The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers

by Christian Fletcher

  Eventually, the panel bent inward on itself and fell out of the frame into the darkness beyond. The door to the gun store rattled.

  “Quick, get out,” Smith growled. “You go first.”

  I didn’t know if Smith was being cruel or kind. He was telling me to get out first so I’d get away from the oncoming wave of zombies in a confined space but on the other hand we had no clue what lay on the other side of the crapper window. I didn’t have time to question Smith’s authority. I hopped up onto the pan and stepped through the window and jumped out into the night. I landed on concrete or blacktop and rolled, trying to break my fall. The last thing I needed was a sprained or broken ankle. A single gunshot echoed from inside the gun shop before Smith followed me out of the window.

  “Come on, they’re through the door,” Smith yelled.

  We ran from the outside of the building. The back of the gun store led us to a narrow alley somewhere closer to the shopping precinct. We were drawn closer to the center of town without meaning to be. I shone the flashlight up and down the alley. A ten foot brick wall topped with razor wire presented a dead end to our right.

  The zombies would wander around the gun shop and the store room for a while yet and hopefully miss the broken toilet window.

  We had difficulty seeing an escape route in the darkness. I didn’t want to use the flashlight constantly as it gave away our position. I turned it on briefly every few seconds. If a horde of zombies trapped us in the alleyway, we were dead. The bullets could only last until we were overrun, which wouldn’t take them long with my aiming.

  We slowed up as we came to the end of the alley. Smith stood close to the wall and peered around the corner.

  “It looks fairly clear,” Smith whispered. “What’s the plan?”

  “I think we should find a vehicle and try and drive the hell out of here,” I said. “It’s too risky moving around on foot.”

  Smith nodded. “A four-by-four would be good. Something with front bull-bars to smack those rotting fucks out the way.”

  “What about the multi-storey car park by the precinct,” I suggested. “Lots of cars to choose from in there.”

  Smith shook his head. “Those vehicles have been parked up and locked up. The owners are either dead or aren’t coming back. We need something with keys in the ignition and juice in the tank, ready to slip and slide.”

  “Okay, but let’s get away from here first,” I said.

  We doubled back, bypassing the side street where the gun shop was situated. The congregation of zombies outside the store didn’t notice us as we trod carefully by. The first vehicle we came across with keys in the ignition was a Chevrolet Impala. The car was half up the curb and stopped at an odd angle. The driver must have simply stopped the car and ran away. We took a look through the windows and once we were satisfied no zombies were inside, we opened the doors. Smith turned the key but the engine made a clunking sound and didn’t fire.

  He shook his head. “This one’s been wrecked. Sounds like its overheated.”

  We carried on back towards my apartment block. I was starting to worry as more zombies rolled out of the buildings into the streets.

  “Just keep going,” Smith whispered. “We don’t want to start shooting and draw any more attention to ourselves.”

  The zombies gazed in our direction, moaned and held out outstretched hands as though they were begging us to lie down and let them eat us. I couldn’t believe how quickly Brynston had been overrun and how rapidly the infection spread. I thought of Pudgy Face and wished I’d followed his advice and got the fuck out of town.

  The shambling, undead figures filled the streets, silhouetted by the moonlight. Their moans seemed to intensify with every step we took.

  “Smith, we have to get away from here,” I hissed. My panic levels were rising.

  “Quit fucking whining. I’m on it,” Smith retorted.

  A Ford F-150 pickup truck was badly parked on the roadside ahead of us and I inwardly prayed the keys were still in the ignition. The zombies gathered in number like a swarm of angry bees. They filled the streets, spilling from the surrounding apartment blocks and offices at an alarming rate.

  I saw a woman thrashing around the cab of the Ford as we drew nearer. Her hair was in a tight fringe and she wore a low cut, white top. Blood oozed from lacerations on her forehead and ran down her neck which pooled between her large breasts. I’d have said in life she would have been attractive but not so much now. Her hands clawed the windshield and her mouth hung open in an awkward grimace.

