The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run (15 page)

“Looks all clear in here,” I said.

“Didn’t you hear that doctor guy, Brett?” Batfish said, backhanding my bicep in light admonishment. “He said the area was free of zombies.”

“Yeah…well, forgive me but I’ve become kind of a cynic in my old age,” I muttered.

Spot ran between the tables, sniffing the ground and cocking his leg against the chair legs. Smith marched towards the countertop and squinted as he studied the stacks of tins.

“Let’s see what we got here.” He lifted several tins, reading the printed lettering on the tops. “Jesus, I never even heard of half this shit. We got something called ‘
Spam
’ right here. What the fuck is that?”

I couldn’t control a giggle. I hadn’t heard of that stuff since I was a kid growing up in London, England.

“What?” Smith snorted. “You know what it is?”

I shook my head. “It’s some kind of meat stuff. You might enjoy it, Smith but it’s not my thing.”

Smith shrugged and ripped the pull ring tin lid open. “We even got knives and forks and napkins here,” he said, glancing across the countertop. He picked up a set of cutlery rolled inside a white napkin. “Okay, they’re plastic but it’s better than nothing. That Yadav guy has really got his shit together in here.”

Batfish and I joined Smith at the countertop and sifted through the tins. I took a water bottle, twisted off the cap and drunk the contents in a few long gulps. Batfish did the same, sipping the water as we rifled through the stacks of tins. Smith seemed quite happy tucking into his can of spam, shoveling the meaty substance into his mouth without complaint. Spot pawed at my leg, expectantly looking up at me and wagging his tail. The poor little guy was also hungry and thirsty.

I searched beneath the counter and found a large plastic bowl. “Toss me a can of that spam, will you.” Smith complied and I opened the tin, balking at the smell. I emptied the contents into the bowl as quickly as I could and set it down on the floor for Spot. The little dog gratefully accepted the food, greedily and nosily slurping through the mound of meat. He looked up at me when he was done, obviously ready for more.

“You better take some fluids onboard before you have seconds, little guy,” I said.

I poured a bottle of water into the bowl and he furiously lapped at the liquid.

Batfish munched through the contents of a tin and I opted for a can of beans. I felt as though my stomach couldn’t cope with digesting anything too heavy. We ate in silence and it felt strange, just the four of us alone together for the first time in a long while.

I’d met my three traveling companions back in Brynston, a small non-descript Pennsylvanian town, when the dead started to rise. Smith was some sort of enforcer come gangster from New York, who had been sent to my hometown to collect a huge debt from one of my buddies. I hadn’t liked the guy at first and thought back then he was probably going to kill me at some stage. We’d become inseparable since the world had gone to hell and I knew I wouldn’t be alive if I hadn’t hooked up with him. Funny how fate worked out.

Batfish worked in a bar where we’d searched for my friend. Her and two co-workers, Donna and Eazy, had holed up in one of the upstairs rooms above the bar. We’d been overrun by undead and escaped the bar, heading for New York along the Highway in Batfish’s VW camper van. We encountered a huge vehicle pile-up along the route and found the little Jack Russell dog amongst the wreckage, seemingly the only survivor of the scene of carnage. Donna and Eazy had sadly fallen along the wayside, along with so many others. The names of the deceased was like a roll call of tragedy – Rosenberg, Julia, Pete Cousins, Marlon Keen, Chief Cole, Donna, Eazy, Kell, Gera, Jimmy, Chaplain Michael Brady, Tippy, Simon Bathgate, my own father – and they were some of the good guys I could remember. Death and destruction seemed to follow us around like two unwanted acquaintances. I wondered when it would be my turn to join the long list of fatalities.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Smith spoke and jolted me from my gloomy mood.

“I never thought I’d be glad to be eating hospital food,” Smith said, starting on his second tin.

“Think we should take some food and water to Wingate?” Batfish asked.

“Let’s leave them be for awhile,” Smith said. “I’m sure she’ll feed up when she’s done in there.”

