The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers

by Christian Fletcher

  Eazy scrabbled to stand up but had the same trouble as me. He couldn’t get a firm foothold amongst the slippery, bloody glop.

  The tag team zombie chewed off the fingers of the hand in his mouth and discarded the remaining bloody stump. He writhed left and right, trying to grab Eazy and keep hold of me at the same time. The three of us sprawled around amongst other people’s body parts like mud wrestlers in a Las Vegas show.

  “Get the gun, Eazy,” I screeched.

  “I’m trying, you stupid prick,” he muttered.

  I heard a “whoomp” and felt something pass through the air near me. The tag zombie’s skull suddenly shattered into several pieces like a cracked coconut. He slumped into the goo and lay still. I looked up and saw Rosenberg standing over us with the bloodied baseball bat in his hand.

  “Like you said, Brett, you got to hit them in the head,” he said, holding out a hand to help me up.

  “Careful you don’t slip over in this shit,” I said, hauling myself up.

  Eazy crawled out of the stinking pile and vomited onto the floor. “Filthy bastards,” he spat. He stood up and went behind the desk to retrieve his gun.

  I stood with my hands on my knees, trying to get my breath. “Why didn’t you tell me about those two?” I sighed. “I thought we could have at least got out of the office before we started in our bout of blood wrestling.”

  “I tried,” Eazy began. “There was a shower back there in the locker room and I pulled back the curtain and those two gorillas were in there eating some dude who looked like he’d hung himself. I dropped my gun back there and anyway why didn’t you just shoot these two clowns in the first place?” He gestured to the two tag team zombie’s bodies on the floor. “It’s not my fault you can’t use a bang bang properly,” he scowled.

  “Come on, guys,” Rosenberg interjected. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Hold the phone,” Eazy said. “I’m going back to that locker room to get the other gun and see if that shower is working. Man, I’m covered in shit.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I said. “You got a flashlight, Denny?”

  Rosenberg nodded and handed me a small light. “Yeah, you better rinse that blood off, it will be infected.”

  Rosenberg was spouting the obvious again but I didn’t let it irritate me. He’d just probably saved our lives, after all.

  “Hey, Wilde. Grab that motherfucking gas can will you?”Eazy pointed to the floor. “Now we’re already covered in shit, you won’t need no God damn rag.”

  I picked up the can and followed Eazy through the door to the locker room once more. We slowly crept around the maze of lockers, Eazy held the gun out in front of him. We couldn’t take a chance of being caught out again. Thankfully, no more zombies leapt out at us. I shone the flashlight around the floor and we found the other pistol by the shower tray. Eazy pointed to the partially closed curtain and I shone the light over the cubicle. He pulled back the curtain like a magician revealing a trick. The body of a man dressed in a ripped, brown security guard uniform was suspended from the shower head from a thick, leather belt around his neck. The uniform tunic was ripped open and the man’s stomach had been torn apart. What looked like a string of sausages hung from the man’s gaping wound.

  “Look at that. They were gnawing on the guy’s intestines,” Rosenberg said.

  “Those sick motherfuckers really had a taste for human guts, huh?” Eazy said.

  “They looked like the kind of guys who were eating people’s guts before they were zombies,” I said.

  “Help me get this poor bastard down from here, Wilde” Eazy said.

  I handed Rosenberg the flashlight and reluctantly gave Eazy a hand removing the dead guy from the shower. We unceremoniously dumped his body by the lockers at the back of the room.

  The shower still worked but was cold and had little pressure. Eazy and I both stood under the water, fully clothed washing the blood, gore and bits of skull and bone off us. Someone had kindly left half a container of shower soap on the shelf which we shared. I washed off the gas can and handed it to Rosenberg, who held the flashlight and the two pistols.

  “Hey guys, I think this gas can may be an antique of some sort and quite valuable,” Rosenberg muttered as we stepped out of the shower. “You can tell by the hexagonal shape that it’s quite old and probably a limited edition.” He shone the flashlight over the red colored can. “Look it’s got pictures on it as well.”

