The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run (24 page)

“That guy don’t look too hot,” Smith muttered, nodding to the poor wretch at the back of the tent. “Expertly trained medical staff? That Colonel guy was talking out of his ass.” Smith nodded at the quartet scampering around the tent, holding bags of clear fluids and intravenous tubes. “This shower of shit couldn’t save a puppy from drowning in a bathtub.”

“I can understand exactly what you are saying,” the guy in the big glasses called out without looking in our direction. “I will be with you in one moment. Please be patient.” He spoke in accented English but it didn’t sound the same as the Russian Colonel.

“Patients without patience,” I said, in an attempt at some black humor.

  The small guy with the big glasses seemed to be in charge of the operation. He muttered something to the three women and they began rigging up the IV drip over the ill looking man in the bed. He turned and left them to it, approaching us with the air of a harassed individual. Sighing deeply, he stopped in front of us and his eyes looked huge behind the thick lenses of his spectacles.

“I guess you are new recruits who are to be given a medical examination?” he asked, glancing impatiently between the three of us.

“We can see you’re real busy so let’s skip the check up, eh?” Smith said, and went to turn to leave. The soldier behind us stepped in Smith’s path, stopping him from exiting the tent. “I guess not,” Smith sighed.

“I am Doctor Pavel Grabowski and my job is to give new refugees to the camp a clean bill of health. Not only for their own health but also to protect the rest of the people from any contagious diseases.”

“I’ve heard all about medical check-ups from Russian doctors,” Smith groaned. “You guys poke and prod people in places where they didn’t realize they had places.”

Doctor Grabowski shook his head. “Then you have nothing to fear. I am not Russian, I am Polish and I will not harm you in any way.”

“Polish? How did you end up here?” I asked.

“There’s nothing more than I would like to sit down and tell you my story,” Grabowski said. “But I do not have the time at the moment.” He took a brief glance over his shoulder at the sick man. “I must see to this man or he will die.”

“What is your diagnosis, Doctor?” Chandra asked, taking a forward step to the patient.

Grabowski held up his hand to stop Chandra approaching the sick man. “I cannot allow you near him. He has a swelling in his abdomen and I haven’t diagnosed the problem as yet.”

“I too am a qualified doctor,” Chandra said. “Maybe I could assist you with a prognosis.”

“That is very thoughtful of you but will not be necessary,” Grabowski snapped. “Now, if you will move to the side of the medical station, we can begin our examinations.”

One of the butch women came across to assist with the medical check-ups. I had a terrible feeling she was going to pull on a rubber surgical glove and order me to remove my pants and bend over for a full cavity inspection.

My fears were extinguished when Smith went first with his examination. The whole ordeal was over in a couple of minutes and consisted of a brief check of our ears, eyes, nose and throats, a check of all our limbs and a cold stethoscope placed on our chests.

Grabowski asked us if we had been bitten or had any abnormal pustules or growths on the rest of our bodies. All three of us shook our heads. He nodded to the soldier and he grunted something before gesturing for us to leave the tent.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I said to Smith.

“I’ve been through worse,” Smith admitted, as we walked out of the tent and back into the open air.

We stood waiting for several minutes before Batfish, Wingate and Spot reappeared from the adjacent tent. They looked suitably flustered as they hurried out through the canvas flap covering the entrance.

“Thank god that’s over,” Wingate groaned. “Those bitches have hands like bananas. I'm sure they enjoyed putting us through our paces.”

“Everything okay?” Chandra asked.

“Yeah, everything is still in the right places,” Wingate sighed.

“They even gave Spot an overhaul,” Batfish said, pointing to the dog.

“Well, I guess it’s good to know we’re not suffering from any life threatening sickness,” I sighed.

“You think those ass clowns would pick up on it if we were?” Smith scoffed.

One of the white clad soldiers hollered an order and waved us forward with the muzzle of his rifle. One of our personal guards led the way between the tents, while the other two tagged along behind. We were led to another tent, which housed piles of boxes containing the dull gray clothing we’d seen the other refugees wearing. A poker faced guy with short cropped hair and dressed in green combat fatigues tossed a set of uniformed gray clothing at each of us.

