LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series

Home > Other > LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series > Page 34
LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series Page 34

by Laszlo,Jeremy


  “Yeah?” She looks at me with an interested look on her face. “You sure about that?”

  “I am,” I answer.

  “Why?” she asks me.

  “Because we’re humanity,” I answer. “Two people being hunted like fugitives in a miserable, hellish world, laughing and getting all nostalgic over a can of fruit medley.”

  “Fruit cocktails,” she corrects.

  “Foolish of me,” I laugh. “We’ll survive.”

  “Us or humanity?” she asks.

  “Oh, humanity for sure,” I sigh. “As for us, I think we’re fucked.”

  Her face goes somber at this, but I know that she’s thinking it too. She looks at me with eyes that are full of understanding and unfortunately, agreement. I’m trying to see a silver lining, but we’re too deep into this demented city to find a way out without there being a thousand storm trooper fanatics waiting for us. I look at her and watch her eat, thinking how beautiful she looks right now, in this desperate, forsaken moment.

  “If we don’t make it,” I start saying but quickly realize that it’s not what I need to be saying. “If I don’t make it,” I correct myself. “Can I ask something of you?”

  She looks at me, anticipating what’s about to come. “Yes, Charlie,” she says solemnly.

  “Just make it to Florida,” I say to her quietly. “Make sure they’re safe and that they know.”

  “I’ll tell them, Charlie,” she nods to me, but then clears up her demeanor. “But you’re going to tell them yourself. We’re both getting out of here.”

  I smile and hold up the can I have and raise it to my friend. “To you, Lindsay,” I say with a prideful voice. “An unexpected angel in a very dark and desolate place.”

  She smiles sweetly back to me and shakes the hair out of her face while holding up her own can. “To Charlie,” she says, “a genuine man of mystery.” We clank our cans together and down the remainder of our juice.

  We decide to sleep in shifts. Lindsay takes the first shift, pointing out that I’m barely standing and that I’m hurting bad from the flight through the city. I take the couch in the front room by the door, wrapping up in an old and disgusting feeling blanket that I don’t really mind at the moment. I can’t remember the last time I slept with a sheet or a blanket. It doesn’t take long for sleep to take me and as I drift, I succumb to the sweet embrace of it. I don’t think I dream any more. I think that dreams are too tormenting these days. All I do now is recharge. I take what few precious moments I have and I spend them on avoiding the nightmare of my life.

  I’m jostled awake by Lindsay who covers my mouth and lifts a finger to her lips when I blink and start to remember where I am. Tossing the blanket aside, she slowly lets me rise, uncovering my mouth and gesturing toward the window. Standing up, I look at the door and realize how completely obliterated the frame was during the forced entry, whenever that terrible day was. If someone finds this house, there’s nothing keeping that door shut. I look to Lindsay, who is standing by the window, peeking through the crack in the curtains. She gestures for me to come over and I slowly walk toward her, making sure that there are no creaking or groaning boards underneath my feet. As I stand next to her, she slowly parts the curtains just a little.

  What’s lurking outside is almost instantly visible, contrasting against the world of darkness and abandonment beyond the dusty, smeared window. It’s the warm, orange glow of a torch painting the buildings all around the street. Craning my neck, I see one of the white fanatics, wearing a long, white coat that looks like wool with a black cross painted on the back. He has a white hood pulled up over his head as he wanders the street, stopping in front of every house, looking at the windows while he taps the side of his leg with a long, pointed machete. Holding the torch as the beacon that it is, he slowly climbs the steps and tries the door of the house across the street and three homes down. Without even trying for the door handle, he kicks open the door and disappears into the house.

  “This isn’t good,” Lindsay says under her breath. “We need to move.”

  “Agreed.” I turn from the window and walk over to the couch where my pack is sitting. “Keep an eye on him.” All she does is nod to me while I unzip my bag and grab Lindsay’s pack. I stuff everything that I can into my pack, leaving two bottles of water in Lindsay’s pack to lighten the load for her if she needs to make a run for it. I’ll carry everything we have. I know how this is all going to play out and I’m not letting anything hinder her. She has to make it to Florida. She has to make it to the girls. I take out my map of Ohio where I’ve marked Jason’s house on it and place it in Lindsay’s pack. When she gets to Florida, she’ll show the girls and they can make their way back together. Hopefully, they’ll understand and follow her.

