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

  I stood still for a few seconds, allowing the scenario that had just played out to rerun in my mind. I smelled cordite in the air, combined with the stench of body odor, shit and blood. I felt emotionless, a cold hearted killer. The sudden silence engulfed me. The two guys remained still; their lives now expired at my hands.

  I snapped out of my daze and rushed to collect the flashlight. I shone the beam around the room, observing my new surroundings. I stood in a kind of foyer with glass doors and windows at the entranceway in and out of the building, standing opposite the service elevator. A big reception desk stood to the right of the glass door, slightly behind where the two dead bodies lay.

  I moved to the door and tried to open it. Predictably, the door was locked and didn’t budge. No problem, we could put a couple of rounds through the glass panels and get out of the building.

  I rushed back to the service elevator, leaned my head into the shaft above the box and shone the flashlight upwards.

  “Hey, you guys?” I yelled.

  “You okay down there, Wilde?” Milner called back. “We heard gunshots.”

  “Yeah, I’m all right,” I replied. “A couple of jerks were waiting down here for me but I took care of them. It’s okay to haul up the elevator but you guys better hurry in case any more of those crazy guys show up.”

  “Roger that,” Milner barked and began to pull up the elevator.

  Cordoba came down the chute next and we stood, guarding the elevator shaft while Batfish, Milner and finally Smith descended without incident. The whole operation took less than ten minutes. No more hooded freaks turned up to try and ambush us. Smith and Milner checked on the two dead bodies lying on the floor.

  “You were lucky they weren’t carrying one of those rifles,” Milner said to me.

  “How come they’re only using those old, bolt action weapons?” Cordoba asked.

  “I don’t know,” Milner muttered. “Some military bases still hold them in certain armories. They use them for target shooting competitions and whatnot. Maybe those old rifles were all they could find.”

  “Where does that door lead to?” Smith asked, pointing the flashlight at the glass entranceway.

  “I couldn’t see shit out there,” I said.

  “Well, the doorway faces the front of the building so at least it won’t lead us right out onto that fucking mine field,” Smith said, moving towards the entranceway.

  “The door is locked,” I added. “I already tried it.”

  Smith either didn’t hear me or totally ignored what I said. He grabbed the handle and rattled the door in its frame.

  “Okay, everybody turn away,” he shouted.

  We spun around and faced the wall opposite and Smith fired two shots. The glass in the door shattered into tiny chips.

  “Now, let’s get out of this damn building before any more of those fucking freaks show up,” Smith snorted. “I’m done with rattling around in here.”

  He kicked out the remains of the glass left in the bottom half of the door and ducked through the open gap. Milner and Cordoba followed Smith outside. Batfish and I stood in the dark foyer for a moment.

  “You okay, Brett?” Batfish asked. “You seem a little distant, like you’re a bit freaked out.”

  “I don’t know,” I sighed. “Shooting those guys so close up got to me a bit, I guess.”

  “But they were going to kill you, Brett. Remember that before you get all weepy.”

  I tried to shrug off the feeling of being a killer. Shooting zombies seemed fair game but killing other human survivors seemed a bit of a taboo. I wondered if Smith ever felt like this before he molded himself into the hard-ass he was.

  “Come on, we better get going or we’re going to be left behind,” Batfish said, grabbing my arm and leading me to the smashed glass door.

  We ducked through the open pane and I immediately felt the chilly night air wrap around me. I shivered in the cold and noticed the flashlight beam hovering around above the ground a few yards to our right. The orange glow of two lit cigarette tips surrounded the flashlight beam.

  “Hurry up, you guys,” Smith called through the night air. “What the hell are you doing back there? Come on, let’s get moving.”

  We approached Smith, Milner and Cordoba through the darkness, homing in on the flashlight beam. Our feet clumped on hard, solid ground and I saw we walked across a large concrete, paved area when the flashlight illuminated the vicinity as we moved closer to Smith.

  “What’s the plan, then?” I asked.

