The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink Read online

  “Oh, sorry, Brett,” she whispered. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

  “Ah, no,” I yelled, backing out of the shower.

  Nausea engulfed me once again and I stumbled towards the toilet. I lifted the lid, opening my mouth wide in anticipation of emptying the contents of my stomach. A severed head stared back at me from the lavatory pan. The eyes blinked open and I recognized the face.

  “Hello, Brett. I’m glad you shot me,” my dad’s severed head said.

  The image was too much for me and my stomach to bear. I turned away and violently vomited over the bathroom floor. Julia spoke to me from the shower but her words were distorted and inaudible. I felt dizzy and my consciousness was slipping away. I threw up again, then saw the floor rapidly approaching as my awareness completely diminished.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  I sat bolt upright, awake and spewing vomit from deep within my stomach. Smith and Batfish stood next to my makeshift bed back onboard the interior of the C-17 aircraft. They both had a look of concern on their faces and Wingate, the pretty blonde medic held a plastic bucket between my knees, catching the puke. Cordoba stood near the bed to my right and I briefly glimpsed Landri and Mignon watching me retch.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living, kid,” Smith said, slapping my shoulder. “You took a bit of a beating there.”

  I vomited into the bucket again until nothing else would surface. The stench of my own stomach bile was overwhelming and I was drenched in my own sweat.

  “You’ve taken a nasty head wound, Brett,” Wingate said. “I’ve put some stitches in but you’re suffering with concussion at the moment. I’ve examined your head and there’s no serious damage.”

  “I seriously doubt that fact,” I spat, recollecting my weird nightmares come hallucinations.

  “Glad to see you’ve still got your sense of humor, kid,” Smith said, laughing. He gave me a hearty slap on the back, which made me feel even worse.

  “What were you thinking, Brett?” Batfish scolded. “Walking off in the middle of the night, like that.”

  I couldn’t believe I was back to this reality. My stomach ached from heaving and my head felt like somebody had used it for a bowling ball.

  “I wasn’t thinking,” I mumbled. “My other self led me to Stonehenge. It was beautiful for around two minutes.”

  “He’s still delirious,” Smith told everybody around the bed. “He’ll be okay.”

  He talked as though he was covering for me. Did he know about my problems with hallucinations and my encounters with my alternative self? I couldn’t remember telling him anything about it but Smith was quite perceptive and good at reading people’s body language. It was a trait that had kept us alive much of the time over the last six months. I realized I was lucky to have met him when I did.

  “I’m sorry I told you to fuck off on the phone, Smith,” I mumbled. “I’m glad you’re real.”

  Smith belly laughed and rubbed the back of my head, avoiding the stitches above my right eye.

  “This kid kills me, you know that? I love this guy,” he hollered to those around the bed.

  I supposed in different circumstances, I would have been Smith’s bitch, running his errands and delivering threats. He wasn’t a particularly nice guy but he was my best friend and I loved him for his loyalty to me. Throughout all this shit, he hadn’t dumped me and had saved my ass more times than I cared to think of. I saved his ass once back in Brynston and I knew he had never forgotten that.

  “Let him get some rest,” Wingate said. “He’ll be okay again in a while.”

  “No, I’ve had all the rest I need,” I sighed, not wanting to withstand any more demonic images whilst unconscious. “I need some fresh air.” I clambered woozily off the cot and stumbled into Smith’s arms.

  “Easy there, tiger,” he said, grabbing hold of my shoulders. “You sure this is a good idea?”

  I stared him squarely in the face and giggled. “You know me, Smith. We’re both full of good ideas.”

  “Brett, I’ve given you a pain relief shot,” Wingate whined behind me. “It’s not good for you to be up on your feet at the moment.”

  I flapped my hand at the pretty blonde medic and felt like I was drunk. “Ah, fuck it! I’ll be okay. Come on, Smith. Let’s go outdoors for a cigarette.”

  Smith shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “Okay,” he muttered.

  He grabbed my arm and led me across the sloping floor to the paratroop door, amid Wingate’s protests for me to rest.

