The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers

by Christian Fletcher

  “Stand still,” Smith yelled. “I can’t get a clear shot.”

  I wrestled the zombie back to the sinks and tried to move its head away from mine. Smith kept swaying the flash light in wide arcs. I remembered the hunting knife from the gun store and put my hand under the zombies chin, pushing its head back. I reached for my belt and unclipped the sheath catch. The zombie’s hands released my collar and flailed around my head trying to rip my face apart. The muscles in my arms began to ache and I knew I had to act before fatigue got the better of me. This ghoul wasn’t going to give up. I quickly unsheathed the knife and took a firm grip. The sharp blade briefly glinted in the flash light beam before I plunged it to the hilt in the zombie’s left temple.

  At last, the undead creature stopped floundering. It went limp and finally slumped to the bathroom floor. I retrieved the hunting knife and cleaned the blood and gore from the blade using the sink on the wall behind. Smith provided the light without a word. I knew what was going through his mind. He was trying to find the words to ask me if I’d been bitten in the struggle.

  “I didn’t get bit, luckily.” I answered Smith’s question for him.

  “I couldn’t see,” Smith stammered. “I didn’t want to end up shooting you. You did well there, kid.” Smith seemed genuinely concerned. I thought this was the closest I was going to get to an apology from him for not helping me.

  I took the flash light and shone the beam over the prone corpse. He was dressed in light brown coveralls emblazoned with a ‘Happy Hal’s Hardware’ logo on the right breast. On the other side was a name tag that read ‘I’m Larry and Happy to Help.’ It seemed bizarre some 48 hours ago this dead piece of rotting shit was serving customers and answering their queries with a smile on his face.

  “He was sure happy to try and eat me,” I said.

  “They probably left the poor bastard in here when they abandoned the place,” Smith sniffed.

  We cleaned ourselves up and searched the offices for anything we might find useful and just to be generally nosey. Smith and I soon tired of sifting through accounts and receipts and decided to go back down into the store. Smith wanted a flash light and I wanted to grab some more hand tools, easy to fit into my pockets. After the battle in the bathroom I wanted to carry as many weapons as possible.

  Smith found the flash lights amongst the lighting department and selected a heavy duty rubber handle model and a smaller pen sized one. A small light might come in handy so I took one as well. We took spare batteries, lighters and a short handled axe. I found a section of pocket knives and selected an expensive Swiss Army, multi tooled piece and slipped it into my pants pocket, feeling a little like a shop lifter.

  “What’s that noise?” Smith hissed and cocked his head to one side.

  I listened and heard a faint buzz like a generator or a motorbike. And it was growing louder. It was a vehicle engine.

  The Rolling Stones’ ringtone started again and I pulled the cell phone from my pocket.

  “Hi, Brett. It’s Denny again. I persuaded the guys to come and get you. I tried to call earlier but the signal keeps coming and going. We’ve made a break for it and we’re nearly at your location.”

  “There are a lot of zombies out here, Rosenberg. Don’t get caught up in the crowd.”

  “I thought you said there weren’t many there? Can you make it out into the parking lot?”

  I heard a female voice in the background over the noise of the VW camper engine.

  “Batfish says she’ll circle the parking lot once and give you a chance to get out and into the van. There are a lot of zombies on the streets so we can’t hang around.”

  “Okay, we’ll try and get out the front door but it’s not going to be easy.” The signal cut out again and we heard the VW camper approaching.

  “They’re coming to get us but we have to get out now. They’re not going to wait,” I explained to Smith.

  “That’s a familiar story,” he groaned.

  I thought quickly. We needed to keep the zombies back long enough for us get to the vehicle.

  “What about fire?”

  “I think that’s already been invented,” Smith snorted.

  “No, I mean we use fire to keep the zombies off us while we escape. There must be gallons of flammable liquids in here.”

  Smith thought, turned and searched the aisles. We held the pen lights between our teeth as we scooted up and down the aisles collecting flammable material. Smith grabbed a few cartons of brush cleaner and I took some cans of spray glue. The VW’s engine grew to an audible buzz. I turned and saw the headlight beams wash across the parking lot.

