The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run (13 page)

“Keep the light facing front,” Smith scolded. “We know those motherfuckers are behind us. It’s what’s coming up ahead we need to keep our eyes on.”

“Okay,” I muttered and swung the flashlight back in front of me.

The female zombies in the white uniforms growled like two guard dogs as we approached. Smith stepped forward and hacked the first one’s head clean off with the machete. The second crouched and went to stand or spring at Smith but he was anticipating the move. He side stepped and swung the blade in a slashing, 180 degree line. The machete cut through the top of the zombie’s head, slicing off the skull slightly above the eye line. I heard a splattering sound as the top of the head struck the wall to the right.

Smith took a quick glance over his shoulder, down the dark tunnel behind us. “We need to pick up the pace. We need to put some distance between us and that mob. We’re going to need some time to find a secure room to get Cordoba on the ventilator.”

“What about power?” I asked. “Won’t the ventilator need to be plugged into the mains? It doesn’t look as though this place has an electricity generator running.” Surely, we were wasting our time if we couldn’t even power up the damn thing.

“They’re fitted with backup batteries in case of power outages or software failures,” Wingate explained. “If we find one soon enough, I should be able to make it operational.”

The corridor dog-legged and the remainder of the passageway was thankfully clear of undead.

“Keep focused on those doors up ahead,” Smith said, pointing to a set of double doors at the end of the corridor.

I shone the flashlight across the doors and at the circular shaped windows in the center. I couldn’t see anybody or anything on the opposite side of the doors and hoped we’d have a clear run to the ICU. Light radiated from the windows and dimly lit up the last few yards of the corridor.

“Let’s get moving,” Smith muttered and broke into a jog.

I upped my speed to match Smith’s pace and I heard the gurney wheels clanking on the walkway floor behind us. I guessed the corridor was like a bridge, to move equipment and people from one part of the hospital to the other.

Smith and I stopped at the double doors and took a look through the windows in each side. I saw a wide, rectangular shaped area with several corridors snaking off into the distance. The space was lit by windows looking out onto the snowy landscape outside and a sign hanging above the main area told us we were at the ICU. I couldn’t see any zombies roaming around beyond the doors and hoped the area was clear.    

“We’re here,” I sighed.

“Let’s get in there and find this damn ventilator,” Smith said.

I gasped in gulps of air and nodded. Smith barged the door with his shoulder, expecting it to swing open but it didn’t budge I tried the door on my side but it didn’t open either. I rattled the handles but the doors wouldn’t move in either direction.

“Shit, the doors are locked from the inside,” I whispered.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Come on, Smith,” Wingate shrieked. “Hurry it up and open those damn doors.”

“Stand out the way,” Jimmy said, aiming his shotgun at the space between the doors.

“Whoa, hold your horses, cowboy,” Smith rumbled. “That old piece of crap isn’t powerful enough to blow open that lock and those windows are made of reinforced plastic. The shells may or may not break the plastic but the shot is likely to blow right back in our faces.”

“So, what do you suggest, Smith?” Wingate squawked. “Stay right here and get eaten alive?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Smith shrieked and kicked the center of the doors with his right boot. He continued kicking several times but the door still didn’t budge. I joined in, desperately barging the doors with my shoulder.

“Let me try the shotgun,” Jimmy bellowed above the noise of our pounding on the door.

“Stop, stop,” Batfish yelled. “All of you, just stop. There’s somebody inside there.”

I ceased barging the door, breathing heavily and shone the flashlight in Batfish’s direction. I glanced over her shoulder and noticed the zombie horde drawing closer.

“What?” Smith said, gasping in heavy breaths. He turned to the doors then back to Batfish, leaning forward slightly. “What did you say?”

“I saw somebody moving around in there,” Batfish repeated. “When you guys were bashing against the door, a guy came out of a room to the side and looked through the windows. Then he went back to where he came from.”

“Was he alive or dead?” I asked.

“No, he was alive,” Batfish insisted. “I saw him moving clearly through that damn window. He was an Asian looking guy.”

A crescendo of low toned groans, high pitched shrieks and hisses echoed through the corridor. I turned to look behind us and saw the encroaching mob of undead had increased in number. The crowd bobbed and jostled in a jumbled, seething mass, their facial features were masked in shadow but I could see the outline of heads and raised hands swaying as they plodded towards us.

My stomach knotted up and I felt a rising sense of desperation and panic. I clicked off the flashlight and placed it in my jacket pocket. The light from the room beyond the doors allowed us to see around our immediate vicinity and slightly illuminated a further few yards of the corridor.     

“We’re in deep shit,” I groaned, taking aim at the enclosing horde. 

“Not for the first time,” Smith muttered. “We keep riding our luck and the ride is going to come to an end, sooner or later.”

I turned my head to take a brief glance at Smith, wondering if he was becoming philosophical about his own mortality. We all had an expiry date, like food stuff bought at a store. The only difference was, all those grocery products all had a particular termination date stamped on them and we, as human beings had no such foresight into our own demise. Maybe the undead were like spoiled food – rotting, bad but still around.

Smith turned back to the double doors. He hammered with the back of his fist on the circular window, still holding the machete in his hand.

“Hey, hey! You in there? Let us through these damn doors, you motherfucker!” He repeatedly beat on the reinforced plastic windows, repeating his words in an increasingly pissed off tone.

