The Left Series (Book 2): Left Alone (11 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Smith grunted but nodded in agreement. I guess he’d come to the same conclusion as me. We’d try and make it somehow across the final hundred yards of water.

“Take your wet clothes off if you find yourself going under,” I instructed.

“You want to see me naked now, Wilde Man? You’re only just coming out after all this time together?”

I managed a snigger in response to Smith’s quip. At least we could always share some banter, even in the most dire of situations. Fate had thrown Smith and I together back in Brynston and our first encounter began with him punching me in the face. We’d not only become survival comrades but good friends, respecting each other’s judgment, points of view and decision making. Smith was a tough cookie and I knew he’d give it his best shot at crossing the canal.

We slid off the floating dock into the water and gave each other a good luck nod. The water felt colder than before and I shivered as my clothes wrapped around my body once again. Spot was quite content to stay put and the little fellow didn’t fancy going back into the drink. I had to physically force him off the wooden deck. He splashed and paddled in the water and set off for the marina.

“Let’s go for it,” Smith said, with renewed vigor. 

We followed Spot’s lead and paddled slowly behind him, puffing out water with every stroke. I took a quick glance back to the floating dock and the pontoon behind it. The floating ghouls had disappeared from sight and I didn’t know if they were treading water or had sunk to the bottom.

We weren’t too far away from the boats but I started to flounder. My arms and legs wouldn’t do what my brain wanted them too. I just felt too heavy, as though I’d been eating lead weights.

“Come on, Wilde Man,” Smith shouted. “We’re nearly there. Don’t give up now.”

More canal water gurgled down my throat as I plunged below the surface once more. I breathed in and spluttered out water from my lungs as I resurfaced. I was sure I was heading for a watery grave.

Smith reached one of the boats moored alongside the jetty and clung to the side. I saw him scoop Spot out of the drink and plunk the dog inside the boat. At least those two had made it. I was roughly twenty yards behind them but felt like I couldn’t go on. My swim stroke was pathetic, I was barely moving forward.

“Smith!” I yelled in panic, when my face barely broke the surface.

I caught a brief glimpse of him hauling himself inside the small rowing boat before I went under again. The water was murky and I couldn’t see anything but the reflection of the setting sun above me. I was done, this was surely the end. I didn’t have any body strength left to kick or paddle myself up to the surface.

A dark shape hovered over me for a second before I felt a firm hand grip the top of my hair. Was I being attacked by zombies to add to my worsening, shitty predicament?

The hand dragged me to the canal surface. I breathed in a combination of muddy water and air. My vision was still blurred by streams of water running down my face and the current slapping into my eyes. I coughed and retched and vomited a mixture of brown water, the soda and chips I’d consumed earlier. The strong hand gripped the scruff of my neck and propelled me forward in the water. My face banged into a cold, hard, concave surface.

“Hang on in there, kid.” I thankfully heard Smith’s voice above my head.

I spluttered and retched again, producing a mouthful of acidic stomach bile. My sight cleared and I glanced upwards. Smith had hold of me by the back of my shirt. He leaned over the side of the small, fiberglass rowing boat he’d reached a few minutes ago. He’d managed to untie the boat and paddle out towards me.

“Can you hang on to the side while I row us to the jetty?” Smith hollered at me.

I nodded, even though I didn’t have the strength to hold on to a wet tissue for more than a second.

“I can’t risk pulling you in or the boat may capsize,” Smith explained.

My arms felt weak and floppy but I hooked my elbows over the side of the boat, locked my hands together and just hung there, spitting bile while trying to take in air. Smith picked up a short oar and began to paddle the boat back to the jetty. He kept turning towards me to check I was still clinging on to the side. Spot wagged his tail and licked my face, hopefully happy I was just about still breathing. I let my legs trail behind me in the water, concentrating on keeping my head above the surface.

Smith quickly tied the bow to a cleat on the jetty and swung around so I was between the boat and the wooden decking. He jumped out of the boat, bent down and grabbed me under my armpits. Spot leapt onto the jetty and shook himself before licking his nuts. Smith hauled me onto the jetty and I lay on my back for a few moments waiting for my limbs to regain the strength to move.