  “I was thinking, we keep close to this building and skirt around the outside. You can make out some other buildings to the far side.” Smith shone the beam to his right and I saw some silhouettes of large structures, around one hundred yards in the distance.

  We moved in a tight huddle, Smith leading and Cordoba at the rear, like previously inside the building. I felt as though we were chasing a lost cause and just wanted to get as far away from the place as possible. I was tired and cold and my body ached all over.

  The second lot of buildings loomed out of the gloom as we approached. They were constructed of green colored, corrugated metal walls and roofs and stood around fifty feet high. Smith shone the flashlight beam around the building walls, searching for some kind of entranceway. No windows or doors were positioned at the side facing us. We wandered around the perimeter and Smith lit up a big sliding door in the center of the wall. The door stood open slightly and the interior was in complete darkness.

  Smith shoved the door to the right and the metal sliders creaked against their rusting housing. Batfish gripped my arm tightly. We didn’t know what the hell was going to emerge from the blackness beyond the door.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Smith slowly moved further into the building, holding the flashlight out in front of him. He disappeared from our view but we could still see the glow of the light beam from where we stood.

  “Hey, you guys, come and look at this,” Smith shouted from the interior. I detected a little degree of excitement in his voice.

  Milner and Cordoba stepped inside the building and Batfish and I followed close behind. Smith stood in the center of the large floor space. The building smelled of oil and diesel and axle grease. The floor was solid concrete and from what I could make out in the faint light, the place was a motor garage of some sort. Smith shone the flashlight beam squarely over a big white bus parked against the far wall. The cab faced us and the vehicle looked a little dusty but otherwise it was in immaculate condition. I felt a smidgen of hope returning.

  “Can we get it going, though?” I sighed. “That’s the big question.”

  “Any thoughts, Cordoba?” Smith asked, turning his head slightly. “You’re the motor monkey.”

  “Thanks,” she said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. “It looks in good condition. We just need to find some keys.”

  Smith shone the beam up and down the garage floor space. A small, blue painted workshop, situated against the wall on the far right side had a white sign that read “Office” above the door.

  “Let’s try in there,” he said.

  We trotted towards the office, our tails up slightly now we had a possibility of a way out. The office door was locked but Smith easily opened it with one hefty kick. The door flew inwards and we bundled inside. Smith waved the light beam left and right in slow sweeps. A small desk and a chair stood at the far end of the office with a wall mounted key rack behind. Smith marched quickly towards the desk and tossed it aside. The desk upended and clattered on its side. The chair whizzed across the floor on its wheels.

  The key rack was covered by a glass casing with a lock in the right corner. Smith drew his handgun and smashed the glass with the butt. Shards of glass tinkled to the floor around Smith’s feet. He reached inside the key rack and took three sets of keys from the hooks.

  “We’ll give all these a try,” he murmured.

  He brushed by us and we followed him to the office doorway. Smith seemed like a m
an possessed, determined to get us out of this situation, which was a good thing.

  We were about to step out through the door back into the garage area, when Smith’s flashlight lit up a red, blistered face emerging from the darkness. Batfish shrieked and I unashamedly wailed in shock. Smith, Milner and Cordoba raised their weapons as we all stopped dead in our tracks.

  “Don’t shoot!” The guy’s voice was raspy and he sounded like he was in the throes of emphysema, as his breathing was wheezy and labored. His face looked old; his hair was gray, thin and wispy, the long strands slightly covering his pale scalp.

  “Who are you?” Smith barked.

  “I’m Keith Smallwood,” the guy stammered and coughed heavily into his hand. “I used to work here in the garage before all this started.” He waved his hand around his head.

  “Get back away from the door or I’ll shoot you in the face,” Smith instructed, with menace in his tone.

  Smallwood complied, standing aside but coughing uncontrollably as he did so.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Smith sneered, shining the light in the guy’s face, highlighting the gray stubble on his chin that slightly concealed puss filled blisters covering his face.