  “Smith, we have to go now,” I wailed.

  He nodded and we moved to the glass panels at the front of the store. One thing we hadn’t thought of was how to get through the safety glass windows.

  Chapter Twelve

  The zombies banged at the glass windows with renewed vigor when they saw us approach. The undead milling around the parking lot turned and trundled towards the building. The VW camper crept into the parking lot entrance with the headlights turned out.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked.

  Smith looked blank. “I thought you had a plan. I was following your lead.”

  “I’ll open the door and you throw the brush cleaner over them and then light them up,” I suggested.

  Smith nodded and I moved to the door. I thought it would simply slowly slide open like the rear door. I pushed and pulled each way but couldn’t budge the sliding glass panel. Smith pointed to a keyhole I hadn’t noticed.

  “I think it may be locked. Did that guy upstairs have a key on him?”

  “I didn’t see,” I shrugged.

  We had no time to go back upstairs and rummage in the dead zombie’s pockets for a key that may or may not have been there.

  “Okay, we’ll smash the window and start a fire and run through to the camper,” was my next bright idea.

  I put the cans of glue on the floor and ran back to the aisles of tool racks and selected a long handled lump hammer. I rushed back to the front of the store and bashed the glass with the mallet. Smith splashed a pool of brush cleaner on the floor and set it ablaze. The zombies on the outside recoiled from the flames. The glass in the window cracked where I’d hit it but didn’t break.

  “Oh, shit. It’s fucking safety glass,” I yelled.

  Batfish steered the VW camper further into the store’s parking lot. I smashed at the glass again and again until bits and pieces of the pane fell onto the ground outside. Flames lapped around my ankles as I thumped the glass panel and watched Batfish start to circle the lot. Some of the zombies were more attracted to the vehicle and gave a lumbering chase.

  “Ah, fuck this,” Smith sighed and drew the Desert Eagle. He kept firing at the window pane until it gave way and crumpled inwards from the frame.

  I hurled the lump hammer at the small crowd of zombies gathered outside and scooped up the cans of spray glue. I jumped through the smashed window with the ends of my pants alight by my ankles. Zombies rumbled in the darkness and lurched towards me. I didn’t have time to put out my burning pants and fumbled around my pocket for a lighter. Smith jumped through the gap and splashed the looming zombies with the brush cleaner. I retrieved my lighter, sprayed the glue and held the flame to the dribbling nozzle. The glue sparked up into a jet of flame and caught the vapors of the brush cleaner. The zombies lit up like burning effigies that looked like the popular pastime in Middle East countries. The air filled with the stench of solvent and burning flesh.

  Batfish had passed us and almost completed her lap of the parking lot. If she left us now, we were dead. More numbers of undead surrounded us, attracted by the illumination of the flames, engine noises and general commotion.

  “Let’s move,” Smith growled while I flapped at my burning ankles.

  We hurried across the car park beating off and dodging the zombies outstretched hands. Smith used his baseball bat to fend off the undead as he’d
exhausted his supply of brush cleaner and the rounds in the Desert Eagle clip. I continued using the spray glue and lighter routine, being careful not to drop any solvent on my smoldering pants.

  Batfish slowed the vehicle to a crawl as she reached the edge of the parking lot. At least she was giving us a sporting chance but the VW was still about thirty feet away with a growing number of zombies covering the ground between us. The van was surrounded by around ten zombies and I heard Eazy going to work with his Smith & Wesson hand gun.

  The flame spluttered and died and I threw down the last can of spray glue. The VW was pulling out of the parking lot and I knew we only had seconds left before they were gone for good. The route back into the store was cut off and we wouldn’t have had time to board up the broken window before the zombies made their way inside the building.

  “Run for it, Smith,” I yelled.

  I turned and ran and ducked and pushed, like I was a football player back at High School. Hands and nails clawed at me as I weaved my way through the throng of undead. Survival instinct only works for short periods and I didn’t want to overstretch my luck.