  “He’s moving on to the next house,” she hisses at me.

  “We need to move,” I tell her.

  “Wait,” she shakes her head. “I don’t think he’s interested in this side of the street. I think he’s only going through those houses.”

  “I don’t think we should stick around to find out,” I whisper.

  “If this guy’s out alone, then there will be other fuckers out there.” She shakes her head. “Let’s stay put and if he comes to this house, we’ll take him out silently.”

  “They’re coordinated, Lindsay,” I walk up to the window and watch the house across the street, the warmth of the torchlight swelling and shrinking against the curtains and the windows of the house as he searches for us. “If he doesn’t report back to someone, they’ll know exactly where to look for him. They’re not scattered and chaotic like everyone else.”

  She looks at me with doubtful eyes. I don’t blame her for doubting me. I don’t want to go on the run either, but we aren’t going to be able to hide out forever. We have to keep moving. They’ll tear apart this whole damn city to find us, even though it makes no sense. They’re dedicated to teaching us a lesson and at this point, I think we’ve killed enough of them that they’re not going to just give up on the whole I-think-they-just-vanished routine. They’ll tear apart Atlanta for our heads.

  The zealot comes out of the house and then heads up the street, peeking through the windows of cars and then up the steps of the next house where he just inspects the windows as well. This time, he tries the door and it opens. He enters cautiously and disappears again. Lindsay and I remain at the window, watching him as his torch gives away his every move. What I would give to have a satellite view of Atlanta right now. I want to see how many of these crazies are out there with torches, searching the ruins of their old city for us. Are they on every street? Every block? Is this guy alone? I can’t imagine that he is. They seem to be smarter than that. If I were them, I would have spotters following the man with the torch. I would have them watching the other houses for movement, waiting for people like me to peek out from behind my curtains to see what he’s doing. I take a step back and Lindsay follows.

  “Okay, we should get out of here,” I tell her.

  “Wait,” she shakes her head and returns to the window. Suddenly she takes three sharp steps back. “Shit, he’s crossing the street.” I look to my left at the house where he’s heading to. I can hear his footsteps through the demolished door. Lindsay looks at me and shakes her head. We’re too late. I gesture for her to follow me. Quietly, we sneak across the room to the couch I was sleeping on and she helps me slide it quietly across the carpet toward the door. Even as quietly as we try to move the couch, it’s still making enough noise that I’m uncomfortable. Suddenly there’s light on the curtains and we both know that he’s almost at our door. We pick up the pace, but there’s no time. Lindsay abandons the project and I’m left shoving the couch. I hear the man’s footsteps on the steps leading up to the porch.

  Ditching the couch, I move as quickly as I can toward the door. Lindsay is across the room, grabbing her bow and picking up an arrow when the zealot gives the door a kick. It swings open three inches before I hit it and immediately slam
the door shut with a boom, and the man mutters something beyond the door. The torch light shifts against the curtains and against the opposite side of the room, moving across the wall in hues and shades as he peeks in through the windows, but only sees curtains. Lindsay rushes back silently toward the door and presses her back against the far side of the door, near the ruined handle.

  “Must be jammed,” the man on the far side of the door mutters in a raspy, worn voice.

  I let out a quiet sigh, hoping that he’s giving up on his endeavor. I look at Lindsay who is also thinking the same thing. She slowly shakes her head, unwilling to give up her terror just yet. I’m about ready to shove off the door and take a peek to see what he’s doing when there’s a loud bang and the door explodes against my back. I shake with the impact, but the door doesn’t move. Unfortunately, the man on the other side catches on.

  “Shit,” he mutters and I hear his footsteps heading toward the steps. “Hey!” he shouts at the top of his lungs. “I found them! They’re over here!” He shouts as loudly as he can and I look at Lindsay with wide terrified eyes.