“You wear,” the soldier in the Arctic combats barked at us. He seemed to be the leader of our other two chaperones and had at least mastered a few words in the English language.

We were herded into a small tent at the side of the clothing store and the soldier that Smith had threatened thrust a black plastic trash sack at me.

“You put old clothing,” the lead soldier instructed, shaking the trash bag in my hand.

We squeezed into the tent and the soldiers clustered around the entrance.

“This feels a lot like being in the joint,” Smith whispered. “We should seriously think about getting the hell away from here.”

“I don’t see how,” Wingate sighed. “There’s a whole bunch of armed guys roaming around and they don’t give me the impression they’re going to just let us walk out of here. You heard what Colonel Chernakov said, right?”

“No talk, hurry,” the leading soldier yelled at us from outside the tent.

We started to change into our new clothing, which stunk of damp and felt slightly moldy. The tops were nothing more than cheaply made sweatshirts and the matching gray pants were cotton joggers. We were allowed to keep our boots and underwear but as I pulled on the thinly lined gray overcoat, I doubted whether the garment would keep out the cold. I had the feeling life was going to get even tougher from now on.

We gathered up our meager belongings, watches, lighters, cigarettes and other general crap from our pockets, then dumped our old US Army combat fatigues in the trash bag and made to move back outside. Smith stopped us and stood with his back to the tent opening.

“Listen, guys, I’m going to level with you. This is a bad call and I’m not hanging around here to become one of Colonel Ivan’s slaves. I’m going to wait for nightfall and get out of here tonight. It’s up to you whether you want to stay right here and be part of this crazy new world or take your chances out in the wild. But whatever you decide, I’m out of here.”

I sighed and glanced at the faces of my traveling companions. Their anxious expressions mirrored my own feelings. Was Smith serious about escaping the refugee camp or was this simply another of his crazy misgivings? I guessed we’d have to wait until darkness fell to find out for sure.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The soldiers led us to a couple of small tents on the outskirts of the camp. Rows of barbed wire marked the perimeter of the huddle of tents so the camp was tightly boxed between the fences. More soldiers patrolled the boundary, slowly walking along the inside of the wire fence.

Rolled up sleeping bags and thin rolls of foam to use as a mattress were stacked inside the tents. Smith, Chandra and I took the tent on the right and Batfish, Wingate and Spot took the basic accommodation on our left.

“Sleep here,” the lead soldier barked, pointing at the tents. “Move out tomorrow.” The three soldiers muttered between themselves, briefly turned back to look at us then strolled away between the multitude of other tents.

“Well, might as well get some rest,” Batfish said, crawling into her tent and unrolling her sleeping bag. “Might as well make the most of a bad situation.” Spot snuggled down alongside her and looked as though he at least, felt at home.

Wingate stood with her hands placed on her hips, glaring at Smith.

“What?” he asked, lifting his arms by his sides.

“You know what,” Wingate seethed. “You think you’re going to make it out of here, through that damn razor wire and sneak by those armed guards?”

Smith studied the fence and glanced up and down the perimeter at the strolling soldiers. “Piece of cake,” he muttered.

I noticed an extra, outer barbed wire fence, running around the perimeter, twenty yards beyond the one we were camped next to. Both fences stood around chest height and although they were more than adequate defenses to keep the undead out of the refugee camp, they were also a formidable deterrent for anybody trying to break out.     

“We won’t make it twenty yards beyond that fence before we’re gunned down,” Wingate argued.

Smith glanced from side to side. “Keep your voice down, will you. Listen, you don’t have to come along if you’re not up to it.”

Wingate mockingly laughed. “Not up to it? Smith, I’ve been virtually wiping your stupid ass for a long while now and you know it.” She pointed an accusing finger. “What you’re talking about is practically committing suicide. These guys don’t give a crap about the
great
Smith.” She put on a deep voice, I guessed to try and mimic and mock her boyfriend. “They probably won’t even shout you out a warning before they open fire on your dumb ass.”

Smith shrugged with a pissed off expression on his face. “I guess we’ll find out later on.”