  “Are you okay, Brett?” Batfish asked. I turned and her face was a mask of concern. I realized she was like a big sister to me. She handed me a bottle of water and I took a long gulp to wash the taste of stale puke away.

  “Never better,” I replied and gave her a wink. “I just need a cigarette and some fresh air and I’ll be fine.”

  “He’ll be okay,” Smith said, embracing my shoulders. “He just needs a little down time.”

  I wanted a shower and change of clothes but first I needed a bit of time to clear my head. Smith led me out of the aircraft into the winter sunshine and we stood amongst the long grass by the freshly dug graves. The smell of earthy soil was prevalent as Smith handed me a cigarette. I took it and lit up, enjoying the aroma and burn down my throat.

  “We buried that other guy with the sack over his head,” Smith said, exhaling tobacco smoke. “It was a good sniper shot from your girlfriend, Cordoba, from that cockpit window, I have to admit.”

  I breathed out smoke, leaning against the gray metal aircraft tail and giggled. “She ‘aint my girlfriend, Smith. You know that.”

  Smith ducked his head and raised his eyebrows. “She was quite keen on helping you out, buddy,” he said with a smirk. “And I know you are sweet on her.”

  “Ah, come on,” I laughed.

  “Yeah, it’s true. I’ve seen the way you look at her. I used to be a cop, don’t forget. We’re trained to notice things like that.”

  “Okay, I think she’s nice but she wouldn’t see anything about me. I’m not a military guy and besides, I bet every one of those guys in that plane have tried to hit on her at one time or another.”

  Smith went to speak but his words were cut short.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Cordoba said. She stood at the top of the ladder by the paratroop door, with an expression of sarcastic mirth over her face. “Nobody hits on me and I haven’t had a boyfriend since this whole end of the world thing started.” She climbed down the steps and took my cigarette from me.

  Smith chuckled and glanced to the ground. Cordoba inhaled a puff and blew the smoke in my face, then placed the cigarette back in my mouth. Her dark brown eyes glinted in the sunlight and she flashed me a flirty glance that made my heart flutter. Only girls had the ability to flash that look. I’d only experienced the glance a few times, with Samantha, with Julia. Oh, Shit! There she was again, invading my thoughts.

  Cordoba must have seen my face drop and probably took it as a sign that I wasn’t interested in her. She turned and climbed back into the aircraft on the rope ladder spilling from the paratroop door.

  “Well, there you go, kid,” Smith chortled. “She definitely likes you.”

  “Yeah,” I grunted and threw my cigarette butt into the grass. “But I seem to put the curse of death on every woman I like.”

  The mood changed and the cheerful moment evaporated. That was one thing I was always good at, creating miserable situations.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  “I guess I’ve blown my chances, there,” I sighed.

  “What are you talking about?” Smith flicked his cigarette butt into the grass.

  “I was thinking of Julia when Cordoba was talking to me,” I admitted.

  Smith sighed and looked to the sky. “Come on, man. You got to put all that shit that happened in the past behind you.” He looked to the ground and rubbed his forehead. “Listen, man, I’ve done plenty of things I ‘aint proud of but you have to keep
going. You have to keep functioning and live every day like it’s your last. Hell, it’s been you, me, Batfish and that little dog against the world for the last six months, man.” Smith’s voice quivered and I knew he spoke from the heart. “The chances of us surviving all this time have been like backing a three legged horse in the Kentucky Derby, but we’re still here, kicking and screaming, on God’s green fucking Earth.”

  I smiled but a sorrowful tear rolled down my cheek. I thought about all the people who weren’t still here. The numerous friends and associates we’d lost along the way.

  “Everything just seems so shit, Smith,” I sniffed. “Every fucking situation we get into seems so bad. I don’t know how much longer I can take it.” Tears streamed down my face and I convulsed in sorrow.

  Smith allowed me to sob for a few seconds then slapped me hard around the face.

