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

by Fletcher, Christian

  “It’s a bit late for that, Smith,” I sighed, glancing at the remains of the glass doors.

  The hospital interior was gloomily lit by skylights, built into the roof at regular intervals. The overlaying snow blocked out most of the sun’s light but I was still able to see in the dim light.

  Jimmy hurriedly reloaded his shotgun and Smith slid the machete from his belt again. He held the pistol and the machete in each hand and looked like some kind of apocalyptic warrior. I drew both the handguns from my jacket, gripping one in each hand. Wingate and Batfish struggled to hold Cordoba’s limp body.

  We stepped cautiously through the shattered doorway, broken glass crunching beneath our boots. Smith led the way with Jimmy and myself following closely behind. The zombie nearest the doorframe lumbered towards us. The creature was a male, wearing a pale blue hospital gown, barely wrapped around the emaciated body. The skin on the face was gray and wrinkled, distorting the features and I noticed a string of decaying intestines hanging down beneath the gown and swaying from side to side as the creature moved towards us.

  Smith dispatched the dissected zombie with one slice of the machete, cutting right through the scrawny neck and severing the head with one single blow. The body collapsed in a heap and the head splattered onto the floor before rolling further down the reception area.

  “We need a little help here, Smith,” Wingate scolded from behind us.

  I glanced back and saw her and Batfish struggling to keep Cordoba level in their arms. They stepped over the sliding glass doorframe and Batfish skidded, nearly losing her footing on the glass chips on the ground. I glanced around the reception area and saw an unused gurney cart and several vacant wheelchairs standing beside the unmanned information desk.

  “I got it,” I muttered to Smith and nodded towards the cart.

  “Go easy,” Smith instructed.

  I kept an eye on the approaching undead, who seemed to be gathering in number. They weren’t in one big knot, which made it easier for us to move between them. I aimed and fired the M-9 at a zombie that looked like she was a nurse in her former life. The woman jerked sideways and fell to the ground in front of the reception desk.

  “Hurry it up, Wilde,” Smith barked. “We’re going to get snarled up if we don’t get a move on.”

  I ignored Smith’s dig and moved cautiously towards the gurney cart. I reached the trolley and swung it around on its wheels so I faced Wingate and Batfish with the cart between us. I started to push the gurney towards the doorway but felt something snag my ankle. I heard a hissing sound and looked down at my feet. A set of gnarled fingers gripped my boot and I caught sight of a pale gray face looming from the shadows beneath the reception desk.

  “Ah, shit,” I grunted, startled by the scary, cracked face below a shock of messy white hair.

  The zombie slid across the floor, using its grip on my ankle as leverage. The creature’s mouth opened and I saw a row of brown teeth moving closer to my foot.

  “Come on, Wilde,” Smith growled. “Quit fucking around.” He cut down a long haired ghoul with a swipe with the machete.

  I tried to kick the zombie’s hand away to no avail. The thing held my ankle in a vice-like grip. I had no choice but to use one of my firearms. The creature’s head was moving closer to my leg so I leaned over and aimed the Beretta at the mass of white hair. Careful not to shoot myself in my own foot, I fired once. The discharged round caused the zombie’s head to jolt to one side amid a spray of blood and brain matter splattering up the reception desk. The ghoul immediately ceased moving and rolled onto its side. The bony fingers released the grip on my ankle and I hurriedly pushed the cart towards Wingate and Batfish.

  More zombies had assembled in the reception area and they started to jostle each other as they plodded towards us. Wingate and Batfish laid Cordoba on the gurney while I held it steady.

  Batfish rushed back to the doorway and scooped up Spot, who stood sniffing at the glass chips on the ground. Batfish tucked the small dog away in her jacket and secured him into the harness.

  “We ready to move?” Smith asked through gritted teeth.

  Wingate strapped Cordoba in place then nodded. “We’re ready.”

  “Any idea where we need to go?” Batfish asked Wingate.

