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

by Christian Fletcher

  A rather gruesome death after going through all this for the last few years, I thought. I was going to be an unliving zombie at least. Keep them talking, let Smith recover a little more.

  “Can’t I be something a bit cooler than Doctor Frankenstein?” I asked, trying to swallow down rising stomach bile.

  Ralph looked seriously interested and posed a quizzical expression. “Like what?”

  Shit! What did I want to be embalmed into? I had to think of something it would take a long time to create. An image of the old black and white Universal movies sprung to mind.

  “How about The Wolfman?” I blurted. “Like Lon Chaney Junior. Smith here could still be the Frankenstein monster and we could be posed to battle on the plinth you put us on.” I figured all the face fur would take a while to prepare.

  Ralph smiled. “I like your way of thinking.” He turned to Burland. “This guy has some really good ideas. Maybe we should re-evaluate?”

  Burland nodded. “We should draw up some new sketches up in the office.” He pointed across the floor space then turned back to Smith and I. “They’re not going anywhere for a while.”

  “Do we have enough material for the effect?” Ralph asked.

  “We can certainly get it,” Burland said, nodding.

  Ralph and Burland turned away from the circle of light. It seemed I’d bided us some time and I should have left it there but I couldn’t help one last question.

  “What happened to Pauline?” I uttered.

  Ralph turned back. “Who?”

  “Pauline Ennis, the tennis player,” I said. “What happened to her?”

  Ralph looked quizzically at Burland and shrugged.

  “Oh, she took off with some ex-military guy,” Burland said. “She was a sweetheart and was really loved here. She flew out from the airport when the outbreak started and either went back to England or to the States, I really can’t remember. The guy she went with was some rough, weird guy from England. He was a so called survival writer but also into guns and blowing up shit, a military mercenary I think. I don’t know what she saw in him to be honest. Best of luck to them really.”

  “Yeah, good luck to them,” I croaked, closing my eyes and laying my head back against the metal frame behind me. I hoped they were both safe and still living. Anywhere was better than this dark, gruesome basement.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Ralph Pinchbeck and Dave Burland walked towards the basement stairway in deep discussion, as though their lives depended on their decision. Our lives, Smith and mine depended on how long they took drawing up their bizarre sketches for our crazy embalmment intentions.

  I glanced at the stainless steel table to my right. All kinds of grizzly small bone saws, scalpels, knives and make up brushes lay across the surface. Two large, blue plastic container drums stood either side of a water faucet with a long, green hose pipe attached to it. We had to get out of here and quickly. I turned my head as much as I could towards Smith to my left.

  “Hey, asshole,” I called out.

  “Fuck you,” Smith responded, which was a good thing. At least he was conscious and reacting to insults.

  “We need to get the fuck out of here right now,” I said.

  “No shit,” he croaked.

  “We need a plan.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So, what is it?” I hissed.

  “We get fucking killed.”

  “What?” I squawked. “Not like this, after all we’ve fucking been through.”

  “Only kidding,” Smith mumbled. “Always carry a secret weapon, kid.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, great advise, Smith but I don’t have a rocket launcher shoved up my ass right now. Any more amazing tips?”

  “No, listen to me,” Smith said. “Can you rock your frame a little closer to mine?”

  “Why?” I sighed.

  “Just do it. You want to get out of here or not?” Smith’s voice sounded like an old man’s rasp. He was injured but I knew he had some plan up his sleeve and I had to go with it.

  “I’ll try,” I said. And I meant it. We didn’t have a lot of options.

  My arms ached as I rocked the gurney frame backwards and forwards, trying to shuffle closer to Smith. The whole thing moved a little and I gained some ground.

  “What am I trying to do here, Smith?” I rasped.

  “Reach into my boot, my secret weapon. First rule of unarmed combat, always cheat and carry a concealed weapon,” he said.

  “Was that a rule from the Marine Corps?” I asked.

  Smith huffed a laugh. “No, my fucking rule, kid. You want to stay alive, you have to cheat the odds.”