  “Rosenberg, I don’t give a fuck if it’s got a picture of a pair of giant titties and an ass on it,” Eazy sighed. “We’re using the can to put some damn gas in. Now we’re out of here.”

  Rosenberg looked slightly hurt but didn’t utter a word.

  “Come on, Denny,” I said. “You can keep the can after we’ve used it for gas, if it makes you happy.”

  We trudged out of the office without a second glance at the dead wrestling tag team and their accumulation of body parts. Eazy took the can from Rosenberg and made his way to a Ford Sedan parked opposite the office.

  “This is an older diesel car. Let’s just hope it’s got gas in it,” he said. “Older makes are easier to get gas from because they weren’t made with anti-siphon devices,” he explained. “Now, we need about a six foot length of hose.”

  We searched around the lot and found a hose in the back of an old pickup truck. Eazy sent Rosenberg back to the RV to cut a length of hose, get his cigarettes and also explain to Batfish and the others why we were taking so long.

  Eazy and I stood silently in the sun, trying to dry off. Rosenberg jogged over to us a couple of minutes later, looking pleased with himself. “Six foot of hose exactly,” he said. “I found a measure in the tool box.”

  “It didn’t have to be exact,” Eazy sighed, taking the hose and a packet of cigarettes from Rosenberg. He offered me one and we lit up. “Better smoke these before we start fucking around with gas tanks,” he said.

  “Why do you think there were so many bodies in that office?” I pondered as we smoked.

  “I don’t’ know,” Eazy muttered. “Maybe a whole bunch of people holed up in there. Locked themselves in and thought they were safe. It only takes one bad motherfucker to be bit in a locked room with no way out and you got yourselves a shit situation waiting to happen. Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee were the last two bad asses standing.”

  I went through the scenario in my mind and it played like a sketchy, internet movie. How many people had started out, locked in that office? Five, six? Plus the tag team and the suicide guy. All thinking they’re safe and sound from the outside world but one of them is harboring a dreadful secret. They secretly got bit and didn’t tell anyone, probably one of the tag team. They turn and bite someone, probably Suicide Guy. Suicide Guy knows the score and hangs himself. The first tag guy bites the other tag guy; both are turned and go ape shit on the rest of them inside. The door keys get lost in the melee and they all get slaughtered.

  “Brett? Are you okay?” Rosenberg asked. “You had a kind of faraway look for a minute there.”

  “I’m good,” I said, the in head movie concluded with no rolling credits.

  “Okay, let’s get this gas,” Eazy said, stamping on his cigarette butt.

  He took a big wrench from the back of the pickup truck and smashed off the Ford Sedan gas cap. He stuffed the end of the hose inside the tank hole and threaded it down. Eazy told Rosenberg to remove the cap of the can and place it on the ground next to the Sedan.

  “This is the worst part,” he muttered and sucked the free end of the hose and spat a mouthful of diesel on the ground. He stuffed the hose end into the can and waited until the diesel overflowed. “Let’s go,” he snapped.

  “Why are you all wet?” Batfish asked as Eazy poured the diesel into the RV gas tank. “Rosenberg said you had a bit of trouble in there and we heard gun shots. What the hell went on?”

  “Long messy story,” Eazy muttered. “Here you go, Rosenberg, here’s your precious fucking gas can. Now let’s go to fu
cking Manhattan and get on that fucking boat.” He tossed the can inside the RV interior and jumped in the passenger seat.

  I smiled at Julia before stripping off my wet clothes.

  “Are you okay, Brett?” her voice full of concern.

  “Never better,” I said.

  She looked at me as if I’d crash landed on a UFO in Area 51. I changed into a sweat shirt and jogging pants, my last change of clean clothes I carried in my bag.

  Batfish cranked up the RV and swung around in the middle of the road, ready to take us back onto the Interstate. Eazy sauntered back into the living area with a pissed off look on his face.

  “Are there any spare, clean clothes I can wear?” he asked. “My best attire seems to be ruined.” He gave me a harsh look, like it was my fault.

