The Left Series (Book 2): Left Alone

by Christian Fletcher

  “Nah,” Headlong bleated. “They’ll keep it for themselves and snort it or sell it on under the table someplace. No chance they’ll report seeing us.”

  Headlong pulled the truck over on the corner where Esplanade Avenue met the top of Bourbon Street. He cut the engine and clambered into the rear compartment. His eyes widened when Smith opened the cash box.

  “You boys got a good haul off that paddle steamer.” Then he sniffed and shrugged. “Damn shame about that bag of coke though.”

  “Forget about that, right now,” Smith said, with his game face well and truly on. “We need to stay sharp and focused for the next few hours. We’ll leave the truck here and work our way across Bourbon Street.” He handed out a bundle of notes and a hand gun to each of us. “Don’t get too flash with the cash and don’t go waving your shooters around.”

  “Do you want us to split up or stick together?” I asked.

  “Three sets of eyes would be better in different directions but given our precarious situation, we better stay as a group. Everyone cool with that?”

  Headlong and I both nodded in agreement.

  “Then let’s get searching.”

  I tied Spot to the back of the passenger seat again and Smith slid the cash box into the shadows next to the rear doors. We bundled out of the truck, Headlong locked the doors and we took to the street.

  The first half dozen blocks along Bourbon Street consisted of residential and private dwellings that were of no interest to us. Some places were occupied and some looked as though they hadn’t been inhabited for a while. It was hard to gain an accurate demographic of city populations, whether folk were dead, moved away, now a member of the undead or had simply upsized and moved into a bigger and better unoccupied accommodations.

  It wasn’t until we came to where Bourbon Street crossed with Saint Ann Street that the population of inhabitants increased in number. A guy stood on the corner trying to sell small bags of weed. Another guy on the opposite side of the street sang drunkenly while attempting to play an acoustic guitar with a couple of broken strings. A bowl lay at his feet with no more than two coins inside it.

  “That guy will get a smack in the mouth before the day is out.” Headlong scowled at the singer. “I’d cut my damn tongue out if I sounded like that.”

  We tried a couple of small party bars but no one had seen or heard of Batfish. We found a small tobacconist that consisted of a guy selling cigars and cigarettes from cardboard boxes in a doorway. Smith bought two packs and offered to slip the guy an extra ten if he could tell us where we could find the places where the girls hung out. He pointed us further down the street and told us to try Toulouse Street as well. No new information and the place didn’t look primed for any kind of nightlife.

  “We may as well hang around until darkness,” Smith suggested. “It don’t look like much is happening at the moment.”

  We found a small bar on the corner of Saint Peter Street that was only occupied by one other drinker, who didn’t look particularly crazy or menacing in any way. I ordered three beers, paid cash and we slumped at a table by the front window, waiting for darkness to fall. I made sure I had a view of the street and the clock behind the bar, which showed the time was slightly after four pm.

  “What time does it get dark?” I asked Headlong.

  “Around five o’clock this time of year.”

  We had around an hour to kill but didn’t go crazy with the rounds of beers. We slowly sipped our long neck bottles and kept ourselves motivated by talking about how we were going to cover the area.

  The sun gradually sank below the horizon and the neon lights down the street flicked on for those bars and clubs which had separate power generators. It felt weird to be sat in a bar with other uninfected human beings after all this time but the vibe wasn’t the same. It all felt wrong somehow, false and contrived.

  We finished our beers and set off on our search once more. The street had become more populated as though all the traders of once illegal substances and ladies of the night were waiting for sundown, as we were. Maybe it was a human trait to do things you knew were morally corrupt after darkness hours.

  A hubbub of voices and music filled the street. People tried to barter and sell their wares or drag customers inside their establishments. Smith spoke to an attractive blonde woman who was squeezed into a tight fitting red dress and matching high heels. I saw her shake her head but whispered something in Smith’s ear. In turn, he shook his head and she looked slightly disappointed. I guessed Smith was in better physical shape than most of the sleaze bags she picked up.

