The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run (44 page)

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chernakov’s eyes widened when he caught sight of Smith and I. At first, I hoped he wouldn’t recognize us but judging by his astonished expression, I knew he’d identified us. He moved into our path and stopped around two feet away from us.

“You two,” Chernakov growled, reaching for his sidearm. “I know you are responsible for what is going on here.”

Smith reached for his handgun and I knew we didn’t have time to pull our rifles from our shoulders. Chernakov’s two chaperones were dressed in light green combat gear and they also moved their hands to their gun holsters around their waists.

Smith was first to draw his weapon but he didn’t fire. He aimed the handgun at Chenakov’s chest but it still didn’t stop the two remaining Russians to draw their own firearms and point them directly at Smith and I.

“Don’t be stupid,” Chernakov spat. “Put the gun down. You can’t escape now.”

“We’ll see,” Smith muttered. “How about you guys put your guns down or I’ll shoot your boss man in his fucking face.”

The two Russian soldiers simply stared at Smith with poker faces. They either didn’t understand or ignored the threat. My hand hovered above my gun holster at my waist. The sheathed knife sat on my belt next to the Taurus handgun and I wondered which weapon would be easier to draw.

We stood in a kind of Mexican stand-off for what seemed like hours but in reality, it can’t have been longer than thirty seconds.

The sound of somebody clumping up the metal staircase distracted the tension. A small, rotund man, dressed in a white t-shirt and dark blue pants rushed up the steps with his hand clamped over a bloody wound on his forearm. He sweated profusely and looked as though he was going to burst into tears. The man jabbered incessantly in Russian, repeating the same phrase over and over again.

I noticed Chernakov’s eyes flicked from staring at us to the wounded man. The other two gunmen didn’t divert their gaze from Smith and I. The wounded guy spotted Chernakov and made a beeline for him while wailing constantly. The man’s action seemed to take Chernakov by surprise. He shuffled backward under the force of the jabbering man’s lurch towards him. The wounded guy made a biting movement with his mouth and nodded at his bleeding forearm.

“He’s been bitten by a zombie,” Smith growled.

The two Russian gunmen seemed to understand and stared at the wounded guy with a look of horror etched on their faces. They took a step backwards away from the jabbering man.

“Get away from me you diseased fool,” Chernakov yelled, shoving the wounded man between us.

The bitten guy wailed and stumbled forward. He stood between me and one of the Russian gunmen. I decided it was time to make a move. Death or glory.

I quickly pulled my knife from the sheath and shoved the wounded guy at Chernakov with my free hand. The wounded man stumbled into Chernakov and knocked him backwards.

I seized the moment and leapt at the Russian gunmen to my left with the knife blade held outwards. I heard a gunshot but didn’t feel any pain. I clattered into the gunmen and tried to stab him with the knife. He reacted quickly and gripped hold of my wrist that held the knife. His handgun fell to the ground and slid across the vinyl floor tiles as we fell over. I grunted trying to bring the knife blade down into the guy’s chest. But he was strong and held my wrist tightly, stopping any downward movement. 

Smith ducked down and fired two shots, hitting the second gunmen in the chest with both rounds. The Russian yelped and toppled backwards onto the floor.

Chernakov responded by pushing the wounded guy at Smith. The injured man wailed as he bundled into Smith. Smith staggered backwards under the force and also lost the grip on his handgun, dropping it to the floor. Chernakov gritted his teeth and leapt at Smith, trying to wrap his hands around Smith’s throat. The two of them fell sideways against the wall and rolled onto the floor. Smith’s right arm was pinned behind his back and Chernakov delivered a couple of swift blows to the side of Smith’s head.

I pushed down with the knife, straining with the effort. The Russian guy beneath me obviously knew he had to try something or he’d be skewered. He raised his head slightly and then butted me hard in the face. An explosion of pain rattled through my head and I was rocked backwards by the blow. I lost my grip on the knife and felt the back of my head smack against the wall.

When my senses returned, I heard somebody shouting. 

“Get the gun, get the gun,” Chernakov yelled at the bitten guy.

The wounded guy staggered over to the Russian soldier’s handgun lying on the floor.

“Shoot him, shoot him,” Chernakov shouted as he wrestled on the floor with Smith.

My head jerked backwards as the Russian soldier planted a punch which connected with my cheekbone. I fell against a red fire locker and my legs buckled beneath me. I tasted blood in my mouth and felt a warm trickle oozing from my nose. I had to take some course of action or the Russian guy was going to beat me to death.

The wounded man picked up the gun and studied it.

“Shoot this man, now,” Chernakov yelled, then barked out orders in Russian.

The wounded man opened his mouth and pointed the barrel between his teeth. He pulled the trigger and the back of his head exploded, sending a bloody mass splattering against the white wall behind him. His lifeless body slid down the wall and he remained in a sitting position with small pieces of brain and skull rolling down his back.   

“Idiot,” Chernakov roared.

The Russian who was beating up on me turned around at the sound of the gunshot. I knew I had a fraction of a second to react. Not enough time to pop open my gun holster, take out the weapon and cock it before he was on me again. The door of the fire locker next to me had opened after I’d smashed into it. A cylindrical fire extinguisher sat inside the locker and I grabbed hold of it. The Russian turned back to me after the wounded guy has slumped to the floor. I pulled out the pin on the fire extinguisher handle and aimed the nozzle at the guy’s face.