  I rocked the gurney frame as far as I could but the damn thing reeled to one side and toppled over. I crashed over on my left side, the impact jarring my whole body. I winced with the pain but stifled my cries. I waited in silence for a few seconds but Ralph and Burland didn’t rush back down into the basement.

  “Way to go, Wilde Man,” Smith mocked.

  I glanced up at the soles of his boots. “What did you say again about having a secret weapon?”

  “Quit fucking around, kid,” Smith hissed. His senses seemed to be returning to his normal quick talking self. “Reach into my boot and get the knife.”

  “Which one?” I asked.

  “The right boot, my right boot. Come on, hurry it up before those bastards come back.”

  I wriggled my right hand around, pawing at the hem of Smith’s right pant leg. The pain shot up my arm and I had to contort my wrist at an uncomfortable angle to reach the top of his boot. I scrabbled my fingers around the leather boot rim, touching the top of Smith’s thick sock around his ankle. I managed to slide my first two fingers down the inside of Smith’s right boot. I felt the edge of a hard, metallic object snugly positioned alongside his ankle bone.

  “A pair of pussies like that wouldn’t have the knowledge or the know how to search a guy properly,” Smith said.

  I winced, trying to get a good enough grip on the back of the knife to pull it free from Smith’s boot. “Well, they managed to get the better of the two of us a while ago,” I grunted.

  “Pure luck,” Smith snapped. “I’m going to make fucking sure it don’t happen again.”

  I slowly slid the long switchblade from Smith’s footwear, ensuring I didn’t drop it. One fuck up now and we would be the next exhibit in this crazy basement.

  “Hold the knife steady and pop the catch on the side near the back,” Smith instructed.

  I twisted my head at an incredibly uncomfortable angle, as I could barely see what I was doing. I felt along the side of the switchblade’s body and found the catch. Gripping the knife tightly, I depressed the metal switch and the whole thing jolted in my hand but I managed to maintain my hold on it. The blade clicked outwards, a long sharp length of stainless steel.

  “Right, see if you can cut through that strap holding your right arm in place,” Smith said. “We need at least one hand free to start getting out of these damn things.”

  “I’ll try,” I muttered.

  My head throbbed, I felt nauseous and as though I was going to pass out. I knew I had to keep conscious and keep going. My wrist clicked and my forearm chafed against the restraining straps. I tried to shut out the pain bending my wrist around and almost back on itself while attempting to reach the strap with the point of the blade.

  Luckily, the blade was razor sharp. The point touched the edge of the strap and I pulled it taught away from the gurney frame. A small slice opened up in the material so I pushed a little harder. The blade eased through the width of the strap, my hand and arm sprang away from the frame and felt light and free.

  “Good work, kid,” Smith said. “Right, hurry it up and cut us free.”

  I went to work on the remaining straps, suddenly feeling a little more revived and a lot more hopeful than I had done a few minutes previously. Within a minute, Smith and I were both free of the restraints and standing next to the gurney frames.

>   “So what’s next?” I asked, handing Smith back his switchblade.

  He folded the knife blade away and returned it to the inside of his boot.

  “What now?” he said, rhetorically. Smith scowled and glanced around the basement. “Now we’re going to go kick some ass.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “We don’t have any weapons, Smith,” I said, as we reached the foot of the staircase leading up to the main part of the house. “Well, only that blade of yours but that’s not going to get us too far against those two guys. Especially if they’ve taken our handguns.”

  Smith turned back to me. “We have the element of surprise, kid. There’s a lot to be said for that.”

  A sudden thought crossed my mind. “Hold up a second. Didn’t Ralph say he was going to inject us with a sedative that renders us unconscious? He had all kinds of phials and syringes and shit on that table at the back of the basement where we were. We could grab some of them and use them against Ralph and Burland.”

  “Do you know shit about sedatives?” Smith asked.

  I shrugged. “Not a bean.”