  “Get a fucking grip on yourself, Wilde Man,” he growled. “I rely on you to watch my ass. And if you can’t do that, then you’re better off dead. You’re not the only one going through a hard time. I’ve had to carry our sorry asses all the way through this shit. I know it stinks. The fucking world stinks, it always has and it always will. This situation is slightly different but we have to live with it. Understand, huh?” He slapped me again, although not quite as hard this time.

  I wiped away the tears and looked him straight in the eye. Maybe I needed to be calmed down by Smith’s rough means.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I sniveled. “What’s the plan, now?”

  Smith bent forward and stared into my eyes. He nodded when he was satisfied I was coherent and had rejuvenated myself from my depressive frame of mind.

  “We’re still going to Scotland, okay?” His ice chipped, gray eyes burned into mine as he spoke. “Everything is going to be A-okay. Cole and his guys are trying to figure out a way of taking off that aircraft ramp and extracting the Humvee. That Rogers guy is still here with us and he’s going to show us the way to the military camp in Porton Down, or wherever the fuck it is, where we can get hold of some more vehicles and drive our way up to Scotland.”

  I took in the information and nodded.

  “See? I told you everything would work out okay, didn’t I?” Smith slapped my face once again, this time in a friendly way.

  “Have they figured out why the plane came down yet?” I asked.

  Smith sighed, shrugged then took out his cigarette pack. He offered me one and we both lit up another smoke.

  “Still no conclusions and they haven’t found the body of that other guy from the cockpit yet.”

  “You think they ran out of gas?” I drew a long puff on my cigarette. “I can’t understand why we were so far off course. I mean, shit, we’re south of London. That’s a pretty long way off Scotland and these were trained pilots, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Ah, I don’t know,” Smith sighed. “We’re shit out of crash investigators at the moment and we don’t have the technology to plug into the flight recorder. Could be any number of reasons why we came down where we did. It looks like we’re a long way from anywhere, by the looks of it.” He scanned the horizon with his hand shielding his eyes. “At least those guys didn’t bring us down in the middle of a town or city. Then we would have been toast, for sure.”

  I took a wash from a water container, outdoors in the chilly air. The freshness invigorated me. I took a few more painkillers and changed my clothes into fresh, khaki combat fatigues and felt a whole lot more like a member of the human race.

  Several military and aircrew engineers worked around the ramp, lowering it as far as they could and trying to figure out a way of somehow extracting the Humvee from the interior.

  Smith suggested we take a short walk so he could observe our surroundings. Batfish wanted to tag along with Spot on his leash. They seemed a little bit bored hanging around the C-17 without much to do. We armed ourselves and told Cole we were going for a stroll. He nodded and flashed me an admonishing glance.

  “Don’t do nothing stupid this time, Wilde,” he growled, pointing an accusing finger.

  Most of the military personnel milled around outside the aircraft. Cole had placed sentries at the front, back, left and right sides. An armed sentry and Wingate sat near Rogers. Wingate kept a distance and Rogers talked continuously. The sentry nodded and although I couldn’t hear what Rogers was saying, I guessed he was recounting his version of events when the outbreak began and his subsequent journey through the hell of the last six months. Everyone who’d survived had a story to tell and Rogers seemed pleased to relay his own. Maybe it was some kind of therapy for him. The ringleader, who Rogers told us his name was Banner, had been affected by the apocalypse in an altogether different way. He’d become defensive and aggressive towards everybody, living or dead.

  We’d walked a few yards through the field when we heard somebody wading through the grass in a hurry behind us. We turned and I was pleasantly surprised and delighted when I saw Cordoba catching us up.

  “Hey, guys, mind if I tag along? It’s getting dull hanging around,” she called.

  “Sure, no problem,” Smith replied.

  He flashed me a glance but I ignored it.

  “Chief Cole said you were going to take a look at some old stone monument. Sounds interesting,” she said.

  “We weren’t actually heading that way but I’m sure Wilde Man can show us the way,” Smith said, nodding at me.

  “Yeah, we can go that way, if you want,” I muttered. “We head through those woods over to the east.” I pointed the way as though I was some kind of native trapper. We changed direction towards the clump of trees. “I hope we don’t run into the rest of those hooded goons.”