The fire extinguisher made a weird sucking noise when I depressed the lever. A jet of soapy white foam splashed into the Russian guy’s face and he cried out in surprise. I forced myself onto my feet and wielded the fire extinguisher above my head. I brought the metal object down forcefully so the end connected with the top of the Russian’s head. As metal connected with bone, it made a satisfying
clanging
noise.

The Russian groaned and staggered backwards. I took a pace forwards, holding the fire extinguisher to my side. I swung it around in a roundhouse movement, connecting the round end with the Russian guy’s temple. He let out a sighing sound before he toppled over to the floor. I lifted the extinguisher again and was about to bring it firmly down to finish off the unconscious guy at my feet but stopped when I heard a grunt from behind me.

Smith and Chernakov still wrestled on the floor. Chernakov was on top of Smith and he’d somehow managed to seize the knife from Smith’s belt. Chernakov grunted in exertion as he tried to stab Smith in the neck. Smith held Chernakov’s hands in a tight grip and struggled beneath him. The knife blade edged slowly downwards and closer to Smith’s jugular vein.

I saw my own knife lying a few inches from my right foot. I dropped the fire extinguisher and scooped up the knife. In one fluid movement, I hurled the knife at Chernakov. He cried out in pain and arched his back as the blade sunk into his flesh, slightly below his left shoulder blade.

Smith jerked Chernakov’s wrist around and I heard an audible crack of bone as the knife slid from his grasp. Chernakov yelped again, his face screwed up in pain. Smith jammed the palm of his hand beneath Chernakov’s chin and rolled over onto his side. Chernakov fell off Smith, landing heavily on the floor. He squirmed around, making little whimpering sounds and trying to reach for the knife handle to pull it out of his back.

Smith stood up and scooped up his handgun and the knife, lying a few feet from him.

“Are you going to finish him off?” I asked, nodding at Chernakov.

Smith tilted his head to the side. “No, he’s coming with us.”

“What?” I barked, wiping blood from my nose.

“We need a guy who can read nautical charts and knows how a nuclear ship runs. Chernakov is our guy.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, he’s army, not navy,” I protested. “What the fuck would he know about nautical charts and how a ship runs?”

Smith shrugged. “He must have some idea how it all works. He’s the Commander in Chief of this whole damn operation.”

“I think we’re making a big mistake here,” I sighed. 

Smith bent down and took Chernakov’s sidearm and searched him for more weapons. He then tugged the knife from Chernakov’s back. Chernakov roared in pain and squirmed on the floor. Smith wiped the blood off the blade and handed me back the knife

“Quit fucking crying like a baby, Chernakov,” Smith growled. “You’ll live. Now, get the fuck up, you’re going on a little journey.” Smith kicked at Chernakov’s feet as he spoke.

I noticed the air was becoming hazy and the smoke seemed to be increasing.

“We better make tracks, Smith,” I muttered. “That little fire of yours looks like it’s spreading rapidly.”

Chapter Seventy-Two

“You’re right,” Smith said, glancing around at the smoke. He crouched down and hauled Chernakov to his feet. “Come on, Sweetheart. Let’s get you ready to go.”

Chernakov groaned and slumped forward against the wall, looking like a beaten man. A daub of blood from the knife wound smeared across the vinyl wall behind him. Smith took off his backpack and pulled out a field dressing bandage and another hessian sack. He pulled the sack over Chernakov’s head and bound his hands behind his back with the rope. Smith then crudely applied the field dressing to the wound on the Russian’s back.

“That’ll slow the bleeding a little,” Smith muttered.

“What about the other refugees?” I asked. “We should get them out of here before that fire spreads below the decks.”

“I hear you but I need to check whether the cavalry are on their way first,” Smith said.

I wasn’t sure what he meant but followed him as he led the way along the corridor. I kept hold of Chernakov’s arm and steered him along behind Smith. We turned the corner and Russian sailors and soldiers scurried around in all directions, oblivious to our bleeding and battered faces.

Smith led the way up the staircase and towards the hatch door to the upper deck. The night air was refreshingly cool and clear and I gulped in huge breaths. I heard anxious shouts from above us and saw the orange glow of the fire on the upper boat deck. Several guys doused the fire with hoses and fire extinguishers but it was going to take them some time to completely tackle the blaze.

Smith leaned on the guardrails and we saw two long, boats approaching, crammed full of more Russian military guys.

“The cavalry are on their way,” Smith muttered. “Those guys are most of the crew from the ship we want. Just like I predicted, they’ve come along to lend a helping hand against the fire and the zombie problem. Mac and his guys should be starting their operation right now.”

I was slightly wary we were going to be spotted by the incoming boats and shrunk back into the shadow of a recess, beneath the overhang from the boat deck above. I dragged Chernakov along with me into the gloom.

“Look, Smith, we better get a move on if we want to get out of here in one piece,” I warned.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Smith sighed. “But we have to wait for those guys to dock alongside and get out of the boats before we can leave. We won’t all fit in that silly assed little boat at the quarterdeck.”

We watched from the shadows as the Russian military guys came alongside the warship and scrambled up the netted rope ladder. They set to work, running about the decks and trying to fight the fires we’d lit.

“Okay, you wait here and keep our pal company and I’ll go fetch the rest of the refugees,” Smith instructed. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“What if somebody sees me?” I wailed. I felt slightly worried and vulnerable left alone on the upper deck with a hooded hostage. “And what if he tries anything?”