The Left Series (Book 7): Left Amongst The Corpses
Page 9
Smith wrenched the side door open and turned to McElroy. “You better sit tight in that seat, Mac. Keep your foot on the gas and keep that damn engine ticking.”
McElroy nodded and glanced out of the side window to keep a vigil on the undead pouring from the terminal building.
Smith leapt out of the bus and ran to the back of the truck, jerking open the rear doors. Wingate, Dante and I unenthusiastically hauled ourselves up and followed Smith out of the bus and to the back of the truck.
“Come on, guys, let’s get to work,” Smith shouted, clapping his hands and trying to act as chief motivator. He hopped up into the truck bed and began sliding the crates towards the open doors.
Dante, Wingate and I struggled with the large boxes and shoved them onto the bus floor, then shuffled back through the dried blood and gore in the centre aisle between the rows of seats. Smith jumped down from the truck when he’d stacked the crates at the rear doors and helped us shift them onto the bus.
Sweat dripped off me and I had a tough time shifting the boxes and carrying a loaded weapon strapped across my back, along with the backpack and all the other paraphernalia about my person. The choking diesel fumes the bus churned out didn’t help the situation either.
Every so often, I took a quick glance up at the hill above us, just to check on any signs of the bushwhackers. If they came back mob handed, we really were fucked.
“Keep going, guys, we’re almost done,” Smith shouted above the rumble of the bus engine.
We loaded the last of the crates and shoved them back along the bus floor as far as they’d go. Wingate, Dante and I crawled back inside the bus and sprawled on the shitty seats, sweating and panting while Smith closed up the truck’s rear doors. He jumped onboard and slapped McElroy on the shoulder.
“Take us out of here, Mac.” He turned and slammed the sliding glass panel side door shut.
Wingate fumbled around in my backpack and took out a bottle of water for each of us. The bus interior was stifling and the stench of diesel fumes and rotting flesh almost immediately made me bring up the water I swallowed down.
I glanced out of the window and saw a large number of undead stumbling around beside the terminal building on the far side of the airstrip. No doubt, they’d try and block our path once we crossed the open ground.
McElroy struggled with the gears and moved the bus slowly forward, turning to the right. The vehicle gradually gathered speed but the deep vibrations shaking the interior and the metallic rattle from the engine didn’t sound good.
McElroy turned his head, sweat dripping from his face. “This doesn’t look good,” he yelled. “The temperature gauge is shooting up towards the red and I can’t get the speed to go much over twenty-five miles per hour.”
“Just keep it running as best you can, Mac,” Smith said, still standing and facing the side slide door. “We just have to get this thing back to the port town and then we can dump it for good.”
I studied the scene across the airstrip. Predictably, the undead fanned out in ragged formation across the ground, obviously alerted by the chugging and clattering of the bus engine, along with the plumes of diesel smoke trailing in our wake. It was going to be a tight squeeze whether we could make it onto the exit road before they swarmed around the bus.
McElroy cranked through the gears, up and down but the speed didn’t increase. The engine seemed to be making all kinds of weird noises, almost like a zombie was stuck inside the engine compartment and banging on the hood trying to get out.
“This thing is a crock of shit!” McElroy yelled, fighting with the gear lever and glancing at the dash.
“It only has to get us a few miles, Mac,” Smith said, trying to sound reassuring.
Dante squirmed in his seat, water spilled down his chin as he spoke. “It seems we going to die today,” he stammered.
Smith glared at him, ducking his chin to his chest. “Not today, Dante,” he growled.
The bus spluttered onward but the pace was only slightly fast enough to reach the exit road before the undead cut us off. Any reduction in speed would leave us with no route out of the airport.
“Come on, you bastard,” I snarled through gritted teeth and thumping the side of the seat. “Just keep going long enough to get us out of here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The crowd of zombies moved further across the airstrip, seemingly spreading in rank and volume, gaining ground towards the bus. It seemed as though we were heading into the eye of the storm instead of away from it.
McElroy continued to struggle with keeping the vehicle running and his usual casual conduct seemed to have evaporated. Sweat rolled down his face and he grimaced with gritted teeth through every crunching gear change.
“Keep it rolling, Mac,” Smith said. “You’re doing real good.”
“It doesn’t fucking feel like it, Smudger,” McElroy barked. “You owe me several beers if we ever get out of this mess.”
Smith smirked. “Beers are on me once we get back to the ship. We’ve still got the SMAWs as a last resort, if we get into any real trouble,” he said.
McElroy huffed. “Let’s just hope we don’t have to use them.”
The gears ground again and the revs dipped, the whole bus shuddered but McElroy managed to keep the engine running with some nifty foot work on the gas pedal. The crowd of zombies swept around in an arc, swallowing up the ground to our right and behind us. The route to the exit road was still clear but the undead wouldn’t allow us any margin of error.
“Come on, Mac,” Smith said. “Almost there now.”
Two or three zombies reached the exit road curbside ahead of us. A ragged female ghoul trod onto the dusty blacktop and turned to face us. McElroy kept the engine running, our speed wasn’t great but the bus moved with enough forward motion to plow straight over the emaciated undead female. The crunching of bones clattered against the underside of the floor beneath the vehicle. McElroy swung the bus around the access road bend then struggled with the steering wheel to straighten up.