  “They took you by surprise last time,” Smith said. “We’re all armed this time. They wouldn’t get near us without somebody spotting them.”

  “So, how far are we from Scotland, Brett?” Cordoba asked.

  I sighed. “We’re still a long way off. I can’t remember exactly where we are but we’re in the south of England someplace.”

  “Is it always this mild in winter in England?” Batfish asked.

  What was this, a million questions time? Smith laughed and shook his head.

  “Definitely not,” I said. “This must be some kind of mild weather snap.” I recalled winters in London consisting of icy roads and snow laden streets but more than anything, lashings of down pouring rain.

  “I remember when I was in the Corps,” Smith recalled. “We did some amphibious landing exercises alongside the British Royal Marines on the northern Scottish coast, around this time of year. It was the freezing wind that really got through to your bones.” He sniggered at the memory. “Man, that was cold.”

  Cordoba recounted a similar tale of a military exercise she’d taken part in, at the Northern Warfare Training Center, in a place called Black Rapids in Alaska.

  I smiled as I listened to her detailed account and the pitfalls of her cold weather training. The situation seemed surreal. We were just like four friends, walking the dog on a mild winter afternoon. The stress of encountering hordes of undead zombies, plane crashes, weird hooded guys and the daily grind of running for your life seemed to be temporarily suspended.

  We chatted, laughed and joked as I led the way into the woods. I wondered what day of the week it was. For some reason, it felt like a Sunday. A Sunday afternoon stroll through the fields and the woods was an occupation reserved for normal times. I hoped the situation was a shape of things to come. Maybe Cordoba would like to spend more time walking with me when we finally stopped running. I’d heard people talk about Scotland’s stunning views and deserted, beautiful coastal paths. Maybe I’d find a small dwelling on the coast someplace and live out my days walking around, taking in the incredible wildlife and awesome scenery.

  “Shh…what was that?” Cordoba hissed.

  We stopped walking and stood still and silent. My thoughts of a tranquil and carefree future existence quickly evaporated.

  I heard the un
mistakable snapping sound of breaking twigs and fallen branches cracking beneath somebody’s feet. The footfalls came from our right and we swung our heads in the direction. Smith and Cordoba drew their M-9 side arms.

  We heard a throaty monotonous moan and a figure we barely recognized stumbled through the trees towards us.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  The lone figure wore the tatty remains of a flight crewman’s coveralls. We’d buried the two pilots, Capaldi and Remmick but the Flight Navigator, Novak was still missing. Now we’d found him. He was a fully paid up member of the undead. The skin on his face was almost gray and shredded by three deep lacerations, running at an angle from above his right eye to the left side of his chin.

  Novak’s military pilot’s coveralls were torn and shredded and plastered in wet mud. The right sleeve was ripped completely away, which revealed the remains of a white bandage wrapped around his bicep.

  “Look,” I squawked, pointing to the dressing on his arm.

  “I’m seeing it,” Smith growled, raising his Beretta. “The fucker must have already been bit before we took off.”

  “Did he get off the aircraft when we were in Canada?” Cordoba asked.

  Batfish shrugged and shook her head. “I don’t know. I was in the back the whole time.”

  Novak’s mouth hung open while he leaned against a tree trunk, briefly surveying us with white, secreted eyes. He emitted a throaty growl and approached us, quickening his pace through the undergrowth.

  “He was bit and covered it up. He probably turned inside the cockpit while we were in the air and that’s why it all went to bat shit hell in there,” Smith barked.

  Smith fired the handgun twice. Both rounds zipped into Novak’s skull in close proximity at the center of his forehead. A spray of blood and brain peppered the tree trunk behind him. Novak jolted backward and fell amongst the bracken and twigs with his arms spread out from his sides. Smith cautiously moved towards the prone corpse, still covering the area with his handgun. He waited a beat until he was sure Novak’s animated existence was definitely terminated then reached down and carefully pulled down the bandage to reveal the wound. The distinctive shape of teeth marks broke the skin on Novak’s upper arm. Our suspicions were confirmed.