The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers (19 page)

“What’s the plan, Stan?” Smith’s voice came from behind my head.

I turned slightly and saw him standing in the cab doorway, yawning and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Julia tried to do a moonlight flit. Brett and I found her in those woods back there,” Rosenberg explained, keeping his voice low so not to be overheard.

“What? Let me guess, you attracted a shit load of fucking zombies?”

“They just came out of the trees. It was like a fucking horror movie or something,” Rosenberg sighed.

I gave Smith a look and he raised his eyebrows. It was the first time we’d ever heard Rosenberg swear.

“So, at least we’ll be back on track if we head back to the Interstate,” I said.

“Uhuh,” Smith grunted.

“You did get that bag of cash, didn’t you, Smith?” I had to ask.

“Do you think we’d still be driving away from there if I hadn’t?”

I suppose I’d asked a dumb question but these weren’t exactly ordinary times where people were thinking straight.

“Is Batfish awake?” I asked.

Smith turned his head in the living area. “Yeah, she’s sat with Julia.”

“I hope she’s cool about leaving the VW back there.”

Smith ducked back through the door and I heard him muttering something, then a female voice that was definitively Batfish’s tone. Smith came back to the cab doorway.

“Yeah, she’s cool with that. She says that crock of shit would remind her too much of Donna and we’ve got all our gear in here anyway so it kind of makes sense to keep this wagon. It’s also more secure, side windows are high, lockable door, separate cab, space to sleep, how much gas in the tank?”

I gulped. I hadn’t checked the fuel gauge since we’d hijacked this vehicle. Thankfully the tank showed a little over a quarter full. We’d still have to risk gassing up somewhere on route to New York but we were okay for the moment.

“Anywhere you got in mind we can fill up with gas?” I asked.

Smith sighed. “We’ll have to just hope for the best. Look what happened last time I suggested a pit stop.”

I knew below that tough exterior, Smith felt a little guilty about the carnage at the garage the day before.

“We’ll keep an eye out as we go,” I nodded.

The sun’s rays beamed over the horizon as we navigated our way through the discarded road signs and abandoned cars. Dawn was breaking an orangey light on a clear blue sky as we turned back onto the Interstate 78.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I lit a smoke and opened the window halfway. The rush of air from outside felt good as it blew into my face. The Interstate was fairly clear. I only had to swerve around a few stationary vehicles as most abandoned vehicles were stopped at the side of the road. I figured I’d carry on driving until fatigue got the better of me. The RV wouldn’t go much over 50 miles per hour, which was probably a good thing. I had to be prepared to slam on the brakes at any moment.

I thought about my life while glancing at the dark, uninhabited buildings at the edge of the Interstate. I thought about friends at school in London, how were they coping with the situation? People I hadn’t spoke to in years. Why hadn’t I stayed in touch? Was I such a selfish douche bag that I just cared about going out and having a good time? I hadn’t tried that hard to find Pete and Marlon or my ex-girlfriend, Sam. Did I really care about them or was I too concerned with saving my own worthless skin?

“What a fuck up,” I whispered to myself.

I’d stayed in Brynston and worked at an insurance call center for nearly six years thinking that I’d go traveling or get some high powered job at a later stage of my life. Nothing happened. I’d stood still and let my life stagnate. Hell, I wasn’t even married or had any kids. I was just a work shy loser with no prospects or any purpose. How the hell had I managed to live through this nightmare of the world changing? I had survived more by luck than anything. I was lucky to have met Smith, that was for sure. Without him, I’d probably be another casualty on the long list of the dead.

I clicked on the radio and tuned through the channels. At least some stations were still broadcasting which meant people were still alive somewhere. Some joker on one of the radio stations played “It’s the End of the World As We Know It,” by R.E.M. as an apt description of how things were. He ranted for a few moments how he was broadcasting from a small, independent station in Union City and how he was on his own, locked in the building running the power off a backup generator. I changed the channel to a Blues music station and listened to the lyrics of some dude whose woman had left him. I imagined the scene of a black guy sitting on the porch in Memphis, strumming away on his guitar then his woman returning as a zombie and taking a bite out of his neck.

