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

  I knew he also sensed the watchful eyes prying on us. It was a sense that grew in your psyche when your life was threatened on an almost daily basis.

  We hustled the girls forward, ushering them to walk faster. The harbor jetties sat in front of us but were still a good few hundred yards in the distance and the glass bottom boat sat at least a quarter of a mile out at sea. Still enough time and open ground for the undead to catch us or the island mob to surround us.

  We moved at an almost jogging pace. Fast enough to out maneuver the undead but slow enough not to tire ourselves out. We kept around ten feet from the store and bar fronts on the left side of the street. Close enough to dive for cover but far enough away in case of a zombie ambush from those dark, recessed doorways.

  The undead took swiping grabs at us as we moved by. They didn’t gather into a mass and only staggered towards us in one’s and two’s. Smith and I swatted away any ghouls who came too close with the oar blades. The long, wooden handled rowing tools made excellent silent weapons against zombie attacks. I allowed myself a brief mental pat on the back for choosing our paddles from the boat store.

  A hissing sound coming from a boarded up seafood restaurant caught my immediate attention. I turned left to face the front of the shack like building. I looked through the cracks between the boards and the windows but saw no signs of movement from the shadows beyond.

  “Psst!” The hissing sound came again from somewhere inside the restaurant.

  Smith heard it too this time and drew his handgun from his holster then aimed it at the boarded up door. The four of us stopped walking.

  “Who the fuck is there?” Smith growled.

  “It’s me yer big feckin’ eejit,” came a whispered voice in a broad Northern Irish accent.

  “Mac…is that you in there?” Smith asked, lowering his handgun.

  “No, it’s the fucking Pope himself.” The board covering the restaurant door slid aside and Thomas McElroy’s big head emerged from the darkness. “Where the fuck have you boys been? And who are these two wee girlies you got with ya? Who’s doing all that shooting out there?”

  “What the hell did he just say?” Ronda asked, pulling a quizzical expression.

  “We…ah, look Mac…it’s a long story,” Smith spluttered. “Where are Wingate and Dante? They in there with you?”

  “Sure thing,” McElroy replied. “They’re in the back room. We’ve been holed up in here waiting on you.”

  I glanced around the street, wary the undead were closing in on us. “Mac, we’ll tell you every damn thing when we’re on the boat,” I said. “But right now, we have to get to the jetty. There are about a million undead in the town and another million pissed off gunmen heading this way. So you need to go grab Wingate and Dante, right now and we need to get the fuck out of here.”

  McElroy pulled a pained expression. “How about you, Wilde Man. Nice to see you too, by the way. Okay, hold your horses and I’ll go get the other two.” He disappeared back into the gloomy restaurant and the board slid back into place covering the door.

  I turned away from the seafood restaurant to face the street. The undead now bunched in a cluster and staggered towards us. We had the half the sidewalk plus a gap of around twenty feet to our left before we were completely surrounded. Not much space for a getaway. Mia and Ronda huddled in closer to Smith and I. A quick head count told me we were faced with around twenty undead. The odds of escaping them without having to fight weren’t impossible but diminishing by the second.

  “I knew we should have gone in after them,” I wailed.

  “You know what women are like,” Smith sighed. “They have to visit the bathroom before they do any damn thing.”

  “Hey, you guys,” Mia protested. “You think we should be getting out of here. Your friends are taking far too long.”

  I glanced back to the restaurant door. “Come on, guys. Come on.”

  The wooden door cover flew outwards and clattered onto the sidewalk. McElroy stepped out of the restaurant doorway with his rifle raised. Wingate followed behind, looking extremely pissed off and Dante trailed through the doorway with a terrified expression on his face.

  “About fucking time,” Smith sighed.

  Wingate’s expression turned from pissed off to downright shocked when she saw Smith and I huddled up with the two Caribbean girls.

  “We’ll soon sort these feckers out,” McElroy rasped, aiming his Armalite rifle at the cluster of undead.

  “No, don’t shoot, Mac,” Smith blurted but it was too late.