Batfish nodded. “Let’s just hope it’s going good.”

“Amen to that,” I added.

Smith belched as he finished up his second food tin. He dumped the empty can on the countertop and reached for a bottle of water. I tipped a few remaining beans from my tin into Spot’s bowl. He glanced up at me as if saying – ‘
is that it
?’ But I didn’t want him eating too much in one go and getting stomach cramps or diarrhea. Dogs were greedy buggers and would eat until they were physically sick.

“That’s all you’re getting for now, boy,” I said.

“I could really use a cold beer instead of this stuff,” Smith muttered, studying the water bottle. “Guess this’ll have to do.” He flipped off the cap and took a long drink.

I felt a craving and realized I needed a cigarette. Amongst all the chaos, I’d almost forgotten I’d smoked. I fished through my jacket and found my smokes and lighter and offered the pack around. Smith wiped drips of water away from his mouth with his sleeve and nodded.

“Good call,” he muttered before taking a cigarette.

“Do you think we should?” Batfish asked, staring at the cigarette pack in my hand. “This being a hospital and all.”

Smith and I glanced at each other with our unlit cigarettes drooping from our lips.

“I don’t think anybody is going to tell us not to smoke, Batfish,” I scorned.

“No, I don’t mean that,” she snorted, flapping a dismissive hand. “What about fire alarms or smoke sensors and shit? We set one of those bad boys off and we’ll have all the zombies for miles around coming down on us.”

Smith shrugged. “What the hell? They can’t get in here. Light me up, Wilde Man.”

Batfish had a point and I really didn’t want to have to put up with wailing sirens for the foreseeable future with no way of turning them off. Smith seemed to pick up on my doubts and snatched the lighter from my hand. He lit the flame and held it to the tip of his cigarette.

I waited with bated breath, preparing myself for the sound of an ear splitting siren while I watched Smith smoke his cigarette. When no such noise sounded, I shrugged and lit my own smoke. Batfish giggled and took a cigarette from my pack.

The burn of the smoke felt good and made me slightly light headed. I had to gulp down some more water to stop my throat and mouth drying. We used an empty food tin on the countertop as an ashtray.

“So…what do we do next?” Batfish asked. “What’s the next awesome master plan?”

I detected a hint of sarcasm in her tone, which slightly irritated me. I didn’t know if she was blaming Smith and me for our shitty predicament so I let it pass. It wasn’t the time for arguments and bitterness.

Smith dunked out his smoke inside the tin. “Well…I don’t know about you guys but I’m going to grab some zees.” He moved around the counter to the chairs and tables in the shadows.

“Shouldn’t we stay awake in case Wingate and that doctor guy need us?” Batfish asked, opening her arms wide.

“They know where we are if they need us,” Smith sighed. His voice sounded hoarse and tired. He slipped the rifle off his shoulder and leaned it against the side of a chair with the barrel pointing to the ceiling.

“All right, that’s a good point,” Batfish said. “I’m shot to pieces myself. I hardly had any shut eye in that damn bar last night. Think I’ll just hunker down in the corner right here.” She yawned and slid down the wall, keeping her back upright and her legs out straight along the floor. It seemed strange how we’d adapted to sleeping in positions we’d never have thought of when the world was normal. 

Smith pulled back a chair and slumped himself down, swinging his feet onto the table in front of him. His head slumped onto his chest and he was away in the land of nod almost immediately. Spot nuzzled his head against Batfish’s thigh and slumped down beside her.

I needed some sleep but I knew the nightmares would come at me, thick, fast and gruesome. Slumber was almost like my own private hell, an even worse place than the carnage of reality. My body ached, craving rest so I decided to just take it easy for a while, without falling asleep. I moved further into the shadows and slumped up against the wall between two tables, a few feet from the entranceway.

