The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink (42 page)

“Sorry, I’m not used to hearing American accents. Yes, the bus is full of fuel and in tip top condition. I kept it maintained, just in case, you know?”

“We’re taking it,” Smith grunted. “Any problem with that?”

Smallwood shook his head. “Go, take it. At least it will go to some good use. I’d be lucky if I managed to drive it out of the county.”

“Which keys are for the bus?” Smith waved the sets of keys in the flashlight beam.

“Those ones,” Smallwood wheezed, pointing to a chunky black key fob. “The other ones are for my Vauxhall Vectra. That car used to be my pride and joy.”

“Well, enjoy it.” Smith tossed him the other two sets of keys, which Smallwood attempted but failed to catch.

Smith turned and headed towards the bus, we immediately followed in his wake.

“Just one question,” Smallwood spluttered. We stopped and turned. Smith shone the flashlight in his face once more.

“What?”

“You’re all from the States, right?”

“Congratulations, your powers of observation are mind blowing,” Smith snapped.

“What are you doing here? You’re a long way from home.”

The sound of
raspy voices and shuffling footsteps caused us to swing our heads towards the main garage door.

“It’s the crazy guys,” Batfish hissed. “They must have followed us here.”

Smith turned back to Smallwood. “What are we doing here? Good question but I’d have to go into far too much detail and I haven’t got the time, right now. Let’s just say we’re searching for someplace far away from here.”

Smallwood gave a slight nod then his eyes darted towards the garage doors.

“Go, get in the bus. I’ll open the doors fully for you and try and keep the mob out of here for a time but hurry.”

We didn’t need to be told a second time. Smith led the charge towards the white bus and opened the driver’s door with the keys.
We climbed the steps, boarding the bus behind him.

“Any
body know how to drive this thing?” Smith barked. “The steering wheel is on the wrong side.”

“Give me the keys,” Cordoba shouted. She handed Smith the M-16 rifle and took the big key fob from him.

I slumped in the front seat behind the driver’s position and Batfish sat beside me. Smith and Milner sprawled onto the seat across the aisle. Cordoba found the ignition and turned the key. Smallwood was right, the engine purred into life on the first turn of the ignition key. Cordoba took a few seconds to familiarize herself with the controls and flicked on the headlights. I glanced out through the huge windshield and saw the hunched silhouette of Smallwood, shuffling towards the sliding garage doors.

“Come on, you sick asshole. Hurry it up, will you?” Smith yelled
, raising himself out of his seat.

“He’s trying to help us, Smith,” Batfish scolded. “He’s very sick and he probably can’t hear you, anyhow.”

Smith grunted in disapproval and slumped back down on his seat. 

The air pressure hissed as Cordoba closed the bus doors and released the parking brake. She began to roll the vehicle slowly forward.
Smallwood reached the large doors and struggled to slide them open. The bus headlights picked out the mob of sack hooded figures congregating around the entranceway.

“Shit! There are loads of them out there,” Batfish wailed.

We watched in anticipation as Smallwood gestured with his hands at the mob then back towards the garage. The hooded rabble carried flashlights, rifles, clubs and various other sharp bladed weapons. Flashlight beams bathed the garage interior and swung over the bus. We couldn’t hear what the conversation was about but it was obvious what was going on when one of the hooded guys raised his bolt action rifle and shot Smallwood in the chest.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Some of the hooded guys stepped over Smallwood’s prone body and shuffled towards the garage doors. It was obvious they intended to slide them shut and trap us inside. 

“Kill the lights and go as fast as you can!” Smith hollered.

Cordoba revved the engine and turned off the headlights.

“Come on, Cordoba, move it!” Smith barked. “We don’t have much time.”

“All right, I’m going,” Cordoba screeched back.

A couple of the hooded guys crouched by the garage doors, taking aim at the bus with their rifles. A bullet clunked into the left side panel, somewhere further behind us.

“They’re shooting at us,” Batfish shouted.

“Open the door,” Smith roared at Cordoba.

She complied and the door hissed as it opened. Smith leaned out, aiming the M-16 at our attackers. The rounds sent orange sparks around the heads of the hooded guys as they rattled into the garage doors. Cordoba gathered speed in the bus and Smith let off another burst of gunfire. This time his aim was better and a couple of the hooded guys dropped to the ground. Smith took out the two riflemen between the open doors and the rest of the hooded guys scurried around like scared rabbits.

“Keep going,” Smith boomed.

The engine whined as Cordoba floored the gas pedal. Most of the hooded guys scuttled out of our path but some of the braver or more stupid ones stood in the bus
’s way. Cordoba didn’t slow down, the front of the cab slammed directly into the two guys standing between the garage doors. One of the men was sent bowling across the concrete but the other screamed as he was crushed under the bus’s wheels. Smith ducked back inside the bus door and let fly with a few shots out of the opening as we rolled through the exit. The shots successfully hit another two guys, who had attempted to close the garage doors. Cordoba flicked the headlights back on and headed across the paved area then took the route to our right.

The gunshots and muffled shouts receded behind us as Cordoba drove the bus around the narrow roads.
The headlamps illuminated overgrown, grassy pathways and weed ridden flower beds alongside the thoroughfare. Overhanging tree branches brushed and knocked against the bus roof. The route took us up a hill and the road looped around the front of the main three interlinked buildings.   