  McElroy opened up, spraying the undead with gunfire, the rounds tearing through rotting heads.

  “You’ll give our position away,” Smith roared.

  All but a few zombies dropped onto the sand covered street, their heads shedding thick brown liquid.

  “Ah, fuck,” I spat, turning to glance around the harbor’s streets.

  I knew the island mob would have heard McElroy’s burst of rifle fire. Now we really had to move before they figured out where we were and rained hell down onto our location.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  “What have you just done, Mac? Shit, come on,” Smith barked. “We got to go. We got to signal to Hannigen to get that boat alongside the jetty and pronto.” He waved his hands, motioning for us all to move quickly to the harbor.

  “What have I done?” McElroy asked, shrugging and throwing his arms out wide while holding his rifle one handed.

  “You’ve just told that bunch of million pissed off, fucked up gunmen that Wilde was talking about exactly where we are, Mac,” Smith growled.

  McElroy pulled his head backwards, frowning. “No, I haven’t. I’ve just saved you and Wilde Man’s asses from a shit load of undead. The gunmen are freakin’ miles away back down the town, man. Maybe a wee thank you would be just cracking.”

  I heard that weird zip-crack sound again and knew immediately what it was. A bullet thudded into a wooden board covering one of the seafood restaurant windows. The board split in two and crashed onto the sidewalk. The round must have zipped within inches of all of us standing in the street.

  “We’re being shot at,” I screeched.

  I spun around and saw two island guys standing at the mouth of one of the alleyways, positioned around one hundred yards away. They wore baseball caps turned the opposite way round, short pants, vests and big white sneakers. The two men were yelling at us, words I couldn’t decipher but more worryingly, they were aiming rifles right at us.

  Smith raised his handgun and returned fire with a couple of shots. McElroy rattled off a few rounds in the island guy’s direction. The two men ducked back into the alley but huddled against the corner.

  “Come on, we need to move,” Wingate yelled.

  I agreed wholeheartedly. Where there were two island guys, a shit load more would be on their way.

  Dante was first to make a run for it, followed by the two Caribbean girls, Wingate and me. Smith and McElroy backed off, kind of jogging backwards but still facing the alleyway where the gunmen lurked.

  “Keep going until we reach the jetty,” I shouted.

  We ran across dry sand, which was tough going. My leg muscles and my lungs burned. The weight of the loaded firearms threatened to drag me down. Dry, powdery sand gave way to a more solid, wet surface. I remembered Tony Sharp, the London guy from the band ‘Psychology Of The Saints,’ who we’d met a while ago when we first landed on the island. He’d been shot dead somewhere near the spot we were running by. I pushed the memory from my mind. I had no time for sentiment.

  We reached the nearest jetty and ran along the white, flaky painted boards. Our feet clanked over the wooden struts and I silently prayed the damn things weren’t rotten and would hold our weight. I heard the pop of gunfire from somewhere real close. I turned my head and took a quick glance back to the harbor streets. Dozens of island gunmen poured from the alleyways and crowded into the area around the main hub of the bars and stores. I saw the brightness of muzzle flashes
and heard rounds whizzing into the sand in front of the jetty. The mob moved forward, dispatching the remaining undead left in the street by the seafood restaurant and then surged in pursuit of us.

  I looked out to sea and saw the glass bottomed boat still bobbing on the waves. I waved the oar and my free hand above my head, hoping Hannigen, Duffy, Dunne and McDonnell would see me and head at speed towards the jetty to save us.

  Wingate, Dante, the two Caribbean girls and I reached the end of the jetty and waved our arms, signaling to the boat while we waited for it to move. More rounds peppered the sand behind us and the sea to our right. The gunman didn’t quite have their range or they weren’t very good shots. We hunkered down, making ourselves as hard to shoot as possible. I felt like one of those targets the military used, the generic, crude soldier charging forward with a bayonet fixed on the end of his rifle, which popped up on a metal plate.

  Smith and McElroy kneeled down at the edge of the jetty where it met the sand. They both aimed their rifles at the mob, taking a few careful shots. The ammunition was scarce and we couldn’t afford a long firefight. We were heavily outnumbered and definitely outgunned.