  “There’s some clean clothes in the closets,” Rosenberg said, pointing to the wardrobes.

  Eazy moved over to the cupboards and looked inside.

  “Ah, man! Do I look like some old, white dude about to croak?” he said, studying the wardrobe. “This guy had to have an XXXL waist at least.”

  “Tell me about it,” Smith croaked from his bed. “Look at these pants. Bob Hope wore these on the golf course.” He pointed to a pair of brown and green checked pants he had on with a belt tightening the waist and the bottoms flapping around his shins.

  “We’re all going to be naked before we get to that boat,” Eazy sighed. “Can we stop off somewhere and get some new rags?” he shouted through to Batfish in the cab.

  “Can’t you wait till we get to Battery Park?” she shouted back.

  Eazy stalked through the back of the RV into the cab. I knew he liked his clothes and his image. He didn’t like being wet, cold and nearly naked in front of other people. A rumble of voices went on in the cab that we couldn’t hear.

  Eazy came back into the living area. “We all need some new clothes so we’re going to stop when we can, before the Holland Tunnel” he said to us all with no emotion.

  “Good call,” Smith said, rising from his bunk. “I could do with a sharp new suit.”

  I sighed and held my head in my hands. We were about to embark on another unnecessary stop on an already flawed journey.

  Chapter Fifty

  Batfish drove the RV back to the Interstate 78, following the route we had previously taken. We sat in silence watching the world go by through the side windows as we headed further into the denser area of Jersey City. Rosenberg sat up front in the cab, alongside Batfish. We headed north on the Interstate towards the Holland Tunnel, an underground roadway that passed under the Hudson River into the heart of Manhattan.

  Batfish slowed and pulled the RV off the I-78, somewhere near the Historic Downtown area, after around a mile. I’d give Eazy nine out of ten for the “shit idea of the week” award. I knew he needed clothes but surely any old rags would do for the moment. I hoped he wasn’t thinking of dragging us around endless zombie infested streets searching for his favorite clothing brand. He’d told Soames about the plan before we got back on the Interstate. Soames not surprisingly wasn’t happy with the situation but agreed to follow.

  We turned east on Christopher Columbus Drive on a six lane. The road ran straight down to the harbor, Eazy told us. The streets were quiet with clusters of zombies milling around outside the four storey brownstone buildings. Not as many dead as I’d expected. Abandoned cars lay at odd angles in the road and Batfish drove slowly around them. Dreary, run down, one storey shops and stores with metal shutters pulled down over the doors and windows lined the streets.

  “Holler if you see a gun store,” Smith said. “We could do with rearming ourselves.”

  “Over there, look,” Eazy said, pointing out the window. “A sports store, that’ll do.” He moved to the cab to tell Batfish to pull over.

  “Ah, Christ,” Smith sighed. “I wanted to find an up market store to get a decent suit.”

  “I don’t think you’ll find any of them around these parts,” Eazy smirked. “You all can come with me if you want to but I’m going to be in and out of that store as quick as a fat man eats a burger. I need some clothes and maybe a spare pair. I mean, look at me.”

  I had to admit he did look ridiculous. He wore a gray tee shirt at least three sizes too big, a pair of baggy shorts with a belt tightened to the last notch and a pair of carpet slippers. The previous owners of the RV had obviously been on the weighty side. Julia had shoved Eazy’s and my wet clothes in a laundry bag and left them in the bathroom.

  Batfish bumped the front wheel up the curb and drove onto the sidewalk as close as she could get to the sports store front.

  “How are you going to get in?” I asked.

  “Through the front door, I’ve got the key right here,” Eazy said, holding the baseball bat.

  “Wait,” I hissed, “What if the alarm goes off and the zombies from several blocks away hear it?”

  “Like I said, I’m going to be in and out real quick.”

  “Hey, you better pick me up some gear. Get XL size.” Smith said, shuffling to a chair in the living area. “I can’t move around too quickly yet.” He winced with the effort of sitting down. Julia handed him a cup of coffee.

