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

by Fletcher, Christian

  “Ah, that’s just great,” I sighed. “Now the whole undead population of the UK knows where we are. Way to go, Smith.”

  Smith swung around and fired at a couple of zombies trying to grab at him. Their bodies dropped to the ground at his feet, bleeding from gunshot wounds to the head. Smith laughed in a rasping chuckle and seemed to be enjoying this daft and dangerous escapade.

  “I told you we’d get those packs, Wilde Man,” he shouted.

  I was having difficulty in beating off the zombies around me and the wheelchair was already a few feet away. I took a quick glance to the rear and saw more undead piling out of the hospital reception area, lumbering towards us. Just because Smith had blown the Range Rover’s rear window out, it didn’t make the situation any easier. The guy was a fucking maniac.

  “Roll the chair over this way,” Smith instructed.

  “I can’t even reach it,” I yelled back in frustration. “Ah, fuck this.” I fumbled around inside my jacket and retrieved my own Beretta M-9. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

  “Come on, Wilde,” Smith barked. “Hurry it up, will you.”

  I gritted my teeth and really wanted to shoot Smith at that moment. Instead, I aimed my firearm at the zombies surrounding me, picking off each one with a headshot. When the last body dropped, I estimated I had around ten seconds to roll the wheelchair to the rear compartment of the Range Rover and unload the packs, before the undead crowd pouring out of the hospital reception massed on top of us.

  Smith hacked and slashed and fired his handgun at the horde surrounding him, considerably thinning their active number. I grabbed the wheelchair handles and pushed the damn thing forward. The wheels skidded and splayed to the sides and the stupid contraption seemed to want to go in every direction but the one I wanted.

  Smith chopped at the glass that remained in the back window frame with the machete then tucked the blade under his arm. He turned back and shot a couple more zombies before reaching inside the compartment and pulling out one of the rucksacks.

  I glanced around, taking in a 360 degree view of our surroundings. Zombies seemed to be looming out of the mist in every direction. Why the hell was I putting myself through this torture? I half stumbled, half shoved the wheelchair towards the back of the car and Smith tossed the first pack onto the seat before I was even ready. The rucksack hit the chair and nearly went over on its side and me with it. I steadied the chair and myself, resisting the urge to call Smith an asshole. Somehow, I managed to keep the wheelchair upright while juggling with the hurley and a loaded firearm in my hands, as well as gripping the wheelchair handles.

  I didn’t want to run out of ammo, so I had to carefully pick my shots as I tried to keep the zombies at a far enough distance for us to manage the operation with a degree of control. Every time I fired, I knew the sound was probably attracting more undead from miles around but Smith had put us in this hazardous predicament and now there wasn’t a whole lot of choices. Again, we’d have to rely on a large slice of luck and quick thinking.

  Smith fired on three more approaching undead then pulled the remaining packs from the rear compartment. I held the chair steady and he loaded the rucksacks in a pile, wedged between the arm rests.

  “Are we done?” I asked, nervously glancing around.

  Smith nodded and slapped me around the face. “We’re done, kid. Let’s roll that motherfucker back to HQ.”

  I tucked the hurley stick down the back of the wheelchair seat. The rucksacks kept my weapon wedged in place. I then slid the M-9 into the front pocket of my jacket and hoped I wouldn’t have any further cause to use it.

  “You better keep me covered, Smith, if I’m pushing this bastard thing all the way back,” I barked, spinning the wheelchair around.

  “Don’t fret, kid,” Smith said, with a broad smile. “I’ve got your back.”

  “I fucking hope so,” I muttered, shoving the wheelchair forward.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I felt sweat run down my back despite the cold. Pushing the damn wheelchair through the snowy terrain was much harder and physically exerting than I’d thought. Smith was as good as his word. He protected me from attacking undead as we retraced our steps back around the perimeter walls of the hospital. He held his handgun in his right hand and the machete in his left, cutting down or shooting any zombie who got too close.

