The Left Series (Book 2): Left Alone

by Christian Fletcher

  All thoughts of family and friends and my former life washed away in an instant when I heard branches snapping and a low moan only a few yards to my left.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  An elderly, gaunt man dressed in a ragged suit staggered towards me. He held out his boney hands in my direction and his pale white face sagged around a gaping rip in his left cheek. His left eyeball hung, dangling from its socket over his face wound.

  Another spurt of vomit erupted from my stomach and my abdominal muscles tightened into a cramping spasm.

  “Hold on, fellow,” I spat. “Don’t attack me yet, it’s not fair.” I held out my hand trying to ward off the approaching ghoul.

  I thought again of Chaplain Brady trying to delay the zombies ripping him apart with a piece of metal in the shape of a cross. They didn’t give a fuck about religion or what was right or wrong or fair. I’d have to pull myself together if I wanted to survive.

  All my frustration, anger and primeval instincts erupted in one moment. I felt so pissed off with the world, the human race and our predicament that I vented my fury on this particular zombie. I swung my right hand when he came into range and caught him square on the side of his jaw.

  I heard a crack of shattering bone and teeth when the blow connected. I was no boxer but Mike Tyson would have been proud of that punch. The zombie may have been old but he was a tall guy. He reeled and went over sideways, his face smashing into a tree trunk as he fell. I seized the moment and bolted forward towards his prone body. He turned his head and scowled at me amongst the long grass.

  “Fuck you, dickhead!” I seethed through clenched teeth, as I stood over him. “I’ve had enough shit to last me two fucking life times.”

  I stomped on his face with my right boot. The red mist of anger engulfed me and I kept stomping until I heard the satisfying crack of the guy’s skull cave in.

  I finally stopped when I was too fatigued to carry on any longer. My right foot and lower leg of my pants was covered with blood and porridge like brain matter. The elderly zombie guy lay still and unmoving; his head was splattered like a piñata at a kid’s party.

  “Atta boy! That’s the way to do it.” I recognized my own voice drifting through the trees and looked up to see my alternative self grinning at me through the branches. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “Fuck off!” I barked, in a hoarse reply.

  Breathing heavily, I wiped my blood stained foot in the long grass and threw up again while I was doing it. I glanced around to see if my own hallucinate self was still with me but he’d thankfully vanished. His mocking bullshit was the last thing I needed.

  “Shit.” I spat the last of my stomach contents into the grass and felt my pockets for my cigarettes.

  The first draw of nicotine made me gag again but the smoke helped mask the taste of puke. I knew I had to press on. I steadily trod down the river bank, through the trees and the hole in the wire fence until I came to the water’s edge. The dinghy was still on the bank and the Navy boat was anchored in the same spot. At least Headlong hadn’t made a run for it.

  I waved my hand overhead to see if I could get any reaction from the vessel as it drifted redundantly back and forth on the tide.

  “Hey, Headlong!” I yelled across the bank. “We’ve got the diesel.” My voice was croaky and hoarse.

  Nobody replied to my cries. Nobody strolled across the deck. Maybe they were asleep down below. A nagging doubt of apprehension pricked my senses. I stood and smoked my cigarette watching the river. Everything seemed so calm and peaceful as though the world’s troubles were insignificant there. Birds dived and dipped through the air above the flowing water, oblivious to the bleak plight of the human race.

  I flicked away the cigarette butt and decided to return to the Humvee. Whatever the scenario, we’d still have to diesel up to continue our journey. I trod cautiously back up the incline, as I didn’t want to be caught off guard by another lurking zombie and moved through the trees and the gap in the fence.

  Smith, Cole and Milner had unloaded the last of the Jerry cans from the back of the truck when I reached the roadside. Hernandez stood on guard, watching the road for any incoming undead.

  “You took your time,” Smith mumbled at me and then lit a smoke.

  I muttered a reply, something between a “yeah” and “right.” Then I said, “the Navy boat is still floating around the river in the same place. I didn’t see anyone onboard though.”

