The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers

LEFTOVERS

By Christian Fletcher

Copyright 2012 by Christian Fletcher

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Christian Fletcher.

Also by the author - Operation Sepsis

LEFTOVERS

Dinosaurs lived on the Earth for 160 million years. Many species were wiped off the face of the planet in a short space of time. Maybe Mother Nature decided it was time for another cleansing session.

Chapter One

I woke up with a hangover delivered straight from the depths of hell the day the world changed and never would have believed anyone who said I was lucky that morning. I was completely oblivious to the chaos occurring outside my apartment and throughout the rest of the world when I awoke from my alcohol induced slumber.

The first thing I did after crawling out of bed that morning, was throw up into the bathroom sink. My head felt like an amateur guitarist was playing a solo through my skull and using my brain as an amp. I gulped down a glass of water and vowed never to touch a drop of Tequila again. My cell phone buzzed from somewhere under a pile of dirty clothes on the bedroom floor. I couldn’t be bothered to answer the call and let the muffled ringtone continue until it stopped. Wailing sirens from emergency vehicles screamed from somewhere outside. Whatever crisis was going down, it was all too damn noisy.

“Shit!” The bedside clock showed 09:51am. I was supposed to start work at 08:30.

I dug around amongst the laundry for the cell phone and scrolled through the list to my work’s number. I’d plead sickness again, for the third time this month. I knew my bosses’ patience was wearing thin but I had to bite the bullet. No way could I go into work the state I was in today and try to talk to clients about insurance policies. I’d be a burbling mess on the end of the phone. I hit the number for Jenny the receptionist, my usual ruse when taking a sick day. She softened the blow and believed every bullshit story I came up with.

Jenny answered after an unusually long time.

“Hey, Jenny, it’s me, Brett Wilde.” I put on a voice trying to sound weak and pathetic but to be honest, it didn’t take much effort. “I can’t make it into work today. I’m feeling really sick.”

“Yeah, lots of people are calling in sick today. There’s some sort of bug going down. People are sick all over the town. It’s all over the news.”

“Ah, right. That’s what it must be then.” I somehow doubted the whole town had overdosed on Tequila until 3am. “Hopefully, I’ll be back to work soon,” I lied and rang off.

Somehow I’d won a reprieve with a free summer day to recover. Today was Friday so I briefly relished the thought of a long weekend off work. I started to recover from my
sickness
slightly but more sleep was required for the cure. My throat was dry and the acidic taste of stomach bile still whirled around my mouth. I needed more water before descending back into the land of nod and stumbled back into the bathroom.

Some unrecognizable creature looked back at me from the mirror’s reflection. Jesus, I looked like shit. I should have known better at thirty years old, instead of behaving like some deranged teenager.

I heard my mother’s voice in my head, crowing with that Irish accent.
“Act your age, Brett, not your shoe size.”

The Rolling Stones “Can’t Get No Satisfaction,” ringtone of my cell attacked my senses again. I lurched back into the bedroom and looked at the caller I.D.

“Pete, you bastard,” I growled, answering the call. “I’m never drinking with you again. Well, not on a school night anyway.”

“Hey, man, are you okay?”

Pete Cousins worked a shift pattern of four days on, four days off, fork lift trucking in a warehouse and at present, was conveniently in the middle of his rest period. He spent most of his days off work drinking and gambling. I was always the chump who tagged along and got sucked into his sordid existence.

“No, I’m not fucking okay. I feel like shit and had to take the day off work again. Why did we start on those Tequila slammers?”

“Have you been out of your apartment today?” Pete ignored my ranting, his tone sounded anxious.

“No, why? I woke up with the world’s worst hangover and called in sick at work. I was planning to sleep away most of the day.” My head pounded to reiterate the fact. “And before you ask, no I don’t want a hair of the dog. My stomach hates me right now.”

“You need to wake up,” Pete sounded tense. “Look out the window, man. The place has gone to hell!”

I staggered to the window of my fifth story apartment block and pulled back the curtain. The morning daylight caused me to recoil and squint into the brightness. For a moment my vision wouldn’t focus. I gaped at the scene of carnage across the town below when my sight cleared.

Chapter Two

“What the hell is going on, Pete?” I stammered.

Plumes of smoke billowed from buildings all over town into the clear, blue sky. Traffic jams blocked the roads with impatient drivers honking their horns. Worried looking cops tried to ease the tension and get the vehicles moving as lights from emergency vehicles flashed around the town’s streets. Brynston was a small, quiet town in Lehigh County, Pennsylvania. Nothing of any significance ever happened. It seemed half the town population was attempting a mass exodus and headed for the Interstate.

“I’m not sure,” Pete said. “People are getting sick with a fever and then attacking others. The news is full of these kinds of stories this morning.”

I turned on my TV set and tuned in to the local news channel. The scene on the screen was pretty much the same as from my window.

“Some fucker attacked Marlon on his way to work this morning and bit him on the face,” Pete carried on.

Marlon Keen was Pete’s roommate and another of our drinking buddies. He was always an early riser and never suffered any bad affects from alcohol.

“I’m sure he’ll be okay, Pete.”

“No, he’s in a pretty bad way. These people are crazy or something and going ape shit. I’m going to try and get him to the hospital.”

I reached for my crumpled pack of cigarettes on the bedside table and lit one. The nicotine rush made me gag. I’d given up for three weeks but taken up the habit again during last night’s boozing session.

“Listen, Pete. I’ll try and get over to you as soon as I can.” I exhaled smoke across the TV screen. Pete and Marlon lived across on the east side of town that usually took ten minutes in a cab or thirty walking. I’d trashed my car a month ago and couldn’t afford or be bothered to fix it.