  Smith opened the cab door, took hold of the woman by the hair, dragged her out of the vehicle and flung her across the street.

  “Quick, get in,” he barked.

  I didn’t hesitate and jumped in the passenger seat. Smith gunned the engine and U-turned, knocking down the woman he’d just thrown out of the truck in the process. He kept the lights off as we drove down the street at a steady speed, steering around the amassing groups of zombies. I breathed a temporary sigh of relief and lit two cigarettes, passing one to Smith.

  “Which way to the Interstate to get out of this fuck hole town?” Smith asked, passing me the bottle of bourbon.

  I took a swig and guided him past my apartment block in the direction of the main road out of Brynston. I shut my eyes and dozed, in the futile hope the worst was over.

  I opened my eyes when Smith slammed on the brakes.

  “Shit.”

  “What’s up?” A stupid question. A throng of roughly a hundred zombies blocked the road at the site where I’d met Pudgy Face earlier in the day.

  Smith backed up and spun the vehicle around.

  “Any other routes we can take?”

  I thought quickly. “Go right, under the bridge,” I screeched. The bourbon bottle spilled in my lap. I pointed out the direction.

  Smith screeched the vehicle to the right to avoid the advancing undead hordes. He put his foot on the gas and passed under the viaduct. The road on top of the bridge was the route we needed to get to. The street under the viaduct narrowed, blocked by stationary vehicles. Smith went to back up but stopped the Ford in the middle of the street.

  “What’s up?” I said again.

  Smith pointed to the interior mirror and physically sagged. I turned around in my seat and saw the shambling crowd of undead approaching. I looked around desperately and saw the large DIY store a few hundred yards to our right.

  “Let’s try and make it over there,” I said.

  Smith nodded. We jumped out of the cab and ran for the store. It was a huge brick building with a pointed glass roof and big, plate glass front windows. I didn’t completely know why I’d suggested going there. It would more than likely be empty and locked down. People shopped in the store for paint, wallpaper and domestic tools. Not the kind of things people needed anymore.

  The vast parking lot was nearly empty with roughly a dozen vehicles dotted around the slots. We stumbled up the inclining grass verges surrounding the parking lot and headed for the main entrance. No lights lit the inside of the store and the place looked as dead as a graveyard.

  Banners in the window promised us a 25% discount on selected in store items. Predictably, the sliding glass shop front doors were closed and didn’t open automatically when we approached.

  “Let’s see if there’s a way in around the back.”

  Smith nodded and followed me around the back of the building. A tarmac delivery bay was steeped in shadows at the rear of the DIY store. Skips, packing boxes and discarded stock lay at the back of the loading bay. We searched for an open fire door or bathroom window but saw no way inside.

  The wire mesh fence surrounding the outdoor garden section was roughly eight feet high and topped with a double row of barbed wire. Smith and I lifted a stack of wooden pallets next to the fence. I found a piece of old carpet in the skip, wrenched it free and slung it over the top of the two rows of barbed wire on top of the fence. I hopped on the pallets and hauled myself up the fence and o
ver the top. I jumped down into the garden section. Smith followed me to the other side of the fence.

  “We’re okay for a minute,” he said, panting. “Those zombies aren’t much good at climbing.”

  “There’s not much we can use here,” I said. “I don’t think we could fight the zombies with a bunch of limp geraniums.”

  Smith gave me a quizzical look. I didn’t suppose he knew a geranium from a weed, not that I was any sort of gardening genius.

  “Let’s go inside and take a look around.” he suggested.

  We manually slid back the glass paneled door into the store, using some wooden fence posts as levers. The interior of the store was dark with only the back-up emergency lights casting an eerie glow across the floor. We saw right through the store to the front door. The throng of zombies reached the glass frontage and relentlessly slapped and banged in a hopeless attempt to get inside.

  “Do you think that glass will hold them?”