  Wingate looked concerned. “We need to find a ventilator but I don’t know the layout of this place. It could be located anywhere.”

  “Well, make your mind up where we’re heading,” Smith said. “These things are surrounding us.”

  I glanced back beyond the shattered glass doors and saw more zombies bundling through the double doors. We had to move fast or we’d be cut off from any possible escape route.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Whereabouts would we find a ventilator?” Jimmy asked Wingate.

  “Normally in the ICU,” Wingate replied. “But the machines are portable and might have gotten scattered all over the place when the epidemic started.”

  “Okay, we’ll start by searching for the ICU,” Smith confirmed.

  “ICU – that’s Intensive Care Unit, right?” Jimmy said, glancing at the signs above our heads.

  “That’s right,” Wingate said.

  “We need to go straight ahead,” Jimmy said, pointing to the signs above.

  “Shit, that’s what I was worried about,” Smith moaned. “That’s right through the main cluster of undead.”

  “Can’t we try and skirt around them and double back?” I suggested.

  “We don’t have time, Brett,” Wingate wailed. “We have to get her to a ventilator or she’s going to flat line on us.”

  “All right, let’s go for it,” Smith growled. “We move at speed right through them. Me and Wilde will lead with you and Batfish pushing the cart and Jimmy following at the rear and don’t stop for any damn thing, got it?”

  “Right,” Batfish yelled and the rest of us mumbled in acknowledgement.

  Yet again Smith had volunteered me for a dangerous mission without my consent but at least he was putting his trust back in me after the debacle at the pub back in Bellahouston. I shuffled alongside him and nodded that I was ready. We took a few gulps of air, trying to calm the jangling nerves. Jimmy got into his own position at the rear, behind the gurney cart.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Smith barked.

  We rushed forward, Smith and me side by side, like so many times since the dead had gotten up and walked the Earth. I heard the rumble of the gurney wheels behind us and hoped we’d be able to carve a sufficient pathway through the undead crowd.

  Smith slashed with the machete, brutally cutting down any undead who came too close. I picked my shots and tried to take out any zombies that moved between us and our route ahead, through the hospital corridor. I thumped the barrels of both my handguns at looming undead faces between firing shots. I batted away gray, decaying hands that threatened to pull me over. I just hoped the others behind were keeping pace with Smith and I.

  The numbers of undead thinned slightly but they still pursued us through the hospital passageways. Sweat ran down my face as we bundled through a set of double swing doors. I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when we were plunged into total darkness. The corridor we stood in was unlit by any form of skylights. Smith stopped moving and I bumped into his back. I heard the moans of the undead outside the doors behind us.

  “Everybody still with us?” Smith asked.

  “Yeah, we’re all here but we need to hurry,” Wingate said.

  “Anybody got a flashlight?” Smith asked.

  I remembered I’d stuffed the flashlight I’d taken from Clarkie’s guys, back in the bar in my jacket.

  “Hold on, I’ve got one,” I muttered, rifling through my combat jacket.

  “Hurry up, Brett,” Batfish wailed. “They’re going to come through those doors behind us at any second and we don’t know what we’re facing through this corridor.”

  I resisted the urge to tell Batfish to shut the fuck up as I was trying my best to fi
nd the flashlight and it wasn’t easy searching through your pockets while holding a loaded gun in each hand. I found the flashlight after a few seconds of searching and clicked it on. I couldn’t operate both my handguns and hold the flashlight so I was forced to replace the SIG Sauer back into my jacket.

  I shone the light around the corridor and saw a pair of milky white eyes glaring back at me and a pale gray, snarling face, around ten feet from where I stood. I heard a hiss and then a gunshot. The gray face and white eyes disappeared from view and I smelt the strong whiff of cordite next to me. Smith kept his aim down the corridor as I swung the light beam left to right in slow, sweeping arcs.

  “Let’s keep moving,” Smith said. “You better hand me the flashlight while you reload, Wilde.”

