She was obviously worried about my diminishing sanity.

  “Just ignore him,” Smith said. “You better be real quick grabbing your gear. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to have company real soon.”

  Tippy nodded, still looking worried. “Who’s he?” She pointed to Headlong.

  “Some worthless jerk that’s going to show us where to go in New Orleans to get our friend back,” Smith growled.

  “He’s bleeding. Was he bitten?”

  “No.” Smith shook his head. “No zombies where this guy’s been holed up. You better hurry, Tippy.”

  Tippy scurried off down below deck and returned less than ten minutes later. Smith glared at me when she had gone. I returned his gaze and lit another smoke. We dumped the two bodies that Smith had shot with the hunting rifle over the side and I slumped onto a bollard, keeping a lookout further up river. Smith opened the hatch to the lower deck, holding the rifle at the ready.

  “It’s clear down below,” he shouted.

  Tippy tossed a few bags over the side of the Navy boat then reached out and handed Smith a cardboard box full of tins of food.

  “Is that everything?”

  Tippy nodded. “I’d packed some stuff ready, in case I had to make a quick getaway.” She suddenly looked surprised like she’d just remembered something. “Oh, let me go and get the little dog.” She scurried back to the control room and came back with Spot still tied at the end of his rope leash. She lifted him up and handed him to Smith.

  “Okay, quit moping and come and get your dog,” Smith said to me.

  I moved across the deck and took Spot from his arms, then turned to the lower deck hatch.

  “Keep an eye on that piece of shit while I take him below deck,” I said, pointing at Headlong.

  “No, let Tippy take him,” Smith ordered. “I need you up here to steer the boat while I man the machine gun.”

  I stopped and waited as Smith helped Tippy clamber from the yacht and over the side of the Navy boat. I handed her the leash as she caught her breath on the deck.

  “What are you going to do with him?” She pointed again at Headlong. “He needs medical attention to that leg.”

  Smith shrugged and I looked to the deck.

  “Let me put a bandage on that wound or he’ll bleed to death before we reach New Orleans.”

  Smith nodded and slipped the rope between the two vessels. Tippy rummaged through one of her bags and took out a roll of heavy duty bandage and tape. I tied Spot to a cleat and covered her with the M-16 while she applied the dressing to Headlong’s leg wound. Smith U-turned the boat and headed back up river. Headlong groaned and gritted his teeth as she tightened the bandage.

  I turned to check our position and recognized the bend in the river where we’d moored the dinghy near the slaughterhouse.

  “You better get below, Tippy. Those guys will probably still be on the river bank and they’ll be pissed at us for taking their boat,” I said.

  “Oh…okay,” she muttered and slightly adjusted the bandage.

  Headlong moaned and rested his head against the deck with his eyes closed.

  “Are you going to leave him here?”

  I nodded. “We can’t risk letting him down below with you.”

  Tippy forced a slight smile then shuffled towards the deck hatch. She untied Spot’s leash and held it tight in her hand.

  “Just sit tight below until we get by those guys,” Smith said to her as she opened the hatch.

  “I hope we make it okay,” she wailed and the worried look returned.

  As soon as Tippy shut the hatch, the first bullets rattled around the Navy boat deck. The assault from the river bank had started.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I ducked behind the gunwale with my back to the protective steel as the small arms rounds clattered into the side of the boat. The remaining shit kickers had obviously regrouped and rearmed themselves. I hoped those guys didn’t have any real heavy armor. Smith must have wasted most of them with the 20 mil but a few still remained, hiding in the woods and hell bent on ambushing us and stopping our progress up the river.

  “Take the wheel, Wilde,” Smith screamed above the twangs of bullets hitting the upper deck steel structure.

  I knew Smith was going to let fire with the 20-mil again. I could steer the boat as I wasn’t experienced with a heavy duty weapon. We kept low and swapped places. I ducked behind the wheel and peeped through the front window.

  Smith checked the gun and cocked it. Metal ammunition boxes lay either side of the weapon mounting. Smith opened up, cutting through the trees on the river bank with the heavy ammo. Branches and pieces of foliage dispersed in rows along the shoreline under the hail of 20-mil rounds.