“Haven’t they ever heard of power steering on this bloody island?” he screamed.
The front left tire bumped the curb on the far side of the road and the bus jolted sideways. Wingate and I lurched in our seats and Dante sprawled across the floor. Smith lurched backwards but maintained his grip on the handrails.
McElroy spun the wheel around and got the bus back on track. He floored the gas pedal but only managed a slight increase in speed. I tried to take a look out of the rear window but only saw a cloud of gray diesel smoke billowing up beyond the grimy windows. I figured as long as we were moving, we were putting ground between us and the undead, however slowly it was.
Smith leaned close against the side door, looking through the glass and back behind the bus. “Well done, Mac,” he cheered. “Looks like you did it. You got us out of there.”
“Let’s not bring out the champagne just yet, big man,” McElroy sneered. “We still have to get to the port town and through the port town and unload the crates before we can relax.”
“Let’s just take one thing at a time, guys,” Wingate said. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Good point,” I agreed. “Let’s not over think the situation.”
Smith turned to face us, shrugged and pulled a pained expression. “Okay,” he muttered. “Just trying to keep the mood on a good level is all.”
I knew he didn’t like our opinion. Smith seemed to want to live on the edge the whole time and thought he was invincible. One day he was going to come unstuck and much as I respected and loved the guy, I sincerely hoped I wasn’t alongside him when his luck finally ran dry.
McElroy turned the bus off the airport access road and back onto the main route. He turned left, heading back the way we’d come from the port town, La Bahia Soleado. Smith stayed put, standing by the door and looking out of the windshield like some bizarre bus conductor who’d threaten to shoot anybody in the face who didn’t pay their fare.
‘At least we’d got away to live to fight another day,’ a strange voice sung in my head.
The combination of fatigue, dehydration, diesel fumes and the slight hangover forced me closer to fully blown sleep. For one horrible moment I thought I was driving and about to nod off. My eyes snapped open and reality kicked back in. McElroy was driving, Smith was still on guard by the doors and Wingate and Dante sat slumped and snoozing on separate seats. I wiped sweat from my face, closed my eyes again and tried to make myself a little more comfortable. The bus interior and the foul stench tumbled away as sleep took me to another world.
I stood on a sun drenched beach with golden sand, somewhere on the island. I had a cricket bat in my hand with a set of three wooden stumps positioned immediately behind me. My loose, white shirt and baggy red shorts fluttered in the sea breeze. Sand covered my bare feet. I felt happy and a big smile spread across my face. I believed I was having fun on that beach. I knew somebody else was there with me and I glanced across the sand, directly opposite in line with the stumps behind me.
The smile fell from my face when I saw who stood around twenty-five yards away. It was the kid from the riverbank, fully alive and well with a big grin on his face. He held a ball in his right hand and he stood beside another set of wooden cricket stumps.
“Come on, Brett. Are you ready for me to bowl?” he called out.
I nodded and the smile on my face returned. “Yeah, go for it,” I shouted.
The kid backed up a few yards and ran in as if to perform an over arm cricket bowl. He stopped beside the set of cricket stumps and smiled at me.
“This is for you, Brett,” he said. In an underarm motion, he tossed a cartoon like, round black bomb at me, complete with fizzing orange fuse.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I screamed.
I watched the bomb float high through the air and drop down towards me. The only thing I could think to do was hit the bomb away with the cricket bat. The problem was, I hadn’t played the sport of cricket for a very long time, since I was a young kid living in England. I’d been totally shit at the game even then. This was going to be one of those shit or bust moments. Hit the bomb into the sea and I’d be okay. I swung the bat back and watched the fizzing bomb fly towards me. I timed my forward swing and connected perfectly with the spherical explosive device.
The instant the wooden cricket bat hit the bomb the damn thing exploded and all I saw was a sheet of whiteness in front of my eyes. I felt myself violently rock from side to side and jolt up and down.
I opened my eyes. A part of me was relieved the beach scenario was only a dream but another part of me realized something was very wrong in the real world.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Wingate and Dante slid across their respective seats, rudely awoken with shocked expressions on their faces. The three of us slid across the bus floor and I caught a glimpse of Smith hanging on to the handrails like his life depended on it. The whole vehicle lurched to the left and McElroy desperately tried to keep the steering under control, the wheel fiercely rotated left and right in his hands.
“What the fuck is going on?” I screamed.
“Fuck if I know,” Smith yelled, reeling around in front of the side door.
The bus skidded through the dry, baked mud banked at the left side of the road, sending up a wave of grit and brown sand. The vehicle came to a juddering halt in the shade of a clump of half a dozen fir trees, a few feet to the left of the bus’s cab.
Wingate, Dante and I rolled across the floor, clattered into each other and came to a stop at Smith’s feet. McElroy slumped over the steering wheel, wincing and rubbing the side of his torso. The whole bus interior listed to the left like some torpedoed warship about to sink into the sea. The engine had finally petered out and the only sound I heard was the wind blowing gritty soil against the windows and sides of the vehicle.