  Smith nodded and turned back to the military guys. His despair at having to shoot Chaplain Brady seemed to have rapidly evaporated. I could tell by the way Smith chatted and exchanged banter with Cole, Milner and Hernandez that he enjoyed being in their company. They were all military guys of a similar background, same experiences, comparable attitudes, likes and dislikes – tough guys who could handle themselves. Then there was me and Batfish – a scrawny loser and a moody Goth girl. I thought Smith must have been inwardly yearning to ditch us and spend his time with these guys.

  “You want a hand lugging these canisters down to the shore?” Cole asked Smith.

  “No thanks, Chief. Wilde Man and I can handle it from here. Better you stay out of sight of the boat or that dipshit onboard might start blazing with that cannon.”

  “Okay, your choice, man,” Cole sighed and folded his arms in resignation.

  “You okay, Wilde Man? You look a little peaky,” Smith said, as he lifted a Jerry can in each hand.

  “Just feeling a little sick, nothing to worry about.” I couldn’t be bothered to recount my ordeal with the old zombie.

  “Well, if we’re of no more use to you, we might as well shoot,” Cole said. “Good luck to you both and remember us if you need any help.”

  Smith put down his Jerry cans and shook Cole’s hand again. We all shook hands with each other before Milner fired up the Humvee and U-turned in the road. Cole gave us a salute and a final wave from the machine gun turret and we watched them head back towards the air base.

  “There are a few good guys left on this shitty planet,” Smith muttered, as we watched the Humvee disappear into the distance. “Come on, Wilde Man, let’s get this shit shifted.”

  It took us the best part of an hour to carry all twenty-one Jerry cans down the river bank to the shore. Sweat ran down my face and dripped off my chin through exertion. My arms felt as though they had been pulled from their sockets and I twice slipped going down the grassy, moist bank. I deliberately deviated from the route I had taken earlier to avoid having to see the zombie corpse with the crushed in skull. Smith either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t asked me about my blood encrusted pants leg.

  Still we saw no movement on the upper deck of the Navy boat as we carried the canisters to the water’s edge. I was slightly worried about what had happened onboard in our absence.

  The sun began its regular dip, causing the shadows of the trees to elongate and shade us as we moved up and down the bank. Smith muttered some song tune that was vaguely familiar while we trudged up and down the incline.

  We stood at the edge of the river smoking cigarettes when our task was complete. I wiped the sweat from my face with my free hand and listened to the crickets chirp amongst the long grass and tall reeds.

  “We’ll have to make several trips in the dinghy to get this lot over to the boat,” Smith said. “I haven’t seen that asshole, Headlong. I thought he’d be about on the upper deck by now.”

  “Surely, no zombies could have got to them out there on the river?” I said.

  “We can’t be too sure. Those undead motherfuckers are wily bastards when it comes to feeding time.”

  I thought again of my dad and how his whole ship’s company on his yacht had succumbed to the infection. One contaminated person on a floating vessel was like a ticking time bomb. Only a matter of time before the whole damn cargo would give way to the threat. The only escape route was over the side into the drink.

  We loaded eight Jerry cans into the dinghy and pushed it into the mur
ky river. I hopped inside and Smith gunned the engine then swung around in a U-turn so we were facing the Navy boat.

  The dinghy chugged along through the water until we came alongside the larger Navy vessel. We still saw no sign of life on the upper deck. Smith hollered in a barking voice that would have awoken the dead if they weren’t already stumbling around the planet. I heard Spot whining in the control cabin so I knew he was okay, which was some consolation.

  “Where the fuck is that jerk weed?” Smith growled. “I don’t want to be hanging my ass out here after dark.”

  He impatiently began banging his large fist on the side of the boat’s hull. Eventually, Headlong barged through the hatch, looking even more disheveled than usual with his shirt open and his hair sticking up in clumps. He shuffled across the deck brandishing the M-16.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Smith barked. “We’ve been out here for over an hour waiting for your worthless ass.” Smith was a master at exaggeration. “And where is Tippy? I hope you haven’t hurt her.”