  The bars and clubs were filling up with people who didn’t have anything to do with their lives except get wasted on booze and drugs. By the look of most of them, the relief and exhilaration of surviving the apocalypse had long since worn thin.

  We hit the first club that was decorated in soft pink on the walls and a matching carpeted floor. We watched naked women throw themselves around a pole on a stage in the center of the floor to the sound of loud pumping music, which I didn’t recognize. Smith slipped the barman a twenty but he was still reluctant to tell us anything about the girls that worked the club.

  I blocked the exit route of a dark haired, naked girl as she made her way from the stage, down the steps to a door to the left. Presumably, the door led backstage to the dressing rooms.

  “Hi,” I said, flashing my best smile.

  “Sorry, I don’t do private dances,” the girl said flatly and went to push by me.

  “I just wondered if you’d seen a friend of mine around here. Her name is Batfish and I’ve been looking for her for a while.”

  “Everyone is looking for someone, buddy. Now, get out of my way before I call security.”

  I reluctantly moved out of the girl’s path, feeling dejected. Maybe we weren’t going to find Batfish; maybe we were wasting our time.

  “Wilde Man!”

  I heard Smith’s voice above the dance music and turned back towards the bar. Smith waved me over so I threaded through the crowd in his direction.

  “The bar guy told me they haven’t had any new girls start here in the last few weeks so she’s not in this place,” he yelled in my ear. “Let’s go, where’s Headlong?”

  I looked around and saw him ogling one of the naked pole dancers. I bumped through the mob and gave Headlong a head slap from the back. He turned with a vicious expression on his face. I relayed Smith’s message and we headed for the door.

  We tried a second club and mingled with the clientele inside. The interior was illuminated in electric blue swirls across the floor and walls that made recognizing anyone practically impossible. ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man” boomed from overhead speakers at a high level of decibels. We went our separate ways and I asked an oriental girl if she knew Batfish. She couldn’t hear what I was saying above the noise and led me to a side room away from the main area. She was dressed in a tight, silver spangled cocktail dress and high heeled shoes with a blue colored feather boa draped around her shoulders. She sat me down in a leather chair and stood facing me.

  “I’m looking for a girl,” I said.

  “Good,” she squeaked. “I can be your girl for the night. My name is Suki.”

  “No, not like that,” I protested. “I’m looking for a specific girl who came here to New Orleans in the last few days. Her name is Batfish.”

  Suki looked confused. “Batfish? That’s a weird name.”

  “Well, it’s not her real name, just a nickname.” Then I realized for the life of me, I couldn’t even remember Batfish’s real name. What use was I?

  “You want a private dance?”

  “No…sorry, Suki. You’re very nice but I have to find my friend by midnight or I’m in big trouble.”

  I stood up and shoved her a twenty before brushing by and exiting the small side room. I stood at the edge of the bar area and looked for the rest of my team, if that’s what we were. The music had changed but was still as loud. “Invaders Must Die,
” by The Prodigy blasted from the sound system. I wondered if the DJ had an ironic sense of humor.

  Smith was talking to a guy at the bar and Headlong was chatting to two girls by the front door. Smith was shaking his head and his conversation broke up. Headlong seemed more animated in the heat of his tête-à-tête with the two girls, waving his hands and nodding enthusiastically.

  I saw him pass a few notes to the girls and hoped he wasn’t just putting a down payment for a later rendezvous. He looked around the bar and saw Smith then excitedly waved him over. Smith waded through the crowd towards Headlong and I sensed something was up. I made my way towards them as Smith bent forward and Headlong yelled in his ear. Smith nodded and his eyes widened. They both looked around and saw me approaching. Smith beckoned me outside into the street before he spoke.

  He turned to me with an excited expression on his face. Headlong smiled and nodded his head.

  “It may be nothing but Headlong was talking to two girls who think they know where Batfish is. They said some new girls came into town a couple of days ago to a club called ‘The Circle,’ just down the street. They said one had a Goth look and a load of tattoos. We’ll go on up there now and see if we can find her.”

