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

by Fletcher, Christian

“They may just leave us alone if we talk to them,” Batfish said, scooping up Spot in her arms.

  “Yeah, right,” Smith scoffed. “They’ll ransack this place and probably kill us all. They don’t give a shit if we live or die.”

  “I still don’t think trying to fight them off is such a good idea,” Wingate said, taking the partially loaded magazine out of Smith hands. “You said yourself they’ve got assault rifles, grenade launchers and who knows what else? If you start firing on them, they won’t stop until they’ve blown the crap out of this place and all of us with it. It’s just time to face whatever is thrown at us, I’m afraid.” She placed the magazine on top of the gun cabinet and turned to Chandra. “I’m sorry, but if we hide and get discovered, it’ll only make it harder on us. Besides, if they’re sweeping through here, the whole building won’t be secure any more. The place will be breached and the infected will eventually roll on in here. We should do as Batfish says and try talking to those guys.”

  “And you think they’ll understand you?” Smith spat. “Even if they do speak English, which I seriously doubt, do you think they’ll seriously even listen to you?”

  “That’s something we’ll have to find out,” Wingate sighed.

  I had to agree that attempting to fight off the invaders was pointless but sincerely hoped they wouldn’t simply mow us down in a hail of gunfire as soon as they laid eyes on us.

  The whole room seemed to rock on its axis and we all instinctively ducked down when a loud booming noise reverberated all around us.

  “Christ, what the hell was that?” Batfish screeched.

  “Sounds as though they’ve just blown the internal doors that the Doc kept locked at the end of the ICU,” Smith shouted.

  “Better put all those weapons back in that closet,” Wingate said. “They might start shooting if they find us in here next to a whole pile of loaded guns.”

  “I’m not happy about this,” Smith groaned. “I still say we’re going to regret not making a stand.” He shook his head and began loading the firearms back into the locker.

  Wingate closed the locker door when Smith put the last firearm on the top shelf.

  “Don’t you dare go for any of those weapons, no matter what happens,” she warned.

  Smith muttered some protest that wasn’t completely audible. He sighed loudly and rubbed his forehead. “So, what do we do? Just stand here like a bunch of assholes and let them come to us?”

  “I just hope they don’t think we’re zombies at first glance and shoot before asking questions,” I added.

  “They’ll probably shoot us anyhow,” Smith snorted.

  “Open the door as wide as it’ll go, Brett,” Wingate instructed.

  I did as I was told and heard the dull thudding of approaching footsteps. Rubber soles of military boots thumping over vinyl floor tiles.

  “Hey, we are in here,” Wingate shouted. “We are unarmed survivors and none of us are infected.” She raised her hands beside her head and gestured for the rest of us to do the same. “Please do not open fire on us. We are uninfected survivors.”

  I glanced at Smith when I heard muffled voices in a foreign language and the sound of the footfalls increased rapidly as they approached the TV lounge. My mouth and throat dried immediately and I wondered if I was living my last few moments on Earth. Would the Russian soldiers callously hose us down with their assault rifles or would they slap us on the back with a haughty laugh and crack open a bottle of vodka?

  Wingate called out again and we heard footsteps draw closer and the metallic rattle of equipment. Three guys dressed in Arctic combats loomed in the doorway, with their assault rifles pointed directly at us. The expressions on their faces were completely blank and devoid of any emotion. They looked battle hardened and impassive, with dull staring eyes like those Glaswegian guys we’d met on the bank of the River Clyde.

  “We are unarmed and not infected,” Wingate repeated. “We are survivors who are staying here in this building.” She spoke slowly and concisely, hoping they’d understand her.

  “This ‘aint going to work,” Smith muttered out the side of his mouth.

  The tallest soldier, with a thin face, long nose and hooded eyes barked something at us, which I presumed was in his native tongue. He motioned with the barrel of his assault rifle and I got the gist that he wanted us to leave the TV lounge. We stood where we were, not sure what to do and glancing at each other nervously.