  “Yeah,” Smith nodded. “It’ll keep them out for a while but we can’t stay in here forever. They might not be able to get in easily but we can’t get out easily which kind of evens up the score. Let’s hope they lose interest in the place and go back to the center of town. We’ll try and keep out of sight for a while and they might forget about us.”

  We crept further inside the dark store and slumped down between the shopping aisles. I sat with my back to rows of paint brushes facing a line of garden tools. Smith sat the opposite way around, facing me.

  Smith lit a cigarette and passed one to me.

  “It’s been a hell of a day, kid,” he sighed, exhaling the smoke.

  “It’s been a day to forget,” I whispered.

  “I don’t think we’ll ever forget today in a hurry. And the trouble is we don’t know how many more tomorrows there are going to be.”

  Smith sounded mournful and I couldn’t think of anything to say to cheer him up. We were marooned with no food in a DIY store on the edge of a small town, surrounded by flesh eating zombies and no means of escape.

  “Where do you live in New York?” I tried to change the subject.

  “Brooklyn,” he blurted.

  “Have you got any family there?”

  Smith sighed and didn’t answer. I knew this conversation was going nowhere.

  “So what is your real name?” I tried a different tact.

  “My first name is Franco but I aint telling you shit about my life, okay?”

  I was slightly shocked. I was the only person Smith had for company and thought he might open up slightly but clearly he wasn’t interested in spilling his life story.

  “I think Pete Cousins and Marlon are dead,” I said.

  “Yeah, most people are dead,” Smith sighed.

  “This virus spread so quickly.”

  “It’s not so shocking when you think about it,” Smith sounded as though he was about to fall asleep. “There’s always been a war or a plague or some way of wiping out the population when it gets too large. This is just a different way. There’ll be no more or very little reproduction, so the dead who can still walk will just keep going until they fall to pieces.”

  I thought about the bigger picture and what horrific scenes must be happening all over the world, New York, London, Rome, Paris, Berlin, Tokyo, Los Angeles; all in utter chaos. My eyelids drooped and I heard Smith snoring lightly. Weariness took hold of me and I descended into sleep mode. The turned down adrenalin rush combined with the comfort of a dark, dry place switched me off like an overworked computer.

  I was jolted awake some time later by a figure leaning over me with a hand covering my mouth. The store was still in darkness. I recognized the figure as Smith and thought for a moment he was trying to suffocate me.

  “Shhh…” Smith whispered. “There’s someone in the store.”

  I listened and heard a scuffing of shoes on the vinyl floor. I nodded and Smith took his hand off my mouth. I tried to pinpoint where the noise came from and figured whoever was lurching around was in the aisles to my right, roughly fifteen yards away.

  Smith quietly stood up and craned his neck, trying to see over the top of the aisles.

  I stood up and reached around my back and felt for the golf club in the rifle sling. I slipped it out of the casing, slowly and quietly. I couldn’t believe it when the sound of the Rolling Stones’ ‘Satisfaction’ blurted out on the ringtone from my cell phone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Who or whatever was moving around the shopping isle a few yards from us, thrashed around in alarm at the sound of my cell phone. Something metallic hit the ground. What followed was a noise we’d dreaded. A low monotonous moan told us we had to contend with a zombie inside the store.

  Smith took a shovel from the rack next to us and walked around the aisles. I stood still for a moment, not knowing whether to answer the incoming call or help Smith with the zombie. I heard a clang and Smith reappeared with the shovel bent at an odd angle.

  “Who’s on the phone?”

  I had it in my hand but the caller’s ID read ‘unknown.”

  “Hello…”

  “Hi Brett. This is Denny. Denny Rosenberg. Where are you?”

  “Where are we? Where the fuck did you get to?”

  Smith flapped his hand, telling me to keep my voice down.

  “Ah, yeah. Sorry about our quick exit at your apartment block. We had to get out of there. We saw a whole bunch of zombies coming our way.”

