“What the hell?” I whispered and bent down to pick up the empty packet.
Chandra stirred, rolled onto his back but didn’t wake. That was good; I didn’t want to disturb anybody from their much needed sleep.
Glancing back at the cigarette packet, I recognized Smith’s handwriting, the small neat letters all leaning to the right. In the early days of the apocalypse, Smith had a habit of writing down everything in our inventory when we spent a long time at sea on an old US Coast Guard boat. He’d given up making notes of all our possessions a long time ago but I still recognized the tidy calligraphy. I read the note silently in my head and I could hear Smith’s voice, in that unmistakable Brooklyn accent reciting the words.
“Hey, Wilde Man,
I guess you’ll be reading this when I’m long gone. Maybe in the morning sometime. Listen, kid, I know it’s a pretty shitty thing to do to run out on you like this but I couldn’t bring myself to be carted off like a con by those fucking Ivans, man. When you’ve done some time in the joint it does weird things to your mind, you know, kind of fucks with your head.
I’m sorry, kid but I just couldn’t go through that shit again.
Maybe we’ll hook up again sometime. It’s been a blast. Take care of yourself, Wilde Man and take care of Batfish and Wingate. And tell them both…well, you know. Smith out.”
I gulped down a lump in my throat, not quite believing Smith had gone. He wasn’t dead but it felt like it. Where the hell would he go, stuck out in the Scottish wilderness? But I knew if ever there was one guy who could survive a zombie apocalypse on his own, it was Smith. Hell, Smith could probably survive any damn thing! I just wished he’d woken me and told me he was going. Sighing deeply, I knew I’d have probably tagged along beside him. And Smith probably knew that too, that’s why he left me in the camp. He could simply melt into the background and become a ghost, whereas I was the fuckwit who would have gotten us caught. Just like that guy and girl that McGregor told me about. I’d be the one tangled in the fence and get the both of us shot up.
“Shit, Smith,” I hissed, screwing up the cigarette packet and flinging it onto the ground.
It was true nothing lasted forever and I knew we were living on borrowed time and luck, as I always said. It would only be a matter of time before Smith, Batfish, Wingate or I bought it anyhow. We’d lost so many people on our journey through hell, the finger of death had to point in one of our directions sooner or later. What if it was my turn tomorrow? ‘What If?’
I thought about my dream as I lay back down and slid into my damp sleeping bag. Was my dream about Smith some kind of premonition? Were all my hallucinations and nightmares some sort of warning, with a deep down hidden meaning or was I simply insane? Maybe I really was nuts and in reality, I was permanently sedated in some psychiatric ward someplace, spouting bullshit about zombies while the world was still normal.
As I lay there staring into the darkness, I tried not to think about Smith but couldn’t help it. I thought about our journey together. The banter, the black humor, the raucous drunken times, the dangerous moments when I’d really felt more alive than ever before. We had a good kind of camaraderie going. It was always kind of – ‘I’ll watch your back – you watch mine and we’ll get the hell out of Dodge City some damn how.’
Hell, maybe being an intern in the Russian Federation was the best thing for the rest of us now Smith was gone. I knew we wouldn’t survive long on our own out in the zombie infested wilderness without him. Perhaps this was the beginning of a new chapter in my life. Maybe, at last things were going to get better and at least I’d have some sort of job and purpose in life.
I knew I was kidding myself. I was going to miss Smith badly. He was like a big brother to me, the guy I could always rely on. Shit, life was going to be a lonelier place without him in my life.
Chapter Forty-One
Trying to get back to sleep proved difficult and when the interior of the tent brightened with the sun’s early morning dawn, I figured it was time to get up and tell the others the news of Smith’s absence. I knew Wingate and Batfish were going to take it badly but it wasn’t something I could exactly hide.