  The Russian barked his order with more gusto and I slowly stepped forward. He motioned for me to stand in a spot in the corridor outside the TV lounge. The others tentatively followed and lined up beside me, still with our hands raised. The other two soldiers kept their weapons trained on us and moved to each end of the line. The thin faced guy patted us down and searched through our pockets, maybe looking for concealed weapons, although none of us were armed. We heard the sounds heavy footsteps above us followed by more gunfire. They were completely purging the building of undead. More troops rushed by, scurrying through the corridors beyond and the thin faced guy yelled at another one of the soldiers that passed by.

  A squat little man, who almost looked like an Oriental stopped and jogged down the corridor towards us. He conversed in Russian with the thin faced guy and then turned to look at us.

  “We are from the army of the Russian Federation,” he said in heavily accented English. “You have been liberated from your penal complex by the army of the Russian Federation.”

  “Now wait a minute, we chose to be in here,” Wingate protested. “It wasn’t any kind of penal complex.”

  The squat Russian guy ignored her and carried on with his spiel. “You will accompany us to our sea craft where we will transport you to a refugee camp. You will be examined by our medical staff and you will be provided with food, clothing and shelter.”

  “This don’t sound good,” Smith mumbled.

  “You will not be harmed if you comply with these simple requests,” the soldier continued.

  The thin faced soldier motioned with his rifle towards the end of the corridor and barked out an order.

  “Can’t we at least get our gear?” Wingate asked. “We need some kind of cold weather jackets. It’s damn freezing out there.”

  The squat guy remained silent for a couple of seconds. I didn’t know if he was mulling over Wingate’s request or was just staring us down. He turned to the thin faced guy and conversed in Russian.

  “Where is your equipment?” he asked.

  We’d kept the rucksacks stored in the café next to the countertop.

  “Just down the hall,” Wingate explained, pointing the way.

  “You will take two minutes to get your cold weather clothing but do not try to bring any firearms or explosives or weapons of any kind with you,” Squat Guy instructed. “These soldiers will accompany you but will not understand you as they do not speak English.” He turned and jogged away down the corridor.

  Thin Face waved his rifle at us and Wingate led the way to the café. Several Russian soldiers were already loading food tins into their own bags when we entered.

  “They’re looting the whole place,” Chandra sighed.

  We turned and saw a few soldiers wheeling medical equipment along the corridor, heading for the exit.

  “They won’t leave anything behind,” Smith said.

  “No speak,” Thin Face shouted, jabbing his rifle in our direction.

  “So much for liberation,” I sighed, feeling more like a prisoner.

  We picked up our rucksacks but Thin Face and the other two soldiers snatched them off us and rummaged around inside, spilling the contents out onto the floor.

  “Hey,” Batfish protested.

  “Only jacket,” Thin Face croaked. “No bags.”

  We slipped on our foul weather jackets and Smith handed a spare one to Chandra. Batfish wrapped Spot in a blanket and tucked him under her arm. She held the dog leash up for Thin Face to see and nodded.

  “For the dog,” she said, loudly
and slowly.

  Thin Face nodded his approval and Batfish clipped the dog leash onto Spot’s collar.

  We were ushered out of the café and through the corridors towards the ICU exit doors. More Russian soldiers brushed by, seemingly heading in all directions and carrying all kinds of machinery and equipment. I wondered how many of them there were and felt slightly relieved we hadn’t tried to engage them in a firefight. We’d be inside body bags or left to rot where we fell if we’d attempted to carry out Smith’s insane plan.

  The doorway out of the ICU, where Chandra had first let us into the sealed area was a charred mess. The wrecked doors hung off their hinges and both propped against the wall, covered in blackened scars from an explosive charge. I glanced at the spot where Jimmy had fallen as we trudged through the walkway, lit by the soldier’s flashlights. No signs of his body remained, only a dark stain blotted the floor and wall. Poor old Jimmy. I wondered what he’d have made of all this. We were leaving both Jimmy and Cordoba behind.