I wondered how long normal things would carry on working such as radio stations and cell phones. The situation would eventually return the world to the dark ages with no electricity; petrol powered vehicles or civilized order. Maybe this was nature’s way of cleansing the Earth and ridding the planet of its most destructive species. Maybe it was God’s will. The wrath of a higher being to punish mankind for the way they had fucked everything up and ultimately rendered the planet into an overgrown trash dump.

“Here you are, Brett,” Rosenberg broke my train of thought by handing me a cup of coffee.

I took a slurp and it tasted good. Rosenberg was not only a junior doctor but a damn good coffee maker as well. He smiled as I complimented him on his amazing beverage producing skills.

The stationary traffic swelled in number the closer we moved towards Jersey City. The I-78 bypassed Union but snaked right alongside Newark Liberty International Airport. I figured getting past the air station was going to be out next difficult hurdle. The occasional zombie milled around in the middle of the Interstate, searching abandoned vehicles for any sign of human flesh. I slowed the RV to a crawl to navigate my way around the increasing level of immobile traffic.

I didn’t know how much longer we’d be able to carry on moving until the vehicles totally blocked the route. The RV front fender scraped the sides of the cars on either side as the gaps in the road narrowed.

Rosenberg smiled as he sat in the passenger seat sipping his coffee. The stationary traffic thinned out a little and allowed me to gather some speed. Rosenberg clicked his fingers to the Blues tune on the radio and nodded his head in time with the guitar riff.

“I love Buddy Guy,” he said. “Man, that guy can play a guitar.”

I turned up the volume slightly and listened to the tune. I liked Blues music as my favorite band, The Rolling Stones had been influenced by the great guitar players and vocalists like Muddy Waters, Jimmy Reed, Bo Diddley and Howlin’ Wolf. I saw the Stones live in concert when they were touring the world in 2003. The gig was at Madison Square Garden in New York and I’d taken the train to the city with Pete and a few others. The night had been one of the best of my life and always held a special place in my mind. We stayed at the Hilton Inn in Times Square for a couple of nights and had an absolute blast around the city. We met some local girls, drunk in countless bars and blown two weeks wages in a couple of days. Good times, which were not likely to reoccur.

Somehow the present situation was enlightening. I felt really alive, probably more alive than I’d ever been. Reality was screwed and gone to hell in a hand cart, as my mother used to say. Anyone still left alive was hunted prey by the marauding undead masses. The crushing depression of the circumstances hovered at the back of my mind but I couldn’t let those feelings overwhelm me otherwise I’d end up taking my own life like the guy in the truck outside the gun store. Living for the moment was the only way to survive. At least we had some goal to aim for, to get to that boat in Battery Park Harbor, futile as it seemed. The thought of being torn to pieces and eaten alive along the way was totally sickening.

“Look out!” Rosenberg shrieked.

Lack of sleep and losing myself in my own thoughts caused me to become complacent. I snapped away from my inner self and briefly saw a herd of wild deer running across the Interstate, a few feet in front of the RV. I slammed on the brakes and the vehicle shunted to the right. A sickening, metallic clang rattled around the cab as I hit one of the crossing deer. I brought the RV to a screeching halt and heard crashing from the living area behind.

“What the fuck is going on?” Eazy bellowed in the cab doorway.

“We hit some deer,” Rosenberg stammered.

“Deer?”Eazy snorted.

“Four legged furry things,” I sighed. “Ran straight across the road.”

The three of us got out the cab and gazed at the dead doe laying on the blacktop in front of the RV. The small amount of food I’d eaten in the last couple of days threatened to resurface. The doe had been pregnant and prematurely given birth to a writhing young buck, covered in transparent film, desperately trying to cling to life thrashing around on the blacktop.

“Oh, Christ,” I muttered. I’d managed to kill a mother and a new born all in one second of negligence.

“There’s not much damage to the vehicle,” Eazy said, bending down in front of the RV cab. “Broken front light and a dented hood but nothing serious.”

