The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run

by Fletcher, Christian

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Who the hell are these guys?” I asked. “Surely, they can’t be the same crew as those guys back in Bellahouston.” A rough head count told me we were heavily outnumbered, with around thirty mean looking young guys standing their ground in front of us.

  Jimmy gulped and looked nervous, which didn’t fill me with confidence. “These fellahs are either what’s left of the Sooside Cumbie or the Crossie Cumbie from the Gorbals.”

  “What does that even mean?” Batfish squawked.

  “Street gangs,” Smith said. “They’ve probably easily survived through this whole apocalypse thing and love every bloody second of it.”

  “Aye,” Jimmy said, nodding. “And they’re a right bunch of scary headbangers and all, Smith.”

  “Let me do the talking, Jimmy,” Smith said when three guys approached the side of the Range Rover. “Keep your mouth buttoned. We don’t want to start another territory war right here.”

  Smith shuffled in his seat and I knew he was placing his M-9 handgun under his ass cheek. He buzzed down the window as the three guys drew closer. One of the trio peeled away from the other two and started circling the Range Rover. The two other guys stopped walking around six feet from Smith’s side window. One wore a light blue fleeced jacked with a hood over the top of a dark blue, rapper-style baseball cap. The other guy wore a black paramilitary style woolen hat on his head and a baggy black jacket. The one in the blue jacket carried a big, silver semi automatic handgun and the guy in the woolen hat carried an old British Army style revolver. Both of them sported long blondish stubble on their chins and their blue eyes were like hard chips of ice.

  “Ya look like yer lost, pal,” the guy in the blue jacket barked, in a thick Glaswegian accent. “Youse ha’ any business driving around here?”

  “Hey, guys,” Smith said with a meekness in his tone I’d never heard before. “We’re trying to get over the other side of the river. We need to get to a hospital for one of my team. She needs urgent medical attention.”

  The two guys at the side of the car looked at each other and broke out into haughty laughter.

  “Other side o’ the water, he says,” the guy in the woolen hat chortled. “You’ll be lucky to get ta the end o’ the street, pal.”

  The guy prowling around the perimeter of the car peered inside through the windows. He stopped moving when he was level with the backseats and took a long unblinking glance at Batfish and Wingate. Batfish glanced down to her lap and Wingate pretended to tend to Cordoba. The guy looked down at Cordoba; saw the bloody bandages around her torso but his expression didn’t change one iota.

  He carried on his slow patrol and stopped at the rear window to stare at me through the glass. The guy was young, probably in his early twenties but his blank expression and steely piercing blue eyes told me he’d experienced his fair share of harrowing and gruesome situations. His face was pale and large dark rings surrounded his eyes. A sprinkling of stubble adorned his chin and the rest of his head was cloaked with a black hood, adjoined to his fleece jacket. He brandished a blood spattered cricket bat with three long screws drilled through the face in a triangular pattern.

  I briefly wondered how bad it would feel to be smashed over the head with the bat and imagined how painful the screws driving through my skull would be.

  These guys surrounding the Range Rover looked and gave me the impression they were as hard as rusty coffin nails and twice as sharp. Smith was going to have to play his cards right if we were to get out of the sticky situation unscathed.

  “Youse won’t find any working hospos on the other side of the river, mate,” the guy in the blue jacket said. “In fact, I doubt youse’ll find a working medical center in the whole of Scotland.” He leaned closer to Smith’s window, opened his eyes wide and held the barrel of his handgun to his temple. “We’re fucked, ya see,” he yelled.

  The guy with the cricket bat reached into the side pocket of his jacket, took out what looked like a spliff and lit it up. He kept eye contact with me as he casually strolled around the car to join his buddies.

  I reached into my jacket when the guy was out of sight and curled my fingers around the butt of the Beretta M-9. I hoped we weren’t heading for another shoot out because I didn’t fancy our chances of winning this one.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty much fucked everyplace we’ve been,” Smith said. “But we need to see if we can get inside the hospital and find what we need to help our friend.”