  I obliged, handing the flashlight to Smith while I loaded a full magazine into the Beretta. When I was done he handed me back the light.

  “Another couple of zombie’s up there to the right,” he said as we set off forward again.

  I shone the light in the direction he indicated and saw two undead huddled against the corridor wall and chewing on something that looked like a human body part. The zombies were both females, dressed in the blood stained and torn remains of white uniforms and I guessed they may have been former hospital staff members. They growled at each other as they fought over the bloody leg or arm or whatever the hell it was.

  “Just keep an eye on them,” Smith said. “If they move towards us, shoot them.”

  “You don’t need to tell me, Smith,” I whispered, wiping the sweat from my face with my sleeve. “I hope we find this damn ventilator soon.”

  I turned when I heard the double doors bang open behind us. The flashlight beam illuminated at least a dozen, rotten snarling faces, twenty yards to our rear.

  “Keep the light facing front,” Smith scolded. “We know those motherfuckers are behind us. It’s what’s coming up ahead we need to keep our eyes on.”

  “Okay,” I muttered and swung the flashlight back in front of me.

  The female zombies in the white uniforms growled like two guard dogs as we approached. Smith stepped forward and hacked the first one’s head clean off with the machete. The second crouched and went to stand or spring at Smith but he was anticipating the move. He side stepped and swung the blade in a slashing, 180 degree line. The machete cut through the top of the zombie’s head, slicing off the skull slightly above the eye line. I heard a splattering sound as the top of the head struck the wall to the right.

  Smith took a quick glance over his shoulder, down the dark tunnel behind us. “We need to pick up the pace. We need to put some distance between us and that mob. We’re going to need some time to find a secure room to get Cordoba on the ventilator.”

  “What about power?” I asked. “Won’t the ventilator need to be plugged into the mains? It doesn’t look as though this place has an electricity generator running.” Surely, we were wasting our time if we couldn’t even power up the damn thing.

  “They’re fitted with backup batteries in case of power outages or software failures,” Wingate explained. “If we find one soon enough, I should be able to make it operational.”

  The corridor dog-legged and the remainder of the passageway was thankfully clear of undead.

  “Keep focused on those doors up ahead,” Smith said, pointing to a set of double doors at the end of the corridor.

  I shone the flashlight across the doors and at the circular shaped windows in the center. I couldn’t see anybody or anything on the opposite side of the doors and hoped we’d have a clear run to the ICU. Light radiated from the windows and dimly lit up the last few yards of the corridor.

  “Let’s get moving,” Smith muttered and broke into a jog.

  I upped my speed to match Smith’s pace and I heard the gurney wheels clanking on the walkway floor behind us. I guessed the corridor was like a bridge, to move equipment and people from one part of the hospital to the other.

  Smith and I stopped at the double doors and took a look through the windows in each side. I saw a wide, rectangular shaped area with several corridors snaking off into the distance. The space was lit by windows looking out onto the snowy landscape outside and a sign hanging above the main area told us we were at the ICU. I couldn’t see any zombies roaming around beyond the doors and hoped the area was clear.

  “We’re here,” I sighed.

  “Let’s get in there and find this damn ventilator,” Smith said.

  I gasped in gulps of air and nodded. Smith barged the door with his shoulder, expecting it to swing open but it didn’t budge I tried the door on my side but it didn’t open either. I rattled the handles but the doors wouldn’t move in either direction.

  “Shit, the doors are locked from the inside,” I whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Come on, Smith,” Wingate shrieked. “Hurry it up and open those damn doors.”

  “Stand out the way,” Jimmy said, aiming his shotgun at the space between the doors.

  “Whoa, hold your horses, cowboy,” Smith rumbled. “That old piece of crap isn’t powerful enough to blow open that lock and those windows are made of reinforced plastic. The shells may or may not break the plastic but the shot is likely to blow right back in our faces.”

