The Left Series (Book 7): Left Amongst The Corpses

by Christian Fletcher

  The remaining undead staggered in groups of twos and threes towards us, slipping and tripping on the sloppy shit beneath their feet. I glanced back as we walked, taking note of the truck and the hangar’s position. A cluster of gray clouds gusted across the sun, casting the rear of the airstrip in shadow. Again, something moving up on the hill above the truck caught my eye. I saw two dark figures scurrying in and out of the remaining thick bushes and between the craters the rockets had made. They were definitely not infected but clad in loose fitting, dark colored cotton shirts and baggy cargo shorts. They carried rifles and looked similar to the two young men I’d encountered on the riverbank the previous day. The men weren’t looking in our direction and seemed to be retreating, zigzagging their way up the hill and using whatever little cover was left amongst the battered landscape.

  “Shit,” I whispered to myself. I knew those guys up on the hill were probably island locals and their party were the ones who’d tried to ambush us. Had they been tracking us and wanted to exact revenge for my hasty actions on that damn riverbank?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I didn’t tell any of the rest of my party about the sighting of the two stragglers up on the hill. I figured we had enough to worry about for the time being.

  “Don’t shoot unless we have to,” Smith warned, as the undead tried to close in on us. “Try and conserve the ammo.”

  “Let’s pick up the pace,” McElroy suggested, striding out alongside Smith. “We can leave these dead fuckers behind us and allow ourselves a wee bit more time trying to fire up that fart cart of a bus.”

  “Okay,” Smith agreed. “Just watch out for that shit on the ground and don’t slip up on it whatever you guys do.”

  I was trying not to look at the gory mess littering the airstrip. I’d learned to handle dead bodies walking around but the wreckage a destroyed human corpse could generate was always shocking. Gray and brown internal organs that looked like something left over from an abandoned abattoir lay scattered in the dust, the gritty particles soaking up the diseased, brown blood.

  I shuddered and quickened my pace, drawing alongside McElroy. He nudged my left elbow and nodded at the ground.

  “I didn’t see any of those dead fuckers carrying a string of sausages, did you Wilde Man?”

  “What?” I didn’t have a clue what the crazy Irishman was talking about.

  He smirked and I followed his gaze, immediately wishing I hadn’t. A legless corpse lay scrabbling around in the dust, its stomach ripped open and a long line of slimy red intestines slopped between the creature’s hands.

  I winced and glanced away. “Ugh, that’s fucking disgusting,” I spat.

  McElroy giggled to himself then nudged Smith and nodded at me. Smith shared the brief moment of poking fun at my revulsion. He smiled and shook his head.

  “I figured you’d have the balls to stare at that kind of shit all day long by now, kid,” he said.

  I scowled and swallowed down more stomach bile. “Yeah, but it’s the stink of it. And that poor bastard was as human as you or I at one time.”

  “See, that’s your problem, Wilde,” Smith sighed. “You think about the past way too much. The past is gone, the past is history. There’s not a damn thing we can do to change it. There’s too much nostalgia and compassion in your soul, kid.”

  “It’s only a lump of walking meat, so it is, Wilde Man,” McElroy chipped in, still grinning. “When you see kids on the streets of Belfast dying of the same sort of injuries like that, it kind of blocks this whole situation out. We got kind ‘o used to the bombs and the shootings and the executions back in the day. It puts it into perspective, this ‘aint really real, you know?”

  We walked on in silence for a couple of minutes. I thought about McElroy and Smith’s upbringings. Christ! Seeing kids blown up and people murdered on the streets was a far cry from where I’d spent most of my life. Sleepy Brynston, Pennsylvania, a town where nothing like that ever happened. Smith’s early life was also tough in Brooklyn from the snippets he’d told me. They were both natural born survivors.

  Smith spun around and I turned my head. Wingate and Dante lagged behind.

  “Come on, Sarah,” Smith shouted. “Keep up, damn it.”

  Wingate scowled and flashed Smith her middle finger.