  For the first time in a long while, I felt a jolt of optimism.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  My new found optimism soon evaporated when we arrived outside ‘The Circle Club.’ The same slow talking giant stood on guard at the front door of the pink colored building and again refused us access to the premises. The clock was ticking down and we were wasting time, yet again.

  We took a few steps back away from the front of the club for a brief conference.

  “What do we do?” I hissed. “Find another way in around the back?”

  “We’ve got guns, ‘aint we? Why don’t we shove them up the dude’s nose and demand to go on in?” Headlong suggested.

  Smith shook his head. “I’ll go and try and reason with the guy. Maybe offer him all the cash I’ve got on me for a twenty minute reconnoiter.”

  “Okay, it’s worth a shot,” I agreed.

  Headlong shrugged and pouted out his bottom lip. “If you think it’ll help.”

  Smith approached the club again and our vision was obscured by passersby on the street. I lit a cigarette and waited impatiently. Headlong looked a little flaky around the edges again but knew he had to stay focused, for a while at least. Smith returned about a minute later, looking a little awkward.

  “Well?”

  “Ah…yeah, we’re in. Come on, quick, we haven’t got long.”

  Headlong flashed me an inquisitive glance as we followed Smith towards the club entrance. The slow talking giant sat to the right side of the front step with his back propped against the wall. His eyes were closed and he had a thin red streak that had started to turn purple with bruising, running horizontally across his throat.

  “Ah, shit, Smith! You’ve fucking killed the guy,” I wailed. “That’s going to bring all kinds of shit raining down on us.”

  “Shh…” Smith hissed. “He’s not dead, I checked his pulse. He’s just sleeping off a few too many Daiquiris, if any one notices.” He bent forward and attempted to cover the guy’s wound.

  “What did you do, choke the asshole?” Headlong seemed impressed.

  “He pissed me off. He refused my money and told me to try the zombie lounge so I gave him a little chop to the throat.”

  “The Zombie Lounge? That’s a club on Saint Louis Street,” Headlong said.

  “It’s a club? Shit, I thought the guy was being facetious. Fuck!”

  “Come on, guys,” I sighed. “Let’s take a look inside. We’ll have to worry about the consequences later.”

  We stepped over the giant’s legs and went inside ‘The Circle Club.’ The interior was decorated like a European burlesque club, with soft red lighting and red drapes along the walls. The music was playing at a lower volume than the previous club and I recognized the more conservative genre of ‘Trad Jazz,’ with a tinkling piano and blaring trumpets. The bar stood to the left of the floor space and a busty Latino girl, who was squeezed into a red bustle dress, poured the drinks behind the counter. Similarly scantily clad women mingled with the clientele at booths and tables dotted around the interior.

  The club wasn’t as busy as the previous two and I presumed the establishment was meant to be a higher class kind of joint. Headlong made straight for the Latino girl behind the bar. Smith and I glanced around the club, looking for a familiar face. A dark wooden staircase along the back wall led to an upper level.

  “I’m going to try upstairs,” I said to Smith, pointing at the stairway.

  He nodded and Headlong returned with three beer bottles.

  “That girl behind the bar with the big hooters, don’t make no sense at all,” Headlong said, handing round the bottles. “She’s strung out on something – couldn’t get a straight answer out of her about your friend.”

  I took my bottle and headed for the staircase, leaving Smith and Headlong to continue the search around the ground floor. The staircase was wide and several girls climbed and descended, carrying trays containing full and empty bottles. They smiled at me falsely like I was a famous movie star but their dilated pupils told me they were high on some sort of enhancing substance.

  The layout of the upper floor was pretty similar to the one down below, only squeezed into a tighter area. Several closed doors to private rooms were situated to the right of the floor space but a semi circular bar area stood to my left.