I stretched out my legs and resisted the urge to close my eyes. I thought about Jimmy. I thought about Cordoba. My eye lids felt increasingly heavy, as though lead weights were pulling down on those small flaps of skin.

“No, no,” I muttered, attempting to fight off the overwhelming drowsiness.

I felt the warmth of the sun on my face and heard the sound of waves gently lapping against a shoreline. Fine grained sand stuck to my finger tips and I felt I was in a good place even before I opened my eyes.

It took a few seconds for my vision to focus as I blinked against the brightness of the sun. I lay on my back on a white sandy beach someplace. The sky was clear, the sea was a deep azure blue and the sun beat down, causing a shimmering heat haze. Palm trees swayed in the breeze above where I lay. I wore a thin, white cotton shirt, unbuttoned at the front and a pair of light blue short pants with nothing on my feet. My toes brushed into the warm sand and I felt as though I was in some kind of paradise. Maybe I’d died of a heart attack or some undetected disease and gone to heaven.

The faint sound of music drifted from somewhere behind me. I couldn’t hear the words or the melody clearly above the sound of the waves to my front.

“Brett…Brett?” a woman’s voice called from the same direction as the music.

I twisted my head but couldn’t see who called me. I rolled onto my front and sprung to my feet, slightly surprised at my own agility. The sand burned the soles of my feet and I hopped and skipped to the edge of the sand where a thick bank of grass grew. I felt incredibly healthy and my skin was nicely tanned. Maybe this was reality and the zombie apocalypse, my other self, Smith and Batfish were all just part of a horrible, jumbled nightmare.

The grass beneath my feet felt cool and slightly damp and a bamboo constructed beach hut stood on the ground above the sloping bank and slightly to my left. The beach hut’s bamboo walls stood only to waist height with the low roof shading the interior.

Cordoba looked out onto the veranda as though she was searching for somebody. She looked healthy and radiant with a deep tan and wearing a thin, dark gray sun shawl. I waved and she caught sight of me. Her face broke into a smile and I felt a little flutter in my stomach.  

“There you are, Brett. What the hell have you been doing?”

“Ah, nothing much,” I replied, returning the smile. “I fell asleep on the beach.”

“Not again,” she said. “Come up here and have a drink with me. I’ve got some of that Tequila you like.”

“Okay,” I called. “I’m on my way.” I hated Tequila ever since a particularly long drinking night but decided I could always add more mixer to drown out the taste.

I went to move forward up the bank but couldn’t gain any grip on the grass. Every time I took an upward step, I’d slip back down the bank again. I tried to remember if there was a pathway up to the beach hut but couldn’t recall any such route. In fact, I didn’t even know where the hell I was. Ah, crap, maybe this was just another dream.

“I can’t get up the bank,” I called, glancing up to the beach hut. I let out a false laugh as though the situation was slightly amusing but inside my head, I didn’t know what the hell was going on.

The smile dropped from Cordoba’s face. “Don’t worry, Brett,” she said. “You’ll figure out a way to get up here in the end.”

Something hit me around the side of my face. I shook my head and carried on trying to climb the grassy bank. I felt the sensation again, this time on the other cheek.

“What…?” I stammered.

I felt another blow that felt almost like a slap. The sun suddenly went out and I was plunged into darkness. I blinked a few times and saw Smith crouching down in front of me. I felt an immediate sagging feeling when I realized I was back in the hospital café, slumped between two tables.

“Huh?” I muttered. My mouth and throat felt dry as hell and I tried to blink away the sleep from my eyes. Smith looked worried and sad. Maybe he felt bad that I’d dreamed of Tequila and not Bourbon. I shook my head trying to unscramble my brain.

“It’s Cordoba,” Smith muttered in a low tone. “I’m real sorry, kid but she’s gone.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

At first, I didn’t fully process what Smith meant.

“No, I just saw her. She was pouring Tequila in a beach hut someplace but I kept on slipping down this kind of grass slope type thing. I couldn’t get up there, Smith.”