  “Ah, quit whining like a bitch, will ya? I’ve been taking a nap, is all.”

  “It’s all right for some,” Smith argued. “We’ve been to hell and back getting this fucking diesel.”

  Headlong scoured the interior of the dinghy and nonchalantly sniffed. “Is that all you got? That’s not going to get us very far now, is it?”

  “There’s another whole bunch of canisters back on the river bank. Are you blind as well as dumb? Now, we need you to haul these Jerry cans onboard so we can go back and get the rest of them.”

  “How do you suppose I do that?”

  Smith sighed in exasperation. “We either lift the dinghy back onboard and unload it or you lower a rope over the side and we tie it to the handles and you haul them up. It’s totally up to you. You’re the one holding the gun, remember?”

  Headlong smirked at being reminded he was in charge. He was enjoying the power he held over us.

  “I’ll go get the woman. She can do the rope hauling thing. Fat bitch needs to lose a few pounds, anyhow.”

  Smith threw his hands up in the air and made a dramatic, infuriated sigh. “For fuck’s sake, man. We’ll be here all night.”

  Headlong hobbled back down the hatch and reappeared two minutes later behind Tippy, who looked as though she had been crying. Her eyes were red and puffy and her face was pale. Headlong explained the task ahead of her.

  “I don’t think I’m strong enough to lift those heavy canisters,” she wailed.

  “You’ll do what I damn well tell ya,” Headlong shrieked at her, his face a few inches from hers.

  He searched the upper deck lockers and found a length of coiled, thin, blue rope. He thrust the rope at Tippy and yelled at her to lower the end down to the dinghy.

  Smith and I exchanged nervous glances. This operation had ‘Fuck Up’ written all over it. I envisaged the two of us dodging falling Jerry cans for the next hour or so.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The whole maneuver was, as expected, painfully slow going. Tippy did a lot of puffing and panting and wailing while hauling up the Jerry cans. Headlong did plenty of hollering and yelling and calling her all the obscenities he could think of from his limited vocabulary. Smith and I protested and offered to hop back onboard and help her lift the canisters. Headlong was oblivious to our pleas. The bastard was enjoying reducing the poor woman to tears and making her feel useless.

  At least Tippy gained some respite when we had loaded all eight cans onboard and went back to the shore for more diesel.

  “I can’t stand much more of this,” I hissed to Smith through clenched teeth, as we loaded the second cargo of fuel into the dinghy.

  “Me either, but we have to bide our time. Don’t worry, that son of a bitch is going to regret ever setting eyes on us, kid.”

  We loaded the second batch of Jerry cans in relative silence and started the whole process again. By the time we’d loaded the last of the canisters onboard, the sun had dipped completely and we were working in relative darkness, only able to see in the dim glow of the Navy boat’s navigation lights.

  Once the canisters were onboard, Smith hopped back onto the Navy vessel and hauled the dinghy back into its housing. I secured the small craft back in place and joined Smith, Tippy and Headlong back on the deck. Our captor gave Smith and me a cursory frisk down to ensure we had no concealed weapons from our trip ashore. He shoved us together in a tight herd when he was satisfied we posed no hidden threat.

  “It’s too damn dark to diesel up now, folks.” Headlong spoke like he was the big cheese in some finely oiled operation. “So I suggest we get some shut-eye and gas up at first light, any objections?”

  He wasn’t going to get any arguments from me. I was dead beat and wanted to sleep and guessed Smith and Tippy felt the same. Also, I didn’t fancy sailing into a zombie infested city in the dead of night.

  “That’s a rap for today, then,” Headlong continued. “You two boys can take the wheelhouse cabin again and me and the woman will take the bunks below. You fellas take turns on watching our asses. I don’t want no zombies creeping up on us while I’m sleeping.”

  Tippy looked horrified, even noticeable under the faint glow of the navigation lights. I knew she didn’t want to spend any more time alone with that obnoxious prick.

  “Do we get any food?” Smith grunted. “It’s been a long, hard day, man.”