  I drew close to the van and saw the side door slide open. Rosenberg’s upper body appeared out of the interior and everything seemed to roll into slow motion like a rerun of a sports incident.

  Rosenberg was screaming the word, “RUN,” over and over but it sounded like a deep blurred groan to me. His mouth opened and closed in big broad movements, his eyes wide and terrified. Gun shots were peeling off somewhere in the foreground but I wasn’t aware who was firing or what the target was. My only goal was the safety of that side door.

  I leapt through the opening and landed on top of Rosenberg, who clutched hold of me like I was a long lost relative he’d just been reunited with. I breathed a sigh of relief and looked around for Smith. He trotted alongside the van firing shots into the surging undead crowd. Somehow, he’d managed to reload his gun.

  “Smith, get the hell in here, now,” I shrieked. A few hours ago, this guy was probably going to do me and my best friends some serious harm but now I considered him to be one of my best buddies.

  Smith took a running leap as the zombies closed in on him and grabbed at his clothes. He landed on Rosenberg and me. The three of us lay in a heap on the floor of the camper van.

  “Ah, quit your whining, Wilde,” Smith uttered between deep breaths. “And give me a cigarette.”

  “Someone shut that fucking door,” Batfish bellowed as she put her foot on the gas.

  Smith slid the door closed with his outstretched foot and the VW gathered pace. Smith, Rosenberg and I sat up along the bench seat of the VW. I complied with Smith’s wishes and supplied the van’s occupancy with cigarettes. Batfish shook her head. She was too busy concentrating on navigating a path through the clusters of undead and abandoned vehicles on the road. I had to hand it to her; she was a damn good driver.

  I expressed my thanks to everyone for coming to rescue us.

  “Let’s not start sucking each other’s dicks yet,” Eazy retorted. “We have to get out of town first.”

  “Is there many of them still on the roads?” I asked.

  “Hell, yeah,” he said. What the hell were you two thinking of going in that store, anyway? You should have just sat tight in your apartment block and we’d have come back and got you.”

  “We didn’t know that. You didn’t exactly make it clear you were going to dump us like a ton of shit,” Smith hit back.

  Batfish shrieked when a zombie’s head collided with the windshield leaving a rose shaped smear of blood on the glass. The VW lurched as it drove over the body but luckily carried on its route. Eazy reloaded his Smith & Wesson and seemed to forget about baiting us. Smith watched and followed suit, changing mags and reloading the empty clip.

  We flashed past my old apartment block and I silently prayed the mob of zombies that blocked our way earlier had dispersed.

  A large number of undead still roamed around but not in one huge mass. Batfish slowed slightly but kept the van moving through the crowd. I copied Smith and Eazy, drawing my Beretta as a precaution. Discolored and mutilated hands slapped the windows and roof. Disfigured, inhuman faces vacantly peered in at us. The moaning and lowing increased in volume.

  “Just keep it going,” Eazy encouraged.

  Donna was whimpering in the middle of the front seat. Rosenberg slumped down as low as he could get. This was like a vision in a nightmare. All those ghoulish hands and faces trying to get at us, to rip and tear us to pieces and feed on our flesh until our bones were picked clean.

  My heart nearly stopped when one of the back windows cracked. I looked at Smith and he gave me a cheeky wink. I didn’t know if it was to try and reassure me or he was actually enjoying this whole lurid, nightmarish situation.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Batfish maneuvered the vehicle through the crowds of undead as best she could. I saw her shoulders move up and down like she was taking in huge, nervous breaths. The vehicle snaked around a corner and she changed down the stick shift gears. The engine revved higher as the VW slowed. My first thought was the numbers of zombies were too great to get through and we’d have to attempt to fight our way out. I looked through the front wind shield and realized we were ascending the incline onto the town overpass.

  The zombies’ numbers decreased in front and behind us. I glanced through the back window and saw the masses of undead disappearing from sight into the darkness. Their pace was no more than a shamble on level ground but even slower going uphill.

  “I just need a minute,” Batfish gasped as she brought the vehicle to a halt at the summit of the overpass. She put her face in her hands and outwardly sobbed in a release of relief and shock.

