The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers

by Christian Fletcher

  Both cars pulled out of the hospital parking lot and onto the highway with a flow of chasing undead. Smith jammed on the brakes a few yards down the road and two zombies tumbled off the roof into the road. Smith swerved around them and gunned the engine. Rosenberg struggled to keep up in his crappy Honda.

  A mile down the road, Smith pulled over in a lay by on the outskirts of the urban area and waited for Rosenberg to catch up. He pulled up behind us and rested his head on the steering wheel. Smith looked around for zombies and got out of the car to inspect the damage when he was happy we were free from danger. I got out my side. I’d been impressed with the Pontiac when I first saw it but now it was no more than a potential coffin. I was still pumping adrenalin and took in huge gulps of air. I felt glad to be alive but nauseous and weak. The whole hospital episode had been a terrifying experience.

  Smith placed his hands on top of his head and scowled when he saw the state of his car. All of the door panels were creased, scratched and dented. The front fender was buckled and hanging off, the hood and roof had huge body shaped dents. The interior looked like the floor of a butcher’s shop and was covered in blood, gore, pieces of skull and brain and of course, the dead hippy zombie.

  “Look what those bastards did,” Smith yelled. He marched around to the back of the car and took hold of the female hippy zombie’s legs. He wrenched and dragged the body until it slithered out of the back window and splattered onto the roadside tarmac. He kicked the body in the ribs, causing a nauseas squelching noise.

  Rosenberg slid out of his car and came towards us. Smith lit a cigarette and offered me one. We leaned against the wreck of the Pontiac and smoked our cigarettes in silence. I knew Smith was thinking we’d just had a lucky escape. I was horrified at the state of us. We were a mess, covered head to foot in thick, crimson zombie blood and particles of shattered glass.

  “Are you guys okay?” Rosenberg whispered. He had an incredulous look on his face, like he was talking to a pair of ghosts. “That looked really bad back there in the parking lot. I didn’t think you were going to make it. I mean, all those creatures…all those things… surrounding your car. You sure you’re not bitten?”

  Rosenberg had a point. Smith or I could have been bitten in the melee and not even realized. We checked ourselves but saw no teeth marks or any body parts missing.

  “You guys better get yourselves cleaned up.” Rosenberg said exactly what I was thinking. “That blood on you is infected. Just don’t get it in your mouth, eyes or in any open cuts.”

  I checked my cell phone for messages but still there were no calls. I resigned myself to the fact that Pete and Marlon were probably dead by now.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked Smith crushing out my cigarette on the ground.

  “We go to that bar you mentioned. What was it?”

  “Buddy’s Bar, it’s only a few blocks from here.”

  “Okay, we check for your pals in there. This bar has a bathroom I take it?”

  I nodded. It wasn’t Caesars’ Palace but it had soap and water.

  “At least we can clean ourselves up and maybe have a beer. God knows, I need a drink.”

  “I think we better leave,” I said. I’d noticed one or two lone zombies milling around the streets but now their numbers were growing and they took a whole new interest in the three of us.

  Smith nodded. We had no intention of being outnumbered and overrun like we had in the hospital parking lot. The Pontiac couldn’t withstand another pounding and offered us little protection with the back and side windows gone. I hoped it wouldn’t be long before Smith ditched his beloved Pontiac.

  Rosenberg jumped in his car and followed behind. It seemed a crazy idea using two vehicles but Smith insisted on using his car. I couldn’t imagine Rosenberg’s Honda would have managed to pull away from danger like Smith’s Pontiac had.

  I guided Smith around open roads to Buddy’s bar. He clicked on the radio and some religious freak spouted how mankind had only themselves to blame for the crisis. “Mortal sins had overwhelmed the world and this was God’s redemption,” according to the guy’s ranting. “These are dark times, people,” he kept repeating. Smith grew tired of the religious guff and turned channels to some obscure rock and roll station. We skirted around any potential bottle necks or narrow alleys where we could be surrounded and overrun. It took us twenty minutes before we pulled over in the parking lot at Buddy’s Bar.