  The reception foyer was littered with slaughtered bodies of the undead, lying in heaps against either side of the walls. It hadn’t taken the Russians long to quell the threat of the numerous zombies that roamed the hospital.

  The bad weather outside had broken and the sky was clear blue. Some of the snow had melted and was starting to recede. The Range Rover still stood where we’d left it and the pile of bodies remained in place at the rear of the vehicle. The dismembered and terminated ghoul’s remains had been partially devoured by animals or birds and some of the severed heads had been dragged into the distance or half eaten.

  A line of new Cherokee Jeeps were parked up behind the Range Rover and I guessed the vehicles had also been liberated by the Russians. They’d obviously found them at a car sales place and got them in working order, scouring the city for anything of worth. It was amazing the things you could do in an apocalyptic world when you had a force as big and powerful as these guys.

  We were joined by another two soldiers and Thin Face waved us into two separate vehicles. Smith and I crawled into the back of a burgundy colored Jeep and Wingate, Batfish, Spot and Chandra jumped into a dark green vehicle. Thin Face hopped into the driver’s seat of the car we rode in and one of his accomplices squeezed in the back alongside Smith and I. The guy glanced at Smith and I with a look of menace and nodded slightly. I thought he looked a little bit like Patrick Stewart, the British TV and movie actor.

  Thin Face gunned the engine into life and U-turned the Jeep. I took a quick glance out of the rear window, back at our temporarily sanctuary and wondered where the hell we were heading next.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Thin Face drove us back the route we’d previously traveled, when we were rushing to the hospital with Cordoba. Patrick Stewart didn’t take his eyes off us during the journey and I felt we were under constant observation rather than being free of our confines. I’d rather have spent ten years marooned inside the hospital, living out a mundane existence than face whatever fate these gang of rough Russians had in store for us.

  I turned my head and looked out of the rear window to check the others were still following behind in the green Jeep. We drove by several clusters of undead and Thin Face garbled in Russian to his colleague in the front passenger seat, pointing at the filthy ghouls huddling together. They attempted chasing the two vehicles but were soon lost in the distance. Thin Face and his comrade in the Jeep behind didn’t exactly hang around and sped through the city in our respective vehicles.

  They took a right turn at the bridge where we’d crossed the river and slowed up next to the ferry docking terminal. Another half dozen or so bored looking Russian soldiers milled around beside the dock. They soon regained interest when they saw the two Jeeps coming to a halt. The soldiers peered in through the side windows, studying us as though we were animals in a zoo.

  We were ushered out of the vehicles by Thin Face and his crew then led down to the docks. The soldiers conversed with each other and some erupted in laughter. I wondered what they were saying and if we were the butt of their private joke. Thin Face led us down to the jetty with his colleagues following on behind. They weren’t exactly pointing their rifles at us but kept them slung over their shoulders and to hand. It still felt as though it wouldn’t take them much to start firing at us.

  At least a dozen small ribbed boats bobbed around on the river beside the jetty. Two larger fast patrol craft, complete with heavy duty machine gun turrets sat on the water to the left of the dock, separated from the smaller boats. More soldiers or sailors patrolled the decks of the larger boats and took a look over the side as we approached. All the vessels were tethered together and also secured by ropes to the dock. The Russians had certainly massed a force together and I had the feeling this was only a small part of it.

  The breeze across the river wasn’t as cold as previously endured the last time we were around the Clyde. The air smelled of salt and the moldy, green algae growing on the dock wall. The winter had finally relented and the warmer climate of Spring seemed to be on its way. I had no idea what day of the week it was, let alone which month. Calendars, dates and times didn’t really seem important any longer.

  Thin Face directed us to the first small ribbed boat in the line and barked out an order that I assumed was for us to climb onboard. There was enough room for all of us to fit into the one craft plus Thin Face and two of his comrades. We had to help Batfish onboard as she still had Spot tucked under her arm. Thin Face sat in the driver’s position and fired up the engine once we were all seated. He nodded at one of the soldiers on the jetty who untied the securing rope. One of the Russians onboard our boat untied the rope securing us to the other crafts and Thin Face upped the revs then pulled away from the jetty.