“No,” Pete squawked. “It’s not safe. Stay where you are. These sick bastards are all over the place.”

“I can’t just sit here all day, Pete. I want to come and help. So let me know if you want me to bring anything over.”

“Well, it’s up to you but just be careful.”

“Oh, and Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still a bastard!” I rang off.

I probably wouldn’t have called him a bastard if I’d known it was the last time I’d ever speak to him.

I finished my smoke, swallowed down some painkillers with more water and took a hot shower. I turned up the volume on the TV as I dressed. People were suffering flu like symptoms, falling into some sort of coma then recovering but behaving like wild animals, according to news reports. I thought twice about venturing outside at that moment.

The news bulletin began reporting similar incidents occurring not just in America, but all over the world.

What the hell was happening? I picked up my cell and called my mum in London, England. No reply. I tried my dad in New York City. No reply. I called my sister, Vicky, in San Francisco. Voice mail. I called Sam, my ex-girlfriend, who lived across town and heard the same monotonous, prerecorded voice telling me to leave a message after the tone.

I’d try them again later. First, I’d get to Pete’s place and see what happened from there. Hopefully, an order of calm might be restored sometime later.

The TV news reports became more frantic. People across town were interviewed and wailed into the camera with tales of being bitten by strangers and jabbered about members of their families turning violent. I changed channels, chaos and panic levels rose over the major TV networks.

I armed myself with a putting wedge golf club I’d borrowed from my dad a while ago. The handle was bent where I’d stamped on it in a fit of temper, vowing never to play the stupid, infuriating game ever again. I hadn’t returned the club in case my dad made me pay for it. I guess he’d forgotten about asking for it back.

My hangover evaporated when I stood in the street and watched the carnage outside my apartment block. People scurried in all directions like rats abandoning their nests. Some people shrieked as they ran, their faces pale and terrified. Vehicles solidly blocked the roads and a few had attempted mounting the sidewalk to bypass the lines of traffic only to come to a standstill. Drivers yelled at each other and honked their horns. Taking a cab to Pete’s place was out of the question.

I started a slow jog in the direction of Pete’s apartment but decided a cigarette while walking would make me feel better. I sauntered along holding the golf club over my shoulder.

“Hey you,” a pudgy faced driver shouted at me. “You should get the hell out of here while you can still walk.”

I ignored him and carried on. People tended to over react in a bad situation. The sickness was probably just a bad summer flu strain from Asia or wherever the hell it came from.

A chubby woman wearing a blue nightdress ran screaming from an apartment block ten yards in front of me. She was chased by a lumbering psychopath with a greenish, white face and what looked like blood running down his chin and neck. He wore a pair of jog pants and a half dressed bandage on his forearm flailed behind him. He grabbed the back of the woman’s long, dark hair and pulled her towards him. He opened his mouth baring bloody and battered teeth. She twisted and struggled and loosened his grip.

“Oh my God, it’s one of them,” the pudgy faced driver screamed.

“Okay, stop it, man,” I called. He didn’t look too good but the situation was probably only another small town domestic dispute.

The man grabbed at her again and caught hold of her nightdress and ripped it right off, leaving her totally naked. Her puffy white flesh jiggled as she struggled. The man wrestled her to the floor and I thought he was going to rape her in broad daylight. He bent over her and bit into a cellulite lined thigh. The woman screamed as a spiral of blood spurted from the wound and ran down her bare leg onto the sidewalk.

“Hey, you fucking crazy creep,” I yelled and poked at him with the golf club. “Stop that.” He didn’t react or show any sign of acknowledgement.

He gorged on the flesh like a dog that hasn’t eaten for a week. The woman flailed on her back, screaming in agony. I swung the club and hit the crazy man around the ear. He rocked back on his haunches and turned his head. I noticed his eyes were milky white like they were covered with a diseased film of slimy secretion. The woman’s blood smothered his lower face as he opened his mouth and emitted a low drone like a cow.

“Hit the bastard,” I heard Pudgy Face shout from the car behind me.

I didn’t hesitate and swung the club like a pro. The tip of the club hit the crazy man square in the temple, leaving a thick groove in his skull. He went over sideways with the force of the swing and sprawled in an ungainly heap of arms and legs on the sidewalk. His battered head hit the concrete with the sound like a smashed coconut. His face twisted in a contorted grimace.

I stood over him in dazed, shocked silence. The naked woman wailed in pain trying to stem the flow of blood from her thigh. A thin woman, approaching pensionable age, hurried from the apartment block carrying a large frying pan.

“Oh shit, I think I’ve killed him,” I gasped. My hands shook, adrenalin ran through my body like never before and thoughts of twenty years penitentiary in an orange jump suit sprung to mind.

The elderly woman took a look at the corpse lying at my feet. She turned and knelt next to the prone woman, who uttered panicked little gasps, and covered her naked body with the torn nightdress.

“Let’s get you inside, Michelle and have a look at that leg.” She helped the injured woman to her feet and the two of them shuffled towards the apartment block. She turned to me and said, “thank you for helping, young man but you really shouldn’t hang around here.”

I felt a film of sweat forming on my forehead and upper lip. I’d just killed someone in the street. Oh, why didn’t I just turn up for work?

The crazy man twitched and slid his arm out to his side, ready to pull himself up. I watched in amazement as the living corpse stood up on the sidewalk. Brown liquid and gray brain matter oozed from the split in his head. He lifted his arms and reached out to grab me. I couldn’t move, rooted to the spot with fear and disbelief.