Wingate emitted a low shriek, causing the soldiers and other refugees in the nearby vicinity to turn and look in her direction. She spun around and stomped into her tent alongside Batfish.

“Somebody isn’t happy,” Chandra muttered.

“Ah, women,” Smith groaned, flapping his hand. “They always like to be mad at you and bust your balls for some damn reason.”

“She has a valid point though, you have to agree, Smith,” I sighed, studying the barbed barriers. “Those damn wire fences will rip us to shreds even if the guards don’t gun us down first.”

Smith turned towards me with an expression of shock on his face. “Wilde Man, I’m surprised at you. Why are you, of all people going all chicken shit on me?”

I shook my head. “I’m not going chicken shit, just being realistic. We don’t have anything in the weapons department and there’s no way we’d clear those fences without being spotted. I bet those guys on patrol are shining flashlights all over the perimeter during the night. They’d have to be completely incompetent not to notice a bunch of people running for the damn fences.”

Smith shrugged. “Okay, Wilde Man. It’s your call. I can’t force you to tag along so I guess this is going to be a parting of the ways. Right now, I’m going to get some rest so if I don’t see you again, good luck with your new life as a commie stooge.”

Smith brushed by me, bumping into my shoulder with a degree of petulance. He headed for out tent and rolled down the flap. I stood motionless and sighed in frustration, not knowing whether Smith was actually going to go ahead with his half assed breakout attempt.

“Is Smith for real?” Chandra whispered.

I shrugged. “Maybe. You never can tell for sure with Smith. He’s predictably unpredictable.”

Chandra glanced at me for a couple of seconds and nodded. He could obviously recognize my inner turmoil; it was probably etched all over my face. I didn’t want Smith to leave but I didn’t fancy meeting a grisly end, wrapped in barbed wire while the Russian military used me as target practice. Smith seemed determined enough but hopefully his escape plan was simply bravado and hogwash.

My train of thought was distracted when I noticed a skinny guy with a long nose and thinning ginger hair slowly approaching. Chandra and I both stood and watched in silence as the emaciated man tentatively stepped towards us. He stopped around ten yards from our position and squinted against the sun.

“Hello, there,” he said in a broad Scottish accent. “I couldn’t help overhearing you just now. I wasn’t snooping on you or nothing but I’m in the tent just there.” He pointed to the sagging heap of canvas a few feet behind him. “Heard your accents. You’re Americans, right?”

“Some of us are,” I replied.

“I’m from India,” Chandra quickly added.

“Well…whatever, it makes no difference. I’m from Ayr, the name’s Ally McGregor, by the way.” He moved closer and proffered his hand. I returned the shake and noticed how thin and bony his hand was. “Me and my daughter, Bonnie are the only people left from our wee village. She’s asleep in our tent right now. We were holed up in a fisherman’s hut on the coast until the Ruskies showed up a couple of weeks ago. We were living on fresh fish and boiled water from the river and we were doing okay for a time until they came ashore in their boats.” He took a brief glance at the patrolling guards behind us. He waited for them to pass before he continued and I noticed a glimmer of loathing in his eyes.

“Anyways, I heard you and your pal, the big man, talking about trying to hightail it out of here.” He spoke in a hushed tone and he frowned in seriousness. “Don’t even try it. That’s my warning to you fellows.”

“I don’t think that will seriously happen,” I said.

“I see this one wee guy, him and his girl…we’d only been here a couple of days, like.” He took a nervous glance behind him to check nobody else was in earshot.

“There weren’t so many people here back then,” McGregor continued. “This wee bloke and his girlfriend made a dash for the fence. The guy had a piece of timber to push down the wire, you know? He pushes down the wire of the first fence and sends the girl o’er the top first. The silly wee mare gets caught on the wire. The guy gets o’er the wire and heads for the second fence but the girl starts screaming and crying because she’s still caught up in the wire and can’t move, right?”

Chandra and I both nodded, acknowledging we were following the story.

“The guy could have probably made it o’er the second fence but he goes back for the girl. The Ruskies hear all the shrieking and screaming and come running from all directions. They opened up with their machine guns and cut both the young couple down in a wave of bullets. I never seen nothing like it in my life.” He shook his head and glanced to the ground as the memory of the scene obviously played through his mind.