The horrendous taste of muddy water and puke rolled around my mouth so I sat up to spit into the canal. Smith crouched behind me and zipped open the gator knapsack. He rummaged around and pulled out the bourbon bottle and the cigarettes.

“Let’s hope the smokes survived the water,” he said and unwrapped the cellophane around a pack.

The last thing I wanted was a cigarette but Smith shoved one between my lips. At least the smoke would help rid the nauseating tang in my mouth. He tried his Zippo lighter a few times before the flame ignited. Smith lit my smoke for me before lighting his own. He took a swig of bourbon and handed me the open bottle.

“Okay, I guess you’re no Mark Spitz, kid but you live to fight another battle,” he said, exhaling smoke.

“Who?”

“Never mind.” Smith shook his head.

I took a sip of bourbon and rolled it around my mouth like a mouthwash. Neat liquor wasn’t my favorite thing but I savored taste and the burn down my throat.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news but we got to lift and shift,” Smith said. “It’ll be dark in around fifteen minutes and we either need to find a boat or somewhere to hole up for the night.”

I was totally exhausted but knew we had to press on. The few zombies bumbling around the marina hadn’t noticed us yet but soon would. They would never stop hunting us. I was sick and tired of living like this. We existed like the last few scared rabbits in a world full of hungry hounds. If I’d been on my own, I probably would have fallen asleep there and then on that wooden jetty, leaving myself as a kind of zombie picnic.

Smith flicked his cigarette butt into the canal and I handed him back the bourbon bottle. He screwed the top back in place and put it back in the knapsack.

“I can see you’re beat so I was thinking maybe we’ll break into the marina building and spend the night in there. It’ll give us a chance to dry off and cop some Z’s.”

“Okay,” I sighed. “Help me up.”

Smith grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. He took a length of rope from the row boat and made Spot another make-shift leash. The last thing we wanted would be chasing the dog around in the dark.

We slowly trudged towards the marina building, ducking behind the boats when the occasional zombie came near. Smith held Spot on a short tethered leash and held his muzzle to stop him from barking when we ducked down. My body weight, wet clothes and the gator bag felt heavy every time we crouched. I could hardly stand when we moved on and shivered in the dwindling light.

Smith led the way around the outskirts of the marina building. The once neatly trimmed lawns and concrete paths were now overgrown with bushy grass and weeds. Rotting, wooden picnic tables lay amongst the grass outside the veranda overlooking the canal. Flies buzzed around the remains of some poor fucker’s entrails strewn over the white plastic seats under an overhanging canopy.

“Jesus, that stinks,” Smith muttered, as we slowly trod by.

Spot sniffed the air around the spewed guts and I’m sure he would have tucked in if Smith didn’t have him on a short leash. The gore looked fairly fresh and I wondered who had survived nearly as long as us. Poor bastard, whoever it was, must have been ripped relentlessly apart. They must have thought they’d survived the worst of the nightmare scenario only to end their worldly existence as a pile of putrid meat.

A sign saying ‘
Marina Clubhouse
’ hung over the white, UPVC conservatory entrance under the canopy. Smith tried the door handle but it was predictably locked.

“Let’s try around the back,” he muttered.

We followed the overgrown concrete pathway that snaked around the building perimeter. I kept glancing into the dark windows expecting to see a ghoulish face pop up on the other side of the glass panes.

Smith stopped outside a padlocked, whitewashed wooden paneled door at the left side of the building. He took the hatchet from his belt and gave the padlock a hefty smack. The bolt gave way and fell to the ground.

“Our door key,” he whispered, raising the hatchet.

The door creaked open and we moved into the darkness inside the building.

Chapter Eighteen

Smith flicked his Zippo lighter a few times before the flame ignited. I was surprised the damn thing still worked after our swim across the canal. He held the flame out in front of us, providing a little light and clutched the hatchet at the ready with his other hand. The marina building was a kind of club house-come-locker room. I closed the door behind us and wedged a tilted chair against the wooden cross frame. The chair wouldn’t hold the door forever but be sufficient enough to stop a lone ghoul from sneaking inside the building behind us.

