The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run (23 page)

We sped by empty villages and saw plenty of undead roaming along the riverbanks. They stopped to watch us pass by and some had even waded into the river in a futile attempt to pursue the boat. Those undead who entered the water quickly sunk below the surface. I estimated our boat ride lasted for around thirty to forty minutes before Thin Face slowed the craft.

The river widened out and two huge, gray warships sat motionless at anchor between both banks. No buildings stood on the flat shoreline but rows of white tents stood near the edge of the river. More soldiers in white Arctic combat gear strolled around the tents and along the shoreline. I spotted other people dressed in all gray clothing mingling between the soldiers. The gray clad people collected water from the river and moved in and out of the tents.

“Ah, my god,” Smith groaned, as he surveyed the scene unfolding in front of us. “This really don’t look good.”

I had to admit the view looked grim and full of hardship. The place wasn’t exactly a vacation resort.

Thin Face steered the small boat to the coastline and we were met by a couple more Russian soldiers, wielding assault rifles. Thin Face chatted with them for a few seconds, presumably explaining our predicament. The soldiers ushered us out of the boat and we waded through the shallow water onto the pebbly shore. Thin Face turned the small boat around and headed back up river, presumably to join his comrades back in the city. I heard a hubbub of voices from the gray clothed people and recognized the Scottish lilt in their accents. Some stopped to stare at us as the soldiers led us towards the maze of white tents.

“They’ll no think much of this place,” one guy said to a female standing next to him.

The waft of unwashed clothing, wood smoke and stale excrement attacked my senses as we weaved between the canvas structures. I heard a baby crying from one tent and some guy almost coughing his lungs out in another. I caught a peek of the interior of one dwelling and saw a guy inside a sleeping bag, while a young man and a girl huddled together in the opposite corner. The young couple shared the contents of a food tin, eating the gloppy substance with their fingers.

“This ‘aint no liberation base,” Smith growled. “It’s more like a concentration camp.”

I felt Smith’s concerns and wondered how long we’d be expected to stay in this bleak place.

The soldiers led us to a tent to the rear of the camp that was guarded by three big guys dressed in dark green combats and black flak jackets. They eyed us warily as we approached. One guy said something to his comrade and they pointed at our own combat fatigues. The soldiers marshaled us inside the tent and two of the big guys followed us inside.

A guy with short cropped gray hair glanced up from a pile of maps strewn across a table when we entered. The man was dressed in dark green combat fatigues with three silver stars on each epaulet on the top of his shoulders. I didn’t know what rank the guy was but he was obviously the top dog around the camp. 

We fanned out into a line in front of the guy, aware of the hulking men standing behind us. I took a quick glance at the rest of my party and they all looked shell shocked and apprehensive.

The Russian guy in front of us flashed a false smile. His dark brown eyes gave away the fact he didn’t give a shit whether we lived or died.

“Welcome to Greenock Refugee Camp,” he said. His English sounded good, with only a hint of an Eastern European accent. “I am Colonel Oleg Chernakov of the army of the Russian Federation. I am in charge of this temporary camp.” He walked around the table and slowly approached us. “I see from your uniforms that you are from the United States. You have come a long way.” He pointed to the small Stars and Stripes insignia on the arm of Smith’s jacket.

“I am not from the US, I am from India,” Chandra piped up.

“India, eh?” Chernakov said. “Even further from home.”

“I am…I mean I was a doctor at the Royal Glasgow Infirmary Hospital. That’s where we were when your men…took us away.”

Chernakov nodded. “A doctor, huh? That’s good. That is excellent. But the remainder of you are from America, yes?”

Smith sighed loudly. “Yeah, that’s right, pal. We came over on a military aircraft that ditched over England some time ago. Now, how about you tell us what the hell is going on here? What is this place?” He waved his hand in the air in a twirling motion.

I noticed a brief hint of anger twitch in the Colonel’s face before he smiled broadly.

“Let me guess, New York City, yes?” Chernakov pointed at Smith’s chest.

Smith nodded. “Brooklyn.” He pointed at Chernakov. “Let me guess, Russia, yes?”

The Colonel laughed. “Okay, yes, you are correct. I am from Nizhny, not far from Moscow. What is your name Mr. Brooklyn, New York?”

“John Smith,” Smith replied in a slow voice.

“Of course it is,” Chernakov said, with a slight laugh. 

He asked Wingate, Batfish and me where we were from and what our names were. I was half Irish, half American, born in London, England and moved to Pennsylvania, USA when I was eight years old, so I never really knew how to answer that question. I always plumped for Brynston, Pennsylvania; due to the fact that was the place I’d spent most of my time. Wingate was from Ohio and Batfish was also from my town, which I’d called home.

Chernakov strolled up and down in front of us. He seemed to be mulling over what to do with us or considering what he was going to say next. I flashed Smith a nervous glance.

“I hope you ‘aint planning on carrying out weird experiments on us,” Smith said. “Another so called army colonel tried out that before on us and it didn’t end well for him.”

I assumed Smith was talking about a certain Colonel Podolski. A guy who had imprisoned us at Newark Airport with the intention of injecting us with doses of contaminated zombie blood. That situation seemed a very long time ago now. Those guys injected me with mescaline, which I considered to be the root cause of my hallucinations and horrifying nightmares.

Chernakov laughed and shook his head. “No, no, Mr. Smith, nothing as barbaric as that. We are your friends and are here to help you. Us survivors must stick together and build for the future. I haven’t heard any reports on the contrary but I assume the United States is in total disarray, as is the rest of Europe due to this terrible virus.”

“You got that right,” Batfish huffed. Spot wriggled in her arms and she put him down on the ground, holding his leash tightly. 