  The bar itself was a huge, square construction, built in colonial times and had seen several changes through the years. I remembered the place as an outdated 1980’s boutique some years ago. Buddy’s Bar opened in the late 90’s when the owner had knocked all the walls out and turned the downstairs area into one enormous room. The place had the reputation of a rowdy, rough and ready, 24 hour, music and booze venue. The cops always seemed to hang around outside, breaking up fights or busting some dumbass for drunk driving. I had no idea who Buddy was or if he even existed and I’d had some good nights in the bar in the past but hadn’t visited the place for a while. Pete and Marlon still loved it because it was always full of young, nubile chicks and always rocking.

  Today was different. I’d never seen the place so quiet. Several abandoned cars were dotted around the parking spaces. Several zombies roamed around the parking lot and outside the bar. Smith pulled around the lot and reversed back, stopping outside the main entrance. Rosenberg followed suit and nervously glanced at the zombies roaming outside. My guess was about twenty undead in total. I didn’t know if any more were inside the bar but it didn’t look very inviting. Shards of glass surrounded the shattered windows and the neon “Buddy’s” sign usually displayed above the front door, hung limp and unlit like someone had tried to pull it down. The exterior tables and wooden seating benches lay scattered amongst narrow flower borders and outdoor gravel pathways.

  “Still fancy that beer?” I asked.

  “We’ll take a quick peek inside. If those guys aren’t in here then I’m calling the visit off. I’ll come back some other time, maybe,” Smith said quietly.

  I looked at Smith and tried to read his expression. He was obviously having doubts about his debt collecting work and his future. I guessed the episode at the hospital made him realize he wasn’t invincible and just as vulnerable as the rest of us. He loaded a fresh ammo clip into the Desert Eagle.

  Smith jumped out of the car. I opened the door and looked around with caution. Rosenberg soon joined us. The guy was seriously spooked and didn’t want to be on his own for too long. Five or six ambling zombies started to stagger towards us, with hands outstretched and lowing in that familiar, monotonous moan. I readied the golf club in preparation of an attack.

  “Okay, let’s get inside and see if we can shut the door,” Smith whispered, trying not to alert more numbers of undead.

  “We don’t want to get cut off from the vehicles,” Rosenberg hissed.

  “We’re not going to be very long,” Smith promised.

  We stood back to back and edged our way to the front door. Buddy’s had a double doorway in a porch style, followed by another set of double doors leading to the bar. The porch doors hung broken and smashed from their hinges but the inner doors were still solid. I closed the interior doors as we scurried through and bolted them at the top and bottom. Smith fired a shot through the head of a lone male zombie who was stumbling around the bar, knocking over chairs and tables. No one else occupied the bar that stunk of sweat and stale beer. The dark wooden paneled interior was dim and unlit. I felt uneasy studying the dark corners where hungry zombies could be lurking.

  Rosenberg and I hurried away from the interior door when the slapping and banging sounds came from outside. The zombies had got to the door quicker than I expected and probably been spurred on by the sound of Smith’s gunshot.

  “That door isn’t going to hold them for long,” I said. “They’re going to be coming in through those broken windows soon.”

  “Come on, guys. Let’s go,” Rosenberg was physic
ally shaking. “Is there another exit out of this place?”

  “We can get out of the fire doors through the bathrooms,” I nodded to the fire escape signs to our right. “It doesn’t look like there’s anybody here.” My slim hopes of seeing Pete and Marlon were quickly quashed.

  Smith climbed over the wooden counter running the width of the room. He rummaged around under the counter and lifted something into the air. I moved a step closer and saw he held an aluminum baseball bat.

  “A quieter weapon,” Smith smiled and imitated an NBL batters stance. He carried on looking under the desk and slapped an old fashioned, wooden police style baton on top of the counter. “Here’s one for you, Rosenberg.”

  Rosenberg moved forward and snatched up the wooden club, gripping it with both hands and circling the weapon in nervous arcs. Smith opened the cash register and took a wad of notes from the trays. He lifted a bottle of bourbon from the shelf and set it down on the counter. He took three bottles of beer from the fridge and unscrewed the tops and handed one to me and Rosenberg. I drank mine down in three long gulps. Smith smiled and handed me another.