  We all muttered words of gratitude and encouragement. Batfish may have been a scary chick but she had done us proud with that horrific journey. I looked out the window and over the dark and decimated town of Brynston. I said a silent farewell to Pete, Marlon and Sam, my ex-girlfriend, wherever they all were. I doubted if I’d ever return.

  Rosenberg told us they had stopped about a mile ahead of the overpass when we’d split away from them and the roads seemed fairly clear. The plan was reevaluated and everyone agreed we should try and make it to that yacht in Battery Park Harbor.

  Eazy took over driving duties from Batfish, allowing her to doze in the front seat. I checked the time and was shocked to see it was five am. The first shards of daylight began to creep across the horizon. I wondered what delights this new day had in store for me and pondered on the fact it could be my last in human form.

  Smith and Rosenberg dozed in the back seat and rocked side to side with the motion of the vehicle. Donna chain smoked in the front seat and Eazy clicked on the radio. He tried several local channels spouting more religious small talk and different theories concerning the infection. Somebody on one of the channels made a point which made me sit up and listen. He queried whether the infection was airborne or if animals had also contracted the symptoms. I’d personally seen no evidence to suggest the infection was airborne as I’d been up close and personal to enough zombies without contracting the virus. As for animals, I hadn’t seen any zombie dogs or anything else. I racked my brains and tried to think when I last saw a living animal of any description. I watched the fields flash by through the camper window. The golden sun rose on a clear summer day and it could have been like a camping trip with some old friends. I knew I was feeling the effects of sleep deprivation. My mind was a jumbled mess.

  I shut my eyes and enjoyed the feeling of the morning sun’s rays on my face. I slipped into the numbness and ignorance of sleep and welcomed the lack of awareness it brought.

  The whine of the VW engine changing down gears jolted me awake.

  “Uh oh. I think we got a problem,” Eazy said.

  I blinked sleep away and took a look out of the front window. A line of vehicles blocked the Interstate like a giant had swept his hand across the traffic. Piles of debris lay strewn
across the lanes. Fenders, wheel hubs, broken glass and baggage scattered the road. Some vehicles lay on their sides and others had overturned completely. A jack-knifed truck stood half buried in the center of the pile up.

  “What do we do?” Eazy threw the question out to the floor. Nobody answered. He slowed and brought the camper to a halt twenty yards from the stacked heap of wrecked vehicles.

  “Let’s get out and take a look,” Smith growled like a bear disturbed from hibernation. “We may be able to shift a few wrecks and clear a path through.”

  “Okay, but be careful and keep your wits about you,” Eazy commanded.

  “Who put Snoop Dogg there, in charge?” Smith sighed.

  Eazy ignored Smith’s comment and lit a smoke.

  “I need to get out and stretch my legs,” Batfish groaned, sounding still half asleep.

  “I’ll come with you,” Donna said.

  “I’m staying right here with the engine running,” Eazy said. “If a bunch of those dead motherfuckers come swarming out from those wrecks, I’m going to U-turn and get my black ass out of here, so y’all better be quick at getting back in the van.”

  Rosenberg followed Smith and me out of the back of the van. It felt like we had been cooped in the vehicle for hours. My back ached and I wanted to sleep for 24 hours solid. Donna and Batfish walked over to the side of the Interstate and hung about like they couldn’t make up their minds about something. Then the thought hit me when Smith started to piss in the middle of the road. The girls needed to go as well. I suggested we turn our backs. We spent a few moments studying the pile of smashed vehicles with horrified awe. Batfish and Donna called out when they were done.

  The wreckage was a crumpled wall of twisted metal and plastic, about twenty feet high in some places. Flocks of black crows perched on top of the debris and squawked as if in warning as we slowly approached. Clouds of flies buzzed in and around certain vehicles and I saw hands, feet and tops of smashed heads poking out of the piles of wrecked metal. I wondered if anyone was left alive amongst the debris. A stink of dead flesh, engine lubricants, oil and gasoline wafted from the site.