  “That told you,” I said, smiling to myself.

  “She gets in any trouble, she’ll expect me to bale her out,” Smith huffed, shaking his head.

  “Sarah’s a woman of spirit, so she is, Smith,” McElroy said, lightly punching the New Yorker on the shoulder. “You’re lucky to have a woman like that.”

  Smith raised his eyebrows. “I can assure you, it don’t always feel like that, Mac.”

  The bank of gray clouds wafted east and the sun shone on our backs, stretching our shadows in elongated sideways forms across the dusty blacktop. I wiped sweat from my face and felt it running down my shoulder blades. The straggling groups of undead moaned and reached out their hands towards us. We negotiated our pathway through the cluster of grasping arms, never moving within twenty feet of their gnarled, bony limbs.

  I glanced nervously around us, ready to open up with my Armalite rifle at any ghoul who came too close. Smith and McElroy could have been on a Sunday afternoon stroll by their nonchalant gait. I was also worried about the advancing distance between us and Wingate and Dante. I figured Wingate had taken it on herself to take care of our South American associate.

  “I had a woman once,” McElroy said wistfully, gazing into the distance. “I had a family once. Thank the Lord they’re not with us to see these awful days.” He turned to look at me and all wistfulness had evaporated from his face. A bitter, spiteful expression engulfed his face and I swore his eyes changed from light blue to red. “That’s why I kill without sympathy,” he spat. “Every fucking day I avenge my family.”

  I gulped and nodded and turned away from his glare. A cold shiver ran down my spine, despite the moistness of sweat. McElroy was as psychotic as Smith. Suspicion confirmed. I guessed everybody left alive had their demons to carry with them.

  A sudden wind whipped up the gritty dust scattered across the airstrip and gusted into our faces as we reached the old bus. The sun bleached red and rusting, singe deck vehicle sagged on its tires and looked as though it had last been in use in the 1950s. I glanced over the dust spattered windows and flaking bodywork with a sense of disillusionment.

  “Are we absolutely sure about wasting time with this piece of shit?” I whined. “It looks like it was dumped here a long time ago.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” McElroy chimed, moving towards the bus. “From every bag of nails, a construction is built.”

  I stopped walking and shook my head in exasperation. No amount of witty Irish phrases was going to help getting this crappy bus going. Smith followed McElroy towards the dilapidated looking vehicle, both of them holding their rifles at the ready. I glanced back and waited for Wingate and Dante to catch up.

  Wingate stopped beside me and Dante hung back behind. He looked edgy and anxiously glanced back at the clusters of undead approaching from a distance. Wingate sighed, looking as exasperated as I felt.

  “This thing, seriously?” she wailed, studying the bus.

  “Yup,” I said. “We’re going to ride out of here in that bus like movie stars in a limo.”

  “You think?” Wingate groaned.

  “No, not exactly. I’d be very surprised if the piece of crap even starts up.”

  Wingate huffed a laugh in response.

  I reached into my jacket, took out a bottle of water and took a long gulp before passing the container to Wingate. She took the bottle and drank in long swigs. I pulled out a packet of smokes and lit one up.

  “Still indulging in that dirty old habit, Brett?” Wingate asked.

  “Sure,” I said, exhaling a long plume of smoke. Then I tried to mimic Smith’s Brooklyn accent and did my best creased up De Niro face. “Ya godda die of somthin’, babe.”

&
nbsp; Wingate giggled and slapped my shoulder.

  We watched in silence as Smith and McElroy pushed open the doors and stormed the bus interior. Their swiveling, shadowy bulks were only slightly visible behind the grimy windows.

  Wingate handed the water bottle to Dante behind us. She turned and stared at me for a long moment. I took a few puffs of my smoke before I returned her gaze.

  “So, how are you doing, Brett?” she asked, staring intently into my eyes. “I mean, really? With the whole Batfish and baby situation? And how are you in yourself? Are you coping with it all?”