  “Best leave them where they are, kid. This time we’re going to rely on good old fashioned force of nature. This time I ‘aint going to be caught off guard or be so lenient.”

  “All right,” I sighed. “Let’s go.”

  We cautiously climbed the staircase, pausing in the dark areas and waiting, listening for any sounds within the house above us. We reached the small landing area at the top of the staircase and light shone through the tiny gaps around the edge of the low doorway. I tried pushing on the panel that led into the corridor beyond. The wooden section didn’t budge. I turned to Smith.

  “I guess it must be locked from the outside,” I whispered. “How are we going to…”

  I didn’t even have time to finish my sentence. Smith marched forward, raised his right foot and booted the makeshift door. The wooden panel flew outwards across the corridor and smashed into the opposite wall then collapsed onto the tiled floor. The cracking sound echoed around the basement and the passageway. It sounded as though the whole wall had blown out.

  “What happened to the element of surprise?” I hissed.

  “I hate fucking surprises,” Smith sneered.

  “Ah, shit,” I groaned. “Here we go.” I knew Smith was pissed off and wanted his revenge. Things were going to get real messy.

  Smith squeezed through the doorway and I followed closely behind. The overhead lights were still on, casting our shadows across the tiled corridor floor. Smith and I glanced up and down the passageway listening for any sounds. We heard nothing.

  “This way,” Smith said, pointing left up the corridor. “It’s this way to the front of the house.” He marched towards the closed door at the end of the passageway and I struggled to keep pace.

  The door banged against the wall behind as Smith barged his way through. The front door to the house was directly in front of us and the kitchen stood to the left. The kitchen door stood ajar but I couldn’t see and signs of movement inside. Smith moved closer and pushed the door fully open. Nobody was inside the room.

  We could have simply gone out of the front door and walked away from the house at that moment. It didn’t happen.

  Smith walked slowly into the kitchen and stood in the center of the floor space gazing around. I went straight to the closet and took out a can of grape soda, popped the opener and gulped down the warm, fizzy liquid.

  “Want one?” I asked.

  “Huh?” Smith rumbled.

  “A can of soda?” I said.

  Smith scowled and shook his head. “U-ah. I don’t drink that shit.”

  “So, you think those guys have took off?” I asked. “Surely they would’ve heard all that noise with you kicking out that panel and shit.”

  “No, I don’t think they’ve gone far,” Smith said. “Why would they leave? They’ve got everything they want right here and no place else to go.”

  “I mean they could have heard all that noise of us breaking out, shit themselves and ran on out of here.” Deep down I knew I was trying to convince myself more than I was Smith.

  “They’ve got our guns and gear and I want them back,” Smith growled. “Come on, we’re going to search right through the rest of this goddamn house.” He turned and barged by me, heading through the kitchen doorway.

  I glugged down the last of my soda and dumped the empty can on the kitchen table. I turned and followed Smith out of the kitchen.

  We headed back down the corridor and saw one of the previously closed doors was now open wide. Smith and I stopped dead in our tracks.

  Ralph Pinchbeck sidestepped out from the doorway, holding one of our Russian handguns in a two handed grip and pointing it directly at us. Dave Burland slowly followed him out of the room and huddled up behind his accomplice. Sweat ran down Ralph’s face and his hands trembled around the firearm. Burland looked worried, even though he was to the rear and on the opposite side of an aimed and loaded handgun.

  “Don’t move,” Pinchbeck stammered. “I’ll shoot you if I have to.”

  Smith snorted. “You know how to use that thing, friend?”

  “Of course I do,” Ralph sneered, releasing one hand off the butt of the handgun to prod his glasses further up his nose. “You guys just don’t know when to quit do you?” His free hand returned to support the firearm but the tremor remained.

  Even though Ralph didn’t seem or look competent with a handgun, I didn’t like the feeling of having a loaded weapon pointed at me. This guy seemed nervous and unpredictable, which made him dangerous.