Batfish and Wingate edged the gurney trolley closer to the doors in a futile attempt to give them a little more space between the undead crowds.

“Hey, you bastard.” Smith continued hollering and banging with a wild-eyed, crazed expression on his face. “Let us the fuck inside. We’re dead out here.”

I realized the only thing we could do was stand and try to fight off the undead with our limited firepower until the ammunition ran out. Then we might be able to somehow dodge however many zombies remained in the corridor. It was a shitty plan but the only possible option open to us.

Smith bashed at the windows with the machete but the blade bounced off the surface, producing nothing more than a series of vertical scratches.

A wave of reluctant acceptance washed over me and I decided if we had no escape alternative, I’d save the last bullet I had for my own head. My body would more than likely still be torn to pieces but at least I wouldn’t be around to feel the intense pain. Whatever the outcome, we’d done well to survive for as long as we had, running on instinct, stupidity, luck and sheer determination for almost a year in the new, post-apocalyptic world of chaos and death.

“It’s been really great knowing all of you,” I muttered.

Batfish replied but I didn’t catch what she said. I was too busy concentrating on aiming carefully at the closest zombie heads, closing in on our position. I fired three times and saw three bodies drop, lost from view amongst the stumbling, shuffling feet of the mob. I knew I had a couple of spare loaded magazines in my combat jacket but reloading the M-9 was going to eat up valuable seconds and allow the horde to advance on our position. Wingate drew her own handgun and took a few carefully aimed shots at the crowd. Smith finally turned away from the doors and slid the machete back into his belt then dragged the M-16 off his shoulder.

“I haven’t got much spare ammo for this,” he roared as he tucked the rifle butt into the crook of his shoulder. “Make all your shots count.” He let off a few single shots, dropping zombies with every round.

The corridor soon filled with cordite smoke and the air became stuffy and thick. My throat was dry and I could barely see the approaching mob through the swirling haze. I was forced to wait until I had a view on a target before I could fire the next shot. The delay allowed the zombies to gain ground but firing blind and wasting vital ammunition would have been an extravagance I couldn’t afford. 

We kept dropping the front runners in the crowd but more kept coming behind them. I don’t know why, but I thought of that old British movie, ‘
Zulu
,’ as the mass of undead continued to descend on us. Although, I doubted the British Army had found themselves fighting off reanimated corpses, back in 1879.  

The booming sound of Jimmy’s old shotgun discharging reverberated around the corridor. I felt as though my teeth were going to shatter as I clenched my jaws together in a combination of concentration and grim resolve.

Fallen bodies littered the passageway directly in front of us but the sprawling mob still advanced, stumbling and stepping over their terminated counterparts.

“Shit, the whole damn population of Glasgow must be coming at us,” I screeched.

“Just keep aiming and dropping those fuckers, kid,” Smith yelled back.

“I’m out of ammo,” Jimmy shouted above the crack of gunfire. “We’re never going to make it out of here.”

My M-9 clicked empty and I immediately fumbled through my jacket for a replacement magazine. Smith continued firing but I knew his own ammunition supply was dwindling rapidly. We pressed ourselves up against the double doors behind us. Batfish slid the gurney to one side of the doors with Wingate positioned slightly in front of the trolley.

I finally reloaded my Beretta and felt in my jacket for the SIG Sauer so I could pass it to Jimmy. He glanced at me with a wide-eyed expression of terror and panic. His face was ashen white and his mouth hung open. I pulled out the spare SIG handgun from my jacket and held it out for Jimmy to take.

Jimmy shook his head. “It’s no good, Brett. We have to try and get through them and get back to the exit. We’re not going to live if we stay here, no matter how many we shoot.”

“Just take the damn gun, Jimmy,” I spat.

My attention was diverted by a withered hand, swatting the air a few inches from my face. I twisted and fired a round, which burst through an undead woman’s skull.

“I’m going to go fer it,” Jimmy wailed, turning his shotgun over in his hands so he gripped the metal barrels.

“Don’t you move, Jimmy,” I growled. “There’s too many of them. You’ll never get back to the exit point on your own.”

The others seemed oblivious to Jimmy’s dilemma. They continued to stand their ground, aiming at the front runners in the undead crowd. I knew Jimmy was panicking and the primeval, fight or flight part of his brain was screaming at him to flee the scene, no matter what the consequences. I saw him take a step forward and by his body language, I knew he was psyching himself up for bolting for freedom.

“Don’t do it, Jimmy,” I warned and went to grab his jacket with my left hand.

Another encroaching zombie, with a mop of long dark hair, diverted my immediate attention and I was forced to aim at the pale green face lurching at me. I fired once and the long haired zombie folded into the shadows.

I turned back to look at the space where Jimmy stood but saw only a swirling mist of cordite smoke.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“What are you doing, Jimmy?” Batfish screeched.

My gaze turned from my immediate surroundings to the corridor space to my front. Jimmy screamed a war cry, bludgeoning zombies out of his path with the heavy shotgun butt. I ceased firing and Wingate and Smith followed suit, worried a stray round might hit Jimmy.

The seething, undead crowd’s attention was turned solely to the young guy attempting to break through their ranks. Gnarled hands reached for him and the zombie horde surged in his direction, slightly to our right.

“Oh, Christ! What is that asshole doing?” Smith gasped.