  “Look guys, I don’t think it’s a good idea to get smashed with those zombies about to break in here any minute,” Rosenberg said, setting his untouched beer on the counter.

  “Okay, he’s right,” I muttered. “Throw me a couple of packs of smokes,” I said to Smith. He asked me what brand and I shrugged. Brands and choices were something we were going to have to get used to living without. And as for quitting smoking, well…that was on hold.

  Rosenberg suddenly shrieked and began clubbing something on the ground. An undead, old guy of about seventy with thin wispy hair and stumps for legs, clung to Rosenberg’s pants. Rosenberg didn’t hesitate and clumped the head to a bloody pulp.

  “Can we please go now?” Rosenberg begged. His face was shocked and pale white. He obviously still hadn’t come to terms with what was happening to the world yet. I understood his job had been to save lives, not destroy them.

  Smith loaded his pockets with cigarettes and a full bottle of bourbon. I led the way to the bathroom where we could finally wash the zombie blood from our hands and faces.

  “We better be quick in here,” Rosenberg was still panicking.

  I couldn’t blame him. We didn’t know how many zombies were around outside or if any of them were inside the building. I remembered the bar had upstairs rooms called ‘function areas.’ The rooms were often used for pot smokers, illegal gamblers and illicit sexual encounters. The stairway was partitioned off from the main bar, towards the far end by some wooden double doors. I wondered if any zombies were stumbling around the stairway or in the upstairs rooms.

  The bathrooms were situated through a set of glass paneled doors, at the end of a corridor running along the right side of the building. I led the way and stopped when I heard the tinkling of shattered glass.

  “They’ve broken into the bar,” Rosenberg hissed. “We better hurry.”

  We peered around the male bathroom door with the logo ‘Buddy’s Chaps’ etched onto a small wooden sign in the center. Nobody appeared to occupy the bathroom that stunk of stale piss, raw sewage and blocked drains. I checked the line of three cubicles to the left and to the rear. Smith checked the traps to the right. All were clear of people alive or dead but the pale blue tiled walls and floor were covered with dark blood and excrement. Clouds of flies buzzed back and forward between the traps.

  “Jesus, it smells like a zombie took a shit in here and crapped himself inside out,” Smith coughed as he spoke.

  “We better be quick,” I said. “Keep an eye on that door, Rosenberg.” I knew it wouldn’t be long before the zombies stumbled through the bar after us.

  “At least the stink of shit will disguise our scent,” Smith said.

  Smith moved to the row of sinks and washed his face and neck. I did the same and was shocked at my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. I looked pretty much like a zombie myself. Blood and guts splattered the side of my face and hair, my eyes were puffy and my face was the color of cold porridge. I washed and scrubbed fast and hard and used a grimy, damp hand towel to wash away what mess I could from my clothes.

  I felt a whole lot better but could have done with a change of clothes. Smith wet his hair and combed it back. I lit a cigarette and leaned with my back to the sinks.

  “I think they are coming this way,” Rosenberg hissed, peering through the crack in the door.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Smith said.

  I pointed towards the fire exit between the two lines of cubicles on the far wall. Smith pushed down the release bar and opened the door. It swung on its hinges and opened about six inches before it struck a solid object on the outside and wouldn’t budge any further.

  “Ah, shit! The fucking doors jammed,” Smith growled through gritted teeth as he put all his weight behind the door and shoved.

  “Hang on,” I took a peek through the crack in the door by the hinges and saw a light green, VW camper van parked in front of the fire exit. I hadn’t thought to check the exit first. Now we were trapped. “Ah, shit. There’s a vehicle blocking the door on the other side.”

  “What are we going to do?” Rosenberg whimpered like a scolded dog.

  “Is there a fire exit in the girl’s bathroom?” Smith asked.

  I thought for a moment. “There was but it got blocked up. They said in summer the door got left open and too many dudes just walked right in from outside. The ladies complained and they bricked the door up.”

  “Whatever happened to fire regulations when you want them?” Smith muttered.