  “So, what do you suggest, Smith?” Wingate squawked. “Stay right here and get eaten alive?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Smith shrieked and kicked the center of the doors with his right boot. He continued kicking several times but the door still didn’t budge. I joined in, desperately barging the doors with my shoulder.

  “Let me try the shotgun,” Jimmy bellowed above the noise of our pounding on the door.

  “Stop, stop,” Batfish yelled. “All of you, just stop. There’s somebody inside there.”

  I ceased barging the door, breathing heavily and shone the flashlight in Batfish’s direction. I glanced over her shoulder and noticed the zombie horde drawing closer.

  “What?” Smith said, gasping in heavy breaths. He turned to the doors then back to Batfish, leaning forward slightly. “What did you say?”

  “I saw somebody moving around in there,” Batfish repeated. “When you guys were bashing against the door, a guy came out of a room to the side and looked through the windows. Then he went back to where he came from.”

  “Was he alive or dead?” I asked.

  “No, he was alive,” Batfish insisted. “I saw him moving clearly through that damn window. He was an Asian looking guy.”

  A crescendo of low toned groans, high pitched shrieks and hisses echoed through the corridor. I turned to look behind us and saw the encroaching mob of undead had increased in number. The crowd bobbed and jostled in a jumbled, seething mass, their facial features were masked in shadow but I could see the outline of heads and raised hands swaying as they plodded towards us.

  My stomach knotted up and I felt a rising sense of desperation and panic. I clicked off the flashlight and placed it in my jacket pocket. The light from the room beyond the doors allowed us to see around our immediate vicinity and slightly illuminated a further few yards of the corridor.

  “We’re in deep shit,” I groaned, taking aim at the enclosing horde.

  “Not for the first time,” Smith muttered. “We keep riding our luck and the ride is going to come to an end, sooner or later.”

  I turned my head to take a brief glance at Smith, wondering if he was becoming philosophical about his own mortality. We all had an expiry date, like food stuff bought at a store. The only difference was, all those grocery products all had a particular termination date stamped on them and we, as human beings had no such foresight into our own demise. Maybe the undead were like spoiled food – rotting, bad but still around.

  Smith turned back to the double doors. He hammered with the back of his fist on the circular window, still holding the machete in his hand.

  “Hey, hey! You in there? Let us through these damn doors, you motherfucker!” He repeatedly beat on the r
einforced plastic windows, repeating his words in an increasingly pissed off tone.

  Batfish and Wingate edged the gurney trolley closer to the doors in a futile attempt to give them a little more space between the undead crowds.

  “Hey, you bastard.” Smith continued hollering and banging with a wild-eyed, crazed expression on his face. “Let us the fuck inside. We’re dead out here.”

  I realized the only thing we could do was stand and try to fight off the undead with our limited firepower until the ammunition ran out. Then we might be able to somehow dodge however many zombies remained in the corridor. It was a shitty plan but the only possible option open to us.

  Smith bashed at the windows with the machete but the blade bounced off the surface, producing nothing more than a series of vertical scratches.

  A wave of reluctant acceptance washed over me and I decided if we had no escape alternative, I’d save the last bullet I had for my own head. My body would more than likely still be torn to pieces but at least I wouldn’t be around to feel the intense pain. Whatever the outcome, we’d done well to survive for as long as we had, running on instinct, stupidity, luck and sheer determination for almost a year in the new, post-apocalyptic world of chaos and death.

  “It’s been really great knowing all of you,” I muttered.

  Batfish replied but I didn’t catch what she said. I was too busy concentrating on aiming carefully at the closest zombie heads, closing in on our position. I fired three times and saw three bodies drop, lost from view amongst the stumbling, shuffling feet of the mob. I knew I had a couple of spare loaded magazines in my combat jacket but reloading the M-9 was going to eat up valuable seconds and allow the horde to advance on our position. Wingate drew her own handgun and took a few carefully aimed shots at the crowd. Smith finally turned away from the doors and slid the machete back into his belt then dragged the M-16 off his shoulder.