The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers
Page 33
A cabin door opened from the main structure. Something that resembled my Dad tumbled out of the doorway. His face was pale with deep, gouges around his cheeks, crusted with dried blood. His eyes were milky white and he moaned at me, raising his arm as if waving a greeting.
I’d had about all I could take. I felt the breath in my lungs instantly sucked out and my legs almost failed to hold me up.
“Dad, what the hell happened to you?” I whispered.
He moaned again and took a few steps towards me. More zombies stumbled through the door behind.
I raised the hand gun and took aim, firing one shot. The bullet hit the body that used to be my father, square in the middle of the forehead. He went down on his back.
Time to go. I’d caused the death of a lot people trying to get to a refuge that didn’t exist and probably hadn’t been safe for a while. And now I’d just shot my own Dad in the head. Once a loser, always a loser. Was life better than death?
I hurried back down the ladder onto the boat feeling drained of all emotion.
“I heard a shot,” Smith said.
I gave him a quizzical look. “Ah, I just shot my dad.”
Smith stared at me for a few seconds. “So…the yacht’s off the program then?”
“Pretty much.”
“You okay?”
I nodded and handed Smith his gun back before I turned it on myself.
Smith steered the boat away from the yacht back out onto the expanse of the river. Two men, one woman and two dogs in a little boat. The state of my sanity and where the hell we were headed were both a complete mystery.
THE END