Wingate was the first to come to her senses. She hauled herself up and gazed out of the side window and then turned to look out of the windshield. “What the fuck just happened?” she demanded.
“I heard a clunking sound and then the steering just went crazy,” McElroy said. “I couldn’t keep the wheel steady.”
I pulled myself upright and held out a hand to Dante, hauling him to his feet.
“Let’s go take a look at the damage,” Smith said. He gripped the handle at the edge of the sliding side door and wrenched it open.
The wind immediately whipped a shower of gritty, powdery soil in through the open door. I spat out a mouthful of sand grinding against my teeth and rubbed my eyes. Smith climbed out of the bus and onto the bank of dry dirt alongside us. Wingate, Dante and I followed him outside.
The front and left side of the bus was embedded into the dry soil bank but the wheel sagged and was bent inwards at an odd angle.
“That don’t look good,” I muttered.
McElroy appeared in the open doorway, still massaging his ribs. I guessed he’d slammed into the steering wheel during our sudden stop.
“Looks like the front axle’s gone, Mac,” Smith sighed. “My guess is all those damn potholes on this shitty road finally took their toll on this bastard.” He kicked the leaning wheel.
McElroy groaned.
“Where the fuck are we anyhow?” Wingate screeched, turning around to survey the barren landscape. “It looks like we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
I followed her gaze. Weed ridden, dusty brown ground spread out beyond each side of the roadway. A green forest stood a few miles in the distance beyond the dry, muddy ground to the right. The lofty, air traffic control tower stood dauntingly a few miles in the distance to our rear and the potholed, partially sand covered road stretched out in a snaking line ahead of us.
McElroy stepped out of the bus and joined us on the mud bank. He glanced left then right, in both directions down the road. “We’re a few miles from the airport and about half way on the road to the port town. I really hoped this bus would make it all the way.”
Smith slapped McElroy on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, Mac. You did all you could.” He pulled a pack of smokes from his jacket and offered them round. As usual, we all took one except for Wingate.
“I hit my fucking ribs on the steering wheel when we crash landed,” McElroy groaned, as he exhaled cigarette smoke. “I hope I’ve not broken nothing in there.”
“Let me take a look, Mac,” Wingate insisted, moving closer to the big Irishman and roughly opening his jacket.
McElroy winced as Wingate pulled up his black t-shirt and prodded around the left side of his torso. I noticed he had several tattoos around his six pack stomach. The words “Made in Ulster” were inscribed in dark ink around his belly button and a picture of the Red Right Hand, featuring on the flag of Northern Ireland entangled amongst a weave of Celtic knots was tattooed to the left side of his stomach. There were more tattoos but I couldn’t see them properly due to Wingate’s probing.
“Nothing broken, Mac,” Wingate said, finishing up her inspection. “You’re probably just going to be a little sore for a couple of days. Here, I’ll give you a couple of painkillers.” She reached into her pack and pulled out a packet of pills. She popped out two capsules and gave them to McElroy, along with her water bottle. McElroy winced again as he swallowed down the painkillers.
“Okay, now that’s taken care of, what are we going to do?” Wingate asked, staring at Smith, McElroy, Dante and I in turn. “Anybody got any ideas, huh?”
I was all out of any plans. My head was drowsy and empty. Dante pointed towards the airport in the distance and rattled off something in Spanish.
“We’re going to have to
trek it back to the port town,” McElroy said, pointing down the road in front of the bus. He glanced at Smith, gently shaking his head. “I’m sorry, mate but we’re going to have to leave the rocket launchers where they are.”
Smith made a groaning noise in the back of his throat. He ducked his head and wiped sweat from his face. “We gave it a good shot and came real close. We’ll just have to figure out another option.” Smith tossed his cigarette butt into the trees and nodded his head as though he was accepting the abortive nature of the situation. “We’ll get this done eventually. I know we will.”
I knew Smith was pissed off and things rarely turned sour for him but this was simply a no win situation. The truck was shot up. The bus was irreparable and the rocket launchers weren’t going anyplace. We had no choice but to head back on foot for the boat moored out at sea in the port town. It was going to be a dangerous, long hard slog back to La Bahia Soleado with around five miles of hostile, barren terrain in front of us. Not a journey I was looking forward to. Everything we’d tried today had seemed to have failed and gone bad, cursed like a bad dream. Perhaps it was all down to me. Killing that kid on the riverbank seemed to be the catalyst to our bad fortune.
“Okay, guys, it’s going to be a tough haul back to the port,” Smith said. “Stay focused and keep an eye on the surrounding ground. We don’t know if those guys who shot us up on the hill at the airport may regroup and come back at us. It goes without saying to keep a watch out for big gangs of undead.”
We nodded in understanding.
Wingate suddenly frowned and pointed at the road ahead of us. “What in the hell is that?” she asked.
We swiveled around and studied the area she was looking at. A huge cloud of light brown dust engulfed the road around a mile in the distance. Dante muttered and tapped us all on our shoulders. He waved his arms at the road behind us. A similar dust cloud hovered over the road to the rear.