  My back, wrists and thighs burned with exertion and I was more than relieved when the fire door of the incinerator compartment honed into sight. The plastic chair and shovel remained in place so I assumed no zombies had breached the sanctity of our confines.

  I glanced behind me as I shoved the wheelchair forward for the final few yards. A ragged straggle of undead followed us, stumbling through the snow and moaning amongst the mist. We’d never be able to use the fire exit door again without having to fight our way out through a whole bunch of undead. They’d follow us to the entrance and scrape and claw at the fire door for as long as they knew we were inside. Some may give up and wander off but the majority would hang around in a vain attempt to burrow through the door to get inside.

  “I just hope we haven’t been missed by the others,” I grunted. “Wingate and Batfish won’t leave it alone if they find out where we’ve been.”

  “Let me handle them, kid,” Smith said, glancing around our surroundings. “They’ll be glad of a change of clothes when they’ve calmed down a little.”

  The undead followed us to the fire door and we had to hurry unloading the backpacks, tossing them onto the incinerator floor. Smith kicked the plastic chair away and threw the shovel onto the ground beside the incinerator. We left the wheelchair where it stood outside in the snow. Smith closed up the fire door and I heard the thumps of undead hands on the outside a few seconds later.

  I exhaled a long sigh of relief and collapsed onto my back on top of the pile of rucksacks. Smith turned from the doorway with a big grin on his face.

  “We did good, kid. Let’s have a smoke and a slug of the good stuff to celebrate.” He waved his hand at me to usher me off the pile of baggage.

  I groaned and rolled off the rucksack pile, straining to haul myself to my feet.

  “You almost got us killed out there, Smith,” I sighed. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  Smith hunkered down and began rifling through the packs. “Hey, I got the job done, didn’t I? When have I ever let you down, Wilde Man?”

  I opened my mouth ready to vent my frustrations and name several times when Smith had let me down but remembered the incident in the bar in Bellahouston, when my negligence could have cost us all our lives.

  “Yeah, we did okay,” I compromised.

  Smith had his crazy methods and somehow we’d survived through yet another foolish and irrational episode. Maybe deep down, like Smith, I had become addicted to those life or death confrontations. When the world was normal, some people skydived or went white water rafting or abseiling or deep sea diving for their kicks. Death was only a whisper away. Those people used to be termed adrenalin junkies and maybe we were doing a similar thing, only our extreme sport was dangling ourselves in front of gangs of flesh eating ghouls.

  “Aha! Come to daddy,” Smith chirped. He pulled out a bottle of Scotch and a pack of cigarettes. “Just what the damn doctor ordered.”

  He hurriedly tore the cellophane off the cigarette pack and tossed a smoke in my direction.

  “You’re going to tell me you haven’t got a lighter on you now, huh?”

  Smith smiled as he produced his Zippo from his pocket. “You know me, I’m always prepared, Wilde Man.”

  We lit the cigarettes and took a few slugs of Scotch, passing the bottle between us. Both the burn of the smoke and the liquor tasted good and I started to relax a little.

  “Hey, you better not get any of that blood all over you in your mouth,” I said, pointing at Smith’s spattered clothing. “What did you do with that big assed machete anyhow?”

  Smith looked down at his comb
at jacket front and grunted. He took of his coat and flung it at the incinerator. He nodded to the fire door then glanced back at me. I saw the blood stained weapon leaning against the door frame.

  “That big assed machete is a good killing weapon.” Smith jabbed the end of his cigarette at me as he spoke. “We need those kinds of tools in our line of work.”

  “Well, that damn thing certainly got a lot of use out there today,” I sighed. “I thought for one moment we weren’t going to make it back here. You seemed like you totally lost it out there, man.”

  Smith shrugged one shoulder and took a long swig from the Scotch bottle. “Maybe I did get a little cranky but it was all under control, kid.”

  I smiled to myself. I knew Smith was sometimes a liability but we’d somehow survived yet another scrape. We’d retrieved the backpacks, which was what we’d set out to accomplish, even if the methods used had been a little unconventional.