  I saw somebody scrabbling around on the deck of the glass bottomed boat and the vessel began to move slowly towards the shore. Whether they could reach us in time was a different matter.

  “Wilde, get your ass over here,” Smith barked.

  I turned. Smith waved me towards him, back down the far end of the jetty. My brain felt incapable of functioning. I felt as though I was frozen and couldn’t make any rational thoughts.

  “Go on, Brett,” Wingate yelled, shoving me in the shoulder. “They probably need more ammo.”

  “More ammo, right,” I muttered, nodding my head.

  I scrabbled around on the wooden duck boards. Wingate tugged her rifle from her shoulder and took aim at the closing mob of gunmen. I lollopped on all fours, like some primeval creature, moving awkwardly back along the jetty towards Smith and McElroy. Rounds pounded the close ground around us. I flung myself off the side of the wooden structure and landed on the wet sand between Smith and McElroy.

  “Only one thing for it, kid,” Smith yelled above the gunfire. He laid down his rifle and unstrapped the SMAW rocket launcher from his back. “I hope you still got those rockets?”

  I sincerely hoped so too. I nodded and shed my rifle and backpack. Smith and I ripped open the bag, our hands almost getting in each other’s way.

  “Hurry it up, you two fucking eejits,” McElroy growled. “These wee island fellahs are getting a little too close for comfort.”

  “Get the launcher primed and ready,” I screeched to Smith. I pulled one of the SMAW rockets from my backpack.

  Smith nodded, picked up the launcher and began fiddling around with the green, tubular casing. I handed him the big, explosive shell round and he fixed it all together.

  The islanders advanced, still firing their assortments of weapons at us. Rounds pinged all around the side of the jetty and threw up spatters of wet sand a few feet in front of Smith, McElroy and I.

  I picked up my rifle and made it ready for firing, then aimed roughly at the approaching crowd of gunmen and returned fire with two and three round bursts. The islanders grew in number, surging out from the alleyways and side streets surrounding the harbor. I glanced sideways at Smith and saw him aiming down the rocket launcher sight. I turned my head the other way, glancing out to sea. The glass bottomed boat chugged slowly through the waves, bobbing up and down and rolling from side to side. The vessel approached the jetty but very slowly. Too slowly for my liking.

  “Hurry up and fire that damn thing, Smith,” McElroy screamed. “I’m almost out of ammo.”

  “Eat shit and die motherfuckers,” Smith growled. He squeezed the trigger on the SMAW and a loud, explosive sound almost knocked me sideways.

  The rocket zipped through the air at a speed, too fast for the human eye to witness. A fraction of a second later, the sidewalk beside the seafood restaurant erupted in a ball of orange flame and an explosion of concrete, wood and the broken bodies of numerous gunmen blasted across the street.

  “Way to go, Smith,” McElroy whooped.

  We refrained from firing our rifles for a few seconds, waiting for the dust cloud to settle. No more islanders fired through the haze of smoke around the harbor buildings. I glanced to my left, towards the sea and saw the boat making progress through the choppy waves towards the jetty.

  “Thank fuck,” I sighed. We were home and dry. Almost.

  The smoke cleared, blown away further down the street by the sea breeze. A few gunmen staggered around, coughing and obviously dazed and confused. They had either dropped their weapons or they hung by their sides, still strapped across their torsos. A large number of shattered and dismembered bodies lay across the street and some had been blasted into the facades of the building on the opposite side to the seafood restaurant.

  Surely nothing could stop us escaping La Bahia Soleado now.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  “Come on, guys, let’s get to that fucking boat,” I boomed.

  My voice sounded hoarse. I didn’t know if it was due to fatigue or the smoke, dust, cordite and sand lodged in my throat or maybe a combination of the whole damn lot. I was looking forward to crashing out on the seats on the boat for a while, during the sail around the island back to the Russian warship.