We moved through a dark corridor into what was once the restaurant and bar area, roughly fifty square feet in floor space. White plastic chairs and tables still stood, dotted around the room. The counter itself was closed off with a white, chain link shutter pulled down over the width of the serving area. The dwindling light shone through the large bay windows, providing us with enough light to navigate our way around the room.   

Smith moved straight to the counter. I followed behind, squelching in my wet boots, my clothes hung wet and tight. Smith tried the door to the left of the counter and found it was locked.

I took a look through the windows out across the marina. The view must have been a wonderful sight in the days of normality. The setting sun projected fiery orange and red hues across the sky. I watched the bobbing boats and yachts moored to the jetty and imagined people dressed in white caps and short pants taking an early evening stroll around the marina before dinner. The boats would have smelled of fresh fish and anglers would be discussing the day’s catch. I missed simple things in life, which I took for granted when living was normal. Trips to the mall, a baseball game, Saturday nights in the bar, a night at the movies, the internet, music on the radio, vacations with friends.

My mental trip down memory lane was shattered when something creaked and smashed behind me. I turned and saw Smith had battered the door open beside the counter. Spot stood beside him wagging his tail. The dog seemed pleased to witness some mindless violence from time to time.

Smith held the hatchet at the ready in case any undead streamed out of the open doorway. Spot sniffed the ground and edged closer to the dark opening. Nothing came out of the darkness except for the waft of stale food and old beer.

“Anything in there?” I muttered.

“Let’s take a look.” Smith stepped through the doorway and turned right behind the bar. He moved behind the white shutter and studied the area behind the counter. “Ah! What have we here?”

“A gun?”

“No, some vintage rum,” he chimed, holding up a bottle to the light. Smith opened the bottle and took a long swig.

“Anything else of any use?” I sighed.

Smith turned and waved the bottle at me from behind the shutter. I shook my head, my guts still turned around like a washing machine.

I sighed and followed Smith and Spot through the doorway behind the counter. The serving area was assembled to look like the interior cabin of some old galleon or whatever they were called, with varnished wooden panels running the length of the walls and ceilings. Framed pictures of old sailing ships adorned the walls and plastic fish and crabs hung inside nets fixed to the ceiling. Various bottles of liquor and small seafaring and nautical figurines lined the wooden shelves at the rear of the counter.

“Looks like this was a nice place to come for a vacation,” I muttered mournfully.

Smith took another gulp of rum and sighed in approval. “Good stuff that.”

He banged the bottle down on the counter and turned back to study the area that lay on the opposite side of the doorway.

“I wonder if there’s anything good in the kitchen.”

I fiddled with a barrel shaped lamp on one of the shelves behind the bar and was amazed when the bulb flicked into life. I picked up the barrel and studied the underside.

“Must be battery powered,” I said.

“Keep the light down,” Smith hissed. “We don’t want those fucking zombies to see it shining in here.”

I held the light low in front of my crotch and shone the beam beyond the door. The light revealed the small kitchen area with a stainless steel industrial cooker below a canopy and two large, white fridges between a vertical row of wooden covered closets. We moved slowly into the kitchen area. I placed the barrel lamp onto the work surface in the center of the room. No windows looked onto the outside world so we were relatively safe.

Smith opened the fridges and turned up his nose at the stench of rotten food.

“Nothing in there worth touching,” he grunted.

I opened the wooden fronted closets and found several dozen cans of soup, beans and fruit. I turned to Smith with a smug smile on my face.

“This lot will keep us going for a few days.”

We searched around and found some big, sharp knives, a meat cleaver, spoons, forks and a can opener - all items we could use. I opened a can of peaches and tucked in, savoring the juicy syrup as it replaced the lasting taste of stomach bile. Smith ate from a can of pork and beans after tipping the contents of a can of stewing steak in a small dish for Spot. We all ate noisily, slurping the juices around our mouths. Table manners and etiquette was a forgotten custom.