“Can anybody remember the route back to the aircraft?” Smith asked, returning to his seat.

Cordoba shut the side door and turned her head slightly. “Screw the aircraft for a while. Does anybody know the way out of this fucking base?” The incline caused the bus to slow considerably and we were moving at nothing more than a crawl.

Milner stared out of the windshield and scanned the landscape. “Hang a left at the next crossroads and that should take us back towards the main gate.”

“I hope you’re right,” Cordoba wailed.

“Oh, my God,” Batfish shouted in my ear.

I turned my head and saw she pointed out of the side window to our left. A whole bunch of zombies headed across the paved concrete area at the front of the main set of buildings. Some of them broke direction and staggered towards the garage, obviously pursuing the crazy, hooded guys but the remainder made their way across the overgrown lawns in our direction.

“We got zombies heading our way,” I shrieked
, watching deathly white, snarling faces draw nearer in the dim moonlight.

Smith and Milner swung their heads in unison to the side window.

“Yeah, I see them,” Cordoba yelled. “I can’t make this damn vehicle go any faster and I’m not risking trying to find an alternative route.”

“Those zombies move quicker than the ones back home,” Batfish
hissed. “We got to get out of here.”

I nodded, feeling the rising sensation of panic. The undead crossed the grassed area, taking a short cut up the slope towards the bus.
We reached the hill’s summit and a crossroads lay in front of us, beneath bare branched trees. Cordoba took the left turn and I glanced back down the hill. The slope had hampered the zombie’s progress but they still gained ground on us.

“Step on it, Cordoba,” I yelled, in a voice that didn’t sound like my own.

She accelerated and the front left wheel bounced against the curbside, throwing the steering wheel momentarily out of her hands.

“Shit!” Cordoba shrieked. Somehow, she managed to get the bus back under her control. “I can’t go any faster or I’ll end up rolling this damn thing,” she scolded.

The first few zombies, leading the pack crawled up the hill and onto the road, slightly ahead of us. The bus wheels crunched over fingers and outstretched arms as the undead tried to haul themselves onto the road on their hands and knees.

We began descending the hill and the headl
amps picked out the small hut in the center of the roadway between the entrance and exit access gate.

“Take the exit lane on the left,” Milner instructed. “I knocked the barrier out with the Humvee, remember?”

“Okay,” Cordoba replied and swung the bus around the bend and onto the exit lane.

She slowed the vehicle and cruised through the access gate, then hung a left onto the main road.
Milner gave directions as best he could remember through the dark streets. We couldn’t afford any wrong turns that would take us down lanes too narrow in which to turn the bus around.

We took a series of twists and turns, lefts and rights before Milner recognized the main road near the aircraft crash site.

“Don’t take the bus onto that field where the C-17 is located,” Milner warned. “We don’t want this thing stuck in the boggy ground.”

“All right,” Cordoba agreed. “Tell me where you want me to stop.”

“Right up there will do.” Milner pointed through the windshield to a grass verge on the right. “The aircraft should be across that field someplace.”

Cordoba pulled the bus over and we gazed out the side windows into the darkness.

“You sure we’re in the right spot?” Batfish asked.

My stomach knotted up. We were lost, I knew it.
We’d lost our radio in the wrecked Humvee and had no other form of communication. The countryside roads were like a never ending labyrinth if you didn’t know where you were heading. Surely, it wouldn’t take those zombies long to track us down if they headed across country, through the surrounding fields.

“I don’t see nothing,” Cordoba sighed.

“Let’s get out and have a look around,” Smith said.

The side door hissed and opened into the black night. I felt the chilly air circulate inside the bus and Smith hauled himself up, heading for the exit.
I brushed by Batfish to go and take a leak outside.

Smith swung the flashlight across the field, illuminating nothing but grass. He giggled when he shone the beam on me taking a piss.

“Hey, quit it will you, Smith,” I protested.

“Is that a python I see before me?” Smith mocked. “Oh,
wait…no it ‘aint, it’s Wilde’s tiny weener.”

“Fuck off,” I rasped, turning my back on the flashlight beam.

Smith belly laughed at my discomfort and turned back towards the field. He lit a cigarette and puffed away, scanning the dark landscape. I finished taking my leak and joined Smith at the roadside.

“I hope you washed your hands,” he mocked me again.

“Screw you and give me a cigarette.” I snorted a laugh as I spoke.

Smith offered me his pack and lighter.
He turned off the flashlight and we stood in silence for a few moments, allowing the adrenalin rush of the last few hours to subside.

“Where’s this damn aircraft, then?” I asked.

“It’s out there,” he muttered.

“We’re lost aren’t we?”

“Nope.”

“What? We’ll probably have to wait until sunrise before we start searching.”

Smith handed me the flashlight. “You’ll see it around two hundred yards across the field in the two o’clock position.” He pointed with his hand and took a big puff on his smoke.

I laughed loudly and shrugged, thinking Smith had finally
, completely lost his marbles.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

I turned on the flashlight and shone the beam where Smith had indicated. I was surprised to see the silhouette of the giant aircraft some distance from us in the field.

“Why didn’t you say nothing?” I sighed.

“Well, it’s there isn’t it? I just needed a moment to calm down,” Smith said quietly. “Look, don’t say nothing to nobody but I think I’ve been suffering with my nerves lately.”