  I felt a little light headed due to the sudden alcohol and nicotine rush. Also, I felt dirty and sweaty and needed a shower.

  “I’m going to hit the bathrooms,” I said. “I’ll leave the explanations of where the hell we’ve been to you then, Smith.”

  “No problem, buddy,” Smith muttered, stamping out his cigarette.

  We lugged the backpacks up the staircase and met up with Wingate, Batfish, Chandra and Spot inside the café. Wingate was suitably annoyed we’d gone outside without telling her so I left Smith to receive his admonishment and headed for the showers.

  The clean clothes did feel good when I put them on after my shower. Smith followed me into the bathroom a few minutes after I’d finished up. He looked duly sheepish but tried to shrug off his ball busting blast from Wingate.

  The next few weeks ticked by without incident. Smith and I were forced to ration our cigarettes but I was sure he was taking more than his allocated amount. I didn’t complain. I started using a treadmill in a small physiotherapy room to try and get myself in some sort of shape. Chandra and I continued to play chess every day and I returned to the storeroom to collect some of the old books to read.

  Smith brewed up some disgusting kind of liquor, using medical alcohol and minty mouth wash. The stuff tasted so bad but was extremely strong. We all had another game of indoor cricket one afternoon when we were all intoxicated on Smith’s homebrew. That day, I laughed so hard my stomach ached. The following day we all felt so hung over that Wingate and Batfish vowed never to touch a drop of Smith’s potent concoction ever again.

  Life was uneventful and dull but also calm and restful. We were safely tucked away from the undead and all the other horrors of Glasgow City.

  I wrongly thought the hospital was going to be a safe haven for the foreseeable future.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  We’d been holed up inside the hospital for around a month when we heard the sound of muffled gunfire. Chandra and I were in the middle of a chess game. Wingate, Batfish and Spot were in the café and Smith burst into the restroom a few seconds after we heard the guns firing.

  Chandra and I glanced at Smith. He looked concerned and I felt a rising fear in the pit of my stomach.

  “What the hell is going on?” I asked.

  Smith shook his head. “I don’t know. Somebody is doing a lot of shooting out there and it sounds like they’re heading this way. That’s semi automatic fire and it sounds like they’re firing in controlled bursts. That ‘aint no ragtag bunch.” He opened a gray, metal locker we used to store our firearms. “Better get locked and loaded. We may have a battle to deal with.” He took out the M-16 rifle and an M-9 handgun and started to load the weapons. “Wilde Man, go and grab the others from the café.”

  “Okay,” I muttered, standing up and accidently knocking the chess pieces off the board.

  I rushed to the café and met Wingate and Batfish, who had already heard the gunshots. They hurried towards me with worried expressions. I was glad to see Spot trotting along beside them.

  “What’s happening, Brett?” Batfish whispered.

  I motioned back to the TV lounge. “We don’t know yet but Smith wants us all to stick together. He’s already loading up the weapons.”

  “Where the heck are those shots coming from?” Wingate gasped. “It sounds as though whoever is doing the firing is all around us.” She turned her head from left to right and spun around in a circle. “What are they doing out there?”

  “Well, whatever it is they want, it sounds as though they’ve come prepared,” I said. “Come on, we better catch up with Smith. He’s with Chandra in the restroom.”

  Batfish, Wingate and Spot followed me back to the TV lounge. Smith had already loaded all the weapons in our small armory and placed the firearms on top of the cabinet. His face was etched with grim determination.

  “Maybe we need to talk to those guys out there,” Wingate said.

  Smith snorted. “They ‘aint going to talk, baby. They’re going to waltz right on in here unless we stop them.”

  I felt panic spread through me. We were a small band of survivors, mostly shooting at undead in self defense. Fighting off an armed invasion was totally out of my league.

  “At least, let’s take a look outside and see what we’re dealing with here,” I suggested.