I hauled myself out of the sleeping bag and rolled my aching back. Fumbling around in the dim, gloomy light, I found the screwed up cigarette packet on the ground next to my foam mattress and slipped it in my jacket pocket. I’d show the others the note and they could make up their own minds as to why Smith fled. I could understand where he was coming from. Smith was a free spirit and didn’t want to be tied down to a life where people constantly told him what to do. He wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in the new world order. I snickered at the thought of Smith wearing a Russian military uniform with one of those Cossack type hats.
My normal routine at the hospital after I woke up was to take a long, hot shower but that luxury was out of the question. Instead, I had the option of a wash in freezing cold river water. Also, I was hungry after not having eaten in a while. I wondered what kind of gourmet food was provided in the refugee camp. Maybe a Russian soldier would flit around the tents taking orders from the interns. I quite fancied a plateful of smoked salmon and wondered what the guards would say if I tried demanding my desired dish. More than likely, the only thing I’d receive would be a slap around the face.
I left the others sleeping and decided to take a wander around the camp. The guards still patrolled the fence line and there was no sign of any alarm at Smith’s escape. I shook my head as I wondered how the hell he had dodged the sentries and scaled two razor wire fences with such ease. He was long gone by now and by the time the Russians realized he was missing, he’d be miles away from the camp. Good luck to him.
McGregor was up and about, milling around outside his tent and I was glad to see his head was still firmly attached to his body. He was arranging small twigs around a pile of ashes and half burned logs. A thin young girl, with strawberry blonde hair, who looked around fifteen years old sat outside his tent, sewing up a hole in a sock. She looked similar to McGregor and I assumed she was his daughter.
“Morning,” he chimed and greeted me with a brief wave. “I’m just trying to get a wee fire going.” He pointed to his arrangement of sticks.
“Hey,” I muttered in response. “What happens about getting some food around here?”
McGregor spat out a laugh. “That’s a joke, man. The Ruskies provide us with three food tins per person, per day. And you have to turn up in person. You cannae collect anybody else’s allocation. There’s no set time when they hand out the food, it’s only when they can be assed to get the stores from one of those ships.” He nodded out to the center of the river. “Just make sure you don’t miss the hand out or you’ll go hungry.”
“Right, got it,” I said and went to move on.
“Big day today, eh?” McGregor said. “We’re moving out of here this afternoon.”
“Yeah, so I believe,” I huffed. “Goodbye to Scotland and hello to Norway.”
“Never been to Norway before,” McGregor said. He glanced at his daughter and I saw the worry on his face.
“Me either,” I said. “I hear it’s nice there in summer time.” I’d heard no such thing but I was just trying to make the guy feel a little better about the future. From what Colonel Chernakov said, we wouldn’t be staying long in Stavanger anyhow.
“Aye, we’ll see,” McGregor sighed.
I left McGregor and his daughter to it and continued on with my tour of the camp. The morning air was crisp but the sky was clear blue and the view across the calm river was stunning, with the backdrop of the receding snow on the hills on the opposite bank across the water. Scotland really was a scenic country and I wished I’d had more time to enjoy the place instead of constantly running for my life.
I discovered the latrines, which consisted of a canvas tent covering a few shallowly dug pits in the thawing ground. The stench was overpowering and I had to force myself to use the inadequate facilities.
The remaind
er of the excursion around the camp didn’t take long. A few more early risers studied me with suspicion as I strolled by their tents. They probably thought I was casing their hovels to see what I could pilfer from their meager belongings.
I made my way back to our tents and saw Chandra, Wingate and Batfish had risen from their beds. They stood outside the tents in deep conversation as I approached. I knew what the first question was going to be.
“There you are,” Wingate scolded, with her hands on her hips. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Just for a walk around,” I muttered.
I bent down to ruffle Spot’s head as he sniffed the ground beside the tent.
“For one moment, I thought you two had gone ahead with that crazy escape plan. Where’s Smith got to?”
I glanced up and the expression on my face obviously gave away what I was about to say.