  “Are youse a fucking American?” the guy in the blue jacket barked, with an incredulous look on his face. “What the fuck are Yankees doing in Glasgow?” He pronounced Glasgow as ‘Glesga.’

  Smith nodded. “Well, I used to be an American but there’s not much of it left right now.”

  “What, Amerikee is fucked as well? Well, fuck-a-dooodle-doo,” the guy in the woolen hat said with seeming amusement. “What happened to the great World Superpower, eh, pal?”

  Smith shrugged and shook his head slightly. “I guess when it came to the crunch, we were just as vulnerable as everybody else.”

  The guy with the cricket bat handed around the doobie and also whispered something inaudible to the other two guys. The mocking mirth filled expressions instantly fell away. They took a couple of paces back and raised their weapons level with the side windows.

  “Youse brought an infected body into our territory,” the guy in the blue jacket barked. “We’ll no tolerate trespassing, especially with somebody who’s infected with a Zed bite.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “No, guys, stop for a second,” Smith pleaded, holding up the palm of his hand. “Just listen to me for one minute.”

  “Ya got ten seconds, pal before we start firing.”

  More armed guys rushed to converge on us, forming a ring of aimed firearms around the Range Rover.

  “She’s not bit, she’s been shot,” Smith hurriedly explained.

  “Bullshit,” the guy in the blue jacket spat. “No hospital on the planet will save her. She’s infected and she’ll turn. I seen it a thousand times, man.”

  “No, wait, just wait,” Smith barked. “Let me tell you what happened. We had something of an altercation with a bunch of guys back at Bellahouston Park. They wanted us to move out but we needed to rest for the night so we shacked up inside some old inn. They tossed a stun grenade through the window and injured the guy in the tailgate. We engaged them in a shoot out and managed to slip away.” Smith nodded as he talked and I noticed the guy in the blue jacket doing the same as he followed the story. “They came looking for us in this car and we had another shoot out, taking out all their guys but as you can see, one of our guys got shot in the process.”

  “What guys at Bellahouston Park?” the guy in the woolen hat snapped. “What did they look like? I’ll bet it was those pussies run by that fucking Clarkie bloke, eh?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Smith said. “That was the guy’s name. Hey, look, I can prove it to you. I’ve got one of their radios right here in the glove box.” He raised his hands level with his head and pointed at the dash.

  “Be very careful, pal,” the guy in the blue jacket warned. “Move real slow and if I see you pull a weapon of any kind, I’m going to unload this gun in your fucking face, okay?”

  Smith nodded and leaned across the seat to the glove box. He slowly opened it up and took out the radio, turning the knob on the top so the device bleeped on.

  “Do you want me to speak to them?” Smith asked.

  “Aye, give it a try,” Blue Jacket said. “Let’s see what the bastard has to say for his self.”

  Smith held the radio in front of his mouth and engaged the talk button. “This is a message for Clarkie…can you hear me, Clarkie?…I know you’re probably listening. You there, Clarkie, you son of a bitch?” Smith released the talk button and held the radio for a few seconds.

  A voice, full of rage and emotion suddenly squawked a reply through the radio mic. “See you, ya bastard! I’m co
ming for you all. Ya killed eight of my men and crippled some more. I’m not gonna just shoot you, no…I’m gonna torture you very slowly. I’m coming after youse…” The words were hardly audible through the mic due to the loud intensity of the guy’s rant.

  Blue Jacket and Woolen Hat lowered their handguns and nodded at their companions to do the same. I breathed out a sigh of relief when I saw the gang of young men lower their respective weapons.

  “Satisfied?” Smith said.

  “You seriously killed eight of those worthless shites?” Blue Jacket asked. The menace had slightly evaporated from his tone.

  Smith ducked his head. “It would have been a whole lot more if they’d sent more guys after us.”

  “We’ve had a few run-ins with those dickheads ourselves,” Woolen Hat said. “They’ve got themselves some brand new shooters and equipment from somewhere. Semi automatics and stun guns, I reckon they must have robbed an armory somewhere.”