  “We’ll have to go back through the bar and fight our way out,” I suggested. I didn’t see any other option, besides there weren’t too many zombies to contend with and we were all armed.“It shouldn’t be too bad,” I rested a reassuring hand on Rosenberg’s shoulder. Smith snorted in disbelieving indifference.

  My two accomplices nodded in agreement, although I knew Rosenberg was reluctant to confront even a small crowd of zombies. We met the first walking corpse in the corridor, hanging around the door of the female bathroom. The creature was the remains of a male biker type with long hair in a ponytail and a sleeveless denim jacket. Smith cracked the zombie around the head with the baseball bat, producing a satisfying, hollow ‘clang.’

  “I hate men with fucking ponytails,” Smith spat, pounding the biker’s head.

  Two more zombies, who were once females, lurched down the corridor towards us. I noticed Rosenberg hung back a little but he sprung forward and took out the girl on the right with a series of swift blows with his wooden club. I finished the other one off with my trusty golf club.

  “See, I told you it wouldn’t be too bad,” I said to Rosenberg, opening the glass paneled doors into the bar. I immediately wished I’d looked through those glass panes before opening the door. Around a hundred zombies shuffled around the bar interior and more were pouring through the shattered front doors. Some had been bikers, punks with leather jackets and Mohican hairstyles or skinheads and every low life that had frequented Buddy’s Bar in their former lives.

  “Ah,” was the only coherent sound that came from my mouth. A quick escape through the front door or windows was now out of the question.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got any other wise ass exit strategies up your sleeve?” Smith muttered.

  I had to think quickly. The throng of zombies noticed us and began their slow, lumbering advance. The route to the stairway rooms was still reasonably clear.

  “There’s a fire escape upstairs that leads to the back of the building,” I hissed.

  We ran through the bar knocking down a few oncoming zombies with our weapons. The crowd of undead massed in the bar about fifteen yards from the wooden, double doors leading to the stairway. I pushed on the handle and discovered the doors were locked from the other side. Smith and I battered our shoulders into the door.

  “Hurry up, guys,” Rosenberg stammered. “They’re
getting closer.”

  Chapter Seven

  Rosenberg swiped air with his wooden club, attempting to stop the zombies advancing. The approaching horde was led by a huge, mountain of a guy, who had been a biker in his previous existence. He could have passed for the Devil himself with evil, milky white eyes and thinning black hair, forming a widow’s peak at the front. A goatee beard surrounded his mouth but part of his bottom lip was torn away, exposing crooked teeth, covered in brown, congealed blood.

  The huge biker laid a meaty hand on Rosenberg’s shoulder and dragged him forward. Rosenberg whimpered and shut his eyes, anticipating a fatal bite. Smith drew his Desert Eagle and fired a round, hitting the biker in the right eye. Rosenberg staggered backwards as the zombie released his grip. My shoulder was sore but I kept ramming into the doors. The crowd of zombies closed in on us, moaning with hunger. The double doors creaked and splintered. Rosenberg took a flying leap and crashed between the doors when the locks gave way. He tumbled into a small foyer by the foot of the stairway while the doors swung open and banged against the jamb. I turned and swatted away a punk zombie’s hand as he clawed the back of my neck.

  “Run for it!” I bellowed.

  Rosenberg was up on his feet and climbing the stairs before Smith and I made it through the doorway. Smith fired another shot which lifted a female zombie’s head right off her shoulders. I began climbing the stairs and stopped when I heard a shout. I turned and saw Smith on his stomach on the stairway. A female, biker zombie had hold of his ankle, gnawing his shoe leather.

  “Eat this, bitch,” he yelled, jamming the barrel of the Desert Eagle into the zombie’s mouth and firing. The head exploded into a spray of tiny fragments before the body went limp.

  A male zombie crawled on his back and clawed the back of Smith’s head. Smith was trying to crawl up the stairs one by one but the pack of undead were about to engulf him and tear him to pieces. Dead hands grabbed his feet and tore at his pants. Smith slipped down a step and fired another shot that disappeared insignificantly into the crowd. I rushed down the steps and smacked the zombie on Smith’s back with a perfect swing of the golf club. The creature somersaulted, almost comically, backward and knocked a few of the approaching infected back down the stairs which gained us a few vital seconds.