  She’s nocking an arrow, already prepping for what needs to be done. The only thing that I can glean from what he said was how he said it. He was shouting it very loudly. Whoever he’s calling to for back up is a long ways off. They’re going to be here in maybe a minute or more if I’m lucky—if Lindsay’s lucky. She’s gearing up for a fight, but I reach out and grab her arm.

  “Run for it, Lindsay,” I hiss at her. “I can hold the door for a while and I’ll keep them busy while you get some distance.”

  “Fuck you, Charlie,” she shakes her head, almost laughing. “You’re not sacrificing yourself on this one.”

  “Lindsay, there’s no time,” I squeeze her arm. “Grab your pack and go. I’ll hold them off.”

  “This isn’t an eighties movie, Charlie,” She wrenches her arm free from my grasp, leaning her body heavily against the door frame. “On the count of three, I want you to swing open the door and I’ll put an arrow through his eye. That’ll shut him up and then we can both go together. Those chicken-shits will see that I have a bow and they’ll back off for a while and while they’re doing that, we’ll slip out through the back. Got it?”

  It’s not a half bad plan. I nod to her and she smiles. Leaning over, I feel her lips on mine. It’s a soft, sweet kiss. It’s passionate, but it’s definitely aware of the situation. She leans back and smiles, looking deep into my eyes while she takes in a deep breath and readies herself for the shot.

  “One,” she whispers.

  My hands are sweating, but I know what needs to be done. Swing open the door and she kills him. I reach my hand down to the mail slot and wrap my fingers around the frame. She looks down at the ground and is still readying herself. She’s running out of arrows and there’s only one shot at this. I have absolute faith that she’s going to make the shot.

  “Tw—” Suddenly her eyes widen and I don’t understand.

  I follow her eyes to the corridor, expecting them to be descending upon us from the back, but there’s nothing but shadow and darkness in the hallway. Looking back at her, she’s no longer looking down the hallway. Her head has slumped to her belly where a pool of crimson is swelling across her shirt and a glistening point of a long blade is sticking a half inch out of her perfectly sculpted abs. I look at the wound and feel my stomach stretching, my mind screaming, and my whole body goes numb. That fucker’s killed Lindsay.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The blade slips back inside of her, like a bird flying away in a flash. Suddenly there’s a whole lot more blood and Lindsay’s hands are shaking as her bow and arrow drop from them, cascading and clattering against the floor as her trembling hands reach for the wound, but never quite find it. Her fingers and palms sort of just hover over the wound like hummingbirds over a rose. With quivering lips, she’s trying to say something, but nothing is coming out and all I can do is try and manage the millions of whirling thoughts forming a maelstrom inside my brain right now. I don’t get it. How did this happen? How is this possible? She was just fine a second ago.

  Taking a weak step away from the door, blood trickles down from her shirt and onto her pants, pattering against the floor before she slumps against the wall, trying to brace herself. It’s then that I hear the laughing on the other side of the door. The sudden whoop of victory that the zealot lets out. He’s retracted his blade. He knows that he’s struck flesh and that he’s struck true. I don’t think he has a clue that there’s someone still in the house. He has no idea that I’m still here.

  I throw open the door with a single, loud swing, my fingers wrapping around the shattered door where there should have been a handle, where the blade punched through my close and dearest friend. The door flings wide and the man isn’t even looking at me. He’s got his back turned while he examines his blade in his torchlight. Beyond him, up the street, there are more torches that suggest to me that our situation is significantly more dire than we previously anticipated. They’re coming for us.

  I do not wait for the man to turn around. I raise my machete and I slash downwards in a diagonal across his back once, letting the blade’s momentum slash across his flesh leaving a long, jagged wound. Raising the blade again, ferociously fast, I slash diagonally again, making a bloody, savage X across his flesh. The man drops his torch and his long blade. They clatter against the concrete of the porch while he lets out a long wheeze, the adrenaline of the situation coursing through his body, sending him into shock. I kick him hard in the lower back, with all the strength I have. I can hear his back break, but I can’t feel it through the sole of my shoe. It’s a pity. I wish I could. He flies off the steps and lands face first, hard into the sidewalk with a sickening impact that makes me think that he just broke every bone in his face. He tries lifting up his head and I see the pool of growing blood. Taking each of the steps with dark hatred, I reach down and scoop up his torch, holding it in my hand like a mace, ready to end him.