“Don’t you tell me he’s gone,” Wingate wailed, fighting back the tears.
Batfish held both her hands over her nose and mouth in shock and Chandra sighed, looking down at the ground.
“Why didn’t you try and stop him, Brett?” Wingate squawked. “You should have talked him out of it.”
I shrugged as I rose from my crouch and reached into my pocket for the crumpled cigarette packet. “I didn’t know he was going either but I think you should read this.” I handed her Smith’s note.
She folded the cardboard out and Batfish shuffled alongside her. They both silently read Smith’s scrawl.
“He could have at least said goodbye,” Wingate sniveled.
“He knew we’d try and stop him,” I sighed. “You know what he’s like.”
Spot sniffed around my boots and then cocked his leg against the side of the tent. It didn’t really matter. We wouldn’t be sleeping in it again.
We spent the next few hours sitting around in silence, waiting for something to happen. A small sea boat came ashore with boxes of food from one of the ships, around mid morning. We lined up in a miserable huddle waiting for our allocation of tins. We were also provided with a black plastic trash sack, to dispose of the empties. I ate two tins of salty fish type stuff, which tasted horrible but I was hungry. Wingate picked at the contents of one her tins and Batfish forced down a few mouthfuls of the fishy glop.
I wondered whether we’d be interrogated about Smith’s disappearance but the Russians didn’t seem to notice or care that he’d gone. Maybe they’d only gunned down the young couple McGregor talked about as a deterrent to stop others trying to run. If somebody escaped and nobody saw, then they probably didn’t give a crap. They weren’t going to miss one guy out of a whole camp.
Around thirty minutes after we’d been fed, a band of Russian soldiers strolled between the tents issuing orders. A stocky, older guy with three stripes on the shoulders of his Arctic combats spoke in broken English.
“Take down tents and fold them up,” he repeated to the occupants of each abode. “You will be leaving soon.”
“Looks like we’re moving out,” I said, tossing my empty cans into the trash bag.
A hubbub of tentative voices rang through the camp. The expressions on the faces and the body language of the other refugees told me they were nervous and apprehensive about the impending journey. I felt the same way and found myself pining for the days when Smith, Batfish, Spot and I were alone and on the run. Those days didn’t seem so great at the time but I realized it was an exhilarating experience and a significant part of the history of humanity. It’s funny how you miss certain times of your life when they are behind you.
The other refugees began pulling down their tents and
collecting their few belongings together, while a few Russian soldiers sauntered around, keeping an eye on the operation.
“I can’t say I’m looking forward to this trip,” Batfish sighed, dumping her half eaten food in the trash sack. “Come on, guys, let’s get these tents pulled down.”
We reluctantly dismantled the tents and rolled them up, leaving the bedding in a separate pile. I wasn’t looking forward to lugging the heavy canvas rolls down the shore, as we undoubtedly would be expected to do so.
Batfish was busy rolling up the sleeping bags when a shrill scream attacked my senses. I turned to the source of the shriek and saw McGregor’s daughter, with a terrified expression on her face and pointing behind me. I spun around in the direction she pointed, to face the fence.
A tall, dark haired guy sprinted towards the outer fence line, waving his arms and yelling something but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. At first, I thought it was Smith but soon realized it wasn’t him. The guy ran across the flat, rocky ground pursued by around thirty zombies. He looked exhausted, as though he’d been running for miles and was covered in dirt. His dark blue clothes were soaking wet and his face was twisted in a combination of fear and fatigue.
The Russian guards also turned to observe the guy and the following undead. The soldiers babbled to each other and pulled their rifles off from their shoulder slings. I heard a metallic rattle of weapons cocking and the Russians aimed in the direction of the rapidly approaching undead.
We’d find out soon enough if the fences were an adequate defense against an onrushing zombie horde.
Chapter Forty-Two
“Help me! You have to help me,” the guy outside the fence yelled, while breathing heavily. He stopped a couple of feet in front of the razor wire and looked at the Russian guards with wide, terrified eyes.