  “Yeah, we found them,” I said. “They chased us into Hal’s DIY store on the edge of town.”

  “I’ve been trying to call you but I couldn’t get hold of you. It kept saying it wasn’t possible to connect your call.”

  “Are you still with Eazy, Donna and Batfish?”

  “Yeah, we got out of town on the overpass and had something to eat. Now we’re just taking a little nap. It’s my turn on sentry watch so I thought I’d try you guys again.”

  “Sounds very cozy, Rosenberg. We’re stuck here and we need you to get us out,” I said. “Do you know where the DIY store is and can you make it here to get us out?” I realized I was talking into the phone like a trooper talks through his radio in a war movie.

  “I know where you are talking about but I doubt Batfish will want to come out there tonight. She’s very tired and…”

  “Rosenberg, you come and get us. You hear me?” My stranded Vietnam trooper act went slightly over the top. “If you come here in daylight every zombie in Brynston will see you coming from the overpass. You have to get here tonight. There are a few zombies here but I think we can get around them.” I knew if the zombies sensed we were in the building during daylight hours, we’d be stuck in the store forever.

  Either Rosenberg rang off or the signal evaporated.

  “Shit, I don’t know if they are coming or not,” I said

  “We have to assume they’re not coming,” Smith sighed. “I don’t think those other three liked us very much, anyway. Let’s take a look around this place. There could be more zombies in the building. Keep out of sight of the front doors and windows.”

  Smith picked up a garden fork from the rack of tools and weighed it up as a weapon.

  “Might as well use the tools at hand,” he said.

  Personally, I preferred my golf club.

  We crept between the aisles and made sure we kept out of sight of the zombies at the front window of the store. I took a peek through the racks and saw a thin line of undead still ignorantly hitting the glass door and windows.

  A doorway to the left of the cash registers stood half open with total blackness beyond. Smith pointed towards to it and we used the cash desks as cover to skulk across the store floor. We moved slowly through the doorway and I turned on the flash light. We were inside a corridor with a small stairway hopping up a level. The walls were bare, concrete block and the floor was covered in gray vinyl tiles.

  I led the way up the stairway pointing the flash light ahead of me. I drew the Beretta and turned off the safet
y in case of a sudden attack. The stairway led to an upper level occupied by small offices and a washroom.

  Smith said he needed to take a leak so I opened the bathroom door and led the way in. I shone the light beam around the room and onto the urinals. I turned away while Smith relieved himself. The flash light flicked across the bathroom mirrors and for a second I caught the vision of a mangled face. I shone the beam back but the face was gone. I backed away from the mirrors, my panic level rose once again.

  “I think someone’s in here, Smith,” I hissed.

  Before Smith answered, I felt cold dead hands grip the back of my neck and inhaled a whiff of the musky odor the undead emit. A throaty groan came from behind me as I tried to spin around. I thought the mangled teeth were going to connect with the back of my neck any second. I launched myself backward with all the strength I could muster. The zombie slammed into the wall behind me. That maneuver would probably have been enough to throw most living people off me but not this undead sucker; he kept a tight grip on me. I tried to turn again and bring the barrel of the pistol up to the zombie’s head but it kept hold and twisted the collar of my sweatshirt around my throat. The flash light spun from my grasp and rolled across the floor.

  “What’s going on?” Smith called out. “I can’t see nothing. It’s too dark.”

  “It’s a zombie,” I croaked. “Get it off me.”

  Smith picked up the flash light and the beam swung in all directions. He eventually caught us performing our macabre dance in the light. The zombie was male with curly black hair and congealed blood covering the right side of his face and chin. I noticed one of his eye sockets was empty as we swung around in the eerie light.

  “Shoot it, Smith,” I squeaked as the yellow teeth came closer to my face. “It’s nearly got me.” I heard fear and panic in my own voice.

  Out the corner of my eye, I saw Smith’s silhouette by the urinals. I heard the click of his Desert Eagle and wished he’d hurry up and shoot this ugly fuck.