  We ducked down, trying to avoid the spray from the river as Thin Face increased the speed and tore along the Clyde and out of the city. Riding in the boat would have been a fun experience if I hadn’t been so worried about our destination. What the hell was waiting for us at the end of our journey?

  We sped by empty villages and saw plenty of undead roaming along the riverbanks. They stopped to watch us pass by and some had even waded into the river in a futile attempt to pursue the boat. Those undead who entered the water quickly sunk below the surface. I estimated our boat ride lasted for around thirty to forty minutes before Thin Face slowed the craft.

  The river widened out and two huge, gray warships sat motionless at anchor between both banks. No buildings stood on the flat shoreline but rows of white tents stood near the edge of the river. More soldiers in white Arctic combat gear strolled around the tents and along the shoreline. I spotted other people dressed in all gray clothing mingling between the soldiers. The gray clad people collected water from the river and moved in and out of the tents.

  “Ah, my god,” Smith groaned, as he surveyed the scene unfolding in front of us. “This really don’t look good.”

  I had to admit the view looked grim and full of hardship. The place wasn’t exactly a vacation resort.

  Thin Face steered the small boat to the coastline and we were met by a couple more Russian soldiers, wielding assault rifles. Thin Face chatted with them for a few seconds, presumably explaining our predicament. The soldiers ushered us out of the boat and we waded through the shallow water onto the pebbly shore. Thin Face turned the small boat around and headed back up river, presumably to join his comrades back in the city. I heard a hubbub of voices from the gray clothed people and recognized the Scottish lilt in their accents. Some stopped to stare at us as the soldiers led us towards the maze of white tents.

  “They’ll no think much of this place,” one guy said to a female standing next to him.

  The waft of unwashed clothing, wood smoke and stale excrement attacked my senses as we weaved between the canvas structures. I heard a baby crying from one tent and some guy almost coughing his lungs out in another. I caught a peek of the interior of one dwelling and saw a guy inside a sleeping bag, while a young ma
n and a girl huddled together in the opposite corner. The young couple shared the contents of a food tin, eating the gloppy substance with their fingers.

  “This ‘aint no liberation base,” Smith growled. “It’s more like a concentration camp.”

  I felt Smith’s concerns and wondered how long we’d be expected to stay in this bleak place.

  The soldiers led us to a tent to the rear of the camp that was guarded by three big guys dressed in dark green combats and black flak jackets. They eyed us warily as we approached. One guy said something to his comrade and they pointed at our own combat fatigues. The soldiers marshaled us inside the tent and two of the big guys followed us inside.

  A guy with short cropped gray hair glanced up from a pile of maps strewn across a table when we entered. The man was dressed in dark green combat fatigues with three silver stars on each epaulet on the top of his shoulders. I didn’t know what rank the guy was but he was obviously the top dog around the camp.

  We fanned out into a line in front of the guy, aware of the hulking men standing behind us. I took a quick glance at the rest of my party and they all looked shell shocked and apprehensive.

  The Russian guy in front of us flashed a false smile. His dark brown eyes gave away the fact he didn’t give a shit whether we lived or died.

  “Welcome to Greenock Refugee Camp,” he said. His English sounded good, with only a hint of an Eastern European accent. “I am Colonel Oleg Chernakov of the army of the Russian Federation. I am in charge of this temporary camp.” He walked around the table and slowly approached us. “I see from your uniforms that you are from the United States. You have come a long way.” He pointed to the small Stars and Stripes insignia on the arm of Smith’s jacket.

  “I am not from the US, I am from India,” Chandra piped up.

  “India, eh?” Chernakov said. “Even further from home.”

  “I am…I mean I was a doctor at the Royal Glasgow Infirmary Hospital. That’s where we were when your men…took us away.”