  Ugh, here we go again! The lightheartedness had turned into seriousness. “That’s too many questions for one sentence,” I said, turning my head away from her gaze. I flicked ash off my cigarette and spat on the ground like an old Texas Ranger.

  Wingate continued to look me over like a mother studies her ill child.

  “An answer to one of the questions would be good to hear, Brett.”

  Sweat increasingly seemed to pour down my face. I felt uncomfortable with the situation. I knew Wingate was trying to help but it felt like an intrusion on my own personal hell. I’d tried telling Batfish what really went on inside my head but gauging her horrified reaction, she’d already written me off as some kind of fruit loop. I didn’t want to follow the same path with Wingate.

  “I’m cool with it all,” I lied. Telling lies to keep things under wraps seemed easier than confessing the awful truth.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Devil people, they come,” Dante squawked from behind Wingate and I, breaking my interrogation from the tough, female US Army medic.

  We turned and saw the groups of undead herding together and approaching across the airstrip. I roughly counted around fifty bobbing, sun parched and rotting heads. We had around forty yards of clear space between them and us. I glanced around at the airport terminal building to our right and saw more half decomposed faces leering down on us from the smashed windows above. The feeling of anxiety started to rise.

  “We need to get out of here before it gets worse,” I said, tossing down my cigarette butt.

  “Holy shit,” Wingate whispered, as she stared up at the wrecked terminal windows.

  Dante jabbered and shuffled closer to Wingate and myself. He clutched the battery jumper as though it had some mystical power to ward off the onslaught of the undead.

  Smith and McElroy bundled out from the bus doors wiping sweat from their faces.

  “The vehicle is all clear,” McElroy confirmed.

  “Yeah, all very well, Mac but can we get the damn thing started up?” Wingate screeched. “Those zombies back there on the airstrip are getting closer and there are shit loads more of them up there in the terminal building. You can bet your bottom dollar they’re on the way down here.”

  Smith and McElroy both glanced up the adjacent blue colored construction.

  “Are the keys still in the bus? Does it have any gas in the tank? Will it even start up?” Wingate rattled off the questions like machine gun fire.

  Jesus! It was a time for questions.

  Smith and McElroy both looked blankly at Wingate.

  “Come on, guys, we need some positive action here,” she demanded, stamping her foot.

  “We’ll have a wee look,” McElroy muttered. He looked at Smith and nodded towards the bus. The two of them scampered off like reprimanded school kids.

  McElroy jumped into the driver’s seat and we could just about see him behind the filthy windshield.

  “Keys are in the ignition,” he yelled, holding a thumb in the air.

  We heard a slight clank from under the hood but nothing more.

  “Battery is dead,” McElroy yelled.

  I turned to Dante. “Looks like they need you, buddy,” I said, nodding towards the bus.

  Dante grimaced and shuffled towards the hood. Smith emerged from the bus steps and wrenched up the rusting red metal cover. Wingate and I moved closer. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the undead closing at around thirty yards. A brief look at the building to our right told me the zombies inside were making their way down the internal staircase by the sight of descending bobbing heads.

  Smith and Dante attached the jumper leads to the battery. Smith told McElroy to try the starter again. McElroy did with the same negative result. I felt as though we’d been down this road before.

  “One more time, Smith and we’re going to have to forget all about this,” I shouted, performing a chopping motion across my throat. We were desperately running out of time. Smith and McElroy didn’t seem to care.

  They let the battery jumper do its thing for a few more moments. Zombies started to tumble out of the ground floor of the terminal building, spreading over a cracked, weedy concrete area surrounded by upturned trash cans, long unused black standing ashtrays and overgrown banana plants. A waist high, leafy green bush separated the terminal building from where the bus was parked, around twenty-five feet to our right.

  “Come on, Smith, hurry it up,” I yelled.

  Wingate shuffled beside me, aiming her rifle over the top of the bush.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Smith mumbled, hunched over the engine compartment of the bus. It was another day at the office to him. To me, it was shit your pants central.

  “Okay, try it again, Mac,” Smith shouted.