  “I’m not long for this world. I know that,” Smallwood wheezed. His voice was weak and his heavy breathing produced a weird rasping noise, like somebody trying badly to play the bagpipes. His pale blue eyes were rheumy and puffy, red blotches surrounded his eye sockets and he wore the remains of tatty green coveralls beneath a brown great coat. If I’d seen him six months ago before the outbreak, I’d have classed the guy as a hobo.

  “Good riddance to the world. That’s what I say,” Smallwood rasped between coughs.

  Smith backed Smallwood up, moving out of the doorway and towering over the spluttering, sick guy. We followed them out of the office, not wanting to be trapped inside that cramped room. Smallwood could be the decoy in some kind of trap laid on by these crazy, diseased guys.

  “That bus,” Smith nodded to his left. “Does it function properly?”

  “Ah, yeah,” Smallwood croaked. “I’ve kept it maintained for the last few months. I was hoping we were going to get out of here one day. The Commanding Officer said we were going to leave and go somewhere else, further up country but it never happened. We all got sick and ended up staying put.”

  “Does it start and has it got gas?”

  “Oh, you mean fuel?” Smallwood gave what could be described as a small laugh before coughing wildly.

  Smith scowled and took a step back away from the wheezing guy, who was doubling up and trying to draw breath. Smallwood composed himself and lifted his head.

  “The chemical gas they tried to use on the undead here affected our lungs,” he spluttered. “No cure and no medical facilities. Those who weren’t sick left here ages ago.”

  I began to realize Smallwood posed us no threat. He was just some sad old, sick man waiting to die. By the state of him, he wouldn’t have to pass the time too much longer. Smith must have realized the same. He slid his M-9 back in his waistband and held the keys in his free hand.

  “Sorry, I’m not used to hearing American accents. Yes, the bus is full of fuel and in tip top condition. I kept it maintained, just in case, you know?”

  “We’re taking it,” Smith grunted. “Any problem with that?”

  Smallwood shook his head. “Go, take it. At least it will go to some good use. I’d be lucky if I managed to drive it out of the county.”

  “Which keys are for the bus?” Smith waved the sets of keys in the flashlight beam.

  “Those ones,” Smallwood wheezed, pointing to a chunky black key fob. “The other ones are for my Vauxhall Vectra. That car used to be my pride and joy.”

  “Well, enjoy it.” Smith tossed him the other two sets of keys, which Smallwood attempted but failed to catch.

  Smith turned and headed towards the bus, we immediately followed in his wake.

  “Just one question,” Smallwood spluttered. We stopped and turned. Smith shone the flashlight in his face once more.

  “What?”

  “You’re all from the States, right?”

  “Congratulations, your powers of observation are mind blowing,” Smith snapped.

  “What are you doing here? You’re a long way from home.”

  The sound of raspy voices and shuffling footsteps caused us to swing our heads towards the main garage door.

  “It’s the crazy guys,” Batfish hissed. “They must have followed us here.”

  Smith turned back to Smallwood. “What are we doing here? Good question but I’d have to go into far too much detail and I haven’t got the time, right now. Let’s just say we’re searching for someplace far away from here.”

  Smallwood gave a slight nod then his eyes darted towards the garage doors.

  “Go, get in the bus. I’ll open the doors fully for you and try and keep the mob out of here for a time but hurry.”

  We didn’t need to be told a second time. Smith led the charge towards the white bus and opened the driver’s door with the keys. We climbed the steps, boarding the bus behind him.

  “Anybody know how to drive this thing?” Smith barked. “The steering wheel is on the wrong side.”

  “Give me the keys,” Cordoba shouted. She handed Smith the M-16 rifle and took the big key fob from him.

  I slumped in the front seat behind the driver’s position and Batfish sat beside me. Smith and Milner sprawled onto the seat across the aisle. Cordoba found the ignition and turned the key. Smallwood was right, the engine purred into life on the first turn of the ignition key. Cordoba took a few seconds to familiarize herself with the controls and flicked on the headlights. I glanced out through the huge windshield and saw the hunched silhouette of Smallwood, shuffling towards the sliding garage doors.