I felt an overwhelming sense of remorse watching the buck suck in the last few breaths of air of its brief existence on this wretched planet. Tears rolled down my cheeks as this dying animal seemed to represent the whole shitty situation. I’d destroyed a life that was yet to begin.

“What have I done?” I stammered.

“Come on, Brett,” Rosenberg placed an arm around my shoulder. “Take a break. You okay to drive, Eazy?”

“Sure thing,” Eazy nodded, giving us a quizzical look. I presumed he was weighing up the state of my mental health. Stressful situations could cause people’s mind to snap at any time.

Smith and Batfish emerged from the RV side door and shot me a worried glance. I heard them muttering in hushed tones to Eazy, who obviously explained our predicament. Rosenberg sat me down inside the RV and poured me a large bourbon. Julia slept in one of the bunks at the back of the living area.

“I don’t usually advocate drinking but in this state of affairs, I think you need one,” he whispered. He handed me the glass and I took a few sips. I wiped my face and lit a smoke.

“It’s a tough time,” Rosenberg spoke softly. “I wouldn’t have made it this far without you and the others and I want to thank you for that, Brett, whatever the outcome of the situation.”

“I just hope we all come out of this in one piece, Denny,” I sighed. That dark cloud of depression moved closer to the front of my mind.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Eazy fired up the RV engine and slowly pulled forward, continuing our journey into the unknown. My mind cleared. I shut my eyes and dozed in the comfortable chair. Strange images haunted my thoughts. Pete and Marlon staggered around Brynston in full zombie mode. They were joined by Sam and some of the other people I used to know in my normal, daily life. I was conscious of myself slowly shuffling around with them in an endless circle. I looked at my hand and saw the dull, gray dead flesh. I felt my face. The skin was rough and flakey like parchment paper. Shit! I was a zombie. I tried to scream but a dry, hoarse rasp emitted from my throat.

I sat upright in the chair, wide awake and far away from the sleep that kept projecting those horrible images into my unconscious mind. I wondered if I’d ever be able to sleep properly again.

I wiped a thin film of sweat away from my forehead and gazed out of the RV side window. Stationary traffic built heavily on the opposite side of the road as though many people had tried to flee the overpopulated areas of New York and New Jersey. I pondered how quickly the infection had spread.

Julia and Batfish lay sleeping in the bunks. I saw Eazy in the driver’s seat through the cab doorway and presumed Smith was sitting next to him. Rap music pumped from the stereo and I caught a faint whiff of marijuana smoke wafting from the cab. Rosenberg sat in the chair opposite me stroking the small pup on his lap. Spot lay contentedly with his eyes half shut.

“How quick does the infection take hold of the body?” I asked.

“Roughly around six hours from the first bite to total reanimation,” Rosenberg answered. “The victim goes through flu like symptoms after about an hour of initial infection. Then they go through an intense phase of muscle cramping and fever before death. It’s a horrible, painful way to go and then the victim doesn’t even have dignity in death. They rise after a few minutes after the heart stops beating. I saw it happen over and over in the hospital.”

“It all seemed to happen so quickly,” I muttered.

“Well, we had reports of incidents occurring in major US and world cities and to keep an eye out for patients suffering with the symptoms last week,” Rosenberg said. “At first we had a few isolated cases that we could handle but then the epidemic grew to an unimaginable scale. People were turning up with bites at all hours. The worst thing was they couldn’t understand why members of their own family or people they knew were turning on them. They simply didn’t understand what was happening.”

“That’s sounds about right,” I said lighting a cigarette. “The government didn’t warn us or tell us shit about what was going on.”

“I don’t think they knew and wouldn’t have imagined how quickly the infection could spread. If someone got bit early in the morning, they’d be a full blown zombie by lunchtime. Imagine if you’d been at home and your partner or parent said they felt ill and wasn’t going to work or school that morning. You’d think nothing of it and carry on with your day as normal. By the time you came home from work that person would be a fully paid up member of the undead when you walked in through the door. It must have happened to so many households the world over.” Rosenberg’s eyes glazed over like he was imagining the scenes of families and cohabitants reuniting with hostile, reanimated versions of the person they kissed or said goodbye to earlier that day.