  “You guys could have just walked away,” Ralph continued. “We didn’t like you being here but you could have just spent the night in the clubhouse and left in the morning. We’d have been cool with that scenario.”

  “We were cool with that,” Burland chipped in, nodding furiously.

  “But you had to go and spoil it all by coming on back here and sticking your big, fat noses into our business.” Ralph’s face contorted as he spoke.

  It was obvious the guy was growing in confidence holding the gun and I sincerely hoped Smith had another amazing plan up his sleeve or we’d be back in the basement with embalming tubes shoved up our asses.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “I hate to tell you this, friend,” Smith said, with a kind of mocking authority. “But this ‘aint the first time some jerk has pointed a gun in my face.”

  “Yeah, but I’m definitely going to be the last guy to stick a gun on you,” Ralph countered with a sneer.

  Good retort I thought. Hopefully it was Smith’s turn to come back with another witty jibe, followed by some kind of reaction. I wasn’t disappointed and didn’t have to wait long.

  “The difference between you and those other jerks is they meant to shoot me and you don’t. You don’t have the balls to pull that trigger.”

  “Don’t test me, buddy,” Ralph yelled, shaking his head and reaffirming his grip on the handgun.

  “Those guys also had the safety catch turned to fire mode and not still on safe,” Smith growled. “The gun won’t fire unless you release the safety catch.”

  Ralph’s facial expression turned from ice cool motherfucker to confused jerk. Smith’s bluff had worked. Ralph obviously had no idea the safety catch was incorporated within the trigger mechanism. He turned the handgun to the side and stared at the slide.

  Smith burst into action. He lunged forward, grabbing Ralph Pinchbeck’s wrists in one hand and twisting his hands violently. Ralph yelped in pain and I heard and audible crack of bone a split second before the handgun discharged. The noise was deafening and the air inside the compact space filled with the stench of cordite. The 9mm round pierced through the wall, low to my right.

  Smith continued to twist Ralph’s wrists forcefully around to the right. Ralph cried out again and released his grip on the handgun. The Russian GSh-18 firearm clattered onto the tiled floor. I jumped forward and scooped it up, instant
ly regretting grabbing hold of the hot barrel.

  “Shit!” I hissed, as the scorching metal burned into the palm of my hand. I righted the weapon and aimed it at our assailants.

  Smith still held both Ralph Pinchbeck’s hands in a one handed grip with his right. Ralph’s face contorted in pain. Smith quickly jerked his left arm forward then reversed it, forcefully elbowing Ralph against his jaw. Ralph’s head jolted backwards, his glasses flying off his face. Smith kept his tight grip on both the guy’s hands, keeping him upright.

  I was mesmerized at Smith’s speed but sensed movement behind the two grappling figures. Dave Burland turned on his heels and ran for the door leading to the conservatory and the outside world beyond. I aimed and fired at him. It wasn’t a good shot. The transom window above the door leading to the conservatory shattered into a million pieces as the nine mill round zipped through it. My burned hand and battered head prevented me from aiming with any precision.

  Burland whimpered, hunched down and held up his arms as he ran through the doorway amid the glass raining down on his head. He disappeared into the dark conservatory and I thought it seemed pointless to fire again.

  Smith swept Ralph’s feet away with an almighty kick with his left foot. Ralph went down backwards but Smith kept his grip on the man’s hands.

  “Go get that other asshole, Wilde Man,” Smith rasped, nodding towards the outside doorway. “I’ll deal with this fucker.” He hunched over Ralph Pinchbeck, twisting his wrists around at an angle that made me inwardly wince.

  I nodded. “Okay,” I muttered and rushed towards the darkness beyond the doorway. Dave Burland was out there somewhere and I had to find him.

  Dampness hung in the air but it was good to be outside. The exterior light had already clicked on and blasted a halogen glow through the darkness. I couldn’t see Burland anywhere. He’d scooted away into the shadows. Shit! How was I going to find him? Where would he go at this time of night? I reckoned dawn was approaching. It had to be at least four a.m. given the time span.