  The man is gurgling, trying to speak through a mouth full of broken teeth, but I can’t make out a single word that he’s trying to say. Instead, I lower the glowing head of the torch and let the flames lick his back. His bloody, white jacket slowly begins to ignite. The man squirms, feeding the hungry flames as they begin to climb, spreading out across his back, charring his white wool and spreading like a disease. His body is too broken for him to fight it. Instead. He gets to suffer. He gets to let the flames feast on him. His screams are bloodcurdling, or they might have been once upon a time. His screams are music to my ears. I walk away from him. Letting him burn. I throw the torch onto the roof of the neighboring house, hoping that the building will catch fire. If I’m lucky, this whole damn city will burn to the ground.

  The fanatics down the street have stopped coming this way, but I know they’ll only wait for a moment. Soon they’ll start running to give a merciful death to their savage brother. Writhing and thrashing on the walkway, the zealot gets no mercy from me. He’s screaming as loud as he can, rolling over and trying to kill the flames that are now all over him. I know he’s in serious trouble, because he smells like barbeque. Rushing up the steps, I close the door, barely muffling the bastard’s screams behind it.

  Lindsay is slumped against the wall, her skin already looking too pale for comfort while she keeps pressure on the wound, but she’s bleeding from two areas. Damn that asshole. I get behind the couch and shove it in front of the door, giving us some form of a barricade against the inevitable charge of those fuckers. I make sure the couch is in place and I pick up the blanket, wadding it up into a ball and crouching down next to Lindsay. She’s crying silently as her lips tremble. Reaching behind her, I press the blanket against her back and slowly lift her to her feet, just enough so I can swivel her onto the couch.

  “It’s okay, Lindsay,” I say to her, trying to give her some form of comfort, but there’s nothing I can do. Grabbing my pack, I rip it open and pull out the clear plastic wrap from the t
attoo parlor, the gauze, anything.

  “No,” Lindsay shakes her head, shoving my hand away. “Save it.”

  “Keep still,” I tell her. “I’m going to wrap you up with plastic and we’re going to get out of here. I’m going to get you to a damn tattoo parlor, just like you did for me. I’m going to fix you up as good as new, Lindsay.”

  “No, Charlie,” she shakes her head. “Charlie, I can’t.” She’s crying and looking at her stomach. “Oh God, Charlie.”

  “I know.” I grab her head and pull her close, hugging her and feeling her crying into my shoulder.

  Outside, torchlight is beginning to swell and gather. The zealots are near. They’re shouting and calling out for us. They’re calling for us to surrender ourselves to judgment and the repentance that only fire will offer us. I want to burn every goddamn one of them. I want to watch this whole damn city go up like a giant pyre, just like Detroit had. Every one of these murderous bastards can embrace their repentance.

  There are others out there as well, shouting for buckets and water, to try and put out the flames that are growing on the neighbor’s house. I can see the warm glow in the room next to us. I hate that they’re intelligent—that they’re organized. They’re coming for us. It’s only a matter of time. God, I wish I had my hand back. I could use her bow. I could kill some of them before I have to pull out my machete and go to work. Lindsay is taking quick, sharp breaths. It’s not good, but she’s leaning back into the couch, looking at me.

  “I’m sorry I left you,” she says to me.

  “There’s no need to apologize,” I shake my head. “You’re the best person I’ve ever known. And you never could stand to be away from me.” She smiles and laughs, but it’s too painful and I learn my lesson from it as she winces in agony. “God, I’m so sorry, Lindsay,” I shake my head and kiss her lips. I can taste the blood in her mouth. “I wish you’d never found me. I wish you were still in Bellsbrook. I wish I had died in that street. Better that than this.”

 

‹ Prev