A few of us edged closer to the inner fence for a better view of what was going on. The zombies drew closer, moaning and snarling as they surged across the ground. The guy rattled the wire, obviously weighing up whether to try and scale the perimeter. He took a brief, nervous glance behind him.
“I’m Petty Officer Gary Williams of the British Royal Navy,” the guy bellowed, taking in deep gulps of air between his words. “I’m military like you guys. I’ve been trying to shake off these infected for miles but they keep on coming. You’ve got to stop them. Please help me.” His pleadings became increasingly frantic as the zombies closed nearer.
The Russians talked between themselves but didn’t seem in any hurry to help the poor guy. A couple of the guards actually laughed together and I knew then they had no intention of saving the stranded navy man. He was on his own and they were simply amusing themselves by watching his terrifying dilemma.
The navy guy moved along the fence line, still pleading for help. The zombies fanned out into a semi circle, gaining ground on Petty Officer Gary Williams with every step.
Batfish barged her way through the gathered crowd and shuffled alongside me.
“What’s going on out there?” she asked.
“You don’t want to know,” I sighed. “That poor dude out there is going to become zombie food any moment now.”
“Aren’t the Russians going to shoot the zombies and help that guy?”
I shook my head. “It don’t look much like it.”
“Oh, my god,” Batfish gasped.
“Please, will you help me?” the navy guy screeched, rattling the wire fence. “I’m begging you, please.”
The gang of zombies lumbered on, relentlessly closing in on their prey. That was the strength of the undead. They never got tired and they kept on coming at you until you killed them or they killed you.
Williams moved to his left and back again. He had nowhere left to run. The expression changed on his pale, dirty face when reality dawned on him. He looked resigned to his fate when he realized the Russians had no intention of saving him from the clutches of the undead. In a sudden, last gasp burst of desperation, he tried to climb the razor wire. Williams’ clothing tore on the barbs and the sharp edges ripped the skin on his arms, hands and face. He yelled in pain and attempted to clamber through the wire strips.
“Why aren’t they doing anything?” Batfish gasped.
Williams’ progress through the fence was halted when his clothing snagged on the barbs and he couldn’t move either back
wards or forwards.
“Help me,” he wailed again.
Some of the Russians laughed again, seemingly to be enjoying the navy guy’s desperation.
“Bastards,” Batfish spat. “Callous, heartless bastards.”
The zombies reached for Williams’ legs, slightly raised and suspended inside the wire fence.
“No, no, oh, fuck, no,” Williams squealed.
It was a horrible sight to watch. I don’t know why but I couldn’t tear myself away from the scene. It was like in the normal days when you drove down the highway and saw a car wreck. You always slowed your own vehicle and took a good hard look at the grisly, tangled mess at the roadside.
The zombies closed in. Williams thrashed around, vainly trying to free himself from the barbed wire fence. The ghouls tore their own ragged clothing and flesh on the wire but felt no pain or were sidetracked in any way. They had one goal and one purpose only, and that was to eat living human tissue.
Undead hands pulled and ripped and tore at the navy guy, who screamed in agony as gnarled fingernails pierced his skin. The zombies gnashed and growled at each other, all jostling for a good angle to bite into the victim’s flesh. The gruesome and upsetting scene soon became bloody. The screaming became a choking gurgle, before it ceased completely. Once the undead got to work, biting and tearing at the guy with their teeth, they made light work of him. Limbs were torn off and internal organs soon sloped out of the body and were dragged away from the fence. The wire looked as though somebody had tried to ride a motorbike through it. The jumble of gore, bone, guts and blood that was a human being only a few minutes previously, slopped between the wire strands and onto the ground. The zombies hungrily munched on any body parts and pieces of flesh they could get their filthy hands on.
The Russians laughed between themselves, with some of them pointing at the gory scene while muttering to each other.
The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run Page 19