“We have estimated that eighty to ninety percent of the world’s population has succumbed to this virus,” Chernakov continued. “It is up to the leftovers of humanity to build a new world where a situation like this one will never be repeated. Our vision for the future is one of peace and free of disease, greed and ignorance. We believe those factors were the cause of the rapid spread of the outbreak.”

Leftovers
, I kept hearing that word and it rolled around in my head. I wondered where Chernakov was leading with his spiel. Usually, when these kinds of people had a vision of the future, it was under their own terms.

“Who is this
we
, you keep talking about?” Smith asked. “The US President, Vladimir Lenin and the Queen of England?”

Chernakov coughed out a laugh, which again sounded forced and false. Smith’s doubtfulness mirrored my own feelings.

“
We
refers to the people involved in our rebuilding program in the motherland of the Russian Federation,” Chernakov explained. “There are doctors, scientists, who are experts in their fields and already working furiously to find a vaccination for this terrible virus. The Russian Federation will be repopulated by the survivors from all over Europe and once we have some stability in eradicating the infected, we will venture further afield and reclaim overseas territories from the infected. We envisage a new, modern society, governed by Moscow that stretches all around the globe.”

So that was it. Chernakov’s vision of the future was to start again, colonizing the rest of the world. I had a feeling we were going to be forced into this new-fangled social order whether we liked it or not.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“Listen, Colonel, we appreciate the offer and all but we’re kind of used to doing things our own way and going our own places,” Smith said, throwing up his hands. “Good luck with your new world but I think we’re going to opt out of this one.”

I had the feeling Smith’s choice wasn’t going to be an option.

Chernakov’s face twitched slightly and I knew Smith’s words had disgruntled him. The smile returned as he inwardly calmed himself.

“I know the idea sounds a little far-fetched at the moment,” Chernakov said. “But in time, you will appreciate what we are trying to achieve. After all, you people provide a very high skill set.” He ceased pacing and opened his arms out wide. “You have survived this long as a group on your own but think how your lives will prosper under the mightiest nation on the planet. Your input will be integral to the repopulation of humanity.”

I sighed. “I think what the good Colonel is trying to say is, we don’t have a choice.”

Chernakov ignored my comment. “You are very fortunate. The Glasgow operation is almost complete and we will soon begin the transportation of recovered equipment and refugees. One of our nuclear powered ships will be leaving here tomorrow afternoon, heading for a larger camp in Stavanger, Norway, a city we have previously liberated and which is very safe. From Stavanger you will be transported, also by sea to the Russian port city of Saint Petersburg. From there you will be conscripted as a citizen and you will be provided with a safe haven in a secure zone. You will be assessed on your skill levels and employed in an occupation matching your credentials.”

I had to hand it to the guy. He was selling this new society like a used car salesman flogs some beaten up old banger.

“Now, my friends,” Chernakov continued. “You will be escorted from here to visit my expertly trained medical staff, who will examine you all to check you are not suffering from any illness and your recruitment stage will begin. I am extremely happy to welcome you all to the new world and I know you will benefit from the exciting experience. I wish you all a good day.”

The big guys to the rear hustled us out of the tent and the field soldiers waiting outside rounded us up like cattle. One of the big guys barked something in Russian to the soldiers.

“You follow,” a soldier in Arctic combat gear yelled at us.

We were led through the camp, stared at by the other refugees as though we were from another planet. The soldiers stopped outside two large canvas tents, standing close together, side by side. One of the soldiers separated Smith, Chandra and I from Wingate and Batfish. We were shepherded to the tent on the left and Wingate and Batfish to the tent on the right. The soldier placed his gloved hand on Smith’s shoulder to manhandle him towards the tent. Smith reacted. He grabbed the guy’s hand, twisting and crushing his fingers together.

“Touch me again, pal and I’ll break your fucking neck,” Smith growled through clenched teeth. The soldier yelped, pulling a pained expression and dropped his weapon to the ground.

The other two soldiers in company took a couple of backward paces, surrounding Smith and raised their assault rifles. They yelled some orders and obvious threats in their own language that none of us understood.

Smith got the gist and let go of the guy’s hand. The soldier retrieved his rifle from the ground and glared at Smith with anger burning through him. Smith stared him down and didn’t flinch when the guy raised his hand. One of the soldiers barked out an instruction and the guy in front of Smith lowered his fist to his side.

“Jesus, what are you doing, Smith?” Batfish wailed. “Are you trying to get us all killed?”

“I just don’t like being shoved around,” Smith snarled, still eyeballing the soldier in front of him.

“Okay, guys, let’s cool it,” Wingate said, holding up her hands. She stepped slowly towards Smith and turned him around, so he faced the tent entrance. “You boys go your way and we’ll go ours. It’s probably just for a quick once over with the medical people to check we’re not infected, is all.”

“They better not try and shove anything up my ass or I’ll break their freaking hands,” Smith growled.

“Don’t be so stupid and don’t cause any more trouble,” Wingate scolded in a whisper.

Smith rumbled and led the way inside the tent. Chandra and I followed and one of the soldiers trailed along behind us, presumably to ensure we kept the peace. I took a glance back and saw Wingate, Batfish and Spot head for the next tent alongside.

The interior of our tent was wide with a tarpaulin sheet covering the floor space. A few battery powered lanterns brightly illuminated the whole area and we squinted slightly, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the light. We stood in the center of the tent taking in our surroundings. Several camp beds lined the tent perimeter and boxes of medical equipment were crudely piled in a corner to the left. A small, balding guy, wearing a big pair of black framed glasses and a white lab coat scurried up and down the tent. He was assisted by three butch looking women, who were all dressed in tight fitting green combat fatigues. The subject of their attention was a thin, pale faced man, lying on a camp bed towards the rear of the tent. The guy groaned and looked thoroughly miserable and in pain as he squirmed around in the bed.