The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run (2 page)

I needed a drink of water and a shower but was going to have to cope with neither. Smith and Cordoba hunched either side of a broken window, facing a dark street. Wingate crouched below the sill of the next window along to the right, reloading a Beretta M-9 handgun. Batfish and Jimmy stood pressed with their backs against the far wall, only their pale faces visible in the gloomy candle light. 

“Hey, what’s going down, guys?” I asked. My voice sounded harsh and croaky and my throat felt sore and parched.

“Keep your head down, Wilde Man,” Smith barked, glancing away from the window. “Those douche bags who tossed that stun grenade at you are back. This time they’ve brought a fucking army.”

It took a few moments for Smith’s words to register and I felt totally confused. “Who are those guys out there?”

Smith spoke but his words were lost in the rasp of semi automatic gunfire, coming from the street outside. The rounds from the unseen shooter peppered the bar room, shattering glasses, bottles, photo frames and commemorative china plates and mugs on the shelves behind the counter. A shower of broken glass and china washed over me before a second volley of gunfire sent the expelled rounds thudding into the wood paneled walls in a horizontal line above my head.

“Jesus Christ,” I yelled, rolling onto the floor on my stomach.

“He won’t fucking save you, kid,” Smith rasped. “We have to get out of this mess all on our own.”

“Ah, shit, not again,” I groaned. I crawled on all fours across the floor, towards the window that Smith and Cordoba stood either side of. “I quite enjoyed being dead for a while.”

“You don’t cop out on us that easy, kid,” Smith growled. “Make yourself useful and load up a death stick. We need all the firepower we can muster right now.”

My head thumped at the temples like I’d been whacked with a baseball bat. “More noise and bad news? What the hell is going down?”

“Looks like the guys from the park who posted that stun grenade you copped are back in force,” Smith explained. “They suddenly opened up on us. One of the shooters is inside that clothing store with the broken window on the opposite side of the street. I saw a muzzle flash coming from there with that last burst of gunfire.”

I searched around my jacket and waistband for my firearm. “Err…I think I lost my shooter when I was out.”

Smith shook his head and reached into his combat jacket. “Rule number one, never lose your personal weapon, kid,” he sighed, handing me a Beretta M-9 handgun. “It’s loaded so don’t go looking down the barrel or nothing stupid.”

“Yeah, right,” I muttered. “I’m not that much of a dumbass.”

Smith dipped his head. “Well, you were the one getting banzai on Scotch when you were supposed to be staying frosty down here. That’s just sloppy, kid. You were lucky they only decided to bomb your ass with a stun grenade.”

I felt a sense of anger burn through me and I knew my face had reddened. “
Fuck you, Smith
,” I would have blurted out loud if I had any case for my defense. But I knew he was right. What an asshole I’d been, taking pity on myself and getting sloshed when I should have been keeping watch. I could have not only got myself killed but all the others as well.

“I used to trust you with my life, man but now I’m starting to wonder about you.” Smith continued his bombardment of my character assassination.

“Okay, I think that’s enough for now, Smith,” Wingate cut in. “Let’s concentrate on the job in hand, shall we?”

“I’m not the one with my head up my ass the whole time,” Smith muttered, turning back to the street outside.

Wingate turned her attention to me. “How are you feeling, Brett? I’d take a look at you, only we have a bunch of guys out there trying to kill us right now.”  

“Ah, I’m feeling okay,” I lied. “Bit of a headache but nothing serious.”

Trickles of sweat ran down my forehead, despite the coldness inside the bar. Smith was right. I needed to get back on top of things if I was going to remain alive and an active member of the team. We had no place for hangers on and people not pulling their weight. I’d been shoddy and ignorant of what was going on around us.

“Okay, Smith,” I sighed. “I hear you. It won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” Smith grunted.

I knew he was deeply disappointed with me and I’d have to work hard to get back into his good books again and regain his trust. Batfish, Cordoba and Jimmy hadn’t spoken to me since I’d regained consciousness. Maybe they too, felt let down by my drunken, selfish behavior. I felt sheepish and like I owed them all an apology.

“Listen, all you guys,” I stammered, not totally knowing what to say. I felt as though I was twelve years old again, apologizing to my school chums for something horrendous that I’d done. “I’m sincerely sorry for landing us in this mess and I can promise that it will…” My words cut short as another burst of gunfire ripped through the bar room.

Wooden bar stools and small tables jolted and overturned as the semi automatic rounds ripped through them. Shards of glass from broken bottles sprayed in small chips through the air, showering the floor behind us.

“Save your sniveling for another time, eh, kid,” Smith said when the gunfire ceased. “We need to figure a way out of here before they decide to storm the place.”

Chapter Three

“Can’t we just, I don’t know, hang a white flag out the window and say we’re leaving the zone?” Batfish asked.

“I think it’s a little late for that,” Smith muttered. He leaned his head slightly to his right so he could gauge the street. “It looks like more guys are getting in position on the roof of that store opposite. My guess is they’re going to try and pin us down with covering fire, while more guys make an attempt at entry.”

“Which way do you think they’ll try and come through?” Cordoba asked. “If I was running the show, I’d try and storm the place through the back entrance.”

Smith nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right. They’re cutting off a possible escape route through the front door with their guys on the roof tops and squeezing us with an entry through the back doors.”

“So, what do we do, guys?” Batfish squawked, the panic evident in her voice. “Fighting off zombies is one thing but a bunch of heavily armed, uninfected psychopaths is a different ball game all together.”