  “I’ll come with you, Eazy,” I said. “I’m down to my last set of clothes.” I looked at the jog pants I had on with several holes in the legs. Normally, I reserved what I was wearing for rare DIY and sports activities.

  “Me too,” said Rosenberg. “This is the only set of clothes I have. The rest of my gear got trashed back in Brynston.”

  “Okay,” Eazy said. “We better take one gun with us and we’ll leave one here with you, Smith.”

  Smith nodded. “I can still use a weapon if I have to,” he said.

  “If you get into any real trouble give us two honks on the horn, Batfish,” Eazy called into the cab.

  “Two honks, I got it,” Batfish confirmed. “I’m going to leave the engine running but make sure you guys are real quick, okay?” She moved into view in the cab doorway. “I don’t want to be hanging around here with my ass hanging out if the shit hits the fan.”

  I glanced out the side window and noticed we were already attracting the attention of a few street walking zombies. They shuffled towards the RV, hands outstretched, mouths hanging open like they were salivating at the thought of sinking their teeth into our flesh.

  “Okay, can we get on with it?” I hissed. “A few of them are already on the way over here.”

  Eazy looked out of the windows. Soames had pulled up his Lexus on the curb side behind us.

  “Right, let’s roll,” he said, sliding open the door.

  Rosenberg and I followed Eazy out of the RV. Eazy checked the sports store door that was predictably locked. It wasn’t a high end chain store, only an independent outlet offering specialized stock. High end stores presented safety glass fronted windows and sophisticated security systems. Low end, non high street locations tended to rely on locks, bolts, chains and a lot of hope in the possibility they wouldn’t be robbed. I dealt with numerous insurance claims from similar small store owners when they were robbed or vandalized in my previous and probably last employment. I asked the same monotonous questions; have you reported the break in? Did you have locks and alarms fitted?

  All questions and insurance claims for break-ins were now null and void.

  Eazy took a back swing the bat at the unguarded sport store window.

  “Hang on, Eazy,” I said. “Why don’t we try around the back and see if there’s a door we can kick in?” I looked around at the approaching zombies. “It might be better to get in and out undetected. The noise of breaking glass will only attract more dead people.”

  “Okay,” he whispered. We trudged around the side of the building looking for an entrance.

  We followed the red brick wall around the back of the building. The store backyard had a rickety, rusty chain link fence that we pulled down without much effort. For some reason general store owners only worried about guarding the fro
nt of their premises. We scrambled over the four foot brick wall and through the old oil stained, concreted delivery yard. The main doors had obviously been bricked up long ago. A security door with a shiny steel padlock stood in the center of the back wall.

  “Ah, crap. How are we going to get through that?” Rosenberg sighed.

  Many homeowners and store keepers thought their premises were safe because they’d installed padlocks, bolts and locks. Most of the time, security equipment was held in place by wood screws in the door and jambs. I’d dealt with countless security claims of people getting robbed by the intruder simply dislodging the screws from a padlock clasp with a boot or screwdriver.

  I walked up to the door and gave it a hefty kick with my damp sneakers. The wood splintered and the screws dislodged themselves from the padlock fixing. The door banged open on the second kick.

  “Okay, let’s go get some gear,” I said.

  Eazy tossed me the baseball bat and drew the hand gun from the back of his waistband. I led the way into the back of store. We moved through a small corridor, passed some hanging racks and a stock room on our left. The store was dim, only lit from the faint sunlight outside in the rectangular shaped shop floor. Sports equipment, such as balls, helmets and hockey sticks were racked to our left and clothing to our right.

  I was glad to see there wasn’t much variety so Eazy couldn’t spend loads of time searching for designer brands. We took a mish mash of football tops, jog suits and a few pairs of high end sneakers and training shoes. Rosenberg took a goalie hockey mask and a stick for protection. Eazy grabbed some XL gear for Smith and we stuffed it all in a few plastic carriers left by the payment area.

  The whole shopping spree took less than five minutes but we suddenly stopped in our tracks as we were about to leave through the back. Two blasts on a vehicle horn, the warning signal from Batfish.