  Smith nodded and handed me an M-9 Beretta. “Okay, let’s move to the window that looks out onto the side of the building. The rest of you stay here.”

  I followed Smith as we ran through the ICU unit to the corridor near the locked doors, where we’d first entered the ward. A couple of weeks previously, we’d rigged up a step ladder we found in the storeroom below the high windows, mainly to gauge what the weather was doing outside.

  Smith and I climbed the step ladder on each side and peeked through the window. I saw several guys dressed in all white combat clothing with white hoods covering their helmets, aiming and firing at the zombies who roamed the hospital grounds. The guys carried assault rifles and advanced in a tactical formation towards the building. They barked at each other in a language I didn’t understand but Smith groaned on the ladder next to me.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What’s up, who are they?”

  “Russians,” Smith groaned. “Damn Russians and they’re going to come on in here and take all this stuff.”

  “What do you mean, take all this stuff?” I whispered.

  “Do you remember those guys back across the river that talked about seeing Russian soldiers landing on the docks?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. I’d completely forgotten about the crew by the Clyde.

  “Well, this is them, kid. Fully suited and booted and armed to the teeth. They’ve obviously targeted this place and they’ve probably come for the medical equipment. There’s a bunch of good, usable stuff in here plus all the medicine, dressings and supplies.”

  “What are we going to do?” I asked.

  “We’re going to stand and fight,” Smith growled, climbing back down the ladder.

  I slid down the step ladder and hurried to catch up with Smith, who was already charging back to the TV lounge.

  “Wait up, Smith,” I called. “We need to think about what we’re doing here.” I knew the Russian soldiers we’d seen through the window were only a small proportion of the force. They were probably approaching the hospital from all sides, preparing to storm the building. They were almost certainly armed to the teeth with high quality firearms, tons of ammo, grenades and explosives. No way would we be capable of repelling such an attack. Engaging the Russians in a gun battle was tantamount to suicide.

  I caught up with Smith as he entered the TV lounge and grabbed the M-16 rifle.

  “Well…? What are we looking at out there?” Batfish asked.

  Smith didn’t reply. He began loading loose rounds into one of the spare magazines.

  “Russian soldiers,” I blurted. “A whole god damn squad of them.”

  “What?” Batfish squawked. I saw doubt in her eyes.

  Chandra’s eyes widened and he looked
absolutely terrified.

  “Russians? Are you sure?” Wingate gasped. “What the hell are Russian soldiers doing in Glasgow?”

  “Well, they’re not on shore leave, that’s for damn sure,” Smith grunted. “We have to stop them.”

  I stood behind Smith and glanced at Wingate. I shook my head slightly to tell her it was an impossible task to try and defend the hospital.

  “Wait a moment,” Wingate grabbed Smith’s arm. “How do you know they are Russians out there?”

  Smith stopped loading his magazine and stared Wingate straight in the eyes. “Reason one – I heard them talking in Russian. Reason two – they were wearing Russian Arctic Combat uniforms and reason three – they’re carrying Russian made AN-94 assault rifles and Dragunov SVD sniper rifles, and I saw one dude with a GM-94 multi-shot grenade launcher. That’s how I know they’re Russians.”

  Smith’s knowledge of weapons and his recognition skills were impressive. I didn’t know one make of firearm from another simply by looking at them. But his list of the firepower those guys outside were carrying didn’t make me feel any better. In fact, it made me feel totally helpless.

  “This is one battle we ‘aint going to win, Smith,” I sighed.

  He turned around sharply to face me with anger burning in his eyes.

  “So what do you suggest we do, huh, Wilde Man? Just throw the towel in and give up?”

  “We don’t have much option here,” Wingate groaned, patting Smith’s arm.

  “What’s wrong with you people?” Smith growled, glancing at each of us in turn.

  The chatter of assault rifle fire echoed from somewhere close. This time the noise sounded as though it came from inside the building.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “They’re coming closer,” Chandra stammered. “Shouldn’t we hide or something?”