  “Yeah, and the dog will need feeding as well,” I chipped in.

  Headlong flapped his hand at us. “Ah, I’m sure the woman will sort you out with some chow. Come on, woman, my leg is starting to hurt again.”

  Headlong jostled Tippy back down the hatch and the two of them disappeared down below. I breathed out a sigh and offered Smith a smoke and took one for myself. We moved away from the Jerry cans before we lit up to be on the safe side of caution.

  “This is getting beyond a fucking joke, Smith.” I leaned on the guard rail, exhaling smoke and watching the night close in. “I can’t stand watching that guy bully that poor woman anymore.”

  “It’ll all be over tomorrow, don’t worry about that. The situation will come to a head one way or another.”

  I wondered if we weren’t simply wasting our time and Batfish was already dead or a zombie or had escaped on her own and then we’d never find her. I hoped our ordeal wasn’t all for nothing.

  “I better go check on Spot,” I said, flicking my cigarette butt into the dark river.

  The poor dog had made a bit of a mess in the control cabin, which was evident from the stench when I opened the door. He half growled and half whimpered when he saw me. I felt a pang of guilt I’d left him so long on his own. Smith walked him around the upper deck while I cleared up the mess. I found a small mop and a bottle of cleaning fluid, which helped dissolve the pungent odor of dog shit.

  Smith and I slumped into the swivel, cushioned chairs next to the console when the cleanup operation was completed. We talked in tired, bleary voices, recounting the day’s events. Tippy knocked on the cabin door an hour later carrying a tray containing a large bowl of hot rice and beans and an open can of tuna, presumably for Spot.

  “Sorry boys, this is all I could muster,” she wailed.

  “That’ll do just fine,” Smith said, as she placed the tray on the side countertop. “Where’s laughing boy? How come he let you out here on your own? He must trust us all together.”

  “He said we wouldn’t try and escape in the dark. I mean where are we going to go?”

  I briefly thought about running there and then. We could lower the dinghy and reach the shore before Headlong had time to react and take a few pot shots at us. Then we could try and get back to the airbase and hook up with Chief Cole again. But that train of thought was soon quashed when I realized we’d never find Batfish if we made a bolt for it. Besides, it was at least two miles back to the airbase and we didn’t have any weapons. Stumbling along in the dark with no protection would be as good as suicide. Unfortunatel
y, Headlong was right in his thinking.

  Smith dished up two servings of rice and beans on the plates on the tray and scooped out the tuna. He set down the dish of tuna for Spot and handed me a plate. I tucked in and smiled watching Spot gobble his dinner.

  Tippy sobbed again and held her hand over her lower face. “It’s so awful with that guy. When you were away getting the diesel, he was making such lewd comments and then he started touching me…you know?”

  My guts churned over. The rice and beans no longer had its appeal. Disgusting images flashed through my mind. What a sick bastard Headlong was, preying on an innocent, middle aged woman.

  Smith put his fork down in the center of his plate and leaned forward in his chair.

  “I know this is a terrible experience for you, Tippy. And I know it is real hard going right now, but I need you to stay calm, just until tomorrow, then it will all be over.”

  Tippy sniffed and wiped away tears in the corners of her eyes then nodded. “Okay,” she croaked. “I’ll try.”

  She turned and I knew she was reluctant to leave the control cabin and go back down below to spend some more time with her nemesis. I feared for Tippy. I didn’t know how much longer she was going to last, physically or mentally. Without her husband, she was lost. The two of them had stuck together and at least could comfort one another in times of dire trouble. Now, she was left surplus to requirements, if I was honest, in our quest to find Batfish.

  Smith and I ate in silence. I forced myself to finish the rice and beans simply to keep my body functioning. My former life, before the outbreak, consisted of a boring job with an insurance company, boozing with my pals and ignoring the usual complaints from my on-off girlfriend, Samantha. How I longed for those lighthearted, carefree times. Now, life stunk of the same dog shit that Spot had generated earlier in the cabin.