“Tell me about it,” Wingate sighed. “I didn’t sign up to the army for this kind of shit.”

“What are our chances of shooting our way out through the front door?” Cordoba asked.

“Remember the end scene in that movie,
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,
with
Redford
and
Newman
?” Smith countered. “Our chances are about as good as theirs were.” 

I remembered the movie he was talking about but for the life of me I couldn’t recall what happened. “Is that the one where they pull off that big con?”

Smith groaned. “That’s
The Sting
, dumbass. Just forget about it. What I’m saying is we don’t have much of a chance of escaping through the front. Those guys up there on the roof tops will be all over us with their gunfire.” He pointed out of the window.

I shuffled forwards and turned so I crouched between the two front windows with my back to the outer wall. “So, how do we get out of this one, Smith?” I asked, dreading his answer.

“I haven’t quite figured that out yet, kid,” he sighed.

“Well, we better hurry up and think of something and real quick,” Batfish said. “Those guys are probably going to bust through the back entrance any moment.”

“If we stay put, we’ll be trapped like rats in a barn,” Cordoba added.

“Do you want me to go and cover the back door with this?” Jimmy asked, raising the double barrel shotgun in his hands.

“Nah, if we start splitting up, we’d be spread too thin, Jimmy,” Smith sighed. “Besides, two blasts on that thing would be all you’d be capable of firing before those guys would be all over you. They’ve got semi autos, remember?”

“So, what do you suggest we do, Smith?” Wingate seethed. “Sit here and let ourselves get mowed down by those guys? What happens if they toss more stun grenades through the windows?”

“My guess is they only had one stun grenade. If they had any more with them, they would have used them by now. All right, I have a plan,” Smith said. “But you guys probably won’t like it much.”

“Okay, let’s hear it,” I sighed.

The creaking sound of breaking wood echoed through the bar room. The noise came from somewhere through the corridor, towards the back entrance where Jimmy had showed us the way into the building.

“They’re coming in,” Batfish whispered. “What do we do?”

“Okay, I haven’t time to explain what we’re going to do but you’ll all have to bear with me if we want to get out of here in one piece,” Smith said. “Get all the gear together and be ready to move out in a split second when I give the word.”

“Gotcha,” I said, wondering what Smith had up his sleeve.

Jimmy and Batfish pulled rucksacks containing our food tins, ammunition and spare clothing onto their backs. I noticed Batfish tucked Spot, our little Jack Russell terrier dog into a pouch inside her jacket and then slide a fully loaded magazine into her handgun. Jimmy slid the other three rucksacks across the floor towards us. I hurriedly grabbed one of the packs and hauled it onto my back. Smith and Cordoba did the same. Only Wingate wasn’t carrying a rucksack as we’d lost some baggage when Smith had been sick a few days beforehand.

“You all ready?” Smith asked.

We nodded in the semi darkness.

“This shit is about to get hairy,” Smith growled. He crouched and moved towards the candles in the corner of the room and blew them out. Only the pale moonlight from outside faintly illuminated the bar room.

We all stood still, listening in silence as several sets of slow, plodding footfalls clanked across wooden floorboards approaching from somewhere beyond the bar room. Those guys were obviously cautiously treading forward, as though they were stalking a hunted prey.

Smith held his index finger to his lips and ushered us towards the bar counter. I hesitated, worried we’d be moving into the line of fire from the guys outside and pointed towards the window.

“It’s okay, they can’t see us in the dark and they won’t fire anyhow because they know their guys are inside the building,” Smith whispered.

We slowly and silently moved behind the bar counter and Smith gestured for us all to hunker down.

“Jimmy, find me two unbroken bottles of liquor from those shelves, will you?” Smith instructed.

“Aye,” Jimmy grunted and began rummaging through broken glass.

“Shh, keep the noise down, will you, Jimmy?” Batfish scolded.

“Sorry,” Jimmy murmured and returned his search to the lower shelves, below the countertop surface.

“Come on, Jimmy,” Smith urged. “Hurry it up. Those guys are almost at the door.”

“All right, I got something here,” Jimmy said, passing two, full liter bottles of vodka to Batfish behind him.

Batfish passed the bottles to Smith, who crouched down behind us all at the end of the line. Smith unscrewed the bottle lids and tossed them onto the floor. He took a long sip from each of the open bottles.

“What? Are you nuts?” Wingate scolded.

Smith ignored Wingate’s admonishment. “Jimmy, hand me two paper napkins from that shelf, will you?”

Jimmy obliged, tossing a whole pack of dust covered napkins, wrapped in a sealed cellophane bag to Smith. Smith tore open the pack with his teeth, took out a couple of napkins and screwed them into scrunched balls.

“What are you doing?” Wingate asked in a rasping whisper. “We can’t stay hidden behind this damn counter. Those guys are going to spot us as soon as they come through the doorway.”

Smith picked up one of the open vodka bottles and shimmied silently from behind the counter to the internal entrance to the bar. He poured the whole bottle of liquor over the wooden floor boards in front of the door. The approaching, clanking footfalls stopped outside the internal door and I saw the shimmer of a flashlight from under the gap below the wooden frame. Hushed voices spoke from beyond the doorway. I couldn’t hear the exact words they were saying but it didn’t take much to figure out they were discussing how to storm the bar area. I sincerely hoped Smith’s crazy plan, whatever it might be, would work out.

Smith scurried across the floor, grabbed the remaining vodka bottle and the pack of napkins and then crouched down, so his back was leaning against the front of the bar counter.

I held my breath when I heard the slight squeak of the internal bar room door being pushed open.