“Sounds real bad,” I muttered.

McGregor looked up into my eyes. “The Ruskies pulled the bodies off of the fences, took them out into the water in one of those wee boats in weighted body bags and tossed the poor bastards into the drink. They said, they told us…to cover up what they did…they said the two of those poor wee people were bitten and infected so they had to be terminated.” He ran the back of his hand across his mouth to wipe away spittle. “I know for a fact that wasn’t the truth because they were staying in that tent, right where you are now.”

I turned and took a look at the heap of canvas behind me, as if by some grisly miracle the dead couple would be sitting at the entrance and nodding in agreement with McGregor. Even though the ghostly apparitions didn’t appear, a chill still ran down my spine.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

I knew Ally McGregor wanted to chat for longer but I seriously didn’t have the stomach for any more tales of horror. I felt tired and emotionally drained after the traumatic events of the day. The way I saw the situation was siding with the Russians and living in their protective custody might not be as bad as we initially thought. Life wasn’t going to be spent lying on some sun kissed beach but at least we’d be fed and have a roof over our heads, with no worries about being attacked in the dead of night by ravenous ghouls.

I needed some sleep so I left McGregor and Chandra in mid conversation and bundled my way into the small tent. Smith already snored in his sleeping bag, safely unconscious in the land of nod. I rolled out the foam mattress across the floor space and crawled into my sleeping bag, ignoring the musty damp stench. My clothes stayed on. It was still too damn cold to think about going to sleep without any attire.

The muffled voices of Chandra and McGregor outside the tent soon drifted away into the ether as I felt myself sinking away into a deep sleep.

I’d been asleep for what felt like five minutes before somebody yelled in my ear.

“Wake up, motherfucker!”

I sat up, shaking the sleep from my head. The light inside the tent was dim but not totally dark, which meant it was still daytime. My alternative self sat facing me, squeezed against the inside of the tent. He was dressed all in black with a long leather trench coat. His hair was cut short around the back and sides and greased back on the top, away from his forehead. Still, that mocking grin spread over his face. 

“What the hell do you want?” I spat. “Can’t you see I was sleeping?”

“No time for kipping, matey boy. It’s all about to kick off out there.” For some reason, he spoke with a London cockney accent.

“Why the hell are you talking like that and what the fuck are you doing dressed like that?” I asked. “You look like some kind of damn Nazi.”

My other self sniffed and didn’t look impressed. Maybe I’d managed to rile him a little for once.

“Don’t forget, arsewipe, I’m the alternative you. You could have looked and talked like this in another possible outcome of life’s wonderful opportunities,” he fired back. “You asked yourself the question ‘
what if
?’ a little while ago. Well,
what if
you’d never left London? You’d have grown up just like this.” He pointed at himself with both forefingers.

“Ah, that’s not what I meant,” I groaned, bored of my hallucination’s gibberish. I lay back down and pulled the sleeping bag over my head in an attempt to drown out any further jibes.

“I was sorry to hear about your girlfriend. Shame about her, I thought she was rather fit. A lovely little Latino chica. Better than most of the other scrag-bag scrubbers you seem to pull.”

I knew he was talking about Cordoba but I didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, I remained silent, fighting the urge to tell him to go back to hell, or whatever dark place he crawled from.  

“All right, all right,” my other self called out. “Go back to sleep like a fucking baby and get butchered in your bed. See if I fucking care.”

“Shut up, you’re not real,” I croaked, unsure if he could hear me from under the sleeping bag.

“Just ask yourself this one question before you go back to
snoozy woozy
time. Where is your mate Smith at this moment in time?”

What was he getting at this time? What was his angle for appearing to me after an absence of at least a month?

My curiosity got the better of me. I pulled the sleeping bag off my head and lifted my head.

“What are you gibbering about now?”

He nodded to the empty space next to me. Smith wasn’t in his sleeping bag but that wasn’t anything sinister. Chandra wasn’t inside the tent either and it was still day time so Smith wouldn’t have tried to run while it was still light. Would he?

“He probably just went out for a walk or he’s fighting with Wingate or something,” I sighed. “Nothing to worry about.”