  I took a sip of beer and nearly spat it out again. The girl behind the bar wore a black bustle dress, had black hair and tattoos covering her upper arms, shoulders and chest.

  “Batfish!?” I blurted, stumbling towards the bar.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  I shoved a couple of protesting guys out of my way to get to the bar and nearly tripped over a stool in front of the counter. I banged my bottle on the bar, sprawling over the wooden countertop.

  “Batfish?” I yelled at the girl.

  She looked at me as though I was insane.

  “What?”

  I felt the crushing blow of disillusionment sink to the pit of my stomach. The girl wasn’t Batfish, only a lookalike.

  “Sorry…I thought you were someone else,” I sighed.

  I slumped with my head on the bar, feeling absolutely devastated.

  “Are you drunk?”

  I glanced up and stared at the Batfish lookalike.

  “No, not yet anyway. But you can pour me a large Bourbon, sweetheart.”

  The girl complied and I downed the liquor in one gulp then ordered another.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, as she poured the second shot.

  “Julia,” she answered tentatively.

  Shit, the past or fate or whatever was really kicking my ass. What were the chances of finding a Batfish lookalike called Julia? I knocked back my drink and pointed at the glass for another. The sight of the other Julia plummeting from that Manhattan building briefly flashed across my vision like a sudden shock of lightning.

  “Sorry, honey, no more than two shots without paying first,” Julia said, pointing to a sign behind the bar that reiterated the house rule.

  I laughed as the burn of the liquor reached my guts. I reached in my pocket and took out the wad of bills.

  “Here, how much of this shit do you want?”

  “Twenty will do,” she whispered. “Now, put the rest of it away before you get robbed.”

  I slapped a twenty on the bar and stuffed the rest of the notes back into my pocket. Julia poured me a third shot. The Bourbon went down the way of the previous two and I felt the exhilarating, early stages of drunkenness. I tossed another twenty on the bar and pointed to my empty glass.

  “Do you know a girl called Batfish?”

  Julia shook her head as she poured the fourth shot. “Sorry…no. Never heard of her.”

  “Of course you haven’t. Faceless, nameless people in th
e remains of a city where everyone is shit-faced and run by a drug dealing pimp,” I slurred.

  “Hey, go easy or you’ll get yourself into trouble,” Julia hissed.

  “I really don’t give a fuck.” The Bourbon was fuelling my bravado.

  “Is this jerk bothering you?” A hostile, male voice boomed behind my right shoulder.

  I turned to see a tall, long haired guy with a hooped ring in each nostril, leaning aggressively towards me. His dark, narrow eyes bore intently into mine. I held his stare, unblinking, showing the asshole I wasn’t afraid of him.

  “No, he was just leaving,” Julia said. She tapped my hand holding my glass. “You were just leaving, weren’t you?” She tapped my hand with every word.

  “Yeah,” I grunted. “I’m just leaving.” I finished my drink, bumped by the aggressive guy and made my way back to the staircase.

  I watched my feet as I descended the wooden steps, making sure I wasn’t going to trip and tumble head first down the staircase. I stopped halfway down when I heard the sound of raised, forceful voices above the background jazz music. I looked down into the lower floor area and saw Smith and Headlong standing side by side against the front wall with their hands held beside their heads. The now conscious, slow talking giant stood in front of them, jabbing his forefinger a few inches from Smith’s face. He was flanked by two big black guys pointing large, shiny, chrome finished hand guns in Smith and Headlong’s faces. Smith and Headlong were jabbering protests and my guess was that none of those involved could hear anything the others were saying.

  I stumbled down the remaining steps, knowing I had to intervene. The days of calling the cops and sorting out any fracas in a civilized manner were long gone. I approached the quarreling huddle, ensuring I kept behind the slow talking giant and the two black guys.

  I pulled out my own hand gun, a 9mm, Smith & Wesson M &P, from the back of my waistband and flicked off the safety. Shit or bust. I held the weapon in both hands and raised it behind the heads of the three guys in front of Smith and Headlong.