The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run (26 page)

I wondered whether we’d be interrogated about Smith’s disappearance but the Russians didn’t seem to notice or care that he’d gone. Maybe they’d only gunned down the young couple McGregor talked about as a deterrent to stop others trying to run. If somebody escaped and nobody saw, then they probably didn’t give a crap. They weren’t going to miss one guy out of a whole camp.   

Around thirty minutes after we’d been fed, a band of Russian soldiers strolled between the tents issuing orders. A stocky, older guy with three stripes on the shoulders of his Arctic combats spoke in broken English.

“Take down tents and fold them up,” he repeated to the occupants of each abode. “You will be leaving soon.”

“Looks like we’re moving out,” I said, tossing my empty cans into the trash bag.

A hubbub of tentative voices rang through the camp. The expressions on the faces and the body language of the other refugees told me they were nervous and apprehensive about the impending journey. I felt the same way and found myself pining for the days when Smith, Batfish, Spot and I were alone and on the run. Those days didn’t seem so great at the time but I realized it was an exhilarating experience and a significant part of the history of humanity. It’s funny how you miss certain times of your life when they are behind you.

The other refugees began pulling down their tents and

collecting their few belongings together, while a few Russian soldiers sauntered around, keeping an eye on the operation.

“I can’t say I’m looking forward to this trip,” Batfish sighed, dumping her half eaten food in the trash sack. “Come on, guys, let’s get these tents pulled down.”

We reluctantly dismantled the tents and rolled them up, leaving the bedding in a separate pile. I wasn’t looking forward to lugging the heavy canvas rolls down the shore, as we undoubtedly would be expected to do so.

Batfish was busy rolling up the sleeping bags when a shrill scream attacked my senses. I turned to the source of the shriek and saw McGregor’s daughter, with a terrified expression on her face and pointing behind me. I spun around in the direction she pointed, to face the fence.

A tall, dark haired guy sprinted towards the outer fence line, waving his arms and yelling something but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. At first, I thought it was Smith but soon realized it wasn’t him. The guy ran across the flat, rocky ground pursued by around thirty zombies. He looked exhausted, as though he’d been running for miles and was covered in dirt. His dark blue clothes were soaking wet and his face was twisted in a combination of fear and fatigue.

The Russian guards also turned to observe the guy and the following undead. The soldiers babbled to each other and pulled their rifles off from their shoulder slings. I heard a metallic rattle of weapons cocking and the Russians aimed in the direction of the rapidly approaching undead.

We’d find out soon enough if the fences were an adequate defense against an onrushing zombie horde.

Chapter Forty-Two

“Help me! You have to help me,” the guy outside the fence yelled, while breathing heavily. He stopped a couple of feet in front of the razor wire and looked at the Russian guards with wide, terrified eyes.

A few of us edged closer to the inner fence for a better view of what was going on. The zombies drew closer, moaning and snarling as they surged across the ground. The guy rattled the wire, obviously weighing up whether to try and scale the perimeter. He took a brief, nervous glance behind him.

“I’m Petty Officer Gary Williams of the British Royal Navy,” the guy bellowed, taking in deep gulps of air between his words. “I’m military like you guys. I’ve been trying to shake off these infected for miles but they keep on coming. You’ve got to stop them. Please help me.” His pleadings became increasingly frantic as the zombies closed nearer.

The Russians talked between themselves but didn’t seem in any hurry to help the poor guy. A couple of the guards actually laughed together and I knew then they had no intention of saving the stranded navy man. He was on his own and they were simply amusing themselves by watching his terrifying dilemma.

The navy guy moved along the fence line, still pleading for help. The zombies fanned out into a semi circle, gaining ground on Petty Officer Gary Williams with every step.

Batfish barged her way through the gathered crowd and shuffled alongside me.

“What’s going on out there?” she asked.

“You don’t want to know,” I sighed. “That poor dude out there is going to become zombie food any moment now.”

“Aren’t the Russians going to shoot the zombies and help that guy?”

I shook my head. “It don’t look much like it.”

“Oh, my god,” Batfish gasped.

“Please, will you help me?” the navy guy screeched, rattling the wire fence. “I’m begging you, please.”

The gang of zombies lumbered on, relentlessly closing in on their prey. That was the strength of the undead. They never got tired and they kept on coming at you until you killed them or they killed you.

Williams moved to his left and back again. He had nowhere left to run. The expression changed on his pale, dirty face when reality dawned on him. He looked resigned to his fate when he realized the Russians had no intention of saving him from the clutches of the undead. In a sudden, last gasp burst of desperation, he tried to climb the razor wire. Williams’ clothing tore on the barbs and the sharp edges ripped the skin on his arms, hands and face. He yelled in pain and attempted to clamber through the wire strips.

“Why aren’t they doing anything?” Batfish gasped.

Williams’ progress through the fence was halted when his clothing snagged on the barbs and he couldn’t move either backwards or forwards.

“Help me,” he wailed again.

Some of the Russians laughed again, seemingly to be enjoying the navy guy’s desperation.

“Bastards,” Batfish spat. “Callous, heartless bastards.”

The zombies reached for Williams’ legs, slightly raised and suspended inside the wire fence.

“No, no, oh, fuck, no,” Williams squealed.

It was a horrible sight to watch. I don’t know why but I couldn’t tear myself away from the scene. It was like in the normal days when you drove down the highway and saw a car wreck. You always slowed your own vehicle and took a good hard look at the grisly, tangled mess at the roadside.