A huge explosion from somewhere outside seemed to rock the tent from side to side. I tasted and smelled cordite and then heard the chatter of semi automatic gunfire.

“What the heck was that?” I spluttered.

“Please continue,” my other self said, with a smirk on his face. “You were saying something along the lines of
nothing to worry about
?”

I scrambled out of my sleeping bag and tore the damn thing as I tried to pull it off my boots. I was about to poke my head out of the tent flap when another explosion that seemed closer, blew smoke inside my hovel. I rocked backwards on my haunches, tasting grit, soil, smoke and cordite all at once.

Less than a second later, Smith burst inside the tent. He was covered in blood spatters and held the machete in his right hand and a gory severed head by the hair in his left.

“What the fuck, Smith?” I wailed, recoiling against the back of the tent. “What the hell did you do this time?”

I didn’t want to look but morbid fascination got the better of me. The severed head belonged to Ally McGregor. His eyes were upturned, with only the whites of his bulging eyeballs visible and his mouth hung wide open as if forever fixed during his final scream.

“Jesus, Smith,” I croaked. “What the hell did you kill him for?”

“Casualties of war, I’m afraid, kid. Now, come on, Kid Wilde…we got to hit the road,” Smith roared.

I looked at his face and noticed a huge, bloodied groove in the top of his head and his eyes looked vacant and glazed.

“Are you okay, Smith?” I stammered. “What the heck is going on out there?”

“No time to explain now, Child…I mean, Wilde…these fucking Russians are all over the damn place. They’ve broke through the perimeter. We have to make a tactical retreat.”

“Smith, you’re not thinking straight,” I wailed. “We can’t outrun these guys.”

“Bullshit, we’re getting out of here right now. Get your gear, Marine.”

I gulped and nodded, unsure what horrors awaited us outside the tent. I tried to scramble to my feet but my boots were still caught up in the sleeping bag.

“I’m stuck, Smith,” I yelled. “I can’t stand up.”

“Don’t worry, kid, I got your six.” Smith flung McGregor’s severed head across the tent and raised the machete above his head. The point of the bloodied blade pierced the canvas roof and a wave of dirty brown water showered over us. Smith’s face screwed up in determination and he gritted his teeth as he lined up the machete blade with the sleeping bag snagged around my boots. I was worried he’d chop off one or both of my feet due to the bizarre state he was in.

“Smith, no,” I screamed. “Don’t do it, man.” I held up my hand in a vain attempt to ward off the blow.

“Don’t worry, kid,” Smith hollered. “I got it all figured out.”

Before he had time to bring the machete down on my ankles, another colossal explosion surrounded us. I briefly heard a loud rushing sound before the tent was ripped from the ground and blew somewhere behind me. Smith evaporated in a cloud of blood, guts and bone fragments. I felt the blast of the explosion hit me full in the face, flooding my head with an extreme pressure. The sensation was like being stabbed by a thousand knitting needles all at once. I closed my eyes, straining against the intense pain. My teeth were ripped from my gums and I felt a scorching sensation rushing down my throat, burning my lungs and stomach. I tried to open my eyes but couldn’t see anything, just a blinding white light. Searing agony tore through me. My eyeballs felt as though they’d melted in their sockets and heard only a long, monotonous tone ringing in my ears.

I rocked backwards, almost as though I was moving in slow motion. I landed on my back and everything went black.

Wheezing, coughing and trying to inhale to gain my breath, I sat up gasping for air. I was surrounded in darkness and everything was quiet. Yet again, the nightmare seemed frighteningly real. My breathing slowed and I cleared the phlegm from my throat.

“Geez, why do I always have to suffer these terrible dreams?” I whispered to myself.

Somebody snored gently beside me in the tent and I guessed Smith had decided against his breakout attempt. I felt inside my overcoat pocket for my flashlight, just to check Chandra and Smith were okay. I needed some piece of mind after my crazy dream.

The LED light flickered across the roof of the tent, illuminating a section of the grubby canvas in a bright circle. I twisted and shone the beam across the floor space. Chandra lay facing me sleeping peacefully, positioned along the edge of the tent.