  “Well, this radio is the kind of thing the cops use and they’ve got some Heckler and Koch MP5’s along with some other cop gear. I figure they’ve raided a police station recently and got themselves some serious firepower,” Smith said.

  “Ask them if we can get to the bridge, Smith,” Wingate whispered through clenched teeth. “We’re running out of time here.”

  Smith’s gaze briefly flicked to Wingate.

  “So, guys, can we pass through your turf on good terms? We really need to get to that hospital.”

  Blue Jacket and Woolen Hat glanced at each other for a moment then nodded.

  “Aye, but we’ll need to open up the gates for you,” Blue Jacket said. “The bridge is locked halfway down to stop the Deads coming out of the city and over the water.”

  “We’ll let youse through if you hand over that police radio so we can talk to Clarkie and one of those semi automatic rifles ya got in the back.” The steely eyed guy with the cricket bat spoke for the first time in our presence. “Otherwise you’ll have to turn around and fuck off.”

  Blue Jacket and Woolen Hat shuffled around on the spot, glancing to the ground and obviously a little put out at being undermined but they didn’t protest.

  “Just give them what they want,” Wingate groaned. “We need to get going.”

  “Okay, it’s a deal,” Smith sighed. He tossed the radio from the car and Blue Jacket caught it one handed. Then Smith twisted in his seat, reached into the back foot well and picked up one of the M-16 rifles. He poked the barrel through the window and raised the rifle so it pointed skyward.

  “I can only spare the mag and ammo it comes with,” Smith said. “We got a real limited supply now and we’re going to need all the firepower we can muster to get to the hospital. Unless you guys want to tag along and help us clear the route?”

  “No way,” Woolen Hat scorned, tentatively moving towards the car door to take the rifle. “You’ll nae get to the hospital anyways.” He shook his head, retreating a couple of steps. “Youse’ll be lucky to get to the other side of the river, by the way, pal. The city is crawling with Deads.”

  Even this tough bunch of street-wise Glaswegian bandits seemed taken aback that we were heading into the city. Their expressions of utter disparagement didn’t fill me with a whole load of confidence.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Woolen Hat and Blue Jacket hopped onto the side runners at the foot of the two front doors and waved the others in the gang out of the path of the Range Rover. Smith slowly accelerated and rolled the vehicle forward through the parting posse of armed young men. I glanced at their grubby and weary but battle hardened faces as we drove between them. Thankfully, I’d never have to set eyes on this psychotic mob again. I figured if we did meet up again, they wouldn’t be so generous in letting us pass through their territory.

  “Take the first left turn you come to,” Blue Jacket yelled above the breeze blowing off the river. “That’ll take you o’er the first section of the King George V Bridge and we’ll have to unlock the gates to let youse through.”

  “But once youse’ve gone through the gates, don’t expect to come back through, pal,” Woolen Hat shouted from the other side of the car. “It’s all your own funerals, by the way.”

  Smith shrugged and took the left turn onto the bridge across the river. Another higher and older looking bridge, built of bronzing steel girders stood to the right. I couldn’t see the thoroughfare from our position and I wondered if the other bridge was still in use.

  “What about that foot bridge back down the street?” Smith asked the guy hanging by his window. “What’s the angle on that route?”

  “Barricaded up on the opposite side,” Blue Jacket said, shaking his head. “No way you’ll get through there in a hurry.”

  “Okay,” Smith muttered. “So, this is the only route into the city?”

  “Aye,” Blue Jacket grunted. “That other bridge behind us has a dirty great hole in it, so it has. It got blown up by some military guys in the first few months of the outbreak. They tried to stop the Deads crossing o’er but only succeeded in blowing themselves to pieces along with a fair section of the bridge. The bampots. You’ll see the hole in a wee minute when we get near the gates.”