The zombies closed in. Williams thrashed around, vainly trying to free himself from the barbed wire fence. The ghouls tore their own ragged clothing and flesh on the wire but felt no pain or were sidetracked in any way. They had one goal and one purpose only, and that was to eat living human tissue.

Undead hands pulled and ripped and tore at the navy guy, who screamed in agony as gnarled fingernails pierced his skin. The zombies gnashed and growled at each other, all jostling for a good angle to bite into the victim’s flesh. The gruesome and upsetting scene soon became bloody. The screaming became a choking gurgle, before it ceased completely. Once the undead got to work, biting and tearing at the guy with their teeth, they made light work of him. Limbs were torn off and internal organs soon sloped out of the body and were dragged away from the fence. The wire looked as though somebody had tried to ride a motorbike through it. The jumble of gore, bone, guts and blood that was a human being only a few minutes previously, slopped between the wire strands and onto the ground. The zombies hungrily munched on any body parts and pieces of flesh they could get their filthy hands on.

The Russians laughed between themselves, with some of them pointing at the gory scene while muttering to each other.

This wasn’t what I had in mind when Chernakov was talking about a new world order. Their vision of the future was to rule the planet with an iron fist and fuck anybody else who wasn’t one of them. Chernakov was deluded if he thought he was striving to make the world a better place.

Most of the guards turned away and let the zombies carry on with their feast. I thought they might enjoy the target practice, firing at the undead but they simply left them to it. I supposed if we were moving out, thirty or so zombies weren’t going to pose much of a problem on the opposite side of the double fence. I imagined we’d be long gone before the undead attempted to break through the defenses.

The crowd of refugees began to disperse and go back to packing up their tents. I wrapped my arm around Batfish’s shoulder and led her away from the scene of carnage.

“Come on, let’s go,” I said.

“That was so horrible, Brett,” Batfish whined. “They just left that guy to be torn to shreds out there.”

“I know,” I huffed. “It doesn’t bode well for our future if we have to endure situations like that.”

“What are we going to do, Brett?” Batfish sighed.

I shrugged, unsure what to say. “Maybe we should have gone over the fence with Smith. If we’d been shot and killed in the process, it may well have been a better way out.”

We slowly walked back to our rolled up tents and bedding. I felt deeply concerned about our current predicament and wondered how we were going to get out of this latest scrape.

Chapter Forty-Three

We struggled with the damp canvas tents, hauling them down to the shoreline where several rigid inflatable boats waited to carry us and the equipment to the big ships moored at anchor. We loaded the tents and they were taken across the water first. It seemed ironic that the Russians gave priority to the tents rather than human beings.

I took a rough head count of all my fellow survivors standing on the shoreline waiting to be transported to the ships. I don’t know why, I was always obsessed with numbers of people. Probably, because I was used to head counting masses of zombies and weighing up our chances against the numbers. Roughly, we numbered around one hundred. We stood like lost souls waiting to cross the River Styx.

The Russian guards stood at each side of us and shoved us into several vertical lines so they could load us into the small boats more effectively. A quick head count told me we were marshaled by around fifty Russian Army soldiers on the shore, plus numerous navy personnel conducting the ferrying operation.  

We had to wait for around twenty minutes before our party was manhandled into one of the sea boats.

“Hey,” Batfish wailed when one of the guards shoved her towards the boat. Her protest was in vain as the hard faced guy hollered something in Russian at her and pointed to the deck of the boat. She checked Spot was still safely tucked into the harness around her shoulders before she clambered onboard.

“So much for liberation, huh?” I spat, but my protest also fell on deaf ears as I was directed to the boat.

Eight of us refugees huddled on the boat deck, accompanied by two Russian soldiers and the boat driver, who sat in the seat at the center of the craft. The sea boat ride only took a few minutes, the bow of the small craft sending up spray in our faces, which actually felt quite invigorating.

The boat driver headed towards the dull gray battle ship, anchored to our left. The vessel was huge with a sloping, pointed bow and a tall structure towering above the decks. Several sailors stood along the upper deck watching our approach. The anchor chain was slightly rusty and clumps of sea weed and moss clung to the large shackles. I noticed an array of large guns, missile launchers and mounted machine guns spread around the ship’s decks. The name of the ship was emblazoned at the rear of the upper deck super structure but I couldn’t decipher the Cyrillic lettering. I read the numbers ‘067’ painted in white on the side of the ship’s hull.

The boat driver slowed the engine and brought the smaller vessel sideways on, alongside the bigger ship. We bobbed around on the swell, edging closer to a brown colored rope ladder dangling at the side of the warship. An overpowering stench of seaweed and algae radiated from the larger vessel.

“Move up ladder,” the Russian soldier in our sea boat commanded, pointing above our heads.

The sea boat rocked from side to side when we stood up and one of our fellow refugees lost his balance and tumbled into the river. He rose to the surface, gurgling for help and thrashing around in the water. Me and the guy beside me crouched down and reached overboard. We clasped hold of the distressed man’s wrists and hauled him back inside the sea boat. 

“One person move only,” the soldier shrieked.

“You didn’t tell us that,” Batfish yelled back.

The soaking man lay on his back, gasping for breath. His short, blond hair flopped back from his face and he spat out a mouthful of river water, which dribbled over the stumble on his chin. 

“Go up ladder. One at a time,” the soldier barked.