  The firing from the river bank ceased as the guys in the woods obviously dived for cover or succumbed to their fate. Smith stopped firing but continued to train the muzzle along the shore.

  “Keep us on a steady course in the center of the river,” Smith commanded.

  “Yes, sir,” I yelled back, flicking my forehead in a mock salute.

  Smith shook his head and returned his gaze to the gun barrel and the river bank. I thought I better stop pissing him off or I might be next in line to take one of his bullets. We carried on up the river in silence, the dipping sun projecting a red glow across the water while we left the slaughterhouse behind.

  Smith clicked on the 20-mil safety catch and sauntered over to the wheel house. He stood in the doorway and lit a smoke.

  “You got a problem with me, Wilde?” His words were croaky and the tone was confrontational. He was bigger, stronger and more ruthless than I was so I felt I wasn’t capable of rising to his challenge.

  I sighed. “No, I’m sorry if I got a little cranky back there.”

  “We all have bad days, kiddo,” he said, exhaling smoke. “Some days it’s hard to keep it together with all this shit flying around.” His tone was more soothing now.

  I was glad he accepted my apology.

  “How’s the guy doing on the deck?” I nodded towards the glass.

  “He’s copping some zees, right now. He’s probably going to be as sore as hell when he wakes up.”

  “Well, you did throw him out of a window into a tree,” I said, smirking.

  Smith looked at me and sniggered. I was glad we had our shared sense of humor back. He leaned forward to the console and flicked on the navigation lights.

  “What if anybody sees us?” I asked.

  Smith sighed. “So they see us. Zombies will have a hell of a job climbing onboard and I don’t think those shit kickers will bother us again. It’s been a long day. I don’t about you, kid but I could do with some rest myself.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, stifling a yawn. “Are we going to moor up for the night?”

  “I’d rather keep going but we’re all dead beat. We need some sleep and can get going again at first light. Give it another fifteen minutes to put some distance between us and that damn
slaughterhouse.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “Do you know how to anchor up this crate?”

  “Sure,” he muttered. “I’ll be back in a while. I’m just going to check on Tippy down below.”

  Smith walked out of the wheel house into the increasing dusk towards the lower deck hatch. He was briefly illuminated by the light as he opened the door and stepped through it. I gazed up to the clear red-orange sky and wondered what new perils awaited us in New Orleans.

  The remnants of civilization moved slowly by in the shape of shadowy husks of buildings along the banks. Insects chirped in the long grass and birds swooped low on the water, ready to return to their nests for the night. My world was calm and peaceful, for a while anyway.

  Smith returned to shatter my tranquility, after what seemed much less than fifteen minutes.

  “Ready to drop anchor?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Smith took over the controls and slowed the boat to a crawl. I followed him out onto the deck and watched as he slowly let the anchor chain uncoil from the rotor drum out into the water. He recoiled in the slack chain and stopped the lever when he was satisfied.

  “That should hold us for the night,” he said.

  The clanking chain awoke Headlong, who murmured lying on the deck.

  “What are we going to do with him?” I asked.

  “Leave him there for a while,” Smith said. “He ‘aint going nowhere. You and I’ll take four hour watches on deck. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “I’ll take first watch,” I volunteered, eager to repeat the recent serenity I’d enjoyed earlier.

  “Okay,” Smith agreed. “Let’s go and eat first. Tippy has done some cooking down there.”

  Smith cut the engines and we walked back across the deck. I led the way through the hatch and down below deck. Tippy had been busy cooking us a stew in the small galley. The smell of cooking vegetables and meat made my stomach rumble in hunger. Sometimes I forgot about how little we ate when we were constantly dodging the undead and shit kicker’s bullets.

  I sat opposite Smith and Tippy at the small table and tucked into the stew, which tasted wonderful. Spot had his own little bowl and slurped hungrily on the deck. I sat back and let my stomach acids go to work on the meat and vegetables.