  I craned my neck and looked through the windshield. The tall iron gates were already in view amongst the swirling white snowy mist, blowing above the River Clyde. Smith slowed the vehicle as we approached the huge gates straddling the roadway. The exit point was manned by several guys dressed in black, cold weather clothing with balaclavas and wooly hats on their heads. The men also carried an array of different type weapons. Some brandished firearms while some held home made weapons, such as clubs and pieces of lumber with screws and nails driven through the ends. They looked like a rag-tag army but one you wouldn’t like to mess with.

  “Where the hell did you get those gates from?” Smith asked, pointing through the windshield at the huge bronze colored fixtures.

  “Oh, they’re old dry dock gates, liberated from the old shipyard down the road,” Blue Jacket explained. “Was a bastard to get those things up here and even worse to get the bloody things up and fixed in, I can tell you.”

  Two guys, also dressed in cold weather gear stood high on a rickety looking gantry to the left side of the gates. Each man brandished a handgun and peered over the top of the gates, keeping a watch on the road beyond the check point.

  I glanced through the window to my right at the higher, parallel bridge and saw the mess of tangled steel girders and crumbling asphalt, pointing downwards to the river below. I assumed this was the hole caused by the explosion that Blue Jacket told us about.

  Smith brought the Range Rover to a halt around fifteen feet in front of the gates. The armed men encircled the front of the vehicle, intently staring into the interior. Blue Jacket and Woolen Hat hopped off the side runners and joined their guys clustering around the check point. They talked amongst themselves with muted voices for a few moments, occasionally turning to glance back at us through the windshield.

  “What’s taking so god damn long?” Wingate seethed, gazing down at Cordoba. “Smith we need to get to that hospital urgently. Cordoba’s sweating but she’s freezing cold. I’m scared she’ll fall into deep shock if we don’t hurry.”

  Smith turned and nodded. “I’m doing my best here,” he whispered. “I’m trying not to turn the situation ugly. We’re nearly through the check point, just hang in there.”

  Blue Jacket marched up to the driver’s window and leaned over so he was right next to Smith’s head.

  “The boys tell me there’s been a wee bit of activity o’er the other side this morning,” he explained. “More Deads rocking up as usual and banging on the gates for a wee while. That’s normal. But the last few days we seen some military blokes moving around the city. They come in on these wee boats and they dock up on the other side of the water.”

  “Military guys? What military guys?” Smith asked, shaking his head in confusion. “Dressed like us?”

  Blue Jacket s
niggered. “No, not like you bunch of cretins. These are a proper armed force not just a bunch of lost, rogue Yanks who are totally out of their comfort zone. These are some serious special ops type dudes with some heavy duty weaponry. They’ve been going into the city and coming back to their wee boats with a shite load of supplies. They spotted our boys on the look-out position on top of the gates but they didn’t seem too bothered about us. We thought if they don’t bother us, we won’t bother them. I thought I better tell you before you venture into the not-so-safe-zombie-zone.”

  “Thanks for the tip off,” Smith sighed. He’d obviously let Blue Jacket’s less than complimentary summary of us pass.

  “Nae bother, pal,” Blue Jacket said, grinning. “My boys will open up the gates for you but you better put your foot down or you’ll likely get swamped by Deads.”

  Smith nodded and I noticed Woolen Hat and a couple of the other guys unlocking chunky padlocks that held a large, sliding girder in place between the two gates.

  “Opening up,” Woolen Hat yelled. “Everybody get ready.”

  It took four guys to slide the big steel girder to the left in its fixings. The metal locking bar squeaked over the mountings that held it in place.

  Blue Jacket leaned further into the driver’s window with a stern expression on his face. “Good luck out there. Because youse will fucking need it.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Smith didn’t bother with any farewells or any form of thanks. He simply buzzed the window up and Blue Jacket took a few backward paces away from the side of the Range Rover. The iron gates creaked as they opened inward and skidded through the snow, causing a rising heap as they folded towards the side barriers of the bridge. Smith revved the engine, anticipating the moment when the gap between the gates would be wide enough for the vehicle to fit through.