  I hauled myself to my feet and McElroy did the same. We kept our rifles held ready around our hips. I lifted up my backpack and shrugged on the straps around my shoulders. Smith fiddled with the SMAW, packing it up and slinging it over his back. The three of us took a final glance at the carnage back between the harbor buildings. We gazed at each other, smirked a little and nodded in a kind of that’ll teach them type of way.

  We turned and stepped up onto the wooden jetty. Wingate, Dante, Mia and Ronda huddled together by the hand rails at the end of the quay. They slowly rose when they saw us approaching. It felt good to see they were all unscathed. Luckily for us, those island guys sure were shit at shooting.

  Wingate turned out to sea to gauge the distance the glass bottomed boat still had to run. She turned back to face us with a look of relief on her face. Something seemed to distract her attention above our right shoulders, high off to her left. The relief on her face soon turned to an expression of horror.

  “Rocket launcher on the top of that roof,” Wingate screamed, pointing back to the harbor buildings.

  Smith, McElroy and I swung around to face the town. I saw a huddle of figures standing on the rooftop of the building next to the half destroyed seafood restaurant. They were recognizable as members of the island crew, wearing camouflage gear combined with baseball caps and beach vests. One of them held a tubular implement in his hands and on top of his right shoulder that terrifyingly resembled the SMAW launcher strapped to Smith’s back.

  “Oh, Christ, now we’re really in the shit,” Smith muttered. The expression of concern on his face was truly unnerving.

  We watched helplessly as a bright orange stream puffed out behind the guy holding the rocket launcher on the rooftop. He wasn’t aiming the weapon at the jetty, his target was further away.

  We turned sharply when the glass bottomed boat exploded into a fireball, sending debris scattering over the waves and across the shoreline. We all instinctively ducked down as the huge orange flame plumed into the gray sky.

  “Ah, God save us,” McElroy gasped.

  I stared out to sea, jaw gaping open. Hannigen, Dunne, Duffy and McDonnell were now all gone, vaporized by the explosion caused by the rocket round. Our escape route was now firmly closed. I felt as though I’d been punched in the stomach by a silverback gorilla.

  I turned my head back towards the rooftops. The guy holding the SMAW swiveled around and aimed the launcher at the jetty while one of his cohorts next to him reloaded the weapon. A big, thickset guy to the left of the man holding the rocket launcher glared in our direction. He was dressed in long red shorts a
nd a white vest. Sweat on his shaved head glistened in the dull daylight. He held a battered, red colored bullhorn in his right hand and raised it to his mouth.

  “Put down your weapons now,” boomed the deep, distorted voice through the megaphone. The accent had a Caribbean edge but the guy also spoke with authority and a determined tone.

  “He can get to feck,” McElroy rasped, raising his rifle.

  “Not a good idea, Mac,” Smith muttered, staring up at the guy on top of the building.

  “Those boys on that boat have been with me for freakin’ years, Smith. I’m not going to let that asshole up there get away with this,” McElroy responded. His voice cracked and his eyes filled with tears.

  I noticed more fully armed and weapon wielding islanders tentatively moving from the alleyways and crossing the street around the harbor buildings. My guts churned over in a horrible way and that invisible gorilla was back again, pounding on my stomach.

  “Put down the rifle, Mac,” Smith hissed. “Everybody toss your guns or we’re all fucked. Those guys must have got to those SMAWs at the airport. Much as I hate to say it, and to actually go through with it burns me up inside but we’ve got no other options here. We’re going to have to surrender.”

  “They’re going to kill us anyhow,” Wingate wailed.

  “Surely it’s better to go out with all guns blazing, eh, Smith?” McElroy said.

  “Nah, if they wanted us dead, they’d have done it by now,” Smith snapped. “Let’s just play it nice and cool for the time being.” He placed his rifle, the SMAW launcher and his handgun on the wooden boards and gestured for the rest of us to follow suit.

  We reluctantly complied. I saw the torment on McElroy’s face as he tossed his rifle down on the jetty. We all glanced nervously at each other. Smith was the only one amongst us who seemed to remain outwardly calm. I took a few deep breaths of the sea air, trying to stop myself from shaking with nerves.