  McElroy turned the key and the engine rattled, shaking the whole bus on its axis. A huge cloud of black smoke belched out from the rear of the vehicle. McElroy kept the revs going while Smith tugged the jumper leads off the battery. Dante rushed around the side of the bus and leapt onboard.

  Smith smiled and turned to Wingate and I. “All aboard the magical mystery machine. We’re waiting to take you away.” He ushered the way to the open doors.

  I was sure he was cross referencing and getting confused between Scooby Doo and The Beatles but what the fuck? The damn bus was running and we had a way out of the damn place.

  Wingate and I made a run for the open doors. My immediate reaction was to gag again. The interior of the bus was airlessly hot and stunk of stale sweat, vomit and other vile smelling bodily fluids. Big black flies buzzed in front of my face. Rows of beige colored vinyl seats were coated with dry blood and smears of brown colored gore spread across the blue tiled floor. Diesel fumes belched through the bus interior, thankfully to some extent masking the shitty stench. The diesel fumes were only a light reprieve, Wingate, Dante and I began coughing our lungs up.

  The demons in my head told me to run, get off the bus and just run away! Life wasn’t all about roses and kittens.

  The bus clunked forward and McElroy turned the steering wheel to the right. Smith tossed the battery jumper through the open door and leapt onboard himself but we all lurched across the floor with the sudden swerving momentum. McElroy floored the gas pedal and the whole vehicle bounced across the blacktop. We were literally thrown off our feet and landed in a heap across the front seats. I tried my best to avoid skidding through the dry blood and congealed gore all over the bus interior.

  “The suspension is all to fuck and the brakes don’t seem to work much at all,” McElroy yelled from the driver’s seat. “Do we go back for the rocket launchers in this bloody thing or just try to get the hell out of here?”

  I really hoped they would decide on the latter of McElroy’s suggestions but in that lunatic Smith’s company, anything was possible.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Most of the flies swarming around the interior of the bus seemed to be sucked out of the open sliding door. A rush of hot air mingled with blast of sand seemed to be sucked in.

  “Shut the fucking door, Smith,” Wingate yelled.

  Smith gripped the overhead handrails and made his way over to the door like he was climbing monkey bars. He kicked the door with his left foot in a sideways motion, forcing it shut.

  “Anybody come to a decision?” McElroy insisted, turning around in his seat to face us.

  “Let’s go try and unload the SMAWs from the truck at l
east,” Smith said, nodding to the far side of the airstrip.

  “Ah, fuck,” I yelled. “I knew you were going to say that.”

  Smith glared back at me as I squirmed on the blood stained seat. “We can get a few crates of those weapons onboard this bus, Wilde Man. What’s wrong with you? You want to come away from here empty handed? Is that it, huh?”

  I sighed and held my hands up in a surrendering motion, even though I was being jolted from side to side by the rough motion of the bus. “Okay, Smith, I just don’t like it around here.”

  McElroy turned the big wheel and steamed towards the small hangars and the shot up truck, bumping down a few straggling zombies in the process. Dante jabbered as he pulled himself up by the overhead handrail and stared out of the side window, viewing the open space between us and the hill on the far side.

  “Oh, you think I want to sit out on that damn airstrip in a pair of short pants, on a sun lounger, drinking a fucking margarita, Wilde?” Smith growled.

  I huffed and raised my eyes to the rust ridden bus roof.

  “All right, Smith,” Wingate snapped. “That’s enough. You’re acting like a bear with its claw stuck up its ass.”

  This time it was Smith’s turn to huff.

  We rode in jolting silence as McElroy drove back across the airstrip. Zombies reached out to try and grab hold of the side of the bus but were soon crushed beneath the large wheels. The bus roared on through the blood and guts and remains of the undead splashed across the blacktop.

  McElroy swung the wheel around to the right and pulled up alongside the immobile truck. He crunched with the gear lever and reversed back as far as he could so the bus’s side door was positioned adjacent to the truck’s back doors.