  “Come on, you sick asshole. Hurry it up, will you?” Smith yelled, raising himself out of his seat.

  “He’s trying to help us, Smith,” Batfish scolded. “He’s very sick and he probably can’t hear you, anyhow.”

  Smith grunted in disapproval and slumped back down on his seat.

  The air pressure hissed as Cordoba closed the bus doors and released the parking brake. She began to roll the vehicle slowly forward. Smallwood reached the large doors and struggled to slide them open. The bus headlights picked out the mob of sack hooded figures congregating around the entranceway.

  “Shit! There are loads of them out there,” Batfish wailed.

  We watched in anticipation as Smallwood gestured with his hands at the mob then back towards the garage. The hooded rabble carried flashlights, rifles, clubs and various other sharp bladed weapons. Flashlight beams bathed the garage interior and swung over the bus. We couldn’t hear what the conversation was about but it was obvious what was going on when one of the hooded guys raised his bolt action rifle and shot Smallwood in the chest.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Some of the hooded guys stepped over Smallwood’s prone body and shuffled towards the garage doors. It was obvious they intended to slide them shut and trap us inside.

  “Kill the lights and go as fast as you can!” Smith hollered.

  Cordoba revved the engine and turned off the headlights.

  “Come on, Cordoba, move it!” Smith barked. “We don’t have much time.”

  “All right, I’m going,” Cordoba screeched back.

  A couple of the hooded guys crouched by the garage doors, taking aim at the bus with their rifles. A bullet clunked into the left side panel, somewhere further behind us.

  “They’re shooting at us,” Batfish shouted.

  “Open the door,” Smith roared at Cordoba.

  She complied and the door hissed as it opened. Smith leaned out, aiming the M-16 at our attackers. The rounds sent orange sparks around the heads of the hooded guys as they rattled into the garage doors. Cordoba gathered speed in the bus and Smith let off another burst of gunfire. This time his aim was better and a couple of the hooded guys
dropped to the ground. Smith took out the two riflemen between the open doors and the rest of the hooded guys scurried around like scared rabbits.

  “Keep going,” Smith boomed.

  The engine whined as Cordoba floored the gas pedal. Most of the hooded guys scuttled out of our path but some of the braver or more stupid ones stood in the bus’s way. Cordoba didn’t slow down, the front of the cab slammed directly into the two guys standing between the garage doors. One of the men was sent bowling across the concrete but the other screamed as he was crushed under the bus’s wheels. Smith ducked back inside the bus door and let fly with a few shots out of the opening as we rolled through the exit. The shots successfully hit another two guys, who had attempted to close the garage doors. Cordoba flicked the headlights back on and headed across the paved area then took the route to our right.

  The gunshots and muffled shouts receded behind us as Cordoba drove the bus around the narrow roads. The headlamps illuminated overgrown, grassy pathways and weed ridden flower beds alongside the thoroughfare. Overhanging tree branches brushed and knocked against the bus roof. The route took us up a hill and the road looped around the front of the main three interlinked buildings.

  “Can anybody remember the route back to the aircraft?” Smith asked, returning to his seat.

  Cordoba shut the side door and turned her head slightly. “Screw the aircraft for a while. Does anybody know the way out of this fucking base?” The incline caused the bus to slow considerably and we were moving at nothing more than a crawl.

  Milner stared out of the windshield and scanned the landscape. “Hang a left at the next crossroads and that should take us back towards the main gate.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Cordoba wailed.

  “Oh, my God,” Batfish shouted in my ear.

  I turned my head and saw she pointed out of the side window to our left. A whole bunch of zombies headed across the paved concrete area at the front of the main set of buildings. Some of them broke direction and staggered towards the garage, obviously pursuing the crazy, hooded guys but the remainder made their way across the overgrown lawns in our direction.